Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  "By your wife."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "Lady Anne is dead?" Rochelle hastily donned her robe and scrambled to her feet, the rushes prickling her soles like the dread that prickled her nape.

  "You play not well the innocent, Lady Rochelle." Isabelle shoved past Sire Becket and into the chamber, her gray-streaked hair in a wild tumble about her shoulders.

  Becket caught his mother’s arm. "Lady Rochelle lay here with me."

  "Which shows you, the fool."

  Rochelle closed her eyes, sickened by his mother’s choice of words that echoed Sire Becket’s. Surprised he hadn’t immediately denounced her, Rochelle glanced at him in apprehension of his certain reaction.

  With a slow purpose that she recognized as controlled anger, Sire Becket shut the door, then leaned his back against the wood, ankles crossed, arms folded over his dawn-tinged chest that Rochelle ached to explore again, a wantonness she feared he might now forbid. No, she would make him understand she loved him.

  But first...

  Rochelle strode toward her accuser. "I fathom what you attempt, Lady Isabelle. Despite what Sire Becket wrongly believes about me, he knows killing is not of my nature."

  "He’s blinded by lust. And you are well capable of murder. You are polluted by Gaston’s blood."

  Sire Becket’s scoff trembled as if with repressed rage, but whether at her or his mother, Rochelle didn’t know.

  "And thanks be to you, ma mère, I am polluted by Reynaurd’s."

  "I chose Reynaurd with care: Cunning; strength; shrewdness, qualities necessary for you, the next master of DuBois."

  "A bastard."

  "Only one other knows. Your wife. The murderess. Do away with her and your secret is safe."

  "She could not have murdered Lady Anne. Rochelle lay with me." Sire Becket straightened to a stand.

  Rochelle stared, stunned that he had not grasped at any excuse to indict her in front of his mother. And yet, maybe he but opted for privacy before he…what? What would he do?

  He opened the door and motioned to Lady Isabelle. "Await me in the great hall. You will tell me all you know about the evil bargain which culminated in Alberre’s death, the man whom I’ve always believed as my father. No threats. The truth."

  His mother shook off Sire Becket’s hold. "If you seek the truth, ask your wife about her presence in Lady Anne’s and my chamber less than one mark past on the candle."

  "’Tis falsehood! I never entered your chamber." Rochelle glanced at Becket then stilled, frozen by the hardness in his expression. "Sire, surely you don’t believe her."

  He shifted his attention to his mother. "Forgive me if I am slow to accept your accusations, ma mère. Your credibility has been dashed by your recent revelations."

  "Heed me, son. A sound awakened me. In my drowsiness I saw movement. Hair as white as snow reflected dying embers. A robe as black as the shadows covered her body. The robe she now wears."

  Sire Becket slammed his gaze into Rochelle’s, scanning her from head to toe. "Did you leave the chamber while I slept?"

  "Well I...merely to go to the garderobe."

  His mother laughed, hard and vicious. "As flimsy a lie as your marriage. The sunrise glints off the chamber pot that sits beneath your bed. Yet you tell me you trod dark, draft-chilled halls to sit upon cold stone when you could have relieved yourself in comfort?"

  "I am unused to a husband within my chambers."

  "You’ve been wed before." Isabelle turned her back on Rochelle as if dismissing her. "Ask yourself this, son. Who else would wish Lady Anne dead? Who else has that robe? That hair?"

  "Wait below." Becket urged his mother into the opening. Fury vibrated in his tone, and this time Rochelle had no doubt his anger was directed at her, not Lady Isabelle. How to persuade him otherwise?

  The thud of the shut door sounded with the thud of Rochelle’s heart.

  "Sire Becket--"

  "Cease." He tossed aside the linen and jerked on his hose, covering his powerful legs which had moved him so rhythmically, so exhaustively inside her that she still throbbed from the intimacy.

  She stepped toward him. "Husband--"

  "Your threat, rather innocent at the time, repeats in mockery inside my head."

  "My threat?"

  "That you would not allow Lady Anne to have me." He pulled on his jupon without even donning the underlayer.

  "You misinterpret again. I merely meant to seduce her from your mind. But even so, we had already consummated the vows, thus I had no reason to kill her."

  "You also expressed concern that I might still send you to a convent and then wed Lady Anne." He buckled on his sword as he strode to the door.

  "Sire Becket, side not against me."

  "Death has no side. Except permanency." He paused, hand on handle, his attention locked on her like a vigilant predator. "You have denied the killing. I must decide whether truth or lie."

  "As God is my witness, I did not kill her."

  "God is witness to innumerable atrocities, many committed in His name. And yet He does naught. I thought at first He merely cared not. Then when a lad of nine, I learned the bitter truth. God does not exist."

  "He exists for me."

  "Then we are both fools."

  The slam of the door reverberated within her soul. She stared at the closed wooden panel, a representation of the barrier between her and Becket, thick and impenetrable. His mother obviously lied in order to shove him over the edge of suspicion so that he would rid the world of Rochelle. His mother obviously didn’t know of Rochelle’s determination.

  Refusing surrender, she faced the sunrise, a sign of hope, of life reborn.

  "Somehow, some way, husband, I will convince you I did not murder Lady Anne. I will convince you that I love you." Why had she not told him before now? The miserable timing of her confession would prod him to believe she merely lied for convenience. And yet, he would claim there were many reasons for her to lie about loving him.

  Wondering how to accomplish the impossible, Rochelle donned her gown now rumpled from a night on the rushes. Still, ‘twas preferable to her old faded ones. Smoothing the wrinkles with her hands, Rochelle dashed down the spiral steps past the floor where Lady Anne reclined in eternal repose. Laments of the wailers followed Rochelle down the steps to the great hall like cries of accusations. As chatelaine Rochelle should join them, but she had a life to save. Hers.

  Sire Becket stood before the fire in the great hall, head down, as if all the sins of the world weighed on his shoulders. His mother paced beside him, mouth moving in scoldings beyond Rochelle’s hearing, her finger pointed for emphasis.

  Rochelle moved to his wine steward who stood at the sideboard pouring the DuBois elixir into a tankard. Praying for Divine guidance, she selected a container and carried the drink toward Sire Becket.

  Rochelle heard Lady Isabelle prate about, "evil," "poison," and "Anne," and knew what accusations filled in-between. As she neared, the lecture became more distinct.

  "When Lady Anne’s father..." His mother turned and Rochelle lost the words. Lady Isabelle paced the other way, then turned again. "...king hears of this, all may be lost. But if you serve punishment, you may avert disaster." She stopped to face him. "If you lack courage and allow her to live, Lady Rochelle will soon discover your secrets. After her certain betrayal you will realize your faux pas, but too late. I tell you--"

  Rochelle’s foot scraped on a hearthstone.

  Sire Becket whirled to face her.

  Lady Isabelle stepped between them. "What do you here?" She threw Becket a glare. "You did not lock her in her chamber? Like with all men, your sense is rooted between your legs."

  Sire Becket moved his mother aside. "Leave us."

  "She merely uses you."

  "I said, leave us."

  Rochelle faltered. Had he made his decision about her fate? So soon? The wine rippled from her tremors.

  Lady Isabelle stormed past Rochelle’s view, but Rochelle wa
gered his mother stayed within spying distance.

  Shaking like a newborn lamb about to be slaughtered, she lifted the tankard. "For you, Sire. To ease your troubles."

  Sire Becket stared at the tankard, then at her, brooding, suspicious.

  He believed her guilty! He feared she might have poisoned the wine. Pain sliced through her chest. Feeling as if her life vanished along with the sand in the hourglass, Rochelle fell to her knees.

  "Despite my vow never to kneel at your feet, Sire, I do so now. I beg you, husband. Believe me."

  "Aid me, Rochelle. Convince me of your innocence."

  "If I were the murderous kind, I would have slain Marcel when he beat me, but I did not."

  "Yet, he is dead."

  "By brigands!"

  "Hired by you? And who poisoned Lord Reynaurd? Who released Gaston? You would suffer aught to remain at DuBois, even to bedding me, so why not murder? Besides, if not you, then who? Who else has motive? Who else has hair as pale as yours? Convince me, damn you!"

  Did he know that each implication ravaged a part of her? And yet, she had known he would destroy her.

  "Sire, there is naught I can say as proof. Except that I..." She clutched the tankard, the sweet fragrance of the wine at odds with the catastrophe. She gazed up at him, his splendid face blurred by her welling tears.

  "Je t’aime, mon mari. The timing of my confession is suspect, I know. And ‘tis not irrefutable evidence of my innocence, but nevertheless I lay open my soul to you, for ‘tis not wine I offer you but my heart. You have the power to embrace or to slay, for if you allow me life but love me not, I will die inside. I repeat, my husband. I love you."

  A pained look slashed across his expression. He lifted his hands toward the tankard as if tempted, then fisted them at his sides.

  "I prove you in error." Fighting tears, she lifted the rim to her lips.

  "Cease!" Sire Becket ripped the container from her grasp and flung the offering into the fire. Before the clay had a chance to shatter he pulled her to her feet. "I could not abide your death. ‘Twould destroy me." He winced as if he had confessed more than he intended.

  "But ‘twas poured by your steward."

  Hardness replaced his fear. "Never again take the risk. Trust no one."

  Startled by his opposites of concern and rancor, she looked into his dark eyes but he hid his emotions.

  "Sire Becket, you must believe me. When I said you must have guessed long ago, I meant that, surely, you knew I loved you. In truth, I wonder if you did not steal my heart from the moment you first stepped through the doorway, sheathed in fire-reflected armor and dark mysteries."

  "My suspicions whisper you would lie, even about this, in order to remain at DuBois. And yet my soul... "

  He groaned. Then before she could draw breath, he crushed her against his body, covering her mouth with his, hungry, tasting, claiming. Desire poured from his kiss and throughout her body. She sank against him, allowing, no, encouraging his mastery.

  "Fool!" His mother’s voice rang in derision.

  Rochelle returned the kiss, harder, wilder, desperate to shut out the world that sought to tear them apart.

  "Release her!" Pierre’s command filtered through her haze.

  "Sacre bleu. The little hellion." Sire Becket spun, then stilled as if turned to stone.

  Pierre flailed and kicked, his arms and legs blurs of angry blows. Sire Spitz clung onto Pierre’s shoulder, spitting and swiping at Becket with bared claws.

  "Pierre, cease!" Rochelle reached out, but Sire Becket barred her with his arm, the rest of him as immovable as the stone walls.

  "The upstart." Lady Isabelle rushed toward them. "Have him flogged."

  "Leave him!" Sire Becket waved her away.

  As if confused by Becket’s behavior, Pierre stepped back, fists on hips, black eyes flashing, the image of defiance.

  The image of Becket.

  Not her half-brother, but Becket’s. Reynaurd had sired them both – with Lady Isabelle that produced Becket, and with the peasant woman that resulted in Pierre.

  The loss pulled a hole in her spirit. And yet, how could she not have seen? How could she not have known from first glance? How could all not see?

  Like two bulls, Becket and Pierre stared at each other, Pierre in challenge, Becket stunned. Sire Becket surely grasped the truth. What whirled through his mind? Acceptance? Rejection?

  Fear prickled along her spine.

  Pierre. A witness to the world that he and Sire Becket shared the same father. Living testimony of Becket’s bastardy. A danger.

  She glanced at Lady Isabelle who appeared equally stunned, pale, horrified. Did she, too, guess the far-too obvious?

  Uncertain of Sire Becket’s and Lady Isabelle’s response, Rochelle tensed, prepared to defend Pierre to the death.

  Sire Becket held out his hand. "Come hither, Pierre. I would talk with you, man to man."

  Pierre lifted his chin, but Rochelle saw how he trembled, saw his fright beneath the bluster. Sire Spitz hissed.

  Sire Becket stretched his hand out further. "I will not harm you, Pierre, or Lady Rochelle. She is my wife. I am sworn to protect her. And you as well. Now, come."

  He called her his wife, a good sign. But he hadn’t said how he felt about her. Did he protect her out of love, or duty? No matter, for he also swore to protect her bro. . . no, protect his brother, and for that she would love him forever.

  Pierre stood his ground.

  Sire Becket remained expectant. "Come, my friend. Unless...you are afraid."

  Pierre stiffened as if with indignation, then strode to claim Sire Becket’s hand. The two males moved to one side of the mammoth hearth, their raven hair gleaming in the firelight, and of a sudden, she feared for them both. Someone wanted Reynaurd’s bastards slain. Which now meant Pierre and Becket.

  Sire Becket lowered onto one heel, putting him closer to Pierre’s eye-level. Pierre stayed erect, hands clasped behind his back, the resistant ally. As if sensing Becket meant Pierre no harm, Sire Spitz leapt to the floor, curling into sleeping position on the warm hearthstones.

  While Becket visited, Rochelle watched Pierre’s face change from wariness to incredulity. Open-mouthed, Pierre glanced at Rochelle, then back at Sire Becket. What did Becket tell him? Did he call Pierre brother? Or did he order him away under the guise of promised protection?

  No, she would not allow such a sentence, although she didn’t know how she could stop him.

  With his attention intent on Pierre, Sire Becket reached behind him toward Rochelle and encouraged her to take his hand.

  Joy leapt inside her, a foreign emotion, and she cherished the sensation. Swallowing around the boulder in her throat, she moved forward and laced her fingers with Becket’s. The warmth of his callused flesh made her realize the iciness of her own.

  He straightened and slid his arm around her waist. She tingled with want.

  "Ma femme, I have explained to Pierre the miracle. How he and I are brothers by blood. How much I treasure the news. How, if he allows, ‘twould give me great pride to share him with you."

  He lifted his gaze to hers, that sense of awe in his eyes she thought she had seen when he had moved so erotically inside her.

  "I told Pierre how blessed he and I are because of you."

  "Because of me?"

  "If not for you, he would not still exist. If not for you, I would not have the brother for which I have always longed. You have given me a gift beyond my expectations: A family." He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, then softly laughed. "I feel more whole than I can ever remember."

  Her joy welled into euphoria. Maybe she and Sire Becket had a future, after all.

  He returned his focus to Pierre, but more serious. "We must keep this secret a while longer, Pierre. But soon, if all goes as planned, I can shout the news…well…we must still keep this miracle a secret and will worry about the shouting later."

  Before Rochelle could question Sire Becket on what plans
he meant, Lady Isabelle interrupted, bright spots of color on her pale cheeks.

  "Who is this?" Lady Isabelle hissed the question, controlled panic in her tone.

  "A friend, ma mère."

  "Friend? Or foe?"

  "He is but a child."

  "He is the grim reaper, the destroyer of all for which I have suffered and sacrificed."

  "Nonsense. Heed me, ma mère. You will treat both Rochelle and Pierre with respect."

  Lady Isabelle forced a tight smile. "As you say. By the by, a messenger has come for you. From the king. Shall your wife and this lad receive him in your stead?"

  "You bait me, ma mère."

  "I show you the error of your ways. However, to please you, I will befriend the boy."

  Sire Becket nodded as if in acceptance of his mother’s compliance and pulled Rochelle aside.

  Undecided as whether to lean into his strength, or to follow his too-acquiescent mother, Rochelle stumbled. He caught her to him and his cedary scent filled her senses.

  Chuckling, he gazed down at her, desire overshadowing his disquiet. "Did you know that with your very first stumble, you tripped into my life and into my stubborn heart?" He brushed a kiss across her forehead, then he straightened, his look more grave. "I may be occupied at length. I have sent for Lady Angelique and Père Bertrand to make certain they were guarded through the night, thus free from suspicion in Lady Anne’s death. I also have scouts in search of Griselda. The old woman’s hair is white from age. Mayhap in mother’s drowsiness, she mistook her for you. Griselda is the most likely suspect in both deaths since she brings the wine."

  Before she could respond, Sire Becket turned from her and strode through the milling knights toward the entry.

  Rochelle glanced around the great hall for Pierre but didn’t see him.

  "Dear heart!"

  Rochelle turned to see Lady Angelique approach. Henri ambled by her side, a satisfied grin on his face.

  "What is all this..." Angelique flipped her hand. "...this dreariness about another death? And whose?"

  "Lady Anne’s."

  "The frail pasty who arrived yesterday? The one in hopes of stealing your husband?" She pursed her freshly rouged mouth and shook her head. "I am the last to cast blame upon you, dear heart. After all, one must protect one’s own. I would do the same should an interloper interfere with my man." She batted her lashes at Henri.