Authors: Carolyne Cathey
"Griselda, guide us to the lord’s chamber. Then
you will tell us who you are. Without a single addelty paddelty. And don’t
bother to limp."
As if frightened, Griselda swept her gaze along the
blackness of the converging tunnels.
"I never thought you a cruel mate
to taunt a cripple ‘bout her
gait."
Griselda picked up the quickly-fading torch from the
floor and, against his orders, moved with her one-sided walk in the opposite
direction.
"Griselda, I said to the lord’s chambers."
"I beg you, Sire. We shan’t go
there."
The walls do breathe, and see, and
hear,
"Griselda!" His shout bounced within the
cave until a league of the old woman’s name battered his ears.
With Pierre in a run at his side, Becket strode to
catch up. "Griselda, you will tell me who you are and why this pretense.
Where do you take us?"
"Where waters heal, and drown the
sound."
"‘Tis dangerous talk you do
propound."
He swallowed his questions, wondering if anyone besides
his mother hid within the blackness. Gaston? For certain Griselda acted
terrified.
The faint sound of crashing water caught his
attention.
The exit beneath the waterfall.
Excitement dashed all else from his mind. He had, with
Griselda’s guidance, traversed from the chapel to the mysterious exit that
Rochelle had discovered when lost in the cave. The exit Gaston had used in his
escapes.
A thrill of determination chased along Becket’s spine.
With his persuasion, Griselda would teach him the layout of the intricate maze
that honeycombed the mountain.
Cold mist gusted on his face and arms, then he saw the
ledge that ran behind the prismatic cascade of melted snow. Becket placed
Rochelle on a waist-high stone shelf that protruded from the back wall. He
snuggled Pierre between Rochelle and himself. One misstep on the slick rocks
and his brother would plunge to his death.
Taking care not to reach too far and be swept off in
the down-rush of water, Becket used his hands to divert sheets of icy liquid
over the reddened patches on Rochelle’s shins. She let out a startled cry,
then sighed, shuddering as if with relief. The burns weren’t severe, but he
silently praised Griselda for the genius of bringing them there. The coolness
would take away Rochelle’s discomfort.
He nodded at Griselda to stand beside him so that he
could hear her above the almost-deafening sound.
Although reluctant, she edged to his side, glancing
back at the cave as if to make certain no one watched. Or as if gauging
whether she could reach the darkness before he caught her.
"Now, reveal your identity."
She brushed her hair from her scarred face, then
straightened her spine as if proud, appearing younger, stronger.
"I’m Rochelle's mother, Giselle Rochande Christine
de Blandeau. I scrambled the letters for the name Griselda. I even suggested
her name to Lady Beatrice--the first part of Rochande and the last of Giselle,
plus Christine, the name I intended to call her before our world shattered that
dark night."
Shocked, Becket threw a suspicious glare at Rochelle
but saw genuine befuddlement.
"Sire, Griselda, rather Giselle, informed me of
the same just as you came to my rescue. I am as surprised as you."
Giselle shook her head, her eyes wide with fright.
"You three must continue to call me Griselda as long as Gaston lives else
he'll kill me, and this time he'll not fail."
Becket remembered Rochelle’s stunned expression when he
had first entered the tunnel, which must have been when Griselda first told
her. He also remembered the woman's former tale about what had happened to
Rochelle's mother. Nothing fit.
"You lie, Griselda. You said Gaston shoved her
mother off a cliff."
"He did. I survived."
"You also said Rochelle is the image of her
mother."
"I once looked as she. Fear of Gaston turned my
hair more aged-white. The fall off the cliff gashed and battered my face,
making me unrecognizable. An odd blessing. In my sudden anonymity, I
convinced Lady Beatrice to allow me to serve her and the new babe, an easy task
since no other wished to care for Rochelle. All who had attended the birth had
mysteriously died that same night and the rumor spread that an evil spirit lurked
around the babe. Gaston killed them, of course, to bury all witnesses who were
aware he had switched Rochelle for the dead child. He took Marcel to
Moreau."
"Marcel?" Rochelle’s voice barely sounded
above that of the crashing water.
"Your twin."
Rochelle covered her mouth with her hands as if to
stifle a cry. Moisture puddled in her incredible eyes.
Becket slipped his hand beneath Rochelle’s damp hair
and cradled her nape in his palm. "Griselda, to what purpose did Gaston
perform this sickness?"
"He assured his bloodline in both camps. Genius,
he boasted. When I fought him, he attempted my death to silence me before I
could shout of the obscenity."
Rochelle shuddered, dashing her hands over her cheeks
to wipe away her tears. "I don’t understand, Griselda. From my first
memories you have treated me with naught but contempt."
"A disguise. As is the limp that healed long
ago. As are the rhymes. All so that I could protect you."
"Protect me? How?"
"When you were lost in the cave, I lured you to
this exit with a candle."
"
You
held the glow I believed a light
through an opening?"
"And Marcel. Why do you think he couldn’t
consummate the marriage? The wine, my daughter. Laced with saltpeter."
Rochelle stilled, eyes closed, as if in stunned acceptance.
The truth slithered along Becket’s flesh in chills as
icy as the waterfall. The woman Rochelle disliked--her guardian angel. Her
mother.
Becket studied the woman, trying to picture her in the
image of Rochelle.
"Griselda, if you are her mother, why didn’t you
take Rochelle from here instead of allowing her to suffer the insolence of
Reynaurd and the brutality of Marcel?"
"Take her where? Survived how? Gaston would have
found us. Then what would have happened to Rochelle? But you must tell no one.
If Gaston discovers that you know the truth about Rochelle’s parentage, and
that I live, he will have no more use for her, and only revenge for me."
Too many questions still lurked in the shadows. "Mayhap,
Griselda, you know the answers to the remaining puzzles. Mayhap, you even
poisoned Reynaurd. If so, why? To protect Rochelle? If not you, who
did?"
Fear contorted her already disfigured face and she
backed to the exit, the hunched old woman again.
"Leave it be. Live your life.
Grasp happiness with boy and
wife."
"Cease that falsity." Becket followed her
along the slick precipice. "I see in your eyes that you know. Tell me.
And who released Gaston from the dungeon? Who is the third conspirator in this
unholy mess?"
She backed further, her expression, pure panic.
"Addelty, paddelty. Never ask
it.
Else your bed will be a casket."
"Griselda--"
"I want you to live. I want you
to laugh.
I want you to thumb your nose at the
past."
I want you to cease this dangerous
prying,
If not, in hell you’ll soon be
frying."
"I can protect myself, Griselda. And I’ll protect
you and Rochelle."
"Sire Becket! You’re frightening her. Mayhap
she’ll tell you later."
Becket paused at Rochelle’s protest but kept Griselda
in his vision.
"I beseech you,
mon
mari
.
Leave her be. We have already learned more this day than is fathomable.
Besides I need you. I ask you to divert the water over my scorched flesh
again."
"You only hope to distract me, Rochelle. Finally,
I will know the truth." He took another step, hand held out. "Tell
me, Griselda."
She shook her head, retreating further.
"I want you to live. I want you
to love.
I--"
Horror exploded within her panic.
Rochelle
screamed
.
"Pierre,
don’t!"
Becket spun to see Pierre reach into the waterfall!
The force would tear him over the edge!
Becket snatched Pierre’s arm and pulled him to safety.
"What do you think you do?"
"I want to cool her burns with water like you
did."
"Sacre bleu.
Never try such an
insanity again." Securing Pierre against Rochelle’s side, he mentally
steadied his wild pulse and turned to resume his interrogation of Griselda.
The empty exit stared at him in mockery.
Griselda had slipped into the cave.
Irony struck him with sad honesty. Two mothers hid
within. One, pretending insanity. One, truly insane. Both sacrificing all
for their children. Except, his mother had killed. And yet, what unnamed
atrocities might Griselda have committed in the name of love? Even more
horrifying, what atrocities might he commit to prevent France from stealing
DuBois and Moreau, or even worse, to protect
his
loved ones? Once
Rochelle learned the truth of his sworn loyalty, she would hate him. Betray
him. How far would
he
go then to retain possession of the land? How
far?
C
hapter
T
wenty-Three
"
W
ar, Sire Gaston. That’s
what I face with the English. I have no men to spare for your cause."
King’s Jean’s refusal undermined Gaston’s hopes. He
studied the ruler of France as his majesty strode with impatience about the
lavish Parisian salon in the
Louvre
palace. The king stood as many hands high as Gaston. He possessed a thick,
red beard. A sturdy build. Despite his thirty-odd years, women called him
handsome. But then, what woman would dare say otherwise?
As his majesty complained about the problems of being
king, Gaston pondered how to manipulate Jean’s famous weaknesses--blind rage,
and a tendency to panic. Especially in regard to the English. Gaston sidled
to where King Jean stood beside the window.
"Your majesty, Sire Becket mocks you. For one, I
have learned he is bastard-born, which in France, means he cannot legally
inherit, a law he chooses to ignore. And as we previously discussed, he
alleges he possessed DuBois on the king’s authority. If not yours, then
whose? Only Edward seeks your throne, which suggests Edward plants an
inner-post at DuBois with Becket as overlord. Which suggests the English king
plots to steal France from you, and soon. If you allow me several of your
knights--"
"Are you mad? If you speak true, I must
concentrate all my efforts on the Western regions, poste haste." King
Jean paced toward his desk, his panic in an obvious rise. "I have warned
my cabinet for months that war is imminent, but do they heed me?
Non!
They say the citizenry complain that the taxes are already too high, that they
will revolt if I ask for more, especially if I reinstate the salt tax. How do
they expect me to defend my throne?" He swept a pile of papers from the
corner of his desk, then kicked the fallen stack into a swirling mass.
"By the rood, my charm and hollow promises will not stay the tide,
infinitum!"
Pleased that he had successfully riled the king’s
temper, Gaston watched as his majesty motioned in irritation for his food
taster to bring the silver tray loaded with wine, cheese and assorted
sweetmeats. He snatched a stuffed date, then washed the bite down with a swig of
wine. Seemingly more controlled, he nodded for Gaston to select from the
delicacies.
Gaston shook his head in polite refusal, having sworn
long ago never to eat anything not prepared by his own men, even in the lavish
surroundings of royalty.
"A king’s lot is a sad affair." Jean dabbed
his mouth with a square of linen, then glanced at Gaston as if he expected
sympathy.
"But not so sad, your majesty, that in your
eagerness to rid yourself of the burden, you gladly surrender your throne to
England. Thus, if you assist me with Sire Becket, mayhap I can assist you with
King Edward."
King Jean’s eyes lowered to half-mast, then he handed
the chalice to his steward and waved the servant away.
"You bribe me, Sire Gaston?"
"I bargain."
"You begin to sound much like my treacherous
cousin, King Charles of Navarre. He still feels slighted that because of his
young age he didn’t gain the throne instead of my father. He delights in
playing one king against the other. Is that what you attempt?"
"Not so, your majesty. Like all true Frenchmen, I
hate the English."
"You’d best
not
be like him." As if
agitated, Jean slammed his hand atop an opened scroll on the desk.
"Charles dares to plot against me with the English, brutally murders my
friend merely because I bestowed upon him the title and privileges of Comté
d’Angoulême which had once belonged to Charles’ mother, then has the audacity
to befriend my son, the Dauphin, with intrigue in mind, I suspect." He
fingered the dirk at his waist, gaze distant. "I predict a bloody future
for my cousin."
"If he doesn’t kill you first."
King Jean jerked his attention to Gaston, face red.
Gaston shrugged as if cowed. "Or, rather, have
the English do so in his stead. You said earlier the truce is soon to expire.
The pope seeks a permanent peace, and yet you admit no real negotiations are
taking place. If I could thwart Edward’s plans at DuBois by reclaiming their
inner post, war might be avoided altogether, your throne saved."
King Jean rubbed his beard as if in thought, then
nodded. "Follow your plan. I give you my blessing."
Gaston stilled a moment, stunned by the suddenness of
the king’s reversal. Impressed with his incredible accomplishment, Gaston
smiled and swept his hand wide with his deep bow.
"I give you my eternal gratitude, your majesty.
With the aid of your knights, I am certain to save France for you."
"My knights? Not so. I must concentrate on the
Western front and annihilate the enemy as soon as they dare breach the border.
Then Edward’s inner post will serve him naught."
Gaston straightened, furious with himself for his
uncommon gullibility. "How do you expect me to attack without an
army?"
"Raise one of your own."
"He has taken aught I have--men, money
and
land."
"Then do as the rest do. Take prisoners then
ransom them for money. Or, organize a
pâtis
.
Protection rackets are most profitable. Forced payments at arbitrary toll
roads, added to supplies from villages and hamlets given in exchange for not
burning and killing them will create a tidy sum." King Jean cocked a sly
grin as if in one-upmanship. "If they don’t kill you first."
"But that takes time!"
"Now you understand
my
dilemma. Multiply
your Moreau and DuBois until you have an entire country. Think of the money
and men I must gather to defend all of France, with no cooperation from my
countrymen."
"But Becket is bastard-born. He has no
prerogative to DuBois. As king, you have the right to gift me with the land in
exchange for my helping you defeat the English."
"Lady Rochelle is
not
a bastard. She
inherits legally. Unless you can prove otherwise, there is naught I can
do."
Gaston listened to the rasp of his own breath. If he
allowed the king to believe Rochelle was Reynaurd’s daughter, DuBois would pass
to a child of her issue, bypassing Gaston. Although, after Becket’s death,
Gaston could still force her to wed him, but now she knew he was her father.
For spite, she might shout the truth and ruin everything before he killed her.
If he confessed that Rochelle was
his
daughter,
she lost all claim to DuBois, thus opening the possibility for him to gain the
land with the king’s blessing. But King Jean wouldn’t take any action as long
as he believed Rochelle had right of title. And with the proper bargaining...
Gaston knew he took a great risk by revealing Rochelle’s lineage. A dangerous
risk. And yet...
"Rochelle is
my
daughter, not Lord
Reynaurd’s."
King Jean’s eyes widened. "But you received
special dispensation from the Pope to wed her."
"I..." Gaston cleared his throat, stalling
for an answer. "I didn’t know at the time. As soon as I learned
otherwise, I destroyed the documents."
"How do you know ‘tis true?"
"I spied her without her wimple. Her hair is
exactly the hue of my deceased wife, her mother. Which means she has no right
to DuBois."
"Then she is issue of both you and your wife? How
did she come to be raised by Reynaurd?"
Gaston fought a wince. In his haste he had blundered
with too much information. "A switch at birth, your majesty. ‘Tis a
complicated tale, one not worthy of your time when you have a throne to
protect."
King Jean ran his finger over the soft plume of the
writing quill, then glanced at Gaston. "What of the man who possessed
DuBois before the supposed heresy trial?"
Gaston stiffened.
"Ah, Sire Gaston, I see your alarm. Your
stirrings have made me curious, ‘tis all. I’ve asked a few questions to learn
the details behind the intrigue. I’m but making certain there are no obstacles
to the land. Now, tell me. Did he have any issue?"
"None, your majesty." Gaston felt
uncomfortable with the inquiry but knew he shouldn’t. Quite wise of the king,
really. However, Gaston wanted to discuss the future, not the past.
"King Jean, I repeat my offer. In exchange for your royal decree for
Becket’s death, I will gather the information you need for victory. As to the
lands--"
"Your story bears further inquiry, Sire Gaston,
but still..." King Jean released the feather and brushed his hands.
"Your argument sways me."
Gaston held his breath, marveled by his brilliance of
manipulation. The dangerous risk had made possible the prize.
"Perform your ransoms and
pâtis
along the
Guyenne
and Brittany borders.
While there, see what transpires amongst the English. If you discover aught
that is useful and will help save my throne, then after all is secured, I will
help you rid the world of this traitorous Becket."
Another delay. Curse the man to perdition.
Gaston forced a smile. "How magnanimous, your
majesty."
May England win.
No matter the victor, Gaston determined he wouldn’t
need either king’s assistance. Becket would already be dead. Then he would
seize DuBois and Moreau, with none to stop him, for which king would bother
about one or two estates when in a death struggle over a crown. Excitement
rushed through Gaston like an aphrodisiac. The lands were already as good as
his.
As Gaston gave an obsequious exit bow, he wondered
which enemy-occupied area Becket might choose to visit if he, in truth,
conspired with the English. Most likely where Prince Edward resided when not
across the Channel.
Guyenne
. Yes, Becket would die
in Guyenne, one agonizing breath at a time.
He turned to step into the grand hallway.
"Sire Gaston?"
He faced the king again, eager to be about the business
of Becket’s death.
"You do understand, do you not? Since Becket is
bastard-born and Rochelle is of your bloodline, then..." King Jean
paused.
"Then, what, your majesty?"
"France claims DuBois and Moreau."
"But Moreau is mine! And Reynaurd promised me
DuBois."
"Neither you nor Reynaurd inherited those lands.
The only true heir would be the one sired by the man you burned for heresy.
And yet, you say he has none. Thus, I repeat, Sire Gaston. Becket is yours.
DuBois and Moreau are mine."