Love Thine Enemy

  "Weep not, my brave knight." Rochelle brushed her fingers over his face and wiped away tears he hadn’t realized he had shed. "I am unharmed, for you pulled the melting fabric away from my flesh." As if grateful, she leaned against his chest.

  His heart turned over, enfolding her within the scarred depths. Becket gathered her and a sobbing Pierre against his body with a silent vow to, somehow, protect them from the coming holocaust, for war threatened like another plague, except more profane. He strained his blurred gaze past the light. His mother hid in one of the tunnels, mayhap lost forever. He must search for her. But later. He stood, Rochelle safe in his arms, at least for the moment.

  "Griselda, guide us to the lord’s chamber. Then you will tell us who you are. Without a single addelty paddelty. And don’t bother to limp."

  As if frightened, Griselda swept her gaze along the blackness of the converging tunnels.

  "I never thought you a cruel mate

  to taunt a cripple ‘bout her gait."

  Griselda picked up the quickly-fading torch from the floor and, against his orders, moved with her one-sided walk in the opposite direction.

  "Griselda, I said to the lord’s chambers."

  "I beg you, Sire. We shan’t go there."

  The walls do breathe, and see, and hear,

  "Griselda!" His shout bounced within the cave until a league of the old woman’s name battered his ears.

  With Pierre in a run at his side, Becket strode to catch up. "Griselda, you will tell me who you are and why this pretense. Where do you take us?"

  "Where waters heal, and drown the sound."

  "‘Tis dangerous talk you do propound."

  He swallowed his questions, wondering if anyone besides his mother hid within the blackness. Gaston? For certain Griselda acted terrified.

  The faint sound of crashing water caught his attention.

  The exit beneath the waterfall.

  Excitement dashed all else from his mind. He had, with Griselda’s guidance, traversed from the chapel to the mysterious exit that Rochelle had discovered when lost in the cave. The exit Gaston had used in his escapes.

  A thrill of determination chased along Becket’s spine. With his persuasion, Griselda would teach him the layout of the intricate maze that honeycombed the mountain.

  Cold mist gusted on his face and arms, then he saw the ledge that ran behind the prismatic cascade of melted snow. Becket placed Rochelle on a waist-high stone shelf that protruded from the back wall. He snuggled Pierre between Rochelle and himself. One misstep on the slick rocks and his brother would plunge to his death.

  Taking care not to reach too far and be swept off in the down-rush of water, Becket used his hands to divert sheets of icy liquid over the reddened patches on Rochelle’s shins. She let out a startled cry, then sighed, shuddering as if with relief. The burns weren’t severe, but he silently praised Griselda for the genius of bringing them there. The coolness would take away Rochelle’s discomfort.

  He nodded at Griselda to stand beside him so that he could hear her above the almost-deafening sound.

  Although reluctant, she edged to his side, glancing back at the cave as if to make certain no one watched. Or as if gauging whether she could reach the darkness before he caught her.

  "Now, reveal your identity."

  She brushed her hair from her scarred face, then straightened her spine as if proud, appearing younger, stronger.

  "I’m Rochelle's mother, Giselle Rochande Christine de Blandeau. I scrambled the letters for the name Griselda. I even suggested her name to Lady Beatrice--the first part of Rochande and the last of Giselle, plus Christine, the name I intended to call her before our world shattered that dark night."

  Shocked, Becket threw a suspicious glare at Rochelle but saw genuine befuddlement.

  "Sire, Griselda, rather Giselle, informed me of the same just as you came to my rescue. I am as surprised as you."

  Giselle shook her head, her eyes wide with fright. "You three must continue to call me Griselda as long as Gaston lives else he'll kill me, and this time he'll not fail."

  Becket remembered Rochelle’s stunned expression when he had first entered the tunnel, which must have been when Griselda first told her. He also remembered the woman's former tale about what had happened to Rochelle's mother. Nothing fit.

  "You lie, Griselda. You said Gaston shoved her mother off a cliff."

  "He did. I survived."

  "You also said Rochelle is the image of her mother."

  "I once looked as she. Fear of Gaston turned my hair more aged-white. The fall off the cliff gashed and battered my face, making me unrecognizable. An odd blessing. In my sudden anonymity, I convinced Lady Beatrice to allow me to serve her and the new babe, an easy task since no other wished to care for Rochelle. All who had attended the birth had mysteriously died that same night and the rumor spread that an evil spirit lurked around the babe. Gaston killed them, of course, to bury all witnesses who were aware he had switched Rochelle for the dead child. He took Marcel to Moreau."

  "Marcel?" Rochelle’s voice barely sounded above that of the crashing water.

  "Your twin."

  Rochelle covered her mouth with her hands as if to stifle a cry. Moisture puddled in her incredible eyes.

  Becket slipped his hand beneath Rochelle’s damp hair and cradled her nape in his palm. "Griselda, to what purpose did Gaston perform this sickness?"

  "He assured his bloodline in both camps. Genius, he boasted. When I fought him, he attempted my death to silence me before I could shout of the obscenity."

  Rochelle shuddered, dashing her hands over her cheeks to wipe away her tears. "I don’t understand, Griselda. From my first memories you have treated me with naught but contempt."

  "A disguise. As is the limp that healed long ago. As are the rhymes. All so that I could protect you."

  "Protect me? How?"

  "When you were lost in the cave, I lured you to this exit with a candle."

  "You held the glow I believed a light through an opening?"

  "And Marcel. Why do you think he couldn’t consummate the marriage? The wine, my daughter. Laced with saltpeter."

  Rochelle stilled, eyes closed, as if in stunned acceptance.

  The truth slithered along Becket’s flesh in chills as icy as the waterfall. The woman Rochelle disliked--her guardian angel. Her mother.

  Becket studied the woman, trying to picture her in the image of Rochelle.

  "Griselda, if you are her mother, why didn’t you take Rochelle from here instead of allowing her to suffer the insolence of Reynaurd and the brutality of Marcel?"

  "Take her where? Survived how? Gaston would have found us. Then what would have happened to Rochelle? But you must tell no one. If Gaston discovers that you know the truth about Rochelle’s parentage, and that I live, he will have no more use for her, and only revenge for me."

  Too many questions still lurked in the shadows. "Mayhap, Griselda, you know the answers to the remaining puzzles. Mayhap, you even poisoned Reynaurd. If so, why? To protect Rochelle? If not you, who did?"

  Fear contorted her already disfigured face and she backed to the exit, the hunched old woman again.

  "Leave it be. Live your life.

  Grasp happiness with boy and wife."

  "Cease that falsity." Becket followed her along the slick precipice. "I see in your eyes that you know. Tell me. And who released Gaston from the dungeon? Who is the third conspirator in this unholy mess?"

  She backed further, her expression, pure panic.

  "Addelty, paddelty. Never ask it.

  Else your bed will be a casket."

  "Griselda--"

  "I want you to live. I want you to laugh.

  I want you to thumb your nose at the past."

  I want you to cease this dangerous prying,

  If not, in hell you’ll soon be frying."

  "I can protect myself, Griselda. And I’ll protect you and Rochelle."

  "Sire Becket! You’re
frightening her. Mayhap she’ll tell you later."

  Becket paused at Rochelle’s protest but kept Griselda in his vision.

  "I beseech you, mon mari. Leave her be. We have already learned more this day than is fathomable. Besides I need you. I ask you to divert the water over my scorched flesh again."

  "You only hope to distract me, Rochelle. Finally, I will know the truth." He took another step, hand held out. "Tell me, Griselda."

  She shook her head, retreating further.

  "I want you to live. I want you to love.

  I--"

  Horror exploded within her panic.

  Rochelle screamed. "Pierre, don’t!"

  Becket spun to see Pierre reach into the waterfall! The force would tear him over the edge!

  Becket snatched Pierre’s arm and pulled him to safety. "What do you think you do?"

  "I want to cool her burns with water like you did."

  "Sacre bleu. Never try such an insanity again." Securing Pierre against Rochelle’s side, he mentally steadied his wild pulse and turned to resume his interrogation of Griselda.

  The empty exit stared at him in mockery.

  Griselda had slipped into the cave.

  Irony struck him with sad honesty. Two mothers hid within. One, pretending insanity. One, truly insane. Both sacrificing all for their children. Except, his mother had killed. And yet, what unnamed atrocities might Griselda have committed in the name of love? Even more horrifying, what atrocities might he commit to prevent France from stealing DuBois and Moreau, or even worse, to protect his loved ones? Once Rochelle learned the truth of his sworn loyalty, she would hate him. Betray him. How far would he go then to retain possession of the land? How far?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "War, Sire Gaston. That’s what I face with the English. I have no men to spare for your cause."

  King’s Jean’s refusal undermined Gaston’s hopes. He studied the ruler of France as his majesty strode with impatience about the lavish Parisian salon in the Louvre palace. The king stood as many hands high as Gaston. He possessed a thick, red beard. A sturdy build. Despite his thirty-odd years, women called him handsome. But then, what woman would dare say otherwise?

  As his majesty complained about the problems of being king, Gaston pondered how to manipulate Jean’s famous weaknesses--blind rage, and a tendency to panic. Especially in regard to the English. Gaston sidled to where King Jean stood beside the window.

  "Your majesty, Sire Becket mocks you. For one, I have learned he is bastard-born, which in France, means he cannot legally inherit, a law he chooses to ignore. And as we previously discussed, he alleges he possessed DuBois on the king’s authority. If not yours, then whose? Only Edward seeks your throne, which suggests Edward plants an inner-post at DuBois with Becket as overlord. Which suggests the English king plots to steal France from you, and soon. If you allow me several of your knights--"

  "Are you mad? If you speak true, I must concentrate all my efforts on the Western regions, poste haste." King Jean paced toward his desk, his panic in an obvious rise. "I have warned my cabinet for months that war is imminent, but do they heed me? Non! They say the citizenry complain that the taxes are already too high, that they will revolt if I ask for more, especially if I reinstate the salt tax. How do they expect me to defend my throne?" He swept a pile of papers from the corner of his desk, then kicked the fallen stack into a swirling mass. "By the rood, my charm and hollow promises will not stay the tide, infinitum!"

  Pleased that he had successfully riled the king’s temper, Gaston watched as his majesty motioned in irritation for his food taster to bring the silver tray loaded with wine, cheese and assorted sweetmeats. He snatched a stuffed date, then washed the bite down with a swig of wine. Seemingly more controlled, he nodded for Gaston to select from the delicacies.

  Gaston shook his head in polite refusal, having sworn long ago never to eat anything not prepared by his own men, even in the lavish surroundings of royalty.

  "A king’s lot is a sad affair." Jean dabbed his mouth with a square of linen, then glanced at Gaston as if he expected sympathy.

  "But not so sad, your majesty, that in your eagerness to rid yourself of the burden, you gladly surrender your throne to England. Thus, if you assist me with Sire Becket, mayhap I can assist you with King Edward."

  King Jean’s eyes lowered to half-mast, then he handed the chalice to his steward and waved the servant away.

  "You bribe me, Sire Gaston?"

  "I bargain."

  "You begin to sound much like my treacherous cousin, King Charles of Navarre. He still feels slighted that because of his young age he didn’t gain the throne instead of my father. He delights in playing one king against the other. Is that what you attempt?"

  "Not so, your majesty. Like all true Frenchmen, I hate the English."

  "You’d best not be like him." As if agitated, Jean slammed his hand atop an opened scroll on the desk. "Charles dares to plot against me with the English, brutally murders my friend merely because I bestowed upon him the title and privileges of Comté d’Angoulême which had once belonged to Charles’ mother, then has the audacity to befriend my son, the Dauphin, with intrigue in mind, I suspect." He fingered the dirk at his waist, gaze distant. "I predict a bloody future for my cousin."

  "If he doesn’t kill you first."

  King Jean jerked his attention to Gaston, face red.

  Gaston shrugged as if cowed. "Or, rather, have the English do so in his stead. You said earlier the truce is soon to expire. The pope seeks a permanent peace, and yet you admit no real negotiations are taking place. If I could thwart Edward’s plans at DuBois by reclaiming their inner post, war might be avoided altogether, your throne saved."

  King Jean rubbed his beard as if in thought, then nodded. "Follow your plan. I give you my blessing."

  Gaston stilled a moment, stunned by the suddenness of the king’s reversal. Impressed with his incredible accomplishment, Gaston smiled and swept his hand wide with his deep bow.

  "I give you my eternal gratitude, your majesty. With the aid of your knights, I am certain to save France for you."

  "My knights? Not so. I must concentrate on the Western front and annihilate the enemy as soon as they dare breach the border. Then Edward’s inner post will serve him naught."

  Gaston straightened, furious with himself for his uncommon gullibility. "How do you expect me to attack without an army?"

  "Raise one of your own."

  "He has taken aught I have--men, money and land."

  "Then do as the rest do. Take prisoners then ransom them for money. Or, organize a pâtis. Protection rackets are most profitable. Forced payments at arbitrary toll roads, added to supplies from villages and hamlets given in exchange for not burning and killing them will create a tidy sum." King Jean cocked a sly grin as if in one-upmanship. "If they don’t kill you first."

  "But that takes time!"

  "Now you understand my dilemma. Multiply your Moreau and DuBois until you have an entire country. Think of the money and men I must gather to defend all of France, with no cooperation from my countrymen."

  "But Becket is bastard-born. He has no prerogative to DuBois. As king, you have the right to gift me with the land in exchange for my helping you defeat the English."

  "Lady Rochelle is not a bastard. She inherits legally. Unless you can prove otherwise, there is naught I can do."

  Gaston listened to the rasp of his own breath. If he allowed the king to believe Rochelle was Reynaurd’s daughter, DuBois would pass to a child of her issue, bypassing Gaston. Although, after Becket’s death, Gaston could still force her to wed him, but now she knew he was her father. For spite, she might shout the truth and ruin everything before he killed her.

  If he confessed that Rochelle was his daughter, she lost all claim to DuBois, thus opening the possibility for him to gain the land with the king’s blessing. But King Jean wouldn’t take any action as long as he believed Rochelle had right of title. And with the
proper bargaining... Gaston knew he took a great risk by revealing Rochelle’s lineage. A dangerous risk. And yet...

  "Rochelle is my daughter, not Lord Reynaurd’s."

  King Jean’s eyes widened. "But you received special dispensation from the Pope to wed her."

  "I..." Gaston cleared his throat, stalling for an answer. "I didn’t know at the time. As soon as I learned otherwise, I destroyed the documents."

  "How do you know ‘tis true?"

  "I spied her without her wimple. Her hair is exactly the hue of my deceased wife, her mother. Which means she has no right to DuBois."

  "Then she is issue of both you and your wife? How did she come to be raised by Reynaurd?"

  Gaston fought a wince. In his haste he had blundered with too much information. "A switch at birth, your majesty. ‘Tis a complicated tale, one not worthy of your time when you have a throne to protect."

  King Jean ran his finger over the soft plume of the writing quill, then glanced at Gaston. "What of the man who possessed DuBois before the supposed heresy trial?"

  Gaston stiffened.

  "Ah, Sire Gaston, I see your alarm. Your stirrings have made me curious, ‘tis all. I’ve asked a few questions to learn the details behind the intrigue. I’m but making certain there are no obstacles to the land. Now, tell me. Did he have any issue?"

  "None, your majesty." Gaston felt uncomfortable with the inquiry but knew he shouldn’t. Quite wise of the king, really. However, Gaston wanted to discuss the future, not the past. "King Jean, I repeat my offer. In exchange for your royal decree for Becket’s death, I will gather the information you need for victory. As to the lands--"

  "Your story bears further inquiry, Sire Gaston, but still..." King Jean released the feather and brushed his hands. "Your argument sways me."

  Gaston held his breath, marveled by his brilliance of manipulation. The dangerous risk had made possible the prize.