Dauntless by Tamara Leigh
Chapter Thirty-Two
Castle L’Épée upon Solitaire
He wanted to laugh at her great mistake, but her daughter was his daughter too. And his son that was not her son was more at stake here.
“He struck her!” Delphine paced from one end of the bed to the other. “Thrice! Once for each time she refused to wed him.” She halted and raised her gaze to the ceiling through which muffled sobbing sounded. “Stubborn girl! This the price paid for allowing Robine to aid in her care during her younger years. Too much influence your daughter had over ours.”
All of him aching, he forced himself to scoot up on the pillows to provide his lungs adequate breath for a response. “The blame is not Robine’s,” he said with very little voice. “It is yours for believing Fitz Géré would give you what I would not and being so greedy you could not wait until I am in the ground to displace my heir.”
His shuddering so great it caused the bed to creak, he groped at the coverlet and dragged it up his chest. “Though you refuse to see it despite our daughter crying herself dry and beginning to bruise, you let in the enemy to ensure the son made with me gains my title. Fool woman!” His teeth clacked, but he continued, “Just as you allowed Fitz Géré to lock away your stepson, ere long he will lock away our son—nay, slay him alongside his half-brother so he may gain what he covets and more easily strike at the D’Argents. Hence, the only way Solitaire will remain in L’Épée hands is if our daughter weds one too aged for her, and since eventually she will do as you bid, more she will suffer when she is entirely in Fitz Géré’s power.”
His wife hastened back to his side. “I agree he was too harsh, but she was impertinent as you know she can be when told to change her course.”
“You spoiled her!”
Ignoring that, she said, “And Fitz Géré is not too old for her, having no more years than had you when we wed.”
He grunted. “As well you know, I was too old for you. You think me oblivious, Delphine, but I am acquainted with your disdain. Had you better prospects, you would have balked the same as our daughter over wedding one more than twice her age.”
She made a sound of impatience, strode to the curtains and peeked out at her guests who made merry in the hall of her dying husband, and returned to the bed. “Fitz Géré will make an acceptable husband,” she said with such desperation it was obvious she sought to convince herself. “Oui, and of greater import, he will keep his word to serve as our son’s protector until—”
“Until he does not!” he shouted and began wheezing over the effort to refill lungs that felt as if they shrank in this pitifully sunken chest.
Throughout, his wife stared with what was surely expectation.
Once his breath was restored as much as possible, the temptation to give hope of D’Argent aid was overcome. After what this second wife so different from his first had done in admitting Fitz Géré and his men, it seemed the only hope for the L’Épées lay in the direction of Valeur.
God willing, Robine could persuade her husband it was in his family’s interest to rid Solitaire of the son of an old ally who had long ago outworn his usefulness.
“I fear for what will come of you when I am gone, Delphine. If you are fortunate, he will send you to a convent.” He sighed. “Now as I can do naught from this bed, go to our daughter and have enough pity to comfort she who has far greater need of your company than have I on my deathbed.”
“I did what is right,” she said. “Your son is too weak to hold these lands, whereas ours is strong of your blood and mine.”
Again, he wanted to laugh. Again, he did not. Her blood was not strong, her parents having made one son and one daughter. Ten years past, her sibling had lost his demesne with barely a squawk. As for the blood of the Baron of L’Épée, though once it had been strong in him, ever it was questionable in the son made with his first wife. Thus, even were aid given by the D’Argents in ousting Fitz Géré, the fate of Solitaire could prove the same as the lands of Delphine’s family.
Closing his eyes, silently he accepted if this barony fell, best it fall to the D’Argents, ensuring L’Épée blood shared in their greatness by way of his grandson, Guarin.
With a sound of disgust, Delphine turned away.
When she departed, he eased down the pillows. “Come, D’Argent,” he rasped. “Pray, come soon.”
* * *
Cease, pride!Godfroi commanded that which strained against staying the saddle as if his body had a choice.
A quarter hour past, Hugh and two-thirds of their warriors had left their mounts behind to enter Castle L’Épée by way of the unsecured postern gate. The rest remained with Godfroi in the wood and had spread out in preparation for any who fled, whether they were of Fitz Géré or their own lest the mission go awry.
God willing, were blood shed inside those walls, the injured and slain would not be innocents nor of Valeur.
Or was it Hugh willing? Godfroi questioned as he sidled his destrier out of moonlight piercing the leaves overhead. Since the contest, he had witnessed enough of his brother’s engagement of the enemy to know Hugh had tamed much of his penchant for celebrating victory before its time, but not all. And that could render him and those under his command vulnerable.
Pride continuing to strain, restlessness to stir, he counseled himself to make the most of what remained of one who could no longer forge the path his brother forged this night.
Astride, still you are a warrior, Godfroi D’Argent, he told himself. You can move swiftly, come about quickly, sweep your blade all sides, defend yourself and those entrusted to you. This is who you are now, and it is a blessing when all could be misfortune. Accept it and prove Johannes right that at least in this you are more dauntless than the warrior who gained Valeur.
Teeth set, he considered the torchlit wall enclosing the outer bailey and hoped that rather than yield, the enemy would fight and flee, not only allowing him to prove he remained formidable in some measure, but provide an outlet for the turbulence making his chest ache.
In the next instant, he groaned and rasped across air that made clouds of his breath, “Forgive me for wanting the opposite of what you would have happen, Lord. Better a bloodless surrender. But should they resist, aid me in defending myself and my men so I burden none nor endanger any. Amen.”
He searched both sides of the wood, and as he knew where to look, glimpsed several who concealed themselves the same as he while waiting to learn what would be required of them.
Had Hugh and his men not yet reached the inner bailey, soon they would. And since all remained still about the fortress, they had to have rendered silent any between them and their objective—the same as done three of Solitaire’s patrol to ensure the hue and cry was not raised. Though those men who likely answered to Lady Delphine were not badly injured, they would require aid to escape their bindings and gags.
Another quarter hour passed, then shouts and iron beating iron sounded across the cool night. No yielding, then.
“Your will be done,” Godfroi said and cinched his leg straps. Then anticipating any who fled would be the enemy, he set a hand on his sword’s pommel and watched with the others here.
Whatever went inside those walls, it turned more fierce. As told by figures come to life between the battlements, the garrison joined in, though it could not be known for whom they fought—the Baron of L’Épée and his heir or the baron’s wife and Fitz Géré. Likely, they were split, and what could make all the difference was how equal that division. Hence, wherever there was doubt, Hugh would strike at defenders before risking his life or those under his command.
Minutes passed, and increasing sounds of struggle evidenced the clash was no longer restricted to the inner bailey and donjon. That it had moved to the outer bailey portended what remained of Baron L’Épée’s unwelcome guests sought to gain their stabled horses. When greater proof was had by the clatter of portcullis chains raising the gate to accommodate riders, Godfroi urged his destrier out of the trees.
His men did the same, and though they would remain unseen until they emerged from shadows cast long across the open ground between wood and fortress, the fleeing enemy would know the way ahead was treacherous and be prepared to cut a path through those come to the aid of Baron L’Épée.
And here they were, spurring their mounts beneath the portcullis, moonlight streaking their blades.
Turning his hand around a hilt as not done with serious intent since the siege of Falaise, Godfroi shouted, “Now!” and parted his sword from its scabbard and put his destrier to flight.
It had to be a terrible sound to those who could not turn back. Though death might lie this direction the same as behind, greater the chance some would evade capture this side of the wall.
“Not Fitz Géré,” Godfroi muttered. Had he survived Hugh and his men, he could not be allowed to slip away to later strike at the D’Argents from a different angle.
Certain the miscreant would be among the first off the drawbridge, Godfroi narrowed his gaze on two riding ahead of others who were beginning to scatter in search of openings between those now visible in moonlight.
The warrior on the right, he determined from what could be seen of that one’s height and breadth where he leaned into his mount’s neck, and it was confirmed when he straightened to veer away from the one seeking to engage him. However, almost immediately he veered back.
Did Arn fitz Géré, aided by the glow of torches set around the walls of the fortress, recognize Godfroi? Likely, and knowing what had befallen the Baron of Valeur during the battle beyond Falaise, did not fear his opponent. Thus, revenge for the humiliation dealt his sire by Lady Maëlys and humiliation dealt by Godfroi when the son dared enter Castle D’Argent.
Lord, aid me in defending myself well so he has cause to fear me,Godfroi silently entreated, then glanced both sides to verify those of Valeur preparing to engage the enemy would allow none to aid Fitz Géré in his quest to slay their liege.
Make ready, he instructed a more powerful sword arm that must compensate for its counterparts below that had been weaker only when first he found himself in a cave with no thought of even crawling.
Sweeping his sword toward his left shoulder in preparation to deflect a stroke identical to his own, he bellowed, “Fitz Géré!”
“Half man!” that one barked, moonlight showing bared teeth beneath the nose Godfroi had broken. Then their blades met and skittered off opposing edges as their mounts thundered past.
When Godfroi came around, he was pleased by how slight the impact to his upper body compared to Fitz Géré. The clash of swords had snapped that chevalier so far opposite he was slow to recover as evidenced by the delay in turning back.
Though tempted to take advantage of that to sooner strike again, he did not. As trained into him, first he confirmed his men held their own lest any require aid. Too, he sought no easy victory.
Knowing pride reared its head again, he was glad for the excuse of doing his duty to those loyal to him who, at the moment, had no need of assistance.
When next Fitz Géré and he rode at each other, it was Godfroi’s face moonlight shone upon. As before, the miscreant mirrored his opponent’s stroke with the same result though swifter recovery, allowing them to re-engage quickly—and Fitz Géré to provide further proof he sought to lull Godfroi by matching his movements.
Moonlight on my face again, dim on his, Godfroi noted and counseled, Attend to the lean of his body ahead of his sword arm. Watch. Watch. There!
Had he expected his opponent to mirror again, he might not have deflected a stroke aimed at the neck of his destrier that could have caused the beast to take its rider to ground.
The same as Hugh at contest, Fitz Géré’s expectation of victory rendered him vulnerable, allowing Godfroi to come about and alongside. Though the man veered away, he could not avoid the blade that caught an unarmored shoulder and knocked him out of the saddle.
As Godfroi reined in, he surveyed his men and was encouraged several had put down their opponents and now aided fellow warriors.
When Fitz Géré gained his feet and staggered around, great puffs of breath evidenced panting as he gripped his sword with one hand and shoulder with the other. “Trickery!” he charged the same as when he had demeaned Godfroi’s victory at contest during his trespass upon Castle D’Argent.
“Though it may be a balm to one of much deficiency to call it that,” Godfroi said, “to warriors of note, it is known as skill and strategy. And greater that facility when one you deem half a man expends little effort in unseating you.” Settling more deeply in the saddle, once more he tested his straps to ensure they remained tight. “Now we can be done here and my brother will deliver you to Duke William to answer for locking away L’Épée’s heir, else we can continue this—your sword against mine.”
“I choose to continue on equal footing,” he said, then laughed and added, “were that possible. Since the cripple of Valeur has no footing, he will have to allow me to regain my mount to see this to its proper end.”
“This is its proper end, Fitz Géré, unless you prefer death over shamefully standing before our duke and answering for offenses dealt the Baron of Solitaire.”
He snorted. “Lady Delphine invited me here to take her daughter to wife. I but did my duty to my betrothed’s family by giving aid in relieving them of an inept heir.”
“As you know, that is not for her nor you to do,” Godfroi said. “Young though our duke is, he is wise to such machinations.”
The miscreant considered him, then his men. No hope for him there, all having been unhorsed, and those not prone in the grass watched by Valeur’s men.
Drawing his hand from his sliced shoulder, Fitz Géré wiped his bloodied palm across his tunic. “The sooner I regain my mount, the sooner we can finish this.”
It was what Godfroi wanted, but he knew Brother Johannes would name it bloodlust that could no longer be justified despite taunts and insults. Honorably, he had bested Fitz Géré, and now this man’s fate rested in the hands of another.
Movement drawing his gaze to where more riders appeared on the drawbridge, Godfroi confirmed several wore Valeur’s colors. Returning his attention to his opponent, he said, “As you can see, all is finished. Now yield.”
Fitz Géré took a step forward. “You fear this warrior! Oui, you unseated me, but that was chance. Do we cross blades again, you know I will finish what Falaise began.”
“Yield!” Godfroi commanded.
There was enough light to see the miscreant move his gaze to the nearest riderless horse. Providing he could get past Godfroi, he could make it astride before others here reached him. “Fight me,” he said, “and whilst the scavengers pick clean your bones, a great favor I will do your heir in ridding him of his harlot of a mother and the misbegotten thing in her belly.”
Godfroi tensed further. Though the attempt to incite rash behavior could not be more obvious, it was successful, breeding imaginings of rushes soaked with the blood of Robine and the babe she would never hold.
Lord, firm Your hands over mine,he silently beseeched. I know what I do is right. Do not let me yield to things I will regret—worse, what will cost those dear to me.
In years to come, he would question if he could have held against taunting that roused protectiveness for his wife and the babe. To know for certain would have required all now precariously in balance remain thus. But the balance became heavily weighted on Fitz Géré’s end when the knave’s name was shouted by one riding hard from the fortress—Hugh, and his warning set to flight the chevalier whose only hope of escaping that D’Argent depended on getting past this D’Argent.
Lest the coward once more seek to disable his destrier, Godfroi urged it forward and turned to the side, throwing up dirt and uprooted grass and extending his sword’s reach toward the one coming for him.
Steel met steel, forcing Fitz Géré back, but rather than strike again, he went wide around Godfroi who circled his mount ahead to once more come between the chevalier and salvation.
Halting, Fitz Géré looked to Hugh thundering toward him. With a curse that surely offended the Lord, he swept his sword high and ran at Godfroi.
Here desperation. Escape no longer possible, he believed he had naught to lose in expending effort to slay one enemy before being slain by the other, and likely he was right. Whereas Godfroi had thought to leave Fitz Géré to Duke William, if ever his brother might have done so, the moment was past.
That was confirmed when Hugh shouted, “Blood for blood! Leave him to me, Godfroi!”
There was time to open the path for Hugh, but this was not his fight alone—pride again, but more the bonds of brotherhood. Though during their training the two had competed against each other, finding and shoring up weaknesses in preparation for the contest, often they had been set against opponents to nurture the inclination to defend the other. Hence, Godfroi could not step aside, chancing injury to Hugh when he could himself render Fitz Géré harmless.
Watch well! he counseled as the enemy approached through clouds of breath. Then ignoring another of his brother’s commands, he charged. Leaning to the side with sword raised, he slapped the reins against his destrier’s neck with his other hand. As the animal veered away, Godfroi arced downward, and before his blade met Fitz Géré’s, slashed up from thigh to opposite rib.
The ring of steel sounded alongside a cry of pain, and as Godfroi reined around, his brother passed near enough blood was visible down one side of his tunic.
“Hugh!” Godfroi shouted and set after him.
But that D’Argent was intent on reaching the one dropped amid swaying grass, reining in hard and causing his destrier to rear. A moment before those hooves returned to the ground, Hugh had dismounted with such ease Godfroi was certain the blood he wore was not his own.
“Poltroon! Knave!” He kicked aside Fitz Géré’s sword, and when Godfroi came alongside, the tip of Hugh’s blade was pressed to that one’s throat. “You chose the wrong one to use as a shield. Do you survive your injuries, great and terrible your suffering for the revenge our duke shall extract for what you did to his cousin.”
The impulsive Bernard, Godfroi realized—his blood on Hugh’s tunic.
“You are more to blame,” Fitz Géré scorned. “Had you taken my threat seriously, the whelp would live. As you did not, you shall answer for his death. A pity I will not be there to see it.” Those last words caused Godfroi to consider the injuries dealt the man. The one to the shoulder would not kill him, and providing that to the torso had not opened up his innards, neither would it.
“You will be there,” Hugh growled, “even if I must breathe enough life back into you to drop you at William’s feet half conscious.”
“Non, here I die.” Fitz Géré looked to Godfroi. “As I cannot do you the kindness of ridding you of your faithless wife and her dirty babe, allow me to give warning. It is not merely rumor your brother paid for the attack on Lady Robine and your sons. It is truth, meaning his attempt to take Valeur led to you being cuckolded by Michel Roche.”
Though Godfroi felt every ridge of his sword hilt, more he felt his brother’s anger. “Hold, Hugh! He but seeks to incite you to deliver a quick death.” He returned his regard to Fitz Géré. “Though I have little proof, just as I know your sire was responsible for the attack on our mother, I am certain if anyone ordered my family set upon, it was you.”
Fitz Géré was long in responding, but finally he drawled, “Then the truth will have to serve. Oui, my hatred of the D’Argents runs deep, and it began when Lady Maëlys shamed my sire, humiliating our family. Most unfortunate that just as his coin was wasted, so was mine.”
It was the truth, Godfroi was certain, and now greater the longing to retaliate, but it was Hugh who swung back his sword.
“Non!” Godfroi shouted.
Though his brother paused, he kept his gaze on the enemy. “Unlike you, Godfroi, I do not fear the Almighty. Though you believe He moves and works among us, I know Him to be our audience alone. Hence, I play to Him by naming this mercy.”
With a sweep of the blade, that was what he delivered to Arn fitz Géré whose smile lowered as blood spilled in such profusion no amount of effort could stem it. Then Hugh thrust his sword tip in the ground and growled, “For Lady Maëlys, Lady Robine, Guarin, Cyr, and those slain in defense of them.”
All of Fitz Géré shuddered and his lids dropped.
His executioner looked up. “It needed doing,” he said, then snapped, “and sooner done had you not come between us.”
Though Godfroi knew the duke should have been the one to pronounce judgment, as he was fairly certain he himself would have done the same in the absence of Brother Johannes’ hand on his shoulder this past year, he let that pass—but he could not let pass being made to feel a younger brother in need of correction.
“You err, Hugh. It was you who sought to come between us.”
“For good reason!” his brother barked, then glancing at Valeur’s men and their captives who were near enough to hear raised voices, put between his teeth, “You could have been killed!”
Offense shot through Godfroi, and he would have spoken something regrettable if not for what was unvoiced but said all the same.
Unable to bear being the lesser of the D’Argents, Hugh had not stood his brother’s side in support of his lordship as the one defeated at contest was to have done, but he had not ceased caring for his sibling. Though Godfroi had known that, he had come to believe Hugh’s depth of feeling far removed from the bonds forged in childhood and during their warrior’s training.
He had wronged Hugh. His brother might never say it, but he cared much for the one whose victory was gained at the cost of his defeat.
“I appreciate your concern,” Godfroi said, “but more I would appreciate confidence in what I can do rather than concern over what I may be unable to do. Much I have learned this past year, and of great import is that just because one thing is impossible does not mean its pieces are beyond me. For that, I am determined to make possible as much as I can.”
He looked down his leg the side of Hugh. “It is true more easily I could have been slain than you who have full use of your body, but as trained into us, I did my part, greatly altered though it is.” He breathed deep. “I will not be made to regret doing what might have prevented you from suffering great injury, even death.”
After some moments, Hugh sighed. “Forgive me. I know it must be hard adjusting your life to what happened on that battlefield, but there are adjustments I must make as well.” He glanced at the body behind. “Though I have no doubt I could have bested Fitz Géré without injury, I am glad together we ended the threat of him.”
So they had. “The threat of this Fitz Géré,” Godfroi pointed out. “As there are more, there could be retaliation for this.”
“True, but I believe when the duke is told all, he will set the others aright, and more aggressively for the injury dealt his cousin.”
“Injury? Then Chevalier Bernard is not dead?”
Hugh plucked at his bloodstained tunic. “As I was able to stop the loss of blood, he has a good chance of recovering.”
“How was he injured?”
“As we were able to reach the hall with little opposition and surprise Lady Delphine’s guests, they had no choice but to yield and accept my offer to depart peaceably. We kept watch as they gathered their belongings, but Bernard let down his guard and Fitz Géré got hold of him and tried to use threat to the chevalier to eject us from the donjon.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I might have hesitated were it an innocent with a blade at his neck, but it was a warrior who knows what he risks in choosing the life of one who bears arms. Thus, I did not bend to the threat, and Chevalier Bernard learned a lesson that will add years to his life—providing he survives.”
“Does he not, you may lose favor with William.”
Hugh shrugged. “If so, it will be a passing thing. Now he has cast off his guardians, he needs men of my temperament to consolidate and enlarge his power, ensuring those who once gave him cause to fear them now fear him. And wise they would be to walk light around our duke, for even the boy of him was no fool. He knows who misused the power entrusted to them, and eventually those who threatened his life and birthright will pay.” A smile moved Hugh’s mouth. “Unless someone willing to place their life at risk finds a way to put a knife in his back, I anticipate greatness from William of benefit to his subjects.”
“I hope you are right,” Godfroi said, then moved his regard to the one his brother had slain. “We will collect the dead once we put order to Castle L’Épée.”
“Order?”
Godfroi nodded. “Lady Delphine’s machinations are at an end. We will inform her we have saved the daughter she betrothed to Fitz Géré the heartache of being a young widow. Once I have met with my father-in-law, the castle folk will be assured the men we leave behind shall protect the heir until Duke William determines how best to administer Solitaire with its baron on his deathbed and his wife intent on going against his wishes.”
With too little teasing to be teasing, Hugh said, “Perhaps here the opportunity to enlarge Valeur.”
For the trespasses of the L’Épées who had sought to enlarge their demesne by taking pieces of Valeur before the marriage alliance, once Godfroi would have considered it, but all had changed since Robine. She may not have been treated well by her family, but she loved them enough to feel their hurts, and he would not have her ache over her brother being denied his birthright by way of this D’Argent.
Further regretting he had not given as she had done before he departed, he assured himself soon he went home to her no less whole, then said, “Let us be done with this so we may return to our wives and children.”