Love Thine Enemy

"How naïve Rochelle. You think all you have to do is charge both Becket and me with heresy and then DuBois will become yours. I admire your deviousness, but you cannot win. All I need are two testimonies against you--mine, and Père Bertrand’s. And he rules the Inquisition." Gaston nodded to the monk. "You just now promised punishment for Lady Rochelle because she dared defy Père Bertrand about the boy. Get on with your verdicts."

  "You misunderstand, Sire Gaston." The monk held up a scrap of parchment. I meant is this true? The document."

  Rochelle stilled, afraid to breathe for fear she misinterpreted the monk’s meaning. Had he read enough of the corrupt bargain to discern the significance? Had he believed the contents? If so, might the information affect the Council’s pre-arranged decision?

  "Lady Rochelle, tell him the confession is a lie." Becket pleaded with his gaze for her not to play false with him.

  "’Tis the incriminating truth, husband." She ached to mouth "Trust me", but the guards would see and inform Gaston.

  Smirking, he faced the monk. "I know ‘tis a useless effort, but inscribe this in your distorted records. I never saw that document, much less penned my name as confessor."

  The monk shoved the scrap in front of Père Bertrand’s face. "What do you say about this? Guilty, or no?"

  Père Bertrand winked at the monk. "Guilty, as signed." He flounced out his robes to sit.

  "Then you admit that you and Sire Gaston committed perjury and murder?"

  "Murder?" Père Bertrand froze, mid-sit, attention fixed on the held-out scrap.

  "What is this?" Gaston lunged, tearing the piece from the monk’s fingers.

  Rochelle released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and confronted her father.

  "’Tis the secret bargain signed by you, Reynaurd, and witnessed by Père Bertrand. The one that proves you and Père Bertrand gave false testimony against, then burned, the innocent Sire Alberre de DuBois, that your word is unreliable, that you will do aught for ill-gotten gain."

  Gaston’s breath hitched, then he spun and sifted the scraps through his fingers. "’Where did you find this? Bertrand and I..." He swept the precious pieces onto the rushes, stomping them to powder with his heel. "No such document exists."

  Certain of Gaston’s revenge and fearing the Council’s decision irreversible, Rochelle glanced at Sire Becket who stared at her, his mouth and eyes wide. Did he now understand?

  "The document truly exists?"

  "Oc, my husband."

  "Did you have the parchment all along?" His voice sounded incredulous. Then to her frustration, anger flushed his face. "I must have provided you many humorous hours while you watched me search for a document you had already found."

  "You impossible devil. When I retrieved coins from the cavity in the stable wall to use for the journey here, I fell, pulling away loose stones that exposed the long-ago secreted scroll. I realized ‘twas my only hope. Do you not yet see?

  I had to . . ." A chill feathered across her flesh as if to warn her to silence. She swallowed her near-confession of having lied about her hatred of Becket.

  "You had to...what, Rochelle? Lie?" Gaston stole toward her like a hunter who sensed his prey had committed a fatal error. "Did you lie to Becket? To me? To the Inquisition? Do you accuse me of that which you, yourself, attempt? Do you think to out-manipulate the manipulators?"

  "I..." She halted, uncertain how to answer. If she admitted she lied about hating Sire Becket, she cast doubt on any testimony she might present, which meant she wrecked everything she had fought so hard to accomplish. No, she must continue the fabrication until the Council ruled. Then, by heaven, she would do anything and everything to convince Becket of her love.

  Gaston closed in on her, the hunter to the kill. "The scroll was your only hope for what, Rochelle?"

  "’Tis not obvious? To prevent anything from coming between me and the land."

  "Wish granted." Gaston snatched her hair and she swallowed a cry of pain. "I’ll have you buried beneath the DuBois soil."

  "’Tis I whom you want, Gaston." Becket wrestled against the sentries who struggled to drag him back from attacking Gaston. "Let her go free and I will testify to aught you command."

  "Testify to heresy."

  "Becket, non!" Terrified that Becket would doom himself before she could gain his freedom, Rochelle dug her nails into Gaston’s flesh to gain release. "Gaston will never let me live, Becket. He merely dangles another hope."

  With Gaston’s loosened hold, Rochelle rushed to the dais, frantic as to how to convince the Council to spare Becket without making obvious she did, indeed, attempt to manipulate the Inquisition. Rochelle grabbed the hands of the extravagantly dressed nobleman who sat next to the monk. She slit her forefinger on his ruby and diamond rings but she ignored the sting.

  "Most noble Sire, Gaston and Père Bertrand claim to have swayed you and the others to a decision before this trial started, but surely you see their evil. You must condemn the accusers."

  "Becket, tell Rochelle how foolish her efforts." Gaston pried one of her hands from the nobleman’s possessive hold. Her flesh burned as he licked blood from her cut. "Mmm, sweet. My favorite libation." She wrenched to free herself but he merely tightened his grip. "Becket, tell your unfaithful wife with whom she pleads and how worthless her efforts with this particular Councilman."

  Rochelle threw her gaze to the aristocrat whose eyes revealed amusement at her predicament.

  Becket’s scoff sent icy dread throughout her body. "Lady Rochelle, meet King Charles of Navarre. The man with whom Gaston has bargained for my head."

  Her breath caught and she jerked upright, struck by the impossibility of her goal. Rochelle barely felt Charles’ touch as he lifted her other hand to his lips.

  "Sire Becket’s wife." The nobleman nuzzled the back of her frozen fingers while he swept her with a lecherous gaze. "Are you aware he once stuffed an apple in my mouth because I called you a porker? After seeing you, I understand his desperation in wanting to believe you could love him."

  Charles rubbed his thumbs over her flesh, sending chills slithering from his touch and through her frozen heart to the hand still imprisoned by Gaston. "’Twould seem you are caught between two jackals, my lady. Gaston lusts for your blood. I lust for you."

  "Non!" Sire Becket surged against the table, shoving Gaston aside as sentries stumbled alongside like insignificant baggage. He slammed his fist against Charles’ wrist, breaking the hold. "Touch her again, Navarre, and I’ll make certain you die along with me."

  "’Twill be a difficult task from your grave."

  "He will not die!" Not knowing how to fight for Becket without revealing she had lied, Rochelle spun to plead with the monk. "’Tis Gaston who is the heretic. When at DuBois he demanded Sire Becket kneel before him in worship, claiming himself Becket's god. ‘Tis why Becket refused to kneel."

  Gaston laughed. "Evil is not the same as heresy, Rochelle. So, you fight for Becket after all. You say you love him not, and yet you battle for him. You say you will allow none to come between you and the land, and yet you seek to spare Becket’s life even though he’ll most likely never allow you to step foot on DuBois. Your opposing actions prove that none of us can trust you. Especially the Inquisition."

  "I but seek justice. Sire Becket is not the heretic. You are."

  "You heard his confession when at DuBois. Besides, no one will verify your claim against me."

  Confident, she lifted her chin. "Only two testimonies are required. Sire Becket’s and mine."

  "Ah ha." A light of understanding glowed in Gaston’s eyes and he turned to Becket with a derisive grin. "You pathetic dupe. She but uses you to destroy me, then once she has no more need of you, she’ll murder you as well. With poison, perhaps. Or mayhap attackers will slaughter you as they did my son, her first husband." Gaston glared at her with a hatred that chilled her courage. "I always suspicioned you instigated his death."

  She flushed, anxious to change the subject before
the Inquisition further questioned her honesty. "What is of import, Gaston, is that Sire Becket and I, finally, will stop you and Père Bertrand."

  "Your machinations serve you not." Gaston gestured to the priest. "Père Bertrand, disqualify them."

  "Disqualified." The deceitful priest giggled as if enjoying his power.

  "Now, my scheming daughter, name your two witnesses." Gaston glanced around the room, then shrugged. "You have none."

  Wiping her perspiring palms against her skirt, Rochelle scanned the chamber in search of even one person who might help.

  Lady Isabelle.

  Becket’s mother stared at nothing in particular, eyes glazed as if unaware of the tragic scene that unfolded around her. The self-seeking woman would never defy Gaston, not even for her own son. And yet, none other knew the facts. Refusing to surrender, Rochelle rushed to confront her.

  "Lady Isabelle, how can you stand there and allow this travesty? You’ve done naught while Gaston tortured your son. You do and say naught even though you know Gaston intends to burn him. You are his mother. Help him!" Rochelle grasped Isabelle’s arms and shook her to break the trance. "Testify that Gaston is a heretic. You were there at DuBois when he insisted Becket kneel in worship to him. Save your son!"

  Lady Isabelle’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as if Rochelle had caught her by surprise, then she merely fumbled with the buttons on the front of her bodice.

  Rochelle shuddered as Gaston slid his arm around her shoulder.

  "Daughter, to what purpose should she assist you? At long last she has learned I will not wed her unless she obeys my every command. Without me, she loses all she schemed for, a humiliating predicament for a woman who foolishly believed herself superior to males." He squeezed her. "Much like you, daughter. Besides, she would be but one witness. You need two."

  Damn the truth.

  Feeling as if caught in a never-ending nightmare, Rochelle shoved from under his arm and raced to the Inquisition.

  "Sires, several of you saw the document in which Gaston and Père Bertrand admitted they lied about Sire Alberre being a heretic." She concentrated on each startled and disgruntled face as she paced the length of the long table. "Surely during the former trial they both swore an oath to God testifying to that lie. Which means they falsified testimony in God’s name. Is that not heresy? If Père Bertrand is allowed to testify against Becket, cannot some of you swear against Gaston and Père Bertrand?"

  Loud murmurs arose from the Council, giving her hope.

  Metal rasped like a snake-hiss as Gaston drew his sword. "I remind you of your tenuous situation should you dare to try me. You are within Moreau walls guarded by Moreau knights. I also remind you that King Charles of Navarre is my ally and is attended by additional knights. Now heed me, Council. I expect two guilty verdicts. The first, Sire Becket’s--he confessed to heresy while still at DuBois. The second, Lady Rochelle’s--Père Bertrand and I will testify to her devil worship. I want their death sentences, and I want them now."

  The monk glanced at King Charles of Navarre.

  Charles nodded. "’Tis time to end this mockery."

  Rochelle watched in terror as the furrows of concern in the monk’s brow deepened. His jaw tightened as if with apprehension while he ran his gaze along the row of sentries who lined the chamber walls, then his attention halted on Becket. He released a defeated sigh.

  "Sire Becket, I give you one chance to redeem yourself. Do you believe in God?"

  The one question that had no bearing on the document. A cry of hysteria escaped her throat.

  Sire Becket’s laughter resonated with disgust. "Why bother to reveal my beliefs when all is pre-determined?"

  "Fight for yourself!" Rochelle spun to face the defiant Becket, aching because of all the injustices in his life. "Tell them how when but a lad of nine you begged God to save Sire Alberre from death, but Gaston burned him anyway, then set fire to you."

  "Hedging your bets, Rochelle?"

  "Sacre Dieu." Feeling as if her world disintegrated like the ancient parchment, Rochelle whirled to challenge the Inquisition.

  "Several of you on the Council are men of God. You are sworn to help us, to protect us, to guide us to what is right. You must set the example for the world, a weighty burden I’m certain, but a burden you willingly chose. If you bend to greed, power and worldly sins then you are no more pure than the rest of us and should not sit in judgment." She clasped her hands in supplication. "I beg you--"

  "Do not beg, Rochelle!" Sire Becket’s demand shook the rafters. "And do not further insult me by, in one breath, declaring your hatred of me, then in the next, begging for my life. I would rather die as a heretic than be naught but a ruse for your greed."

  Rochelle bit her tongue to keep from shouting her love for him. Tears stung her eyes from the pain, both emotional and physical.

  Gaston chuckled as he turned and sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed. "Poor, hapless Becket. Despite her betrayal of you, you still care for her. In return, she uses that affection to manipulate you, torturing you with more cruelty than I did with my well-oiled instruments. How righteous you must feel in that undeserving love. And yet, love is but a heartbeat away from hate."

  Gaston shoved from the table, sauntering toward Becket with a purpose that curdled Rochelle’s blood.

  "In proof, Becket, I force you through one further, delicious, agony to best all agonies. I hunger to see your love for her turn to a hatred so absolute, you will gladly die so as to end the torment within your soul." He closed his eyes, then quivered. "What an arousing power."

  "You have no power over me, Gaston. You may torture my body, but you cannot touch my soul."

  Gaston merely grinned at Becket. "I relish such definite affirmations. The crushing of them makes the pleasure even more enjoyable. To show you how easy..." Gaston gestured to a guard. "Lady Rochelle wouldn’t have come alone. Have the grounds searched. I’m certain you’ll find a dark-haired lad with large, ebony eyes who answers to the name of Pierre. Bring him here, along with any others you think worth torturing. Kill the rest."

  Dear heaven, the worst just worsened.

  "Wait!" Père Bertrand grasped the guard’s jupon to delay him, then gleamed at Rochelle with hope in his eyes. "Did you bring Pierre? Is he here?"

  And worsened.

  Becket snarled like an animal about to attack. "Surely you didn’t bring Pierre. I can understand you choosing DuBois over me, but if you dared risk Pierre’s innocence for this insanity, I will never forgive you. Never."

  And worsened, still.

  How to answer without endangering her loved ones even more? Without losing Becket’s love?

  Impossible.

  "Pierre is...is ...with Griselda and Jacques." Not really a lie. And yet the only way Becket wouldn’t discover her contorted truth was if he died. She had trapped herself into losing Becket no matter the outcome. Perspiration drizzled between her throbbing breasts that would never again feel his scorching touch.

  Sire Becket pierced his torment-filled gaze into hers as if searching her innermost being for the truth and wanting desperately to believe her.

  "Lady Rochelle, I know in my heart you would never risk Pierre’s life, thus I trust you in this. But only in this."

  Guilt burst past her fear like a deluge of water to drown her unsteady spirit. She had the same as lied about the only matter in which he dared trust her.

  "Never again interfere with my orders." Gaston knocked Père Bertrand’s hand aside from his restraining hold on the guard’s jupon.

  Père Bertrand sank into a sickening grovel at Gaston’s feet. "Don’t kill Pierre! I’ll do aught you ask, just don’t kill the boy."

  "If you want Pierre, then condemn these two, and now."

  In the image of a vulture who smelled carrion, Père Bertrand fairly flew around the end of the table to his bench.

  "Père Bertrand!" Sire Becket stepped forward as far as his leash allowed. "Gaston’s promise of Pierre is
not worth your betrayal of Rochelle, for I pledge my doomed life that she has hidden Pierre where you will never find him."

  "You believe her?" Gaston’s sarcastic chuckle rumbled from his chest. "For your asininity, I will don you in jester’s cap and bell-tipped poulaines. ‘Twill make a laughable sight--as you burn."

  "Oc, Gaston, I believe her. No matter how she might feel about me, she would never endanger Pierre. Not even for DuBois."

  A door banged open. Torchlight wavered from a gust. Footsteps shuffled in behind her.

  Sire Becket glanced up, then blanched. Fury and anguish distorted his features.

  Rochelle spun, then stared in horror.

  Pierre.

  He stood between Griselda and Jacques amidst the captured Languedocs, clutching Sire Spitz against his chest. Where were Henri and the other soldiers? Slain? May God forgive her. Becket never would. And never would she forgive herself.

  "Rochelle! Becket!" Eyes wide with fear, Pierre darted toward them.

  Gaston burst into laughter. "Becket, you love-sick fool! She sold all of you for DuBois. Now...feel the hatred. Feel it burn within you, for eternity."

  Becket lunged to the end of his neck chain, but Gaston snatched Pierre from the floor as the leg-bandaged Sire Spitz yowled and tumbled to the rushes.

  "Let Pierre go!" Rochelle leapt and grabbed for his arm.

  Gaston whirled and thrust Pierre out toward Père Bertrand. "Dangle, dangle."

  Rochelle grasped only air and she fell, her hands and knees slamming onto the floor as Père Bertrand leapt to his feet, face aglow with rapture.

  Gaston chuckled. "Not yet, Bertrand. Not until the Council rules against Becket and Rochelle."

  Père Bertrand pounded on the table. "I call for a vote!"

  "Non!" Rochelle tugged her skirt from under her feet and reached out for the screaming Pierre.

  Gaston swung him from her grasp. "Touch him and I’ll slit his throat. Everyone, stay back."

  Horrified, Rochelle glanced at Sire Becket. He glared at her with a hatred as hot as molten rock, the neck chain as taut as the corded muscles in his neck, the metal collar cutting into his flesh as he strained against his tether. Then his eyes went hard, cold, chilling to icy stones of ebony.