Love Thine Enemy Read online

  Her knights! She should be worried about DuBois, not Becket. Unable to escape past Henri who barred the doorway, Rochelle darted toward the window to yell a warning about Becket's army.

  Gaston leapt at her; he meant to grab her for a shield! She twisted, but not fast enough. Gaston grabbed her arm!

  Becket snatched her from Gaston's grip and tossed her on the foot of the bed as if but a passing thought.

  "Stay back, Lady Rochelle. Gaston doesn't care if you're caught between enemies. And stay away from the window. At your first cry, hell will swarm through the gates like an unwelcome plague."

  As she scrambled to her feet at the side of the bed, Gaston charged at Becket, his sword aimed at Becket's heart. Before she could scream, Becket ducked and slashed, then stepped on the chalice she had swept from the table in her anger! He sprawled in the shattered crystal. Gaston charged for the fatal stab, but Becket rolled to his feet with a speed she couldn't believe possible and thrust through Gaston's armor into his side. Gaston groaned but remained on his feet, hunched forward, blood covering the hand he pressed to his side, his sword clutched in his other hand as if refusing surrender.

  Becket kicked the chalice aside and resumed a fighter's stance, the tip of his sword dark with Gaston's blood.

  Rochelle dug her nails into her palms to bolster her courage, knowing she must ask, frightened of the answer. "'Tis time for truth, knight. Who are you?"

  Becket dipped his head in a slight bow, then straightened his shoulders as if with pride.

  "I am Sire Becket de DuBois, the rightful heir, the son whom the Unholy Trinity thought long dead."

  "Explain yourself, Sire. I realize you've pledged marriage vows and, thus, you think you gain the land, but what do you mean, the rightful heir? And what, or who, is the Unholy Trinity?"

  Black fury sparked in his eyes. "Two decades past, Reynaurd, Gaston, and a demon I have yet to identify, falsely accused my father, the true Sire de DuBois, of heresy."

  "Not false accusations, Lady Rochelle." Gaston staggered, then braced his bloodied hand against the wall, streaking a crimson stain. "Alberre confessed."

  "My father broke under the tortures of the Inquisition. To cease the atrocities he swore a lie as truth."

  Gaston's lips curled in a sneer. "Devil worship."

  The gasp leapt from Rochelle's throat before she could stop the damning reaction. Becket threw her a glare that told her he had added her to his list of enemies. She shuddered, feeling as if the Grim Reaper stroked her flesh in anticipation of her death.

  "When the Inquisition insisted my father name others---the only accepted proof of his salvation---he recanted his forced confession."

  Gaston laughed, then jerked in a cough. "No one believed his screams of innocence as the flames melted his flesh. If he had been pure of soul he wouldn't have died in the fire. The angels would have cooled the heat like with Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego in the fiery furnace."

  Becket swung the tip of his sword in a slow arc in front of Gaston's eyes. "If purity of soul is a requirement, Gaston, you'll burn the brightest of any of Satan's human torches." Crystal crunched beneath Becket's feet as he prowled toward his enemy. “Now tell me. Who is the third devil in this satanic bargain?"

  Gaston lunged and slashed. Becket feinted, then thrust. Gaston cried out and stumbled backward, falling over the chalice. Becket stomped on Gaston's sword hand and jabbed his weapon at Gaston's throat; blood oozing red around the tip.

  "Roast in hell, Gaston. Moreau and DuBois are mine.”

  Rochelle pushed away from the bed. "You steal Gaston's land, as well? Does your greed have no bounds?"

  Becket released a sigh of impatience. "Reynaurd and Gaston divided the estate. Reynaurd stole DuBois. Gaston claimed Moreau."

  Clamminess slithered over Rochelle's flesh. If Becket's claims were true, then she had no inheritance, nothing. And because of the vows, the falsely-stained sheet, and Becket's claim as heir, he possessed DuBois whether she lived or died. He had no more use for her. The realization fired ice through her veins.

  What would happen to Pierre?

  Rochelle whirled to her father. “Mon père, does he speak true? Did you steal DuBois from his father?"

  Tears seeped from beneath his lashes like liquid regret. She didn't want to believe he had committed such evil. And yet, she knew him capable. Her hopes and fears tangled in a sour lump within her stomach. She reached out for his hand, then hesitated, anger and resentment warring with her craving for his acceptance, his love.

  "Mon père, deny the accusation. Tell me he lies."

  He answered with spasms of coughs and more tears.

  "Non! I will not allow you to escape an answer." Rochelle snatched a tankard from atop the chest beside the bed and pressed the rim to her father's blue lips. He swallowed and his coughs lessened, but she couldn't even force herself to wipe the dribbles from his mouth.

  "Tell me, is Lord Becket's claim true?"

  He gasped and clutched his throat, his eyes wide with fear and pain. "Poisoned! Poison!"

  Shaken from her anger, she grabbed for his arm, but he thrashed on the bed and moaned in horrid agony.

  "The pain!" He pointed his finger as if in accusation, his arm wavering too much to settle on one person. "I trusted you . . . ." He strangled and reached out for her. "Rochelle."

  "Mon père!" The finality of his last breath ripped an unexpected void within her heart and she grasped his hand, tempted to beg his forgiveness for all her unwitting sins, to beg for his love. Tears burned her face.

  Père Bertrand moved to her side. "What goes on here? Did Reynaurd shout something about poison?" The priest cast an incredulous glare at something she held.

  She lowered her gaze. Wine rippled in the tankard she still gripped in her shaking hands. Had she unknowingly poisoned her father? Appalled, she smashed the clay against the wall. Dark rivulets streamed down the wall as if the wainscot bled.

  A curse from behind drew her attention.

  Becket's mouth thinned with his anger. "How dare the bastard die before he felt the thrust of my sword." Then he slid his hatred to Gaston. Becket's raven-colored eyes gleamed too brightly as he held his sword-tip at Gaston's throat; he lusted for the kill. But if Gaston died, she might never glean the truth to use for her war to win DuBois. She needed him alive.

  Rochelle stepped toward Becket. "Don't slay him, Sire."

  "Affection for the butcher, Lady Rochelle? If you knew the details of how Lady Alicia and other misfortunates have suffered by his hand, you'd not be so eager to see him spared."

  "Then you might never know the third conspirator."

  Murderous fire in his eyes flared his hatred, then shifted to suspicion. "And mayhap you are not as pure as you claim. Mayhap you seek to save a lover."

  Rochelle lifted her chin. "Think what you will. Perhaps I, too, wish to know who deals an evil hand."

  Becket stared at her with icy hatred. "Perhaps. But perhaps I have more enemies than I first realized. Methinks I dare not ask you to pull Gaston's sword from out of his reach."

  Gaston groaned and Rochelle cut her gaze to the man pinned on the floor. The blood on Gaston's throat swelled a more glisteny bead around the sword tip, then the bead burst and drizzled a crooked trail down the side of his neck into the rushes.

  She stayed Becket's hand. "I have seen enough death this day, knight."

  Becket studied her for an uncomfortable moment, then shifted his hatred to his defeated opponent. "Moreau is mine whether you live or die, Gaston. But before Satan welcomes you, I will have the third name of the unholy trinity. Or mayhap I'll seduce the truth from your comely champion." Becket kicked the weapon from Gaston's hand. "Henri, take his sword and then add another rat to the dungeon. He may come to wish his lover hadn't spared his life with such sweet entreaties."

  Stung by his accusations and knowing he would never accept her denials, Rochelle turned to stare at the quiet form that had once been her father, the man she had tried so
hard to love, but who had proved to her that love is a weakness, a tool for manipulation.

  She scanned the chamber, ready for a chance to escape to her knights and call them to action. Père Bertrand ministered the last rites. Becket held a now-standing Gaston at sword point, the prize prisoner's hands bound behind him as Henri shackled Gaston's ankles. Good. All occupied.

  With held breath, Rochelle slipped toward the door.

  "Not so fast, ma femme."

  Becket placed his arm across the doorway and leaned in indolent repose as if her father hadn't just died. As if Becket hadn't taken her as an unwilling bride and then turned from her in revulsion. As if he hadn't just raped her of her land, her future. As if he cared.

  "Did you think to abandon your new husband?" He took her hand and held too tightly, but she refused to flinch. "I have use for you, yet, bride." He pushed away from the doorjamb. "Henri, hand me the marriage linens, then take Gaston to the dungeon. As soon as he is secured, join me in the great hall."

  Gaston curled his lip in a snarl. "Never fear, Lady Rochelle. This devil thinks me bested, but I'll save DuBois."

  Becket laughed. "The dungeon will silence your tongue, Butcher, after you confess the third conspirator, of course."

  Becket draped the stained sheet over his shoulder like a conquered banner, then urged her into the empty hallway and toward the stairs. Rochelle attempted to pull her hand free, but Becket held fast.

  "I warn you knight, I will use any source, any power to defeat you."

  "You will never be given that chance."

  He intended to lock her away, then abuse her as often and in any way he wished, or kill her. Shock numbed her body as if she had died but still roamed the earth, for he had won after all. And yet she must sacrifice herself to save those she loved.

  Love.

  A weakness.

  A tool for manipulation.

  Except she couldn't help but give her heart to Pierre, Jacques and DuBois, an affection that left her vulnerable and at Becket's mercy.

  "I surrender to your might, Sire. You need not hold me prisoner. I will go wherever you decree."

  "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.