Love Thine Enemy

  "I will hear no more of this." Rochelle wrenched from Griselda’s hold and moved toward the rim of the path, her gaze following her heart.

  Becket.

  He neared the cedars, a red and gold splendor against the evergreens. Once he entered the forest she might never see him again. A brutal memory struck, ugly words she longed to retract - she had wished him dead. Recollections of when she had first longed to rule DuBois alone haunted like a reckless goal come true. The reality loomed lonely, frightening.

  A love-hate storm of confusion raged inside her. Might the others be right and she be wrong? According to them, Becket had slogged through Hades, saving what lives he could. He alone, had wrought more good than any king, count, or lord. For certain more than she had accomplished. To her shame, she had judged him without giving him benefit of doubt.

  She should shout for forgiveness before he rode into the trees. The admission lodged behind the boulder in her throat. Why couldn’t she tell him? Pride? A senseless reason. He might die without knowing that despite her anger over his betrayal, she...she...she didn’t hate him.

  Coward. Listen to your heart. Tell him now. Before ‘tis forever too late.

  The craven confession clogged behind the band that clamped her throat.

  Without a backward glance, he rode into the forest, out of sight. Gone. The horrid finality shoved the truth from her soul.

  "Becket! I love you!"

  "What if he returns not, milady?" The middle-aged woman tilted her lined face toward Rochelle, her eyes filled with fear. "If he dies, what will happen to us?"

  Pierre broke into tears, shoving away from her and down the path.

  "Pierre, come back!" He paid no heed, rounding the curve and past her view.

  "Milady? What will happen to us?"

  Rochelle rubbed at the ache in her temples, fearing no solution for the pang within her chest where she had foolishly allowed her defense wall to bare her now-lost heart. She sighed to ease the tension.

  "As chatelaine, I vow that all of you may stay at DuBois and under my protection. In truth, I should begin my duties." She took a step to return to the keep, intending to find Pierre on her way.

  Griselda grasped Rochelle’s arm as if alarmed.

  "The prince has ruled. He made a vow.

  Isabelle holds title now."

  "Lady Isabelle? But she will kill Pierre." Panic shattered Rochelle’s tenuous control and she tugged at Griselda’s hold. "Never! Never will I allow that woman to hold sway over Pierre’s life. I must find him."

  Griselda tightened her fingers on Rochelle’s arm.

  "You cannot go. Don’t leave the cave.

  The prince did bade them dig your grave."

  "What worth is my life if aught happens to Pierre?" Or Becket.

  "Soldiers! They’re coming up the hill."

  At the man’s cry of warning, the refugees fled, screaming into the cavern.

  Griselda pulled Rochelle toward the opening.

  "I’ll hunt the boy. You hide in here..."

  The remainder of her rhyme became indistinct as she released Rochelle’s arm and hurried into the darkness.

  Rochelle balked. "There is no time for that route. The soldiers might harm him." Feeling as if her existence unraveled before her eyes, Rochelle whirled to run after Pierre. She slammed against a knight who stepped from behind the boulder. Her blood chilled to ice. "Gaston!"

  Four other knights filed from behind him to surround her. Another black-cloaked figure hovered behind the boulder.

  Frenzied for escape, Rochelle glanced at the cave, but Gaston barred her way. Soldiers blocked the path from the mountain, which left her only other option a leap off the bluff.

  He curved a smile as cold and relentless as the hard granite of his eyes. "Fear not, daughter. Or, daughter-in-law. Or, bride-to-be. Whichever serves me best at the moment. Daughter, I think. I have accomplished goals one and two--I have retaken Moreau and have now conquered DuBois. Which leaves only desire number three. And you will assist me."

  "You have not conquered DuBois; the English are barely beyond the trees. And I’ll die before I assist you."

  "Die you may. When you’ve served your purpose. As to DuBois, the knights that Prince Edward rashly appointed to guard the keep are men who have sworn fealty to me and have infiltrated his forces just for this moment. When Prince Edward learned I had re-taken Moreau, he panicked, moving out before he became entrapped. In his frenetic attempt to protect his back, he merely made certain the volunteers held no affiliation to you, not realizing he gave me DuBois."

  "You lie!"

  With disturbing confidence, Gaston raised his sword. The sun glinted rhythmic flashes from the polished steel toward the keep. Rochelle stared in horror as signals glinted in response from the parapet.

  The rasp of his sword being sheathed grated down her spine.

  "To repeat, Rochelle, I only lack goal number three."

  Numbed by foreboding, Rochelle watched Gaston pull a sheet of parchment and a scrolled missive from beneath his mantle as black as his soul. At his nod, a servant held up a writing board, complete with inkwell, quill, and small hourglass. Dreading the insidious purpose of such thoroughness, Rochelle steeled herself for the coming hell.

  "I am amazed at my genius, Rochelle. At every defeat, I have rebounded victorious. When I approached King Jean with my proposal, the fool seized DuBois and Moreau but is now too concerned with the war to follow through with his greed."

  Rochelle’s pulse thudded. "King Jean claims DuBois?"

  Gaston held out the missive, an official seal stamped on one end. "You may read his decree."

  She snatched the message, scanning the horrid proof of Gaston's assertion.

  "As you can see, Rochelle, he promises me Becket’s death. But Jean takes the lands. Since you are my daughter, he gives me permission to do with you as I will, as long as you leave."

  She flung the note at Gaston. "I am a loyal French citizen! This is my home. Where would he have me go?"

  "In truth, he cares not. He just wants the land."

  "Twice betrayed." The truth burned like a hot brand within her chest. Becket had predicted just such a breach of faith by the king she had chosen over her husband. The arguments, the hatred, the tearing apart of their marriage, the destruction of their love, over a king not worthy of her loyalty. What a fool she had been. She glared at Gaston. "If what you say is true, then you do not possess DuBois after all."

  "Ah, but I do. I have rejected Jean as king and will do all within my power to make certain he is defeated. I turned my loyalties to Charles of Navarre, but instead of promises, he merely listens like a serpent who feels the vibrations of the ground to determine when to strike. ‘Tis well and good, for now I am in position to win more than with either Jean or Charles."

  Taking the missive from her hands, he placed a parchment on the held out surface.

  The wind ruffled the edges and chilled her spirit.

  "I composed a letter to Prince Edward, verifying my possession of Moreau and DuBois. My lands now lie both behind him and before him. His victory is within my hands, or will be when he gives me my only request. Becket’s head."

  She swallowed a gasp, but Gaston concentrated too much on the scroll to notice.

  "His surrender of Becket to me is a simple sacrifice on Edward’s part, with supreme rewards--the French crown. In exchange, I swear not to conspire with Charles of Navarre to attack from either Edward’s fore or aft, assuring the prince a better chance of victory. And I overheard the prince say as they rode out that they will tarry in a spot, one league up from Toulouse, to make certain all is safe before crossing the Garonne and Ariège rivers, which means, daughter, Becket is soon mine."

  "You delude yourself. King Edward would never agree to such a demand."

  "He will if the sacrifice of Becket’s head allows Edward to adorn his own with a crown. Especially when that man is shackled to a traitorous wife."

  Again the accusation sh
e was to blame for other’s treachery. She fisted her hands, wishing them around Gaston’s throat.

  "Cease that haughtiness, Rochelle. All know you want Becket dead." Gaston dipped the quill in the ink and held the feather out to her, the tendrils fluttering in the breeze as if in mockery. "The letter promises that if the prince gives us Becket, you and I will both vow our support to England’s cause. We swear not to attack Edward. And in your lust for Becket’s death, you promise to relinquish all plots for insurrection. Now, sign."

  "I refuse. You cannot force me."

  "Oh, but I can. And with such ease, ’tis almost boredom." He gestured to the shadow behind him. "Père Bertrand, show her your prize."

  The priest stepped out, his hand clamped over Pierre’s mouth.

  Rochelle lunged to rescue him, but Gaston swung the flat side of his sword against her stomach as a barrier. The fear in Pierre’s dark eyes tore at her guilt. The demented anticipation in Père Bertrand’s gaze slid over her like a frigid glacier. Cruel clarity of why the priest fought for Pierre turned her stomach.

  Gaston brushed back a lock of Pierre’s hair. "Bertrand has begged me for possession of the boy with so many mewling pleas ‘tis nauseating. In truth, he sounds like that accursed cat we just threw down the side of the hill."

  Pierre moaned a distraught sob, tears rolling down his precious, far too-pale face, and she prayed for God to spare them all, even Sire Spitz.

  "Damn you, Gaston. Using a young boy as a pawn, harming his pet he loves with all his heart. Damn you."

  "Then hear this and be further enraged." Gaston let Pierre’s lock fall back into place and met her gaze. "I have told Bertrand he can have Pierre when Becket is dead."

  "Damn you to hell." Bile stung her throat.

  "By the by, Père Bertrand is the one who poisoned Reynaurd. ‘Twas Reynaurd’s punishment for not giving me DuBois, as arranged."

  The priest’s face flushed red, the opposite of Pierre’s frightened paleness. "At your instructions! Why do you confess that which is best kept secret?"

  "Dallying with my power gives me pleasure." Gaston smirked, stroking his finger along the feather. "Bertrand also released me from the dungeon. No one suspected. His robes swish like a woman’s skirts. In truth, he has the appetites of a woman." Gaston’s smirk crooked into a leer. "Especially for Pierre."

  "Tell him to leave the boy be."

  "Only if you sign."

  A roar erupted from Père Bertrand. "You promised me!"

  Gaston rolled his eyes in false distress. "Oh, whom shall I choose to possess Pierre? Rochelle? Or, Bertrand?"

  Pierre’s whimper fueled Rochelle’s urgency. "What is my guarantee you will not allow him to have the boy?"

  "None. Only hope. That damnable insanity that dangles in front of our souls just out of reach. But you know the consequences if you do not sign."

  Père Bertrand stamped a foot. "Pierre is mine!"

  Gaston’s granite gaze sparked with malice. "The control I have over you fools is like an aphrodisiac. I use your weaknesses. I tempt you with hope, but promise naught. Even more gratifying is when, like now, I pit one hope against another."

  He shrugged at the priest. "You failed in killing Becket so you have not earned Pierre. However, if the sand runs out before Rochelle cooperates, then he’s yours."

  Rochelle’s attention flew to the hourglass. The first time, her forced signature gained Becket’s hand. Now, his head. Her emotions splintered into shards of panic. She could never betray Becket. Would not. Would die first. But Pierre...

  The sand sifted too fast! Perspiration beaded on her brow. What if she signed now, hoping Prince Edward would refuse Gaston’s offer? But what if the prince agreed?

  "Lured by dangling hopes, Rochelle?" Gaston laughed. "If you gamble by sparing Pierre now, might Becket, somehow, still survive?" He swayed the quill in front of her eyes. "Dangle, dangle."

  Damn him.

  What to do? Only a few grains remained. Then fewer. Then...

  None.

  Gaston flicked his hand at Père Bertrand. "He’s yours."

  Pierre cried out.

  "Non! I’ll do what you ask."

  Gaston smiled. "I knew you would. The brilliance of this is that Becket and Prince Edward will never question your collaboration." He ran the plume along his cheek as if in thought, then brightened with evil expectation. "I’ve decided a more stimulating reward for myself than simply receiving Becket’s head after the fact. A compensation more torturous for him, more titillating for me." With an evil grin, he placed the quill in her trembling fingers. "Now, sign."

  Horrified, Rochelle stared at the ruffling parchment. She better understood Becket’s dilemma of being trapped in a hellish situation with no escape. Whichever choice she made--eternal damnation.

  "She’s delaying, Gaston! The hourglass has emptied. I claim Pierre."

  Gaston sighed. "Then take him. Use him to your obscene delight."

  "Non!" Rochelle stabbed the quill into the ink. "I’ll sign."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  "Heresy. Did you hear me, Becket? I charge you with heresy."

  "How unimaginative, Gaston." Becket faked a yawn, refusing to cover his mouth with his chained hands.

  "I promise to improve." Gaston gestured to indicate the tight grouping at the DuBois head table. "Look at us, Becket. We are almost the image of a family portrait, are we not?"

  Becket scanned the grim scene. Rochelle stood stiffly beside the seated Gaston, signifying her allegiance, (damn her deceitful soul). Pierre sat firmly on Gaston’s lap looking frightened and wan. Père Bertrand hovered behind Gaston’s shoulder on the other side, like the specter of death.

  "’Tis a portrait of evil, except for Pierre, the innocent in all of this." Becket studied his half-brother who appeared terrified, as well he should. "Sprite, has anyone harmed you? Where is Sire Spitz?"

  A tear rolled down Pierre’s pale cheek, but he made no move to respond.

  "Forgive me, Pierre, for not protecting you. I..." A howl of anguish tore through his soul. Becket swallowed bile along with his threatening tears, clenching his chained fists to regain his dissipating control.

  "Admire the irony, Becket." Gaston tapped Rochelle’s wrist with a key that hung from an ornamental chain around his neck; her clasped hands jerked. "Your bride betrayed you because you are an English traitor, yet she conspired with the English for her revenge." Then he laughed as if enjoying himself.

  "Betrayal for betrayal, Rochelle?" Becket forced himself to stare at the woman who held him prisoner in a way Gaston never could. "You should have trusted me enough to realize I would never have relinquished you to Prince Edward but would have willingly given my life in exchange for yours. However, you should be pleased to know that your signature, now emblazoned upon my heart, coupled with your sacrifice of Pierre, ensures my hard-won hatred for you will exist long after my torturous death."

  Becket’s ground out accusation tasted bitter on his tongue. He didn’t even bother shifting his stance to ease the manacles that had rubbed his wrists and ankles to rawness.

  "My dear wife, you’ve turned as pale as your hair. In truth, you appear bloodless. How apropos. I once called you my precious gyrfalcon, but like Gaston, France and England, you are merely another vulture greedy for my corpse."

  Fighting the urge to raise his chained fists in defiance and shout at her, he, instead, bowed. "Pardon my show of emotion which neither of us desire. Grief for what we have lost, for the atrocities we all face because of your vengeance, tears me asunder, releasing a rage I had sworn to mask."

  She paled even more. Her mouth formed a tight line. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  He wanted her to lash out, to spew her venom, but her silence screamed louder than his accusations, increasing his self-anger that he had believed she loved him.

  "The idiocy in all of this, Rochelle, is that you plot to have me butchered, but in reality, you have thrown you and Pierre on the sacrificial al
tar. Gaston will carve and consume both of you like fatted calves."

  "Non!" The priest appeared shocked, clutching Pierre’s arm as if he claimed ownership.

  "How could you, Rochelle?" Fury shuddered from the depth of Becket’s bones. "How could you hate me so much that you bargained with these pederasts for Pierre? Because he is my brother, not yours? You’ve doomed him." Against his will, he raised his bound fists at her in contempt. "Curse you to hell!"

  She merely stood there, trembling, her laced fingers bluish as if she gripped them too tightly.

  Unable to bear the pain, he slid his attention to Père Bertrand, wondering about his role in the gruesome portrait. And then Becket realized the answer to the riddle that had plagued him since boyhood. He shook his head at his own idiocy.

  "I should have guessed from the beginning, Gaston. The mysterious participant in the unholy trinity. Père Bertrand."

  Gaston laughed. "That imbecile? He isn’t capable of such demonic intricacy."

  "Imbecile?" Père Bertrand puffed out his chest as if with rage.

  Ignoring the priest, Gaston gestured to someone behind Becket. "Come hither."

  Rochelle focused past Becket, her eyes rounding as if with shock.

  Curious, Becket glanced toward the movement at his side, then froze, horrified. "Mother?"

  "The third conspirator." Gaston chuckled, obviously enjoying his machinations.

  Becket stared at her in disbelief, but she kept her attention on Gaston, her posture straight, her chin high, still a comely woman despite her fifty and five years.

  "She even falsely testified at the Inquisition against your supposed father."

  "You lie!" Becket confronted Gaston. "I witnessed her abhorrence when he was tied to the stake."

  "Because she had learned that all her manipulations had brought her naught."

  Becket jerked his attention to his mother. "I once asked you if you had become the victim of your own schemes. Explain. What purpose with your murderous plot for Alberre?"

  "Gaston and I had an agreement." Her dark gaze darted to Becket, then to Gaston, giving Becket her profile so like his own--wide brow, Roman nose, stubborn chin. "He betrayed me."