LAWLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 7)
Page 35
Impulsively, he drew his mother’s hand from his jaw and kissed it as not done in years, then he lowered it to her lap. “I shall do my best to gain my sire’s title, as shall Hugh. At the end of the contest, there will be anger and sorrow, but you will have both sons and, in time, acceptance and adjustment—one of us Lord of Valeur, the other captain of his guard.” Then as that which their father had impressed on his sons was ever near in thought, he added, “First, in between, and in the end, we are D’Argents.”
She reached and drew fingers through hair prematurely silvered the same as Hugh’s, that peculiarity passed to them by their sire who had taken the surname D’Argent to denote they were of the silver.
A sound of distress escaping the Lady of Valeur, she closed her eyes and moved her lips in silent prayer, then said, “I pray it so, Godfroi.” She stood and drew near again the mother he knew better these twelve years as if that one was merely a mantle fallen from her shoulders and caught in the crooks of her arms. “Make ready. And remember, this is not only a contest to determine who rules.”
That he knew, as did Hugh. Thus, it was no private event, invitations sent out across Normandy to allies and enemies. Allies would be given a show to assure them they chose well their alliance with the D’Argents, while enemies would learn what to expect from the formidable new baron and the brother made his right hand man should they persist in encroaching on this demesne.
Recalling the arrival of the son of one of those enemies on the day past—Arn fitz Géré whose reputation told he was to be as distrusted as his sire—Godfroi shifted his tightening jaw.
“No quarter given and blood to be shed,” his mother said and strode to the door.
But when he gained his feet and began straightening tunic and chausses of long acquaintance with the floor, she came around, and he saw some soft about her again. “Mother?”
“Think on this difference between Hugh and you. Still you are here seeking guidance for the contest ahead while he has satisfied his hunger and now enjoys the company of women eager to give aid in donning his garments.”
It was true, and one of many differences between the brothers, but if this one was more godly, it was only because he believed it possible to persuade the Lord to intercede, whereas Hugh suspected the Divine was but an observer leaning forward on his throne to watch his creation do with one another as they would—the same as whoever had created chess must have done when he introduced his game to others.
Seeing his mother awaited a response, Godfroi assured her, “He was still at my side at dawn.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Praying or sleeping?”
“Mostly praying, I guess, since several times I succumbed to sleep.” Hoping to stiffen her spine again, he added, “As for aid in clothing himself, soon I shall seek the same diversion.”
He liked that she rolled her eyes, even if it was only an attempt to find humor in his claim which she knew was true. Women liked him, and he liked them.
Turning stern again, she said, “Indulge if you must, since if you prevail, you will be a married man and there should be no such indulgence thereafter.”
As she stepped into the passage and went from sight, he considered again the other thing that must be remedied this day—the alliance that was to make peace between his family and the L’Épées. Distasteful, not only because the young woman was the daughter of an enemy of special note for how often he trespassed on D’Argent lands, but she was eight years younger than he. If he proved the victor, no time would he have for a girl wife.
On the day past, as Lady Robine’s entourage set up camp outside the walls, from a distance he had looked upon her and found it difficult to believe the pretty little thing of blackest hair was nearly ten and four and felt what he imagined he would for a sister—albeit one he did not like. Hugh had seen something different, commenting that when he gained the barony, she would be a nice prize with which to end the day.
“God help us all,” Godfroi said and went in search of ones whose fluttering about him as he was fit for combat would offer reprieve from this turbulence.
“God above! Wretch below! She is gone again. And does my husband care how it inconveniences me? Non! She is your responsibility, he says.” Lady Delphine gave a huff of disgust. “I did not squat her out, and it is not as if I do not have my own children to raise.”
Silence.
“Ah, Herleva, if only she were as well behaved as your William! Praise the Lord soon she shall be the problem of an accursed D’Argent.”
Robine L’Épée would have smiled more broadly if not for that last. This day she would be the wife of the victor, and this eve the last plank of the bridge between girl and woman would be walked by one of her sire’s adversaries.
From what she had glimpsed of Godfroi and Hugh, it mattered not which of those known for their dark, silvered hair took her to wife. Even were she given a choice of whom to wed, what choice was it, really? She had seen no differences between their faces and bodies. All she knew for certain was they were men of such size that the woman she had become with the onset of her menses would be lost in the shadow of whichever one she wed as commanded by her sire who had not allowed her to rethink her earlier rejection of entering a convent.
“You must needs find her,” said Herleva who all knew was a lady only because Robert, the Duke of Normandy, became entranced with the tanner’s daughter and made a son on her. His rank too high to wed a commoner, he had matched her with a favored nobleman to ensure a good life for her. Unexpectedly, their illegitimate son—the duke’s only issue—had succeeded his sire when Robert died during pilgrimage last year. Though William, whom the disaffected named Le Bâtard, was under the guardianship of Alan of Brittany, it was questionable how long the eight-year-old boy would keep hold of his duchy.
“They will open the gates soon to fill the stands with spectators,” Lady Herleva warned in articulated speech Robine’s stepmother said was a laughable attempt to hide the coarse of her.
“Oh, pity me!” Delphine bemoaned.
From where Robine had slipped beneath one of many tiered stands erected for those attending a contest whose planning had begun shortly after the birth of the D’Argent twins, she saw her stepmother stamp her feet and skirts swing as she rose.
Certain she would not dirty her slippers to look here, Robine decided once the woman who was no replacement for her mother was gone several minutes, she would return to the side of William who had spoken little to her but grinned when she pressed a finger to her lips and nodded at her stepmother on the other side of Herleva.
Robine did not know if it was possible to like the boy duke, but she pitied him. He was too young to wield power, and her sire said his guardian made use of his position to advance his own interests. And then there were others who sought to gain control of Robert’s heir, causing unrest in Normandy, though these past months had been relatively quiet.
“Mother, why is Lady Delphine so angry?” William asked. “Robine is only playing a game.”
Herleva laughed. “Is she, Wills?” It was said in a brisker, less refined voice. “And are you, much given to games yourself, part of hers?”
He began drumming the heels of his boots on the planks as done earlier, the annoyance of it a lesser reason Robine escaped the stands. “A small part.”
“I am glad of it. I do not like Lady Delphine. Praise the Lord your father did not give you a stepmother.” Her voice turned more serious. “Remember that, my son. Wed a good woman strong of body so less likely your children endure a substitute mother like Lady Robine suffers.”
“Are all stepmothers bad?”
“Non. Though most are more concerned with babes of their own womb than those of another’s—and that is to be expected—some greatly bless the motherless. But which ones, hmm? Certes, Lady Delphine is among those who cannot even like the children of a husband’s first wife, there being no doubt she wishes to kick that little bird out of a nest she believes hers alone. Poor Robine, hmm?”
Herleva sighed. “Would it were that simple, Wills.”
What sounded pitying words made the hands keeping Robine’s skirts clear of the dirt tighten on lustrous material purchased to make her appear a bride more worthy than her groom. Her sire had said the D’Argents and L’Épées agreed to set aside their differences and proof of that was a marriage of alliance. Thus, she had expected vows spoken this day would make this a better home for her.
“Why is it not that simple?” William asked what she could not.
What followed was a lengthy silence with which Robine had to be more familiar than the boy six years younger than she—that of an older person thinking on whether or not to expose an innocent to another truth about life beyond childhood.
My life, she thought and tried to calm her breathing so she not miss Herleva’s answer, it being difficult enough to hear with William’s boots thumping the planks.
“What do you think of this contest, Wills?” Herleva said with false lightness.
His boots stilled. “Naught at the moment since we are not speaking of it beyond those who shall fight each other.” It was said with annoyance. “As it does not matter who wins, one brother being much the same as the other, what I want to know—”
“Ah, but it is quite the story, one begun twenty-two years ago that shall reach its conclusion this day.”
“I know of it, and who does not? The midwife neglecting to mark the firstborn, the Baron of Valeur decided if both sons lived to adulthood, a contest would be held to decide his successor. And should the brothers grow into the same likeness, each was given a different tattoo so one could be known from the other.”
Robine pressed lips against a gasp that could reveal her. As they had grown into the same likeness, she had guessed there was a means of knowing one from the other, but that babes had suffered needle and ink to permanently mark them…
“Ah, Wills,” his mother bemoaned. “Having seen you little this past year, I did not expect you to be so changed.”
This time he went silent, then almost gently said, “You have much to occupy you since giving De Conteville a son.”
“And you a brother. Is not Odo beautiful?”
A coo sounded, and Robine guessed the infant’s mother shifted him to afford a better view.
“Not even girl babes are beautiful,” he said, “but he is not unsightly.”
Herleva laughed.
He cleared his throat. “No longer should you call me Wills. I am William, Duke of Normandy.”
“But still you are my—”
“I have not been a child since father’s death, Mother. Count Alan says if I wish to live to an age to rule Normandy alone, it must be this way. Thus, no longer do I play with toy soldiers. I attend to the movements of real ones, especially those who name me names and make themselves my enemies.”
A strident breath sounded, then Lady Herleva said, “Forgive me…William.”
After some moments, he groaned and said, “Neither do I like it, but it is how I must think if I am to do great things—how all must think.”
“Of course.”
“Now tell me, why is it not simple Robine will be better here than in the power of Lady Delphine?”
“It is a marriage of alliance.”
“As are many.”
“Oui, but what this one seeks to rectify may be impossible if what is only rumor has blackened the hearts of the D’Argents or shall blacken them if ever the truth lands on the L’Épées.”
“What rumor that?” her son asked the question sounding through Robine.
“Twelve years past, Godfroi and Hugh’s sire died under peculiar circumstances. As it happened near the demesne of the L’Épées and at the height of their warring with the D’Argents, much suspicion was cast on Lady Robine’s sire.”
Robine nearly choked on saliva. Her father might have killed the father of the man she would wed? Impossible, she wanted to assure herself, but it was not. Though once he had been somewhat affectionate, following his first wife’s death, that affection was absorbed by greater affection for warring. Only in recent years had his fondness for swinging blades waned, and then because his muscled body began weakening from various ailments such as that which caused him to forego this contest and his daughter’s wedding.
“Do you think he slew Baron D’Argent?” William asked.
“It is not for me to think one way or the other. I but question whether peace between the families can be achieved through marriage and what price that young woman will pay living under the dark of that rumor, even if it is never confirmed.”
“I will protect her,” William surprised. “The D’Argents and L’Épées are my vassals. Whether Hugh or Godfroi take her to wife, I will command that she be treated well.”
Then he will leave, Robine thought, and the boy who believes he will be heeded will never know what goes behind closed doors.
“My son, you are sweet.”
“I am not. I but exercise my right to impose order and peace for the good of Normandy.”
Enough was heard. Though Delphine would be angered her stepdaughter was not in her place of honor when the contest commenced, Robine could not bear to remain. This day she would wed a man likely to abuse her for the possibility her sire had slain his. That she could not avoid, but this she could. All she needed was a hiding place distant from the training yard transformed into an arena for the hundreds who had come to witness brother fighting brother and, possibly, the death of one.
Or both, she thought and silently rebuked herself for the sinful hope such tragedy would save her from replacing the name L’Épée with D’Argent.
Upon stepping forward, she discovered she had released her skirt. Too, her hand that had delved the purse on her belt without permission held a doll.
Halting alongside the canvas curtaining the rear of the stand, she raised the toy fashioned by the mother who was the only one to truly love Robine—unless she included the cat her stepmother refused to allow her to bring to Valeur. The doll was not much bigger than her hand, but once this hand had been much smaller.
“Would that you were here, Mother,” she whispered.
“Robine!”
She did not look whence that angry voice issued. Tightening her hold on the doll, she pushed through the canvas, certain her stepmother would not sacrifice her dignity to give chase. Another would be sent to retrieve her, but by then she would be lost among spectators now being let through the gate as told by the rising din.
And then where? she wondered as she ran the backs of the stands, causing the workers present to jump aside as she distanced herself from that woman and the contest that would make a prize of Valeur as well as Robine, the former coveted for its power and wealth, the latter as a giver of peace.
“Or revenge,” she whispered and, coming to a break in the stands, found herself in the thick of men and women converging from camps and castle. Pausing amid the jostling, she looked back the way she had come. And glimpsed a L’Épée man-at-arms set after her sooner than expected.
She pushed her way through the lesser crowd coming off the drawbridge. It was not how she was to have entered her new home, one of her sire’s beautiful mares given as a wedding gift to convey her from the contest without to the chapel within. However, this was the way forward, even if it proved the wrong one.
Knowing she drew attention wearing the finest of gowns and heading opposite the others, she was grateful she was not the highly anticipated spectacle—merely a curiosity to entertain one’s thoughts when the D’Argents did all they could to enthrall the masses.
Just inside the walls, the crowd thinned. Jumping to the side, she freed a slippered foot caught in her skirt’s hem and turned all about.
Might she hide in the stables? Non, those lingering about it would point the way to her, and neither would the workshop of the s
mithy nor the carpenter serve, both open to the bailey on three of four sides.
The dovecote opposite the hawks’ mews, she decided, but as she started forward, two servant girls came around a nearby granary, arms hooked as if in great anticipation of merchants come unto the castle.
Robine turned again. Seeing the door on the gatehouse’s eastern side was ajar, she hastened forward and peered through the gap at the empty room, then slipped inside.
The furnishings were too bare to provide cover, but light bending around a corner ahead revealed a passage. Dare she venture farther?
The decision was made when the voice of Delphine’s man sounded from the bailey, demanding whether a young lady was seen coming over the drawbridge.
Robine ran and turned that corner into a passage narrowed by numerous crates stacked on one side as revealed by light shining from the doorway ahead. Amid hesitation, she heard the whisper of hinges behind. Though she wanted to believe that sound was only fear-induced imagination and told herself to proceed with caution, she flew down the passage. And into a room far from empty.
“What do you here?” barked the priest who unclasped prayerful hands as Robine skid to a halt.
He was not the only one her appearance offended, those who knelt before him in undershirts and chausses having thrust upright and come around, the swords balanced horizontally between outstretched hands now gripped and pointed her direction.
“Heavenly Father!” she gasped, realizing she had interrupted a ceremony for warriors about to enter battle. Which of the men of dark, silvered hair was Godfroi and which Hugh was unknowable for how indistinguishable their handsome countenances—and expressions of outrage. At least, that was the way of it those first moments as both ran their eyes over her. Then swords lowered and the mouth of the one on the left curved while that of the one on the right tightened further.