Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  Rochelle appeared guilt-stricken.

  "Is this how our lives will be from now on, Rochelle?" Becket released a ragged breath of futility, then shook his head. "We will discuss this later."

  "There is naught to discuss. You used me. I hate you. Now, leave."

  "Rochelle..." He glanced at Pierre who watched them with fear-widened eyes. Memories of his brother’s laughter when at the picnic--brief sparkles of merriment in an otherwise difficult life--tore at Becket’s already burdened soul. The future happiness of the three of them depended on his skill in persuading Rochelle to forgive. He grasped her arm and urged her into the shadowed corner in hopes Pierre couldn’t see their disagreement. He forced her to face him.

  "Release me." She shoved at his chest as if panicked.

  "I won’t harm you, Rochelle." He pressed her against the wall--as hard a barrier as the one she had constructed around her heart. "I beg you to heed me."

  "’Tis over, Englishman. There is naught you can say to repair the damage."

  "Love thine enemy."

  He saw the confusion in her eyes. "What?"

  "The Sacred Scriptures. I don’t deserve you, I know. I acknowledge my flaws. But in my desperation I quote from a source that means much to you." He locked his gaze onto hers, willing her to soften her frozen heart. ‘Love thine enemy.’"

  "Love?" She laughed, hard and ugly, then slapped away his hands. "I’d rather by ruled by Gaston than ever set eyes on you again. I hate you. I loathe you. I wish you were dead."

  He recoiled, felt the verbal slap to the innermost part of his being. "Mayhap you’ll get your wish."

  Becket strode from the chamber, then locked the door, feeling as if he locked himself away from all that mattered to him. He realized with a tearing pain that she would never forgive him. Mayhap he would never forgive himself. But like Rochelle, he’d had no choice. The truth did naught to ease the ache of regret lodged permanently behind his breastbone.

  Filled with remorse, he moved downstairs to the great hall. Servants placed white cloths over planked tables in preparation for the meal, strewing herbs and flowers over the surfaces. Knights hung their shields and helmets on wall-pegs behind the bench where they intended to dine, their weapons in easy reach if needed. Whippets and hounds sniffed the rushes in search for bones and scraps from previous meals.

  Flanked at a discreet distance by two of his ever-present guards, Prince Edward sat in front of the mammoth hearth on one side of a small table set with a backgammon board. He visited with a standing cluster of the most imminent soldiers of England, including the Earls of Warwick, Salisbury, Suffolk, Oxford and Stafford. Sir John Chandos and Sir James Audeley, two of Edward’s dearest friends, sauntered over, tankards raised as if in salute.

  "To Edward, the future Prince of France, who has so successfully harried and wasted this rebellious country."

  "Hear, hear!" The men cheered, then downed their wine.

  Becket’s stomach twisted. He paused, unwilling to tolerate any more boasting of who ravaged the most, plundered the most, raped the most, killed the most.

  Prince Edward glanced over at Becket. "Join us, mon ami. We were discussing how many goodly towns and strongholds we’ve destroyed in this rich and plenteous land. King Jean should be in a royal panic by now."

  Another cheer deafened the hall. One loud enough to surely reach Rochelle’s chamber.

  "Did you see how that lass flew when Richard hit her with the flat side of his battle-axe? Like a clubbed pumpkin."

  "You spoiled our fun, Richard. We hadn’t had a turn with her. As with lovemaking, you are always too hurried with the females."

  Laughter pierced Becket’s frayed composure. He opened his mouth to vent his temper, but Edward threw him a glare. The prince shooed the gathering away as he held his chalice up for a refill from his wine steward. "Friends, go celebrate while I visit with Becket in private." He motioned for Becket to sit in the opposing chair.

  Becket stilled. His revulsion at the barbarity of the past weeks affected his usual detachment when conversing with royalty. Especially now, for Edward obviously sought information Becket felt loath to divulge.

  "Come, Becket. I wish a diversion while they prepare my bath. I can hardly wait to cleanse myself of all this blood and smoke I worked so hard to gain." He chuckled at his own jest

  Nerves taut, Becket scooted his stool into place, in wait for the certain catastrophe. He forced a calming breath. Too many emotional fires raged toward a common tinder-keg, any of which could set off a fatal explosion.

  "Your wife joins us not, Becket?"

  His stomach twisted tighter. "She tends to my brother who is recuperating from a serious illness."

  Prince Edward rolled the dice, his brows drawn together as if in thought. "I never knew you had a brother." He moved his disc the appropriate number of spaces.

  "’Tis one of the many pleasant surprises I have fallen heir to since my return to DuBois." Becket tossed the ivory cubes, then made his move.

  "Another surprise being your supposed wife? She is most fair of face and form. And her hair...I’ve never witnessed tresses quite that...ethereal paleness. I still question she is your lady. But I shall have to trust you on that, shan’t I?"

  "Ask any here. All know she ruled as chatelaine ere I arrived."

  Edward sat back in his chair, his open mouth framed by his long-handled mustache. "Do you realize the odds on such a fortune? ‘Tis no wonder you tossed Charles of Navarre atop the fruit platter for calling her a porker." He frowned as if puzzled by a sudden remembrance. "By the by, a messenger arrived who spoke of the Duke of Lancaster’s delay in joining with Navarre’s troops in Normandy. Seems Charles has gone into hiding. Do you think we’ve been duped?"

  "He didn’t confide in me, your grace."

  "I think not. You were fortunate he didn’t run you through with his sword."

  "He goaded me apurpose."

  "Oui, he did." Prince Edward rolled the ebony disc within his fingers as if in thought. "At the time, I believed he had taken all in good humor. And yet, later he grilled me about you. Seems a Sire Gaston bargained with him for DuBois and Moreau. And your head."

  Prickles ran along Becket’s flesh. "What did Sire Gaston promise in exchange?"

  "Charles never said. I didn’t question him, for I saw not how a man like this Gaston could affect the war one way or another. But with Charles’ unexpected disappearance, now I wonder."

  Becket felt the perspiration bead on his brow. "Why didn’t you tell me about Sire Gaston before this?"

  "I know ‘twas my intent, then when I saw no reason to delay our raid, my mind shifted to the war and I thought not of the news again until the messenger mentioned this curiosity about Charles’ apparent defection. The Duke of Lancaster is in a bit of a quandary as how to proceed; the Duke hasn’t missed a battle in four and a half decades."

  Prince Edward tapped the disc against his mouth as if in thought. "Cousin Charles is grandson of Louis X and like me has a better claim to the crown than does Jean. You don’t suppose he has his sights set on the throne for himself, do you?"

  "You have doubts?" Becket scoffed. "Charles is volatile, shrewd, charming, violent, slick as a serpent, determined as Beelzebub, a schemer without scruples. In truth, his only invariable is hate. I would say he is more than capable of such a plot."

  Prince Edward studied the fire. "Do you remember a boast I flaunted during the last war council in Guyenne? That Charles of Navarre’s brother-in-law, the Count of Foix, has promised me safe passage if I waste not his lands?"

  "I do. His property surrounds DuBois on three sides, giving you a large block of neutral territory behind enemy lines. A coup, you claimed."

  "Might the Count of Foix also be the type for treachery?"

  "He would kill his own son."

  Prince Edward still concentrated on the flames. "If Charles has decided to go for the crown, he might do aught to assure that my raid is a failure, and mayhap, even plan an ent
rapment with his brother-in-law."

  "But the land is scorched behind you. ‘Twill not be productive for at least a decade."

  "Which also means we cannot retreat but must move ahead-- with Charles's brother-in-law to our right and Toulouse on the left... And what about our unprotected back after we leave DuBois?" Edward threw the game piece onto the board with a clack. "How unlike me to count as insignificant what might be the most important facet of our campaign." He shoved to his feet. "Your wife, Becket. Her loyalty is of extreme import. I would see her."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Becket stiffened. "Your grace?"

  "I’m certain she must be distressed about the incident in the County of Astarac. We cannot have her upset. I am duty-bound to explain and to give my regrets."

  Did he suspect her of collusion? Becket scurried for an excuse. "She is, in essence, a prisoner, your grace. She cares for my brother and trusts no other to do so. And I’m certain your bath is ready."

  "I insist.” Edward drilled Becket with his alarm-filled gaze. “Do you not understand, Becket? We are deep in enemy territory, unable to return from whence we came, uncertain about whether the Count of Foix whose lands snuggle against your estate is friend or foe, and once we resume our chevauchée, the unravaged Dubois controls our vulnerable backside, with a Chatelaine whose betrayal could cost us the French Crown. Her allegiance is of supreme..." Edward’s attention focused on something behind Becket, then his eyes widened with desirous delight.

  Becket looked over his shoulder, and his insides fisted. The already abysmal day just worsened.

  Lady Angelique swayed across the floor in all her lavender glory, a come-hither invitation in her violet eyes, the same she had first flung at Becket, then at Henri, now at Edward. At least she had momentarily distracted the prince, but had she no loyalty to Henri? Sickened, he scanned the great hall for his love-smitten friend who, against Becket’s advice, had decided to ask Angelique for her hand in marriage.

  Prince Edward leapt to his feet, sweeping his hand toward his chair. "Allow me. And you are?"

  "Madame Angelique."

  "Madame." Prince Edward bowed. "In all my twenty and five years I have never seen a lovelier vision, not even in my most delectable of dreams."

  "Lady Angelique." Becket clutched her arm as she paused in front of them, the cloying scent of violets distinguishable even above the hearth-smoke. "Henri will attend you, soon."

  "Henri? Ah, yes." She ran her tongue over her rouged lips and curved a quite determined, quite seductive, smile at Prince Edward, then fluttered her dark lashes. "Your majesty, I offer my humble services to you in hopes that your respite here might be relaxing. Mayhap I may oversee the preparation of your bath and to massage away your..." She lowered her focus to below his waist, then lifted her eyes and latched onto his gaze. "...stiffness."

  Revolted, Becket gritted his teeth to hold back the more appropriate epithet of ‘harlot’. "Lady Angelique. His grace is too exhausted for a woman of your energies. Henri, however--"

  "Be still, Sire Becket." Angelique flipped her hand in dismissal.

  "Oui, Becket, be still." Edward smoothed his long-handled mustache much like a peacock preens his tail to attract a mate. "Since your wife is pre-occupied behind a locked door and unavailable to tend me in my bath, I would most appreciate such capable handling from this most exhilarating woman."

  "I’m honored, your grace." She sank into a deep curtsy, giving the prince full view of her generous cleavage.

  Prince Edward’s eyes narrowed with lust. "Are you attached to Sire Henri in any way? After Astarac, I fear I must make certain of pre-arranged alliances."

  She laughed, deep and throaty, then glanced around at herself as she pushed to a stand. "I see no strings or leashes that tether me to the dear boy."

  Becket seethed, angered that she so callously shifted her affections when a man of higher rank stood within her prurient grasp. Did she think to better her lot? Did she not realize that Prince Edward merely considered her a high-born lightskirt? But had not his mother committed adultery to bear a child? Had not Rochelle, in her hatred, sworn she preferred to side with Gaston rather than with Becket? Women. Duplicitous creatures. Becket gave thanks he hadn’t knelt at Rochelle’s feet after all.

  Angelique dipped her fingers inside her bodice. She slowly drew out an embroidered handkerchief, snagging Edward’s attention to her ample bosom, an unnecessary move, for the prince fairly drooled with anticipation. "Forgive me if I boast, your highness, but I’m quite creative in my diverse manipulations for releasing a man’s tension." She let the cloth drift to the floor. "My apologies, your grace. How clumsy of me."

  Prince Edward reached down, but a sword speared the linen square.

  "How very clumsy, indeed, Angelique." Henri lifted his weapon, the handkerchief pierced upon the tip. "You drop handkerchiefs much like you spread your legs. Often and without discretion."

  "Sire Henri!" Angelique, to her wanton credit, showed genuine distress at Henri’s slur. "I beg you to understand... I mean...well, he’s royalty. Only once in a lifetime shall I ever have such an opportunity to be of such service."

  "Then service him until your feminine well runs dry. If you play adeptly the part of whore, he might invite you to become one of his camp followers."

  "How dare you." Her slap on Henri’s face cracked into the clamor.

  "Au contraire, Angelique. How dare you. Even though Lady Rochelle wishes all Englishmen dead, including Becket, I have more respect for her than I could ever have for you in eons of eternities."

  "Your wife hates Englishmen?" Edward shifted his horrified gaze to Becket. "Even you, her husband?"

  Becket’s twisted stomach coiled another knot.

  Henri closed his eyes as if shaken by his mistake but tortured with an inner pain beyond his concern of Rochelle.

  Angelique snatched the linen from the sword-tip. "Henri, I only behave as is my nature. Besides, he’s a prince! And I only tend to his bath, naught else."

  "Tend to whatever you will. I had almost made an error so foolish that my mind reels with my stupidity."

  He gave her his back and stormed into the bailey.

  "Henri! What error?" Angelique ran after him, but Becket knew she wasted her pleas. Henri had seen the truth behind his blinding lust--she behaved with an instinct stronger than her affection for Henri. Like Rochelle’s revulsion for Becket. Like Edward’s obsession for the French crown.

  "Hates the English, Becket?"

  "What do you expect, your grace? She witnessed atrocities to a people and land that are dear to her. She almost lost her own life. And she feels betrayed by me. Imagine how you might feel if this raid ripped through England, if one you trusted fought for the enemy. But despite her distress, she will not be disrespectful to you."

  "Because you don’t give her the chance?"

  "You threatened death should any show insolence. I merely prevent the possibility."

  "But you don’t solve the problem. In truth, this presents a serious dilemma. I protected DuBois because you are my supporter."

  "And naught has changed that."

  "Much of dangerous import has changed. Because of you and your collection of our adversaries from across France, DuBois is now teeming with the enemy who otherwise would have been slain. You leave behind a wife who, in her anger, most likely will stir the rabble to rebellion to attack us from behind, entrapping us. And there is this mystery with Sire Gaston and Charles of Navarre." Prince Edward shook his head as if agitated. "There are those who consider me cruel, but ‘tis cruelty in the name of justice. I will not allow anyone to steal from my father and me the throne of France, no matter how comely, no matter to whom she is wed. Now, take me to her."

  "Your majesty, she is fully occupied with my brother because she trusts no other to care for him, and I prefer not to broach this subject in his presence." Becket winced that his case sounded weak, even to him.

  Prince Edward blinked as if taken aback by B
ecket’s argument. "We speak of the success of this war, and you are concerned that one small boy should overhear the conversation?"

  "I assumed you wished the discussion secret. Pierre, in his youth, might innocently repeat vital information." Becket’s mind scrambled for aught that would delay the Edward’s confrontation with Rochelle, then mayhap Becket could hide her in the cave – which terrified her. But this terror loomed more dangerous.

  “’Tis the crown we die for, and you mouthe this idiocy?” Face reddening from obvious anger, Prince Edward glanced around the hall, gestured for someone to approach. "Surely your lady will trust a man of God."

  "Père Bertrand? Even I don’t trust him."

  "Note, Becket, that I am humoring you because of what you mean to me, so trust me when I say that woman feel differently about men of the cloth, and the priest will take care of this matter. I will speak with your wife – now.”

  Becket’s desperation sank like a stone in his stomach. In truth Rochelle did feel differently about the priest. And God. And enemies. And Becket had run out of excuses - and the Prince’s patience.

  Père Bertrand bustled over, fear evident on his face as if he wished he were any place but there.

  Prince Edward clapped him on the shoulder. "I need you to care for a young lad." He glanced up at Becket. "His name?"

  "Pierre."

  Elation erased all fear from the priest’s expression. "He’s better, then? No one deigned to inform me. I would be most eager. And I have your blessing, Prince Edward? Mayhap, your command?"

  "You have."

  Rubbing his hands together, Père Bertrand hurried ahead of Becket, Edward, and the two guards, guiding the small army to the turret room.

  With every spur-jingled step Becket racked his mind for another delay. If only he could see her in advance, to prepare her for what might be the most perilous moment in their lives. What if Edward discovered Gaston is her father? No, only he and Rochelle knew, and even in her rage she would never divulge such a secret.

  But what if she angered Prince Edward, as she surely would? What if Edward demanded that Becket take her life – a distinct possibility? Becket had sworn his fealty. Duty bound him to obey no matter the command.