Authors: Carolyne Cathey
“Leman?” Not uttered with joy and gratitude but with .
. . fury.
She shoved his chest like a madwoman, then lunged for
his sword. He twisted to snatch his weapon but tripped over her puddled gown.
Pain burst as his forehead struck the center support. He sank to his knees. A
thwack sounded just above his head.
She had slashed at him and hit the post! With his own
sword!
“Rochelle!” He spun onto his haunches, but saw only a
flurry of enticing flesh, blue fabric and a glint from the blade as she darted
through the opening.
“Rochelle! My sword!” The tent shuddered. She cut
the ropes!
He beat at the canvas in search of the opening. “You
give me no choice. When I go for Lady Anne I must lock you in my chamber.”
Another twang. With each rapid slash the canvas folded
in around him until he was cocooned.
The center post against which he leaned, tilted. He
lost his balance and landed on his backside.
“Damn you, Rochelle. Lady Anne would never behave in
such a manner. Now give me my sword!” Then dark reality thrust past his
thwarted passion. “I almost took you before I had annulled the vows. If you
hadn’t become angry---”
She screamed. An enraged scream. A
deep-down-from-the-depths-of-her-soul scream.
He heard the slash, recoiled from the sting. His sword
rammed into the ground a hair’s width from his manhood.
Sacre bleu.
The ungrateful hellion had nearly emasculated him.
By Zeus, he would chain her within his chamber and take
the key. And yet, any male with a pulse would find a way in, a secret
passageway, perhaps, then wantonly take what Becket could never have.
Well, not as long as he drew breath.
But the armorer had no time to forge a chastity belt
before Becket left for Guyenne.
Then how?
How to keep her a virgin in his absence without
chaining her in the dungeon and taking the only key?
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
“
I
am a virgin and I’ll most
likely remain one until I die, so leave me be! I’m suffocating with all of you
around me.” Irritated, Rochelle stopped walking, then lurched forward as a
knight bumped her from behind, knocking her into the knight in front of her.
Davide spun and rapped Banulf on his head with his
knuckles, nearly poking her in the eye with his elbow. “Pay heed, you oaf.
You could have harmed her, she is so delicate.”
“
Pardonez moi,
my lady.” Banulf dropped to one
knee and bowed, almost ramming his head into her stomach. “I beg you chastise
me for my clumsiness.”
While the cluster of knights muttered their disapproval
of Banulf’s supposed atrociousness, they scrambled to close their shattered
ranks, jostling her in their haste to cage her again within their tiresome
circle.
Rochelle rolled her gaze to the ceiling and repressed a
scream of frustration. Releasing a tense breath, she patted Banulf upon the
reddening spot on his bald pate. “Rise, Banulf. I bear you no grudge. But I
must complain. All of you have guarded me for the entire moon’s cycle of Sire
Becket’s absence, even slept on the floor around my bed and stood outside the
garderobe door while I . . . Well I’m not used to such . . . togetherness.
May I not have some privacy?”
The ring of men mumbled among themselves much like a
gaggle of disgruntled ganders, then shook their heads.
Phillipe cleared his throat. “’Tis not that we don’t
trust you, my lady, but that we don’t trust other men. Well, we do with our
lives, just not with our women. And when Sire Becket left DuBois, he
threatened that should any man have his way with you, he will have all males
castrated.”
Rochelle clenched her teeth along with her fists. “You
have told me repeatedly, but you imprison me so tightly within human walls that
the only time I see aught but your red, gold and silver-clad bodies is if I
look straight up. In truth, so many of you are here, I’m surprised any are
left to guard the walls.”
“’Tis true no knight wishes guard duty when his very
maleness is dependent upon other males. All wish to make certain you are kept
. . . uh . . . “
“Safe.”
“Pure.”
“Unmolested.”
“A virgin.” Rochelle tapped her toe at their shy
skirting of the issue.
They nodded in agreement. “A virgin.”
She sighed to ease what must be by now a permanent knot
in her stomach from her self-inflicted guilt. “I am to blame. If I had not
lost my temper with Sire Becket, all would have been consummated before he
realized he hadn’t annulled the vows.”
A commotion sounded to her right beyond the wall of
knights. “I would see my lady. Let me pass.”
“Jacques?” Pain knifed in her chest. “Not now,
Jacques. I have naught to say to you.”
“I must explain, my lady. For several sennights I have
sought an audience with you so as to discuss my apparent treachery.”
Rochelle groaned with further irritation, then nudged
Phillipe on the arm. “Step aside,
s’il vous plait
.”
Phillipe threw her a perplexed stare, the image of a
dedicated man torn between serving two masters. “But Sire Becket . . . “
“
Sacre bleu
, Phillipe. Jacques is hardly a
threat to my virginity. No offense intended, Jacques.”
The knights opened the human wall and a welcome draft
of fresh air swirled in, modulating the stale odor of too-close bodies, before
Jacques wedged into the slot, a dark dip in the flame-colored ring.
The sight of him twisted at her conscience. He stood
there, an ancient gnome among warriors, face contorted with burn scars,
frighteningly aged to the point of fragility. His condition weighed on her
already-burdened guilt, for her avoidance of him had obviously hastened his
decline.
She folded her hands in front of her to keep from
hugging him. “I will hear you, Jacques.”
His gaze pleaded with her from beneath his bushy brows
the color of pale fog. “I only sought to save you, milady. I served as
steward here when Gaston burned Sire Becket’s father and the young Becket had
to flee for his life. When Sire Becket returned in secret, I fell to my knees
and thanked God he had survived. Then when Sire Gaston plotted to seize you
and DuBois, I feared for you and agreed to aid Sire Becket into gaining
entrance so as to protect you from that evil brute.”
“Which evil brute? Gaston? Or Becket? And what of
the note I gave you to ensure my rescue by King Jean? In what way did that
betrayal protect me?”
He paled. His mouth opened and closed, then he dropped
his head forward as if in defeat.
“I trusted you with my life, Jacques. Now I have no
hope of rescue. And your supposed
savior
has sneaked off in the night to
wed another, then upon his cowardly return, will banish me to a nunnery, away
from Pierre and DuBois---and you. Where is my protection now?”
When he dared meet her gaze she saw that his chin
trembled, his eyes glistened with unshed tears, an unfair tactic, for certain.
She clasped her hands tighter to keep from throwing her arms about his neck in
comfort.
“Forgive me, milady, but I couldn’t bear to see you
mistreated again like you were with Sire Marcel. ‘Tis an awful thing to
witness when not able to interfere. Near broke my heart, it did.” He sniffed
and swiped the back of his gnarled hand beneath his nose. “‘Twas difficult
enough standing by and seeing your father do naught. But Sire Gaston . . .
well, he’s much worse than his son. I feared for you as if you were my own
daughter.”
Rochelle’s eyes burned as she blinked several times to
stay the moisture from her own eyes. Unsuccessful, she closed her lids while
she prayed for guidance, then when under control, focused upon the man that,
despite his betrayal, she adored. “I understand your dilemma, Jacques. Mayhap
either choice would have bode me ill. Fret not about your decision.”
“But I will, my lady, until I draw my last.”
The thought of losing him ripped a hole in her
self-righteousness. “I but seek your prayers, Jacques. And your love.”
“You have both, milady. You always have.” A tear
trickled down his scarred cheek and into her heart---her abused heart that
Becket had ripped from her chest, then had left shredded and bleeding like
unwanted refuse when he had abandoned her for another. At least she had
reclaimed possession, scars and all, and had built another defense-wall,
thicker, stronger and impervious to further hurt.
Unwilling to intellectualize on how impossible her last
thought, she enfolded Jacques in her arms, relishing the feel of him after
their painful separation, shaken by how much shorter he seemed than when she
had last hugged him, how much more frail. A knot cramped in her throat. “
Je
t’aime
, Jacques”
He returned her hug, then squirmed, and she understood
his distress, the poor dear. Fearing he might evaporate if she let him go, she
caressed his sweet face.
“No matter the outcome, Jacques, I will always love
you. Now, hasten to the garderobe.”
His stifled sob as he shuffled away fell like a
lodestone onto her burgeoning guilt. Then as if Jacques had never existed,
Phillipe filled in the space again.
Remembering the reason for this absurd outing, she met
the knight’s doleful scrutiny, for they felt as torn by the impossible
situation as she. “Heed me, men. We continue to the end of the hall, then
veer left toward the chapel. I hope to avoid the confusion we had at the last
turning. Banulf suffers a nasty bruise. Now, march.”
The tramping of feet echoed again in the hall---and in
her head. When they managed the corner without mishap she sighed with relief.
Now, how to stop at the chapel without being trampled? And even more magical,
how to obtain privacy?
As she marched, Rochelle focused above the men’s heads
in search for the reflected glows from the three wall-hung torchères that lit
the hallway between here and the chapel, then spied the first.
Un.
One, as in the one devil, Becket, with his one forked
tongue that had lured her into a frightening world of sensuality, then had
sliced her apart.
Deux.
As in the two black pools of his eyes, his two hands
that set her heart afire, his two booted feet that had then stomped out the
flame and left her crushed and broken.
Trois.
The three emotions that burned within her, for she
never wanted to see him again, ached for his return, yet longed for revenge.
What confusion.
Confusion---
The perfect means of escape
from her human prison so as to visit with
Père
Bertrand in private.
Preparing for the certain impact, Rochelle took two steps past the third glow,
then stopped.
Banulf smashed into her back. She lurched into
Davide. The human wall shattered.
She ducked as Phillipe spun and swatted the taller
Banulf on his arm. “You lummox. You . . .“
Rochelle darted through the opening and toward the
chapel, hating that the gentle giant seemed to continually suffer punishment
because of her. Now if she could just slip through the doorway---
Phillipe jerked her to a halt, his face ruddy from
displeasure. “Although I might wish otherwise, my lady, I cannot allow you to
be alone. Our manhood is at stake.”
“My sanity is at stake.”
Davide, Banulf and the other knights gathered in haste
behind Phillipe, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear, disappointment, even
chagrin at her near escape from such mighty warriors.
Rochelle placed her hand atop Phillipe’s. “I beseech
you to understand. I admire you, but with all of you around me I can barely
breathe. I feel frantic inside, with an absurd desire to scream, then to run
and hide just for a moment’s peace.”
Their thoughtful silence gave her hope and she
scrambled for more argument.
“Look behind me, men. The chamber is naught but
light-filtered emptiness and shadowed corners, devoid of human form, including
Père
Bertrand who Lady Angelique said wished to see me. Any intruder shall have
to pass you to enter. If the priest does come, he is, after all, a man of the
cloth sworn to abstinence. Besides, my brave knights, if all else should fail,
I will call out and you will save me.” She willed a charming a smile.
They mumbled among themselves again, then Phillipe gave
a tentative nod. “Because we care much for you, my lady, we will wait
here---but with the door open.”
Her smile widened with her gratitude. “
Merci.”
Feeling a glorious freedom, Rochelle turned to scan the
sparse sanctuary, in wonder of
Père
Bertrand’s whereabouts, absorbing
the beauty of gray stone and brown wood . . . of space.
Something thumped at the back of the chapel.
In moving toward the sound, she passed the altar table
now vacant of a cross --- vacant because of Becket. The reminder of the man
she had forbidden her mind to think about, sharpened her continual pain,
searing, twisting, tearing at her insides as from the moment she had awakened
and had found him gone, and knew for what purpose.
Grating, like feet over stone, drifted from around the
emptiness.
The chapel door banged shut behind her, the bolt
clunked into place.
A black-robed figure slammed against the front of her
body. She crashed onto her back. Her skull banged against the floor. Pain
shot through her head and spine as the attacker landed atop her like a dropped
boulder. While fighting not to drown in a dizzying blackness she felt her
skirt jerked to her waist as the man in priest’s robes wedged between her
now-spread thighs.
Père
Bertrand?
Through her daze she heard pounding at the door, shouts
for admittance.
The knights.
Castration.
Determined to hang onto consciousness, she shoved
against the heavy weight that pinned her to the floor.
“Get off of me!” She gagged from the putrid breath
that blew hot against her clammy cheeks. Frantic, she clawed at his face
shadowed beneath the hood.
“Cease, bitch. ‘Twill only take a moment, then DuBois
will be mine.”
“Gaston!” Terror whipped her stunned pulse into
frenzied throbs.
“Cease your struggles, bitch! I have the Pope’s and
the king’s blessing to claim you. King Jean never heard of that lying bastard,
Becket.”
She felt the pressure of his manhood against her thigh,
then against her cleft.
Panic screamed through her body. Like in a hellish
dream, the shouts of desperate knights echoed between the rhythmic booms against
wood while the very act they feared ruptured their lives. If only she hadn’t
begged for privacy.