Carolyne Cathey (47 page)

Removing
the bloodied rags from his chest, she tossed them to the floor and pressed
clean folded strips against the wound, then pulled the vair pelts up to his
shoulders to warm his soon-permanent chill.

“Thirsty.”

She
snatched the goblet from the tray that sat atop the high chest and raised his
head, pressing the rim against his lips.  Wine slipped past his mouth and
dribbled down his chin as he swallowed.  He closed his eyes as if exhausted. 
She returned the goblet to the tray and wiped his chin with a torn sheet.

"
Mon
père
, you must reveal to me this mysterious pact.  Perhaps the telling will
impart a solution of how to protect DuBois . . .” She hesitated, guilt-ridden,
knowing her next comment would arouse his fury.  "And Pierre."

His
eyes flew open.  "
Non."

"Why
won't you acknowledge him as your son?  As of now, 'tis a secret between Pierre
and me, but now that . . .” She squeezed his hand, unable to say aloud how near
to him death hovered, although she knew he understood better than any.  "I
vow to always care for my brother, no matter your decision.  But at this point,
what do you gain by refusing to admit he is of your seed?"

"His
life."

Rochelle
felt the blood drain from her face.  "I don't understand."

"All
the children but you, including bastards, dead.  Slain."  The words shoved
from his throat in an angry rasp.

“You
declared they were accidents, or of natural causes.”

“So
I believed.  At first.  But surely one child besides you would have survived. 
I began to suspicion the others died from poisonings because their demise
occurred at the same time each year, in the spring.”  His chest rose as if with
labored effort.  “But Pierre is alive, you see, because no one else knows.” 

Stunned
at this new revelation, she searched his troubled eyes.  "Who would kill
children?  Pierre is no threat, nor were the other bastards because only
legitimate heirs can inherit.  And why have I not been slain?" 

Her
father merely groaned in answer, his teeth clenched as hard as her fists. 

Rochelle
panicked that he might die before she knew the truth.  “Tell me about the pact.
 Hurry!”

The
door-hinges creaked.

Gaston?
 
Her heart leapt to her throat as she spun to confront him.  She relaxed at the
sight of the old servant, Jacques, who had been at DuBois since before her
birth, one of the few people she trusted.  How had he passed the guards?  
Unless he had an order from Gaston to see if her father still lived.

"Milady?" 
Jacques peered from the doorway, his white hair like wisps of fog atop his
burn-scarred head.  Scars contorted his face due to a fiery disaster that dated
before her memory, but to her, he couldn’t be more beautiful.  She noticed that
his gaze focused on the open window instead of on her as if he couldn't meet
her eyes.  But then, they were all upset this day.  She, more than any.     

A
shadowy figure lurked behind him.  

Rochelle
rubbed her fingers against the ache in her temple.  "Jacques, is that one
of Gaston’s guards behind you?"  Perhaps, despite Gaston’s orders, she
could appeal to him to summon Griselda.  Not likely, though.  Not if he valued
his life.

"More
visitors, milady.  Strangers."  Jacques sniffed and swiped his gnarled
knuckles over his nose.  "A knight and his squire.  Says his horse is
lame.  He seeks shelter for the night."

“Visitors? 
You came straight to this door and no one stopped you?”  Maybe Gaston had
merely bluffed and she could escape the chamber after all.  But Gaston never
bluffed.  And anyway, she dare not leave until she received vital information
from her father. 

“Milady? 
What about the knight and his squire?”

Rochelle
swallowed a cry of frustration.  She didn't have time to receive guests.  Not
when death panted and secrets skulked.  "Take care of them for me,
Jacques.  Show them the knights’ quarters above the stable."

"A
knight, you say?"  Her father gestured toward Jacques with unexpected
energy.  "Bring him to me."

The
illusive figure moved forward.

“Non!”
 
Rochelle whirled to face her father.  "We have no time for this.  You must
tell me about the pact!"

"Pardonnez-moi
.  Reynaurd de DuBois? 
I'm
Becket,
Le Vengeur
, the king's knight."

Rochelle stilled. 
Le Vengeur.
 
The avenger.  A dangerous
name.  As menacing as the underlying tone of his voice, sonorous and deep.

Then
hope straightened her spine.  The king’s knight?  Perhaps he would relay a message
to King Jean about her plight.  No, she had not enough time.

"
Entré
,
Sire Becket.”  Her father struggled to sit upright.” 
Entré
."

Releasing
an angry sigh, Rochelle smoothed the faded wool of her too-small gown, then
turned to greet the intruder.

Her
heart tripped. 

The
stranger stood tall, lean and . . . and provocative . . . a vision of shimmery
silver.  His vest of armored plate gleamed in the firelight like molten metal. 
He appeared as a god newly formed, dynamic, invincible.  Mail sleeves hinted at
well-muscled arms.  A shirt of the same linked metal skimmed to below his
hips.  His well-shaped legs, firm and strong, confirmed the raw power beneath
the metal plates on the front of his mail-covered thighs.  He loomed a
formidable knight in all his masculine glory.  Yet despite his claim as a
king’s knight, he wore no jupon with identifying coat of arms.  How curious. 
The man pulled off the pointed iron bascinet that protected his head.

Her
heart stumbled again.  His hair hung in soft curls of disarray to below his
ears---thick, lustrous, as dark as ebon wood.  Rochelle's response to the
knight startled her, especially after her abuse from Marcel.

Venom
flickered in the midnight of his eyes as he stared at her father.  Predatory. 
Dangerous.

A
burning chill rippled along her flesh.  Why would the stranger feel hatred for
a dying man who gave him shelter?

He
met her too-studied perusal, one dark brow raised, as if faced with the
unexpected.  The glimmer of his hatred blurred to surprise, confusion, doubt,
then hardened to determination.

The
rapid flash of his reactions tightened her stomach another notch.  Rochelle
stepped back, bumping the stool, which teetered much like her courage.  Lifting
her chin in defiance, she curtsied.  "Welcome to DuBois, Sire.  I---"

"Come
here, knight.  Rochelle, move aside until you're summoned."

Damaged
pride flamed her cheeks.  She should be hardened to her father's treatment, but
his offhand dismissal in front of a stranger humiliated her as much as a slap. 
And yet her father was dying, desperate.  Which didn’t excuse the past two
decades of maltreatment.  Rochelle retreated to the open window in the deep
reveal of the wall and pressed her hands against the coolness of the window
frame.

 "Come
closer, Sire Becket."

A
breeze swept away her father's whispered words as the gust lifted the edge of
the wimple that covered her head and swirled past her into the chamber.  Her
damp nape chilled before the linen settled again against her neck.  Rochelle
inhaled the purity to cleanse the stench from her lungs, and to clear a
mysterious knight from her thoughts.  In spite of the stranger's hasty burial
of his hatred beneath his nonchalance, an inner tempest seethed beneath his
surface.  She didn't trust him.

Drawn
by the allure of the land, she skimmed her gaze across the magnificent vista,
never tiring of the view from their mountaintop perch in the Pyrenees foothills
that overlooked the valley of Armagnac.  She had two loves in her life, DuBois
Estates and Pierre.

And
now Gaston plotted to pollute everything she cared for with his greed and
treachery, to pilfer and leach the life from the land that meant more to her
than the blood that flowed through her veins, to abuse her, and perhaps to kill
Pierre.  For if her father spoke true, and she claimed Pierre as brother, the
boy might be torn from her protection, or slain.  Either way, he would die. 
No, to protect Pierre, she would not allow any man to claim the land, or her.

Rochelle
inhaled another breath, then stilled.  A glint in the copse of cedars caught
her curiosity.  The woodcutter, most likely, for no one else had permission---

"A
bit cool for your father, don't you think?"

Rochelle
gasped and spun toward the sound of the too-near voice.  The knight towered
less than an arm's length away and stole her breath.

The
morning sunlight washed across Becket's down-tilted face revealing a Latin
ancestry, highlighting his Roman nose, his sensual lips, his square-set jaw. 
Thick brows, as black as coal, accented his wide forehead.  And his eyes, like
moonless skies, penetrated hers as if in search of her innermost secrets.

Beware.

He
leaned closer and she caught the scent of cedar and leather, of outdoors and .
. . and danger.  Her pulse thudded a warning in her ears.

He
lifted his hand.

Rochelle
flinched.  He meant to strike her!  "You dare touch---"

Becket
reached past her; the room darkened as he closed the shutters.  "There. 
Much improved."  He flashed a smile that sent lightning through her
veins.  "I appreciate your hospitality,
demoiselle
.  In payment,
take a moment's respite while I visit with Lord Reynaurd.  I'll inform you when
I'm . . . finished."

The
deep timber of his voice, his nearness, his masterful virility, pulled the
strength from her knees.  Her shaky fingers brushed against his mail-clad arms
as she reached toward the wall for support.  Hot beneath cold.  Muscle beneath
metal.  Hatred beneath kindness.  She swallowed at the tight knot in her
throat.

"Sire,
I saw a glimmer in the woods and I wondered who---"

"'Tis
a glorious day, is it not, my lady.  But the magnificence pales in comparison
to your beauty.  Bless the sun with your presence and refresh your
weariness." 

The
ludicrous statement only heightened her suspicions.  "You'll find me
impervious to vain falsity and obvious distraction.  Tell me, Becket,
Le
Vengeur
.  What do you avenge?"

"Injustice." 

His
hand tightened on the hilt, drawing her attention to the ornate chasing
revealed beyond his grip.  Something familiar about the pattern . . . wings . .
. no, too much remained hidden, like the man himself.  She lifted her gaze and
saw that he looked beyond her toward her father, and again the hatred, the
sense of danger.

"Tell me,
Le Vengeur
. 
What brought you here this
day?  A lame horse?  Or, injustice?"

The
question seemed to stir him to action, for he grasped her arm and urged her
toward the door. 

 "'Twould
be best if you left the chamber, Lady Rochelle."

She
twisted from his hold and stepped back, as unnerved by the peculiar heat that
streamed from his touch as by his sudden urgency for her to abandon her
father.  "Why your eagerness for me to leave, knight?"

"I
would spare you the ugliness of death."

Rochelle
scoffed.  "The plague half a decade past showed me how vile life's end.  I
remain here."

"Your
presence will not stay the reaper's claim."

"
Non
,
but perhaps 'twill delay him."  
She must delay him.

"Impossible." 
Becket dipped his head in a slight bow, then strode with controlled grace
across the rush-strewn floor to her father.  His sword clanked at his side as
if impatient to taste blood.

The
sight jolted her to defensive action.  "
Mon père
, this man is not
as he seems---"

"Rochelle,
leave us."  Her father gestured with impatience toward the door.

"But,
mon père
, I
sense
danger. 
Sire
Gaston might have sent him to--"

“Cease!” 
Becket spun to face her, fury like a barely hidden flame within his eyes. 
"If you love him, you will honor his wishes and give us privacy."

Stunned
by the stranger's audacity as well as his words, Rochelle slid a glance to her
father, wondering if the odd tangle of emotions she felt for him could be
called love.  And yet, despite his coldness toward her, something unnamable
buried beneath her scars longed for his acceptance, for his affection.

 Did
he feel any guilt that he had never protested her harsh treatment from Marcel? 
Did her father remember how she had knelt before him, her face bruised and
swollen, pleading for him to interfere, to protect her?  He had merely echoed
Marcel's accusations and had belittled her lack of femininity, berating her to
be more like her companion, Angelique.  He had demanded she accept her woman's
lot without complaint and to try harder to please Marcel, to stroke her husband
and to kiss him wherever he willed until his passion overcame his distaste for
her.   She had wondered why her father had sided with Marcel and Gaston instead
of with her.  And now he revealed a secret pact.  The particulars of which she
still had yet to discover.  She returned her attention to Becket.

"I
give you privacy, but I refuse to leave this chamber."

"Then
you must live with the painful memories."  He moved away from her and
halted beside the emerald-draped bed, his robust strength in contrast to her
father's frailty like a magnificent falcon beside a sick sparrow.

A
dying sparrow.

Uncertain
what Becket meant by “living with the painful memories”, she strolled to the
hooded hearth and held her chilled hands toward the heat.  The shifting coals
reminded her of her future: hellish and unstable.