Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  "Hurry, Rochelle!" As he threw every fiber of strength into whirling the chain, he knew he would love her until his dying breath. He would suffer an eternity wondering if she loved him in return. But for certain, she had not signed willingly. Then another truth struck. She had balked at pulling Becket to knees even when Gaston had offered her Pierre’s freedom. Exhilaration surged through his veins. ‘Twas a revelation worth fighting for. Dying for.

  Gaston glared as Becket whirled the chain over Gaston’s head preventing him from rising. "I am your god, Becket. You cannot defy me."

  Becket laughed. "Then you haven’t been paying attention."

  Gaston lunged toward the table, grabbing for Rochelle. She screamed, kicking at Gaston’s hold.

  Still swinging his weapon, Becket leapt, stomping his feet atop Gaston’s back. Gaston cried out. He rolled sideways. Becket’s feet went out from under him. The chain faltered. He collided with the floor. Pain shot along his spine.

  Becket watched Rochelle dart toward the back hallway, Pierre in hand, absorbing the sight of them so as to comfort him while he suffered hell.

  A sword pricked his neck, pressing Becket’s head to the rushes. Gaston glowered down at him, an evil image backed by the smoke-filled rafters. "You’ve killed them, Becket. They have no where to run. The land is scorched. King Jean wants Rochelle gone. King Edward wants her dead."

  And Becket no longer could protect them. He had always lauded himself for his own strength to avert disaster. But now he lay chained, the remainder of his days naught but horrifying pain. He needed a stronger power than his, a greater wisdom. He needed.... No! A proud voice whispered that Becket had begged before and had been rejected. And yet, he knew no where else to turn.

  Pride be damned.

  Shaken to the core, Becket closed his eyes and knelt within his soul.

  Dear God, I understand not why evil sometimes prevails, but I humble myself before you.

  "I prevailed, Becket. I am now your god."

  I am unworthy, so I ask not for my life, but throw myself on your mercy.

  "I am your superior. Your life is in my hands. You are at my mercy."

  I beg you to spare those I love.

  "As to Rochelle and Pierre, I’ll block the exits to the tunnels."

  You are their only hope.

  "They’re doomed."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  "’Tis a cruel injustice." Griselda threw a bundle behind the wagon seat. "No matter which king wins France, we lose DuBois."

  "Griselda, cease that grumbling and load your possessions while I tie Becket’s old set of armor to the packhorse. The guards might rouse any moment from the drugged wine." Rochelle knotted the rope around the brigandine vest, then snatched the helm from the stable floor.

  "When they do awaken, daughter, they’ll find themselves locked in the dungeon, with no help from Banulf, I might add. I never believed he would abandon us."

  "Mayhap he rides to Moreau. I pray so. His testimony to help free Becket is imperative." Rochelle hurriedly stuffed the gauntlets inside a saddle pouch. "By the by, I notice you don’t hide your identity from Jacques. Why so?"

  "He has known from the first. We both struggled to survive Gaston’s barbarism at the same time. Jacques, the burns. Me, the breaks and gashes. And I didn’t suffer all I have these many years for you to commit a noble type of suicide by going to Moreau." Griselda slung a bundle onto the wooden flatbed as if irritated. "Jacques, you must make her cease this madness. If the journey doesn’t kill her, Gaston, will."

  "Griselda speaks true, child. Becket would rather die than have you in danger."

  "’Tis a more horrid fate than mere death that awaits Becket. ‘Tis torture." The word snagged in Rochelle’s throat. "He did all within his power to save Pierre and me. I can do no less." She checked the armor and the old battle-nicked sword. All hung secure. Unlike their future.

  Jacques touched her arm. "I’ve told you repeatedly you have no hope of convincing the Inquisition."

  "I must do something."

  "We will do something, my lady. In truth, ‘tis our only hope of sparing him."

  "Which is?"

  "Steal Becket from the dungeon."

  Rochelle glanced around the empty stables, mouth open. "With what army, Jacques?" Then she shook her head. "Our only hope is persuading the Council. I cannot save the land, but somehow, some way, I’ll save Becket. And I’m going alone."

  "Where is your sense? Do you think Gaston will let you walk in and destroy two decades of plotting?"

  Pierre sniffled. "What will happen to us, Rochelle?"

  "We will triumph." She knelt and hugged him to her body, relishing the feel of him, loving him, praying for the Almighty to watch over him. Worried that she might not have the chance to defend him against the world, she gazed into his ebon eyes so like Becket’s, searching for words of wisdom to carry him a lifetime.

  "Listen with care, mon chou. Verily, you are special, a rare jewel, for the Almighty created only one of you. You must always believe in yourself and never doubt your worth, for to do so mocks God. If you trust in Him, he will lead you along paths beyond your imaginings."

  "But our path is frightening, Rochelle. We know not where we go. And I haven’t found Sire Spitz. I don’t want to leave without him. I won’t." Tears spilled from his beautiful eyes and burned her heart.

  "That we haven’t found him is a good sign. He has gone somewhere to heal. He will be fine, mon chou. And as to this uncertain path we travel, think of the treasures we have found, treasures we never dreamt existed, treasures so much more wondrous than the ones we had chosen for ourselves. For me who had rejected men and affection, I have been blessed with Becket, a man who loves me and whom I love in return. I found a mother who sacrificed her life for me. You have been given a brother. A brother who would give his life to protect you."

  "I want Sire Becket back, Rochelle." He buried his face against her chest.

  "You shall have him, my love." She brushed aside his wayward lock, again like Becket’s, and the persistent ache in her chest tightened. What if she failed? What if, despite her efforts, Père Bertrand found Pierre? What might she say, or do, to protect this precious soul from evil if she and Becket no longer lived?

  "Before I go, mon chou, I leave you with advice of most import." She tilted back his head and gazed into his tear-reddened eyes, willing him to remember her next words, willing God to take care of him forevermore.

  "Accept others not by their titles or position of authority but by their actions. No matter whom the person is, if they encourage you to do aught that you feel in your heart is wrong, despite their threats, seek aid from someone, for evil functions best in secrecy. Sometimes, mon chère, just the telling breaks the spell. Now, obey Griselda and Jacques. They love you and will guide you well."

  "I’m going with you, Rochelle. I’m not a coward." The wavered tone in Pierre’s voice betrayed his fear, a fear that matched hers.

  "You are brave, Pierre, but you must stay far from the priest. As you know, his actions are not from the Almighty." She kissed his smooth cheek. "Je t’aime, mon chou. Go with God."

  She stood, drawing the brooch from the neckline of her bodice and pressing the keepsake into Griselda’s hands. "Sell this in Toulouse to use for food and shelter. As soon as Becket is released, we will meet you outside the Augustins’ monastery. Check every morning and evening to see if we have arrived. Now, wait here a moment. I have some coins for you."

  Grabbing the pitchfork, she raised her hem and pushed herself to the top of the slippery haystack. The pungent aroma lured out throbbing memories of stallions and devils, of temptation and passion. A pang swelled behind her breastbone. She blocked the images and dug her fingers around the edges of the ungrouted stone, then pulled. The rock wedged sideways in the opening, stuck.

  "I don’t have time for this!" She prodded the pitchfork tines into the seam and pried the stone outward. "I will keep only enough sous from the cache to last un
til Sire Becket and I reach Toulouse. I will give you the remainder, but spend them sparingly. We must use them for our escape from France, for even if I convince the Tribunal of Sire Becket’s innocence, we will still be at Gaston’s mercy."

  "We are not going to Toulouse, Rochelle, we are going with you."

  "Not so, ma mère. ‘Tis too dangerous. Besides, you must hide Pierre from Père Bertrand."

  Gritting her teeth, Rochelle used her weight as leverage, pulling downward on the handle until she feared the pole would snap. Asinine rock.

  "You must take me, child." Jacques shuffled to the base of the haystack. "Together we can rescue Becket. I know a secret way into the castle. I once served Sire Alberre at Moreau and I know the maze of halls as well as I know my own scars."

  Rochelle released an irritated sigh, tempted. What to do? He would slow her pace. But a secret entrance?

  "Listen, child. Sneaking Becket out is a more certain success than wasting time begging a Council that has already decided he will die."

  Torn as to the best strategy, Rochelle rammed the prongs further into the crack, then taking a deep breath, pressed her torso on the handle and bounced downward.

  Stones flew from the wall! The pitchfork dropped. She screamed, the stable spinning as she tumbled. Falling rubble bruised her arms and back, then she slammed against the floor.

  "Rochelle!" Pierre’s small arms encircled her neck, and the pain eased.

  "Are you harmed?" Jacques grasped her arm to help her sit up.

  Rochelle spat grit from her mouth, then brushed mortar and hay from her hair. "I’m just bruised."

  A loud meow sounded from the hay. The straw moved, then a black furry ball hobbled out. Rochelle’s heart leapt with joy, and she praised God for the miracle.

  "Sire Spitz!" Pierre lunged forward, scooping his long-lost pet into his arms, tears streaming down his precious face. "He alive! But he’s hurt."

  Griselda pressed her fingers against a protesting Sire Spitz. "’Tis naught that we cannot fix. I will work on him as we ride." Griselda closed her eyes as if she said a prayer of thanks.

  Remembering her mission, Rochelle glanced up at the unusually large, and empty hole. "The coins! Oh, dear heaven. Search anywhere the bag could have landed. ‘Tis all we have."

  Pushing to her feet, she scanned the haystack, then fearful she had already delayed too long in going to Becket’s aid, rushed to where the straw spilled against the wall. She dug into the jumble of rocks and dirt used for wall-filler but found only rubble. Panicked, she plunged her hand further. Sharp edges scraped her flesh. Fear increased her pulse. They would starve. They would... Leather. The pouch.

  "Praise the saints. ’Tis here." Rochelle wrapped her shaking fingers around the bag, then stilled. Her hand had brushed against something smooth.

  Curious, she raked aside the stones. A long slim box about three fingers wide lay among the wall-filler. Rochelle removed the lid and pulled out a scroll, aged and fragile. With trembling hands, she handed Griselda the money and container, then carefully unfurled the ends of the mysterious parchment. She gasped. "Listen to this.

  "I, Lord Reynaurd, do hereby pledge to testify to the heresy of Sire Alberre de DuBois y Moreau. In exchange, Sire Gaston grants me right and title to DuBois Estates and to all pertaining revenues. Upon my death, should I have no living male heir, and should both Sire Gaston and my daughter, Rochelle Christine, be living and unwed, I give permission for Sire Gaston to..." Rochelle swallowed past a cramp in her throat, fighting the urge to crumple the parchment into dust. ". . . for Sire Gaston to take my daughter to wife, as well as to claim the lands and title of DuBois Estates. Should Sire Gaston break faith with this bargain, I will present this document as proof of his collusion in the wrongful death of Sire Alberre de DuBois."

  Steadying the tremble of her hands, she held out the scroll. "Look. ’Tis dated in the Year of our Lord, 1335, on the fifteenth day of February, and signed by Reynaurd, Gaston, and witnessed by Père Bertrand."

  She glanced at Jacques who stared at the parchment as if stunned.

  "Don’t you see, Jacques? ‘Tis the secret document for which you and Becket have searched. The one that will clear Sire Alberre's name." Her joy leapt at the richness of her find. "The one that will prove Becket innocent!"

  Jacques lifted the miracle from her fingers, scanning the faded devil’s bargain while tears rolled down his fire-scarred cheeks. "’Twas here all along. How did you happen to use Reynaurd’s hiding place for your cache? ‘Tis well above your head and was beyond detection."

  "As a child I must have seen Reynaurd atop the haystack verifying the safety of the document, but the memory eludes me."

  Jacques closed his eyes, wetness glistening on his lashes. "Worthless. ’Tis too late for Sire Alberre, and of no use for Becket."

  "I disagree, Jacques." Rochelle retrieved the instrument for Becket’s freedom and replaced the scroll within the slender box. "’Tis proof that, for gain, Gaston and Reynaurd swore falsely against Sire Alberre. Père Bertrand’s signature proves him an accessory. ‘Tis tangible evidence they are capable of doing the same against Becket. What I don’t understand is that this document was as dangerous to Reynaurd as to Gaston." Wishing she wore one of Angelique’s roomier gowns, she slid the box into her bodice, between her breasts.

  "My assumption is that Reynaurd merely utilized it as a threat should Gaston default on the land, hoping never to have to use it." Jacques shook his head. "As to this scroll convincing the Inquisition to release Becket, I once possessed such naiveté, believing that if I had a virtuous soul no one could fault me. Fire purified me of such foolishness. After what happened to Sire Alberre, I learned that judges, Holy or otherwise, are all-too human, subject to greed and bribery like the rest of mankind."

  "But ‘tis witnessed!"

  "By Père Bertrand, one of their own, the one they must support. Do you not see? If they admit error in one heresy trial, then all other trials become suspect. ‘Twould cause chaos. Non, they will never cast a vote that will cast a shadow on themselves."

  Her joy shattered into shards of reality.

  "Rochelle, heed me as to why your plan will fail. The inquisitors usually meet for a defined period at some central place, but the Tribunal has met with haste per Gaston’s request, just like for Sire Alberre. A month is given for heretics to give a supposed spontaneous confession; after that, the actual trials begin, but this trial has been scheduled immediately, again like for Sire Alberre."

  Frightened that he spoke the truth, she studied him, never having known him to speak with such trembling passion.

  "If you still doubt me, Rochelle, listen to this. Among the panel comprised of churchmen and lay noblemen, the two main Inquisitors are usually Franciscans or Dominicans granted equal power by the papacy, but with Sire Alberre only one possessed principal authority, Père Bertrand. The most severe penalty the inquisitors can legally impose is life imprisonment, thus they must deliver a guilty person to civil authority before the accused can be executed. But Père Bertrand personally issued the verdict of death by fire. Père Bertrand will also be part of this Council. Do you not see? What is right and true is of no bearing. ‘Tis greed. So cease your daydreams about presenting proof to the Council. Becket’s only hope for survival is rescue."

  Rochelle’s insides felt ripped into shreds. She knew he spoke true. "So be it, Jacques. But we must hurry."

  A distant rumbling shook the ground as if an army approached at rapid gallop. But whose? If Gaston’s, did Becket already lay dead?

  Panic threw her into near hysteria. "’Tis too late to take the wagon. I will cause a diversion so that you can escape on foot." Ignoring their protests, Rochelle grabbed the reins of the armor-laden pack horse, then vaulted upon Falcon and urged her mare into the glaring light.

  Sundrenched silhouettes of mounted riders streamed into the bailey. One lifted his sword and came toward her! Blinded by the glare, she jerked Falcon’s reins in the direction of the gate
and dug her heels into her mare’s sides, praying to at least draw attention from the stables. The knight reached out for her!

  "Lady Rochelle? Where is Becket?"

  "Henri?" Her heart leapt. If not mounted, she would have thrown her arms about his neck and wept. Instead she shifted Falcon’s backside to the sun and saw the apprehension on Henri’s travel-smudged face. "I thought you were with the prince."

  "Edward led us to believe Becket was on a secret mission. Then Banulf sneaked into camp to inform of us Gaston’s bribery, of Edward’s treachery. Every knight who has sworn fealty to Becket is with me. Where is he?"

  "Gaston and Père Bertrand have taken him to Moreau to face the Inquisition. Your arrival is a blessing, for Jacques has convinced me to try to rescue Becket, and we need your help. I’ll explain as we ride."

  The rattle of wheels sounded to her right. Griselda, Jacques and Pierre sat in the wagon, proud determination on their faces. Pierre protectively cradled Sire Spitz in his lap as if he would never let him go.

  Jacques nodded as he passed. "Quit dawdling and make haste. We all go to Moreau."

  "We come, too, milady." Pick-A-Tick planted himself in front of her mare, surrounded by a host of refugees who lived in the caves. "He saved us. ‘Tis only right we try to save him in return. And as you’ve heard, I have a knack for picking locks. Might come handy in a dungeon."

  "Bless you. But hurry. The more we delay, the more time we give Gaston to torture Sire Becket. Take the hay wagons and follow us." She dug her heels into Falcon’s flanks and her mount surged across the drawbridge and onto the land she loved and would never see again.

  Henri reined in beside her. "Of course, you realize we could be riding into a trap."

  "Mayhap, Henri. But I will rescue Becket from that dungeon, or die trying."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rochelle stood on the bluff that overlooked the Tarn Gorge. Exhaustion from the harrowing trip had drained her strength. Anxiety had shredded her nerves. Guilt shrouded her soul. Feeling chillingly alone, she drew the hood over her head to stay an iciness that only her husband could thaw.