"And well he should be," Robert returned, his grief now cold contempt. "Were it not for him, Richard would have not been there in Tanglewood to die. What more is in the letter? I suppose the city is lost, too."
"No," Tom said. "He writes he sent to Eastbrook for help, and it is firmly ours again."
"Let him see better to his duties, then," Robert said, "or, before God, I will have him driven from my kingdom altogether."
"Let him return to us," Tom asked, not for the first time.
"Show him your mercy, Father," Philip pled, "as you would have God show Richard His."
"Yes, faith, he shall have mercy," Robert replied. "All the mercy Ellenshaw can afford him down in Tanglewood. I'll not have him in my court. Do not plead for him again."
II
Winton had already been in solemn mourning for the queen and the loss of the crown prince only darkened the general woe. The peasants crowded the streets, each of them with at least a scrap of black tied on sleeve or hat, watching as Richard's coffin was borne into the city. Their silence was oppressive. Only in low murmurs out of public hearing did they reason among themselves on how swiftly these deep blows had been dealt the king at blind fortune's hand. Or, thinking back on deposed King Edward's death, was it the hand of righteous heaven?
The two funerals followed swiftly afterwards, separated by only a few days, the grim necessity of the war forbidding prolonged ceremony. As he watched his older brother's body being entombed in the splendor of Winterbrooke Cathedral, Philip felt a quick, wringing pain deep inside himself.
He and Richard had not been close, not since they had begun to grow into men and Richard had gone to be forever marred by war and willfulness. Often they had been at odds, both stubborn and fiercely proud, but, now that Richard was gone, Philip could only remember him as he had always known him, bluff and soldierly, reckless and mocking, but with a touch of pity and possessed of a brave heart, too. Glancing at the austere, dry-eyed widow, Philip realized that Richard had never known what it was to be loved, not as Philip knew even now with Katherine's anxious, pitying eyes on him from the other side of her mistress.
Well, Richard knew perfect love now, a better love, Philip was certain, than even his own precious Kate could give. He was glad that Richard had at the last been granted those final brief moments and had time to call for heaven's mercy. He was thankful, too, that John had been witness to Richard's last prayer and knew that the boy took great comfort in the knowledge that his impetuous brother was at last safe forever.
At least I have Kate, Philip thought. John has no one.
Still, he knew his father was grieving. John was the youngest, Robert's pet. He could not forever be angry.
***
A month passed and, in the midst of the continued mourning, Tom was married to Elizabeth Briesionne, daughter to the Duke of Aberwain. At her father's insistence, it had been made part of the betrothal agreement that she would stay only a week with her bridegroom, just long enough for the contract to be irrevocably consummated before she was returned to her home. There she would remain until, with the aid of her father's men and money, peace was achieved. She was his heir and only child, and he would have her kept safe.
So, at the altar, Tom looked for the first time into his bride's face. It was a good face, fresh and young, saved from plainness by a sweet mouth and large, expressive eyes as velvet brown as his own. She stood there for all the world like a scared little girl-child dressed in a lady's borrowed finery, not daring to look at him, not daring to respond when he squeezed her hand and gave her a welcoming smile.
Watching them, Philip hoped that Tom's smile was from his heart and wondered how he could bear to take this stranger to his bed that very night as the marriage contract required. He was glad he had himself been spared that indignity.
He watched the newlyweds part a week later and wondered how the girl could still have that fearful expression after Tom's tireless efforts to put her at ease. She would still not lift her eyes to her husband's face, but Philip saw her cast furtive, wistful, half-ashamed glances in Tom's direction whenever she thought she would not be seen. He smiled to himself and imagined that one day, when they were reunited, Tom's kindness and gentle patience would calm her maid-like fears and win her love. He prayed it would be so. Tom deserved it to be so.
***
Eventually, the news came to Westered of an alliance between the royal family and the Duke of Aberwain. Hearing it, Rosalynde felt her heart crash against her breastbone. Had so many of her prayers gone for nothing? Did her Philip belong to someone else now?
She remembered every moment of their time together, every word, every smile. She could still smell the winter in the breeze that blew off the sea, remembering how she had ridden out into the snow beside him, with Ankarette as reluctant chaperone. He had been dressed only to his shirt sleeves, without even his doublet, his shirt not even laced, and she had asked him if he did not need his cloak, but he had only smiled at her concern.
"Nonsense. There is nothing so wholesome as a fresh snow and a brisk wind to bank it everywhere."
"But you shall freeze dressed so."
"This is nothing, my lady. If we were in Treghatours, we would be to our knees, at the very least, in snow."
"I should like one day to see it."
"I'd not trade it for the king's palace," he had said. "They say Winton is fairer than anyplace in Lynaleigh, but I cannot believe it could match Treghatours for beauty. Faith, it has less of a winter than even Westered, and no saint's rose."
She had reached over and touched the emblem that adorned his horse's bridle. "Why is it they call it that, my lord? It looks to be no more than a little field flower."
"You mustn't judge its worth by its humble outside, my lady. Have you never seen one growing? Or, better, smelled of one? But, no, I suppose they grow rare so far west, too. Treghatours is always white with them come spring. They used to be called chastelayne. One of my ancestors took our name from it because it is always the first to come up each year, even before the crocus, and means hope. Still, that was long ago. The peasants have called them saint's rose since. They say the prayers of the saints make such a fragrance in God's throne room." He had grinned at her, she remembered it still. "Though why they call them roses I've yet to fathom."
"And there are none in Winton?"
"Not many, I do not think."
"Perhaps Winton has other beauties, my lord."
"Perhaps it does," he had allowed, "but I'd not live at court. There is no place there for an honest man."
"Perhaps if more honest men went to court, they could make it into an honest place."
He had smiled again at her earnest suggestion. "It is more likely the court would corrupt their honesty, but still, it may be a pleasant enough place. Now in Treghatours we have a meadow that would come near to take your breath away for beauty this time of year. There you might say you have had snow. I never take a cloak out in it there, no matter how Joan scolds."
"Joan?"
"Joan was set to look after me and my brothers from before I was born. She and her husband Nathaniel fair raised us all. If we are Heretics, it was they who taught us."
"I heard the Heretics' teaching once before," she had said, dropping her voice. "I saw no harm in it."
"I am not ashamed to count myself one of them. Far rather than follow after the priests who sell God's pardon or the bishops who play politics better than the nobility. I would not trust my soul to one of them, but only to God Himself, face to face. Has He not, by even the smallest act of His grace, earned our allegiance?"
She could see still the deep, fervent light in his eyes and hear the intense feeling in his words.
Beauty, nobility, grace, wit, and faith, too, she had thought then and thought still. What is there more to ask in a man?
"I suppose there might be something not so grave to speak of on a morning's ride," he had said when she made him no answer. "Perhaps we should go back. You are cold."
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"Oh, no, my lord," she had assured him. "Ankarette's come near to suffocate me in all these wraps."
"Take some of them off, my lady, and truly feel the winter."
She had looked back again to see Ankarette even further behind. "It is stifling," she had admitted, then she had untied her cloak and dropped it back across her saddle.
"Now breathe deep," he had suggested. She remembered the rush of the cold into her lungs and the way he smiled at her pleasure in it.
"Now, my lady, let your horse have his head."
Forgetting Ankarette altogether, they had both let their horses go and Rosalynde had felt more the bracing tingle of the winter air in her face. Philip had pulled ahead of her and his laughter had come back to her on the wind as he jumped a shallow stream. Before he could caution her, she had galloped towards the stream herself.
"Lady Rosalynde!"
Rosalynde had turned at her nurse's horrified voice and at once found herself dumped on her backside in the middle of the water, gasping at the icy wetness. Looking back on it, she had found her dousing well worth it, with Philip wading out to her, asking anxiously if she were hurt, scooping her up in his arms.
"You will pardon me, my lord," Ankarette had scolded as Philip carried her, dripping, to the bank, "and saving your reverence, I'll have you know my lord of Westered will hear of this. She might have been killed for your foolishness. By your leave, my lord, you should know better than to teach a young girl such tricks. She has no business riding like some common wench. And jumping, God save us!"
Trying to soothe Ankarette's indignant objections, he had pushed the sodden little scrap of satin and ribbon that was Rosalynde's shoe back onto her foot, wrapped her in his cloak, and ridden away with her before him in his saddle, leaving Ankarette behind them again.
Rosalynde remembered resting contentedly against him, hearing the rumble of his apologetic words in his chest, glad to be there in the warm security of his arms, but, too soon, they were back in the courtyard and then before both of their fathers in the great hall.
"What's this, young man?" Westered had asked.
"Philip, explain yourself," Robert had demanded and Westered had immediately taken Rosalynde from Philip's arms.
"By my faith, she is drenched!"
"I am sorry, my lord," Philip had said. "You must forgive me not keeping better care of you, my lady." Again he had pushed her shoe back onto her foot, this time deftly tightening the ribbon.
"I thank you for the morning, my lady," he had called after her as her father carried her up the stairs. She remembered him looking up at her as he had in the courtyard the first time she saw him, that same smile on his face. That time he had taken her fancy. This time he had taken her heart. He had it still, she knew it deep inside herself, and now she could hardly bear the thought of him married to another.
"Which of them was it?" Rosalynde asked when she could trust her voice, and her father smiled at the anxiousness in her eyes.
"The younger one, Thomas of Brenden."
"Oh," she sighed. "Not that it is anything to me," she added quickly and Westered turned her face up to his.
"Is it still young Philip, sweetheart? After four years?"
She nodded her head and the tears filled her eyes.
"Is there none of the others who would please you, child? There are more than a few who have asked me for you."
"Oh, no, Father, please." She clung to his arm and hid her face against his sleeve. "None of them is worth one of Philip's boot straps. Not five of them together."
Over her head, Westered smiled. "Well then, they could hardly be worth my Rosalynde." He lifted her face again and kissed her nose, then he hugged her tight. "You shall have him, then, your Philip, if by any means I can get the king's consent."
***
Once his bride was gone, Tom had been sent to Chrisdale, to the army there, and Philip found himself virtually alone. His heart was with Katherine, always with her, but he saw little of her except in times and places where they may not openly speak. She was busied with the endless complications of Margaret's official mourning and he had his own duties as well, so there was frequently no more than an eloquent glance between them, a quick, fervent clasp of hands, sometimes a stolen kiss, before they were again forced apart.
Then, late one night, she came to him, her face stained with tears, her body trembling with fear and weariness. He did his best to soothe her into calmness, then he tucked her into his bed and went immediately to wake his father with the news she had brought.
"No. I cannot think it." Robert drew his dressing gown more closely around his shoulders and looked from his son to his Lord High Chamberlain, bewildered, unable to believe there was yet more sorrow to be withstood. "Why should Lady Margaret destroy her own child? What possible gain would that bring her?"
"I do not know why," Philip insisted, "only that she is guilty. She had her waiting woman, Merryn, prepare her some potion that brought the child too soon. Murder, if ever there was such a crime."
"How is it that you know this, my lord?" Dunois asked with his usual calm.
"I had it from one who knows, one who overheard the plotting."
"I will speak to Lady Margaret of this," Robert said. "Dunois, send to her to come."
"You cannot," Philip said. "She is by far too ill just now, but I know she was deliberate in this."
Robert sighed. "So, Richard's child is dead, too."
Philip nodded, his eyes full of commiserating sorrow. He knew his father had looked to have another Richard in Richard's son. Now even that consolation was gone.
"This is a serious matter, my lord," Dunois said. "Who is this 'one who knows' you speak of?"
"One of Margaret's maids," Philip admitted, not wanting to say more.
"Her name?"
"Philip?" Robert prompted.
"Katherine," Philip said half under his breath, then he looked at the two older men with resolution. "Katherine Fletcher."
Dunois raised one insinuating eyebrow.
"I believe her, Father," Philip said glowering, then he knit his brow, remembering her grief. "She put the child in the shroud herself and wept as she told me of it. Why should she lie?"
His father looked more past him than at him. "Was it a boy?"
Philip nodded.
"A boy," Robert repeated almost inaudibly.
"Speak to the princess, Your Majesty, before passing judgment," Dunois suggested. "It may be that this girl my lord spoke to was mistaken."
"Very true," Robert said, recovering himself. "I will speak to her. This thing will be sounded to the very bottom and we shall have justice."
***
At dawn, the king went to Margaret's bedside, ready to answer with a vengeance the murder of his dead son's child. He almost wavered at the sight of her before him, her eyes sunken and ringed with black, her thin lips colorless and chapped. It was difficult for him to discern the much-toasted beauty in the haggard woman who had to be supported even to sit up.
"Madame, there have been grievous wrongs laid to your charge."
"Wrongs, my lord?" Weary puzzlement was on her face and she leaned more heavily upon her ladies. "In what have I offended Your Majesty?"
"Come, come, lady. Taking the innocent life of a babe unborn is offense enough, but to kill the next king of Lynaleigh, my Richard's only child–"
Margaret seemed to wilt at the harsh words and her tears flowed freely. "Kill? My lord, you cannot think I purposed to lose my child. It is too cruel to say so to me now."
"I was told you had engineered the babe's death. Is it not so?"
"Who could so abuse Your Majesty and me to make you believe such a lie? I have just lost my lord and husband. Could you truly believe that I would kill all that was left of him, my only consolation in his death? The child was mine as well as his, made from my flesh, nurtured with my blood. What could make me destroy it?" The tears welled up again. "Yet it may be that I am to blame. I did so grieve for Richard that i
t may be I caused the child to be born too soon."
"Let us speak plain, lady, for I am not so easily trifled with as I have been. I know there was no great love between you and my son, unless it was love for the throne he would have had."
"Perhaps that is so," she said, growing suddenly cool, "but if my love was all for the throne, why would I destroy my only link to it, the child that had next claim? Put my motives at their basest and you will see I had every reason to safeguard the child. What gain has its loss brought me?"
"None," he said finally, and she lay back against her pillows.
"I am tired, my lord."
His face was still stern, but there was resignation in it now. "You must forgive me, lady. It was sorrow and not reason that spoke in me before."
He left her to her women and returned wearily to his chamber, grateful for the cup of wine Dunois brought him.
"How do we punish ill-fortune for her crimes?"
He did not expect an answer, but the chamberlain came closer.
"When ill-fortune effects her own designs, we can do nothing, but when she sets them to another's doing, then it is in our power to punish."
Robert shook his head. "There was no murder here, the child simply miscarried. This Fletcher woman was merely mistaken, hysterical with the suddenness of it all."
"Or had a greater purpose in making such an accusation."
"How do you mean?"
"Suppose it was Katherine Fletcher who gave her the potion that killed that child, not Merryn as my lord Philip was told."
"But what cause could she have for it?"
There was a knowing significance in Dunois' glance. "There is many an ambitious woman will use any means to gain power."
"But what could she hope to gain by this?"
Dunois hesitated for a moment.
"I know, my liege, she has been Lord Philip's mistress some time now. The child's death makes him your heir."
"Then you accuse Philip–"
"Of nothing, Majesty, except of perhaps being deceived. He is smitten with the wench and will not even spare a glance to any of the others. She has beguiled him soundly. Many a mistress aspires to be wife, and, if wife to him, then queen."
In Honor Bound Page 4