Love Thine Enemy

by Cathey, Carolyne

  Her spirits spiraled downward to the gates of hell. Even if she convinced Gaston of her filial loyalty so as to gain access to the Inquisition, she could never get the evidence past Père Bertrand.

  "Guard!" Gaston’s demand sparked the scene to life. "Take her to the dungeon. Ready her for torture."

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  "Touch her and you die!" Becket lunged for the guard, hooking his wrist chain over the guard’s head and against his throat. "Rochelle! Get out of here!"

  Not without you. Tearing her attention away from the man she loved more than her own life, she reached to where her heart pounded against the boxed scroll and raced toward the dais, an impossible distance.

  "Sentries! Kill her!" Gaston dropped Becket’s metal tether and rushed to cut her off! Soldiers drew their swords and ran toward her, entrapping her in a ever-tightening prison. She needed a miracle.

  "Damn you, Rochelle. Get out of here!"

  At Becket’s curse, she heard the guard thump to the floor, then the whistle of Becket’s neck chain as he swung the links in an arc above his head. But Gaston neared too fast and Becket certainly would hit them both.

  Gaston grasped at her arm! She twisted in evasion, saw the blur of the chain. Before she could scream, Gaston cried out as if struck and pitched to the floor in front of her. She stumbled over him but kept upright. He grappled for a hold on her skirt. She jerked free, forcing one foot in front of the other through what felt like an invisible river of molasses meant to slow her pace. Concentrating on reaching the monk, she pulled out the box and kept running, fearful of the snatch at her skirt that might pull her off-balance, fearful of the guards who closed in like hunters on doomed prey.

  "Bertrand! Stop her!" Gaston’s command reverberated into her panic as he scrambled toward her with frightening speed.

  Père Bertrand pushed to a stand and leaned in front of the monk, hand held out ready to grab her.

  She veered left and aimed for the next man, a lavishly dressed aristocrat. "Read the--"

  "I’ll slit your throat."

  The room spun as Gaston whirled her from the table. Her back slammed against his body. A sting under her jaw forced a cry from her chest. She froze, head high, afraid to breathe. Gaston pressed a dagger beneath her chin, the steel as cold and merciless as his soul.

  In the instant before Gaston would surely kill her, she absorbed the majesty of her husband, of how his heart-melting eyes widened in horror as he stared at what must be blood trickling down her neck, of how the torchlight glowed on his sin-black hair as he let the silver chain slither into an impotent coil at his feet, of how the hearthfire glimmered gold on his bared and powerful body as he fought off the blur of emerald-juponed sentries who rushed in to surround him. The man for whom she risked her life, struggled but five paces away. An infinite distance. And never could she soak up enough of his magnificence to last her through an eternity of separation.

  Becket shoved two sentries aside.

  "Let her go free, Gaston, and I’ll do aught you ask."

  "You’ll do aught I ask at any rate. Guard, take Lady Rochelle to the dungeon. Strip her. Chain her to the rack. Her cries will shatter the stones before she dies."

  "Non!"

  Becket’s denial echoed along with Gaston’s pronouncement of doom and taunted her with the horrendous results of her failure. She and Becket would undergo ugly deaths. But worse, an unprotected Pierre would suffer hideous abominations in the hands of Gaston and Père Bertrand.

  The dagger still at her throat, Gaston forced her toward the guard whom Becket had nearly strangled. "I gave you orders not to let anyone enter."

  "She claimed to be your daughter, Sire." The raspy-voiced man rubbed his neck and pushed to his feet. "Said she sought retribution against Sire Becket because he stole her land."

  Rochelle’s stomach fisted. Her gaze flew to Becket’s. He staggered as if his mind shouted, ‘betrayal’ and his heart cried, ‘impossible’. Then he shook his head in denial.

  "I once suspicioned you faked your affection for me so as to remain at DuBois, but no more."

  Her heart both soared and sank at the same time, tearing a painful hole of realization--she must convince Becket of her betrayal in order to convince Gaston to allow her to testify. And Gaston trusted only one characteristic--perversion. Determined to pretend any depravity in order to save Becket, she relaxed against Gaston’s chest as if she welcomed his forced embrace, caressing her fingers over his hand pressing the steel point against her neck.

  "To shatter your delusions, husband, I fling the facts in your face. You attempted to steal my land. I seek retribution. After all, I am of Gaston’s blood."

  Gaston loosened his hold as if startled by her behavior, but instead of moving away, she pulled Gaston’s forearm across her breasts and smiled up at Becket.

  "Rochelle, I know not what you think to accomplish with this charade for surely you know you cannot save me, but do not let Gaston rob of us what we have shared, for then he will have won."

  "Think, husband. If, as you say, I know I cannot save you, then what cause is of such import to me that I dare risk my life?"

  "DuBois?" whispered out on his breath.

  She forced a smile.

  His eyes narrowed with pain and disbelief. "You play a dangerous game, my traitorous falcon. Do you think to out-devil the Devil? Or, might you bend to Gaston’s sadism as you did to my insane infatuation in order to remain at DuBois?"

  "I do what I must." She lifted the back of Gaston’s hand to her mouth, laving a wet kiss upon his hair-strewn flesh.

  Lady Isabelle gasped. She glared at Rochelle with a promise that said if Gaston didn’t kill her, she would.

  Becket stared at her, mouth and eyes wide, obviously sickened by her behavior. "I do not believe you."

  Love swelled to bursting within her chest, increasing her determination to make any sacrifice in order to present the document to the Inquisition. Hoping to distract Gaston by making snide comments to Becket, she kept the box hidden within the folds of her skirt and backed toward the dais as if gaining distance to better assess her husband.

  "Look at you, Becket. So trusting. ‘Tis a pity to destroy all that hard-won faith, but..." Her heel bumped against the raised platform and she swallowed a triumphant shout. "But, I fight for DuBois." Shaking like an aspen leaf in a windstorm, she turned--

  Gaston grabbed her wrist and pried the box from her fingers. "The only land you’ll claim is your grave. Your pretense might delude Becket, but not me. Guard, take her below."

  "Leave her be, Gaston! She has naught to do with this."

  Becket fought for her? Despite everything? She stared at him, struck useless with such devotion, a devotion she must destroy if they had any hope of survival.

  Gaston shoved her toward the guard who then grasped her arm and dragged her away from Becket--for eternity! Once her captor forced her from the great hall, neither she nor Becket had a chance. Her feet slipping with every step, she twisted for freedom while the guard threatened vulgarities.

  "...and after you’re stripped and chained, I’ll use those instruments of torture on you while I--"

  "Rot in hell!" Rochelle grabbed her dagger from beneath her mantle and slashed upward. The guard yelled and grabbed at his face. She waved the bloodied weapon in the air to indicate the whole of them.

  "You men are imbeciles." She strode to the dais, daring anyone to touch her. "The guard is an imbecile for being more interested in sating his lust than checking me for a weapon." She pulled off her wimple and threw the fabric in Père Bertrand’s face to distract him. "You, for preaching more about keeping my hair covered than about God’s will", all the while sodomizing young boys, she wanted to shout in accusation but dared not. At least, not yet. Seizing the box from a startled Gaston, she spilled the scroll onto the table in front of the monk. "The Council, for allowing Sire Gaston to keep you from reading an important document. Note the date and the signatures."

  Gaston
reached around her. "Give me that scroll."

  She whirled and pointed the dagger at his face. "You, for not paying heed when I told you I had a signed confession." Praying the monk had read the document, Rochelle faced the Inquisition. "I bring heresy charges against--"

  "I would see that confession." Gaston swiped the dagger from her hand and snatched the parchment.

  The document fell into chunks!

  Rochelle froze as her only hope for saving Becket and herself drifted like dead leaves to the cloth.

  Lost. All hope lost.

  "You say this is a confession?" The monk shifted a scrap as if in consideration of trying to fit them together.

  She must stall long enough to give him time. Rochelle spun to confront Gaston.

  "You may have destroyed the sworn statement, mon père, but I know Becket better than any here. In his naïve trust, he revealed secrets best kept hidden. I demand the right to make the formal charge of heresy."

  "’Tis unnecessary. Besides, you would never swear against your husband." Gaston shoved her aside and pierced the blade into one of the portions, lifting the piece as if to decipher the writing.

  She ripped the piece from the blade-tip, tossing the shred onto the table where the Council members hovered over the scraps. "You are twice an imbecile, mon père. Not only do you destroy evidence that would have sealed Becket’s destiny, but you actually believe I felt a fondness for him."

  "I am not the simpleton you suppose." Gaston stirred the large flakes with the dagger. "Bertrand, burn these. Guard, take her below. ‘Tis you who are the imbecile, Rochelle. Becket’s fate is pre-determined. Père Bertrand and I made certain of the outcome before the trial started."

  Panic streaked like lightning through her body. Jacques and Henri had warned her of corruption. She had not listened. But to surrender?

  Never.

  Rochelle smiled in feigned pleasure.

  "Excellent strategy, mon père. Thus you have naught to lose in the delay. I clutch at your dangled offer that should aught untoward happen to you, as your daughter I will inherit DuBois and Moreau. I prove to you my loyalty in exchange for the land."

  Père Bertrand scooped up the scraps, further destroying the precious bits. Fighting the hysteria that clawed up her throat, she reached across the table and grabbed his hand, brushing the parchment from his palm onto the cloth.

  "Come hither, Père Bertrand. You are my proof that I betray Becket." She urged him from behind the white cloth and off the dais. "You have always claimed how my blood raced when I lied. Place your fingers upon my pulse while I denounce my husband. If my heartbeat leaps faster, I lie. If not, I tell the truth."

  Gaston picked up her other wrist and pressed upon the blue vein. "I, too, take count. At the first rush, you are as good as dead. You will have no more chance for argument. Now, denounce him."

  Rochelle dared face Becket, and inwardly withered. She saw within his incredible eyes the truth barely hidden beneath his grief. Despite his doubt, he still loved her. She felt as if crucified, the fingers of Gaston and Père Bertrand like the nails that tacked her hands to a cross, Becket’s suspicion and torment, the double-edged sword that pierced her heart.

  "Do not do this, Rochelle."

  She merely stared at him, praying for a response from the Inquisition before she tore asunder all that mattered to her.

  Gaston shifted his stance as if impatient. "Denounce him, Rochelle. Now.

  "Pay him no heed, ma femme. Despite his threats, despite my chains, some way, some how, I will save you. But take this truth with you--I would rather die knowing you love me than to live with your betrayal."

  Her heart wrenched. Please, Council, piece together the document. Speak out. Silence screamed her failure. She clambered to construct a defense-wall, but Becket had destroyed all her invisible stones, leaving her defenseless against the coming destruction.

  "Rochelle, I know my timing is wretched, but I might never have another chance. In front of God and mine enemies, and despite your declarations of deception, j’ai t’aime, my precious gyrfalcon. I love you."

  Gaston shifted into a turn toward the dais and she knew she had no more time to stall.

  "But, I do not love you." Tears stung her eyes, betraying the lie.

  Through her blurred vision she saw Becket recoil, heard his sharp intake of air, watched his love shift from disbelief to agony, to hatred--hot, vengeful, consuming hatred.

  Gaston ‘tsk-tsked and tapped her wrist. "I detected a leap."

  She wrested from his hold and covered her tear-drenched face with her hands, forcing out a grotesque sounding laughter. "’Tis merely from the struggle to control my hilarity. That he..." She choked on a sob. "That he could believe I truly love him."

  A moan of anguish tore from Becket’s throat. "Why, damn you? Why? What we possessed valued more than mere land. Or so I once believed."

  Cursing the Inquisition’s inability to reassemble the document before she had crushed Becket’s love, she swiped at her wet cheeks and continued the ruinous travesty.

  "When you invaded my home, threatened to steal all I loved, vowed to imprison me in a convent, I swore to destroy you. Then to my delight, I learned that when your mind is on more carnal matters, you are easily distracted--a weakness I dared use to bring you to your knees."

  "Not to my knees, bitch. Never to my knees. My soul will burn in hell before I ever kneel before you!"

  As if struggling to salvage his damaged emotions, Becket widened his stance and a defiant cockiness washed over his features, that same cockiness as when she had first seen him enter Reynaurd’s chamber on that fateful day--and she knew she had lost him forever.

  "Forgive me my inappropriate attire, my traitorous falcon. I should have arrayed myself in jester’s cap and bell-tipped poulaines to fit the role of Fool."

  "Sacrilege! This confession is a sacrilege."

  At the monk’s condemnation, Rochelle closed her eyes, drained. The discovery came too late, for despite the outcome, Becket would always doubt her love.

  "I never signed a confession!" Becket’s incensed truth echoed around her in a vibrating shroud. "‘Tis a forgery!"

  Gaston clamped her on the shoulder and squeezed. "You are of my blood after all, daughter, and the knowledge is sweet. Carry on with your indictment. Guard, allow another to enter and you’ll never survive the dungeon."

  The slam of the door as the guard exited reverberated within the painful hollowness of her chest, the closing a symbol of the finality of all that had existed between her and Becket.

  "Rochelle, you sell Pierre and me for rock and dirt you will never possess. All you’ve gained is my hatred."

  Tears still seeping from her eyes, she straightened her spine and faced the Inquisition. "I bring heresy charges against--"

  "I curse you to eternal damnation!"

  "--against Sire Gaston and Père Bertrand."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  "What? You charge me?"

  Before Gaston’s shout had a chance to echo, he grabbed Rochelle and flung her against the table. Pain shot through her hipbone. Her thrown-out hands tore apart the document the startled monk in front of her had so carefully fit together. She hurriedly attempted to reassemble the ragged puzzle, but her hands shook so much, the parchment deteriorated even more. She prayed the Council had seen enough of the devil’s bargain to convince them of Gaston’s and Père Bertrand’s treachery. She prayed that, at least now, her husband might understand everything she had done, and forgive her.

  Becket’s laughter rang with bitterness, shattering her absurd hopes.

  "Ah, Gaston. Lady Rochelle is more devious than I imagined. Like the gyrfalcon, she has magnificent claws that will tear a soul, even as black as yours, to shreds."

  "Not mine, Becket. You are the fool who impaled your heart upon her talons."

  Before she could protest, Gaston gripped her neck and jerked her upright to face the Inquisition.

  "I charge Lady Rochelle with
heresy. She worshipped a small boy as a god, fighting with the priest when he sought to rid the lad of his devil."

  The monk slapped his hand on the damaged parchment. "Is this true? If so, prepare for punishment."

  Her stomach fisted. The contents of the document meant nothing to the Council! She had sacrificed Becket’s love and her life, for naught.

  "Non!" Becket lunged past the sentries, knocking Gaston aside as he stormed to stand beside her in front of the Council. "She might be a betrayer, but she is not a heretic. She but sought to protect Pierre from Père Bertrand’s depravity."

  "You defend me?" Rochelle stared up at Becket. "Why?"

  His pain-filled gaze trapped hers, revealing his inner love-hate battle. He stood body-heat close, yet was as distant as the moon he had taken her to when he had loved her. Unable to refrain from touching him, she grasped his blood-covered hands. Heat streaked through her from his touch and she gasped, as did he. He still loved her. Her heart swelled near-to-bursting.

  "Mon mari..." She jerked away, horrified at her dangerous lack of restraint. Patience, she scolded herself. Later she would explain her motivation to Becket. Surely, then he would comprehend. Yes, once they survived, all would be well.

  She winced as Gaston pinched her chin and forced her attention to his granite-hard eyes.