Love Thine Enemy (44 page)

Frightened that he spoke the truth, she studied him,
never having known him to speak with such trembling passion.

"If you still doubt me, Rochelle, listen to this. 
Among the panel comprised of churchmen and lay noblemen, the two main
Inquisitors are usually Franciscans or Dominicans granted equal power by the
papacy, but with Sire Alberre only one possessed principal authority,
Père
Bertrand. The most severe penalty the inquisitors can legally impose is life
imprisonment, thus they must deliver a guilty person to civil authority before
the accused can be executed.  But
Père
Bertrand personally issued the
verdict of death by fire. 
Père
Bertrand will also be part of this
Council.  Do you not see?  What is right and true is of no bearing.  ‘Tis
greed.  So cease your daydreams about presenting proof to the Council. 
Becket’s only hope for survival is rescue."

Rochelle’s insides felt ripped into shreds.  She knew
he spoke true.  "So be it, Jacques.  But we must hurry."

A distant rumbling shook the ground as if an army
approached at rapid gallop.  But whose?  If Gaston’s, did Becket already lay
dead?

Panic threw her into near hysteria.  "’Tis too
late to take the wagon.  I will cause a diversion so that you can escape on
foot."  Ignoring their protests, Rochelle grabbed the reins of the
armor-laden pack horse, then vaulted upon Falcon and urged her mare into the
glaring light.

Sundrenched silhouettes of mounted riders streamed into
the bailey.  One lifted his sword and came toward her!  Blinded by the glare,
she jerked Falcon’s reins in the direction of the gate and dug her heels into
her mare’s sides, praying to at least draw attention from the stables.  The
knight reached out for her!

"Lady Rochelle?  Where is Becket?" 

"Henri?"  Her heart leapt.  If not mounted,
she would have thrown her arms about his neck and wept.  Instead she shifted
Falcon’s backside to the sun and saw the apprehension on Henri’s travel-smudged
face.  "I thought you were with the prince."

"Edward led us to believe Becket was on a secret
mission.  Then Banulf sneaked into camp to inform of us Gaston’s bribery, of
Edward’s treachery.  Every knight who has sworn fealty to Becket is with me. 
Where is he?"

"Gaston and
Père
Bertrand have taken him to
Moreau to face the Inquisition.  Your arrival is a blessing, for Jacques has
convinced me to try to rescue Becket, and we need your help.  I’ll explain as
we ride."

The rattle of wheels sounded to her right.  Griselda,
Jacques and Pierre sat in the wagon, proud determination on their faces. 
Pierre protectively cradled Sire Spitz in his lap as if he would never let him
go.

Jacques nodded as he passed.  "Quit dawdling and
make haste.  We all go to Moreau."

"We come, too, milady."  Pick-A-Tick planted
himself in front of her mare, surrounded by a host of refugees who lived in the
caves.  "He saved us.  ‘Tis only right we try to save him in return.  And
as you’ve heard, I have a knack for picking locks.  Might come handy in a
dungeon."

"Bless you.  But hurry.  The more we delay, the
more time we give Gaston to torture Sire Becket.  Take the hay wagons and
follow us."  She dug her heels into Falcon’s flanks and her mount surged across
the drawbridge and onto the land she loved and would never see again. 

Henri reined in beside her.  "Of course, you
realize we could be riding into a trap."

"Mayhap, Henri.  But I will rescue Becket from
that dungeon, or die trying."

C
hapter
T
hirty-Five

R
ochelle stood on the bluff that overlooked
the Tarn Gorge.  Exhaustion from the harrowing trip had drained her strength. 
Anxiety had shredded her nerves.  Guilt shrouded her soul.  Feeling chillingly
alone, she drew the hood over her head to stay an iciness that only her husband
could thaw.

Already in shadow, Moreau sprawled in sinister
outcroppings along the deep base of the cliff.  Torches glowed at various
points like embers from Satan’s hellfire.  Soldiers tarried outside the entry. And
somewhere within Moreau’s bowels, Becket suffered.  She closed her mind to the
probabilities before the horror sucked at her effectiveness.  She must remain
controlled and alert.  Rochelle strained her hearing past the haunting call of
an owl, listening for a cry of pain.  The owl hooted again and chills shivered
up her spine.  Many believed the bird the Herald of Death.  Becket’s?  Theirs?

Henri placed his arm around her shoulders.  "We
will save him, Lady Rochelle."

"The waiting is horrendous.  With every breath I
have wondered what torment--"

"Cease.  The night quickly shields us.  And the
plan for Becket’s rescue is but moments away."

“How do we elude the soldiers below in the bailey?”

“If Jacques’ memory serves us well about the secret
entrance, they’ll not know we exist.

Rochelle released a shaky sigh.  "Where is
Pierre?"

"Asleep in the wagon with Sire Spitz.  Griselda
watches over them, in readiness to tend to Becket lest he
have...injuries."

Rochelle’s knees weakened.  Henri slipped his hand
beneath her elbow for support. 

"He is too stubborn to die, my lady.  And Jacques
has drilled us so thoroughly with the layout of the secret passageways that,
stone-blind, we could still find our way.  Then we will liberate Becket and,
with fortune’s blessing, slip out undetected."

"To where?  We are betrayed by both
countries."

"Spain, perhaps.  Mayhap Italy, or Germany.  A man
of Becket’s warrior talents will be in demand.  Never fear."   Henri
squeezed her shoulders, then released her.  "I still prefer we attack the
castle and be done with the lot of them."

"And attack the Holy Church?"  She shook her
head.  "Never.  Furthermore, we lack enough knights to assure
victory." 

Rochelle inhaled a deep breath.  Henri believed he had
convinced her to stay behind when the men sneaked into Moreau, but she had
merely tired of arguing with him.  And yet she must tell him, for she could not
risk a disagreement after the mission began.  And yet, he would protest.  Mayhap
force her to stay. 

Something small scampered through the fallen leaves,
diverting her attention from the dreadful inactivity that gnawed at her
insides.

Desperate for any kind of action, Rochelle reached
beneath her cloak, and wishing she had on Angelique’s gown with the roomier
bodice, shifted the slim box that dug into her breasts.  Despite the truth of
Jacques’ revelation about the Inquisition, she felt driven to preserve the
scroll for which Becket had so diligently searched, and she trusted no place of
hiding other than near her heart. 

The reminder of Angelique caused her to wonder how her
supposed
friend fared.  Rochelle bit her lip, pondering if she dare ask Henri about the
violet femme fatale, then she sighed, too curious not to rouse the painful
memories, or mayhap she but behaved the coward, delaying arousing his wrath
about Rochelle’s going with him. 

"Henri, what about Angelique?"

The wind rustled the poplar leaves as if shushing her
for her audacity. 

He paused for long moments and she berated herself for
mentioning his former love. 

"Life as Edward’s mistress while in the midst of
slaughter has doused even her lust.  She now realizes how foolish her error but
has become as trapped in this ongoing hell as the rest of us."

"Will you return for her?"

His breath rasped with the breeze, then ignoring her,
he nodded at Moreau.  "Before I joined you, a scout informed me the
Inquisition is already in council.  I hope they remain occupied whilst we whisk
Becket away.  Now, Lady Rochelle, Griselda awaits your presence in the wagon. 
How did she word her request?  "Ah, yes."  He crouched,
Griselda-style, waggling his pointed finger at her.

"’Tell Rochelle to sit with me

Else I’ll tie her to a tree.’"

Despite the seriousness of their mission, Rochelle
chuckled.  "’Tis a valiant effort, my steadfast friend, but I can tell the
words are of your own making."

"How?  I rhymed."  He straightened as if
disappointed and she wished she had pretended gullibility.  Then he glanced at
the star-struck sky, his wonderful face creased with concern.  "If aught
should go awry, you are to ride straight to Toulouse.  I must think of a signal
for you."

Rochelle tensed in readiness for his vexation.  "I
go with you."

"Into the dungeon?"  He gripped her
shoulders.  "By the rood, I will not allow you to take such a risk."

"Either I go under your protection, or I follow on
my own.  Your choice."

 "You sound more like Becket every day.  In fact
he would shove me from this bluff if he knew I even listened to such
preposterousness." 

Rochelle pursed her mouth but didn’t differ.

"I
will
tie you to a tree."

She remained quiet, not wanting to tell him she would
merely cut the bindings with her secreted weapon.

"You wear a dagger, don’t you?"  Henri
groaned.  "No matter what I do, you’ll find a way."  He mumbled an
oath.  "
Oc
, you may go, but ’tis the most unwise decision I have
ever made."

"I must go, Henri.  Surely you understand." 
Unable to carry further the weight of guilt that dragged her sprits to her
toes, she confessed the horrid truth. 

"I am at fault for Becket’s suffering.  If I had
not given Prince Edward cause to doubt my loyalty, he might not have
surrendered Becket to Gaston, but rather might have turned and retaken
DuBois."

Breeze-blown shadows chased across his startled
features.  "You take this risk because you believe you owe Becket a
debt?"

"
Non
.  Because I love him."  

Henri wrapped his warm fingers around her icy hand. 
"As do I.  He is the greatest companion a man could wish for, in battle
and out.  But I warn you, should I have to choose between the two of you, ‘tis
you I must protect."

She opened her mouth to protest, then chilled as she
heard the flap of owl’s wings.  The Herald of Death’s dark silhouette glided
down into the gorge, blending with the inkish night.

Henri squeezed her hand, then let out a breath. 
"‘Tis time."

C
hapter
T
hirty-Six

"
S
acre
Dieu."
  Rochelle grasped the railing of the upper
landing to steady herself.  She stared down in horror at the tortured souls
chained and caged within the cave-like walls of the Moreau dungeon.  Moans
drifted from below.  Chains rattled.   A strained male voice mumbled a
continuous "Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God," as if ‘twas
all that was left of his sanity.  And the stench.  Excrement and blood...  Her
stomach heaved.  Swallowing the sourness, she forced her gaze into the
light-wavered darkness.

"Oh, Henri.  Becket is somewhere down there in
that hell-hole, suffering.  We must hurry."  Trembling with fear and
nausea, she lifted her hem and rushed to the top step.

"Wait."  Henri grasped her arm and spun her
to face him, his gray eyes filled with self-loathing for not having convinced
her to remain on the bluff.  "Gaston’s guards might betray us and I want
you where you can slip out."

"Gaston’s men seemed most eager to join us, Henri,
and who can blame them.  Any moment they might become one of his next victims. 
Besides, three of our knights are with them to make certain they do not betray
us."  She turned, but he refused to release her.

"My lady, stay here.  I‘ll go below.  Becket won’t
want you to see him..." His words faded into the putridness.

"Mutilated?  As long as he is alive, Henri, he
will be the most beautiful sight I can imagine." 

"But you might not recognize him.  He might be
crippled.  He might..."  A trickle of nervous perspiration snaked down his
furrowed brow.  "He might already be--"

"Becket is alive.  And as to recognizing him, my
heart will perceive that which my eyes do not.  Now, do not think to stop me,
for as I vowed before, I will steal him from this Satan's pit, or die
trying."

She pulled from his hold and hastened down the steps,
straining her attention past the vile instruments of torture and into the
gloom.  Her skirts billowed as she hurried downward, stirring the
ever-thickening foulness around her until she felt as if she drowned in
sewage.  She took as shallow breaths as possible but the smell of offal and
burnt flesh clogged her nose and lungs, seeped past her clamped lips, coated
her tongue until she tasted...  She pressed her hand over her mouth to stay her
queasiness.

Groans came from a form stretched on a rack.  Her heart
thudded.  "Becket?"

Davide and Banulf raced past her, first checking the
hanging cage--the man appeared lifeless--then the rack.  Banulf shook his head
and moved on.

"Release them, Pick-a-tick.  Release them
all."  Rochelle motioned to the
Languedocs
behind her.  "Help him.  Carry the survivors out of here through the
secret passageway.  Take care you aren’t caught, or we’ll all be chained here
to suffer alongside them."

As if not needing a second warning, the men slipped
into the shadows. 

She followed them, commanding herself to peek through
the high, barred open rectangles in a row of iron doors.  She passed spikes,
blades and iron-jawed instruments caked with what must have been decades of
blood.  The latest
, Becket’s? 
Hatred
filled her with a ferocity so pure that she felt driven to destroy Moreau,
stone-by-stone, until not even ghoulish memories remained. 

At her nod indicating an occupied cell, Pick-a-tick
moved in behind her, then she heard a click.  And moans.  And groans.  And
weeping.  Someone retched.

"Damn, Gaston.  Damn him to hell."  Rochelle
tightened her mantle against the coldness that chilled like approaching death. 
"I swear that as soon as Becket and Pierre are safely hidden, I will stop
Gaston, even if I lose my life in the doing."

Hurrying past the Languedocs who carried the injured
toward the stairs, Rochelle neared the last cell in the darkest corner of the
cave, her only remaining hope for finding Becket alive.  Excitement shoved past
her fear.  Merely a few more moments and Becket would be in her arms, then they
would be away from this vile purgatory.  With her pulse pounding
Becket,
Becket, Becket,
she peered though the opening.  Shock buckled her knees;
she grasped the bars to hold herself upright.

"Empty.  ‘Tis..."

Panic rising in her throat, she spun to scan the
cave-like dungeon.  "Did any of you find him?"

Banulf shook his head, as did Henri and the others, all
of them apparently as upset as she.

"Search again.  He must be here."  A terrible
trembling shuddered through her body and she had an uncontrollable urge to
weep.  She backtracked to the previous door, her hands shaking so hard that she
could barely grasp the handle.  She yanked at the locked door. 
"Pick-a-tick, open all the cells.  Mayhap he lies too close to the door
for me to see."

Fearing she lost her sanity, she ran to the next open
cell, slamming the door against the wall as she shoved into the dark cesspool. 
"Becket, please be here."  Nothing.  Tight hysterical sobs stuttered
from her throat as she spun and stumbled toward the next cell. 

"Oh, dear heaven.  Either he’s...he’s truly dead,
or..."  She gasped, struck with the truth.  "Gaston has already
presented him to the Inquisition!"  Grateful Becket might still live but
terrified at the possible horrors yet to come at his sentencing, she raced
toward the staircase.

"’Tis too late, Lady Rochelle."  Henri leapt
in front of her and barred her from exiting.  "You cannot help him
now."

"I must go before the Council."  She shoved
past him and managed three steps before he grabbed her arm. 

"What we must do, my lady, is attack."

Facing the man who she knew would give his life for her
and Becket, she clasped his gauntlet-covered hand, praying he didn’t notice how
much she shook.  "Should we have enough manpower, Henri, which we do not,
if we dared attack the Church, the world would not be big enough to hide
us."

"And yet, if you go before the Council you only
endanger yourself, for Becket’s fate is pre-determined and there is naught you
can present that will alter their judgment."

Rochelle pressed her trembling fingers against her
chest to ease an ache of despair and felt...

"The box!"  Her breath caught on a hope, and
her optimism soared.  "You err, Henri.  I have the document.  ‘Tis hidden
in my bodice."

"’Twill be of no benefit.  This is not a virtuous
council seeking justice.  They but hunger for profit from Becket’s death."

"Both King Jean and King Edward have claimed the
land.  How would the Inquisition profit?"

"The same as in Sire Alberre’s
death--money."  He shook his head as if saddened by his task of destroying
her foolish dreams.  "Greed is a potent aphrodisiac, Lady Rochelle,
surpassed only by lust for power.  And in the doing, Gaston will destroy you as
well."

"Then I must destroy him first.  I will do aught
to save Becket."

"I will not allow--"

He jolted forward when two
Languedocs
stumbled against him as they carried a disfigured man to safety.  Henri spun
and caught the victim before he hit the stones.

With the sudden freedom, Rochelle dashed up and out of
the dungeon, then along the shadowy hallway in the opposite way from which they
had first entered.  Henri’s curse sounded behind her.  Indistinct shouts
drifted from the distant corner in front of her, luring her deeper into the
gloom of the castle.  As she rushed toward the bend, the increased volume of
Gaston’s voice indicated she moved in the right direction, but the staccato of
her footsteps and the wild pulse pounding in her ears muffled his words. 

Rochelle paused while still hidden behind a corner and
pressed her hand against the hidden box to strengthen her resolve.  Flattening
against the wall, she struggled to control her rasping breaths, then praying
for invisibility, she peered around the corner and along the torch-lit hall. 

A lopsided rectangle of light spilled from a doorway.

Blocked by a guard.  

"I will not kneel, damn you!  Not before you or
any man."  Becket’s blasphemy reverberated from the chamber. 

Dear heaven, he sabotaged his own cause!  

"Do you not see his contempt?"  Gaston’s
utterance sounded much too confident.  "Sire Becket flaunted church
tradition by ordering a hasty burial of Lord Reynaurd.  He also smashed the
chapel cross, then refused to take pilgrimage as penance.  And not once during
his stay at DuBois did he give confession or kneel in worship at daily mass, a
knight’s obligation he is sworn to honor."

"I refuse to attend mass and confess to a man
whose sins are as great as mine own."

Men’s voices mumbled as if in disturbance. 

"Gaston, tell the most damning sin of all, the one
about Pierre." 
Père
Bertrand’s entreaty sliced through the
pandemonium and into her fear.  "Tell how Sire Becket physically accosted
me, a man of God, when I but sought to rid the lad of the devil."

Becket’s laughter rumbled with sarcasm.  "The only
devils are Gaston and you who lust, not for the purging of a soul, but the
claiming of one."  Metal clanked as if chain-links shifted from movement. 
"Heed me well,
Père
Bertrand.  The one certainty in this hellish
life is that despite all the young innocent lads you have sodomized, you will
never have Pierre, for Rochelle will spend her lifetime hiding him from you. 
‘Tis what gives me peace."

Rochelle chilled.  Becket trusted her to protect
Pierre.  And yet in her zeal to save Becket, she had brought Pierre to the
devil’s doorstep.  But to just sneak away and leave Becket?  Impossible.

An uproar of protest vibrated the air.  Someone pounded
on a table.  "I call for a vote!"

No.
  First she must convince Gaston of
her filial loyalty so as to give her an opportunity to present the document
which proved him and
Père
Bertrand as liars--her only hope for saving
Becket.  With her mind screaming,
How will you get past the guard?
she
strode from hiding toward the sentry who studied her, hand on hilt as if
prepared, by lethal force, to deny her entrance.

Imitate Angelique
, taunted from
within her fear. 
Bat your lashes.  Say something provocative like
"Show
me your immense...", glance below his waist and add, ". . . generosity
and let me pass."  Then, pray he would stumble over himself to comply. 

Be yourself
, counter-argued. 
Remembrances of her costly failures due to her pretending to be anyone but
herself, shattered her tenuous strategy.  She must be Rochelle.  But was she
smart enough?  What to do?  What to say?

The guard drew his sword at her approach.  "The
Inquisition is already in session, my lady.  I have been given orders to kill
any who attempt to enter."

"I demand admittance. 
Sire
Becket--"

"Silence!" 
She
heard another pounding on the table.  "We have a verdict."

Fighting hysteria, she reached beneath her mantle for
her dagger, prepared to slash her way in, if necessary.  She glared up at the
guard who could kill her with ease.

"Get out of my way.  Sire Becket stole my land,
and I demand retribution."

The guards eyes widened at her comment.  "Stole
your land?  Who are you?"

"Gaston’s daughter.  Now, move."

Terror shoved him backward so fast he bumped into the
doorjamb.  "Pass, my lady."

"Sire Becket, the Inquisition judges you--"

"Cease!"  Rochelle rushed into the lofty
great hall awash with the lights of torch, candles and hearth-fire, then she
spied Becket, and tasted bile. 

He stood tethered to a neck-chain held by Gaston. 
Horrid gashes laced his bare back, scored his arms and legs, future scars upon
scars.  And yet he stood, feet planted wide, fisted hands chained in front of
him, beard-bristled chin high, the image of magnificent defiance.  Her heart
wrenched.  She loved him, Godless soul and all. 

Becket jerked his attention to her, his pain-glazed
eyes filled with alarm, his face paling to match the whiteness of agony that
rimmed his mouth. 

"Rochelle, are you mad?  Get out of here."

Her determination to trick Gaston into allowing her to
testify, wavered.  Becket would surely misinterpret her actions.  But she must
risk his hatred to save his life.  She tore her gaze from his and faced the
dais. 

"I have a signed confession that might affect your
vote."  And then she saw. 

Père
Bertrand presided!  

She felt like a figure painted on a wooden icon,
forever frozen in a scene depicting the idiocy of honest expectations in an
evil world.  To her left, Gaston gripped the chain secured to Becket’s collar
like the master of a condemned animal.  Lady Isabelle stood beyond Becket
garbed in the gray of a dead tree, attention on Gaston, jaw clenched with
bitter determination.  Emerald-juponed guards stood in regular placement around
the stone walls to prevent escape.  In front of her, on the other side of a long,
white-clothed table, sat the black-robed
Père
Bertrand flanked by a
brown-frocked Dominican monk and a bejeweled aristocrat as well as a group of
clergy and noblemen. 
Père
Bertrand’s expression appeared startled but
still smug, as if the Council had already judged Becket guilty and she but
delayed the certain outcome.