Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Fourteen

The hermit was a peculiar man. Though Brother Johannes was not uncommonly tall nor exceptionally broad and he had attained fifty or more years, easily one would believe him a warrior ahead of a man of God who had given his life to solitary worship.

It was in the way the long-haired, heavily bearded Johannes moved—with ease, though quick to react to the slightest disturbance within the spacious cave and beyond it where the Orne River flowed gently when its waters were not agitated by heavy rainfall. It was in the way he spoke—also with ease, though with command when displeased. And it was in the way he prayed—not with ease, though his pacing with closed eyes and moving lips could last an hour or longer.

Peculiar indeed, and when he was not asking nearly impossible feats of the warrior carried half-dead from the battlefield, he was likable.

Johannes knew things the younger man did not, things he said he need only be asked for them to be told. However, after Godfroi’s discovery of what was sacrificed in a battle he could scarcely recall, and after raging that took days to abate sufficiently for him to converse again, still he was not ready to learn what was behind his closed doors. And he did not believe he would be ready until his body set itself aright, which it must do since the one thing he knew for certain was he was a warrior and all limbs must function extremely well to remain that.

These past weeks, he had regained some feeling and slight movement in his hips and upper thighs, but there was no movement below no matter how hard he stared at his legs and feet and commanded his body to heal whatever damage lay behind the scar on his lower back. Like a vassal who has turned on his overlord and been imprisoned for it, his body refused to renew its oath of allegiance though promised more freedom than it had in the cramped dark cell in which it wasted away.

Firm footsteps sounded, solid but for the flap of worn soles coming free of their uppers.

Godfroi of no surname, though he had only to ask to be told, shifted his regard from legs stretched out on the pallet to the cave entrance whose panel of thatch Johannes had set aside hours past.

“Rabbit!” the hermit said as he entered, holding aloft lifeless prey that dangled from a rope around its hind legs. “A fine dinner we shall have this day.”

No longer one to refuse food, as done those first days of intermittent consciousness that culminated in the revelation of what could prove a lifelong impediment, Godfroi approximated a smile that was the least due the man who tended one who could be unpleasant when he spent too much time seeking to persuade the rebels made of his lower body to renew their oath.

“Good hunting, Brother Johannes,” he said.

The hermit tossed the small body atop the tree trunk that served as a table and continued to his patient’s pallet at the back of the cave.

He halted, showed his palms. “Taken with these bare paws. And you will have to accept the word I give since you could not be there.”

As Godfroi was prepared to do, having known it was only days before the man made good on the bargain struck—a rabbit caught with his bare hands in exchange for Godfroi dealing what could prove a mortal blow to his pride in leaving the cave. But it was a bargain he would not have made did he not want to be beneath sky and sun again. He had just needed to feel he would gain something in exchange and was certain Johannes knew that.

“Best done now,” Johannes said. “If the novice comes today as is likely, it will be ere noon. That gives us an hour, perhaps two.”

Once a week the young man rode to Johannes’s cave on the Orne River and delivered various items along with a scroll of the names of men and women his monastery were invested to pray for. And there was no doubt Johannes faithfully spoke to the Lord on their behalf. Though Godfroi had no one with whom to compare the hermit, he knew this was an upright man in a world lacking a good supply of them.

He inclined his head. “Oui, as much as possible, I am ready.”

“First, something to aid you.” Johannes swung away. When he returned, it was with long strips recently cut from a worn tunic and wound into balls. Though Godfroi had not asked their purpose, he had guessed it had something to do with him.

Minutes later, from just above the elbows to the palms, his arms were wound about with material. He was grateful for it, the little he had moved about the cave to tend bodily needs having been an exercise in frustration as well as discomfort, though that in no way compared to the humiliation.

“Now you are ready,” Johannes said.

He would never be ready for this, but if his prayers and the hermit’s were answered, this was a temporary state.

He turned and dropped his padded forearms to the stone floor, then engaging his upper body, pulled himself off the pallet. Though he nearly demanded Johannes leave, were he not seen here, then outside.

Blessedly, his upper body was exceedingly strong—more proof of the warrior, but little consolation in this moment as it was required to drag the dead weight of the lower body to advance across the floor.

Though so shameful was it Godfroi wanted to keep his head down, he set his teeth and looked up. And was struck by unexpected humor when he saw Johannes’s teeth were also set as if he held his breath.

“How do I know that is truly a rabbit you caught?” Godfroi growled.

The strain on the man’s face dissolving, he jerked his head toward the game he had taken. “It is there for your inspection do you prefer to go the long way around.”

Humor dying a quick death, Godfroi cursed him.

And earned a glower. “For that you will have to repent, my son. Now continue!”

It was no slow crawl across the cave floor, but it felt one, every accursed inch scraping his pride raw. Blessedly, Johannes offered no encouragement, as if he knew it would do the opposite.

Godfroi did not pause until he was outside in sunlight as he had not been for weeks. He could have continued to the river a hundred feet ahead, heretofore known to him only by the sound of its coursing, but he paused.

Rising on extended arms, turning his face up and closing his eyes, he was grateful for Johannes’s capture of the rabbit that caused sunlight to warm his face. His body was not whole, but more so out here, giving him further hope he would heal in full. He had known he needed this, but imaginings of crawling so great a distance had made him resist.

“Lord, I was not meant to be in the dark,” he murmured.

A shoe clinging to the last threads of its sole came in sight before it went behind the hem of a threadbare robe. “No man, woman, or child is meant to dwell in the dark, my son. Well come back to life.”

This was that, Godfroi conceded. No matter how broken one’s body or mind, one was not meant to live in the dark.

“In the light is where God would have us dwell,” Johannes said.

Light. God. Those words jostled Godfroi’s memory. Though what he glimpsed was too fleeting to look near upon, he sensed a woman there.

“How it must pain His heart many of His creation think it easier to live in the pit,” the hermit continued.

Godfroi looked around. “Not you. Though you make your home in a cave, your faith provides the light.”

What appeared pain spasmed across the man’s face. “You do not know me well enough to say that, Godfroi, and I am grateful. Otherwise, I would be of little use to you.”

“How is that, Brother Johannes?”

He raised his eyes to the sky. “I speak of what is in my past, though it refuses to stay there. Regardless, all you need know is once I was sin incarnate, and the greatest of my sins led to repentance and this life where I find some peace from that past.”

“You were a warrior,” Godfroi finally submitted.

“I was, and many I slew in battle, which is far different from killing outside of battle.” Surely seeing understanding in Godfroi’s eyes, he said, “Though my confessor assured me the offense was not as grievous as murder, a man died at my hands as he should not have. Thus, I am here, and since carrying you from the battlefield, I have thought it possible it was more the Lord who sent the hermit to this cave than I.”

“You think He did it for the day I fell nearby?” Godfroi asked.

“Had I not stanched your bleeding, within an hour you would have departed this world, Godfroi.”

Which might have been for the best,said the inner voice who believed a warrior unable to walk was of no use to anyone, even himself.

Pushing it to the back of his mind, Godfroi asked, “Why did you pull me from the dying?”

Johannes opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “For all my mistakes and regrets, I wish to please the Great Forgiver by giving aid to one whose own mistakes and regrets yet have a chance to be remedied.”

Struck by a feeling, Godfroi looked nearer on one he had seen only in the dim and by rushlight and filtered sunlight. Though many of the man’s features were hidden by his unruly beard, what could be seen were strong, well-formed bones that told the tale of a younger man who had drawn many a woman’s eye. And still he was attractive, his dark hair silvered as was common for one his age, though sparsely.

The hermit’s brow grooved. “Something is amiss?”

“It almost feels I know you, Brother Johannes. Do I?”

The man’s eyebrows bobbed. “You do now, and be glad it is this man you know and not the one come before. Now to the river by way of the path.”

Godfroi looked to that which did appear a path, and not only because it was well traversed. There were no rocks on it, not even small ones, and he could see patches of dirt different from the rest for being looser. Doubtless, some time after it was put to Godfroi he must leave the cave under his own power, the hermit had cleared the ground to allow the injured traveler to more easily crawl it.

Trying not to be offended, Godfroi continued forward and was grateful for Johannes’s consideration well before he reached a grassed portion of the river’s bank.

He paused, not because of fatigue though he expended much effort, because both men knew this passage was more than getting beneath sky and sun and exercising his upper body. Here in this place of gently rippling water was a great mirror that could aid in restoring his memory.

“Would you like me to stay?” Johannes asked.

Godfroi looked around. “Remain, my friend.” He had not named the hermit that before, but though it did not unsettle him, he sensed it troubled the holy man.

“That rock,” Johannes nodded at a large one. “I will sit there and wait.”

A longer wait than it should have been due to Godfroi’s hesitation. Then once more he engaged his arms, pulled himself forward, and leaned out over the bank to look upon his face in the mirror made of water.

It shocked he recognized it immediately. But then, what other man beneath the age of thirty had so much silver in his hair? Only one—Hugh.

Like a violent storm, the rest of what was forgotten swept over him. Though such was needed for its life-giving water, it was dreaded for its violence and how much destruction it could wreak.

“D’Argent,” he rasped. “I am Godfroi D’Argent, Baron of Valeur.” Further searching his face, noting a scar at his temple whose getting he did not remember, he thrust back from the water, rolled and, beginning to shake, stared at the blue above.

It should not be a blow to learn who he was, but it could have knocked him off his feet were he capable of standing. If he never walked again, greater the tragedy for one who was more than a warrior sent here and there by his lord.

Godfroi D’Argent had responsibilities beyond swinging a sword. Many depended on him, and it was not just those who worked his lands. He had a wife, two sons, and a mother who needed him. But by now…

“They must think I am dead,” he said, then exclaimed, “Almighty!”

Johannes who likely knew at least some of this, just as he had known his patient’s given name, let him be, and Godfroi was glad. Unless…

He turned his face to the hermit, then asked that whose answer he believed he knew. “Did you send word to my family I live?”

“Non, my son. In consideration of your injury and that you did not wish to be told what I learned of the young warrior known for the silver in his hair, I thought you should determine how best to alert your family and when.”

In that moment, the memory glimpsed minutes earlier returned. He saw again a girl not yet a woman seeking to seduce him—turning on his lap, dropping a knee on either side of him, drawing silvered hair through her fingers.

It is as if after the Lord formed all of Godfroi D’Argent, she had murmured, He decided there was too much black about him and painted in bits of silver to remind him there must be light as well.

Closing his eyes, more clearly Godfroi saw the girl, then the woman she became.

You are mine, Robine,he thought. Or were. His upper body shook harder. Have you given up on me? Think yourself widowed the same as my mother? Believe our sons fatherless?

It was three weeks since the battle, and now more vividly he recalled that bloodletting, as if only one door had to be thrown wide for all others to swing inward. And there was this knowledge as well—his duty to Duke William had rendered him unworthy of all he had won the day he bettered his brother.

When he returned home, were he to once more provide for and defend all that belonged to him, he must be whole of body. Otherwise, he would be a burden and that was all.

Prayer,he counseled in an attempt to calm one whose insides sought to burst from him. Much prayer was needed and things demanded of a body it seemed no longer capable of. Keeping to the pallet and letting the hermit do for him would accomplish neither. What was required was face-down prayer and strenuous exercise. Were he to walk again, it began there.

He would have six months of Robine mourning her loss, possibly as many as twelve. That was all the time he had to reclaim the warrior were he to return to his family. After that, his wife would wed again as agreed.

If she keeps her word, he considered amid panting that made him light of head. For as strong as she grows, she may try to do the same as Mother who paid a heavy price for having no husband to fend for her and her sons.

Though a refusal to wed again would provide him more time, what if no amount of time was enough to regain what he had lost?

“She must remarry,” he rasped. “The boys are exceedingly young and—”

He jerked at the possibility it was not only two children who must be protected but another had she conceived ere he departed Castle D’Argent. Thus, it was more imperative she wed again and well, the Lady of Valeur too great a prize to escape the notice of predators, including the duke who would wish to match her with a favorite. But then she would be married to two men, meaning this one believed dead could never go home. Were he to see his family, it would have to be from afar, as a cripple dragging—

Of a sudden, all within broke loose as it had weeks past.

Not true,he acknowledged amid the raging. This storm beneath the boundless blue rather than bounded black of the cave was more violent now he knew what was lost was more considerable than imagined. And so greatly he raged that had he done so in the cave, this time instead of bruising and scraping hands and arms on the stone wall, he would have broken them.

Godfroi did not know how long the violence lasted, only that it neared its end when a shadow fell over a perspiration-dampened body like dusk over the Orne River.

“Enough!” said the one who should not have taken him from the battlefield. Then the sun shone again as the hermit lowered to grip Godfroi’s arm.

“Enough cursing God and me! Be done!”

“You should have left me to my end, Johannes! And He—“ He jabbed a finger at the heavens. “Where is His mercy?”

A growl rumbled from the holy man, but he said tautly, “Some feeling has returned. That is much to be thankful for, and it is possible—”

“Leave me be!” When the hand on Godfroi tightened, he swung the other arm and landed a fist to the jaw. And another would have followed had not the hermit proved he was still warrior enough to subdue this man of the sword who was as good as cut in half.

Johannes straddled his patient and clamped hands on Godfroi’s arms. “This behavior is beneath you! Worse, it insults God who has gifted you much all these years. There is no time nor toleration for this. When you return home—”

“Not when—if!”

“You will live, Godfroi. I am certain of it.”

“Live in what? Where is the light in being only half a man? I see it not. What I see is darkness not of the grey but the black.”

As if beginning to feel the pain in a jaw that would bruise beneath his beard, Johannes shifted it, then eased his hold on Godfroi’s arms. “I know the way to the light. Do you allow me to shepherd you, it will shine upon you again.”

Godfroi wanted to argue—more, continue raging—but memory of when last he had ridden from Castle D’Argent swept over him. As asked of him, ere going from sight, he had looked around and raised his hand to assure Robine he would return home.

Of a sudden weary, he lowered his lids halfway and set his head to the side to stare at the blue.

“Oui, Godfroi?” the hermit prompted, and receiving no response said, “Regardless of whether your body is restored in full, you can return to your family. However, the Lord must be more present in your life. I will aid in growing your faith so you have hope where you believe there is none, just as I found hope.”

“Why help me?” Godfroi said.

“Because you are family.”

That was so unexpected, Godfroi swept his gaze to the hermit. “Family?”

“As are all true believers, my son. Jesus’ sacrifice flows through Christians, even your veins though you allow anger and fear to disrespect Him. Oui, you and I are family. Thus, I shall aid in picking up the fallen of you.”

“Try,” Godfroi said, but what was meant as a challenge sounded beseeching.

“I shall and do all I can to succeed.” With a slight creak of joints, he pushed upright. “Now either I carry you back to the cave, else you return on your own, proving greatly you desire to go home to your wife and sons.”

Though Godfroi wanted to turn his face away, he rolled onto his palms and forearms.

Having spent the greatest portion of his strength on fury, the crawl to the cave was excruciating, but he made it to the back corner and dropped his perspiration-drenched body atop his pallet. Though the hermit spoke no more and kept his distance, Godfroi had only the reprieve of light sleep, and that was short-lived.

Hooves sounding, he opened his eyes upon the cave entrance. Not that he would so much as glimpse the novice come unto this portion of the river. When Godfroi had asked why the one who journeyed here was not invited inside, the hermit had told it kept visits brief. The only time anyone entered here besides him was when shelter was needed to wait out bad weather—or a chevalier near death required tending, he had added.

“You are new to me!” Johannes’ voice carried to the cave. “Your name?”

“I am Fulbert, Brother Johannes.”

“I am pleased to meet you. What accent do I hear, Fulbert?”

“Saxon alongside Norman. Not everyone hears it, and less now for all the years since my parents sent me across the narrow sea to be trained up in the Church.”

“Ah, those of Normandy making babes with the English. A good thing, I think, and a good decision to send you here so you know the blue of your blood amid the red. Now what have you for me, my son?”

“For the body—good wine, fresh-baked bread, cheese. For the praying—two scrolls.”

“Two is unusual.”

“Oui. As more accept those gone missing during the battles that followed the siege of Falaise are forever lost, greater the number of requests for aid in petitioning the Lord to have mercy on their souls.”

Is my name among them? Godfroi wondered. Is this missing husband and father believed forever lost?

“It will be an honor to wear out these lips, hands, and knees,” Johannes said. “Now best you return. The skies are clear, but I feel rain.”

A long silence, and Godfroi wondered if young Fulbert was surprised at being shown no hospitality, then he said, “Brother Johannes, as you can see, I have very large feet.”

“I see, my son,” the hermit said with annoyance. “Blessedly, they fit well the rest of you.”

“I am quite large for my age. For that and the ability to defend myself well—and I do repent for being roused when I ought not—I was entrusted with this delivery.”

“And?” Johannes prompted with greater irritation.

“I notice your shoes barely hold to your feet, Brother.”

“Considering many have nothing, barely is something, my son.”

There came a nervous clearing of throat. “I could leave you these.”

“Then having no shoes at all, your situation would be more dire than mine, Fulbert.”

“But—”

“Go!“ There came the sound of hooves, then, “God speed, my son!”

Hardly had the hermit turned his worn-through shoes toward the cave than the horse’s retreat ceased.

“You!” Johannes shouted, his rapid footsteps revealing he ran opposite the cave, then once again the horse sped away.

It was some minutes before the hermit entered the cave. In one hand were two sacks, doubtless one containing foodstuffs, the other scrolls. Dangling from the other were good-sized shoes with intact soles. He tossed them at the base of the table and muttered, “What does he not understand about a hermit’s life?”

Godfroi might have smiled were this the day past. Knowing it would never again be that, he pushed to sitting. “I would like to see the scrolls.”

With greater respect, the hermit set the sacks atop the table beside the rabbit and turned to Godfroi. “You would know if your name is inked upon one.”

“I would.”

“The scrolls are for my eyes alone, but do I see your name I will tell you.”

That vexed, but there was no arguing. Too, even were his name not on one of these scrolls, it could be on another delivered to other hermits and more likely one who dwelt near Valeur.

Brother Johannes strode to the pallet. “Do you love your wife, Chevalier?”

His question jolting one moment, offending the next, Godfroi narrowed his eyes.

The hermit nodded. “Methinks you do, even if you do not allow yourself to feel it deeply.” Before it could be denied, he continued, “You may believe it weakness for a man—a warrior—to feel much for one who has partnered with him for life, but I tell you it is not. Love is strength. Oui, it can prove one’s downfall, but not if the love of two is woven through with love of the Lord.”

Godfroi stared.

“Does your wife love you?”

Though Godfroi had no intention of allowing this to become a conversation, when the man settled into his heels, he growled, “Certes, once she did. She ceased voicing it, but I think still she felt some for me when I departed for Falaise.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Godfroi snapped. “For that love, greater her hurt for believing herself a widow.”

“That you concern yourself with her pain tells she is more than a womb for your heirs.”

“What it tells is I am capable of compassion! That is not love.”

The hermit grunted. “Perhaps, my son. Now let us return to what she feels for you. In the absence of a body for burial, love should keep her awaiting your return longer than would one who is merely loyal to her husband. That is good. What is not good is it may not be as long as it should be since there is great gain in wedding the widow of the Baron of Valeur.”

“This I know!”

“Then this you know as well—much is required of your soul and body if Lady Robine is not to be wed to two men, and to provide your sons the guidance of a father who shall ensure their blood rights.”

“Guarin,” Godfroi thoughtlessly spoke his heir’s name and would have spoken that of his second son had not Johannes startled.

Before he could question what unsettled him, the hermit turned aside and said, “After our bellies are filled, work begins on preparing you to return home.”

Annoyingly, his disintegrating soles scraped the stone floor and ceased before he reached his makeshift table. He looked down, harrumphed. “That sole has lost its last threads and soon the other shall.” He peered over his shoulder. “Is it not wondrous how God provides when the need is greatest, my son?”

Godfroi shifted his jaw. “I thought it was the novice, Fulbert, who provided.”

“You think wrong. As told, much work to be done on your soul. Now to spit and cook our meal.”