Love Thine Enemy (34 page)

C
hapter
T
wenty-Four

"
Y
ou’re Sire Becket!  You’re
Sire Becket!"  Pierre yanked off his blindfold created from Rochelle’s new
gentian-blue wimple, then jumped up and down when he saw he had guessed
correctly.

Lady Rochelle applauded Pierre’s genius from where she
sat on the stone bench in the walled garden, a sleeping Sire Spitz curled
beside her.  Pierre looked so elegant that her chest ached.  Despite the usual
attire for a lad of five, Becket had presented him with a fitted jacket and
hose much the same cut as his own, except in the shade of moss instead of
flame.  He even wore
poulaines
with pointed toes, the leather a softer
black than the gleam of his and Becket’s hair.  She sighed to relieve the
joyous pressure.  Never had she imagined such happiness as she had experienced
these last several weeks.  Sighing again with pleasure, she stroked Sire
Spitz’s soft, black fur, wishing she, instead, stroked her amorous husband.

Becket’s laughter broke into her reverie, warming her
spirits like summer sunshine.  He knelt beside Pierre and ruffled his hair. 
"Tell, sprite.  How did you know ‘twas me?"

"You have the strongest legs of any."

Becket laughed again, obviously pleased, then sat on
the lawn, pulling Pierre onto his lap.

Henri snorted.  "I take umbrage at that flawed
observation, Pierre."  He strolled to where Becket and Pierre lounged
beside the fountain, performing a slow turn, showing his hose-covered legs
displayed beneath his buttercup brocade pourpoint.  "Strength, to a
fault.  Sleek as an animal’s."

"But Sire Becket has bigger bulges."

Henri tweaked Pierre’s nose.  "You are not an
authority on bulges, sprite.  We shall have to ask Lady Angelique and Lady
Rochelle which of us men has the biggest."

"Henri!"  Rochelle clamped her hands over her
mouth, cheeks hot. 

Angelique’s laughter tinkled over the garden as she
strolled to Henri’s side, the lilac against yellow as handsome a compliment as
Angelique with Henri.

"Before I decide the largest, my bragging knight,
methinks I need another inspection."

"That you shall have, my lady.  At your leisure. 
First, however, I will have a retraction from Pierre."

Pierre scampered from Becket’s lap and danced at the
edge of the fountain as if in a dare.  "Sire Becket’s bulges are bigger
because he works harder."

"Ah, the wisdom of innocence."  Becket
released a throaty chuckle and pushed to his feet as he brushed grass from his
backside.  "And the harder I work, the harder I grow."

"You men cease that banter before Pierre’s
innocence becomes any wiser."  Grinning from pure pleasure, Rochelle
sniffed at the rose Becket had cut for her before they had begun their game of
Blind Man’s Buff.  She admired the flame-red petals the same hue as Becket’s
embroidered pourpoint, the flower’s heady aroma almost as sensual as his scent
of cedar.  In fact, to Rochelle’s eye, they all glowed like human flowers among
the garden blossoms and herbs that perfumed the air.  What a change from the
drabness of her former existence.

"Works harder.  Works harder."  Pierre’s
sing-song rang over the walled garden like a lyrical melody.

"You insolent pup!"  Henri swiped Pierre from
the ground and plopped him into the water, tickling him without mercy. 
"Traversing tunnels and de-fleecing smelly sheep are not work, they’re
insanity."

Rochelle started to protest the dousing of Pierre’s
first grand outfit, but his musical laughter pealed as he thrashed in the water
from Henri’s playful attention, and she relaxed.  All would eventually dry. 
The rarity of new clothes held less importance than even-rarer merriment.

Becket plucked her drenched wimple from the flailing
hand of the now-sodden Pierre.  "Henri, you’re merely resentful because I
won the shearing contest a sennight past.  If you doubt the extent of my
exertion, ask Lady Rochelle.  She will testify I have labored diligently--ever
at my
up
-most."  Becket flashed her a rakish grin, then stilled as
if his breath hitched at the sight of her. 

Rochelle warmed in a slow burn, eager for the intimacy
of the night.  Deciding to make Becket as eager for the sunset as she, she
waggled her foot at him.

His eyes heated.  "An offer I cannot
refuse." 

Becket’s scorching gaze seared her soul, melting the
world around him into a blurred green and gold background for his flame-red
magnificence.  Flung water-droplets glistened in the September sun, sparkling
like strewn rainbow-colored diamonds behind his muscular frame.  Dear heaven,
how she loved the man.  She needed two of her to hold all the passion that
swelled within her breast.

As if daring her to look away, Becket shook moisture
out of the makeshift blindfold.  "’Tis my opportunity to seek prey.  But I
warn whomever I snare, I am most thorough in my endeavors of
identification."

A shiver of anticipation tingled along her flesh.

As Becket tied the cloth over his eyes, Pierre
scrambled out of the fountain, as dripping wet as a drenched puppy. 

"
Wait
,
Sire Becket. 
I’ll turn you round and round ‘til you’re
confused."

"Spin me all you like, sprite, but confusion will
never again bedevil me.  I know my direction like a flame drawn to the fluttery
softness of a moth."  Becket turned at Pierre’s urging, but Rochelle
noticed that every time he revolved he touched his toe to the wall of the
fountain as if to keep his bearings.

Feeling capricious, Rochelle pushed to her feet,
wondering which way to tip-toe so as to elude him, at least momentarily, for
she ached for him to catch her.

The gate slammed against the wall.

Banulf burst into the garden, his expression dire. 
‘Sire Becket, a messenger asks for you."

Becket froze, hands outstretched, and the day dimmed as
surely as if a storm cloud covered the sun.  In apparent dread, he removed the
blindfold, then fused his dark gaze with Rochelle’s.  The sadness, pain and
guilt in his eyes nearly overwhelmed her.  He opened his mouth as if to say
something, then he turned and strode to the gate, Henri behind him.

"What happened, Rochelle?"  Pierre scurried
to where she stood beside the bench.

"A visitor,
mon
chou
."
 

Rochelle shuddered.  Both Becket and Henri obviously
believed the news ill-tidings.  Had that odious King Edward refused to renew
the truce? 

She grasped Pierre’s small hand.  "In truth, the
interruption is timely, love.  You need dry garments, and we must tend to your
shoes before the leather stiffens."

"Not yet,
s’il
vous
plait.
 
My stomach is growling.  Since my nap under the grape arbor and then all the
games, I’m hungry again."

"Well...‘tis a warm day.  Place your
poulaines
in the sun and go barefoot, but take care you don’t step on a bumblebee." 
Rochelle accompanied him to the white-clothed table set in the shade of the
apple tree.  While Pierre stuffed on cheese, apples and nuts, she poured him a
tankard of fresh cool milk, then one for herself.  Lonely for Becket, she
glanced his direction.

Brooding and somber, he stood with Henri just beyond
the gate, the image feeling symbolic that he had been pulled beyond the
boundaries of her life.  How dare fate intrude upon their new-found happiness.
She knew Becket still worried that he hadn’t found his mother.  And Rochelle
ached that Griselda had never again appeared.  The first shock of Griselda’s
news had passed, and now Rochelle longed to hold her mother in her arms and
give her thanks.  Other than those concerns, Becket’s and her world had cuddled
them like special lovers.

The messenger appeared exhausted as if in need of
refreshment.  Feeling remiss, Rochelle carried the tankard toward their guest
to offer him libation. 

She heard the mention of
Guyenne
. 
Her stomach tightened, stilling her feet.  The English controlled
Guyenne
. 
Did King Jean order Becket into English territory?

Becket focused on her wimple that he caressed between
his fingers.  "You’ve caught me unprepared, Sir Robert.  The last
messenger indicated a meeting in October."

"The king is anxious to proceed, Sire Becket.  He
and his company arrive any day.  He expects your information so that plans can
be completed for war."

Rochelle jolted.  War?  Then King Jean believed the
continued truce unlikely.  Terror for Becket, Pierre, and everything she loved
wrapped around her lungs and squeezed.  She willed strength into her shaky legs
and moved forward.

The messenger wiped his brow with the back of his hand,
streaking dirt across his face.  "By the by, Becket, the king is most
impressed.  He sends congratulations on your success in securing DuBois and
Moreau, and with such ease."

Rochelle halted.

Upon the king’s orders
. 
Becket’s declaration the day he had arrived sliced through her memories like
hot steel.  At the time, her survival had shoved all else from her concerns,
but now she wondered what DuBois and Moreau had to do with the protection of
France.

Henri uttered a tight laugh.  "
Au contraire
,
my good man.  Sire Becket secured DuBois at great cost.  He suffered weeks
before he relented and took the chatelaine to bed.  Ah, the sacrifices we
knights must make in the service of our country."

"Cease, Henri.  ‘Tis not a subject for jest."

Suffered?  Sacrifice?  Pain wrenched in her breast. 
Sire Becket had used her!  In the beginning, such a statement would not have
shocked her, but she believed he had changed.  Besides, she loved him.  Surely
he loved her in return. 

Love, an emotion for fools.  A tool for manipulation.

Then truth stabbed a killing blow. 

His secret--his affection, a lie, for the service of
his country.

Tears burned her eyes as she stood trapped between hell
and the Netherworld, unable to move forward or backward, desolation await at
either end.  Afraid to move lest he hear her and be forewarned, she remained as
one of the living dead, numbness and agony battling for control of her body,
her mind struggling for a means of undiscovered escape, now, and forever.

"When King Edward. . . " Becket glanced over
his shoulder as if to check for privacy, then turned ashen as the blood drained
from his face.  His ebony eyes seethed with hurt.  Mistrust.  Anger.  Emotions
that surely mirrored hers.

"You spy on me, Lady Rochelle?"

She lifted her chin, hating the wet drops of emotion
that seeped from her eyes, revealing her wretchedness.  "Not so, my lord. 
I brought your visitor refreshment."  Shaking with rage, she dashed the
tankard to the ground, milk splashing on her hands and new gown like snowy
tears.  "That shattered clay is a symbol of my love for you.  May that
loathsome King Edward slay you in battle."  She turned from him and shoved
into a run.

Becket grasped her arm and spun her against his chest,
his alarm palpable   "What did you hear, Rochelle?"

"The secret you thought to hide from me.  The
betrayal." 

His expression blurred too much in her hot tears for
her to see his reaction, but he said naught for several painful thuds of her
heart.

"The moment I dreaded." His confession
whispered on a gust of wind.  "What am I to do with you?"

"Unhand me.  Then get out."  She jerked
against his hold.

"Loathsome?"  The messenger sounded shocked. 
"What does she--"

Becket slashed his hand for silence.  "Go with
Banulf."

"But--"

"Go!  I will do as commanded."

Rochelle twisted for freedom, her wrist stinging within
his grip.  "I release you from your suffering, Sirrah.  Leave and take
your knights with you, never to return.  King Jean will hear of my fury over
this treachery."

The messenger sputtered, startled, then Banulf took the
man’s arm and practically dragged him toward the bailey.

Like a yellow-bellied serpent, Henri slipped into the
garden, leaving her with the devil. 

"I wanted to tell you, Rochelle.  I feared you
would react thus, that you might seek to destroy our plans, that I might have
to detain you, that what we have shared wouldn’t be enough.  That you would
hate me."

"Oh, but you succeeded all too well, for you stole
my heart with your pretended affections.  And now I hate you."

"Pretended affections?  What do you mean?"

"Your secret is revealed, knight.  I heard you and
Henri discuss me as if I am a tiresome burden you must bear for the good of the
country.  Well, consider yourself liberated.  I will burden you no
longer."  She raised her chin, swiping at her face to keep the blasted
wetness from trickling down her neck.