Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  "The king’s orders. The king’s army. The king’s knight." She whirled to face him. "English. You’re English." She spat the accusation. Her face contorted into a sneering hatred. "You stole DuBois to give aid to the English. You stole my heart to blind me to the truth." Her voice rose as when one discovers the most horrid of betrayals.

  Before he realized her intent, she snatched the dagger from his sheath and pressed the point against his throat.

  "I’ll kill you."

  "I won’t stop you."

  She hated him. He saw the truth in her eyes. And his soul shriveled.

  She pierced the tip into his flesh. He welcomed the sting, felt the trickle of blood. He knew she longed to thrust the blade through his neck. Then, why didn’t she?

  An agonized groan tore from her throat. She flung the knife into the tall grass, then struck out, arms and legs flailing in her anger. He only held her tight enough to keep her from harming herself.

  "Rochelle, I love you."

  "How dare you say that to me!" She beat on his armor-clad chest and shoulders. "How dare you!"

  He grasped her hands. "You’ll only hurt yourself, Rochelle."

  "How consistent. You perform the evil. I and the others suffer the pain. Your mother is right. You are no better. You kill children to gain your own end."

  "I had to be here, Rochelle. I swore my fealty to King Edward."

  "You should have sworn to France!"

  "Frenchmen stole my lands and burned the man who loved me, then burned me, too. The English gave me life, made possible the regaining of my lands." He shook his head. "Surely you realize the French are no more pure, Rochelle. During the battle of Crécy, the French burned and destroyed their own territories in hopes to win the war."

  "To drive back the English. The cursed, evil English! You are not knights who fight with honor. You are cowards. You are slaughterers who massacre defenseless women and children. May you burn forever in the flames of hell for what you have done to these innocents."

  "I doubt not that I will." He felt the stirring of anger. Anger against Rochelle, against himself, against the unchangeable events that had sucked them all into the maelstrom that had become their lives. "At least with the English, I am allowed to inherit despite my status of bastard. Have you thought what will happen to you and Pierre if the English lose? France will claim DuBois. Where will you and Pierre go then?"

  She swept her horrified gaze over the desecrated land. "Is the prize worth the payment? You whine about one estate. King Edward whines about one crown. And yet, how many thousands have lost homes, lost families, lost aught they have, most of them suffering atrocious deaths because of your petty greed."

  "Your memory is conveniently short. You whined when you believed DuBois beyond your grasp."

  "I did not destroy an innocent land!" She pointed a shaky finger at the panicked ribbon of humanity that fled along the road. "Look at them. Men, women, children, pets. They will all be dead within hours, those trees and the land, scorched, for as far as the eye can see, and beyond."

  "I cannot save the world."

  "Well, I shall try. You’d best slay me now, knight, for I will notify King Jean of this treachery. And this time I shall take the message myself."

  "I’m certain he already knows."

  She wrenched from his hold, sprawling on the ground in a fall that surely must have hurt her hands and knees. He leapt from Satan’s back, but when Becket attempted to help her to her feet, she scrambled from his touch.

  "Leave me be! I will find my own way to DuBois." Shoving upright, she faced him, her clothing torn and bloodied, hands on hips, chin held high, her gossamer strands like a halo in the sunlight, the image of a defiant saint. "I warn you, knight. Do not return to DuBois. I will bar the gates against you. And should you dare force entrance, I will seek the life of you and your cowardly English devils, including your inglorious prince." She stumbled away from him and toward the current of fleeing peasants, leaving him with a painful hollowness that not even Pierre or DuBois could fill--only Rochelle.

  Becket nodded to Banulf who sat upon a borrowed steed and awaited at a respectful distance with the reclaimed Falcon.

  Banulf moved forward. The sag of his shoulders indicated his sadness, his own guilt, for the man worshipped Rochelle. As did every knight of DuBois. As did Becket.

  He heard the thunder of hooves. Turning, he spied several English warriors riding their chargers toward the ill-fated victims--and toward Rochelle! Prince Edward led the pack, who, according to Banulf, had earlier claimed Rochelle as his.

  His pulse rampant, Becket leapt onto Satan’s back, urging him into a gallop. As Banulf neared from Rochelle’s far side as she stumbled over the uneven ground, Becket leaned down and caught her waist, swinging her upon Falcon’s back. Rochelle started to fight him, but when she saw Falcon, she hugged the mare’s neck and broke again into tears. Gripping a dripping sack tied to the saddle, she kicked her mare’s sides, and rode away without even a backward glance.

  "Stay with her, Banulf. Protect her. Even against an English prince."

  Banulf’s eyes widened with shock.

  "You swore your fealty to me, Banulf, not to Edward. Protect her."

  Banulf nodded and urged his steed into a gallop.

  As the villagers screamed at the approaching knights, Becket drew his sword and spun his mount sideways to form a barrier. "Stay behind me. Run not for the woods or I cannot protect you."

  "Why should we trust you, an Englishman?"

  "He did before, Pick-a-Tick. He helped us, he did."

  The Black Prince arced the path of his steed as if to go after Rochelle. Becket leaned out and grabbed the reins, jerking Edward to a halt.

  "Prince Edward, she’s my wife."

  Edward’s eyes narrowed with disbelief. "She didn’t appear too loving, my friend. Methinks you attempt another ruse, that you plot again to take one who belongs to me."

  "She just now learned I’m an English knight." The ground shook from the advancing horses. Becket whirled and stretched his sword across the road as a signal for the others to stop. "These are my people. They are from DuBois. Let them be."

  Prince Edward laughed. "You have claimed peasants from here to Guyenne. Do you think me addle-pated?"

  "’Tis part of our bargain. You touch not what belongs to me."

  "And yet, you steal my prize."

  "I tell you true. She is my wife. She came in search of medicine."

  "So you say. But explain why so many of your people are so far from home. And with their entire families and pets."

  "The plague has left DuBois short of labor. I repopulate my lands."

  The Black Prince laughed again. "Ah, Becket. True to your nature. Ever the appropriate answer without the actual lie." He waved the other knights back to the village. Grumbling, they jerked on the reins and raced back to the desecration, leaving Becket with his irritated commander.

  Prince Edward shook his head, barely controlling his royal pique at being robbed of Rochelle and the villagers. "’Tis good fortune for you that I owe you, my friend and mentor. You have been with me since my birth. You have helped train me, you stood beside me at Crécy. You would have been one of the Knights of the Garter if you hadn’t been stubbornly proud, refusing because you would have been the only knight lacking lands and title." He nodded. "So be it. Claim your peasants. My father and I claim France."

  Prince Edward raised his sword in salute, then as if angered, turned toward the village. But Becket knew he hadn’t heard the end of the discussion. Edward felt tricked.

  "Bless you, Sire."

  Becket glanced down at a weeping woman who held a babe in her arms and semi-hid a lad within the folds of her skirts. Then he scanned the huddled mass of distraught humanity, his guilt like a painful burden too heavy to bear.

  "Pay heed, all, for you must hurry. Your safest destination is the fortified city of Toulouse, but you are also welcome on my land of DuBois, which is south on the Garonne
river. As you pass other villagers, warn them not to take time to stop for food, or belongings. If any are threatened by English knights, tell them to call out my name, Sire Becket de DuBois, to identify them as being under my protection. You should know that the English will stay on my lands for two suns before they move on toward Toulouse, but there are caves at DuBois where you may hide." He had no idea how he would feed so many. "Now, make haste."

  A man who held a boy, who in turn clutched a puppy, stepped forward.

  "You’re a saint, you are. We’d all be dead if not for you."

  Becket fought a laugh. "A devil, mayhap. But never, a saint. Now, be on your way."

  The woman clutched her babe, looked at something past Becket, then screamed. The frightened horde turned and fled down the road.

  Becket lifted his sword and whirled to face--Edward.

  "You threaten me, Becket?"

  "Not so, your majesty." He sheathed his weapon. "Merely cautious about who approaches me from behind."

  "You mentioned that your wife knew not that you are an English knight. Is she not supportive of our cause?"

  Becket listened to the rasp of his breath, in doubt how to answer. "Any kind of death sickens her, your grace. Women are more sensitive about these matters."

  "Not my grandmother, Queen Isabelle. She and her lover, Roger Mortimer, murdered my grandfather over his male liaisons. Women are most dangerous when they believed they are wronged. Since I doubt you’ll throw me atop a food table and stuff an apple in my mouth, I ask you. Is your wife such a female?"

  "She will do what is right."

  "A non-answer. You will not back out of our agreement, Becket. Our army will take respite at DuBois, as planned."

  "Oc, your majesty. ‘Tis arranged."

  "As future king of France after my father, I will brook no disrespect toward me, or my knights."

  Becket almost wished he believed in a higher power, for he needed a wisdom beyond his own to accomplish the needed miracle. But when a lad, he had prayed for his father’s deliverance and had received naught in answer but the dying screams of a loving man--and his own burned body. No, he must depend upon his own abilities, not on non-existent deities.

  "Becket?"

  He met Edward’s glare, wondering how he would control Rochelle’s rage. "None will be disrespectful, your grace."

  "I pray so. But the land is newly conquered and still contemptuous. I cannot afford, nor will I tolerate insurrection. Those who dare, will die. Even if ‘tis your wife. And you will do the killing."

  Chapter Thirty

  Becket watched Lady Rochelle on the parapet while he motioned for the guard to lower the drawbridge. Surely she realized the men would obey him. They had pledged their fealty.

  As soon as the chain began to creak, Rochelle ran from his view.

  "Eager to see you, is she?" Prince Edward croaked a derisive laugh.

  "While you and your men dismount, your grace, I will see to the arrangements for your comfort." Becket nodded to Davide. "Gather the discussed materials and meet me as decided. Phillipe, you know your orders."

  Once in the bailey, Becket leapt off Satan, then stormed into the great hall and up the stairs to Rochelle’s former chamber. He rattled the latch.

  Locked.

  Becket kicked in the door. The slam of wood against wall reverberated his arrival.

  Lady Rochelle spun to face him, fear and fury in her gentian-blue eyes. She darted past him as if to escape. He snagged her arm, then jerked the set of keys from her belt. "You will remain in this chamber until after I leave DuBois."

  "Those keys are mine."

  "Not until two days hence."

  The metallic clanging he had expected, sounded behind him.

  "What are they doing with the door?" He saw her panic as she twisted within his grasp.

  "Changing the lock. You already hate me. What is one more offense? Especially when ‘twill save your life."

  "My life? Or yours?"

  "Prince Edward will tolerate no rudeness, Rochelle. I’ve been given orders to kill whomever behaves in such a manner. Including you."

  One corner of her mouth lifted in a sneer as she dared him to look away. "And would you, knight? Indeed, I believe you would. But why not murder me as you have so many others? Then you’d be rid of me and would still have DuBois. Your goal from the first."

  "If you truly wish to know my goal, cherie, then look through my eyes and into my soul. See what I hunger for most."

  She met his stare, and the briefest flicker of longing flashed in her eyes, quickly buried beneath revulsion. "I am fool no longer." Rochelle yanked from him and moved to the hearth.

  "Sire Becket!" Pierre’s expression said all Becket wished from Rochelle--love, joy, and complete trust.

  "Bon soir, sprite." He strolled toward the bed, alarmed at how pale Pierre seemed, especially in contrast to the purplish bruise that covered one side of his face. "I hear you thought to travel down the stairs headfirst."

  "I don’t even remember falling. Then Rochelle said I slept for a long, long time. But I’m still tired. But I don’t hurt so much now. I’m so happy you’re here. Can we have another picnic?"

  Becket laughed, hiding the grief over all the lost happiness. "Ah, sprite, I’ve missed you, but my spirits are heightened to see you improved. Lady Rochelle has taken excellent care of you." Becket ruffled his brother’s dark hair. Sire Spitz rubbed against Becket’s arm as if pleased to see him. Becket sighed. If only Rochelle would behave thus. "You rest a bit more. I’ll see you later this night. Now I must check on matters below."

  "Later this night?" The horror in Rochelle’s tone saddened him all the more.

  "Prince Edward chooses to sleep in the lord’s chamber instead of in his tent. I will sleep here."

  She whirled to face him in challenge, hands on hips. "You will not."

  "Although you wish otherwise, Lady Rochelle, I am lord of DuBois. I will sleep where I so choose, which is here, with you."

  "I refuse."

  "You have no choice."

  "Mayhap. Mayhap not." Her chin went up in challenge. "I might have poisoned the wine, or put wolfebane in the food to kill you English rats."

  "You are not of such a nature."

  "Unlike you."

  He winced. An urge to kneel at her feet so as to prove his devotion, tugged at his knees. Pride held them firm. She had already spurned his wrenched-out declaration of love. And yet, he couldn’t give up. Becket moved toward her, his hand caressing the hilt of his sword that would forever remind him of their night upon the bluff. He longed for her hot passion, not this cold, tormented rejection.

  "Rochelle, I ...I told you how I feel about you."

  "Convenient timing, my lord. As is every decision you have made since you first arrived at DuBois." She crossed her arms over her breasts as if to fight a chill. Of regret? Of memories? Or merely as a symbol she had closed her heart to him for eternity. He stopped in front of her, fisting his hands to keep from touching her and frightening her away.

  "Your anger blinds you to the truth, Rochelle."

  "Which of the following is a lie? That you came here to kill Reynaurd and to claim DuBois, not only for yourself, but for England? That you decided I might stay only after you realized I might be a bigger threat when out from under your control? That for over a fortnight you have ravaged France along with the enemy? That like your mother, you have killed children to gain your end? That the blood of many more will be on your hands ere you cease?"

  "I am a warrior!"

  "You are a coward."

  "Unlike the French you believe so pure? If you were Languedoc, as am I, you’d see the French through my eyes." Frustrated, he paced to the window, then hating the smell of smoke that still lingered on the breeze, he faced her, determined to convince her of his motives.

  "Over a century ago, we were our own country with our own language, habits, tastes and ethnic backgrounds. Then, in a mixed campaign of religious crusade and imp
erial expansion, the pope and the King of France viciously suppressed the Cathares, accused them of heresy, then burned them alive in their mountain citadel. In Béziers, they butchered 15,000 men, women and children. Through the years, the French and the church have used various forms of violence in their attempts to destroy our language; have threatened through penalty of death that only one form of religion is acceptable--theirs; have stolen our lands through the horrors of The Inquisitions." The unleashing of his fury shuddered though his body and drove him toward her.

  "True we still have our own États Généraux, but the Inquisition took all else but our pride. I won’t belabor what abominations took place within the torture chambers on men and women alike, atrocities instigated by the church, sanctioned by the crown." He stopped before her, the flames behind her dredging up a past he ached to forget. "But the abhorrence I felt when I saw the mutilated body of a dear and caring man, sickened my soul beyond retrieval. Then while tied to a stake surrounded by brush, and even though he knew the hellacious death he would suffer, he recanted his forced confession in order to protect mother and me, for he knew that if he didn’t, they would torture us. And yet, while he screamed as he burned, he saw me plead for his life, saw Gaston torch me. He died believing he had failed." Becket swallowed in an unsuccessful attempt to ease the knot of guilt that cramped in his throat. "Oc, Rochelle, my tribal resentment runs deep."

  "I loathe what happened to you. ‘Tis unforgivable But that your atrocities are wrought upon the Languedocs--the very ones whom you claim are of your heritage--is even more despicable."

  "’Tis an imperfect world, Rochelle. You know that every man of nobility must pledge his fealty to someone, which means I am sworn to obey whether or not I approve of the duty. I gave my oath to those who treated me with kindness, for unless you haven’t guessed, I hate the French."

  "I hate the English."

  Pierre’s cry sliced through Becket’s rebuttal. "Rochelle. Becket. Don’t argue." Becket turned to see Pierre’s distraught face awash with tears while he clutched Sire Spitz to his chest as if at a lifeline. "You frighten me when you disagree."