In Honor Bound (21 page)

"Molly," the man called out as Tom began to warm himself, "bring the gentleman something to drink. Sit, sir, sit."

A girl of no more than fifteen came from out of the darkness at the back of the hovel. She was as thin and ragged looking as the man, and there was a hungry look in her dark eyes. She looked Tom over appraisingly, then handed him a wooden cup full of strong, stale beer. He grimaced as he tasted it, but drank it down anyway. It had been some time since he had last eaten.

She took the cup, filled it again and handed it back to him. He smiled gratefully and lifted the drink in a silent toast to her.

"Ah, Molly-girl, you're a sweet creature," her father said almost too heartily as she brought him a cup as well. "Is she not, in faith?"

Tom nodded, feeling uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

"You've come a long way then, have you?" the man asked when Tom did not speak. "It seems you've fallen on some ill luck."

"It changes," Tom allowed, holding his hands up again to warm.

His ring caught the firelight and the man leaned closer, squinting to study it more carefully. His eyes widened, and the girl looked at him questioningly. He urged her towards Tom with a forceful nod.

"Will you have more, sir?" she asked with a bold smile. "I see your cup is empty."

"Pardon me, but is there no food?" Tom asked, aching for something to fill his empty belly.

The man cleared his throat. "I was about to go into the village to try to sell the wood I have cut and bring home what I may from that. For now, you share in all we have."

"God shall bless your kindness," Tom told him earnestly, wishing he had not been forced to beg from those who had so little. "And in better times, I shall repay it as well."

The man nodded. "It may be late before I come back, girl. See the gentleman is well cared for."

Once he had gone, Tom moved closer to the hearth and felt the warmth of the fire and the liquor spreading through his cold bones, relaxing his tired muscles. The girl put the cup back into his hands, full again, and sat down on the bench next to him. Once more he drank deep, then handed the cup back to her.

"Come, drink," she coaxed. "It holds off the hunger, and maybe it will help you forget whatever it is that makes you so unhappy."

Sudden tears filled his eyes and he wiped them wearily away. He knew too much of Palmer's unshakable faith to doubt that he was anywhere but in heaven, and how could he truly mourn for him being there? Still, he felt the pain of irreparable loss. He should have surrendered, but it had happened so fast. So fast.

He took the cup again and emptied it. Once more she filled it and sat down next to him, nearer than before.

"I am sorry for it, whatever it is," she said, putting her hand over his, "but do not be sad anymore."

His fingers closed on hers and he took comfort from the warm nearness of her and from the tender sympathy he felt in her touch. He looked up at her and she smiled sweetly upon him and caressed his cheek, her body pressing closer to his as she did.

He felt a sudden heat rise in his blood and mix with the drink to muddy his thinking. "I, uh, I lost a friend yesterday."

The girl traced her finger down his jaw line. "Then we should drink to his memory."

Holding his eyes with her own, she drank from his cup then held it to his mouth. He drank more, but when he reached up to take the cup from her, she set it down on the floor and put his unprotesting arms around her.

"More?" she breathed, bringing her mouth provocatively close to his.

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Her arms tightened around him, and he began to kiss her in earnest, the drink robbing him of his habitual restraint. He kissed the curve of her neck and then her bare shoulder. Then he put one hand to the lacing of her bodice.

"I'll have that ring first," she murmured in his ear.

He froze as her words seeped into his muddled brain. The ring. The ring that had been entrusted to him as a Chastelayne prince. She'd have the ring and all that it meant. She'd have his honor, his faith, the last bit of his pride. She'd have the ring first.

With one sobering shake of his head, he could see clearly again – the wretchedness of the hovel, the miserable inadequacy of the fire, the hungry desperation in the eyes of the girl. There was no comfort here. He took one quick breath, as if he had been stung, then swiftly unclasped her hands from behind his neck.

"What is the matter?" she asked, a tinge of fear in her eyes.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up unsteadily. The memory of his Elizabeth, his wife, standing in the cathedral, her dark eyes pleading behind their fear, hardly hoping yet desperately needing him to be the honest, faithful lover he had pledged to be, rose before him, shaming him with her defenseless reliance on the pledge he had made. Now exhaustion and grief and hunger and loneliness had all conspired against him, had come near to besting him in one moment of laxness, almost before he had realized.
Oh, Bess-

"I have presumed too much."

"I am willing," Molly protested, standing and putting her arms around his waist.

"No." He pulled back, but she would not let him go. He grabbed her wrists and sat her down roughly, holding her away from him. "I cannot–"

Seeing her frightened expression, he softened his own, feeling a sudden compassion for her. She was so young, younger than
Elizabeth
. Whatever she was, whatever she had done, she was still just a girl. He sat down and forced his breathing to slow, his pulse to beat temperately.

"It was wrong of me to pay your father's hospitality with such ungentlemanly coin," he said, overlooking the part she had played. "Forgive me."

Her lip quivered. "Please. He will beat me if I let you leave here and have nothing from you."

"Your father?"

She nodded. "He wants that ring especially, I could tell. We rarely see anything so fine."

Tom swallowed down a sudden hatred for the man. "You do not know what it is you ask. This ring was given me in trust and is not mine to give. Besides, I would not want to dishonor you. You deserve better than to be used so."

"Me?"

"Do not fear. I will speak to your father when he returns. I promise you I will repay your hospitality ten times this ring's worth the very hour I am able. I will tell him so. Surely he'll not beat you then."

"And you are not angry with me?"

"No. Only with myself, perhaps, and with this miserable world. Perhaps when we have peace again we can find you a better means of earning your living."

Her expression told him plainly that this was the closest to kindness she had ever been shown. Without warning, she pressed herself to him again and tried to kiss him. He put her firmly away.

"I told you the ring is not mine to give."

"I would ask nothing in payment," she insisted, and he saw that his refusal had hurt her.

"My body is not mine to give either," he told her gently. "It belongs first to God, then to the sweetest lady in Christendom. I have already betrayed them both tonight. I'll not compound my fault any further."

"I wanted only to thank you," she said, confused and ashamed.

"Show me where I may lay my head for the night." He kissed her hand as if she were a fine lady. "That will be thanks and plenty."

***

The gnawing hunger woke him the next morning very early and, try as he might, he could not seem to fall asleep again. He lay on the thin pallet of straw trying to stretch the soreness out of his stiff limbs and stop the merciless hammering inside his head, wondering if he dared stay until the man returned with the food he had promised. Two days since the battle now, two days since Palmer, and no word of Stephen or of Philip.

He got up when the girl came to put more wood on the fire.

"Good morning."

"I hope I've not wakened you, sir."

"No. I was just debating whether I ought wait any longer for your father to return. I should leave here before sunrise."

"But you were going to speak to him for me," she reminded him, looking very worried. "About the ring."

"Yes, and I will, to be sure. And do not worry. Have faith and God will help you."

"He helps them that helps themselves."

Tom recognized the girl's father standing in the darkness near the door.

"It behooves a man to make shift for himself," the man went on. "One king or another makes us little difference. It is if we shall eat today concerns us most." He tossed up a small heavy bag and it made chinking noises as he caught it again. "I thank you, my lord, for this."

He flung open the door and soldiers poured into the tiny room, their swords drawn, Weatherford at their head.

"No," the girl wailed, and Tom turned grimly to the smug-faced lord.

"At last," Weatherford said. "I should have expected to find you with some strumpet. Well, look once more on him, girl. You'll not find him so comely if you see him after the king's justice." He kicked over the bench that stood between them and put the point of his sword to Tom's throat. "Bind him," he ordered and two of his soldiers wrenched Tom's arms behind his back.

"Comfortable, my lord of Brenden?" he asked once they had finished, and Tom nodded.

"More so than you could be, my lord, with so much death on your conscience, supporting a man like Ellenshaw."

"Keep still," Weatherford commanded, striking him across the mouth, drawing blood.

"Oh, forgive me, my lord prince!" Molly sobbed, realizing who it was she had helped betray. "Forgive me, I did not know!"

"No fault of yours," Tom said, looking with tight-lipped accusation at her father.

The man merely tossed the heavy bag once more into the air, and caught it again with a chink of gold, watching emotionlessly as Tom was taken from the hovel, out to where the horses and the other soldiers were. Molly followed after, her eyes wide and full of remorse.

"Put a halter on him, like the gallows meat he is," Weatherford ordered, and one of the soldiers knotted a rope around Tom's neck, forcing him to his knees as he did.

"Now comes your turn to walk," the soldier said with a gloating sneer, and Tom recognized him as the man he had left in the meadow two days before. There was a long, narrow bruise down the side of his face.

"I spared your life when I could just as easily have taken it," Tom reminded him coolly, and the soldier pulled him roughly to his feet.

"The more fool you."

"Move on!" Weatherford commanded and, tying the rope to his saddle, he urged his horse forward.

The soldiers kept up a brisk pace, Weatherford riding just fast enough to keep Tom at a half-running trot the whole while. When finally they halted, Tom dropped exhausted to the ground, his parched tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth, his heart pounding like a rabbit's. He swallowed painfully and twisted his neck to shift the rope away from the raw places it was rubbing on his skin, then he noticed Weatherford watching him.

"I trust you are enjoying your walk."

Tom licked his dry lips and dredged up an unconquered grin. "It is a fine day for it."

"Savor it, my lord. It's likely to be your last."

They soon set off again, and by nightfall Tom was standing before his cousin's makeshift throne in the great hall at
Cold
Spring
Castle
.