Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Seventeen

Castle L’Épée upon Solitaire

I am not in love, though mayhap I could be,Michel mused as he urged his horse toward the inner bailey’s portcullis. Is this how that malady of the heart manifests? That organ stretching in an unfamiliar direction as if suddenly so dissatisfied with its shape it seeks a new one? Is it that which makes hands and lips ache to touch a woman though her eyes warn she is not to be touched?

Not for the first time—perhaps the fiftieth—he looked sidelong at the lady who had ridden beside him throughout the journey. She sat astride like a man, causing her skirt’s hem to ride up a hosed calf. In the crook of an arm, the youngest of her sons slept, while the other rode behind, sharing the saddle with the carriage driver who had been rendered unconscious by a blow to the head.

Occasionally, the widow did look Michel’s way, but there was no encouragement in her eyes.

That would please Pilar as Michel wished it pleased him. He was fond of the young lady long known to him, and in his youth had considered wedding her. However, it seemed one ought to feel more for a wife than fondness that was not much greater than what he felt for his sister.

Hardly had they entered the inner bailey than the great doors opened and Baron L’Épée’s physician and male servants hastened down the steps.

Michel had been ashamed the courageous lady tending the injured alongside him was the one who thought to send word ahead so her family could prepare to receive them. Hence, by now the old baron was long apprised of the deception that befell his daughter and her escort, and for that it surprised he did not appear on the upper landing.

Though in poor health, it seemed if he could get to the table for meals and the hearth to move the evening’s conversation in a direction pleasing to him, he ought to be the first to greet his traumatized daughter and grandsons. But not even her stepmother appeared in the old man’s stead. As for the lady’s brother, likely he had not returned from the village. And what of Lady Robine’s half-siblings?

Why he thought it his place to excuse what seemed disregard he did not know, but he told a lie. “Your sire seemed more tired than usual this morn,” he said as the physician advanced on the carriage that veered right to unload the injured.

The lady met his gaze. “Be that true or false, do not concern yourself with my reception, Sir Michel. Though without regard to my feelings, by agreement between the L’Épées and the D’Argents I wed the enemy to bring peace, still my sire sees me as having gone the side of a family he could no longer best. Now, for believing he wished to meet his grandsons ere he passed, many D’Argent defenders have been lost.”

“I am sorry, my lady.”

She nodded. “Methinks Lady Pilar is right—mostly you are good. And I praise the Lord for alerting you and your companions to our plight so you might set aside good hunting to aid us.”

As together they had tended others of the injured, he had felt her distrust ease, and more so when her dead were put over their mounts for transport to ensure proper burial rather than be left as carrion the same as the mercenaries. Even further she had eased when they retrieved the squires left to watch over the wagon whose burden of boar and deer proved he and his companions had been hunting.

“A good husband you will make Pilar,” she said, reining in before the steps. “As I am a fortunate woman, so will she be.”

Noting she spoke as though still she were as blessed and thinking it a slip of the tongue for widowhood being so recent, he said, “I am sorry for the loss of your husband. It cannot be easy to have been so fortunate in marriage then to—”

“Like many, you err in believing me widowed, Sir Michel.” The warmth in her voice had cooled. “It is possible I am—I do not delude myself—but as I have no body to prove my husband is lost to our family, I will not be denied the hope he may yet return.”

“Apologies, my lady.” Careful to speak of the present, Michel added, “It sounds Baron D’Argent loves you well.”

He was wrong in believing that would please her, as evidenced by no smile and that she averted her gaze. Because her husband did not feel for her as she felt for him? he wondered as he swung out of the saddle to aid with her dismount.

Likely, he concluded, and it made him more certain that unless he gained some depth of feeling for Pilar beyond friendship, it was best she wed another. Fortunately, her sire so loved his only daughter he agreed she would wed only if she wished and he approved of her choice—one at least as worthy as Michel once he had said with a wink at the youth he fostered.

Coming around to Lady Robine’s left side and glimpsing uncertainty when she looked from her sleeping son to him, he said, “Hold tight to the lad and turn toward me. I have strength aplenty to get you down as one.”

That he did, and when she pulled back, wished he felt no different from when he aided Pilar out of the saddle—no longing to linger over the excuse to be near, no temptation to lean in and steal a kiss. It was almost enough to dislike this lady, and he would were it her intent, but again those eyes warned him away.

When he released her and turned to the steps, she said, “Sir Michel.”

“My lady?”

“Truly, I am grateful for all you and your friends did.” Her voice caught. “Had you not, our prospects would be dire had we prospects at all.”

He inclined his head. “I am at your service. Have you any need I might meet, you have only to ask.”

Her mouth curved. “I hope not to impose further, but it is comforting to know I may.” She looked behind to her driver. “Be careful not to rouse Guarin when you pass him to Paulette,” she instructed. “The morrow is soon enough for Cyr and him to meet the past.”

Though Michel was tempted to have the boy given to him, if he awakened, it would not bode well, the D’Argent heir having come at him with fists and teeth when Michel sought to aid in retrieving the lady’s sons from the carriage to make room for the injured.

Once the boy was in the servant’s arms, silently his mother followed Michel up the steps. And into a hall prepared to receive the injured, the weary, the hungry.

* * *

It was notbitterness that caused her to expect less than what was given—at least not wholly. The physician who was needed more than any other was quick to begin tending the injured. The hall that should be clear between the nooning and evening meal for conducting business and entertaining guests was laid with pallets one side to accommodate those being carried through the great doors. Awaiting them was her sire’s priest who immediately lowered beside Olivier. And tables were erected before the dais to refresh the weary.

Non, she expected less than this because her sire had not come outside to greet her, holding fast to the precedent set the last time she was here as a spurned bride. However, he had shown much consideration, though likely more to impress his invited guests.

It was awkward, but at least this time she was not fearful of disappointing him, and that was everything. It aided in being gracious when her stepmother hastened forward and, in a clear voice sure to reach the guests who had gone hunting and brought back far more than promised, expressed concern for the sleeping little ones she had never before seen.

When first Robine stepped into the hall, she had met her sire’s gaze where he sat at the hearth with others she guessed were of Michel Roche’s visiting party—these men of greater age than those who returned with boar and deer.

The old baron had acknowledged her with a nod, then his wife had shepherded his daughter and Paulette up the stairs to Robine’s old chamber that must now belong to her half-sister. In the hall, that young woman and her siblings had looked up from where they played a board game, but none had come forward, though surely the eldest must recall when Robine was more a mother to them than Delphine.

“Rest here,” that lady said when Paulette and Robine lowered the boys to the bed. “I will have a platter of food delivered to you.”

“Only for Paulette,” Robine said. “She will watch the boys while I—”

“You are tired.” Delphine moved toward the door. “You need only refresh yourself and care for your boys.”

“I thank you for the hospitality, but I would like to see to my injured.”

“The physician provides the care they need, and the priest prays over them.”

“But—”

“Robine!” She swung around. “I know of the treachery that befell you, that someone—not me, I vow!—summoned you under the pretense your sire is passing. He does not get around well, but he is not near death. Indeed, these past days he has conducted important business, attempting to arrange a marriage for your brother and assess men of good fortune for our daughter’s betrothal.”

Was Michel Roche a candidate? Robine wondered. For the sake of the patient Pilar, she hoped not.

Delphine drew breath. “I am sorry for your suffering, and I assure you we shall do all we can to get you and your men home to D’Argent Castle as soon as possible.” She stepped into the passageway and closed the door.

Robine did not realize she gaped until Paulette also gaped and shrilled, “Never have I ever, and I care never again!” She shook her head. “Why, she is the coldest fish. Had I to wager, she fears the widow of Godfroi D’Argent will distract her daughter’s suitors.” She caught her breath in concert with Robine. “Apologies, my lady. I should not think there. It is just…well your husband is gone a long time now. And did you not notice how those at the hearth looked at you? Certes, they saw a young, beautiful woman who gave her husband two healthy sons, one after the other.”

“Enough, Paulette, and keep your voice low.” Robine nodded at her sleeping sons.

“It is true,” the woman muttered, then lowered to the mattress edge and tucked the coverlet more securely around the little ones. “What will you do, my lady?”

What she wanted to do was defy Delphine, but her men were being well tended and she was as much a guest at Castle L’Épée as Michel Roche and his companions. Dropping into a chair before the brazier, she said, “I will stay put. For now.”

That she did for hours, during which she sipped at drink delivered her and Paulette, picked at viands, and hoped tidings of Sir Olivier and the other survivors would be brought to her.

Paulette was softly snoring on a pallet and the boys still sleeping away the day that moved toward middle night when a drowsy Robine rose to shed her gown and find her own rest.

As she loosened the laces, a light knock sounded. She stilled, then hastened forward and cracked open the door.

“My lady,” said one who wore the finery of a page. “Lord L’Épée would like you to join him in the little chapel.” He nodded to the right where that sanctuary had been built for her mother.

“Now?”

“Oui, my lady.” As he turned away, he did so with a yawn.

Shortly, Robine entered the candlelit room where her sire stood before the altar, leaning heavily toward one side beneath the support of a cane.

Keeping his back to her, he said, “Daughter.”

She drew alongside. “Father.”

He glanced at her. “I am weary, so this will be brief. As my lady wife told, much regret for what befell you and your escort.” He grunted. “And may the Lord deal harshly with whoever sent that missive. Would I could be the one to gut him, but…” He sighed. “I ail, I ail. Ever I ail.”

“Know I pray for you,” she said, and when he did not respond, asked, “How fare my men?”

“Regrettably, one passed.”

She caught her breath.

“Not Sir Olivier.”

Great that relief, but grief for another lost to his family—and fear for Valeur that continued to lose defenders before replacement of those earlier lost.

“The physician believes he and the others will recover,” her sire continued. “Indeed, he says they may travel on the morrow.”

Robine nearly choked. “The morrow? But their injuries are dire.”

“I agree it would not be possible astride, but by carriage they will reach Castle D’Argent without trouble.”

She angled toward him, and when he turned to her, said, “You really cannot bear me being here, can you? Because you made me wed your enemy, I became an enemy as well.”

“Non!” It was said with such fervor, she stepped back. “It is…” He lowered the hand he reached to her, closed his lids. When he lifted them, candlelight showed moisture in eyes made small by sagging flesh all around. “Ever you looked much like your mother. That was difficult after she was gone from us, but more so as you grew into nearly the same image as the woman of whom I was…fond.”

She set a hand on his arm. “That is why you—?”

“Greater my peace and contentment with Delphine since wedding you away,” he spoke over her, “and I believe it the same for your brother who determined to pass the night at an inn when I sent word you came.” He nodded. “You are not the only one who felt her loss.”

His words surprised and touched, but also offended. Though tempted to point out that of those who greatly missed her mother, she was the only one exiled, it would sound as if she was dissatisfied with her marriage. Even were she a widow, never would she regret the match made for her.

She removed her hand from his arm. “I am heartened not to be alone in having loved mother well,” she said, and before he could deny that was what he had felt, added, “As for my brother, surely he will return on the morrow and we—”

“You and your men will be gone by then.”

She nearly staggered.

He cleared his throat. “There are matches to be made to ensure my line continues strong and proud, and you are distraction amid negotiations for your sister’s hand.”

He is all figurehead now,she thought. Delphine is the real Baron of L’Épée.

He nodded. “Much evidence of that when your arrival caused the sire of the chevalier I think a good match for my daughter to tell another he may delay deciding on his son’s wife until after the widow of Godfroi D’Argent is done with mourning.”

Robine breathed deep. “As I have no proof of widowhood, I am not in mourning.”

Sorrowfully, he said, “You felt for your husband as you ought not, but he is lost to you. All know it, now you must do right by your sons in whatever is required to secure their futures. Do you not…”

She did not want to discuss this, and yet she sensed what he left unsaid should be heard. “Do I not, what?”

“Men who could do your sons and you ill will seek to make Valeur theirs, and that could include one of your own blood.”

She gasped. “You speak of my brother?”

“Recently, my lady wife commented that unless you remarry a warrior of formidable reputation or Hugh D’Argent returns to aid in keeping hold of the barony, it is ripe for the picking. Your brother agreed and said perhaps he would do the picking, but…” He shook his head. “As I have been unable to strain out the weak of one who wept more than you over the loss of your mother, methinks greater the chance my second son by Delphine could do the picking once he is of an age to shed blood in earnest. If I live long enough to see him attain manhood, I may have to pass over your brother as the next Baron of Solitaire. And do I die ere then, which seems likely, he may take that title for himself.”

With Delphine’s aid,Robine thought and breathed deep. “I wait on my husband,” she said, and was jolted by less conviction than before. Walls were closing in around her, and unless a door appeared through which Godfroi walked, she would be forced to do as others said she must for the sake of her boys.

“I shall require an escort on the morrow, Sire. You will provide one?”

“Of course.”

“Much gratitude. Now as I am tired, I shall leave you.” She turned away.

“I am sorry for the loss of your husband, Daughter,” he said with what might be desperation. “Truly, I am.”

She wanted to ignore him, but struck by the feeling this was the last time they would meet, peered over her shoulder. “Thus far, Guarin and Cyr are your only grandchildren. Would you like to look upon the fine sons the Lord gifted my husband and me?”

“I would,” he said as if he had hoped to be asked, then started forward with strain in his every step.

Robine returned and put her arm through his. He stiffened but did not pull away. Shortly, both stood alongside the bed where Guarin and Cyr slept facing each other, their countenances lit by a low-burning candle.

“Handsome boys, strong chins.” He reached to Guarin, paused. “May I?”

“Oui, Sire.”

He set a hand on her eldest’s head, and when he closed his eyes, she wondered if he prayed over the little one, perhaps even gave him his blessing. “My grandson, the next Baron of Valeur,” he murmured and looked to Robine. “You cannot allow it to be otherwise. You must secure his future.”

“I shall.”

He curved a hand over Cyr’s head. “My grandson. A mighty warrior he shall be, faithful to family and friends, merciless to any who come against them. You must secure his future as well.”

“I shall, Sire.”

Dropping his arm to his side, he straightened to his hunched height. “I miss not knowing them.”

Robine swallowed hard.

“Mama?” a little voice rasped.

She and her sire startled.

Turning his face up, Guarin looked from her to his grandfather. “Who are you?”

Sensing her sire held his breath, she said, “This is your grandpapa.”

Guarin pushed to sitting. “Mama’s papa,” he pronounced and tilted his head to study the stranger. “Know you where my papa? He is gone a long time.”

As ache ran through Robine, her sire said, “That is the way of warriors. They must venture far and long to protect what belongs to them. One day you will do the same and make your family and Duke William proud.”

“Papa say I fight for duke too. Here and ’cross the sea.”

“Across the sea?” her sire exclaimed, as surprised as Robine. “What would our young duke want with England when he has Normandy which”—he grunted—“is proving too big for him?”

Guarin shook his head. “Papa say Norman-y too little for duke. He says duke’s friend, Ed, is weak.”

My little one makes sense of the conversations of men, Robine mused, having heard Godfroi speak of Prince Edward who was given sanctuary in Normandy for over a quarter of a century since being exiled as a boy following the Danes’ seizure of England’s crown. Last year, he had been called home to reclaim his family’s throne, and many believed the only way he would keep it was with the aid of powerful men who might wish to take the throne for themselves.

The old baron looked to Robine, and a smile pinched his mouth. “My grandson proves not only D’Argent blood runs hot in his veins but hotter yet, L’Épée blood.”

Though she knew the strength of her sons was more of her husband, she did not gainsay him.

Setting a hand on Guarin’s shoulder, her sire said, “You will be the mightiest of barons both sides of the narrow sea.”

The little boy nodded as if he knew that, then touched his sleeping brother’s shoulder. “Cyr, too. We fight ’gether. Protect Mama.”

“Good. Now, Grandson, there is something you must do for me.”

Guarin narrowed his eyes, and Robine thought he would refuse someone he did not know, but he said, “Oui, Grandpapa?”

As if moved at being named that, he pressed a hand to his chest. “As I am old and do not think you will see me again, tell me you will not forget me.”

Guarin bobbed his chin. “I ’member Mama’s papa.”

“Good, now to sleep.”

That made the boy look skeptical, and Robine knew it was due to a bladder over which he was proud to have gained control many months past and now needed to empty. She leaned down. “I will be back soon. Wait, hmm?”

He agreed, and she took her sire’s arm and led him to the door.

“As I sleep late, I will not see you on the morrow,” he said as he stepped into the corridor, then turned back and surprised by kissing her brow. “God be with you, Daughter.”

“And you,” she whispered.