Love Thine Enemy (37 page)

C
hapter
T
wenty-Eight

"
H
urry, Banulf.  We must
find the apothecary, then depart again for DuBois."  Rochelle spurred her
mount through the unusually large group of departing travelers, working her way
into the village.  Her head and chest hurt from worry over Becket and Pierre. 
Every bone ached from the forced ride, but her nearly-accomplished goal drove
her forward.

"If Sire Becket discovers I disobeyed him, my
lady, I shall never again see daylight.  And I like not the looks of so many
travelers.  Danger lies ahead."

"We shall be safe again at DuBois ere Sire Becket
returns.  Yet I, too, am concerned.  The king’s search for an army must have
frightened them into seeking refuge at Toulouse."  A shiver coursed her
spine.  "I fear the French are outnumbered.  I am terrified for Sire
Becket."

"My concern is for your safety."

"I won’t turn back now, Banulf.  Not when we are
so near our objective." 

Rochelle reached out to a departing villager who hugged
a knapsack to his chest. 
"Monsieur?
   Would you guide us to the
apothecary,
s’il
vous
plait?"

He glanced at Banulf, then ran past her as if horrified.

A woman with a babe cradled in her arms and a lad
hanging onto her skirts, hurried toward them along the road.

"
Madame
? 
I need to find the apothecary.  Would you--"

"Hurry up, John.  They’ll catch us."  The
woman looked up, then started when she saw Banulf.  With a scream, she grabbed
the boy’s hand and dragged him stumbling behind her as she hastened on her way.

"Banulf, they’re frightened of you.  ‘Tis your
armor. They’re afraid you’re an English knight."

She glanced at him for his response, but he looked
toward the village as if alarmed, then twisted his horse toward her.  “My
lady!  The wagon!”

She jerked Falcon’s reins.  The sideboard brushed her
foot as the wagon rattled past.  Dust swirled from the churning wheels and into
her lungs.  Coughing, she gripped Falcon’s mane while Banulf led her through
the confusion to the side of the road.

"We must turn back, my lady."

"Not when we are so close."

"These people are running for a purpose.  ‘Tis too
hazardous."

"I won’t quit until I have the Theriac.  I ask you
to wait here for me.  As soon as I make the purchase, I will join you, then
we’ll ride hard for DuBois."

"I will not leave you."

"They’re afraid of you, Banulf.  I’ll never get
directions with you beside me."

"Then I’ll follow at a distance, keeping you in my
sight in case you need me."

"Bless you, Banulf.  But take care.  I fear you
are in more danger than I.  If I had realized you might be mistaken for an
English knight, I would never have allowed you to accompany me."

Before he could argue, Rochelle worked Falcon through
the ever-increasing crowd, feeling as if she fought the swift current of the
stream beneath the waterfall. 

Villagers scrambled to gather their belongings, piling
their treasures onto wagons, donkeys, or merely carrying off what they could
hold within their arms.  A man shooed his oxen and chickens out of his
longhouse.  At the cottage next door, a pregnant woman frantically called out
names as if in search of loved ones.  A crying lad scooped up a dog hiding in a
thicket, then a man snatched them both and shoved through the crowd, terror in
his eyes.

Every instinct screamed for her to leave, but she
refused to pay heed, not until she found the medicine.  Her pulse racing with
fear, she urged her skittish mount against the human current of panic.  A
nobleman dragged a lady and little girl out of the doorway of an inn and into a
wagon guarded by men-at-arms.

"Sire, where is the apothecary?"

"Out of my way!"  He cracked a whip over the
crowd that blocked his path. The horses surged past her and into the craziness.

Rochelle dug her heels into Falcon’s sides, encouraging
her mare through the thickening hysteria.  Panic for Becket exploded her
fractured courage.  The messenger had mentioned
Guyenne
,
English territory.  If the enemy soldiers had, indeed, begun a march, ‘twould
mean Becket must be dead, for he would never willingly let the enemy cross the
border to destroy France. 

Tears of denial stung her eyes, then in her blurred
vision she saw the apothecary’s street-side stall.  Behind the open counter, a
white-bearded man in a blue cap and gown raked rows of jars and small bundles
into something below her vision, most likely a container or trunk of some
kind.  Hope burst through the tight ache in her chest.  Only a few more
moments, and then home again.

The smoke-scented breeze intensified her anxiety.
Screams from the far end of the village chilled her nerves.  Spurring Falcon
between people who darted to and fro like startled geese, she hurriedly
dismounted at the doorway, wrapped the reins around her hand to prevent
Falcon’s theft, then stepped inside. 

"Sire, I’m so grateful you’re still here.  Do you
have any Theriac aged beyond a decade?"

"
Oc."
  He secured a cord around the
neck of a sack.

Elated with her success, she pulled a bag of coins from
inside her bodice, shamed by how much her fingers trembled.

"What is the cost, Sire?" 

Ignoring her, he pushed to his feet and swung the sack
over his shoulder.

"’Twill only take a moment."   She poured the
precious coins on the counter, the metallic clattering out of place with the
nearing shrieks of fear.  She pushed the gold toward him.  "Take them
all.  Surely ‘tis more than enough."

He scooped them into a pouch.  "Twill not ransom
my life.  Now, move from my path."

Rochelle braced her arms across the doorway and met the
fear in his aged eyes.  "Come with me to DuBois.  I’ll give you refuge and
protection.  I’ll even share my mare with you for the ride.  A knight will
guard our safety."

"Mare?" 

She stepped back and he brushed past her into the
side-street.  Afraid to hope, she followed, alarmed at the heightened panic of
the villagers, the heavier drifts of smoke.  "Tie the sack to the saddle.
I will summon Banulf."  

As the man stuffed the money pouch into his sack then
secured the laces to Falcon, she frantically peered over the throng for her
escort.  She spied him near the back corner of the building, and her stomach
convulsed. 

Sword drawn, he fought off three peasants who attacked
him with pitchforks.  Blood streamed down his face.

"Cease!"  Rochelle rushed toward Banulf. 
"He’s not an English knight!"

Falcon whinnied.  Rochelle jerked around.  The
apothecary hopped on one foot as he attempted to mount her mare.

"
Non!"
  Rochelle leapt for the reins
and yanked, but the man ripped them from her hands   She gripped the saddle. 
Falcon pranced between them, the bag of medicines bouncing and clattering,
strong vapors leaking into the air from broken jars.  The Theriac would be
ruined.

"Sire, let go ere I--"

The earth rumbled.

Her heart stopped, then lurched into a frenzied
rhythm. 
Horses.
  And from the loudness of the gallops, an army of
them.  Which meant Becket and the knights lay dead.  With no one to protect
France.  Fighting hysteria, she grappled with the man for the reins.

"Let Falcon go!"

"Out of my--" 

The point of an arrow erupted through his chest from
behind and stopped in front of her nose!  His eyes widened, then he collapsed
at her feet.

Before she could scream, Banulf grabbed her waist and
swept her onto Falcon’s back.  "Go!"

"I won’t leave without you.  Where is your
horse?" 

"Go!"  He slapped the mare’s rump. 

Falcon leapt into the madness.  Frightened, she turned
to catch sight of Banulf. 

Her insides turned to water.

Mounted knights raged in the smoke-filled streets. 
Armor flashed red from the fire’s reflection.  Swords gleamed from fresh
blood.  Bodies jerked beneath hooves.

A yank on her arm slid her world sideways!  She tumbled
into the stampede.  Her side struck the ground.  Pain tore through her shoulder
and hip.  Crying out in agony, she curled into a protective ball as peopled
trampled on her legs and torso.  Kicks bruised her body.  Every inch of her
ached.  She tasted blood.  Smelled dirt and smoke.

Determined to survive, she grabbed a handful of fabric,
and between the onward force and her own struggles, worked herself upright,
stumbling along with the flow--a sheep trapped in a herd doomed for slaughter.

"Kill them all!"

Above the sound of trampling feet she heard the cracks
of whips, the screams of death.  Thuds of swords against flesh sounded closer
as if knights slashed at the back of the crowd, advancing as people fell.

Panic surrounded her.  She couldn’t breathe!  Gritting
her teeth, she clawed and pulled, working toward the edge of the human
death-trap.  The moving sea of bodies pushed her past the inn now ablaze behind
a veil of smoke. 

She heard a thwack.  Something wet sprayed her face.  A
man staggered against her.  His head--gone!  A scream tore from her throat. 
Rochelle stumbled over his body and through the opening.  She slammed against
the leg of a mounted knight.

Sacre Dieu!

Red
jupon. 
Red
shield.  Red-covered horse.  Red blood.  Black armor.

Sacre Dieu.

"
She’s
mine."

Like in a nightmare, she ducked under the horse’s neck
and shoved one foot in front of the other.  Hooves sounded behind her.  She
darted into the screen of smoke and between the flaming cottage and longhouse. 
Blinded, she tripped.  Her knees and hands stung from the fall, her stomach
landing on something warm.  She pushed to her knees, then covered her mouth to
stay the queasiness.

The woman.
  The pregnant woman who
had called for her family lay beneath Rochelle--gutted.  Bile soured in
Rochelle’s mouth. 

Scrambling into a run, she raced past the corner of the
longhouse, choking from her nausea, coughing from the smoke.  She rammed
against a foot-soldier.  His plunder thudded to the ground.  She spun and ran. 
He yelled something she didn’t understand.  His footsteps thumped behind her.

Rochelle’s heart beat a wild cry for help.  She barged
out of the smoke.  No where to hide!   Thickets and open ground.  Dead bodies. 
Heaps of them.  Fields blazed all around her.  The row of trees on the far side
of the meadow seemed a lifetime away.  Her steps pounded in time with the
double-beat slam of her pulse that roared
No where to hide.
 
No where
to hide.
  She pushed her feet harder, faster.  Her sides ached. Her lungs
hurt.

The soldier behind her shouted.  A tug dragged the
wimple from her hair.

Hooves rumbled to her right.  "There she is. 
Slipped me, she did.  That minx is mine."

A girl screamed in front of her.  Only about ten years
and two.  The lass ran from two mounted knights who herded her in a macabre game
that would lead to rapine and death.  The same fate as Rochelle’s.

More hooves sounded behind Rochelle as if several
mounted knights joined the chase.  On impulse, she veered toward the hapless
girl.  She heard male cheers.  They knew.  They knew she and the lass didn’t
have a chance.  Fear and rage so powerful that she shook, paralyzed her voice
and dried her tears.  How dare they laugh at her hopelessness.

She grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her along. 
Rochelle’s lungs burned like hot coals.  Her sides cramped.  She forced her
numb feet over jagged rocks.  A mounted knight blocked their path!   He swung a
battle-axe!  The girl flew from Rochelle’s grasp.  Sickened, Rochelle’s steps
faltered.  Afraid to look back, she picked up her skirts.  The meadow blurred
in her vision.  No, she dare not cry.  Not now. 

Hooves thundered behind her.  A grip clamped her arm,
then yanked her onto a horse! 

"Let me go!"  She struck backward, bruising
her elbows against armor. "May you rot in hell!"

"Cease, Rochelle.  ‘Tis I. 
Becket."

C
hapter
T
wenty-Nine

"
B
ecket?"  Rochelle
spun within his arms and stared up at him. 

His heart turned over.  Through the helm’s eye-slits he
saw streaks of blood and smoke on her beautiful face. Disbelieving joy radiated
from her incredible eyes.  Joy because of him.  If only she didn’t have to
learn the truth.

Dreading the moment of her realization, he withdrew his
helmet, cool air chilling his perspiring flesh.  His hands shook as hard as his
insides.  He had nearly lost her. 

"Oh, Becket, I feared those English fiends had
killed you."  She threw her arms about his neck, but guilt weighed him to
stillness like a lodestone, and he merely sat there, unable to even enfold her
against his body.

"
Sacre Dieu,
the girl."  She drew
back, and he felt the increase of her shaking as if hysteria had set in.  Her
hands fluttered over his face, over his mouth.  "Oh, Becket, somehow I
must save the girl.  But you mustn’t, you see.  They outnumber you." 
Tears flooded her eyes. 
"Oh, ‘tis terrible. 
They’re
killing every living thing, children, animals.  You must hide, Becket.  They’ll
find you."

A tearing hole opened in his scarred heart.

She shoved as if to leap to the ground, but he gripped
her wrists.

Her gaze pled with him as wetness streamed over her
blood-stained cheeks.  "I must save her.  The girl.  He had a
battle-axe..."  She choked on a sob, the tears flowing faster, burning his
soul like caustic acid.  A strange type of laughter came from her chest.  He
recognized the sound--absolute horror.

"Oh, Becket, I wanted to tear the cursed knights
apart, would have slain them with zeal, but I felt so helpless.  And they
cheered..."  She squirmed to dismount.  "I must rescue her."

"She’s dead, Rochelle."  Tears burned his own
eyes. 

"But she can’t be.  I held her hand, you see.  A
tiny hand.  Too weak to beat off such savages.  While I’m sitting here in
safety, she’s fighting for her life.  She needs me."  She struggled
harder, the sobs deeper, the macabre laughter more uncontrolled.

"Rochelle, cease.  She’s dead."

"How could you know?  You weren’t there. 
You..."  She went as still as a tomb.  "...were there.  You
saw."  Her whisper floated on the smoke-desecrated breeze.

She knew.

Her image blurred in his vision, and yet he sensed her
shock, the shift of her hysteria into a deep, unforgiving rage.

"The king’s orders.  The king’s army.  The king’s
knight."  She whirled to face him.  "English.  You’re
English
." 
She spat the accusation.  Her face contorted into a sneering hatred.  "You
stole DuBois to give aid to the English.  You stole my heart to blind me to the
truth."  Her voice rose as when one discovers the most horrid of
betrayals.

Before he realized her intent, she snatched the dagger
from his sheath and pressed the point against his throat. 

"I’ll kill you."

"I won’t stop you."

She hated him.  He saw the truth in her eyes.  And his
soul shriveled. 

She pierced the tip into his flesh.  He welcomed the
sting, felt the trickle of blood.  He knew she longed to thrust the blade
through his neck. Then, why didn’t she?

An agonized groan tore from her throat.  She flung the
knife into the tall grass, then struck out, arms and legs flailing in her
anger.  He only held her tight enough to keep her from harming herself.

"Rochelle, I love you."

"How dare you say that to me!"  She beat on
his armor-clad chest and shoulders.  "How dare you!"

He grasped her hands.  "You’ll only hurt yourself,
Rochelle."

"How consistent.  You perform the evil.  I and the
others suffer the pain.  Your mother is right.  You are no better.  You kill
children to gain your own end."

"I had to be here, Rochelle.  I swore my fealty to
King Edward."

"You should have sworn to France!"

"Frenchmen stole my lands and burned the man who
loved me, then burned me, too.  The English gave me life, made possible the
regaining of my lands."  He shook his head.  "Surely you realize the
French are no more pure, Rochelle.  During the battle of Crécy, the French
burned and destroyed their own territories in hopes to win the war."

"To drive back the English.  The cursed, evil
English!  You are not knights who fight with honor.  You are cowards.  You are
slaughterers who massacre defenseless women and children.  May you burn forever
in the flames of hell for what you have done to these innocents."

"I doubt not that I will."  He felt the
stirring of anger.  Anger against Rochelle, against himself, against the
unchangeable events that had sucked them all into the maelstrom that had become
their lives.  "At least with the English, I am allowed to inherit despite
my status of bastard.  Have you thought what will happen to you and Pierre if
the English lose?  France will claim DuBois.  Where will you and Pierre go
then?"

She swept her horrified gaze over the desecrated land. 
"Is the prize worth the payment?  You whine about one estate.  King Edward
whines about one crown.  And yet, how many thousands have lost homes, lost
families, lost aught they have, most of them suffering atrocious deaths because
of your petty greed."

"Your memory is conveniently short.   You whined
when you believed DuBois beyond your grasp."

"I did not destroy an innocent land!"  She
pointed a shaky finger at the panicked ribbon of humanity that fled along the
road.  "Look at them.  Men, women, children, pets.  They will all be dead
within hours, those trees and the land, scorched, for as far as the eye can
see, and beyond."

"I cannot save the world."

"Well, I shall try.  You’d best slay me now,
knight, for I will notify King Jean of this treachery.  And this time I shall
take the message myself."

"I’m certain he already knows."

She wrenched from his hold, sprawling on the ground in
a fall that surely must have hurt her hands and knees.  He leapt from Satan’s
back, but when Becket attempted to help her to her feet, she scrambled from his
touch.

"Leave me be!  I will find my own way to
DuBois."  Shoving upright, she faced him, her clothing torn and bloodied, hands
on hips, chin held high, her gossamer strands like a halo in the sunlight, the
image of a defiant saint.  "I warn you, knight.  Do not return to DuBois. 
I will bar the gates against you.  And should you dare force entrance, I will
seek the life of you and your cowardly English devils, including your
inglorious prince."  She stumbled away from him and toward the current of
fleeing peasants, leaving him with a painful hollowness that not even Pierre or
DuBois could fill--only Rochelle.

Becket nodded to Banulf who sat upon a borrowed steed
and awaited at a respectful distance with the reclaimed Falcon. 

Banulf moved forward.  The sag of his shoulders
indicated his sadness, his own guilt, for the man worshipped Rochelle.  As did
every knight of DuBois.  As did Becket.

He heard the thunder of hooves.  Turning, he spied
several English warriors riding their chargers toward the ill-fated
victims--and toward Rochelle!  Prince Edward led the pack, who, according to
Banulf, had earlier claimed Rochelle as his. 

His pulse rampant, Becket leapt onto Satan’s back,
urging him into a gallop.  As Banulf neared from Rochelle’s far side as she
stumbled over the uneven ground, Becket leaned down and caught her waist,
swinging her upon Falcon’s back.  Rochelle started to fight him, but when she
saw Falcon, she hugged the mare’s neck and broke again into tears.  Gripping a
dripping sack tied to the saddle, she kicked her mare’s sides, and rode away
without even a backward glance.

"Stay with her, Banulf.  Protect her.  Even
against an English prince."

Banulf’s eyes widened with shock.

"You swore your fealty to
me
, Banulf, not
to Edward.  Protect her."

Banulf nodded and urged his steed into a gallop.

As the villagers screamed at the approaching knights,
Becket drew his sword and spun his mount sideways to form a barrier. 
"Stay behind me.  Run not for the woods or I cannot protect you."

"Why should we trust you, an Englishman?"

"He did before, Pick-a-Tick.  He helped us, he
did."

The Black Prince arced the path of his steed as if to
go after Rochelle.  Becket leaned out and grabbed the reins, jerking Edward to
a halt.

"Prince Edward, she’s my wife."

Edward’s eyes narrowed with disbelief.  "She
didn’t appear too loving, my friend.  Methinks you attempt another ruse, that
you plot again to take one who belongs to me."

"She just now learned I’m an English
knight."  The ground shook from the advancing horses.  Becket whirled and
stretched his sword across the road as a signal for the others to stop. 
"These are my people.  They are from DuBois.  Let them be."

Prince Edward laughed.  "You have claimed peasants
from here to
Guyenne
.  Do you think me
addle-pated?"

"’Tis part of our bargain.  You touch not what
belongs to me."

"And yet, you steal
my
prize."

"I tell you true.  She is my wife.  She came in
search of medicine."

"So you say.  But explain why so many of your
people are so far from home.  And with their entire families and pets."

"The plague has left DuBois short of labor.  I
repopulate my lands."

The Black Prince laughed again.  "Ah, Becket. 
True to your nature.  Ever the appropriate answer without the actual
lie."   He waved the other knights back to the village.  Grumbling, they
jerked on the reins and raced back to the desecration, leaving Becket with his
irritated commander.

Prince Edward shook his head, barely controlling his
royal pique at being robbed of Rochelle and the villagers.  "’Tis good
fortune for you that I owe you, my friend and mentor.  You have been with me
since my birth.  You have helped train me, you stood beside me at Crécy.  You
would have been one of the Knights of the Garter if you hadn’t been stubbornly
proud, refusing because you would have been the only knight lacking lands and
title."  He nodded.  "So be it.  Claim your peasants.  My father and
I claim France."

Prince Edward raised his sword in salute, then as if
angered, turned toward the village.  But Becket knew he hadn’t heard the end of
the discussion.  Edward felt tricked.

"Bless you, Sire."

Becket glanced down at a weeping woman who held a babe
in her arms and semi-hid a lad within the folds of her skirts.  Then he scanned
the huddled mass of distraught humanity, his guilt like a painful burden too
heavy to bear.

"Pay heed, all, for you must hurry.  Your safest
destination is the fortified city of Toulouse, but you are also welcome on my
land of DuBois, which is south on the Garonne river.  As you pass other
villagers, warn them not to take time to stop for food, or belongings.  If any
are threatened by English knights, tell them to call out my name, Sire Becket
de DuBois, to identify them as being under my protection.  You should know that
the English will stay on my lands for two suns before they move on toward
Toulouse, but there are caves at DuBois where you may hide."  He had no
idea how he would feed so many.  "Now, make haste." 

A man who held a boy, who in turn clutched a puppy,
stepped forward.

"You’re a saint, you are.  We’d all be dead if not
for you."

Becket fought a laugh.  "A devil, mayhap.  But
never, a saint.  Now, be on your way."

The woman clutched her babe, looked at something past
Becket, then screamed.  The frightened horde turned and fled down the road.

Becket lifted his sword and whirled to face--Edward.

"You threaten me, Becket?"

"Not so, your majesty."  He sheathed his
weapon.  "Merely cautious about who approaches me from behind."

"You mentioned that your wife knew not that you
are an English knight.  Is she not supportive of our cause?"

Becket listened to the rasp of his breath, in doubt how
to answer.  "Any kind of death sickens her, your grace.  Women are more
sensitive about these matters."

"Not my grandmother, Queen Isabelle.  She and her
lover, Roger Mortimer, murdered my grandfather over his male liaisons.  Women
are most dangerous when they believed they are wronged.  Since I doubt you’ll
throw me atop a food table and stuff an apple in my mouth, I ask you.  Is your
wife such a female?"

"She will do what is right."

"A non-answer.  You will not back out of our
agreement, Becket.  Our army will take respite at DuBois, as planned."

"
Oc,
your majesty.  ‘Tis arranged."

"As future king of France after my father, I will
brook no disrespect toward me, or my knights."