Love Thine Enemy (31 page)

Like two bulls, Becket and Pierre stared at each other,
Pierre in challenge, Becket stunned.  Sire Becket surely grasped the truth. 
What whirled through his mind?  Acceptance?  Rejection? 

Fear prickled along her spine.

Pierre.  A witness to the world that he and Sire Becket
shared the same father.  Living testimony of Becket’s bastardy.  A danger.

She glanced at Lady Isabelle who appeared equally
stunned, pale, horrified.  Did she, too, guess the far-too obvious?

Uncertain of Sire Becket’s and Lady Isabelle’s
response, Rochelle tensed, prepared to defend Pierre to the death.

Sire Becket held out his hand.  "Come hither,
Pierre.  I would talk with you, man to man."

Pierre lifted his chin, but Rochelle saw how he
trembled, saw his fright beneath the bluster.  Sire Spitz hissed. 

Sire Becket stretched his hand out further.  "I
will not harm you, Pierre, or Lady Rochelle.  She is my wife.  I am sworn to
protect her.  And you as well.  Now, come." 

He called her his wife, a good sign
. 
But he hadn’t said how he felt about her.  Did he protect her out of love, or
duty?  No matter, for he also swore to protect her bro. . . no, protect
his
brother, and for that she would love him forever. 

Pierre stood his ground. 

Sire Becket
remained
expectant. 
"Come, my friend.  Unless...you are afraid."

Pierre stiffened as if with indignation, then strode to
claim Sire Becket’s hand.  The two males moved to one side of the mammoth
hearth, their raven hair gleaming in the firelight, and of a sudden, she feared
for them both.  Someone wanted Reynaurd’s bastards slain.  Which now meant
Pierre
and
Becket.

Sire Becket lowered onto one heel, putting him closer
to Pierre’s eye-level.  Pierre stayed erect, hands clasped behind his back, the
resistant ally.  As if sensing Becket meant Pierre no harm, Sire Spitz leapt to
the floor, curling into sleeping position on the warm hearthstones.

While Becket visited, Rochelle watched Pierre’s face
change from wariness to incredulity.  Open-mouthed, Pierre glanced at Rochelle,
then back at Sire Becket.  What did Becket tell him?  Did he call Pierre
brother?  Or did he order him away under the guise of promised protection?

No, she would not allow such a sentence, although she
didn’t know how she could stop him.

With his attention intent on Pierre, Sire Becket
reached behind him toward Rochelle and encouraged her to take his hand.

Joy leapt inside her, a foreign emotion, and she
cherished the sensation. Swallowing around the boulder in her throat, she moved
forward and laced her fingers with Becket’s.  The warmth of his callused flesh
made her realize the iciness of her own.

He straightened and slid his arm around her waist.  She
tingled with want.

"
Ma femme
, I have explained to Pierre the
miracle.  How he and I are brothers by blood.  How much I treasure the news. 
How, if he allows, ‘twould give me great pride to share him with you."

He lifted his gaze to hers, that sense of awe in his
eyes she thought she had seen when he had moved so erotically inside her. 

"I told Pierre how blessed he and I are because of
you."

"Because of me?"

"If not for you, he would not still exist.  If not
for you, I would not have the brother for which I have always longed.  You have
given me a gift beyond my expectations:  A family."  He leaned down and
brushed his lips over hers, then softly laughed.  "I feel more whole than
I can ever remember." 

Her joy welled into euphoria.  Maybe she and Sire
Becket had a future, after all.

He returned his focus to Pierre, but more serious. 
"We must keep this secret a while longer, Pierre.  But soon, if all goes
as planned, I can shout the news…well…we must still keep this miracle a secret
and will worry about the shouting later."

Before Rochelle could question Sire Becket on what
plans he meant, Lady Isabelle interrupted, bright spots of color on her pale
cheeks.

"Who is this?"  Lady Isabelle hissed the
question, controlled panic in her tone.

"A
friend
,
ma mère."

"Friend?  Or foe?"

"He is but a child."

"He is the grim reaper, the destroyer of all for
which I have suffered and sacrificed."

"
Nonsense
. 
Heed
me,
ma mère.
 
You will treat both Rochelle and Pierre
with respect."

Lady Isabelle forced a tight smile.  "As you say. 
By the by, a messenger has come for you.  From the king.  Shall your wife and
this lad receive him in your stead?"

"
You bait
me,
ma mère."

"I show you the error of your ways.  However, to
please you, I will befriend the boy."

Sire Becket nodded as if in acceptance of his mother’s compliance
and pulled Rochelle aside.

Undecided as whether to lean into his strength, or to
follow his too-acquiescent mother, Rochelle stumbled.  He caught her to him and
his cedary scent filled her senses.

Chuckling, he gazed down at her, desire overshadowing
his disquiet.  "Did you know that with your very first stumble, you
tripped into my life and into my stubborn heart?"  He brushed a kiss
across her forehead, then he straightened, his look more grave.  "I may be
occupied at length.  I have sent for Lady Angelique and
Père
Bertrand to
make certain they were guarded through the night, thus free from suspicion in
Lady Anne’s death.  I also have scouts in search of Griselda.  The old woman’s
hair is white from age.  Mayhap in mother’s drowsiness, she mistook her for
you.  Griselda is the most likely suspect in both deaths since she brings the
wine."

Before she could respond, Sire Becket turned from her
and strode through the milling knights toward the entry. 

Rochelle glanced around the great hall for Pierre but
didn’t see him.

"Dear heart!"

Rochelle turned to see Lady Angelique approach.  Henri
ambled by her side, a satisfied grin on his face.

"What is all this..."  Angelique flipped her
hand.  "...this dreariness about another death?  And whose?"

"Lady Anne’s."

"The frail pasty who arrived yesterday?  The one
in hopes of stealing your husband?"  She pursed her freshly rouged mouth
and shook her head.  "I am the last to cast blame upon you, dear heart. 
After all, one must protect one’s own.  I would do the same should an
interloper interfere with my man."  She batted her lashes at Henri.

Rochelle
sank
inside
. 
Would
all judge her guilty with so little question?  Indignation pricked her pride
and she stiffened.

"Angelique, Sire Becket wishes to know your
whereabouts during the night."  Rochelle rolled her gaze heavenward at the
stupidity of the question.

"Locked in my chamber, of course."  Angelique
patted her wimple as if primping for perfection.  "Guarded by the most
virile
of knights."  She growled the word, virile, then winked at Henri.

Henri’s satisfied grin widened into an even more
satisfied smile.

Rochelle sighed.  "I see.  Sire Henri, might Lady
Angelique have slipped out of the chamber while you slept?"

Angelique stilled mid-pat.  "Surely you
jest."

"That you slipped out?"

"That he slept."  Her musical laughter
tinkled in mockery.  "Take care, dear heart, or I’ll think you insult me
apurpose." 

Rochelle’s cheeks burned as she turned to search for
Pierre.  Had Rochelle, in her inexperience, bored Sire Becket?  After all, he
had slept, although briefly.  The throb between her legs testified to her
activities the major part of the night.  Her cheeks burned hotter from the
memory, as did her womanhood.

The sight of
Père
Bertrand hurrying in from the
bailey ceased her ruminations of sexual inadequacy. 

"The indignity!  Master or no, Sire Becket had
better not ever order such a blasphemy again as to guard me, a man of the
cloth, like some villainous knave.  I..."  He halted.  "Where is your
wimple?  Put it on immediately.  And what is that...  That is no gown you wear,
that’s an obscenity!"

"Leave me be!  Oh addelty, cry.

She stole him and the lad will
die."

Rochelle jerked toward Griselda’s shouts, following the
sounds into the hallway.  Davide and Phillipe forced Griselda from the
direction of the chapel.  The uncooperative prisoner pulled and tugged with
every step, her witch-like hair in even more riotous disarray than usual.

Rochelle’s stomach knotted with guilt.  The woman had
been naught but disagreeable ever since Rochelle could remember, but a
murderess?  And what did the old woman mean, the lad will die?  A threat if the
knights didn’t release her?

Rochelle devised how best to glean the truth as the men
dragged Griselda to a protesting stop in front of her. 

"Be calm, Griselda.  I’ll not allow them to harm
you.  I merely want to question you--"

"Get Sire Becket and leave me be.

She’ll kill the boy.  She’s mad, you
see."

Rochelle’s heart stumbled.  "Do you mean Pierre? 
Someone intends to kill him?  Who?"

"Isabelle.  The lady’s
insane--"

A cry tore from Rochelle’s throat.  She pulled on
Phillipe’s jupon. 
"
Get
Sire Becket. 
Davide, seek aid.  Hurry!"  She turned to
Griselda.  "Where?  Where did she take him?"

"In the tunnels they went.  She
told Pierre

his addelty cat is lost in--"

"Which tunnel, Griselda?"

"I only heard echoes and--"

"From where did you come?"

"The chapel.  A secret
panel--"

"Show me."

She hurried with Griselda down the hallway, through the
chapel, and into the back entry where Gaston had disappeared after the attack--
only
yesterday.
  Her stomach roiled.  Might Gaston still lurk inside?  Between
Lady Isabelle and Gaston, Pierre wouldn’t have a chance.  Thank heavens Sire
Becket and the knights were at the keep.

Griselda fumbled with a piece of molding.  A part of
the wall creaked open. 

Black lay beyond.  Like a tomb.  A cool mustiness
flickered the torchlight and drafted against her flesh.  She shivered. 
Remembrance of long ago horrors chilled her to the bone.  The thought of Pierre
in there chilled her to the marrow.  Without further hesitation, she snatched a
torch from the holder and rushed into the tunnel.

Rochelle’s echoing footsteps reminded her of the
horrors of being lost in there.  Light from the smoky torch wavered on the
cave-like walls like ghoulish spirits.  Unwanted memories enshrouded her
courage.  Bats.  Cold.  Hunger.  Fear. 

Hurry, Becket.

"Rochelle!"  Sire Becket’s too-remote shout
drew Rochelle to a stop.  "We must wait for him."

Griselda tugged at her arm. 

"Make haste or, fie,

Pierre will die."

Panicked, Rochelle took another step into the dim-lit
darkness, confident of Sire Becket’s imminent arrival, grateful of his
strength, wondering why she ever longed for solitude. 

A grating sounded behind her as if the panel closed. 

Terror ripped through her body.

"Rochelle!"  She heard Becket bang on the
wall, the sounds muffled thuds.  "Blast it to hell," sounded weak,
distant.

"Griselda, how do we open the door from this
side?"

"He will only delay us."  Griselda tugged
Rochelle another step

"Rochelle!"  More deadened bangs sounded on
the wall.  "She lures you into the tunnels in hopes you’ll become lost and
die.  And what about Gaston?  This could be a trap!  Come out of there. 
Now!"

A different fear crept up Rochelle’s spine. 
The
swish of a woman’s skirt… 
She attempted to wrest Griselda’s clamped
fingers from her arm.  "I won’t go without him."

"You delay us.  Now, quiet.  Listen for their
voices."

Somewhere she heard water drip, but no admonishments or
cries for help. 

Or a rhyme
.  For the second time
since Rochelle’s first memories, Griselda hadn’t rhymed.  Chills skimmed over
her flesh in a thousand directions like frantic spiders.

"Pierre isn’t in danger at all, is he, Griselda? 
You lied to Angelique yesterday so that Gaston could attack me, and you lie to
me now.  For the same purpose?  But Sire Becket has already consummated the
vows."

"I don’t lie.  And Gaston has left the tunnels. 
Come.  We lose Pierre and Isabelle."  Griselda tugged harder, surprisingly
strong for an old woman.  Unprepared for Griselda’s strength, Rochelle slid two
more steps.