Love Thine Enemy

  Already in shadow, Moreau sprawled in sinister outcroppings along the deep base of the cliff. Torches glowed at various points like embers from Satan’s hellfire. Soldiers tarried outside the entry. And somewhere within Moreau’s bowels, Becket suffered. She closed her mind to the probabilities before the horror sucked at her effectiveness. She must remain controlled and alert. Rochelle strained her hearing past the haunting call of an owl, listening for a cry of pain. The owl hooted again and chills shivered up her spine. Many believed the bird the Herald of Death. Becket’s? Theirs?

  Henri placed his arm around her shoulders. "We will save him, Lady Rochelle."

  "The waiting is horrendous. With every breath I have wondered what torment--"

  "Cease. The night quickly shields us. And the plan for Becket’s rescue is but moments away."

  “How do we elude the soldiers below in the bailey?”

  “If Jacques’ memory serves us well about the secret entrance, they’ll not know we exist.

  Rochelle released a shaky sigh. "Where is Pierre?"

  "Asleep in the wagon with Sire Spitz. Griselda watches over them, in readiness to tend to Becket lest he have...injuries."

  Rochelle’s knees weakened. Henri slipped his hand beneath her elbow for support.

  "He is too stubborn to die, my lady. And Jacques has drilled us so thoroughly with the layout of the secret passageways that, stone-blind, we could still find our way. Then we will liberate Becket and, with fortune’s blessing, slip out undetected."

  "To where? We are betrayed by both countries."

  "Spain, perhaps. Mayhap Italy, or Germany. A man of Becket’s warrior talents will be in demand. Never fear." Henri squeezed her shoulders, then released her. "I still prefer we attack the castle and be done with the lot of them."

  "And attack the Holy Church?" She shook her head. "Never. Furthermore, we lack enough knights to assure victory."

  Rochelle inhaled a deep breath. Henri believed he had convinced her to stay behind when the men sneaked into Moreau, but she had merely tired of arguing with him. And yet she must tell him, for she could not risk a disagreement after the mission began. And yet, he would protest. Mayhap force her to stay.

  Something small scampered through the fallen leaves, diverting her attention from the dreadful inactivity that gnawed at her insides.

  Desperate for any kind of action, Rochelle reached beneath her cloak, and wishing she had on Angelique’s gown with the roomier bodice, shifted the slim box that dug into her breasts. Despite the truth of Jacques’ revelation about the Inquisition, she felt driven to preserve the scroll for which Becket had so diligently searched, and she trusted no place of hiding other than near her heart.

  The reminder of Angelique caused her to wonder how her supposed friend fared. Rochelle bit her lip, pondering if she dare ask Henri about the violet femme fatale, then she sighed, too curious not to rouse the painful memories, or mayhap she but behaved the coward, delaying arousing his wrath about Rochelle’s going with him.

  "Henri, what about Angelique?"

  The wind rustled the poplar leaves as if shushing her for her audacity.

  He paused for long moments and she berated herself for mentioning his former love.

  "Life as Edward’s mistress while in the midst of slaughter has doused even her lust. She now realizes how foolish her error but has become as trapped in this ongoing hell as the rest of us."

  "Will you return for her?"

  His breath rasped with the breeze, then ignoring her, he nodded at Moreau. "Before I joined you, a scout informed me the Inquisition is already in council. I hope they remain occupied whilst we whisk Becket away. Now, Lady Rochelle, Griselda awaits your presence in the wagon. How did she word her request? "Ah, yes." He crouched, Griselda-style, waggling his pointed finger at her.

  "’Tell Rochelle to sit with me

  Else I’ll tie her to a tree.’"

  Despite the seriousness of their mission, Rochelle chuckled. "’Tis a valiant effort, my steadfast friend, but I can tell the words are of your own making."

  "How? I rhymed." He straightened as if disappointed and she wished she had pretended gullibility. Then he glanced at the star-struck sky, his wonderful face creased with concern. "If aught should go awry, you are to ride straight to Toulouse. I must think of a signal for you."

  Rochelle tensed in readiness for his vexation. "I go with you."

  "Into the dungeon?" He gripped her shoulders. "By the rood, I will not allow you to take such a risk."

  "Either I go under your protection, or I follow on my own. Your choice."

  "You sound more like Becket every day. In fact he would shove me from this bluff if he knew I even listened to such preposterousness."

  Rochelle pursed her mouth but didn’t differ.

  "I will tie you to a tree."

  She remained quiet, not wanting to tell him she would merely cut the bindings with her secreted weapon.

  "You wear a dagger, don’t you?" Henri groaned. "No matter what I do, you’ll find a way." He mumbled an oath. "Oc, you may go, but ’tis the most unwise decision I have ever made."

  "I must go, Henri. Surely you understand." Unable to carry further the weight of guilt that dragged her sprits to her toes, she confessed the horrid truth.

  "I am at fault for Becket’s suffering. If I had not given Prince Edward cause to doubt my loyalty, he might not have surrendered Becket to Gaston, but rather might have turned and retaken DuBois."

  Breeze-blown shadows chased across his startled features. "You take this risk because you believe you owe Becket a debt?"

  "Non. Because I love him."

  Henri wrapped his warm fingers around her icy hand. "As do I. He is the greatest companion a man could wish for, in battle and out. But I warn you, should I have to choose between the two of you, ‘tis you I must protect."

  She opened her mouth to protest, then chilled as she heard the flap of owl’s wings. The Herald of Death’s dark silhouette glided down into the gorge, blending with the inkish night.

  Henri squeezed her hand, then let out a breath. "‘Tis time."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  "Sacre Dieu." Rochelle grasped the railing of the upper landing to steady herself. She stared down in horror at the tortured souls chained and caged within the cave-like walls of the Moreau dungeon. Moans drifted from below. Chains rattled. A strained male voice mumbled a continuous "Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God," as if ‘twas all that was left of his sanity. And the stench. Excrement and blood... Her stomach heaved. Swallowing the sourness, she forced her gaze into the light-wavered darkness.

  "Oh, Henri. Becket is somewhere down there in that hell-hole, suffering. We must hurry." Trembling with fear and nausea, she lifted her hem and rushed to the top step.

  "Wait." Henri grasped her arm and spun her to face him, his gray eyes filled with self-loathing for not having convinced her to remain on the bluff. "Gaston’s guards might betray us and I want you where you can slip out."

  "Gaston’s men seemed most eager to join us, Henri, and who can blame them. Any moment they might become one of his next victims. Besides, three of our knights are with them to make certain they do not betray us." She turned, but he refused to release her.

  "My lady, stay here. I‘ll go below. Becket won’t want you to see him..." His words faded into the putridness.

  "Mutilated? As long as he is alive, Henri, he will be the most beautiful sight I can imagine."

  "But you might not recognize him. He might be crippled. He might..." A trickle of nervous perspiration snaked down his furrowed brow. "He might already be--"

  "Becket is alive. And as to recognizing him, my heart will perceive that which my eyes do not. Now, do not think to stop me, for as I vowed before, I will steal him from this Satan's pit, or die trying."

  She pulled from his hold and hastened down the steps, straining her attention past the vile instruments of torture and into the gloom. Her skirts billowed as she hurried downward, stir
ring the ever-thickening foulness around her until she felt as if she drowned in sewage. She took as shallow breaths as possible but the smell of offal and burnt flesh clogged her nose and lungs, seeped past her clamped lips, coated her tongue until she tasted... She pressed her hand over her mouth to stay her queasiness.

  Groans came from a form stretched on a rack. Her heart thudded. "Becket?"

  Davide and Banulf raced past her, first checking the hanging cage--the man appeared lifeless--then the rack. Banulf shook his head and moved on.

  "Release them, Pick-a-tick. Release them all." Rochelle motioned to the Languedocs behind her. "Help him. Carry the survivors out of here through the secret passageway. Take care you aren’t caught, or we’ll all be chained here to suffer alongside them."

  As if not needing a second warning, the men slipped into the shadows.

  She followed them, commanding herself to peek through the high, barred open rectangles in a row of iron doors. She passed spikes, blades and iron-jawed instruments caked with what must have been decades of blood. The latest, Becket’s? Hatred filled her with a ferocity so pure that she felt driven to destroy Moreau, stone-by-stone, until not even ghoulish memories remained.

  At her nod indicating an occupied cell, Pick-a-tick moved in behind her, then she heard a click. And moans. And groans. And weeping. Someone retched.

  "Damn, Gaston. Damn him to hell." Rochelle tightened her mantle against the coldness that chilled like approaching death. "I swear that as soon as Becket and Pierre are safely hidden, I will stop Gaston, even if I lose my life in the doing."

  Hurrying past the Languedocs who carried the injured toward the stairs, Rochelle neared the last cell in the darkest corner of the cave, her only remaining hope for finding Becket alive. Excitement shoved past her fear. Merely a few more moments and Becket would be in her arms, then they would be away from this vile purgatory. With her pulse pounding Becket, Becket, Becket, she peered though the opening. Shock buckled her knees; she grasped the bars to hold herself upright.

  "Empty. ‘Tis..."

  Panic rising in her throat, she spun to scan the cave-like dungeon. "Did any of you find him?"

  Banulf shook his head, as did Henri and the others, all of them apparently as upset as she.

  "Search again. He must be here." A terrible trembling shuddered through her body and she had an uncontrollable urge to weep. She backtracked to the previous door, her hands shaking so hard that she could barely grasp the handle. She yanked at the locked door. "Pick-a-tick, open all the cells. Mayhap he lies too close to the door for me to see."

  Fearing she lost her sanity, she ran to the next open cell, slamming the door against the wall as she shoved into the dark cesspool. "Becket, please be here." Nothing. Tight hysterical sobs stuttered from her throat as she spun and stumbled toward the next cell.

  "Oh, dear heaven. Either he’s...he’s truly dead, or..." She gasped, struck with the truth. "Gaston has already presented him to the Inquisition!" Grateful Becket might still live but terrified at the possible horrors yet to come at his sentencing, she raced toward the staircase.

  "’Tis too late, Lady Rochelle." Henri leapt in front of her and barred her from exiting. "You cannot help him now."

  "I must go before the Council." She shoved past him and managed three steps before he grabbed her arm.

  "What we must do, my lady, is attack."

  Facing the man who she knew would give his life for her and Becket, she clasped his gauntlet-covered hand, praying he didn’t notice how much she shook. "Should we have enough manpower, Henri, which we do not, if we dared attack the Church, the world would not be big enough to hide us."

  "And yet, if you go before the Council you only endanger yourself, for Becket’s fate is pre-determined and there is naught you can present that will alter their judgment."

  Rochelle pressed her trembling fingers against her chest to ease an ache of despair and felt...

  "The box!" Her breath caught on a hope, and her optimism soared. "You err, Henri. I have the document. ‘Tis hidden in my bodice."

  "’Twill be of no benefit. This is not a virtuous council seeking justice. They but hunger for profit from Becket’s death."

  "Both King Jean and King Edward have claimed the land. How would the Inquisition profit?"

  "The same as in Sire Alberre’s death--money." He shook his head as if saddened by his task of destroying her foolish dreams. "Greed is a potent aphrodisiac, Lady Rochelle, surpassed only by lust for power. And in the doing, Gaston will destroy you as well."

  "Then I must destroy him first. I will do aught to save Becket."

  "I will not allow--"

  He jolted forward when two Languedocs stumbled against him as they carried a disfigured man to safety. Henri spun and caught the victim before he hit the stones.

  With the sudden freedom, Rochelle dashed up and out of the dungeon, then along the shadowy hallway in the opposite way from which they had first entered. Henri’s curse sounded behind her. Indistinct shouts drifted from the distant corner in front of her, luring her deeper into the gloom of the castle. As she rushed toward the bend, the increased volume of Gaston’s voice indicated she moved in the right direction, but the staccato of her footsteps and the wild pulse pounding in her ears muffled his words.

  Rochelle paused while still hidden behind a corner and pressed her hand against the hidden box to strengthen her resolve. Flattening against the wall, she struggled to control her rasping breaths, then praying for invisibility, she peered around the corner and along the torch-lit hall.

  A lopsided rectangle of light spilled from a doorway.

  Blocked by a guard.

  "I will not kneel, damn you! Not before you or any man." Becket’s blasphemy reverberated from the chamber.

  Dear heaven, he sabotaged his own cause!

  "Do you not see his contempt?" Gaston’s utterance sounded much too confident. "Sire Becket flaunted church tradition by ordering a hasty burial of Lord Reynaurd. He also smashed the chapel cross, then refused to take pilgrimage as penance. And not once during his stay at DuBois did he give confession or kneel in worship at daily mass, a knight’s obligation he is sworn to honor."

  "I refuse to attend mass and confess to a man whose sins are as great as mine own."

  Men’s voices mumbled as if in disturbance.

  "Gaston, tell the most damning sin of all, the one about Pierre." Père Bertrand’s entreaty sliced through the pandemonium and into her fear. "Tell how Sire Becket physically accosted me, a man of God, when I but sought to rid the lad of the devil."

  Becket’s laughter rumbled with sarcasm. "The only devils are Gaston and you who lust, not for the purging of a soul, but the claiming of one." Metal clanked as if chain-links shifted from movement. "Heed me well, Père Bertrand. The one certainty in this hellish life is that despite all the young innocent lads you have sodomized, you will never have Pierre, for Rochelle will spend her lifetime hiding him from you. ‘Tis what gives me peace."

  Rochelle chilled. Becket trusted her to protect Pierre. And yet in her zeal to save Becket, she had brought Pierre to the devil’s doorstep. But to just sneak away and leave Becket? Impossible.

  An uproar of protest vibrated the air. Someone pounded on a table. "I call for a vote!"

  No. First she must convince Gaston of her filial loyalty so as to give her an opportunity to present the document which proved him and Père Bertrand as liars--her only hope for saving Becket. With her mind screaming, How will you get past the guard? she strode from hiding toward the sentry who studied her, hand on hilt as if prepared, by lethal force, to deny her entrance.

  Imitate Angelique, taunted from within her fear. Bat your lashes. Say something provocative like "Show me your immense...", glance below his waist and add, ". . . generosity and let me pass." Then, pray he would stumble over himself to comply.

  Be yourself, counter-argued. Remembrances of her costly failures due to her pretending to be anyone but herself, shattered her tenuous strateg
y. She must be Rochelle. But was she smart enough? What to do? What to say?

  The guard drew his sword at her approach. "The Inquisition is already in session, my lady. I have been given orders to kill any who attempt to enter."

  "I demand admittance. Sire Becket--"

  "Silence!" She heard another pounding on the table. "We have a verdict."

  Fighting hysteria, she reached beneath her mantle for her dagger, prepared to slash her way in, if necessary. She glared up at the guard who could kill her with ease.

  "Get out of my way. Sire Becket stole my land, and I demand retribution."

  The guards eyes widened at her comment. "Stole your land? Who are you?"

  "Gaston’s daughter. Now, move."

  Terror shoved him backward so fast he bumped into the doorjamb. "Pass, my lady."

  "Sire Becket, the Inquisition judges you--"

  "Cease!" Rochelle rushed into the lofty great hall awash with the lights of torch, candles and hearth-fire, then she spied Becket, and tasted bile.

  He stood tethered to a neck-chain held by Gaston. Horrid gashes laced his bare back, scored his arms and legs, future scars upon scars. And yet he stood, feet planted wide, fisted hands chained in front of him, beard-bristled chin high, the image of magnificent defiance. Her heart wrenched. She loved him, Godless soul and all.

  Becket jerked his attention to her, his pain-glazed eyes filled with alarm, his face paling to match the whiteness of agony that rimmed his mouth.

  "Rochelle, are you mad? Get out of here."

  Her determination to trick Gaston into allowing her to testify, wavered. Becket would surely misinterpret her actions. But she must risk his hatred to save his life. She tore her gaze from his and faced the dais.

  "I have a signed confession that might affect your vote." And then she saw.

  Père Bertrand presided!

  She felt like a figure painted on a wooden icon, forever frozen in a scene depicting the idiocy of honest expectations in an evil world. To her left, Gaston gripped the chain secured to Becket’s collar like the master of a condemned animal. Lady Isabelle stood beyond Becket garbed in the gray of a dead tree, attention on Gaston, jaw clenched with bitter determination. Emerald-juponed guards stood in regular placement around the stone walls to prevent escape. In front of her, on the other side of a long, white-clothed table, sat the black-robed Père Bertrand flanked by a brown-frocked Dominican monk and a bejeweled aristocrat as well as a group of clergy and noblemen. Père Bertrand’s expression appeared startled but still smug, as if the Council had already judged Becket guilty and she but delayed the certain outcome.