In Honor Bound (9 page)

The long golden rope of her hair was all that was left of her, all he had to bind his memories together. He blessed and cursed Palmer for bringing it to him. It drove an iron spike of pain through him to look on it, yet he clung to it as if it were the hope of his salvation. He had nothing else.

The chamber that had been prepared for him here in Maughn was smaller than the one he had at Winton, the bed narrower and harder. Everything here seemed that way. Maughn was not a pretty place, nor was it a place of ease, and he was glad. He had, just now, no eye for beauty, no taste for comfort. He wanted only work to busy his hands and dull his mind until God in His mercy ended the life remaining to him.

Worn after the long journey, he gave in to Rafe's urging for him to lie down. Surely his body was too overtaxed, his brain too numbed with effort, to admit anything but oblivion tonight. Only a moment later, he was wrapped in sleep.

The oblivion did not last long. Philip found himself thrust into a nightmare that was more felt than seen. Without warning, a wicked blade stabbed deep into his chest, plunged again and again into his heart, but it did not leave clean, merciful wounds that would kill at a stroke. Rather it made a jagged, gaping hole that widened with each hacking blow.

At first he fought wildly for his life, struggling and clawing at his obscure assailant, but finally he lay still, hardly flinching at each clumsy, grating thrust. The agony went on and on even when he had no strength left to fight.

"Why don't you die?" he heard his own voice saying. "Why don't you die?"

He woke sobbing with pain, his fist over his heart, twisted into his sweat-sodden shirt.

He began work before dawn the next morning, and for more than a month he buried himself in hard labor, working each day shoulder to shoulder with his men until darkness and exhaustion demanded that the day should end. Soon his body refused to mourn any longer, and he was forced to satisfy its demands for food and sleep. His nightmares grew less vivid and less frequent and finally ceased and almost he looked once more like the dashing, valiant prince he had been. Almost.

Anyone who saw him now, anyone who had seen him before the trial, could not help but know that there was something gone from him. He was all soldier now, rough and hard, with not a moment to give to ease or pleasure or even thoughts of God. He lived only to do the work for which he had been sent, to acquit himself honorably in the only task he saw before him. By April, Maughn was an impressive stronghold against the enemy.

He looked on it and tried to feel some pride in his work, but all he felt was grief and bewilderment that sometimes it was his father that he mourned more than Katherine. He had laughed at her fears and told her that the king would not harm her any more than he would his own son. He could not laugh now. He had assured King Edward, too, of his father's honorable intentions. How foolish he had been.

Philip knew how sacred the Chastelayne bloodline was to his father. Perhaps, in truth, it was inconceivable to him that Lynaleigh's crown prince should mix his proud blood with a serving wench's and bring ignoble stock to the throne. Perhaps he had even believed her guilty of murder.

He could not have known how deeply I loved her.

***

Philip had just dismissed his men for the evening when a messenger came riding in from the southeast, from Tanglewood. John's message was brief:

We've had intelligence of an attack from Grenaver set to come at any time. They are said to be five thousand strong against the fifteen hundred I have here. I've sent word every day to Winton, for aid from the king, but he gives me no reply. I beg you, if I have any sway in your heart and if you have any sway in his, send to him. I am already so out of favor with him now that if I lose Tanglewood I could never again face him. If you cannot persuade him, do not let it fret you or make any division between you and him. I am not afraid to do my duty.

John

Philip instantly ordered his men to ready themselves for battle. Tanglewood was not far, and they could be there in ample time to back John's army.

"Go at once to my brother in Chrisdale," he told the messenger. "Tell Tom we're needed in Tanglewood."

"What of your reply to my lord John, Your Highness?"

"My army will be his answer."

"And your father, my lord?" Rafe asked once the messenger had gone. "It will not please him to know you have left the post he has entrusted to you."

"I will send to him about it."

"He gave you orders specifically that you were to keep Maughn. What will he say if you disobey him?"

"If John's messages have gotten through to Winton at all, then he must not realize how grave John's position is. He would not let whatever grievance he has been holding against John risk his son's life and the kingdom. We shall keep Tanglewood, and he will applaud my boldness. Come on."

Rosalynde's eyes flew open, and she pulled her coverlet up to her chin. The night was moonless, starless, and she could see nothing as she lay there shivering, waiting for her heart to slow and her nightmare to fade. She was in Westered, in her own bed, not on a battlefield, and Philip was not lying dead at her feet.

How vividly she had seen him, though, stumbling towards her, soaked with his own blood, both hands stretched out to her, pleading. He had fallen to his knees before her and then collapsed altogether, his cheek resting on her wet satin-shod foot. She had reached down to him, but he was cold and his wondrous eyes were empty.

She had forced herself awake at that, afraid to see more, but the fear would not leave her. The reports of the war were worse than ever now. Might not such a thing happen? Perhaps it had already.

"Oh, my Philip," she whispered into the darkness. "Be merciful to him, Lord God."

It was dawn when she finished her prayers and finally slept again.

***

Tom sat near Philip's bedside listening to his ragged breathing. He had shown no other sign of life since the battle and Tom had worn the meaning out of the single prayer that had been all night on his lips.

"Please, God, mercy."

He murmured the words again, hardly knowing that he did. Philip was so pale and still. He had been grazed by an arrow, high up on his left cheek, leaving that side of his face swollen and angrily red, but that wound was slight. One arm was splinted and bandaged, broken in two places, but that, too, would mend. It was the ten or twelve inches of ugly, black-stitched gash down Philip's side that worried Tom the most.

Three of Philip's ribs had been broken in the battle and one of them had stabbed into his lung. Tom remembered having to hold him down while Livrette cut him open. Then the physician had reached blood-slicked fingers into his side, to pull the rib back into place. Tom remembered Philip weakly struggling against the pain that had clawed its way through his unconsciousness, and he remembered, too, the grim look on Livrette's face as he sewed the incision closed.

"It is little use even closing this up, my lord. His lung is pierced. He'll likely drown in his own blood."

Tom had prayed then as he had never prayed before and now, hours later, Philip still breathed. Tom still prayed.

"Please, God, mercy."

Tom and his army had come to Tanglewood as soon as he received Philip's message, but they found that the battle had already ended. The influx of Philip's men had brought
Afton
triumph, but the victory was grim.

Shortly after dawn, Philip asked hoarsely for water, and Tom held the cup to his lips.

"Give John some, too," Philip insisted. "He is hurt."

"John is not here," Tom told him carefully, and his heart lurched when Philip moaned low and for a moment seemed not to breathe.

Tom watched him lying there, the ashen touch of death on his face. "Philip," he begged. "Philip, please."

Philip's lashes fluttered, but his eyes did not open. "John. Where's John?"

Tom glanced back at Rafe who was hovering at the foot of the bed, then went to him. "What do I answer him, Rafe?" Tom asked low. "I am afraid to tell him now."

"Tell him Lord John is too badly hurt to come."

Tom shook his head. "I could never lie to him. He would know"

"You know as well as I do how he's grieved since the trial. He's hurt badly and bound to mourn once he knows about your brother. I know he's had little enough cause to love this world of late. All this at once may be too much for him to bear. He may merely let go. I've seen it before."

"Rafe, I–"

"John," Philip moaned again, and Rafe looked urgently to Tom.

"Have I your permission, my lord?"

Tom nodded and Rafe went to Philip's side.

"My lord, hear me."

Philip managed to open his eyes. "John?"

"No, highness. Prince John lies in his own bed, wounded too. His physician says that the news of your loss would finish him as well. You must not disappoint him."

Tom took a deep breath then went to his brother. "Philip, try." He took Philip's hand in both of his own. "Please, try."

Philip looked at him unsteadily. "Hurts."

"You must try," Tom said, squeezing his hand tighter. "You must."

Rafe leaned closer to him. "For Lord John's sake, my lord. For your brother."

Philip took a rasping breath. "I'll not–" He stopped, gritting his teeth, but determination shone through the pain in his eyes. "I'll not disappoint him."

"I will get Livrette," Rafe said and Tom reluctantly nodded.

"I will tell you plain, my lord, I am surprised to see him still alive," the physician said after he had examined Philip. "He still is very ill, but he may make it through this yet. He seems determined today to live."

"We will see he stays in that mind," Bonnechamp said, and Tom nodded in half-hearted agreement.

"What am I to say to him when he finds out?" Tom asked as he and Rafe sat near the fire that night.

The servant merely shook his head and drained his cup. "He will be well enough to bear it then, my lord, and it'll not matter so much."

"It will break his heart," Tom said, glancing towards the still figure on the bed.

"Well, whatever they say, sir, there's never a man died yet of that."

For two days, Philip struggled with death, and Rafe was constantly at his side, reminding him that John's survival depended heavily on his own. Tom, biting his lip, watched and said nothing, but wept in his prayers for help and forgiveness.

On the third day, while the soldiers were still trying to identify the hacked-over dead, Philip regained full consciousness and asked for John.

"I am sorry–" Tom began, but Rafe interrupted him smoothly.

"You cannot see him yet, my lord. Not until you are strong enough to walk there yourself."

Philip shifted impatiently and laid his warm face on a cooler part of his pillow. "I need to know for certain he is safe. Tom, you tell me. He looked very bad when last I saw him."

Tom looked with sudden panic at Rafe, then, steeling himself, came close to his brother. "John is fine."

"You are sure?"

Tom covered the hand that plucked his sleeve with his own, hating himself. "You know I never lie to you, Philip. John is safe and well."

Philip smiled faintly and fell asleep.

For the next few days, Rafe fed Philip on porridge, fresh broth, and stories of John's slow recovery. Philip was soon able to stand and even walk shakily across the room.

"I am going to see John," he announced, and Tom felt a guilty tightening in his stomach.

"Philip–"

"You said when I could walk there on my own I could see him. Well, I can now."

Tom shook his head helplessly. "Philip–"

"He is not worse, is he? You told me yesterday–"

"Philip–"

"Will you sit down, my lord," Rafe asked quietly, urging Philip back to his bed, but Philip shook him off.

"Tom?"

Tom wanted desperately to tear his gaze away from the bewildered, fearful expression on Philip's face, but he forced himself to hold his head up. "John died the day of the battle."

Rafe took Philip's arm, looking afraid that, as weak as he was, this news might yet be too much for his young master, but again Philip shook him off, never taking his eyes from Tom's face.

"Tom?"

"I am sorry, Philip, truly."

"Tom, you lied to me? John is dead?"

"You were so badly hurt, we were afraid you'd not survive the news. We had to tell you–"

"You lied to me, Tom. To me."

There was such stunned anguish on Philip's pale face that Tom could not keep from looking away.

"Merciful heaven," Philip murmured, "is there no one who'll not betray me?"

"The lie was mine, my lord," Rafe said finally. "Lord Tom told you nothing that is untrue. He told you Lord John is safe and well, and so he is. If there's but one soul in heaven, it is that boy."

Philip swayed suddenly, and Tom and Rafe both rushed to support him, but he would not accept his brother's help. He refused anymore to even look him in the face.

"Philip–" Tom began, but Rafe gave him a warning look over Philip's head and, with another useless apology, Tom left.

***

Rafe settled his master back into the bed he had not left for over a week and realized from the stricken look on his face he was likely to be there awhile longer. It was a long tedious afternoon and, that night, Philip's fever rose again, but he would not allow Rafe to send for the physician.

"Trust no one," he confided half-deliriously after a restless silence, but Rafe simply replaced the cloth on his forehead with a cool one and said nothing.

"'I never lie to you, Philip'," Philip continued sarcastically. "Good, trusty Tom."

He pushed aside the water Rafe was urging him to drink and tried to sit up, but Rafe held him down. "No, my lord. Dawn is a long way off."

"I want to see John. He promised." The words turned into a half-choked sob. "He promised and he lied."

"I lied to you, my lord. You seem to have forgiven me."

"Everyone lies, Rafe," Philip said, and his voice was bitter. "It is the way of the world. But not Tom. Not to me."

"He did not want to lose you, my lord. He tried to spare you because he knew it would break your heart. Can you not see you are breaking his?"

Philip looked at him unsteadily.

"He loved the boy, my lord, full as much as you did. Can you not understand that and comfort his grief instead of heaping on more?"

Two great tears welled up in Philip's eyes, and Rafe knew he hurt so badly, body and spirit, he needed Tom now not as enemy but as brother.

"Shall I send for him?" he asked gently, and Philip nodded.

With an abrupt release, Philip let the air sag out of his lungs, easing the pressure on his battered ribs. Rafe deftly wiped the sudden sweat from his brow.

"I'll tell the physician your fever's broken," Rafe said, then he left the room, fighting to keep the enormity of his relief from showing on his face.

***

For a long while Philip lay there, his memories of the battle too vivid yet. He had found John in the middle of the field, down on one knee, bare headed, surrounded by the dead of both armies, the Chastelayne banner trampled and bloodied beneath him. John had looked pale and shaken, but he had insisted that he was not hurt, that the blood that covered him belonged to their enemies.

I should have known.
But he had been so badly hurt himself that all he had been able to think of was getting to Livrette and having his wounds seen to. It pained him now to think of John trying to help him from the field when his own life was trickling away.