Love Thine Enemy (7 page)

"Even to the dungeon?"

Rochelle refused to react.  She walked beside him, as
stiff as her dead hopes.

"Even to the marriage bed?"

She didn't even pause at the head of the stairs but
took the first downward step into an unknown future.

Becket laughed.  "Ah.  Young love.  How
refreshing."  He placed her fingers on his arm, then held her hand tightly
against the rough mail.  His demeanor gave the appearance of a considerate
escort, not the devil on a forced march.  "And to think, bride.  That glow
of adoration in your eyes is for me, alone.  I'm almost giddy with your
exuberance."

She placed one foot in front of the other as they
entered the great hall.

The knights and servants in the vast room stood amidst
the smoky haze, their attention riveted on Becket and her as if they were
carved in stone, a bas-relief of curiosity.  Dare she call the knights to her
aid?  And what about Gaston’s knights?  Becket had no supporters within the
hall other than Henri.  If she but shouted for---

"I suggest you keep silent, Lady Rochelle, unless
you wish to witness the death of those you love.  Someone you trust watches for
my signal to attack."

 A traitor within her household?  She studied the
faces, both familiar and unknown, as she stepped up on the dais in front of the
long table set with the ever-present ewers of DuBois wine and available
goblets.

Becket tossed the bloodied linen upon the floor in
front of the platform, her supposed badge of surrender.

Humiliated, Rochelle held her breath, in wait for him
to lie about the consummation, but he said not a word.  Her knights glanced at
the false proof of the legalized vows as if confused by the gesture.

Becket held up his hand for attention.   "I inform
you of the death of Lord Reynaurd and the imprisonment of Gaston, the former
Sire de Moreau.  Lady Rochelle and I have pledged our troth, thus I, Sire
Becket de DuBois am now lord and rightful heir of both DuBois and Moreau.  I
call for the sworn fealty of any and all knights present . . ."

Rochelle listened to the deep reverberation of Becket's
voice within the walls---as if he belonged.  And now she understood Becket's
ploy.  He intended the knights to accept him as new lord because they believed
the marriage finalized.  What would happen if she shouted the truth?  Becket's
slaughter?

" . . . I force no knight to swear his fealty. 
Unlike other masters I have known, I do not insist you leap from the turrets to
your death if you resist.  You will find me a man of fairness, less brutal than
Gaston, more considerate than Reynaurd.  All I ask of you is loyalty.  You may
forswear your oath if I attempt your injury or death, if I steal your land,
rape your wife or daughter, force you into serfdom, or fail to defend you in
time of attack.  Now, all who will serve, come forward."

The bas-relief came to life, men mumbled among
themselves and drifted about with subdued motions. 

She searched the faces of her knights in hopes to
detect furtive glances or a hint of rebellion against Becket, the reach of a
hand for a sword, a defiant turn toward the entry---anything.

Her knight, Phillipe, glanced at Davide, then ambled
toward the dais, followed by others.  Her heart kicked into a more rapid
rhythm.  The knights intended to surround Becket and to take him by force!

Becket gestured to Jacques, her servant.  "Take
the horn out to the bailey, Jacques.  Ask Henri to blow the signal.  Someone
bring a small table and a copy of the Gospels."

Rochelle watched in disbelief as Jacques nodded and
shuffled toward the entry.  Jacques betrayed her?  No, he merely behaved as a
conquered servant must in order to survive.   Her knights would come to her
aid.  She attempted a swallow, but her throat felt as dry as the floor-rushes.

Becket placed the table beside him, then set the
Gospels on top.

Phillipe stepped forward.

Now
.
 
They would attack now,
their last chance.
  Rochelle tensed in preparation to duck a swung sword.

Phillipe knelt and placed his hands between Becket's! 
He pledged his loyalty!

Rochelle's heart shattered.  No!  Fight back!

"I become thy man of such a tenement to be holden
of thee . . ."

Becket.  The heir of DuBois. 

Her stomach knotted.  Her enemy expected her submission
to his promised torture, but she would defeat him.

After Phillipe rose and gave Becket the ceremonial kiss
on the cheek, Davide knelt and placed his hands between Becket's.  None of the
knights glanced her way but kept their eyes downcast or on their new lord. 
Would none come to her rescue?  Her pulse thundered into a panicked beat that
surely must vibrate the dais beneath Becket's feet and betray her lack of
courage.  Fear dampened her palms.

". . . to bear to thee faith of life and member
and earthly worship against all men who live and can die . . . "

Her knights, now his.  She fought alone. 

Hysteria twisted a tight band around her throat.  What
if she called for rebellion before any more pledged their fealty?  Might the
knights strike Becket down as he stood beside her in all his arrogance? 
Rochelle shook with the force of her rampant heart.  She inhaled a deep breath
to shout for Becket's arrest.

Becket snapped his gaze to hers, a silent warning.  The
shout froze in her throat.  She met his glare, daring him to stop her.  His
eyes narrowed, his will slamming her with his power.  Let him strike her in
front of his knights.  He most likely didn't even have a force outside.  She
lifted her chin in defiance and---

 A sudden movement at the entry caught her attention. 
Armed men adorned with jupons of red and gold flowed into the hall.  Her hopes
plummeted.

Becket studied her as if making an important decision,
then turned and nodded to his men who drifted to line the walls, surrounding
all within.

His army.

An army he wouldn't even use, he had captured DuBois
Estates with such ease.  Her father had handed the enemy the land and had
begged him to take her as his wife.  How Becket must laugh at her.  A
bottomless hatred flowed up from her breast like molten rock.  She clenched her
teeth to hold back her scream of rage and fear.  Perspiration trickled from her
temple and down her neck, soaking into her gown.  The trampled linen, now
ground into the dirty rushes beneath their feet, seemed as a symbol of how
Becket had crushed her beneath his dominance.

She had nothing.  She had lost all she loved and had
become chattel in the bargain.  He could abuse her to his warped delight and no
one would defend her.  Somehow, she must save herself and win back DuBois
without causing the death of innocents, of Pierre.  Her heart beat against her
ribs for escape.  Her mind screamed for her to run.  Even Becket believed her
trapped, but not so.

Rebellion in her breast, Rochelle lifted her chin at
the submissive knights and clenched her fists at her sides.  She would bide her
time, but she would fight Becket.  She would seek aid from her overlord, the
Count of Armagnac.  Or perhaps, King Jean might---

"And now you, Lady Rochelle."

Startled, she drew in a constricted breath and jerked
her gaze to Becket.  He watched her, brow raised, in wait for . . . for what?

"Kneel before me, Lady Rochelle.  Pledge your
loyalty as my vassal."

No!  She hated him!  She would be forced to surrender,
to give up her plans of revenge.  Her blood surged stronger, louder, and
threatened to burst through her flesh.

All movement in the hall ceased.

"Lady Rochelle.  Kneel.  Swear your fealty to me
with your hands between mine, then again with your hands upon the
Gospels."

Revulsion flooded her throat and tasted like bile. 
Stall.
 
Think of an excuse.

"First, have a sip of wine, Sire."  Rochelle
fought to control her tremble as she turned to the table at her back.  The
stream of purple liquid wavered into the chalice with the shake of her hand,
the fruity fragrance inappropriate with her desolation, her panic.  She faced
Becket and offered the wine.  The goblet trembled within her too-tight grasp. 

"In celebration, my lord." She dare not say
in celebration of his possible failure.  She held her breath.  No one moved. 
Not a sound broke the unnatural silence except for the double-beat slam of her
heart.

Becket stared, suspicious, hateful.  One corner of his
mouth lifted in a sneer.  "Do you think me without sense, Lady Rochelle? 
Do you think to poison me as you did your father?"

Her mouth dropped open.  "How dare you accuse me
of his murder.  How dare you refuse drink from my hand in front of
witnesses."

"I protect you lest I die a premature death. 
You'd be the primary suspect."

"You accuse me to hide your own guilt.  You had as
much opportunity with my father’s demise and more to gain.  How would I
benefit?"

"The final revenge against your
father."       

"You bastard!"

"Not bastard, Lady Rochelle.  The rightful heir. 
Now, place your hands between mine and kneel at my feet.  Swear your
loyalty."

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

"
N
on!"
 

Rochelle's cry resounded a repeated chorus of denials
from the unyielding stones of the hall, unyielding like the knight who demanded
her surrender, her soul.  She turned and fled, shoving past familiar faces
frozen in sympathetic shock, past strangers in blood-red jupons with golden
falcons emblazoned on their breasts.

A knight in red reached out to grasp her!

She ducked beneath his arm and bolted toward the
stairs.

"Leave her!" 

Becket's echoed command blended with her dying denials
until "leave" and "no" intertwined in fading argument.  His
footsteps crashed behind her.

Sacre Dieu!
 
Help her
!

She ran up the steps, past the landing to her father's
floor where he lay in his chamber, stiff and dead.  Her pulse thundered in her
ears.  Her lungs burned.

"Lady Rochelle!"

Dear God!  He clambered up the steps behind her!  What
would he do to her?  She stubbed her toe on a wedge of stone and fell against
the spiraled steps.  Her shin stung from the blow.

"Lady Rochelle!"  Becket's call blared more
near.

Like a hunted animal she pushed to her feet and
scrambled up the spiral to the third floor.  Her lungs ached, her sides
cramped, her breaths rasped her fear, her desperation.  She raced past her
chamber to the door at the end of the dark hall, then burst into the cold glare
of the April sun.

The parapet wall loomed between her and the Armagnac
valley.  Rochelle ran down the wall-walk to the niche in the corner. 
Her
niche in
her
corner.  She collapsed against the cold, hard stones, cold
and hard like her father, like her heart, like her future.  Like Becket.  She
pressed her face against the chilled surface as her lungs labored for air. 
Tears burned her eyes, then snaked trails down her cheeks to the neckline of
her gown.

Rochelle straightened and gripped the edge of the
wall.  She swept her blurred gaze over the land she loved, over the beauty that
spread before her like God's jewels.  The brilliant opal sky.  The lake of
liquid sapphire.  The emerald cedars.  The molten diamonds of the river that
cascaded from the Pyrenees to the amber valley, then on beyond the amethyst
ridges.

DuBois.

The sight swelled the pain from her chest into her
throat.  She drew the icy air into her lungs and welcomed the sting.  The
breeze chilled her tear-dampened face and lifted the edges of her wimple like
air under a dove's wings.  Would that she could soar into infinity.

"Lady Rochelle."  Becket said her name with
the same gentleness as the caress of the wind.

She swiped at her tears and straightened her spine.  A
boulder blocked her throat and prevented a response.

Becket stepped up to the wall, beside her.  "Lady
Rochelle, I . . .  " His breath hissed, then he stilled.

She dared a glance at his face.

He stared at the vista beyond the wall, rapture in his
eyes.  "I'd forgotten how magnificent.  In truth, I'd remembered the
beauty, how much I loved this land, but I'd forgotten how incredible the sight
from this vantage point.  I used to come here as a lad.  I had a stool upon
which I stood so that I could see over the wall into the valley. 
Sacre
Dieu.
  I had moments when I feared I'd never see this land again.  And now
. . ."

A shudder shivered his body and she knew his soul bore
the brand of DuBois as deeply as did her own.

He released a sigh and lowered his gaze to hers. 
"Is loyalty too much for a husband to ask of his wife?"

"I . . . I . . ."  She closed her eyes and
forced her mind into a coherent thought.  "'Tis all so overwhelming."

Unable to handle the warring emotion that threatened
whenever she looked at Becket, an emotion she could neither explain nor understand,
she focused on the Pyrenees that thrust snow-capped heads toward the opalescent
heavens.

"Ever since my father's injury during the hunt
this morn, I've felt as if torn asunder by vicious dogs that must first devour
me to get to the prize kill of DuBois.  I need time to . . . to reconcile my
fate."

"And time to plot how to oust me from
DuBois?"

She froze, then dared meet his gaze.  "I don't
deny the accusation."

He cocked a brow in apparent surprise.

"I tell you true, Sire, at this moment, even
though I know 'tis impossible, I'd give all for an annulment."

"'Tis possible."

Rochelle's hope soared like the bird she had hoped to
become such a short moment ago.  She studied his face, his posture, struck by
how much he blended with the jewels of DuBois---his eyes and hair of jet, his
armor of silver, his jupon of ruby and gold. 
As if he belonged.
  Her
hope faltered.

Becket clasped his hands behind him and widened his
stance, the confident warrior.  "Before I honor your request, I'd best
explain the direction the water flows, which, by the way, is always
downhill."

Not certain she could handle more ill tidings, Rochelle
held her breath, her hands fisted at her sides with nervous apprehension.  She
felt alone and unprotected as he towered over her, all muscle and armor.

"I came this day to take DuBois by battle or by
guile.  I had determined that before the sun sank below the Pyrenees, I'd slay
Reynaurd and reclaim what is mine.  Then I would plan how to take back
Moreau."

Fingernails of foreboding rasped along Rochelle's
nerves.  Her lungs constricted and refused to breathe.

"I never dreamt I'd be given DuBois by the devil's
own hands.  I never imagined I'd wed the enemy's daughter, but I saw an
opportunity to accomplish my goal without bloodshed, without the destruction of
DuBois.  And then to have Moreau become mine with such ease . . ."

She could only stare at him, in wait for what she felt
most certain she didn't wish to hear. 

Becket tilted his head downward and returned her
studied examination as if he watched to see her reaction to his next
revelation.

"I will honor your request about an annulment,
Lady Rochelle, in fact I insist.  But I warn you.  I refuse to relinquish
DuBois."

Dread oozed over her raised flesh.  What did he mean by
such opposites?  Becket's gaze drifted out over the valley and she could sense
his unease, yet why, she couldn't imagine; he had risen from pauper to lord
within mere moments.

A breeze ruffled the black curls of his hair, swirled
the hem of his blood-red jupon.  "All this day while the land sifted into
my hands like manna from heaven, I have been tortured with my oath to Reynaurd,
the man who slew my father.  Do I honor the vows, or do I not?  Do I bed his
daughter?  Do I send her away?"

A cry rent from her heart.  "Send me away?  You
make no sense!  You insisted upon the vows.  You flirted, you teased, you almost
. . . almost . . . "   Remembrance aroused her fury.  "If you never
meant to retain me as wife, then what purpose did you intend with that rude
inspection in my father's chamber as if I was but livestock, and then later
with that threatening scene on my bed where you pretended to take me by force,
only to turn away in revulsion?  To portray me as a fool?  Did you believe that
to steal my land wasn't enough, you felt urged to humiliate me as much as
possible?”

She saw him wince, but he stared beyond the stone walls
as if unwilling to face her with his perfidy.  "At first I had decided to
do aught in order to take what belongs to me.  And then in your chamber, I
realized that once I thrust into you, I accomplished more than the mere joining
of our bodies.  I would thrust into a permanent bond with all I hate.  Your
obvious dislike for me, for any man---or, so you claim---solved my
dilemma."

An uncontrollable shiver radiated from the center of
her bones and all through her body.  "Now I understand why your display of
humor as my father lay dying; 'twas the overflow of your uproarious laughter
you kept hidden lest we discover your treachery before you accomplished the
theft."

His chest rose with a deep sigh, then he turned his
gaze to hers.  The unbendable determination she saw in his eyes intensified her
shiver. 

"Lady Rochelle, I understand your hurt, but I
doubt another man would have been as generous as I.  You are still alive and
unravished."

"How magnanimous.  You merely think to shove me
into oblivion while you take all.  I remind you, Sire.  You made an unbreakable
knight's bargain with my father.  You signed the papers.  The deed is
official."

"
Cherie
, your desires spin so quickly from
one opposite to another I grow dizzy.  You are the one who wanted an annulment,
n'est-ce pas
?  You hated the thought of my bedding you so much that you
said you would give all to be rid of me.  How like a female; I accept your
request and now you protest."

And how like a male to throw her words back at her for
his own argument.  Rochelle turned her back to the valley and lifted her sight
to the peaks of the Pyrenees that rose from behind the square towers and round
turrets like lofty extensions of the castle. 

"Sire Becket, see how the mountains reign like
royalty, crowned with snow, robed in purple shadows trimmed with ermine clouds,
unaffected by human tragedy, there long before us, long after us.  And yet like
DuBois, I am dependent upon their existence, for I couldn't bear not to be
blessed by the sight of them, not to stand upon a windswept cleft and heal my
bruised spirits."  With her pulse as loud as a death-knell, she turned and
threw him a pleading gaze.

"Sire, I am as in need of the DuBois air as the
fish in the river is of water.  DuBois wine flows in my veins.  My soul is of
the fertile earth, with roots that reach deep into the soil.  Uprooted, I will
surely die."

"Ah, so 'tis not the loss of my charms that brings
such distress to your eyes the hue of blue gentian flowers.  Honesty is a sharp
weapon."  He shook his head.  "And yet you know me not.  What if I
decided to beat you, to torture you for your father's sins?  Would you still
wish to remain?"

Her mind screamed in silent panic.  "I . . . I . .
. please don't, Sire, I---"

"Or will you suffer that which you fear most in
the world, the sharing of our bodies?  However, to reveal a secret, I think
your virginal protests hide a temptation to taste the fruit forbidden."

Pride leapt to her defense.  "
Non
! 
But---"

Becket laughed as he shook his head.  "You don't
pant with eagerness to share my bed, Lady Rochelle?  You've stabbed my
self-esteem a most brutal blow.  So, you don't wish me to beat you, or bed
you.  Out of curiosity, what do you propose?"

What indeed?  Her thoughts tumbled along a torrential
stream as rapidly as her uncontrolled future.  Her life depended upon DuBois. 
Pierre's life depended upon her nearness.  She must sacrifice anything to
stay.  Her courage quailed at what horrors that
anything
might entail. 
And yet she had survived past pain and abuse.  She swallowed her fear, then
raised her chin a notch.

"I wish to remain as your wife."

He trailed his gaze a lingered path of heat down to her
toes, then back up her body to burn upon her breasts, then up to scorch her
face, her eyes.

His unexpected examination flushed her cheeks.  Her
breasts tingled as if he had touched her.  His inky eyes flashed lust and
confused her all the more. 

"'Tis an enticement, my lady, for you are a woman
to stir a man's loins to readiness.  You tempt me to teach you the wonders
between a man and a woman, to hear your cries of passion."

Rochelle's heart fluttered like a hundred butterflies
in search of nectar.  Her lungs threatened to split as she forced in a deep
breath to control her rising hope.  "Then I am to understand that you will
allow our status to remain as is?"

"
Mais, non
."

Her hopes shattered beneath his heel of refusal. 
Trembling, she reached out to the wall for support.  The rough stones scraped
her fingers as the valley's colors blurred in her withheld tears. 

"You do tempt me, Lady Rochelle, and that
knowledge irritates me more than you realize, but . . ."  Out of the
corner of her eyes, she saw him shrug.  "You are my enemy."

 "And you are mine.  'Tis true we would never
share a love for each other, but we share a common love for DuBois."

"Lady Rochelle, your proposal to remain as my wife
only creates more problems.  I will never take you to my bed and I refuse to
live a celibate life."

She remembered when in her father's chamber she had
felt like a moth lured to his flame.  But like a changeling, he had switched to
a handsome spider who wove a web of reason and deceit between her and DuBois. 
With each excuse he drew another strong thread to assure her separation.  How
to tear down the web and not become the next victim caught for slaughter?  She
must destroy each threat, each argument, before the sticky lines of silk
entrapped her and left her helpless.