Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Eleven

She did not want to confirm she was here, though someone had to have told him, and certainly did not wish him to know she was in the loft where last…

Robine shook her head, stilled lest the rustle of hay was heard by Godfroi who had called to her upon entering. She loathed hiding, but needed to hold herself close awhile longer to better withstand whatever else he might cast that made her feel unwanted as she had not in a long time—as if this were not her home.

“But it is,” she whispered, and the babe beneath her crossed arms proved it.

A child I will love all the more for not misspending great emotion on Godfroi, she sought to embrace Lady Maëlys’ advice that she settle for friendship. But was that even possible? After what he—

The creak of steps that caused horses in their stalls to turn restless brought her to sitting. The creaking that followed brought her to standing.

“Robine,” Godfroi said as his head and shoulders came into view. It was as dim here now as when they consummated their marriage, and just as then, the bare light loved the silver of his hair.

“Lord husband.”

He came off the steps and strode to where she stood before a heap of hay similar to the one that had been their bed that night. As he considered her face she had not allowed to be tear-tracked, she wondered if he remembered what she ought to be too angry to recall.

“We must speak,” he said.

“Pray, later. For now it is best I am alone.”

She startled when his hand came up—not to strike but pick hay from her hair. “I do not think it best, Robine.”

“Even so, I think it best.”

Was it regret tightening his face? “I spoke as I should not have. Such words were not your due.”

Her heart gave a little leap. “They were not, though I am sorry I did not heed doubt about granting admittance. Now unless you wish to reveal the great offense the Fitz Gérés dealt your family of which your wife ought to have been made aware, I would have you leave.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So cold, dear wife.”

Caught between the longing to scoff at his term of affection and crossing her arms over her chest to shield her heart, she said, “Non, so angry, but it does me good.”

“Good?”

“Still I am not the woman you require of me. Still I feel too much for you. But I make strides. Now, pray—”

“I apologize for not telling what I believed you need not know, Robine.” He unfastened his mantle and, as done the robe that night, spread the dark blue over hay she had flattened. “Sit and I will tell it, and perhaps sooner you will forgive my offense.”

The angry and stubborn of her that was determined to stop loving him—and wanted to believe she was on her way to doing so—longed to refuse. However, since her prideful husband had come to her not to further admonish but make peace, she could not deny him.

When she lowered, he hesitated as if this might be better done standing over the wife who disappointed, then sat beside her. “Though the tale is Hugh’s and mine, more it is our mother’s.”

Robine did not want to care how worn he looked, but it was impossible to ignore. Though he had become comfortable enough with his authority the past two years he had begun relinquishing duties to trusted retainers, still he took too much upon himself. However, what she saw in the lines of his face reminded her of his return home after three months of battling Duke William’s enemies. Some was a result of his rigorous inspection of the demesne, but she sensed most was due to the relentless ride caused by the tale to come.

Godfroi surprised again when his fingers grazed her cheek on the way to picking more hay from her hair.

Striving to remain outwardly unmoved so he not know his touch wildly moved her insides, she said, “I listen.”

He lowered his hand. “Twelve years past, my mother attended a wedding banquet and was seated beside Sir Arn’s widowed, amorous sire. She discouraged his attentions, but he was so persistent she turned her back on him. For it, he groped her beneath the table.”

Robine caught her breath.

He nodded. “Remaining composed, she removed his hand, but when he trespassed again, she slapped him and commanded him to keep his filthy fingers off her.”

Robine envisioned her mother-in-law doing that and determined if ever that happened to her, she would do the same—or worse, she thought, recalling the D’Argent dagger between calf and hose.

“Public humiliation,” her husband said. “Though it was less than what he deserved, it proved almost disastrous for the Lady of Valeur.”

Robine leaned in. Though she feared what would be told of the suffering of the woman who was as a mother to her, she asked, “What did he do?”

“Plotted, putting two months between that event and the one that came after, doubtless to lower her guard.”

“And cast less suspicion his way.”

Godfroi shook his head. “Non, as he sought to gain control of D’Argent lands by forcing her into marriage—and surely planned all manner of misery for his humiliation—there would have been no reason to hide what he was responsible for once vows were spoken.”

“He was a fool to believe your mother could be forced to wed him.”

“In the absence of great incentive she would not have, but his plan included threat to her fourteen-year-old sons.”

Once more feeling his anger, Robine reached but drew back and clasped that hand with the other lest it defy her will to feel for him no more than he felt for her.

“One morning, our mother arranged for a small escort to accompany us to an outlying village to further our lessons in administering the barony. As we were returning late in the day and the lowering sun was in our eyes, belatedly we saw those coming at us. Common brigands, it was hoped since greater the chance our outnumbered chevaliers and men-at-arms could cut down attackers not born to the sword. That proved otherwise when our escort was scattered during the first clash.”

Gripping his hands so tightly they paled, he continued, “Neither Hugh nor I were close to being battle-tested, but we drew our blades and spilled blood to make an opening for our mother. We were proud of bettering grown men of the sword, unaware it was possible only because we were too valuable to be harmed. The three of us rode hard, leaving behind our escort who sought to keep the enemy from giving chase.”

He replenished his breath. “Four broke free and forced their way between mother and sons. When one snatched her from her horse, we followed, but two evaded our efforts to cut them down and turned us aside. We thought only she was to be taken alive, but soon realized that was our fate as well. Had not several of our chevaliers prevailed and come to our aid, likely we would have been captured. Hugh and I left our pursuers to the swords of our men and went the direction of our mother. If not for her own efforts, we would not have found her.”

When he went silent, Robine prompted, “What efforts?”

“She unmanned the one who took her onto his horse, and his bellow corrected our course. Still, it was some minutes ere we overtook them, and by then…” His growl sounding that of a cornered wolf before it springs, certain if it does not kill it will be killed, he closed his eyes. “We came almost too late.”

This time sensing his anger would not be receptive to revealing those memories until it was tamped down, Robine waited.

Finally, he said, “They were off their horses, our mother on the ground between them, and while one held his bleeding side and kicked her senseless body…”

Once again, Robine became aware of the dagger beneath her skirt. Remembering Lady Maëlys had said once it had served her very well, she guessed it was that occasion.

Godfroi ground his teeth. “While that miscreant kicked her, the other shouted that he would teach her the cost of disrespect, and he would have had we not put our swords through them. For months afterward, when memories of my first kill sickened, to heal anew I had only to recall their bloodied expressions—wondrous disbelief, deserved pain.”

“You were only ten and four,” Robine breathed, then ventured, “How badly was your mother injured?”

He turned his hands front to back as if to confirm he no longer wore the blood of those who beat her. “We feared her dead,” he said, “and when we saw she lived, we feared she was dying. But Maëlys D’Argent is strong.”

As she seeks to make me, Robine thought. And I will not disappoint.

“If one must kill, it ought never be as a boy or even young man,” Godfroi continued, “but though the answer we gave her attackers jolted our souls, it could not compare to what that beating did to her, and yet within days she was out of bed. Bruised, scabbed, swollen, and struggling to put one foot in front of the other, she began taking measures to better protect all.”

“How did you know Sir Arn’s sire was responsible, Godfroi? Was he there?”

“He was not, but often dying men are eager to talk, even when there is no priest to absolve them of sin.”

“Then those who beat your mother revealed—”

“Non, not them. Hugh and I had no thought for what could be gained from those two beyond payment for the ill done her. However, our surviving escort made good use of the time between dealing mortal blows and the fallen breathing their last. Our attackers were mercenaries, and three told the same story. Fitz Géré paid them half what was promised, the remainder to be rendered upon delivery of Lady Maëlys and her sons, preferably both sons though only one was needed to ensure she spoke vows.”

Robine set a hand atop his. “How did I never hear of this? Surely there would have been so much talk still it would be on the lips of many.”

“The matter was dealt with as my mother thought best. Since she was certain of being denied justice and saw no reason to set tongues wagging over what was done her and turning the minds of others to how they could do what Fitz Géré could not, she had the bodies of the mercenaries transported to Fitz Géré’s demesne.”

As if uncertain of continuing, he paused, then said, “They were to be dumped outside his walls, but her brother who aided in our training ere his death wanted blood and would have gained it even at the cost of his life had my mother not persuaded him the need for revenge should not be as great as the need to ensure her sons become worthy warriors. Hence, he settled for accompanying the bodies north and seeing them bound to stakes lining the road leading to the miscreant’s home, each with an outstretched arm pointing to the offender. Fitz Géré understood surely the same as the rest of his family, and that was the end of it.”

Godfroi looked sidelong at her. “Or it was. Just as my mother’s humiliation of Sir Arn’s sire led to her abduction and beating, it is possible my humiliation of the son will lead to further Fitz Géré violence. I must be more vigilant.”

Then greater his burden, she silently lamented and hurt that his handsome countenance appeared more aged than it should. Was it the same for Hugh? Unlikely.

“We should address your sire’s dealings with Fitz Géré,” Godfroi said, eliciting a gasp. “There was ill between our two families before, but greater ill afterward.”

What he implied… Heart pounding, Robine drew her hand from his. “You think he was involved?”

“Inquiries were made of his servants receptive to an exchange of coin for information. It was learned that a month ere my mother attended the wedding banquet, your sire encouraged Fitz Géré to bring her and her sons to heel by way of marriage that would gain him control of our lands.”

“Then?” Robine prompted.

He shook his head. “Naught else was learned, and though there were no further reports of Fitz Géré visiting your sire at Castle L’Épée, the skirmishes between our families increased. Perhaps it was due to suspicion alone, the D’Argents more sensitive to the slightest encroachment. Perhaps it was due to guilt, the L’Épées fearing we knew for certain what we did not. Regardless, greater the injuries dealt our two families. For that, our alliance neutralized the most significant threat to the new Baron of Valeur and gave your brother time to become the warrior required to succeed your sire.”

That last she knew. “Oui,” she said, then asked, “Ours is a good alliance, is it not, Godfroi?”

He smiled tautly. “I do not regret it.”

That is something, she told a heart sliding toward disappointment it must banish. And it will become something more when he learns he is to be a father.

Here in the loft, she decided, certain there could be no better place to reveal it than where it was very possible their child was conceived.

Robine dropped back on his mantle, and when he looked around, said, “You recall I said I believed ever the loft would be my favorite place to be loved by you?” Eyes adjusted to the dim catching his frown, she shook her head. “Fear not, Godfroi. As I will not ask again to be loved in heart, I want only to be held and talk of things other than the dark of the world that refuses to dwell in the light.”

As if he wished it too, he turned her onto her side and pulled her back into the curve of his body.

For a time, neither spoke, then Robine drew his hand from beneath her breasts. Though she meant to settle it on her abdomen, he misunderstood, pulling it from her hold and sliding it down her thigh toward her skirt’s hem.

“Godfroi, there is something I must—”

“What is this?” His hand paused at her calf, then he sat up and raised her skirt, though not to give answer to what he had thought encouragement to be one with her—rather, to take the weapon from her hose.

She scooted onto her back.

“How did you come by my sire’s dagger, Robine?” he said with what sounded accusation.

Determined not to ruin revelation of her pregnancy by showing offense, she said, “After I let in Sir Arn, your lady mother gave it to me and told I should gird it daily and learn from you the slice, thrust, and throw.”

He nodded. “I am sorry such is necessary, but one thing Hugh and I should have learned better is that women are a prey for all seasons. Hence, my mother is right. In the absence of protectors, you need a means of defending yourself beyond teeth and nails. I will teach you.”

“I thank you.”

“Thank my mother who cares much for one who has become the daughter Hugh’s birth and mine denied her.”

“I love her,” Robine confessed feelings she hoped he would not dissuade as he did feelings for him.

“That pleases me, Wife.”

She smiled. “Now the matter of the dagger is resolved, hold me?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Only hold you?”

“For now. Still we have light things of which to speak.”

“Those are?”

“Hold me, Godfroi.”

Though annoyance lined his brow, he set the dagger on the mantle and once more cradled her.

“Since I believe it happened here, this is the place to tell you,” she said and moved his hand to her belly. “Here the light of which we should speak—the light, the beautiful, the hopeful.”

He drew a sharp breath. “Almighty!”

“Oui, a D’Argent grows here. Now ever we will be joined by this babe and all others to come. And we shall make fine sons and daughters of them.”

As if he had suffered no anger this eve, he exuded something so bright she dared hope now he might love her a little.

“So we shall,” he said and kissed her neck. “My mother knows you are with child, oui?”

“Without being told, though I confirmed it. She is very pleased.”

“Deserved happiness,” he said and did not speak again until she drifted toward sleep. “Great strides my wife makes, growing strong like my mother—just as is required of the Lady of Valeur.”

Here evidence she had misread the bright of him, and she was glad she had hoped he might love her only a little.

I do grow strong, she assured herself. And stronger I will be once there is only friendship and respect. She smiled, silently added, And desire.