Love Thine Enemy

  "Perform your ransoms and pâtis along the Guyenne and Brittany borders. While there, see what transpires amongst the English. If you discover aught that is useful and will help save my throne, then after all is secured, I will help you rid the world of this traitorous Becket."

  Another delay. Curse the man to perdition.

  Gaston forced a smile. "How magnanimous, your majesty."

  May England win.

  No matter the victor, Gaston determined he wouldn’t need either king’s assistance. Becket would already be dead. Then he would seize DuBois and Moreau, with none to stop him, for which king would bother about one or two estates when in a death struggle over a crown. Excitement rushed through Gaston like an aphrodisiac. The lands were already as good as his.

  As Gaston gave an obsequious exit bow, he wondered which enemy-occupied area Becket might choose to visit if he, in truth, conspired with the English. Most likely where Prince Edward resided when not across the Channel.

  Guyenne. Yes, Becket would die in Guyenne, one agonizing breath at a time.

  He turned to step into the grand hallway.

  "Sire Gaston?"

  He faced the king again, eager to be about the business of Becket’s death.

  "You do understand, do you not? Since Becket is bastard-born and Rochelle is of your bloodline, then..." King Jean paused.

  "Then, what, your majesty?"

  "France claims DuBois and Moreau."

  "But Moreau is mine! And Reynaurd promised me DuBois."

  "Neither you nor Reynaurd inherited those lands. The only true heir would be the one sired by the man you burned for heresy. And yet, you say he has none. Thus, I repeat, Sire Gaston. Becket is yours. DuBois and Moreau are mine."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "You’re Sire Becket! You’re Sire Becket!" Pierre yanked off his blindfold created from Rochelle’s new gentian-blue wimple, then jumped up and down when he saw he had guessed correctly.

  Lady Rochelle applauded Pierre’s genius from where she sat on the stone bench in the walled garden, a sleeping Sire Spitz curled beside her. Pierre looked so elegant that her chest ached. Despite the usual attire for a lad of five, Becket had presented him with a fitted jacket and hose much the same cut as his own, except in the shade of moss instead of flame. He even wore poulaines with pointed toes, the leather a softer black than the gleam of his and Becket’s hair. She sighed to relieve the joyous pressure. Never had she imagined such happiness as she had experienced these last several weeks. Sighing again with pleasure, she stroked Sire Spitz’s soft, black fur, wishing she, instead, stroked her amorous husband.

  Becket’s laughter broke into her reverie, warming her spirits like summer sunshine. He knelt beside Pierre and ruffled his hair. "Tell, sprite. How did you know ‘twas me?"

  "You have the strongest legs of any."

  Becket laughed again, obviously pleased, then sat on the lawn, pulling Pierre onto his lap.

  Henri snorted. "I take umbrage at that flawed observation, Pierre." He strolled to where Becket and Pierre lounged beside the fountain, performing a slow turn, showing his hose-covered legs displayed beneath his buttercup brocade pourpoint. "Strength, to a fault. Sleek as an animal’s."

  "But Sire Becket has bigger bulges."

  Henri tweaked Pierre’s nose. "You are not an authority on bulges, sprite. We shall have to ask Lady Angelique and Lady Rochelle which of us men has the biggest."

  "Henri!" Rochelle clamped her hands over her mouth, cheeks hot.

  Angelique’s laughter tinkled over the garden as she strolled to Henri’s side, the lilac against yellow as handsome a compliment as Angelique with Henri.

  "Before I decide the largest, my bragging knight, methinks I need another inspection."

  "That you shall have, my lady. At your leisure. First, however, I will have a retraction from Pierre."

  Pierre scampered from Becket’s lap and danced at the edge of the fountain as if in a dare. "Sire Becket’s bulges are bigger because he works harder."

  "Ah, the wisdom of innocence." Becket released a throaty chuckle and pushed to his feet as he brushed grass from his backside. "And the harder I work, the harder I grow."

  "You men cease that banter before Pierre’s innocence becomes any wiser." Grinning from pure pleasure, Rochelle sniffed at the rose Becket had cut for her before they had begun their game of Blind Man’s Buff. She admired the flame-red petals the same hue as Becket’s embroidered pourpoint, the flower’s heady aroma almost as sensual as his scent of cedar. In fact, to Rochelle’s eye, they all glowed like human flowers among the garden blossoms and herbs that perfumed the air. What a change from the drabness of her former existence.

  "Works harder. Works harder." Pierre’s sing-song rang over the walled garden like a lyrical melody.

  "You insolent pup!" Henri swiped Pierre from the ground and plopped him into the water, tickling him without mercy. "Traversing tunnels and de-fleecing smelly sheep are not work, they’re insanity."

  Rochelle started to protest the dousing of Pierre’s first grand outfit, but his musical laughter pealed as he thrashed in the water from Henri’s playful attention, and she relaxed. All would eventually dry. The rarity of new clothes held less importance than even-rarer merriment.

  Becket plucked her drenched wimple from the flailing hand of the now-sodden Pierre. "Henri, you’re merely resentful because I won the shearing contest a sennight past. If you doubt the extent of my exertion, ask Lady Rochelle. She will testify I have labored diligently--ever at my up-most." Becket flashed her a rakish grin, then stilled as if his breath hitched at the sight of her.

  Rochelle warmed in a slow burn, eager for the intimacy of the night. Deciding to make Becket as eager for the sunset as she, she waggled her foot at him.

  His eyes heated. "An offer I cannot refuse."

  Becket’s scorching gaze seared her soul, melting the world around him into a blurred green and gold background for his flame-red magnificence. Flung water-droplets glistened in the September sun, sparkling like strewn rainbow-colored diamonds behind his muscular frame. Dear heaven, how she loved the man. She needed two of her to hold all the passion that swelled within her breast.

  As if daring her to look away, Becket shook moisture out of the makeshift blindfold. "’Tis my opportunity to seek prey. But I warn whomever I snare, I am most thorough in my endeavors of identification."

  A shiver of anticipation tingled along her flesh.

  As Becket tied the cloth over his eyes, Pierre scrambled out of the fountain, as dripping wet as a drenched puppy.

  "Wait, Sire Becket. I’ll turn you round and round ‘til you’re confused."

  "Spin me all you like, sprite, but confusion will never again bedevil me. I know my direction like a flame drawn to the fluttery softness of a moth." Becket turned at Pierre’s urging, but Rochelle noticed that every time he revolved he touched his toe to the wall of the fountain as if to keep his bearings.

  Feeling capricious, Rochelle pushed to her feet, wondering which way to tip-toe so as to elude him, at least momentarily, for she ached for him to catch her.

  The gate slammed against the wall.

  Banulf burst into the garden, his expression dire. ‘Sire Becket, a messenger asks for you."

  Becket froze, hands outstretched, and the day dimmed as surely as if a storm cloud covered the sun. In apparent dread, he removed the blindfold, then fused his dark gaze with Rochelle’s. The sadness, pain and guilt in his eyes nearly overwhelmed her. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then he turned and strode to the gate, Henri behind him.

  "What happened, Rochelle?" Pierre scurried to where she stood beside the bench.

  "A visitor, mon chou."

  Rochelle shuddered. Both Becket and Henri obviously believed the news ill-tidings. Had that odious King Edward refused to renew the truce?

  She grasped Pierre’s small hand. "In truth, the interruption is timely, love. You need dry garments, and we must tend to your shoes before the leathe
r stiffens."

  "Not yet, s’il vous plait. My stomach is growling. Since my nap under the grape arbor and then all the games, I’m hungry again."

  "Well...‘tis a warm day. Place your poulaines in the sun and go barefoot, but take care you don’t step on a bumblebee." Rochelle accompanied him to the white-clothed table set in the shade of the apple tree. While Pierre stuffed on cheese, apples and nuts, she poured him a tankard of fresh cool milk, then one for herself. Lonely for Becket, she glanced his direction.

  Brooding and somber, he stood with Henri just beyond the gate, the image feeling symbolic that he had been pulled beyond the boundaries of her life. How dare fate intrude upon their new-found happiness. She knew Becket still worried that he hadn’t found his mother. And Rochelle ached that Griselda had never again appeared. The first shock of Griselda’s news had passed, and now Rochelle longed to hold her mother in her arms and give her thanks. Other than those concerns, Becket’s and her world had cuddled them like special lovers.

  The messenger appeared exhausted as if in need of refreshment. Feeling remiss, Rochelle carried the tankard toward their guest to offer him libation.

  She heard the mention of Guyenne. Her stomach tightened, stilling her feet. The English controlled Guyenne. Did King Jean order Becket into English territory?

  Becket focused on her wimple that he caressed between his fingers. "You’ve caught me unprepared, Sir Robert. The last messenger indicated a meeting in October."

  "The king is anxious to proceed, Sire Becket. He and his company arrive any day. He expects your information so that plans can be completed for war."

  Rochelle jolted. War? Then King Jean believed the continued truce unlikely. Terror for Becket, Pierre, and everything she loved wrapped around her lungs and squeezed. She willed strength into her shaky legs and moved forward.

  The messenger wiped his brow with the back of his hand, streaking dirt across his face. "By the by, Becket, the king is most impressed. He sends congratulations on your success in securing DuBois and Moreau, and with such ease."

  Rochelle halted.

  Upon the king’s orders. Becket’s declaration the day he had arrived sliced through her memories like hot steel. At the time, her survival had shoved all else from her concerns, but now she wondered what DuBois and Moreau had to do with the protection of France.

  Henri uttered a tight laugh. "Au contraire, my good man. Sire Becket secured DuBois at great cost. He suffered weeks before he relented and took the chatelaine to bed. Ah, the sacrifices we knights must make in the service of our country."

  "Cease, Henri. ‘Tis not a subject for jest."

  Suffered? Sacrifice? Pain wrenched in her breast. Sire Becket had used her! In the beginning, such a statement would not have shocked her, but she believed he had changed. Besides, she loved him. Surely he loved her in return.

  Love, an emotion for fools. A tool for manipulation.

  Then truth stabbed a killing blow.

  His secret--his affection, a lie, for the service of his country.

  Tears burned her eyes as she stood trapped between hell and the Netherworld, unable to move forward or backward, desolation await at either end. Afraid to move lest he hear her and be forewarned, she remained as one of the living dead, numbness and agony battling for control of her body, her mind struggling for a means of undiscovered escape, now, and forever.

  "When King Edward. . . " Becket glanced over his shoulder as if to check for privacy, then turned ashen as the blood drained from his face. His ebony eyes seethed with hurt. Mistrust. Anger. Emotions that surely mirrored hers.

  "You spy on me, Lady Rochelle?"

  She lifted her chin, hating the wet drops of emotion that seeped from her eyes, revealing her wretchedness. "Not so, my lord. I brought your visitor refreshment." Shaking with rage, she dashed the tankard to the ground, milk splashing on her hands and new gown like snowy tears. "That shattered clay is a symbol of my love for you. May that loathsome King Edward slay you in battle." She turned from him and shoved into a run.

  Becket grasped her arm and spun her against his chest, his alarm palpable "What did you hear, Rochelle?"

  "The secret you thought to hide from me. The betrayal."

  His expression blurred too much in her hot tears for her to see his reaction, but he said naught for several painful thuds of her heart.

  "The moment I dreaded." His confession whispered on a gust of wind. "What am I to do with you?"

  "Unhand me. Then get out." She jerked against his hold.

  "Loathsome?" The messenger sounded shocked. "What does she--"

  Becket slashed his hand for silence. "Go with Banulf."

  "But--"

  "Go! I will do as commanded."

  Rochelle twisted for freedom, her wrist stinging within his grip. "I release you from your suffering, Sirrah. Leave and take your knights with you, never to return. King Jean will hear of my fury over this treachery."

  The messenger sputtered, startled, then Banulf took the man’s arm and practically dragged him toward the bailey.

  Like a yellow-bellied serpent, Henri slipped into the garden, leaving her with the devil.

  "I wanted to tell you, Rochelle. I feared you would react thus, that you might seek to destroy our plans, that I might have to detain you, that what we have shared wouldn’t be enough. That you would hate me."

  "Oh, but you succeeded all too well, for you stole my heart with your pretended affections. And now I hate you."

  "Pretended affections? What do you mean?"

  "Your secret is revealed, knight. I heard you and Henri discuss me as if I am a tiresome burden you must bear for the good of the country. Well, consider yourself liberated. I will burden you no longer." She raised her chin, swiping at her face to keep the blasted wetness from trickling down her neck.

  "What did you say?" His brow furrowed in puzzlement. Then his eyes widened as if realization dawned. "You mean you didn’t...Is that what upsets you? That you think I don’t care for you?"

  "I know what I heard."

  "You misinterpret what you heard." He seemed relieved. Guilt-ridden. "Henri told the truth, Rochelle I did suffer for weeks because of you. ‘Twas so obvious even a simpleton could tell."

  She wrested against his hold, but he merely tightened his grip, an urgency in his expression that matched his tone.

  "How could you not know, Rochelle? I considered you my enemy, but I wanted you more than I wanted DuBois. I hated myself for desiring you, but I desired you more than my hatred. Once I relented and took you as wife, I experienced joys I had not believed possible, a frightening kind of happiness, almost as if I had lost myself in you. The emotion excited me, terrified me at one and the same time."

  "You think to delude me again, knight, but I am wise to your purpose."

  "You have seen me these past weeks. Since my arrival, have you ever known me to laugh more, to show more exuberance for life? Never. Not any day since my birth."

  "The answer to your exuberance is as easy as your conquest of DuBois and the gullible chatelaine--you had achieved your goal."

  "I achieved a goal I didn’t know existed. With you. Surely you must know how I feel. I...I..."

  She waited for him to finish, praying he would say he loved her.

  He closed his eyes, and her broken heart dropped in pieces at his feet.

  "I have no right. Lady Rochelle. Not now. Not yet. Mayhap, not ever." He fanned open his lashes and she saw his determination. "We will have this one more indulgence. We will finish celebrating our togetherness. We will live this day as if ‘tis our last." He urged her through the gate and into the garden.

  "Our last? Do you mean the war? Do you mean you leave me never to return? Or that you put me in a convent?"

  "Life makes no promises. Neither can I."

  He forced her to the grape arbor where Pierre rested on a pallet, most likely exhausted from so much play. He tied the damp blindfold around his eyes. "And as I said before the unwelcome interruption, Roch
elle, ‘tis my time to hunt. Pierre, spin me."

  Pierre leapt up as if honored to do Becket’s bidding and eager for another game.

  "Surely you jest, knight." Rochelle grasped the arbor lattice for support. Much to her horror she wanted him and loathed him at the same time. "Mayhap later we may continue this sensuous frivolity when I am convinced of your sincerity."

  "We only have now. This moment. We might never have another."

  Panic tore at her indignation.

  As Becket turned within Pierre’s hands, Rochelle struggled with what to think. Her heart wanted to believe him. Her pride retreated behind her hopeless excuse for a defense-wall.

  Love. An emotion for fools.

  Feeling very much the buffoon, she darted past him toward the gate. A grasp stopped her steps, increased her pulse.

  "Ah, a snare. Mayhap in my search for the truth, my quarry will discover truths as well--the secrets of my scarred heart."

  Rochelle’s breaths sounded shallow and fast, out of place in the peaceful day, and although the fountain murmured, the birds twittered, the leaves whispered, none gave her an answer to her quandary.

  Becket waved a hand in dismissal. "All others are banished while I explore my hostage. I will tolerate no interruption, not even if one hundred messengers and the king himself cross the moat."

  Sire Spitz mewed as if Pierre had awakened him, then the gate latch clicked shut. Rochelle knew she should leave as well, before Sire Becket destroyed her. And yet, she feared he already had, for she could not make herself leave his warmth for the coldness of solitude.

  "My mysterious prisoner, I intend a slow, detailed inspection of you with all my senses except sight, and yet my heart will tell me what my eyes cannot see."

  Rochelle’s wayward pulse throbbed a lament. She loved him. He loved her not.

  "Now, whom do I hold?"

  He ran his hands over her shoulders and she dug her nails into her palms to keep from exploring him in return.

  "Too tall for Pierre. Which means I only must choose between Lady Angelique and the fair Rochelle. And Henri, of course."