Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Twenty-Three

Hours in her private chapel, likely just as Robine had remained in the House of God erected in the inner bailey.

Prayer after prayer Maëlys had flown to the Lord, knowing it was the place to begin fixing what must be put back together. She had been certain an answer was given her, that one’s name and Godfroi’s despairing words resounding through her, but now she feared the answer was her own, impatience causing her to mislead herself.

Hovering in the infirmary’s doorway, she stared at the cot against the wall that held the one whose guidance her son seemed more receptive to than any other. After returning belowstairs and discovering Godfroi had gone behind the solar’s curtains, she had sent two men-at-arms to overtake the hermit and entreat him to present at Castle D’Argent by invitation of its lord’s mother.

They had found him, but not on the road. An inquiry of villagers had sent them to a nearby monastery where Brother Johannes was delivered after a plowman witnessed the collapse of a rider over his mount’s neck.

Heart trouble, the abbot had told the lady ushered into his quarters, then assured her the physician believed the hermit’s chest pains were not mortal, requiring but a sennight of rest before resuming his journey.

Not wishing to disturb the holy man, Maëlys had nearly departed, but she was too desperate to be considerate. Thus, she would present her proposal and, God willing, persuade the one averse to entering her home to do so.

“The abbot told I might speak with Brother Johannes,” she informed the novice who paused in sweeping the floor. “Does he sleep?”

“So it looks, my lady, but if you would like to await his awakening, I will draw a chair near.”

She inclined her head. “Much gratitude.” But at her approach, the hermit stirred.

“Brother Johannes,” the novice called, “someone wishes to speak with you. From Castle D’Argent—eh, my lady?”

“Oui, I am the baron’s mother.”

Johannes’ bearded face that had started to come around returned to the other side. “I am weary. Leave me be.”

“Regrets, my lady,” the young man said.

Ignoring him, Maëlys lengthened her stride. “For Godfroi’s sake, we must speak, Brother Johannes.”

“I have done all I can for your son, and it cost me much. Now I need rest.”

When she grabbed the back of a chair and dragged it alongside the bed, the novice protested. Lowering to the seat, she looked to him. “You may leave us.”

“B-brother?” he asked.

Johannes sighed. “The Lady of Valeur has spoken.”

When he departed, Maëlys said, “I am sorry to force myself on you. Know I am grateful for all you did for my son and regret I must ask more.”

“Truly, I am done, my lady, but I will listen if sooner it sees you gone.”

Hating he kept his face turned away as if she bared her body to tempt him, she told him of her son’s painful homecoming that had become more painful, and ended with, “I know you showed him God during his healing, and I think likely he would not have returned otherwise, whether he passed having no will to live else remained hidden away. Pray, come into our home and mend yourself there, Brother.”

“I am not a good man, Lady. You do not want me at Castle D’Argent.”

She huffed. “Clearly, you have repented for whatever made you seek a solitary life. I care not what those ills were. What matters is what you did for my son and what you can do.” At his continued silence, she said, “If you cease your good work ere it is truly finished, I fear our family will not survive this—at least, not well. Though already we are indebted to you, I beseech you to have pity on Godfroi’s sons who are of an age in greater need of a father than were my sons when they lost their sire.”

She heard his deep breath, and her heart sank in anticipation of a forceful refusal, but he said, “Make arrangements for my transport. With God’s aid and Godfroi’s cooperation, we will bring your son the rest of the way home.”

* * *

Her boys needed her.Otherwise she might have passed day into night on the chapel’s stone floor. Had she, she would have missed the return of Lady Maëlys accompanied by the hermit who required a cart to deliver him.

Obviously, he had fallen ill and was greatly discomfited entering the castle, but he came. And if he had been told the reason Lady Maëlys required him to return, it was not apparent in how he regarded Robine.

“Who dat, Mama?” Cyr asked as his grandmother led the way up the steps ahead of the men-at-arms carrying the hermit between them.

She managed a smile. “A good friend of your sire’s.”

“He hairy,” the little one said and turned and ran back into the hall.

“Do not disturb your sire!” Robine called, having struggled to keep Guarin and him out of the solar this past hour though she told them their sire slept. It was only a guess, but from the silence beyond the curtains, it seemed a good one and suited she who was not ready to face her husband.

During her prayers that included ones for Michel who had all that was promised him snatched away, including one promise of which he was unaware, she had been given no clear answer to tearful beseechings. However, she had departed the chapel feeling the Lord wished her to stay this course—seeking His counsel and waiting. Mostly, she believed the feeling because it was not what she wanted, which was to speak with Godfroi, press him for assurance he would not send her away, and promise whatever was required of her.

“Wait on your husband,” she breathed as the one she hoped would remain a mother to her reached the landing.

Lady Maëlys’ wince confirming Robine’s face showed signs of misery, she said, “Daughter.”

Still she names me one lovingly familiar,Robine thought, as if ever I have been that to her and am owed the grace of a mother.

“We have help come from the monastery,” the lady said, “one whose afflicted heart may aid in healing another afflicted heart.”

“I thank you for bringing him back, Mother.”

As Maëlys continued past, Guarin released Robine’s hand and caught hold of the older woman’s. “Papa’s friend has much hair, but I like it, Grandmama.”

Continuing forward, Lady Maëlys said, “Why is that?”

“A good way to hide.”

She chuckled. “You are right, but fear not. Brother Johannes is a holy man, what is called a hermit for his desire to keep company with the Lord and no other.”

“I am not afeared. He is Papa’s friend.”

Robine looked back around and was struck by the pain lining Johannes’ face. Though she wanted him here, he had done enough for her family and should not have been removed from the infirmary.

When he forced a smile as he was carried past, she said, “I am thankful you are here.” Then silently she prayed, Let his pain not be wasted on the D’Argents.

* * *

Just as heought to be grateful, he should not be surprised. Of course it was good his mother had delivered the one thing he wanted which she could provide, but…

“I am having a small bed placed near the hearth for him,” she said. “Though Brother Johannes is tired, he would like to speak with you.”

Godfroi shifted in the chair beside the brazier where he had sat these hours trying not to think on all he had thought on, then forced a smile for Guarin who had released his grandmother’s hand when they entered and bounded onto his sire’s lap.

“I will have him brought within, Godfroi,” his mother said.

“Non, the morrow is soon enough.”

She frowned. “But—”

“Forgive me, Mother, but I am not of a mood.”

She nodded, then called, “Come, Guarin. You and your brother must bathe away the day’s dirt.”

The little boy settled against his sire’s chest. “Non.”

In unison, sire and grandmother reproached, “Guarin!”

He tilted his head back to meet Godfroi’s gaze, thrust his lower jaw forward. “I am not of a mood.”

Godfroi would not have believed it possible to laugh, but he came close. After swallowing mirth, he said, “You will do as your grandmother bids.”

“Am I of a mood?” The boy shook his head. “I am not.”

“Guarin—”

“I am not of a mood!” This time it was shouted, and so stunned were Godfroi and his mother, neither reacted until Robine pushed through the curtains.

Dragging his gaze from she who was breathtaking despite a weary face and rumpled garments, determined to deal with his errant son so his wife draw no nearer, Godfroi said, “That is enough!” and closed hands over the boy’s arms to lift him down.

“Non!” Guarin snatched hold of his sire’s tunic, and as Godfroi hesitated over forcing the matter, their son looked to his mother who was nearly upon them. “I stay with Papa!”

Avoiding her husband’s gaze, she halted alongside and set a hand on Guarin’s back. “Come away, dear one.”

“I want Papa to put me on his shoulders, be my horse, swing me around, tickle me!”

Her sharp breath may have escaped their son, but not Godfroi, and when her stricken eyes met his, he saw they were red. And was nearly unmoved by evidence of shed tears. Nearly.

“Guarin,” she tried again.

“Papa just sits, so I just sit. Since he is sad and mad, I make him happy again.” He nodded. “So you be happy again, Mama.”

As every muscle of Godfroi that could tighten did so and Robine turned her back on father and son to hide what convulsing shoulders betrayed, Godfroi looked to his mother who was motionless but for the lowering of lids and tightening of hands at her waist.

It was Cyr who rent the silence, thrusting through the curtains and, oblivious to the tension, pushing the limits of his little legs to reach his parents and brother who he must believe excluded him from fun.

“Hairy man!” Sparing his mother no glance, he brought himself to a halt by slapping hands to Godfroi’s lower thighs—something seen but far from felt. “Come see, Papa!”

Is now the time?Godfroi wondered. It was not, but only because there could not be a good time to reveal what his sons needed to know about their sire’s inactivity that would also explain some of this despondency.

“Would that I could, but your papa was hurt in battle, Cyr,” he said. Seeing Robine come around, feeling his mother’s gaze, he looked to Guarin who released his sire’s tunic. “Hence, I was long in returning to my family.”

“But you are fixed now,” his eldest said with certainty.

“Non, it only looks that way. The reason I sit so much is because…I have lost the use of my legs.”

Cyr considered that, then patted one. “They here!” he said pridefully as if having discovered where they were hidden.

Godfroi shifted his aching jaw. “Why, you are right, Cyr,” he praised, then exaggerated a sigh. “But they are broken.”

“Non.” The littlest shook his head, patted again. “It hard.”

What was hard was the wooden support beneath Godfroi’s chausses, the muscles of his legs continuing to waste away. “Hop down, Guarin,” he said. “You raise one leg of my chausses, Cyr the other.”

His eldest did not understand, but the suspicion in his eyes revealed he comprehended better than his enthusiastic brother who bumped his mother in his eagerness to do as bid.

Hardly was Guarin off his father’s lap than Cyr exclaimed over the lower portion of the calf support exposed, “Wood leg!”

Though there was nothing amusing about it, Godfroi managed a chuckle.

Cyr smiled. “You got one too, Guar?”

“I got one,” his brother said warily and looked to Godfroi with an expression that revealed were this a game, he did not like it.

If only it were,Godfroi thought, once more feeling anger toward the Almighty—and Robine who watched as their sons continued raising his chausses past the strapped lower supports to the tops of hinged thigh supports.

Look at me,he silently commanded.

She did, and he regretted it for the pain cramping her face. It was not all pity, he knew, just as he was certain though she had given her body to Roche, still she loved her husband.

Love I want less than before, he told himself when his gaze was drawn to her belly and, as if to defend the babe within from the cuckold without, touched it with the hand yet absent the D’Argent ring.

He looked to his children who had first occupied that cradle, saw Guarin stared at him. “Son?” he prompted.

“Your legs will get fixed, Papa?”

“As we all must pray, hmm?”

Guarin’s smile uncertain, he nodded. “First prayer every day and night.” Then once more he was frowning. “How did you get here? Did Sir Olivier carry you?”

Pain lanced him over his son imagining the big warrior carrying his sire like a child as done when facility with the crutches had eluded Godfroi following Robine’s confession.

“Non, he did not carry me to the solar,” he said, having removed himself from the hall shortly after Olivier returned his lord to the chair from which he had ejected himself. “I used crutches.” He leaned to the side and drew them from beneath the chair. “These were made by Brother Johannes whom your grandmother delivered into our home this day.”

“Hairy man!” Cyr exclaimed.

“That is my good friend,” Godfroi said, “and as he is our guest, your brother and you shall show him every kindness and not be loud in your indoor play so he can rest and sooner heal.” He looked between his boys and receiving their nods, said, “Now to aid my own healing, I have exercises that must be done alone. Go with your grandmother and submit to water and soap like the big boys you are.”

Though reluctance shone from them, he was pleased they did not complain and started back across the solar.

Halfway there, Cyr looked around. “Mama come?”

“Non,” Godfroi answered for her. “There are things she and I must discuss, but it will not take long.”

As Robine watched Guarin and Cyr depart with their grandmother, she tensed further in anticipation of those things made worse for having impulsively touched her belly. Could the Lady of Valeur make a greater enemy than herself?

Seeing Godfroi bend forward to slide the legs of his chausses back over evidence of his infirmity, it was hard not to offer aid.

He sat back and, staring at the hands clasped at her waist, said, “Where is your wedding ring, Robine?”

She removed it from her purse and could not help hoping it would ease his anger knowing it had remained on her person.

“You are the wife of the Baron of Valeur,” he said. “Return his ring to your finger.”

More hope, this for the possibility he had decided against sending her away. And yet it bothered the way he worded that, as if to distance himself from the one wed to him.

She slid the ring on, and her head lightened for how easily it passed over the knuckle in reverse compared to when she had removed it. It had given Michel peace of mind, but her none.

“It still fits,” Godfroi said. That confused until she recognized it as a barb a moment before he added, “For now.”

He recalled the same as she her swollen fingers near the end of each pregnancy and how her refusal to remove his ring, supported by argument it still fit albeit tightly, had made him shake his head and kiss her fingers.

Lowering her hand to her side, she said, “Is that all?”

“Non. As you are aware, we have a guest. Rashly, I expressed regret over Johannes’ departure to my mother. However, now that he is here and recovering from an ailment for which I am surely responsible, I expect you to treat him well.”

She stared. “You think I would not?” No sooner said than she realized here another barb and exclaimed, “Non, do not answer. That struck a moment late, but well.” She raised her eyebrows. “Now, is that all?”

“Non.”

Lord, keep me from screaming, she silently beseeched. “I listen.”

“I expect you in our bed this eve, not slinking around, seeking your rest in my mother’s chamber with our sons.”

Though that had occurred, she said with disbelief, “The solar is my rightful place.”

His nostrils flared. “Providing you do not forget that again.”

His words nearly made her smile, not tauntingly but with relief. Here further indication he would not send her away. But how she longed for him to speak it! This time, rather than ask if he had more to discuss, she waited.

“That is all,” he said. “As told, I must exercise.”

Doubtless what kept his arms and torso so fit that when she had met him beneath the stand, there had been no reason to think the warrior atop the horse was not the same who departed Castle D’Argent to do his duty to his liege.

It occurring Duke William and Herleva would have to be informed of the return of Valeur’s baron and the end of its lady’s betrothal, Robine turned and, feeling Godfroi’s gaze, crossed the chamber.

Now to treat Brother Johannes well.

* * *

He achedto draw her to him, hold her close, ease the hurts he had inflicted, tell her together they would carve a way through this. However, that longing made the angry of him demand retribution for the hurts she inflicted, and he needed none to tell him that would make the worst even worse.

Thus, he dare not reach to her in the night. Not yet. Perhaps never again.

Godfroi closed his eyes, blocking out his candlelit wife clinging to her side of the bed. Robine having finally slept as told by soft snoring to which she was not given and was surely due to weeping that had reddened her eyes, he wished he knew for certain there was a way to come back from where they found themselves.

The hermit would say there was a way and rebuke him for feigning ignorance, but at this moment, that way felt…

If not impossible, then impassable for arms likely hugged about her abdomen in sleep as had made him smile when it was his sons venturing into the world.

Godfroi had every intention of turning his back to her as she had him, but her movement stilled him. Opening his eyes, he saw she had rolled toward him with arms outstretched, the hand of one near his shoulder as though reaching to him.

Her snoring had ceased, but though he expected her eyes upon him, flickering candlelight showed they remained closed. And her sleep was troubled as told by a lined brow and twitch at her mouth.

Though he was not of an impulsive nature, he gave no thought to reaching to her. Only when his fingertips touched her brow did he realize what he did. He would have drawn back if not for how quickly those furrows disappeared as if his touch soothed.

Or did she think it another’s touch?

Hating the man between them, with less impulse he moved his fingers to her mouth where the twitching muscle stilled, and when she breathed, “Godfroi,” once more he expected her eyes to open.

They did not. Fairly certain she spoke up out of sleep, he thought, My name on her lips. Mine.

He drew back his hand, touched hers that showed his ring was where it belonged, and when her fingers started to close over his, nearly allowed it. But if ever he was ready for that, it would be a time distant from this.

Still, as he turned away, there seemed more life in the breath he drew—life he feared would cease to be felt when he sent her away to grow round with Michel Roche’s babe and birth it out of sight.