Dauntless by Tamara Leigh
Chapter Two
What do you here?” the priest barked as Robine stumbled to a halt.
He was not the only one her appearance offended, those who knelt before him in undershirts and chausses having thrust upright and come around, the swords balanced horizontally between outstretched hands now pointed her direction.
“Heavenly Father!” she gasped, realizing she had interrupted a ceremony for warriors about to enter battle. Which of the men of dark, silvered hair was Godfroi and which Hugh was unknowable for how indistinguishable their handsome countenances—and expressions of outrage. At least, that was the way of it as both ran their eyes over her. Then swords lowered and the mouth of the one on the left curved while the other’s tightened further.
“Lady Robine,” said he who obviously did not dislike her as much as his brother.
“Lady?” scorned the other, and when he shifted his gaze lower, she understood why he questioned that. She held a doll.
Robine yelped, whirled around, and would have kept running—even into the arms of Delphine’s man—had that one not snarled, “A doll! You saw that, did you not, Hugh?”
Near passage’s end, she halted, thrust the toy in her purse, and held her breath to better hear how much more Godfroi disliked her.
“The one you believe a woman plays with dolls.”
She did not! Yanked from childhood years ago when enlisted to aid Delphine with her babes, Robine had learned that stuffed material and a painted face in no way compared to real children who could not be put away and taken out at will.
Laughter sounded. Since it was not scornful, she was certain it was of Hugh. “You insult the lady who shall soon be my wife, Godfroi. True, she is young, but as she has flowered, this night I shall make her a woman in full.”
“If you win,” said the disagreeable brother.
“My sons, we are not here for talk of Daughters of Eve,” the priest rebuked. “We prepare hearts and minds for the great endeavor ahead. Let us return to prayer.”
“You know I shall win, Godfroi, that this is your last day as my equal,” Hugh continued as if the holy man had not spoken. “But we shall give them a good show, eh?”
“Hugh! Godfroi!” the priest rebuked. “Only God knows which of you will take to wife Robine the woman or Robine the girl. As she is not what matters this day, return to prayer.”
“Not I,” said one, doubtless Godfroi. “I am done.”
“Hugh!” the priest exclaimed, revealing Robine had guessed wrong about which one defied.
Still, I hope he who sees me as a woman wins, she thought.
“I am done!” he repeated, and boots sounded.
Once more she was moving—past the guard’s station and into the bailey with no care for who might await her.
Discovering only a handful there and of no threat to her, she returned to the drawbridge whose view of the arena showed the stands were nearly full. As she made her way forward among fewer than before, this time traversing the fronts of the stands rather than the rear, she felt the weight of Delphine’s gaze. Though she avoided meeting it, she slowed as she neared the tiered structure reserved for those of greatest import, put grace in her step, and hoped she was not as disarrayed outwardly as inwardly.
Only when she ascended the stairs to the middle row and began sidestepping knees to reach William did she recall the lady who would become her mother-in-law would be here now.
A moment later, she saw the one glimpsed on the day past now sat where earlier Delphine had perched beside Lady Herleva. It occurred the disapproving gaze felt during Robine’s approach might have been that of Hugh and Godfroi’s mother, but when she looked farther down the row, her eyes were ensnared by her stepmother’s. Anger there of the sort that dealt slaps.
Not this day and never again,she assured herself. At least, not from Delphine.
Knowing her place was beside her stepmother, she started past the knees of the Lady of Valeur, murmured an apology, and forced herself to meet the eyes of she who had brokered peace with the L’Épées though they might be responsible for her husband’s death.
There was much about the green that flicked to Robine’s grey, but it did not seem hatred nor anger. Of course, at the moment there was more to occupy the woman’s emotions than this L’Épée who was to wed whichever son proved victorious. Until then, dark emotions would be held in reserve.
“Lady Robine,” she acknowledged her future daughter-in-law, then waved a hand to direct her to move on.
“Sit between us,” Lady Herleva said and jumped her rear opposite, causing William to look sharply at her, then sigh and say something to the girl who now sat where Robine had earlier. The two shifted farther down the bench and Herleva patted a portion that might accommodate a girl but barely a woman. When met with protest, the woman said firmly, “Sit.”
Robine turned and, fearing she would jostle one or both ladies, eased into that space—of which there was plenty as if to confirm Godfroi’s belief she was a girl.
Herleva put her mouth near Robine’s ear. “You may thank me later for saving you from a stepmother who makes good the cautionary tales of a widower with young children wedding again,” she said. “And worry not over Lady Maëlys. Likely she is less than half here, the greater part of her divided between her sons. What of you? Are you divided?”
Robine caught her breath. Was it possible William’s mother knew where she had gone? Whom she had seen? Which brother had been kind compared to the other?
“Of course, I assume your sire or stepmother told what they know of the differences between the twins,” Herleva prompted.
Robine nearly declined to respond, but sensing the woman was genuinely concerned, said, “They have told me naught about the brothers other than though they are fierce warriors, they do not compare to their sire. I—”
She jerked when Lady Maëlys on her other side leaned near, jerked again when the woman said, “May I advise my future daughter-in-law to learn the art of the whisper?”
Unable to think what to say, Robine could not look at her.
Herleva suffered no such malady, reaching past and patting the older woman’s leg. “No offense was meant, and your duke’s mother is the one who began the conversation. In my defense, it was an attempt to reassure this young woman who has no other to ease this day’s passage from maidenhood to marriage.”
If Lady Maëlys responded in any way, Robine could not know.
Herleva sighed melodiously, drew back, and smiled at Robine. “Would you like to hold my babe?”
Her offer of a distraction made tears prick Robine’s eyes. Who would have guessed the tanner’s daughter who caught the eye of a duke could have a care for one whose sire and stepmother named her a conniving harlot? Not that Herleva knew they said that of her—at least, Robine guessed she did not for how kind the woman was.
“I know babies,” she said. “I will be careful.”
When Herleva passed her the infant, he opened his eyes upon she of unfamiliar arms.
Robine gave him her finger to hold to, and when he drew it to his mouth and sucked the knuckle, she murmured, “Oh, he is sweet, Lady.”
“Not as sweet as Wills—er, William—was,” Herleva said, “but methinks great things ahead for Odo. Possibly he will find his place among the clergy, and if he is clever, rise quite high.”
“With my aid, he need not be clever,” said William.
His mother chuckled. “You are good at listening in on conversations.”
He shrugged his mouth. “What else have I to do? The fight is long in beginning, and Chanson has little to say.” He jerked his chin at the one beside him whose noble mother was said to have befriended Herleva at the request of the departed Duke Robert. “That is, other than she thinks God would not approve of such a contest.”
Hurt flitted across the face of the girl who was of an age near his own. And now Herleva reached to that one’s leg. “Take no offense, dear Chanson. The Duke of Normandy is restless, his mind weighted by great matters.”
A smile made the girl prettier, but it disappeared when trumpets sounded.
The talk and movement of spectators fell to murmurs and still as all looked to a drawbridge now eerily empty.
Trumpets sounded again, and when the murmurs ceased, two warriors stepped beneath the portcullis from opposite sides of the gatehouse. With matched strides, they walked the planks toward the arena.
Once they were in full sunlight, many gasped.
Wondering if others questioned what she did, Robine said, “They are dressed and armed the same, Lady Herleva. Which is which?”
“That we are not to know.” The woman glanced at Lady Maëlys. “Though be assured their mother knows.”
“Why is it hidden?”
“So neither has the advantage of praise by those disposed toward one and not the other. But the name of whoever wins will be known when all is done.” She smiled, then in a whisper Robine was determined to perfect, said, “What think you of a wager? You name who you believe will be baron, and I shall bet on the other. The winner will…” She shrugged her mouth the same as her son, and Robine guessed it was from her he had learned that show of nonchalance. “As I do not know what you have that I would want and you know not what I have, let us wager a future favor.”
Seeing no harm in it—providing Lady Maëlys remained ignorant—Robine leaned so near her mouth nearly touched Herleva’s ear. “Hugh will be baron.”
The lady inclined her head. “I wager Godfroi wins the day, his greatest prize a worthy bride.”
* * *
When finding yourself at great disadvantage, woo the devil so he not look to your backside.
They were the words of Godfroi’s sire, one of many lessons taught his sons before the warrior who enlarged the demesne of Valeur was lost to his family. And in this moment, those words were needed.
For over an hour, the contest had been mostly balanced, the advantage batted from one brother to the other like a ball, inciting spectators now mostly forgotten to clap, yell encouragement, and pound their feet.
Though perspiration had flown amid shouts, grunts, and curses, neither brother slowed. Though footing was lost, it was quickly regained. Though blows stunned, none rendered either senseless. Though blades cut, they did not sever. However, all changed now that Godfroi’s sword hand was empty.
He had two choices—drop to a knee and yield to the new Baron of Valeur or somehow get to what remained of his sword before Hugh got to him.
Woo the devil, he heard again, and though it repelled to view his brother as that, he accepted the possibility he had no choice. So ferocious was the contest, for the past quarter hour several times Godfroi had nearly forgotten whom he battled—as if his rival could not be allowed to live. But for longer than that he had glimpsed the same in Hugh’s eyes, as if he did not view Godfroi as a brother and friend vying for a title but an enemy of perpetual threat. Thus, was credence given to their mother’s fear the only way both would survive was if Godfroi prevailed?
True or not, what mattered now was he better the warrior coming for him though his only weapon was his dagger and he had little chance of reaching his sword whose last meeting with Hugh’s had snapped off the upper third, the jolt causing Godfroi to lose his grip and the blade to soar past Hugh.
“Woo the devil,” he rasped, then amid lowering voices that evidenced anticipation of his downfall by those in the stands, peripherally he confirmed the location of his sword behind and to the left of Hugh. Despite its shortened length, its reach remained greater than that of the dagger he swept from its sheath. Get near enough to retrieve that whose steel had failed him, and possible redemption for master and servant.
As hoped, his opponent slowed, giving Godfroi time to perfect his throwing stance as Hugh was unable to do the last time he sought to impede his brother’s advance by flying his own dagger. Still, it had aided Hugh, causing Godfroi to shift his attention to avoiding what likely would have been stopped by the neck of his mail hauberk. Likely…
Now for the wooing—a show of reluctance in throwing the blade Godfroi would not fly anywhere near the neck.
That reluctance made Hugh halt and angle his sword before him. Looking what was surely a reflection of Godfroi except for the placement of cuts gained this day, he stared out of a bloodied, glistening face framed by hair so wet it appeared rain-drenched, rendering the silver less visible. Then shoulders heaving with exertion, he blinked and frowned as if coming back to himself and questioning the predator his side and the prey opposite he wished to serve up on a platter.
More blinking, then Hugh’s mouth formed something between a smile and a sneer. The brother was back, but not in his entirety, just as Godfroi knew neither was he all here. Death had distanced itself, but it skipped at the edges to remain near should it be summoned.
“That is a wicked blade, Brother,” Hugh shouted for all to hear, “but just as you knocked mine aside, I shall do the same to yours.” He drew more breath, tried to moisten dry lips. “You are sure you do not want to accept me as your lord and be done with this?”
Not for the first time, Hugh ignored a lesson their sire and others had sought to teach him—Celebrate victory after completion, and even then with a roving eye.
“I am sure,” Godfroi said.
Once more playing for the crowd, Hugh laughed, though there was more croak to it than humor. The twins’ training overseen by their mother’s brother until he passed last year and carried out by her worthiest warriors had made formidable warriors of them. For that, both were exhausted.
“You entertain!” Hugh called and jutted his chin, inviting Godfroi to do his worst with the dagger, but already it was thrown—not at the neck but the lower leg. As he jumped aside and sought to deflect the blade with his sword, Godfroi lunged past.
He heard his brother’s shout of rage and did not falter though Hugh might have time to retrieve that dagger and cast it well. He did retrieve it, Godfroi saw as he came around with ruined sword in hand.
Though the crowd Hugh had expected to proclaim him the Baron of Valeur was clapping, stomping, and shouting praise for prolonging their entertainment, Godfroi had no intention of furthering it. He wanted this done before once more the brothers he did not recognize broke their mother’s heart. Wasting no time on strategy beyond what came to him in the moment, he ran at Hugh.
His brother did the same, wielding both sword and dagger—this time, the latter not for throwing. More than Godfroi, he excelled at the sweep of two blades. Fortunately, Godfroi had ways around that so Hugh could not be certain how to deflect what came at him.
At the instant before they met, Godfroi veered away, and as he ducked and twisted around, felt the edge of his brother’s sword clip his temple in passing.
Though pain flared, he did as he sought to do, landing the flat of his crippled blade to the backs of Hugh’s knees and dropping him face down. Though Godfroi’s head protested further movement and his vision blurred, he released his sword, dropped atop his brother, and pinned Hugh’s forearms to the ground.
Had Hugh known of Godfroi’s wavering consciousness, he would have continued the fight even if only to make a better show of his loss, but his spent muscles eased, and when he released the hilts and turned his palms up, the spectators roared.
Godfroi was the Baron of Valeur, though likely only their mother knew it for certain.
He lowered his lids, and as he drew breath in an attempt to settle his head, Hugh growled, “Accursed eye. I commanded it to rove, but victory was too close and too shiny. Now get off me, Baron.”
Though it surprised he titled Godfroi, what did not was bitterness. For a time, that was to be expected regardless of who won.
Not wanting to further his brother’s shame or regret by revealing Hugh had lost to one nearly incapacitated, Godfroi did not gain his feet but turned to the side and lowered to sitting.
Hugh rolled onto his back and, squinting, exclaimed, “Almighty! My blade did find you.”
Godfroi touched his temple. Vision nearly clear, he considered the blood on his fingers. “You nearly took off the top of my head. I am hoping that was not your intent.”
His brother scowled, sat up, and looked to those in the stands, many of whom were on their feet calling for the victor’s name. “I want to beat you for even suggesting that,” he said, “but…” He sighed. “Forgive me, I cannot say. I know only that all shifted, the need to win so great it did not matter how it was done. The last time so deeply I felt that was the day Mother…” He trailed off.
Realizing his own flashes of savagery were last felt that same day and ashamed that what they had done to those men they had nearly done to each other, Godfroi said, “I understand and am glad this is finished.”
Hugh’s nostrils flared. “Whether or not you are the true heir, it has been decided in the manner Father wished.”
A shift in the din alerted them it was time to fully satisfy their audience and was confirmed when they saw their mother strode across the arena ahead of a dozen chevaliers.
Godfroi rose and, silently thanking the Lord his head remained right, reached to his brother who hesitated before clasping his arm.
Though from a distance, Lady Maëlys appeared composed, not so when she halted before her sons. Eyes red and moist, she smiled tautly, then as those in the stands further quieted, kissed Hugh’s cheek. “Worthy,” she pronounced for the three alone.
“Worthy?” he said disbelievingly.
“Worthy, Hugh. Your sire would be—” Her voice cracked. “He would be proud.” She turned to Godfroi, kissed his cheek, pronounced him worthy, and drew him forward.
Side by side they stood center of the arena, Godfroi intensely aware of his brother behind as they waited for their audience to cease murmuring. When they did, his mother called in a voice of such strength one would not know it capable of faltering, “It is decided!” She raised his arm high. “Godfroi D’Argent, Baron of Valeur!”
* * *
Not Hugh.Godfroi.
“Oh, dear.” Lady Herleva bumped a shoulder against Robine’s, causing Odo who had returned to his mother’s arms to cease burbling. “A favor owed me.”
Seeking to compose her face as she stared at the arena where, amid the din, Lady Maëlys bestowed on the new baron the sword that had been his sire’s, Robine could only nod.
“I thought it would be Godfroi,” William said, his certainty making her long to demand how that was possible since none had known which brother was which and, until nearly the end, it seemed one was as skilled as the other. And it was not as if their mother had given any indication of who did and did not prevail.
Throughout, the lady had been mostly unmoving, causing Robine to wonder if she had any depth of feeling for her sons. But when one undid the other with a broken sword, she had gasped and dropped her chin, of note to any who watched to see how she would react to the dissolution of the dark cloud above her these twenty-two years. Certainly, Herleva had noticed, once more patting that woman’s leg.
“I think Godfroi should join my personal guard,” William said.
Chanson snorted. “Now he is a baron, he has others to protect, but there is Hugh. He also fought well, hmm?”
Whatever his response, it was lost to Robine when his mother spoke her name.
She turned her face to Herleva who immediately lost her smile. “You are pale, and what is this trembling? For the wedding? The night ahead?”
Having greater proof of Godfroi’s dislike since he had yet to look toward this stand where sat the woman he would wed once he was cleansed of the battle, she choked out, “He does not like me.”
Herleva’s head jerked as if someone had popped her in the chin. “How know you that?”
Loath to reveal the truth, Robine shook her head and was grateful when no attempt was made to redeem the favor owed.
“Fear not, your duke is not cold to the plight of women, especially the innocent,” Herleva said. “He will speak to your husband.”
“Non!”
“Non?”
“Godfroi will think me a girl.” Robine raised her chin. “This woman is resolved to marriage. All will be well.”
“Hmm,” the lady murmured.
Catching movement to her right, Robine stood to receive the woman moving toward her.
“Betrothed of Godfroi D’Argent,” Delphine said, “we must prepare for the wedding. Go, I shall follow.”
As Robine started to turn away, Herleva caught her hand. “The Duke of Normandy and his mother will be in attendance,” she said as if to assure her there would be two present with something of a care for her.
“I am glad, my lady.”
“That is kind of you and your son,” her stepmother said, “and an honor.”
As Robine descended the stand, she looked again to the arena. Still Godfroi’s eyes were not for her, though now she felt the shift of others her direction. Blessedly, only here was she part of their entertainment, the wedding to be private while those outside the walls celebrated however they wished ahead of departing in the morn.
An hour later, set aright amid Delphine’s scolding over her earlier disappearance, Robine stared at the woman in the mirror thrust before her. As she knew, she was very pretty, and more so with her dark hair brushed to a shine and caping her shoulders down to her hips.
Fingering loops of red and gold beads woven among her tresses, she recalled Herleva saying she would be her husband’s greatest prize and thought that slightly more believable were it Hugh she wed. Only might a commoner whose misbegotten son had done the impossible in becoming a duke believe Robine L’Épée would be so esteemed by a D’Argent.
I am a tool, and I know not how to ensure I am not so ill-used I am broken and cast aside, she thought.
Sons, whispered a voice within. Give him sons as all men want, whether they be of the sword or the plow, and perhaps it will be a passably good life.
Of course, that required Godfroi wanting to touch this woman he thought a girl.
Determination straightening her spine, Robine slid her hands down her beaded bodice from breasts to hips and assured herself this eve her husband would see the woman of her…would want her…would make the best of this the same as she.
Meeting her stepmother’s gaze above the mirror, she said, “I am ready.”
Shortly, she was atop her beautiful mare, legs over one side, red skirts draping the horse all the way back to the tail. And unprepared for the crowd amassed between camp and castle, this time for her and her escort of half a dozen chevaliers, her stepmother, and a small cart loaded with the trunk that contained all she possessed.