Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Ten

Two weeks late. Of note, but twice before it had happened.

Three weeks late. Of further note, but though that had never happened, it was possible she was simply well overdue.

Four weeks late. Of too much note to say naught, and even if she wanted to keep quiet, often this past sennight Lady Maëlys had narrowly eyed her. She suspected, and from what Robine’s mirror reflected atop her dressing table—more color in her cheeks, stars in her eyes, and ever a smile in the corners of her mouth—the change within was writing itself across her face.

Were her husband here, would he suspect as well? Ten days past, he had departed Castle D’Argent to inspect his demesne, which was to include meeting with the keepers of reinforced manors that kept watch over his borders and addressing the concerns of villagers who worked his lands. When he returned on the morrow, she would reveal she carried their child and confirm it to the lady she now called Mother as seemed to please Godfroi as well. And then…

She let the smile reach her lips. He did not return her love, but between the sheets she had his attention in full—as he had hers—and providing she kept hold of it, surely she need never again be concerned he sought pleasure in the arms of another woman.

Though still more often than not he came to their bed well past the hour she settled, he did not always leave her undisturbed. And she was well with that, delighting in soft caresses that brought her up out of sleep, and even the challenge of keeping prying ears from attending to what went behind closed curtains. Once they had even laughed over their inability to meet that challenge, each clapping a hand over the other’s mouth.

Affection and respect, Maëlys had advised. Though Robine would be pleased with friendship, she wanted more. However, if she never gained Godfroi’s love, she would find a way to be content. And greater the incentive now.

She set a hand on her belly, thanked the Lord for the miracle within, and said, “I will love you fiercely, little one, and your brothers and sisters.”

Cat’s yowl turned her from the dressing table. He was on the sill of the window high up the wall, able to reach it only because he launched himself from atop the sideboard.

“Cat?”

He whipped around on that narrow ledge, blinked at her, yowled again.

From past experience, she knew someone rode on the castle, that elevated height allowing the feline to view what was seen by those patrolling the walls. It would not be her husband since the messenger told he returned on the morrow, and it would not be another herald, since Cat did not yowl nor did his fur bristle and tail twitch when only one or two approached the walls.

Hopefully, Sir Olivier whom Godfroi had left behind to act in his stead had returned from the nearest village where a dispute between farmers had led to one setting fire to another’s crop. Though the damage was contained, not the threat of bloodshed. Providing the chevalier and his accompanying men had resolved the conflict and were not still en route, he would deal with the approaching riders.

Robine stepped into the hall that was empty but for servants who spread fresh rushes and Maëlys who sat at one end of the high table with her psalter open. When her mother-in-law looked up, again that narrowing of eyes, accompanied by a slight smile.

Though surely Godfroi should be the first to know, Robine was tempted to confirm the lady’s suspicion—and might have had there been time.

The door opened, and the man-at-arms granted entrance called, “Nobility seeking a night’s lodging, my lady. As Sir Olivier has yet to return, I told you would speak with them.”

Inwardly sighing, she started forward.

“I could speak with them,” Lady Maëlys said.

Robine sensed her offer was in consideration of her daughter’s condition—that was not at all delicate so early in her pregnancy. “I thank you, Mother, but a walk in the fresh air appeals.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “And of much import at this time,” she said, then returned to her psalter.

Not mere suspicion,Robine acceded as she crossed the hall. She knows, and I am glad I have made her happy. And soon Godfroi.

* * *

Of the twonoblemen and their attendants who requested a night’s lodging, one was distantly known to Robine, it being a dozen years since she had seen the newly belted and spurred chevalier. Too, no words had passed between them the few times his sire and he visited Castle L’Épée, the young man having no interest in a girl of six and she none in one aged ten and eight.

Were Arn fitz Géré not Gilbert of Brionne’s relation by marriage, she would have awaited Sir Olivier’s return and allowed him to determine whether to grant entrance, but fearing offense would be dealt Duke William’s new guardian, she let them in.

Now, regardless of how great the offense, she wished she had admitted only the two noblemen—or none—certain it was no coincidence following introductions that Lady Maëlys had said she felt poorly and excused herself from the hall.

Fortunately, Robine had exercised caution by ordering a half dozen men-at-arms to accompany the visitors to the donjon, but how she hoped Sir Olivier would return. He would set aright whatever she had set wrong, allowing her to attend to her mother-in-law abovestairs.

“I marvel at the woman you have become,” Sir Arn said, leaning so near his arm brushed hers as she poured him drink where he stood before the fireplace.

She thought he compared her to the girl she was when he was newly knighted since she thought that the last time he and his father visited Castle L’Épée, but as she stepped back and returned her regard to a sharply-planed face, he added, “The day you rode to your wedding, you were made to look a woman, but much of the girl remained.” He ran his eyes down her. “No longer.”

That might have greatly offended did it not pale alongside revelation he had been at the contest and seen Godfroi gain the barony. Not that it should surprise since that long-awaited event attracted nobles from across Normandy and beyond.

She forced a smile. “It is gone nearly four years.”

“And yet for all the woman about you, still you look fresh, Lady. Of course, much wear done those women who have borne children.”

Deeming such talk inappropriate, she turned to his traveling companion and filled his goblet. Grateful the only words that nobleman spoke were of gratitude, she crossed to the sideboard and returned the pitcher.

It having been courtesy to pour their first wine since they were refreshed at hearth rather than table for it being hours ere the evening meal, henceforth the servants would tend them. And while her guard set over the hall kept watch, Robine would go to Lady Maëlys and—

The great doors opened, and not gently, causing a streak of bristling fur to exit an alcove and appear beneath the high table where the hounds nervously eyed Cat lest he was in a mood to scatter them with claws and teeth.

Hoping he would leave them be, Robine looked to the doors.

Sir Olivier and the men who accompanied him to the village strode inside, and Robine would have breathed easier if not for the nearly forceful entry. Here a show of power, surely confirmation she should not have admitted the noblemen and their retainers.

“Sir Arn of the Fitz Gérés,” Godfroi’s man called as Robine hastened forward to greet him, “such surprise to learn of your visit.”

“Regrets for the imposition on Baron D’Argent’s household,” the other man answered, “but with day on the wane and the nearest inn of sufficient size distant, we humbly beseeched the gracious Lady of Valeur to take us in.”

“Gracious, indeed,” Olivier said, and Robine knew it was no compliment, though he added, “of good credit to her lord husband.” He halted when she reached him, and she was not surprised by the falsity of his smile.

“I did wrong, did I not?” she whispered.

“Word has been sent to Baron D’Argent,” he said, then asked, “Lady Maëlys?”

“She withdrew abovestairs.”

“Good.”

“They are enemies, Sir Olivier?”

“Very possible, my lady.”

“But—”

“We carry on, but fear not, the entire garrison is on alert.”

Then unless provoked, he would leave this matter to Godfroi who would likely return this eve rather than the morrow.

Knowing the big warrior whose injured arm had healed well did not fear a confrontation of blades, she guessed just as she had worried about offending Duke William’s guardian, Olivier was loath to do so, especially since she had accepted these men as guests.

“Go abovestairs and tell Lady Maëlys I am here and her son should be soon.”

She swung away.

“Drink for the dry!” he called to servants as he and his men continued toward the hearth. “Food for the famished!”

Godfroi’s mother was in the chapel, and not prostrated before the altar but seated on a bench.

“It is I,” Robine said as she advanced.

“I know your footsteps, Daughter, and yet still I cannot let go of this.”

This proved a dagger, and not the one worn on her girdle for cutting meat, it being set with a blue gem the same as those attained by her sons when they became chevaliers.

“It was my husband’s,” she said as Robine lowered beside her, “and until Godfroi and Hugh reached their age of majority, I carried it always.” She looked sidelong at her daughter-in-law. “I learned how to use it, and on one occasion it served me well.” She breathed deep, extended it. “Now you must learn it.”

Robine stared at the deadly weapon. Loath to take it, she turned to that with which she was tasked. “Sir Olivier has returned, sent word to Godfroi, and set the garrison on high alert. He bid me assure you of that.”

“God is merciful,” the lady said and slid the dagger in its scabbard. “Now take this and let us pray for a good end when my son appears.”

Still, Robine hesitated.

“You will not need it this day, Daughter. Sir Olivier and Godfroi shall see to that, but henceforth you shall gird it and learn its slice, thrust, and throw.”

“I do not know my husband will—”

“He will, and this day ensures that.” She set the sheathed dagger in Robine’s hand.

As she considered that which made her feel more a D’Argent, Robine forgot to be wary of a weapon that was the privilege of men who used such to defend womenfolk, instead felt joy in being entrusted with what had belonged to Godfroi’s sire as if she were also of his blood. Certes, he was the grandsire of her unborn child, and she would protect the babe with his dagger and her life if need be.

“I am sorry I let them in,” she said, “but still I do not know why we are in danger.”

“I do not believe we are, Robine. Had I, I would not have departed the hall, but there is at least one there who could prove a threat, especially if he is not handled properly.”

“Chevalier Arn?”

“Oui, of the Fitz Gérés, with whom once your family was familiar.”

“I was quite young, but I remember when he and his sire visited.”

“I may be wrong in yoking the son with the sins of the father, but it is best to be cautious. Now return to the hall and keep all in order as you await your husband.” She smiled sorrowfully. “Even if Godfroi must exhaust his favorite steed unto death, he comes.”

Though Robine longed to know what sins Arn bore, she rose and started to unfasten her belt to slide the sheath on it, but her mother-in-law said, “For now, conceal it beneath your skirt. Once you are versed in what that blade can do, wear it as testament to your facility—and warning that here a D’Argent who spills more blood than she sheds.”

Great her faith in me, Robine thought and worked the weapon into the top of her hose. When she straightened, Lady Maëlys’ eyes glanced off her abdomen.

Doubtless, she did not wish to deny her son being the first to hear a child would be born, but since already she knew and it might ease her turmoil, Robine lifted one of the lady’s hands and set it on her abdomen. “He or she is here, my lady, and I will love this child and all others to come as you love your boys. I will bless and protect them as you did Godfroi and Hugh. And they will love you as you will love them.”

Maëlys splayed her hand on that which would start rounding in the next months. “I could not have chosen a better wife for my son and mother of my grandchildren,” she said. “Now leave me to the Lord. I have much praise to give and more beseeching to do. Godfroi will be here soon.”

* * *

Arn fitz Géréhad come to Castle D’Argent as he—and any son unto ten generations—ought not. That he had dared enter these walls enraged Godfroi, and with good reason.

Sir Olivier had not been present to turn away Fitz Géré and his party. It angered the chevalier had been absent, though with less good reason since he was needed to mediate a dispute.

Robine had granted Fitz Géré admittance as she should not have. That she had let him in angered as well, though with even less good reason since hospitality was offered to travelers of good repute and she could not know at least one of that party was an enemy, even if only by association.

And Lady Maëlys…

“God help you, Fitz Géré,” Godfroi growled as he swung out of the saddle ahead of men who bypassed the stable with him to sooner reach the donjon.

Even if the wrath of Gilbert of Brionne slams down on me, still I will see you flayed if my mother is in any way shaken. He thrust his dark blue mantle back off his shoulders so it draped his back, ensuring no barrier between his hand and belted blades. And if she is not shaken, still I may do so.

The porter had the door open before his lord ascended half the moonlit steps. Hence, no surprise all within faced the Baron of Valeur when he strode into a hall whose retainers contrasted sharply with a score of trespassers. The former were at attention around the walls as arranged by Sir Olivier who was center of them, whereas the latter held cups as they idled between hearth and sideboards once laden with viands usually served at table.

As hoped, Robine was distant from the visitors where she stood before the dais. His mother was there as well and appeared composed. That nearly gave him pause, but the fire set by Sir Olivier’s message had been well fed across many leagues never before traveled at such speed without a single stop.

Gaze finding the one last seen making camp outside these walls before the contest and known to be in the stands throughout, Godfroi shouted, “Fitz Géré!”

The chevalier, several years older than the one whose home he trespassed upon, continued to lean against the fireplace with a booted foot planted on the stone behind. “Baron D’Argent, well come home!” He raised his cup as if in salute, then watching the advance of Godfroi and his men across the rim, took a swallow.

Hands longing to fill creases with wire-wrapped hilts, Godfroi had enough control to leave his blades sheathed, though only because he could swiftly grant palms and fingers their every wish.

As he neared the hearth, Fitz Géré stepped alongside one whose fine clothing and elaborately sheathed sword told he was noble—and whose hand now moved toward that hilt. “Allow me to introduce my new friend, Sir—” Fitz Géré broke off and, as if alarmed by what he saw on Godfroi’s face, exclaimed, “D’Argent! What so rattles it rouses ire against your wife’s guests?”

Setting a hand on his hilt should the noblemen or their retainers unsheathe blades, Godfroi halted two strides distant, causing those following behind to cease their own advance.

Blood need not be shed, he silently counseled what thrummed through his veins. They know they are seriously outnumbered.

“Most fortunate for you and your men, much you have availed yourself of my food and drink,” he said. “Most unfortunate for you and your men, you will not avail yourself of a night’s lodging. You leave now.”

The frown of Fitz Géré’s companion appeared genuine, meaning he was of less threat than otherwise. Not so the frown of Fitz Géré that was so weighty it appeared responsible for the tilt of the man’s head. “If this is what I think it is, I am astounded, D’Argent.”

“Leave,” Godfroi growled.

The man raised his chin. “It is grievous enough you held my sire responsible for that which happened twelve years past, but that you hold me responsible…”

“Certes, it is behavior worthy of one who plays about the edges of battle to quickly retreat should victory go the other side,” Godfroi rose to insult as he knew he ought not. However, if sooner Fitz Géré departed beneath the shame of what all knew he and other members of his family had done two months past, so be it.

Anger further brightening the man’s eyes, he remained unmoving though his companion leaned near and said it was best they depart.

“I will not tell you again, take your men and leave,” Godfroi said.

Fitz Géré set his hand atop his hilt. “And do I not, what will he who gained victory over his brother by way of trickery do?”

Cease, pride! Godfroi silently commanded. Already I err in letting this fire reach my tongue. Do not do what is unnecessary in these circumstances.

The knave stepped nearer. “Unworthy, D’Argent.”

Godfroi’s curse nearly split his own ears, next his roar as he dealt Fitz Géré a fist to the nose. As the knave fell back from a bone-breaking, blood-spraying blow, Godfroi brought his sword to hand, causing men both sides to draw their own.

“Non, Godfroi!” the ladies cried.

All movement stilled, and he saw that moment for what it was—sanity that would prevent further blood from being spilled. If heeded.

Godfroi looked to Fitz Géré who remained on his back, hand over his bloodied face, then to Valeur’s chevaliers and men-at-arms who could slay every visitor with few losses of their own.

Unwarranted, not only because the companion of Fitz Géré and his retainers did not offend, but easily all could be expelled without loss of life.

Godfroi thrust his sword in its scabbard and motioned his men to do the same. “I did give warning, Fitz Géré. Now leave.”

The man rolled to the side, slapped his crimson-stained hand to the rushes, and pushed upright. As thought, his nose was badly broken. And, certes, never would he forget it was done by one who allowed anger and pride to make a greater enemy of him.

Drawing an arm across his nose, Arn fitz Géré directed his gaze to the women before the dais. “We thank you for the hospitality, Lady Robine…Lady Maëlys. While it lasted, it was most satisfying.”

Though tempted to look to his wife and mother, Godfroi kept his gaze on his enemy who was followed by his companion and retainers to the doors.

There, Fitz Géré turned. “Be assured, my kin will hear of this, D’Argent!”

Of course Gilbert of Brionne would, and Godfroi would answer for it. Hopefully, the cost would not be great since Duke William’s guardian was displeased by the faint-heartedness shown by these relations, as evidenced by how quick he was to remind all they were kin by way of marriage.

When the doors closed, Godfroi looked to Sir Olivier. “Take a score of men and conspicuously follow until they are beyond our borders.”

“Oui, my lord.”

Once he and the guard had withdrawn, Godfroi commanded the servants to clean the hall so all could bed down. As they set about it, he crossed to the hearth.

With his back to all, he closed his eyes and relived what he wished he could do again. Still he would have removed his unwelcome visitors, but more wisely. Rather, wisely, he corrected since what wisdom was there in letting anger and pride—that exaltation of himself over others—dictate his actions?

Soft footsteps sounded, and higher these flames leapt for his wife not keeping her distance until he could draw enough water from the well of lessons learned to douse what scorched his insides.

“I am sorry, Godfroi. I did not know—”

He swung around. “You should have consulted my mother!”

She gasped, stepped back. “As several times it has fallen to me to make the determination as to who—”

“With the approval of Sir Olivier,” Godfroi reminded.

She swallowed loudly. “As you are aware, he was not here, but since I knew Sir Arn from his sire’s acquaintance with mine years ago—”

“Did it not occur that as his family was well known to yours whilst the D’Argents and L’Épées clashed, he would not be welcome here?”

“It did, but that is many years gone.”

“Then you had doubt about admitting him.”

“I…” She blinked. “A little, but since he is a relation of Duke William’s guardian, I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” He stepped nearer, and when she raised her chin, saw moisture in her eyes. “Surely you recall when I spoke of objections to Gilbert of Brionne’s guardianship of Duke William because some of his kin by way of marriage are the foulest of beings?”

Alarm leapt across Robine’s face.

“Oui, the Fitz Gérés. So here a lesson, Wife—when in doubt, seek good counsel.”

“My son!” His mother hastened toward them.

He understood her warning. Were she not so pale she appeared ten years older, perhaps he would have heeded it as he had not his own. However, an encounter with a Fitz Géré had done this to her.

Robine touched his arm. “Pray, hear me. I know I erred—”

“Much you disappoint!”

She caught her breath, then sparks he imagined leaping from his fires to her lit her eyes. “This I know. Now this you ought know—you disappoint.” She turned and started toward the solar, only to veer away and gain the great doors.

Her pronouncement pierced Godfroi, not only because she concurred with how he felt about himself in this moment, because her words went through him by way of the heart as he gave them no cause to do. For that, he wanted to call her back, but also for that, he was grateful his mother’s appearance held him here.

“What have you done, Godfroi?”

Remembering this day was more about her than him and he had done her no honor, he searched her face. “I am sorry I was not here to turn him away, sorry I did not properly turn him out, sorry for whatever will come of this, sorry I let anger and pride render me unworthy.”

That last widening her eyes, she gripped his hand at his side. “Do not say that! No matter how well we learn our lessons, it is no guarantee we will not fail them. But there is good in that failure, for better those lessons are learned for when they may matter even more.”

He knew she spoke true, but he hated failing her and himself, which lent truth to Fitz Géré naming him unworthy.

“It jolted seeing him here,” she said, “but after prayer, I returned to the hall to stand with Robine, determined that just as we ought not visit the sins of the father on your wife, we ought not visit them on Fitz Géré’s son.”

“In his case, those sins might not be misplaced,” Godfroi said, “though now that may be more certain than before.”

“Just as your sire had to learn his way forward each time the young man of him was knocked backward, so shall you,” she said. “Now let us speak of Robine.”

He did not want to, but as he had chastised his wife for not seeking good counsel, chastisement would be due him did he not accept his mother’s.

“Naming her a disappointment was unfounded, my son—indeed, near merciless—even were I not more responsible for Fitz Géré entering our walls.”

He frowned. “You?”

“Though I knew Sir Olivier was gone, I let Robine determine whether or not to grant a night’s lodging. Had we revealed our past trouble with that family, I do not doubt she would have denied the son entrance.”

Inwardly, he groaned. “Though we were aware of her sire’s acquaintance with the Fitz Gérés, what happened was so far in the past, I believed there no reason to speak of it. But when Gilbert was made William’s guardian, I should have.”

“Neither did it occur to me,” his mother said, “but now she needs to know.” She nodded at the doors. “Tell her all of it. It will take time to heal her hurt, but it will be a good beginning, and the sooner it is begun the better since she is…”

“Since she is what, Mother?”

As if drawing curtains over a secret nearly revealed, she blinked. “You are worthy, Godfroi. I have every faith the one who succeeded his sire is the one who should have.”

Grateful for her praise though it made him feel a youth, he kissed her cheek.

“And do not curse, my son. Such words hurt my heart, and what they do to the Lord’s…”

“I know,” he said and went in search of his wife.