Love Thine Enemy (48 page)

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
."

C
hapter
T
hirty-Nine

S
hock
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 divided 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!"

"Sire Gaston!"  The monk’s face reddened with
his shout.  "Release her and step back."

Gaston pushed her away like discarded refuse and
confronted the Council.  "That Alberre still lives affects not the
results.  He lost the land as much as any who do so in war, the spoils going to
the victor. I am the victor, not Alberre, not England, not France, and never
Becket."  Gaston gripped the hilt of his sword.  "And I will kill any
who claim otherwise, crown, or no, even if none of you leave here alive." 

Fear ripped through Becket.  As the Council shouted
their outrage at Gaston’s threat, Becket jerked at the chains that still
imprisoned his hands, mentally scrambling how to protect his people,
including--damn him for a fool--Rochelle.  Despite that she merely used him,
Becket knew he would defend her until his dying breath. 
He loved her
. 
Pain tore at his tattered excuse for a heart.

"Ah, Sire Gaston, a threat to the Inquisition." 
King Charles's danger-tinged-response jerked Becket’s attention from his chains
to the dais.  King Charles’ eyes had narrowed to fox-like slits.  He leaned
toward Gaston, splaying his bejeweled fingers on the bared table as if readying
to spring.

"Do you believe us weak?  Powerless?  Quivering to
the marrow of our bones because you dare the grievous error of threatening us? 
You say we are on your land surrounded by your soldiers, but my men will never
allow you to touch me."

"Most of your army is in the bailey unaware of
what transpires within.  The few who guard you in this chamber are no match for
mine."  Without loosening his grip on the hilt, Gaston shrugged.  "We
are both ambitious, King Charles, and will stop at naught to achieve our
purpose.  Now, reverse your decisions."

King Charles remained in battle stance, hand gripping
his own sword hilt, focus sliding from Gaston to the soldiers lining the walls.

The monk nervously tapped his steepled fingers against
his pursed mouth as if in desperate thought.  "If we do so, Sire Gaston,
then you will allow us to leave, unharmed?"

Becket’s stomach fisted.  The Council chose their own
lives over his and Rochelle’s, but how could he have anticipated otherwise?

"All can depart.  Except for my prisoners."  Gaston
nodded to indicate Rochelle and Becket. 

"Tempting, Sire Gaston.  Tempting."  The monk
clasped his hands, placing them with great care upon the table while he stared
at Gaston.  "Instead, we deal with the charge of heresy against you."

Disbelief streaked through Becket.  The Council dared
to try Gaston, even after his threat?  Or did they merely plot a farce for the
records?

"Surely you jest."  Gaston glanced around at
his soldiers before meeting the monk’s glare.  "Have you not paid heed to
your situation?  Anywise, should you be so foolish as to pursue your doom, none
will testify."

Griselda’s laughter sounded of released virulence. 
"I will attest.  I only wish I could swear more than once against your
sins."

Metal rasped as Gaston partially withdrew his sword. 
"Heed me, Council.  Despite what this witch who claims to be my wife says,
she has no proof of heresy.  Besides, you need two witnesses.  You cannot touch
me.  Reverse your decisions.  Now!" 

The monk appeared shaken.  "See here, Sire Gaston..."

As if sparked by desperate inspiration, Lady Isabelle
hastened to Becket’s side, her expression frantic, much like one who, despite
Gaston’s boast, feared they had sided with the defeated party.  He felt her
ragged breath against his cheek as she leaned close.

"I will testify as the second witness."

"Mère
?"  Doubting his
hearing, he grasped her shoulders and looked into her self-seeking face,
painfully realizing that both the imperfection of his birth and his
burn-scarred body made impossible her ever loving him.  "You would swear
against Gaston?"

"In exchange for absolution.  Name me as
chatelaine of DuBois, and I’ll..."  Her slate-colored eyes narrowed. 
"Protect you." 

Keep silent about his parentage
,
Becket reinterpreted.

"Consistent to a fault, my loving
mère
. 
With Gaston’s demise, you become the only survivor of the Unholy Trinity."

"You betray me again?"  Gaston yanked her
around to face him.  "I told you I would wed you this time-
-if
you
behaved."

"I reject your dangled hopes, Gaston.  Why would I
even consider coupling my fate with yours.  You failed."  She turned away
from the shocked Gaston like a dog disavowing its own excrement, clutching at
Becket’s still-chained hands so tightly that her nails dug into his flesh. 
"Do it!"

Becket noted with dread the narrowing of Gaston’s
pewter eyes and feared his mother had just sealed her destiny along with her
son’s.  Gaston merely stood there, fingering the hilt of his sword, watching,
listening, as if determining how brutal her penalty.

"Do it, Becket!"  Isabelle’s nails pierced
into his hands like dagger points.  “I am your mother!”

Wondering the futility of any action, and yet not
certain he could, in truth, contribute to his own mother’s death, he released a
heavy sigh along with the only solution he could fathom.  "Although I
should not bargain in your behalf, mayhap I can convince them to let you live
out your days in a convent as you had once suggested for Rochelle.  ‘Tis the
most I can offer."

"You ungrateful bastard."

"I give you a chance at life."

"With no identity?  If you rob me of mine, then I
rob you of yours."  Before he could think of what to say, other than plead
for her absolution, his mother stormed to in front of the Council. 
"Becket’s father is--"

"
Mère!
  Do not--"

"Halt!"  Rochelle seemed frantic as she
shoved past his mother.  "Noble sires, remove
Père
Bertrand’s
disqualification of me and I’ll serve as the second witness.  As I revealed
before, I saw Gaston declare himself as God and then order Becket to kneel
before him in worship." 

The monk nodded.  "I deem you eligible."

Gaston’s shouts of protest mingled with Lady Isabelle’s
as she grasped the edge of the table, pressing her nose toward the monk. 
"I am the one who should testify."

Rochelle jerked his mother aside.  "We all benefit
from my witness."

"
You
benefit.  You will say aught to rid
yourself of any who block your ambitions.  First, you’ll make certain Gaston
dies, then later, you’ll kill the rest of us, including Becket."

Gaston’s laughter rang with dangerous bitterness. 
"Vultures, Becket.  They fight for the honor to pick clean your
bones."

Becket winced at the cruel reality.

His mother jerked from Rochelle’s grip and glared at
the monk.  "Becket’s father is--"

"My father is Sire Alberre!"  Dragging the
damned neck chain behind him, Becket strode to stand beside the resurrected
miracle he once had believed long dead.  "My father is Sire Alberre."

"His mother frantically worried the buttons on her
bodice.  "I tell you the truth!  He is--"

"
I
tell the truth of Gaston’s
savagery."  Henri interrupted in timely fashion bringing a tight sigh from
Becket.  His long-time friend moved forward along with many of the refugees as
if, to Becket’s confusion, unafraid of Gaston’s guards.  "And any of his
freed prisoners who still have tongues are adamant about witnessing."