Dauntless by Tamara Leigh
Chapter Fifteen
Barony of Valeur
Summer, The Year of Our Lord 1043
Blessed peace without. No peace within.
Still, Robine was grateful to Herleva, and more so for words beyond those of sympathy sent two months past. Had the duke’s mother herself delivered what was written on parchment, Robine might have kissed her feet for tidings her son had agreed to press no suitors on the Lady of Valeur. Further, he had sent word to nobles across Normandy that Godfroi D’Argent’s widow was to be left to her grieving for six months.
Since thus far the victory at Falaise denied Robine the return of her husband, it seemed the least owed her, but not expected. Fortunately, because of the victory that proved William was no mere youth stomping his feet and rattling his sword, likely his directive would be heeded. But in less than four months, pursuit of the mother of Godfroi’s sons would begin in earnest, and it would start with whomever the duke wished to reward.
For this, though Maëlys held close the hope her son was not permanently lost, determinedly the lady made inquiries about matches for Robine who could not herself bear to participate in the search, having only enough stomach to discuss two lords recently put forth.
Both boasted reputations for being skilled warriors of decent temperament, were two score aged, twice widowed, had sired no legitimate children, and were believed bereft of illegitimate sons and daughters as well.
The reason neither candidate had produced offspring mattered not. What mattered was such a match increased the likelihood her sons would, as much as possible, become another man’s rather than find themselves displaced by sly or foul means.
Even if I must suffer another’s touch, our boys will be protected, Robine silently assured Godfroi as the occupants of the enclosed carriage were jostled by a rear wheel lurching over a sizable rock. Not that Guarin and Cyr noticed, both having fallen asleep two hours into the journey to Castle L’Épée. They were such good boys, and Guarin, who made some sense of talk over his sire’s passing, was proving courageous though he could not understand how great the impact of losing his papa were he, indeed, fatherless.
“Only two sons shall I have and no daughter,” Robine whispered as she pressed a hand to her womb that had kept its appointments with her monthly flux. Though she knew it was best Godfroi and she had not made another babe ere he departed, she wished one grew here. One more child to hold tighter to what the passage of each day dragged from her clenched hands.
Pressing herself deeper into the bench’s corner, she sent her gaze out the small window in the door and across the verdant countryside that was the last of Valeur before they crossed onto her sire’s lands.
“Still you can return to us, Godfroi,” she rasped. The view blurring, she was grateful the servant, Paulette, had asked to sit with the driver when Guarin and Cyr settled on the pallet. “Pray, return to us. No matter what has happened to you, together we will see it through.” She slid her hand to her chest and, feeling the beat of a heart that longed to sway, swerve, and weave as it did only when she was in her husband’s arms, began crying softly.
When she rose above her misery, she knew her eyes would be reddened upon her arrival at the place that could never again be home, but assured herself it was acceptable for the reason Delphine summoned her. Baron L’Épée’s years having become months, then weeks, and now days wished to see the grandsons in whom he had never expressed an interest.
Despite his willingness to completely set her aside after Godfroi reclaimed his bride, it hurt he was dying. However, it was not the hurt of losing Godfroi, and would be nowhere near that of having to accept her husband was forever lost to her and their sons. It was good she had stopped loving him as much as she had, but it would be easier had she stopped loving him altogether.
“Godfroi,” she choked. “Maëlys’ Godfroi. Guarin’s Godfroi. Cyr’s Godfroi. My Godfroi.”
“Almighty!” shouted one of her escorts, causing her to startle and snap up her chin.
“Draw near!” shouted another, and it occurred the second if not the first voice should belong to Sir Olivier. Robine had wanted him to remain behind to continue the accelerated training of men-at-arms and squires needed to replenish Valeur’s fighting men, but he had insisted on accompanying his lord’s wife and children on their journey.
Fearing ill had befallen him, Robine glanced at her boys who roused on the pallet made for them on the carriage floor so they would not be jolted off a bench, then thrust her head out the small window.
Six of her men urged their horses near the carriage whose driver had increased its speed, and when she slid across the bench and peered through the other window, she saw five closed in on that side. Only five, Sir Olivier nowhere to be seen. But when she looked beyond them, she saw his agitated horse circled with no rider upon its back.
Knowing the chevalier was on the ground and fearing his mount’s hooves would put finish to him if he lived, Robine gasped, “Lord, preserve him!” and pulled back from the window, certain it was by violent means—likely an arrow—that caused the chevalier to lose the saddle. Meaning worse was soon to come.
Non, now!she corrected as the sound of hooves increased. Was it coincidence her most formidable protector was eliminated before the attackers showed themselves? Coincidence or not, he could no longer aid her.
Robine dropped to her knees beside the pallet as Guarin sat up blinking and frowning. “Mama?”
So much in a question consisting of one spoken word, she thought as she cupped his face in her hands. “We must get to Grandpapa’s quickly. You and Cyr—”
The lurch of the carriage slamming her against the bench’s edge and causing Cyr to yelp as he rolled that direction, Robine scooped the boys up against her chest, turned her back to the bench, and braced her feet against the opposite bench.
“Mama!” Guarin exclaimed as his brother began crying. “Bad men?”
Not even three, and he knew of that danger, whether committed by common brigands, well-trained mercenaries, or warriors sanctioned by nobility to do what Duke William forbade.
Realizing she might be facing what Lady Maëlys had when her boys were of an age to offer some defense, Robine looked into her eldest son’s wide-eyed face and caught her breath when the sun come through the window caused something to sparkle at his right temple.
Were her hands free, she would touch the strand among black ones of greater length. It could be a singular incidence not to be repeated until her boy was of good age, but she wanted to accept it as evidence he would be as silvered as Godfroi when first she had looked upon the young man she would wed.
Of a sudden, the carriage careened and tilted, eliciting a scream from the unseen Paulette ahead and a command from the driver for all to brace themselves.
“Lord!” beseeched the Lady of Valeur, then once more all four wheels worked in unison.
“Mama!” Guarin said. “Bad men out there?” He looked to the window where one of her escorts could be seen riding alongside.
“Listen to me, my son.” She raised her voice to be heard above Cyr whose sleepy cries had become angry ones. “We—”
Now shouts warning blood would be shed.
Now steel on steel warning death would be dealt.
Now the slowing of the carriage that warned flight would be futile.
Her escort had no choice but to defend their charges here, and further proof of that when the carriage halted and its driver shouted, “Miscreants!” Then he commanded Paulette to get low and his bench creaked loudly as if he launched himself off it to engage the enemy as one of middle years who supervised stable lads was not trained to do.
Glimpsing others outside the windows, noting some attackers boasted chain mail over fine tunics while some wore only the homespun garments of brigands, Robine returned her regard to Guarin and said loudly to make herself heard, “We shall play a game of hiding. As you are the eldest, you are to protect your little brother.”
“Non!” Cyr lifted his tucked head. “Non, Mama!”
“Oui!” Robine said firmly. “You will do as Guarin tells.”
Seeing further protest in the baring of his teeth, she set him on his back on the pallet and his brother alongside. “Both of you stay here beneath the blanket and be still.” She began drawing it over them. “Guarin hold to him, and no more crying, Cyr. This day you are a very big boy.”
Pitifully laughable, she thought, but what looked to be a wail became a whimper when his older brother turned onto his side and hooked an arm around him.
Robine arranged the blanket over them, then carelessly cast her mantle atop it in the hope if any peered inside they would think those things on the floor had dropped off the bench.
“Mama!” the littlest one wailed and the blanket and mantle moved.
“Non, Cyr!” Guarin commanded. “Be still like Mama say—like I say!”
Once more Cyr surprised in ceasing all movement, though above the sounds of battle she heard muffled crying.
Lightly gripping one shoulder then the other through the coverings, she leaned near. “Mama and Papa love their little warriors. Do this for us, brave sons.” After confirming the catch at the base of the door against which their pallet was set remained fixed so it could not be opened from the outside, she turned on her knees to the opposite door, drew the D’Argent dagger that Lady Maëlys had gifted her and in which she had been instructed by her husband, and tried to make sense of the battle.
Her fear soared when she saw her escort was outnumbered by brigands led by what appeared mercenaries, and though the defenders of Valeur dropped their opponents, they fell as well, few of them as formidable as the two score lost to the duke’s cause. On this side, three were on the ground and only one moved, though that ended when an attacker rode near and finished him with a slash that sprayed blood toward the carriage.
Containing a cry that would further frighten her boys, Robine peered across her shoulder at the other window. One of her escort and two of the enemy were visible, the latter having caught her man in their pincer.
“Lord, help him,” she rasped and could not suppress a scream when something struck the door before which she knelt. Pressing her lips lest another escape, she snapped her head around and saw the lawless one who hooked fingers over the window’s ledge. Then his eyes rolled up and he dropped.
Here another victory for her escort, but would it be enough? It was not, as became clear minutes later when the horse of the last of her escort this side was killed out from under its rider who was dispatched the moment he hit the ground.
Knowing one or both doors would be forced open and she would be dragged out, increasing the chance her boys were discovered, Robine bent near and rasped, “Pray, be silent and still, my loves. It matters all.”
Amid Paulette’s scream, she tightened her grip on the dagger, unlatched the door, and thrust it open. She was out of the carriage with feet planted apart when the first attacker turned his mount amid the carnage that included her face-down driver.
Pray, not Paulette as well, Robine silently beseeched. Let her have stayed out of sight.
Of a sudden, the one moving toward her laughed as if a woman brandishing a dagger was a good joke. Face craggy like the wall of a ravine, torso exceptionally stout and legs long, here a brute, a barbarian, a monster.
Fool, spoke the voice within, your boys have as little chance of escaping this murderer as you.
“Be it so,” she whispered, “I will be to them what Lady Maëlys was to—”
She gasped. Might this be the long-delayed retaliation of Arn fitz Géré?
“Lady, lady,” the man drawled as he nudged his mount toward her, “why so inhospitable?”
She stepped forward, firmed her stance as taught by Godfroi, and pointed the dagger at him. “Come no nearer!”
“Calm thyself, Lady Robine,” he said, then called jovially, “Beware the she-bear defending her cubs, men!”
Above the pound of her heart, she heard the laughter of six who became eight when two others rounded the carriage’s backside. Just as he who was likely their leader knew the identity of the one they attacked, he was aware she traveled with her sons though no cry sounded from either.
How did he know? Only when first they departed Castle D’Argent had Guarin and Cyr poked their heads out the windows, exclaiming over this and that and calling for the driver to go faster. When they had settled, it was on her lap or a bench and, after a time, the pallet.
This was planned,she concluded. Somehow they had learned of the summons she received on the day past. By way of a traitor at Castle D’Argent or Castle L’Épée? Likely the latter, especially if Fitz Géré was behind this. His family long known to her sire, it would not surprise they had informants inside his walls.
The man reined in, swung out of the saddle, and fondled his horse’s muzzle before advancing.
Robine took a step forward. “I said come no nearer!”
He showed his palms, then lunged.
As also taught her, she leapt aside at the last moment. When he turned to catch hold of her and momentum slammed his shoulder against the carriage, she swung around and swiped the blade low as taught when an opponent wore chain mail.
The knave bellowed as she cut through chausses into his upper calf, then drew his dagger and pushed off the carriage.
Robine knew she was not ready for him, that the best she could do was hold to the dagger and slash at him as he slashed at her, but then he dropped to a knee.
She gaped at the realization she had dealt more than a flesh wound. Her blade had to have cut muscle. However, there was no time nor cause for relief now the others were coming for her. All she could do was clamber into the carriage and defend her boys, but as she started to go wide around the warrior, bellowing and pounding hooves sounded.
Riders came over a rise in the road ahead. She could not know if they were defenders—quite possibly her sire’s men—or more of the enemy, but they did not appear friendly to those turning toward a far greater danger than one lady passing proficient with a dagger.
As the miscreant she had wounded lurched toward his mount, Robine scrambled into the carriage, latched the door, and snatched the mantle and blanket off her sons.
There Guarin, his brother turned into him, dark head beneath his chin. The sight moistened her eyes, and she nearly cried when she heard her eldest say above the sound of men preparing to do battle, “We brave for Papa.” He jostled Cyr. “Tell Mama!”
Though the littlest kept his head tucked, he jerked his chin. Likely he did not know to what he agreed, but he trusted his brother’s judgment.
“Bad men dead?” Guarin asked.
They were, though more good had fallen than bad. But that she could not tell him. “Oui, Guarin, but—”
She caught her breath when once more blades met blades, this time fairly distant from the carriage, then seeing Guarin was loosening Cyr as if to rise, she said, “Non, stay. The work of good men is not yet done.”
Let them be saviors, Lord,she silently beseeched and reached to cover the boys again lest the newcomers prove enemies.
“Your hand and knife bloody, Mama,” Guarin said.
Muffling a sound of distress, she snatched her hand behind her back.
“You kill bad man too?”
She feared she would heave. “Mama did not. He needed only a warning.”
“Papa would kill him.”
She swallowed hard. “I think you are right, my son. Now you must be quiet a little longer.”
She covered them and turned back to the door to better prepare for what lay ahead. But as she walked her knees forward, the face of the man she had wounded appeared in the window, causing her to lurch back.
“Whore!” shouted the one whose sliced calf had to be responsible for him not joining his companions in fighting the newcomers. Doubtless seeking to gain the leverage of her and her sons, he pulled at the door. When its latch remained faithful, he pulled harder, then cursed and thrust a hand through the opening.
Though she had no wish to be further sullied by his blood, she swept the dagger up from her side.
He howled when she sliced his palm, snatched his arm back, and began wrenching the door so hard his efforts rocked the carriage and roused cries from her little ones.
How long before the latch or hinges give?she wondered. Then knowing she could not allow that to happen, she sprang forward, thrust her arm through the window, and cut his cheek.
He lost his hold on the door and fell but immediately righted himself. And would have come at her again if not for a rider spurring toward the carriage ahead of others.
The blonde-haired man absent chain mail and wearing what appeared a fine tunic and chausses splattered with dirt and blood, gave a shout, leaned to the side, and did with his long sword what Robine could not do with her short blade. He sliced the miscreant’s legs out from under him and was rewarded by a cry of pain ahead of his victim dropping onto his back.
He who might or might not be a savior came around and halted his mount at a good distance that might be meant to reassure her but did no such thing. Golden eyes alight as if a good day was made better by an unexpected clash with a formidable opponent, he said, “Are you well, Lady?”
“Mama?” a muffled voice ventured.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Shh, Guarin,” she hissed and, returning her gaze to the one who gripped a bloodied blade, noted he was in his middling twenties, of good countenance and build, and the curve to his mouth seemed of assurance rather than imaginings of what he might take from her.
As others in his party arrived, many equipped with bows and spears in addition to blades, their garments also fouled by dirt and blood, Robine looked beyond them to riderless horses who lingered in tall grass that concealed the bodies of those who had slain her men.
Shaking, she returned her regard to the one who had aided in putting down her assailants. “Who are you?”
“I am pleased you ask.” It was said with a smile, then he slid his sword in its scabbard and elegantly rolled a hand out before him. “Here Chevalier Michel Roche who forswore good hunting to come to the aid of a lady in much distress.”