In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  She watched him fumbling with the lacings at her waist, the languor in her eyes kindling into desire, firing the light in his.

  "Stay," she said again as she feathered her fingers through his hair, and he let her pull him down beside her.

  ***

  Sometime later, he was still trailing soft kisses across her cheeks and nose and chin as she lay drowsing in his embrace, soaked in contentment, loving the solid feel of him in her arms, caressed with the warm weight of his whole body. She pressed her lips to his shoulder and stroked her hand down his back then up along his side, wondering again about the long scar she felt there.

  "How did you get that?" she asked sleepily, thinking the question innocent enough to begin with. The kisses stopped.

  "Battle."

  "And this one?"

  She traced the mark on his cheek, and he jerked back as if her touch had scalded him.

  "By not knowing when to speak and when to keep silent."

  Shoving himself away from her, he rolled to the side of the bed and lay with his back turned.

  "My lord."

  "You've had what you wanted of me, now go to sleep."

  His tone was savage, and the tears sprang into her eyes.

  "Philip–"

  "Never ask me about the past. It cannot be changed, and it cannot be helped."

  Hesitantly, she touched his arm, but he shook her off.

  "Go to sleep."

  ***

  Philip lay there feeling again the heavy blow that had scarred him and the deeper wounds that had left only invisible marks. Was there not even a moment that would let him forget? But he had no right to forget, no right to drown his memories with this girl as his father drowned his guilt in wine.

  I will remember, he pledged silently and the fierce pain turned cold inside him. I will remember.

  ***

  She did not see him at all the next day and she wondered if he would even come back to her that night. If he did, she knew she would have nothing but cold indifference for her bedfellow.

  "Is there something wrong, my lady?" Julia asked as she finished unlacing her dress. "You look so sad."

  "I do not think I would be sad if Prince Philip were coming to my bed tonight," Ursula said, sitting on a footstool at Rosalynde's feet to remove her shoes, but Rosalynde was too preoccupied to scold her for her saucy tongue.

  "What do you know of my husband, Julia?"

  "Only what all Winton knows, my lady. He is a true gentleman and a handsome one and of the finest blood. What more need I know of him?"

  "I know there is little at court, great or small, that misses your eye. Tell me, do you know how he came to get the scar on his cheek?"

  "He took an arrow in the face. By the mass, that was a battle they say. For many days after, it was feared my lord Philip would die."

  "From so shallow a wound?"

  "Oh, no, my lady. He was grievous hurt in the side as well."

  "The left side?"

  "I do not know, my lady."

  "But what battle was it?"

  "It was in Tanglewood, not three or four months ago. When young Prince John was killed."

  "I did not know," Rosalynde said, thinking it was no wonder he did not wish to discuss those wounds, realizing that she had unwittingly brought him pain. "Philip loved him well, did he not?"

  "Yes, my lady, very dearly."

  "My poor love, he's lost much these past months."

  The two waiting women exchanged glances.

  "Yes, my lady," Julia said. "More than is commonly asked of anyone to bear all at once."

  "But tell me more. I want to know everything about him."

  "You should ask of him, my lady," Julia said, her eyes furtive. "He best can tell you."

  Rosalynde sighed. "I do not think he will. Please, you must know more. Who are his friends at court?" She picked a loose thread from her shift and avoided the other girls' glances. "I suppose he has been much sought after by the ladies."

  "They used to call him Ice-Heart, my lady, because he would not play at love, not even a little bit," Ursula said, then her expression changed. "You needn't worry that you will one day come face to face with a cast-off mistress of his."

  "Not anymore," Julia agreed, then she bit her lip as Rosalynde turned to face her.

  "Then there was someone once."

  "Oh, my lady, I seem to be forever saying more than I should. Please, we are not to speak of her."

  "Of whom?"

  "Please, my lady, the king has forbidden–"

  "Katherine," Ursula whispered, and she pulled her footstool closer. "They say she bewitched Prince Philip and stole the heart right out of his breast."

  Julia crossed herself. "They burned her out in Bakersfield."

  "Burned her?" Rosalynde gasped.

  "For sorcery and for what she did to my lady your sister's unborn child."

  "Margaret was with child?"

  Julia nodded. "By Prince Richard, but she lost it. It was witchcraft, they said. Did you not know, my lady? I suppose news is slow to come so far as Westered, but it's a wonder you've not heard."

  "Tell me," Rosalynde whispered, feeling sick. "Did she truly make Margaret lose her child?"

  "Katherine attended Lady Margaret with us, but I never saw proof that her ladyship did not lose her child naturally. Her woman Merryn could tell you better. She looked after her ladyship more closely than any of us."

  Rosalynde remembered Merryn – meddlesome and superstitious and fiercely devoted to Margaret. "She went with my sister to Ellenshaw, I suppose. But what of this Katherine? What did she do?"

  "They say she gave Lady Margaret something she claimed was to ease her pains, but it made the child miscarry and almost Lady Margaret died as well."

  "So they burned Katherine for it. Was she a witch, do you think? What was she like?"

  "She was never my lord Philip's match in looks or breeding. Not as you are, my lady," Ursula said. "She was near as straight as any boy and such a meek thing, too. It had to be witchcraft that won him to her. Even the noblest, fairest ladies at court could coax him into no more than a dance or two."

  "She had a sweet face," Julia protested. "I never believed she was a witch. She seemed too gentle and more truly pious than anyone I ever saw."

  "Not too pious to go to his bed."

  Rosalynde's heart contracted violently.

  "You should not say such things, Ursula," Julia scolded. "Not in our lady's hearing."

  "She'd have heard of it anyway, like as not," Ursula said. "He made brazen enough show of it. Ice-Heart, indeed. He was hot enough with that pious-tongued Katherine."

  "You are wicked to say such things!" Julia cried. "Just because he favored her and never tossed you so much as a smile. She is jealous, my lady."

  Rosalynde sat there with the hurt tears welling up in her eyes. Her Philip, her honorable, stainless knight, and this baseborn–

  "Forgive me, my lady," Ursula said quickly. "I meant no harm in what I said. I would not be a woman had I never sighed after him, but it is true he would never look at me, nor none of the others, noble or not, only Katherine. I swear I'll not speak of her again."

  "No," Rosalynde insisted, "I must know everything. Did– did she love him?"

  Ursula laughed. "Who would not?"

  Indeed, who would not? The tears fell to Rosalynde’s cheeks. "And did he– did he–"

  "Do not torture yourself, my lady," Julia said gently. "She is gone. Whatever love he may have had for her is gone with her."

  No. Not gone. It was an agonizing certainty. That love is not gone. She took a painful breath. "How long ago?"

  "Not a year yet, I don't think," Ursula considered and Julia agreed.

  "No. Not since she was burned."

  "They kept him locked away until it was done and he was free of her," Ursula added. "They say burning breaks any spell."

  Rosalynde felt a chill thread through her veins and quickly crossed herself. "I pray that is so."
/>
  Could it be that this Katherine's sorcery had truly stolen his heart from him? That she yet somehow had a hold on him that would not allow him to love again? Or was it only grief for this girl, and for his mother and brothers too, no doubt, that weighed upon him? Rosalynde vowed to pray for him, to pray that God would send him peace and break any bonds that fettered him still.

  A little hope struggled up inside her. His grief would pass. It had to. She would treat him tenderly until it did, despite his determined coldness, and win him with patience. She managed to smile at the thought.

  VIII

  She did not see him that night, and the next morning a messenger arrived bringing her word that he had been sent away on some unnamed business for his father and would not return for a fortnight at the least.

  Her mouth turned down in disappointment. A fortnight. To her longing heart, a fortnight was an eternity of separation from him. She was grieved that he should go away without even a farewell, after their last moments together had left them both wounded, but she determined to make his homecoming the sweeter for it.

  Since he had forbidden her to speak of her love, she decided that she would give him some fine token of it, something rich and exquisite that would speak for her, but what could it be? He had no lack of possessions, of jewels and finery to deck himself, and what could she give him that was not purchased out of his own bounty to her?

  The solution came to her while she was sitting in the large window of her chamber sewing. What better demonstration of her affection than something she made herself? She remembered hearing it said that work of the hand was the work of the heart and determined that hers truly would be. The ladies at court always commented upon the fineness of her needlework. It would make the time alone pass more quickly if she spent it making something that she could give to him as a peace offering when he returned.

  She worked carefully, painstakingly, often for long stretches at a time. The night before he was to return, she stayed up until dawn had nearly come again, straining in the flickering candlelight to finish her task. When she woke later, she was dismayed to find that it was past noon and he had returned some hours before. She made her ladies hurry in dressing her, then, with his gift carefully wrapped up in plain cloth, she went down to him.

  She found him talking to his father near the council chamber and stood off from them to wait until they had finished. Philip could not have missed the eager welcome in her expression. For an instant she thought he might answer her in kind, but then the king summoned her to them.

  "I dare say, son, you had rather have the greeting of this fair creature than stand here talking matters of state."

  Seeing his father's self-satisfied smile, as if he'd just bestowed upon his son a great gift, Philip's expression turned even cooler than before.

  "My lady." He kissed her hand formally. "I trust you have been well in my absence."

  "Yes, my lord." Was he never to forgive the innocent hurts she had given him before he had gone away? "I– I am glad you are returned safely."

  Robert was quick to break the thick silence that followed.

  "Well, I see the two of you are newly married enough to be shy yet in company. I will leave you then, Philip, so you may greet your little mouse as you are no doubt eager to do." He pushed her a step towards his son. "A little more feelingly, eh?"

  Rosalynde felt her face burn and knew without looking that her husband's eyes had turned to ice. His voice was chillingly even.

  "If you will pardon me, Your Majesty, my lady, Alethia came up lame as I rode in this morning. I should go see if Hawkins has found the cause of it."

  Robert frowned. "Philip–"

  "I am sure the lady understands."

  They both looked to Rosalynde and she lowered her eyes.

  "Of course, my lord. We will have time at supper."

  Philip looked back at his father with a slight lift of one eyebrow, and Robert reluctantly conceded.

  "Go on, then."

  Philip bowed. "Your Majesty. My lady."

  A moment later he was gone and, watching after him, Robert shook his head.

  "He will not take his leisure until he has seen to his duty," he said, his tone thinly cheerful. "A good quality in any man and a better one in a prince."

  "Yes, my lord," Rosalynde said, tightly clutching the gift she had never had a chance to give. With a look of pained understanding, Robert gave her shoulder an awkward pat and left her.

  Supper that night was a strained affair and, claiming further business to attend, Philip sent her to bed alone afterwards, never giving her an opportunity to bring him her offering, her token of love. Again she forced down the hurt and told herself there would be tomorrow.

  She rose early and, taking her gift with her, she went down to the council chamber. It was empty but, hearing a clamor of voices outside, she went to the window and saw her husband down in the courtyard with his dogs and his servants. Tom was with him, his falcon on his arm.

  The sight pleased her. The prospect of a day of leisure seemed to have lightened Philip's expression, and she knew that if anyone could cheer his spirits it was his brother Tom. Well, her gift would keep until this afternoon and be all the better for the waiting.

  "Good morning, Lady Rosalynde. You are early up."

  She turned and made a deep curtsey. "Good morning, Your Majesty. I had meant to speak to my lord Philip this morning before he was again mewed up in council, but I see he is going hunting."

  Robert smiled. "He did me good service this past fortnight. I thought I would reward him with a day's pleasure. Is your business with him urgent?"

  "Oh, no, my lord. It will keep until tonight."

  "Nonsense. I will send for him."

  Despite her protests, Philip was standing before his father a moment later.

  "You wished something of me, Your Majesty?"

  "I would have you hear what your lady would say to you. A light enough task, I think."

  Philip turned to her, only a slight twitch in his jaw to betray his annoyance. "My lady?"

  "I– I have something for you, my lord, but I see His Majesty has already given you a gift, a day of freedom."

  Philip smiled politely. "He gives me my freedom on a very short leash."

  Robert's benign expression did not change. "Go ahead, my lady."

  "My lady?" Philip asked again.

  "This will wait, my lord," she said with an uncomfortable glance at his father, "until you have your leisure."

  There was a hint of triumph in Philip's calm expression, a little twist of pride in his mouth as he, too, glanced at his father. "I thank you, my lady." He bowed. "If you will excuse me, Your Majesty."

  "No, Philip, I will not." Robert frowned. "I wish you to hear your lady out."

  Philip turned dutifully to her once more. "My lady?"

  "I made you this while you were away," she said, fingering the package, wishing she had never said anything. Her nervousness made her hurry to fill in the silence that followed. "Your father says you did him good service. Where did you go?"

  Philip looked askance at his father, and Robert nodded.

  "You may tell her."

  "I went to Westered. To your father."

  Rosalynde's face lit. "Oh, tell me how he fares. Is he well?"

  "Very well, my lady. He asked of you and sent you his love."

  "I trust you gave him mine."

  "I thought you would wish me to, lady."

  "Were you with him long?"

  "Only long enough to do that I was sent for."

  "My lord your father says you did well," she said, hoping to please him with his father's praise.

  "I am gratified to hear it," Philip said coolly, glancing again at the king. "I feared at first that I would fail. I was never trained in beggary."

  "The war has wasted my treasury, Lady Rosalynde," Robert was quick to explain. "I merely sent him to ask your father's aid, for the love your father bears you and for the love you have in my son.
I dare say it is well worth it to my lord of Westered to do his part to see you are kept safe."

  "My father is loyal to Afton, my lord king," Rosalynde said, twisting her gift in her hands. "I know he was pleased to do it. Was he not?"

  Philip shrugged. "I told him what he wanted to hear, and he gave me the money."

  Rosalynde hung her head, realizing how abased her proud-spirited husband must have felt at such a task. She put her wadded-up bundle behind her back, hoping it had been forgotten. She did not want her gift soiled with the unpleasantness that was between Philip and his father.

  "Well, my lady," Robert said lightly, "you said you had something for my son?"

  Her heart sank. "No, please, my lord, it will keep."

  "Come, girl."

  Reluctantly, she took the wrapping from the bundle and handed Philip a pair of gloves, white velvet embroidered with his cognizance, the saint's rose, the white chastelayne. She had wanted, in the days of work she had put into them, for them to be the finest, most beautiful pair he had and, indeed, they were. Hundreds of tiny white stitches, each carefully placed, showed a quality of work that was well worthy of a prince, well worthy of a king.

  He accepted them with his usual cool grace.

  "I thank you, my lady."

  Immediately, she knew her pains had been wasted. How she wished she had said nothing until they were alone.

  "I believe your lady made those with her own hands, Philip," the king prompted, and Philip inclined his head.

  "They are excellent well done, my lady," he said with a polite smile. "I thank you."

  "I took some of your old ones as a pattern. Do they fit?"

  He pulled the gloves snugly onto his hands, all icy patience. "I could not ask better."

  "I had hoped they would please you," she said, a miserable sickness in the pit of her stomach.

  "That was most gracious. Is there anything more, Your Majesty?"

  "No," Robert said with a frown. "That is quite enough."

  Philip bowed. "Pardon me, my lady, but I am stayed for."

  Rosalynde made curtsey and watched him walk away, wanting desperately to run after him, knowing that would not improve his estimation of her. She reminded herself to be patient. Perhaps he would come to her that night. He often did after a hunt, when he was relaxed and had burned off some of his restless energy. Perhaps then, away from his father, he would show more appreciation for the gift she had given him.