Beast

by Abigail Barnette

  “Your Highness, no!” Wilhelm shouted, pushing through the knights who’d risen, hands on their sword hilts, uncertain what was expected of them. Johanna felt real fear, then. Would one of these men cut Philipe down, their loyalty to their fellow soldier greater than their loyalty to their prince?

  Wilhelm dragged Philipe from the knight, who groaned and rolled from the tabletop to the ground. Two men came forward and helped him away, like a pig carcass hanging from a pole. Blood splattered the ground, and empty cups dripped their precious content onto the mud.

  And somehow, the tide of interest had shifted. Johanna found herself the subject of stares, not all friendly or curious. There was open hostility on some of the faces, and she noted the appearance of those men. She would not find herself alone with them.

  “This woman is the lady of Hazelhurn, and this is how she is repaid?” Philipe shook off Wilhelm’s grasp. “She offers hospitality, and she is mocked? If you are my men, and you are truly with me, you would not behave so. Mockery and cruelty are the weapons of King Albart. You are free to return to his service, should those concepts appeal. I will not have it here.”

  Philipe strode toward Johanna, and she took an unconscious step back. Of course, he was not angry with her, but when a man looked as fierce as Philipe did now, it seemed only instinct to fear him. He stopped at her side and took her arm. The contact was startling. “If any man says a word, in mocking, in jest, if any man dares to insult Lady Johanna again, I will strip the flesh from his back, and it will be my arm wields the scourge! Have I made myself clear?”

  “Aye, Your Highness,” the men answered, some in shouts, some in grave mumbles. It gave Johanna no illusion of safety, but some small satisfaction. In all the years since the fire, she had hidden her burns, covered herself with the veil, pretended it did not hurt when people couldn’t look at her. Only her nurse, and Wilhelm, had ever been able to look upon her without disgust. Philipe could not command his men to do the same, but it was thoughtful of him to defend her.

  “Come,” he ordered, his anger making every word a command, even to her. Her arm still tucked in his, she climbed the stairs to the tower with him.

  * * * *

  “These men followed you because they love you, and because they are tired of tyrants.” Wilhelm paced before the hearth, repeating himself for the third time in his circuitous chastisement. “And now you show them a tyrant’s face. I thought you were smarter than this, Philipe!”

  “Why on earth would you assume I was smart? You’ve met me before, you know me well.” Philipe hissed at the touch of Johanna’s hand against his shoulder. “Careful, woman, you might as well cut the whole damned thing off if you’re going to be so rough with me!”

  “Don’t be angry with me because you’ve behaved foolishly,” she scolded, rising from her place, kneeling beside the bed. She went to the chest of medicines and rummaged through it, seemingly unconcerned with things like gratitude after he’d defended her honor.

  Wilhelm shook his head. “Men like that will always mock Johanna. That is why we have not ventured out from here. She is aware that her appearance will garner insults.”

  “You are her brother. You believe she should bear being called a common trollop, in front of those men down there?” Philipe’s blood heated anew at the memory of the man’s words. The knight had all but called her a whore, insinuating that she…and that he…

  “You were angry because he suggested you might bed me?” Johanna straightened, and through the veil Philipe could see the set of her mouth, tight as if expecting further insult. “I’ve heard you would bed a goat if someone put a wig and perfume on it. Perhaps you should not be so affronted.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Philipe felt like he was playing a game he had no chance of winning. If he told the truth, that he would not mind bedding Johanna, she wouldn’t believe him, and Wilhelm would punch him. He settled on diplomacy. “I would have defended any woman from such baseless accusations of wantonness.”

  “I think my sister is safe from any man’s assumption that she is a wanton,” Wilhelm said flatly.

  Philipe watched Johanna react to those words, and he wanted to bloody Wilhelm’s nose, too. “No matter. I will not have any man under my banner treat a lady so. Especially Johanna.”

  “Stop this needless and incessant worrying over me, the both of you.” She came to Philipe’s side with fresh linen and more of that damned, old honey. “You’re worse than Nurse ever was.”

  “These men will not respond to your heavy hand and threats,” Wilhelm warned. “I might suggest you extend some good will toward them. You chastised them all for the bad behavior of one.”

  “That, I cannot deny.” At the palace, Philipe might have ordered a fine feast to win them over, or a gambling party that went on until dawn. There were no such luxuries at Hazelhurn. “Let me think on it.”

  * * * *

  Supper that night was thick with a moody silence, the men eating wordlessly, with no trace of the excitement from earlier. Men who had been eager for battle earlier in the day sulked over their trenchers, no doubt planning their departure on the next morning.

  All because Philipe had been too stupid to rein in his own emotions. Stupid, but it had felt so satisfying to take out the rage that he’d thought long-ago conquered on something flesh and blood. Because punching fire did very little good.

  Wilhelm grimaced over his cup of wine. “Perhaps a word from you, Your Highness. It might set the men at ease.”

  Though King Albart was a great and natural orator, his son had not inherited such a gift. Philipe stood, and instantly felt the eyes of twenty men upon his person. He smiled tightly. “Yes, hello. I…am your prince. Prince Philipe, of Chevudon. You know that already. Uh…”

  He looked to Wilhelm for support, but the knight appeared as though he might vomit on the table. Johanna sat calmly at his side, chin resting on her hand behind the gauzy black that hid her features. The veil did not obscure the fact that she was clearly amused at his discomfort.

  Imagine you are father. Imagine what he would say to win these men over. Then, he carefully revised that ambition. Imagine that you are father, twenty years ago.

  “I would like to express my very heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you. You have sacrificed much in coming to my aid, in my hour of need. And yet, I still ask more. I ask that you fight for me, that you lay down your lives for me, a prince that many of you have never met. And more men will come, and they will know me less, but I will ask the same of them. I will esteem them as greatly as I do you twenty, who came here at the first. That will not seem just to some of you, but I cannot give you more than I will give them. For I will give every man who fights under my banner my infinite gratitude. Fight for me, and together we can rebuild our kingdom.” When he stopped speaking, he looked down, not knowing exactly why his gaze was drawn to her, to search Johanna’s expression as best he could through the veil. Was she pleased? Did she approve? He told himself he only cared because of her intelligence, that she could see things more clearly than he, but something pulled in his chest, a hope he could not deny. He wanted her to approve of him as a man, not as a ruler.

  You weren’t so worried about that fifteen years ago, he reminded himself tersely. Lifting his gaze to the men who’d politely listened to his little speech—and who were doubtless still thinking of leaving—he spied Sir Valeyard Gettrich, a familiar face. The man was a fierce warrior, but a brilliant musician, as well. “Gettrich, any chance you brought along that harp of yours?”

  “But a small, traveling harp, Your Highness,” the knight replied. “Nothing so fine as you are you used to at court.”

  So, that was the way of it. These men saw Philipe not as a fugitive prince fighting for the throne, but a posh, pampered ass who found none of them good enough. He’d fostered that opinion for them when he’d beaten a man senseless and threatened them all with the same. Without letting his frustration show—he’d had years of practice in masking
his emotions—he smiled broadly at the man. I am friendly. I enjoy the common people and their common things. I am not a spoiled monster prince. “Sir, you are too modest. I have heard you play before, many years ago. I have no doubt you could play a crofter’s plow and bring forth music that would cause the very heavens to weep. Please, I think we could do with some entertainment tonight.”

  “As my prince commands,” Gettrich said, rising from his seat. Of an average height and an almost slight build, the knight did not look capable of his legendary battle prowess. But when he settled on the trestle bench with his harp in his lap, his confidence and mastery was clear.

  On the other side of Wilhelm, Johanna had pushed back her trencher and now sat with her hands folded beneath her chin, elbows on the tabletop. Philipe’s lips twitched, aching to smile at her. But Wilhelm had been in a strange mood since earlier in the day, cautiously putting himself between Johanna and Philipe at the most innocent of moments. He’d insisted on staying while Philipe’s bandaging was changed, and before dinner, when Johanna had asked Philipe to help her haul water, Wilhelm had taken up the buckets himself. He’d claimed that it had to do with propriety; a prince should not, after all, be seen doing such menial chores. But Philipe could not quell the feeling that Wilhelm suspected him of something. Had Johanna told him what had happened in the night? The memory of Johanna’s warm, small body pulled against his, her sleepy whispers and the terror that had calmed from his presence tormented Philipe every time he looked upon her.

  How many nights would they have had, lying together in the dark, wordless? How many nights would he have silently contemplated her, thanking fortune for delivering her to him? Though it hurt to think on a past that was not, it hurt him more to think of missing what could be.

  Sir Gettrich played deftly, the harp a jaunty, rowdy instrument for one song, a mournful, wailing object the next. Over the notes plucked by his skilled hands, the knight’s deep voice sang tales of brave warriors and the glory of the north, along with bawdy tunes about maidens happening upon sleeping dragons. The dragons were never merely dragons, and Philipe thought he spied a blush through the dark gossamer of Johanna’s veil.

  Like a bucket of cold water thrown over a man in a hot bath, Philipe realized too clearly that something had happened. He wasn’t sure when, perhaps in the night, or when he’d beaten the man who’d insulted her, but it didn’t matter. It was too late. Fortune and all the fates preserve him; he was in love with Johanna.

  She clapped at the end of a particularly racy tune, her laughter showing her straight, white teeth behind perfect lips. Applauding along with the men, who hooted and bade Gettrich continue, Johanna appeared happy. She had been locked away in a tower for over a decade, no wonder her mood improved with company.

  With the right company, Philipe reminded himself. Johanna had not been overjoyed to see him, that was certain. Nor had she been pleased to find him in her bed that morning. He’d never stopped loving her, in all the years they’d been apart. What he’d told her last night had been true, that he thought of her more often than the women he was bedding, that he’d never found a wife because he’d already found the one he’d wanted. That he’d cast her aside as a callow young man had not soothed him. Now, the ghost of that love, the wraith that had tortured him for fifteen years, had become some new and terrible life, a squalling, infant terror whose cries would not be silenced without the comfort of Johanna, her arms around him, her voice promising love in his ear. And it was too late. He’d destroyed any chance of winning her love when he’d written—no, commanded his valet to write—that letter breaking their engagement, while she still lay on the precipice of mortality.

  She turned, with the startled expression of one who has felt another’s stare lingering. Philipe smiled briefly and turned his attention to Gettrich, but he could not concentrate on the bard’s song. Unable to ignore the tense cord that stretched between them, Philipe turned to Johanna. “You play the harp, do you not?”

  “No, Your Highness.” She smiled sadly. “You remember correctly. I did play, years ago. But never with the skill of Sir Gettrich. Truly, he has been given an abundance of talent.”

  “Yes,” Philipe agreed quickly, nodding toward the singer. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you wished to take a turn at it. His throat must be getting sore by now.”

  “I am no singer, “Johanna said politely. She lifted her hands, raw red from her burns even all these years later. “And my fingers are no longer so nimble as they once were. I would make very poor entertainment, indeed.”

  She turned back to the source of the music, swaying slightly with the tune. A glimmer of hope existed in her gentle movement. She wanted to dance, to hear beautiful music. She wanted company and suppers and entertainments. Philipe could offer her those. And though she might never grow to love him again, though she might never grow to even tolerate him, would she turn down such a chance at happiness?

  Would she be so shallow as to marry you for parties and frivolity? He picked up his cup and drained it in a long swallow. He would have liked nothing more than to walk away, to be alone with the cold and the night sky to think. Instead, he listened to the harper and feigned enjoyment. He smiled at the jokes of the men who began, slowly, to warm to their prince. By the end of the night, he knew he’d won them over.

  But not Johanna. There, he was certain, he had no hope.

  Chapter Eight

  Two mornings later, a watchman spotted a group of fifteen riders crossing the valley under a banner of peace. Philipe and Wilhelm saddled their horses with the intent of riding out to meet them. It would mean more, Wilhelm had reasoned, if Philipe could personally greet new arrivals, if he could.

  None of the original twenty had left them. After that first, admittedly rocky day, they had settled into a right military camp, each man doing his job so the man next to him didn’t find himself in a rough spot. The camaraderie warmed Philipe. His entire life, he’d been taught to expect obedience as his right. The more time he spent among these men, his men, he learned that the opposite was true. A prince could expect obedience, but it was only given on the condition of reciprocal fairness and gratitude. Though the man he’d beaten still gave him sour looks when he thought Philipe would not notice, none of the other men had made unkind remarks about Johanna, and none of them seemed inclined to listen when the beaten man saw fit to complain about their prince.

  While the rest of the men had been eager enough to forgive Philipe his transgression, Wilhelm had become more formal and cold to him. If it had been a simple matter of hatred, blaming Philipe and his family for their role in the unrest that had led to the fire at Hazelhurn, Philipe could have easily accepted it. But he’d seemed to genuinely warm to Philipe, again. They had not been close friends in the past, but it seemed the potential had been there. Philipe had made Wilhelm his second, but the knight’s attitude toward his prince had turned icy.

  “Wilhelm,” Philipe tried, as their horses picked down the rocky slope, “have I done something to offend you?”

  “I am your second. Don’t you think I would have told you if you’d caused me offense?” Wilhelm’s reply, while a denial, was all the confirmation Philipe needed.

  “I’ve learned, in my years at court, that some men have a way of speaking that is not entirely honest. They may tell me what I wish to hear, and they do it without lying. But they do not tell the truth. I hear that, in your answer. I have offended you—only, you do not wish to tell me how.” Philipe clucked to his horse and sped her over a bit of unbroken ground, then slowed her again.

  Wilhelm urged his horse on in the same fashion, slowing as he drew up beside Philipe. “I was raised to respect the order of nobility, Your Highness. A poor lord does not criticize his king.”

  “I am not king, yet.” Philipe struggled to keep his temper down. Why could the man not simply give him a straight answer? “Best to have it out with me now, before you yield to the temptation to stick a dagger in my back while I’m sleeping.” />
  Wilhelm made a noise, a sound somewhere between a sigh of resignation and a breath of indignation. “I do not trust your intentions toward my sister.”

  “Ah.” That was plain enough, then. Philipe almost argued, opening his mouth to say, “I can assure you—” before Wilhelm cut him off.

  “Spare me your words, Philipe. You are a man grown now, yes, and your earlier actions were those of a thoughtless boy. But you cannot expect that I would be happy to see you take an interest in my sister. You hurt her, deeply. She might be willing to forgive you, but I am not.”

  That was fair enough, Philipe reasoned. “I must confess, when I think of my own sister…” It might not be his tale to share, but he must, if it would convince Wilhelm to bear no ill will toward him. “The first time I saw my sister’s husband, he was in shackles, in my father’s dungeon. I must admit to skepticism. After all, she is a princess, and here he was, a lowly crofter, a freak of nature, and a criminal, at that. But he made her happy, Wilhelm.”

  “I do not think you can make my sister happy.” Given leave to speak freely, Wilhelm proved a blunt man. “Not only because of what you did back then. I think perhaps you could never have made her happy.”

  Philipe shook his head. “That is unfair.”

  “Unfair? I have heard the tales of your exploits with the women at court. The orgies. You were engaged to the woman who is now your best friend’s wife, and only for a few days, at that.” Wilhem’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You are not the kind of man who could make my sister happy.”