In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  "Poor man," Rosalynde murmured.

  "Philip went back to the court afterwards, to plead for Edward's release. I remember that day. Father came in and all the nobles knelt, all except for Philip. 'Have you no knee for your king, boy?' Father demanded and Philip looked at him, you know the way he does, proud and immovable, and said, 'Yes, my lord. Bring me before him and he shall have it.' Father slapped him for it, there before the court. He'd never struck any of us before. Then he said, 'Is this the love and allegiance I have due me as your father and as your king?' Philip was too stunned for a moment to answer him, then he said, 'As you are my father, I tender you my love. As you are my king, I tender you my allegiance. Which would you have?'"

  Rosalynde could imagine him as he must have looked, that determination on his face and the hurt pleading, too.

  "What did he answer him?"

  "Before Father could reply, Darlington came in with the news that Edward was dead. Faith, I hope I am never the object of such a look as Philip gave our father then. He dropped to his knee and said, 'Long live King Robert,' with such condemnation in his voice that it was judge, jury and executioner all at once."

  "Then your father– He did order King Edward's death, as they say."

  "No. It was not so, though it may have been easier if he had. Darlington said he did not know how, but Edward had somehow got hold of a dagger and turned it on himself."

  "Oh, not Philip's!"

  Tom nodded. "Edward cut his own throat with it. Philip's not forgiven himself that yet, for leaving it behind in his cell."

  "Then it was King Edward's death that came between him and your father."

  "Partly," Tom said. "That was only the first betrayal he lays to our father's charge. John was the last."

  "Your brother John? He was killed in battle. How could that be a betrayal?"

  "It was given out that John was sent to the army in Tanglewood when our mother died. In truth, Father banished him there. He died there because Father would not send him enough men to defend the place. Philip pled with Father to send and quarreled with him, too, over it."

  "But what had the boy done?" Rosalynde asked. How much more was left to be told and how had Philip, and Tom, too, borne it all.

  "Nothing Father would say. Nothing reason could fault John for. After John died, they quarreled again, over John doubtless, and over other things, I know not what. Father slapped him that time, too." Tom put his hand up to his cheek. "There, where the arrow hit him, with no mind of Philip's wounds or his grief. Philip's not been the same since."

  "And I struck him there, too," Rosalynde murmured, putting her hand over her mouth. "Oh, my Philip."

  "It was as if he'd given up after that," Tom said, "on love and trust and anything else but his honor and his memories."

  "His memories of Katherine."

  "Do not fault him for loving her," Tom said slowly, pity in his dark eyes. "She was not nobly born, but she had a true heart, and she loved him well. He told me once she was the only one who loved him for nothing but himself alone, past his titles and noble blood and all the rest. And you remember him how he was. He would never have loved her at all and loved her lightly."

  "I would he had," she said, struggling to keep the tears out of her eyes.

  "No," Tom corrected, his voice gentle, "you would not. He would not be the Philip you love if he had used her so."

  "He is not the Philip I love!" She briefly pressed her lips together. "No, I mean to say I love him still, but he is not what he was."

  "That's sure," Tom agreed, "but he could be again in time, if you will have patience with him. He is wounded yet. Inside." Sadness shadowed his face. "It would have broken your heart to see him after her trial. I feared he would die when she did, he loved her so."

  "But she was a witch," Rosalynde protested. "She killed my sister's child."

  "I never believed those charges true, my lady. She was as Christian as any I know."

  "But she was his mistress!"

  "My lady, I know he would never speak to you of this, but–"

  "We must needs be gone from here," Philip called from the road, and Tom stood up quickly.

  "It is not precisely as you have been told," Tom said softly as he helped her to her feet. Then Philip came up beside them, and Tom said no more.

  Rosalynde watched her husband as he shook the grass from his cloak, then rolled it up and packed it in the pouch on his saddle, the usual taut expression on his face.

  He is wounded yet. Inside.

  She could tell that was so and that, somewhere past the scars and the memories, he truly was the Philip she loved. She determined to find a way to his heart, if love and patience could find it.

  ***

  "Are you ready, my lady?" Philip asked as he put his hands around her waist, meaning to lift her back onto her horse, but something stopped him there. "I suppose the last time I put you up here I was not very gentle. You must forgive me if I sometimes am forced to be rough with you."

  He did not see the reproach he expected to see in her expression, the reproach he knew he deserved. Instead there was only uncertain hope and a desire to trust, just as there had been when she had told him that she had always kept him in her prayers. From that first night, he had done nothing to earn her trust. How could she still have that look now, even mixed with remorse as it was?

  "I was so afraid," she said, shyly toying with the lacing on his shirt. "I am sorry."

  "What, for being afraid?"

  She nodded.

  "You need not have feared, my lady. I am sworn to protect you, and they would have had to take my life before I would have let them hurt you."

  "I know. That was what I feared, that they would kill you. You are too careless of your life, my lord, and I am so afraid that one day you will go to fight and never return to me."

  Surprised, he searched her face for any hint of pretense but found none. How could he have been so reckless with such a tender heart?

  "I suppose you are tired, my lady," he said awkwardly. "Would you care to ride with me awhile?"

  A hesitant smile touched her lips. "If it would not weary you too much."

  He turned her horse over to one of his men and swung her up in front of him on Alethia's back. Soon her head sank to his chest in trusting sleep, and he held her a little more snugly, wanting to be sure she did not fall.

  It was dark again when they reached Bridgewater and sanctuary. The village was small and secluded, centered around Lord Darlington's country house, a secure little fortified manor that could withstand an army, if need be, manned by only a handful of soldiers. The women would be safe here until Winton was retaken.

  Darlington's steward was quick to make the royal visitors welcome and, as soon as they were fed, he showed them to the guest quarters.

  As they made their way to the chamber that had been given them, Rosalynde slipped her hand into Philip's, another little gesture of the loving trust he knew he did not deserve. Her hand was small in his, white and soft and meant to be protected, as was her whole self. And still that expression was on her face. After they had quarreled, he was sure that he had finally killed that look in her, that glow of love, but it was still there.

  "Will this place suit you, my lady?" he asked once they were alone. She nodded, and he clasped her hand a little tighter. "I fear I must leave you here until my father and Winton are both freed. I cannot say when I will be back for you."

  She looked up at him, her tear-filled eyes like emeralds in seawater, and he wondered how she could be sorry to see him go when he had brought her nothing but heartache. She put her free hand over their clasped ones, and he took a quick breath.

  "And I am sorry about your gloves. They were finer than I deserved."

  The tears spilled onto her cheeks. "Oh, my lord, will you forgive me the wicked things I said that day? I was willful and cruel."

  "God forgive me," he murmured as he gathered her to him. Willful and cruel. Could she have described him any bett
er?

  "I never wished to add hurt to that you already carry," she sobbed against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, her pity and forgiveness heaping coals of fire on his heart.

  "I know. I know. And I never truly meant to hurt you. If things had fallen out differently, I could have loved you." He pressed his lips against her hair. "I could have loved you the way you were meant to be loved."

  "Oh, Philip–"

  "Let me go," he said even as he held her closer, his voice low and husky. "Tom and I must leave at first light."

  "Not yet," she breathed, the soft curve of her mouth and the unabashed tenderness in her eyes begging him to love her. "It's hours till dawn."

  ***

  She wept to find him gone when she woke. Only one thing consoled her, and she was not sure if that was half-conscious reality or just a tangible dream, but she could still feel his lips soft and warm on hers as he left her and hear his hurried whispered words.

  I could have loved you.

  IX

  Philip rode away from Bridgewater unable to escape the memory of the night's warm darkness. Now, in the sober light of day, he felt the familiar guilty pain overtake him. There was an exquisite torture in this unrelenting duty that required him to take Rosalynde to his bed but demanded, too, that he have no tender feelings towards her lest he break his oath to Katherine.

  Even in that he knew he was failing. Despite his best efforts, he could not divorce his emotions from his duty, not with those soft, loving hands touching him, that tender mouth on his, the limitless depth of those eyes near drowning him with love. With Katherine, he had known nothing but love in lovemaking. He could not take Rosalynde's body and then just leave her. Not right away. Not when she gave herself so completely.

  "We shall part here," Tom said, drawing his brother out of his deep thoughts. "If you can bring Eastbrook's men to join those I will bring from Chrisdale and meet us outside of Winton, we shall, by God's grace, have our city and our father back again."

  Philip's face was grim. "Stephen must know we have no course but to mass our armies and come back to Winton. We shall buy our victories dear, if we are to have them at all."

  "Be faithful and we shall have them. We shall have good success and a godly peace."

  Tom held out his hand, and Philip took it in a strong clasp.

  "Pray God it will be soon," Philip said, then he held out his hand to Palmer. "See to your master well. I shall be much bounden to you for that and for some old debts I have neglected to show my thanks in."

  Looking a little surprised at the frankness of the gesture, Palmer grasped his hand. "God keep you, sir, you owe me nothing. What little service I may have once done you was no more than my duty to your house and to my God. It pleased me to see them both satisfied, though I sorrowed at the need for such service."

  "It is enough," Philip said curtly. "Tom, be wary."

  He spurred away with his men trailing after, a stiff, hard expression on his face.

  ***

  "God, give him peace," Tom breathed as he watched him fading into the distance, then he turned to his own men and ordered them to move on.

  They joined up with Ellison's forces and began the arduous push back west towards Winton. Stephen's men were ready to meet them, and for weeks they fought back and forth but, to Tom's satisfaction, always westward.

  The news he had of Philip was sketchy, sometimes no more than rumor, often nothing at all, but the most part of what he had been told was that Philip's battles were much like his own. Eventually the two armies would meet together and defeat the enemy. Tom believed that firmly. He believed it until his men met Weatherford's forces outside of a place called Grant.

  The enemy had reached the town first, and when Tom's men arrived, the place was burned to nothingness and Weatherford's men were well prepared to meet them. Careful of his soldier's lives, Tom ordered them to pull back until the odds were more equal, but Weatherford would not allow it. Flanking his opponent, he forced Tom to stand and fight.

  Tom saw his men fall like so many stalks of ripe wheat before the scythe. Still he fought on, aching with weariness, nerve alone powering his arm, until Palmer rode up beside him.

  "Come, my lord," he gasped. "My lord Ellison has been slain, our ranks are broke through, we cannot stand here."

  "We must pull back then!"

  "They'll never allow it. The men are already running, those that are able. There's no more to be done."

  "Palmer–"

  "Come, my lord!" Palmer cried, galloping away from the battlefield. Tom looked back and, seeing there truly was no hope, he followed.

  They stopped for only a moment in a secluded grove to shed the armor that would slow their flight and make capture almost certain. When they returned to the road, Stephen's men were close behind them.

  "Give yourselves up!" Weatherford ordered, but Tom and Palmer veered away from him and from the horsemen pursuing them and tried to plunge into the woods.

  Tom tore ahead of his servant, seeing a path through the dense thicket. "Come on!" he shouted, then he saw Palmer slow long enough to pull his crossbow . "No, not now! Come on, man! We can never beat them in a fight!"

  "Go on, my lord! I will hold them here!"

  Even as he said it, one of the soldiers took aim and shot. Palmer fell from his saddle.

  "Palmer!"

  Tom leapt from his saddle and took one long stride towards his friend's still form.

  "Get him!" Weatherford ordered, pointing at Tom. "Hurry before he gets back into the forest! And take him alive!"

  Tom bounded towards his horse, but the beast shied away from him and disappeared into the trees. Tom followed on foot, knowing he had no other hope of escape.

  The soldiers were no more than twenty yards behind him, but their horses slowed them down, forced them to pick the wider paths and more open spaces. Tom wriggled between the dense trees and sometimes climbed them, using their branches to swing over obstacles. Soon his pursuers could no longer see him, but he could still hear them calling to one another, searching for him, cursing his deft escape.

  He moved stealthily forward, hearing their voices grow more and more faint behind him. It was not long before he saw an open meadow ahead and, some ways off, a town.

  "Please, God," he whispered, "show me a place of refuge."

  He stepped cautiously out into the clearing and, seeing no one, began to lope across it. He had not gone fifty feet before he heard horses crash through the undergrowth to his left.

  "There! Come on!"

  Tom spun and lunged back into the woods with three of them hotly behind him. In desperation, he scrambled up into a tree and drew his dagger, wishing furiously for the broadsword that was still strapped to his saddle.

  "Jesus," he pled. "Please, God."

  With a flash of inspiration, he resheathed his dagger and broke off a heavy branch. Soon two of his pursuers lay motionless on the damp ground and the third was backing his mount warily away, spewing curses.

  "Leave me, friend," Tom warned from above the man's head. "We neither of us want to die today."

  "Come down, boy. I've orders not to hurt you."

  Tom smiled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You were one of those who killed my friend. I would say you've hurt me already."

  "Come down, curse you!"

  Tom raised his makeshift weapon, still smiling. "You may discuss the matter with my companion here. Your friends have already been introduced."

  "I'll not tell you again! Come down!"

  Tom shook his head. The man pulled his crossbow and fitted a bolt into it.

  "Come on, boy. Drop that cudgel and come down."

  He was close now. A shot from that distance would not miss. Tom lowered his head in surrender and dropped the branch to the ground.

  Watching it fall, the soldier never saw Tom's booted feet flying towards him until they came in contact with his head and sent him sprawling. In the same fluid motion, Tom straddled the soldier's horse
and burst once more onto the meadow. Quick to recover, the soldier scrambled up on one of his companions' abandoned mounts and dashed after him.

  They galloped across the wide meadow and Tom could feel the tired horse faltering beneath him. There was no chance of him outrunning his pursuer. He drew the soldier's stout broadsword from its scabbard and turned his mount towards the man.

  "I see there is a blade on your saddle. Pull it and let us be quit of this chase. I'll face any man in a fair fight."

  The soldier reined in too. "Very well, my lord. A fair fight."

  He reached back as if to draw the sword, but snatched up a crossbow instead. Laying an arrow into the slot, he turned and shot all in an instant. Reflexively, Tom dodged and swung the flat of his sword against the man's treacherous head. That made quick end to the fair fight.

  Tom looked towards the town and then at the still heap on the ground. He knew that, once they came to, this man and the two that lay yet in the forest would join with the others and search for him again.

  "If I were much of a soldier I'd finish you where you lie, but then I guess I'd not be much of a man."

  He swatted the riderless horse on the rump and watched it bolt away, then he turned again towards the town. The soldiers would look for him there first, and soon, too. Regretfully, he spurred his horse and circled southeast, pushing thoughts of food and rest to the back of his mind. Speed now was his priority.

  He forced his weary mount onwards, riding through more dense woodland, seeing no one all the while but not sure whether or not he was being followed. Finally he came upon a shallow stream and stopped for water for himself and his horse.

  It was not until he allowed himself to rest that he realized how very tired he was. He was used to the fighting, used to endless bloody battles, to forcing arms and legs long numb to continue on. The fight was his life. He had been raised in it and trained in it and now, regardless of his own will, he lived in it. Even so, he was wearied beyond belief. And grieved.