In Honor Bound (12 page)

Robert could hardly stand and Tom tried to push him back onto the bed.

"Sleep awhile first, Father."

"I have slept." Robert scrubbed his face with both hands then squinted painfully into the fading sunset. "A long while." He groaned as he leaned down to retrieve his goblet from the floor and frowned to find it empty. "Bring me that bottle."

His lips pressed into a straight, disapproving line, Tom obeyed.

"Forgive me, Father, but you would be wise to wait yet to see Philip. Give him time to sort through his grief and cool his anger. If you but step amiss with him now, you shall truly lose him."

"He is my son, I must make peace with him. Faith, I know he'll rage at me, but I've withstood his temper before."

Tom shook his head. "He was very quiet when I left him. Unnaturally so. Please, Father, let him alone awhile."

Robert did not miss the uneasiness in Tom's expression and it struck fear into his own heart.

"I cannot let this fester between us, Tom. If I go to him now, I can make him understand. He came to understand about the Fletcher girl."

"Did he?" Tom asked, wondering how a man could know his own son so imperfectly. "Truly?"

Robert took a deep drink. "I must win him back to me."

He staggered to his basin and splashed his haggard face in the stale wash water, then he drew himself back up straight, back into the majestic kingliness that had brought him the admiration of the whole kingdom.

"I will win him back to me."

***

Philip got to his feet, then, in jerky stages, went to his knees before his father, visible pain in every stiff motion.

"You honor me, my liege. It would have been more proper had you sent for me to come to you."

"I did not mean for you to leave your bed, son," Robert said, fearful of the gleam of sweat that had broken out on Philip's blank face. "You endanger yourself."

"I am well, Your Majesty, or very soon will be."

Robert found his utter composure unsettling. "I'll not have you kneel, Philip. Not today."

"As pleases you, my liege."

Not daring to offer his help, Robert watched him as he fought to stand, knew he must be in pain, knew he must be angry and hurt as well, but Philip's face betrayed none of that. Once he had gained his feet, he merely waited for his father to speak, infinitely patient, completely motionless. He could have been carved from marble.

"You near stopped my poor heart this morning, son."

Robert's felt it again, the terror he had felt seeing his son still as death at his feet. Philip yet was still.

"You need not have feared, my liege. I am not easily hurt."

Robert began to pace. "Now curse this evil temper of mine, Philip, I was wrong to strike you."

"I had forgotten the respect I owe the royal lord of Lynaleigh. Your Majesty merely put me in mind of it."

Philip's voice was steady, soft, without emotion.

Be angry!
Robert pled silently.
Weep! Rage! Strike at me! Spit at me!

Philip was only still and Robert looked at him for a long moment, then he put his hands on his son's shoulders, gently this time, and his eyes filled with remorse.

"Please, can you never forgive me?"

Philip did not resist his touch, did not try to free himself. "I am not your judge."

Robert was chilled by the words, coming with such hollowness from such empty eyes, and chilled by the thought that pierced him.

I have killed him.

He dropped his hands in frustration, then his restraint broke.

"Before God, Philip, what would you have me to say? I swear I would lose this right hand of mine before I would have it deal you such another blow. If any other man dared strike my son, I would have his head in that instant. Sweet heavens, tell me what penance will buy your forgiveness!"

It was more than he had meant to say, but surely the boy would relent now.

"I am your vassal, my liege. It is I who am answerable to you, not you to me."

Robert stared at him, bewildered. He could not fight where there was no resistance, and he could not win where there was no fight. He put the back of his hand to the unbandaged side of Philip's face.

"You are not so feverish tonight. I am glad of it." The touch turned into a caress. "Philip, you are my son. I would have there be peace between us."

"We have no quarrel, my liege."

"Well." Robert nodded his head rapidly. "Well, I am glad of it. Rest now, son, and let us speak no more of this."

Philip bowed his head in acknowledgment and watched stoically as his father left the room, then, trembling with fatigue, he stumbled back to his bed. Almost immediately, he was asleep.

***

John was buried in Tanglewood, with all the ceremony befitting a prince of the blood royal, his bier escorted by a company of knights, attended by the mournful chants of an entire monastery of monks, followed by the king and all the nobility, their faces appropriately grave.

Philip had been forbidden to accompany the procession as it wound for miles through the streets. The physician had pronounced him not yet strong enough for such a strain, so he watched from the window as they carried John's body to the church.

John was robed in purple and ermine and arrayed in fine armor, burnished to rival the sun. His battle-scarred sword lay upon his breast, testament to his youthful valor, his slender fingers clasped around it as if he were ready at a moment's notice to serve again the king he had loved. His fair hair, gleaming like his armor, curled thickly around his head, and Philip wondered who could have lifted a blade to kill such bright innocence.

Earlier, Philip had asked the date and found that John still lacked eleven days to be sixteen. Not yet sixteen, and he was being borne to his tomb. Even now the procession was passing from Philip's sight and he realized more concretely than he had before that this was a journey from which John would never return. It was too soon. Too soon for him to be gone forever.

Philip crept down the steps that led into the servants' quarters and made his way quietly into the street. A pale shadow, noticed only by the murmuring crowds, he fell into step with the procession, kept painful pace behind his father and brother until they had covered the short distance remaining and went into the church.

He watched his father kneel and pray, distantly curious to know how Robert managed that look of startled remorse and those tears that slipped, seemingly unbidden, down his lank cheeks. He watched Tom, too, standing drawn and numb-looking beside the bier, Tom who bore everyone's griefs if he could not ease them, Tom who hurt for John and for their father as if one could pity a murderer's guilt as easily as the victim's innocence.

Philip waited until the ceremony had ended and the last requiem had ceased to echo in the chapel, then he stole up to the bier to look one last time on his brother's ashen face and caught his breath. A heavy band of gold set with a deep ruby was on the stiff right hand, copy to the ring that had been buried with Richard, the one Tom still wore, the one that had once graced Philip's own hand. Only the king himself could have set this one on John's finger now.

Too little, too late,
Philip thought, remembering John's wounded eyes when Robert had without explanation stripped it from him.

"You were fitter for that heaven you've gone to than this hell we've made here," he whispered, then he leaned down and kissed John's cold cheek.

Looking startled to see him there, Robert rushed up to him and took his arm. Tom was quickly beside him, too.

"Surely it is too soon yet, son," Robert said. "You should have kept to your bed."

Philip did not reply. He merely dipped one knee perfunctorily before the altar then made his way back through the hushed assembly and into the still-crowded street. His father and brother followed close behind him, fearing he would not have strength enough to make it back to the castle, but he took no notice of them.

When he reached his chamber, he did not respond to Bonnechamp's over-anxious questioning, did not explain how he had managed to slip away unnoticed. He merely fell into bed and once more took refuge in sleep. Sleep that had been cruel adversary to him after Katherine's death was now his dearest friend, his comforter and most welcome companion. Only in sleep could he escape the deathlike stillness in his heart. Only in sleep could he forget.

Soon after the funeral, Robert sent for more men to garrison Tanglewood under the Duke of Ellison's authority. Philip's men and Tom's were sent back to their posts in Maughn and Chrisdale with Lord Darlington and Lord Eastbrook to command them. Philip was to stay in Tanglewood until he was well enough to return to Winton and Tom was to stay with him.

"Will that please you, son?" Robert asked hopefully.

"If it pleases you, my liege."

The king took little joy in the aloof response and it was with a subdued train and a somber heaviness that he took leave of his sons and returned to his palace in Winton.

Philip's body healed quickly afterwards. He had willed it to, just as he had willed his heart to feel no more pain. As soon as Livrette declared him fit to go, he went back to Winton. The ride wore on him, but he refused to show it and Tom and Rafe, for all their concern, could not persuade him to take a slower pace.

When he reached his father's city, he was received like a conquering hero, the savior of Tanglewood. Robert had told of Philip's unsanctioned sweep into the battle as the bold stroke of a man who would one day make them a bold king, and the people loved their crown prince the more for it. Philip took no notice of their adoration or of the praises heaped on him by the nobility, and it was accounted to him as becoming modesty, made him the more popular.

***

King Robert greeted Philip heartily before the court, gave public thanks to God for his rapid recovery, and praised his valor in the hearing of his subjects. In private, Robert said little. Despite his clumsy attempts, and they were many, he could find no way to reach his son's heart or break through his aloofness.

Days passed with no change and Robert had all but given up when a post came to him from Westered. Reading the message, he was certain his intractable son would not be indifferent to its contents. He summoned Philip to him.

"Your Majesty," Philip said with a graceful bow.

"I've received a letter directly concerns you, and I think it best you hear it in part before I make answer. It was sent from the Duke of Westered."

"Yes, my liege?"

Robert looked at him, into the blue depths of his eyes, and still found nothing. He gripped the paper more tightly and began to read.

"What Margaret has done was without my knowledge or consent and I fear her faithless alliance with Ellenshaw will cause Your High Majesty doubt regarding the loyalty of Westered and her lord. In defense of this, I have disinherited the traitress and I swear again my allegiance to you, my only king and most royal lord. My younger daughter, Rosalynde, is now heir to all that is Westered, and I gladly offer her as wife to your son, Philip of Caladen. I pray that such a marriage will weld
Afton
and Westered inseparably together and forever silence any doubts Your Majesty may have regarding my constancy. It is an alliance of which Your Majesty and I have often spoken and for which all Westered is eager."