In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  He had found something healing in her embrace, something that satisfied more than his body. He told himself it was weakness, not his desire for her, that was his right and duty as her husband, as natural as eating and sleeping, but his need for her to hold him close, to fill the emptiness in his arms that Katherine had left behind her, a need he should not want anyone but Katherine to fill. Could it be that Rosalynde loved him so deeply as her every word and deed cried out she did? That if he went to her, even now, she would not turn him away?

  He knew she had a tender little heart, despite all the blows he had dealt it. Doubtless she was weeping even now, and he could not bear to hear her cry, but she was fortunate to be a woman, to have the sweet release of tears. He was a man, more, a king. Tears were not allowed him. He could not allow them to himself. But he knew she would allow them to him, her with her tender little heart.

  He berated himself again with his vows to Katherine and realized that her image was fading from his mind. He struggled to recall it, to see again the golden hair, the soft, fresh-blooming cheeks, the innocent fawn-brown eyes, but he could not form the pieces into a coherent whole. All he could see was Rosalynde, her emerald eyes crying out the devotion he had forbidden her to speak aloud and her soft, trembling lips pressed to his in a kiss that held nothing of lust and everything of tender love.

  With a groan, he leaned against the wall and buried his face in his arms, trying to obliterate the image. Had he inherited his constancy from his inconstant mother?

  I'll not love her, Kate. Did he love her? He must not. What had he heard about a double-minded man? Unstable in all his ways? If I lose all else, Kate, I will keep my honor and keep my vows.

  "My liege?"

  Philip straightened with a jerk, then at once was all dignity. "My lord Darlington. What news?"

  "Ellenshaw has brought his siege guns to our walls, my liege. They are bound to begin using them come morning."

  "It was sure to come. Go and tell the rest of the council. I will find Tom."

  ***

  When she left the great hall, Rosalynde went into the nursery to visit Robin. She could not just go sit down at supper the rest of the evening, not with Tom looking at her, reading the distress in her eyes, his own filled with knowing pity. She could not bear that tonight. Besides, it comforted her to hold the baby, to know that at least this much of Philip was hers, but she did not cry anymore. There was little to cry about, she knew, unless it was the months of seeing her husband slip farther and farther away from her.

  She often wondered why she let him hurt her at all any more, why she still cared, why she did not let her pain sour into hatred. Then she would remember the sweetness of their winter together at Treghatours, or his tender care of her the night the baby was born, or the searching lost look that was sometimes in his eyes when he did not know she could see him, and remember that he was wounded still. Inside. Those times she knew that everything else did not matter. He belonged to her, he needed her, and she would always love him.

  She stayed with Robin until he fell asleep with most of one chubby fist in his mouth, then she crept quietly back to her own chamber, glad her ladies would not return for some while yet. Not bothering to light the candles, she loosened her bodice and began to unbind her hair, hoping that would ease the throbbing in her head. Things ought to look better in the morning. At least with a sound night's sleep she would be better able to face them.

  She pushed off her shoes and ran her fingers through her thick locks, glad to feel her headache ease. Closing her eyes, she rolled her head to one side and then dropped it forward.

  "Oh, God, please–"

  There was a knock at the door, and her prayer went unfinished.

  "Yes?"

  Tom pushed the door open. "Stephen has brought his siege guns to Winton, my lady. The council is looking for the king. He is not here?"

  She almost laughed, thinking how unlikely it would be these days to find her husband in her bedchamber. Instead, she burst into tears.

  "Oh, my lady, please do not cry." Tom lit a taper from the hearth and came to her. "I am sorry."

  "Can I never reach out to him without touching a raw place?"

  "Do not blame yourself, my lady," he said, pity in his eyes. "He is his own chief torturer. Until he bends that stubborn will to God's, he will never be free. Until then, you will never be able to love him enough to make him happy."

  "I thought I could, but he always has his memories to poison any happiness I try to give him. He is sworn to his Katherine, and she had one chief charm that I cannot hope to defeat. He loved her."

  "He did," Tom agreed, "I know it. And with him it is impossible to love by halves."

  "They were married," she said. "He loved her as much as that."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You do? Of course you do. He would have told you."

  "No, lady, he never told me. He never told anyone."

  "Then how–"

  "I heard the gossip, saw them together, and knew with him it could be no less than marriage. If you know nothing else of him, my lady, you must know how strict he holds his honor. Sometimes beyond reason. That is why he fights so hard to keep you away from him. Not because he does not want you, but because he wants you too much. He considers his vows to her binding yet."

  "But she is dead."

  "That does not matter," Tom said. "To him any thoughts of you are lust and adultery."

  "Why did he never tell anyone she was his wife? She was a princess. Would that not have protected her from your father?"

  "Philip feared if Father knew they were married he would do just as he did and make away with her for it, because he did not think her fit to be queen."

  "But surely for her child's sake, he could not–"

  "You knew there was to be a child?" Tom asked.

  "So Dunois said. He said your father knew it as well."

  Tom nodded, his mouth grim. "Does Philip know?"

  "Yes. I think that has only bound him more closely to his Katherine. What was she, my lord? What was in her that made him so forever tied to her love?"

  "Nothing but a pure heart and a love for him he was sure would never prove false. That was all in all to him. It is still."

  "He longs for her even now," she murmured, and he shook his head.

  "He longs for you."

  "For me?"

  "There is a fineness in him and a love well worth having if you could but reach it," Tom said, taking her hand. "Even if he denies it to himself, he loves you. I've seen it in him all along, but he is so bound in his pride, I fear he would die before he would surrender to you. He'll not even yield himself to God."

  "He is grinding his heart into dust," she sobbed, "and I do not know how to stop him."

  Tom sat down and put his arm around her, and she clung to him, taking comfort from his strength, from his soothing calmness, from just the touch of kindness. He held her a little tighter.

  "Love him. Pray for him. I can only believe that in time he will see–"

  "See what? My brother and my wife whoring behind my back?"

  Rosalynde sprang to her feet.

  "No, my lord," she cried, trembling at the implacable contempt on her husband's face as he slammed the door shut behind him. "No, never."

  "You do your lady great wrong," Tom said, standing too. "I do not think you know what you say."

  "No," Philip said. "No more than I know what I see."

  Tom nodded. "Precisely."

  Philip's slap caught him off guard and knocked him to his knees. Before he could defend himself, Philip took him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

  Rosalynde watched, terrified. "No!"

  "You want him?" Philip demanded, and she shrank away from him, tears streaming down her face.

  Tom grabbed his brother's wrists, trying to free himself.

  "Philip," he said thickly, a trickle of blood on his lips, "you cannot think–"

  With cool deliberateness, Philip incre
ased the pressure, silencing his protests. Tom's grip tightened convulsively then suddenly relaxed as Philip slammed him into the stone wall again and again and again.

  "You want him?"

  Rosalynde tried in vain to pull his hands away. "Please! I beg you, stop!"

  Philip pushed her aside with a sweep of his arm, using the other to keep Tom from sagging to the floor, but Rosalynde went straight back to him, dragging at his sleeve.

  "You mustn't!"

  "Mustn't, strumpet? Mustn't think you've betrayed me with my brother here? You with your hair down your back and your bodice unlaced? What would I have found here in a quarter of an hour?"

  "Oh, no, my lord!"

  "My mother was a strumpet. Why should my wife prove any better? She used to look at my father as you do me, all demure chastity, all devoted adoration, as if she would die out of his presence, and yet she was as false as the devil himself."

  "I cannot help but look at you so, my lord. If your mother's love was counterfeit, still mine cannot dissemble and look like anything but love."

  "She would have said so, too. My fine virtuous mother would have said no less, though she might have been more convincing at it." He dropped Tom down senseless at her feet. "I'll spare both of you the justice I might have for this. Stephen's brought his siege guns to our walls. No doubt he will prove a fine executioner."

  "Please," she sobbed, "you mistake–"

  "No, madame, you mistake if you think I will let my brother supply my place in my wife's bed or let that fault go unpunished."

  "You cannot believe that! My lord, you must hear me!"

  "Must I?" he mocked.

  "You must. If for nothing more than the justice you profess as king, you must."

  She saw she had struck a responsive chord, calling his honor in question.

  "Well?"

  "Please, my lord, I do not know what I should say," she cried, wondering how a look so cold could burn straight through her. "I do not know how you could think such a thing."

  "I think there was only ever one woman on this earth could keep faith, and they burnt her."

  Rosalynde knelt beside Tom and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "Whatever it is that has made you so blind to truth, I swear you wrong me and him and yourself in this."

  "I almost believed you," Philip said with sudden, fierce earnestness. "I almost believed you loved me."

  "Philip! Please, Philip!" she sobbed, reaching her hands up to him, but he was gone.

  XVIII

  The bombardment came at dawn and did not stop throughout the day. Philip stood up on the wall listening as the sounds of war raged around him– deafening, maddening, ceaseless. The enemy was hammering at the walls of Winton, Winton that had never fallen, Winton that had survived siege after siege, attacks of fire and pestilence and merciless famine. Despite their efforts at defense, Winton's walls would soon be breached.

  There would be no help and no mercy for them now. Philip had tried to encourage his men, tried to maintain calm in the terror, but he could not. Fear ruled his kingdom now, not he, and he knew no way to regain his authority, no way to save his people and himself from the certain disaster that loomed over them.

  He stood watching the continuing flash and boom of Stephen's siege engines when the wall beneath him shuddered. He leapt to the ground just as it collapsed upon itself. Another crack and flash brought down the side of a nearby house, showering him with debris. Again the guns fired, and a large beam crashed down, grazing his shoulder. He had to get out of the street. He could do nothing to save his kingdom if he were buried alive in its ruins.

  He ran up the stone steps and pushed his way into the shelter of Winterbrooke Cathedral. The quiet reverence of the place had been shattered. People were huddled everywhere, peasants and nobles alike. Few even noticed the presence of their king, and none cared. It was for their own safety they now prayed.

  "What can I do? What can I do?" Philip muttered. He had to gather his troops and make them once more into an army, an army with heart enough to fight. He had to fight to his last man, to his own last breath, for Winton, for the oath he had made as king. It was all he had left. If only this hellish bombardment could be stopped–

  "'Do not forsake me, oh Lord,'" one of the priests quoted. "'Oh, my God, do not be afar off. Hasten to help me, oh Lord, my salvation. Oh Lord–"

  A shriek rose from the cowering refugees as another ball shook the city, shattering the multi-colored glass in the cathedral's huge windows. Shaken, Philip stumbled to his knees at the foot of the marble statue of Christ that stood behind the altar, its arms outstretched in welcome.

  "Where are You?" he demanded. "Can You not hear them crying out to You? Will You do nothing?"

  Yet again the guns roared, and Philip ducked his head as the ceiling began to crash around him. He heard the groan of the heavy beams as they began to split. He heard the terrifying thud of the huge stones as they cracked apart on the marble floor. He heard the agonized screams of the people who were pinned under them, the sickening sound of bones crushed and flesh mangled beyond repair.

  "Jesus," he whispered, looking up, and to his horror the heavy statue began toppling towards him. Trapped where he was, he could do nothing but duck his head and uselessly shield himself with his arms.

  ***

  Tom bounded up the steps into the cathedral. Inside, people were trying to free themselves from the ruins, aiding the wounded, and carrying off the dead. The bombardment had stopped for the night.

  "Where is the king?" Tom asked. "Is he here?"

  One of the men shook his head. "He was at the east window when I last saw him, my lord, but it's all fallen in over there now."

  Tom looked where he was pointing. There was only an enormous pile of rubble where the magnificent window had been and no sign of Philip.

  Tom began pulling pieces of stone and wood from the pile. "Philip! Philip, can you hear me? Philip?"

  Philip's voice was faint. "I cannot move."

  "Philip!" Tom began to work faster. "Some of you men, help me. The king is trapped under here."

  With their aid, he was soon able to see Philip's grimy face.

  "I can finish here, men. Go tend to the wounded." They were quick to obey him, and he leaned down to Philip. "Are you hurt?"

  "No, but I still cannot get out."

  "Nothing short of a miracle," Tom marveled as he moved a few more stones. Philip did not have even a scratch on him, only a dusting of fine powder from the crumbling marble. Tom reached his hand towards him to help him stand, but Philip would not take it.

  "Pity one of those stones did not dash out my brains," Philip said sullenly. "Then I would not have to see Winton in Stephen's hands."

  "You've given her up for lost then."

  "We've no chance now. We're hopelessly overmatched."

  "Have faith!" Tom insisted. "God can make a way when there is none. We've seen that time and again, too many times to doubt now."

  "Open your eyes, Tom. God has turned His back on me. He'll not send me His help again."

  "Open your eyes, Philip," Tom said, pointing, and Philip looked up.

  Above him, shielding him from the murderous stones, was the statue of Christ, fallen with its hands and forehead wedged firmly against the wall, making a perfect shelter for him beneath it.

  "Has He truly forsaken you?" Tom asked, and Philip pulled himself uneasily from the rubble, his eyes fixed on the gentle marble face.

  "Do not be more of a fool than you are already, Tom," he said, his voice gruff as he turned away. "He has forsaken me. Kate and John and Father, this whole unholy war, everything that has happened is proof enough of that."

  "Those things are Satan's doing, because we oppose Stephen's evil in Lynaleigh, because we stand for the Lord."

  "Then Satan is stronger than God and we should worship him."

  Tom was stunned by his blasphemous words and the deep bitterness in his voice. "Oh, Philip, no. How can you say so?"


  "Because otherwise we would not be in this strait we are in."

  "That was your doing as much as anyone's," Tom said. "You were too proud to send to Westered while there was yet time, and now it is too late to send, even if you would stoop so far. Is God to blame for that? We choose our own pain or happiness."

  "You can easily say so," Philip said. "You have always been fortune's pet, her darling. No wonder you can always smile. She has left you unscathed."

  "Has she, Philip? Has she truly?" Tom shook his head. "You forget, brother, I too have had cause to mourn. John and Richard were my brothers as much as they were yours. If your mother was an adulteress, so was mine. It was my father as well as yours who was a traitor and a murderer. I saw his throat cut in the street, not you. Granted, Katherine was not my wife, but her death broke a heart as dear to me as my own. Do you think I am not touched by that? By all of this? That this war does not grieve me, to see such a poor waste of life for so little? And, even had I no cause of my own, Philip, what grieves you grieves me. You must know that."

  "Let me alone," Philip replied with a surly frown. "Why are you even here?"

  "To find out why I am free."

  Philip's frown deepened. "I did not want to see you trapped and defenseless when Stephen takes this city. Even you deserve better than that. I was wrong to strike you in anger, whatever you've done."

  "I thought perhaps it was because you had a chance to realize that your accusations were not true, that you had wronged your poor lady."

  "I was the one wronged," Philip said low and fierce.

  "Not by her and not by me. Rosalynde would never betray you. You've hurt her, Philip, too many times, but she loves you. She loves you near to idolatry. And even if she would betray you, do you think that I would? That I would be false to my Elizabeth and to God and damn myself for a moment's pleasure?"

  "Stephen will take this city tomorrow. It does not matter now what I think."

  "Do you truly think that I could do you wrong? I can bear anything from you but that."