In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  "No, I know he would not be, not with his body. Still, without faithfulness of heart there is little value in all the rest."

  "I'll not believe inconstancy of him, lady," Joan said, a little stiffness in her voice.

  "Neither will I," Rosalynde admitted sadly, "and that is what makes me despair of him ever coming back to me."

  "I do not understand you, my lady, but I can see you are grieved for love of him, and you needn't be. You have a woman's fears, and he has a man's ignorance. No doubt he worries for the child and it is no more than that."

  Rosalynde knew she was herself ignorant in such matters. "Would it hurt the child if–"

  Joan laughed. "Law, lambkin, so early on? Not a whit!"

  "But would he truly fear so?" Rosalynde asked with a trembling hint of a smile.

  "To judge from his glances, it's not lack of wanting you that's kept him alone these nights."

  There was still a flush in Rosalynde's cheek when she came upon him awhile later, straddling one of the braces that arched up to the ceiling in the great hall, swinging his legs some five or six feet above her head. There was a little gray and white cat stretched out on the heavy beam beside him, looking down upon Rosalynde with queenly hauteur. Rosalynde had grown used to seeing the creature about the castle, always when Philip was in sight. She seemed to have little use for anyone else except, perhaps, the cook who fed her.

  Rosalynde craned her neck to see them better. "However did you get up there? You shall fall!"

  "You sound like Joan," Philip said. "We've not fallen yet, have we, Grace?"

  The cat's answer was a lazy yawn and a slow blink of her eyes.

  Philip grinned at her and lowered himself to the length of his arms so his boots dangled in front of Rosalynde's face. She was surprised to see he wore no shirt, just a leather vest loose laced in the front and a cut of the same lacing looped around his wrist. She let her eyes travel down the long length of him, covertly admiring the play of muscle in his bare arms and the way his boots fit to his well-turned legs, remembering how it felt to be pressed against his sinewed chest.

  "I shouldn't like Joan to catch me at this now," he said. "She always used to switch us for it."

  "She might still, monkey."

  "Joan!" He dropped to the floor, a naughty little boy look on his face that he well knew his old nurse could never resist. "I was showing my lady where we used to play when we were boys."

  "And where is your shirt? I could never keep him in clothes when it got cold, my lady! In dead winter, he would go out in little more than his breeches if he thought I'd not catch him at it!"

  Rosalynde smiled at that, remembering his delight in the snow that had fallen in Westered, how it had brought that same fresh eagerness to his face.

  "Go out, rascal," Joan scolded with a twinkle in her eyes, "and take your lady, too, if you're minded to show her all the places you've made deviltry in."

  "It is the fairest place mere earth can boast, my lady," he said, offering his hand half uncertainly. "Would you come see it with me?"

  With a hopeful glance at Joan, she let him lead her away.

  He took her through the castle, showing her the fine paneled rooms and intricately-carved furniture, the age-darkened portraits of his royal ancestors from both his father and mother, the treasures of silver and gold and fine jewels that were but a portion of his family's wealth. He showed her the delicate glasswork in the windows of the room where his mother had done her sewing and she found herself entranced by the view below.

  "The view is better from here," he told her, and they walked into a bedchamber off the other room.

  "It is no wonder you love this place, my lord," she said after a long, long look. "The way the stream flows so fair from the mountains through those trees, it's as if an artist had set them there."

  "I believe He did." He drew a deep, slow breath as if to smell a memory. "In May that field will be so full of saint's rose you shall think it snowy December."

  She smiled and looked up into his face and forgot to admire the view.

  "You are kind to show me all this."

  "I was always happiest here of any place," he said unsteadily. "I was, uh–"

  She tried to smile again, but her tremulous lips would not cooperate. "I want you to be happy."

  She looked up at him still, knowing he could read the look in her eyes, then she stroked her fingers down the hard smoothness of his bare arm and realized he was trembling. Bridgewater was a long time back.

  "My lady, I know I've not been what you have wanted. I am– I have too much I am bound to. I cannot–"

  She moved closer to him and lifted her chin just enough to bring her lips within reach of his.

  "Rosalynde–"

  The kiss was urgent, famished, scorching, and she felt his hands around her waist, felt them pull her in tighter against his warm body. She clung to him more closely, expecting him to lift her up and carry her to the wide, soft bed, but he did not. Instead, feeling the telltale thickness in her middle, he tried to tear himself away from her.

  "We mustn't," he breathed between kisses. "The child."

  Because she knew how it affected him, she let the sweet warmth of her breath tickle his ear, let her lips play lightly over the sensitive corner of his jaw.

  "We'll not hurt the child."

  He looked deep into her eyes. "No?"

  "No."

  He kissed her again until she thought she would drown in the taste and the feel of him, then he swung her up into his arms. Her heart sank when she saw he was carrying her not to the bed but to the door.

  "Philip–"

  He stopped her protest with another kiss, hard and relentless, and then she heard the bolt clank into place. She closed her eyes.

  "Kiss me that way again."

  XV

  Something deep inside her, something that still found the strength to hope, had dared to make her think he might stay, that this morning she might wake to find herself still in his arms.

  He was gone.

  "Is it to be as it was back in Winton, love?" She caressed the pillow where his head had lain. "After all this while, will you still not trust me with the tender side of your heart?"

  There was a quick knock at the door, then Joan came in with breakfast and wash water and a fresh dress for her mistress.

  "Good morning, my lady. I trust you've slept well."

  "Joan!"

  "My lord Philip sent me, to help you dress and all. I'm to give you his good morning, too, and tell you he left early to hunt and did not wish to disturb your sleep. I told your ladyship he was but concerned for you."

  Rosalynde somehow managed to smile. It was his usual message, to satisfy his duty to her and yet free himself from further intimacy. Well, there was nothing new in this.

  The day passed with unbearable tediousness. Rosalynde spent the time sewing tiny garments for the child that was to come and wondering how she was to bear a lifetime of being wrenched one way and then another by this love that would not let go of her, this love she would not let go. It tarnished the glory of the night before, of all such nights, to know that her fiery, expressive lover would be a distant stranger when next she saw him.

  She prayed again for the strength to love him, come what may, to love him steady and strong, to love him as God did, with no thought for what love he might give in return. She had vowed to love him, and she was determined to show him that she, too, had a sense of honor.

  Finally night fell, and just as she began to wonder when he would return, she heard his light step on the stairs to her chamber.

  "Good evening, my lady," he said his smile as uncertain hers. "Did you have a pleasant day?" He sat down on the cushions at her feet and looked up at her, then he put one hand on her stomach. "You are– you are well?"

  She pressed her hand over his. "We are both of us very well."

  With a light caress, he moved his hand away from her, but still he sat at her feet looking up as her, still searchin
g her face. "I would you could have come, my lady. We had fine sport."

  "And what did you bring in?" she asked, careful of her words, wondering at his awkward concern for her and his admission that he had wished for her with him that day.

  "Nothing at all." He laughed hesitantly. "But it was great sport."

  The waiting women giggled, and Rosalynde could not help joining them.

  "We sighted a doe at the west edge of the forest," he recounted, letting a little of his eagerness into his eyes, "and Sweetheart caught the scent at once and set after the beast. We had only her and Beauty and Blanche with us, but they bayed like a whole pack, and the doe bounded away into the forest. She led us a merry chase until she made a misstep and caught her hind foot in the branches of a fallen tree."

  "You did not let the dogs get her!" Rosalynde cried.

  "No, no," he reassured her. "I had the men hold off the dogs and freed her myself."

  She smiled. "I am glad of it."

  "So was I until the beast kicked me for thanks." His rueful expression made the women giggle again. "But it was a fine chase we had– all the clean winter air in our lungs and nipping our faces, and the crunch of the snow under our boots, and the baying of the hounds. We hardly needed the deer at all. Still, I would we had taken something. If I had that doe here now, I'd be more apt to eat her than free her."

  "Shall we go in to supper then, my lord?" she asked him, disappointed that this sweet meeting should be so brief, but again he surprised her.

  "I doubt I could endure another of Darlington's tedious discussions about 'what ought to be done'. I am certain he can carry on that whole conversation without me even being there now." He leaned closer to her. "What do you say to sending one of your ladies to fetch our supper in here tonight? You have the musicians, and the rest of your ladies can sing for us." He watched her face, gauging her reaction. "Would that please you?"

  "It would please me very well," she agreed, still astounded by him, and she sent her waiting women as he had suggested. She did not want to share him tonight with all Treghatours.

  They ate there before the blazing hearth fire to the accompaniment of gentle love songs.

  "Sit down here," he invited and she accepted, her voluminous skirt covering the cushioned floor, making a sea of blue brocade around her where she sat. He lay on his stomach beside her, propped up on his elbows, swinging one lazy foot to and fro.

  He took the last of the pheasant from her plate, watching her still, an almost playfulness in his eyes. "It's hungry work, this hunting."

  "It must take a great deal to fuel such brazenness," she agreed, and he smiled.

  "A hard day's work earns a man a good appetite."

  She noticed that Grace had, as usual, mysteriously appeared along with the food. Philip offered her piece of cheese, but she only sniffed the proffered morsel, then turned her face haughtily away. Philip snatched her up, ignoring her vociferous protests.

  "Too fine to eat from the queen's plate, are we?"

  Giving her a kiss on the nose, he set her once more on her feet, but she was still not satisfied. She watched him intently as he pulled bits of pheasant from the bone. Her cries became insistent when he did not give her any, but he simply shook his head.

  "From now on, when you beg you should take what's offered you."

  Rosalynde giggled as she watched Philip's stern attempts to ignore her. Grace was becoming more and more restless. Tantalized by the smell of pheasant, she began to pace back and forth, all the time following the movement of Philip's hand from his plate to his mouth. Finally overwhelmed, she stood up on her hind legs and seized his wrist with her forepaws in an effort to pull his hand and the pheasant down closer to the floor. At that, Philip had to laugh, and he set the plate down for her to finish.

  "You'll not be denied, will you," he said, scratching her behind the ears, but this time it was she who would not acknowledge him.

  "You've spoiled her, my lord," Rosalynde observed smiling, and, to her surprise, he lay his head in her lap, gazing up at her, again that searching, uncertain look in his eyes.

  "I could deny no one anything tonight."

  The musicians began a sweet, lilting melody and, as it reached his ears, a slow smile crossed his face. He rolled onto his back, his head still pillowed against her.

  "I've not heard this since I was a boy," he said, and she listened for a moment.

  "It is lovely, but I do not recognize it."

  Grace came and nestled in the crook of his arm, and he stroked her absently. "I suppose it never got so far as Westered. It's an old, old ballad of the time when Treghatours was a kingdom of its own. You see, the king of Treghatours then was a good king, as kings go, and he had a long, happy reign. The song is really a hymn of thanksgiving to God for the peace and prosperity they had then. It's a very sweet song. Joan used to sing it to us as a lullaby. I thought I had forgotten it."

  He listened for a moment, waiting for the music to repeat, then he sang softly, the exceptional low sweetness of his voice echoing the words of grateful praise. There was a contented, faraway look deep in his eyes. This memory was sweet.

  "Did you ever feel you belonged to a place?" he asked after a moment. "As if you weren't quite whole outside of it?" She shook her head and he took her hand and rested it over his heart. "This is my place."

  The footman put more wood on the dwindling fire and Rosalynde, dismissing him, told him to send her waiting women to bed, too, and leave the musicians to play on awhile longer. Philip drew her other arm around himself and closed his eyes.

  "I could make a pleasant life out of days such as this one."

  "And I, too," she agreed softly, wishing as she did that the night could go on forever. The sweet harmony between them was as rare and precious to her as roses in the snow, and made the sweeter for being so unexpected.

  She held him a little tighter, savoring the nearness of him and, gathering her courage, she leaned down and whispered what was in her heart. "Philip, I love you."

  He made no reply. He had already fallen asleep.

  She brushed her lips against his hair. "Truly, I do."

  The master of the musicians came to her half an hour before midnight. "Your Majesty–"

  Rosalynde put one cautioning finger to her lips and then dismissed him and all of the musicians with a wave of her hand. Now she and Philip were truly alone.

  She listened for awhile to the night sounds– the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the rattle of the window glass as the moaning wind beat upon it, the cat purring nestled in Philip's arm– sounds that spoke of comfort, security and contentment.

  "Twelve o'clock and all's well!"

  The voice of the town crier drifted up from the street below and, waking, Philip yawned and stretched. Disgruntled at being disturbed, Grace went to the hearth and curled up near the fire. Philip smiled sleepily at her and then at Rosalynde.

  "I remember when John first brought her home," he said. "He was soaking wet and he had this little bedraggled kitten clutched against him, her eyes not even open yet. Faith, I never thought such a row could come from so tiny a thing. He'd rescued her from a sack in the millpond and we all thought sure this one would die like the rest of the litter, but John kept her fed and warm and by the time she was weaned he'd even trained her to come to his whistle. I'd never seen the like of it." His smile turned wistful. "He had a gentle way with animals."

  "I remember him so from Westered," she said. "I can remember nothing of him but good."

  "There was nothing in him but good," Philip said softly, putting his hand on hers. "It pleases me that you should think so, too."

  Drawn by the rare, gentle warmth in his eyes, Rosalynde bent slowly over him and touched her mouth to his, just enough for him to taste her softness. For a long while he merely looked at her, something deep and longing in his eyes, then he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing each one tenderly, each kiss a lingering caress.

  "Your eyes shine like sapphires in this
light," she said, smoothing his hair back at the temple. He kissed the underside of her wrist, then, sitting up, he pressed his lips in slow delicious succession from her wrist to her elbow and then to her shoulder, drawing her closer as he did.

  She felt his arm steal about her waist and found herself a willing captive in his embrace. In his eyes there was a fathomless depth of passion and an unmistakable question. In answer, she put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.

  ***

  The dawn light found them asleep there on the cushions, entwined in each other's arms for warmth. Philip woke at a violent clash of pots from the kitchen, and carefully disentangling himself from her embrace, he got up and began to dress himself. It would do nothing for his kingly dignity for her maids to find him there as he was.

  Once dressed, he went back to her side, intending to put her in bed and let her finish her sleep in comfort, but instead he stood for a moment watching her, thinking how innocently defenseless she looked lying there, glad he need not hide the tender expression that was no doubt on his own face.

  Eventually, he took her again into his arms. She only sighed in her sleep and nuzzled closer to him, bringing to life once more the gentle protectiveness he had felt for Katherine. It was with reluctance that he finally set down his drowsy burden and covered her with his thick hunting cloak.

  The fire had died out hours ago, and he began to make another, working as quietly as he could. He managed to complete the task without making a sound until, seeking to push two struggling embers together, he dropped the poker and it clattered to the floor. She awoke with a start and, seeing him there still, looked questioningly at him, as if she were unsure what his mood would be after so surprising an evening.

  "Good morning, my lady," he said, a less-than-kingly shyness in his tone. "I am sorry to have wakened you."

  A touch of relief in her sleepy smile, she huddled under his cloak. "It is very cold."

  "It snowed again. My meadow will be beautiful today." He hesitated. "Will you come ride with me? I promise I'll not let you fall into the stream this time."

  There was still that little remembrance between them, one that was all innocence and no pain. Her mouth turned up just a touch at the corners in answer to his.