Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Baron of Valeur was a sight, one she wanted to look upon a long time where he sat at table with the keeper of De Couloir who she had forgotten was summoned to report on measures taken to better patrol lands near that border.

Godfroi sat confident in the high seat, great forearms resting on the table as he considered something told him. Here was the husband she knew, this a mirror of one of many memories clasped close when she was to believe him dead.

If not for longer hair, a whiskered face that would go to beard if he did not submit to a razor, and crutches propped against the table, she might think him only memory.

“No proof it was Fitz Géré, my lord,” Sir Charles said, that name halting Robine’s advance and movement near the hearth drawing her gaze to the hermit who sat against the headboard, attending to the men upon the dais. “However, I think the same as Sir Michel that he makes a good suspect because of the ill between you and him and that Fitz Géré was in the vicinity when two of our patrol were slain.”

Robine gasped. Though Michel had told of the patrol’s encounter with trespassers and assured her their own had prevailed, he had not revealed the deaths of any.

“Lady Robine!” Sir Charles called and rose beside Godfroi.

She continued forward and ascended the dais as the chevalier came around the table. “It is good of you to come, Sir Charles. Forgive me for not remembering you were due.” She nodded at Godfroi. “As you can guess, much wondrous upset over my husband’s return.”

The middle-aged man’s smile was strained, and she knew he was thinking of what could not be wondrous—his liege coming home to find his wife soon wed to another. But that was nothing compared to what had yet to wag tongues.

“Forgiveness granted, my lady, and I must say I am pleased it is with your husband I meet.”

“Of course. All are gladdened he is home, especially his family.”

“Quite the blessing. Not many men come back from the dead.”

Once more wondering how the duke and his mother—as well as Hugh—would receive those tidings Godfroi had sent after overhearing Robine ask Maëlys for advice in composing the missive, she inclined her head. “Not many.”

He exaggerated a frown. “I could be polite and pretend I do not see what I see, but I must ask how it is you are so disarrayed, my lady.”

She peered down her garments as she need not since she had come inside to change.

He chuckled. “Playing with your boys, I wager, suffering dirt beneath your nails, good mother that you are.” He looked across his shoulder at the one who watched them. “Fear not. Soon your lord husband will heal and it will be him in the dirt with Guarin and Cyr.”

This she liked about De Couloir’s keeper, that he could take a terribly scratched—even gouged—circumstance and put shine on it. But that did not mean the shine was as bright as he imagined nor that it was real.

Lord, let it be real for Godfroi, she sent heavenward. Let him walk again.

“That is as we pray,” she said and moved her gaze to her husband. “I overheard some of your conversation. Do you think the trespassers are of Fitz Géré?”

“Certes, he is an enemy,” he said, “and as he was in the area that night, more likely it was him.”

“Who else was about?”

It was Sir Charles who answered. “Two leagues from Valeur’s border, Baron Masse held a celebration for the raising of a new castle. Many attended from all over Normandy, including Duke William accompanied by your husband’s brother.”

Robine’s heart stuttered. Just as she would not believe Hugh was responsible for the attack en route to Solitaire, she ought not believe he was involved in the deaths of Sir Charles’ men, but—

“Our business is done, Chevalier,” Godfroi said. “I hope you will take meal with us this eve and pass the night in the hall.”

“I shall, my lord.” He dipped his head and descended the dais.

When the door closed behind him, Godfroi said with accusation, “Truly, you think my brother involved in the deaths of Valeur’s men, Robine?”

“Non, I—”

“I saw it on your face. I do not want to see it there again.”

She closed her mouth, but resentment opened it. “I do not want to believe it of him, just as I would not believe he paid the mercenary and his men to attack me and our sons, but that he has gone so cold—has never returned, not even to introduce his wife and now his son to his mother—makes me fear he must be much changed from the one you counted the best of friends.”

His face darkened further, but his color cooled when he glanced past her. Grateful for the hermit who surely alerted him to rethinking his response, Robine set her shoulders and waited.

“Forced to accept a life far different from the one anticipated, I grant Hugh is changed,” he said, “but I believe him mostly content with the renown gained in training up warriors for our duke. Thus, I do not believe he is Cain to my Abel as it is thought of—” He caught back what obviously he did not wish revealed to her nor the hermit, cleared his throat. “I will discover who attacked you en route to Solitaire and is responsible for the slain patrol, but I will not look my brother’s direction. And neither would I have you venture there again.”

It being more kindly said than expected, she inclined her head and stepped toward the curtains. “I must change.”

“What games were you playing in the dirt?” he surprised.

She halted. “Our boys are fascinated with worms. They competed to see who could unearth the fattest, next the longest, then the ugliest.”

“Who won?”

“First Guarin, then Cyr.”

“And for the ugliest?”

“I thought it a tie, but neither were pleased, so they asked Paulette who knew not which worm belonged to whom. Guarin won. Though he did not crow his victory, Cyr was not happy, so he set to finding an uglier worm.” She smiled. “He is very competitive, refusing to believe being younger and smaller renders him incapable of doing what his older brother can do.”

“That is the D’Argent of him,” he said, and Robine wished one day that might be said of the babe in her womb.

From the tightening of his mouth, his thoughts also went there. But as if remembering their audience, he said, “They are worthy sons.”

“Indeed.” She started for the solar again.

“Have you time, there is a favor I require, Wife.”

She almost stopped breathing. “Oui?”

“As my hair is long and I do not care to look a Saxon of England, once more I would place myself in your capable hands.”

Moved by an uncertain thrill—pleased to be asked but wary of drawing so near—she said, “Of course. Once I have changed, I will bring my scissors without.”

“Non, it will be done in the solar as usual.” He jutted his chin toward the hearth. “Too, as Brother Johannes gains his deserved rest, I would not have him disturbed.”

Robine looked and saw the hermit had lowered and drawn the covers over him. “Very well. Give me a few…” She trailed off when Godfroi reached for crutches she had yet to see him use.

As if it were an obscene thing he was about to do, she longed to avert her gaze. Instead, she watched, even when he looked to her for her reaction. Though he moved with what appeared ease, great her ache over the strength required to raise his body from the chair onto makeshift legs and get the lower beneath him that refused to respond to commands to walk and run.

“Bothersome,” he pronounced as he settled his upper arms and hands into the supports bracing him upright, “but not as unsightly as crawling.”

As he had done the day following his return when he came out of the chair to reach his harlot of a wife.

She stepped into the solar, pausing to hold back the curtain as he entered. Then she crossed to her dressing table, retrieved the bench, and set it before the brazier where always she had put scissors to his hair—and once they were fully husband and wife, often he had delighted in clamping his thighs about her when she stepped between them. Happily, she had set aside a task to be resumed afterward, but there would be no intimacy this day—if ever again.

Since she did not wish to disrobe in front of him, as thus far avoided by rising before dawn and moving about in the dim, she crossed to her basket of sewing supplies and sidelong saw Godfroi back down onto the bench and slide the crutches beneath. As she straightened with the scissors, Cat sprang off the bed and rubbed his head against Godfroi’s calf. Whereas he had been grudgingly fond of his mistress’s husband before, he seemed protectively fond now.

Robine stepped alongside. “The same length as always?” she asked with what she hoped sounded confidence since she had never removed more than a thumb’s width.

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you wished to change your garments.”

Of course he would not forget that, might even want it. Though the lines of her body had yet to reveal the life within, she could not bear his eyes searching for evidence of another man that would soon begin to show through her clothes.

“As it occurs my gown will be scattered with hair as well as dirt, I will change afterward.”

“That is the only reason?”

She could lie. She did not. “Non.” Noting Cat had gone beneath the bench and settled between the crutches, she stepped to his back. “The same length, Godfroi?”

“The same.”

As expected, it was more difficult to cut long hair, requiring greater time to ensure balance. Blessedly, most of it was spent at his back and sides and he spoke no more and might have been content to remain silent had she not unthinkingly touched the tattoo exposed in snipping away more length.

“Had you any doubt,” he said, “none now.”

She closed her fingers into her palm. “No doubt. Never could I mistake Hugh for my husband.”

“You are very certain for one who has never looked close upon my brother and attended to only a few of his words before scampering away.”

So the young woman holding a girl’s doll had done. “Still, I know my husband.” She moved to his right side to match that hair’s length with the other.

“You think you do,” he said and turned his face to her.

“Non, I know you, even this angry Godfroi.” She breathed deep. “Just as you know me, even this fallen Robine.”

Thinking it a good thing he had no retort for that, she cupped his chin and turned his face forward.

Silence again, but short-lived. “And I know my brother,” he returned to Hugh. “Though since the contest our interactions have been brief and awkward, I am certain he had naught to do with the ill worked on Valeur, and it is imperative you believe it.”

Sensing revelation, she lowered the scissors and stepped forward to once more meet his gaze. “What is it you have not told me?” At his hesitation, she prompted, “You spoke of Hugh not being Cain to your Abel as if you have known such betrayal.”

A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “I have—we have. Perhaps you should have been told sooner, but it seemed enough to assure you our family did not look to yours for the blow dealt us.”

Understanding struck. “You speak of your father’s death.”

“Oui, Hugh and I were ten years aged the day we rode the demesne with our sire and his men, going village to village to address concerns and collect rents. When we returned to Castle D’Argent, it was after the departure of our sire’s drunken brother who had entered unbidden and was tossed out following a confrontation with our mother.” Godfroi shifted on the bench to angle nearer. “His name was Jean, and he was the eldest son passed over as baron due to a bent toward violence and excessive drinking.”

Swept by memories of her wedding night, she recalled Godfroi’s discovery she had turned to drink she thought would be needed for the nuptial bed. He had commanded that were she sad, frightened, or angry she was to cry—even scream—rather than go the way of drink. Because of his uncle he was sensitive to overly imbibing? For this he preferred heavily-watered wine and ale and, even so, partook of little compared to others?

He learns from the mistakes and weaknesses of others,she thought. Of course, this was but one example. Another was his insistence Robine wed again so she and their sons not struggle as had Lady Maëlys and her sons in the absence of a husband.

“The brothers were never close,” Godfroi continued, “but what frail ties they had were severed when our sire was awarded Valeur. Thereafter, it was suspected the embittered Jean was responsible for petty attacks on the barony. Though it angered my sire, making him more determined to ensure the bonds between Hugh and me were strong despite the contest ahead, he did not act against Jean—until the day his brother trespassed too far.”

So intent was Robine on the tale, she startled when Cat pressed against her calves where he had gone beneath her skirt.

When her husband frowned, she said, “Cat.”

There was lightening about his mouth, but it was momentary. “Full up in his cups, Jean insulted our mother and earned a slap. When he retaliated by gripping her arm so tightly she bruised, she drew her meat dagger, giving the men-at-arms time to come to her aid. They thrashed and ejected him just ahead of our return. When our sire learned what had transpired, he determined to pursue his brother despite his wife’s protests and was so angry he did not await the accompaniment of his men. He never returned.” Momentarily, Godfroi closed his eyes. “The next day, not far from your sire’s castle, his horse was found, then his body—his end a broken neck far more likely dealt by his brother than a L’Épée.”

“Cain and Abel,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Jean never came again and nearly all attacks on Valeur ceased—further proof he murdered our sire.”

“Hence, the reason you wed me willingly.”

“Oui.”

“And now wish you had not,” she spoke ahead of thought.

To her surprise, he said, “Non, Robine. I loathe what was stolen from me and ache over what now stands between us, but I was happy to have you as my wife and mother of our sons—and I regret not sooner realizing the strength of that happiness until too late I determined to regain whatever I could.”

She swallowed. “I do not think it is too late.”

“Standing where you do, that cannot be hard to believe, but what if you sat where I sit? What if you had lost what I have lost, and not only in battle? What if I were to bring into our home and raise alongside our sons a child made with another woman?” At her gasp, he continued, “Recall how angry you were when you believed I found comfort in another’s arms though I was never unfaithful.”

Remembering how much it had hurt, belatedly she was struck by his revelation. Never before had he set aright her fear he was unfaithful previous to consummation of their marriage. And now knowing only she had committed that sin made her feel more a harlot.

“You recall?” he prompted.

“I do,” she breathed and wondered if she could have weathered infidelity evidenced by a babe she must bring up alongside Guarin and Cyr.

As if her silence was answer enough, he said, “Finish cutting my hair.”

That she might argue had she words to keep open the door he had allowed her through in finally sharing about his uncle, which had opened the door beyond to talk of their own relationship, this time with little hostility.

Inwardly sighing, she stepped clear of Cat. As she returned to snipping, silently she thanked the Lord—and Brother Johannes—for what felt progress toward salvaging her marriage. If Godfroi and she remained civil, surely they could part this darkness and let in the light on the other side.

When the cut was nearly complete, she came around and stepped between his legs to shorten hair sweeping his brow that was less silvered than the rest. She was glad he closed his eyes, the lack of scrutiny allowing her to finish more quickly.

“It is done,” she said, but as she backed away, his arm came around her, and the eyes he opened were shadowed with pain and… Was it longing?

“I want it to be as it was before,” he rumbled. “As we both know that is not possible, where do we go from here and how do we get there?”

Risking rejection, she dropped the scissors and set a hand on his jaw. “I think it must be a new place, Godfroi, but that does not mean we cannot furnish it with much of what we had before—you, me, Guarin, Cyr, Maëlys, smiles, laughter, lovely talks in the day, sweet talks in the night, kisses and touches.”

As he stared at her, she feared he was thinking of one new furnishing that could disrupt the others in ways most new babes did not, ways that invited outside forces and cruelties into their lives.

“I do not know that will be enough for me, nor you,” he said.

“We can make it enough,” she whispered, then did what she feared for how much she wanted it and he might not. She bent her head and set her lips on his. His mouth did not respond, but his arm around her tensed as if to draw her in rather than push her away.

“Even if you can no longer feel what briefly you did for me, I love you,” she spoke against his lips. “Even if never again you let me in, ever I will let you in. You have only to knock.”

Warm breath fanned her lips and his hand on her waist gripped tighter and pulled her nearer. Then with hunger she had missed, his mouth delved hers.

“Godfroi!” she gasped. “My Godfroi.”

He pulled her onto his lap, then his hands began moving up her sides.

“Mama!”

They should have heard their sons’ approach, but the same as before this great rift, mutual desire rendered them vulnerable to trespass. Though Robine braced for her husband’s return to his senses that would cause him to set her off his lap ahead of the boys pushing through the curtains, he turned her to face them.

“For our sons,” he said, and though that stung, it was a good sting compared to others.

Ignoring Paulette’s entreaty to return to her, the little ones entered and skid to a halt to stare at what greeted them.

“My lord? My lady?” the woman called. “Should I enter and collect your sons?”

“Non!” Godfroi said. “We were about to summon the dirty little rascals. You may leave them.”

“Oui, my lord!”

Both grinned and hastened forward, shedding dirt as they came, and clasped in Cyr’s fist was a long, fat worm of grey-green color whipping side to side.

“I find ug-y one,” he said. “Ug-ier than Guar’s. Guar say so.”

Godfroi chuckled, that sound so genuine, Robine sank back against his chest as had once been the most natural thing in the world.

“That is very ugly, Cyr,” he said. “Now that you have won, what will you do with your prize?”

The little boy looked to his mother, raised his eyebrows as if to give her a chance to change the rules before his sire was asked to intercede.

It was Guarin who answered. “Mama says we have to put back worms so they keep fixing the earth and plants grow.”

“Feed birds!” Cyr protested. “They hungry.”

Before the argument could be furthered, Godfroi said, “Regrets, Cyr, but your mother is right. Best to put the wiggly fellow back and let him return to his work.”

It was an exceedingly heavy sigh for one so small, but Cyr yielded, which likely meant he was more in agreement than not.

“Go with your brother and ask Paulette to give aid in returning the worm to his home,” Godfroi said.

Cyr groaned. “I tired.”

His father pointed at the less vigorous worm in his little boy’s fist. “As is he. Now make haste.”

Cyr turned toward the curtains, but Guarin did not.

Looking upon him now with his head to the side, Robine realized how quiet he had gone.

“Guarin?” Godfroi said.

“You were kissing Mama.”

Godfroi hesitated, said, “Tell how you know that.”

He put a finger above his lips, circled it around them. “All pink. Your whiskers scratch.”

Godfroi chuckled again. “It seems, my lady wife, we have been caught out by our very observant son.”

“I saw too!” Cyr called where he stood before the curtains.

“I am sure you did, my son. Now, the sooner you are done, the sooner you can return and watch your papa shave these whiskers so they not scratch your mother’s pretty skin again.”

Guarin started to turn away.

“Another thing,” Godfroi said, “I will show you how these crutches work.” He gestured at where they protruded from beneath the bench.

The boys whooped and ran.

Robine did not move off his lap, and was grateful he let her be though what had been show for their sons was past.

“Beginning this eve,” he said, “I shall take meals in the hall with the castle folk. For that, Guarin and Cyr must be prepared for how I present.”

Having guessed for that he intended to further expose them to his infirmity, she looked across her shoulder. “I am glad, as all will be that once more the Baron of Valeur is among them.”

Doubt shone from his eyes—as quickly gone as come—but it moved her to words. “Would we had not been interrupted, Godfroi.”

“For the best,” he said.

He was right, and it was selfish to place this longing above the sweet bantering between father and sons that had made it feel as if their family was truly whole again. “It is,” she agreed, “but it felt wondrous to kiss you again.”

He moved his regard to her mouth, and it hurt he was likely thinking of whom else she had kissed between the husband gone to battle and the husband returned. “It did feel wondrous,” he said. “Hence, it is good the boys entered.”

Tears burning her eyes, she lowered her feet to the floor.

He caught her hand. “Robine.”

She turned. “Godfroi?”

“I try.”

She smiled sorrowfully. “I am grateful and sorry it is hard, but I am determined to be patient in securing forgiveness and regaining your trust.”

“I am in need of the same, this I know,” he said gruffly. “With time and God’s aid, we will get as close as possible.”

She nodded and, when he released her hand, hastened across the solar in the hope of slipping away before he recalled she had wanted to change her garments.

Godfroi stared after his wife. She had not replaced her gown, and after what had happened that made him long to bare her, he was grateful. Though greatly stirred, he did not know the depth of intimacy of which he was capable, nor was he ready to explore it. Not only did Robine and he need time to get back to a semblance of marriage which would surely be months beyond the birth of the child she must accept leaving behind to move forward with their family, but he was not ready for further humiliation should he disappoint.

However, ere long the temptation of her would be removed. Once her belly began swelling, she would depart. He knew he should prepare her for confinement at the convent, certain she had found hope in his response to her, but he was loath to dismantle this makeshift peace that was good for all, especially their boys.

“Soon,” he murmured, then drew his crutches from beneath the bench and waited on Guarin and Cyr’s return.