Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  Beyond his shoulder she saw the empty space on the altar-table where once had stood the . . . "Cross! You destroyed the cross!" Rochelle shoved past him and knelt in the rubble, her accusation still echoing within the stone walls like a heavenly judgment. "'Twas from the Holy Land. Blessed by the Pope."

  Seeing no hope of repair, she pushed to her feet and confronted him. "Does your rejection of The Almighty include desecrating His place of worship? You charm your way into DuBois on falsehoods, claim yourself Lord, then destroy any symbol for homage to a Higher Lord? All because you believe He failed you? 'Tis petty revenge, knight."

  He grasped her arms. "Silence. 'Twas an accident. Or do you plot to accuse me of heresy?"

  "You smashed the cross."

  "The truth about Pierre drives me to search for the papers that prove my father's innocence, papers that identify the third murderer in the unholy trinity."

  Footsteps scraped at the back of the chapel, then halted. "Sacrilege!"

  Becket spun at the accusation.

  Père Bertrand hurried from the rear entrance. "You desecrate Sacred ground."

  Heresy.

  Rochelle knelt in the broken shards but kept her attention on Becket, pleading for his silence. "Forgive me, Père Bertrand. In my zeal, I tumbled the Icon from the altar. Name my penance."

  "You? You broke the cross, Lady Rochelle?" The priests tone sounded as incredulous as Becket's expression. "But I'm certain I heard . . ." The priest paused as if struck by a thought. "Penance? 'Tis true that perpetrators must pay for their sins." He rubbed his palms together as if in thought. "Lady Rochelle, the only way to receive God's forgiveness is for you to make a sizable payment in gold to the church, then to go on pilgrimage."

  "Non!" Becket came to life. "Lady Rochelle doesn't leave DuBois until I give permit, not even if I must lock her in my chamber so as to watch her every movement."

  The image sent heat through her veins like melted tallow. "But, Sire---"

  He silenced her with his fury. "Very clever, my tethered falcon. You thought to break free of my control."

  "Non! I . . ." She dare not say she sought to protect him, not in front of the priest. She should let the ungrateful lump of suspicion pay the penance and leave her be. But, heresy . . . She fluttered her lashes. "In truth, Sire, I would prefer being locked in your chamber and to suffer your intriguing form of punishment."

  His hatred flashed into passion with such swiftness, her knees weakened.

  Père Bertrand practically leapt between them. "I will not allow such cruelty." He graced her with a look of compassion. "Remember Sire Marcel, my dear. Remember the horrors."

  "But Sire Becket isn't like Marcel."

  "Did you not once believe Marcel incapable of such atrocities? You never know when the devil will turn a man into a beast. Non, you must take the pilgrimage. 'Tis a holy decree."

  Becket's laughter reverberated from the stone walls in repetitive derision. "What power. How satisfying to control mere mortals at your whim. You say, wimple, and Lady Rochelle jumps."

  Instinctively, she adjusted her head-covering.

  He scoffed, then turned his attention again to the priest. "Tell me, Père Bertrand. Where were you when Marcel behaved the beast? Did you protest his abominations on Lady Rochelle?"

  Rochelle stilled, stunned by Becket's inquiries.

  The priest opened his mouth several times as if he mentally searched for an answer. "Well I . . . The treatment appalled me, for certain. I---"

  "Did you protest? Did you threaten him with fines of gold and laborious pilgrimages to purge his soul?"

  "Well . . ."

  "Non. You did not. You never interfered, never scolded, not even a tsk-tsk. Am I correct?"

  He defended her. Before she could even blink away a tear, her defense-wall crumbled to non-existence, obliterated beyond retrieval.

  The priest cleared his throat. "But you must understand---"

  "I tell you what I understand. The purposeful torture of one of God's creatures goes without censure. The accidental destruction of one of man's creations is considered a great sin. Is the man-made worth more than the God-made?"

  "But 'tis a symbol---"

  "Correct. A symbol. Not the Almighty. Or do I misinterpret?" He indicated the carnage. "Or is this what you worship, Père Bertrand? The idol? Clay, wood and metal."

  Becket stepped toward him and the apparently stricken-mute priest retreated in same measure, the rubble crunching beneath his feet as if in mockery.

  "And as for truth, Père Bertrand, Lady Rochelle is not the perpetrator of this supposed desecration. I am. And I am not leaving DuBois for any Pilgrimage."

  "How dare you twist our traditions to your own purpose." The tremble in the priest's voice betrayed his fear, or his indignation, Rochelle couldn't tell which. "I warn you, Sire Becket, your soul is---"

  "Mine. My soul is mine."

  Without even a glance her way, Becket spun and strode from the chamber.

  Of a sudden, her chest seemed vacant as if he had taken part of her with him. And yet, he had. He had pilfered her heart, holes and all.

  "Straighten your wimple!"

  Rochelle dropped her taper in her haste to obey the priest's command, darkening the chapel to one remaining flicker. Becket's. He had left his candle.

  Still shaken by his unexpected defense, she tucked a wayward wisp beneath her head covering, then halted. The man before her didn't seem as large as before. As forbidding. More mortal. Less holy. Not that she would ever show disrespect to an appointed authority of the Almighty.

  He shook his finger at her face, all the trapped venom against Becket released at her. "Stay away from that devil of a man. You risk the poisoning of your own soul by his very nearness. And never wear another gown like the one you wore this day . . ."

  Rochelle could only stare at the lone flame, stunned. Becket had stolen her heart. Just ripped the poor thing from right out of her chest.

  ". . . even worse, you were without your wimple where all could see. I have lectured you practically from your birth . . ."

  She felt vulnerable. Panicked. How to even the balance of power? By stealing his heart? Her only hope. If she only knew how. She needed Divine inspiration.

  ". . . baring your tresses will tempt the devil."

  Rochelle jolted to alertness. "Tempt the devil?" She smiled, then yanked off her wimple and snatched the candle. "I hope so, for I have a heart to steal. And with what I have planned, the devil doesn't have a prayer."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "Leave DuBois? Now? Impossible." From their meeting place within the beech grove beside the road, Becket scowled at Sir John Chandos, Prince Edward's close friend and supporter, now an untimely messenger. "Not only is Moreau not yet secured, but in my absence, a desperate Lady Rochelle and a vengeful Gaston would surely connive to recapture DuBois. If so, then King Edward's hopes for an inner post are for naught."

  "You have read the missive, Becket." John wiped the sweat from his dirt-streaked face, obviously exhausted from his hard ride. "His highness expects Prince Edward to lead a strike to regain the French crown; yet, the prince is needed in England to muster an army and to gather the equipment and stores necessary for a campaign. Someone he trusts must make preparations on this side of the Channel."

  "There are brilliant strategists in Guyenne, John, you being foremost."

  John nodded his appreciation. "But you have been by the prince's side since his birth, his mentor, if you will. And of most import, you know this land beyond the territorial English borders."

  "I left DuBois when but nine."

  John laughed. "Prince Edward is well aware of the destination of your periodic disappearances. All know how, in disguise, you roamed Languedoc, observing DuBois and Moreau from afar in hopes for your reclamation. Your knowledge of this Southern region is invaluable, Becket."

  "Then he has decided to cut a swath through Languedoc?" Becket slid his gaze out across the magnificence of DuBois, imag
ining the obscenity of such a strike---smoke-blackened fields, screams from rape and torture, and instead of life, death. Intelligent war maneuver, or not, Becket hated the chèvauchèes.

  Sir John leaned against a beech trunk and took a swig from his flask, then wiped his mouth, taking his time as if he understood Becket’s concerns. "At this time Prince Edward is considering three approaches. He may retake the towns and castles that King Jean's lieutenant, the Comte d’Armagnac has stolen along the borders; or, he might take other towns and castles elsewhere; or he might make a devastating raid wherever it should be most profitable."

  Most profitable. A land rich and plenteous. Languedoc.

  Becket could only stare at the toes of his boots as the unconcerned wind fluttered the beech leaves, scattering a flurry of sun dapples across the forest floor but not deafening him to Sir John’s unwelcome tidings.

  "The poor citizens are in constant alarm, Becket. 'Tis Edward's duty to settle the matter and set the west boundary of Aquitaine where he believes it should be. But beyond that, he is as determined to reclaim his birthright as you, with more to gain, for one day, the Prince of Wales will wear the crowns of both England and France."

  The fast approach of hoof beats captured Becket’s attention.

  Henri, Phillipe and Davide rode up, then dismounted and joined them where they conversed at a safe distance from the keep.

  "News of an arrest, Henri?"

  Henri shook his head as he sat upon a fallen log. "‘Tis my dubious duty to inform you that we saw fresh hoof prints beside the waterfall again."

  "When?"

  "He must have been there sometime during the night. Same place as before. I don't know how he got past us."

  Becket sighed. "I have yet to check the hooves of Lady Rochelle’s mare. Where did the tracks lead?"

  "To the main road, then they mingled with wagon wheel tracks and travelers."

  "Did you search in both directions?"

  "We did. A woman traveled with an entourage on pilgrimage and---“

  “Did you check her identity?”

  Henri laughed. “’Twasn’t Lady Rochelle. Also there were the usual peddlers, oh, and a priest, one of those who have forsworn speech. When we sought to question him, he merely sank deeper into his hood and traveled on. Most likely Gaston is hiding until dark."

  Becket stiffened. “A priest?” He had threatened to don Rochelle in priest’s robes. Might she have provided Gaston with such a disguise as an ironic form of rebellion? “Did he ride on horseback or travel afoot?”

  “Horseback.”

  “What of the hoof prints? Did you study them?”

  Davide scratched his head, then glanced at Phillipe, who brightened as if in remembrance. “He dragged a litter behind him laden with an odd assortment of supplies, including an over-spill of brush.”

  “How clever. Gaston obliterates the prints as he travels.”

  Henri shrugged. “How do you know ‘tis Gaston?”

  “In here.” Becket struck his chest with his fist. “Davide, Phillipe, return to the castle.” As the men rode away, Becket reached for Satan’s reins. “I’ll capture the bastard myself."

  Sir John grasped Becket’s arm. “Becket, I am loathe to threaten, but you cannot go after Gaston. The prince is in need of you, the king as well."

  “I will do as bidden. ‘Tis my solemn vow. But first I must capture Gaston. He is almost within my grasp, John. Give me until cock’s crow.”

  “We leave at dark.”

  “But the sun is already in descent! You must understand, John. The few hours needed to snare Gaston will save much heartbreak and possibly many lives. You drag me away at a crucial time, leaving Gaston’s cruelty to fester like an open wound, destroying all that his poison contaminates.”

  “He has a healthy lead, Becket. Once he reaches Toulouse, you would never find him.”

  “My instincts tell me he goes to the French court in Paris to pry into my identity. If he discovers I am not a knight of King Jean, the truth will be easily deduced. And I still don’t trust the. . . “

  Becket swallowed his confession about Rochelle. Prince Edward might not hesitate to imprison or kill her if he, indeed, marched through Languedoc, even if she resided at the convent. Becket knew from previous raids that nunneries weren’t spared the sacrilege of rape and murder. Nothing would be spared. Not even DuBois. Becket swept his gaze over the vineyard ripe for harvest. After a lifetime of planning, to risk losing all this now . . .

  “Your oath, Becket. You swore your oath.”

  The pressures sought to crush him. Rochelle, Gaston, war, his own secrets . . . No, he must prevail and conquer the problems one at a time.

  "As Edward commands, John. I can sign the annulment papers while there, then finalize arrangements with Lady Anne. And I must visit Mother, tell her of DuBois. I know she is eager to return, but I must persuade her to delay her arrival until after the war.” And after Rochelle is away. Something twinged in his chest. Regret? Surely not.

  Henri straightened. "What is afoot, Becket? What is this discussion of oaths and hasty departures."

  “Preparations for war."

  "War.” A frown flitted across Henri’s face, then he slowly grinned. "Why would you leave for something so mundane when you could stay here and be the recipient of all that carnal advice the knights have given Lady Rochelle? She turns the most charming shade of pink.”

  Becket groaned. “Lady Rochelle. What to do about her?”

  Henri pushed to his feet, then gave a flourishing bow. “I volunteer to remain here in your stead.”

  “You stay away from that wanton innocent. She is desperate enough to seduce even you.”

  Henri indicated the scrolled parchments in Becket’s hands. “I understand you received another suggestion on how to cure your impotence."

  Sir John choked. "Becket? Impotent?" He shifted his shocked attention to Becket, his expression mixed with horror, pity and amusement. "'Tis true?"

  "Non!" Becket felt rage heat his face as he glanced down at the missives--one from King Edward, the other from his knights with their latest bit of advice, one that would surely turn him into a senseless sap. “I ought to sentence every knight to the dungeon."

  Henri laughed. "Don't be angry with them, Becket. 'Tis your own welfare that concerns them. The only thing males dread more than having one that doesn't work, is not having one at all. The men give the matter much discussion when out of your belligerent earshot."

  "No wonder they let Gaston continually slip past their guard." Frustrated, Becket shoved out from under the beeches into the sun-basked road and stared at the vineyards that might never survive until harvest.

  Sir John chuckled as he ambled into Becket's view. "You mentioned an annulment. So, you had to marry the wench as part of your victory, and then couldn’t perform, eh? The lady must be as ugly as my horse's backside. Even so, I never dreamed one could be so unattractive that you couldn't---"

  "I am not impotent! ‘Tis a matter of choice, not function. Now, no more on the matter."

  Henri slapped John on the back in camaraderly fashion. "I warn you, Sir John, Becket has grown inordinately testy. Becket’s new status as lord of DuBois has decimated his sense of humor."

  "Still, she must be as ugly as . . ." Sir John went as slack-jawed as a pubescent lad with his first sight of the female form, his attention focused on the road behind Becket. "Glory be. An angel."

  Henri glanced past Becket, then groaned. "I suggest you depart, mon ami. Poste haste. Go dally with Lady Anne. Leave me to handle this enchanting angel."

  Rochelle.

  Not now. Not after he had spent hours in the icy inlet to ease his stiffness. Determined to remain unaffected, Becket turned, and his accursed manhood went painfully hard again, scattering all thoughts of Lady . . . something . . . from his mind.

  Rochelle fairly floated toward him, the most incredible vision he had ever seen. Her skirt and flowing sleeves billowing in the wind as she moved. Strand
s of her glorious hair wafted in the breeze like ribbons newly spun of palest sunlight. Only the gentle sway of her hips betrayed her earthly connection, not an exaggerated swing but gentle, feminine, a sway that, if not for his hastily reinforced discipline, would have brought him to his knees. And she glittered. With each seductive movement, light sparkled across her blue silken gown like a thousand firesparks against a DuBois sky at eventide.

  Her bed covering.

  From the hand-embroidered silk she had created a filmy masterpiece that defied the current fashion, for her sleeves were loose instead of fitted, the bodice draped instead of buttoned or laced, needing only the slight encouragement of his fingers for the gown to puddle at her feet. The fabric skimmed over her breasts, waist and hips, hinting of moon-carved flesh and fiery passion. She appeared as delicate as a moth, and yet her confident gaze pinned him like a spider to a wall.

  With gut-wrenching clarity he knew the treasonous truth he had refused to acknowledge. He wanted her. Curse him to hell, but he wanted her. All of her. From the wondrous glory of her hair to her dainty toes he had yet to see bared. He ached to taste her, to lose himself within her arms, to sink his hardness into her softness, to allow the undulations of those swaying hips to incite a mindless spilling of his seed into her slick, hot core.

  A shudder racked his soul.

  She sensed the depths of his desire, curse her, would use his weakness to destroy him, would use anyone or anything to accomplish her purpose. Any male not six feet underground would gladly oblige her. And within hours, Becket abandoned her, surely the most passionate of all women, to the prey of every male in France.

  She paused before him, “Sire Becket”, stabbed him with a smile that left him bleeding, then dared turn her attention to Henri.

  “Sire Henri, I have need of your services.”

  “Non!” Becket leapt in front of her. “I forbid him even to look upon you.” In his haste, he must have bumped into Henri, for a thud, then an “oof” sounded behind him. He heard Henri’s mumbled curse.

  Rochelle appeared puzzled, but Becket knew that she knew that he behaved an idiot.