In Honor Bound (27 page)

"Jerome!"

The boy leapt to his feet. "That is my name," he said with an ungainly bow. "At this very moment, I trust God is writing it again in His book of charitable deeds."

Rosalynde could not keep from smiling as he ran out of the barn calling to the cook.

All that day, Rosalynde never left Philip's side, lavishing on him all the care and devotion he would not allow her to show him when he was well. She dared do no more than doze now and again, afraid Philip in his delirium might say something in the boy's hearing that could expose them to their enemies.

Late that night, Philip's temperature rose alarmingly, throwing him into convulsions. Terrified, Rosalynde called Jerome down from the loft and the two of them rubbed Philip down with cold water in an attempt to reduce the fever. As quickly as they had begun, the convulsions stopped and Philip was still, only his uneven breathing giving proof of life.

"Dearest Lord God, spare him," she plead, afraid and exhausted almost beyond endurance. "Oh, please, God, do not let my child be born without a father."

Jerome gaped at her as she blotted the cold water from Philip's skin with her cloak.

"A child, too? Oh, you should rest. You cannot spend so long tending him and not yourself and your child."

"I cannot. He needs me."

"You must or you will be no use to him at all. Let me watch over him while you sleep."

"No, I cannot ask it of you. We're none of your worry."

She had seen the arduousness of the work he had done all that day, man's work, not boy's, and knew he must be worn. Still he seemed determined.

"You did not ask it of me, I asked it of you. Let me play Samaritan, mistress. It could do no harm for me to have my name written yet again on the good side of God's book. Please."

She nodded her head and felt a sudden release of hot, weary tears. "God surely has an entire book just for you, Jerome."

"Several volumes, else I'm mistaken," he said with his usual lopsided grin.

He made a place in the straw for her next to her husband then covered them both with the blanket.

"You will wake me if anything happens?"

"If he so much as sighs, you'll know of it," he assured her.

"God's blessing on you, Jerome," she said as she closed her eyes.

"And on you."

***

Jerome shook her awake a short time later.

"He's drenched in sweat of a sudden, mistress. I thought you should know."

"Poor love," Rosalynde murmured, her eyes all pity as she pressed her hand to Philip's cheek.

Jerome looked more concerned when her expression suddenly changed. "He is worse?"

"No. Oh no, much better. His fever is broken at last." She smiled through her tears. "He is only sleeping now, good sweet sleep."

"I am very glad," Jerome said through a yawn. "Is there more I can do?"

"Only go back to your bed," she told him, giving his arm a squeeze. "You have been too kind already."

With a weary grin, the boy climbed back up to the loft. Rosalynde wiped the sweat from Philip's brow, grateful to see the pain lines had smoothed out of his face. Then she curled up next to him again and laid her head on his chest, relieved to hear the steady pounding of his heart and the clear rush of air in his lungs. Her fervent, half-coherent thanks rose up to heaven until she, too, slept.

She woke at mid-morning and, careful not to disturb him, she went to the bucket to splash her face. The girl she saw reflected in the water was almost a stranger to her, so pinched and worn looking as she was. She tried to push her snarled hair into place, but with a sigh she gave it up and spoiled her mirror by drinking from it. When she turned back around, he was awake.

He lay there in the straw, spent and shivering. His hollow eyes darted apprehensively around the shadowy barn until they lighted on the one thing he recognized.

"Rosalynde?"

She went to him, relieved at his lucidity, glad that he had called her by her name and not by any of the cold titles he usually used with her. He gulped down the water she brought, holding her wrist tightly with both hands as he did.

Breaking into a cold sweat from the effort, he slumped back into the straw, and she took him into her arms. With the fever gone out of him, she knew he must feel the cold all the more, and she was something warm and soft and familiar to him. He huddled against her like a child, clinging the closer when she stroked the damp hair off his forehead.

"Where is this place?" he asked, his voice ragged and parched, his expression troubled.

"You have been so ill, my lord. This was the only refuge we could find, but Jerome, the stableboy, has been very kind. He's helped me tend you, though he does not know who you are. His master has no love for
Afton
, I fear. He must not find us here."

"But where is this? Are we yet in Attlebrae?"

"No. Stephen's men came the first night you were ill. Thursday it was. They routed our army and burned the whole town, attempting at your life. We only just got away."

He looked about again, bewildered. "But where are the others?"

She was unable to cloak the fear in her eyes. "There are no others. We are alone."

"Rafe?"

"He went to my lord
Darlington
for help. Pray God, they will come for us soon."

"We should go to them."

"No. Please my lord, do not think to leave yet. Jerome will see we are safe until help comes."

"Jerome?"

"The stableboy I told you of."

"Oh." He pushed his fingers through his hair, looking as if he was finding it difficult still to think clearly. "Uh, Attlebrae is burned, you say?"

"Yes."

"And all our men gone?"

"Yes."

He put his hand over his face. "Great God, have mercy on us all."

"It will be well," she soothed. "God will protect us, and I will be here to watch over you."

That made him laugh a little, but not unkindly. "I think you would make a fierce warrior, indeed."

She laughed a little, too.

Rosalynde and Philip both slept again, and it was he who woke first a few hours later. He watched her for a moment as she slept, propped against the rough beam in the wall. She looked very tired, but there was a sweet purity in her face that he had not before allowed himself to see. He found himself drawn to her, and just now he was too weak to resist the feeling or to even tell himself he ought to. It did not occur to him to try to move away from her.

He felt oddly at peace here. He remembered most of what she had told him about where they were and why but, lying in the warm circle of her arms, he felt only a comfortable weariness and a deep contentment that he did not quite understand. He was hungry and worn and pursued by a ruthless enemy, but here he felt nothing but peace.

She woke when he moved to stretch and he answered her inquiring look with a vague, sleepy smile.

"I feel I should say good morning, but I can tell it is almost night again."

Her smile was shy. "Do you feel better?"

"I feel hungry."

Her eyes warmed at that. "Shall I see if I can fetch the stableboy?"

"Jerome."

She smiled again. "Yes. Shall I fetch him?"

"Is it safe?"

"We mustn't be seen, I'll grant you. I shall just peep out the doorway there and get him."

The risk seemed inconsequential to her now, as if, seeing him awake and hungry, she was sure the danger was past. She slid his head off her lap and stood up.

"Have him bring a great lot of food," he said after she tucked the blanket over him. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he was again asleep.

***

A thin, hard line of cold pressure woke him he did not know how long afterwards. He dared not move for fear that the long blade would cut his throat.

"Now there will be only one king."

"Dunois!"

"Good evening, my lord," Dunois said, his eyes glittering as coldly as his sword.

"Let me up. What do you mean by this?"

"I mean to serve my master and take your life, dear my lord."

Philip stared at him in disbelief. "Your master?"

"Stephen of Ellenshaw, my king and yours."

"You betrayed his father, my father, and now me, and will he trust you?"

"He has for some while now. I have been his silent ally since before your father died."

"So you were the traitor after all. It follows now how we lost Winton." Philip allowed himself no expression but royal disdain. "I marvel you dare show your face to me without a pack of my good cousin's soldiers to guard you."

"They are waiting for us outside. Ellenshaw thought surely you were with your army, making for Treghatours, but I knew better. I knew you would try to lose yourself somewhere in this wretched wilderness. I brought these men to deal with any escort you might have with you, but the pleasure of taking your life I have reserved for myself. Have you made peace with your God, my lord?"

Philip's mouth was suddenly dry, and he made no answer.

"They tell me your father was whey-faced with fear, too," Dunois prodded, "before his throat was cut."

Philip did not allow himself to tremble. He had not seen his father die. He had not seen the warm crimson that had spurted from his father's veins onto his assassins. He had not seen the unmistakable terror in Robert's eyes in that instant when he knew he was about to stand before God Almighty in the gross ripeness of his sin, unprepared for judgment. Philip had seen none of this, but he had drawn it over and over in his mind from Tom's description. He knew without doubt, with Dunois' knee digging into his chest and the sharp sting of Dunois' blade at his throat, that the same look was on his own face now.

"You betrayed him did you not, my lord high traitor," Philip said, letting contempt mask his fear. "What honor did you lack at his hands or mine that makes you betray
Afton
now?"

"He offered me half his kingdom because I had made him king of it. It was my right to take it, too, but I asked only the half of that. One quarter of his greatest wealth was all I asked and he promised I should have it. It was he who betrayed me. He did not make his promise good, after all I had done for him, so now I'll take what he offered and by force."

"If my father promised you a quarter of his wealth for helping him to the crown, it is only right I should make his word good. Then I will have you hanged for treason."

"Very generous of you, my lord," Dunois said with a sardonic grin. "Still, you cannot make it good, unless you consent to renounce your queen and take my daughter Marian in her place."

"I do not understand you."

"I asked for one quarter of your father's greatest wealth, but not an ounce of gold or a foot of land. I asked for one of his fine sons."

"You asked for–"

"He promised me that you, my lord, would marry my daughter and ally my house with the kings of Lynaleigh. He did not know it then, but it was to be my grandson on Lynaleigh's throne one day."

"But Richard was the next heir. Did you mean to kill him, too?"

"If need be. Your father and I knew we needed Westered's support if ever we were to overthrow Edward and we knew that Westered would not back a rebellion for anything less than the crown prince for his daughter. Richard and Margaret had to marry. If Richard hadn't been killed when he was, I would have had to arrange something. I did convince his grieving widow to destroy his child. I thought my way was clear then, for I never thought Stephen would truly take her despite what I told her. Next I knew your father was begging my pardon and beseeching me understand that he must have another alliance with Westered and you must marry Lady Rosalynde and not my Marian. I hope there is a deep pit in hell for those who break faith."

"It will be your own soul howling there then."

"Not before I see the name Dunois in the line of Lynaleighan kings."

"Killing me will not give you what you want."

Dunois laughed. "Will it not, in faith? There is still Stephen. I tried for years to get King Edward to match his son and my daughter, but he only laughed at me and said he was determined to have a princess as wife for his heir. Now Ellenshaw needs me again, and I shall have what I want. Your loving cousin Stephen has pledged his word that he would himself marry Marian if I but bring him your head. I'll do it, too."

"He's married to Margaret already," Philip said, trying to sit up. Dunois only widened his smile and pressed the blade more firmly against the throbbing vein in his throat.

"She can be disposed of easily enough," Dunois said matter-of-factly. "I think my king found her a deal less desirable once her father disinherited her to keep his support with
Afton
. Stephen told me he will gladly replace her now. Your father and I managed at least an appearance of legality, for your sake, when that Fletcher woman was made away with. I think Stephen's requirements are not so precise."

Philip felt a sharp stab of old pain. "You knew Kate was innocent, and you consented to her death."

"I suggested it. I even convinced her to confess, that if she did they would not burn her for the sake of her child, and she condemned herself in doing it. It was masterly done," Dunois gloated, "even if I praise myself to say so."

Philip tried to speak, swallowed hard, then tried again. "Her child?" he choked out finally.

Dunois looked down on him, savoring every nuance of torment in his face. "Her child. Your child, my lord, more's the pity. She and the child both would have been safe had they not been yours, had they not stood in my way." He pressed the blade deeper into Philip's skin. "Do you think I could let a low born slut bear the legitimate heir to Lynaleigh while my own daughter is set aside? Do you think I would let an arrogant boy's petty passions confound my plans? No more than I will let you stop me now. Your father promised me his son to make my daughter queen. I take him at his word. Your death buys the throne for Dunois. Say your prayers, if that comforts you."

Philip's heart skipped a beat as the sword suddenly jerked and the edge bit into his throat. Dunois stiffened with a gasping groan and crumpled twitching on top of him, the blood bubbling from his mouth and nose. With a cry, Philip shoved him away and the would-be assassin lay in the straw perfectly still, stone dead.

Philip looked up jerkily. Rosalynde stood there with Rafe's dagger in her white hands, stained with Dunois' bright blood. Their eyes met and they stared at each other, a mingling of horror and relief on their faces. She looked again where Dunois lay, then pleadingly back at Philip. Sobbing faintly, she let the bloodied weapon fall thudding to the ground as if she were no longer capable of holding it.

Philip managed to stand and took her with awkward numbness into his arms. Instinctively, she clung to him, burying her face against him, soaking his shirt with tears.

"Do not cry," he said and she looked up at him. He knew he was pale and still as shaken as she, but allowed some warmth, no more than a flicker of warmth, into his trembling half-smile. "Do not cry. It is past now."

He held her by the upper arms, trying to steady himself as much as her with his words. She ducked her head against his chest once more.

"He tried to kill you."

She started to wipe the tears from her face, but seeing her hands covered with blood, she began to cry hysterically. He drew her closer, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and she held desperately to him, leaving bloody handprints on his already-soiled shirt.

"It is done, it is done," he said, comforting her. "Shh, it is all done."

"He- he would have killed you," she sobbed, then she noticed the slight cut across his throat. "Oh, he has hurt you!"

Philip wiped his hand across the stinging wound and drew it back stickily red. "A scratch, no more, thanks to you."

He scrubbed his hand against his sleeve, and then he pressed her close again. She was still sobbing.

"Shh. Listen to me, Rosalynde. We are yet surrounded by his men. If he does not return to them soon, no doubt they have orders to–"

They both gasped as the barn door swung open. In one swift motion, he thrust her behind him and wrested the sword out of Dunois' dead grip.

The soldiers in the doorway were no more than black silhouettes against the sunset's red blaze, their faces indistinguishable.

"Your master is dead," Philip said, holding the weapon defensively in both hands. "Leave here or you shall follow him to hell."

"Our master is alive, praise God," one of the silhouettes replied, and Philip let the tip of the blade drop to the ground.

"Rafe."

Rosalynde sighed, a relieved mixture of laughter and tears, and Philip let the tight air out of his lungs.

"I am glad you've come, Rafe."

Rafe went to him and took the heavy broadsword from his hands. Without its support, Philip sagged forward. Rafe had to take his arm to steady him.

"I fear we were too late coming, my lord," Rafe said, looking at Dunois lying unmoving on the ground. "I wonder you had strength enough to defend yourself."

Philip shook his head. "I did not–" He stopped, seeing Rosalynde turn even more pale, seeing the silent pleading in her eyes. "I did not have any choice," he finished quietly, then he pulled her to him, turning her away from the body. "Take him away from here."

"At once, my lord. And his soldiers?"