In Honor Bound Read online

  Philip thanked him and set himself to wait. He did not expect that the space of one night would be enough to cool his father's anger, and he steeled himself to meet the full force of it. He would be humble and ask pardon for his rashness the night before. Surely peace with his father was worth that much pride. Surely Katherine was.

  "Have you puzzled out all the mysteries of the ages yet?"

  Philip lifted his head and saw Tom grinning down on him.

  "What, do I look so perplexed?"

  Tom sat next to him, looking not for the first time at the fine sapphire cross that hung around Philip's neck, only half concealed by his shirt. Doubtless he had noticed that it was the same one Katherine Fletcher had worn but wore no longer, just as Philip no longer wore the ruby ring that marked him as a Chastelayne prince.

  "I suppose you've been summoned to answer for last night."

  "I was a fool," Philip said. "That was no way to win his liking for Kate. All I did was shame her and make him the angrier. I came to make it right with him, if he will let me, but, no, I was not summoned. Were you?"

  Tom nodded. "I expect it will be more upon this favorite theme of his – marriage."

  "Can you do it, Tom? Marry for policy?"

  "I would I had freedom in the choice, as much as you do, but even before Father was king we knew it would not be so. They say Lady Elizabeth is fair and virtuous. I shall make it all my study to love her as it was meant a wife should be loved and I dare say we shall be happy enough. I cannot believe God will let it be otherwise."

  "What if you loved already? Would you let them marry you to someone else?"

  "If I loved a woman truly and knew I could love no other, I suppose I would have to marry my beloved, no matter the cost." Looking steadily into his eyes, Tom tucked the cross back inside Philip's shirt. "Then I would tell Father I'd done it."

  "Tom–"

  "You might have told me. I've kept your counsel before."

  "How could you know?"

  "I know you."

  Philip smiled, blinking away the telltale burning in his eyes. "I love her, Tom."

  "I know that, too."

  "I know what I've given up in marrying her," Philip said. "I'd pay that price and a dozen times over for the love she has given me."

  "Father might not think it such a bargain after what you've doubtless cost him in some alliance or other."

  "He needn't know for some while yet, I hope."

  "Well, now you've done it, tell him. He will be vexed, but not so much as if you were his heir."

  Philip shook his head. "Not as yet. Let the country be more at peace than it is now. He will be angry enough as it is. If he knows she is truly my wife, I fear what he might do. Now he pleases to think I am a stubborn, wantonly boy. He thinks I will tire of her soon and make one of his precious alliances. Our best safety lies in that."

  "Good morning, my sons."

  Philip and Tom leapt to their feet and bowed deeply as their mother came from the king's private chamber. She was dressed in a robe of sky blue velvet, with the rich lace of her shift peeping out at her wrists and throat and her hair falling in golden ringlets down her back. She looked as fresh and fair as a bride. It was little wonder that their father found arranged marriages nothing to fear.

  "Madame my mother," Tom murmured.

  "Madame," Philip echoed, and she looked at him as if they shared a secret.

  "You were indiscreet last night, Philip."

  "I do beg your pardon, madame," he said with another bow. "I know you think me intemperate and disgraceful, and for that I am heartily sorry."

  "I merely said you were indiscreet." There was a sly smile on her full lips. "A true gentleman is always discreet with his mistresses."

  A true gentleman has none, Philip thought, his eyes turning cold, but, before he could reply, another voice interrupted.

  "Elaine, my love, not gone yet?"

  The boys bowed once more and their mother curtseyed as the king came from his chamber. He pulled his wife to him and said something low in her ear to make her giggle, then he put her hand in Tom's.

  "See your mother back to her ladies, Tom, while I talk to this rascal here. Then I shall wish to speak to you."

  Philip looked at his brother, surprised at the king's affability, but Tom merely gave him a quizzical smile and led his mother away.

  "Now, my son, you wished to see me?"

  Philip drew a deep breath. "Yes, my lord. My behavior last night was most unbecoming, and I wish to apologize for it. It ill suits the son of Lynaleigh's king to make such common display before the court, and I crave your pardon."

  "Bravely spoken," Robert said, clasping his shoulder. "We were both of us too hot in speaking last night. Let us say no more of it and it will soon be forgotten. I have perhaps pushed too hard in this matter of marriages. You shall have until spring as I promised."

  "I shall?" A smile broke thorough Philip's incredulity. "Tell me what service I may do you now to prove my obedience."

  Robert ruffled his son's thick hair. "Go to your brothers, tell them to put on their royal white. We are to make procession through the streets this afternoon in further celebration of my reign. The lord mayor has asked it at the people's request, and I can grant them no less. Show bravely for Afton today, and I can wish no more."

  "I will!"

  At the appointed time, Philip and his brothers met in the courtyard, dressed as their father had requested. Their horses were also decked in the immaculate luster of the royal white, ready for them to mount. Beside them, the king's groomsman was calming a skittish Barbary roan, one the princes had never before seen.

  "Whose horse is that, Hawkins?" Richard asked, impressed by the beast's fiery temper.

  "His Majesty's, my lord. A gift from the lord mayor."

  Richard held out his hand. "Let me try him."

  "I cannot, my lord. Not until His Majesty says I might."

  Richard frowned, and Philip tried to stroke the roan's nose.

  "Have a care!" Hawkins warned as the horse snapped at him. "He's hardly tamed."

  "Father will let me ride him," Philip said lightly. "I shall see he is gentled down."

  Tom laid his hand on the roan's flank and was nearly kicked for it. "Best have a care, Philip. This one will throw you, like as not."

  "Nonsense. I've never been thrown yet."

  "Not true," Richard said, laughing. "I remember once you walked home bloodied and bruised because old Samson had tossed you off in the forest."

  "He did not!"

  "He did." Richard looked to Tom and John for confirmation. "You were no more than twelve, as I remember, but I thought it odd that you'd been thrown. You never had been before and not since."

  "I remember that day," John said before Philip could protest again. "You must have fallen hard, you were so battered."

  Tom laughed. "You were so mortified, you'd not even speak when Nathaniel was searching you over for broken bones."

  "Odd I'd not remember it," Philip said with a puzzled grin, "but it'll not likely happen again." He swung up onto his horse, a long-legged black, and patted his silken mane. "Not likely, my Alethia."

  "This one is not so fierce as Hawkins says," John said, feeding the roan a handful of fresh straw. The horse showed no hint of skittishness.

  "What's this, boys?" the king asked when he came into the courtyard with his dazzling queen on his arm, both of them also in white.

  "A gift from the lord mayor, Father," Richard said eagerly. "May I ride him?"

  "Sometime. Today, I shall."

  "You ought not, Your Majesty, pardon me," Hawkins said. "He is very skittish."

  "Do you let me decide on that, Hawkins. Give me the reins, man."

  Hawkins obeyed, and soon the king was in the saddle, the roan's only protest a whinny and a little pawing of the ground. Robert smiled.

  "There. No need to fear now. Come, let us go among the people. I would have the lord mayor see how fitting his gift is for a kin
g."

  Hawkins helped the queen up onto her palfrey and, bowing, handed her the reins.

  "But where is your lady, Richard?" she asked.

  Richard's mouth turned down in annoyance. "She asks your pardon, madame, and yours, Father, but she is ill with the coming child and cannot ride today."

  "They say that happens often," Elaine said gaily, "though I have not found it so. Not once in four times."

  "Have patience, Richard," Robert advised, smiling upon his own wife. "You will find yourself well rewarded the first time you hold your heir. Let your lady have her rest now. You mustn't risk the child."

  "As you say, Father. Shall we go on?"

  Preceded by banners and trumpets and drums, followed by richly attired nobility, the royal family rode out into the streets of Winton, a brisk wind at their backs. As always, the peasantry crowded around them, cheering and whistling and covering them with blessings and rose petals. The king had his hands full with acknowledging their favors and keeping his horse from bolting. Once he made his speech, promising justice and prosperity to his people and thanking the lord mayor for his fine gift, he turned gladly towards home. The roan wanted more gentling before he could be ridden again among the people.

  The wind was in their faces on the way back, tugging at cloaks and snatching caps and popping the rich, gilt-edged banners.

  "I shall have my hair down about my knees before we've reached the palace," Elaine said, holding one hand to the heavy golden mass twisted at the back of her head. Just then, one of the streaming banners snapped loose and flew into the roan's face. With a shrill, terrified neigh, he reared up and struck out blindly with his hooves, beating the queen from her own mount.

  "Elaine!"

  Robert jerked at his reins, wrenching the beast's head to one side. Wild-eyed, the roan continued to plunge and Robert could only watch in horror as his wife's tender flesh was trampled into the cobbled street.

  Braving the flashing hooves, Philip and Richard seized hold of the panicked animal's bridle on either side and pulled him away from their mother. Robert leapt to the ground and took his wife's battered body out of Tom's lap, pulled her crushed hand out of John's fearful grasp.

  "Elaine."

  He kissed her bloodied lips, then lifted her up in his arms, echoing her cry of agony.

  Several of the nobles took charge of the roan and Richard and Philip went to their mother's side.

  "Let me help you, Father," Richard offered, but Robert only crushed his wife tighter against himself, making her cry out again.

  "Let him alone," Tom said low and Richard stepped back, his face marked with disbelief.

  "It was over before it could be stopped."

  "It could not be stopped," Philip said, his breath coming hard and unevenly.

  John's eyes were wide, bewildered. "Mother?"

  Tom put one arm around his shoulders. "Come on, John."

  Robert carried his wife in his arms the short distance back to the castle, speaking low, loving words with every step. Their sons and all the others came in grim, silent procession after them. The physicians were sent for, every comfort was thought of, but no one seeing the crushed remains of so delicate flesh could believe there was any hope for more than a few brief hours of pain before death.

  Somber and restless, the princes stood outside the chamber where their mother lay dying, watched the evening fade into night and, after eternity, watched the lazy sunrise bring in the everlasting morning. They heard her call sometimes for John, always John, but he was forbidden to go to her. Only her tormented husband was allowed at her side as the physicians labored against hope to save her.

  Philip found himself burdened with a sorrow that surprised him. There was no mother heart in this woman for him, nor never had been, and he thought he had made himself proof against the instinctive pain that brought him. She had never taken much notice of any of her sons. Even John, her youngest, the one most like her, had only held her momentary interest. Her gowns, her jewels, her entourage of admirers, these had been much dearer to her, but Philip still felt some pain, some grief at her passing.

  More than that, it was his father's sudden, cruel loss of the woman who meant more than the world to him that drew Philip's pity and remorse. Having so recently found such a deep love himself, he felt his father's pain as if it were his own. He knew if he should have Katherine only twenty or thirty years, it would not be near half enough. To have her so brutally torn away from him would be beyond bearing.

  He could hear the priests now on the other side of the door intoning an ave, muffled and indistinct, and knew his mother was making confession. Soon she would be absolved and her spirit would be put into the hands of God, then the priests would be silent.

  The silence came. The princes crossed themselves and waited for word to be brought. Finally the door swung open, and Robert came out of the chamber, pale and trembling, the bloody stamp of Elaine's wounds still on his white doublet. The brothers were startled at his expression. He looked furious, not grieved.

  "You," he snapped, pointing at John. "I will have you from my sight and from my court. You are not to stay even the burying." He took rough hold of John's wrist and stripped the Chastelayne ring from his finger. "Go where it pleases you to go, but go now. Do not let me see your face again."

  John flinched as if he had been struck, and Robert turned on Philip and Tom and Richard.

  "I will not have a word from the three of you. Keep silent, or before God Himself, you go with him!"

  He stalked into the room opposite the one where their mother's broken body lay and slammed the door.

  Philip started after his father.

  "No." John was pale and shaken. "I will go if he wishes me to."

  "You'll not!" Richard said and, swearing a terrible oath, he flung open the door his father had just slammed and slammed it again behind him. Immediately the sounds of quarreling filtered out, the words unintelligible but the tone unmistakable.

  "He is hurting, John," Tom said. "I am sorry he has hurt you."

  "How could he say such a thing?" Philip fumed, pained by the shattered expression on his youngest brother's face. "He cannot mean really for you to go. By my life, John, you've always loved him better than any of us have!"

  The three of them stood silent, listening to Richard's voice battling his father's, back and forth, louder and more vicious, until the door flew open again and Richard stormed out with the king close behind him.

  "Richard!"

  Richard halted and turned back to his father.

  "Rumor is a strong tool in the right hands, my lord king," he warned. "Take care what you speak before the court. Once told, it cannot be again unsaid."

  Robert considered for a moment then, looking at John, his eyes turned steely.

  "Very well. I will say nothing to my nobles of this, but he is banished. I'll not be swayed from that."

  John had not wept at the news of his mother's death, but now he did, the quiet tears slipping down cheeks that had not quite lost their childish roundness.

  "If you banish him, banish me as well," Richard swore. "I'll not stay at your court if you do this to him."

  "I'll not be threatened by you or anyone," Robert returned. "He is banished and you may do as pleases you."

  Richard looked at him, fury coloring his face, then he grabbed John by the arm.

  "Come on."

  "I have sons yet to do my bidding, my lord of Bradford!" Robert shouted after him. "Your loss will not be keenly felt!"

  "Stop them, Father," Philip insisted. "Mercy and grace, what has John done?"

  "This does not concern you."

  "Does it not? John is–"

  "Father, please–" Tom began at the same time.

  "Enough, Philip. Tom, not another word. Will you both rebel against me, too?"

  "No, Father." Tom put a restraining hand on his brother's arm. "Come, Philip, I think we all of us would do well to consider for a moment before we say anything more."

/>   "As you say," Philip agreed, and with a taut bow he left the room.

  ***

  Robert sat down abruptly. The light from the window above him was unkind to his haggard face and made the wounded rage in his eyes all the clearer to see.

  "May I get something for you, Father?" Tom asked.

  "Bring me some wine, then leave me."

  Tom overlooked the sharpness of his tone. "Shall I have Dunois tell the court of the queen's passing? They will be waiting."

  Robert drew a harsh breath, as if he were going to swear, then he checked himself. "Tell him. And tell Richard he is to go to Tanglewood, if he must leave, and take– take my lord of Rounchaux with him. I will make it known that I have sent them there to lead the army at the border."

  "Please, Father. John would never–"

  "Not another word, Tom. Not one. Do as I bade you and leave me in peace."

  Tom bowed. "Yes, my lord."

  ***

  It was little more than a week later that word came of Richard's death.

  "'Richard should never have gone out to them,'" Tom read from the letter John sent. "'They came to the wall and challenged us and, even with them twice our strength, he went out to them. He swore he'd never send to the king for more men, that we were easily worth their number and so many more besides, and he went out to them as merrily as if he were going to a May morris dance. I would God had made him more wise and less proud, but I think he's in heaven sure. I went to him, when the fighting was over. He'd been three times thrust through and could scarce speak, but he said 'Mercy, Lord Jesus, pardon...sinful soul' and more I could not understand, but surely God heard him.'"

  "I know He did," Tom said and Philip nodded, but Robert only looked through them.

  "Richard."

  He put his head in his hands, then he took a deep drink of the wine that had been his constant companion in the days since the queen's death.

  Richard was dead. The son he had groomed for kingship, the one he had meant for greatness, was gone. All that was left of his hopes was Richard's battered body, the child Margaret carried, and the echo of his own acrid words.

  Your loss will not be keenly felt.

  "I am sorry about Richard, Father," Philip murmured, only now daring to speak. "I know John is sorry, too."