“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?”
“Poor?” William said. “Being unwelcome in her own home, this day she shall have a better one regardless of which D’Argent wins.”
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,
