In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  "Much improved, my lord," Rafe said, with a encouraging smile that did not acknowledge Palmer's scowl. "Forgive me disturbing your rest, but he sent me for you."

  Tom's expression brightened. "He wants to see me?"

  "He does. Go to him, my lord, please. Your father is with him now. After the death of Lord John, they will both need you."

  "My father, too?" Tom looked reproachfully at Palmer. "When did he arrive?"

  "Not an hour ago, my lord," Palmer said, then he frowned again. "My lord, you've not slept well in days. You'd only just dropped off when the news came that the king was here. I could not bring myself to–"

  "Never mind now, just come in here. I need some fresh clothes and to be shaved." He sighed heavily then turned to Rafe. "I will be there."

  Just then Livrette rushed in to the corridor. "My lord, forgive me disturbing your rest, but the king has dismissed me, and he was in such a temper I fear he will endanger my lord Philip's recovery."

  Tom rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and yawned. "I shall go now, then. Never mind the shave. You had best come along, Rafe, to see to Philip. And you, too, Palmer. I know you will anyway."

  ***

  Tom shook his head sorrowfully as they walked to Philip's chamber, fully expecting to find his father and brother at each other's throats. Even John's death, it seemed, could not soften the tension between them.

  His heart lurched to see Philip unconscious in his father's arms, his face deathly pale and bloody. Robert's face, too, was pale and bloody, but the pallor came from fear and the blood was not his own.

  The king was still rambling wildly, filling Philip's insensible ears with excuses and calling on every saint he could name to revive him, when Tom came up behind him and put one hand on his shoulder.

  "Father."

  Robert's head jerked up.

  "I've killed him," he said, his ghostly voice sending a chill through Tom's heart. Tom dropped to one knee and put two fingers on the side of Philip's throat, then he breathed a little easier for the steady throbbing he felt there.

  "Philip," Tom said, shaking him sharply, but there was no response.

  "I've killed him," Robert repeated, displaying his blood-smeared hand as proof.

  "Let us take him, my liege," Livrette coaxed, sliding one arm under Philip's shoulders, but Robert only held him more tightly.

  "You must let them tend to him," Tom told him.

  With Palmer's help, he pried his father's fingers away. Rafe and Livrette lifted Philip up onto the bed, and the physician began to wash the blood from his patient's face, wise enough to keep his indignation to himself.

  Tom helped his father stand, intending to lead him from the room, but Robert struggled again to go to Philip's side.

  "Philip–"

  "No," Tom insisted, and he and Palmer held the king back. "You must leave them alone, or he truly will die."

  "He lives yet?" Robert asked, seizing Tom by the upper arms. "I did not kill him?"

  Tom squirmed under the vise-like pressure. "No. He is alive still."

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, then the king dropped his hands helplessly to his sides.

  Tom urged him towards the door. "Let us leave them to their work."

  "Tom, you must understand–"

  "It does not matter now, Father," Tom said, feeling sudden weariness wash through him. "If you will, I think it would be best if you rested from your journey. No doubt you are tired. I know I am."

  Robert looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You look as if you've not slept." He brushed his fingers across Tom's rough cheek. "Or been shaved."

  "I will, Father, as soon as I take you to your rooms."

  "You will see that he is well as soon as possible?" Robert asked, abruptly recovering his authoritative tone, and Livrette managed a deferential nod.

  "Everything will be done to speed his recovery, my liege."

  "See it is, then. You shall be well rewarded," Robert said, then, with another glance at Philip, he followed Tom out of the room.

  Once he had left his father, Tom returned to his own room, with Palmer, as usual, dogging his heels.

  "That is all, Palmer. Go amuse yourself. Go ride or hunt or what you will. I am going to bed."

  "I will wait upon you, my lord," Palmer said, but Tom refused.

  "I will not need anything till nightfall but sleep, and that is something I must get for myself."

  Palmer nodded. "True enough. Sleep well, then."

  Tom watched him walk unwillingly down the corridor, then he went into his chamber and sagged against the door he had shut behind him, his arms crossed over his eyes. This glory his father had chosen and for which he had fought so hard had become such a hell of death and rage and hate, could there ever be peace now, in the land or in his family?

  Could there be peace between his father and brother after this? After there had already been so much between them that Philip had not forgiven? So much that was to all mortal concept unforgivable?

  "Lord God," Tom began, knowing that only the Almighty could heal these wounds, but he felt a relentless wave of sleep pass over him, and he realized he was too tired even to pray. "Forgive me, Lord," he murmured half-intelligibly, then he stumbled to the bed and fell across it, immediately asleep.

  When he awoke, he found that his boots had been removed and he was no longer lying across the bed but under the coverlet with his head on the pillows. He recognized Palmer's handiwork.

  "What time is it?"

  "It's not yet noon, my lord. You've slept no more than two hours."

  Tom sat up. "Has there been news of Philip? I want to be with him when he wakes. I know he'll be stewing over this."

  "I've heard nothing yet, my lord," Palmer said. "I made inquiries while I was out, but all Livrette would say was that there was no change. I've been here since."

  "Well, so long as you are here, I want you to shave me and get me something to wear."

  "My lord, can you not rest awhile more? It may be some time before Lord Philip wakes. He is well tended, I know. You needn't worry on that account."

  Tom threw off the covers. "I have to be there for him. Come, my razor. I shall feel much better once I get this stubble off my face and these stale clothes off my back."

  ***

  The late afternoon sun was slanting through the narrow windows when Philip again opened his eyes. His head felt heavy, as if it were packed with sand, and the gash in his cheek throbbed in rhythm with the pounding in his skull. There was another pain, too, different from the hurts he had wakened to for so many days now, and this pain, like all the others, could not be remedied. He did not fight it.

  He turned his head and found that he was not alone. Tom was there, kneeling beside the bed, his cheek resting on his prayer-clasped hands, his eyes closed in exhausted sleep.

  Philip quickly dismissed the thought of prayer and stared up at the ceiling, forcing himself to concentrate on nothingness. When the pain is gone, nothingness is all I will have left.

  Feeling stiff, he tried to roll over, but the movement wrenched something inside him and stabbed him through with pain. A surprised gasp escaped him, and Tom woke with a start.

  "Philip?" Tom studied his brother's face, waiting for an answer, receiving none. "Philip, shall I get Livrette?"

  Philip answered him with a indifferent shake of his head and Tom's expression grew more anxious.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Well enough."

  "But you sounded as if–"

  "It is nothing."

  Tom put one hand on Philip's forehead. "Your fever’s spent. Tell me what happened this morning. Father is beside himself."

  Philip fingered the thick bandage on his face. "I spoke to him something more roundly than I should, that is all."

  "Philip, whatever is between you, he is sorry. You know that he–"

  "Leave it, Tom. It does not matter."

  Philip's voice was empty and brittle and Tom
watched him for another moment, seeming helpless to know what to say. Finally, he stood up.

  "Rafe said you asked for me last night."

  "I suppose I was still in a fever then and knew not what I said, but I am certain it was nothing. Rafe can see to all my needs."

  "Will you forgive me?" Tom asked, his dark eyes pleading. "Losing John as we did, I was desperate not to lose you, too, but it was wrong of me to let you be misled. You know I am sorry."

  "You need speak no more of it. It is forgotten."

  "Philip, I know it hurts." Bewildered tears came into Tom's eyes. "It hurts me as well. Please, do not turn me off coldly now. We can better bear our grief if we bear it together."

  Philip could only look on impassively. "I have no grief. John is safe and well, just as you said, and I've no need to mourn for that."

  "Philip, please. Please."

  "I am only hungry and a bit stiff."

  Tom took a slow, deep breath. "I will send for Livrette."

  "I do not need him."

  "Very well, shall I send Rafe to you?"

  Philip nodded. "I should be most grateful."

  There was still pleading in Tom's eyes.

  "Truly, Tom, I need nothing but some food to give me back my strength. And you need not look at me as if I've lost my senses. I know full well where I am and what has happened." Philip smiled. In spite of his efforts, it was a cold, empty little smile that made Tom flinch. "I am fine, Tom. Truly."

  ***

  Tom sent for Rafe, then went at once to his father's chamber and dismissed his attendants. There were two empty bottles overturned on the table and another, still half full, beside them. Robert was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands. He winced when Tom shut the door, then he lifted his head and looked blearily at his son, red-eyed and slack-jawed.

  "What of Philip?"

  Tom had to force himself not to draw back from the stale stench of strong liquor on his breath. "He is awake and seems to have little fever. He's asked for something to eat."

  "Thanks be to God! I must speak to him."

  Robert could hardly stand and Tom tried to push him back onto the bed.

  "Sleep awhile first, Father."

  "I have slept." Robert scrubbed his face with both hands then squinted painfully into the fading sunset. "A long while." He groaned as he leaned down to retrieve his goblet from the floor and frowned to find it empty. "Bring me that bottle."

  His lips pressed into a straight, disapproving line, Tom obeyed.

  "Forgive me, Father, but you would be wise to wait yet to see Philip. Give him time to sort through his grief and cool his anger. If you but step amiss with him now, you shall truly lose him."

  "He is my son, I must make peace with him. Faith, I know he'll rage at me, but I've withstood his temper before."

  Tom shook his head. "He was very quiet when I left him. Unnaturally so. Please, Father, let him alone awhile."

  Robert did not miss the uneasiness in Tom's expression and it struck fear into his own heart.

  "I cannot let this fester between us, Tom. If I go to him now, I can make him understand. He came to understand about the Fletcher girl."

  "Did he?" Tom asked, wondering how a man could know his own son so imperfectly. "Truly?"

  Robert took a deep drink. "I must win him back to me."

  He staggered to his basin and splashed his haggard face in the stale wash water, then he drew himself back up straight, back into the majestic kingliness that had brought him the admiration of the whole kingdom.

  "I will win him back to me."

  ***

  Philip got to his feet, then, in jerky stages, went to his knees before his father, visible pain in every stiff motion.

  "You honor me, my liege. It would have been more proper had you sent for me to come to you."

  "I did not mean for you to leave your bed, son," Robert said, fearful of the gleam of sweat that had broken out on Philip's blank face. "You endanger yourself."

  "I am well, Your Majesty, or very soon will be."

  Robert found his utter composure unsettling. "I'll not have you kneel, Philip. Not today."

  "As pleases you, my liege."

  Not daring to offer his help, Robert watched him as he fought to stand, knew he must be in pain, knew he must be angry and hurt as well, but Philip's face betrayed none of that. Once he had gained his feet, he merely waited for his father to speak, infinitely patient, completely motionless. He could have been carved from marble.

  "You near stopped my poor heart this morning, son."

  Robert's felt it again, the terror he had felt seeing his son still as death at his feet. Philip yet was still.

  "You need not have feared, my liege. I am not easily hurt."

  Robert began to pace. "Now curse this evil temper of mine, Philip, I was wrong to strike you."

  "I had forgotten the respect I owe the royal lord of Lynaleigh. Your Majesty merely put me in mind of it."

  Philip's voice was steady, soft, without emotion.

  Be angry! Robert pled silently. Weep! Rage! Strike at me! Spit at me!

  Philip was only still and Robert looked at him for a long moment, then he put his hands on his son's shoulders, gently this time, and his eyes filled with remorse.

  "Please, can you never forgive me?"

  Philip did not resist his touch, did not try to free himself. "I am not your judge."

  Robert was chilled by the words, coming with such hollowness from such empty eyes, and chilled by the thought that pierced him.

  I have killed him.

  He dropped his hands in frustration, then his restraint broke.

  "Before God, Philip, what would you have me to say? I swear I would lose this right hand of mine before I would have it deal you such another blow. If any other man dared strike my son, I would have his head in that instant. Sweet heavens, tell me what penance will buy your forgiveness!"

  It was more than he had meant to say, but surely the boy would relent now.

  "I am your vassal, my liege. It is I who am answerable to you, not you to me."

  Robert stared at him, bewildered. He could not fight where there was no resistance, and he could not win where there was no fight. He put the back of his hand to the unbandaged side of Philip's face.

  "You are not so feverish tonight. I am glad of it." The touch turned into a caress. "Philip, you are my son. I would have there be peace between us."

  "We have no quarrel, my liege."

  "Well." Robert nodded his head rapidly. "Well, I am glad of it. Rest now, son, and let us speak no more of this."

  Philip bowed his head in acknowledgment and watched stoically as his father left the room, then, trembling with fatigue, he stumbled back to his bed. Almost immediately, he was asleep.

  ***

  John was buried in Tanglewood, with all the ceremony befitting a prince of the blood royal, his bier escorted by a company of knights, attended by the mournful chants of an entire monastery of monks, followed by the king and all the nobility, their faces appropriately grave.

  Philip had been forbidden to accompany the procession as it wound for miles through the streets. The physician had pronounced him not yet strong enough for such a strain, so he watched from the window as they carried John's body to the church.

  John was robed in purple and ermine and arrayed in fine armor, burnished to rival the sun. His battle-scarred sword lay upon his breast, testament to his youthful valor, his slender fingers clasped around it as if he were ready at a moment's notice to serve again the king he had loved. His fair hair, gleaming like his armor, curled thickly around his head, and Philip wondered who could have lifted a blade to kill such bright innocence.

  Earlier, Philip had asked the date and found that John still lacked eleven days to be sixteen. Not yet sixteen, and he was being borne to his tomb. Even now the procession was passing from Philip's sight and he realized more concretely than he had before that this was a journey from which John would nev
er return. It was too soon. Too soon for him to be gone forever.

  Philip crept down the steps that led into the servants' quarters and made his way quietly into the street. A pale shadow, noticed only by the murmuring crowds, he fell into step with the procession, kept painful pace behind his father and brother until they had covered the short distance remaining and went into the church.

  He watched his father kneel and pray, distantly curious to know how Robert managed that look of startled remorse and those tears that slipped, seemingly unbidden, down his lank cheeks. He watched Tom, too, standing drawn and numb-looking beside the bier, Tom who bore everyone's griefs if he could not ease them, Tom who hurt for John and for their father as if one could pity a murderer's guilt as easily as the victim's innocence.

  Philip waited until the ceremony had ended and the last requiem had ceased to echo in the chapel, then he stole up to the bier to look one last time on his brother's ashen face and caught his breath. A heavy band of gold set with a deep ruby was on the stiff right hand, copy to the ring that had been buried with Richard, the one Tom still wore, the one that had once graced Philip's own hand. Only the king himself could have set this one on John's finger now.

  Too little, too late, Philip thought, remembering John's wounded eyes when Robert had without explanation stripped it from him.

  "You were fitter for that heaven you've gone to than this hell we've made here," he whispered, then he leaned down and kissed John's cold cheek.

  Looking startled to see him there, Robert rushed up to him and took his arm. Tom was quickly beside him, too.

  "Surely it is too soon yet, son," Robert said. "You should have kept to your bed."

  Philip did not reply. He merely dipped one knee perfunctorily before the altar then made his way back through the hushed assembly and into the still-crowded street. His father and brother followed close behind him, fearing he would not have strength enough to make it back to the castle, but he took no notice of them.

  When he reached his chamber, he did not respond to Bonnechamp's over-anxious questioning, did not explain how he had managed to slip away unnoticed. He merely fell into bed and once more took refuge in sleep. Sleep that had been cruel adversary to him after Katherine's death was now his dearest friend, his comforter and most welcome companion. Only in sleep could he escape the deathlike stillness in his heart. Only in sleep could he forget.