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
