In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  "Show me all the places you love, so I may love them, too."

  He nodded a little self-consciously. "I will go ready the horses. Wrap you up well, then come down to the stables. Hurry."

  "I will."

  ***

  Soon they were riding through the forest, the horses fetlock-deep in snow. The air was cold, but the sky was as blue as May and the sun was shining its winter best, reflecting warmth off the dazzling whiteness on the ground.

  "This is my meadow," he told her, stopping at the crest of a low rise.

  The meadow was wide and deep with snow, untouched as yet by man or beast. Only the faint tracks of birds embroidered the flawless surface. She thought she would never tire of looking at the frosted beauty of it.

  "Oh, my lord, it is glorious!"

  His eyes shone with eager love for the place. "Come, let's go down."

  He dismounted and wrapped his reins and hers around a sturdy branch, then he caught her carefully around the middle and set her on her feet.

  "Come," he beckoned, plunging into the deep whiteness first to his ankles, then to his knees. She followed after him, finding it hard to keep up in her heavy skirts and with the unaccustomed bulk of her growing belly.

  It startled her at first to see him so abandoned to joy, to see him roll in the snow like an unruly colt until, head to foot, he was white with it. He looked at her as if he had surprised himself, then he grinned as if he did not care and plunged back into the drifts. His breath rose in wisps over his head as he drank down the air's icy freshness like the rarest of wines.

  "Come," he beckoned again when she fell a little behind, then he loped back to her and took her by the hand. "Come."

  They spent a long joyous while playing in the snow, making pictures in the smooth drifts, pelting each other with snowballs. To Rosalynde it seemed that the years had fallen away and he was again the boy she had lost her heart to in Westered. Of course, she had never dared to be so unconstrained with him then, and Westered had never seen such snow, but he seemed unchanged. There was a delighted boyishness in him just now that warmed her heart and made her forget her frozen feet.

  When the shadows began to lengthen towards the east, he spread his cloak out over a sunny spot and invited her to sit by him, to again admire the beauty of his meadow. She began to feel the cold once she was still and, noticing her shiver, he put his arm around her.

  "I love this place," she said and he squeezed her closer.

  "I had forgotten just how much I love it myself." He took a deep, contented breath and watched it curl upwards when he slowly released it, then he closed his eyes. "I could die here and ask nothing more."

  He did not open his eyes when she touched her lips to his cheek, but he slid his hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck and lowered his face to hers. He kissed her lightly at first, then with more intensity until she was clinging to him, returning his kiss as passionately as he gave it. She felt his hand in her hair, tugging it loose from the clasps, and she pressed closer, losing herself in the kiss. Without warning, he struggled away from her, scrambling to his knees.

  "No. Not out here."

  She sat up, reaching for him, but he drew back.

  "We are alone, my lord. No one sees."

  "Not out here," he repeated. "Merciful God, out in the woods like some cheap–"

  He stopped and looked at her sitting there with her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her skin rosy with the wind's kisses and his own, her eyes round with innocent bewilderment. Still breathing hard, he stood up and looked away from her, out over the meadow, over the snow that was scarred and soiled now with their tracks. He clenched his teeth to steady himself.

  "We ought to go in now," he said. "The wind is picking up and you must have your rest."

  Suddenly cold, she drew her cloak more closely around herself and stood up. "I did not want you to be angry, my lord," she said tentatively. "I only–"

  He turned to her and took her arm brusquely, his expression stiff and sickened. She wondered what memory, what deep hurt had come back to him here in this place he so dearly loved, but she knew he would never say.

  He led her back to the horses and, when he started to lift her to her saddle, she dared to drop a little kiss on his cheek. A shiver of pain ran through him and she felt his hands tighten around her waist. He took a moment to steady himself once again, then, without a word, he set her on her horse and led her away.

  All that evening he took refuge in silence. Memories had yet again taken him unawares, the sharp edges cutting through the wadding he had packed around his heart, making him bleed inside, and Rosalynde did not know how to reach him in his self-made prison. She wanted to weep in her helplessness, but instead, when he bid her a curt good night, she followed him into his chamber.

  "Let me alone tonight." He wrapped himself in his arms and sagged against the casement, looking out into the blue-black night. "Do not think of me anymore at all. I cannot be what you want."

  "But we've been happy–"

  "I was a fool to think it might be different here. There is no place in this world that's not fouled already." He glanced back at her, deep condemnation in his eyes. "Let me alone tonight."

  "I only wish to comfort whatever has grieved you, my lord."

  "Comfort? A woman's comfort? I'd sooner have the comfort of adders, fanged. Their poison works quicker."

  "Please, my lord."

  She touched his shoulder and he turned and seized her wrist.

  "I know you fair-faced devils, tempting and deceiving and killing us by inches. My mother was one such. She betrayed my father with his seneschal, then passed off the child of their adultery as a royal prince. And John was left to pay for their sin."

  "Your brother John? He was not– He was–"

  "A bastard! Say it! He died for that word, for a woman's fault."

  "Adultery is not the sin of a woman alone, my lord."

  His fingers tightened on her wrist, then he released it.

  "I grant you. Let us speak, then, of your own dear sister, Margaret. How many died to feed her ambition? She did not pause to take the life of her own child."

  "Oh, no, my lord," Rosalynde cried. "She was wicked to betray your father as she did, but she could never have–"

  "Do not be such a fool. Do you think Stephen would have taken her still carrying my brother's child? True heir to the crown? She had a taste yet to be queen and if the child stood in her way, well, that was easily remedied. She was a brave woman, though, taking on so fierce an adversary as a child unborn."

  His sarcasm stabbed through her. "I am sorry for it, my lord, but her wrongs do not prove all women false."

  "No? Name me one you think was not and I will prove to you she was."

  "What of Katherine?"

  She had never dared speak that name to him before and it struck him like a blow, then his eyes grew colder, cynical.

  "You mean my harlot?"

  "You were married. Dunois said–"

  "Yes, we were married! Do you think I would cheapen the woman I love by making a harlot of her?"

  "Can you prove her false, my lord?" Rosalynde asked.

  He turned to the window and did not answer.

  "If I could make it right, my lord–"

  "No one can make it right," he said emptily, "and no one can take her place."

  She put her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek and then her lips to his back.

  "You needn't carry this alone, my lord," she said, and he took her by the wrists and put her away from him.

  "And do not think you can tease me again into satisfying your lust," he said, his tone brutally cold. "You are with child. My duty asks no more."

  "I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Fighting tears, head held high, she turned and walked to the door. Then for a moment she paused, hoping, praying he would call her back. He was silent.

  She pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor. Still there was silence, silence
she did not break when she shut the door behind her.

  ***

  His breath shuddered out of him.

  "How is it you do not hate me?" he murmured. If only she would strike back at him, rail and accuse and spit, then he could feel justified at his harshness instead of feeling as if he had just used his lash on a kitten. "I deserve that you should hate me. I could bear it better than all this patience."

  He began to pace, then he remembered his father's guilty pacing and stopped abruptly. Driven, he went into the chapel, hoping to find some peace, some absolution, glad to find it dark and empty.

  He thought back on the fervent prayers he had prayed here so long ago. No, he realized, only four years. Only four years and he hardly remembered anymore how to pray, how to reach heaven with his heart. He knew that if the man he was now stood beside the boy he was then there would be little more than a vague physical resemblance between them.

  What have I become?

  Lifting his head, he caught sight of his moonlit reflection in the thick silver candlestick at the side of the altar.

  "Father."

  The word leapt to his tongue before he could check it, and the truth of it sent a shudder of revulsion through him. There was the same cold determination, the same haughty pride, the same cruel stubbornness. He had become what he had sworn never to be. He had given up himself, his heart, his emotions, his God, for his self-righteousness, for his perfect honor, for his hate, just as surely as his father had given up himself for the crown.

  "All either of us bought for our pains was remorse." He looked again into the polished silver and turned his head, the better to see his scarred cheek. "And hurt those we should have best loved in doing it."

  Rosalynde. Why could he not let himself love her? She was not to blame for those things that had hurt him, she had never done him wrong, yet she had borne his reproach meekly, as only the innocent could do. He told himself he owed Kate his love and it would be wrong to betray his pledge to her, but that argument was wearing thin. Kate was dead and could not feel his love anymore or give him hers.

  Now and forever, I swear it.

  "Oh, forgive me, Kate," he murmured as guiltily as a man tempted from the true faith into idolatry. "I love you and you alone. I will keep my vow."

  He had vowed, too, to Rosalynde. She had done nothing but love him, patiently, stubbornly, unfailingly, and he had used that love to please himself, when it pleased himself, and had never given any in return. He could not, he reminded himself. He must not soil his honor.

  His honor.

  He remembered when he was a boy, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and his heart had burned with a passion for God. He had chosen then to walk in purity because he knew it would please his Lord. Now he knew his perfect righteousness came not from a heart of love but from a will of iron, a cold pride in his own perfection. Philip Chastelayne would lay down his life without a sound rather than soil his precious honor, his precious, worthless, suffocating honor.

  He remembered Tom at his side in this very place, his voice rising above the others strong and deep in God's praise. Stand him now beside the boy he had been and the resemblance would have been close. There was still so much of that boy in Tom. It seemed there always would be.

  Why did I let that go?

  Always Philip came back to the truth– stubborn pride. He felt an urge to fall to his knees and beg God to break that pride out of him, to put himself into the hands of the living God in submission to His will.

  Then fear overtook him. If he prayed that prayer, would not God take him at his word, his unimpeachable word, and humble him? Would He not remove His hand of protection and leave him to Satan's destruction as He had Job? Family and goods and even his own flesh destroyed? He shuddered at the thought, especially that last, then once again he looked upon his reflection, recalling the scriptural indictment of the fairest of all the created, Lucifer.

  Your heart was lifted up because of your beauty...

  Would not God cast him away as He had Satan for that father of all sins, pride?

  Oh, he was proud, he knew it too well, proud and stiff-necked, stubborn and vain. Could such a miserable creature survive God's justice?

  He wiped the candlestick with his hand, smudging it so it could no longer show him what he was, then he crept up to his bed and did not sleep.

  XVI

  Before the winter was properly over, when the countryside was still covered with the slick, dirty look of snow that had frozen and thawed and frozen again, messengers began to come from Winton. Stephen was reportedly gathering a larger force than he had ever had before, one that could rival Philip's army. Still graver was the news that Stephen was negotiating with Grenaver for aid in his cause. Rosalynde knew Afton could not meet both her enemies at once and hope to emerge victorious.

  She watched her husband coming and going from meetings with Darlington and the others, that wary, over-burdened look again on his face. She prayed fervently for help, for guidance, for a way out for him and for them all.

  "Please, my Father, my God," she prayed, seeing him sit silent beside her night after night at supper and as she lay night after night in her bed alone, "do not let his way be made more steep. Show him Your way."

  She fell into the habit of wandering near the room where he and his men did their planning, listening to the low comments that passed between them when they came out, comments that did not put her mind at rest. She listened until she could bear no more. When she knew he was alone, she stiffened her courage and went in to him.

  He was sitting with his back to the door, studying a map of Lynaleigh, a map that had been marked and re-marked with the movements of Stephen's men and his own. The feathered end of the quill he clutched was chewed and ragged and two more like it lay on the floor at his feet. She watched for a moment as he made a note and then another and then marked over each of them. He drew a deep breath and then, with an oath, slashed his pen across the map, ripping it clean through. It was only then that he caught sight of her.

  "I still have my father's ring, my lord," she said hesitantly, and the bewildered frustration in his expression hardened into stern control.

  "I did not send for you."

  "I still have the ring," she repeated, holding it out to him.

  He would not take it.

  "This is my fight, not his."

  "But he will help you if you would but ask him. He told you he would."

  Philip stood and began to pace.

  "Who is king here, madame?" he asked finally, stopping in front of her. "I or your father?"

  "You are, my lord."

  "Then it is my duty to defend my kingdom, is it not?"

  "Of course, but if he can help us to victory–"

  "I told you I would see to it myself."

  "Very well," she agreed, knowing an argument would only make him more implacable. "I will leave it with you, should you change your mind."

  She pressed it into his hand and his fingers clenched around it. Drawing a hissing breath, he brought back his fist as if he would throw the ring into her face. She flinched.

  "Never do that! Do you think I would strike you? Do you think I am coward enough to strike any woman? By heaven, I would sooner rob an altar!" His grip tightened on the ring, and he shook it in her face. "But, as to this, do you think I am a woman that I do not know my own mind? Or that I can have it changed for me? I will defend my kingdom. Myself."

  Once more he drew back his fist, and this time he hurled the ring out the window with the whole force of his arm. She quickly stifled a cry of protest.

  "Do you let me be king here, madame," he said, a glittering cold fire in his eyes. "I assure you, the moment I have need of your counsel I shall send for you."

  It was a dismissal and she dared not object.

  ***

  As the days passed, more reports came of Stephen and his plans, one after another, and Philip's dark mood blackened with each one. Even Joan could not come near him and it was a stran
ger she bid farewell when time came for him to leave Treghatours.

  He stood on the wide stairway at the entrance to the castle, looking over his men, giving instructions to Rafe. He still stood stiffly when she gave him a caressing hug.

  "I shall hate to have you from me again, my Philip."

  "I have my duty to do," he told her, looking steadily southward.

  She traced her worn fingers over his stern brow. "Let there be more in your life than duty, child."

  He had no answer to that, and after a moment she went up the steps to Rosalynde.

  "I am sorry you'll not be here when the child comes, my lady, but you needn't fear. It's sure you'll be well tended."

  Rosalynde threw her arms around her. "Would you could come to Winton with us. He needs you so."

  "You know I must see to things here, lady," Joan said, then she glanced towards Philip. "I can no longer reach him. He's shut himself away from us all."

  "I need you," Rosalynde cried, and Joan shushed her as she would a child.

  "Go along now, girl. Love him well, and be vigilant in praying for him. That is the only good you can do him and God will bless you for it."

  She kissed Rosalynde's cheek. Then she moved back down to Philip and laid one hand lightly on his head.

  "Heaven bless you, my sweet boy."

  His eyes still fixed on the road before him, he walked away with no hint of acknowledgment. "Come along, my lady."

  Joan sighed, almost a sob, and he turned. His eyes met hers, and she read the look in them. He wanted to run back to her as he had so often when he was a child, to kneel before her and ask her blessing, to bury his face against her and beg her forgiveness, but he could not. Here before his men, before his queen, he could not. Perhaps it was enough that he wanted to.

  He turned away again and she watched him as he helped Rosalynde into the carriage. She was puzzled to see him stoop down and pluck something from the ground before he mounted his horse, then say something quietly to the boy, Jerome. In another moment he was gone.

  "Mistress Joan?"