In Honor Bound (35 page)

"Philip. Philip," she moaned. "Philip."

He crept closer, going unnoticed until he was at her bedside.

"This is no place for you, my lord," the midwife said sternly. "No place for any man."

"Rosalynde," he whispered, ignoring the woman, and Rosalynde opened her eyes.

"Philip," she breathed, and he took her hand.

"I am here."

"Stay with me, Philip."

His name stretched into a scream as the pain wracked her again, and her once-limp hand clutched his, bruising in its sudden strength. Her body stiffened, and she arched her back, panting.

"Can you do nothing?" he snapped at the waiting women, fearing she could not long survive such pain.

"It is the penalty of Eve, my lord," said the midwife calmly, wiping Rosalynde's face with a damp cloth. "They have it one and all."

Philip snatched the cloth from her.

"Leave us," he ordered, blotting the sweat from his wife's face himself.

"My lord, you do not know what you say!" cried the midwife. "We must tend your lady and the child."

"Is it time yet?"

"No, but–"

"Then leave us. Come every hour or every half hour or what you will to check, but leave us now."

"My lord–"

"Go and be hanged!" he raged, stepping towards her as if he would put her out himself, but Rosalynde murmured his name again and clutched his hand tighter, refusing to let him from her side.

"Be it upon your head, then," the midwife said with a look of foreboding, and calling her assistants to her, she left the two alone.

Philip filled a cup with lukewarm water from the pitcher and gulped it down, then filled it again and held it to Rosalynde's parched lips. She swallowed once weakly and then let the water run out of the corners of her mouth, too weary to swallow again.

"Is there anything you want?" he asked as he wiped her face once more. Her hand tightened slightly on his, but she made no other answer.

"Do you want the women back?"

"No," she whimpered, then she gasped again at the sudden pain and dug her nails into his arm, drawing blood. He clenched his teeth and held her close until the contraction passed, leaving her spent and panting. Gently he stroked her cheek and pulled her tangled hair away from her face, wondering if he would know when it was time to call back the midwife.

"Forgive me," she sobbed after a little while. "I did not mean to hurt you."

For the first time, he noticed the blood that had soaked into his sleeve, and he laughed faintly at her concern for such a trifle.

"Never mind," he said as he sat her up and sat down at the head of the bed and then settled her back against him. "I have long been a soldier and this–"

He grimaced and grit his teeth again as another spasm hit her and she clawed his arm once more, raking the first wounds afresh. Yet she did not cry out. She had not but once since she had known of his presence in the room.

"I am sorry," she said once the pain had ebbed. "I know a queen should show more courage. I fear I have made you ashamed of me."

He smoothed her damp hair and tried to comfort her, feeling inadequate to the task. Then he held her a little closer, remembering all they had been through together.

"You have more courage than any woman I know," he told her, only just realizing it himself, "and there is no shame in crying now. Do not spare for my sake. Even I am not so selfish as that."

She said nothing, but nestled closer to him, a grateful tear running down the side of her face. For a moment all was still, then another contraction wrenched her. Though she tried to hold back, the pain was too much for her and her moans grew once more into screams. She clung to him as if for her life, and he wrapped his arms around her, wishing desperately that he could bear some of the pain himself.

"Oh, God, help her," he pled, and the contraction passed, leaving them both bathed in sweat. The pain had grown so fierce, he began to be afraid. "Shall I call the midwife back?"

"If that is what you wish," she said brokenly, holding more tightly to him, and he shook his head.

"No, no," he soothed. "It is what you want that is important. I know nothing of these women's matters, but I will stay as long as you will have me."

"Please, please stay," she begged. Another contraction began, and she wrung his bruised hands again, writhing as the pain gripped her.

So the night went on, hour after slow hour, the pain coming and going relentlessly. It seemed that the child was no nearer to being born than it had been at nightfall. Philip talked to her ceaselessly, trying to distract her and himself with the old tales Joan had told when he was a boy. She took in few of the words, but rested easier to hear his voice and feel his arms about her. The midwife came and went and each time Philip asked her if the child would come soon.

"Not yet. Not yet," the old woman would answer, and Rosalynde would sigh wearily and cling closer to him.

In the hour after
midnight
, the midwife brought her attendants back into the room along with basins of cool water and fresh linens for the bed.

"Now?" Philip asked her tensely.

"I do not think so yet, my lord," the old woman said, "but for your own comfort and hers, let us change the bed and her shift and cool her with this fresh water."

He looked uncertain for a moment. "You will not be long?"

The midwife shook her head. "Not long."

He squeezed Rosalynde's hand. "My lady–"

"Come back to me soon," she told him weakly.

The women lifted her off his lap, and he slid out from under her, his back stiff and his legs half-numb. "I swear it, my lady, the very minute I may."

He limped out into the corridor, where Tom was waiting for news.

"How is she?"

Philip paced, trying to bring feeling into his legs again, holding himself back when he heard Rosalynde cry out.

"It is torture for her and so hot."

"Here, drink this." Tom handed him a cup of cool water. "Rest awhile."

"I promised I would go back. I cannot let her suffer alone. It is my child, too."

The women soon came out of the chamber, bringing the crumpled sheeting and empty basins with them, and Philip went to the door.

"Can I do nothing?" Tom asked, but Philip only returned a weary shake of the head.

"Pray for a breeze."

Philip shut the door and sat as he had before, at the head of the bed holding Rosalynde against him. She seemed to be resting easier now that the women had changed the sweat -drenched linens and pulled her hair back away from her face.

"When will it be?" she asked later, helpless and tired. "When will it be?"

"Soon," he promised, not knowing whether or not he lied. "It cannot be much longer."

"Oh, for a breath of air," she moaned, and at her words there was a breeze from the east windows and a strain of soft music from the corridor.

"Tom," Philip breathed. "No doubt he's set people outside to fan the air in to us and brought the musicians, too."

"Dear Tom." Rosalynde drew a grateful breath and put her hands on her swollen stomach. "Won't you come, little one?"

As if in answer, it began again, worse than before, the pain, the brief respite, and again the pain. He talked on and on, trying to fill the hours and distract her from the pain and fear. When the pain became continuous, the midwife and her attendants came back into the room and hurried Philip out into the corridor. He stood staring at the door, and Tom had to draw him away.

"I did not know it would be like this," Philip said. "I would have never left her so alone."

"Let the women take care of her. They know what's to be done."

"They say many of them die of this, Tom. I could not bear it, not after–"

"Rest now," Tom said, pulling up a chair. "It may be hours yet."

Shrugging, Philip began to pace again, too tense to rest. How could a child be worth such suffering? How could a woman survive it?

The minutes passed like days, and Philip fought the urge to bolt each time he heard her cry out. Once, after a particularly terrible scream, there were several minutes of silence. At first Philip thought nothing of it, but soon the quiet began to worry him.

"Tom," he began uncertainly.

"Maybe it has been born," Tom said, forcing hope into his voice.

"Then we should have heard it cry," Philip insisted. He listened again, straining to hear, but still there was nothing.

"Tom, no!" he cried, springing to the door. Only Rosalynde's weary moan stopped him. Suddenly unable to stand, he dropped into the chair Tom had offered it seemed days ago.

"I should have left the midwife to her work," he said. "If anything were to happen–"

"No, believe me. They could do nothing until the time came. No doubt you comforted her more to stay with her as you did."

Philip leaned back in his chair, exhausted. "If anything happens..." Not finishing, he drifted into sleep.

***

It seemed he had just closed his eyes when he heard someone call his name. He started awake, blinking in the flood of morning sunlight, then looked at the squirming bundle Tom was holding out to him.

"You have a son," Tom said, supporting Philip's arms around the child so Philip would not drop him.

"It– it's tiny," he stammered finally, and Tom's laughter rang through the corridor.

"The queen?" Philip asked with an anxious look towards the door, and the midwife smiled.

"Very well, my lord."

With a relieved sigh, Philip looked again at the baby lying in his arms, his tiny fists curled up against his chest, his little mouth puckered and quivering, his eyes closed. This was his own son and heir, his first born one day to be king. This child would be raised in his royalty, not brought to it later when he was old enough to know the shock of the newness of it, not brought to it in shame, but bred to it as his right. Lynaleigh would be a kingdom of peace as well when this child was made king. Philip had already promised that and he would keep it so.

He touched the soft mouth and the baby opened his eyes and began to cry angrily.

"Faith, he has your temper," Tom said, laughing again.

Philip smiled. "It is a wondrous thing, Tom."

"Here, my lord," said the midwife, holding out her arms. "I will take him to the nurse."

"No. His mother will nurse him."

"Now, my lord, it is not fit that the queen of Lynaleigh should suckle the child herself. Only the common–"

"I said no." He turned his attention to the still-crying child and shifted him gingerly in his arms, quieting him. "Shh. You shall have your breakfast."

***

Rosalynde smiled through her exhaustion when Philip pushed the door open with his foot and carried the baby in to her, smiled to see the two she loved best.