Love Thine Enemy (40 page)

Rochelle went rigid, her appearance one of severe
constraint and suspicion, then she drew her ever-horrifying glare over Edward’s
attire still covered with blood.

"Rochelle, this is Edward, Prince of Wales--"

"Red jupon  Black armor. The black prince."  She
jerked her gaze to Edward’s.  "You!  You are the one who hunted me like a
wild beast.  One of those who struck..."  She clamped her hand over her
mouth, her eyes glistening with welling tears.

"My apologies for the mistaken identity, fair
lady.  ‘Tis one reason why I insisted upon this meeting, to calm your
distress.  If I had known you belonged to Sire Becket, I would never have
treated you in such a way."

Surely Prince Edward saw how Rochelle shook from her
rage, sensed how bone-deep her hatred.  Dear god, how to avoid the coming...
God?  He, Becket, had called upon God?  What a too-near, terrifyingly weak
blunder.  No, his only hope lay with his
own
strength, his
own
wisdom, his
own
determination to save Rochelle and Pierre.  His pride
would allow no less. 

But how?
  A voice whispered within
his fears. 
Ho
w?

Ignoring the taunt, Becket gestured to the door as an
inducement for Edward to leave before hell exploded.  "Prince Edward, you
are most gracious to apologize, but I’m certain your bath...and Lady
Angelique...await you."

"You tempt me,
mon
ami
,
but you do not rid me of this task with so much ease.  Besides, I do this out
of respect for you.  I will merely explain to your wife that my father’s right
of title, not only to the myriad lost provinces--once more vast than that ruled
by any of the French Kings--but to the crown of France itself, is stronger than
that of the deceased Philip of
Valois
." 
He turned his attention to Rochelle, smiling as if he expected her to swoon at
his feet from the dazzlement.

"To prove my lineage, fair lady, my mother is
Philippa
of
Hainaut
.  My grandmother was Isabella of
France, my great-grandmother, Eleanor of Castile, my great-great-grandmother,
Eleanor of Toulouse, my great-great-great-grandmother, Isabella of
Angoulême
,
my great-great-great-great-grandmother,
Aliénor
of Aquitaine."

Becket saw that Rochelle watched Edward with narrowed
eyes while the prince ambled toward the writing desk, then sat upon the edge,
ankles crossed, his casual pose belying the wiliness beneath.

"My father should have inherited France through my
grandmother, Isabelle, sister of the deceased King Charles IV, but--and this
should incense a
bonne
femme
such as yourself--the French Assembly craftily
pretended that only
males
could inherit the crown of France.  Thus, they
set aside my grandmother’s claim, an act without legal precedence and, instead,
gave the crown to my grandmother’s first cousin, Phillipe VI.  When he died,
the crown passed to his son, Jean,
Le Bon
, a misnomer because he is
not
good but vicious and stupid, a virulent combination.  Add to that his support
of our long-time enemy, Scotland, as well as countless broken promises and
inadequate treaties, and the entire situation becomes intolerable."  He
stood, then nodded a slight bow.  "To our credit, our control will cease
all border wars, will pull the divided conglomerate of feudal entities into one
strong country."  He spread wide his hands, and flashed a smile.  "In
truth, we save France."

"Will you . . ." Rochelle swallowed as if to
gain control of her voice that came out as tight and trembling as her fisted
hands.  "Will you continue your killing raids in order to
save
France?"

"But of course.  The war is not yet won.  And as
any English warrior knows, this foray in France is quite profitable for
nobleman and footsoldier, alike; we have garnered wagon-loads of coins and
treasures.  You’ll be grateful to learn that even your Becket has profited,
rounding up new peasants to work his fields."

Her shocked gaze flew to Becket’s, then darted to the
mesericord
that hung from his belt.  He clamped his hand over the dagger, but suddenly one
appeared in her hand.  When had she started carrying a dagger?  She lunged for
Prince Edward.  Becket snatched her, pinning her arms against her sides as he
held her against his body.

"Let me go!  I’ll kill--"

Becket crushed his mouth atop hers to swallow her
threat.  She kicked his armored shins but he carried her to the window-well,
pressing her into the corner.  He heard Pierre’s wails of fear but dared not
release her.

Pain shot through his lip.  "Blazes!"  He
lifted his head, tasting blood where she had bitten him.  "Cease,
Rochelle.  Accept what is."

 "I will never accept this atrocity."

"Becket, your wife sought my life!  Guards!"

"’Twas mine she sought, your grace, not
yours."

Rochelle bucked against his hold.  "You--"

Becket captured her curse within his mouth, fearing
with a tortuous dread that this all too-symbolic kiss of fire and hate would be
their last.  Footsteps sounded to his back and he hid her with his body. 
"Pretend an apology, Rochelle."  He whispered the plea over her
lips.  "Pretend you meant to kill only me."

"I wish you both dead."

"If you care not to save your life or mine, then
act so as to save Pierre’s.  What will happen to him if we both are gone?"

"Guards, detain her."  Prince Edward’s
command pierced Becket’s fears like a hot sword.

Rochelle screamed and flailed out.  Becket enfolded her
struggling body against his, aching to protect her from Prince Edward’s wrath. 
"Your grace, I beg your indulgence, she is not a threat but merely
distraught."

Pierre’s cry ripped through the chamber. 

Becket turned to see
Père
Bertrand carrying
Pierre toward the hallway like stolen plunder. 

Rochelle’s dagger clattered to the rushes.  She
wrenched from Becket’s security darting past the guards.  "Leave him
be!"  

Becket blocked
Père
Bertrand’s path, snatching
Pierre from his arms.  "I forbid you to take him."  He hurriedly
placed his brother on the mattress, stunned by the priest’s bizarre behavior. 

Near hysteria, Rochelle beat on
Père
Bertrand’s
chest, shoving him toward the door.  "Get out!  Get out!"

The priest pushed her aside and leapt to the bed. 
"The prince has given me permission.  I merely grasp the opportunity to
purge Pierre of his demon ere Prince Edward departs."

"The only demon in this chamber is you.  And if
you ever dare touch Pierre again I will boil you in oil."  Becket dragged
Père
Bertrand to the hallway, slinging him toward the stairs.  "I banish you
from DuBois."

"God will punish you!"

"Becket!"  The prince’s shout wrapped around
Becket’s foreboding like a shroud.  Prince Edward joined him in the hall, a
fury in his expression usually reserved for the battlefield.  The guards hovered
behind him, asking Becket with their gazes what they should do.

Prince Edward fisted his hand on his hilt.  "Your
wife is unstable.  Surely you see that.  I even hear she poisoned Lady
Anne."

"Where did you hear such a tale?"

"Your mother.  She met me in the bailey."

"My mother?"

"She also requested me to ask you who sired your
wife, although at the time, I wondered why that should matter, but I made that
error once about Charles of Navarre and Sire Gaston and I shall not do so
again.  Who is her father?"

Becket felt the blood drain from his face.  He glanced
over his shoulder at Rochelle who hugged Pierre and Sire Spitz to her breast,
rocking them while she and Pierre wept.

"Becket, who is her father?"

"But, Prince Edward--"

"Have you impulsively drawn me into danger?  Have
you hidden secrets that will destroy our mission?  Heed
,
me Becket. 
I cannot leave DuBois here as an enemy imbroglio and
risk years of fighting and planning.  I command you.  Who is her father?"

Becket forced the confession past his throat. 
"Sire Gaston."

Prince Edward’s mouth dropped open.  "The man who
plots with Charles of Navarre for DuBois and Moreau--and your head?" 

"Sire Becket!"  Henri clambered up the steps,
then stopped, pressing his hand over his chest, gasping for air.  "A
wounded knight just arrived.  Gaston has retaken Moreau."

Becket’s pulse thudded a death-knell.  

"Flames of hell!"  Edward whirled to face
Becket.  "Your wife is a danger."

"Gaston’s reclamation has naught to do with
Rochelle."

"I feel the trap.  To our front, Gaston has
Moreau.  Behind us, France is scorched.  Charles’ brother-in-law resides within
collusion distance, lands we still have to cross.  To our left is the
French-held Toulouse. At DuBois the rabble enemy you begged for, scramble in and
out of the caves like poisonous spiders ravenous to feast on English blood. 
Add to that an unstable wife who hates you, whose father plots against you, who
might very well allow her father or Charles of Navarre to launch an attack from
DuBois.  We would be slaughtered.  No, Becket.  I have no choice."  Edward
poked his finger at Becket’s face.  "She must die."

"’Tis all surmisal!"

"Even if all else is false, she tried to kill
me."

“’Tis I she sought to slay!”

Prince Edward pointed at Becket’s face.  "You gave
your word as a knight that should any cause a problem, you would deal with the
matter as I decreed.  Your wife is a problem.  I decree that she die.  You will
do the killing.  In public."  He drew his sword and barged into the
chamber, nodding to the guards as he passed.  "Take her to the
bailey." 

Becket lunged in front of the guards protect Rochelle,
then froze.

Gone.
The bed and room, empty. 
She had grabbed Pierre and Sire Spitz and had escaped into the tunnels.

Dear God.  Help her.

C
hapter
T
hirty-Two

"
T
hey’re leaving."  

At the woman’s pronouncement, Rochelle rushed from the
cave to where the path dropped to the valley.  A stream of soldiers wound from
the keep, spilling beyond the edges of the road like a human river flooding
beyond its banks, dangerous and deadly.  Gone were the tents that had dotted
the autumnal landscape like poisonous mushrooms.  Scorched circles from doused
campfires pocked the earth.

Loathing herself for her weakness, Rochelle searched
the hundreds for Becket.  She tightened the mantle around her shoulders to stay
the chill that seeped through the wool and into her soul.  Surely an evil
spirit possessed her, for her heart beat in painful thuds. 
Hate him.  Love
him.  Hate him.  Love him.
  To her consternation, the declarations beat in
equal ferocity.  With equal pain.

Griselda touched Rochelle’s arm, pointing at the last
knight to cross the drawbridge.  Rochelle’s heart lurched.  The
hate him,
love him
, rhythm increased to a suffocating pace, until
love him, love
him
thundered so loudly that surely Becket heard.

He reined Satan to a halt, red, gold and silver atop a
jet stallion, the jewels of DuBois amongst the flames of autumn--or more
appropriately, the devil amongst the flames of hell.  He focused up at the
cave.  Did he see her?  Did he hate her with as much pain as she hated him?

Love him.  Love him.

No!  He had used her.  Betrayed her.  Killed innocent
men, women, children.  He now rode out to burn and kill even more.  Never could
she love such a man, warrior, or no.  Never.

Love him!  Love him!

 "
Non!
  I hate you!  I hate you!" 

She spun from him in rejection, tormented by the
repetitive lie resounding across the valley.  Shameful tears seared her eyes. 
Rochelle leaned her forehead against the boulder as hard as the stone now
wedged in her throat.  She felt achingly hollow as if her heart had flown to
retrieve the falsity, following Becket like a doomed moth, beating its pulsing
wings against the invisible barrier of her righteous indignation that forever
separated her from Becket.

"Rochelle, don’t hate him." 

Pierre’s plea whispered above the breeze and tore at
her piety.  She swiped the back of her hands over her damp cheeks, then
desperate to ease the loneliness, enfolded him against her body.  Sire Spitz,
draped around Pierre’s neck, protested the suffocating hug. 

"Ah, Pierre, how I wish you were still my brother
and Sire Becket had never arrived."

"But I love him as well as you, Rochelle.  He has
been good to me.  I hoped we could be a family."

She squeezed her eyes shut to suppress her tears of
regret.

Rochelle felt a tug on her skirt.  She sniffed and
glanced down.  A girl of about four years of age gripped Rochelle’s gown with a
chubby hand as dirty as the ground at her feet.  "I like Sire
Becket."  The child batted a breeze-tossed curl from her smudged face, her
pale eyes narrowed with animosity.  "I think he’s nice."  She hugged
Pierre from behind with cherubic arms.  "Don’t worry, Pierre.  Someday
we’ll get married, then
we
can be a family with Sire Becket."

Rochelle felt her brows rise along with her pique. 
"
Should
you wed, child, there is a dangerous flaw in your
scenario.  Sire Becket is a murderer." 

The little girl’s curls wavered with her denial. 
"He saved us."  She tugged on Pierre’s arm.  "Let’s play some
more.  This lady is mean."

Pierre swatted the girl’s hands away.  "She is
not!  Go away."  He hunched down beside the boulder, the breeze ruffling
the black fur of the living scarf around Pierre’s neck as he watched Becket
ride away.

Rochelle scanned the crowd of refugees who,
surprisingly, glared at her as if she had betrayed them.  Many she recognized
from the village of Astarac--a woman who held a sleeping babe, her son curled
at her feet; a man with the boy whose puppy now sniffed the ground as if in
search of a dropped tidbit.  But most she had never seen before, men, women,
children, all dirty and ragged, all staring as if disappointed in her.

"I thought to apologize for my husband’s, Sire
Becket’s, treatment of you, but I see you believe I am the one in error.  I
don’t understand you.  You should be incensed."  She swept her hand to
indicate the whole of them.  "His spoils of war.  Human flesh.  How dare
he." 

Griselda limped to Rochelle’s side.

"Because he dared they now have
life

Instead of gutted by a knife."

"No rhymes, Griselda.  Naught you can say will
eradicate the horror of his treason."  She shook her head in dismay at the
judgmental faces.  "How can you be so merciful of his behavior?  Instead
of bargaining with the English, he should have fought with the French!"

"The French."  The man with the small boy
spat on the ground.  "With pride I tell you my name--Pick-A-Tick--for I am
skilled at picking the locks of the hated French.  All of us here are
Languedoc
. 
As if we didn’t have enough struggles to overcome with their inquisitions, then
later, the black death, King Jean plagues us with burdensome levies, even
taxing our salt.  We barely survive while he and his entourage live in
luxurious palaces and feast on delicacies.  And after all we have sacrificed
for him, he refuses to come to our aid unless we give him even more money.  A
pox on him."

A woman shifted a babe within her arms, waving the
freed hand northward.  "And our
Languedoc
overlord, the Count of Armagnac, hides behind the walls of Toulouse leaving us
undefended.  My loyalty goes to the only one who helped us.  Sire Becket."

Furious with their argument, Rochelle nodded at the stream
of soldiers.  "Look at them.  Their goal is slaughter.  And Sire Becket is
one of them.  No one can bargain with evil and not be tainted in the
doing."

"Hmph!"  A middle-aged woman planted her
fists on her hips and scanned the valley.  "If Sire Becket hadn’t made an
arrangement with the English, this land would be burned, too, and we’d all be
dead by now."  She glanced at Rochelle.  "Including you and that boy
of yours."  One corner of her mouth lifted in a sneer.  "And now, because
of you, ‘tis unlikely the prince will allow Sire Becket to claim any more
doomed souls."

Rochelle gasped.  "You blame me for the murders
perpetrated by others?  I will not listen to such unfairness.  You act as if
he’s a saint and I’m the devil."

Griselda gripped Rochelle’s shoulders, her eyes
pleading from behind the grayed strands.

"Few souls are purely saint or
mean

They mostly fall betwixt-between.

But Becket is a worthy man

who’s trapped in hell, does what he
can."

"I will hear no more of this."  Rochelle
wrenched from Griselda’s hold and moved toward the rim of the path, her gaze
following her heart. 

Becket. 

He neared the cedars, a red and gold splendor against
the evergreens.  Once he entered the forest she might never see him again.  A
brutal memory struck, ugly words she longed to retract - she had wished him
dead.  Recollections of when she had first longed to rule DuBois alone haunted
like a reckless goal come true.  The reality loomed lonely, frightening.

A love-hate storm of confusion raged inside her.  Might
the others be right and she be wrong?  According to them, Becket had slogged
through Hades, saving what lives he could.  He alone, had wrought more good
than any king, count, or lord.  For certain more than she had accomplished.  To
her shame, she had judged him without giving him benefit of doubt. 

She should shout for forgiveness before he rode into
the trees.  The admission lodged behind the boulder in her throat.  Why
couldn’t she tell him?  Pride?  A senseless reason.  He might die without
knowing that despite her anger over his betrayal, she...she...she didn’t hate
him.

Coward.  Listen to your heart.  Tell him now.  Before
‘tis forever too late.

The craven confession clogged behind the band that
clamped her throat.  

Without a backward glance, he rode into the forest, out
of sight. 
Gone
.  The horrid finality shoved the truth from her soul.

"Becket!  I love you!" 

 "What if he returns not, milady?"  The
middle-aged woman tilted her lined face toward Rochelle, her eyes filled with
fear.  "If he dies, what will happen to us?"

Pierre broke into tears, shoving away from her and down
the path.

"Pierre, come back!"  He paid no heed,
rounding the curve and past her view.

"Milady?  What will happen to us?"

Rochelle rubbed at the ache in her temples, fearing no
solution for the pang within her chest where she had foolishly allowed her
defense wall to bare her now-lost heart.  She sighed to ease the tension. 

"As chatelaine, I vow that all of you may stay at DuBois
and under my protection.  In truth, I should begin my duties."  She took a
step to return to the keep, intending to find Pierre on her way.

Griselda grasped Rochelle’s arm as if alarmed.

"The prince has ruled.  He made a
vow.

Isabelle holds title now."

"Lady Isabelle?  But she will kill Pierre." 
Panic shattered Rochelle’s tenuous control and she tugged at Griselda’s hold.
"Never!  Never will I allow that woman to hold sway over Pierre’s life.  I
must find him."

Griselda tightened her fingers on Rochelle’s arm.

"You cannot go.  Don’t leave the
cave.

The prince did bade them dig your
grave."

"What worth is my life if aught happens to
Pierre?" 
Or Becket.

"
Soldiers
! 
They’re
coming up the hill."

At the man’s cry of warning, the refugees fled,
screaming into the cavern.

Griselda pulled Rochelle toward the opening.

"I’ll hunt the boy.  You hide in here..." 

The remainder of her rhyme became indistinct as she
released Rochelle’s arm and hurried into the darkness.

Rochelle balked.  "There is no time for that
route.  The soldiers might harm him."  Feeling as if her existence
unraveled before her eyes, Rochelle whirled to run after Pierre.  She slammed
against a knight who stepped from behind the boulder.  Her blood chilled to
ice.  "Gaston!"

Four other knights filed from behind him to surround
her.  Another black-cloaked figure hovered behind the boulder.

Frenzied for escape, Rochelle glanced at the cave, but
Gaston barred her way.  Soldiers blocked the path from the mountain, which left
her only other option a leap off the bluff.

He curved a smile as cold and relentless as the hard
granite of his eyes.  "Fear not, daughter.  Or, daughter-in-law.  Or,
bride-to-be.  Whichever serves me best at the moment.  Daughter, I think.  I
have accomplished goals one and two--I have retaken Moreau and have now
conquered DuBois.  Which leaves only desire number three.  And you will assist
me."

"You have not conquered DuBois; the English are
barely beyond the trees.  And I’ll die before I assist you."

"Die you may.  When you’ve served your purpose. 
As to DuBois, the knights that Prince Edward rashly appointed to guard the keep
are men who have sworn fealty to me and have infiltrated his forces just for
this moment.  When Prince Edward learned I had re-taken Moreau, he panicked,
moving out before he became entrapped.  In his frenetic attempt to protect his
back, he merely made certain the volunteers held no affiliation to you, not
realizing he gave me DuBois."

"You lie!" 

With disturbing confidence, Gaston raised his sword. 
The sun glinted rhythmic flashes from the polished steel toward the keep. 
Rochelle stared in horror as signals glinted in response from the parapet. 

The rasp of his sword being sheathed grated down her
spine.

"To repeat, Rochelle, I only lack goal number
three." 

Numbed by foreboding, Rochelle watched Gaston pull a
sheet of parchment and a scrolled missive from beneath his mantle as black as
his soul.  At his nod, a servant held up a writing board, complete with
inkwell, quill, and small hourglass.  Dreading the insidious purpose of such
thoroughness, Rochelle steeled herself for the coming hell.

"I am amazed at my genius, Rochelle.  At every
defeat, I have rebounded victorious.  When I approached King Jean with my
proposal, the fool seized DuBois and Moreau but is now too concerned with the
war to follow through with his greed." 

Rochelle’s pulse thudded.  "King Jean claims
DuBois?"

Gaston held out the missive, an official seal stamped
on one end.  "You may read his decree."

She snatched the message, scanning the horrid proof of
Gaston's assertion.