He must
consider her as loathsome as had Marcel, or even more so. Then panic sliced
through her chest that she had perhaps ruined her only chance to spare Pierre
and DuBois the certain slaughter. She must reach her knights in order to warn
them to barricade the gates. If she could escape the chamber before Becket ...
"Milady?"
Jacques' voice sounded in desperation from the hallway,
then Rochelle heard a pounding at the door.
"Milady, your father cries out for you. His time
is near."
Rochelle's heart constricted.
Becket spun to her. "The sheets---"
"If you think to take me now . . .” An errant
ray of sun glinted on the dagger at Becket's side.
"Milady! Make haste! The lord is dying."
With no time for second thought, Rochelle snatched the
weapon and rolled onto the center of the bed. Modesty be damned, not after
what she had experienced. She pulled up her skirt and exposed her thigh.
"Cease!" Becket lunged and grabbed her
wrist.
"'Twill only be a small cut."
He seemed confused.
"Blood . . . for the sheets. 'Twill solve both
our problems. You will have your proof and I will remain unmolested. Now,
unhand me!"
Becket wrenched the weapon from her fingers. "Get
off the bed."
"But---"
The pounding sounded at the door again.
Sacre Dieu. She would be too late.
"I come, Jacques." She reached for the dagger.
Becket placed his armored foot on the mattress and
lifted his chain-mail shirt. Before she could stop him, he pierced his thigh
above his hose. Blood dripped dark and red upon the snowy linen.
"There. Any more and they'll be certain I'm the savage you claim."
He placed his foot on the floor.
Becket's mouth twitched a determined line. He yanked
the sheet from the bed, a strange type of satisfaction aglow in his eyes, an
anticipation, a hunger, as if he already tasted the sweet possession of DuBois.
But she still had her maidenhead. She had won. At
least part of the battle.
"Milady! Make haste!"
Jacques' urgent tone increased her alarm. Despite her
father's treatment, she loved him; she ached to be with him when he drew his
last breath, but the safety of DuBois came first. She must reach the DuBois
knights. Rochelle took a step, but Becket caught her arm.
"Pretend the marriage is consummated and I will
not force you. But if you whisper a word of this before I give you leave, I
will take your virginity where all will see and not doubt. Do you understand,
Lady Rochelle?"
She couldn't claim total victory. Not yet. But soon. She
nodded.
"A promise. Give me your word."
A new complication. She would merely find a way around
the oath. "I . . . I promise."
"And if you go past your father's door instead of
entering his chamber, I will know you go to your knights and I will signal for
attack before you reach the stairs to the great hall."
Rochelle closed her eyes in defeat. Fighting tears,
she unbolted the door and ran down the dimly lit hall and down the stairs,
passing Henri who tensed and grasped the hilt of his sword. She burst through
the doorway and into her father's chamber. " Mon père!" She
rushed to his bedside.
He paled a yellowish-white, his eyes glazed and
distant.
" Père! Je t'aime! Do
you hear me? I love you!" A sob escaped her throat. Tears welled hot
behind her lids and blurred his image. Rochelle grasped his hand, cold, like a
grave, like death.
Becket stepped beside her and she glanced up, then
stilled with surprise. He had donned a blood-red jupon with a golden falcon on
the front, wings uplifted in motionless flight. He must have received the coat
of arms from his fellow knight, Henri.
Her father's gasp reclaimed her attention. His face
showed fear. "You! Mon Dieu , what have I done? Run,
Rochelle." Her father's words sounded low and harsh, barely heard.
"Should not have wed . . . . danger . ."
"Danger?" And yet she had known all along.
Panic squeezed her
consider her as loathsome as had Marcel, or even more so. Then panic sliced
through her chest that she had perhaps ruined her only chance to spare Pierre
and DuBois the certain slaughter. She must reach her knights in order to warn
them to barricade the gates. If she could escape the chamber before Becket ...
"Milady?"
Jacques' voice sounded in desperation from the hallway,
then Rochelle heard a pounding at the door.
"Milady, your father cries out for you. His time
is near."
Rochelle's heart constricted.
Becket spun to her. "The sheets---"
"If you think to take me now . . .” An errant
ray of sun glinted on the dagger at Becket's side.
"Milady! Make haste! The lord is dying."
With no time for second thought, Rochelle snatched the
weapon and rolled onto the center of the bed. Modesty be damned, not after
what she had experienced. She pulled up her skirt and exposed her thigh.
"Cease!" Becket lunged and grabbed her
wrist.
"'Twill only be a small cut."
He seemed confused.
"Blood . . . for the sheets. 'Twill solve both
our problems. You will have your proof and I will remain unmolested. Now,
unhand me!"
Becket wrenched the weapon from her fingers. "Get
off the bed."
"But---"
The pounding sounded at the door again.
Sacre Dieu. She would be too late.
"I come, Jacques." She reached for the dagger.
Becket placed his armored foot on the mattress and
lifted his chain-mail shirt. Before she could stop him, he pierced his thigh
above his hose. Blood dripped dark and red upon the snowy linen.
"There. Any more and they'll be certain I'm the savage you claim."
He placed his foot on the floor.
Becket's mouth twitched a determined line. He yanked
the sheet from the bed, a strange type of satisfaction aglow in his eyes, an
anticipation, a hunger, as if he already tasted the sweet possession of DuBois.
But she still had her maidenhead. She had won. At
least part of the battle.
"Milady! Make haste!"
Jacques' urgent tone increased her alarm. Despite her
father's treatment, she loved him; she ached to be with him when he drew his
last breath, but the safety of DuBois came first. She must reach the DuBois
knights. Rochelle took a step, but Becket caught her arm.
"Pretend the marriage is consummated and I will
not force you. But if you whisper a word of this before I give you leave, I
will take your virginity where all will see and not doubt. Do you understand,
Lady Rochelle?"
She couldn't claim total victory. Not yet. But soon. She
nodded.
"A promise. Give me your word."
A new complication. She would merely find a way around
the oath. "I . . . I promise."
"And if you go past your father's door instead of
entering his chamber, I will know you go to your knights and I will signal for
attack before you reach the stairs to the great hall."
Rochelle closed her eyes in defeat. Fighting tears,
she unbolted the door and ran down the dimly lit hall and down the stairs,
passing Henri who tensed and grasped the hilt of his sword. She burst through
the doorway and into her father's chamber. " Mon père!" She
rushed to his bedside.
He paled a yellowish-white, his eyes glazed and
distant.
" Père! Je t'aime! Do
you hear me? I love you!" A sob escaped her throat. Tears welled hot
behind her lids and blurred his image. Rochelle grasped his hand, cold, like a
grave, like death.
Becket stepped beside her and she glanced up, then
stilled with surprise. He had donned a blood-red jupon with a golden falcon on
the front, wings uplifted in motionless flight. He must have received the coat
of arms from his fellow knight, Henri.
Her father's gasp reclaimed her attention. His face
showed fear. "You! Mon Dieu , what have I done? Run,
Rochelle." Her father's words sounded low and harsh, barely heard.
"Should not have wed . . . . danger . ."
"Danger?" And yet she had known all along.
Panic squeezed her
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