"Rafe?"
"Shh, my lord," Rafe hissed, clamping his hand over his master's mouth, but it was too late. There was a rustling noise in the loft and then a light.
"Who's there?"
Rafe shifted Philip's head into Rosalynde's lap, putting her hand in place of the one he held over Philip's mouth, then he crept towards the voice, drawing his sword.
"Who's there, I say!"
Rosalynde sank back into the shadows as the rustling came closer. Rafe tensed, waited, then sprang towards the light. The struggle was short lived.
"Move and I'll kill you." Rafe's voice was soft and very convincing.
"Mercy, for the good God's sake! Oh, please, my lord!"
Rosalynde could tell from the terrified cracking in his voice that their adversary was little more than a boy.
"I am not your lord," Rafe growled, "and you will speak lower or I'll cut out your tongue."
"What is it you want?" The boy spoke so softly now Rosalynde could scarcely hear him. She did hear the stirring of straw as Rafe let him up.
"Shelter for the day. No more than that, and perhaps something to eat."
"My master would beat me sure if he knew I let ruffians and cut-purses in his barn," the boy said, his voice indignant but still very soft.
"Then no need to tell him," Rafe reasoned. "If I meant you harm, you'd not be standing whole by now. Look at me. Do I look like a cut-purse?"
Rosalynde strained her ears, but for a moment heard nothing. Then the boy's reluctant voice came to her again.
"No. Perhaps not, but you've blood enough on you to be a highwayman." She heard another pause. "Or maybe a soldier. I've seen them coming north, away from the battles."
"Whatever I am, boy, is it not enough that I need shelter until nightfall and a little food? I swear I mean you no harm."
"Well, I suppose, so long as my master–"
"Where are you, Rafe?"
Philip's voice was loud in the barn's tense stillness. Rosalynde pressed her hand over his mouth again, but she knew it was too late.
"There is someone with you!"
"No harm there, believe me," Rafe told the boy quickly. "Just a sick boy and his little wife, both wet through and cold and as hungry as Pharaoh's lean kine. God would put it down a good deed if you say nothing to your master and let them stay."
"Let me see them," the young voice insisted and a moment later Rosalynde found herself looking up at a gawky, sharp-featured boy of fifteen. He smiled a little at her, and she read pity in his gray eyes.
"Please, boy," she begged and he brought his lantern closer, peering into Philip's flushed face. Glassy-eyed, Philip stared back at him and then, with a little sigh, slept again.
"He does look done up. And you, too, mistress," the boy observed, then he looked back at Rafe. "Will they keep quiet while they are here? My master–"
"I pledge it," Rafe said solemnly. "But for God's pity, would you bring some food for us?"
The boy shook his head. "It will be an hour or more before cook is up and calls us in to eat." He considered for a moment. "I could creep in and hook a bit of something, I suppose," he said, then his face curved into an elfin grin. "It would not be the first time."
He disappeared into the darkness, leaving the lantern with them.
Rosalynde sighed. "Thank God."
"Amen," Rafe agreed. "My lady, I have better thought what we should do. Instead of resting today and taking the king on at nightfall, I believe you would both do better to stay here and let me bring back some men from my lord of Darlington. He was to come to Treghatours as well, and he must be close on this road by now. I can bring him to you much faster than I can bring you both to him."
"Will you leave us unprotected?"
"Never fear, my lady. The boy's a good sort and I think will see you both safe. Here, I'll leave you my sword, if you want defense."
Rosalynde laughed a little hysterically. "I could never heft it, Master Bonnechamp."
"Very well, my dagger then." He pressed the small blade into her hand. "Please, my lady, it is the best way for us all."
"Should you not rest awhile before you go?"
"No. If I am not away before dawn, I'll likely be seen. I will eat first, though, if that stripling is as proper a man of his hands as he claims."
He was. A few minutes later, they were eating brown bread and cold boiled beef and drinking down the sweetest well water in Lynaleigh. It was all delicious.
Rosalynde softened a piece of the bread in water and managed to get Philip to eat it. Some of the furrows smoothed out of his brow, and he slept quietly again, his face buried in her lap.
She stroked his hair then smiled at the boy. "I thank you, indeed."
He grinned at her again and tugged self-consciously at the dark blond curls clustered at the nape of his neck. "I would be little better than a heathen to turn you out to freeze, or let you starve in my master's own barn. Despite your companion here," he said, indicating Rafe, "and with no respect to his threatenings, I would not have helped you, except I do feel some pity for you, mistress, and your husband looks as if he'd not last a mile further."
"I am grateful in any case," Rafe said gruffly. "As it stands, though, I'll push your kindness a bit more. Will you let them stay here until tomorrow night? I must go to our friends for help and will likely not be back until then."
"Until tomorrow night?" the boy exclaimed, then he pointed at Philip. "My master will know sure, what with him thrashing about out here. Cook'll likely lock the pantry if she finds any more food gone."
Rosalynde looked up him. "Please."
For a moment he looked into the pleading in her eyes.
"Let it be so," he said with an air of tragic resignation.
Rosalynde and Rafe both smiled.
"You shall have your reward for this, boy," Rafe said. "Trust me you shall, but I cannot say whether it will be in this life or no." He looked at Philip for a moment, then turned to Rosalynde. "Keep safe. I shall return soon."
She pressed his hand and he stole quietly away.
"You have come from the battle, have you not?" the boy asked as he squatted near Rosalynde on the straw. She nodded guardedly.
"You belong to Afton, true?"
Again she nodded, and he seemed pleased with his powers of deduction.
"I could tell it. If you belonged to Ellenshaw, you'd have no need to hide now. My master has his lands of my lord of Weatherford and stands to lose all if Ellenshaw is defeated. He'd not look fondly upon you, were he to find you here."
"Will you betray us?" she asked, pulling Philip closer, but the boy just grinned again.
"My master is a cruel man, and I have little cause to love him. I would have run away from my indenture long ago, but for my honor," he said with a proud lift of his head, then a wicked little spark lit his eyes. "Oh, it would chafe him to know someone had taken his shelter and eaten his food and all scarcely farther away than the end of his stingy nose. I'd not betray you, knowing that. Besides, if King Philip has good success, then my master will have nothing and my indentures will be no more. I have far greater cause to love Afton than hate it. Do not fear. I will never betray you."
Her gratitude was plain on her face. "You must tell me your name, for my prayers."
Just then a woman called from outside the barn, her voice as rough as tree bark.
"Jerome!"
The boy leapt to his feet. "That is my name," he said with an ungainly bow. "At this very moment, I trust God is writing it again in His book of charitable deeds."
Rosalynde could not keep from smiling as he ran out of the barn calling to the cook.
All that day, Rosalynde never left Philip's side, lavishing on him all the care and devotion he would not allow her to show him when he was well. She dared do no more than doze now and again, afraid Philip in his delirium might say something in the boy's hearing that could expose them to their enemies.
Late that night, Philip's temperature rose alarmingly, throw
ing him into convulsions. Terrified, Rosalynde called Jerome down from the loft and the two of them rubbed Philip down with cold water in an attempt to reduce the fever. As quickly as they had begun, the convulsions stopped and Philip was still, only his uneven breathing giving proof of life.
"Dearest Lord God, spare him," she plead, afraid and exhausted almost beyond endurance. "Oh, please, God, do not let my child be born without a father."
Jerome gaped at her as she blotted the cold water from Philip's skin with her cloak.
"A child, too? Oh, you should rest. You cannot spend so long tending him and not yourself and your child."
"I cannot. He needs me."
"You must or you will be no use to him at all. Let me watch over him while you sleep."
"No, I cannot ask it of you. We're none of your worry."
She had seen the arduousness of the work he had done all that day, man's work, not boy's, and knew he must be worn. Still he seemed determined.
"You did not ask it of me, I asked it of you. Let me play Samaritan, mistress. It could do no harm for me to have my name written yet again on the good side of God's book. Please."
She nodded her head and felt a sudden release of hot, weary tears. "God surely has an entire book just for you, Jerome."
"Several volumes, else I'm mistaken," he said with his usual lopsided grin.
He made a place in the straw for her next to her husband then covered them both with the blanket.
"You will wake me if anything happens?"
"If he so much as sighs, you'll know of it," he assured her.
"God's blessing on you, Jerome," she said as she closed her eyes.
"And on you."
***
Jerome shook her awake a short time later.
"He's drenched in sweat of a sudden, mistress. I thought you should know."
"Poor love," Rosalynde murmured, her eyes all pity as she pressed her hand to Philip's cheek.
Jerome looked more concerned when her expression suddenly changed. "He is worse?"
"No. Oh no, much better. His fever is broken at last." She smiled through her tears. "He is only sleeping now, good sweet sleep."
"I am very glad," Jerome said through a yawn. "Is there more I can do?"
"Only go back to your bed," she told him, giving his arm a squeeze. "You have been too kind already."
With a weary grin, the boy climbed back up to the loft. Rosalynde wiped the sweat from Philip's brow, grateful to see the pain lines had smoothed out of his face. Then she curled up next to him again and laid her head on his chest, relieved to hear the steady pounding of his heart and the clear rush of air in his lungs. Her fervent, half-coherent thanks rose up to heaven until she, too, slept.
She woke at mid-morning and, careful not to disturb him, she went to the bucket to splash her face. The girl she saw reflected in the water was almost a stranger to her, so pinched and worn looking as she was. She tried to push her snarled hair into place, but with a sigh she gave it up and spoiled her mirror by drinking from it. When she turned back around, he was awake.
He lay there in the straw, spent and shivering. His hollow eyes darted apprehensively around the shadowy barn until they lighted on the one thing he recognized.
"Rosalynde?"
She went to him, relieved at his lucidity, glad that he had called her by her name and not by any of the cold titles he usually used with her. He gulped down the water she brought, holding her wrist tightly with both hands as he did.
Breaking into a cold sweat from the effort, he slumped back into the straw, and she took him into her arms. With the fever gone out of him, she knew he must feel the cold all the more, and she was something warm and soft and familiar to him. He huddled against her like a child, clinging the closer when she stroked the damp hair off his forehead.
"Where is this place?" he asked, his voice ragged and parched, his expression troubled.
"You have been so ill, my lord. This was the only refuge we could find, but Jerome, the stableboy, has been very kind. He's helped me tend you, though he does not know who you are. His master has no love for Afton, I fear. He must not find us here."
"But where is this? Are we yet in Attlebrae?"
"No. Stephen's men came the first night you were ill. Thursday it was. They routed our army and burned the whole town, attempting at your life. We only just got away."
He looked about again, bewildered. "But where are the others?"
She was unable to cloak the fear in her eyes. "There are no others. We are alone."
"Rafe?"
"He went to my lord Darlington for help. Pray God, they will come for us soon."
"We should go to them."
"No. Please my lord, do not think to leave yet. Jerome will see we are safe until help comes."
"Jerome?"
"The stableboy I told you of."
"Oh." He pushed his fingers through his hair, looking as if he was finding it difficult still to think clearly. "Uh, Attlebrae is burned, you say?"
"Yes."
"And all our men gone?"
"Yes."
He put his hand over his face. "Great God, have mercy on us all."
"It will be well," she soothed. "God will protect us, and I will be here to watch over you."
That made him laugh a little, but not unkindly. "I think you would make a fierce warrior, indeed."
She laughed a little, too.
XIII
Rosalynde and Philip both slept again, and it was he who woke first a few hours later. He watched her for a moment as she slept, propped against the rough beam in the wall. She looked very tired, but there was a sweet purity in her face that he had not before allowed himself to see. He found himself drawn to her, and just now he was too weak to resist the feeling or to even tell himself he ought to. It did not occur to him to try to move away from her.
He felt oddly at peace here. He remembered most of what she had told him about where they were and why but, lying in the warm circle of her arms, he felt only a comfortable weariness and a deep contentment that he did not quite understand. He was hungry and worn and pursued by a ruthless enemy, but here he felt nothing but peace.
She woke when he moved to stretch and he answered her inquiring look with a vague, sleepy smile.
"I feel I should say good morning, but I can tell it is almost night again."
Her smile was shy. "Do you feel better?"
"I feel hungry."
Her eyes warmed at that. "Shall I see if I can fetch the stableboy?"
"Jerome."
She smiled again. "Yes. Shall I fetch him?"
"Is it safe?"
"We mustn't be seen, I'll grant you. I shall just peep out the doorway there and get him."
The risk seemed inconsequential to her now, as if, seeing him awake and hungry, she was sure the danger was past. She slid his head off her lap and stood up.
"Have him bring a great lot of food," he said after she tucked the blanket over him. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he was again asleep.
***
A thin, hard line of cold pressure woke him he did not know how long afterwards. He dared not move for fear that the long blade would cut his throat.
"Now there will be only one king."
"Dunois!"
"Good evening, my lord," Dunois said, his eyes glittering as coldly as his sword.
"Let me up. What do you mean by this?"
"I mean to serve my master and take your life, dear my lord."
Philip stared at him in disbelief. "Your master?"
"Stephen of Ellenshaw, my king and yours."
"You betrayed his father, my father, and now me, and will he trust you?"
"He has for some while now. I have been his silent ally since before your father died."
"So you were the traitor after all. It follows now how we lost Winton." Philip allowed himself no expression but royal disdain. "I marvel you dare show your face to me without a pack of my good cousin's soldiers to gua
rd you."
"They are waiting for us outside. Ellenshaw thought surely you were with your army, making for Treghatours, but I knew better. I knew you would try to lose yourself somewhere in this wretched wilderness. I brought these men to deal with any escort you might have with you, but the pleasure of taking your life I have reserved for myself. Have you made peace with your God, my lord?"
Philip's mouth was suddenly dry, and he made no answer.
"They tell me your father was whey-faced with fear, too," Dunois prodded, "before his throat was cut."
Philip did not allow himself to tremble. He had not seen his father die. He had not seen the warm crimson that had spurted from his father's veins onto his assassins. He had not seen the unmistakable terror in Robert's eyes in that instant when he knew he was about to stand before God Almighty in the gross ripeness of his sin, unprepared for judgment. Philip had seen none of this, but he had drawn it over and over in his mind from Tom's description. He knew without doubt, with Dunois' knee digging into his chest and the sharp sting of Dunois' blade at his throat, that the same look was on his own face now.
"You betrayed him did you not, my lord high traitor," Philip said, letting contempt mask his fear. "What honor did you lack at his hands or mine that makes you betray Afton now?"
"He offered me half his kingdom because I had made him king of it. It was my right to take it, too, but I asked only the half of that. One quarter of his greatest wealth was all I asked and he promised I should have it. It was he who betrayed me. He did not make his promise good, after all I had done for him, so now I'll take what he offered and by force."
"If my father promised you a quarter of his wealth for helping him to the crown, it is only right I should make his word good. Then I will have you hanged for treason."
"Very generous of you, my lord," Dunois said with a sardonic grin. "Still, you cannot make it good, unless you consent to renounce your queen and take my daughter Marian in her place."
"I do not understand you."
"I asked for one quarter of your father's greatest wealth, but not an ounce of gold or a foot of land. I asked for one of his fine sons."
"You asked for–"
"He promised me that you, my lord, would marry my daughter and ally my house with the kings of Lynaleigh. He did not know it then, but it was to be my grandson on Lynaleigh's throne one day."
In Honor Bound Page 20