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shadowy corner half behind some bales of hay, and Siward groped under the back of her skirts to try to tuck the loose end of the winding cloths back in. Imogen stared at the sky, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt at the whole thing.
    “Hey, you old goat,” called a big soldier who was carrying a bundle of pikes as if they were sticks. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you? Everyone can see you’ve done your work on your woman. Can’t you wait till nightfall to plow her?” He burst out laughing and all the nearby people looked over and sniggered.
    Siward cursed, and Imogen covered her red face with her hands.
    “Haven’t got that many years left for it,” Siward called back amiably. “Got to take every chance I get!”
    There was a huge gust of laughter from the crowd. “Well, I’m glad you brought your own with you, then. There’s few enough women around here as it is and you’d doubtless exhaust the lot of ‘em in one night!” The soldier rolled on his way, still laughing. Everyone else lost interest and got on with their work.
    Imogen turned to rest her head for a moment against the cool stone wall. This was getting worse by the minute. “Can we just find a quiet corner and hope no one knows we’re there?” she asked faintly.
    “Come on,” Siward said, and though he tried to sound comforting, she heard the amusement in his voice. Everyone thought they’d been… And nobody thought it was wrong, merely funny.
    Imogen began to wonder whether she might not be best suited to life in the cloister, as Father Wulfgan said. These last few days since her father’s death the Carrisford chaplain had been urging the advantages of the religious life on Imogen. His arguments about a life of penance and prayer being a sure path to eternal bliss had not carried much weight, but now Imogen could see one great advantage. If she entered a cloister, she wouldn’t have to marry. There’d be no man fumbling at her body.
    She’d never end up like… like Janine.
    She hobbled after Siward. She couldn’t help thinking, too, that in the cloister she’d have good shoes and clean clothes. There’d be regular food and some of the elegancies of life—music and books. She’d be taken care of and she wouldn’t have to take risks because people depended on her.
    You sniveling little coward, she berated herself, and made herself walk a little faster despite the pain. You took delight in being Imogen of Carrisford when all it required of you was pleasure. Now it demands work and sacrifice, and you shrink back. All of Carrisford depends on you, and you think only of your comfort. It is time to prove yourself worthy of your father. Though he was a gentle, civilized man, Bernard of Carrisford held his own and cared for his own. His people were safe within his governance. As his daughter, you can do no less.
    Imogen stiffened her resolve.
    First she must regain her castle and wreak vengeance on Warbrick for his acts.
    Then she must find and marry a man as good and strong as her father so that the like would never happen again.
    Then, she resolved grimly, she must endure the disgusting things men do to women so as to bear sons. She would raise them to be good, strong men like her father so that her people would be cared for from generation to generation.
    She was dragged out of these lofty resolutions when she realized her “baby” was lopsided. She couldn’t bear to ask Siward to fiddle around with the supports again, and so she put her right hand under the sagging side, pushed up and held it there. She only hoped she’d got it even.
    They’d just found what seemed to be a quiet corner, with boxes convenient for sitting, when a voice shouted, “Hey you! Granddad!” They turned.
    It was the burly guard from the gate. “What’re you doing, wandering all over? Didn’t I tell you to wait nearby? Lord FitzRoger’ll see you now.”
    Imogen flashed panic at Siward. They hadn’t had a chance to question people, to