In Honor Bound (11 page)

"Philip," Robert breathed, unstrung by what he had done. Sitting on the floor, he took Philip's limp body into his arms and pressed his pale cheek against his son's bloody one. "Philip, Philip," he murmured over and over again.

There was no response.

Palmer stood with his back to Tom's door, his arms obdurately crossed. "I do not know what was said between them, but it's weighed heavy on him. He's had no rest since he came from Prince Philip's rooms, not till just now, and I'll not have him disturbed."

Rafe was equally adamant. "Lord Philip would speak to him, and I know what he has to say will be better for Lord Tom than a fortnight's sleep. Livrette will have done with his work by now, and I told the prince I'd fetch his brother for him straight away. You must at least tell him–"

"Tell me what?" Tom asked leaning in the doorway, too sleepy to stand unsupported. He still wore the clothes he had worn the day before, and his face was pale under the dark late-morning stubble of his beard. "How is Philip?"

"Much improved, my lord," Rafe said, with a encouraging smile that did not acknowledge Palmer's scowl. "Forgive me disturbing your rest, but he sent me for you."

Tom's expression brightened. "He wants to see me?"

"He does. Go to him, my lord, please. Your father is with him now. After the death of Lord John, they will both need you."

"My father, too?" Tom looked reproachfully at Palmer. "When did he arrive?"

"Not an hour ago, my lord," Palmer said, then he frowned again. "My lord, you've not slept well in days. You'd only just dropped off when the news came that the king was here. I could not bring myself to–"

"Never mind now, just come in here. I need some fresh clothes and to be shaved." He sighed heavily then turned to Rafe. "I will be there."

Just then Livrette rushed in to the corridor. "My lord, forgive me disturbing your rest, but the king has dismissed me, and he was in such a temper I fear he will endanger my lord Philip's recovery."

Tom rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and yawned. "I shall go now, then. Never mind the shave. You had best come along, Rafe, to see to Philip. And you, too, Palmer. I know you will anyway."

***

Tom shook his head sorrowfully as they walked to Philip's chamber, fully expecting to find his father and brother at each other's throats. Even John's death, it seemed, could not soften the tension between them.

His heart lurched to see Philip unconscious in his father's arms, his face deathly pale and bloody. Robert's face, too, was pale and bloody, but the pallor came from fear and the blood was not his own.

The king was still rambling wildly, filling Philip's insensible ears with excuses and calling on every saint he could name to revive him, when Tom came up behind him and put one hand on his shoulder.

"Father."

Robert's head jerked up.

"I've killed him," he said, his ghostly voice sending a chill through Tom's heart. Tom dropped to one knee and put two fingers on the side of Philip's throat, then he breathed a little easier for the steady throbbing he felt there.

"Philip," Tom said, shaking him sharply, but there was no response.

"I've killed him," Robert repeated, displaying his blood-smeared hand as proof.

"Let us take him, my liege," Livrette coaxed, sliding one arm under Philip's shoulders, but Robert only held him more tightly.

"You must let them tend to him," Tom told him.

With Palmer's help, he pried his father's fingers away. Rafe and Livrette lifted Philip up onto the bed, and the physician began to wash the blood from his patient's face, wise enough to keep his indignation to himself.

Tom helped his father stand, intending to lead him from the room, but Robert struggled again to go to Philip's side.

"Philip–"

"No," Tom insisted, and he and Palmer held the king back. "You must leave them alone, or he truly will die."

"He lives yet?" Robert asked, seizing Tom by the upper arms. "I did not kill him?"

Tom squirmed under the vise-like pressure. "No. He is alive still."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, then the king dropped his hands helplessly to his sides.

Tom urged him towards the door. "Let us leave them to their work."

"Tom, you must understand–"

"It does not matter now, Father," Tom said, feeling sudden weariness wash through him. "If you will, I think it would be best if you rested from your journey. No doubt you are tired. I know I am."

Robert looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You look as if you've not slept." He brushed his fingers across Tom's rough cheek. "Or been shaved."

"I will, Father, as soon as I take you to your rooms."

"You will see that he is well as soon as possible?" Robert asked, abruptly recovering his authoritative tone, and Livrette managed a deferential nod.

"Everything will be done to speed his recovery, my liege."

"See it is, then. You shall be well rewarded," Robert said, then, with another glance at Philip, he followed Tom out of the room.

Once he had left his father, Tom returned to his own room, with Palmer, as usual, dogging his heels.

"That is all, Palmer. Go amuse yourself. Go ride or hunt or what you will. I am going to bed."

"I will wait upon you, my lord," Palmer said, but Tom refused.

"I will not need anything till nightfall but sleep, and that is something I must get for myself."

Palmer nodded. "True enough. Sleep well, then."

Tom watched him walk unwillingly down the corridor, then he went into his chamber and sagged against the door he had shut behind him, his arms crossed over his eyes. This
glory
his father had chosen and for which he had fought so hard had become such a hell of death and rage and hate, could there ever be peace now, in the land or in his family?

Could there be peace between his father and brother after this? After there had already been so much between them that Philip had not forgiven? So much that was to all mortal concept unforgivable?

"Lord God," Tom began, knowing that only the Almighty could heal these wounds, but he felt a relentless wave of sleep pass over him, and he realized he was too tired even to pray. "Forgive me, Lord," he murmured half-intelligibly, then he stumbled to the bed and fell across it, immediately asleep.

When he awoke, he found that his boots had been removed and he was no longer lying across the bed but under the coverlet with his head on the pillows. He recognized Palmer's handiwork.

"What time is it?"

"It's not yet
noon
, my lord. You've slept no more than two hours."

Tom sat up. "Has there been news of Philip? I want to be with him when he wakes. I know he'll be stewing over this."

"I've heard nothing yet, my lord," Palmer said. "I made inquiries while I was out, but all Livrette would say was that there was no change. I've been here since."

"Well, so long as you are here, I want you to shave me and get me something to wear."

"My lord, can you not rest awhile more? It may be some time before Lord Philip wakes. He is well tended, I know. You needn't worry on that account."

Tom threw off the covers. "I have to be there for him. Come, my razor. I shall feel much better once I get this stubble off my face and these stale clothes off my back."

***

The late afternoon sun was slanting through the narrow windows when Philip again opened his eyes. His head felt heavy, as if it were packed with sand, and the gash in his cheek throbbed in rhythm with the pounding in his skull. There was another pain, too, different from the hurts he had wakened to for so many days now, and this pain, like all the others, could not be remedied. He did not fight it.

He turned his head and found that he was not alone. Tom was there, kneeling beside the bed, his cheek resting on his prayer-clasped hands, his eyes closed in exhausted sleep.

Philip quickly dismissed the thought of prayer and stared up at the ceiling, forcing himself to concentrate on nothingness.
When the pain is gone, nothingness is all I will have left.

Feeling stiff, he tried to roll over, but the movement wrenched something inside him and stabbed him through with pain. A surprised gasp escaped him, and Tom woke with a start.

"Philip?" Tom studied his brother's face, waiting for an answer, receiving none. "Philip, shall I get Livrette?"

Philip answered him with a indifferent shake of his head and Tom's expression grew more anxious.

"How do you feel?"

"Well enough."

"But you sounded as if–"

"It is nothing."

Tom put one hand on Philip's forehead. "Your fever’s spent. Tell me what happened this morning. Father is beside himself."

Philip fingered the thick bandage on his face. "I spoke to him something more roundly than I should, that is all."

"Philip, whatever is between you, he is sorry. You know that he–"

"Leave it, Tom. It does not matter."

Philip's voice was empty and brittle and Tom watched him for another moment, seeming helpless to know what to say. Finally, he stood up.

"Rafe said you asked for me last night."

"I suppose I was still in a fever then and knew not what I said, but I am certain it was nothing. Rafe can see to all my needs."

"Will you forgive me?" Tom asked, his dark eyes pleading. "Losing John as we did, I was desperate not to lose you, too, but it was wrong of me to let you be misled. You know I am sorry."

"You need speak no more of it. It is forgotten."

"Philip, I know it hurts." Bewildered tears came into Tom's eyes. "It hurts me as well. Please, do not turn me off coldly now. We can better bear our grief if we bear it together."

Philip could only look on impassively. "I have no grief. John is safe and well, just as you said, and I've no need to mourn for that."

"Philip, please. Please."

"I am only hungry and a bit stiff."

Tom took a slow, deep breath. "I will send for Livrette."

"I do not need him."

"Very well, shall I send Rafe to you?"

Philip nodded. "I should be most grateful."

There was still pleading in Tom's eyes.

"Truly, Tom, I need nothing but some food to give me back my strength. And you need not look at me as if I've lost my senses. I know full well where I am and what has happened." Philip smiled. In spite of his efforts, it was a cold, empty little smile that made Tom flinch. "I am fine, Tom. Truly."

***

Tom sent for Rafe, then went at once to his father's chamber and dismissed his attendants. There were two empty bottles overturned on the table and another, still half full, beside them. Robert was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands. He winced when Tom shut the door, then he lifted his head and looked blearily at his son, red-eyed and slack-jawed.

"What of Philip?"

Tom had to force himself not to draw back from the stale stench of strong liquor on his breath. "He is awake and seems to have little fever. He's asked for something to eat."

"Thanks be to God! I must speak to him."