Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Thirteen

The siege at Falaise was a triumph, returning the castle and its lands to the duke’s control in less than a month. She did not care.

William was lauded for strategy which his former guardian, Ralph de Gacé, aided in carrying out. She did not care.

Relatively few besiegers’ lives were lost. She ought to care, but in this moment could not.

The flight of the rebellious Thurstan of Goz and his arsenal of warriors had been cause for celebration outside and inside the city’s walls. That she cared about, though only because of the duke’s response to those who not only challenged him but did so with the aid of King Henry of France.

The siege was done. The duke had won. However, instead of letting the dissenters find refuge in whatever hole or crack they could dig or pry open, William had sent a half dozen contingents after them as day moved toward dusk. Godfroi and his men were among those chosen to bring them to ground.

“Non,” Robine whispered and, vaguely aware of the parchment falling from her fingers, recalled Godfroi looking back and raising his hand as done each time he journeyed far from them. Always he had come back. Always!

Returning her gaze to Sir Olivier who had taken delivery of the missive, throat tightening further over his glistening eyes, she said, “Unless my husband’s body is returned to me, I will not believe he is dead.”

Words—only words, spoke the loathsome voice within. As much as she longed for them to be of greater verity than those written by a clerk and signed by the duke, likely the ones come off her lips were not of a sound mind but a mindless heart.

As inked into parchment, the handful who survived one of two battles fought distant from Falaise told of Godfroi D’Argent’s fierce defense of his men when what remained of the rebels accepted their lives were forfeit and turned all their efforts on the one contingent whose numbers were not decimated.

The rebels’ lives were forfeited, but they had not gone into that dark without taking one of the duke’s defenders for every two and three of them. And so vicious was the slaughter both sides that many bodies would have been difficult to recognize even without the greater challenge presented by human and non-human scavengers picking over the dead throughout the night, the former relieving the fallen of identifying weapons, garments, rings and brooches, the latter making meals of them.

Though Hugh had fought as well, those he led had engaged the enemy leagues distant from the contingent that included Godfroi and his men. Thus, not until the following morn had he searched that other battlefield for his brother in the hope of finding him alive and, failing that, identifying his body by the tattoo if naught else.

What he found were nearly two score slain chevaliers culled from Valeur. When he returned to Falaise without Godfroi over his saddle, it was with the belief his twin was among the unidentifiable who would be interred in a consecrated mass grave as ordered by Duke William, whereas those identified would be buried individually.

Imagining Godfroi tossed into a pit of savagely torn bodies, Robine whimpered and looked to Lady Maëlys who had read the missive alongside her daughter. Head down, she gripped the table as if she feared collapse.

“Mother?” Robine croaked.

Maëlys raised her head, shook it. “I do not believe it, and neither will you.”

“I do not want to—”

“It is not a matter of want, it is a matter of what is and is not.” She stepped so near she trod on the younger woman’s toes. “Godfroi is not dead!”

Pray not, Robine sent heavenward and nodded.

The lady’s eyebrows gathered. “You do not believe me!”

“Mother, I…”

“Are you so glad to be rid of him?” the older woman struck out as never done whether with words or a hand, and yet it felt the latter. Strangely, from Maëlys’ widening eyes and quick step back, one would think her the recipient of the imagined blow.

Knowing she regretted words that climbed the well of grief into which she refused to lower a bucket, Robine forgave her, but it did little to salve the hurt besieging her own well into which she had begun lowering a bucket.

“Non, the duke errs!” Maëlys snatched up the missive. “There is a reason Hugh could not find his brother’s body. Godfroi lives.” She stepped from the dais, crossed to the hearth, and cast the parchment atop flames.

Only Robine and Olivier watched, the chevalier having advised the hall be cleared of the little boys and servants before what the messenger had revealed to him was learned by mother and wife.

Widow, the word escaped Robine’s well, and though she shook her head and whispered, “Wife,” she feared it was misplaced hope.

The smell of fire consuming evidence of what Lady Maëlys wanted to believe was wrong made it feel as if all air had fled the hall. And so Robine went in search of it.

As she thrust through the curtains and entered the solar, she nearly stepped on Cat. The creature skittered sideways, but were he offended, he recovered quickly. When Robine halted before the side-by-side trunks, he slipped beneath her skirt and rubbed her lower calf. He knew her moods, and though surely she had never exuded one of such depth of misery, much he felt for his mistress.

It was Godfroi’s trunk Robine stared at, his she set a hand upon, but it was her trunk she opened and delved.

She found what she sought at the bottom and unbundled it, clasped it to her chest, then dropped to her knees and bent over herself as not done since Godfroi retrieved the bride returned to her father. She felt that girl-woman again, and in that moment longed to be her—to live again every day of every year before consummation of her marriage and more slowly every day afterward.

“My love,” she rasped without cease lest she fall to wailing, and did not stop when slippered feet sounded and the curtains whispered to each other in parting and more passionately in returning to each other’s side.

Moments later, Maëlys sank to the floor and embraced her. “Forgive me my words, Daughter,” she entreated, one arm curved around Robine’s back, one hand stroking the younger woman’s head. “Despite my warning, I know you could not stop loving him entirely, that you want him back as much as I.”

Robine wept, so much she did not know how she ended up curled on her side, head in Maëlys’ lap, but when she quieted, her arms were lax and the doll fashioned for a little girl lay beside her.

She reached to it, hesitated, then with apology whispered, “Childish, but—”

“Not childish, Daughter.” The older woman retrieved the doll and placed it in Robine’s hand. “Do not be ashamed great sorrow made you seek comfort from the mother lost to you. But pray, take comfort in this mother who is here and loves you.”

Robine looked up. The lady had never professed love. Of further surprise, Maëlys’ eyes were red as were cheeks moistened by tears. Robine had believed she wept alone, but whether her misery drowned out her mother-in-law’s or that lady’s weeping had been silent, she had been far from alone.

She swallowed hard. “I love you, Mother.”

“This I know, now what you must know is it is not certain Godfroi is lost to us. Though I accept the possibility he has found his great reward, I feel he lives.” She splayed a hand on her chest. “Because it is only here in this mother’s heart? Perhaps, but it gives me hope you must have as well.”

“I want to, but I fear fooling myself.”

A muscle spasmed in Maëlys’ jaw. “Then I will feel it for you. Now let us speak of remarriage.”

“What?” Barely aware of dropping the doll, Robine thrust to sitting. “But you said—”

“I did, but I know as well as you my son’s wishes should he be taken by an early death. If this feeling proves no more than desperate hope, a powerful protector must be gained for Guarin, Cyr, and you, and all the more imperative for how young the boys.”

“I do not want to talk about that now!” Robine started to rise.

Maëlys pulled her down. “Neither do I, but we will, else our family could suffer great ill in leaving ourselves exposed while we await Godfroi’s return that may never come.”

Robine started to strain away, but in the lady’s eyes was hardening that had gradually softened over the years, and more so following the birth of Guarin and Cyr. Just as Maëlys had reverted to who Robine imagined she was before her husband’s death, now she reverted to who she had been forced to become when she declined to remarry.

The realization the lady who had earned her ease now prepared to fit upon her aging shoulders yet another burden, jostled Robine’s heart. And strengthened it.

She would accept aid from Godfroi’s mother, but she who was stronger for youth would bear the greatest weight. Setting a hand atop Maëlys’ on her arm, she said, “You are right, we must think ahead to be better prepared for the worst.”

They fell into silence, and though she hated considering life without Godfroi, for the sake of her sons above all, she forced herself to examine how it was to be done.

She assumed the lady did the same, but it was Robine who spoke first. “A year,” she said. “After its passing, we shall begin looking for a protector.”

“Non, Daughter. Though I wish it could wait that long, this barony is too prosperous not to come to the notice of men who will want it for their own, and you and our boys may not be as fortunate as I was with mine when Fitz Géré sought to gain control of Valeur. Ere long, danger will begin circling, and not only will you have to contend with noblemen seeking your hand directly but our duke matching you with one of benefit to him.” She nodded. “Oui, his advisors will determine that since Godfroi’s sons are very young, you must remarry.”

Robine thought she would return to tears, but she raised her chin. “Six months, then.”

Maëlys shook her head. “For the sake of grieving, you will have three, mayhap four months ere suitors are at our gate. If Godfroi has been gravely injured, that will give him time to heal and make his way home.” She breathed deep. “But does he not return, we shall use those months to make discreet inquiries about unwed noblemen, evaluate their worthiness, and eliminate those who are worse than having no husband at all.”

“As you did not find a worthy one, what chance have I?” Robine asked.

“I cannot say since I myself did not look in earnest. Such is the privilege of one whose sons are entering their youth when their sire is lost. Too, though pressured to wed, greater my ability to resist since my youngest brother was capable of completing my sons’ training.”

Robine frowned. “What of Hugh? Do you think he would return and train his nephews?”

The lady sighed. “I would like to believe it a consideration, but it is so long since I saw my son, I have no certainty about that. Likely I wrong him, but as he has never come home though Godfroi assured him of his welcome each time they met tells me he remains raw over his loss. Too, he has wed Lady Chanson and she is with child.”

As told by Godfroi months past, Hugh’s wife was the girl who had sat beside the boy duke during the contest and bantered with him.

“If necessary,” Lady Maëlys continued, “we will seek his aid to train Guarin and Cyr as well as protect Valeur now it is so exposed for the absence of its baron and loss of many chevaliers. But for now, we turn our efforts to securing a suitable candidate to take you to wife.”

Her response was troubling, Robine reading there distrust of her own son. Though Godfroi had revealed little of his meetings with his brother over the years and it bothered, ever Robine had excused it, telling herself her husband yet suffered guilt over gaining what Hugh could not. Was it more a matter of bitterness with which Hugh could not reconcile himself? Certes, that could make one distrust him.

“Enough of this,” Maëlys said. “We promised Guarin and Cyr we would join them in the garden.”

So they had, sending the little ones with Paulette, a woman servant who could be counted on to give them her full attention.

“Then this eve we begin composing missives expressing sympathy and gratitude for the families of Valeur’s lost defenders,” the lady added.

Ashamed she had not thought beyond her missing husband to the families whose loved ones had been identified and buried elsewhere, Robine said, “Of course.” Then she scooped up the doll, stood, and reached a hand to Maëlys and drew her to her feet.

After the doll was returned to the trunk, the two women made their way to the garden, both aware the other ached over how to answer questions that would mostly come from Guarin regarding when their papa would return.

* * *

Orne River Valley

Normandy, France

He did not understandthe pain—could make no sense of it, nor anything else.

Each time he came up out of the dark, he had flashes of who he was and places he had been. More intriguing were flashes of people he must know but could not be seen clearly enough to identify who they were to him and allow him to recall their names.

Those who most often appeared behind his eyes were a younger and older woman. Glimpsed nearly as often were two children. The first was a boy, and though he thought the younger also of that sex, he was not certain.

“Who are you to me?” he breathed. “Who am I to you?” Then he nearly laughed. “Who am I to me?”

That was where he must begin—with this man who could hear sounds on occasion but not see their source. Several times it had occurred he was blind, but he felt the weight of his lids and raised them to a crack, letting in light and color and blurred images that had some movement about them.

It alarmed, and yet what disturbed more was the feeling he was missing something very important. Was it possible he was not whole?

“My son?”

He turned his head toward what seemed a familiar voice—smooth, deep, and of an age, though not a great age.

“Oui, you are awake,” said the man who might be a priest for the manner in which he addressed this one who struggled to raise his lids. “This is very good. Can you tell what you are feeling? Your pains? Sensations?”

A physician, then? Thinking that more likely, he opened his mouth to ask where he was and what had happened to him. However, he could only groan.

A hand touched his arm. “Do not force it, my son. It will come again.” Footsteps revealed the man stepped away, but he returned quickly. “I shall prick you in places. If you feel the sting, you have only to nod. Oui?”

He nodded.

“Good. Let us begin.” For each prick on the shoulder, the forearm, the hand, then the other side, the man received a nod. Next pricks to his chest and abdomen.

“As thought, feeling there. Now what of this?”

Moments passed, and he who still could not open his eyes wondered when and where the man would prick again.

“Not good,” that one said, but before this one could delve it, he asked, “What of this?”

Again, nothing done to elicit a response. Though anger rose over what seemed a game, of a sudden it was supplanted by something worse—dread. Had there been one or more pricks not felt?

Non, he told himself. The skin is calloused. He but needs to prick harder.

The man sighed, “Well, it is early yet, Godfroi.”

Godfroi!he snatched hold of that. Oui, there my name, and that is not all of it. Where have I put the rest of it?

“Could you eat some bread?”

Though he must need food, there was something he needed more. He shook his head.

“Water,” the man said and set a rim against parched lips.

Godfroi could have drunk four times what he was given, but the man withdrew the cup and said, “More later.”

“Where?” Godfroi croaked, then cleared his throat. “Where am I? How am I here? Why?”

“You do not remember the battle, my son?”

More flashes, these bloody and accompanied by shouts of angry, pained men. “Too little. Tell me.”

A long silence, then, “We will speak after you have slept more.”

Godfroi drew breath with which to demand answers now, but already he was sinking.

“Worry not, you are safe here, my son. And once you are sufficiently recovered, I will get you home.”

Home.Godfroi turned the word over. Where was it? And was anyone waiting for him? Another flash, this one of the younger woman and clearer than before.

Beguiling, and more so when her hair curtained their faces and her smile appeared in the dim between them. Who was she? His wife? If so, would she be there when he returned to wherever home was? What if she was not his wife? If she was not waiting for him?

Then I will find her and make her mine, he assured himself.

And if she does not wish to be yours? a thought slipped in. If she cannot love someone like you?

Someone like who?he silently demanded, then his mind emptied.