Love Thine Enemy

  "I betrayed you?" Gaston slammed a goblet on the table, wine sloshing onto the white cloth in blood-like puddles. "You believed I would wed you after you played the whore with Reynaurd?"

  "Whore?" His mother’s defiant tilt of her chin reminded Becket too much of Rochelle. "When a man sows his seed indiscriminately, he boasts of his accomplishments. When a woman does so to survive, she is considered a harlot." She beat upon her breasts with her fists. "See these? Reynaurd’s playthings, as was the well between my limbs--parts of my body his amusement! I suffered the indignity to have a child that should have been yours."

  Nausea cramped Becket’s stomach at her sickening admission.

  "You should have waited!" Gaston shoved to his feet, stuffing Pierre on the chair seat and storming around the end of the table.

  Becket grasped his mother’s shoulders fighting the urge to crush them within his grip. "You schemed to have Gaston’s child? Why?"

  "I've already told you. Alberre’s seed was barren." She hissingly whispered the root of his bastardy." She shrugged from his hold, then rubbed at her shoulders as if he had hurt her. "Besides, Alberre was physically flawed; he bore the Devil’s Brand."

  "You considered that wonderful man, Sire Alberre, imperfect? You, a schemer, a murderess, a soul-less spirit?"

  "Hypocrite! You gave your soul to regain DuBois, as did I. As did your deceitful bride. I tried to warn you about her."

  He shoved aside the pain her truth caused, remaining on the offense. "And in your insanity, you consider Gaston perfect?"

  "He has strength!"

  "He is depraved! The only blessing in all of this is that you failed. Any child sired by Gaston could be naught but wicked."

  He glanced at Rochelle and saw the pain his comment had caused her. Instead of elation, he felt guilt. Damn him for a fool.

  Gaston jerked Becket’s mother around to face him. "When I stayed away from you I but tested you."

  "You excuse your cowardice."

  "Cowardice?"

  "You ran from the very quality you admired and feared at the same time--my strength. You truly cared for me and knew not how to handle the emotion. You considered your attraction a weakness and were apprehensive I might use that weakness to manipulate you."

  Becket’s breath hitched. Memories of similar arguments between him and Rochelle haunted like cruel nightmares. Griselda prediction rang in mockery: "Your marriage is doomed!" Well, so be it. He must formulate a plan to survive. He must widen the wedge between his mother and Gaston and encourage her to fight for her son. Heightening his senses for any means to turn the situation into his favor, he turned his attention to the ongoing verbal battle that trembled with each of their long-held rage toward the other.

  Bright spots flushed his mother’s cheeks. "You kept stringing me along with hope. Time sucked at my years. I needed a child before I grew too old." She reached out to Gaston as if to beg forgiveness. "When you didn’t return--"

  "Do you not yet understand? You were too strong-spirited." Gaston brushed her hand away. "I had to break you so that I had total control over you."

  "Control!" His mother’s shout of disgust echoed in the rafters. "Damn your accursed need to dominate others. You but punish the world for the helplessness you felt as a child when your father mistreated you. To bend you to his will, he lured you with mirage-like promises, drawing you further into his perverted realm. Now you use his tactics, except with more evil."

  "His defilement affected me but little in comparison to when I returned to DuBois and you had given birth to a son, Becket, the catalyst to all the hell."

  "You left for years after that, returning with Lady Giselle as your wife. I hated you for that more permanent betrayal. And then I learned you committed adultery with Lady Beatrice; both her and your wife carried your seed at the same time!"

  "Tsk, tsk, Isabelle. If you remember, Beatrice begged me to bed her after she discovered that your, then eight year-old son, Becket, was sired by her husband, Reynaurd and you were still spreading your legs for him. ‘Twas her uninspiring form of revenge."

  "You told her."

  Gaston sneered. "My first act to begin the downward spiral to the final judgment." He paced to the hearth, then faced Becket’s mother, toying with the key. Perhaps to Becket’s chains? But at least Becket now knew why Lady Beatrice had turned to Gaston instead of Alberre. How depraved and sick they all were. Only Alberre stood pure. Only Alberre died. Where was God then? Non-existent.

  "After I discovered your treachery, Isabelle, I plotted how to crush your rebellious spirit beyond redemption. I manipulated and schemed for eight years creating the perfect punishment with the greatest torment for you I could imagine. I would build your expectations to a frenetic climax, then would rip all from you--your husband, your lands, your position, your son." He pressed his fist against his chest. "And me."

  "And yet here we are once more, celibate soul-mates."

  "Here you are, standing there at my bidding, swallowing your indignation over the galling fact that, at last, I now rule you completely. I have waited three decades to smash your spirit and make it mine. And I do so with the same bait. DuBois, and me." He laughed. "’Tis most appropriate. Your testimony in the heresy trial will destroy the life you lost all to create-- Becket’s."

  Becket could hold silent no longer. "Ma mère, think of the insanity in choosing Gaston over your own son. You are past child-bearing age, therefore he will never wed you. And he already has a daughter, one who shares his evil."

  She flipped her hand in dismissal. "Rochelle is but his dupe and is of no concern to me. He cannot choose to give her DuBois because she is a bastard, sired by Gaston, birthed by Lady Beatrice. In truth, she has already served her purpose by giving him your life. I doubt she’ll survive the night."

  The prediction froze Becket’s lungs, and he cursed himself for his reaction.

  "You err about Rochelle being a bastard, my pet." Gaston tapped the key against Becket’s mother’s nose. "Lady Beatrice’s and my babe didn’t survive birth. In my genius, I snatched Rochelle as soon as Giselle spilled her from her womb, placing her in the stillborn child’s cradle as my future tool for whichever direction needed following--bride, daughter-in-law, daughter." He winked at Rochelle, then turned and moved toward the hearth.

  To Becket’s disgust, Rochelle didn’t even wince, as if she had turned to stone. But then, she had hidden a stone-like heart all along. Tending to his own survival, he forced his attention to his mother.

  "Do you not yet see, ma mère? Gaston still betrays you, and always will. He cannot give DuBois to both you and Rochelle. And in truth, neither of you will have the glory."

  "Ah, but you might gain the honor, Isabelle." Gaston leaned toward her, brushing his mouth over hers, and Becket thought he would vomit. "You read me well, my pet. No other woman has fascinated me as has you. As to Rochelle, I must die before she inherits." Gaston swung the key from the chain as if he promised a prize. "And who knows the obscenities to which she might acquiesce, to win the dangled reward?"

  Unable to look at Rochelle, Becket shifted his stance to face Gaston, detesting the rattle of his fetters. "How did Reynaurd end up with DuBois?"

  Gaston’s eyes brightened as if with heightened self-regard. "’Twas how I convinced him to betray his friend Alberre. Of course, Reynaurd had already betrayed Alberre and me by planting his seed within your mother. Thus, I included him as a recipient in my vendetta. For the heresy trial I persuaded both Reynaurd and Isabelle to testify, thus giving me further power over each. To entice your mother, I hinted of DuBois and marriage to me, never intending to give her either pleasure. Reynaurd would only testify if I gave him DuBois. I complied, with the understanding that upon his death, the land became mine. Greed is a sweet seductress. I would merely mention the bargain and he would succumb to whatever I demanded, until I wearied of toying with him and shot him during the hunt. By then, I had accomplished my purpose. I had made his life--and death--hell."


  During Gaston’s diatribe, he repeatedly turned the key within his fingers; firelight flashed off the metal as if taunting Becket of how near his deliverance, yet how unattainable.

  "Note the parallels, Becket. Your birth began the ingeniously-plotted drama of my revenge. Rochelle’s birth began what I had believed was the final scene, because when I felt assured all accepted her as Reynaurd’s, I summoned the Inquisition. By the Ides of March, Alberre was dead."

  Injustice burned within Becket’s chest. "Ma mère, do not betray me for this Beelzebub. Gaston just confessed his intricate revenge, how he lied to you in the past so as to use you for his gain. He but continues, utilizing you and Rochelle as pawns in his sick game. Rochelle is beyond convincing, but you--"

  "Isabelle knows her fate if she refuses." Gaston chuckled as he sauntered toward Becket’s mother. "Do you really expect her to choose a scarred, landless son over the perfection of DuBois, and of me?"

  He brushed the key down her cheek and neck. "Did you know that after I set fire to the brush around Alberre, and then to Becket, Reynaurd and I feasted within the great hall while Alberre burned? His screams provided the entertainment, a macabre minstrel, if you will, while I gorged on cassoulet and wine in celebration of my victory. I thought Becket had died as well, but he returned like Lazarus from the dead, only to burn again." He let the key drop to the end of the chain’s length. "‘Tis only fitting, think you not? Your heretical husband and son, two scorched bookends bracketing your treacherous life."

  His mother remained motionless as if she had surrendered to the bait.

  Gaston shrugged. "Two women of import in your life, Becket, and both of them betrayed you for DuBois. How excruciating for you. How exhilarating for me."

  As if fervent to proceed, Gaston pierced Becket with his granite gaze. "I will take you to Moreau where the dungeon is better equipped for torture. I have already summoned the Inquisition, poste haste, to hold council there. Lady Isabelle and Lady Rochelle will watch. My daughter is already aware of her compensations should she agree to testify. After all, she is my sole heir and eager to... How did she express it?" He pressed the key against his pursed lips, then inhaled as if with remembrance. "Ah, yes. She is eager to have this over and done with."

  His comment when he had first thought to bed her, then hers when she had thought to take her own virginity.

  Becket snapped his attention to Rochelle, who had closed her eyes against him. "So, my traitorous wife, from the beginning you have plotted for this end. Your deceit gains you naught, except my understanding of who you are. A serpent in a woman’s body. A temptress with a rotten soul. How could I have loved you? Why could I not have seen through your deviousness? Because of your beauty? Because you had befriended Pierre? Because of your faked affections for me?"

  Because you stole my heart?

  Tears escaped her shut lids and wrenched his gut. Even knowing how vile her spirit, he loved her still.

  Gaston’s sinister laugh drew Becket’s attention.

  "Ah, my defiant captive, I anticipate your stubbornness before you finally surrender and acknowledge your connection with the devil. The more obstinate you are, the more brutal the torture, the greater my pleasure. But confession or not, I have no doubt the Council will accuse you of heresy. You have contributed so many instances to the fact, Bertrand and I won’t even have to lie."

  Becket scoffed. "I confess my heresy to you now. Why would I believe in a God who allows the wicked to prosper and the Inquisition to torture the innocent?"

  "How self-righteous a statement from a participant in the chevauchée blood-bath. However, I delay acceptance of your confession. You haven’t yet suffered. You haven’t yet admitted my authority over you. Or, do you?"

  "You possess a deformed sense of humor, Gaston. I dub thee, jester."

  "’Tis you who are the proud fool." Gaston plucked from the floor the end of the long heavy chain tethered to the metal collar around Becket’s neck. "The clergy preaches, ‘Pride goeth before a fall. Prepare for the plunge."

  Moving to Rochelle’s side, Gaston pried her fingers apart and pressed the end of the chain into her hands. "Yank him to his knees."

  Becket steeled himself for the pull. "Kneel before you, Rochelle? Never. Unless you break my legs, a barbarity within your capabilities. Blood will tell, after all."

  She blinked as if something stung her eyes. Although the chain rattled within her grasp, she merely stared at the links that seemed a crude defilement against the porcelain of her flesh. Becket wondered why she made no move to achieve what should surely be a thrilling act of mastery over him.

  "I said, yank him to his knees. As reward..." Gaston swung the key in front of her eyes. "...you may open the lock."

  A pained expression marred her face, but she did naught.

  Becket’s hatred deepened. Even after seeing him chained, she still loathed his release. He had always known she would destroy him. He hadn’t realized how great the agony.

  Gaston shrugged. "My error, Rochelle. Mayhap someone else will free my prisoner." Gaston glanced around the great hall, settling his gaze upon the priest. "I reword my offer, daughter. Do as I say and I will not reward Père Bertrand with the honor of releasing him."

  Rochelle gasped and tugged on the metal tether, but she didn’t have the strength to budge Becket from his planted stance.

  "I said, yank him to his knees!" Gaston grabbed the chain and jerked.

  Becket jumped forward, landing on his feet. He grinned.

  Rochelle’s eyes widened as if with surprise.

  Appearing the enraged fisherman, Gaston reeled in the linked metal, hand over fist. Becket hopped like a rabbit to the dais, and to his supreme satisfaction, he remained upright.

  Rochelle covered her mouth with her hands as if to hide a smile.

  "So, you think I look ridiculous, wife? So be it. At least my hatred kept me unbowed before you."

  Her mirth faded as if he had doused the sun. A lone tear trickling down her cheek, she looked away from him and toward Pierre, symbolically dismissing him from her life.

  Instead of the anticipated satisfaction, he felt chilled, barren. Even now, the vision of her made him ache inside. No, he despised her. Loathed her.

  "You think you’re clever, Becket, but I control you!"

  Becket’s head jerked around from Gaston’s unexpected grip, and he realized he hadn't even seen Gaston leave the dais.

  "I have power over your very existence. I am your god. Worship me. Kneel, damn you."

  "You may take my life, Gaston, but you’ll never touch my soul."

  "Every one has a pressure point, my arrogant hostage. I’ll show you yours. By now, I doubt you would care what happens to Rochelle, but..."

  A chill of foreboding slithered across Becket’s nape.

  Gaston tossed the key to the priest. "At long last, Bertrand, I give you Pierre. Go purge him of his devil."

  The key--and Pierre? Fear stirred within Becket’s malice.

  "Non!" Rochelle lunged to an awkward angle, clutching a terrified Pierre like a she-wolf with an endangered cub. She tilted her face to Gaston. "You vile demon. I did as you commanded."

  "I never promised you Pierre, Rochelle. I just dangled the hope until you served my purpose."

  Truth clawed a hole in Becket’s hatred. The key. To unlock Pierre. Gaston had used Pierre to gain mastery over Rochelle. He had forced her to sign. He forced her to his will.

  Apparently unable to lean further, Rochelle stretched forward, grappling for a crying Pierre who shoved at the priest. Then Becket saw the dark bands around Rochelle’s and Pierre’s wrists. As if they had been previously chained.

  Consumed by the fury of hell, Becket yanked the cloth from the table, platters and tankards smashing around him. Then he saw beneath the planks. Chained by their ankles. Rochelle to the table leg. Pierre to the chair.

  "Curse you to perdition, Gaston!"

  "Your pressure point, Becket."

  Before Gaston b
linked, Becket spun Gaston around, hooking his wrist shackles over Gaston’s head and around his throat. "Your pressure point, Gaston."

  Gaston struggled against the choke, sputtering for air.

  "Rochelle, run!"

  "I can’t get the key from Père Bertrand. And he already has Pierre." Near hysteria, Rochelle grabbed the priest’s robes as he dragged Becket’s brother past her.

  "Release me!" Père Bertrand back-handed her. She slammed against the table.

  Becket shoved Gaston to his knees. "Kneel, damn you." Frantic, he reeled in the chain tethered to his neck collar. Heavy male footsteps neared from three sides, most likely guards. Using the linked metal like a whip, Becket swung the chain in circles above his head. Air whistled through the holes. The footsteps stumbled, retreated. Curses darkened the air

  "Rochelle, down!"

  She knelt, tearing Pierre from the priest and throwing her body over him.

  Becket leapt forward, lashing the chain across Bertrand’s forehead. The priest sank against the wall.

  Rochelle grabbed something from the rushes, Becket hoped, the key.

  Gaston stirred. Becket didn’t have much time. He heard men moving at the outer limits of the chain. Becket increased the speed to a blurring fastness. The men hung back, surely realizing Becket would behead them if they dared come too close.

  "Rochelle, hurry!"

  He saw her hands shake as she tried to insert the key into the padlock that secured her ankle.

  Gaston pushed to his knees, his hands massaging his throat. The he saw Rochelle beneath the table as she struggled with the leg iron. "Stop her! Someone stop her!" His command sounded strained. Becket scorned himself that he hadn’t crushed Gaston’s vocal cords.

  Footsteps scuffled beyond Becket’s lethal weapon. He increased the rotation of his torso to widen the arc. The footsteps ceased. Pierre’s wails blended with the whistle of the wind through the chain holes, with Gaston’s vile oaths, with the guards' shouts, with Père Bertrand’s groans as he roused.

  Becket’s arms and torso burned from the strain. Perspiration stung his eyes. The leg irons impeded his balance. But he must keep up the speed so as to deter anyone from blocking the chain.