In Honor Bound Page 6

  He knew Margaret had somehow engineered this mockery of a trial to cover her own infanticide, but still he could not answer why. He believed Katherine's story, knew her tender heart incapable of such a monstrous deed as that of which she had been accused, but even she had no explanation for what Margaret had done. What could Margaret have gained by it?

  The low noise of a crowd broke into his thoughts and drew him to the window. The people thronged the streets, pressing against the soldiers who were holding open a pathway through them. The rumble grew until it seemed loud even high up in Philip's prison tower, and then he saw what he had most feared.

  There was Katherine being brought along in a cart, tied to a post, barefoot, wearing only her shift. Her face was pale and there was a terror in her eyes that Philip could not bear. And her hair! The long, glorious locks that had hung like spun gold past her knees were gone, shorn as a sign of her excommunication and disgrace. She was truly condemned and he could do nothing.

  "No!" He struggled with the bars on the window. "Do not do this! Kate! Kate!" He was drowned out by the jeering crowd.

  "Burn, witch!" they taunted. "Die, and be damned!"

  Even from where he was, Philip could see she was covered with cuts and bruises from the stones they threw and, as he watched, they spit on her, taking pleasure in her suffering.

  "You'll not practice your damned arts on our Prince Philip after today!"

  "Kate!" Philip howled, cursing their misdirected loyalty to him, still grappling uselessly with the bars. "Kate! Kate!"

  He did not know if she actually heard him over the din, but she looked up just then and their eyes met.

  "Kate!" he cried again, and he stretched his hand down towards her. Her mouth formed his name, but he could not hear her, then a stone caught her in the face and she flinched and turned away. A moment later the cart passed out of his sight and he saw her no more.

  He turned from the window and slid numbly down to sit on the floor. All of this was still inconceivable to him. How could it be that he, the son and heir to the reigning king, could have his life torn apart, his heart ripped from him and cut to pieces before his eyes? He was the crown prince of Lynaleigh, yet he was made to sit helplessly by and let his beloved face fiery death alone.

  "Why?" he moaned, his voice worn ragged with a night of raging pleas.

  The wind shifted and brought into the prison the dank, foul stench that was too familiar to his soldier's senses. He blenched at the malodorous cloud. There was no mistaking the smell of burnt flesh.

  At first, he did not notice that the door to his prison had been opened, or that he had a visitor.

  "My lord, I have brought you your breakfast."

  Philip looked up listlessly, then leapt to his feet.

  "Palmer? Palmer! Have they burned her, Palmer? Tell me!"

  Palmer's grim expression offered no hope. "I am sorry."

  Philip closed his eyes, and Palmer quickly set down the tray he carried and went to him.

  "Take comfort, sir," he said, lowering his voice. "She gave me a message for you."

  "A message?" Philip repeated as if the word were foreign to him.

  "I have friends among your father's men. I managed to see her for a moment before they took her away. She said for you to remember her love and forget all the rest. She wanted me to give you this, too, because it was all she had." Glancing furtively towards the door, he opened the pouch that hung over his shoulder. "I'll be hanged if they find out I took this."

  He pulled out a long, thick braid of fair hair, hair that shone like spun gold, and laid it in Philip's hands. "I had to steal it away from the hag who cut it off."

  Philip stared down at it, bewildered, and after a moment, Palmer began setting out the food he had brought as a pretense to deliver Katherine's message, food Philip would never touch.

  "I must go now, my lord," he said once he had done, but Philip still stood staring and made no reply.

  Hearing once more the clank of the key in the lock, Philip let the braid slide slowly through his hands to fall in a coil at his feet. The stench of the burning had saturated the air, and looking at the rich food Palmer had brought, Philip felt a rising wave of nausea that made his head spin.

  With an inarticulate cry, he pounded his fists on the little table until the dishes rattled and the pitcher was upset. In helpless fury, he raked everything to the floor and overturned the table on top of it. For a moment he stared at the destruction he had made, then he dug frantically through the shattered crockery, but Palmer had been wise enough not to give him a knife.

  III

  Katherine had been two days dead before Tom, hearing the news, returned to Winton.

  "I want to see Philip," he said, ignoring the his father's welcome.

  "Listen to me, Tom. You do not know what has happened here–"

  "I've heard. I want to see him."

  The king looked uncomfortably at his Lord High Chamberlain.

  "My lord of Brenden," Dunois said with a faintly contemptuous bow, "if you have heard, then you know my lord of Caladen has been under the evil influence of a witch. He is liable to rave yet. Thus far, he has refused to speak to anyone, not the Archbishop himself. He'll not even take food."

  Tom did not spare him a glance. "The girl was burned two days ago, Father. If she did have some sort of spell over him, she can hardly have anymore. Even if she did, what harm can there be in me seeing him?"

  Robert could say nothing that would stand in the face of Tom's cool resolution. He had not yet had the courage to see Philip himself. Sending Tom now might be easier.

  "Go on, then, and take his release to the lieutenant of the prison," he said, ignoring Dunois' frown, "but try to understand, son."

  "I always try to understand," Tom said, and now he did look at Dunois. "And sometimes I actually manage to do it."

  ***

  As soon as the secretary had written it and the king had signed it, Tom took Philip's release to the prison. The guard was quick to open the door to Philip's cell and Tom bounded in.

  "Philip– Oh, Philip."

  Philip lay gagged and glassy eyed on the narrow bed, bound in strips of sheeting, his hands and face cut and bruised. Tom went to him and gently removed the bloodied cloth from his mouth.

  Philip worked his stiff jaw and moistened his lips. "I am not mad, Tom," he said, his voice hoarse. "Do not let them tell you so."

  Tom unknotted his bonds, his hands trembling with anger, then helped him sit up.

  "Drink some of this," he said, taking a dipper full of water from the bucket beside the bed, and Philip took it in numb obedience.

  "Get in here!" Tom ordered and the soldier on guard came hesitantly into the room. "What do you mean to use a Lynaleighan prince like this?"

  "My lord, it was for his own good."

  "His own good?"

  "Please, my lord, he was a danger to himself. He beat his fists against the wall, and his head, too. We had no choice but to tie him, but we used cloth instead of rope. It was gentler."

  Tom took one sad glance at his brother. "Very well. Go back to your commander and tell him you have been relieved of your charge."

  The soldier was quick to obey, and Tom sat down on the bed.

  "Philip."

  Philip shook his head. "They've burned her, Tom," he whispered, his eyes great wells of pain. "They've burned my Kate."

  "I know."

  Tom put his arms around him and let him cry.

  ***

  Rafe Bonnechamp was waiting when Tom and Philip returned to the palace. For two days he had wondered when his young master would be released and if he was being well cared for. He had inwardly cursed the king for forbidding him to go to the prison to watch over Philip himself, and he did so again now, seeing the Philip that Tom brought back to him, faint crushed shadow of the spirited young prince he had served ever since the boy had been too old for a nursemaid.

  "Come, my lord, I've made ready your bed."

  "No.
Not sleep."

  Rafe knit his bushy brows and looked at Tom, his sturdy, brown-bearded commoner's face anxious and unsettled.

  "Then I will bring you something to eat, my lord."

  Philip shook his head and pulled away from him.

  "Is there anything you want?" he asked, and Philip once more shook his head.

  "What I want is beyond your power or any man's to get back."

  He covered his grief-marked face with his hands and Rafe said nothing.

  Tom, too, was silent, knowing nothing he could say would be of help. He merely stayed close, hoping Philip would draw a little comfort from that, comfort at least that he would not be left in this sudden darkness alone. Even that reassurance was soon denied.

  ***

  The next day Robert ordered Tom to return to his post, and no amount of persuading on Tom's part could change his mind for him. The place was too important to the defense of the kingdom.

  Tom went back to Philip to say good-bye.

  "I am sent back to Chrisdale."

  "No, Tom," Philip pled, "do not go. God's pity, do not leave me just yet."

  "I must. Father will have it so."

  "He will have it so! He will have it so! Must the sun rise in the west because he will have it so? Kate is dead because he would have it so!"

  "I'll not defend him to you, Philip. I cannot. But he is our king, and we must obey him. He alone must answer for the things he has done."

  "And on that day, come what judgment there will, Kate will still be dead." Philip faced the narrow window and looked out onto the lush forest, not seeing it. "Stay with me, Tom. I need someone with me now."

  "I cannot stay, but you will not be alone. Let God be your refuge. Take strength from Him."

  "Not now," Philip said in a hard voice Tom hardly recognized. "Not anymore. I stood for Him at her trial, for what I believed was His own truth, and He did nothing. I'll not seek His help again."

  "You will not always believe so," Tom said softly and, breathing a sigh of desolation that would not be comforted, Philip bowed his head. Tom put one hand on his sagging shoulder and was gone.

  ***

  The next day, the king sent a message to Philip's chamber, borne by the Lord High Chamberlain himself, but Rafe would not let him in.

  "I am come of commission from the king," Dunois said. "I charge you in his name to let me pass."

  "I cannot do it, my lord. My lord of Caladen gave me express charge that I not admit anyone to him. If you have a message, I will give it him, but I can in obedience do no more."

  "Very well," Dunois said, after a moment of incensed consideration. "Tell the prince that His Majesty requires his presence in his private chamber this afternoon."

  "I will tell him so."

  Rafe bowed stiffly and went into Philip's room, shutting the door behind him. Philip was sitting on the bed, clutching a pillow in his arms, looking raw-nerved and easily set off.

  "I have a message from your father," Rafe said, keeping his voice low. "He has summoned you to him this afternoon."

  "No."

  "A direct summons from the king, my lord," Rafe said, startled at the flat rejection. "You cannot refuse it."

  "I do and I have. Tell him so or else do not, I do not care."

  "My lord–"

  "I cannot see him now, Rafe. Not now."

  Bonnechamp argued the matter no further. "I will tell him so."

  ***

  It was not an hour later when the king came himself. The room was black, for Philip had made Rafe close up the shutters and take away the candles. Even the hearth fire was unlit, cold.

  "Philip?"

  The candle he brought cast only a faint glow as he held it before him to search the darkness.

  "Philip, son?"

  "Do not ever call me son, butcher," Philip hissed in his ear, low and fierce, startlingly close.

  Robert turned and saw little more than his half-wild eyes, circled with black.

  "You left me little choice," Robert pled, reaching out to him.

  Philip stiffened and drew back.

  "Keep those hands away from me. They reek of her blood."

  "For you, Philip. I did this for you. I could not leave you prey to her sorcery, leave my kingdom's heir pawn to Satan."

  Philip shook his head warily. "I believe that no more than you do. It was for policy, not for witchcraft, that you burned her. If ever anyone was Satan's pawn, it is you."

  "No, son, believe me–"

  "You've killed my Kate! Killed her! Are you my father that you could kill what I best love in all the world?" Philip lowered his head under the weight of his grief. "Never say it was for me, that it was for my sake."

  "She was condemned by law."

  "Your law!"

  "She killed your brother's child! Are you so eager to be king that you would sanction that?"

  "The crown is accursed. I hate it. Kate knew that. And even if I had begged it of her, she never would have done so horrible a thing as kill an innocent child, not for me or all this world. You may lay that infamy at Margaret's door."

  "Why, Philip? You have yet to tell me why Margaret would do such a thing? She carried the next heir of Lynaleigh. What could she hope to gain by that child's loss?"

  Philip sat on the edge of the bed and rested his arms and his head on his knees.

  "I do not know. I have reasoned on that again and again, until my mind is sick with it, but I do not know."

  "Because she could have had no reason. It was this Fletcher woman did it. How else could such a lowborn creature hope to advance herself except through you? It is time you face the truth now, Philip. I know you were fond of her, but–"

  "Fond of her?" Philip stood up, his hands tightening into fists. "Fond? She was a woman, not a puppy! Mercy and grace, fond of her? I loved her, heart and soul I loved her, and you killed her!" His voice broke and the acid tears coursed down his face. "Murderer! Murderer!"

  He struck out blindly at his father, raining blows on his chest, arms, face. Robert grabbed his wrists and held them bruisingly tight until, weakened with grief, Philip could fight no more. Abruptly, his struggling stopped and he looked beseechingly into his father's eyes. His sobs came again without warning, uncontrollable, tearing through his worn body until it seemed his lungs would burst.

  "Shh. Shh." Robert pulled him close, soothing, comforting. "I would have spared you this, if only you had listened to me. I had no choice but to condemn her, understand me that, but, believe me, Philip, what I must needs do as king has no bearing on the love I have for you."

  Philip sagged against him until his sobs quieted, then he fell to his knees.

  "Send me away." His broken plea stabbed deeply into his father's heart. "If there is any mercy left in you, Father, send me away from here."

  "I cannot, Philip. You are the crown prince. I need you with me here in the council."

  "Please, Father, for a month. A week. Dear God, a day, I beg you! Do not make me stay here."

  His own heart writhing, Robert pulled his son to his feet and made him lie down.

  "I am sorry, but I must. You know it is so." He swept away a tear on Philip's sunken cheek, and his voice grew more tender. "This will please you. I have decided that we'll not speak of marriage for you for yet awhile. Let your mind be easy in that regard until you are more ready to think on it, you have my promise. As for this deal of sorrow, time will heal it. You are young, yet. In time you will realize that these fancies pass. You will see, boy. Now go to sleep."

  ***

  For several days Philip did not sleep. He did nothing but sit in silent grief by day and walk the dark corridors at night. Rafe wore himself out worrying over his young master, for Philip still would not eat the food brought to him, hardly would drink even water, and sternly forbade Rafe to follow him in his restless wanderings. Nearly a week passed before Rafe could persuade him to even talk to him.

  There was scarcely a trace of the famed Chastelayne beauty in him now. He
was worn and pale, his white lips pressed tight in a struggle to keep his raging grief in check. His eyes seemed larger for the black smudges beneath them, and they held such pain that it tore Rafe's heart to look into them.

  "My lord," he said as he watched Philip's bruised hands fitfully clenching and unclenching the arms of his chair. "Please, my lord, this cannot go on."

  One side of Philip's mouth twitched into a wrenching mockery of a smile. "The church, I understand, does not look favorably upon suicide, so I suppose it must go on."

  "My lord!"

  Before Rafe could say more, there was a sharp rap on the chamber door. Without waiting for an invitation, the Lord High Chamberlain swept into the room.

  "If you would grant me a moment, Your Highness–"

  Rafe turned. "My lord Dunois–"

  "Leave here, my lord," Philip warned, and the Chamberlain's face turned all concerned sorrow.

  "I know you are grieved, Your Highness–"

  "I'll not hear sympathy from you. You had none for her."

  "Please, my prince, I tried as best I might to spare you this. Ask your father's men if I did not go to her during the trial to see what plea she might make to save her life, even in the face of such strong proof against her." Dunois held up one hand in pledge of truth. "God knows I begged the king not to act hastily in this, but you know His Majesty when he's set his mind to a thing."

  He ended with an apologetic shake of his head and Philip squeezed his eyes shut and drew a painful breath.

  "I know."

  "I hope, then, you do not believe me disloyal to Your Highness."

  "You are loyal to Afton, my lord," Philip said, looking as if he wished he could choke the sycophantic voice into silence. "I suppose that is loyal enough."

  "I thank you, Your Highness."

  Dunois made a flourishing bow and Philip shifted in his chair.

  "Well? I trust there is more to what you have in charge."

  "Oh, yes, my lord. I am commanded by His Majesty the king to read to you the accounts of the last council meetings at which you have not been in attendance." Dunois held out the massive book the scribes used for such records. "I will do so now, if you have your leisure."