Authors: Carolyne Cathey
Becket almost wished he believed in a higher power, for
he needed a wisdom beyond his own to accomplish the needed miracle. But when a
lad, he had prayed for his father’s deliverance and had received naught in
answer but the dying screams of a loving man--and his own burned body. No, he
must depend upon his own abilities, not on non-existent deities.
"Becket?"
He met Edward’s glare, wondering how he would control
Rochelle’s rage. "None will be disrespectful, your grace."
"I pray so. But the land is newly conquered and
still contemptuous. I cannot afford, nor will I tolerate insurrection. Those
who dare, will die. Even if ‘tis your wife. And you will do the
killing."
C
hapter
T
hirty
B
ecket watched Lady Rochelle on the parapet
while he motioned for the guard to lower the drawbridge. Surely she realized
the men would obey him. They had pledged their fealty.
As soon as the chain began to creak, Rochelle ran from
his view.
"Eager to see you, is she?" Prince Edward
croaked a derisive laugh.
"While you and your men dismount, your grace, I
will see to the arrangements for your comfort." Becket nodded to Davide.
"Gather the discussed materials and meet me as decided. Phillipe, you
know your orders."
Once in the bailey, Becket leapt off Satan, then
stormed into the great hall and up the stairs to Rochelle’s former chamber. He
rattled the latch.
Locked.
Becket kicked in the door. The slam of wood against
wall reverberated his arrival.
Lady Rochelle spun to face him, fear and fury in her
gentian-blue eyes. She darted past him as if to escape. He snagged her arm,
then jerked the set of keys from her belt. "You will remain in this
chamber until after I leave DuBois."
"Those keys are mine."
"Not until two days hence."
The metallic clanging he had expected, sounded behind
him.
"What are they doing with the door?" He saw
her panic as she twisted within his grasp.
"Changing the lock. You already hate me. What is
one more offense? Especially when ‘twill save your life."
"
My
life? Or yours?"
"Prince Edward will tolerate no rudeness,
Rochelle. I’ve been given orders to kill whomever behaves in such a manner.
Including you."
One corner of her mouth lifted in a sneer as she dared
him to look away. "And would you, knight? Indeed, I believe you would.
But why not murder me as you have so many others? Then you’d be rid of me and
would still have DuBois. Your goal from the first."
"If you truly wish to know my goal,
cherie
,
then look through my eyes and into my soul. See what I hunger for most."
She met his stare, and the briefest flicker of longing
flashed in her eyes, quickly buried beneath revulsion. "I am fool no
longer." Rochelle yanked from him and moved to the hearth.
"Sire Becket!" Pierre’s expression said all
Becket wished from Rochelle--love, joy, and complete trust.
"
Bon soir
,
sprite
."
He
strolled toward the bed, alarmed at how pale Pierre seemed, especially in
contrast to the purplish bruise that covered one side of his face. "I hear
you thought to travel down the stairs headfirst."
"I don’t even remember falling. Then Rochelle
said I slept for a long, long time. But I’m still tired. But I don’t hurt so
much now. I’m so happy you’re here. Can we have another picnic?"
Becket laughed, hiding the grief over all the lost
happiness. "Ah, sprite, I’ve missed you, but my spirits are heightened to
see you improved. Lady Rochelle has taken excellent care of you." Becket
ruffled his brother’s dark hair. Sire Spitz rubbed against Becket’s arm as if
pleased to see him. Becket sighed. If only Rochelle would behave thus.
"You rest a bit more. I’ll see you later this night. Now I must check on
matters below."
"Later this night?" The horror in Rochelle’s
tone saddened him all the more.
"Prince Edward chooses to sleep in the lord’s
chamber instead of in his tent. I will sleep here."
She whirled to face him in challenge, hands on hips.
"You will not."
"Although you wish otherwise, Lady Rochelle,
I
am lord of DuBois. I will sleep where I so choose, which is here, with
you."
"I refuse."
"You have no choice."
"Mayhap. Mayhap not." Her chin went up in
challenge. "I might have poisoned the wine, or put wolfebane in the food
to kill you English rats."
"You are not of such a nature."
"Unlike you."
He winced. An urge to kneel at her feet so as to prove
his devotion, tugged at his knees. Pride held them firm. She had already
spurned his wrenched-out declaration of love. And yet, he couldn’t give up.
Becket moved toward her, his hand caressing the hilt of his sword that would
forever remind him of their night upon the bluff. He longed for her hot
passion, not this cold, tormented rejection.
"Rochelle, I ...I told you how I feel about
you."
"Convenient timing, my lord. As is every decision
you have made since you first arrived at DuBois." She crossed her arms
over her breasts as if to fight a chill. Of regret? Of memories? Or merely
as a symbol she had closed her heart to him for eternity. He stopped in front
of her, fisting his hands to keep from touching her and frightening her away.
"Your anger blinds you to the truth,
Rochelle."
"Which of the following is a lie? That you came
here to kill Reynaurd and to claim DuBois, not only for yourself, but for
England? That you decided I might stay only after you realized I might be a
bigger threat when out from under your control? That for over a fortnight you
have ravaged France along with the enemy? That like your mother, you have
killed children to gain your end? That the blood of many more will be on your
hands ere you cease?"
"I am a warrior!"
"You are a coward."
"Unlike the French you believe so pure? If you
were
Languedoc
, as am I, you’d see the
French through my eyes." Frustrated, he paced to the window, then hating
the smell of smoke that still lingered on the breeze, he faced her, determined
to convince her of his motives.
"Over a century ago, we were our own country with
our own language, habits, tastes and ethnic backgrounds. Then, in a mixed
campaign of religious crusade and imperial expansion, the pope and the King of
France viciously suppressed the
Cathares
,
accused them of heresy, then burned them alive in their mountain citadel. In
Béziers
,
they butchered 15,000 men, women and children. Through the years, the French
and the church have used various forms of violence in their attempts to destroy
our language; have threatened through penalty of death that only one form of
religion is acceptable--theirs; have stolen our lands through the horrors of
The Inquisitions." The unleashing of his fury shuddered though his body
and drove him toward her.
"True we still have our own
États Généraux
,
but the Inquisition took all else but our pride. I won’t belabor what
abominations took place within the torture chambers on men and women alike,
atrocities instigated by the church, sanctioned by the crown." He stopped
before her, the flames behind her dredging up a past he ached to forget.
"But the abhorrence I felt when I saw the mutilated body of a dear and caring
man, sickened my soul beyond retrieval. Then while tied to a stake surrounded
by brush, and even though he knew the hellacious death he would suffer, he
recanted his forced confession in order to protect mother and me, for he knew
that if he didn’t, they would torture us. And yet, while he screamed as he
burned, he saw me plead for his life, saw Gaston torch me. He died believing
he had failed." Becket swallowed in an unsuccessful attempt to ease the
knot of guilt that cramped in his throat. "
Oc
, Rochelle, my tribal
resentment runs deep."
"I loathe what happened to you. ‘Tis
unforgivable But that your atrocities are wrought upon the
Languedocs
--the
very ones whom you claim are of your heritage--is even more despicable."
"’Tis an imperfect world, Rochelle. You know that
every man of nobility must pledge his fealty to someone, which means I am sworn
to obey whether or not I approve of the duty. I gave my oath to those who
treated me with kindness, for unless you haven’t guessed, I hate the French."
"I hate the English."
Pierre’s cry sliced through Becket’s rebuttal.
"Rochelle.
Becket.
Don’t
argue."
Becket
turned to see Pierre’s distraught face awash with tears while he clutched Sire
Spitz to his chest as if at a lifeline. "You frighten me when you
disagree."
Rochelle appeared guilt-stricken.
"Is this how our lives will be from now on,
Rochelle?" Becket released a ragged breath of futility, then shook his
head. "We will discuss this later."
"There is naught to discuss. You used me. I hate
you. Now, leave."
"Rochelle..." He glanced at Pierre who
watched them with fear-widened eyes. Memories of his brother’s laughter when
at the picnic--brief sparkles of merriment in an otherwise difficult life--tore
at Becket’s already burdened soul. The future happiness of the three of them
depended on his skill in persuading Rochelle to forgive. He grasped her arm
and urged her into the shadowed corner in hopes Pierre couldn’t see their
disagreement. He forced her to face him.
"Release me." She shoved at his chest as if
panicked.
"I won’t harm you, Rochelle." He pressed her
against the wall--as hard a barrier as the one she had constructed around her
heart. "I beg you to heed me."
"’Tis over, Englishman. There is naught you can
say to repair the damage."
"Love thine enemy."
He saw the confusion in her eyes. "What?"
"The Sacred Scriptures. I don’t deserve you, I
know. I acknowledge my flaws. But in my desperation I quote from a source
that means much to you." He locked his gaze onto hers, willing her to
soften her frozen heart. ‘Love thine enemy.’"
"Love?" She laughed, hard and ugly, then
slapped away his hands. "I’d rather by ruled by Gaston than ever set eyes
on you again. I hate you. I loathe you. I wish you were dead."
He recoiled, felt the verbal slap to the innermost part
of his being. "Mayhap you’ll get your wish."
Becket strode from the chamber, then locked the door,
feeling as if he locked himself away from all that mattered to him. He
realized with a tearing pain that she would never forgive him. Mayhap he would
never forgive himself. But like Rochelle, he’d had no choice. The truth did
naught to ease the ache of regret lodged permanently behind his breastbone.
Filled with remorse, he moved downstairs to the great
hall. Servants placed white cloths over planked tables in preparation for the
meal, strewing herbs and flowers over the surfaces. Knights hung their shields
and helmets on wall-pegs behind the bench where they intended to dine, their
weapons in easy reach if needed. Whippets and hounds sniffed the rushes in
search for bones and scraps from previous meals.
Flanked at a discreet distance by two of his
ever-present guards, Prince Edward sat in front of the mammoth hearth on one
side of a small table set with a backgammon board. He visited with a standing
cluster of the most imminent soldiers of England, including the Earls of
Warwick, Salisbury, Suffolk, Oxford and Stafford. Sir John Chandos and Sir
James Audeley, two of Edward’s dearest friends, sauntered over, tankards raised
as if in salute.
"To Edward, the future Prince of France, who has
so successfully harried and wasted this rebellious country."
"Hear, hear!" The men cheered, then downed
their wine.
Becket’s stomach twisted. He paused, unwilling to
tolerate any more boasting of who ravaged the most, plundered the most, raped
the most, killed the most.
Prince Edward glanced over at Becket. "Join us,
mon
ami
.
We were discussing how many goodly towns and strongholds we’ve destroyed in
this rich and plenteous land. King Jean should be in a royal panic by
now."
Another cheer deafened the hall. One loud enough to
surely reach Rochelle’s chamber.
"Did you see how that lass flew when Richard hit
her with the flat side of his battle-axe? Like a clubbed pumpkin."
"You spoiled our fun, Richard. We hadn’t had a
turn with her. As with lovemaking, you are always too hurried with the
females."
Laughter pierced Becket’s frayed composure. He opened
his mouth to vent his temper, but Edward threw him a glare. The prince shooed
the gathering away as he held his chalice up for a refill from his wine
steward. "Friends, go celebrate while I visit with Becket in
private." He motioned for Becket to sit in the opposing chair.
Becket stilled. His revulsion at the barbarity of the
past weeks affected his usual detachment when conversing with royalty.
Especially now, for Edward obviously sought information Becket felt loath to
divulge.
"Come, Becket. I wish a diversion while they
prepare my bath. I can hardly wait to cleanse myself of all this blood and
smoke I worked so hard to gain." He chuckled at his own jest
Nerves taut, Becket scooted his stool into place, in
wait for the certain catastrophe. He forced a calming breath. Too many
emotional fires raged toward a common tinder-keg, any of which could set off a
fatal explosion.