Love Thine Enemy (43 page)

A sword pricked his neck, pressing Becket’s head to the
rushes.  Gaston glowered down at him, an evil image backed by the smoke-filled
rafters.  "You’ve killed them, Becket. They have no where to run. The land
is scorched.  King Jean wants Rochelle gone.  King Edward wants her dead."

And Becket no longer could protect them.  He had always
lauded himself for his own strength to avert disaster.  But now he lay chained,
the remainder of his days naught but horrifying pain.  He needed a stronger
power than his, a greater wisdom.  He needed....  No!  A proud voice whispered
that Becket had begged before and had been rejected.  And yet, he knew no where
else to turn.

Pride be damned. 

Shaken to the core, Becket closed his eyes and knelt
within his soul.

Dear God, I understand not why evil sometimes prevails,
but I humble myself before you.

"I prevailed, Becket.  I am now your god."

I am unworthy, so I ask not for my life, but throw
myself on your mercy.

"I am your superior.  Your life is in my hands. 
You are at my mercy."

I beg you to spare those I love.

"As to Rochelle and Pierre, I’ll block the exits
to the tunnels."

You are their only hope.

"They’re doomed."

"’Tis a cruel injustice." 
Griselda
threw a bundle behind the wagon seat.  "No matter which king wins France,
we lose DuBois."

"Griselda, cease that grumbling and load your
possessions while I tie Becket’s old set of armor to the packhorse.  The guards
might rouse any moment from the drugged wine."  Rochelle knotted the rope
around the brigandine vest, then snatched the helm from the stable floor.

"When they do awaken, daughter, they’ll find
themselves locked in the dungeon, with no help from Banulf, I might add.  I
never believed he would abandon us." 

"Mayhap he rides to Moreau.  I pray so.  His
testimony to help free Becket is imperative."  Rochelle hurriedly stuffed
the gauntlets inside a saddle pouch.  "By the by, I notice you don’t hide
your identity from Jacques.  Why so?"

"He has known from the first.  We both struggled
to survive Gaston’s barbarism at the same time.  Jacques, the burns.  Me, the
breaks and gashes.  And I didn’t suffer all I have these many years for you to
commit a noble type of suicide by going to Moreau."  Griselda slung a
bundle onto the wooden flatbed as if irritated.  "Jacques, you must make
her cease this madness.  If the journey doesn’t kill her, Gaston, will."

"Griselda speaks true, child.  Becket would rather
die than have you in danger."

"’Tis a more horrid fate than mere death that
awaits Becket.  ‘Tis torture."  The word snagged in Rochelle’s throat. 
"He did all within his power to save Pierre and me.  I can do no
less."  She checked the armor and the old battle-nicked sword.  All hung
secure
.  Unlike their future. 

 Jacques touched her arm.  "I’ve told you
repeatedly you have no hope of convincing the Inquisition."

"I must do
something
."

"We will do something, my lady.  In truth, ‘tis
our only hope of sparing him."

"Which is?"

"Steal Becket from the dungeon."

Rochelle glanced around the empty stables, mouth open. 
"With what army, Jacques?"  Then she shook her head.  "Our only
hope is persuading the Council.  I cannot save the land, but somehow, some way,
I’ll save Becket.  And I’m going alone."

"Where is your sense?  Do you think Gaston will
let you walk in and destroy two decades of plotting?"

Pierre sniffled.  "What will happen to us,
Rochelle?"

"We will triumph."  She knelt and hugged him
to her body, relishing the feel of him, loving him, praying for the Almighty to
watch over him.  Worried that she might not have the chance to defend him
against the world, she gazed into his ebon eyes so like Becket’s, searching for
words of wisdom to carry him a lifetime. 

 "Listen with care,
mon
chou
. 
Verily, you are special, a rare jewel, for the Almighty created only one of
you.  You must always believe in yourself and never doubt your worth, for to do
so mocks God.  If you trust in Him, he will lead you along paths beyond your
imaginings." 

"But our path is frightening, Rochelle.  We know
not where we go.  And I haven’t found Sire Spitz.  I don’t want to leave
without him.  I won’t."  Tears spilled from his beautiful eyes and burned
her heart.

"That we haven’t found him is a good sign.  He has
gone somewhere to heal.  He will be fine,
mon
chou
. 
And as to this uncertain path we travel, think of the treasures we have found,
treasures we never dreamt existed, treasures so much more wondrous than the
ones we had chosen for ourselves.  For me who had rejected men and affection, I
have been blessed with Becket, a man who loves me and whom I love in return.  I
found a mother who sacrificed her life for me.  You have been given a brother. 
A brother who would give his life to protect you."

"I want Sire Becket back, Rochelle."  He
buried his face against her chest.

"You shall have him, my love."  She brushed
aside his wayward lock, again like Becket’s, and the persistent ache in her
chest tightened.  What if she failed?  What if, despite her efforts,
Père
Bertrand found Pierre?  What might she say, or do, to protect this precious
soul from evil if she and Becket no longer lived?

"Before I go,
mon
chou
,
I
leave you with advice of most import."  She tilted back his head and gazed
into his tear-reddened eyes, willing him to remember her next words, willing
God to take care of him forevermore. 

"Accept others not by their titles or position of
authority but by their actions.  No matter whom the person is, if they
encourage you to do aught that you feel in your heart is wrong, despite their
threats, seek aid from someone, for evil functions best in secrecy.  Sometimes,
mon
chère
,
just the telling breaks the spell.  Now, obey Griselda and Jacques.  They love
you and will guide you well."

"I’m going with you, Rochelle.  I’m not a
coward."  The wavered tone in Pierre’s voice betrayed his fear, a fear
that matched hers.

"You are brave, Pierre, but you must stay far from
the priest.  As you know, his actions are
not
from the Almighty." 
She kissed his smooth cheek. 
"
Je t’aime, mon
chou
. 
Go with God." 

She stood, drawing the brooch from the neckline of her
bodice and pressing the keepsake into Griselda’s hands.  "Sell this in
Toulouse to use for food and shelter.  As soon as Becket is released, we will
meet you outside the Augustins’ monastery.  Check every morning and evening to
see if we have arrived.  Now, wait here a moment.  I have some coins for
you." 

Grabbing the pitchfork, she raised her hem and pushed
herself to the top of the slippery haystack.  The pungent aroma lured out
throbbing memories of stallions and devils, of temptation and passion.  A pang
swelled behind her breastbone.  She blocked the images and dug her fingers
around the edges of the ungrouted stone, then pulled.  The rock wedged sideways
in the opening, stuck.

"I don’t have time for this!"  She prodded
the pitchfork tines into the seam and pried the stone outward.  "I will
keep only enough
sous
from the cache to last until Sire Becket and I
reach Toulouse.  I will give you the remainder, but spend them sparingly.  We
must use them for our escape from France, for even if I convince the Tribunal
of Sire Becket’s innocence, we will still be at Gaston’s mercy."

"We are not going to Toulouse, Rochelle, we are
going with you."

"Not so,
ma mère
.  ‘Tis too dangerous. 
Besides, you must hide Pierre from
Père
Bertrand."

Gritting her teeth, Rochelle used her weight as
leverage, pulling downward on the handle until she feared the pole would snap. 
Asinine rock.

"You must take me,
child."  Jacques shuffled to the base of the haystack.  "Together we
can rescue Becket.  I know a secret way into the castle.  I once served Sire
Alberre at Moreau and I know the maze of halls as well as I know my own
scars."

Rochelle released an irritated sigh, tempted.  What to
do?  He would slow her pace.  But a secret entrance? 

"Listen, child.  Sneaking Becket out is a more
certain success than wasting time begging a Council that has already decided he
will die."

Torn as to the best strategy, Rochelle rammed the
prongs further into the crack, then taking a deep breath, pressed her torso on
the handle and bounced downward. 

Stones flew from the wall!  The pitchfork dropped.  She
screamed, the stable spinning as she tumbled.  Falling rubble bruised her arms
and back, then she slammed against the floor.

"Rochelle!"  Pierre’s small arms encircled
her neck, and the pain eased.

"Are you harmed?"  Jacques grasped her arm to
help her sit up.

Rochelle spat grit from her mouth, then brushed mortar
and hay from her hair.  "I’m just bruised." 

A loud meow sounded from the hay.  The straw moved,
then a black furry ball hobbled out.  Rochelle’s heart leapt with joy, and she
praised God for the miracle.

"Sire Spitz!"  Pierre lunged forward,
scooping his long-lost pet into his arms, tears streaming down his precious
face.  "He alive!  But he’s hurt."

Griselda pressed her fingers against a protesting Sire
Spitz.  "’Tis naught that we cannot fix.  I will work on him as we
ride."  Griselda closed her eyes as if she said a prayer of thanks.

Remembering her mission, Rochelle glanced up at the
unusually large, and
empty
hole.  "The coins!  Oh, dear heaven. 
Search anywhere the bag could have landed.  ‘Tis all we have."

Pushing to her feet, she scanned the haystack, then
fearful she had already delayed too long in going to Becket’s aid, rushed to
where the straw spilled against the wall.  She dug into the jumble of rocks and
dirt used for wall-filler but found only rubble.  Panicked, she plunged her
hand further.  Sharp edges scraped her flesh.  Fear increased her pulse.  They
would starve.  They would... Leather.  The pouch. 

"Praise the saints. ’Tis here."  Rochelle
wrapped her shaking fingers around the bag, then stilled.  Her hand had brushed
against something smooth. 

Curious, she raked aside the stones.  A long slim box
about three fingers wide lay among the wall-filler.  Rochelle removed the lid
and pulled out a scroll, aged and fragile.  With trembling hands, she handed
Griselda the money and container, then carefully unfurled the ends of the
mysterious parchment.  She gasped.  "Listen to this.

"I, Lord Reynaurd, do hereby pledge to testify to
the heresy of Sire Alberre de DuBois
y
Moreau.  In exchange, Sire Gaston
grants me right and title to DuBois Estates and to all pertaining revenues. 
Upon my death, should I have no living male heir, and should both Sire Gaston
and my daughter, Rochelle Christine, be living and unwed, I give permission for
Sire Gaston to..."  Rochelle swallowed past a cramp in her throat,
fighting the urge to crumple the parchment into dust.  ". . . for Sire
Gaston to take my daughter to wife, as well as to claim the lands and title of
DuBois Estates.  Should Sire Gaston break faith with this bargain, I will
present this document as proof of his collusion in the wrongful death of Sire
Alberre de DuBois." 

Steadying the tremble of her hands, she held out the
scroll.  "Look.  ’Tis dated in the Year of our Lord, 1335, on the
fifteenth day of February, and signed by Reynaurd, Gaston, and witnessed by
Père
Bertrand."

She glanced at Jacques who stared at the parchment as
if stunned.

 "Don’t you see, Jacques?  ‘Tis the secret
document for which you and Becket have searched.  The one that will clear Sire
Alberre's name."  Her joy leapt at the richness of her find.  "The
one that will prove Becket innocent!"

Jacques lifted the miracle from her fingers, scanning
the faded devil’s bargain while tears rolled down his fire-scarred cheeks. 
"’Twas here all along.  How did you happen to use Reynaurd’s hiding place
for your cache?  ‘Tis well above your head and was beyond detection." 

"As a child I must have seen Reynaurd atop the
haystack verifying the safety of the document, but the memory eludes me."

Jacques closed his eyes, wetness glistening on his
lashes.  "Worthless.  ’Tis too late for Sire Alberre, and of no use for
Becket."

"I disagree, Jacques."  Rochelle retrieved
the instrument for Becket’s freedom and replaced the scroll within the slender
box.  "’Tis proof that, for gain, Gaston and Reynaurd swore falsely
against Sire Alberre. 
Père
Bertrand’s signature proves him an
accessory.  ‘Tis tangible evidence they are capable of doing the same against
Becket.  What I don’t understand is that this document was as dangerous to
Reynaurd as to Gaston."  Wishing she wore one of Angelique’s roomier
gowns, she slid the box into her bodice, between her breasts.

"My assumption is that Reynaurd merely utilized it
as a threat should Gaston default on the land, hoping never to have to use
it."  Jacques shook his head.  "As to this scroll convincing the
Inquisition to release Becket, I once possessed such naiveté, believing that if
I had a virtuous soul no one could fault me.  Fire purified me of such
foolishness.  After what happened to Sire Alberre, I learned that judges, Holy
or otherwise, are all-too human, subject to greed and bribery like the rest of
mankind." 

"But ‘tis witnessed!"

"By
Père
Bertrand, one of their own, the
one they must support.  Do you not see?  If they admit error in one heresy
trial, then all other trials become suspect.  ‘Twould cause chaos. 
Non
,
they will never cast a vote that will cast a shadow on themselves."

Her joy shattered into shards of reality.

"Rochelle, heed me as to why your plan will fail.
The inquisitors usually meet for a defined period at some central place, but
the Tribunal has met with haste per Gaston’s request, just like for Sire
Alberre.  A month is given for heretics to give a supposed spontaneous
confession; after that, the actual trials begin, but this trial has been
scheduled immediately, again like for Sire Alberre."