Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  That walls do hear, and see, and breathe."

  Then she leaned forward and ran her hands over Pierre’s head, face and arms. Sire Spitz leapt again on the bed, curious as to Griselda’s ministrations

  Rochelle sat on the mattress so that she could whisper while Griselda examined Pierre. "I prayed you would come. I’ve needed you so. Where have you been?"

  "Protecting you from within the shadows. Then when Pierre had his seizure, I traveled to the apothecary in Toulouse seeking Theriac, but the medicines they had weren’t aged enough, thus useless."

  "But Theriac is for neutralization of poisons, not..." A sudden clamminess chilled her body. "Do you believe him poisoned?"

  Griselda shook her head as she lifted Pierre’s lids and checked his eyes. "Tis a spasm of the brain, as before. But Theriac, when aged beyond a decade, causes insomnia. I hoped ‘twould encourage the lad from his deep sleep." Griselda placed her fingers on his wrist to take his pulse.

  "I wafted oil of roses mixed with camphor beneath his nose, which is supposed to help an inflamed brain, and when that didn’t help, I blended ground Peony root with the roses, but to no avail. I tried myriad other potions, but naught have brought him to awareness."

  Griselda tucked Pierre’s arms under the covers, then Sire Spitz curled atop Pierre’s stomach like a black, furry ball, his nose tucked beneath his tail.

  "Rochelle, there is an apothecary in a village in the County of Astarac. I wanted to make certain all is well before I leave."

  "I need you here. I need you to stay with Pierre while I go."

  "No, child, you--"

  "I’m afraid to close my eyes for fear Becket’s mother will take Pierre into the tunnels while I sleep. I wouldn’t know how to find him. And now with Père Bertrand’s fearsome compulsion to help... No, you are more important here."

  Griselda’s chest rose and fell with quiet breaths. "While in Toulouse, the herald cried out for subscriptions into the French army in case the English attack. Few responded."

  Foreboding tightened the ache in her breast, then a white-hot rage shivered along her flesh. Becket offered his life in a war in which other Frenchmen even refused to fight. All because of English greed.

  "Griselda, I never realized I could hate as much as I hate the English. If not so consumed with Pierre, I’d see how I could be of assistance in the upcoming ugliness. But we have our own war to wage. For Pierre’s life." She kissed his brow, his skin cool beneath her lips, then stroked a goodbye caress down Sire Spitz’s back. "I’d best hurry, and return before the battle begins. The truce has expired, but most likely ‘twill be weeks before the English are prepared."

  "Then go, my child. But take guards with you."

  "They are needed here to protect the castle."

  "At least take the one called Banulf or I will not agree. He seems a goodly man and I trust him."

  "I will ask Banulf." Rochelle closed her eyes and massaged the pounding in her temples, a pounding caused by her incessant worry over Pierre and Becket. "To lessen the danger for Pierre, I plan to slip out unnoticed, then, hoping all believe me locked in this chamber, return before I am missed. But whom can we depend upon to bring your food, yet keep our secret?"

  "Jacques. Don’t shake your head, thus. Jacques loves you and even you must admit he made the right decision."

  Yes. For she loved Becket so much that she hurt inside.

  Griselda pushed to her feet, the hunched old crone again, her finger pointed at Pierre.

  "You wish him well? Then pay me heed.

  Search for herbs you know I need.

  Scour the fields and nearby hills

  then bring me what will cure his ills."

  Stunned by Griselda’s sudden change, Rochelle paused, then realized her mother performed for the living walls. Rochelle lifted her chin in feigned indignance.

  "Griselda, if not for Pierre, I’d not allow you to speak to me thus. But if you can help him, I will do as you ask."

  Griselda knelt, groaning as if her joints ached, searching the rushes in pretense she had dropped something. Rochelle leaned down in simulated assistance.

  Griselda slapped away Rochelle’s hand, then leaned closer as if to whisper. "Go with God, child."

  "I pray God stays here with you and Pierre."

  "May He be with us all."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  "Hurry, Banulf. We must find the apothecary, then depart again for DuBois." Rochelle spurred her mount through the unusually large group of departing travelers, working her way into the village. Her head and chest hurt from worry over Becket and Pierre. Every bone ached from the forced ride, but her nearly-accomplished goal drove her forward.

  "If Sire Becket discovers I disobeyed him, my lady, I shall never again see daylight. And I like not the looks of so many travelers. Danger lies ahead."

  "We shall be safe again at DuBois ere Sire Becket returns. Yet I, too, am concerned. The king’s search for an army must have frightened them into seeking refuge at Toulouse." A shiver coursed her spine. "I fear the French are outnumbered. I am terrified for Sire Becket."

  "My concern is for your safety."

  "I won’t turn back now, Banulf. Not when we are so near our objective."

  Rochelle reached out to a departing villager who hugged a knapsack to his chest. "Monsieur? Would you guide us to the apothecary, s’il vous plait?"

  He glanced at Banulf, then ran past her as if horrified.

  A woman with a babe cradled in her arms and a lad hanging onto her skirts, hurried toward them along the road.

  "Madame? I need to find the apothecary. Would you--"

  "Hurry up, John. They’ll catch us." The woman looked up, then started when she saw Banulf. With a scream, she grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him stumbling behind her as she hastened on her way.

  "Banulf, they’re frightened of you. ‘Tis your armor. They’re afraid you’re an English knight."

  She glanced at him for his response, but he looked toward the village as if alarmed, then twisted his horse toward her. “My lady! The wagon!”

  She jerked Falcon’s reins. The sideboard brushed her foot as the wagon rattled past. Dust swirled from the churning wheels and into her lungs. Coughing, she gripped Falcon’s mane while Banulf led her through the confusion to the side of the road.

  "We must turn back, my lady."

  "Not when we are so close."

  "These people are running for a purpose. ‘Tis too hazardous."

  "I won’t quit until I have the Theriac. I ask you to wait here for me. As soon as I make the purchase, I will join you, then we’ll ride hard for DuBois."

  "I will not leave you."

  "They’re afraid of you, Banulf. I’ll never get directions with you beside me."

  "Then I’ll follow at a distance, keeping you in my sight in case you need me."

  "Bless you, Banulf. But take care. I fear you are in more danger than I. If I had realized you might be mistaken for an English knight, I would never have allowed you to accompany me."

  Before he could argue, Rochelle worked Falcon through the ever-increasing crowd, feeling as if she fought the swift current of the stream beneath the waterfall.

  Villagers scrambled to gather their belongings, piling their treasures onto wagons, donkeys, or merely carrying off what they could hold within their arms. A man shooed his oxen and chickens out of his longhouse. At the cottage next door, a pregnant woman frantically called out names as if in search of loved ones. A crying lad scooped up a dog hiding in a thicket, then a man snatched them both and shoved through the crowd, terror in his eyes.

  Every instinct screamed for her to leave, but she refused to pay heed, not until she found the medicine. Her pulse racing with fear, she urged her skittish mount against the human current of panic. A nobleman dragged a lady and little girl out of the doorway of an inn and into a wagon guarded by men-at-arms.

  "Sire, where is the apothecary?"

  "Out of my way!" He cracked a whip ove
r the crowd that blocked his path. The horses surged past her and into the craziness.

  Rochelle dug her heels into Falcon’s sides, encouraging her mare through the thickening hysteria. Panic for Becket exploded her fractured courage. The messenger had mentioned Guyenne, English territory. If the enemy soldiers had, indeed, begun a march, ‘twould mean Becket must be dead, for he would never willingly let the enemy cross the border to destroy France.

  Tears of denial stung her eyes, then in her blurred vision she saw the apothecary’s street-side stall. Behind the open counter, a white-bearded man in a blue cap and gown raked rows of jars and small bundles into something below her vision, most likely a container or trunk of some kind. Hope burst through the tight ache in her chest. Only a few more moments, and then home again.

  The smoke-scented breeze intensified her anxiety. Screams from the far end of the village chilled her nerves. Spurring Falcon between people who darted to and fro like startled geese, she hurriedly dismounted at the doorway, wrapped the reins around her hand to prevent Falcon’s theft, then stepped inside.

  "Sire, I’m so grateful you’re still here. Do you have any Theriac aged beyond a decade?"

  "Oc." He secured a cord around the neck of a sack.

  Elated with her success, she pulled a bag of coins from inside her bodice, shamed by how much her fingers trembled.

  "What is the cost, Sire?"

  Ignoring her, he pushed to his feet and swung the sack over his shoulder.

  "’Twill only take a moment." She poured the precious coins on the counter, the metallic clattering out of place with the nearing shrieks of fear. She pushed the gold toward him. "Take them all. Surely ‘tis more than enough."

  He scooped them into a pouch. "Twill not ransom my life. Now, move from my path."

  Rochelle braced her arms across the doorway and met the fear in his aged eyes. "Come with me to DuBois. I’ll give you refuge and protection. I’ll even share my mare with you for the ride. A knight will guard our safety."

  "Mare?"

  She stepped back and he brushed past her into the side-street. Afraid to hope, she followed, alarmed at the heightened panic of the villagers, the heavier drifts of smoke. "Tie the sack to the saddle. I will summon Banulf."

  As the man stuffed the money pouch into his sack then secured the laces to Falcon, she frantically peered over the throng for her escort. She spied him near the back corner of the building, and her stomach convulsed.

  Sword drawn, he fought off three peasants who attacked him with pitchforks. Blood streamed down his face.

  "Cease!" Rochelle rushed toward Banulf. "He’s not an English knight!"

  Falcon whinnied. Rochelle jerked around. The apothecary hopped on one foot as he attempted to mount her mare.

  "Non!" Rochelle leapt for the reins and yanked, but the man ripped them from her hands She gripped the saddle. Falcon pranced between them, the bag of medicines bouncing and clattering, strong vapors leaking into the air from broken jars. The Theriac would be ruined.

  "Sire, let go ere I--"

  The earth rumbled.

  Her heart stopped, then lurched into a frenzied rhythm. Horses. And from the loudness of the gallops, an army of them. Which meant Becket and the knights lay dead. With no one to protect France. Fighting hysteria, she grappled with the man for the reins.

  "Let Falcon go!"

  "Out of my--"

  The point of an arrow erupted through his chest from behind and stopped in front of her nose! His eyes widened, then he collapsed at her feet.

  Before she could scream, Banulf grabbed her waist and swept her onto Falcon’s back. "Go!"

  "I won’t leave without you. Where is your horse?"

  "Go!" He slapped the mare’s rump.

  Falcon leapt into the madness. Frightened, she turned to catch sight of Banulf.

  Her insides turned to water.

  Mounted knights raged in the smoke-filled streets. Armor flashed red from the fire’s reflection. Swords gleamed from fresh blood. Bodies jerked beneath hooves.

  A yank on her arm slid her world sideways! She tumbled into the stampede. Her side struck the ground. Pain tore through her shoulder and hip. Crying out in agony, she curled into a protective ball as peopled trampled on her legs and torso. Kicks bruised her body. Every inch of her ached. She tasted blood. Smelled dirt and smoke.

  Determined to survive, she grabbed a handful of fabric, and between the onward force and her own struggles, worked herself upright, stumbling along with the flow--a sheep trapped in a herd doomed for slaughter.

  "Kill them all!"

  Above the sound of trampling feet she heard the cracks of whips, the screams of death. Thuds of swords against flesh sounded closer as if knights slashed at the back of the crowd, advancing as people fell.

  Panic surrounded her. She couldn’t breathe! Gritting her teeth, she clawed and pulled, working toward the edge of the human death-trap. The moving sea of bodies pushed her past the inn now ablaze behind a veil of smoke.

  She heard a thwack. Something wet sprayed her face. A man staggered against her. His head--gone! A scream tore from her throat. Rochelle stumbled over his body and through the opening. She slammed against the leg of a mounted knight.

  Sacre Dieu!

  Red jupon. Red shield. Red-covered horse. Red blood. Black armor.

  Sacre Dieu.

  "She’s mine."

  Like in a nightmare, she ducked under the horse’s neck and shoved one foot in front of the other. Hooves sounded behind her. She darted into the screen of smoke and between the flaming cottage and longhouse. Blinded, she tripped. Her knees and hands stung from the fall, her stomach landing on something warm. She pushed to her knees, then covered her mouth to stay the queasiness.

  The woman. The pregnant woman who had called for her family lay beneath Rochelle--gutted. Bile soured in Rochelle’s mouth.

  Scrambling into a run, she raced past the corner of the longhouse, choking from her nausea, coughing from the smoke. She rammed against a foot-soldier. His plunder thudded to the ground. She spun and ran. He yelled something she didn’t understand. His footsteps thumped behind her.

  Rochelle’s heart beat a wild cry for help. She barged out of the smoke. No where to hide! Thickets and open ground. Dead bodies. Heaps of them. Fields blazed all around her. The row of trees on the far side of the meadow seemed a lifetime away. Her steps pounded in time with the double-beat slam of her pulse that roared No where to hide. No where to hide. She pushed her feet harder, faster. Her sides ached. Her lungs hurt.

  The soldier behind her shouted. A tug dragged the wimple from her hair.

  Hooves rumbled to her right. "There she is. Slipped me, she did. That minx is mine."

  A girl screamed in front of her. Only about ten years and two. The lass ran from two mounted knights who herded her in a macabre game that would lead to rapine and death. The same fate as Rochelle’s.

  More hooves sounded behind Rochelle as if several mounted knights joined the chase. On impulse, she veered toward the hapless girl. She heard male cheers. They knew. They knew she and the lass didn’t have a chance. Fear and rage so powerful that she shook, paralyzed her voice and dried her tears. How dare they laugh at her hopelessness.

  She grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her along. Rochelle’s lungs burned like hot coals. Her sides cramped. She forced her numb feet over jagged rocks. A mounted knight blocked their path! He swung a battle-axe! The girl flew from Rochelle’s grasp. Sickened, Rochelle’s steps faltered. Afraid to look back, she picked up her skirts. The meadow blurred in her vision. No, she dare not cry. Not now.

  Hooves thundered behind her. A grip clamped her arm, then yanked her onto a horse!

  "Let me go!" She struck backward, bruising her elbows against armor. "May you rot in hell!"

  "Cease, Rochelle. ‘Tis I. Becket."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  "Becket?" Rochelle spun within his arms and stared up at him.

  His heart turned over. Through th
e helm’s eye-slits he saw streaks of blood and smoke on her beautiful face. Disbelieving joy radiated from her incredible eyes. Joy because of him. If only she didn’t have to learn the truth.

  Dreading the moment of her realization, he withdrew his helmet, cool air chilling his perspiring flesh. His hands shook as hard as his insides. He had nearly lost her.

  "Oh, Becket, I feared those English fiends had killed you." She threw her arms about his neck, but guilt weighed him to stillness like a lodestone, and he merely sat there, unable to even enfold her against his body.

  "Sacre Dieu, the girl." She drew back, and he felt the increase of her shaking as if hysteria had set in. Her hands fluttered over his face, over his mouth. "Oh, Becket, somehow I must save the girl. But you mustn’t, you see. They outnumber you." Tears flooded her eyes. "Oh, ‘tis terrible. They’re killing every living thing, children, animals. You must hide, Becket. They’ll find you."

  A tearing hole opened in his scarred heart.

  She shoved as if to leap to the ground, but he gripped her wrists.

  Her gaze pled with him as wetness streamed over her blood-stained cheeks. "I must save her. The girl. He had a battle-axe..." She choked on a sob, the tears flowing faster, burning his soul like caustic acid. A strange type of laughter came from her chest. He recognized the sound--absolute horror.

  "Oh, Becket, I wanted to tear the cursed knights apart, would have slain them with zeal, but I felt so helpless. And they cheered..." She squirmed to dismount. "I must rescue her."

  "She’s dead, Rochelle." Tears burned his own eyes.

  "But she can’t be. I held her hand, you see. A tiny hand. Too weak to beat off such savages. While I’m sitting here in safety, she’s fighting for her life. She needs me." She struggled harder, the sobs deeper, the macabre laughter more uncontrolled.

  "Rochelle, cease. She’s dead."

  "How could you know? You weren’t there. You..." She went as still as a tomb. "...were there. You saw." Her whisper floated on the smoke-desecrated breeze.

  She knew.

  Her image blurred in his vision, and yet he sensed her shock, the shift of her hysteria into a deep, unforgiving rage.