Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Chapter Seven

Castle D’Argent upon Valeur

The Year of Our Lord 1040

He was here one day, gone the next. Here one week, gone the next. Here one month, gone the next. And this time longer.

Would it always be thus? Would she never be woman enough? If he dishonored their vows as feared, would he cease once they were truly husband and wife? And when this woman’s body now grown to a good height not expected of her and fit with full breasts and fine hips met with his approval, when might there be opportunities for such relations?

So many questions aching for answers, and likely none would be given this day when he returned from a campaign that had prevented their young duke from losing a portion of his western lands.

William was twelve now, but whether the handsome young man remained personally unversed in war, she knew not. What she knew was, at five months short of attaining ten and eight years, she remained a maiden and all believed her infertile.

Poor Robine, a visiting noblewoman had lamented weeks past. Beauty though she is, she does the L’Épées no honor in denying D’Argent an heir.

Her husband had murmured agreement and said, Poorer yet, Godfroi. Mayhap better Hugh had won the contest for as many nameless whelps he is said to have sired. If any could make a child on L’Épée’s daughter, surely him.

Robine had longed to set them aright by suggesting they learn the art of the whisper, but just as Lady Maëlys had taught that to her daughter-in-law, she had schooled her in holding her tongue when the possibility it would do ill was greater than it doing good. Thus, Robine had continued past them, all smiles and feigned ignorance.

But for that, even more imperative something be done to rectify her relationship with her husband, and she knew what it was, just not how to see it done.

When Godfroi was home, ever he came to bed hours after his wife and rose well ahead of her. So great was that disparity, she rarely knew the timing of either event, being so deep in sleep and in the company of the storyteller. And for as hard as she worked to be worthy of the title her mother-in-law yielded without bitterness nor hesitation, she had cause to be lost to the real world.

What she must not forget was her husband had cause to pay her little attention. As expected, much was required of him to establish himself as Baron of Valeur. As not expected, his greatest aid came from Sir Olivier rather than Hugh.

He who was to have stood Godfroi’s side had returned a sennight following the contest and told it would be of little benefit to any—least of all him—to enter his brother’s service. Thus, he had accepted an invitation to serve in Duke William’s guard where he would carve out a life for one who had only himself to blame for not better honoring his years of training. Then he had collected his belongings and departed. The only time the brothers saw each other was when Godfroi was summoned to defend William’s lands, and more often that of late.

His responsibilities were great, but she wanted to believe—must believe—that beyond keeping his household in good order, she could lighten his burden by simply being someone to hold to through the night after whatever the man of him needed was given by her and no other.

Robine ran her eyes around the hall, confirming all was clean, orderly, and ready to receive weary warriors of great appetite and thirst. Then dismissing servants with a smile and sweep of the hand, she felt a twinge of resentment for how her husband would respond to her efforts.

He was fairly openhanded with praise—of that she could not complain—but ever it felt what one bestowed on a faithful, hard-working servant. There were no embraces nor touch of hands, though on occasion he squeezed her shoulder in passing when she was unable to conceal disappointment.

“Something must be done,” she whispered, then hearing commotion in the inner bailey, rose from the table near the hearth where she reconciled the steward’s journals as instructed by Lady Maëlys. Straightening her bodice and smoothing her skirt, she crossed the hall and ascended the dais.

Though two hours ago the messenger delivered tidings her husband rode on Castle D’Argent, here she would receive him. Gone were the days she hastened to the gatehouse, though if ever such enthusiasm was warranted, it was this day, Godfroi having been absent three months. Unlike some, her husband was returning to her whole and well—and unlike Sir Olivier who had fought at his side. The chevalier would recover, as told by last week’s missive, but it could be months before the big man swung a sword again.

She would tend his wound and change his dressing at which she had become proficient and sturdy of stomach—further gratitude to her mother-in-law.

Robine’s first year had been the most difficult, and several times when assured of privacy, she had taken out her doll. However, once she began finding ease in the company of Lady Maëlys, there had been less longing to hold to that memory of her mother, and now none at all. Despite Godfroi’s mother being firm and often aloof, she was loved though Robine lacked the courage to own to such feelings.

Lady Maëlys did not herself discuss those emotions, but the effort and patience expended on her daughter-in-law proved she was conversant in them, even if mostly for the sake of her son.

The sound of booted feet on the steps returned Robine to the present, then the porter was opening the door, letting in a spear of sunlight that became a shaft. Next, shadows crossed that light, their ascent to the landing delivering them to the dais ahead of bodies appearing in the doorway.

Heart thumping in anticipation of once more looking near on the man ever she would love even if he never loved her, Robine counseled, Be the woman. Let him see the confident helpmate worthy of high regard.

Then there he was, entering ahead of Sir Olivier and a dozen battle-worn chevaliers.

It frustrated she had to clasp her hands to keep them from quaking, but hopefully it made her appear what she was not—serene.

“You should have met him at the gatehouse, Daughter.”

Robine might have groaned over failing to notice the approach of Lady Maëlys if not for the joy of being named the closest of kin. It was not the first time Godfroi’s mother had done so, but those other times could be counted on two fingers.

Glancing at the woman who ascended the dais, she said, “I know you told his long absence warranted such, but I took your counsel that if something feels wrong, stay right of it.”

“Good counsel,” her mother-in-law murmured, then smiled at the man halfway across the hall who, the same as his wife, was much changed since they wed.

The day they spoke vows, Robine had thought he could not be taller nor broader. She had been right regarding his height, but his shoulders, arms, and chest had become more muscled. Thus, he had required new tunics to replace those whose seams pulled through, and it was his wife’s skill, perfected by Lady Maëlys, that saw it done.

But if the abused tunic he wore this day was any indication of the others packed for him months past, soon she would be choosing materials, cutting, and plying needle and thread. And it almost made her smile for how near she would draw for measuring and fitting.

Another thing much changed about her husband and maintained these years was his hair. Despite her protest, he had cut it. To her surprise, he was just as attractive—if not more so—though only because he eschewed the severity of most Norman warriors, keeping some length on top and in back and foregoing straight-edged bangs which she thought made a grown man look boyish. Too, these stressful years had put more silver in his hair though less so the forelock, which oft she imagined playing fingers through just as she had the silvered.

“It has aged him the same as all great battles age our men,” her mother-in-law said low.

As he neared, Robine saw it as well. Approaching his twenty-sixth year, his hair had gone more silvered and there was much hard and weary about him.

“Great his need for rest,” Lady Maëlys said.

Pleased to find her husband’s gaze upon her, and that it was accompanied by a slight smile that peeled away some of the years added these months, Robine smiled in return.

“The warring has taken its toll, but we shall reverse it, oui?” her mother-in-law warned.

Food and drink amid as little talk as possible, she was saying, then to bed. But what was this in her husband’s eyes which previously she had only glimpsed before it disappeared so suddenly she thought it imagined? Whatever it was, this time it was not for the glimpsing. Might it be for the savoring?

“Oui, Robine?”

She looked to Maëlys. “To sooner see my husband restored, much care shall be shown him.”

As his men halted, many fit with bandages the same as Sir Olivier, Godfroi took the last strides toward the dais.

And then came Cat. Missing half an ear and sporting a permanent bend in his tail from encounters with hounds those first months during which he secured his supremacy, he sprang from the left, arched, and hissed.

“Rat catcher!” Godfroi denounced. Though their mutual dislike remained fixed, it was only in public. In private, Cat wound about her husband’s feet and sat at them. On the rare occasion he jumped onto Godfroi’s lap, he was no longer swatted off but lifted down and given a pat on the rear. And at night when Robine began drifting, he slunk around her to the space between her and where her husband would stretch once he sought his own rest.

It might look a truce to those usually found on this side of the curtained solar, but it was more than toleration, and both were determined to remain close-mouthed about it—even to each other.

Godfroi ascended the dais. Then as was proper, he acknowledged the current Lady of Valeur first. Raising Robine’s hand, he said, “My lady,” and brushed his lips across fingers no longer quaking, though only because of concern over his appearance.

She had known close up he would appear more worn, but not so much he looked nearly ill. And yet still there was that something in his eyes.

Jolted by the weight of Lady Maëlys’ silence, Robine said, “Well come home, lord husband. You have been missed.”

He held her gaze. “As have you, Wife.”

Though her lips parted, she withheld a gasp, but there was naught she could do about warmth seeping into neck and face. At last, did he see the woman of her? A desirable woman?

As joy bubbled through her, he moved to the former Lady of Valeur and was properly greeted by she whose hand he held longer. It was then Robine caught the scent wafting from him and was alarmed it was what a woman wore to perfume her body.

It was not cloying as Robine heard tale of those scents a harlot applied to mask an unwashed body. But though it was pleasingly delicate, did it not evidence what long she feared—that he was intimate with other women in the absence of relations with his wife?

Whether that passed to him by close contact with another was the fine perfume of a lady or a joy woman’s scented oil, it mattered not. Before returning to Robine, and possibly since his departure, it seemed he had been unfaithful.

It made her long to run to an upper room whose door she could bolt until she dealt with hurt born of terrible betrayal. And for what was she betrayed? She was of fair countenance and fine body, she was accomplished in managing the household, and she wanted him to cross the space Cat made his own.

It must be because she was a L’Épée. Though Godfroi said he believed it only rumor her sire was responsible for the death of his, perhaps not. Perhaps these years of holding her beyond arm’s reach was revenge against her family—rather, Robine, as what did those left behind care for her beyond peace obtained through alliance? Since Godfroi had reclaimed his bride, contact with her family was so rare, brief, and uneventful she felt a stranger to them.

But if her husband was moved by revenge, then it hurt him as well for having no heir, she desperately reasoned. So was it simply distaste?

“Robine,” her mother-in-law murmured with mild reproach.

Slipping back into the Lady of Valeur who would see to fruition all that was prepared for the warriors’ return, she dragged up a smile, flashed it at her mother-in-law and husband, and stepped from the dais.

After welcoming home those who had fought well for their duke without loss—testament to the superior training of Valeur’s warriors—she invited them to take their rest at tables set with pitchers of wine and ale, goblets, and bowls of bread. Once they settled, servants entered with basins of water and towels in which to wash hands ahead of the delivery of trays of meat, cheese, and fruit.

Though the hurt threatening to burn a hole in her made her long to be alone, she returned to the dais and took her place beside her husband. Once more he surprised, this time in turning from Sir Olivier to her.

Feigning ignorance of his attention lest she reveal the heat felt in her eyes, she reached for her goblet and looked to Lady Maëlys.

There was approval in the woman’s gaze as well as questioning. She knew what the younger woman exuded was due to no minor disturbance, but unlike other things for which counsel was sought, this her daughter-in-law would keep to herself, certain it was an ill thing to voice suspicions and beliefs that reflected poorly on a woman’s son.

Thus, the afternoon wore on and moved into night when supper was served less formally from sideboards to accommodate scores of retainers and servants who joined the warriors in celebrating their victorious return.

It suited Robine to move between dais, lower tables, and hearth and among those who ate and drank while standing rather than sitting. Thus, even when her duty was mostly done, she continued to play the attentive hostess.

Until her husband ended her wanderings.

* * *

Dutiful.Excessively dutiful. Coldly dutiful. It was as if the Lady of Valeur was but a servant not only fearful of her master’s wrath but bore him ill will.

Godfroi was pleased with Robine’s accomplishments. With little imposition on his mother, she commanded the household as once he could only hope she might. But something about her had changed, and seemingly not in the space of his absence. Unless he misread what was on her face and in her eyes when he entered the hall, that change occurred moments after their greeting.

She avoided him, not only distancing herself but averting her gaze when he captured hers. Once he would have welcomed that in consideration of days and nights overflowing with responsibilities that became his alone when Hugh determined he could not serve one no longer his equal and Godfroi determined to accept no aid from his mother beyond shepherding his wife. Oui, once he would have welcomed that from Robine, but no longer.

One good thing about Hugh’s leave-taking was it had given Godfroi little time to miss the company of women beyond the occasional thought and tug soon remedied by fatigue. Thus, his brother’s absence had aided in not straying from his vows as he might have been tempted were he to remain firm in abstaining from relations with his wife until she was fully woman.

However, three months ago his self-imposed abstinence had come to its overdue end—or should have. As usual, that morn he had arisen before Robine after giving Cat a pat that earned the Baron of Valeur a nip which so pleased the fiend, it had careened to the bottom of the bed and back to the top.

When Godfroi began dressing for a day that would see him pulled one direction after another, starting with pre-dawn training for his men, he had glanced at Robine whose sleep was so restless in warmer months often she became entangled in the sheet. As expected, her calves were bared. As not expected, that bared flesh continued up one thigh to her hip where the hem of her chemise had traveled.

Acknowledging the woman in his bed had been that for a year or more, he had known the wait was over. Though matters of the barony were without cease, his rule was established. He had the respect of vassals as well as encroaching lords and brigands, the latter having learned it was best to avoid Valeur. Thus, then and there he had decided whenever possible he would gain his bed at a good hour the same as his wife—and more often once there was an end to uprisings that time and again absented him from his lands to answer Duke William’s call to arms.

That morn, he had departed the solar feeling lighter, certain soon he would bare the rest of his beautiful wife and, God willing, their first child would be at its mother’s breast within a year. That noon, tidings arrived of an escalation of private wars among Norman nobility that threatened the duke’s hold on his duchy. That afternoon, Godfroi and his men departed Castle D’Argent in response to another call to arms.

This eve, following that months-long campaign, he had been certain what had often crossed his mind would be realized—until Robine’s sudden turn from what he believed genuine pleasure at his homecoming and for which his mother was unable to provide an explanation. Now further evidence of his wife’s displeasure as she answered his summons with steps that lingered over each bit of floor to the hearth where Olivier sat on one side of Godfroi.

Lady Maëlys having withdrawn abovestairs, Godfroi wanted his wife on his other side so he might unravel what troubled her, allowing them to move to the solar and leave the hall to celebrants who, without encouragement, would be long in bedding down.

Now with a frowning glance at the woman servant perched on the arm of Sir Olivier’s chair, Robine halted, drew a breath that raised her shoulders, and met Godfroi’s gaze. “Lord husband?”

He gestured at the vacant chair. “Take your ease.”

“I thank you, but there is much—”

“There is not. As bellies are filled and thirsts quenched, your duties are done. Sit.”

She sat and clasped her hands in her lap.

Lord, even though she affects my mother’s stern countenance, she is beyond lovely, he thought and, desire stirring, wished the gift purchased for her had not been lost to the merchant’s negligence.

“Robine—”

“Sir Olivier, is it true what is told of the death of Alan of Brittany?” asked the woman servant. “That he was poisoned by those seeking to steal his guardianship of our duke?”

Before Godfroi could turn a shoulder to the two, his wife sat forward. “Surely it is only rumor, Sir Olivier?”

Godfroi felt what was behind his man’s hesitation—discomfort she sought an answer from him. Deciding to allow her attempt to avoid interacting with her husband, which was fairly acceptable since the servant had first put the question to the chevalier, Godfroi nodded at Olivier.

He cleared his throat. “Whilst we aided Alan in besieging a castle near Vimoutiers, he died after supping in his tent. Though there is no proof of poisoning, it is suspected.”

“By Gilbert of Brionne?” the servant named the one who now had guardianship of William.

Olivier looked to his lord, yielding this answer to him.

“Anything is possible in a world of oaths often broken as easily as dry twigs underfoot,” Godfroi said, “but Gilbert’s character passed despite objections some of his kin are the foulest of beings.” Grateful his mother had withdrawn, he ground remembrance between his teeth. “Though they are relations by way of marriage, some found it difficult not to judge him based on their misdeeds.”

“Did you?” his wife asked, and when he swept his gaze to her, he saw in her eyes what appeared offense before she looked away. And understood.

She was thinking of her family. Though the marriage alliance held these years with only an occasional rumble, still he had no liking for the L’Épées, certain peace was maintained only because the old man’s continuing decline required effort be expended on preparing his young heir to assume his title. But as Godfroi had previously assured Robine, he did not judge her based on the family into which she was born, and she had given him no cause to revise his opinion of her.

Denying her an answer since this was not the time to further reassure her she was first a D’Argent, he returned his gaze to the servant. “Certes, were Gilbert of Brionne cut from the same fabric, custody would have been granted another.”

The young woman smiled. “I am glad of it, Baron D’Argent.”

Godfroi inclined his head, rose and reached to his wife.

She stared, but as he tensed in anticipation of refusal, she set cool fingers in his palm.

“Good eve, Olivier,” he said as he drew her up.

The chevalier inclined his head. “Baron.”

Side by side, the Lord and Lady of Valeur crossed the hall, ascended the dais, and passed through the curtains into the solar lit by a candle on his side of the bed—doubtless placed there by the servant who had turned back the covers.

At last, Godfroi was alone with his wife, just as he had wanted these months. And yet not like this.

Allowing her to pull free, he said, “What goes, Robine?”

She continued to the sideboard where basin and pitcher sat, dipped fingers in the latter. “As it is not even tepid, I shall send for hot water so you—”

“I have no need of hot water. What I need is an answer.”

As if to make a shield of the pitcher, she lifted it and turned to where he stood center of the chamber. “Naught goes. I just thought after such a long journey, you would like to bathe ere seeking your rest.”

“Do I smell foul?”

She blinked. “Non, but—”

“At the inn where we paused last eve, I bathed—and thoroughly.”

Color sweeping her face, she said so low he nearly missed her words, “Not thoroughly enough.”

Three strides and he was before her. Peering down into eyes flung wide, he said, “What mean you?”

She adjusted her expression. “How is Hugh?”

“What has he to do with this, Robine?”

Stiffly, she shrugged. “I ask because it is to be assumed he fought for William as well.”

“Having made himself indispensable to the duke, he did.” Godfroi nearly grimaced over resentment in his voice, then took the pitcher from her and set it on the sideboard. “Now explain yourself. What should I have washed away that I did not?”

She sidestepped.

He caught her arms. “Tell me.”

Outrage leapt in her eyes, brightening them as much as her tears. “A woman,” she breathed. “One not your wife.”

The accusation did not surprise, her pronouncement on the thoroughness of his bathing having begun to unriddle her behavior, but before he could react, she continued, “Long I have suspected that what you do not wish from me you gain from others, and more so this past year when there is no doubt I am a woman in full, but I suspect no longer. I know.”

Anger was a rampant thing, but he held it beneath his skin, its greatest evidence the growl across which he said, “You have proof of that, Wife?”

Her throat bobbed. “As told, you were not thorough in bathing. Hardly had you arrived than I smelled her on you.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Her perfume.”

The rampant thing within slowed…crawled…laughed derisively…shook its head. Had she not revealed she had long suspected him of infidelity, this could be resolved now, but great disappointment coupled with fatigue began closing him down.

Releasing her, he turned and unfastened his sword belt.

“It is because I am a L’Épée you will not touch me, is it not?” she said. “Your distaste so great you are not tempted, not even to gain an heir?”

As ever, he propped his scabbarded sword against his trunk, then drew off his tunic. “Oh, I have been tempted,” he muttered.

“I do not believe you.”

Dropping the garment atop the trunk, he glanced at her where she remained before the sideboard, fists at her sides. “I am too worn to discuss this. If it satisfies you to think the worst of me, so be it.”

“It does not satisfy. I wish to be proved wrong!”

“And I wish to sleep.” He lowered to the trunk, dragged off his boots, and began removing his chausses.

Moments later, rustling material and brisk movement to his left evidenced she also shed her layers as never before done in his presence, though he had imagined if she did not this eve, he would do it for her.

Though the husband of him longed to savor her unlayering, he withheld his gaze, cast his chausses atop his tunic and, retaining his undertunic, stood.

And there she was beside him, blocking his way. Defiantly bared, the black hair falling over her shoulders down to her hips providing little cover for the woman of her, she said, “Prove me wrong. Prove you are tempted—more than tempted—and henceforth lie with me and no other.”

Had not those last words reminded of a sin not committed, he would have proven her very wrong. “Non.” He gripped her shoulders, set her to the side, and strode around the bed. “Good eve.”

“Godfroi—”

“To bed, Wife.” He extinguished the candle, and when he lowered to the mattress and whipped the covers over him, caught her muffled sob. Just one, then silence until light from the hall entered like a wink, evidence Cat had come within.

Immediately, Robine’s feet sounded over the rushes, then the bed jostled as she claimed her side, her body just as bare as when she sought to move him past temptation.

Knowing his desirable wife was only a turn away and feeling his resolve waver, he was glad soon the rat catcher would be in the space between them. But as if Cat conspired with his mistress, this was one of the rare occasions he slept elsewhere in the solar.

A night that promised to be long kept its promise, and what sleep was had ended well before dawn when he rose, went abovestairs, and prostrated himself in the chapel as not done since the night before he gained his sire’s title.