Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Sixteen

Robine did not know the surname, meaning if he spoke true, his noble family was not among the prominent of Normandy.

“And you, my lady?” He raised his eyebrows. “What am I to call one who wields a blade fairly well?”

Only then did she realize she still held the dagger, and as if to give further proof of her proficiency, the one she had cut groaned.

She swept her gaze to him.

“Fear not,” the chevalier said, “he bleeds out. Now will you do me the honor of your name?”

Was he really unaware, or was this part of a larger game? “You do not know, Chevalier Michel?”

“Not possible since I would remember had we met, it being only assumption you are a lady for traveling in so fine a carriage and what I can see of your bodice.”

“Lady Robine!” Paulette cried. “Is it over?”

Robine’s emotions waged war—relief the woman lived battling with vexation for what she revealed were it not already known. Of course, just because Robine was an uncommon name did not mean—

“Ah, of the D’Argents,” Michel Roche stripped her of hope. “A lady, indeed, and though heretofore unknown to me, I am acquainted with your—”

“Are the wee ones safe?” the woman revealed yet more.

“Silence, Paulette!” Robine commanded, though what else could be divulged? Had these supposed saviors been ignorant of what the servant told, they need know no more to present greater danger to this lady and her sons.

The chevalier urged his horse nearer. “Have no fear, Lady, we are what we appear—noblemen out for a hunt who heard a clash and determined to investigate the evil done here.”

“On L’Épée lands,” she said with accusation.

Once more, he drew rein. “Oui, those of your sire, but be assured we have permission to take game.”

She shook her head. “Baron L’Épée is not generous in that way.” And few other ways, she silently added.

“I would not know since it is at your brother’s invitation my companions and I visit.”

Robine narrowed her eyes. “You lie. My brother would not dishonor the old baron by entertaining acquaintances whilst our sire is on his deathbed.”

Roche frowned, and a glance at his companions revealed similar expressions of confusion. “My lady, your sire is sickly, but one would not know he is near death. He dined with us last eve and again this morn ere he wished us good hunting—admittedly with grudging though the meat that graces his table this eve will be there due to our efforts.”

“That cannot be. On the day past, I received word from my stepmother I should make haste in coming ere my sire expires.”

His brow grooved. “Lady Delphine was present at the breaking of fast, as was your brother who eschewed the hunt to ride on a nearby village whose tenants are remiss in doing their duty to the baron. From neither was there talk of your arrival.” His eyes shifted to the warrior who continued to groan. “I am thinking the missive you received was a trap, my lady.”

Was he to be believed? she wondered, then hearing the covers rustle, reached behind and patted her boys’ legs.

“Certes, this requires exploration,” Roche said and dismounted and held up a hand. “Until you trust we mean you no harm, I will draw only near enough to persuade our mutual friend to reveal who inked the missive you received.”

Naught to lose, she told herself. If these men wanted her out of the carriage, it would not take long to achieve that end. At her nod, he strode forward.

“Michel,” one of his companions said, “methinks I saw movement near that horse.” He nodded not ahead of the carriage but behind. “If its rider lives, Francis and I will dispatch him.”

“Non!” Robine put her head out the window and saw only still near the lone horse. “That mount belongs to my man, Sir Olivier, who was the first attacked.”

“Then we will provide aid if it can be given.” That chevalier and Francis put heels to their mounts.

“I know of Sir Olivier’s reputation,” Michel Roche said as he continued to the man on the ground. “No surprise they determined it best to fell him ahead of the others.” He kicked aside the dagger near the miscreant’s hand, then jabbed the toe of his boot beneath the man’s belly and flipped him onto his back.

The mercenary gave a bark of pain.

“You have been listening,” the chevalier said. “You know what I wish to know, so talk and let us be done with this so we can get the lady and her children to their destination.”

The miscreant bared his teeth and named Roche something Robine had never heard but was certain no woman—nor man—ought to suffer its speaking.

The chevalier clicked his tongue. “You seem to think me patient. With many things and most people, it is so, but not with this thing you have done, slaughtering godly men. And more grievous that you are one who takes coin to participate in the sins of others.” He stepped nearer, set a foot atop the man’s chest. “No one wants to die alone, but as surely you know, it is preferable to dying in the company of one who can make your last minutes agonizing. So give answer.”

When the man pressed his lips, Roche said, “For the sake of the lady who ought not see uglier things than already you have shown her, do not test me.” He leaned in. “Tell who paid you to do this to Godfroi D’Argent’s widow and sons.”

Robine stiffened. She knew people titled her as one whose husband had passed, but it angered each time it was spoken in her hearing.

“Come now, that privileged one is not here to do worse to you for revealing him, and is he not responsible for the loss of your men’s lives and soon your own? A name is all I require, then I will leave you to repentance.”

The man reached to the foot making it difficult to breathe, but it remained firm—and firmer yet as told by a wheezing breath and arms flopping to his sides.

One part of Robine recoiled over his suffering. The other part told it was not the horrendous torture of which she heard talk and urged her to look near on the scattered men who yielded up their lives to protect her, imagine what the mercenary had meant to do to her and her sons, and think on the gain of knowing who hid behind her attackers.

Longing for counsel where none could be found, her gaze was drawn to Roche’s companions, several of whom nursed injuries, proving some of the blood upon them was their own. They observed Roche’s means of extracting information with what appeared interest and approval—except one who looked annoyed, as if he could do a better job of loosening the mercenary’s tongue.

“A name!” Chevalier Michel demanded. “Else you will suffer far more.”

“Ho!” one of his companions exclaimed. “They have Sir Olivier astride.”

Robine saw it was true. Though bent over, Godfroi’s man was in the saddle, his mount led forward by one of Roche’s companions.

“Praise the Lord!” she gasped.

“Ah, mercenary,” Roche said, “better you had yielded to me than one who will believe himself dishonored for not keeping his charges from you. As you shall need all the breath you can draw ere he takes the last…” He removed his foot from the man’s chest. “…best this way, methinks.”

Though the riders progressed slowly, great Robine’s hope for Sir Olivier’s recovery when twice he lifted his head as if to converse with the two. As they neared, he pointed to the opposite side of the carriage, causing one of the men to urge his horse that direction.

Robine looked over her shoulder through the window that side and saw Roche’s companion dismount. Hoping one or more of her fallen men lived, she turned back and swept up her dagger when she saw Michel Roche was alongside the carriage.

He glanced at her blade, then raised empty hands. “After such an ordeal and the need to protect your young, I do not begrudge you being cautious, but I vow to prove worthy of your good regard and trust.”

She half believed him but scooted back to provide more space in which to maneuver the blade were it necessary.

Setting a shoulder alongside the window, he moved those golden eyes to the advancing Sir Olivier.

As Roche’s companion aided in halting her man’s mount alongside the mercenary, she saw an arrow protruded from Olivier’s lower ribs. “Lord,” she beseeched, then again when he turned his face toward her. His left temple was bloody and swollen, either evidence he had not entirely escaped being trampled by his horse or he had struck his head when he fell from the saddle.

After some consideration of Michel Roche, he said, “My lady, forgive me for failing you.”

Of course he would feel that way, but how could he have better prepared for this deception?

“You did not fail me, Chevalier. If these men who claim to be my sire’s guests speak true, soon your injury will be tended.”

He returned his regard to Roche. “Until they give us cause to suspect otherwise, I think we must believe them.”

He knew the same as she they were at the mercy of these supposed saviors, there being only a breachable latch between them and the carriage’s occupants.

She jutted her chin at the mercenary. “We must know who hired him.”

With a groan, Sir Olivier straightened his back and looked to the man who held his horse’s reins. “Your spear,” he said.

Immediately, the sharply-pointed rod was unfastened from the man’s saddle and passed to him.

Olivier nudged his horse nearer the one who watched through narrowed lids, set the spear’s point center of the mercenary’s abdomen. “A name, poltroon, and I will make this as…” Her man closed his eyes, drew breath. “…swift as this anger can stand.”

No response.

Unlike Roche, he who had lost many men this day and might not survive himself, gave no further warning. He thrust the tip into his enemy’s abdomen, causing Robine to drop back on her heels and clap a hand over her mouth lest more her boys were frightened by her scream alongside that of the pierced man.

Roche’s face filled the window, blocking her view. “Best you look no more, Lady. This is far worse than allowing a man only sips of breath.”

Had he not said that, she might have stayed put, but lest this one prove an enemy, he would see the steel Lady Maëlys and Godfroi had poured into her spine. Returning to her knees, she said, “I am the wife of a warrior and the mother of warriors to be. Stand aside!”

He raised his eyebrows, then once more settled a shoulder against the door.

“A name!” Olivier repeated, and she saw he had withdrawn the spear and now its point was against the man’s side.

The mercenary yelped when it began drawing blood, this time slowly. “D’Argent!” he shouted. “Hugh D’Argent paid me!”

Robine jerked and flashes of dark and light burst before her as if day and night came fast one after the other, then what felt a blow to the chest caused her to drop the dagger.

As distantly Sir Olivier named the mercenary a liar, Michel Roche said, “Hold, Lady!”

Feeling herself pulled upright, she realized she fell toward the bench. As she brought to focus the one reaching through the window, face once more blocking her view, she realized the alternating light and dark had been the fluttering of her lashes over the shock of a name that should not have been spoken.

The relationship between Godfroi and his brother had been strained since the contest, but from what her husband told of meetings with Hugh when they fought for Duke William, the strain was not so deeply rooted in jealousy as to be named hostility.

Had Godfroi lied to keep her and his mother from worrying? she wondered as she tried not to make sense of the vengeful shouts of Olivier and the pained ones of the mercenary. Or had Hugh hid well his animosity?

Were there deadly animosity to be hidden,a voice within urged her not to judge her brother-in-law based on the profession of a murderer.

Allowing Michel Roche to steady her, she recalled what Hugh had sent his mother and her months past. Expressing sympathy for the death of Godfroi and sorrow over losing his brother, as well as offering to aid however he could, the missive had been brief but seemed sincere. Of course, far easier for written words to appear genuine than spoken.

Aloud, Robine assured herself, “Sir Olivier is right. Hugh would not do that to Godfroi.”

Hearing the coverings rustle as the boys shifted, knowing her words distressed them further, she commanded herself to straighten out her emotions.

Gently, the chevalier squeezed her arm. “Lady Robine, unfasten the door.”

She wanted to refuse him, but resistance was pointless now as Sir Olivier also concluded, and it could make this more of a nightmare for Guarin and Cyr. Still, she had to ask, “For what?”

“Methinks your woman ought to join you. Too, it would be best if Sir Olivier and others of your men who survived are transported by carriage.”

Robine hesitated, not because she weighed whether or not to do as bid, but because unlike this chevalier, she was not thinking ahead.

“First, retrieve your dagger.” He released her arm. “It will make you feel more secure.”

She picked it from the floor. “Tell me you are a good man, Chevalier.”

He nearly smiled. “I could be a better man, but according to the lovely Pilar, mostly I am good.”

“Pilar?”

“A friend since my boyhood.” Now he did smile. “She is set on wedding me, but…” He shrugged, looked behind. “The mercenary is dead, Lady. He and his men will trouble you no more. Now the latch, hmm?”

She released it.

Easing the door open, he looked past her to the covered pallet. “I shall deliver your servant to you. Whilst I aid with the injured, see to your boys, assuring them the danger is past and soon they will be at their grandsire’s home.”

As it appeared the summons was false, she longed to return to her home, but since Castle L’Épée was nearer and it was the destination of these noblemen, sooner the injured could be tended by a physician. Too, as she no longer had an escort, she would have to impose on her sire to provide one to see her and her sons safely home.

When she did not respond, the chevalier strode to the front of the carriage.

Hearing him converse with Paulette—assuring the woman he would do her no harm—Robine set the dagger on the bench, shifted around, and turned back the coverings.

Just as Guarin’s fearful gaze awaited hers, so did Cyr’s, but there was also curiosity in the former, offense in the latter. However, what nearly made her weep was the hand Godfroi’s heir pressed over Cyr’s mouth and the one pressed over his own. So very brave her little men.

A sob escaping, she scooped them into her arms. “It is over, my sons. No more bad men.”

Lord, let me not be wrong about Michel Roche and his companions, she silently beseeched.

“Dead?” Guarin said near her ear.

Once more, she thought how unseemly it was one so young knew of death. Blessedly, it would be years ere he fully grasped the meaning of that loss without end—and the horrors often accompanying it in this world caught in the long shadow of sin. “Oui, the Lord protected us by sending good men to stop the bad.”

Guarin drew back, and his uncertain smile became a frown. She did not realize tears had escaped until he touched her cheek and followed the trail to her chin. “No cry, Mama. We keep you safe for Papa.”

She nearly whimpered. “Oh, my fearless son, that you do.”

Cyr also pulled back and demanded, “Me!”

She turned her face to him. “Oui, you kept me safe for Papa too, dearest.”

He jerked his chin, then dropped his head to her shoulder and slid a hand down her bodice as was his means of comforting himself since she had stopped breastfeeding him. Though she had begun discouraging this habit, now was not the time.

“Oh, my lady!”

Robine peered over her shoulder and, seeing Michel Roche hand Paulette into the carriage, gave a shake of the head as instruction to hold close words that would further unsettle the boys.

The woman nodded and lowered to the forward bench.

“I thank you, Chevalier Michel,” Robine said as he started to turn aside. “Forgive me for misjudging you.”

“Understandable, my lady. Until a man proves himself and his word, exercise much doubt and caution.” He inclined his blond head, and as he strode opposite, called, “Be quick in binding up those wounds, men!”

As Robine turned back, she was struck by the realization that though the shaken of her needed to hold her sons and shrink from looking closer at what went outside, greater the need to aid in tending the wounded. And since Paulette would remain with the boys, ensuring against further exposure to this day’s evil, Robine had no excuse to ignore her conscience. Too, the work would distract her from seeing and seeing again Hugh standing alongside Godfroi the day she stumbled on them in the gatehouse and hoped he would be the one to take her to wife.

I do not want to believe you could be responsible for the evil done your brother’s family, she silently entreated, but I do not know you. Pray, let it be a lie.

Determining Maëlys need not be told of the charge against Hugh and she would ask Michel Roche to request of his friends none repeat the lie, she drew breath and looked from Cyr’s face in the crook of her neck to Guarin whose expression reflected concern.

For me, she thought and though tempted to enfold him and not move from here, reminded herself of the steel in her spine.

“Warriors mine, now you have done your duty in keeping Mama safe, she is needed to aid with Sir Olivier and the others injured. Tell me you will stay here with Paulette and protect her as you did me.”

Guarin looked to the woman. Though his hand on his mother’s shoulder tightened, he nodded, causing the silver strand to catch light. “I keep her safe, Mama.” He tapped his brother’s back. “Cyr help.”

The littlest one grunted and shook his head. Hoping it did not portend a tantrum when she passed him to Paulette, Robine lowered Guarin to his feet and turned on her knees to the woman.

Blessedly, Cyr went into Paulette’s arms and buried his face in her bosom. When his hand crept into the top of that woman’s bodice, a chuckle sounded from her. Then she waved Guarin forward and patted the bench beside her. “Go, my lady,” she said. “These chevaliers in training will do their duty to watch over this woman.”

Robine swung her legs out of the carriage and dropped to the ground. Then determined to look upon what wicked men had done, hopeful she would find signs of life among her fallen, she raised her chin. And considered two of Roche’s companions who had dismounted to move body to body.

Thankfully, they were not divesting the dead of valuables but searching out those yet living. A moment later, one of the chevaliers answered a groan with a sweep of his blade, silencing one whose garments revealed he was among her attackers. Still, Robine recoiled.

“Here one who lives!” called the other chevalier.

The same as the recently dispatched mercenary, she thought as she looked that direction. But this fallen warrior was one of hers as evidenced by Roche’s companion heaving the man aloft and, beneath the weight of muscle and chain mail, weaving among the bodies toward the opposite side of the carriage.

She followed, and when she came around the backside saw the injured were tended there, including Sir Olivier who was on his back, the arrow’s shaft snapped near its entrance to allow Michel Roche to bind him.

Dropping down beside him, she said, “I will do it.” As the chevalier turned surprised eyes on her, she reached to the roll of cloth surely carried in his pack lest the dangerous sport of putting meat on the table saw the hunter spill blood for shedding that of his prey.

He tightened his hold on the roll. “Not necessary, Lady. Best you return to the carriage.”

“When minutes can be the difference between properly healing and suffering lifelong affliction—worse, living and dying—it is necessary,” she said. “Now give over and sooner we can aid the others.” Of which three besides Olivier were her own.

“Very well, my lady. You wrap him, and I will lift him when you go under.”

She had thought to do it on her own, but it was more efficient this way—albeit unsettling to be so near one whose golden eyes were often upon her.

Michel Roche showed too much interest for a woman not yet proved a widow. Hopefully, he would set himself aright, saving her the effort of doing so.