Soon after the funeral, Robert sent for more men to garrison Tanglewood under the Duke of Ellison's authority. Philip's men and Tom's were sent back to their posts in Maughn and Chrisdale with Lord Darlington and Lord Eastbrook to command them. Philip was to stay in Tanglewood until he was well enough to return to Winton and Tom was to stay with him.
"Will that please you, son?" Robert asked hopefully.
"If it pleases you, my liege."
The king took little joy in the aloof response and it was with a subdued train and a somber heaviness that he took leave of his sons and returned to his palace in Winton.
Philip's body healed quickly afterwards. He had willed it to, just as he had willed his heart to feel no more pain. As soon as Livrette declared him fit to go, he went back to Winton. The ride wore on him, but he refused to show it and Tom and Rafe, for all their concern, could not persuade him to take a slower pace.
When he reached his father's city, he was received like a conquering hero, the savior of Tanglewood. Robert had told of Philip's unsanctioned sweep into the battle as the bold stroke of a man who would one day make them a bold king, and the people loved their crown prince the more for it. Philip took no notice of their adoration or of the praises heaped on him by the nobility, and it was accounted to him as becoming modesty, made him the more popular.
***
King Robert greeted Philip heartily before the court, gave public thanks to God for his rapid recovery, and praised his valor in the hearing of his subjects. In private, Robert said little. Despite his clumsy attempts, and they were many, he could find no way to reach his son's heart or break through his aloofness.
Days passed with no change and Robert had all but given up when a post came to him from Westered. Reading the message, he was certain his intractable son would not be indifferent to its contents. He summoned Philip to him.
"Your Majesty," Philip said with a graceful bow.
"I've received a letter directly concerns you, and I think it best you hear it in part before I make answer. It was sent from the Duke of Westered."
"Yes, my liege?"
Robert looked at him, into the blue depths of his eyes, and still found nothing. He gripped the paper more tightly and began to read.
"What Margaret has done was without my knowledge or consent and I fear her faithless alliance with Ellenshaw will cause Your High Majesty doubt regarding the loyalty of Westered and her lord. In defense of this, I have disinherited the traitress and I swear again my allegiance to you, my only king and most royal lord. My younger daughter, Rosalynde, is now heir to all that is Westered, and I gladly offer her as wife to your son, Philip of Caladen. I pray that such a marriage will weld Afton and Westered inseparably together and forever silence any doubts Your Majesty may have regarding my constancy. It is an alliance of which Your Majesty and I have often spoken and for which all Westered is eager."
Robert looked over the top of the page at his son, but Philip's dispassionate expression had not changed.
"What say you to this, Philip?"
"Let it be as pleases Your Majesty."
"Did you hear?" Robert shook the stiff paper in his son's face. "This is the same Lady Rosalynde you have refused again and again, and will you have her now?"
"I will do as Your Majesty commands."
"You know we must have Westered now more than ever," Robert said as he tensely refolded the letter. As much as he needed this alliance, he had hoped the mere mention of it would spark some emotion in his son – anger, defiance, anything but nothing.
"I know."
Robert flung the paper onto the table and pounded it with his fist. "He was a bastard, Philip! No son of mine!"
Philip did not flinch. "Yes, my lord. So you said."
"You could not expect me to–" Robert's face softened into pleading. "He was a bastard. I could not leave him as a prince and sully the royal line with Albright's common blood. But I left him his honors, Philip. You saw his funeral procession. Before God, Richard was not buried so well!"
Philip made him no answer and Robert knit his brow.
"This is more than John, I see. This is Edward and that Fletcher girl and only God Himself knows what else. What I have done is done, Philip, and there is nothing more than that. I cannot undo what's past!"
Still Philip looked at him, nothing in his expression but faint indifference.
"I have been made to deal harshly sometimes," Robert said, his tone reasonable now, more persuasive, "but it is my sacred trust to keep the name and blood of Chastelayne above reproach. Surely you can find no fault in that."
"I have told you before, my liege, we have no quarrel."
"And you have no objection now to Lady Rosalynde?"
"I will marry her, if that is what you wish."
The king drew something out of the pouch at his waist and held it out to his son.
"And you will wear this?"
He opened his hand and a ruby ring lay sparkling in it, Philip's ring. He watched his son's eyes, but there was no fury there now. Philip merely took the ring and slipped it onto his finger and waited for his father's next command.
"Very well," Robert said, grimly resolved. "I will send to Westered to bring his daughter here within this month. You and she will be married the day following her arrival."
It was the first day of spring.
VI
Three weeks later, James of Westered and his daughter arrived at the palace and were immediately granted an audience with the king.
"All health to Your Majesty," Westered said, sweeping the hat from his head as he knelt.
Robert came down from his throne and formally embraced him. "And to your lordship and to your fair daughter."
Rosalynde curtseyed. Robert of Afton still carried an air of indisputable majesty, she saw, but there was something in the lines on his face, the fine, furtive lines around his eyes, that somehow tarnished the image. He kissed her hand.
"My lady, you grace us with your sweet beauty."
As she murmured her thanks, she noticed one of the king's councilors staring at her, a short man with sharp dark eyes and a narrow, swarthy face.
"This is my Lord High Chamberlain, Baron of Paxton, Edmund Dunois," Robert said in introduction and again Rosalynde curtseyed.
"My lord."
Dunois bowed. "Lady Rosalynde. My lord of Westered."
"You have been of great assistance to His Majesty, my lord Dunois," Westered observed. "Your accomplishments are spoken of even in my own lands."
He did not mention that the people of Westered also spoke of the thirty years of faithful service to old King Edward that had won Dunois titles, lands and a nobly-born wife, and of the betrayal of that same king that had made Dunois the second most powerful man in Lynaleigh. King Robert did nothing now without consulting his Lord High Chamberlain.
"Your lordship honors me," Dunois replied with a bow. "I am surely the least of all of His Majesty's servants."
Robert smiled. "He could teach the saints humility, but I swear, my lord of Westered, a wiser, more industrious, more loyal man you'll not find in a thousand. But we mustn't neglect the rest of the court. My lady, you remember my son, Thomas of Brenden."
Tom stepped forward and kissed her hand. "Now that you are to be my sister, Lady Rosalynde, I pray you will also be my friend."
She thanked him, taking comfort from the steadying squeeze of his hand on hers and the understanding warmth of his smile. He had grown up fine and gentle and handsome. What would her Philip be like?
"I had thought the bridegroom would be here, Your Majesty," Westered said after another half-dozen introductions and the king smiled with faint uneasiness.
"He will be, my lord, at any moment now."
He turned and spoke to one of the pages, keeping his voice low. The boy darted from the room and returned a moment later. Robert's temper flared at the whispered message he brought.
"Tell him he will come and at this instant!"
His voice ra
ng through the suddenly silent court as the page scurried to obey him. Rosalynde paled and moved closer to her father.
"He is strong willed, my son is," Robert said, forcing a smile. "He will make Lynaleigh a strong king one day."
"We will still have a wedding tomorrow, I trust, Your Majesty," Westered said with concern.
"Of course. Of course. You have my pledge already. Philip is something of a boy yet, my lord, with some wildness left in him, but do not fear for tomorrow. He's never failed to keep an oath."
"Forgive me my tardiness, Your Majesty."
Rosalynde looked up and was unable to do anything but stare as Philip strode from the back of the great hall, wearing only breeches and an unlaced shirt, barefoot and soaking wet.
For a long time she had imagined this meeting, expecting to see him in all his princely finery, his father's chief courtier, the pride of the kingdom. Yet, here he was, half dressed and dripping, his hair slicked carelessly back from his face, channeling rivulets of water down his bare chest. The raw beauty of the sight made her heart jerk painfully in her breast.
He was still tall and lithe, but he had a man's body now, broad shouldered and hard muscled. There was something different about his face, too, something more than just maturity, but she could not precisely define it. Even with the fine scar high up on his left cheek, he was as handsome as before, more so, but he was not the same.
"Philip, what do you mean to come into my court this way?" Robert demanded.
"I had been hunting and thought I should wash before I met with your guests. I did not think they would find it pleasant to be in the company of a man with blood on his hands." Philip let his gaze rest for only an instant on his father's heavily jeweled fingers, then he looked him calmly in the face. "I know I would not."
Robert tensed. "Then you should not have come until you were properly dressed."
"I was told Your Majesty required my presence at once," Philip replied impassively. "I did not intend to displease you with my obedience."
With a quick glance at his guests, Robert went to Philip's side and clasped his wet shoulder, all gracious smiles again.
"Of course you did not, son. I did not realize you were preening for your bride. Still, give her your greetings, now you've come."
Rosalynde curtseyed as her bridegroom turned dutifully to her. Their eyes met and he froze for a moment where he stood, the air rushing from his lungs. She noticed the unsteadiness in his hand as he lifted her velvet-gloved fingers to his lips.
"You are welcome to Winton, Lady Rosalynde. You must forgive me coming to you so ill kept."
"I am always pleased to see you, my lord," she said, her hopeful smile growing uncertain.
She realized that the difference in him was somewhere in his eyes. They were still as deeply blue as she remembered, still beckoning, fathomless oceans that drew her helplessly into them, but the light that had been in them was gone, leaving him as coldly beautiful as the marble angels in the cathedral at Westered.
"You must be pleased, too, son, to see what a lovely creature she's become," the king prompted. "I know how eager you have been to see her again."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Philip said. "You know how I look forward to tomorrow."
There was nothing in his tone or expression that indicated anything but gracious sincerity, but something in his ambiguous choice of words, something in the concealing depths of his eyes, made Rosalynde apprehensive.
Tom gave her a small encouraging smile, but she was unable for the bewildered disappointment in her expression to face him. He was the Tom she remembered, still the same openhearted, smiling Tom. Where was Philip? Her Philip?
She had always thought of Philip as hers. Ever since he had come to Westered, she had called him hers and built her unspoken romantic dreams around him. Now at last the time had come for her to see him again, but where was he? Her Philip had gentle eyes and a warm, easy smile. Did the man standing before her now ever smile at all?
She wanted desperately to escape the scrutiny of the courtiers around her, the expectant glances of his father and hers, and speak to him alone. Surely somewhere behind this cold facade was the boy she had known in Westered. If she could be alone with him, away from the court, surely he would prove to be the gallant, passionate hero-prince she had so long entertained in her fancy. He had to be.
"His Majesty is right, Lady Rosalynde," he said with a bow. "You are very beautiful."
Her smile brightened then faded when she saw that, even as he acknowledged it, her beauty brought him no pleasure.
"You are too kind, my lord," she murmured, looking down, pained to see that he spoke only for the sake of courtesy, to please the king.
"I am happy to see you well, my lord," he said to her father, and Westered bowed slightly.
"I thank you, Your Highness. I am pleased to see you so, too, and to see you safe. I know these wars have cost dear in Afton blood. I pray the blood of Westered will strengthen it."
Philip took a deep breath and did not reply.
"I say amen to that," Robert answered for him, and Philip bowed once more, his expression blanker than ever.
"If you will pardon me, Your Majesty, my lord, my lady, I must make myself presentable for supper."
"And I, Father," Tom added as Philip left the hall. He nodded to the visitors. "My lord. Lady Rosalynde."
"I'll not have the both of you coming tardy for supper, Thomas, mind you," Robert said, spoiling his stern tone with an indulgent smile.
"We'll not, Father."
Westered smiled, too, as he watched Tom follow after his brother.
"I've always envied you your fine sons, Your Majesty. I was sorry to lose a son in Richard, but I am glad to have another in Philip." He gave Rosalynde's cheek a playful pinch. "I know one little heart that's pleased. I believe I lost her to him five years ago."
She blushed furiously.
"Philip and I have spoken often of you as well, Lady Rosalynde," the king told her. "Trust me."
Westered nodded towards the doorway through which Philip had just gone. "He'll truly make a fine king one day, Your Majesty. The quality shines from him even without his finery."
"You must pardon him coming to you as he did, my lord. Please, take no offense, my lady."
"Faith, no, let it pass," Westered said. "It is good to see a boy quick to be obedient to his father in everything."
"He is that, my lord, indeed," Robert replied, but the fact did not seem to please him.
***
Tom caught up to his brother on the winding stairway that led to their chambers.
"She's quite changed, is she not?"
He could read Philip better than anyone could, and he had seen the quickly hidden fire in Philip's eyes when he had first looked on the girl. He had also seen the unmistakable pain and guilt that had followed it.
"She'd hardly be fifteen anymore," Philip snapped.
"But you could never have expected–"
"It makes no difference what I expected or what she is like. I've given my word. I shall marry her."
"Philip, if you feel it is too soon–"
"Let be, Tom. We cannot change things now. Besides, I do not feel it is too soon. I do not feel anything at all."
With that, Philip went into his chamber and shut the door, leaving Tom outside.
***
Supper was an eternity of empty pleasantries and it was very late when Philip was at last allowed to retire. He was quick to dismiss all of his servants, then, careless of his fine clothes, he sprawled out on the bed and closed his eyes. He knew this kind of exhaustion, though, exhaustion of the mind and of the emotions. He knew it would likely deny him the charitable sleep that had sheltered him in Tanglewood. His body was strong enough now to withstand the assault of his memories and the tightening bands of duty that had been placed upon him.
What had he pledged himself to? There was hardly anything of the little girl he was expecting in the delicate oval face that had looked up at h
im at supper. Only the shy green eyes under perfectly arched fine brows and the thick, dark hair were the same. Her childish plumpness had melted into slender-waisted voluptuousness, into tantalizing, maddening curves.
He had agreed to marry the timid, round-faced child he had left in Westered, not this enticing Eve who tempted and smiled as she damned. But he had agreed. He had agreed and now it was too late.
He flung himself restlessly onto his side and tried to pillow his head on his arms, but something hard and sharp pressed into his cheek. He knew what it was.
He turned again to his back and let his ring catch the wan firelight. It felt heavy on his hand, as it had when it had been placed there the first time, at his father's coronation, hallowed and blessed by the Archbishop himself. Four times, once for Philip and once for each of his brothers, the austere cleric had made his solemn recitation.
"Be you, young prince, as pure as this gold, as truly set as this precious stone, and, honor binding all, serve your king."
Four times a proud-blooded young prince had knelt and then made grave answer.
"So, before God and His angels, I do swear."
Four times the heavy seal had been set on a strong young hand and four times the gathered nobility had answered a reverent amen. Let it be so.
Philip turned the ring on his finger, as if it chafed him, and almost permitted himself a jaded smile at the single word engraved upon it – honor. Honor. It had seen little enough of that, even from the first day he wore it, at his father's stolen coronation. Later, he had himself given it as a pledge. He had thought then never to wear it again, yet here it was on his hand. So much for honor.
It belongs with you, Kate.
He could see her still as he had at the very first, standing with Margaret's waiting women, looking all innocence among their worldliness. He had not thought her beautiful then, not the cold, perfect way his mother had been beautiful, but then Katherine's soft sweetness had begun to work its way into his heart, deeper and deeper, until he could see no beauty but hers.
In Honor Bound Page 10