Perhaps it was because she was the only woman at court who dared go out to Brenning, where the Heretics met. He saw her there whenever he went to anonymously hear their words of life, and in time he was certain that a man could safely trust his heart to such a woman.
If God Himself had no respect for wealth, title, or nobility of birth, as they preached, how could a man? Why should any man, slave or prince, desire more in a wife than a true, loving heart? He had convinced himself their words were all true, but he had been very young then.
"Marry me, Kate," he had begged her when he could bear no more to be without her. "Love me."
She had drawn a startled breath, then rushed into his embrace. "I do. Oh, I will."
Then there had been that first hesitant kiss between them, a kiss that grew in intensity until it left them clinging, trembling together.
"Now," he had murmured, his mouth very close to hers. "Marry me now."
"My lord–"
"It will have to be in secret." The words had spilled out of him, as if they feared they would be seized and silenced. "And you know what will be said of you."
"My lord, your father–"
"I will keep you safe." He had kissed her then, kissed her until he was afraid she would swoon, then he had wrapped his arms tight around her. "Will you have me, Kate?"
He still could see her sweet eyes, filled with sudden tears.
"You know I would die if I did not."
The ride to Brenning had seemed swift, the simple ceremony even swifter. It was then that he had given her his ring in exchange for her fine sapphire cross, the only jewelry she had.
"I will wear it always near my heart," he had sworn once they had been proclaimed man and wife.
"I shall have to wear this near my heart as well," she had said, looking at the ring that was clearly too large for her slender finger. "It would never do for anyone to see it on my hand."
He closed his eyes and saw Katherine again as she had been their first night together, nestled in his scented sheets, clad only in her shift, with his ring hanging from a ribbon around her neck and her fair hair falling loose and lush onto his pillows.
He could still feel the racing in his heart, remembering how he had gone to her and knelt beside the bed, clutching both of her hands. "Kate–"
He felt once more the softness of those hands against his lips and pressed tenderly to his face, remembered his own breathless words.
"Oh, Kate, I've waited so long for you, my own precious–"
"Do you mean to talk until morning, my lord?"
Her voice was still velvet in his ear, almost he could feel her sweet breath, almost taste that first deep, hungry kiss. She had slid her arms around his neck then, pressing closer to him, twining her fingers into his hair, sighing with pleasure as his mouth moved to her throat.
"Oh, my lord."
"Do not call me that, Kate," he had murmured against her soft skin. "Not here, not now."
She had turned his face up to her and kissed him again, then lay back on the bed, drawing him with her. "Then come to me, Philip."
"Come to me," he whispered, an invocation to the torturous memory of her not to leave him. Not yet. Not while this last night was his. His and hers.
Come to me.
He pulled one cold pillow into his arms and hid his face in it, remembering the words and the sweet exchange of innocence that had followed, that wondrous rush of pure love.
Never again. Never again.
He ached with the remembrance. She was gone, but the memories would not stop. He imagined her there, nestled in his arms, and remembered how she had admired the way that first dawn had gilded them both and how she had called him beautiful.
"So very beautiful."
He had laughed then, low and full of wonder, and pulled her closer to his side.
"If I could find words to tell you how much I love you, Kate, you never would believe me."
"That you could love me?"
"No. That I could love you so much and not die of the pure joy of it."
She had moved closer still and pressed her face to his shoulder. He remembered the warm wetness of her tears on his skin.
"I would have died to see you marry one of those noblewomen your father wants for you. I would have died to know someone else might hold you and kiss you and love you like this." She had looked up at him with those guileless brown eyes, those eyes that had from the first drawn him with their sweet purity, and urgently clutched his arm. "You would never play me false?"
"Kate, by my honor–"
"Oh, do not swear." She had caressed his cheek and relaxed against him again. "You know you needn't swear to me. It's not in you ever to deceive me. I just cannot believe it all yet. There must be great evil ahead for me. I've had too much happiness all at once."
Again he had laughed and put both arms snugly around her. "Never be afraid, Kate. I will take care of you."
He had sworn it, but the oath mocked him now.
Kate, by my honor–
He grappled the pillow more tightly against himself.
"Must I remember? Please, God, no more. No more."
Sleep came to him at last, and it was mercy.
***
Rafe came early the next morning to prepare him for the wedding, and before long, Philip was standing at his looking glass while Rafe searched for the tiniest flaw in the image it reflected. There was none.
Philip's doublet was exactly the deep blue of his eyes and had been styled to compliment the elegant lines of his body. Like the doublet, his boots were newly made – soft as glove leather and cut to cling snugly to his long legs, all the way up to the middle of his hard-muscled thighs. He showed no trace of the sleeplessness of the night before and, from the dark sleekness of his hair to the burnished gleam of the ruby ring on his finger, everything about him was perfection.
The young lady will not be able to take her eyes from him, Rafe considered. No, nor none of the court.
He had been wont to take pride in the comeliness of his young master, as if he had had a hand in creating it, but now he could not. It was his duty to see that Philip was properly dressed for the great occasion, but it seemed like betrayal now to do it.
Still, he does look magnificent, Rafe thought. He would have been too thin and worn before to cut such a fine figure.
Rafe had hoped then that one day Philip would be able to put aside the deep grief that had shadowed his expressive eyes. That was before the king had come to Tanglewood, when Philip's eyes still held some expression.
"What more?" Philip asked and Rafe was startled back into the present.
"Uh, forgive me, my lord. Nothing more. The young lady cannot choose but be pleased."
Rafe wondered for a moment if that was not just the wrong thing to say, but Philip's face told him nothing and Rafe dared say no more.
***
The ceremony proceeded without a flaw. The bride was radiant in cloth of gold that had been slashed and inset with pearl white silk. Her dress and her dark hair both were liberally sprinkled with seed pearls, and heavy ropes of pearl hung at her wrists and throat. On her finger was a ruby ring, the very image of the one Philip wore, but made smaller to fit her hand. He had been told it was his wedding gift to her.
He did not look at her during the ceremony. He fixed his gaze on the iron lock that secured the gate to the catacombs behind the altar and let the Archbishop's words slide past him, making unintelligible singsong in his ears. Only his bride's responses, soft and hesitant beside him, refused to be muted into meaninglessness. He was to be cherished and obeyed and cleaved to, whether he would have it so or no.
Then he heard his own name spoken and his own oath asked. Would he cherish this woman who had been chosen for his father's security? Would he give himself for a woman he did not know, who did not know him? Would he cleave to such a woman, knowing the one he loved had been swept aside to make place for her?
There was absolute silence in the cathedral as ever
yone awaited Philip's answer. His eyes met his father's then he looked abruptly back at the Archbishop. When he spoke, his voice was as clear and as cold as crystal.
"I will."
The wedding guests smiled their satisfaction and Philip knew there must be triumph on his father's face, long awaited triumph.
I have obeyed you now, Your Majesty, Philip thought darkly. I hope you are pleased.
The Archbishop blessed the new couple in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Philip moved his lips to say the amen with everyone else, but his throat tightened around the word and would not let it pass.
That done, he turned with Rosalynde to bow low to the king and then to James of Westered who sat beaming at his renewed alliance. Only one thing remained.
All color gone from his face, Philip turned to his bride and, taking her hands, coldly brushed her lips with his own. A great cheer rose from the crowd and the cathedral bells began to peal in celebration.
***
Rosalynde blinked back tears and pressed her trembling lips together, then she lifted her chin and smiled a wide, stiff smile, acknowledging the people, her people now. Philip, too, was smiling, smiling the dazzling smile his people loved, and they cheered the louder because of it. Only Rosalynde was near enough to see that the smile did not reach his eyes.
He offered her his arm and she took it apprehensively, feeling as if she might swoon from the claustrophobic press of people around them. Her attendants took up her long train and the halberdiers opened a path through the crowd to let the new couple pass. The wedding guests flooded out behind them, eager to begin the feasting and celebration that would last well into the night.
For the next few hours, Philip never left Rosalynde's side, playing to perfection the role of the attentive bridegroom. She watched as he graciously accepted the congratulations and good wishes of the guests and tactfully passed over the drunken, ribald comments some of them made. When they raised a toast to her, he chivalrously kissed her hand and said something pretty about her beauty and his good fortune. He even filled her plate from the banquet table himself and poured her wine. All in all, he flawlessly kept the promise he had given. The king could have no complaint regarding his obedience now.
She, too, kept up the pretense, smiling and clinging to his arm. For almost five years she had dreamed of him, made him her passion's idol. Often she had prayed for this very night to come, the night when she could give herself to him, but now she realized she was in truth not so bold as in her imagination. This man she had been given to, this beautiful man with eyes of ice, was not her Philip at all. Whoever he was, though, he was her husband and she was his wife.
"Will you have more wine?"
Startled from her musings, she turned to him. "My lord?"
"Will you have more–" A flicker of concern touched his face. "There are tears in your eyes, my lady. I hope I have not put them there."
She dashed the telltale drops away. "I was just thinking how swiftly life changes."
"You miss Westered, no doubt," he said.
"It holds all my sweetest memories."
He nodded, looking as if he pitied her being stolen from her home and thrust into a life not of her own choosing, as if he was familiar with that pain.
"Westered is not so far that you need never see it again."
"That's so, my lord, but my duty is here now."
A hint of sympathy softened his expression. "And duty is rarely easy. Still, I had thought your Ankarette would have come to attend you here, if only to keep you company."
She managed a tiny smile. "I would she could have, my lord, but she died two months ago."
Again he looked as if he pitied her, as if this pain, too, was a familiar one. "I am sorry, my lady, I know she cared for you a long while."
"Since I was born. I never knew my mother."
"Nor I mine."
She looked at him puzzled. The queen had died little more than a year ago.
"I thought–" She dropped her eyes. "I am sorry, my lord."
The day halted tediously into night and finally the king announced that the bride and groom would retire. That set off a round of suggestive toasts and raucous laughter and Rosalynde looked at the floor, red faced, unable to meet Philip's eyes.
"Come, my lady," he said, putting his arm protectively around her, his stern disapproval dampening the guests' high spirits. He led her to where his father and hers stood talking.
"Good night, Your Majesty. My lord."
Philip bowed formally to each of them and Rosalynde curtseyed.
"Good night, Your Majesty," she said and Robert took her hand to kiss.
"Faith, son, she's a tempting wench," he said heartily, his voice unsteady with wine. "A man might envy you tonight."
"He might, Your Majesty," Philip replied, his expression unchanging.
"And, fair daughter, good night," Robert said, then he leaned even closer to her. "My son allows himself little pleasure, girl. I trust you will please him."
"I pray I shall," she said low, her blush deepening, then she turned quickly to her father. "Good night, Father."
She kissed him on the cheek and he held her close for a moment. Darting a glance at Philip, he murmured in her ear, “Is all well?”
"It will be all right."
Westered turned then to his son-in-law.
"Your Highness, I have entrusted to you the dearest thing I have, and I would have her kept safe. I'll not remind you of the vows you made this morning. I know you in all honor will keep them, but I know, too, that these are uncertain times."
He took off his ring, marked with the Westered lions, and pressed it into Philip's hand, holding it there, holding Philip's eyes with his intense gaze.
"If ever, as ever need may come, you find you want my aid, send me this, and I and my army will come to you."
He caught Rosalynde's hand and put it into Philip's, the ring between them and his own large hands around both of theirs.
"You were good to my girl before, son. Be so now."
Philip briefly bowed his head. "I will defend her with my life."
Westered kissed his daughter once more. "God bless you, sweetheart."
"Good night, Father," she said, just the slightest tremor in her voice. "I pray He will bless us all."
Philip escorted her to the bridal chamber and left her in the care of her ladies in waiting, the same ones who had waited upon her sister, Margaret, before her defection. They carefully removed her crumpled gown and the delicate undergarments beneath, then they unbound her hair. It fell in heavy coils down her back, and she shook her head, glad to be free of the painful pull of the clasps. As they combed the tresses into dark, shimmering waves, she studied herself in the mirror and wondered if her husband would be pleased to take possession of this untouched flesh that now belonged to him.
She got under the coverlet and considered again what it could have been that had taken the light from his eyes and the warmth from his heart. Whatever it was, she determined to love him so purely, so deeply, so fiercely that he could not choose but love her in return.
Her resolve evaporated when there was a knock at the door. The room flooded with light as a brace of courtiers entered, followed by her father and the Archbishop. Last of all was her new-made husband, flanked by his father and brother. Philip got gingerly into bed beside her and handed his dressing gown to Rafe Bonnechamp.
"Pity he did not remove it before he got into the bed," one noblewoman murmured to another, and Rosalynde colored as the other stifled a giggle.
She glanced at Philip to see if he, too, had overheard, but he was still sitting up, staring fixedly at the Archbishop, seemingly oblivious to anything but the blessing of their marriage bed. Rosalynde let the holy words slip by her until finally the ceremony was over and the courtiers left, taking the bright lights with them.
***
Philip sat still as he had been, looking straight ahead, knowing she was watching the flickering hearth lig
ht play over his skin, watching as it defined the muscles in his arms and shoulders, watching as if she wished she dared touch him. After a moment, he turned to her, his face carefully blank. She lay there with the coverlet pulled to her chin, only the barest hint of white shoulders visible beneath, her eyes holding an odd mixture of hope and fear and desire.
"I am sorry there was not time for us to become better acquainted before now, my lady."
"We are not wholly strangers." She laid her hand on his arm and the touch burned. "I remember you were very kind to me in Westered."
"That was a long time ago," he said unsteadily, letting his eyes travel slowly along the soft whiteness of her, hand to arm to shoulder to throat. He had not touched a woman, not since Katherine and not before.
"There has not been a day of the time since, my lord, that you have not been in my heart or my prayers."
He looked abruptly into her eyes. "Not a day?"
"No."
He focused on her full wine-colored lips as they formed the word and realized that his body was eager to keep the vow he had made, though his heart rebelled at it still.
"I want to be a good wife to you, my lord," she said, her voice trembling and the color rising to her cheeks. "I want to please you."
Her hand was still on his arm, softly stroking, drawing him closer. Nervously moistening his lips, he leaned over her and kissed her mouth. The sensation jolted through him like lightening, burning the air out of his lungs.
"Oh, my lord," she sighed.
Her breath was sweetly warm in his ear and for a moment he clung to her, hiding his face against her shoulder. Her soft words brought him back to the sweet, innocent fire of that first night with Katherine, left him longing to rekindle it, longing to feel something besides pain.
Let it be more than this, he pled silently, for himself and for this gentle girl who had kept him so long in her prayers. It was meant to be more, he knew from his few nights with Katherine. He had no experience of passion without love.
"Philip," Rosalynde whispered, pressing her lips to his temple. He closed his eyes and kissed her again.
***
He lay with his back against the pillows, motionless. She rested yet against his heart, warm and content, her dark hair flowing over them both. He had been careful to be gentle, knowing from his brief time with Katherine that the hopeful innocence this girl had just given him was something fragile, something he should hold dear, something he should cherish. She was such a soft little thing–
In Honor Bound Page 11