Love Thine Enemy (45 page)

Her spirits spiraled downward to the gates of hell.  
Even if she convinced Gaston of her filial loyalty so as to gain access to the
Inquisition, she could never get the evidence past
Père
Bertrand.

"Guard!"  Gaston’s demand sparked the scene
to life.  "Take her to the dungeon.  Ready her for torture."

C
hapter
T
hirty-Seven

"
T
ouch her and you
die!"  Becket lunged for the guard, hooking his wrist chain over the
guard’s head and against his throat.  "Rochelle!  Get out of here!"

Not without you.
   Tearing her attention
away from the man she loved more than her own life, she reached to where her
heart pounded against the boxed scroll and raced toward the dais, an impossible
distance. 

"Sentries!  Kill her!"  Gaston dropped
Becket’s metal tether and rushed to cut her off!  Soldiers drew their swords
and ran toward her, entrapping her in a ever-tightening prison.  She needed a
miracle.

"
Damn
you
,
Rochelle. 
Get out of here!" 

At Becket’s curse, she heard the guard thump to the
floor, then the whistle of Becket’s neck chain as he swung the links in an arc
above his head.  But Gaston neared too fast and Becket certainly would hit them
both.

Gaston grasped at her arm!  She twisted in evasion, saw
the blur of the chain.  Before she could scream, Gaston cried out as if struck
and pitched to the floor in front of her.  She stumbled over him but kept
upright.  He grappled for a hold on her skirt.  She jerked free, forcing one
foot in front of the other through what felt like an invisible river of
molasses meant to slow her pace.  Concentrating on reaching the monk, she
pulled out the box and kept running, fearful of the snatch at her skirt that
might pull her off-balance, fearful of the guards who closed in like hunters on
doomed prey.

"Bertrand!  Stop her!"  Gaston’s command
reverberated into her panic as he scrambled toward her with frightening speed.

Père
Bertrand pushed to a
stand and leaned in front of the monk, hand held out ready to grab her.

She veered left and aimed for the next man, a lavishly
dressed aristocrat.  "Read the--"

"I’ll slit your throat."  

The room spun as Gaston whirled her from the table. 
Her back slammed against his body.  A sting under her jaw forced a cry from her
chest.  She froze, head high, afraid to breathe.  Gaston pressed a dagger
beneath her chin, the steel as cold and merciless as his soul. 

In the instant before Gaston would surely kill her, she
absorbed the majesty of her husband, of how his heart-melting eyes widened in
horror as he stared at what must be blood trickling down her neck, of how the
torchlight glowed on his sin-black hair as he let the silver chain slither into
an impotent coil at his feet, of how the hearthfire glimmered gold on his bared
and powerful body as he fought off the blur of emerald-juponed sentries who
rushed in to surround him.  The man for whom she risked her life, struggled but
five paces away.  An infinite distance.  And never could she soak up enough of
his magnificence to last her through an eternity of separation. 

Becket shoved two sentries aside.

"Let her go free, Gaston, and I’ll do aught you
ask."

"You’ll do aught I ask at any rate.  Guard, take
Lady Rochelle to the dungeon.  Strip her.  Chain her to the rack.  Her cries
will shatter the stones before she dies."

"
Non!"

Becket’s denial echoed along with Gaston’s
pronouncement of doom and taunted her with the horrendous results of her
failure.  She and Becket would undergo ugly deaths.  But worse, an unprotected
Pierre would suffer hideous abominations in the hands of Gaston and
Père
Bertrand. 

The dagger still at her throat, Gaston forced her
toward the guard whom Becket had nearly strangled.  "I gave you orders not
to let anyone enter."

"She claimed to be your daughter, Sire."  The
raspy-voiced man rubbed his neck and pushed to his feet.  "Said she sought
retribution against Sire Becket because he stole her land."

Rochelle’s stomach fisted.  Her gaze flew to Becket’s. 
He staggered as if his mind shouted, ‘betrayal’ and his heart cried,
‘impossible’.  Then he shook his head in denial.

"I once suspicioned you faked your affection for
me so as to remain at DuBois, but no more."

Her heart both soared and sank at the same time,
tearing a painful hole of realization--she must convince Becket of her betrayal
in order to convince Gaston to allow her to testify.  And Gaston trusted only
one characteristic--perversion.  Determined to pretend any depravity in order
to save Becket, she relaxed against Gaston’s chest as if she welcomed his forced
embrace, caressing her fingers over his hand pressing the steel point against
her neck.

"To shatter your delusions, husband, I fling the
facts in your face.  You attempted to steal my land.  I seek retribution. 
After all, I am of Gaston’s blood."

Gaston loosened his hold as if startled by her
behavior, but instead of moving away, she pulled Gaston’s forearm across her
breasts and smiled up at Becket.

"Rochelle, I know not what you think to accomplish
with this charade for surely you know you cannot save me, but do not let Gaston
rob of us what we have shared, for then he will have won." 

"Think, husband.  If, as you say, I know I cannot
save you, then what cause is of such import to me that I dare risk my
life?"

"DuBois?" whispered out on his breath.

She forced a smile. 

His eyes narrowed with pain and disbelief.  "You
play a dangerous game, my traitorous falcon.  Do you think to out-devil the
Devil?  Or, might you bend to Gaston’s sadism as you did to my insane
infatuation in order to remain at DuBois?"

"I do what I must."  She lifted the back of
Gaston’s hand to her mouth, laving a wet kiss upon his hair-strewn flesh. 

Lady Isabelle gasped.  She glared at Rochelle with a
promise that said if Gaston didn’t kill her, she would.

Becket stared at her, mouth and eyes wide, obviously
sickened by her behavior.  "I do not believe you."

Love swelled to bursting within her chest, increasing
her determination to make any sacrifice in order to present the document to the
Inquisition.  Hoping to distract Gaston by making snide comments to Becket, she
kept the box hidden within the folds of her skirt and backed toward the dais as
if gaining distance to better assess her husband.

"Look at you, Becket.  So trusting.  ‘Tis a pity
to destroy all that hard-won faith, but..."  Her heel bumped against the
raised platform and she swallowed a triumphant shout.  "But, I fight for
DuBois."  Shaking like an aspen leaf in a windstorm, she turned--

Gaston grabbed her wrist and pried the box from her
fingers.  "The only land you’ll claim is your grave.  Your pretense might
delude Becket, but not me.  Guard, take her below." 

"Leave her be, Gaston!  She has naught to do with
this."

Becket fought for her?  Despite everything?  She stared
at him, struck useless with such devotion, a devotion she must destroy if they
had any hope of survival. 

Gaston shoved her toward the guard who then grasped her
arm and dragged her away from Becket--for eternity!  Once her captor forced her
from the great hall, neither she nor Becket had a chance.  Her feet slipping
with every step, she twisted for freedom while the guard threatened
vulgarities. 

"...and after you’re stripped and chained, I’ll
use those instruments of torture on you while I--"

"Rot in hell!"  Rochelle grabbed her dagger
from beneath her mantle and slashed upward.  The guard yelled and grabbed at
his face.  She waved the bloodied weapon in the air to indicate the whole of
them.

"You men are imbeciles."  She strode to the
dais, daring anyone to touch her.  "The guard is an imbecile for being
more interested in sating his lust than checking me for a weapon."  She
pulled off her wimple and threw the fabric in
Père
Bertrand’s face to
distract him.  "You, for preaching more about keeping my hair covered than
about God’s will"
, all the while sodomizing young boys,
she wanted
to shout in accusation but dared not.  At least, not yet.  Seizing the box from
a startled Gaston, she spilled the scroll onto the table in front of the monk. 
"The Council, for allowing Sire Gaston to keep you from reading an
important document.  Note the date and the signatures."  

Gaston reached around her.  "Give me that
scroll."

She whirled and pointed the dagger at his face. 
"You, for not paying heed when I told you I had a signed
confession."  Praying the monk had read the document, Rochelle faced the
Inquisition.  "I bring heresy charges against--" 

"I would see that confession."  Gaston swiped
the dagger from her hand and snatched the parchment. 

The document fell into chunks! 

Rochelle froze as her only hope for saving Becket and
herself drifted like dead leaves to the cloth. 

Lost.  All hope lost. 

"You say this is a confession?"  The monk
shifted a scrap as if in consideration of trying to fit them together.

She must stall long enough to give him time.  Rochelle
spun to confront Gaston. 

"You may have destroyed the sworn statement,
mon
père
, but I know Becket better than any here.  In his naïve trust, he
revealed secrets best kept hidden.  I demand the right to make the formal
charge of heresy."

"’Tis unnecessary.  Besides, you would never swear
against your husband."  Gaston shoved her aside and pierced the blade into
one of the portions, lifting the piece as if to decipher the writing.

She ripped the piece from the blade-tip, tossing the
shred onto the table where the Council members hovered over the scraps. 
"You are twice an imbecile,
mon père
.  Not only do you destroy
evidence that would have sealed Becket’s destiny, but you actually believe I
felt a fondness for him."

"I am not the simpleton you suppose."  Gaston
stirred the large flakes with the dagger.  "Bertrand, burn these.  Guard,
take her below.  ‘Tis you who are the imbecile, Rochelle.  Becket’s fate is
pre-determined. 
Père
Bertrand and I made certain of the outcome before
the trial started."

Panic streaked like lightning through her body. 
Jacques and Henri had warned her of corruption.  She had not listened.  But to
surrender?

Never.

Rochelle smiled in feigned pleasure.

 "Excellent
strategy
,
mon père
. 
Thus you have naught to lose in the delay. 
I clutch at your dangled offer that should aught untoward happen to you, as
your daughter I will inherit DuBois and Moreau.  I prove to you my loyalty in
exchange for the land." 

Père
Bertrand scooped up the
scraps, further destroying the precious bits.  Fighting the hysteria that
clawed up her throat, she reached across the table and grabbed his hand,
brushing the parchment from his palm onto the cloth.

"Come hither,
Père
Bertrand. You are my
proof that I betray Becket."  She urged him from behind the white cloth
and off the dais.  "You have always claimed how my blood raced when I
lied.  Place your fingers upon my pulse while I denounce my husband.  If my
heartbeat leaps faster, I lie.  If not, I tell the truth."

Gaston picked up her other wrist and pressed upon the
blue vein.  "I, too, take count.  At the first rush, you are as good as
dead.  You will have no more chance for argument.  Now, denounce him."

Rochelle dared face Becket, and inwardly withered.  She
saw within his incredible eyes the truth barely hidden beneath his grief. 
Despite his doubt, he still loved her.  She felt as if crucified, the fingers
of Gaston and
Père
Bertrand like the nails that tacked her hands to a
cross, Becket’s suspicion and torment, the double-edged sword that pierced her
heart.

"Do not do this, Rochelle."

She merely stared at him, praying for a response from
the Inquisition before she tore asunder all that mattered to her. 

Gaston shifted his stance as if impatient. 
"Denounce him, Rochelle.  Now.

"Pay him no heed,
ma femme.
  Despite his
threats, despite my chains, some way, some how, I will save you.  But take this
truth with you--I would rather die knowing you love me than to live with your
betrayal."

Her heart wrenched. 
Please, Council, piece together
the document.  Speak out.
  Silence screamed her failure.  She clambered to
construct a defense-wall, but Becket had destroyed all her invisible stones,
leaving her defenseless against the coming destruction.

"Rochelle, I know my timing is wretched, but I might
never have another chance.  In front of God and mine enemies, and despite your
declarations of deception,
j’ai t’aime,
my precious gyrfalcon.  I love
you."

Gaston shifted into a turn toward the dais and she knew
she had no more time to stall.

"But, I do not love you."  Tears stung her
eyes, betraying the lie.

Through her blurred vision she saw Becket recoil, heard
his sharp intake of air, watched his love shift from disbelief to agony, to
hatred--hot, vengeful, consuming hatred.