Dauntless by Tamara Leigh
Chapter Twelve
Castle D’Argent upon Valeur
Spring, The Year of Our Lord 1043
She had wanted to name their firstborn after Godfroi, but her husband said they would honor his own sire whose name was passed over when it was not known which twin Maëlys bore first. And so he who was now two and a half years was called Guarin. A very fine name.
She had wanted to name their second son after Godfroi, but her husband said they would honor his mother’s brother who had given much of his life to make warriors of his nephews. And so he who was now just beyond one year was called Cyr. Also a very fine name.
Fiercely, Robine loved her boys, just as she had known she would, and there was another who vied to feel the same for them.
Even before Guarin’s birth, the stern, solid candle that was Lady Maëlys had softened when the babe was yet in its mother’s womb and kicked against her hand. And once the wide-eyed boy entered the world with more of a shout than a cry, that woman whose arms delivered the newborn from the midwife to Robine was often given to melting, sometimes puddling.
The lady had been noticeably discomfited by witnesses to how greatly she was affected by her first grandson, but she overcame it a fortnight following his birth when her cry of delight as she plucked Guarin from his basket roused a knowing smile Robine was unable to hide.
Mildly, Maëlys had scolded her, declaring shows of adoration were the privilege of mothers and grandmothers of boys, it being necessary to pour out the majority of affection during their youngest years since it could not be sustained were they to become strong men. Excuse or not, it made sense to Robine. But not to Cat who was no contender for being the one to most fiercely love either boy.
The first year and a half, he had been far from fond of Guarin and mostly stayed away lest cries and squeals pain his ears or fingers pinch and pluck his fur. And when Cat determined the little one spent too much time in his mother’s arms, oft he whipped himself into a frenzy—racing around the solar, springing onto the bed, sideboard, and ledge, skidding to a rush-scattering halt, and humping his back as he yowled and sidled away. Now, he was fairly tolerant of the boy who seemed to have learned his place, no longer crawling but running on two sturdy legs as was fitting a mere human, and keeping his hands to himself unless invited to stroke the feline when it bumped his leg.
Cyr was another matter. Though the second born had ceased crawling at an earlier age than his brother, determined as he was to keep up with Guarin, he could not resist attempts to capture Cat. Indeed, his pursuit could be so merciless, Robine had to intervene lest he was clawed. But eventually her youngest would show proper respect.
“And then, Cat”—Robine bent and stroked him head to tail—“God willing, you will have another to train.”
Soon, she hoped. For as often as Godfroi and she were entangled in sheets when he was home, and for how soon she had become pregnant with Cyr following Guarin’s birth, she had expected to have another by now.
“In God’s time,” she reminded herself. Then catching her husband’s voice beyond the curtains, evidence this morn’s hunt on a spring day warming toward summer had yielded prey sooner than usual, she wondered if this could be the time. Lady Maëlys had taken the boys to the garden after the nooning meal, the hall was mostly clear of servants, and Godfroi would need a bath. And an attendant.
But when she stepped through the curtains to summon a servant to carry word to the kitchen to boil water so it could be bucketed to the solar, she halted at the sight of her husband who strode toward the dais alongside Sir Olivier. Neither man was befouled nor exuded an air of pride over bringing meat to the table.
Noticing her, Godfroi smiled thinly and spoke something to the chevalier that caused his man to veer away.
Robine knew what this was, and as her husband stepped to the dais, said, “You are summoned. Again.”
He halted, and as she peered into a face that, strangely, became more handsome each year despite how quickly it matured, he said, “More nobles challenging the duke. This time the rebels have seized and fortified Falaise. Worse, they do it in the name of King Henry.”
It should not surprise once more William’s overlord asserted his power over the young duke. Recently, the one known by his French vassals as Henry the Castle Grabber had demanded control of a fortress on Normandy’s border to be used as an advance base against his enemies. He then demolished it and raised another better suited to his needs, a clear indicator he had no intention of returning it to William. Now this—supporting the duke’s disaffected vassals.
“And they have the aid of Henry’s troops,” Godfroi added.
Meaning not only would the duke and those loyal to him confront Normans but their king’s men. Robine nipped her lip, then said, “You depart this day?”
He inclined his head.
“Siege or battle?”
“Siege,” he offered some comfort, then swept it away with, “But as you know, always it can become a battle.”
She did and wondered if ever again Normandy would know the relative peace gifted by Duke William’s ancestors whose government had been the envy of many in France, including Henry the Castle Grabber who would have lost his kingdom years past had he not been aided by Normandy.
Since the passing of Duke William’s sire, the duchy leaned hard toward self-destruction. Months after Gilbert of Brionne assumed guardianship of William, the man was assassinated, and perhaps only for that, Fitz Géré was unable to wreak vengeance on the D’Argents. A year and a half following Gilbert’s death, William’s steward was slain in the chamber where the duke slept. Shortly thereafter, Ralph de Gacé gained guardianship of William. Though it was believed the formerly rebellious lord had ordered Gilbert’s assassination, that was overlooked since his support was crucial for the youth to keep hold of Normandy. But how long would De Gacé remain in favor now William had attained his majority and been knighted? During the coming siege, would De Gacé command the duke’s army?
Great the hope he would since he was more capable than a fifteen-year-old regardless William was said to show great military sense, strategy, and skill at arms.
Godfroi’s hand on Robine’s jaw returned her to the present. “Anything can happen, but as ever, I shall aspire to return with my two score men.”
“Two score!”
“That is what he requires of Valeur and the best of them—chevaliers all. Half I will take from here and gather the remainder from the border fortresses. It will leave the barony vulnerable, but for that Sir Olivier remains and, God willing, the duke’s warning that any who trespass on the lands of those called to battle shall suffer dire punishment will keep the wolves away.”
She forced a smile. “I meant to order a bath for you and tend it myself, but as you are barely soiled, I am thinking better time spent at prayer. Will you go with me to the chapel?”
His hesitation spoke ahead of his words, but though she expected him to excuse himself by stressing all that must be done before departure, he said, “Would I had not arisen so early this morn.”
“Would you had not,” she agreed, and when he bent his head and tasted her lips, went to her toes and made it a proper kiss.
Her answer given, he said, “Our boys?”
How she loved that he acknowledged Guarin and Cyr as not only belonging to him but to her. And though he might not say it, she had to believe he felt love for them alongside pride. “They are in the garden with Mother.”
He smiled mischievously and drew her behind the curtains, divested her of garments as she divested him of his, and ignoring Cat’s protest at being evicted from the bed, pressed his wife back and loved her in body as he could not—or would not—love her in heart.
Afterward, with her head on his chest and a bent leg drawn up his thighs, silently she conceded though she loved him less than once she had, she had much work to do on a heart that still believed it possible to squeeze great affection out of him.
Following each birth when he entered the solar to hold his newborn son, greatly she had been tempted to ask, “Now do you love me?” But she had known better than to dampen that joyous moment.
Godfroi liked his wife and so enjoyed time abed with her she was certain that whatever his indiscretions previous to consummation, they were in the past. Time and again she told herself she was grateful—that it was better not to be loved by a faithful husband than loved by a faithless one—but she was not satisfied.
I will be,she assured herself as she listened to the movement of his heart that was calmer than a quarter hour past. Surely one can love only so long until the heart concedes it is best to go the way of the reasoning mind.
Godfroi drew a hand down her hair and in to her abdomen. “Perhaps when I return, we will go to the loft and once more you will deliver good tidings.”
Just as done with her first pregnancy, so done with her second. She tilted up her face. “I hope I shall, Husband.”
He smiled, though only for a moment, and she knew what his turn of expression portended. “But do I not return—”
“Non, you will return.”
His eyebrows gathered. “As discussed before, I would not have you burdened the same as my mother who reared us without a father. You must wed again, and though it is imperative you choose well, do not tarry in seeking a husband who can protect you and, as much as possible, raise our sons as his own.”
“You will return,” she said stubbornly.
“Your word, Robine!”
She sighed. “As given before, do you not come home, I shall seek a worthy husband. And be assured that longer and more often I will be at prayer for your safe return, the same as your mother.”
“I am glad.”
She wished he would go with her to the chapel. Though she did not doubt his belief in the Lord, she longed for him to be more faithful to the Creator than to her—for him to give a larger portion of his time to prayer even if it meant less for his family and administering and protecting the demesne.
Once when she had challenged him over attending only half a mass, he had said, Half is godly enough. Then he had departed, intent on sooner engaging his men in training exercises for which his reputation had grown such that many families aspired to foster their sons at Castle D’Argent. Hugh, who had not returned to Valeur these seven years, boasted a greater reputation, ensuring Duke William’s personal army was exceedingly formidable.
Godfroi shifted Robine onto her back and leaned over her. “I must make ready.”
“I know,” she said past the lump in her throat. “I shall begin packing your garments.”
He pushed the hair from her eyes, kissed her, then swung his muscled body out of bed and dressed.
Four hours later, as the lowering sun turned the sky into a canvas of blues melting into pinks and oranges, Godfroi stepped from alongside his mount in the outer bailey to the gathering of Robine, his sons, his mother, and Sir Olivier.
He halted before Guarin who stood in front of Robine and raised the boy to his hip, then turned to Cyr who held Lady Maëlys’ hand and set him on the other hip.
“Be good,” he said, looking between his sons. “Keep Mama and Grandmama safe. Oui?”
Guarin gave an emphatic nod. “Safe.” He poked his sire’s chest. “Papa ’tect duke.”
“Oui, I shall protect him.” Godfroi looked to his other son. “Cyr?”
The littlest one frowned as if trying hard to make sense of what was asked of him, then wrinkled his nose and said, “Down.”
Godfroi chuckled and lowered both boys.
As Cyr began wandering toward the inner bailey, Guarin tugged his sire’s chausses. “Wuv you, Papa.”
Godfroi looked to Robine who averted her eyes and smiled as she hastened after Cyr. As she scooped up the second born, she heard her husband say, “Is that right, Guarin?”
“Wike Mama wuv you.”
When Robine came around, Godfroi had dropped to his haunches. “I will return ere you think to miss me.”
“Aweady think it, Papa.”
Godfroi squeezed his heir’s shoulder, straightened, and met Robine’s gaze as she approached with a wiggly Cyr.
“Wife,” he said when she stood before him.
“Husband.” She inclined her head, and though she ached to tell him Guarin knew his mother well, said, “Godspeed you back to us.”
Whatever flickered in his eyes was too soon gone to make sense of it, then briefly he embraced her and Cyr.
After clasping his mother close and kissing her cheek, he was in the saddle, back and shoulders draped in his dark blue mantle. Minutes later, the family left behind stood on the drawbridge watching Godfroi and his men ride away.
“Look here,” Robine whispered and, as ever, he indulged her—peering across his shoulder, raising a hand, and lowering it only after they raised theirs in answer.
Now the long wait for his return. And much prayer in between.