Love Thine Enemy

  Phillipe threw her a perplexed stare, the image of a dedicated man torn between serving two masters. “But Sire Becket . . . “

  “Sacre bleu, Phillipe. Jacques is hardly a threat to my virginity. No offense intended, Jacques.”

  The knights opened the human wall and a welcome draft of fresh air swirled in, modulating the stale odor of too-close bodies, before Jacques wedged into the slot, a dark dip in the flame-colored ring.

  The sight of him twisted at her conscience. He stood there, an ancient gnome among warriors, face contorted with burn scars, frighteningly aged to the point of fragility. His condition weighed on her already-burdened guilt, for her avoidance of him had obviously hastened his decline.

  She folded her hands in front of her to keep from hugging him. “I will hear you, Jacques.”

  His gaze pleaded with her from beneath his bushy brows the color of pale fog. “I only sought to save you, milady. I served as steward here when Gaston burned Sire Becket’s father and the young Becket had to flee for his life. When Sire Becket returned in secret, I fell to my knees and thanked God he had survived. Then when Sire Gaston plotted to seize you and DuBois, I feared for you and agreed to aid Sire Becket into gaining entrance so as to protect you from that evil brute.”

  “Which evil brute? Gaston? Or Becket? And what of the note I gave you to ensure my rescue by King Jean? In what way did that betrayal protect me?”

  He paled. His mouth opened and closed, then he dropped his head forward as if in defeat.

  “I trusted you with my life, Jacques. Now I have no hope of rescue. And your supposed savior has sneaked off in the night to wed another, then upon his cowardly return, will banish me to a nunnery, away from Pierre and DuBois---and you. Where is my protection now?”

  When he dared meet her gaze she saw that his chin trembled, his eyes glistened with unshed tears, an unfair tactic, for certain. She clasped her hands tighter to keep from throwing her arms about his neck in comfort.

  “Forgive me, milady, but I couldn’t bear to see you mistreated again like you were with Sire Marcel. ‘Tis an awful thing to witness when not able to interfere. Near broke my heart, it did.” He sniffed and swiped the back of his gnarled hand beneath his nose. “‘Twas difficult enough standing by and seeing your father do naught. But Sire Gaston . . . well, he’s much worse than his son. I feared for you as if you were my own daughter.”

  Rochelle’s eyes burned as she blinked several times to stay the moisture from her own eyes. Unsuccessful, she closed her lids while she prayed for guidance, then when under control, focused upon the man that, despite his betrayal, she adored. “I understand your dilemma, Jacques. Mayhap either choice would have bode me ill. Fret not about your decision.”

  “But I will, my lady, until I draw my last.”

  The thought of losing him ripped a hole in her self-righteousness. “I but seek your prayers, Jacques. And your love.”

  “You have both, milady. You always have.” A tear trickled down his scarred cheek and into her heart---her abused heart that Becket had ripped from her chest, then had left shredded and bleeding like unwanted refuse when he had abandoned her for another. At least she had reclaimed possession, scars and all, and had built another defense-wall, thicker, stronger and impervious to further hurt.

  Unwilling to intellectualize on how impossible her last thought, she enfolded Jacques in her arms, relishing the feel of him after their painful separation, shaken by how much shorter he seemed than when she had last hugged him, how much more frail. A knot cramped in her throat. “Je t’aime, Jacques”

  He returned her hug, then squirmed, and she understood his distress, the poor dear. Fearing he might evaporate if she let him go, she caressed his sweet face.

  “No matter the outcome, Jacques, I will always love you. Now, hasten to the garderobe.”

  His stifled sob as he shuffled away fell like a lodestone onto her burgeoning guilt. Then as if Jacques had never existed, Phillipe filled in the space again.

  Remembering the reason for this absurd outing, she met the knight’s doleful scrutiny, for they felt as torn by the impossible situation as she. “Heed me, men. We continue to the end of the hall, then veer left toward the chapel. I hope to avoid the confusion we had at the last turning. Banulf suffers a nasty bruise. Now, march.”

  The tramping of feet echoed again in the hall---and in her head. When they managed the corner without mishap she sighed with relief. Now, how to stop at the chapel without being trampled? And even more magical, how to obtain privacy?

  As she marched, Rochelle focused above the men’s heads in search for the reflected glows from the three wall-hung torchères that lit the hallway between here and the chapel, then spied the first.

  Un.

  One, as in the one devil, Becket, with his one forked tongue that had lured her into a frightening world of sensuality, then had sliced her apart.

  Deux.

  As in the two black pools of his eyes, his two hands that set her heart afire, his two booted feet that had then stomped out the flame and left her crushed and broken.

  Trois.

  The three emotions that burned within her, for she never wanted to see him again, ached for his return, yet longed for revenge. What confusion.

  Confusion---The perfect means of escape from her human prison so as to visit with Père Bertrand in private. Preparing for the certain impact, Rochelle took two steps past the third glow, then stopped.

  Banulf smashed into her back. She lurched into Davide. The human wall shattered.

  She ducked as Phillipe spun and swatted the taller Banulf on his arm. “You lummox. You . . .“

  Rochelle darted through the opening and toward the chapel, hating that the gentle giant seemed to continually suffer punishment because of her. Now if she could just slip through the doorway---

  Phillipe jerked her to a halt, his face ruddy from displeasure. “Although I might wish otherwise, my lady, I cannot allow you to be alone. Our manhood is at stake.”

  “My sanity is at stake.”

  Davide, Banulf and the other knights gathered in haste behind Phillipe, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear, disappointment, even chagrin at her near escape from such mighty warriors.

  Rochelle placed her hand atop Phillipe’s. “I beseech you to understand. I admire you, but with all of you around me I can barely breathe. I feel frantic inside, with an absurd desire to scream, then to run and hide just for a moment’s peace.”

  Their thoughtful silence gave her hope and she scrambled for more argument.

  “Look behind me, men. The chamber is naught but light-filtered emptiness and shadowed corners, devoid of human form, including Père Bertrand who Lady Angelique said wished to see me. Any intruder shall have to pass you to enter. If the priest does come, he is, after all, a man of the cloth sworn to abstinence. Besides, my brave knights, if all else should fail, I will call out and you will save me.” She willed a charming a smile.

  They mumbled among themselves again, then Phillipe gave a tentative nod. “Because we care much for you, my lady, we will wait here---but with the door open.”

  Her smile widened with her gratitude. “Merci.”

  Feeling a glorious freedom, Rochelle turned to scan the sparse sanctuary, in wonder of Père Bertrand’s whereabouts, absorbing the beauty of gray stone and brown wood . . . of space.

  Something thumped at the back of the chapel.

  In moving toward the sound, she passed the altar table now vacant of a cross --- vacant because of Becket. The reminder of the man she had forbidden her mind to think about, sharpened her continual pain, searing, twisting, tearing at her insides as from the moment she had awakened and had found him gone, and knew for what purpose.

  Grating, like feet over stone, drifted from around the emptiness.

  The chapel door banged shut behind her, the bolt clunked into place.

  A black-robed figure slammed against the front of her body. She crashed onto her back. Her skull banged agains
t the floor. Pain shot through her head and spine as the attacker landed atop her like a dropped boulder. While fighting not to drown in a dizzying blackness she felt her skirt jerked to her waist as the man in priest’s robes wedged between her now-spread thighs. Père Bertrand?

  Through her daze she heard pounding at the door, shouts for admittance.

  The knights.

  Castration.

  Determined to hang onto consciousness, she shoved against the heavy weight that pinned her to the floor.

  “Get off of me!” She gagged from the putrid breath that blew hot against her clammy cheeks. Frantic, she clawed at his face shadowed beneath the hood.

  “Cease, bitch. ‘Twill only take a moment, then DuBois will be mine.”

  “Gaston!” Terror whipped her stunned pulse into frenzied throbs.

  “Cease your struggles, bitch! I have the Pope’s and the king’s blessing to claim you. King Jean never heard of that lying bastard, Becket.”

  She felt the pressure of his manhood against her thigh, then against her cleft.

  Panic screamed through her body. Like in a hellish dream, the shouts of desperate knights echoed between the rhythmic booms against wood while the very act they feared ruptured their lives. If only she hadn’t begged for privacy.

  Castrated. They would be castrated.

  Struggling more for the knights than for herself, she slapped aside Gaston’s hands, then wrenched to throw him off as she grappled for anything she could reach to use as a weapon, but only grasped rushes. Hysteria rose like bile into her throat. She fought the helplessness that washed over her like a paralysis draining her strength.

  A loud battering shook the air. The knights used a ram. Somehow she must escape the inescapable.

  Frenzied for inspiration, Rochelle jabbed her thumbs into Gaston’s eyes. He yelled, then jerked upward, pressing his hands against his sockets. She rammed her fist into nose, then grasped his robe-covered manhood and twisted. He groaned, then raised to his knees as if for escape. Shoving with her heels, she inched backward but much too slowly according to her pulse. Her head bumped against something hard . . . like someone’s legs.

  Gaston roared with rage. “Hold her down, you worthless...“

  Rochelle flailed out, but the cloaked figure grasped her wrists and pinned them to the floor.

  The cracking of wood shot through the chapel.

  Gaston landed on top of her, forcing her legs apart.

  A scream ripped from her throat.

  The door shuddered, then crashed to the floor. The welcome sound of trampling feet echoed within the walls.

  “Lord help us. She’s been ravished. Kill the bastard.”

  Gaston shoved from atop her body. He glanced toward the approaching knights, then hesitated as if shocked.

  A woman’s scream stabbed through her horror. “You! Murderer!”

  He fled into the back hallway and melted into the darkness along with his accomplice, the knights behind him, swords drawn.

  Banulf lifted her to her feet. As she grasped the altar table for support, she saw his fear tinged with disappointment, as if she had betrayed him, betrayed them all, with unthinkable results.

  The mysterious woman slapped Banulf on the arm. “Throw this harlot in the dungeon. If you don’t apprehend that murderer, Gaston, then torture this slut until she confesses his whereabouts.”

  Rochelle glanced over her shoulder to see whom the lady meant but saw no one. Realization slugged into her stomach like a cold fist.

  Rochelle jerked her gaze to the middle-aged noblewoman who displayed such authority “Surely ‘tis not I to whom you refer. What plague wafts on the wind that makes others believe they can enter this castle unbidden, then shout orders for my arrest? Who are you?”

  “Lady Isabelle. Chatelaine of DuBois.”

  Chills slithered along Rochelle’s spine. “I am the chatelaine of DuBois.” Truth struck like a storm, harsh and relentless. “His mother. You are Sire Becket’s mother.”

  She nodded. “And you are?”

  “Lady Rochelle. Sire Becket’s wife.”

  A small gasp sounded from the doorway. An elegant woman garbed in a cobalt gown stood just inside the chapel. Young. Beautiful. Delicate. Meek.

  Lady Anne.

  Becket’s betrothed.

  Pain tore past Rochelle’s defense-wall and smashed her last vestige of hope. Had Becket already annulled the vows and wed this . . . this . . . icon of obedience? Had he consummated the marriage? Spilled his seed?

  Loved another?

  Nausea roiled her stomach and weakened her already shaky knees. She had never considered Becket a coward, but to send his mother and bride to inform Rochelle of the treachery smelled rank indeed.

  Becket’s mother marched to in front of Rochelle, blocking her view of her replacement.

  “His wife? You lie. And your father?”

  “Lord Reynaurd de DuBois.”

  The woman blanched. “’Tis falsehood.” Then her eyes narrowed. “I know who you are. But Becket doesn’t. For he would never wed the daughter of his father’s murderer.”

  “He said the vows.”

  “Did he bed you?” Despite her flaunt of authority, her voice sounded shaky.

  “Our relationship is not of your concern.”

  Lady Isabelle sighed as if with relief. “Your response confirms he hasn’t. And he never will, for he has suffered as much from your father’s lies as have I.”

  “As I informed your son, I am not my father.”

  “You are sired by evil. And when Becket learns you betrayed him with his enemy, he will dispose of you most readily.”

  “Gaston attacked me, but you will never believe the truth when the lie better serves your purpose.”

  “My purpose is that he wed Lady Anne. And yet, your very presence denotes my son feels an attraction for you.” Lady Isabelle ran her critical gaze over Rochelle’s form. “Despite your dowdiness, you possess a . . . a passion. You are a danger, more than either you or Becket knows. Which requires a more permanent solution, a more permanent separation else you muddle his judgment.”

  “You interfere in matters beyond your authority. Becket and I decide my fate. If you were other than Sire Becket’s mother I would insist you depart. But out of deference, I open the DuBois doors for you and Lady Anne.”

  Pierre bolted into the chapel, his eyes alight with joy, Sire Spitz hanging on for dear life as he hung around Pierre’s neck. “Sire Becket comes! The watchmen say he rides like the very devil! Hurry, Rochelle.”

  Rochelle braced for Pierre’s headlong embrace. Her brother loved Becket---for saving his life, for not condemning Pierre because of his affliction---for caring.

  Lady Isabelle snatched Pierre by the ear as he darted past. “You overstep your status, boy.”

  Pierre yelped with pain and stopped short. Sire Spitz hissed and leapt onto Lady Isabelle, but she swatted the yowling cat away.

  “The beast will die.”

  "Don’t you hurt my pet!”

  Rochelle leapt forward and broke the tight pinch that held Pierre prisoner. “He is not your affair, Lady Isabelle.”

  “You err, Lady Rochelle. He is not your affair. And you will soon learn how little power you have, for Becket will never deny his mother.” As she strode through the doorway, she nodded to Lady Anne, “Follow me,” then she departed, leaving Rochelle alone in the chapel with Pierre.

  Icy panic skimmed over Rochelle’s flesh. Shuddering, she enfolded Pierre in her arms. “I need your assistance, love. Go to Sire Becket’s chamber. Get the ring of keys he hides in the secret drawer beneath the armoire, then unlock the door to the Lord’s Chalice and meet me at the entryway to the great hall.”

  As he grabbed his pet and scampered away, Rochelle ran to her chamber, fluffed out her hair and donned the embroidered gown that had once been her bedcover.

  Becket probably took the wine from his mother and Lady Anne at that very moment! No, she must reach the Lord’s Chalice first
. Pierre wouldn’t fail her, besides, he had the key. In silent hysteria, she raced down the steps and through the confusion of bustling servants to Pierre who stood by the entry---empty-handed.

  “’Tis gone, Rochelle. That old witch ordered the knights to break open the cabinet that held the goblet. She waits for Becket outside.”

  “She enforces her position as mistress of DuBois.” Desperate, Rochelle scanned the great hall in wonder what to do. Her destiny as well as Pierre’s lay but a life-shattering decision away. Rushing to the head table, she poured wine into an ordinary tankard but because of her unsteady hands, the dark liquid sloshed onto the snowy cloth in spreading blotches.

  “He’s here. The master’s here.” Men’s voices floated from the bailey and intensified her fear of failure.

  Swallowing a scream of panic, she raced to the entry and positioned herself at the top of the stairs. Lady Isabelle stood in the bailey with the chalice, Lady Anne at her side as future chatelaine.

  And then she saw Becket. Her heart turned over. She loved him. She knew in that horrifying moment that she loved him. His certain rejection would rip her soul from out of her body.

  The dark-haired devil stood beside his steed as if he had just dismounted. He wore no armor beneath his jupon the color of hellfire, which meant he must have traveled in so much haste than he hadn’t bothered with his own protection. He glanced at his mother who offered the lord’s chalice, then his gaze caught Rochelle’s.

  She raised up the tankard. Burgundy wine quivered over the rim, beading upon her fingers like blood from her wounded heart.

  She forced Becket to choose.

  And yet, she only fooled herself. Becket would never take drink from her hand.

  “Welcome, Lord Becket Christophe de DuBois.” Lady Isabelle lifted the chalice in invitation.

  Rochelle’s gaze remained locked with Becket’s as she willed him to take the tankard from her hand.

  Not a sound uttered from the bailey. The sky gleamed too clear a blue, the sun too brilliant for such a dire moment. Becket shone most resplendent of all as if the sun, too, knew of the import and concentrated upon the man who decided her fate.

  Becket glanced at his mother, then at Lady Anne, then at the chalice.