not choose. How sad. You'd
make a comely camp follower."
Rochelle swung a slap; her hand stung from the contact,
as did her emotions from the hatred that struck from his eyes.
"You will go to the convent as soon as your
father is buried, and good riddance." He spun and strode down the
wall-walk. Sunlight flashed from his armor, glistened from the rippled folds
of his jupon of ruby samite woven through with golden threads, from the
blue-black glory of his hair----the victor over the victim. The spider who had
entrapped the moth.
Shaken to the point of collapse, Rochelle leaned her
head back upon the stones and closed her eyes. He had given her until her
father's burial which meant she had three days.
Three days for the moth to trap the spider.
C HAPTER S IX
B ecket stepped from the bailey into the
doorway of the great hall after having inspected the vineyard, the portion of
land of most import to him, pleased at the extraordinary care given the vines
even with the shortage of labor since the plague. And then the incessant
death-knell had bombarded his nerves until he wanted to strangle something.
Against his will he scanned the room past servants and
an incredible beauty dressed all in violet, searching for Rochelle. He spied
her, then caught his breath, his unwanted reaction whenever he saw her, despite
her ill-fitting, almost ugly gowns. Now she wore black bombazine, not a good
color for her.
Black .
For mourning.
Rage built like a sudden storm. He scanned the chamber
again. Black cloths draped the walls. Reynaurd lay upon a white-clothed bier
upon the dais at one end of the hall as if king of the realm. Rage destroyed
Becket's tentative composure.
" Sacre bleu, woman! I will not tolerate
this blatant display of respect for the man who killed my father and stole my
lands."
Rochelle spun from where she and the young hellion who
had attacked him earlier hung even more unwanted drapes. She stiffened, her
usual response to his presence.
Becket stormed to the dais. He ripped the black cloth
from the wall, flinging the fabric to the floor. "You will not honor this
bastard!"
She pressed her hand to her chest as if to stop an
ache, her eyes wide with terror.
Furious, Becket swept his sword at the floor-standing
candle holders that stood like sentries around Reynaurd. Candles crashed to
the floor, flames licking through the dry rushes toward the bier, tasting, then
devouring the white fabric. Becket swiped his sword and four more candles
clattered in defeat.
"You'll burn him!" Rochelle appeared panicked
and furious at the same time, then ran to beat at the fire with her cloth.
"Water! Someone douse the fire!"
Becket snared her waist with one hand and snatched her
from the spreading inferno before her gown ignited.
The human windmill launched himself at Becket, beating
and kicking. "Don't you hurt her!"
The bothersome cat on the lad’s shoulder spit in
Becket’s eyes.
“Curse that---“
Rochelle rammed her fist underneath Becket's chin.
"Don't you harm him!"
Becket winced from his bitten tongue, then sidestepped
the lad's well aimed kicks. "Henri, snare this fearless wonder before his
arms and legs fly off. And skewer that blasted cat!”
“ Non! And my father . . .”
Despite her attempts to tear him apart, Becket set
Rochelle aside, barring her way when she attempted to dart around him to the
bier. "Stay back, Lady Rochelle. Let Reynaurd burn like he burned my
father. Too bad he's already dead."
Haunted by memories of his father's screams, Becket
turned and swung his blade. Two iron candleholders tipped onto the bier, the
blaze slithering along the cloth-draped table toward Reynaurd's corpse. Smoke
curled, black and foul, burning his eyes, his nostrils, and he welcomed the
sting.
Rochelle hit Becket across the face with a cloth.
"You'll destroy DuBois!"
Becket stiffened. Destroy DuBois? He stared at
make a comely camp follower."
Rochelle swung a slap; her hand stung from the contact,
as did her emotions from the hatred that struck from his eyes.
"You will go to the convent as soon as your
father is buried, and good riddance." He spun and strode down the
wall-walk. Sunlight flashed from his armor, glistened from the rippled folds
of his jupon of ruby samite woven through with golden threads, from the
blue-black glory of his hair----the victor over the victim. The spider who had
entrapped the moth.
Shaken to the point of collapse, Rochelle leaned her
head back upon the stones and closed her eyes. He had given her until her
father's burial which meant she had three days.
Three days for the moth to trap the spider.
C HAPTER S IX
B ecket stepped from the bailey into the
doorway of the great hall after having inspected the vineyard, the portion of
land of most import to him, pleased at the extraordinary care given the vines
even with the shortage of labor since the plague. And then the incessant
death-knell had bombarded his nerves until he wanted to strangle something.
Against his will he scanned the room past servants and
an incredible beauty dressed all in violet, searching for Rochelle. He spied
her, then caught his breath, his unwanted reaction whenever he saw her, despite
her ill-fitting, almost ugly gowns. Now she wore black bombazine, not a good
color for her.
Black .
For mourning.
Rage built like a sudden storm. He scanned the chamber
again. Black cloths draped the walls. Reynaurd lay upon a white-clothed bier
upon the dais at one end of the hall as if king of the realm. Rage destroyed
Becket's tentative composure.
" Sacre bleu, woman! I will not tolerate
this blatant display of respect for the man who killed my father and stole my
lands."
Rochelle spun from where she and the young hellion who
had attacked him earlier hung even more unwanted drapes. She stiffened, her
usual response to his presence.
Becket stormed to the dais. He ripped the black cloth
from the wall, flinging the fabric to the floor. "You will not honor this
bastard!"
She pressed her hand to her chest as if to stop an
ache, her eyes wide with terror.
Furious, Becket swept his sword at the floor-standing
candle holders that stood like sentries around Reynaurd. Candles crashed to
the floor, flames licking through the dry rushes toward the bier, tasting, then
devouring the white fabric. Becket swiped his sword and four more candles
clattered in defeat.
"You'll burn him!" Rochelle appeared panicked
and furious at the same time, then ran to beat at the fire with her cloth.
"Water! Someone douse the fire!"
Becket snared her waist with one hand and snatched her
from the spreading inferno before her gown ignited.
The human windmill launched himself at Becket, beating
and kicking. "Don't you hurt her!"
The bothersome cat on the lad’s shoulder spit in
Becket’s eyes.
“Curse that---“
Rochelle rammed her fist underneath Becket's chin.
"Don't you harm him!"
Becket winced from his bitten tongue, then sidestepped
the lad's well aimed kicks. "Henri, snare this fearless wonder before his
arms and legs fly off. And skewer that blasted cat!”
“ Non! And my father . . .”
Despite her attempts to tear him apart, Becket set
Rochelle aside, barring her way when she attempted to dart around him to the
bier. "Stay back, Lady Rochelle. Let Reynaurd burn like he burned my
father. Too bad he's already dead."
Haunted by memories of his father's screams, Becket
turned and swung his blade. Two iron candleholders tipped onto the bier, the
blaze slithering along the cloth-draped table toward Reynaurd's corpse. Smoke
curled, black and foul, burning his eyes, his nostrils, and he welcomed the
sting.
Rochelle hit Becket across the face with a cloth.
"You'll destroy DuBois!"
Becket stiffened. Destroy DuBois? He stared at
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