In Honor Bound (2 page)

Margaret gave Philip an insolent, appraising glance. "Will he not?"

"No, faith," Richard said. "He's a very maid for chastity, but I have hope he will outgrow it."

The color rose in Philip's face, as if he were ashamed of his own innocence and angry that his brother had been able to make him ashamed of it. His eyes narrowed but he said nothing.

"As you have outgrown it, my lord?" Margaret asked, looking with perfect innocence into Richard's face. This time it was Philip who laughed.

"I am as honest as any nobleman need be," Richard said with a touch of pique. "One day, when I am too old for roistering, I shall mend my life and be as pious and dull as my brothers there. They are near Heretics for strictness."

"Pious and dull?" Tom popped a slice of fruit into his mouth with a smiling shake of his head. "You say it as if the two must go together perforce. Pious, I hope, but dull? May God spare me that. It was never His way."

"Nor the way of the Heretics," Philip added. "Nor mine either, I hope."

There were those they called Heretics, Rosalynde knew, even as far as Westered, those who believed outside the established church, who claimed a simpler, purer faith than was fashionable. The belief was strongest in the north, near Afton, but she had not thought it would reach so high among the nobility.

"Are you a Heretic, my lord of Caladen?" Margaret asked.

"I'd not call it so, my lady," Philip said, an easy certainty in his tone. "Is it heresy to live as pleases God without hiding behind the rituals and the hypocrisy of the church?"

"Best be glad you are here and not in the king's court, my lord," Margaret said, "when you speak so bold."

"I am not ashamed of my life, my lady. I would face whatever may come of it rather than deny what I believe true."

Richard took a smug drink of wine. "As I said, lady, he will outgrow it."

There was haughty amusement in Margaret's face and Rosalynde's eyes flashed. They had no right to make sport of this young man for holding to his principles, as if two or three years more of life had made the two of them all wise.

"I'll not believe it of him!" she said and Margaret laughed.

"I yield to your champion, Philip," Richard said, then he made a mocking toast. "Lady Rosalynde."

Rosalynde felt her face turn hot, but Philip smiled at her and also raised his cup.

"Again you honor me, my lady. I pray I prove worthy your faith in me."

She knew he said it impersonally, as any gentleman might in a chivalrous moment, but she could not help that odd quickening in her pulse when he turned that smile upon her.

"But you mustn't heed my brother too much," he added, a little mischief in his eyes. "We give him scope when he's had more than two cups of wine all of an evening."

"Faith, Philip, you are too good to me," Richard said, grinning. "I could never hope to deserve it of such a nonpareil."

He gouged Philip with his elbow, then the jugglers began their tricks, and treason, for the moment, was forgotten.

***

"My Rosalynde is quite taken with him," Westered said when he and the Duke of Afton spoke alone a few days later. "But she is young yet, I think, for such things."

"I was married at fifteen myself," Robert said, "and I have had nothing but pleasure in it. She and Philip would match as well as Margaret and Richard, I think."

Westered smiled. "A double bond never hurt a friendship, eh? That is if there is to be any bond at all."

"Of course you know there are more than a few young ladies
quite taken
with my boy," Robert reminded him and Westered's smile widened.

"Come, my lord, shall we speak freely? Did you not come here to dangle him and the other one, Thomas, in front of my Rosalynde's eyes to see which she'd prefer? I'll admit your boys are all, in breeding, manners, and looks, the very pattern of what a young man ought be, but Westered will not be easily bought."

"Do you count your daughters as negotiable merchandise, my lord?"

"As much as you do your sons. Come, we both want to see our children well matched and our dukedoms enriched, but you must confess there is some danger in marriage between our households. Especially between your heir and mine. The king will see nothing but rebellion in it."

"He would have no cause to care if he knew he held true title to the throne. He knows I am no longer a boy of seven, to be bullied into relinquishing what is rightly mine." The tautness in his face turned again into affability. "Still, I did not come to talk of such perplexities, but of both our futures."

"I have no quarrel with your title, my lord. There was no justice in your being set aside, regardless of your youth."

"You are not alone in that belief."

"I thought I might not be the only one you spoke to of this," Westered said. "Yet there is danger even in support of a just cause."

"True," Robert said, "and much gain to those willing to risk much." He smiled. "A kingdom for risk of a dukedom?"

"Or a chopping block," Westered observed.

***

The next day the snow melted and Rosalynde watched their guests sweep out of the courtyard as boisterously as they had come into it, it seemed such a short while ago. The days of riding and dancing, of long walks along the wintery beach and longer talks, of all Philip's chivalrous attentions, they were over.

There had been much ceremony in the parting between the two noble families, formal embraces and flattering farewells. Rosalynde had felt the blood rush through her when Philip kissed her hand and shocked herself with the wish that he would kiss her lips instead. She had never desired such a thing before, had never understood that longing in anyone else, but just then it had struck her deeply, painfully.

He had smiled at her again as he mounted his horse, then had to lean down to catch her breathless "God speed." Now he was gone, his horse's tracks mixed in with all the others in the mud the snow had left behind. She stared out towards the northeast, where she imagined Treghatours must lie, and wished he had never come just to leave again.

"You'll not die of it, goose," Margaret said, and Rosalynde did not turn around, knowing her whole heart was in her eyes.

"Still," Margaret continued, "he is a pretty piece of flesh. Now if you had been merely a serving wench and not his host's daughter..."

Margaret finished with an insinuating smirk but Rosalynde made her no reply, knowing anything she said would be mocked and twisted out of all recognition, but she did not believe it. Not of the fervent-eyed boy who had spoken time and again with such passion of his honor and his God. Not of her Philip.

A year passed and Margaret and Richard did marry. In two years more, King Edward's displeasure at their alliance was of no consequence. He was dead and Robert of Afton was king.

Philip was a prince, but Rosalynde heard little more of him. She knew he and Tom had been brought to court right after their older brother's marriage and held in polite captivity as guarantee of their father's loyalty. Then Robert had returned from the war in victory and, in one swift, bloodless move, had used the threat of his army to take the throne. King Edward was imprisoned and, shortly after, the announcement came that he had died in his cell.

Although the war in the Riverlands was over, there was a new war, in the south and in the east, as the former prince, Stephen, tried to retake the crown he had been raised to believe was his. Rosalynde sometimes wept at the thought of her Philip being slaughtered on the field of battle, defending a crown she knew he believed did not rightly belong to his father. But it pleased her, too, to think of him as a prince, to imagine him in the king's council standing for God's truth, certain he was one who would swear to his own hurt and not change.

There was still talk between his father and hers of a second alliance between Westered and Afton, but time passed and, despite her hopeful prayers, nothing came of it. She prayed for him anyway.

The great hall of the king's palace in Winton was filled with lights and music, trimmed with ribbons and garlands of summer and the white saint's rose everywhere. The banqueting tables groaned under their burden of roast peacock and swan, huge platters of roast beef and wine to tempt every palate. Robert of Afton had been king for a year now and he had invited all of his highborn subjects to celebrate the anniversary with him. That was not, however, the only reason for this gathering.

Stern and unwelcoming, Philip stood beside his father as, one after another, the eligible daughters of the nobility, fetched from throughout the kingdom, were presented to him. His presence here was not by invitation but by command.

"I have set the day for the great feast," Robert had informed him a few weeks before. "I will announce Tom's betrothal then."

"He is betrothed?" Philip had asked, surprised.

"I have contracted him to Lord Aberwain's daughter, Lady Elizabeth."

"And Tom is agreed?"

"He will be. I've not told him yet as my lord Aberwain and I have only just concluded our terms, but he will be. She is reported fair and pliant and most truly virtuous. Tom can find no fault in the choice."

"Except if he does not love her."

"If not, he will grow to it in time, as you will when you marry. In faith, I never once saw your mother until we were at the altar, but from that moment I loved her as deep and sweet as even your stubborn heart could wish. Tom may easily find it so for him."

"And if she does not love him?"

Robert had laughed. "Not love Tom? I defy the girl to do it! Besides, he knows where his duty lies, as I trust you do. I wish to have your betrothal concluded soon, too."

"My lord, you pledged me I should have until spring," Philip had said stiffly. Robert had often pressed him to choose a wife, but Philip had reasons of his own to put him off and had wrested from him a pledge to keep his freedom for yet awhile.

"You shall not marry until spring, I shall keep that true to you, but now is to promise. We have asked to the feast all the lovely maids whose fathers we wish to have bound to
Afton
. They are to be presented at court. Look among them, choose one, and I shall set my approval upon her."

"I cannot choose a wife as I would a horse or a pair of gloves – from stock on hand. I can tell you now already, there is none of them I could love."

Robert had taken a calm sip of wine, recognizing the stubborn set to his son's jaw and realizing that force would not move him now.

"It is that girl you've taken to sport with, is it not? This creature that waits on Richard's Lady Margaret, Katherine Fletcher? Surely you cannot mean to set aside your sacred duty and your honor, too, for your pleasure."

"I love her." Philip's stubbornness had melted into entreaty. "You said I might choose for myself now. Please, Father, let it be Kate. For that deep, sweet love you've known so long, the love I've only yet tasted, let it be Kate."

"It cannot be," Robert had answered. "I almost wish for your sake, son, I might say yes, but, even if we were at peace, it cannot be. Have you forgotten the blood you bear? The very noblest, the very most royal, and yet you would mix it so carelessly in marriage? With a serving wench? It cannot be."

"Forgive me, my lord, and do not think I mean you disrespect, but I cannot choose among your nobly bred maids. I cannot forsake the one I love. You know I have tried to please you since you betrayed the king–"

"I am the king."

Philip had rubbed his cheek, remembering the first time they had had this quarrel. "I know it. Please, Father, I do not mean to anger you. Ask me any other service and I swear I will be Mercury to do it, but do not ask this of me, I beg you."

"You know it must be so, but it need not fret you. Marry one of these girls, help me keep
Afton
strong, and you need not give up your Kate. I will see her safely to some secret place, away from the tongues at court, and there you may keep her so long as it pleases you. Meanwhile, your noble lady and her kinsmen need never take offense at what they do not know. Just spare me the knowledge of any half-blooded whelps she gives you."

Philip had looked at him in disgust, his dark brows drawn into a hard line. "You dare call yourself a king and my father and urge me to willful adultery?"

"You make fine distinction between adulterer and whoremaster."

Philip's whole body had tightened with the desire to strike the cynical smirk from his father's face. He had made a curt bow instead.

"I ask your leave to withdraw, my lord, before I am no longer master of my tongue."

"Go on then, but make yourself ready to choose a wife come the feast day."

"I have told you my choice."

"And I have told you, that cannot be. Do you think this is some boys' game we play now? You are a Chastelayne prince. Your marriage is a matter of state. When you have tired of this wench, you will thank me that I have not let you tie yourself forever to one so far beneath you."

"Do what you will," Philip had said. "I'll not be threatened or cajoled or ordered into marrying anyone."

"See here, proud boy–"

"No, my lord, I do not nor will not see. Pardon me or let me not be pardoned, but do not force me in this. It can never be."

"It must be," Robert had said gravely. "Please you or no, it will be."

So now Philip stood watching the seemingly endless line of gentlewomen, some little more than children, some older even than his own mother. Their simpering chatter stung his already-nettled temper. It pleased him no better to hear them say among themselves that his frowns were as becoming as most men's smiles.

He could not have said afterwards which of them were fair and which were plain, which seemed well spoken, which quiet and shy. Many of their names he knew already, having heard them bandied about for several months now along with a catalog of their virtues and possessions.

He wondered vaguely why Lady Rosalynde was not present. He remembered her as modest and gentle, and it had pleased him to do as his father had asked and show her a little gallantry. Robert had asked it of him many times before and since, with the daughters and cousins and nieces of other noblemen, but it was only later that he realized his father had more than courtesy in mind when he did. Philip suspected now that Robert thought Margaret was alliance enough with Westered. There was a multitude of ladies among whom Philip might choose and other noblemen who might be bound to
Afton
with a well-considered marriage.

After all the others, the Lord High Chamberlain, Lord Dunois, Baron of Paxton, presented his daughter Marian – a timid, greensick girl of fourteen, as pale of hair and skin as her father was dark. Philip kissed her thin hand and said something grudgingly pleasant, word for word what he had spoken to each of the others, and Dunois looked with fondness upon her.

"I shall be glad to have her at court with me now. I have missed having her gentleness always about me."

He neglected to mention that he had seen her but once since she was eight years old.

"She will be an ornament to our court," Robert said. "Will she not, son Philip?"

"Of course, my lord," Philip said dutifully.

"She has been most eager to dance with you, my prince," Dunois said, giving the girl an almost-imperceptible push forward.

"Please, no," she whispered, her eyes pleading against her father's subtle urging. She pulled back, catching Philip's glance, and the tears started into her eyes. Philip let an encouraging smile soften his expression.

"Please, my lady," he said, offering his hand. "You would do me much honor."

Dunois signaled the music to begin and Philip took the little bit of childishness into his arms, ignoring the satisfied expression on her father's face.

"You needn't dance the whole measure with me, my lord," she said gratefully as he whirled her across the floor. "My father would have me to dance with you, but I would never presume – ”

"You, my lady, do not presume, and for that I count you my friend."

***

"He's taken to her," Robert said, watching her flush with pleasure at his son's careful attentions, and Dunois could hardly manage a serene reply.

"She'll do well enough, for such a little chit of a girl. Her mother, you know, was the Duke of Ellison's niece."

"Was she, in faith? Then there is a touch of the blood in her. It speaks well, my lord. It speaks well."

Dunois said no more of his daughter’s pedigree. There was no need. He could see the idea glimmering already in Robert’s eyes.

The king and queen danced frequently that night and between times sat close together, sharing a cup and a plate, their glances full of deep secret meaning, their eyes sparkling more brightly than the jewels in their heavy crowns.

Richard, too, danced awhile with his own wife, making great show of his affection towards her and hers for him, knowing what a pretty sight they made together, him with his solid dark handsomeness and her with her honey locks and eyes of green. Margaret would make him a fine fair queen, and if he found her tedious company already, well, the people needn't see that.

As the night wore on, many of those less inclined to merrymaking retired to the comfort of their bedchambers. Even John had been hustled off to bed by one of the servants. The rest of the nobility, well heated with wine, sang and danced and drank yet more, growing louder with each passing hour. The dancing went faster and faster and the room swirled with color, sparkled with the silver and gold of rich jewelry.

Richard led the revels, downing a flagon of wine with each of his numerous changes of partner. Tom joined in, too, dancing with this lady and that, blind to their admiring glances, evading their too-possessive embraces, making them laugh with his piercingly humorous refusals of their attentions and winning them the more because of it.

Dunois watched as Philip danced with one potential bride and then another, but always he returned to little Marian, setting her at her ease in this vast world of strangers, finally coaxing a smile from her. Evidently he pitied greatly to see her used so for her father's advancement. Pity was as good a lure as any, Dunois supposed.

"It seems you have chosen after all," Robert said late in the evening after he had called Philip to a quiet corner of the hall.

"My lord?"

Dunois bowed. "I am honored, my prince, but I dare not hope that you have chosen to grace my poor house–"

"You mistake, my lord," Philip said, turning stern eyes on him, "if you think I mean to marry your daughter. You spoke truly of her gentleness and I believe of herself she is a most worthy lady, but I'll not marry her."

"Philip!"

Seeing his father's indignation, Philip made his tone more gentle. "I do truly ask your pardon, my lord Dunois, for I am sure in time Lady Marian would bless any man with her heart and hand, but I cannot marry her. I know you have done good service for my father, but I cannot do this to please you or him. Not and be true to my heart."

Robert's lip curled into a sneer. "True to your heart! As if the baseborn slut you've chosen could mean more than sport to a royal prince. Go back to the ladies, boy. Choose the one you best like and bring her to me. I've no more patience for this."

For a moment Philip stood glaring, then he bowed. "At your pleasure, my liege."

The two men watched as he stalked across the room, Dunois noting with growing satisfaction that he was going towards Marian, but he turned aside before he reached her and instead pulled one of the waiting women out from among Margaret's astonished attendants, a little plain, fair-haired girl, not yet twenty.