Love Thine Enemy

  "Damn your lying soul, Lady Rochelle. Satan had best beware your ambitions else you’ll soon replace him."

  She felt flung into hell, alone, freezing within the flames, her eternal torture the excruciating guilt for all the suffering her bad judgment had caused others.

  Pierre’s cries sliced like daggers into her guilt.

  Blood beaded where Gaston pressed the knife against Pierre’s throat. "I repeat, Council, do not think to try me. ‘Tis obvious no enemy awaits without these walls. There is no document to prove heresy and no one who will dare accuse me. No one."

  A sob wrenched from Rochelle’s breast. Gaston had won.

  "I will witness, I will swear

  Against this man who grayed my hair,

  Who scarred me, robbed me, told me all,

  Then shoved me in a deadly fall."

  Rochelle’s gaze flew to Griselda as she limped across the floor. Her mother dared to risk Pierre’s life? Rochelle jerked her attention to the knife.

  Torchlight glinted on the blade while Gaston shook his head as if denying the truth of Griselda’s identity. He waved the dagger towards his soldiers. "Guards! Seize her! She spouts gibberish."

  "Gibberish, Gaston? Then why your fright?

  Mayhap a ghost now fills your sight."

  "Nonsense. You are naught but Griselda."

  "’Tis with glee, yet too, with shame

  I give you my authentic name,

  The one before you sought my life..."

  Griselda straightened her falsely-hunched back and lifted her chin.

  "Giselle Rochande Christine…"

  She sneered and nodded to Gaston.

  "...your wife."

  Gaston turned the color of ash. The dagger clattered to the floor. Rochelle moved to snatch it, but a soldier lunged and swiped up the weapon, stuffing the blade beneath his scabbard belt.

  "His wife?" Becket’s mother came from stone to life. "But he..."

  "Killed me? He did push me off a cliff. Like Sire Becket, I survived. For this moment."

  Gaston laughed in obvious regained control. "You mean so as to die by fire? How idiotic a goal."

  Griselda, rather Lady Giselle turned to the council in confrontation, and Rochelle swore to lovingly care for her beautiful mother forevermore—if they survived.

  "I testify to the legitimacy of the document." Lady Giselle clasped her hands as if for strength. "Because I knew how to cipher, Gaston forced me to pen the bargain that sealed Sire Alberre’s fate, an act of cowardice that will haunt me into the afterlife. I watched as Gaston, Reynaurd and Bertrand signed their names."

  "You are naught but a bothersome old crone who has but moments to live." Gaston thrust Pierre in front of Père Bertrand like a prize. "Give a verdict, and now!"

  "A vote! A vote!" Père Bertrand pushed to his feet and motioned for the Council to gather round, mumbling, then slashing his hand in the air for emphasis. The men nodded their assent! Then to Rochelle’s greater horror, Père Bertrand squealed with anticipation and rushed, hands outstretched, to where Gaston held his ill-won prize.

  Gaston jerked the flailing Pierre aside like a squirming Matador’s cape. "Not yet, my drooling friend. Not until the verdict."

  A nightmarish blend of Becket’s profanities, Pierre’s screams, Gaston’s threats, Père Bertrand’s squeals and her own staccato-like sobs of hysteria swirled in what surely must be the beginning of her eternal damnation. She had failed in saving them, but by the Holy Rood, somehow some way, she would stop Père Bertrand from molesting Pierre.

  Shaking with fear and fury, she scanned the chamber, her gaze locking on her dagger held prisoner behind the nearby guard’s leather belt. How to retrieve the weapon?

  King Charles of Navarre laughed where he still remained within the huddle. The Council nodded again, then Charles glanced at Rochelle and smiled. Bile stung her throat. He had bargained for her. She should have allowed Henri to attack. She should have—

  "I curse you all to perdition!" Sire Becket flung out his hands and knocked aside the men who attempted to restrain him. "How could you, Rochelle? May you burn in hell."

  "I already do."

  "Silence!" The monk clapped his hands for attention and the remaining members retook their seats. "Guards, constrain Sire Becket and Lady Rochelle."

  She stumbled as the guard grasped her arm, the odor of garlic and wine pungent within her nearing hysteria. Rochelle’s stomach heaved. The hilt of her own dagger pressed against her back as if mocking her impotence.

  Père Bertrand hovered near Pierre, fingers flexing as if hardly able to keep from touching him. Pierre’s cries were but piercing reminders of the brutality he would soon suffer.

  "You will not have Pierre!" Sire Becket thrashed against the sentries who held him prisoner.

  Père Bertrand clapped his hands. "Oh, but I will! He’s mine! He’s mine!" Clearly unable to contin himself, he ran his hands over Pierre’s body as if in a caress of anticipation.

  "Help me, Rochelle! Make him stop!"

  "Oh no. Dear God, no." With a strength and speed that surprised her, Rochelle snatched the dagger at her back, slashing at the guard’s hand to gain release. She charged for Père Bertrand.

  A yank on her hair snapped back her head. Gaston cursed as he ripped the dagger from her grip. The sharp edge of a sword pressed beneath her chin. A brief wish of her beheading sliced through her mind. At least she would not witness the impending cruelty against her loved ones.

  "Cease!" The monk shoved to his feet. "Guard, lower your weapon until I say otherwise." With a frustrated sigh, he sat again, then glanced both ways along the table. "Are we still in agreement? And do you allow me the pleasure of speaking for all?"

  The entire greedy, horrible, revolting group of them nodded their assent. She hated them all.

  Père Bertrand grinned at Gaston, euphoric. "Rochelle and Becket are as good as dead, Gaston. The land is yours. The boy is mine."

  Pierre blurred in her vision as she tugged against the sentries.

  "The Inquisition has a verdict." The monk cleared his throat. "However, I have a few more questions for the records so as to justify our decision. Sire Gaston, when at DuBois, Sire Becket admitted heresy?"

  "Indeed, Brother."

  "Then, pray tell me. Why torture him after his admission?"

  Gaston’s smiled widened as if in pride. "For being a heretic."

  The monk shifted his attention to Père Bertrand. "About this boy. ‘Twould appear your interest is other than spiritual."

  Père Bertrand stilled his obscene caresses, then smoothed his robes as if to straighten out his image. "I but seek to rid Pierre of the demons causing his seizures."

  "Ah." The monk nodded as if in understanding. "Most now believe the seizures are caused, not by demons, but by trouble from within the brain. Next time, you might take that theory into consideration."

  "Next time?" Rochelle stared at the monk, appalled. "You give him a next time?"

  Ignoring her, the monk winked at Père Bertrand. "The lad is a beauty, for certain."

  "Extraordinary, your holiness. His eyes--"

  "Later. ’Tis obvious he is not your first. Aid me in my own cause. Tell me how you succeed in encouraging gullible young boys to do your will."

  Bile soured in Rochelle’s mouth. The monk sought advice on how to seduce innocents.

  Père Bertrand allowed a nauseating grin of accomplishment. "I merely remind them I’m a man of the cloth, that to disobey me is like disobeying God. They are usually hesitant but fearful of angering the Almighty, so they agree."

  "Oui, I remember."

  "Remember?"

  "As you know, Bertrand, as soon as you called for this hasty meeting of the Inquisition here at Moreau, I insisted upon being among the chosen."

  "Insisted? You demanded. Vengeance for past wrongs, you said. A trait I understand and admire, for I knew you would be most harsh in your judgment."

  "And so I shall." The monk straightened to a
stiffer posture as if validating his authority. "Père Bertrand, you violated your position of Holy trust. In truth, your improprieties resulted in the opposite of what you are called to do--you have caused others to doubt in God. As punishment the Council excommunicates you. Until your death you must wear upon your clothing the double-tongued symbol which informs the world you falsified testimony in a heresy trial."

  "You judge me? But...but...I do not understand. That is not the agreement. Besides, many do as I, mayhap even some of you at this table. Why single me out for such barbarism?"

  "The barbarism is your violation of God’s children. Do you not yet recognize me, Bertrand? Then let me refresh your memory. When but a pubescent lad, I, too, fell victim to your debauchery. I’ll not allow you to defile another. The Sacred Scriptures bids us, if any segment of our body causes us to sin, to cut off the offending part. You shall be castrated." He nodded to a guard. "Take him below."

  "But...but... Gaston, help me!"

  Shocked, Rochelle saw Bertrand leap to clutch at Gaston, but the sentries surrounded the priest, then dragged him, screaming and flailing, toward the doorway while Gaston watched as if unconcerned.

  "Gaston, save me!"

  "I have no more use for you." Gaston waved the sentries away and faced the monk. "I care not what happens to him so long as the agreement still stands. You may castrate Becket as well, but make certain you find him and Rochelle guilty. After I have tired of torturing them, they will die by fire."

  The priest’s high-pitched scream clawed up Rochelle’s spine. "Curse you, Gaston! Hear me, Council, he killed his own son. He wanted the land for himself. He lied about..."

  The sentries pulled Bertrand into the hallway, his voice fading into unrecognizable echoes of accusations and horrified shouts for mercy, but the hastily revealed "killed his own son", lingered in Rochelle’s mind like an unbelievable truth. Before she could confront Gaston about the murder, the monk demanded silence.

  "Now, as to your judgment Sire Becket. The Inquisition declares you--"

  "Non!" Becket’s defiance resonated through her own frantic cry of denial. God, give her strength.

  "...not guilty of heresy, as is Lady Rochelle. Guards, release them."

  A cheer rose behind her from the captured Languedocs.

  Stunned, Rochelle glanced at Sire Becket who stared, open-mouthed, first at the monk, then at King Charles of Navarre, then at her as if he doubted his hearing.

  God had given them another chance! A chance Rochelle vowed to exploit. She swore to do anything and everything to convince Becket of her love.

  "Not guilty?" Gaston roared, slinging Pierre away from him. "’Twas prearranged!"

  Rochelle grappled for Pierre’s arm, but Becket ripped him from her grasp and swept him away from her and handed him to Lady Giselle. "Watch over him."

  "King Charles, you voted against me?" Gaston reached for his sword. "We had a bargain!"

  "So you believed." King Charles rammed his hand atop Gaston’s, shoving Gaston’s blade back into the scabbard. "However, the DuBois lands nestle next to my brother-in-law’s, the Count of Foix. We but make certain you are not his neighbor."

  Gaston jerked free, then spun and grabbed Becket’s neck chain, pressing his nose to Becket’s. "You think you have me trapped, but should you and Rochelle be so fortunate as to escape Moreau, I will hunt you down and destroy you. And this time, I will drive a stake through your heart to make certain you never again rise from the dead." Gaston stormed to the dais and pounded on the table. "You may have given him his life, but the land is mine! Do you hear me? The land is mine! Becket is a traitor! He supported England! If for no other reason, you should slay him for his treachery."

  Charles grinned at Gaston as if at a cornered rat. "Gaston, take care when you accuse Sire Becket of disloyalty to France. You might have to explain what you promised me in exchange for his head. Besides, methinks England has already claimed the land."

  "England will lose!" A nobleman next to Charles leapt to his feet. "King Jean declares that the only true heir would be Sire Alberre’s son, if he had one, which, according to Sire Gaston, he does not. France takes possession of DuBois and Moreau."

  "Non!" Gaston ripped the cloth from the table, chalices clattering to the floor. "I have not plotted for two decades to lose all. I will divide the land. The church and France can take Moreau. I take DuBois."

  "Silence, all of you. Heed me!" Jacques strode past Rochelle to the table with a strength she had never before witnessed in him. "Neither England nor France has the right to DuBois, and for certain, not Gaston. The estates are mine, and I bestow them to Sire Becket."

  "You bestow the lands?" The monk swiped a toppled chalice from off the planks. "And who in Hades are you?"

  "Sire Alberre de DuBois y Moreau. Sire Becket’s father."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Shock tore through Becket. Did Jacques lie to protect DuBois for him? True, Jacques had suffered burns in trying to save Sire Alberre, but the man he had always considered his father never could have survived the inferno.

  "The man lies!" Gaston kicked a chalice across the floor. "Alberre burned to death. I know. I lit the brush. This man is but a perjuring servant like that witch Griselda."

  "In verity you set me afire. Then you torched my son." Jacques’ voice trembled with a deep and long-formed hatred that rivaled Becket’s. "When you and Reynaurd left to celebrate in the great hall, the real Jacques leapt into the flames to save me." A tear slipped a crooked trail over his deformed cheek. "He died, giving me life."

  Hungry to believe Jacques spoke the truth, Becket searched the older man’s physique for any remnants of Sire Alberre. Without the hunched shoulders, the courageous servant stood taller than Jacques, but to Becket’s almost non-existent memory of his father, less tall than Alberre. And yet, to a lad of nine, Alberre had seemed a giant, whereas the man before him stood a full hand shorter than did he.

  Gaston whipped around to face the Inquisition. "This imposter but attempts to assist Becket so as to assure himself of a future. He cannot prove his claim."

  "My wife can verify." Jacques tilted his head toward Becket’s mother who appeared as pale as a spirit newly-roused from the Netherworld while...Jacques?...Alberre?...removed his tunic.

  "Lady Isabelle, ma femme." Jacques’ tone dripped with sarcasm and loathing. "What horrors rip your mind asunder as this lowly and disfigured servant who swears he is your husband, publicly bares his scarred body? The husband you plotted to murder."

  She gasped. "The birthmark."

  Joy burst like a hot ember within Becket’s chest. Alberre. His father. Not by birth, but by love.

  Gaston shook the table in front of the Council like a madman. "She lies! They all lie. Think, men! No matter the circumstances, no lord would ever act as minion."

  "Which made this the perfect disguise." Alberre smoothed his re-donned tunic into place. "I took Jacques’ identity, knowing you and Reynaurd would never detect the difference in an unfamiliar and badly disfigured servant. Then I waited, hoping for a miracle, the return of my son."

  Becket reeled, guilt-ridden within his joy that he hadn’t sensed Alberre beyond the disfigurement.

  "Why did you not tell me?" Despite his command for self-control, Becket’s voice rankled with his wounded anger that his father hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him. "When I think of all the wasted years, years when we could have planned together, not as knight and servant, but as father and son. Years when my fury toward God and the world hardened even more. If Gaston had been less skilled in his tortures I would have died without knowing the truth."

  Disappointment streaked through Alberre’s aging eyes. Shamed, Becket enfolded Alberre against his body, shaken by how fragile his resurrected father felt within his embrace. "Forgive me. I complain about a miracle. Je t’aime, mon père."

  "At long last, son, you will have what was yours all along. DuBois and Moreau, for when Reynaurd and Gaston believed me dead, they divi
ded the spoils – and the land."

  "He is not Alberre’s son!" Gaston’s declaration resounded through Becket’s euphoria like a death-knell. "According to French law, Becket cannot ever lay claim to the land. He was sired, not by this supposed Alberre, but by his cuckolding companion, Lord Reynaurd. Becket is a bastard."

  Sacre Dieu. All was lost--along with the woman he loved more than his own life. Becket stared at the stunned expressions of the council while his stomach twisted into excruciating knots. Everything for which Becket had lived, fought, suffered, Gaston had ripped from him for eternity. Did Rochelle gloat?

  His gaze following his insane heart, Becket glanced at Rochelle who stared at him, her face as pale as the moon he had taken her to when he had become one with her. Her flawless cheeks glimmered with tears. Well, he, too, wept but on the inside. She cried because she had lost DuBois. He, because he had lost her.

  Alberre’s angry chuckle pulled Becket from her spell.

  "Gaston has no proof Becket is not of my seed. Only Lady Isabelle can swear to such." Alberre tilted his head toward Becket’s mother who still stared as if overwhelmed by horrendous possibilities. "Do you admit to adultery, Isabelle?"

  Becket ceased to breathe. His mother could save him, or damn him - the woman who had willingly sacrificed her own son for her gain.

  "Ma femme, do you risk the possibility of cruel judgment by the church and by society?" Alberre strolled nearer to Isabelle, an act that must have been difficult for him, at least, not without strangling her. "Do you risk being linked with Gaston, a man likely to be outcast from all you hold most dear: status and power? Not to mention the probability of charges for my attempted murder, if I should so choose? And as to the other murders--"

  Gaston shoved Alberre aside in his haste to reach Becket’s mother who merely stared, mouth open, in an obvious quandary. "Tell them, Isabelle!" Gaston shook her so hard that her wimple swayed, but she remained as rigid as a dead tree. "Tell them Becket is not Alberre’s son!"