Authors: Carolyne Cathey
C
hapter
T
wenty-Six
"
W
e will attack on three
fronts at the same time."
Filled with dread, Becket concentrated on Prince Edward
as The Black Prince ran his finger across the map of France, explaining the
final plans. The English called him The Flower of Knighthood. The French,
arrogant and cruel. A long-handled mustache framed the mouth and chin of this
handsome prince of two and a half decades. A military man after his father’s
heart.
The hope of England.
The scourge of France.
The Black Prince placed his forefinger on the northern
boundary. "My father, King Edward, will land at Calais and will march
South through
Picardy
."
He moved his hand southwest. "For the second
strike, the Duke of Lancaster will launch a joint Anglo-
Navarrese
campaign in Normandy, then join up with my father’s forces on their southward
march. The Duke of Lancaster’s support is King Charles of Navarre who has vast
holdings there."
Edward trailed his finger further south to where the
Garonne River emptied into the Channel, then east along the river past the
Guyenne
border into the Armagnac region, toward Rochelle. Becket’s stomach fisted.
"For the third attack, we will launch a raid from
Guyenne
.
Sire Becket has secured two inner posts for us--DuBois and Moreau. Our first
stop is at DuBois, south of Toulouse, more than half the distance between here
and the Mediterranean Sea. We’ll rest there a few days before continuing the
raid to the sea. Then after another break at Moreau Estates on the Tarn river,
we will travel up to meet with King Edward and the Duke of Lancaster on the
Loire. To further our success on our southern route, the lands of King Charles
of Navarre’s brother-in-law, the Count of Foix, surround Sire Becket’s estate
on three sides. The combination provides an immense block of neutral territory
behind enemy lines, a coup, for the Count has assured us of safe passage across
his lands in exchange for sparing his estates during the
chevauchée."
Chevauchée.
Blast the fates to
hell. Becket’s fisted stomach catapulted like a boulder into his throat.
An unfamiliar man ambled into a streak of sunlight,
casting a shadow across the map. "We should all give this Becket a rousing
cheer. I understand he has a superior way of conquering castles. Just a smile
and a thrust. But not with a sword, mind you. At least, not one of
metal."
The room echoed with laughter.
Becket gripped the hilt of his weapon. "You may
not discuss my wife."
All except the stranger went silent, but the dolt
seemed not to have taken the hint, for he continued to laugh as he nodded to
Becket.
"So,
you
are the infamous knight. Your
wife, a real porker, is she?"
Before the man’s smiled faded, Becket had him flipped
on his back atop the food table, an apple wedged in his mouth, Becket’s hand
still pressing on the fruit.
"See? I smile. Now all I have to do is thrust.
And you’ll have two Adam’s apples down your throat."
Rage and humor mingled within the man’s eyes in a way
that only is possible with the nobility.
Prince Edward moved Becket’s hand aside and plucked the
apple from the man’s mouth.
"Friend Becket, restrain your temper before this
man seeks your head."
"I have killed men for less effrontery." The
man pushed himself from the table, food falling from his back to the dirt.
"Who are you?" Becket stiffened in readiness
as the nobleman rested his hand on his sword hilt.
"King Charles of Navarre."
C
hapter
T
wenty-Seven
"
W
ake up, Pierre. Please,
wake up." Exhausted, Rochelle brushed a lock of Pierre’s damp hair from
his face, controlling the shake of her hand that betrayed her fear. Pierre’s
last seizure had been the most severe of any. Even Sire Spitz sensed how
serious, for he paced beside Pierre’s head, stopping occasionally to mewl into
Pierre’s ear.
"He is beyond your care, Rochelle."
Père
Bertrand fanned the incense over the bed to purify the air. "I am the
only one who can help him now. I must take him to my chambers and purge the
devil from his soul."
"My apologies,
Père
Bertrand, but something
inside me won’t let him go." She coughed as the perfumed smoke turned her
stomach and stung her eyes, or mayhap her threatening tears burned. As if to
escape the incense, Sire Spitz leapt from the bed and moved to the window seat,
abandoning her to defend Pierre alone.
"You only harm him by your obsession, Rochelle.
For years I have offered to rid him of his devil but you refused. Now look at
him. He’s worse. If you refuse to let me help him this time, he will
die."
Fear twisted a knot within her breast. She didn’t want
the priest to take him, but... If only Becket were there to help her decide.
"You know I’m right, Lady Rochelle."
Père
Bertrand set the censure atop the chest and pulled back the covers. "You
are not a cruel person, yet because you have prevented me from cleansing him of
this evil, you are responsible for his suffering."
She grabbed the linens from the priest’s hands and
re-covered Pierre. "
Père
Bertrand. I beg you--"
"He is mine now, Rochelle." He threw the
linens to floor, then slipped his hands beneath Pierre’s body. "As he
should have been long ago."
"No, I won’t let you take him." She gripped
Pierre’s arm, praying she didn’t leave bruises on his too-pale flesh.
"If you love him, then release him."
"I do love him."
"Then prove your love. Let him go before you kill
him."
Guilt wrenched at her heart. She shook her head, tears
streaming down her face.
Père
Bertrand jerked Pierre
from her grasp. "First your wimple and now this, Lady Rochelle. Since
Sire Becket’s arrival you have become most defiant to the church."
"Not to the church. I attend mass and pray most
diligently."
"You are defiant to
me
, the church’s
representative. And I find great fault in that you haven’t been specific
enough in your confessions, as if you’re hiding secrets. I’m most concerned
about your husband’s soul. Unlike you, he has never attended mass or said
confession. There are many who would make much of such rebellion. Especially
because of his father."
He knew of Becket’s bastardy.
Rochelle swallowed to ease the cramp in her throat. "His father?"
"Burned for heresy. Blood will tell, you
know." He stepped around her and carried Pierre’s limp figure toward the
door.
"I’ll not allow you to take him." Rochelle
rushed to bar his exit, shocked at herself for arguing with any priest, much
less
Père
Bertrand. She folded her shaky arms across her chest, and
with her back bolstered against the door, lifted her chin and met the glare
from his reddening face.
"Not allow me, Lady Rochelle? God will punish you
for this act of defiance. Now, move!"
Pain shot through her shin from his kick. She grappled
for the latch but he shoved her aside and then swung open the door.
"Addelty, paddelty, put him in
bed,
Else the lad will soon be dead."
"Griselda?" Rochelle nearly collapsed with
relief as she glanced in the direction of Griselda’s rhyme. Her mother limped
from the shadowed corner and into the firelight.
The priest spun toward Griselda’s approaching figure.
"How did you get in here?"
"Did the devil make him fall?
Or the plague? To kill us all?"
"Plague?"
Père
Bertrand stilled.
"Black death, with sores and
boils and pain
that rot the flesh and eat the
brain."
He paused. Then he shook his head. "Nonsense,
Griselda. He has had these spasms before. ‘Tis the devil, I tell you."
He turned and took a step into the hallway.
"Then take the boy and take the
chance.
And if you’re wrong, a dirge we’ll
dance."
His brow furrowed as he glanced down at Pierre, then
with almost imperceptible movement, shifted his prized possession away from his
body.
Griselda limped closer.
"Or, leave him here ‘till truth
is known
And later take him for your own."
Rochelle held her breath as Griselda gripped
Père
Bertrand’s elbow and urged him back into the chamber and toward the bed.
"Remember the wails and bulging
eyes?
One moment, they lived. The next,
they died."
While
Père
Bertrand stood there, dazed, Griselda
transferred Pierre into her arms and stretched him on the mattress. Rochelle
quickly covered him as the priest snatched his censure, hurriedly fanning the
smoke around him while Griselda escorted him to the doorway.
"Remember the stench? The coffin
lid?"
"Remember the plague?
Mais
,
non
.
You hid."
Griselda shut the door, then slid the bolt.
Rochelle laughed, then rushed to enfold Griselda in her
arms, but halted when her mother shook her head as if in warning.
Griselda moved in her odd-gait toward the bed, remorse
in her eyes as if she longed for an embrace even more than did Rochelle.
"Addelty, paddelty, hard to
believe,
That walls do hear, and see, and
breathe."
Then she leaned forward and ran her hands over Pierre’s
head, face and arms. Sire Spitz leapt again on the bed, curious as to
Griselda’s ministrations
Rochelle sat on the mattress so that she could whisper
while Griselda examined Pierre. "I prayed you would come. I’ve needed
you so. Where have you been?"
"Protecting you from within the shadows. Then
when Pierre had his seizure, I traveled to the apothecary in Toulouse seeking
Theriac
,
but the medicines they had weren’t aged enough, thus useless."
"But
Theriac
is for neutralization of poisons, not..." A sudden clamminess chilled her
body. "Do you believe him poisoned?"
Griselda shook her head as she lifted Pierre’s lids and
checked his eyes. "Tis a spasm of the brain, as before. But Theriac,
when aged beyond a decade, causes insomnia. I hoped ‘twould encourage the lad
from his deep sleep." Griselda placed her fingers on his wrist to take
his pulse.
"I wafted oil of roses mixed with camphor beneath
his nose, which is supposed to help an inflamed brain, and when that didn’t
help, I blended ground Peony root with the roses, but to no avail. I tried
myriad other potions, but naught have brought him to awareness."
Griselda tucked Pierre’s arms under the covers, then
Sire Spitz curled atop Pierre’s stomach like a black, furry ball, his nose
tucked beneath his tail.
"Rochelle, there is an apothecary in a village in
the County of
Astarac
. I wanted to make
certain all is well before I leave."
"I need you here. I need you to stay with Pierre
while I go."
"No, child, you--"
"I’m afraid to close my eyes for fear Becket’s
mother will take Pierre into the tunnels while I sleep. I wouldn’t know how to
find him. And now with
Père
Bertrand’s fearsome compulsion to help...
No, you are more important here."
Griselda’s chest rose and fell with quiet breaths.
"While in Toulouse, the herald cried out for subscriptions into the French
army in case the English attack. Few responded."
Foreboding tightened the ache in her breast, then a
white-hot rage shivered along her flesh. Becket offered his life in a war in
which other Frenchmen even refused to fight. All because of English greed.
"Griselda, I never realized I could hate as much
as I hate the English. If not so consumed with Pierre, I’d see how I could be
of assistance in the upcoming ugliness. But we have our own war to wage. For
Pierre’s life." She kissed his brow, his skin cool beneath her lips, then
stroked a goodbye caress down Sire Spitz’s back. "I’d best hurry, and
return before the battle begins. The truce has expired, but most likely ‘twill
be weeks before the English are prepared."
"Then go, my child. But take guards with
you."
"They are needed here to protect the castle."
"At least take the one called Banulf or I will not
agree. He seems a goodly man and I trust him."
"I will ask Banulf." Rochelle closed her eyes
and massaged the pounding in her temples, a pounding caused by her incessant
worry over Pierre and Becket. "To lessen the danger for Pierre, I plan to
slip out unnoticed, then, hoping all believe me locked in this chamber, return
before I am missed. But whom can we depend upon to bring your food, yet keep
our secret?"
"Jacques. Don’t shake your head, thus. Jacques
loves you and even you must admit he made the right decision."
Yes.
For she loved Becket so
much that she hurt inside.
Griselda pushed to her feet, the hunched old crone
again, her finger pointed at Pierre.
"You wish him well? Then pay me
heed.
Search for herbs you know I need.
Scour the fields and nearby hills
then bring me what will cure his
ills."
Stunned by Griselda’s sudden change, Rochelle paused,
then realized her mother performed for the living walls. Rochelle lifted her
chin in feigned indignance.
"Griselda, if not for Pierre, I’d not allow you to
speak to me thus. But if you can help him, I will do as you ask."
Griselda knelt, groaning as if her joints ached,
searching the rushes in pretense she had dropped something. Rochelle leaned
down in simulated assistance.
Griselda slapped away Rochelle’s hand, then leaned
closer as if to whisper. "Go with God, child."
"I pray God stays here with you and Pierre."
"May He be with us all."