In Honor Bound (41 page)

"My lord, you cannot think so! They outnumber us five for one! They've had food these past weeks! They've got cannon! They've–"

"They've breached the wall, my lord," Philip reminded him matter-of-factly. "If we do not go out to them, they shall surely come in to us."

"Suicide," spat one of the soldiers, and Philip turned to him.

"With the men we have? With no reinforcements? Suicide," he agreed. "But with help..." A sly, knowing smile hovered at his lips and the others looked at him as if his reason had been shaken loose along with the ceiling beams at Winterbrooke Cathedral.

"There is no help, my lord,"
Darlington
said, holding his voice down with effort. "If we cannot stay here, we've nothing to do but go out and fight for your right and God's truth until our last man goes down. I say there is nothing better than to die for the right."

"And I say it is better to live for the right!" Philip turned to his soldiers, determined to replace the fear in their eyes with faith. "Hear me. Fight now and we do not fight alone. If we stand in faith, our God will send us help. He's promised us that and I will believe in Him though I stand alone.

"You do not stand alone," Tom said, and Philip warmly clasped his shoulder.

"All you who believe, who'll stand true to the Lord, to trust in His mercy, pray with me." Half-heartedly, the men knelt and Philip closed his eyes. "Holy Father, we have no wisdom but in You. We have no strength but in You. We have no hope but in You. I do not know how Your deliverance will come, only that it will come. Because of Your mercy and grace, it will come. God, You know my men are too few and too worn to face so mighty an enemy alone, but Your grace is enough to make a way for us. For Jesus' sake, I ask Your help and mercy today. Spare the blood of Your servants and of those who, seeing Your holy power, might come to call You Lord. Let Your will alone be done today, in the name of Your Son, Jesus, amen."

"Amen," Tom echoed firmly and a few more low responses came from among the soldiers. Philip lifted his head, a purposed fire in his eyes.

"Come, we've a battle to fight."

He leapt onto his horse and, with Tom riding beside him, led his army out onto the field.

***

Rosalynde looked down from her window, watching the soldiers form a ragged line before Winton's gate. At the sight of them, a great shout arose from the armies that waited at the bottom of the hill. Line after line of men on sleek horses, their fresh banners snapping arrogantly in the wind, waited for Philip's tattered army, waited for the morning sport to begin.

"Our men are so few!" Rosalynde cried. "God! God, help them!"

She could see Philip riding before them, and the faint, confident sound of his voice was borne up to her on the morning breeze. Deep, sobbing tears coursed down her cheeks. It made her ache to see him there– free and strong, shining with faith, fearless and utterly doomed.

"Please, Lord God, not now."

She would have grieved without consolation to lose Philip as he had been, Philip Ice-Heart. Now, now that he was finally her own, now that he was free from his bitter prison, now that she had at last been given one glorious taste of the love she had so long craved–

"God, please, I cannot lose him now!"

She had been so brave, so full of faith the night before. Now the reality of the enemy filled her with fear. She could no longer see down to the battlefield, her eyes were so dimmed with tears, and she reached for something to dry them with. It took her a moment to realize that it was Philip's shirt she had snatched up from the floor.

She held it caressingly against her as if he were still wearing it. Then, crying out in desperation, she buried her face in it. It still carried the delicious faint scent of leather and saint's rose and man's sweat– his scent.

"God," she mourned, "God, what can I do? I cannot lose him now that he's mine."

He is not yours. He is Mine.

Startled by the still voice inside her, she lifted her head and choked down a sob.

You must give him to Me.

"Lord–"

If I require him of you today, will you give him to Me?

"But, Lord–"

You must have no gods before Me.

She lowered her head for an agonized moment then went back to the window and took one last longing look at the god of her idolatry. Then she resolutely turned her back and went into the tiny chapel that was just off Philip's chamber. Realizing she still held his shirt, she pressed it briefly against her heart, then she laid it upon the altar and sank to her knees.

"Courage, my men!" Philip shouted with a flashing smile. He could see the fear on his soldiers' faces as they silently compared the size of the enemy forces to their own. Only Tom at his right hand seemed unafraid.

"Let us begin it," Tom suggested.

"Wait!" One of the captains pointed to a small party of horsemen coming towards them under a flag of truce. "It's Ellenshaw himself and King William as well!"

Tom looked hopefully at his brother. "Perhaps God has answered our prayers already, and they have come to make peace."

"Have you come to make peace, my lords?" Philip asked when they halted before him, but Stephen only laughed.

"We come once again to ask you to surrender, cousin, before you and all that are yours are destroyed. Give me back what's mine and I will give you mercy. Otherwise, you and all these fools who follow you will sleep in hell tonight."

"You know my answer, cousin. I have seen your mercy before– at Grant, at Abbey, at Breebonne– and I will give my life and all I have, if that is God's will, to keep you from selling off Lynaleigh to those who hate her and to keep you from destroying her people."

"God's will? You and your God!" Stephen jeered. "Where is your mighty God who sets you here with too few men to even bury your dead? Where is this God of yours? He is as helpless as you are!"

"God is not mocked," Philip said solemnly. "You will see His hand, if not today then someday and soon enough. There will be no denying Him then."

For a moment there was ominous silence, silence finally broken by Stephen's high laughter. King William glanced uneasily at Philip and Tom, unnerved by the unshakable certainty on their faces.

"We waste the day," he said gruffly, and Stephen sneered at him.

"Afraid?"

Still laughing, he spurred his horse and, relief on his face, William followed him back to their own men.

"No, God," Philip promised between clenched teeth, watching them go, "I will not doubt You. You will deliver us in Your own time and in Your own way."

"Be ready, men," one of the captains ordered. "They've almost reached their lines."

The men drew their swords and stoically awaited the signal to move forward.

"Have faith, for the Lord is with us!" Philip called to them. "This is His battle!"

"My lord, they are coming!"
Darlington
exclaimed. "We must go down now!" He stopped and looked down the hill. "We are lost if we hesitate!"

Philip shook his head and closed his eyes, fervently twisting the reins in his hands. "God, this battle is Yours. Show me Your way."

"My lord, they are coming!"
Darlington
warned. "For God's sake, begin it! Open your eyes!"

Philip did as he was urged and saw scores of fiercely armed soldiers swarming up the hillside. "Stand fast, men," he ordered. "No one is to move without my command."

His soldiers fidgeted where they stood, desperate to fight or flee, no doubt hoping they had not pledged their lives and honor to a madman. Philip sat quietly before them, waiting for Stephen to move up the hill.

"Will you stand there like sheep?" came the taunting voice. "My army was meant to go against men, not old women! And where is the power of this God you promised I would see? Are these all the ranks He could muster?"

Philip did not acknowledge Stephen's words or budge from where he was. He merely waited, watching the enemy draw nearer and bunch closer together so each of them would have an opportunity to strike at least one blow against the city's meager defense. He closed his eyes again.

"Show me Your way, Lord."

Now,
something inside him urged, and he looked up to see Stephen's ranks slowing, the neat lines blurring into disorder as the soldiers heard a rumble like thunder behind them. It was the sound of an army coming from the forest at their backs, from the west.

"It is Westered!" Tom cried, and Philip looked at him in astonishment.

"May we be of assistance, Your Majesty?" Westered called, pulling his spirited mount up beside Philip as his men began to array themselves behind the enemy forces. The armies of Ellenshaw and Grenaver faltered to a standstill and Stephen's generals halted beside him. They knew they could not fight so many and could not retreat. They had no choice but surrender.

Dismissing them with a look of contempt, Stephen spurred his mount up the hill until he and Philip were face to face. Then he lifted his visor.

"Come, cousin, we have still a kingdom to decide for."

Philip looked at his father-in-law, then back at Stephen.

"Spare the lives of your men, cousin," Philip said. "Surrender."

"I will not surrender! Not to a coward who'll not even fight for himself. You men who follow after this milk-livered whelp, is this who you would have rule you? If you be a king, cousin, if you think yourself worthy the name, you will settle this between us now. Just you and I alone to see who best merits rule here."

"You have nothing to prove, boy," Westered told Philip. "You needn't take the risk."

"Then we shall fight to our last man," Stephen sneered. "And you will have this blood, too, on your hands."

Philip looked into his rival's pale eyes and realized it was meant to be so between them. He had prayed God would spare the blood on both sides, and here was his answer.

He dismounted and dropped to one knee. "God," he said softly, his head bowed, "however You would have this battle end, end it here and let my sword strike only as You would have it so."

"Yes, pray for your soul, cousin," Stephen taunted, dismounting, too. "Your life already is mine."

Philip lifted his head. "Not yours, cousin, nor yet mine either, but come on." He drew his sword and kissed the hilt of it. "Come on."

"Never do it, son," Westered urged. "He has nothing to lose from it, and you have nothing to gain. He cannot win against us both together."

"This is between us, my lord," Philip replied. "Not for my pride nor for my honor, but because it must be so. Either I am king or he is. There can be no more doubt. Tom, if he should win, Winton is his. Take Rosalynde and Robin and keep them safe. My lord of Westered, I trust they will have shelter in your lands."

Westered nodded, and Philip turned back to Stephen.

"Cousin, if you are victor, as I said, Winton is yours as if we had matched our armies for it. None of my people will oppose you. Be warned, though. If you touch my family, my army and the army of Westered will cut you down and take it all back. Is that not so, my lord?"

Westered nodded gravely.

"Tom?"

Tom took him in a quick, fierce embrace. "End it here, Philip."

Philip nodded. "This will be the last," he said, then he put on his helmet. "Come, let us settle this thing."

Stephen smiled blandly and lowered his visor, then, without a pause, made a savage cut towards Philip's head. Philip parried the blow and redoubled it back to him with such swift power that Stephen sprang backwards in surprise.

"I did not half believe the tales of your prowess in battle, cousin," he said as if he were amused, then he slashed at Philip again, a blow that would have easily taken off Philip's head had it not been deflected.

He struck once more, his blade and Philip's meeting between the two of them, wedged together. Both combatants strained with effort, each pressing harder, determined to take the advantage, then the impasse was broken. Stephen's sword slipped up higher on Philip's with a metallic shriek, and both of them pulled back.

"I am going to kill you, cousin," Stephen panted. "I will see you in hell if I must accompany you there myself."

He raised his sword as if to strike again at Philip's head, then dropped his arm, catching Philip's leg just at the knee, forcing him down to the ground, but Philip, lighter and swifter in his chain mail than Stephen in his plate armor, rolled away from the next blow and scrambled to his feet.

"If you are bent upon visiting hell, cousin, you must go alone. I've come already as near that place as I care to."

Stephen lunged at him again, driving him a few steps up the hill then, gradually, to one side and down again, his blows falling hard and heavy. Philip repaid each one with interest, but he was not so sure-footed as before. Stephen's strike had left his knee deeply bruised and made him just a shade slower than usual. He was being forced farther and farther down towards the enemy army, slipping in the trampled grasses that had once been lush and green on the hillside.

"Hold him, Philip!" Tom called, moving with the rest of the men alongside the combatants.

"Retake the high ground, boy!" Westered shouted. "The high ground!"

Philip was almost to the forest now, unable to force Stephen back up towards the city. He was surrounded by the soldiers of both his enemies, but they cleared the way around him, knowing Stephen would want it so, and Philip was driven into the trees.

"God," he gasped under his breath, "show me."

Stephen's blade fell, again and again and again, but Philip found that, here where the land was level, he was no longer losing ground. He backed still further into the forest, forcing his opponent to follow him.

"Will you run, puppy?" Stephen demanded, and Philip drove him back a step or two.

"Only towards you, cousin."

Stephen swore and lunged at him, but Philip met the blow and turned him sideways so each of them had one shoulder to the forest and one to the city. Soldiers from both sides were circled around them now, shouting, straining, feeling each blow, adding to the ringing din of metal on metal.

"You shall win, Philip!" Tom cried. "He is falling back!"

"Come on, man!" William of Grenaver urged, seeing his ally's plight. "Do something!"

"Hold, cousin!" Stephen panted, holding up his hands, and Philip slowed his stroke. That instant of hesitation was all Stephen needed.

He struck again at Philip's leg, where he knew he was vulnerable, again forcing him down. Philip met his next blow from his knees, bent backwards almost to the ground, stopping Stephen's blade not inches from splitting his skull. Again their swords were wedged together at the hilts, neither of them able to move.

"You cannot defeat me, cousin," Stephen grated. "It is over."

Gradually, Philip pushed upwards, rising by main force to his feet, bracing his legs apart to keep his knee from giving way. Stephen swore again and pressed harder against him, trying to force him back down.

Philip increased the pressure then abruptly released it, throwing Stephen off balance. In an instant, he wrenched the blade from Stephen's hand and drove him back against a tree, forcing the air from his lungs with a whoosh.

"That is enough, cousin," Philip said, his tone leaving little doubt who was true king in Lynaleigh. "Now it is over."

There was a long pause as Stephen stood there, glaring defiantly, wheezing and gasping for breath with Philip's well-muscled forearm shoved against his windpipe.

"I– I yield."

A cheer rose from the armies of Westered and
Afton
and Philip dropped his weary arm. Tom was instantly at his side, taking his helmet from him, pounding his back in congratulation.

"My lord
Darlington
," Philip commanded as he pushed Stephen forward, "take my dear cousin here to our most secure cell."