Love Thine Enemy (41 page)

"As you can see, Rochelle, he promises me Becket’s
death.  But Jean takes the lands.  Since you are my daughter, he gives me
permission to do with you as I will, as long as you leave."

She flung the note at Gaston.  "I am a loyal
French citizen!  This is my home.  Where would he have me go?"

"In truth, he cares not.  He just wants the
land."

"Twice betrayed."  The truth burned like a
hot brand within her chest.  Becket had predicted just such a breach of faith
by the king she had chosen over her husband.  The arguments, the hatred, the
tearing apart of their marriage, the destruction of their love, over a king not
worthy of her loyalty.  What a fool she had been.  She glared at Gaston. 
"If what you say is true, then you do not possess DuBois after all."

"Ah, but I do.  I have rejected Jean as king and
will do all within my power to make certain he is defeated.  I turned my
loyalties to Charles of Navarre, but instead of promises, he merely listens
like a serpent who feels the vibrations of the ground to determine when to
strike.  ‘Tis well and good, for now I am in position to win more than with
either Jean or Charles."

Taking the missive from her hands, he placed a
parchment on the held out surface. 

The wind ruffled the edges and chilled her spirit.

"I composed a letter to Prince Edward, verifying
my possession of Moreau and DuBois.  My lands now lie both behind him and
before him.  His victory is within my hands, or will be when he gives me my
only request.  Becket’s head."

She swallowed a gasp, but Gaston concentrated too much
on the scroll to notice. 

"His surrender of Becket to me is a simple
sacrifice on Edward’s part, with supreme rewards--the French crown.  In
exchange, I swear not to conspire with Charles of Navarre to attack from either
Edward’s fore or aft, assuring the prince a better chance of victory.  And I
overheard the prince say as they rode out that they will tarry in a spot, one league
up from Toulouse, to make certain all is safe before crossing the Garonne and
Ariège rivers, which means, daughter, Becket is soon mine."

 "You delude yourself.  King Edward would never
agree to such a demand."

"He will if the sacrifice of Becket’s head allows
Edward to adorn his own with a crown.  Especially when that man is shackled to
a traitorous wife."

Again the accusation she was to blame for other’s
treachery.  She fisted her hands, wishing them around Gaston’s throat.

 "Cease that haughtiness, Rochelle.  All know you
want Becket dead."  Gaston dipped the quill in the ink and held the
feather out to her, the tendrils fluttering in the breeze as if in mockery. 
"The letter promises that if the prince gives us Becket, you and I will
both vow our support to England’s cause.  We swear not to attack Edward.  And
in your lust for Becket’s death, you promise to relinquish all plots for
insurrection.  Now, sign."

"I refuse.  You cannot force me."

"Oh, but I can.  And with such ease, ’tis almost
boredom."  He gestured to the shadow behind him.  "
Père
Bertrand, show her your prize."

The priest stepped out, his hand clamped over Pierre’s
mouth. 

Rochelle lunged to rescue him, but Gaston swung the
flat side of his sword against her stomach as a barrier.  The fear in Pierre’s
dark eyes tore at her guilt.  The demented anticipation in
Père
Bertrand’s gaze slid over her like a frigid glacier.  Cruel clarity of why the
priest fought for Pierre turned her stomach. 

Gaston brushed back a lock of Pierre’s hair.  "Bertrand
has begged me for possession of the boy with so many mewling pleas ‘tis
nauseating.  In truth, he sounds like that accursed cat we just threw down the
side of the hill."

Pierre moaned a distraught sob, tears rolling down his
precious, far too-pale face, and she prayed for God to spare them all, even
Sire Spitz.

"Damn you, Gaston.  Using a young boy as a pawn,
harming his pet he loves with all his heart.  Damn you."

"Then hear this and be further enraged." 
Gaston let Pierre’s lock fall back into place and met her gaze.  "I have
told Bertrand he can have Pierre when Becket is dead." 

"Damn you to hell."  Bile stung her throat.

"By the by,
Père
Bertrand is the one who
poisoned Reynaurd.  ‘Twas Reynaurd’s punishment for not giving me DuBois, as
arranged."

The priest’s face flushed red, the opposite of Pierre’s
frightened paleness.  "At your instructions!  Why do you confess that
which is best kept secret?"

"Dallying with my power gives me pleasure." 
Gaston smirked, stroking his finger along the feather.  "Bertrand also
released me from the dungeon.  No one suspected.  His robes swish like a
woman’s skirts.  In truth, he has the appetites of a woman."  Gaston’s
smirk crooked into a leer.  "Especially for Pierre."

"Tell him to leave the boy be."

"Only if you sign."

A roar erupted from
Père
Bertrand.  "You
promised me!"

Gaston rolled his eyes in false distress.  "Oh,
whom shall I choose to possess Pierre?  Rochelle?  Or, Bertrand?"

Pierre’s whimper fueled Rochelle’s urgency.  "What
is my guarantee you will not allow him to have the boy?"

"None.  Only hope.  That damnable insanity that
dangles in front of our souls just out of reach.  But you know the consequences
if you do not sign."

Père
Bertrand stamped a foot. 
"Pierre is mine!"

Gaston’s granite gaze sparked with malice.  "The
control I have over you fools is like an aphrodisiac.  I use your weaknesses. 
I tempt you with hope, but promise naught.  Even more gratifying is when, like
now, I pit one hope against another." 

He shrugged at the priest.  "You failed in killing
Becket so you have not earned Pierre.  However, if the sand runs out before
Rochelle cooperates, then he’s yours."

Rochelle’s attention flew to the hourglass.  The first
time, her forced signature gained Becket’s hand.  Now, his head.  Her emotions
splintered into shards of panic.  She could never betray Becket.  Would not. 
Would die first.  But Pierre...

The sand sifted too fast!  Perspiration beaded on her
brow.  What if she signed now, hoping Prince Edward would refuse Gaston’s
offer?  But what if the prince agreed?

"Lured by dangling hopes, Rochelle?"  Gaston
laughed.  "If you gamble by sparing Pierre now, might Becket, somehow,
still survive?"  He swayed the quill in front of her eyes.  "Dangle,
dangle."

Damn him
. 

What to do?  Only a few grains remained.  Then fewer. 
Then...

None.

Gaston flicked his hand at
Père
Bertrand. 
"He’s yours."

Pierre cried out.

"
Non!
  I’ll do what you ask."

Gaston smiled.  "I knew you would.  The brilliance
of this is that Becket and Prince Edward will never question your
collaboration."  He ran the plume along his cheek as if in thought, then
brightened with evil expectation.  "I’ve decided a more stimulating reward
for myself than simply receiving Becket’s head after the fact.  A compensation
more torturous for him, more titillating for me."  With an evil grin, he
placed the quill in her trembling fingers.  "Now, sign."

Horrified, Rochelle stared at the ruffling parchment. 
She better understood Becket’s dilemma of being trapped in a hellish situation
with no escape.  Whichever choice she made--eternal damnation. 

"She’s delaying, Gaston!  The hourglass has
emptied.  I claim Pierre."

Gaston sighed.  "Then take him.  Use him to your
obscene delight."

"
Non!"
  Rochelle stabbed the quill
into the ink.  "I’ll sign." 

C
hapter
T
hirty-Three

"
H
eresy.  Did you hear me,
Becket?  I charge you with heresy."

"How unimaginative, Gaston."  Becket faked a
yawn, refusing to cover his mouth with his chained hands. 

"I promise to improve."  Gaston gestured to
indicate the tight grouping at the DuBois head table.  "Look at us,
Becket.  We are almost the image of a family portrait, are we not?"

Becket scanned the grim scene.  Rochelle stood stiffly
beside the seated Gaston, signifying her allegiance, (
damn her deceitful
soul
).  Pierre sat firmly on Gaston’s lap looking frightened and wan. 
Père
Bertrand hovered behind Gaston’s shoulder on the other side, like the specter
of death. 

"’Tis a portrait of evil, except for Pierre, the
innocent in all of this."  Becket studied his half-brother who appeared
terrified, as well he should.  "Sprite, has anyone harmed you?  Where is
Sire Spitz?" 

A tear rolled down Pierre’s pale cheek, but he made no
move to respond. 

"Forgive me, Pierre, for not protecting you. 
I..."  A howl of anguish tore through his soul.  Becket swallowed bile
along with his threatening tears, clenching his chained fists to regain his
dissipating control. 

"Admire the irony, Becket."  Gaston tapped
Rochelle’s wrist with a key that hung from an ornamental chain around his neck;
her clasped hands jerked.  "Your bride betrayed you because you are an
English traitor, yet she conspired with the English for her revenge." 
Then he laughed as if enjoying himself.

"Betrayal for betrayal, Rochelle?"  Becket
forced himself to stare at the woman who held him prisoner in a way Gaston
never could.  "You should have trusted me enough to realize I would never
have relinquished you to Prince Edward but would have willingly given my life
in exchange for yours.  However, you should be pleased to know that your
signature, now emblazoned upon my heart, coupled with your sacrifice of Pierre,
ensures my hard-won hatred for you will exist long after my torturous
death." 

Becket’s ground out accusation tasted bitter on his
tongue.  He didn’t even bother shifting his stance to ease the manacles that
had rubbed his wrists and ankles to rawness.

"My dear wife, you’ve turned as pale as your
hair.  In truth, you appear bloodless.  How apropos.  I once called you my
precious gyrfalcon, but like Gaston, France and England, you are merely another
vulture greedy for my corpse." 

Fighting the urge to raise his chained fists in
defiance and shout at her, he, instead, bowed.  "Pardon my show of emotion
which neither of us desire.  Grief for what we have lost, for the atrocities we
all face because of your vengeance, tears me asunder, releasing a rage I had
sworn to mask."

She paled even more.  Her mouth formed a tight line. 
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. 

He wanted her to lash out, to spew her venom, but her
silence screamed louder than his accusations, increasing his self-anger that he
had believed she loved him.

"The idiocy in all of this, Rochelle, is that you
plot to have
me
butchered, but in reality, you have thrown you and
Pierre on the sacrificial altar.  Gaston will carve and consume both of you
like fatted calves."

"
Non
!"  The priest appeared shocked,
clutching Pierre’s arm as if he claimed ownership. 

"How could you, Rochelle?"  Fury shuddered
from the depth of Becket’s bones.  "How could you hate me so much that you
bargained with these pederasts for Pierre?  Because he is
my
brother,
not yours?  You’ve doomed him."  Against his will, he raised his bound
fists at her in contempt.  "Curse you to hell!"

She merely stood there, trembling, her laced fingers
bluish as if she gripped them too tightly. 

Unable to bear the pain, he slid his attention to
Père
Bertrand, wondering about his role in the gruesome portrait.  And then Becket
realized the answer to the riddle that had plagued him since boyhood.  He shook
his head at his own idiocy.

"I should have guessed from the beginning,
Gaston.  The mysterious participant in the unholy trinity. 
Père
Bertrand."

Gaston laughed.  "That imbecile?  He isn’t capable
of such demonic intricacy."

"Imbecile?" 
Père
Bertrand puffed out
his chest as if with rage.

Ignoring the priest, Gaston gestured to someone behind
Becket.  "Come hither." 

Rochelle focused past Becket, her eyes rounding as if
with shock.

Curious, Becket glanced toward the movement at his
side, then froze, horrified.  "Mother?"

"The third conspirator."  Gaston chuckled,
obviously enjoying his machinations.

Becket stared at her in disbelief, but she kept her
attention on Gaston, her posture straight, her chin high, still a comely woman
despite her fifty and five years.

"She even falsely testified at the Inquisition
against your supposed father."

"You lie!"  Becket confronted Gaston. 
"I witnessed her abhorrence when he was tied to the stake."

"Because she had learned that all her
manipulations had brought her naught."

Becket jerked his attention to his mother.  "I
once asked you if you had become the victim of your own schemes.  Explain. 
What purpose with your murderous plot for Alberre?"

"Gaston and I had an agreement."  Her dark
gaze darted to Becket, then to Gaston, giving Becket her profile so like his
own--wide brow, Roman nose, stubborn chin.  "He betrayed me."

"I betrayed
you?"
  Gaston slammed a
goblet on the table, wine sloshing onto the white cloth in blood-like puddles. 
"You believed I would wed you after you played the whore with
Reynaurd?"

"Whore?"  His mother’s defiant tilt of her
chin reminded Becket too much of Rochelle.  "When a man sows his seed
indiscriminately, he boasts of his accomplishments.  When a woman does so to
survive, she is considered a harlot."  She beat upon her breasts with her
fists.  "See these?  Reynaurd’s playthings, as was the well between my
limbs--parts of my body his amusement!  I suffered the indignity to have a
child that should have been yours."

Nausea cramped Becket’s stomach at her sickening
admission.

"You should have waited!"  Gaston shoved to
his feet, stuffing Pierre on the chair seat and storming around the end of the
table. 

Becket grasped his mother’s shoulders fighting the urge
to crush them within his grip.  "You schemed to have Gaston’s child? 
Why?"

"I've already told you.  Alberre’s seed was
barren."  She hissingly whispered the root of his bastardy."  She
shrugged from his hold, then rubbed at her shoulders as if he had hurt her. 
"Besides, Alberre was physically flawed; he bore the Devil’s Brand."

"You considered that wonderful man, Sire Alberre,
imperfect? You, a schemer, a murderess, a soul-less spirit?"

"Hypocrite!  You gave your soul to regain DuBois,
as did I.  As did your deceitful bride.  I tried to warn you about her."

He shoved aside the pain her truth caused, remaining on
the offense.  "And in your insanity, you consider Gaston perfect?"

"He has strength!"

"He is depraved!  The only blessing in all of this
is that you failed.  Any child sired by Gaston could be naught but
wicked."

He glanced at Rochelle and saw the pain his comment had
caused her.  Instead of elation, he felt guilt.  Damn him for a fool.

Gaston jerked Becket’s mother around to face him. 
"When I stayed away from you I but tested you."

"You excuse your cowardice."

"Cowardice?"

"You ran from the very quality you admired and
feared at the same time--my strength.  You truly cared for me and knew not how
to handle the emotion.  You considered your attraction a weakness and were
apprehensive I might use that weakness to manipulate you." 

Becket’s breath hitched.  Memories of similar arguments
between him and Rochelle haunted like cruel nightmares.  Griselda prediction
rang in mockery: 
"Your marriage is doomed!"
  Well, so be it. 
He must formulate a plan to survive.  He must widen the wedge between his
mother and Gaston and encourage her to fight for her son.  Heightening his
senses for any means to turn the situation into his favor, he turned his
attention to the ongoing verbal battle that trembled with each of their
long-held rage toward the other. 

Bright spots flushed his mother’s cheeks.  "You
kept stringing me along with hope.  Time sucked at my years.  I needed a child
before I grew too old."  She reached out to Gaston as if to beg
forgiveness.  "When you didn’t return--"

"Do you not yet understand?  You were too
strong-spirited."  Gaston brushed her hand away.  "I had to break you
so that I had total control over you."

"Control!"  His mother’s shout of disgust
echoed in the rafters.  "Damn your accursed need to dominate others.  You
but punish the world for the helplessness you felt as a child when your father
mistreated you.  To bend you to his will, he lured you with mirage-like
promises, drawing you further into his perverted realm.  Now you use his
tactics, except with more evil."

"His defilement affected me but little in
comparison to when I returned to DuBois and you had given birth to a son,
Becket, the catalyst to all the hell."

"You left for years after that, returning with
Lady Giselle as your wife.  I hated you for that more permanent betrayal.  And
then I learned you committed adultery with Lady
Beatrice;
both
her
and
your
wife carried your seed at
the
same
time!
"

"Tsk, tsk, Isabelle.  If you remember, Beatrice
begged me to bed her after she discovered that your, then eight year-old son,
Becket, was sired by her husband, Reynaurd and you were still spreading your
legs for him.  ‘Twas her uninspiring form of revenge."

"
You
told her."

Gaston sneered.  "My first act to begin the
downward spiral to the final judgment."  He paced to the hearth, then
faced Becket’s mother, toying with the key.  Perhaps to Becket’s chains?  But
at least Becket now knew why Lady Beatrice had turned to Gaston instead of
Alberre.  How depraved and sick they all were.  Only Alberre stood pure.  Only
Alberre died.  Where was God then? 
Non-existent.

"After I discovered your treachery, Isabelle, I
plotted how to crush your rebellious spirit beyond redemption.  I manipulated
and schemed for eight years creating the perfect punishment with the greatest
torment for you I could imagine.  I would build your expectations to a frenetic
climax, then would rip all from you--your husband, your lands, your position,
your son."  He pressed his fist against his chest.  "And me."

"And yet here we are once more, celibate
soul-mates."

"Here
you
are, standing there at my
bidding, swallowing your indignation over the galling fact that, at last, I now
rule you completely. I have waited three decades to smash your spirit and make
it mine.  And I do so with the same bait.  DuBois, and me."   He laughed. 
"’Tis most appropriate.  Your testimony in the heresy trial will destroy
the life you lost all to create-- Becket’s."

Becket could hold silent no longer.  "
Ma mère
,
think of the insanity in choosing Gaston over your own son.  You are past
child-bearing age, therefore he will never wed you.  And he already has a
daughter, one who shares his evil."

She flipped her hand in dismissal.  "Rochelle is
but his dupe and is of no concern to me.  He cannot choose to give her DuBois
because she is a bastard, sired by Gaston, birthed by Lady Beatrice.  In truth,
she has already served her purpose by giving him your life.  I doubt she’ll
survive the night."

The prediction froze Becket’s lungs, and he cursed
himself for his reaction.

"You err about Rochelle being a bastard, my
pet."  Gaston tapped the key against Becket’s mother’s nose.  "Lady Beatrice’s
and my babe didn’t survive birth.  In my genius, I snatched Rochelle as soon as
Giselle spilled her from her womb, placing her in the stillborn child’s cradle
as my future tool for whichever direction needed following--bride,
daughter-in-law, daughter."  He winked at Rochelle, then turned and moved
toward the hearth. 

To Becket’s disgust, Rochelle didn’t even wince, as if
she had turned to stone.  But then, she had hidden a stone-like heart all
along.  Tending to his own survival, he forced his attention to his mother.

"Do you not yet see,
ma mère
?  Gaston still
betrays you, and always will.  He cannot give DuBois to both you and Rochelle. 
And in truth, neither of you will have the glory."

"Ah, but you
might
gain the honor,
Isabelle."  Gaston leaned toward her, brushing his mouth over hers, and
Becket thought he would vomit.  "You read me well, my pet.  No other woman
has fascinated me as has you.  As to Rochelle, I must die before she
inherits."  Gaston swung the key from the chain as if he promised a
prize.  "And who knows the obscenities to which she might acquiesce, to
win the dangled reward?"