Love Thine Enemy

  Rochelle sank inside. Would all judge her guilty with so little question? Indignation pricked her pride and she stiffened.

  "Angelique, Sire Becket wishes to know your whereabouts during the night." Rochelle rolled her gaze heavenward at the stupidity of the question.

  "Locked in my chamber, of course." Angelique patted her wimple as if primping for perfection. "Guarded by the most virile of knights." She growled the word, virile, then winked at Henri.

  Henri’s satisfied grin widened into an even more satisfied smile.

  Rochelle sighed. "I see. Sire Henri, might Lady Angelique have slipped out of the chamber while you slept?"

  Angelique stilled mid-pat. "Surely you jest."

  "That you slipped out?"

  "That he slept." Her musical laughter tinkled in mockery. "Take care, dear heart, or I’ll think you insult me apurpose."

  Rochelle’s cheeks burned as she turned to search for Pierre. Had Rochelle, in her inexperience, bored Sire Becket? After all, he had slept, although briefly. The throb between her legs testified to her activities the major part of the night. Her cheeks burned hotter from the memory, as did her womanhood.

  The sight of Père Bertrand hurrying in from the bailey ceased her ruminations of sexual inadequacy.

  "The indignity! Master or no, Sire Becket had better not ever order such a blasphemy again as to guard me, a man of the cloth, like some villainous knave. I..." He halted. "Where is your wimple? Put it on immediately. And what is that... That is no gown you wear, that’s an obscenity!"

  "Leave me be! Oh addelty, cry.

  She stole him and the lad will die."

  Rochelle jerked toward Griselda’s shouts, following the sounds into the hallway. Davide and Phillipe forced Griselda from the direction of the chapel. The uncooperative prisoner pulled and tugged with every step, her witch-like hair in even more riotous disarray than usual.

  Rochelle’s stomach knotted with guilt. The woman had been naught but disagreeable ever since Rochelle could remember, but a murderess? And what did the old woman mean, the lad will die? A threat if the knights didn’t release her?

  Rochelle devised how best to glean the truth as the men dragged Griselda to a protesting stop in front of her.

  "Be calm, Griselda. I’ll not allow them to harm you. I merely want to question you--"

  "Get Sire Becket and leave me be.

  She’ll kill the boy. She’s mad, you see."

  Rochelle’s heart stumbled. "Do you mean Pierre? Someone intends to kill him? Who?"

  "Isabelle. The lady’s insane--"

  A cry tore from Rochelle’s throat. She pulled on Phillipe’s jupon. "Get Sire Becket. Davide, seek aid. Hurry!" She turned to Griselda. "Where? Where did she take him?"

  "In the tunnels they went. She told Pierre

  his addelty cat is lost in--"

  "Which tunnel, Griselda?"

  "I only heard echoes and--"

  "From where did you come?"

  "The chapel. A secret panel--"

  "Show me."

  She hurried with Griselda down the hallway, through the chapel, and into the back entry where Gaston had disappeared after the attack--only yesterday. Her stomach roiled. Might Gaston still lurk inside? Between Lady Isabelle and Gaston, Pierre wouldn’t have a chance. Thank heavens Sire Becket and the knights were at the keep.

  Griselda fumbled with a piece of molding. A part of the wall creaked open.

  Black lay beyond. Like a tomb. A cool mustiness flickered the torchlight and drafted against her flesh. She shivered. Remembrance of long ago horrors chilled her to the bone. The thought of Pierre in there chilled her to the marrow. Without further hesitation, she snatched a torch from the holder and rushed into the tunnel.

  Rochelle’s echoing footsteps reminded her of the horrors of being lost in there. Light from the smoky torch wavered on the cave-like walls like ghoulish spirits. Unwanted memories enshrouded her courage. Bats. Cold. Hunger. Fear.

  Hurry, Becket.

  "Rochelle!" Sire Becket’s too-remote shout drew Rochelle to a stop. "We must wait for him."

  Griselda tugged at her arm.

  "Make haste or, fie,

  Pierre will die."

  Panicked, Rochelle took another step into the dim-lit darkness, confident of Sire Becket’s imminent arrival, grateful of his strength, wondering why she ever longed for solitude.

  A grating sounded behind her as if the panel closed.

  Terror ripped through her body.

  "Rochelle!" She heard Becket bang on the wall, the sounds muffled thuds. "Blast it to hell," sounded weak, distant.

  "Griselda, how do we open the door from this side?"

  "He will only delay us." Griselda tugged Rochelle another step

  "Rochelle!" More deadened bangs sounded on the wall. "She lures you into the tunnels in hopes you’ll become lost and die. And what about Gaston? This could be a trap! Come out of there. Now!"

  A different fear crept up Rochelle’s spine. The swish of a woman’s skirt… She attempted to wrest Griselda’s clamped fingers from her arm. "I won’t go without him."

  "You delay us. Now, quiet. Listen for their voices."

  Somewhere she heard water drip, but no admonishments or cries for help.

  Or a rhyme. For the second time since Rochelle’s first memories, Griselda hadn’t rhymed. Chills skimmed over her flesh in a thousand directions like frantic spiders.

  "Pierre isn’t in danger at all, is he, Griselda? You lied to Angelique yesterday so that Gaston could attack me, and you lie to me now. For the same purpose? But Sire Becket has already consummated the vows."

  "I don’t lie. And Gaston has left the tunnels. Come. We lose Pierre and Isabelle." Griselda tugged harder, surprisingly strong for an old woman. Unprepared for Griselda’s strength, Rochelle slid two more steps.

  Panic rose like the bile in Rochelle’s throat over Griselda’s sudden changes. "What happened to your rhymes? Your shuffled steps? Who are you?"

  "We have no time for this. Hurry."

  She jerked free of Griselda’s hold, then stumbled, gasping in pain as her hip and elbow struck cold stone. The torch clattered to the ground, then went out! All went grave-black.

  A hand clamped Rochelle’s scream to a stifled cry. "If you yell she’ll hear you and be warned." Griselda’s voice, not Gaston’s.

  Trust no one. Sire Becket’s axiom burst into her mind as a belated warning.

  Rochelle slapped the hand away and clambered backward like an awkward crab.

  "Then I’ll go without you, Rochelle. I would never have believed you a coward."

  The odd challenge brought Rochelle scrambling to her feet. Determined for answers, she leapt toward the sound of the receding footsteps, grabbing fabric and muscle.

  "If you want me to go with you, Griselda, then tell me. Why should I trust you?"

  "I am your mother."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "Rochelle!"

  Becket pounded on the end wall in search of something moveable, but nothing happened. Frantic, he grabbed the molding on the side wall to use for balance so as to kick with his foot. The molding shifted. A grating sounded. The wall moved!

  With a torch held in front of him, Becket squeezed through the ever-widening opening, colliding with dank mustiness and bone-chilling cold. He heard clanks as several knights hurried in behind him, swords drawn.

  Griselda clutched at Lady Rochelle, who appeared stunned, shaken. What had that old woman done to her?

  With a roar, Becket leapt at Griselda, his weapon in a downward slash.

  Rochelle screamed, then threw herself in front of the old woman as if to protect her!

  "Sacre bleu!" Becket twisted to divert the fatal blow, the sword’s vibration jarring along his arm from the ringing jolt against the floor. "Are you insane, Lady Rochelle? I could have killed you."

  The old woman hurriedly limped beyond the light and into the tunnel.

  "Oh, addelty paddelty, time grows nigh.
<
br />   I fear the boy will surely die."

  Becket glanced at the still-pale Rochelle. He shook inside from how close he had come to slicing her in two. Then skepticism wormed into his consternation. Why had Rochelle risked her life for Griselda? For certain, something untoward had transpired between the two women.

  "What goes on here, Lady Rochelle? The men said Griselda frightened you with some wild tale and that you sent for me."

  "’Tis your..." She glanced at the knights as if uncertain whether to continue, then flitted her gaze to him. "Your mother lured Pierre into the tunnels. Griselda overheard their voices."

  "My mother? In here with Pierre?" He shook his head. "Griselda knew just what trick to use to entice you into danger. She most likely knows we suspect her of poison."

  Lady Rochelle stilled, her brow furrowed as if she ran arguments through her mind. Then she touched his hand with her cold, shaking fingers and he fought the urge to enfold them within his palms.

  "Sire, I know you say to trust no one. But I believe Griselda speaks true. I believe Pierre is in danger. I beg you, husband. Trust me in this. If not, I will go without you."

  Becket stared at Rochelle, the woman who feared the caves and tunnels with an obsessive dread, the woman who risked getting lost again in order to save Pierre, Becket’s brother. Admiration for Rochelle swelled in his heart.

  And yet, what if Griselda lied? What if Rochelle plotted with Griselda because he had doubted Rochelle’s innocence about Lady Anne's murder? Becket might have seen, not a threatening hold from Griselda, but a conspiratorial embrace.

  And yet, what if Griselda told the truth?

  Becket snatched the torch and waved the knights back to the once-secret entrance. "I’ll take care of this."

  He grabbed Rochelle’s cold hand and pulled her into a run, catching up with Griselda, who lifted her hem and ran with startling swiftness--minus a limp. The sight spiraled his suspicion into alarm. Later. Later he would discover the truth.

  Becket felt as if they flew without moving forward, much like moths trapped forever within a ball of light, for the darkness remained before and behind them severing them from the world.

  Griselda darted first one way, then another, further and further into the death-maze, as if following an innate animal sense. Apprehension grew in Becket’s mind with as much speed as poisonous toadstools in rank earth. Apprehension that Griselda had lied to Rochelle, that the woman led them so deeply into the tunnels that he and Rochelle could never find their way out. Graver still, that Rochelle conspired with Griselda.

  As their footsteps echoed in disembodied syncopation to their labored breaths, another fear emerged. That Pierre already lay dead.

  Griselda halted a short distance from a corner.

  Rochelle pressed one hand over her heaving chest and clamped the other over her side as if to ease a stitch.

  Becket strained to hear beyond his rasping breaths.

  Screams of pain shafted through the darkness.

  Becket’s heart cramped. He rushed around the corner, then halted, shocked.

  A dropped torch flickered a dim light on the outrageous scene. Too engrossed to realize they had been discovered, Pierre held onto Becket’s mother’s skirts preventing her from leaving him behind. And as he held on, he kicked and hit with ferocious intensity, his blows punctuated with Becket’s mother’s protests.

  "Let go of me, you scoundrel! Ow!"

  "You lied to me! You said my cat was lost in here."

  "Cease that kicking. Ouch! How dare you strike me, you...you--"

  Becket burst into laughter, relieved that Pierre still lived, loving that the small human windmill had thwarted someone twice his size. Pride for Pierre’s spunk warmed the iciness in his chest, a pride soon overwhelmed by his rage. How dare she.

  "Rochelle!" Pierre’s shout mingled with the fading echoes of Becket’s brief burst of laughter, then the boy collided with Rochelle in a love-embrace.

  Isabelle gasped in surprise and clutched her hands against her bosom, a tactic Becket had seen her use countless times.

  "Thank heaven you found us, son. I followed him in here, trying to persuade him of his dangerous folly in exploring the tunnels in search of some worthless cat, doing my best to--"

  "Murder Pierre?"

  "Murder? You doubt my word?" She snatched her torch from the floor, then stiffened in her imperious fashion.

  "Your word is as false as my parentage. Why did you seek his death? He is but a child and of no threat."

  "Murder is as murder does.

  Ask about the babes that was."

  His mother jerked to face Griselda who lurked in the shadowed edge of the torchlight, shoulders hunched, hair pulled over her face, swaying from foot-to-foot like a mad beast. And yet, he had seen otherwise.

  "Griselda is but an insane creature." His mother swiped the torch toward Griselda as if for better light—or, as if in warning. Becket tensed, ready to protect the peculiar old woman.

  Griselda spun out of the way like a spirit of the Netherworld, twisting and turning in and out of the shadows in a crazed type of dance.

  "Bastard’s all. I tried. I cried.

  "But once a year the children died."

  Becket’s heart forgot to beat. "Once a year?"

  "She killed children?" Isabelle rushed at Griselda swinging the flared taper as if to catch the old servant afire.

  "Cease!" Becket grasped his mother’s arm.

  Griselda leapt into the spilled torchlight, crouched, hair wild, finger pointed at Isabelle.

  "In spring they fell, by ones and twos.

  Poisoned by a witch’s brew."

  His mother wrenched within his hold. "Slay her! Kill her now! She deserves to die!"

  Cold clamminess skimmed over his flesh along with the truth.

  "Your sacred pilgrimages to Compostela, ma mère. Every spring. To help rid the world of evil, you said. Pilgrimages of death, you meant. On children."

  "The insult!" She spun to face him, shocked. But he knew.

  "Why?" The question that shouted within his mind slipped out as an enraged-trembled whisper.

  "You speak to me thus after all I have sacrificed for you so that you could reclaim DuBois and Moreau?" She jerked from his hold and backed away.

  "You sacrificed your soul!"

  "You, who reject any Divine Authority, dare belittle me over the sacrifice of my soul? I suffered worse than loss of soul. I suffered loss of status. Everything I have done, I have done for you."

  "You murdered--for you."

  "In war you commit the same. ‘Tis your profession, knight. You murder any who step in your way. For me, this is war."

  "On children?"

  "Every bastard that lives is possible proof that you, too, are a bastard." She pointed at Pierre. "Look at him. He screams to the world you are sired by the same father. He threatens everything! Everything! I did what any woman would do to survive."

  Becket drew in his breath, struck frigid by the similarities between his mother’s tirade and Rochelle’s when he first met her. What other traits might they share? Did Rochelle murder Lady Anne? Becket glanced at Rochelle who clutched Pierre to her with a ferocity that warned if anyone dare harm him they risked their life.

  His mother’s declaration echoed Rochelle’s demeanor so perfectly that the sight froze him. Shaking his head to interrupt the unwelcome thought, he returned his attention to his mother as she recounted her pride-filled accomplishments.

  "I played the man’s game in a man’s world. I selected the proper strengths for your bloodline. I plotted. I planned. When Gaston deceived me, I never gave up. When he burned you, he believed me defeated, but I swallowed my disgust and raised you despite your ugly scars. I beat them all. We have DuBois!" Her eyes glowed with a desperate madness. "Now, ‘tis up to you to make certain we keep it. Kill them."

  "I will keep DuBois without murdering the blameless."

  "You were willing to do the same when you first arrived. And
your wife is not blameless. She poisoned--"

  "Eeeeeeeeeee."

  Becket flinched when Griselda screeched. The servant moaned and rolled on the cave floor, then jumped to her knees, clutching at her throat with one hand while pointing at his mother with the other.

  "Lady Anne, she gasped, she cried.

  She writhed in pain before she died."

  "Lady Anne?" The name escaped along with Becket’s shaky sigh of relief over proof his wife hadn’t performed the deed. "You accused Rochelle, ma mère. But why kill Lady Anne, an innocent in all this treachery?"

  "To make you do your duty." The madness in her glower radiated to a dangerous intensity. She waved the torch to indicate the others, the light flickering riotously on the cave walls. "The only way you are assured of DuBois and Moreau is if you kill these three witnesses to the truth. Look at them. Prisoners of the tunnels. Even if they escaped into the labyrinth they wouldn’t survive. So easy. You exist because of my daring. You owe me."

  Becket’s torment twisted within him like a white-hot dagger. "How does a knight imprison his own mother? How does he sentence her to death?"

  She stared at him in disbelief. "Sentence me to death?" The torch-light wavered over her shocked expression. She stepped back, fidgeting with the buttons on the front of her bodice in frenetic movements. "Is this how you repay me? I give you life and you threaten my mine?"

  Becket swallowed to ease the cramp in his throat but to no avail. "I will lock you in the lord’s chamber until I decide your fate."

  Her eyes widened in horror. She clutched at his jupon. "’Tis because I am a woman! Men in the guise of Kings and knights burn and kill, children included, then call themselves great for their desecration. You judge me for what you yourself have done. You hypocrite!"

  Becket remained rooted in place, uncertain how to respond.

  His mother’s gaze flitted about the tunnel. Then like a nightmare, he saw in her eyes what she intended.

  Becket lunged. She twisted beyond his reach, flinging the flare at Rochelle and Pierre.

  Rochelle’s gown erupted in flames. Screams reverberated within the tunnel. Crazed with fear and horrid memories, Becket tore at the burning fabric, searing his hands, fighting to save Rochelle from the same fate as the man he would always consider as his father. Griselda’s hands moved with as much haste as his, slapping at flames, ripping the silk until, finally, only smoke drifted within the smoke.