Love Thine Enemy (27 page)

Castrated.  They would be castrated.

Struggling more for the knights than for herself, she
slapped aside Gaston’s hands, then wrenched to throw him off as she grappled
for anything she could reach to use as a weapon, but only grasped rushes. 
Hysteria rose like bile into her throat.  She fought the helplessness that
washed over her like a paralysis draining her strength. 

A loud battering shook the air.  The knights used a
ram.  Somehow she must escape the inescapable.

Frenzied for inspiration, Rochelle jabbed her thumbs
into Gaston’s eyes.  He yelled, then jerked upward, pressing his hands against
his sockets.  She rammed her fist into nose, then grasped his robe-covered
manhood and twisted.  He groaned, then raised to his knees as if for escape. 
Shoving with her heels, she inched backward but much too slowly according to
her pulse.  Her head bumped against something hard . . . like someone’s legs.

Gaston roared with rage.  “Hold her down, you
worthless...“

Rochelle flailed out, but the cloaked figure grasped
her wrists and pinned them to the floor.

The cracking of wood shot through the chapel.

Gaston landed on top of her, forcing her legs apart.

A scream ripped from her throat.

The door shuddered, then crashed to the floor.  The
welcome sound of trampling feet echoed within the walls.

“Lord help us.  She’s been ravished.  Kill the
bastard.”

Gaston shoved from atop her body.  He glanced toward
the approaching knights, then hesitated as if shocked.

A woman’s scream stabbed through her horror.  “You! 
Murderer!”

He fled into the back hallway and melted into the
darkness along with his accomplice, the knights behind him, swords drawn.

Banulf lifted her to her feet.  As she grasped the
altar table for support, she saw his fear tinged with disappointment, as if she
had betrayed him, betrayed them all, with unthinkable results. 

The mysterious woman slapped Banulf on the arm.  “Throw
this harlot in the dungeon.  If you don’t apprehend that murderer, Gaston, then
torture this slut until she confesses his whereabouts.”

Rochelle glanced over her shoulder to see whom the lady
meant but saw no one.  Realization slugged into her stomach like a cold fist.

Rochelle jerked her gaze to the middle-aged noblewoman
who displayed such authority    “Surely ‘tis not I to whom you refer.  What
plague wafts on the wind that makes others believe they can enter this castle
unbidden, then shout orders for my arrest?  Who are you?”

“Lady Isabelle.  Chatelaine of DuBois.”

 Chills slithered along Rochelle’s spine.  “I am the
chatelaine of DuBois.”  Truth struck like a storm, harsh and relentless.  “His
mother.  You are Sire Becket’s mother.”

 She nodded.  “And you are?”

“Lady Rochelle.  Sire Becket’s wife.”

A small gasp sounded from the doorway.  An elegant
woman garbed in a cobalt gown stood just inside the chapel.  Young. 
Beautiful.  Delicate.  Meek. 

Lady Anne.

Becket’s betrothed.

Pain tore past Rochelle’s defense-wall and smashed her
last vestige of hope.  Had Becket already annulled the vows and wed this . . .
this . . . icon of obedience?  Had he consummated the marriage?  Spilled his
seed?

Loved another?

Nausea roiled her stomach and weakened her already
shaky knees.  She had never considered Becket a coward, but to send his mother
and bride to inform Rochelle of the treachery smelled rank indeed.

Becket’s mother marched to in front of Rochelle,
blocking her view of her replacement.

“His wife?  You lie.  And your father?”

“Lord Reynaurd de DuBois.”

The woman blanched.  “’Tis falsehood.”  Then her eyes
narrowed.  “I know who you are.  But Becket doesn’t.  For he would never wed
the daughter of his father’s murderer.”

“He said the vows.”

“Did he bed you?”  Despite her flaunt of authority, her
voice sounded shaky.

“Our relationship is not of your concern.”

Lady Isabelle sighed as if with relief.  “Your response
confirms he hasn’t.  And he never will, for he has suffered as much from your
father’s lies as have I.”

 “As I informed your son, I am not my father.”

“You are sired by evil.  And when Becket learns you
betrayed him with his enemy, he will dispose of you most readily.” 

“Gaston attacked me, but you will never believe the
truth when the lie better serves your purpose.”

“My purpose is that he wed Lady Anne.  And yet, your
very presence denotes my son feels an attraction for you.”  Lady Isabelle ran
her critical gaze over Rochelle’s form.  “Despite your dowdiness, you possess a
. . . a passion.  You are a danger, more than either you or Becket knows. 
Which requires a more permanent solution, a more permanent separation else you
muddle his judgment.”

“You interfere in matters beyond your authority. 
Becket and I decide my fate.  If you were other than Sire Becket’s mother I
would insist you depart.  But out of deference, I open the DuBois doors for you
and Lady Anne.”

Pierre bolted into the chapel, his eyes alight with
joy, Sire Spitz hanging on for dear life as he hung around Pierre’s neck. 
“Sire Becket comes!  The watchmen say he rides like the very devil!  Hurry,
Rochelle.”

Rochelle braced for Pierre’s headlong embrace.  Her
brother loved Becket---for saving his life, for not condemning Pierre because
of his affliction---for caring.

Lady Isabelle snatched Pierre by the ear as he darted
past.  “You overstep your status, boy.”

Pierre yelped with pain and stopped short.   Sire Spitz
hissed and leapt onto Lady Isabelle, but she swatted the yowling cat away.

“The beast will die.”

"Don’t you hurt my pet!”

Rochelle leapt forward and broke the tight pinch that
held Pierre prisoner.  “He is not your affair, Lady Isabelle.”

“You err, Lady Rochelle.  He is not your affair.  And
you will soon learn how little power you have, for Becket will never deny his
mother.”  As she strode through the doorway, she nodded to Lady Anne, “Follow
me,” then she departed, leaving Rochelle alone in the chapel with Pierre.

Icy panic skimmed over Rochelle’s flesh.  Shuddering,
she enfolded Pierre in her arms.  “I need your assistance, love.  Go to Sire
Becket’s chamber.  Get the ring of keys he hides in the secret drawer beneath
the armoire, then unlock the door to the Lord’s Chalice and meet me at the
entryway to the great hall.” 

As he grabbed his pet and scampered away, Rochelle ran
to her chamber, fluffed out her hair and donned the embroidered gown that had
once been her bedcover. 

Becket probably took the wine from his mother and Lady
Anne at that very moment!  No, she must reach the Lord’s Chalice first.  Pierre
wouldn’t fail her, besides, he had the key.  In silent hysteria, she raced down
the steps and through the confusion of bustling servants to Pierre who stood by
the entry---
empty-handed
.

“’Tis gone, Rochelle.  That old witch ordered the
knights to break open the cabinet that held the goblet.  She waits for Becket
outside.”

“She enforces her position as mistress of DuBois.” 
Desperate, Rochelle scanned the great hall in wonder what to do.  Her destiny
as well as Pierre’s lay but a life-shattering decision away.  Rushing to the
head table, she poured wine into an ordinary tankard but because of her
unsteady hands, the dark liquid sloshed onto the snowy cloth in spreading
blotches.

“He’s here.  The master’s here.”  Men’s voices floated
from the bailey and intensified her fear of failure. 

Swallowing a scream of panic, she raced to the entry
and positioned herself at the top of the stairs.  Lady Isabelle stood in the
bailey with the chalice, Lady Anne at her side as future chatelaine.

And then she saw Becket.  Her heart turned over.  She
loved him.  She knew in that horrifying moment that she loved him.  His certain
rejection would rip her soul from out of her body. 

The dark-haired devil stood beside his steed as if he
had just dismounted.  He wore no armor beneath his jupon the color of hellfire,
which meant he must have traveled in so much haste than he hadn’t bothered with
his own protection.  He glanced at his mother who offered the lord’s chalice,
then his gaze caught Rochelle’s.

She raised up the tankard.  Burgundy wine quivered over
the rim, beading upon her fingers like blood from her wounded heart.

She forced Becket to choose.

And yet, she only fooled herself.  Becket would never
take drink from her hand.

“Welcome, Lord Becket Christophe de DuBois.”  Lady
Isabelle lifted the chalice in invitation.

Rochelle’s gaze remained locked with Becket’s as she
willed him to take the tankard from her hand.

Not a sound uttered from the bailey.  The sky gleamed
too clear a blue, the sun too brilliant for such a dire moment.  Becket shone
most resplendent of all as if the sun, too, knew of the import and concentrated
upon the man who decided her fate. 

Becket glanced at his mother, then at Lady Anne, then
at the chalice.

Gasps broke the silence.

Becket rejected her?  Pain knotted in her chest. 
Despite his rebuff, she refused to lower her arms, couldn’t lower her arms,
couldn’t accede.  All must surely think her the most pitiable of fools.

She felt a tug on her skirt.  “Doesn’t he want us,
Rochelle?” 

Pierre.
  Oh dear heaven, Pierre. 
How could she draw breath if she never again saw his large, dark eyes, or heard
his laughter, or felt his arms about her neck.  What would happen to him when
he had a convulsion?  For certain Lady Isabelle would not tend to him, which
meant, he might die.  Fear for Pierre strengthened her resolve.

Becket’s mother beamed as if with a pride long denied. 
“Here, son, ‘tis the lord’s chalice.  Take.  Drink.  Bask in this moment of
which I’ve dreamed ever since we fled from DuBois.”  She pushed the goblet
toward him.  “When we made our escape, I carried your burned body through the
woods and tended you in remote caves, fearing you would die, terrified that
Gaston had stripped me of my son as well as my status.  But you survived,
Becket
Le Vengeur
.  You are now Lord of DuBois.  Drink your fill of
victory.”

Rochelle held her breath in wait for him to swallow the
wine that he dare not, would not refuse.  The sun glinted and winked from the
polished silver, taunting, tempting.  Becket merely stared at the offering as
if stricken.

Lady Isabelle’s smile hardened into tolerant
determination.  Rochelle recognized the expression, had used that same smile
myriad moments during her survival, a smile that hid emotional pain, a pain now
surely caused by Becket’s unexpected hesitation.

“Becket?”  His mother’s voice quavered ever so
slightly, softer, pleading, confused. 

As if unable to keep his gaze away, he turned toward
Rochelle.  She saw the conflict within his soul, the hunger, the want
imprisoned beneath his discipline.

“Don’t shame me, son.  Take the chalice.”

Drawn like a moth to a fiery death, Rochelle moved down
the steps toward the bright glory of Becket.  He caressed the hilt of his sword
as if remembering moon-bathed flesh and wanton discoveries. 

“Son, she is the enemy.”

“She is fire.”

“Fire killed your father.”

He took a step toward Rochelle and hope wriggled within
her fear of doom.

“She betrayed you.”  Lady Isabelle grasped his arm, the
sound of her accusation rebounding from the walls.  “I saw her.  She coupled
with Gaston.”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

R
ochelle recoiled as she watched Becket’s
eyes widen with horror, hurt, then narrow with hatred.

Somewhere on the parapet, a sword clattered against
stone much like her hope of convincing him of the truth.

 “Men, stay at your post!”  Becket shook off his
mother’s hand and gripped his sword.  “Not one of you takes a step until I give
you leave.”  A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer of revulsion.  “As I
predicted, my traitorous falcon, you are true to Reynaurd’s seed after all.”

“Gaston attacked me, Sire.  And you need not carry out
your sentence of the knights’ mutilation.  I am still untouched.”

Becket neared until she felt his breath against her
face as hot as his anger.  “So you say.”

“Search me for the truth.”

She saw the flash of desire he buried in haste beneath
his disgust.  “You pretend you are guileless, but how did he know where to wait
for you?”

“I received a message that
Père
Bertrand wished
to see me.”

“From whom?”

Rochelle swallowed, uncertain how to answer.

He grasped her chin and forced her gaze to his.  “From
whom?”

“Lady Angelique.”  Rochelle hated that she betrayed an
almost-friend, loved that Becket touched her face.  Then he released her and
she felt as distanced from him as if he stood across the Channel.

“You malign me!”  Angelique’s accusation rang through
the bailey.  “Tell Sire Becket,
Père
Bertrand.  Tell him you bade me
give her the message.”  Angelique held up her hands to Becket in supplication. 
“Griselda stood nearby.  Ask her.”

Père
Bertrand appeared
flustered.  He scanned the assemblage as if looking for someone. 

A knot gripped Rochelle’s stomach. 
Surely it wasn’t
Père Bertrand who had held down her hands! Was it someone else in disguise,
like with Gaston?  And yet Père Bertrand was the one who gave Angelique the
message.  But if wasn’t the priest, then who?

  Becket nodded to a cluster of knights.  “Men, detain
Lady Angelique and the priest.  Find Griselda.  Davide, Phillipe, Banulf, come
here.”

Angelique’s screams of protest sounded in odd
syncopation with
Père
Bertrand’s shouts of heresy.

The scuffing of feet stopped behind Rochelle.

Becket nodded past her shoulder.  “You three knights
knew the consequences of failure and yet you let her out of your presence.”

“She wanted privacy.”  “To pray.”  “To be left alone,”
they spoke at once.

“And of course, you complied.  Her aura of innocence
convinces the most guarded.”

Rochelle shook so hard that wine splashed onto Becket’s
jupon, the stain like darker blood upon blood.  “Sire Becket, I betrayed you
not.  Despite my mental anguish of your brutal rejection of me, my heart would
not allow such treachery against you.”

“Your mind and heart, mayhap, but how about your
body?”  He waved her silent, then nodded to the knights.  “What saw you when
you broke through the door?”  When all spoke at once, Becket held up his hand. 
“Davide?”

“Gaston lay atop her, dressed in priest’s robes. 
Another in priest’s robes held her hands to the floor.  The hood hid the second
person’s face.”

“Priest’s robes?”  His gaze darted to an obviously
infuriated
Père
Bertrand, then back to Davide.  “Did you catch Gaston
and his accomplice?”

“The knights still search, Sire.  ‘Twas as if the two
became spirits, for ‘twas only one exit and yet no one saw them leave.”

“Another secret passageway perhaps?”  He slid his
suspicious gaze to Rochelle.  “Is that why you selected that particular
location for your tryst?  You knew of another exit into the cave?”

“My interest in tunnels and deathtraps vanished when I
became lost as a child.”

Banulf dropped to one knee beside her, head bowed. 
“Lady Rochelle is not at fault, Sire.  Blame me for not protecting her as I
should.”

“This dear man suffers no more reproach in my stead.” 
Rochelle tightened her grip on the tankard for courage.  “The blame falls upon
you, Sire Becket.  If you had taken me as a true wife, Gaston would have had no
cause.  He dares because you don’t.  You must either bed me or kill me, for I
know in my soul that even the convent will not keep him from me as long as he
believes I am the means to DuBois.”

Becket stared at her as if struck by the truth.

“Then kill her.”  Lady Isabelle shoved to Becket’s
side.  “Be strong, Becket.  Let not her gender sway you from your duty.  Lady
Anne will ease your temporary pain.  Now drink and be done with this.”  She
thrust the goblet toward him.

He pushed the chalice aside and stepped toward the
keep.  “We will discuss this in private.”

“You must decide now, son.”

Rochelle lifted her chin.  “I, too, wish a public
decision.  I want all to know my fate, whether good or ill.”

Becket stopped, turning to her.  “Why, Lady Rochelle?” 
He shadowed his eyes against the sun and swept his focus over the parapet walls
to the mountains beyond.  “Do spies wait to transfer the information to Gaston
so that he can plan an ambush for your rescue?  Or, does he wait to see if I
will take your poison?”

She jerked from the accusation, the wine spilling onto
the ground in wet thuds.  “The only poison, Sire, is within your heart.”

He withdrew the tankard from her tight grasp, then
sniffed at the rim.  “Not even a love potion?”

“’Twould be folly, Sire.  You are beyond such emotional
corruption.”

“Son, why this delay?  You insult Lady Anne by your
hesitation.”

“Ah, Lady Anne.”  He swirled the tankard, then sniffed
again.  Shifting his attention toward the cobalt-gowned image of composure, he
gave a slight bow.  “After completing my affairs, I wended my way to your
estate, but you had already departed for DuBois.  Although we have visited in
the past, I know little about you.  Tell me, my lady.  What is your passion?”

Lady Anne’s eyes widened.  “Passion, Sire?”

“Does your blood rush when a lark sings, or when the
morning light tints the snowcapped Pyrenees with the first blush of dawn?  Do
you swallow tears of joy over the swelling grapes upon the dew-kissed vine?”

Becket quoted Rochelle’s own words!  The ones she had
shouted in argument when he had informed her of bringing Lady Anne here as his
bride.  His mockery increased the painful inner pressure against her
breastbone.

Lady Anne’s mouth opened without sound as if his
inquiry surprised her.  “I practice temperance of moods, Sire.  Serenity in all
things.”

“No wrenching of the spirit from leaving your home?  No
titillation over the beauty of DuBois?”

“One place is much like another, Sire.”

“And one man much like another?”

She merely blinked. 

“So, whether you live here with me, or yonder with
another, matters not?”

“I but obey, Sire.  ‘Tis my duty as a woman.”

“Meekness.  Obedience.  Supreme qualities for any
man.”  He paused, staring at the wine.  “Except for me.”  He glanced at
Rochelle and instead of the expected gloating, she saw his heartache.  “I
prefer passion.”

Her pulse leapt in response.

He lifted the tankard toward his mouth!

 Lady Isabelle stayed his hand.  “And what of your
heirs?  You taint the eternal bloodline for a moment’s passion?  You betray
your father.”

“But to do otherwise, I betray myself.”

“Heed me well, son.  Decipher my meaning.  In time,
when all secrets are revealed, she will bend under the influence of her father
and betray you.”

Rochelle threw a startled glare at Lady Isabelle. 
“Becket knows my secrets.  And my father is dead.”

“Becket understands my meaning.  And your father lives.”

“Your cruelty goes too far, Lady Isabelle. My father
is---“

“Gaston.”

“Gaston is my father-in-law.”

“Father-in-law. 
And
father.”

Shock ripped through Rochelle’s mind.  She felt the
blood drain from her face.  Her knees buckled, but Becket caught her against
his side. 

“
Ma mère
, your lies of desperation
disappointment me.”

“’Tis the truth as told to me by Lady Beatrice, wife of
Reynaurd and mother of Rochelle.”

“Why would she confide such scandal to you?”

“Why is of no import.  What you must understand is that
Gaston’s blood flows through Lady Rochelle’s veins.  Poisoned blood.”

Rochelle shoved from Becket’s hold to stand on her own
two shaky legs.  “Even Gaston wouldn’t ravish his own daughter.  He would have
no need.”

“He doesn’t know.”

Rochelle felt a black dizziness.  “Then Marcel was my .
. .”   She clamped her hand over her mouth to still a rising nausea. 

“Half-brother.  Incest.”

Rochelle closed her eyes.  “We never consummated the
marriage.”

She felt Becket slide his arm around her waist as if he
sensed her need for support, but she knew with heart-rending certainty Becket
would never take her as wife---the most agonizing of all her failures.  Painful
memories of her childhood raced through her mind.

“Then ‘tis why my . . . why Lord Reynaurd never loved
me.”

“He never even guessed the submissive Beatrice had
cuckolded him.  Reynaurd merely didn’t like children, especially females.”

She blinked at hot tears.  “A woman as gentle as my
mother would never have turned to Gaston.”

“She sought revenge against her husband.”

“But she knew of his incessant dabbling with peasant
women and servants.”

“’Twas his liaison with her dearest friend that set her
to rebellion.  Yet when she realized she carried Gaston’s child, she lost her
courage and tricked both Gaston and Reynaurd into believing you were fathered
by her husband.”

Rochelle stood as still and as cold as the Pyrenees. 
She must somehow harden her emotions against the inevitable, for Becket would
never wed Gaston’s daughter.

“
Ma mère
, tell me how you know this.”  Becket’s
too-quiet tone sounded a warning. 

Rochelle glanced at Lady Isabelle, who had paled except
for two reddish spots on her cheeks.

“Son, I told you---“

“Lies?”

“How dare you speak to me, thus.  I carried your burned
body---” 

“Who was Lady Beatrice’s dearest friend?”

“I tended you and nursed you despite your ugly scars. 
I suffered the shame of poverty and the loss of status---“

“Who was my father?”

“’Tis a dangerous subject.  We will discuss this later,
in private.”  Lady Isabelle drew to an indignified height and stormed past them
toward the castle.

“Now!”  Becket caught her arm and spun her to face him. 
“You will tell me now.”

“You saw Alberre burned!”

“
Oui
, Alberre, your husband, and the man I
believed my father.  Who is my
real
father?” 

Lady Isabelle visibly wilted, glancing around as if to
assure they were outside of hearing distance.  “Lord Reynaurd.”

Another shock tore through Rochelle’s sanity.

And yet Lady Isabelle had confessed so softly she
wondered if Becket had even heard.

Becket stilled, then she felt a tremor within his body,
a tremor so deep the source must have seeped from within the marrow of his
bones.   

In horror, Rochelle scanned the quiet bailey in wonder
if others heard their depraved revelations, but they only stared, some in
apparent fear, as well they should, and some in curiosity at the too-quiet
argument shaping their future.  All intuitively kept their distance making the
three of them a circle of isolation amidst the crowd.  At the edge of the
circle Lady Anne appeared temperate of mood and serene – boring, dull, insipid.

Rochelle’s attention returned to Becket who gripped
Isabelle’s wrist so hard she winced.  He leaned closer as if to assure the
conversation remained secret.  “Let me see if I understand how vile your
perfidy.  Beyond any reasoning, you spread your legs for Reynaurd, and the seed
he planted in you begat me; Beatrice sought revenge by lying with Gaston,
resulting in Rochelle.  Do I repeat the treachery accurately?”

“I did it for
you!”
hissed out between her
clenched teeth.
“I sacrificed for you more than you will ever know.  You
owe me.  Cease this delay and take the chalice.”

“But the timing is suspect,
ma mère.
 I am a
good eight years older than Rochelle, and I never saw her when we were
children.  And Reynaurd was a frequent visitor, if my childhood memories serve
me well.”