In Honor Bound (4 page)

"As you say, Father. Shall we go on?"

Preceded by banners and trumpets and drums, followed by richly attired nobility, the royal family rode out into the streets of Winton, a brisk wind at their backs. As always, the peasantry crowded around them, cheering and whistling and covering them with blessings and rose petals. The king had his hands full with acknowledging their favors and keeping his horse from bolting. Once he made his speech, promising justice and prosperity to his people and thanking the lord mayor for his fine gift, he turned gladly towards home. The roan wanted more gentling before he could be ridden again among the people.

The wind was in their faces on the way back, tugging at cloaks and snatching caps and popping the rich, gilt-edged banners.

"I shall have my hair down about my knees before we've reached the palace," Elaine said, holding one hand to the heavy golden mass twisted at the back of her head. Just then, one of the streaming banners snapped loose and flew into the roan's face. With a shrill, terrified neigh, he reared up and struck out blindly with his hooves, beating the queen from her own mount.

"Elaine!"

Robert jerked at his reins, wrenching the beast's head to one side. Wild-eyed, the roan continued to plunge and Robert could only watch in horror as his wife's tender flesh was trampled into the cobbled street.

Braving the flashing hooves, Philip and Richard seized hold of the panicked animal's bridle on either side and pulled him away from their mother. Robert leapt to the ground and took his wife's battered body out of Tom's lap, pulled her crushed hand out of John's fearful grasp.

"Elaine."

He kissed her bloodied lips, then lifted her up in his arms, echoing her cry of agony.

Several of the nobles took charge of the roan and Richard and Philip went to their mother's side.

"Let me help you, Father," Richard offered, but Robert only crushed his wife tighter against himself, making her cry out again.

"Let him alone," Tom said low and Richard stepped back, his face marked with disbelief.

"It was over before it could be stopped."

"It could not be stopped," Philip said, his breath coming hard and unevenly.

John's eyes were wide, bewildered. "Mother?"

Tom put one arm around his shoulders. "Come on, John."

Robert carried his wife in his arms the short distance back to the castle, speaking low, loving words with every step. Their sons and all the others came in grim, silent procession after them. The physicians were sent for, every comfort was thought of, but no one seeing the crushed remains of so delicate flesh could believe there was any hope for more than a few brief hours of pain before death.

Somber and restless, the princes stood outside the chamber where their mother lay dying, watched the evening fade into night and, after eternity, watched the lazy sunrise bring in the everlasting morning. They heard her call sometimes for John, always John, but he was forbidden to go to her. Only her tormented husband was allowed at her side as the physicians labored against hope to save her.

Philip found himself burdened with a sorrow that surprised him. There was no mother heart in this woman for him, nor never had been, and he thought he had made himself proof against the instinctive pain that brought him. She had never taken much notice of any of her sons. Even John, her youngest, the one most like her, had only held her momentary interest. Her gowns, her jewels, her entourage of admirers, these had been much dearer to her, but Philip still felt some pain, some grief at her passing.

More than that, it was his father's sudden, cruel loss of the woman who meant more than the world to him that drew Philip's pity and remorse. Having so recently found such a deep love himself, he felt his father's pain as if it were his own. He knew if he should have Katherine only twenty or thirty years, it would not be near half enough. To have her so brutally torn away from him would be beyond bearing.

He could hear the priests now on the other side of the door intoning an ave, muffled and indistinct, and knew his mother was making confession. Soon she would be absolved and her spirit would be put into the hands of God, then the priests would be silent.

The silence came. The princes crossed themselves and waited for word to be brought. Finally the door swung open, and Robert came out of the chamber, pale and trembling, the bloody stamp of Elaine's wounds still on his white doublet. The brothers were startled at his expression. He looked furious, not grieved.

"You," he snapped, pointing at John. "I will have you from my sight and from my court. You are not to stay even the burying." He took rough hold of John's wrist and stripped the Chastelayne ring from his finger. "Go where it pleases you to go, but go now. Do not let me see your face again."

John flinched as if he had been struck, and Robert turned on Philip and Tom and Richard.

"I will not have a word from the three of you. Keep silent, or before God Himself, you go with him!"

He stalked into the room opposite the one where their mother's broken body lay and slammed the door.

Philip started after his father.

"No." John was pale and shaken. "I will go if he wishes me to."

"You'll not!" Richard said and, swearing a terrible oath, he flung open the door his father had just slammed and slammed it again behind him. Immediately the sounds of quarreling filtered out, the words unintelligible but the tone unmistakable.

"He is hurting, John," Tom said. "I am sorry he has hurt you."

"How could he say such a thing?" Philip fumed, pained by the shattered expression on his youngest brother's face. "He cannot mean really for you to go. By my life, John, you've always loved him better than any of us have!"

The three of them stood silent, listening to Richard's voice battling his father's, back and forth, louder and more vicious, until the door flew open again and Richard stormed out with the king close behind him.

"Richard!"

Richard halted and turned back to his father.

"Rumor is a strong tool in the right hands, my lord king," he warned. "Take care what you speak before the court. Once told, it cannot be again unsaid."

Robert considered for a moment then, looking at John, his eyes turned steely.

"Very well. I will say nothing to my nobles of this, but he is banished. I'll not be swayed from that."

John had not wept at the news of his mother's death, but now he did, the quiet tears slipping down cheeks that had not quite lost their childish roundness.

"If you banish him, banish me as well," Richard swore. "I'll not stay at your court if you do this to him."

"I'll not be threatened by you or anyone," Robert returned. "He is banished and you may do as pleases you."

Richard looked at him, fury coloring his face, then he grabbed John by the arm.

"Come on."

"I have sons yet to do my bidding, my lord of
Bradford
!" Robert shouted after him. "Your loss will not be keenly felt!"

"Stop them, Father," Philip insisted. "Mercy and grace, what has John done?"

"This does not concern you."

"Does it not? John is–"

"Father, please–" Tom began at the same time.

"Enough, Philip. Tom, not another word. Will you both rebel against me, too?"

"No, Father." Tom put a restraining hand on his brother's arm. "Come, Philip, I think we all of us would do well to consider for a moment before we say anything more."

"As you say," Philip agreed, and with a taut bow he left the room.

***

Robert sat down abruptly. The light from the window above him was unkind to his haggard face and made the wounded rage in his eyes all the clearer to see.

"May I get something for you, Father?" Tom asked.

"Bring me some wine, then leave me."

Tom overlooked the sharpness of his tone. "Shall I have Dunois tell the court of the queen's passing? They will be waiting."

Robert drew a harsh breath, as if he were going to swear, then he checked himself. "Tell him. And tell Richard he is to go to Tanglewood, if he must leave, and take– take my lord of Rounchaux with him. I will make it known that I have sent them there to lead the army at the border."

"Please, Father. John would never–"

"Not another word, Tom. Not one. Do as I bade you and leave me in peace."

Tom bowed. "Yes, my lord."

***

It was little more than a week later that word came of Richard's death.

"'Richard should never have gone out to them,'" Tom read from the letter John sent. "'They came to the wall and challenged us and, even with them twice our strength, he went out to them. He swore he'd never send to the king for more men, that we were easily worth their number and so many more besides, and he went out to them as merrily as if he were going to a May morris dance. I would God had made him more wise and less proud, but I think he's in heaven sure. I went to him, when the fighting was over. He'd been three times thrust through and could scarce speak, but he said 'Mercy, Lord Jesus, pardon...sinful soul' and more I could not understand, but surely God heard him.'"

"I know He did," Tom said and Philip nodded, but Robert only looked through them.

"Richard."

He put his head in his hands, then he took a deep drink of the wine that had been his constant companion in the days since the queen's death.

Richard was dead. The son he had groomed for kingship, the one he had meant for greatness, was gone. All that was left of his hopes was Richard's battered body, the child Margaret carried, and the echo of his own acrid words.

Your loss will not be keenly felt.

"I am sorry about Richard, Father," Philip murmured, only now daring to speak. "I know John is sorry, too."

"And well he should be," Robert returned, his grief now cold contempt. "Were it not for him, Richard would have not been there in Tanglewood to die. What more is in the letter? I suppose the city is lost, too."

"No," Tom said. "He writes he sent to Eastbrook for help, and it is firmly ours again."

"Let him see better to his duties, then," Robert said, "or, before God, I will have him driven from my kingdom altogether."

"Let him return to us," Tom asked, not for the first time.

"Show him your mercy, Father," Philip pled, "as you would have God show Richard His."

"Yes, faith, he shall have mercy," Robert replied. "All the mercy Ellenshaw can afford him down in Tanglewood. I'll not have him in my court. Do not plead for him again."

Winton had already been in solemn mourning for the queen and the loss of the crown prince only darkened the general woe. The peasants crowded the streets, each of them with at least a scrap of black tied on sleeve or hat, watching as Richard's coffin was borne into the city. Their silence was oppressive. Only in low murmurs out of public hearing did they reason among themselves on how swiftly these deep blows had been dealt the king at blind fortune's hand. Or, thinking back on deposed King Edward's death, was it the hand of righteous heaven?

The two funerals followed swiftly afterwards, separated by only a few days, the grim necessity of the war forbidding prolonged ceremony. As he watched his older brother's body being entombed in the splendor of Winterbrooke Cathedral, Philip felt a quick, wringing pain deep inside himself.

He and Richard had not been close, not since they had begun to grow into men and Richard had gone to be forever marred by war and willfulness. Often they had been at odds, both stubborn and fiercely proud, but, now that Richard was gone, Philip could only remember him as he had always known him, bluff and soldierly, reckless and mocking, but with a touch of pity and possessed of a brave heart, too. Glancing at the austere, dry-eyed widow, Philip realized that Richard had never known what it was to be loved, not as Philip knew even now with Katherine's anxious, pitying eyes on him from the other side of her mistress.

Well, Richard knew perfect love now, a better love, Philip was certain, than even his own precious Kate could give. He was glad that Richard had at the last been granted those final brief moments and had time to call for heaven's mercy. He was thankful, too, that John had been witness to Richard's last prayer and knew that the boy took great comfort in the knowledge that his impetuous brother was at last safe forever.

At least I have Kate,
Philip thought.
John has no one.

Still, he knew his father was grieving. John was the youngest, Robert's pet. He could not forever be angry.

***

A month passed and, in the midst of the continued mourning, Tom was married to Elizabeth Briesionne, daughter to the Duke of Aberwain. At her father's insistence, it had been made part of the betrothal agreement that she would stay only a week with her bridegroom, just long enough for the contract to be irrevocably consummated before she was returned to her home. There she would remain until, with the aid of her father's men and money, peace was achieved. She was his heir and only child, and he would have her kept safe.

So, at the altar, Tom looked for the first time into his bride's face. It was a good face, fresh and young, saved from plainness by a sweet mouth and large, expressive eyes as velvet brown as his own. She stood there for all the world like a scared little girl-child dressed in a lady's borrowed finery, not daring to look at him, not daring to respond when he squeezed her hand and gave her a welcoming smile.

Watching them, Philip hoped that Tom's smile was from his heart and wondered how he could bear to take this stranger to his bed that very night as the marriage contract required. He was glad he had himself been spared that indignity.

He watched the newlyweds part a week later and wondered how the girl could still have that fearful expression after Tom's tireless efforts to put her at ease. She would still not lift her eyes to her husband's face, but Philip saw her cast furtive, wistful, half-ashamed glances in Tom's direction whenever she thought she would not be seen. He smiled to himself and imagined that one day, when they were reunited, Tom's kindness and gentle patience would calm her maid-like fears and win her love. He prayed it would be so. Tom deserved it to be so.

***

Eventually, the news came to Westered of an alliance between the royal family and the Duke of Aberwain. Hearing it, Rosalynde felt her heart crash against her breastbone. Had so many of her prayers gone for nothing? Did her Philip belong to someone else now?

She remembered every moment of their time together, every word, every smile. She could still smell the winter in the breeze that blew off the sea, remembering how she had ridden out into the snow beside him, with Ankarette as reluctant chaperone. He had been dressed only to his shirt sleeves, without even his doublet, his shirt not even laced, and she had asked him if he did not need his cloak, but he had only smiled at her concern.

"Nonsense. There is nothing so wholesome as a fresh snow and a brisk wind to bank it everywhere."

"But you shall freeze dressed so."

"This is nothing, my lady. If we were in Treghatours, we would be to our knees, at the very least, in snow."

"I should like one day to see it."

"I'd not trade it for the king's palace," he had said. "They say Winton is fairer than anyplace in Lynaleigh, but I cannot believe it could match Treghatours for beauty. Faith, it has less of a winter than even Westered, and no saint's rose."

She had reached over and touched the emblem that adorned his horse's bridle. "Why is it they call it that, my lord? It looks to be no more than a little field flower."

"You mustn't judge its worth by its humble outside, my lady. Have you never seen one growing? Or, better, smelled of one? But, no, I suppose they grow rare so far west, too. Treghatours is always white with them come spring. They used to be called chastelayne. One of my ancestors took our name from it because it is always the first to come up each year, even before the crocus, and means hope. Still, that was long ago. The peasants have called them saint's rose since. They say the prayers of the saints make such a fragrance in God's throne room." He had grinned at her, she remembered it still. "Though why they call them roses I've yet to fathom."

"And there are none in Winton?"

"Not many, I do not think."

"Perhaps Winton has other beauties, my lord."

"Perhaps it does," he had allowed, "but I'd not live at court. There is no place there for an honest man."

"Perhaps if more honest men went to court, they could make it into an honest place."

He had smiled again at her earnest suggestion. "It is more likely the court would corrupt their honesty, but still, it may be a pleasant enough place. Now in Treghatours we have a meadow that would come near to take your breath away for beauty this time of year. There you might say you have had snow. I never take a cloak out in it there, no matter how Joan scolds."

"Joan?"

"Joan was set to look after me and my brothers from before I was born. She and her husband Nathaniel fair raised us all. If we are Heretics, it was they who taught us."

"I heard the Heretics' teaching once before," she had said, dropping her voice. "I saw no harm in it."

"I am not ashamed to count myself one of them. Far rather than follow after the priests who sell God's pardon or the bishops who play politics better than the nobility. I would not trust my soul to one of them, but only to God Himself, face to face. Has He not, by even the smallest act of His grace, earned our allegiance?"

She could see still the deep, fervent light in his eyes and hear the intense feeling in his words.

Beauty, nobility, grace, wit, and faith, too,
she had thought then and thought still.
What is there more to ask in a man?

"I suppose there might be something not so grave to speak of on a morning's ride," he had said when she made him no answer. "Perhaps we should go back. You are cold."

"Oh, no, my lord," she had assured him. "Ankarette's come near to suffocate me in all these wraps."

"Take some of them off, my lady, and truly feel the winter."

She had looked back again to see Ankarette even further behind. "It is stifling," she had admitted, then she had untied her cloak and dropped it back across her saddle.

"Now breathe deep," he had suggested. She remembered the rush of the cold into her lungs and the way he smiled at her pleasure in it.

"Now, my lady, let your horse have his head."

Forgetting Ankarette altogether, they had both let their horses go and Rosalynde had felt more the bracing tingle of the winter air in her face. Philip had pulled ahead of her and his laughter had come back to her on the wind as he jumped a shallow stream. Before he could caution her, she had galloped towards the stream herself.

"Lady Rosalynde!"

Rosalynde had turned at her nurse's horrified voice and at once found herself dumped on her backside in the middle of the water, gasping at the icy wetness. Looking back on it, she had found her dousing well worth it, with Philip wading out to her, asking anxiously if she were hurt, scooping her up in his arms.

"You will pardon me, my lord," Ankarette had scolded as Philip carried her, dripping, to the bank, "and saving your reverence, I'll have you know my lord of Westered will hear of this. She might have been killed for your foolishness. By your leave, my lord, you should know better than to teach a young girl such tricks. She has no business riding like some common wench. And jumping, God save us!"

Trying to soothe Ankarette's indignant objections, he had pushed the sodden little scrap of satin and ribbon that was Rosalynde's shoe back onto her foot, wrapped her in his cloak, and ridden away with her before him in his saddle, leaving Ankarette behind them again.

Rosalynde remembered resting contentedly against him, hearing the rumble of his apologetic words in his chest, glad to be there in the warm security of his arms, but, too soon, they were back in the courtyard and then before both of their fathers in the great hall.

"What's this, young man?" Westered had asked.

"Philip, explain yourself," Robert had demanded and Westered had immediately taken Rosalynde from Philip's arms.

"By my faith, she is drenched!"

"I am sorry, my lord," Philip had said. "You must forgive me not keeping better care of you, my lady." Again he had pushed her shoe back onto her foot, this time deftly tightening the ribbon.

"I thank you for the morning, my lady," he had called after her as her father carried her up the stairs. She remembered him looking up at her as he had in the courtyard the first time she saw him, that same smile on his face. That time he had taken her fancy. This time he had taken her heart. He had it still, she knew it deep inside herself, and now she could hardly bear the thought of him married to another.

"Which of them was it?" Rosalynde asked when she could trust her voice, and her father smiled at the anxiousness in her eyes.

"The younger one, Thomas of Brenden."

"Oh," she sighed. "Not that it is anything to me," she added quickly and Westered turned her face up to his.

"Is it still young Philip, sweetheart? After four years?"

She nodded her head and the tears filled her eyes.

"Is there none of the others who would please you, child? There are more than a few who have asked me for you."

"Oh, no, Father, please." She clung to his arm and hid her face against his sleeve. "None of them is worth one of Philip's boot straps. Not five of them together."

Over her head, Westered smiled. "Well then, they could hardly be worth my Rosalynde." He lifted her face again and kissed her nose, then he hugged her tight. "You shall have him, then, your Philip, if by any means I can get the king's consent."

***

Once his bride was gone, Tom had been sent to Chrisdale, to the army there, and Philip found himself virtually alone. His heart was with Katherine, always with her, but he saw little of her except in times and places where they may not openly speak. She was busied with the endless complications of Margaret's official mourning and he had his own duties as well, so there was frequently no more than an eloquent glance between them, a quick, fervent clasp of hands, sometimes a stolen kiss, before they were again forced apart.