Love Thine Enemy

  Never!

  He must!

  Becket’s pulse pounded like an anvil of doom. Somehow, some way, he must do all within his power to stay the predictable outcome.

  His hand shook when he placed the key in the lock.

  Prince Edward cleared his throat. "You’d best hope she is swayed by my explanation, mon ami, so that I am convinced she is not a threat. Fear not, I’m known to display charm with the female gender; I can be most persuasive." He motioned to the guards. "Wait in the hallway."

  Releasing a tense sigh, Becket turned the tumbler, then pushed back the door.

  Rochelle stood beside the bed, swiping tears from her face, and his heart wrenched. His secrets and intrigue had thrust this disaster upon her. Pierre, too, appeared terrified, rubbing and rubbing his cheek against Sire Spitz as if desperate for solace. Becket’s heart wrenched another twist. Even at five, his brother sensed the seriousness of their visit.

  Prince Edward stepped past him. "I beg your attendance, fair lady. This man of the cloth will care for the lad while we visit. If you’ll join us on the parapet?"

  Père Bertrand hurried toward the bed with an eagerness that increased Becket’s trepidation.

  Horror widened Rochelle’s eyes, then she leapt between Pierre and the priest. Leave, Père Bertrand."

  "I warned you before, you risk God’s wrath with your stubbornness. Even so, the prince has commanded, I repeat, commanded me to tend to the boy."

  "Get out!"

  Becket stilled, stunned. Rochelle, who straightened her wimple with a glare, argued, no, grappled with the priest over Pierre? Without waiting to discover why, he picked up the priest from the floor and carried him, kicking, to the hallway.

  "If Lady Rochelle wishes you gone, so be it. Out."

  The priest turned on him, skin flushed, eyes full of venom. "God will--"

  Becket slammed the door in his face and turned to Prince Edward who appeared only slightly less shaken by the scene than Rochelle and Pierre. What the hell had happened in Becket’s absence?

  Prince Edward cleared his throat, forcing an obvious false serenity on his expression. "I, too, have lost faith in the clergy. Ever since the Pope abandoned the Vatican to set up residence at Avignon, my father and I have considered him King Jean’s puppet and thus have ignored his papal pleas for peace."

  Rochelle went rigid, her appearance one of severe constraint and suspicion, then she drew her ever-horrifying glare over Edward’s attire still covered with blood.

  "Rochelle, this is Edward, Prince of Wales--"

  "Red jupon Black armor. The black prince." She jerked her gaze to Edward’s. "You! You are the one who hunted me like a wild beast. One of those who struck..." She clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening with welling tears.

  "My apologies for the mistaken identity, fair lady. ‘Tis one reason why I insisted upon this meeting, to calm your distress. If I had known you belonged to Sire Becket, I would never have treated you in such a way."

  Surely Prince Edward saw how Rochelle shook from her rage, sensed how bone-deep her hatred. Dear god, how to avoid the coming... God? He, Becket, had called upon God? What a too-near, terrifyingly weak blunder. No, his only hope lay with his own strength, his own wisdom, his own determination to save Rochelle and Pierre. His pride would allow no less.

  But how? A voice whispered within his fears. How?

  Ignoring the taunt, Becket gestured to the door as an inducement for Edward to leave before hell exploded. "Prince Edward, you are most gracious to apologize, but I’m certain your bath...and Lady Angelique...await you."

  "You tempt me, mon ami, but you do not rid me of this task with so much ease. Besides, I do this out of respect for you. I will merely explain to your wife that my father’s right of title, not only to the myriad lost provinces--once more vast than that ruled by any of the French Kings--but to the crown of France itself, is stronger than that of the deceased Philip of Valois." He turned his attention to Rochelle, smiling as if he expected her to swoon at his feet from the dazzlement.

  "To prove my lineage, fair lady, my mother is Philippa of Hainaut. My grandmother was Isabella of France, my great-grandmother, Eleanor of Castile, my great-great-grandmother, Eleanor of Toulouse, my great-great-great-grandmother, Isabella of Angoulême, my great-great-great-great-grandmother, Aliénor of Aquitaine."

  Becket saw that Rochelle watched Edward with narrowed eyes while the prince ambled toward the writing desk, then sat upon the edge, ankles crossed, his casual pose belying the wiliness beneath.

  "My father should have inherited France through my grandmother, Isabelle, sister of the deceased King Charles IV, but--and this should incense a bonne femme such as yourself--the French Assembly craftily pretended that only males could inherit the crown of France. Thus, they set aside my grandmother’s claim, an act without legal precedence and, instead, gave the crown to my grandmother’s first cousin, Phillipe VI. When he died, the crown passed to his son, Jean, Le Bon, a misnomer because he is not good but vicious and stupid, a virulent combination. Add to that his support of our long-time enemy, Scotland, as well as countless broken promises and inadequate treaties, and the entire situation becomes intolerable." He stood, then nodded a slight bow. "To our credit, our control will cease all border wars, will pull the divided conglomerate of feudal entities into one strong country." He spread wide his hands, and flashed a smile. "In truth, we save France."

  "Will you . . ." Rochelle swallowed as if to gain control of her voice that came out as tight and trembling as her fisted hands. "Will you continue your killing raids in order to save France?"

  "But of course. The war is not yet won. And as any English warrior knows, this foray in France is quite profitable for nobleman and footsoldier, alike; we have garnered wagon-loads of coins and treasures. You’ll be grateful to learn that even your Becket has profited, rounding up new peasants to work his fields."

  Her shocked gaze flew to Becket’s, then darted to the mesericord that hung from his belt. He clamped his hand over the dagger, but suddenly one appeared in her hand. When had she started carrying a dagger? She lunged for Prince Edward. Becket snatched her, pinning her arms against her sides as he held her against his body.

  "Let me go! I’ll kill--"

  Becket crushed his mouth atop hers to swallow her threat. She kicked his armored shins but he carried her to the window-well, pressing her into the corner. He heard Pierre’s wails of fear but dared not release her.

  Pain shot through his lip. "Blazes!" He lifted his head, tasting blood where she had bitten him. "Cease, Rochelle. Accept what is."

  "I will never accept this atrocity."

  "Becket, your wife sought my life! Guards!"

  "’Twas mine she sought, your grace, not yours."

  Rochelle bucked against his hold. "You--"

  Becket captured her curse within his mouth, fearing with a tortuous dread that this all too-symbolic kiss of fire and hate would be their last. Footsteps sounded to his back and he hid her with his body. "Pretend an apology, Rochelle." He whispered the plea over her lips. "Pretend you meant to kill only me."

  "I wish you both dead."

  "If you care not to save your life or mine, then act so as to save Pierre’s. What will happen to him if we both are gone?"

  "Guards, detain her." Prince Edward’s command pierced Becket’s fears like a hot sword.

  Rochelle screamed and flailed out. Becket enfolded her struggling body against his, aching to protect her from Prince Edward’s wrath. "Your grace, I beg your indulgence, she is not a threat but merely distraught."

  Pierre’s cry ripped through the chamber.

  Becket turned to see Père Bertrand carrying Pierre toward the hallway like stolen plunder.

  Rochelle’s dagger clattered to the rushes. She wrenched from Becket’s security darting past the guards. "Leave him be!"

  Becket blocked Père Bertrand’s path, snatching Pierre from his arms. "I forbid you to take him." He hurriedly placed h
is brother on the mattress, stunned by the priest’s bizarre behavior.

  Near hysteria, Rochelle beat on Père Bertrand’s chest, shoving him toward the door. "Get out! Get out!"

  The priest pushed her aside and leapt to the bed. "The prince has given me permission. I merely grasp the opportunity to purge Pierre of his demon ere Prince Edward departs."

  "The only demon in this chamber is you. And if you ever dare touch Pierre again I will boil you in oil." Becket dragged Père Bertrand to the hallway, slinging him toward the stairs. "I banish you from DuBois."

  "God will punish you!"

  "Becket!" The prince’s shout wrapped around Becket’s foreboding like a shroud. Prince Edward joined him in the hall, a fury in his expression usually reserved for the battlefield. The guards hovered behind him, asking Becket with their gazes what they should do.

  Prince Edward fisted his hand on his hilt. "Your wife is unstable. Surely you see that. I even hear she poisoned Lady Anne."

  "Where did you hear such a tale?"

  "Your mother. She met me in the bailey."

  "My mother?"

  "She also requested me to ask you who sired your wife, although at the time, I wondered why that should matter, but I made that error once about Charles of Navarre and Sire Gaston and I shall not do so again. Who is her father?"

  Becket felt the blood drain from his face. He glanced over his shoulder at Rochelle who hugged Pierre and Sire Spitz to her breast, rocking them while she and Pierre wept.

  "Becket, who is her father?"

  "But, Prince Edward--"

  "Have you impulsively drawn me into danger? Have you hidden secrets that will destroy our mission? Heed, me Becket. I cannot leave DuBois here as an enemy imbroglio and risk years of fighting and planning. I command you. Who is her father?"

  Becket forced the confession past his throat. "Sire Gaston."

  Prince Edward’s mouth dropped open. "The man who plots with Charles of Navarre for DuBois and Moreau--and your head?"

  "Sire Becket!" Henri clambered up the steps, then stopped, pressing his hand over his chest, gasping for air. "A wounded knight just arrived. Gaston has retaken Moreau."

  Becket’s pulse thudded a death-knell.

  "Flames of hell!" Edward whirled to face Becket. "Your wife is a danger."

  "Gaston’s reclamation has naught to do with Rochelle."

  "I feel the trap. To our front, Gaston has Moreau. Behind us, France is scorched. Charles’ brother-in-law resides within collusion distance, lands we still have to cross. To our left is the French-held Toulouse. At DuBois the rabble enemy you begged for, scramble in and out of the caves like poisonous spiders ravenous to feast on English blood. Add to that an unstable wife who hates you, whose father plots against you, who might very well allow her father or Charles of Navarre to launch an attack from DuBois. We would be slaughtered. No, Becket. I have no choice." Edward poked his finger at Becket’s face. "She must die."

  "’Tis all surmisal!"

  "Even if all else is false, she tried to kill me."

  “’Tis I she sought to slay!”

  Prince Edward pointed at Becket’s face. "You gave your word as a knight that should any cause a problem, you would deal with the matter as I decreed. Your wife is a problem. I decree that she die. You will do the killing. In public." He drew his sword and barged into the chamber, nodding to the guards as he passed. "Take her to the bailey."

  Becket lunged in front of the guards protect Rochelle, then froze.

  Gone. The bed and room, empty. She had grabbed Pierre and Sire Spitz and had escaped into the tunnels.

  Dear God. Help her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "They’re leaving."

  At the woman’s pronouncement, Rochelle rushed from the cave to where the path dropped to the valley. A stream of soldiers wound from the keep, spilling beyond the edges of the road like a human river flooding beyond its banks, dangerous and deadly. Gone were the tents that had dotted the autumnal landscape like poisonous mushrooms. Scorched circles from doused campfires pocked the earth.

  Loathing herself for her weakness, Rochelle searched the hundreds for Becket. She tightened the mantle around her shoulders to stay the chill that seeped through the wool and into her soul. Surely an evil spirit possessed her, for her heart beat in painful thuds. Hate him. Love him. Hate him. Love him. To her consternation, the declarations beat in equal ferocity. With equal pain.

  Griselda touched Rochelle’s arm, pointing at the last knight to cross the drawbridge. Rochelle’s heart lurched. The hate him, love him, rhythm increased to a suffocating pace, until love him, love him thundered so loudly that surely Becket heard.

  He reined Satan to a halt, red, gold and silver atop a jet stallion, the jewels of DuBois amongst the flames of autumn--or more appropriately, the devil amongst the flames of hell. He focused up at the cave. Did he see her? Did he hate her with as much pain as she hated him?

  Love him. Love him.

  No! He had used her. Betrayed her. Killed innocent men, women, children. He now rode out to burn and kill even more. Never could she love such a man, warrior, or no. Never.

  Love him! Love him!

  "Non! I hate you! I hate you!"

  She spun from him in rejection, tormented by the repetitive lie resounding across the valley. Shameful tears seared her eyes. Rochelle leaned her forehead against the boulder as hard as the stone now wedged in her throat. She felt achingly hollow as if her heart had flown to retrieve the falsity, following Becket like a doomed moth, beating its pulsing wings against the invisible barrier of her righteous indignation that forever separated her from Becket.

  "Rochelle, don’t hate him."

  Pierre’s plea whispered above the breeze and tore at her piety. She swiped the back of her hands over her damp cheeks, then desperate to ease the loneliness, enfolded him against her body. Sire Spitz, draped around Pierre’s neck, protested the suffocating hug.

  "Ah, Pierre, how I wish you were still my brother and Sire Becket had never arrived."

  "But I love him as well as you, Rochelle. He has been good to me. I hoped we could be a family."

  She squeezed her eyes shut to suppress her tears of regret.

  Rochelle felt a tug on her skirt. She sniffed and glanced down. A girl of about four years of age gripped Rochelle’s gown with a chubby hand as dirty as the ground at her feet. "I like Sire Becket." The child batted a breeze-tossed curl from her smudged face, her pale eyes narrowed with animosity. "I think he’s nice." She hugged Pierre from behind with cherubic arms. "Don’t worry, Pierre. Someday we’ll get married, then we can be a family with Sire Becket."

  Rochelle felt her brows rise along with her pique. "Should you wed, child, there is a dangerous flaw in your scenario. Sire Becket is a murderer."

  The little girl’s curls wavered with her denial. "He saved us." She tugged on Pierre’s arm. "Let’s play some more. This lady is mean."

  Pierre swatted the girl’s hands away. "She is not! Go away." He hunched down beside the boulder, the breeze ruffling the black fur of the living scarf around Pierre’s neck as he watched Becket ride away.

  Rochelle scanned the crowd of refugees who, surprisingly, glared at her as if she had betrayed them. Many she recognized from the village of Astarac--a woman who held a sleeping babe, her son curled at her feet; a man with the boy whose puppy now sniffed the ground as if in search of a dropped tidbit. But most she had never seen before, men, women, children, all dirty and ragged, all staring as if disappointed in her.

  "I thought to apologize for my husband’s, Sire Becket’s, treatment of you, but I see you believe I am the one in error. I don’t understand you. You should be incensed." She swept her hand to indicate the whole of them. "His spoils of war. Human flesh. How dare he."

  Griselda limped to Rochelle’s side.

  "Because he dared they now have life

  Instead of gutted by a knife."

  "No rhymes, Griselda. Naught you can say will eradicate the h
orror of his treason." She shook her head in dismay at the judgmental faces. "How can you be so merciful of his behavior? Instead of bargaining with the English, he should have fought with the French!"

  "The French." The man with the small boy spat on the ground. "With pride I tell you my name--Pick-A-Tick--for I am skilled at picking the locks of the hated French. All of us here are Languedoc. As if we didn’t have enough struggles to overcome with their inquisitions, then later, the black death, King Jean plagues us with burdensome levies, even taxing our salt. We barely survive while he and his entourage live in luxurious palaces and feast on delicacies. And after all we have sacrificed for him, he refuses to come to our aid unless we give him even more money. A pox on him."

  A woman shifted a babe within her arms, waving the freed hand northward. "And our Languedoc overlord, the Count of Armagnac, hides behind the walls of Toulouse leaving us undefended. My loyalty goes to the only one who helped us. Sire Becket."

  Furious with their argument, Rochelle nodded at the stream of soldiers. "Look at them. Their goal is slaughter. And Sire Becket is one of them. No one can bargain with evil and not be tainted in the doing."

  "Hmph!" A middle-aged woman planted her fists on her hips and scanned the valley. "If Sire Becket hadn’t made an arrangement with the English, this land would be burned, too, and we’d all be dead by now." She glanced at Rochelle. "Including you and that boy of yours." One corner of her mouth lifted in a sneer. "And now, because of you, ‘tis unlikely the prince will allow Sire Becket to claim any more doomed souls."

  Rochelle gasped. "You blame me for the murders perpetrated by others? I will not listen to such unfairness. You act as if he’s a saint and I’m the devil."

  Griselda gripped Rochelle’s shoulders, her eyes pleading from behind the grayed strands.

  "Few souls are purely saint or mean

  They mostly fall betwixt-between.

  But Becket is a worthy man

  who’s trapped in hell, does what he can."