Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Twenty-Six

Castle D’Argent upon Valeur

Late Autumn, The Year of Our Lord 1043

With Johannes’ guidance and much prayer and strength of will, great strides were made this past month, but they must be greater. As daily Robine proved with her sometimes frenzied comings and goings as she managed matters beyond those of the household, it was not enough for the Lord of Valeur to be present for his people, receiving in the hall those come calling to settle their problems.

Godfroi must become more of what once he had been so when his wife returned from the convent for which she would soon depart, she could devote herself to mothering their boys who, increasingly, spent time with Paulette, their grandmother, and occasionally Johannes. Not only would it benefit Guarin and Cyr after being parted from their mother for six months, but time with them was surely the best balm and distraction for she who would leave behind her third child.

Soon the convent,Godfroi told himself and, resolve once more faltering, reminded himself it was imperative she leave. Regardless of rumors roused by a lengthy absence, they could not be as detrimental as those that would more than rouse if she grew round in the sight of all. And much sleep and rest would be good for she who came to bed late as once he had, aiding in regaining weight lost these weeks. Seeing that loss in her face and the snug lacing of her gowns, he guessed it as much due to nausea with which she was afflicted during her previous pregnancies as for how much she was in motion as she coordinated many of those things Michel Roche had done.

Unfortunately, Sir Olivier was of less help than expected, but now Godfroi was certain it was not due only to slow healing of the injury to his side but that dealt his head. Whereas he had been quick of wit before, his thinking and speech remained sluggish and sometimes he strained to recall things previously discussed.

That realization made Godfroi want to appreciate what Michel Roche had done for the D’Argents, beginning with saving Robine and their sons from the attack en route to Solitaire and ending with administration of the demesne.

With regard to the latter, likely he had been motivated by the hope of gaining the Lady of Valeur for a wife, but since all monies and valuables were accounted for and many retainers owned to respect for the chevalier for his fair dealings and quick resolution of problems, he was not without integrity. Hence, hard as it was to concede, in light of the failure of Maëlys’ scheme to ensure no other child born to Robine displaced her grandsons, Roche could have proven the best possible husband and father.

If not for the persistent reminder of the one thing that man had taken, Godfroi would be exceedingly grateful.

Feeling the need to pace, which had helped settle the dust of disquiet swirling about his head when he had two legs firmly beneath him, Godfroi shifted a jaw frustration tightened. He had tried pacing the hall on crutches, but the awkwardness and amount of thought required to coordinate his movements had furthered his disquiet. But perhaps it only required practice.

“You brood again,” Johannes reminded that though the last of this day’s petitioners had departed after resolution of a grievance against a neighbor, the Baron of Valeur was not alone.

Godfroi looked to the hermit who sat before the hearth whittling soldiers for Guarin and Cyr. Appearing fully recovered a fortnight now and having insisted on taking his rest on a pallet the same as others who bedded in the hall, he had become more comfortable here. However, knowing he longed for the solitude of his cave, days past Godfroi had said he had imposed enough on the holy man and believed it time Johannes return to his calling.

As agreement moved onto the man’s face, Lady Maëlys had protested from atop the stairs, then taken her appeal directly to the hermit who, as ever, shrunk into himself when a woman was near, and more so that one.

Shortly, she had his agreement to remain longer and Godfroi was guiltily relieved, so much he valued Johannes’ guidance in overcoming what had awaited his return to Valeur—except for the hermit’s belief that though honesty with others regarding Robine’s pregnancy would hurt more in the moment, ultimately it would strengthen the marriage, whereas dishonesty that felt safe in the moment would so weaken the bond between husband and wife there could be little hope of true healing.

Resolve over sending Robine away faltering again, Godfroi said, “Oui, I brood.”

Johannes lowered the wooden soldier to the table on which sat a handful of completed warriors and handfuls of pegs yet to be given heads, bodies, arms, and legs. “I sense restlessness, my son.”

“You sense right. I tire of sitting, ache for movement.”

He pointed his knife at Godfroi. “Then do something about it. And you know what.”

He did, Johannes having suggested it a fortnight past when Godfroi received Duke William’s response—much praise to God for the Baron of Valeur’s return from the dead and assurance of prayer for his full recovery so he serve again as once done most admirably.

“Ride, my son,” the hermit prompted.

He wanted that, but it would require he leave the donjon and—

“Accursed pride,” Godfroi rasped.

“Indeed.” Johannes stood. “As the steps shall require much practice, they will have to wait. This day, we go out the rear.”

With ease, Godfroi got the crutches beneath him and crossed the hall. A short while later, with less ease for being an object of interest and pity to those patrolling the walls and working the baileys, he who was girded with sword and dagger like a warrior, traversed the ground with great reaches of the crutches and swings of his body unlike a warrior.

It was a relief to step inside the stable out of sight of wide eyes and wagging tongues, but as he sent his gaze around it, relief was replaced with memories of being in the loft with Robine where they had made Guarin and she had said she believed ever it would be her favorite place to be loved by him, a place he might never again go with her.

An instant later, his mind went where it should not. Was it up there they—?

“Non,” he growled. Great privacy in the hay, but she would not have done that.

“Too late to turn back,” Johannes misunderstood. “You go astride.”

More than before, he needed to ride hard, grass- and dirt-perfumed air buffeting his face and raking his hair, thundering hooves below requiring only wings above to deliver him to the sky.

“Oui, I ride again,” he said and summoned the stable lad mucking out stalls.

Though tempted to have him outfit a destrier, it would be reckless. Not only was the temperamental beast unaccustomed to the saddle Johannes had altered, but training would be required for it to transition from responding to certain commands delivered by the press of legs to those delivered by voice, hands, and the tap of a rod. Until that training was done, the horse provided by the hermit would serve.

When Olivier appeared as Johannes started to aid in mounting, Godfroi tensed over the warrior bearing witness to what his lord required as if a child who could not ascend to the saddle. But knowing it would be easier for the younger, heavily muscled man than the hermit, he bit down on pride and called him near.

Whatever Olivier was thinking, it did not show. As if this was a common occurrence, quickly he got Godfroi into the saddle.

“And these straps, my lord?” he asked of the leather bindings that stabilized legs and ensured feet remained in the stirrups.

“I shall secure them.” As Godfroi leaned to the left, a slight boy appeared in the doorway and with urgency called to the stable lad.

Godfroi returned his attention to the straps but had secured only one when he heard his wife’s name spoken and looked to the boys standing just outside the doors.

“The guard at the gate told she is gone and may not return for hours,” said the smaller one whose bright red hair identified him as being of the miller’s family who lived in the nearest village. “Is it so?”

Godfroi knew of Robine’s ride to one of the distant villages. He had not liked her going in his stead but agreed it would be unseemly not to have a D’Argent present for the installation of the new priest sent to replace the elderly one who had decided it was time another shepherd his flock. As Godfroi had ensured her escort was more sizable than his own would have been, he was confident she was safe, but what was this about?

“It is so,” the stable lad said. “It may be dusk ere she returns.”

The boy groaned. “That long? I must get back to help my sire bag grain.”

“Lad!” Godfroi called. “Come!”

He dragged his feet forward and tipped back his head so far it appeared he would lose his balance. “My lord?”

“What is it you require of my lady wife?”

He bit his lower lip, and the hand at his side crept up and pressed his abdomen.

Unintentional, as evidenced by swiftly returning his arm to his side.

“What have you beneath your tunic?” Godfroi asked of the bulge glimpsed.

“I…”

“Show me.”

“I cannot, my lord. He paid me to give it to Lady Robine alone.”

Needing none to reveal who had sent a message to the wife of another, Godfroi growled, “Give it to me.”

“But—”

He thrust out a hand. “To me!”

Johannes stepped near. “Calm yourself, my son!”

Godfroi glanced from the hermit’s tense face to Olivier’s, then said as levelly as possible, “Lady Robine’s husband will ensure the message is delivered to her.”

Reluctantly, he raised his tunic, removed from the band of his chausses a folded parchment, and set it in his lord’s hand.

“I thank you,” Godfroi said. “Now return to your sire.”

The boy ran.

As Godfroi considered the missive intended for Robine, he lost the struggle against opening it.

“My son,” the hermit warned.

“Non, this I do.” Moments later, he refolded the parchment and slid it in his purse. Though angered at the possibility Roche sought a lover’s tryst with his former betrothed, the written words were benign, expressing regret for the need to depart in haste and wishing Robine and her husband well. Still…

Benign,he told himself again, but though much of his anger had settled, not all. Anger and jealousy made for a wicked mistress.

“Godfroi?” the hermit prompted.

“It was sent by Roche, bidding my lady wife farewell.”

Johannes nodded. “Very good.”

As Godfroi began securing his legs with the straps, words were exchanged between the hermit and Olivier, so low spoken no sense could be made of them, but he was not surprised when the chevalier said, “Give me a few moments and I will ride with you, my lord.”

“Not necessary,” Godfroi clipped and spurred his horse out of the stable.

It was remiss to ride with little restraint through the inner bailey, such reserved for beyond the walls, but Godfroi rode hard. Fortunately, the horse was responsive to quick corrections to avoid castle folk between it and the drawbridge.

The invigorating ride that followed was everything he had wanted, but as he sped across the countryside, there was something else he wanted and she seemed nearly as distant as when he considered not returning to her. Thus, he continued to roil, and that proved his downfall when rider and mount returned to the castle damp with perspiration.

As he slowed belatedly, forcing him to rein in hard before the stable, the saddle slipped.

Not a problem were he able to tighten his legs about his mount. A great problem that he could not. As he went sideways, he grabbed the mane to right himself, but the sudden shift caused the horse to lurch and stumble.

That might have been the worst of it if not for those who began converging to aid their lord. It spooked the horse who snorted and began circling with its rider suspended from its side.

When it stumbled again, Godfroi shouted for his men to stay back and wrenched on the mane to raise his body back to center. He succeeded, but it further distressed the animal who, though trained to carry a cripple, lacked training to remain calm in stressful situations as required of a fighting man’s horse.

As it began to rear, Godfroi tried once last time to rein it in. Failing that, he accepted it was time to dismount. Ignominiously.

He released the left and right leg straps, jerked his feet out of the stirrups, then thrust his hands to the horse’s shoulders and propelled himself out of the saddle.

As intended, he landed on his back. As expected, he landed hard. The stun was minimal, and still he had breath, but before he could push to sitting, a figure blocked the sun and gripped him beneath the arms.

It was Olivier who ignored the command to release his lord and quickly dragged him to the stable wall—while the horse danced frantically where Godfroi had hit the ground, hooves making clouds of dirt.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the chevalier said. “I had to.”

Had he not, what remained of Godfroi might have been trampled. Though here one more humiliation, he lived and was no more broken than before.

“Be gentle with him!” he shouted when his men advanced on the horse. He was to fault for this, not the animal who had given all he had and would give more once better trained.

Godfroi was obeyed, and it was the stable lad who calmed the horse and led it to its stall.

Looking up at Olivier, Godfroi saw Johannes had come alongside and held the crutches left behind. “A show I did not mean to provide,” he said bitterly. “And now they know exactly how vulnerable their baron who cannot even stay the saddle of a horse of no great note.”

“Oui, my son, but now that they know, it can get better.”

Godfroi wanted to argue, but more he wanted to get the crutches under him before the aches of his fall stiffened muscles that yet served.

He reached for the supports, and as they were yielded, Olivier said, “My lord?”

Godfroi knew what was asked of him, but the chevalier had done enough. “I do this myself,” he said. “Pride, oui, but I am capable.”

And so he proved though discomfort began setting in as pityingly he was observed from outer bailey to inner.

Shortly after his return to the high table in the donjon, he partook of the nooning meal with his sons, mother, and castle folk whose eyes upon him were more heavily felt, all aware of the day’s great event.

Though he wore a good face until he could end the meal and go behind the curtains, he felt so beaten he almost expected his body to be covered in bruises.

It was not, and though tempted to gain the bed, he settled in a chair before the brazier and slept in snatches, in between which he mulled Robine’s return and how she would react to gossip over her husband’s fall. More, what of her response to the missive he had read once more?

Certes, her husband would be watching closely for greater cause to send her away.

* * *

With wordof his fall on the lips of many, had not Brother Johannes pulled her aside when she hastened into the hall, she would have gone directly to Godfroi. But there was much to pause over, and gratitude to the hermit who warned of the missive intercepted by her husband that was the start of a day gone from bad to worse.

Speaking low amid the bustle of servants preparing for the evening meal, Johannes had revealed what he knew of the contents and said he was fairly certain there was no more. That was good, but was it enough considering the only ease between husband and wife this past month was a lessening of Godfroi’s anger that allowed for more civility? Though great her hope for further kisses and touches, he withheld himself, tempting her to tempt him to intimacy—until days past.

“Be patient, my lady,” the hermit entreated as she started to move her hand toward the babe who had begun to reveal itself. “Think words ahead of speaking.”

She returned her hand to her side. “Much gratitude, Brother.”

When he strode away, she looked to the curtains and her mouth went drier. Though she had intended to delay refreshment to sooner reach Godfroi, her tongue was almost glued to her palate.

Legs unsteady for hours spent in the saddle and now dread, she crossed to the sideboard and poured wine. Between sips, she picked at cheese and bread, then crossed to the solar.

Unsurprisingly, it appeared Godfroi waited on her where he sat with legs thrust out before him, jaw firm, no good thing in his eyes.

“I heard of your fall, Husband. Are you—?”

“Of what else did you hear?” When her advance faltered, he said, “I am guessing my well-intentioned friend told you of this.” He nodded at the parchment on the table beside him.

She halted, stepped her feet apart to counter weakening knees. “He told me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then it saves us time.”

Though she feared what that meant, it must wait. Running her gaze down him, she said, “You must be hurting. What can I do to help?”

“My pride is pierced,” he said sharply, “I nearly choke on pity cast my way, and my body aches, but otherwise I am well.”

Assured he had not suffered further serious damage, she released so much held breath it made her sway.

Again his eyes narrowed, then he motioned her forward. “Come nearer.”

She did so. “Husband?”

“Nearer yet. Down here where I am.”

His choice of words stabbing her heart, she bent.

When he breathed her in, something of a thrill went through her, but realization swept it away.

Not the prelude to a kiss, she silently scorned and, snapping upright, said, “Oui, wine to wet my mouth after a tiring ride—watered wine, and no more than usual.” She replenished her breath. “I am not your uncle, and there is a babe here I would not endanger.” She pressed a hand to the slight bulge. A mistake she knew the moment she did it. A terrible mistake.

As she dropped her arm to her side, Godfroi slammed his lids closed as if to block what was seen. But where she expected anger was pain she had added to this day’s suffering.

Dropping to her knees, Robine set a hand on his thigh. He did not tense—a good thing had the great muscle beneath her palm remained capable of being an indicator of emotions—but it was worse than that. In addition to being lax, it was no longer of the girth that allowed his powerful lower body to move his mighty upper body with speed and precision.

Tears beginning to fall, she whispered, “I am sorry. So very sorry.”

He raised his lids, then set a hand on her jaw. “As am I. Truly, Robine.”

Then this a turning point? Her cruel mistake allowing them to begin retracing their steps to who they were before he departed to fight for Duke William?

“I vow I did not mean to do that, Godfroi. It is just…” She drew a shuddering breath. “My emotions are raw, and I am so tired.”

The corners of his mouth flexed. “This I know, and much I regret what you must do to hold all together while I piece myself into a semblance of the Baron of Valeur.” His nostrils flared. “And also I know I behave poorly, but be assured I am determined to put away the child of me.” He slid his thumb beneath her lower lip. “Whatever it takes and no matter how painful, I will do it. We will do it.”

She nodded. “Tell me what you need from me, and I shall give it.”

He glanced at the missive. “When I was riding, you were with me only in memory. I need my wife at my side in truth.”

“I am.”

“Not in the way I want—the way I need the same as you. I appreciate all you do just as my mother did, but it leaves you little time for our sons and risks your health.”

“I am well, Godfroi, just—”

“I am not blind to your fatigue, nor your weight loss when you should be…” He drew breath. “Not only do you take much on yourself, but the babe seeks to take more than you can give.”

She tensed, and as if to reassure her, with forced lightness, he said, “Not a girl child. Methinks it a warrior.”

Those words he had spoken of their sons, and that he did so now gave her more hope for this child whether boy or girl.

He withdrew his hand. “I am going to make this as right as possible, and you must trust me to do it how I think best.”

“I do.”

He passed her the missive. “As told, that you are aware of this saves us time.”

Knowing it best to read it in his presence, she unfolded it. And was glad for how brief it was, and sad for the heartache in Michel’s understanding words.

She looked up. “No matter his sin that met mine, he is a good man,” she said, then stood and stepped to the brazier.

“You will respond?”

The way he worded that surprised—as if he would not attempt to prevent her from doing so. She dropped the parchment atop glowing coals and turned. “Non, what happened is done, and methinks he is well with that.”

But what if he learns of this child and guesses it is his?the thought slipped in. Putting it away—for now—she returned to her husband. “What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“You can rest.” He nodded at the bed.

“I must tend to household matters.”

“My mother is more than capable of seeing them done. Rest, Robine.”

The bed did beckon…

After removing her riding boots, she went beneath the covers laced in her gown.

All she recalled of the rest of the day was the sound of her husband’s crutches moving toward the curtains and disturbance of the rushes. All she recalled of the night that followed was the shift of the bed when he lowered to the mattress. And the longing to roll from her side to his and into arms she believed nearer to holding her again.