Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Thirty-Five

Apiece of her was missing—rather, two. Just as she was no longer held, she did not hold. Before alarm expressed itself ahead of discomfort that had awakened her, she heard Godfroi’s low voice.

Though her heart eased some over one piece of her found, still it pounded over the piece yet missing. But then she realized his voice sounded from directly behind, meaning she was on her side and he did not distantly converse with someone but remained abed.

Focusing on the wall opposite lit by weak candlelight, she strained to hear what was whispered, but Godfroi had gone silent. However, moments later tiny sounds protested the silence—the whistling of little nasal passages, a soft snort, gurgling.

“Patience, Dougray,” her husband rasped. “Let her sleep a bit longer.”

Imagining her son—their son—in his arms, Robine pressed her lips to suppress a sob, and when she heard sucking, guessed one of Godfroi’s knuckles was latched onto as once Guarin and Cyr had done when the breast was not immediately available.

For a time, soft clicks of the tongue were heard, then a hiccough that made Godfroi chuckle and the warm body against her lower calves move away. Next came a soft thump amid rushes that told Cat had determined better rest could be found distant from the bed.

When the sucking resumed, Godfroi whispered, “I shall love you because God gifted you to the D’Argents and you are of my wife. Be patient with me, and I shall earn your love in return.”

The next sob remained behind her lips as well, but she could not keep her shoulders from jerking.

“Robine?”

Dropping onto her back, she caught her breath over discomfort made painful for the sudden movement and turned her head.

On his side, the babe cradled in his lower arm, his knuckle at the child’s mouth, Godfroi said, “Did we awaken you?”

She smiled. “I would be glad to be roused by the two of you, but discomfort is responsible.”

“Then more of the midwife’s medicinal, after which Dougray would like to be fed.” He removed his knuckle, causing the infant to begin fussing.

It took some maneuvering to elevate her with Dougray between them, during which she was told of Guarin and Cyr’s visit. The former was pleased with his new brother, the latter uncertain as if at odds with the pleasure of attaining the status of becoming a big brother and the displeasure of no longer being the littlest.

Once Robine was positioned and had swallowed the herbal mixture, Godfroi eased the babe into her arms. When it took to the breast, she said, “I heard you, Husband.”

His frown was momentary. “I do not recall exactly what I said, but I believe my words a good thing.”

“Indeed. They give me much hope.”

“I wish to give you more than hope.”

“You do.”

He shifted his regard to the little one. “I shall make mistakes. Might I have more than hope you will forgive me?”

She set a hand on his arm. “I will forgive you as you have and shall continue forgiving me.”

He leaned down and kissed her. “I am glad I did not send you away nor deny you this son. Now that we are five strong—non, six with my mother—better we can overcome what lies ahead.”

From the spurning of Robine as word spread of what transpired before the breaking of her betrothal, she knew the years ahead would present many trials, but she believed the blessing of Dougray would easily outweigh the loss of false friendships and poor acquaintances. And more greatly she would be favored by true friendships formed with those of her household.

Unseemly,some would say, while others named her desperate, but they would be wrong.

In many ways, the Lord had made good out of bad—rather, better out of bad. He had provided the one renamed Johannes the chance to make restitution for actions that deprived his sister-in-law and nephews of a husband and father by sending him to pull Godfroi from the wreckage of human life.

That opportunity surely eased the guilt and pain he suffered all these years, and more so that beyond restoring Godfroi’s health and the warrior of him as much as possible, he had enlarged his nephew’s faith. Hence, the one returned to Robine was more godly than before.

For that, forgiveness Godfroi might never have extended to his wife regardless he had allowed her to believe him dead.

For that, he had not sent her away to birth the babe in secret and leave behind evidence of her sin.

For that, a profession of love he might never have felt and, if so, would not have spoken.

“Better out of bad,” she murmured.

“So it is,” Godfroi said. “Though my journey may never be done, I am thankful for the road Johannes set me on and aiding me in negotiating it.” He grunted. “He tells he departs soon, and I am not ashamed to say I will feel the loss of him.”

But how would he feel once he knew the hermit’s truth? Robine wondered. If Godfroi could forgive his uncle—which seemed possible though time and distance might be needed—would Johannes make his home here, continuing to aid the D’Argents in navigating what lay ahead?

Though Robine thought it unlikely unless he was made to feel further penance was due, the longing to set the possibility in motion tempted her to reveal the identity of one who had become counselor, father, and friend. However, it was not for her to do without forewarning Johannes and gaining the approval of Lady Maëlys who would wish to be present did she not herself do the telling. Too, it was best done in Hugh’s absence since he had little liking for the hermit.

“You are much in thought,” Godfroi said.

She blinked. “I shall feel the loss of Johannes as well, but I do not think he would depart unless he believed you ready to continue down the road without him.”

“And knowing you are at my side, beloved wife.”

She reached to him, and he enfolded her hand in his.

Amid the silence, she was tempted to sleep the same as the babe who moved that direction, but feeling the weight of Godfroi’s thoughts, she did not yield.

“There is something we must discuss,” he finally said, “though if you are too tired, it can wait until you are rested.”

Fairly certain it was what she had avoided thinking deeply on, she said, “Tell me.”

Godfroi moved his pillows nearer hers, shifted down, and turned onto his side. “Michel Roche.”

Glad she was prepared, she said, “Oui, he needs discussing.”

“If he doubted having fathered this babe, no longer when he learns a healthy boy of good size was delivered months ere he could be of my blood.”

“That is so.”

“I do not know him, but you tell he is a good man, and I have heard no different from Olivier and others.”

“You have not been misled.”

He raised his eyebrows. “He will fear for this child.”

“He will.”

“Then he must be assured Dougray will be raised well alongside Guarin and Cyr, and…” He hesitated. “…it is my name he shall bear.”

Robine gasped. “You would gift him the D’Argent name?”

Godfroi looked to the babe sleep had reclaimed. “As I believe the Lord would have it be, he is Dougray D’Argent, third son of Godfroi and Robine.”

Heart feeling as if it would burst, she nearly cried. “I have tried to be content with better this than that,” she choked, “but now that you offer all, I am frightened for having more to lose.”

“Better crumbs from my hand than none at all,” he said. “I remember when you spoke that, and I behaved as if it were of no consequence. Pray, know it is of great consequence to one who has come to understand what it is to love a woman and be loved in return. For that, much I regret not understanding it sooner so better I could have expressed it when…I was whole.”

Wishing she could go into his arms and hold to him through the night, she said, “I know it does not feel it, but in my eyes and heart, you are more whole than when your stride carried you away from me into battle. Hence, you could not express it better than you do now when more than ever I need your love.”

He swallowed. “As I need yours, Robine.”

Once more silence, and though she longed to savor it, allowing the contentment of happiness aided by the medicinal to return her to sleep, something bothered. Realizing it was what joy had averted, she raised lowering lids and saw Godfroi watched her.

“We can discuss him on the morrow,” he said, and she thought it wondrous to be known so well. Vows and consummation had made them one in body, but years together that had grown into friendship and mutual love made them one in mind.

“Let us speak of him now, Husband. I think a missive should be sent informing him of Dougray’s birth and that you have accepted this child as your third son and given him your name.”

“I agree, but will it be enough for him to sever all ties, leaving Dougray in our keeping?” He frowned. “I try to think how I would feel under these circumstances and do not know I could trust another man to raise my child.”

Remembering Michel whom she had thought she could come to love in smaller measure than Godfroi, she hoped he would turn to Pilar and be forgiven for seeking love elsewhere.

“It will be of some consolation to him,” she said, “but just as I do not believe he will entirely turn his back on Dougray, neither do I think he will come calling without good cause.”

“He will watch from afar—offensive, and yet I cannot begrudge him.” Godfroi nodded. “I will compose the missive.” At her sharp breath, he said, “It is for me to give my word that just as I am a father to Guarin and Cyr, so shall I be to Dougray.”

She longed to argue, but he was right—were he the one to write it, more it would be believed. And he need not say it would also serve as warning for Michel to keep his distance.

“Ere dispatching the missive, I will show it to you,” he said.

Thinking it was more than enough he offered, she said, “Not necessary. I leave it in your hands.”

“I appreciate your trust, but as I shall speak for both of us, I would have you look upon it.”

She smiled. “Then I shall.”

He set a hand on her jaw. “You are all to me, Robine.”

Recalling what was told her eight years ago, she said, “Perhaps your greatest prize?”

With question in his voice, he said, “You are.”

“Then the wait was worth it.” Before he could question that, she said, “The day we wed, William’s mother told what I did not believe—that I am your greatest prize.”

“Did she?”

“Oui. Though she could not wed the duke she loved and lost, methinks she must have been made to feel his greatest prize. A blessing that, but more the blessing my lost love was found—that he came back to me bearing love and forgiveness, impossible though it seemed to gain either.”

He rose onto an elbow. “As Johannes told, all it required was three—God, you, and me.”

Peering up at him, delighting in the play of candlelight across the silver in his hair, she said, “Only three, and yet that is much.”

He bent his head and against her lips said, “Ever you shall be my greatest prize, beloved Robine.”

* * *

Castle Falaise

Normandy, France

All these monthsof waiting to learn if Robine’s pregnancy was too advanced for it to be her husband’s was now known, the hope the babe was of Godfroi, who might no longer be capable of siring children, extinguished.

Michel had fathered a son, as revealed—rather, confirmed—by the missive delivered minutes earlier, rumor of the Lady of Valeur giving birth having arrived at the duke’s court on the day past.

And so a crossing of missives, meaning soon Godfroi and Robine D’Argent would be in possession of the one inked by Michel that proposed he be given custody of his son to raise him into a warrior or man of God depending on his temperament. Now here his answer sooner than expected, and written by the one he had not known he cuckolded when he yielded to desire.

Michel closed his eyes. What he had known was it was wrong to seduce Robine—and worse for the hope of getting her with child lest she do more than waver over wedding him as he had sensed the nearer they drew to speaking vows.

He had excused his behavior by telling himself he would make a better husband and father than any other the duke might choose should Robine break their betrothal, but now she and their son would suffer for his plotting, as would others of their family.

Regardless how true the words on this parchment, just as their lives were cruelly changed by the injury dealt Godfroi D’Argent several leagues from this fortress upon Falaise, they would be changed by the injury dealt them by Michel Roche—perhaps so greatly the assurances of Robine’s husband that might be genuine in the moment would be set aside.

“Lord, I have made a mess of all,” Michel rasped. “Be merciful. If my son is to be denied my protection, let Godfroi D’Argent be as godly as he sounds, his forgiveness and the love professed for his wife wide and deep enough to cover my son. And aid me in keeping my distance. Amen.”

He opened his eyes, and they fell first on two words boldly written amid the others. The first was Dougray, meaning the babe was named after Robine’s sire whose death—and Fitz Géré’s great trespass—was reported to the duke the same day rumor of the birth reached Michel. The name that followed was D’Argent, providing further proof he who laid claim to his son would, indeed, raise him alongside his brothers, Guarin and Cyr.

Michel lowered the missive and, peering out the window of his chamber across the walls and battlements of Castle Falaise, once more questioned the wisdom of the duke summoning him to serve as an advisor—and wondered if Herleva was responsible, that lady having offered what seemed a sympathetic smile the one time he glimpsed her days past.

The greatest obstacle would be Hugh D’Argent. Though he had taken his wife and son to Valeur, he would return and be displeased to find here the one who dealt his brother a great offense. A difficult situation, but Michel would rise above it. However, if the trainer of warriors could not do the same, there would be blood to pay, and not only Michel’s. He had wronged the man’s brother, but he would give back whatever he got.

Movement in the garden below drew his gaze. Thinking one of the women on the path was Pilar, his heart sped—not with hope but dread over facing her, but there was longing as well. Though likely he had destroyed what she felt for him and she might never forgive him, he missed the ease of their friendship, especially in a world mostly cold to one who had offered much proof of dishonor.

Though he bore looks and sly asides that were worse for having been known as a man of honor, he was less patient with taunting from those more experienced in sin. Evidence of that was ache in his hand that had broken teeth three days past when a chevalier had named the babe in Robine’s belly a whoreson.

Michel had been ashamed when before all William praised him for defending the noble lady and her child, and more ashamed it should feel so good coming from one much younger than he. However, as those at court had been less offensive since then, good had come of it. But now that the rumor was confirmed…

“It is as it is,” he murmured and, seeing it was not Pilar in the garden, once more raised the missive. Staring at the titled name at the bottom of the parchment, he wished that more than the loss of the woman he loved, he felt the loss of the power he would have wielded during Guarin D’Argent’s minority. But more than anything, he had wanted Robine for his wife.

As he rolled the missive, once more he considered the fortress beyond his window and the land beyond the fortress—and imagined the narrow sea beyond the land.

Great the temptation to begin anew by crossing to England whose King Edward was partial to Normans for the aid given him during his long exile. However, though determined to hold close the baron’s assurances Dougray would be treated well, at least for a time he would keep watch from afar.

“Then mayhap England,” he said. “Mayhap there another to love. Mayhap there other children. Mayhap there lands of my own. Mayhap…”