Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Twenty-Two

Women, a prey for all seasons,” Godfroi murmured in response to Sir Olivier’s elaboration of the attack near Castle L’Épée.

Blessedly, because of Sir Michel and other guests of the Baron of Solitaire, just as Lady Maëlys escaped an attack on D’Argent lands, so had Robine and their sons.

Sir Olivier nodded. “Oui, that is what men of no good account make of women.”

Moving his regard around a hall empty of servants and other retainers, Godfroi wished this privacy could last. It could not, but he had cause to see the castle folk take meals elsewhere for as long as possible.

This morn, he had treasured time with his sons escorted belowstairs by Paulette who reported Lady Maëlys had instructed they break their fast in the bailey then explore the wall walks until she joined them. Instead, grateful he had slid his crutches under the chair, Godfroi had seated them on his lap and they had chattered between mouthfuls of bread and cheese—Cyr more so than Guarin, and not only because the second-born’s speech had advanced. Guarin had not openly questioned his sire’s supposed indolence, but silently he did. Before long he would have to be told.

Returning his attention to the chevalier who had joined him at hearth after Paulette took the boys from the hall, once more glimpsing vacancy in eyes where there had been none, Godfroi questioned if the blow dealt by an agitated horse had permanently damaged his man’s mind. Not only was he slower of speech, but his responses were delayed as if requiring greater thought to assemble.

“I thank you for giving me much to think on,” Godfroi said. “Now I would know that of which you did not wish to speak in Lady Maëlys’ presence.”

Olivier blinked. “I was angling that direction, my lord. However, first let me say I have mulled what I shall repeat and deem it a lie.”

Struck by the impulse to settle more deeply in his chair and cross the legs thrust out before him, Godfroi said more sharply than intended, “I wait.”

The man cleared his throat. “This wounded chevalier gained by somewhat torturous means the name of he who hired the mercenaries and brigands.”

“And for it, you believe you gained a lie,” Godfroi reminded. “Who paid my wife’s attackers?”

“I know not, but ere the mercenary passed…” He breathed deep. “…he named your brother.”

Godfroi jerked. As he would never consider it was Hugh, anger stabbed him rather than pain—anger he would direct at Olivier had not the man prefaced revelation with denial it could be his lord’s brother.

Of course the chevalier had not wished to speak this in Lady Maëlys’ hearing. And much relief she did not suffer the lie neither would she believe. Before and after the death of Godfroi and Hugh’s sire, her sons had been raised not only as each other’s greatest opponent but ally, mind and heart set on ensuring the discord between their sire and a rarely encountered uncle was not repeated in the line that took the name D’Argent.

But then why did not Hugh return to Valeur to give aid following my supposed death?the thought slipped in—and was ushered out with the reminder not only had his brother not been summoned, but he had his own family now. No other reason, Godfroi assured himself, then said, “Neither do I believe Hugh responsible, Olivier.”

“The same as your wife.”

“She heard it told?”

“Oui, and she was courageous that day. Certes, a wife worthy of the Baron of Valeur.” He nodded, then exclaimed, “God’s rood, it is good you returned home when you did! Had you waited much longer, quite the mess your family and the Church must set aright. For as severe as your injuries, I am guessing it was long ere you came right of mind to make your way home.”

Deciding honesty was due him, Godfroi said, “Just as I struggled with the inability to walk for months, I struggled over returning home.”

The chevalier startled. “Truly, you considered not returning?”

“It is so. Not until the hermit had word my wife was to wed again did I begin to prepare in earnest for my return.”

“When did you learn of the betrothal?”

“Near on two months past, I—” Catching what sounded movement in the solar, Godfroi glanced that direction. It was possible Cat was responsible, but he guessed Robine had awakened and could be listening to their conversation. Seeing Olivier follow his gaze, he said, “We will talk more later.”

The chevalier stood, and when he departed the hall, Godfroi called, “It is time we speak, lady wife.”

* * *

He loves me.It was Robine’s first thought upon awakening on the side of the bed Godfroi favored.

He ought not, was her second thought in accord with the hand on her belly.

Now, leaning against the wall alongside the curtain, Cat sitting before her whipping his tail side to side, she struggled with sickness of the morn as well as seething over what she had heard.

“Two months!” she hissed and, knowing now was not the time for this harlot to speak with her errant husband, commanded herself to return to bed until she had control of her emotions.

But once more he summoned her, now with annoyance. “Robine!”

She thrust through the curtain, halted on the dais to consider him where he sat at the hearth, and saw his eyebrows jump.

Surprise over what I cannot hide,she thought and told herself to retreat.

As she started to turn aside, she caught sight of the table whose cloth had been removed. The wood was stained, testament to when Sir Olivier appeared with such urgency she spilled ink. Might it be a portent of the stain that could neither be removed from her?

“I will come to you if you do not come to me,” Godfroi said.

He would, doubtless with the aid of crutches and supports whose absence from the chamber she had noted.

Calm, she told herself, but it was such a little word to wield against this roiling. Jerking at her sleep-skewed gown, she stepped from the dais.

When she halted before one whose eyes had narrowed as she neared, a creak sounded and she saw Lady Maëlys stood on the stairs.

Of all the emotions flickering across the woman’s face, most notable was dread. She knew what her son must learn of his marriage, and great her pain she could not shield one made all the more vulnerable for his infirmity. What likely she did not yet know was Robine would not have sinned had not her son delayed in returning.

Forcing a smile, Maëlys descended. “Good morn, Son…Daughter. As it is obvious you have matters to discuss, I will leave you to them.”

Though Robine longed to put the lady between husband and wife until she could think straight, she held. When Maëlys had gone the way of Sir Olivier, she returned her regard to her husband.

Despite all she must exude, he reached to her. When she did not take his hand, he growled, “You are angry over my conversation with Sir Olivier.”

She drew a calming breath, but it tumbled out on the words, “Last eve, you told you came home as soon as possible, but you could have come home two months earlier—and even sooner. Instead, silence in which I was to believe myself widowed and did not for a long time. But finally I had to accept you were gone and wed again as required. Why did you wait so long to return to us?”

Pointedly, he looked to his legs. “Consideration of what I would be returning to my wife and sons. As you heard, my inability to walk tempted this broken warrior to remain dead so you and our sons not suffer, but when I learned you were to wed in less than two months, I decided to risk returning.”

“Two months, Godfroi! And only now, a fortnight ere I was to become another man’s wife, you are here.”

He sat forward. “Time was needed to better prepare my heart, mind, and body. You cannot know how difficult this is, Wife!”

“What of me?” she snapped. “Why did you not better prepare me—my heart, my mind, my body—by sending word you lived?”

His hands tightened on the chair arms, jaw worked as if he chewed words he sought to swallow.

She stepped nearer. “Methinks I know the answer—that until the day you began the journey to Valeur, you were not certain you would come home, your pride so swollen you held in reserve the possibility of turning back, allowing your wife to be wed to two men and sons fathered by another.”

No response until she cried, “It is so, is it not?”

He thrust farther forward in the chair, and her ache trebled knowing he could not gain his feet as he wished. “All that matters is I returned ere the wedding.”

“That is not all that matters!” Tears falling, she dropped her chin and clapped hands over her face. “You should have sent word!” Though she muffled her sobs, she could do naught about heaving shoulders and shaking limbs.

“Robine,” he spoke above her misery with what sounded urgency rather than anger. “What I did was selfish and distrustful of the Lord. Pray, forgive me for not coming home sooner nor sending word.”

She dropped her hands. “If only you had. It would have made all the difference.”

Though her weeping words pushed her nearer what needed to be revealed, she had not thought them through, and the shift in the air caused an unsettled belly to further unsettle.

“What difference would it have made?” Godfroi asked almost darkly.

She raised her chin, then her gaze, and saw on his face fury tempered by the hope he guessed wrong. “I sinned.”

Hope drowning in that fury, his eyes dropped to a belly that cramped in anticipation of expelling meager contents.

Robine swung away but distanced herself only a few steps before nausea dropped her to the rushes. The contents burned her throat and tongue, and above retching she heard her husband’s bellow and him name her something she had named herself, then curse Michel Roche.

As she tried to gain her feet, there came what sounded the toppling of a chair, and she whipped around. Losing her footing, she dropped to her rear. And gasped when she saw not only was her husband on the floor but his powerful upper body moved him toward her.

Though she had enough time to retreat, she told herself that just as she had the right to be angered by his delay in returning, this was his due. She would not have had relations with Michel had Godfroi sent word, but still she had made the choice to yield as she should not have until wed. As told, she had sinned, and this the price—the torment of feeling the pain her actions caused one she loved, and more torturous that for dealing it to he who suffered the loss of the use of his lower body, and now possibly his heart.

Godfroi had never struck her, but as he came the last feet, she thought it possible he would for how unrecognizable his face. “Hate me for my betrayal,” she said, “but do not strike me.”

He halted alongside her, and though she saw his anger quicken, she sensed it was caused by what was nearly an accusation of violence against a woman—as if he whose mother had taught him respect of the fairer sex made prey of her.

“You know I would not,” he said between his teeth.

“You frighten me, Godfroi.”

Across heaving breath, he said, “I needed to get to you quickly, and this is the only way.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder to indicate defiant legs. “And well you would understand this anger had I taken another into our bed.”

Certes, she did not understand that anger as fully as he, and she knew he had the right to feel it.

“Did you?” he demanded.

She swallowed. “Did I what?”

“Take him into our bed?”

“Non! I would not!” But how she wished it had nearly happened there. Had Michel cause to be in the bedchamber ahead of their marriage, she would have pulled back.

“Where?” Godfroi demanded.

She caught her breath over revealing it had happened at the river.

“Non, I care not!” he said.

She nearly sighed. “Will you sit, Godfroi?”

“I will not. This is your husband’s infirmity and likely shall be until he is laid to rest sooner than most men who remain upright, so best you become accustomed to it. Too, as the things I wish to know require only short, honest answers, we will not be here long.”

Anger rising again, she said, “As neither would I prolong this, ask your questions.”

“What made you, a woman I believed godly, yield to that sin?” He drew a strident breath. “Love?”

“Not love. I like and admire Michel, but I do not love him like—”

“That sounds a harlot, Wife.”

“It does, and is as I name myself. As for why I did it… It was of the moment, one born of the belief you were lost to me and soon he would be my husband. And it was not planned. It was but a kiss I allowed to go too far because…”

“Because?” he bit.

“He loves me and is proud to say it, and though he is aware I do not love him, he seeks my love.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He knows how it was with me wed to you, and now I know how it was for you wed to me, though from what you told last eve, now you would have me believe you capable of returning my love.”

“Spoken too soon,” he said. “Things told in the cradle of night rectified in the light of day.”

Feeling another sob move about her chest, she drew a shaky breath. “Your next question, Husband.”

“Does my mother know?”

“Oui, the woman of her saw the change in me. Though great her disappointment, she offered what we both believed good advice though I wavered in taking it.”

“Tell.”

“She advised that Michel and I wed sooner. Had I not delayed, as Sir Olivier said, quite the mess the D’Argents and the Church would have to set aright. Your next question.”

A swallow bobbed his throat. “I am done with questions. For now.”

“Then I will leave.” She started to rise.

“I will not trust you again, Robine.”

“We are of like mind, then,” she said with little thought and much emotion. Before he could demand an explanation, she continued, “Just as I sinned in body, damaging our marriage, you sinned in pride, damaging our marriage—ahead of my sin.”

Though she thought he would deny it, he said, “I did. And now all that is left is a semblance of a marriage. For the sake of our boys and our people, we will share a chamber for sleeping, and that is all.”

She had not thought that far ahead, and had she, she did not know she would have concluded that, but it made sense. So sullied was she, never again would he wish to touch her. Of course, perhaps—

As if his thoughts traveled with hers, he said, “I do not know if I remain capable of relations. What I know is, regardless of which way it goes, we will not be intimate.”

“For the best,” she said, and again started to rise. But this time, she stopped herself when struck by something. “Do you intend to send me away to have the babe in secret, depriving our sons of their mother and stealing the child from my arms?”

She found hope in his fleeting dismay, but it was only that because he had not thought far ahead, as evidenced by his next words, “It seems the best solution.”

“It is not.”

His frowned deepened. “What say you?”

“The disappearance of your wife when perceived you need her most will rouse suspicion, and all the more for her having been near to wedding another. Whether I stay or go, there will be speculation that will become truth to most.”

He glanced at her belly. “There is time to think on it and decide what to do.”

“I wish to keep the child, Godfroi.”

“You will do what is best for our family, Robine. Now go.”

And so she was dismissed as if still the girl who thought herself a woman all because she bled. More fully accepting Godfroi’s bride had been little more than a child, determining the woman she had become would not argue, she rose and nearly closed her eyes at the sight of him upon the rushes.

Pity this woman who still loves you,she thought as she fought the longing to put arms around one who would wrench them off. But give me a bit more time, and I will take back the pieces of me you never wanted.

Robine turned and, determined to find sanctuary for her pain at the chapel in the inner bailey, faltered when another thought struck as she neared the doors.

Coming around, she saw he had turned to sitting. “Believe it or non, my betrothed and I were intimate only once. And that one time was less than two months past whilst you more seriously considered coming home. And did not send word.”

She did not care how he received that, only that it be told lest he refuse to think there.

Then she left him…to think there.

* * *

Blessedly,his mother came to him after Olivier reappeared and aided in returning her son to his chair. Strange, but for as humbling as it had been to accept the chevalier’s offer to carry him when emotion shook him so hard he could not stabilize the crutches, it did not compare to the humiliation of his fevered departure from the chair to reach his wife.

Lowering to her knees, Maëlys set a hand on his arm. “I am sorry.”

Of course she knew what had transpired, though he did not believe Robine had sought her out. Well acquainted with her daughter-in-law, she had known what the younger woman intended, trusting the once faithful Robine would confess what the lady would not tolerate being withheld from her son.

“You have no cause to be sorry, Mother. My wife gave you reason to trust her the same as she did me. Unfortunately, so great is the height from which she fell, her fall could not be anticipated.”

“It could not, and we were wrong to believe her incapable of great sin the same as all of us. But since her regret is genuine and she has confessed, the healing can begin.”

Godfroi stared. “I know she is as a daughter to you, but do not champion her to me.”

Her smile was sorrowful. “I can see you are in pain, and I know it makes it difficult to hold to your tenets of faith, but—”

“Where is the woman who raised warriors worthy of their sire’s name?” he demanded.

Swiftly, she regained her feet. “As well you know, I put away that stern, cold thing when you became baron so I could reclaim the woman of me who has the heart to show love to her children and grandchildren. Though another dear to me sinned greatly—so much it sickened and might have slain me had she knowingly betrayed you—I will not deny forgiveness to one who has proven as much in need of salvation as you and I.”

“Forgiveness!” he rasped.

“Oui, and easier done having all these months watched her cling to the hope of your return—so tightly she snapped at any who named her a widow and propped up hope by unpacking the love you wished her not to feel and adding it to what yet remained. For that, for her sin being committed with a man she was to wed, and for her regret and repentance, I have begun forgiving her the weakness of the flesh. And I will not be made to feel I betray you in doing so.”

Godfroi longed to walk away, and that he was incapable of doing so threatened to turn this simmer to a boil.

“You are not being asked to pass through the door of forgiveness yet,” his mother said, “but leave it open as I know Robine would do for you.”

Should he tell her his wife believed him as much in need of forgiveness as she herself? Why? So she could agree? He tightened his lips.

She sighed and started for the stairs. Upon reaching them, she looked around. “What would the godly one who showed you much kindness and patience these months say of this?”

Women and their parting words,Godfroi silently lamented and nearly ignored her, but seeing moisture in eyes that portended spilled tears, said, “Johannes would advise the same as you—and much to my frustration, do more than advise.”

“Would I could have known the man who got you home to us,” she said low.

“Would he had stayed!” he barked. And jerked at the realization he had spoken aloud this longing for Johannes’ presence.

“Godfroi?”

Another deep breath. “Doubtless, I shall be in greater need of his guidance in the weeks ahead—nay, months.” Perhaps years, he silently amended, thinking of the birth of Robine’s misbegotten child.

In that moment determining she must leave for a time, and when she returned it would be without the babe, he said, “I would be alone, Mother.”

She climbed the stairs, doubtless to gain her private chapel.

Dropping his head forward, Godfroi stared at his useless legs. He should pray, and yet knowing the Lord had let him come home to this—yet another wilderness beyond the one suffered and still suffered—he could not, certain words of beseeching would become words of rage sure to offend.