Authors: Carolyne Cathey
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
S
omeone watched.
Apprehension prickled up Rochelle's spine and tingled
her nape. She slid her gaze along the torchlit hall. What foolishness.
Despite the late hour, myriad creatures might slip through the shadows,
four-footed, or two-footed.
Thankful Angelique had bolted the chamber door while
she sat with Pierre, Rochelle shielded the flame of her taper and scurried along
the hallway toward the family's private chapel. The need to pray drew her soul
through the dark labyrinth, the need to express her gratitude for sparing
Pierre, the need for guidance. The need for protection from the devil.
As she ran down the last flight of stairs, Angelique's
parting words circled like a millstone in her head, crushing her confidence
beneath the truth.
Apparently, dear heart, your sole talent is in firing
Sire Becket's anger. Be prudent and keep your distance from the man. Why risk
that dreadful dungeon?
To remain at DuBois.
Rochelle rounded the last corner, then stilled. A dim
light wavered through the chapel doorway. As from a candle. Sounds scuffed,
thunked, clattered. Inappropriate sounds for meditation . . . from an inappropriate
intruder.
Mentally silencing the wild throb of her pulse, she
crept toward the entry. The intruder mumbled a curse. While in the chapel?
How dare he!
Rochelle strode toward the---
A crash shattered her fragile composure.
With her mind screaming for her to escape possible
danger, she forced her feet through the doorway. "See here, you have no
business . . ."
Becket jerked his gaze to hers as he stood in a
wide-spread stance, something strewn about his feet. Garbed in pourpoint and
hose the color of midnight, he appeared as a shadow within shadows, as
mysterious as his shadowy soul. "I have every business here, Lady
Rochelle, but you do not. Leave."
"I came here to pray and I heard a crash."
He moved toward her as if he didn't want her to see
what lay on the floor. "Obey me, Lady Rochelle."
Beyond his shoulder she saw the empty space on the
altar-table where once had stood the . . . "Cross! You destroyed the
cross!" Rochelle shoved past him and knelt in the rubble, her accusation
still echoing within the stone walls like a heavenly judgment. "'Twas
from the Holy Land. Blessed by the Pope."
Seeing no hope of repair, she pushed to her feet and
confronted him. "Does your rejection of The Almighty include desecrating
His place of worship? You charm your way into DuBois on falsehoods, claim
yourself Lord, then destroy any symbol for homage to a Higher Lord? All
because you believe He failed you? 'Tis petty revenge, knight."
He grasped her arms. "Silence. 'Twas an
accident. Or do you plot to accuse me of heresy?"
"
You
smashed the cross."
"The truth about Pierre drives me to search for
the papers that prove my father's innocence, papers that identify the third
murderer in the unholy trinity."
Footsteps scraped at the back of the chapel, then
halted. "Sacrilege!"
Becket spun at the accusation.
Père
Bertrand hurried from the
rear entrance. "You desecrate Sacred ground."
Heresy
.
Rochelle knelt in the broken shards but kept her
attention on Becket, pleading for his silence. "Forgive me,
Père
Bertrand. In my zeal, I tumbled the Icon from the altar. Name my
penance."
"You? You broke the cross, Lady Rochelle?"
The priests tone sounded as incredulous as Becket's expression. "But I'm
certain I heard . . ." The priest paused as if struck by a thought.
"Penance? 'Tis true that perpetrators must pay for their sins." He
rubbed his palms together as if in thought. "Lady Rochelle, the only way
to receive God's forgiveness is for you to make a sizable payment in gold to
the church, then to go on pilgrimage."
"
Non!
" Becket came to life.
"Lady Rochelle doesn't leave DuBois until I give permit, not even if I
must lock her in my chamber so as to watch her every movement."
The image sent heat through her veins like melted
tallow. "But, Sire---"
He silenced her with his fury. "Very clever, my
tethered falcon. You thought to break free of my control."
"
Non!
I . . ." She dare not say she
sought to protect him, not in front of the priest. She should let the
ungrateful lump of suspicion pay the penance and leave her be. But, heresy . .
. She fluttered her lashes. "In truth, Sire, I would prefer being locked
in your chamber and to suffer your intriguing form of punishment."
His hatred flashed into passion with such swiftness,
her knees weakened.
Père
Bertrand practically
leapt between them. "I will not allow such cruelty." He graced her
with a look of compassion. "Remember Sire Marcel, my dear. Remember the
horrors."
"But Sire Becket isn't like Marcel."
"Did you not once believe Marcel incapable of such
atrocities? You never know when the devil will turn a man into a beast.
Non
,
you must take the pilgrimage. 'Tis a holy decree."
Becket's laughter reverberated from the stone walls in
repetitive derision. "What power. How satisfying to control mere mortals
at your whim. You say, wimple, and Lady Rochelle jumps."
Instinctively, she adjusted her head-covering.
He scoffed, then turned his attention again to the
priest. "Tell me,
Père
Bertrand. Where were you when Marcel
behaved the beast? Did you protest his abominations on Lady Rochelle?"
Rochelle stilled, stunned by Becket's inquiries.
The priest opened his mouth several times as if he
mentally searched for an answer. "Well I . . . The treatment appalled
me, for certain. I---"
"Did you protest? Did you threaten him with fines
of gold and laborious pilgrimages to purge his soul?"
"Well . . ."
"
Non
. You did not. You never interfered,
never scolded, not even a tsk-tsk. Am I correct?"
He defended her.
Before she could even
blink away a tear, her defense-wall crumbled to non-existence, obliterated
beyond retrieval.
The priest cleared his throat. "But you must
understand---"
"I tell you what I understand. The purposeful
torture of one of God's creatures goes without censure. The accidental
destruction of one of man's creations is considered a great sin. Is the
man-made worth more than the God-made?"
"But 'tis a symbol---"
"Correct. A symbol. Not the Almighty. Or do I
misinterpret?" He indicated the carnage. "Or is this what you
worship,
Père
Bertrand? The idol? Clay, wood and metal."
Becket stepped toward him and the apparently
stricken-mute priest retreated in same measure, the rubble crunching beneath
his feet as if in mockery.
"And as for truth,
Père
Bertrand, Lady
Rochelle is not the perpetrator of this supposed desecration. I am. And I am
not leaving DuBois for any Pilgrimage."
"How dare you twist our traditions to your own
purpose." The tremble in the priest's voice betrayed his fear, or his
indignation, Rochelle couldn't tell which. "I warn you, Sire Becket, your
soul is---"
"Mine. My soul is mine."
Without even a glance her way, Becket spun and strode
from the chamber.
Of a sudden, her chest seemed vacant as if he had
taken part of her with him. And yet, he had. He had pilfered her heart, holes
and all.
"Straighten your wimple!"
Rochelle dropped her taper in her haste to obey the
priest's command, darkening the chapel to one remaining flicker. Becket's. He
had left his candle.
Still shaken by his unexpected defense, she tucked a
wayward wisp beneath her head covering, then halted. The man before her didn't
seem as large as before. As forbidding. More mortal. Less holy. Not that
she would ever show disrespect to an appointed authority of the Almighty.
He shook his finger at her face, all the trapped venom
against Becket released at her. "Stay away from that devil of a man. You
risk the poisoning of your own soul by his very nearness. And never wear
another gown like the one you wore this day . . ."
Rochelle could only stare at the lone flame, stunned.
Becket had stolen her heart. Just ripped the poor thing from right out of her
chest.
". . . even worse, you were without your wimple
where all could see. I have lectured you practically from your birth . .
."
She felt vulnerable. Panicked. How to even the
balance of power? By stealing his heart? Her only hope. If she only knew
how. She needed Divine inspiration.
". . . baring your tresses will tempt the
devil."
Rochelle jolted to alertness. "Tempt the
devil?" She smiled, then yanked off her wimple and snatched the candle.
"I hope so, for I have a heart to steal. And with what I have planned,
the devil doesn't have a prayer."
C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN
"
L
eave DuBois? Now?
Impossible." From their meeting place within the beech grove beside the
road, Becket scowled at Sir John Chandos, Prince Edward's close friend and
supporter, now an untimely messenger. "Not only is Moreau not yet
secured, but in my absence, a desperate Lady Rochelle and a vengeful Gaston
would surely connive to recapture DuBois. If so, then King Edward's hopes for
an inner post are for naught."
"You have read the missive, Becket." John
wiped the sweat from his dirt-streaked face, obviously exhausted from his hard
ride. "His highness expects Prince Edward to lead a strike to regain the
French crown; yet, the prince is needed in England to muster an army and to
gather the equipment and stores necessary for a campaign. Someone he trusts
must make preparations on this side of the Channel."
"There are brilliant strategists in Guyenne, John,
you being foremost."
John nodded his appreciation. "But you have been
by the prince's side since his birth, his mentor, if you will. And of most
import, you know this land beyond the territorial English borders."
"I left DuBois when but nine."
John laughed. "Prince Edward is well aware of the
destination of your periodic disappearances. All know how, in disguise, you
roamed Languedoc, observing DuBois and Moreau from afar in hopes for your
reclamation. Your knowledge of this Southern region is invaluable,
Becket."
"Then he has decided to cut a swath through
Languedoc?" Becket slid his gaze out across the magnificence of DuBois,
imagining the obscenity of such a strike---smoke-blackened fields, screams from
rape and torture, and instead of life, death. Intelligent war maneuver, or
not, Becket hated the
chèvauchèes.
Sir John leaned against a beech trunk and took a swig
from his flask, then wiped his mouth, taking his time as if he understood
Becket’s concerns. "At this time Prince Edward is considering three
approaches. He may retake the towns and castles that King Jean's lieutenant,
the Comte d’Armagnac has stolen along the borders; or, he might take other
towns and castles elsewhere; or he might make a devastating raid wherever it
should be most profitable."
Most profitable. A land rich and plenteous.
Languedoc.
Becket could only stare at the toes of his boots as the
unconcerned wind fluttered the beech leaves, scattering a flurry of sun dapples
across the forest floor but not deafening him to Sir John’s unwelcome tidings.
"The poor citizens are in constant alarm, Becket.
'Tis Edward's duty to settle the matter and set the west boundary of Aquitaine
where he believes it should be. But beyond that, he is as determined to
reclaim his birthright as you, with more to gain, for one day, the Prince of
Wales will wear the crowns of both England and France."
The fast approach of hoof beats captured Becket’s
attention.
Henri, Phillipe and Davide rode up, then dismounted and
joined them where they conversed at a safe distance from the keep.
"News of an arrest, Henri?"
Henri shook his head as he sat upon a fallen log.
"‘Tis my dubious duty to inform you that we saw fresh hoof prints beside
the waterfall again."
"When?"
"He must have been there sometime during the
night. Same place as before. I don't know how he got past us."
Becket sighed. "I have yet to check the hooves of
Lady Rochelle’s mare. Where did the tracks lead?"
"To the main road, then they mingled with wagon
wheel tracks and travelers."
"Did you search in both directions?"
"We did. A woman traveled with an entourage on
pilgrimage and---“
“Did you check her identity?”
Henri laughed. “’Twasn’t Lady Rochelle. Also there
were the usual peddlers, oh, and a priest, one of those who have forsworn
speech. When we sought to question him, he merely sank deeper into his hood
and traveled on. Most likely Gaston is hiding until dark."
Becket stiffened. “A priest?” He had threatened to
don Rochelle in priest’s robes. Might she have provided Gaston with such a
disguise as an ironic form of rebellion? “Did he ride on horseback or travel
afoot?”
“Horseback.”
“What of the hoof prints? Did you study them?”
Davide scratched his head, then glanced at Phillipe,
who brightened as if in remembrance. “He dragged a litter behind him laden
with an odd assortment of supplies, including an over-spill of brush.”
“How clever. Gaston obliterates the prints as he
travels.”
Henri shrugged. “How do you know ‘tis Gaston?”
“In here.” Becket struck his chest with his fist.
“Davide, Phillipe, return to the castle.” As the men rode away, Becket reached
for Satan’s reins. “I’ll capture the bastard myself."
Sir John grasped Becket’s arm. “Becket, I am loathe to
threaten, but you cannot go after Gaston. The prince is in need of you, the
king as well."
“I will do as bidden. ‘Tis my solemn vow. But first I
must capture Gaston. He is almost within my grasp, John. Give me until cock’s
crow.”
“We leave at dark.”
“But the sun is already in descent! You must
understand, John. The few hours needed to snare Gaston will save much heartbreak
and possibly many lives. You drag me away at a crucial time, leaving Gaston’s
cruelty to fester like an open wound, destroying all that his poison
contaminates.”
“He has a healthy lead, Becket. Once he reaches
Toulouse, you would never find him.”
“My instincts tell me he goes to the French court in
Paris to pry into my identity. If he discovers I am not a knight of King Jean,
the truth will be easily deduced. And I still don’t trust the. . . “
Becket swallowed his confession about Rochelle. Prince
Edward might not hesitate to imprison or kill her if he, indeed, marched
through Languedoc, even if she resided at the convent. Becket knew from
previous raids that nunneries weren’t spared the sacrilege of rape and murder.
Nothing would be spared. Not even DuBois. Becket swept his gaze over the
vineyard ripe for harvest. After a lifetime of planning, to risk losing all
this now . . .
“Your oath, Becket. You swore your oath.”
The pressures sought to crush him. Rochelle, Gaston,
war, his own secrets . . . No, he must prevail and conquer the problems one at
a time.
"As Edward commands, John. I can sign the
annulment papers while there, then finalize arrangements with Lady Anne. And I
must visit Mother, tell her of DuBois. I know she is eager to return, but I
must persuade her to delay her arrival until after the war.”
And after
Rochelle is away
. Something twinged in his chest. Regret? Surely not.
Henri straightened. "What is afoot, Becket? What
is this discussion of oaths and hasty departures."
“Preparations for war."
"War.” A frown flitted across Henri’s face, then
he slowly grinned. "Why would you leave for something so mundane when you
could stay here and be the recipient of all that carnal advice the knights have
given Lady Rochelle? She turns the most charming shade of pink.”
Becket groaned. “Lady Rochelle. What to do about
her?”
Henri pushed to his feet, then gave a flourishing bow.
“I volunteer to remain here in your stead.”
“You stay away from that wanton innocent. She is desperate
enough to seduce even you.”
Henri indicated the scrolled parchments in Becket’s
hands. “I understand you received another suggestion on how to cure your
impotence."
Sir John choked. "Becket? Impotent?" He
shifted his shocked attention to Becket, his expression mixed with horror, pity
and amusement. "'Tis true?"
"
Non
!" Becket felt rage heat his face
as he glanced down at the missives--one from King Edward, the other from his
knights with their latest bit of advice, one that would surely turn him into a
senseless sap. “I ought to sentence every knight to the dungeon."
Henri laughed. "Don't be angry with them,
Becket. 'Tis your own welfare that concerns them. The only thing males dread
more than having one that doesn't work, is not having one at all. The men give
the matter much discussion when out of your belligerent earshot."
"No wonder they let Gaston continually slip past
their guard." Frustrated, Becket shoved out from under the beeches into
the sun-basked road and stared at the vineyards that might never survive until
harvest.
Sir John chuckled as he ambled into Becket's view.
"You mentioned an annulment. So, you had to marry the wench as part of
your victory, and then couldn’t perform, eh? The lady must be as ugly as my
horse's backside. Even so, I never dreamed one could be so unattractive that
you couldn't---"
"I am not impotent! ‘Tis a matter of choice, not
function. Now, no more on the matter."
Henri slapped John on the back in camaraderly fashion.
"I warn you, Sir John, Becket has grown inordinately testy. Becket’s new
status as lord of DuBois has decimated his sense of humor."
"Still, she must be as ugly as . . ." Sir
John went as slack-jawed as a pubescent lad with his first sight of the female
form, his attention focused on the road behind Becket. "Glory be. An
angel."
Henri glanced past Becket, then groaned. "I
suggest you depart,
mon ami.
Poste haste. Go dally with Lady Anne.
Leave me to handle this enchanting angel."
Rochelle.
Not now.
Not after he had spent
hours in the icy inlet to ease his stiffness. Determined to remain unaffected,
Becket turned, and his accursed manhood went painfully hard again, scattering
all thoughts of Lady . . . something . . . from his mind.
Rochelle fairly floated toward him, the most incredible
vision he had ever seen. Her skirt and flowing sleeves billowing in the wind
as she moved. Strands of her glorious hair wafted in the breeze like ribbons
newly spun of palest sunlight. Only the gentle sway of her hips betrayed her
earthly connection, not an exaggerated swing but gentle, feminine, a sway that,
if not for his hastily reinforced discipline, would have brought him to his
knees. And she glittered. With each seductive movement, light sparkled across
her blue silken gown like a thousand firesparks against a DuBois sky at
eventide.
Her bed covering.
From the hand-embroidered silk she had created a filmy
masterpiece that defied the current fashion, for her sleeves were loose instead
of fitted, the bodice draped instead of buttoned or laced, needing only the
slight encouragement of his fingers for the gown to puddle at her feet. The
fabric skimmed over her breasts, waist and hips, hinting of moon-carved flesh
and fiery passion. She appeared as delicate as a moth, and yet her confident
gaze pinned him like a spider to a wall.
With gut-wrenching clarity he knew the treasonous truth
he had refused to acknowledge. He wanted her. Curse him to hell, but he
wanted her. All of her. From the wondrous glory of her hair to her dainty
toes he had yet to see bared. He ached to taste her, to lose himself within
her arms, to sink his hardness into her softness, to allow the undulations of
those swaying hips to incite a mindless spilling of his seed into her slick,
hot core.
A shudder racked his soul.
She sensed the depths of his desire, curse her, would
use his weakness to destroy him, would use anyone or anything to accomplish her
purpose. Any male not six feet underground would gladly oblige her. And
within hours, Becket abandoned her, surely the most passionate of all women, to
the prey of every male in France.
She paused before him, “Sire Becket”, stabbed him with
a smile that left him bleeding, then dared turn her attention to Henri.
“Sire Henri, I have need of your services.”
“Non!”
Becket leapt in front of
her. “I forbid him even to look upon you.” In his haste, he must have bumped
into Henri, for a thud, then an “oof” sounded behind him. He heard Henri’s
mumbled curse.
Rochelle appeared puzzled, but Becket knew that she
knew that he behaved an idiot.
“But, Sire . . . “ She leaned to the side to look
past him to his fallen comrade.
Becket stepped in front of her as a shield “You
vixen. You siren. Tempting all mankind with your beauty. Even the guards
upon the wall and the peasants in the fields cease their labors and gape at
your loveliness. Where is your wimple? Where are your ugly gowns?”
A pleased expression flitted through her confusion.
She edged the other direction. He moved with her.
“But, Sire---“
“I shall lock you away so that no man can fall under
your spell.”
She fanned her lashes upward and spiraled heat through
his veins. “In your chamber? I pray not, my lord. I prefer the dungeon.”