Authors: Carolyne Cathey
"Your wife joins us not, Becket?"
His stomach twisted tighter. "She tends to my
brother who is recuperating from a serious illness."
Prince Edward rolled the dice, his brows drawn together
as if in thought. "I never knew you had a brother." He moved his
disc the appropriate number of spaces.
"’Tis one of the many pleasant surprises I have
fallen heir to since my return to DuBois." Becket tossed the ivory cubes,
then made his move.
"Another surprise being your supposed wife? She
is most fair of face and form. And her hair...I’ve never witnessed tresses
quite that...ethereal paleness. I still question she is your lady. But I
shall have to trust you on that, shan’t I?"
"Ask any here. All know she ruled as chatelaine
ere I arrived."
Edward sat back in his chair, his open mouth framed by
his long-handled mustache. "Do you realize the odds on such a fortune?
‘Tis no wonder you tossed Charles of Navarre atop the fruit platter for calling
her a porker." He frowned as if puzzled by a sudden remembrance.
"By the by, a messenger arrived who spoke of the Duke of Lancaster’s delay
in joining with Navarre’s troops in Normandy. Seems Charles has gone into
hiding. Do you think we’ve been duped?"
"He didn’t confide in me, your grace."
"I think not. You were fortunate he didn’t run
you through with his sword."
"He goaded me apurpose."
"
Oui,
he
did."
Prince Edward rolled the ebony disc within his fingers as if in thought.
"At the time, I believed he had taken all in good humor. And yet, later
he grilled me about you. Seems a Sire Gaston bargained with him for DuBois and
Moreau.
And
your head."
Prickles ran along Becket’s flesh. "What did Sire
Gaston promise in exchange?"
"Charles never said. I didn’t question him, for I
saw not how a man like this Gaston could affect the war one way or another.
But with Charles’ unexpected disappearance, now I wonder."
Becket felt the perspiration bead on his brow.
"Why didn’t you tell me about Sire Gaston before this?"
"I know ‘twas my intent, then when I saw no reason
to delay our raid, my mind shifted to the war and I thought not of the news
again until the messenger mentioned this curiosity about Charles’ apparent
defection. The Duke of Lancaster is in a bit of a quandary as how to proceed;
the Duke hasn’t missed a battle in four and a half decades."
Prince Edward tapped the disc against his mouth as if
in thought. "Cousin Charles is grandson of Louis X and like me has a
better claim to the crown than does Jean. You don’t suppose he has his sights
set on the throne for himself, do you?"
"You have doubts?" Becket scoffed.
"Charles is volatile, shrewd, charming, violent, slick as a serpent,
determined as Beelzebub, a schemer without scruples. In truth, his only
invariable is hate. I would say he is more than capable of such a
plot."
Prince Edward studied the fire. "Do you remember
a boast I flaunted during the last war council in
Guyenne
?
That Charles of Navarre’s brother-in-law, the Count of
Foix
,
has promised me safe passage if I waste not his lands?"
"I do. His property surrounds DuBois on three
sides, giving you a large block of neutral territory behind enemy lines. A
coup, you claimed."
"Might the Count of
Foix
also be the type for treachery?"
"He would kill his own son."
Prince Edward still concentrated on the flames.
"If Charles
has
decided to go for the crown, he might do aught to
assure that my raid is a failure, and mayhap, even plan an entrapment with his
brother-in-law."
"But the land is scorched behind you. ‘Twill not
be productive for at least a decade."
"Which also means we cannot retreat but must move
ahead-- with Charles's brother-in-law to our right and Toulouse on the left...
And what about our unprotected back after we leave DuBois?" Edward threw
the game piece onto the board with a clack. "How unlike me to count as
insignificant what might be the most important facet of our campaign." He
shoved to his feet. "Your wife, Becket. Her loyalty is of extreme
import. I would see her."
C
hapter
T
hirty-One
B
ecket stiffened. "Your grace?"
"I’m certain she must be distressed about the
incident in the County of Astarac. We cannot have her upset. I am duty-bound
to explain and to give my regrets."
Did he suspect her of collusion? Becket scurried for
an excuse. "She is, in essence, a prisoner, your grace. She cares for my
brother and trusts no other to do so. And I’m certain your bath is
ready."
"I insist.” Edward drilled Becket with his
alarm-filled gaze. “Do you not understand, Becket? We are deep in enemy
territory, unable to return from whence we came, uncertain about whether the
Count of Foix whose lands snuggle against your estate is friend or foe, and
once we resume our
chevauchée,
the unravaged Dubois controls our
vulnerable backside, with a Chatelaine whose betrayal could cost us the French
Crown. Her allegiance is of supreme..." Edward’s attention focused on
something behind Becket, then his eyes widened with desirous delight.
Becket looked over his shoulder, and his insides
fisted. The already abysmal day just worsened.
Lady Angelique swayed across the floor in all her
lavender glory, a come-hither invitation in her violet eyes, the same she had
first flung at Becket, then at Henri, now at Edward. At least she had
momentarily distracted the prince, but had she no loyalty to Henri? Sickened,
he scanned the great hall for his love-smitten friend who, against Becket’s
advice, had decided to ask Angelique for her hand in marriage.
Prince Edward leapt to his feet, sweeping his hand
toward his chair. "Allow me. And you are?"
"Madame Angelique."
"Madame." Prince Edward bowed. "In all
my twenty and five years I have never seen a lovelier vision, not even in my
most delectable of dreams."
"Lady Angelique." Becket clutched her arm as
she paused in front of them, the cloying scent of violets distinguishable even
above the hearth-smoke. "Henri will attend you, soon."
"Henri? Ah, yes." She ran her tongue over
her rouged lips and curved a quite determined, quite seductive, smile at Prince
Edward, then fluttered her dark lashes. "Your majesty, I offer my humble
services to you in hopes that your respite here might be relaxing. Mayhap I
may oversee the preparation of your bath and to massage away your..." She
lowered her focus to below his waist, then lifted her eyes and latched onto his
gaze. "...stiffness."
Revolted, Becket gritted his teeth to hold back the
more appropriate epithet of ‘harlot’. "
Lady
Angelique. His grace
is too exhausted for a woman of your energies. Henri, however--"
"Be still, Sire Becket." Angelique flipped
her hand in dismissal.
"
Oui
,
Becket, be still." Edward smoothed his long-handled mustache much like a
peacock preens his tail to attract a mate. "Since your wife is
pre-occupied behind a locked door and unavailable to tend me in my bath, I
would most appreciate such capable handling from this most exhilarating
woman."
"I’m honored, your grace." She sank into a
deep curtsy, giving the prince full view of her generous cleavage.
Prince Edward’s eyes narrowed with lust. "
Are
you attached to Sire Henri in any way? After
Astarac
,
I fear I must make certain of pre-arranged alliances."
She laughed, deep and throaty, then glanced around at
herself as she pushed to a stand. "I see no strings or leashes that
tether me to the dear boy."
Becket seethed, angered that she so callously shifted
her affections when a man of higher rank stood within her prurient grasp. Did
she think to better her lot? Did she not realize that Prince Edward merely
considered her a high-born lightskirt? But had not his mother committed
adultery to bear a child? Had not Rochelle, in her hatred, sworn she preferred
to side with Gaston rather than with Becket?
Women
. Duplicitous
creatures. Becket gave thanks he hadn’t knelt at Rochelle’s feet after all.
Angelique dipped her fingers inside her bodice. She
slowly drew out an embroidered handkerchief, snagging Edward’s attention to her
ample bosom, an unnecessary move, for the prince fairly drooled with
anticipation. "Forgive me if I boast, your highness, but I’m quite
creative in my diverse manipulations for releasing a man’s tension." She
let the cloth drift to the floor. "My apologies, your grace. How clumsy
of me."
Prince Edward reached down, but a sword speared the
linen square.
"How very clumsy, indeed, Angelique." Henri
lifted his weapon, the handkerchief pierced upon the tip. "You drop
handkerchiefs much like you spread your legs. Often and without
discretion."
"Sire Henri!" Angelique, to her wanton
credit, showed genuine distress at Henri’s slur. "I beg you to
understand... I mean...well, he’s royalty. Only once in a lifetime shall I
ever have such an opportunity to be of such service."
"Then service him until your feminine well runs
dry. If you play adeptly the part of whore, he might invite you to become one
of his camp followers."
"How dare you." Her slap on Henri’s face
cracked into the clamor.
"
Au contraire,
Angelique.
How
dare you. Even though Lady Rochelle wishes all Englishmen dead, including
Becket, I have more respect for her than I could ever have for you in eons of
eternities."
"Your wife hates Englishmen?" Edward shifted
his horrified gaze to Becket. "Even you, her husband?"
Becket’s twisted stomach coiled another knot.
Henri closed his eyes as if shaken by his mistake but
tortured with an inner pain beyond his concern of Rochelle.
Angelique snatched the linen from the sword-tip.
"Henri, I only behave as is my nature. Besides, he’s a prince! And I
only tend to his bath, naught else."
"Tend to whatever you will. I had almost made an
error so foolish that my mind reels with my stupidity."
He gave her his back and stormed into the bailey.
"Henri! What error?" Angelique ran after
him, but Becket knew she wasted her pleas. Henri had seen the truth behind his
blinding lust--she behaved with an instinct stronger than her affection for
Henri. Like
Rochelle’s
revulsion
for Becket.
Like Edward’s obsession for the French crown.
"
Hates
the English, Becket?"
"What do you expect, your grace? She witnessed
atrocities to a people and land that are dear to her. She almost lost her own
life. And she feels betrayed by me. Imagine how you might feel if this raid
ripped through England, if one you trusted fought for the enemy. But despite
her distress, she will not be disrespectful to you."
"Because you don’t give her the chance?"
"You threatened death should any show insolence.
I merely prevent the possibility."
"But you don’t solve the problem. In truth, this
presents a serious dilemma. I protected DuBois because you are my
supporter."
"And naught has changed that."
"Much of dangerous import has changed. Because of
you and your collection of our adversaries from across France, DuBois is now
teeming with the enemy who otherwise would have been slain. You leave behind a
wife who, in her anger, most likely will stir the rabble to rebellion to attack
us from behind, entrapping us. And there is this mystery with Sire Gaston and
Charles of Navarre." Prince Edward shook his head as if agitated.
"There are those who consider me cruel, but ‘tis cruelty in the name of
justice. I will not allow anyone to steal from my father and me the throne of
France, no matter how comely, no matter to whom she is wed. Now, take me to
her."
"Your majesty, she is fully occupied with my
brother because she trusts no other to care for him, and I prefer not to broach
this subject in his presence." Becket winced that his case sounded weak,
even to him.
Prince Edward blinked as if taken aback by Becket’s
argument. "We speak of the success of this war, and you are concerned
that one small boy should overhear the conversation?"
"I assumed you wished the discussion secret.
Pierre, in his youth, might innocently repeat vital information."
Becket’s mind scrambled for aught that would delay the Edward’s confrontation
with Rochelle, then mayhap Becket could hide her in the cave – which terrified
her. But this terror loomed more dangerous.
“’Tis the crown we die for, and you mouthe this
idiocy?” Face reddening from obvious anger, Prince Edward glanced around the
hall, gestured for someone to approach. "Surely your lady will trust a
man of God."
"
Père
Bertrand? Even I don’t trust
him."
"Note, Becket, that I am humoring you because of
what you mean to me, so trust me when I say that woman feel differently about
men of the cloth, and the priest
will
take care of this matter. I will
speak with your wife – now.”
Becket’s desperation sank like a stone in his stomach.
In truth Rochelle did feel differently about the priest. And God. And
enemies. And Becket had run out of excuses - and the Prince’s patience.
Père
Bertrand bustled over,
fear evident on his face as if he wished he were any place but there.
Prince Edward clapped him on the shoulder. "I
need you to care for a young lad." He glanced up at Becket. "His
name?"
"Pierre."
Elation erased all fear from the priest’s expression.
"He’s better, then? No one deigned to inform me. I would be most eager.
And I have your blessing, Prince Edward? Mayhap, your command?"
"You have."
Rubbing his hands together,
Père
Bertrand
hurried ahead of Becket, Edward, and the two guards, guiding the small army to
the turret room.
With every spur-jingled step Becket racked his mind for
another delay. If only he could see her in advance, to prepare her for what
might be the most perilous moment in their lives. What if Edward discovered
Gaston is her father? No, only he and Rochelle knew, and even in her rage she
would never divulge such a secret.
But what if she angered Prince Edward, as she surely
would? What if Edward demanded that Becket take her life – a distinct
possibility? Becket had sworn his fealty. Duty bound him to obey no matter
the command.
Never!
He must!
Becket’s pulse pounded like an anvil of doom. Somehow,
some way, he must do all within his power to stay the predictable outcome.
His hand shook when he placed the key in the lock.
Prince Edward cleared his throat. "You’d best
hope she is swayed by my explanation,
mon
ami
,
so that I am convinced she is not a threat. Fear not, I’m known to display
charm with the female gender; I can be most persuasive." He motioned to
the guards. "Wait in the hallway."
Releasing a tense sigh, Becket turned the tumbler, then
pushed back the door.
Rochelle stood beside the bed, swiping tears from her
face, and his heart wrenched. His secrets and intrigue had thrust this
disaster upon her. Pierre, too, appeared terrified, rubbing and rubbing his
cheek against Sire Spitz as if desperate for solace. Becket’s heart wrenched
another twist. Even at five, his brother sensed the seriousness of their visit.
Prince Edward stepped past him. "I beg your
attendance, fair lady. This man of the cloth will care for the lad while we
visit. If you’ll join us on the parapet?"
Père
Bertrand hurried toward
the bed with an eagerness that increased Becket’s trepidation.
Horror widened Rochelle’s eyes, then she leapt between
Pierre and the priest. Leave,
Père
Bertrand."
"I warned you before, you risk God’s wrath with
your stubbornness. Even so, the prince has commanded, I repeat,
commanded
me to tend to the boy."
"Get out!"
Becket stilled, stunned. Rochelle, who straightened
her wimple with a glare, argued, no,
grappled
with the priest over
Pierre? Without waiting to discover why, he picked up the priest from the
floor and carried him, kicking, to the hallway.
"If Lady Rochelle wishes you gone, so be it.
Out."
The priest turned on him, skin flushed, eyes full of
venom. "God will--"
Becket slammed the door in his face and turned to
Prince Edward who appeared only slightly less shaken by the scene than Rochelle
and Pierre. What the hell had happened in Becket’s absence?
Prince Edward cleared his throat, forcing an obvious
false serenity on his expression. "I, too, have lost faith in the
clergy. Ever since the Pope abandoned the Vatican to set up residence at
Avignon, my father and I have considered him King Jean’s puppet and thus have
ignored his papal pleas for peace."