In Honor Bound Read online

  "What am I to say to him when he finds out?" Tom asked as he and Rafe sat near the fire that night.

  The servant merely shook his head and drained his cup. "He will be well enough to bear it then, my lord, and it'll not matter so much."

  "It will break his heart," Tom said, glancing towards the still figure on the bed.

  "Well, whatever they say, sir, there's never a man died yet of that."

  For two days, Philip struggled with death, and Rafe was constantly at his side, reminding him that John's survival depended heavily on his own. Tom, biting his lip, watched and said nothing, but wept in his prayers for help and forgiveness.

  On the third day, while the soldiers were still trying to identify the hacked-over dead, Philip regained full consciousness and asked for John.

  "I am sorry–" Tom began, but Rafe interrupted him smoothly.

  "You cannot see him yet, my lord. Not until you are strong enough to walk there yourself."

  Philip shifted impatiently and laid his warm face on a cooler part of his pillow. "I need to know for certain he is safe. Tom, you tell me. He looked very bad when last I saw him."

  Tom looked with sudden panic at Rafe, then, steeling himself, came close to his brother. "John is fine."

  "You are sure?"

  Tom covered the hand that plucked his sleeve with his own, hating himself. "You know I never lie to you, Philip. John is safe and well."

  Philip smiled faintly and fell asleep.

  For the next few days, Rafe fed Philip on porridge, fresh broth, and stories of John's slow recovery. Philip was soon able to stand and even walk shakily across the room.

  "I am going to see John," he announced, and Tom felt a guilty tightening in his stomach.

  "Philip–"

  "You said when I could walk there on my own I could see him. Well, I can now."

  Tom shook his head helplessly. "Philip–"

  "He is not worse, is he? You told me yesterday–"

  "Philip–"

  "Will you sit down, my lord," Rafe asked quietly, urging Philip back to his bed, but Philip shook him off.

  "Tom?"

  Tom wanted desperately to tear his gaze away from the bewildered, fearful expression on Philip's face, but he forced himself to hold his head up. "John died the day of the battle."

  Rafe took Philip's arm, looking afraid that, as weak as he was, this news might yet be too much for his young master, but again Philip shook him off, never taking his eyes from Tom's face.

  "Tom?"

  "I am sorry, Philip, truly."

  "Tom, you lied to me? John is dead?"

  "You were so badly hurt, we were afraid you'd not survive the news. We had to tell you–"

  "You lied to me, Tom. To me."

  There was such stunned anguish on Philip's pale face that Tom could not keep from looking away.

  "Merciful heaven," Philip murmured, "is there no one who'll not betray me?"

  "The lie was mine, my lord," Rafe said finally. "Lord Tom told you nothing that is untrue. He told you Lord John is safe and well, and so he is. If there's but one soul in heaven, it is that boy."

  Philip swayed suddenly, and Tom and Rafe both rushed to support him, but he would not accept his brother's help. He refused anymore to even look him in the face.

  "Philip–" Tom began, but Rafe gave him a warning look over Philip's head and, with another useless apology, Tom left.

  ***

  Rafe settled his master back into the bed he had not left for over a week and realized from the stricken look on his face he was likely to be there awhile longer. It was a long tedious afternoon and, that night, Philip's fever rose again, but he would not allow Rafe to send for the physician.

  "Trust no one," he confided half-deliriously after a restless silence, but Rafe simply replaced the cloth on his forehead with a cool one and said nothing.

  "'I never lie to you, Philip'," Philip continued sarcastically. "Good, trusty Tom."

  He pushed aside the water Rafe was urging him to drink and tried to sit up, but Rafe held him down. "No, my lord. Dawn is a long way off."

  "I want to see John. He promised." The words turned into a half-choked sob. "He promised and he lied."

  "I lied to you, my lord. You seem to have forgiven me."

  "Everyone lies, Rafe," Philip said, and his voice was bitter. "It is the way of the world. But not Tom. Not to me."

  "He did not want to lose you, my lord. He tried to spare you because he knew it would break your heart. Can you not see you are breaking his?"

  Philip looked at him unsteadily.

  "He loved the boy, my lord, full as much as you did. Can you not understand that and comfort his grief instead of heaping on more?"

  Two great tears welled up in Philip's eyes, and Rafe knew he hurt so badly, body and spirit, he needed Tom now not as enemy but as brother.

  "Shall I send for him?" he asked gently, and Philip nodded.

  With an abrupt release, Philip let the air sag out of his lungs, easing the pressure on his battered ribs. Rafe deftly wiped the sudden sweat from his brow.

  "I'll tell the physician your fever's broken," Rafe said, then he left the room, fighting to keep the enormity of his relief from showing on his face.

  ***

  For a long while Philip lay there, his memories of the battle too vivid yet. He had found John in the middle of the field, down on one knee, bare headed, surrounded by the dead of both armies, the Chastelayne banner trampled and bloodied beneath him. John had looked pale and shaken, but he had insisted that he was not hurt, that the blood that covered him belonged to their enemies.

  I should have known. But he had been so badly hurt himself that all he had been able to think of was getting to Livrette and having his wounds seen to. It pained him now to think of John trying to help him from the field when his own life was trickling away.

  They had not reached the town when he had heard John hoarsely whisper his name. He remembered turning to see John's face gray and lined with pain, that he was trailing blood with every step. Then John had stumbled, pulling Philip down with him. Philip flinched at the memory, feeling again the jarring pain of his already-cracked rib snapping and stabbing its way into his lung.

  "I swear I did never feel it," John had said, bright bubbles of blood showing at his white lips, "not till just now. I was jostled between two of their soldiers, but I fought them off, killed them both. I thought truly I was but bruised."

  Philip had tried to drag himself to where John was, to somehow stop the blood that was welling from the gap down John's side where his armor was joined, but unconsciousness had taken him then, John's soft voice the last thing to pierce the blackness.

  "I am sorry, Philip."

  "I am sorry, too, John," Philip murmured now. "If I had only..."

  He let the words trail into nothing. There were no words, no promises, kept or broken, that could change it. John was dead.

  Philip tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry he could not. He reached for the pitcher beside his bed, but it was full and heavy and before he could pour anything out of it, it slipped from his tenuous grip and shattered into hopeless fragments on the stone floor. His head fell limply back onto the pillows, then he turned over and put his bandaged arm across his face to muffle his sobs.

  "Oh, John."

  It was long past dawn when the physician woke him in order to dress his wounds. There was no trace left of the broken pitcher.

  "Where is Tom?" Philip asked groggily, and Livrette gave his shoulder a soothing pat.

  "Never you mind that, my lord. Since you were asleep when I came in last night, I told your man to let you and Lord Tom both have your rest. I think he's had none since the battle."

  "Where is Rafe? I must speak with Tom," Philip said, but all that got him was another pat and a patronizing smile.

  "Soon enough, my lord, soon enough. First we must tend these wounds of yours and bind them up again. There will be time enough and to spare for your talk later o
n."

  Philip submitted, knowing even a direct command was unlikely to shake the methodical physician out of caring for his patient.

  "You are doing well, my lord," Livrette said once he had rebandaged Philip's ribs and forearm. "Is there much pain today?"

  "Not so much as last night," Philip told him, looking away. The dull throb he felt now was insignificant to him. Like the cruel truth of John's death, the pain remained unchanged. He could learn to live with them both.

  "It may not even scar," Livrette remarked once he had removed the bandage from Philip's cheek, but a rapid knock on the door drew their attention before Philip could answer. It was Rafe.

  "My lord, the king has come in from Winton. He had some news of the battle from a messenger, but I do not know how much he's been told. It's likely he already knows, but do you wish for me to tell him–"

  "No. I shall do it."

  "Perhaps Lord Tom–"

  "I said I would do it, Rafe."

  Seeing his determination, Rafe bowed and left the room, and Livrette did his work silently for awhile.

  "I could tell him, my lord, if you wish it," he ventured, but Philip still refused.

  "It is my place. I do not know why he was angry with John, but he will be sorry for it now, I know that much. He always loved John. He truly did. He has to know now how wrong he was to banish him. Whatever it was, it could not have been any more than a trifle if John was at fault in it. John was ever so–" The words choked down in his throat and he stopped himself. He needed to be strong for his father's sake. "When my father comes–"

  "Your father is here, my lord," Livrette told him.

  Philip looked up to see the king standing in the doorway, his expression as incomprehensibly harsh as it had been on the day he had sent John away. There was no sign of grief, no fatherly concern, nothing on his face but angry displeasure.

  "Your Majesty," the physician murmured as he quickly knelt, but Robert scarcely noticed him.

  "We have no further need of you at present," he said to dismiss Livrette, but he never took his stern gaze from his son's face. Philip could only stare back at him, bewildered into dumbness. Perhaps he truly had not yet heard.

  "I await your obedience, Philip," Robert said. "I'll not have your stiff-necked insolence today."

  Still Philip stared.

  "My liege," Livrette objected, "surely he is too ill–"

  "You are dismissed. When we need you, we shall send for you."

  There was enough warning in his tone that Livrette dared protest no further, and, leaving his work unfinished, he left the room and shut the heavy door behind him.

  "Now, boy, shall I await your pleasure?"

  "Please listen," Philip said, finally finding his voice. "I have to tell you, John is–"

  "Is dead," Robert said flatly. "I have had that news already. What I came for now is to know why my orders were disobeyed and why you are not on your knees before your king."

  "But, he is dead. Your son–"

  "Immediately, my lord of Caladen!"

  He did not care. The realization struck Philip harder than the weapons of the enemy had. John was dead, and his father did not care. He did not care.

  His eyes flashing accusation, Philip took a deep breath then pushed the bedclothes from him and got shakily to his feet. Steadying himself on the edge of the bed, he dropped heavily to his knees.

  "You have been disobedient to me," Robert said, "against the duty you owe me as your king and as your father. There can be no excuse for it. None. Nothing that has happened here justifies your rebelliousness. This might have ended up a disaster for Afton, because of your willfulness."

  Philip fixed his gaze on the floor and set his mouth in a tight line. "You know full well why I disobeyed. The power here was not by half strong enough to meet the attack, and we knew of it before they struck, well before, and yet you sent no help, not so much as a word in answer to John's pleas. I could not choose but to disobey you. It might have been enough to lose this town and many others along with it had I stayed in Maughn as you ordered." He glanced up and again there was reproach in his eyes. "The casualties were heavy enough."

  "You had no right to question my command," Robert said. "If Tanglewood had fallen, the next stronghold would have been Maughn. Maughn has been left defenseless for over a week now!"

  "If I had not come, Tanglewood would have surely been taken and Maughn would be under siege. You know that as well as I."

  "I will not be disobeyed again. There's punishment for treason, boy, even for princes."

  Robert turned to go but Philip's next question stopped him.

  "Why?" Philip demanded, then he choked back a sob and asked again, "Why?"

  The anger had gone out of his tone, the reproach and defiance, too. All that was left was a wounded pleading that must have somehow tugged at Robert's guilty heart, making him turn back around.

  "Why did you let this happen to John, Father?"

  "I? Any man may die in a battle. I'm for certain not to blame for it."

  "You wanted him to die," Philip said, still hardly able to believe it himself. "Even if you had to lose Tanglewood with him, you wanted him to be dead. Why? What did he do that made you stop loving him?"

  "If it had not been for him, Richard would never have come here. Richard would be alive yet."

  "That was your pride and Richard's. You cannot lay the blame of that on John."

  "It is not for you to question me, Philip," Robert said, avoiding his son's eyes, but Philip refused to leave it at that.

  "Just tell me why. Please, Father, I have to know. I know why you took Kate's life." Somehow his voice held steady. "Whatever she was to me, she was nothing to you. But John– I have to know what could make a man hate his own son."

  "John was not my son!"

  Philip stared at his father, stunned by the fierce words, suddenly dizzy. "That's a lie," he said finally, his voice low. "Whoever told you that was lying. He had to be." His voice was desperate now, but there was nothing in his father's expression that left any room for hope.

  "I heard your mother's confession," Robert said flatly. "You heard her calling for John before she died, again and again for John. It was John Albright, my seneschal, she meant. John was Albright's bastard, she confessed it. I should have seen all along that he was never any of my blood."

  For a moment Philip stood in silence, then he broke into his father's dark thoughts. "If this is true–"

  "If! Do you doubt me? I heard her confession!"

  Philip closed his eyes against the venom in the words. "Given that it is true then, how can you blame John for it? He could have had no part in their faithlessness." Grief filled his voice. "He was worthier to be a king's son than any of us. He always tried to do what best pleased you. He was loyal to you, even through all of this travesty."

  Robert grabbed Philip fiercely by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet, ignoring his groan of pain. Philip fought dizziness, but his indignation sustained him and he went on.

  "He never once objected to what you have done, though I know the shame of it weighed heavy on him. He actually defended you to us. He said you were our sovereign and our father and we owed you our love, our service, and our very lives. He gave you all that, and still you hated him."

  "Would you have me keep a bastard as Lord of Rounchaux? Perhaps to sit one day on the throne of Lynaleigh?"

  "You should have denounced him, then, if you could not let the truth die with the guilty. Even bastards are still allowed to keep their lives in Lynaleigh."

  "And have my nobles know that I had been deceived these sixteen years and more? That I had claimed a squire's by-blow as son and prince of the blood? That my dear wife was a common strumpet?" Robert shook his head. "Never."

  "He was your son," Philip insisted over his father's protests. "He was raised your son, and loved you as his father. No matter what you did, he loved you. You could not break that love, though you know you broke his heart." His body ached
furiously, but he was determined to finish what he had to say. "I am glad to know he was not yours. Arrogance and selfish pride could never have lived in him. That's all the legacy you pass on to your sons, that and unforgiveness." He looked coldly into his father's eyes. "I think you will find that I am truebred Chastelayne."

  His icy expression a match for his son's, Robert slowly removed his gloves. "We will speak no more of this, my lord of Caladen," he said, a forced evenness in his tone. "What I have done I have done, and it is not for you to question me. You are my son, and from here on I expect you to obey me without pause."

  He turned to go, but Philip would not leave it at that.

  "Before God, would I had been born a bastard and not tainted with the blood of a murderer!"

  Spinning around, Robert gave him a vicious slap across the face. Philip dropped leadenly to the floor and did not stir.

  ***

  Robert's eyes widened in horror. He stared at his son lying crumpled at his feet, then stiffly turned his gaze to his own stinging hand, gasping to see it smeared with blood. The blow had torn open the wound on Philip's cheek and now it was bleeding more than it had on the battlefield.

  "Philip," Robert breathed, unstrung by what he had done. Sitting on the floor, he took Philip's limp body into his arms and pressed his pale cheek against his son's bloody one. "Philip, Philip," he murmured over and over again.

  There was no response.

  V

  Palmer stood with his back to Tom's door, his arms obdurately crossed. "I do not know what was said between them, but it's weighed heavy on him. He's had no rest since he came from Prince Philip's rooms, not till just now, and I'll not have him disturbed."

  Rafe was equally adamant. "Lord Philip would speak to him, and I know what he has to say will be better for Lord Tom than a fortnight's sleep. Livrette will have done with his work by now, and I told the prince I'd fetch his brother for him straight away. You must at least tell him–"

  "Tell me what?" Tom asked leaning in the doorway, too sleepy to stand unsupported. He still wore the clothes he had worn the day before, and his face was pale under the dark late-morning stubble of his beard. "How is Philip?"