He was up from the bed quickly and caught her by the wrist before she reached the threshold. He turned her, and she found herself standing perilously close to him, all his naked skin and hard muscle brushing the front of her clothing. She kept her chin up and her gaze as well. “Unhand me!”
Philipe’s grip tightened. “I came to your bed last night because you were screaming. You were screaming and weeping and you called my name. You called out for me, Johanna. What would you have me do, then? Leave you?”
“You did before.” She spat the words at him. Though he released her, and his eyes went wide with shock, his reaction did not satisfy her as she had hoped it might. She stepped back, feeling the oddest sense of remorse. She opened her mouth to take back the words, thinking herself the biggest fool for even considering an apology to him, when a loud, clear horn blast broke the morning silence.
As if that noise had erased all that had just happened, Philipe turned from her and rushed to the window. The horn had obviously made him forget his sense of decency, as well, for he made no move to cover himself. It said something about him, that he was so comfortable with his nudity, and Johanna’s lip curled in disgust. He probably strutted about unclothed all the time, with a harem of women to pleasure him whenever he snapped his fingers. And he felt his father was an unfit king. Johanna had the sudden urge to push him out the window.
“It’s Wilhelm,” Philipe said, but it was not the joyous exclamation it should have been. At the dismay in his voice, she ran to the window to join him.
Below, Wilhelm, a streak of black upon his black horse, sped toward the castle, snow flying up in great clouds. Behind him, gaining ground, a group of twenty riders pursued him. Johanna’s stomach went suddenly sour.
Philipe ran for the door, and Johanna turned her eyes away from the sight of death rampaging across the valley. Lightheaded, she used the wall as a guide to follow Philipe downstairs. By the time she reached the lower room, he had pulled on breeches and his ruined shirt. He sat to pull on his boots, every movement quick and purposeful.
“What do you mean to do?” she asked, hoping she knew the answer, praying she did not.
He looked up, his mouth a grim, pressed slash over his face. “What I have to do.”
The damned woman displayed neither sense nor reason. He found Jessop’s horse in a battered, blackened stable stall. He set about saddling the gelding and ignoring the sound of the creaking steps from the balcony. Hadn’t he told her to stay hidden?
“Go back inside,” he ordered, as she ran, slippers whispering on the ice, into the stable.
“Go back and what, wait to be raped and murdered by soldiers?” She made a haughty noise of disapproval. “I think not. I shall ride out with you.”
“And what? Freeze to death?” He would not have her death on his hands, not if he could help it.
But her death is already on your hands, you idiot. It was you that brought this trouble upon the both of them, when you could have died with dignity outside of Lord Feuil’s door.
Angrily, she went to where the tack hung and took down the bit and bridle. “That is my brother out there! I will not have him die alone!”
“We all die alone, lady,” Philipe reminded her. “Would you rather he watch his beloved sister cut down before his very eyes?”
“Would you rather he die hating himself for abandoning me?” She turned away angrily. “Fine. Go out and die for all I care. Leave me here to rot. You’ve proven quite adept at that, if nothing else.”
“Damnit, will you shut your hateful mouth?” He snapped, then, taking a deep breath, calmed his temper. “I am trying to do right by you, and by your brother. Let me do it.”
She threw her hands up as she walked away. “Go, make your grand show of dying, then.”
He closed his eyes and took a breath. If he’d had time, he would have gone to her and tried to comfort her. But there was no comforting a woman like Johanna, even if he capitulated and stayed behind. That, he would not do. Besides, it was not his place to comfort her.
His arm protested mightily when he swung into the saddle. He gritted his teeth. At least it would not hurt for long. Twenty men had been in pursuit of Wilhelm. Philipe prayed they would not have already cut him down by the time he reached them.
Heart in his throat, he eased his mount down the treacherous slope, cursing every minute lost as he battled the steep road and uneven terrain.
As he rode through the gates of Hazelhurn, he expected he would see the host of riders coming down upon him, but the broad expanse of the valley had tricked his eyes. Wilhelm still rode ahead of them, and all the riders still had a length of unbroken snow to cover. Philipe unsheathed his sword and lifted it with his good arm, though it was not his sword arm. It didn’t matter, he could have had two swords and six arms and he would not have been able to take on twenty men. If this is how it is to end, then let it be quick.
“For Albart and Chevudon!” he shouted, spurring the reluctant horse to charge. His heart thundered in his throat, his belly roiled. If this was what men faced whenever they went into battle, he would think much higher of soldiers in his next life. Under all of it was hope, hope that he might live, and he battled against that hope, lest it be lost in despair as he lay dying in the snow.
The host was almost upon Wilhelm, and Wilhelm was almost upon Philipe. He thought he might wretch, or faint. He was not cut out to be a warrior, though he’d always fancied he might one day make a great show of military courage. He should have known his own limitations.
Wilhelm drew near enough Philipe could see the smile beneath his visor, and he halted his mount, but did not lower his blade. Either Wilhelm had the madness of battle upon him, or he was merely happy to see a friendly face before dying.
“Lower your weapon, you fool,” Wilhelm said with a laugh, pulling off his helm. “I bring you a gift.”
Philipe’s fingers flexed around the sword hilt. “What?”
Wilhelm laughed. “These men come from Lord Desch, on the northern coast. Another hundred will arrive in a fortnight. These men have come to help protect you, and Hazelhurn.”
“Protect?” The word held a double meaning. “You mean these men will fight for me?”
“Fight for you, and for your crown.” Wilhelm beamed, his snow-ruddied skin glowing. “Congratulations, your majesty. You are going to war.”
* * * *
The point of the dagger scratched Johanna’s chest, and she held her breath, watching from the window as Philipe reached her brother’s side. She would wait and see how they fared. She would not be taken as a living captive, to be used by those men on horseback. She would not be made their whore out of convenience.
No one would want you for a whore, the vicious voice in her head scolded. You merely want to die before learning the truth of it.
Below, Philipe lowered his sword. So, the coward would not fight, then? He would let the men simply kill them where they stood? She pulled the dagger away. It was not meant for her. It should open Philipe’s handsome throat, so he died gagging on his own blood. It would be a fitting death for a coward.
The riders slowed as they came upon Wilhelm and Philipe, and she choked back a cry. It had seemed they would never reach them, and now, the moment was nigh. She would watch her brother die, and then she would die by her own hand. She repositioned the dagger.
Then, something strange happened. The riders made no advance on their foes. The rider at the head, a fat man in solid white armor, dismounted and knelt, helm in hand, beside his white horse. The rest followed suit.
“What, by the souls of the damned, is going on?” she muttered to herself. Impatient with waiting to die, she flung the dagger aside and belted the bed robe around her waist. She did not bother with her veil, thinking of it too late, when she was already half down the creaking stairs from the tower. She met her brother and Philipe as they made their way up the road, the riders following behind them in an orderly line.
“My lady,” Philipe called,
his grin transforming him from the man he was to the boy he’d been all those years ago. Her chest tightened. “How do you like my army?”
“Your veil, Johanna,” Wilhelm said quietly, offering her his arm.
She let him pull her up to ride behind him. “I left it. I thought I was rushing headlong into battle.”
“I thought the same,” Philipe laughed.
“You both honestly thought I would lead twenty armed men to the gates of Hazelhurn with no protection in mind?” Wilhelm did not laugh as Philipe did. “I am insulted.”
“Calm yourself, brother,” Johanna soothed, though she was still troubled. “I confess, though, I do not understand. Why are these men here?”
“Albart’s madness has spread like wildfire through the kingdom,” Wilhelm said tightly. “There are reports from the palace that the peasantry is like to revolt. The king has imposed a grain tax that will starve many before the winter is out.
“The men with us come from Lord Desch. He’ll send more, and he’s already rallied two other nobles to fight Albart’s forces. These are good men, and they would not oppose a just ruler, know that. But Albart is no longer capable of justice. He would see the kingdom torn apart before he would give up control of it.”
“Certainly war will tear the kingdom apart as certainly as starvation and taxes.” Johanna cared not what happened in the world outside of the valley. Now, that world seemed bent on entering not only the valley, but the home she had considered safe. Now, there was no safety, no surety. She leaned against her brother’s cloak.
Philipe drew up beside them. “Johanna, please know that I am as opposed to war as any man. But I have seen firsthand my father’s cruelty. He is not the ruler he was all those years ago.”
“There is much that needs to be done,” Wilhelm continued. “These men will help us rebuild what we can, and start a camp for the ones who will arrive. Other lords will be sure to follow.”
“Well, glad I am that you have considered everything,” Johanna snapped.
Philipe laughed at her. As if he had any right to laugh. She leaned her cheek against Wilhelm’s broad back. “I am glad you are safe, brother.”
“And Philipe?” Wilhelm asked, the hint of a smile in his question.
“If he must be well, then I suppose I must be glad for it.”
Wilhelm and Philipe both laughed at that, but Johanna felt nothing but fear. They were boys still, playing at war.
If they do not succeed, at least let my brother live, she prayed. Guilt pricked at her conscience, and she added, only to assuage herself, Perhaps Philipe, as well. If it isn’t too much trouble.
Chapter Seven
In the glory of Lord Köneig’s rule, and for centuries before, when the north had been a kingdom of its own, the halls of Hazelhurn would have supped and slept a thousand men comfortably. Now, finding space and food for twenty men seemed near impossible.
Johanna reluctantly admitted that Philipe was not completely useless. It had been his idea to erect a single, large tent from the four that had made the journey with the small company. The men erected posts and stitched together canvas, until a large, three sided canopy filled most of the courtyard. The stone corner of the remaining wall of the great hall lent the final side to the tent, and on the other side, just a step through a window, a cook fire blazed. The heat from the makeshift kitchen provided the men sleeping outside heat, along with rusted metal braziers that hadn’t been lit since the night of the great fire.
The men had brought wine and food, along with their bed rolls. They would be comfortable for a few nights, but after that…
“What then?” Johanna asked, following behind her brother as he placed trenchers on hastily constructed trestle tables. “We had one chicken left, and Philipe and I ate it when it looked as though you weren’t returning.”
She didn’t like to speak about those dark hours, when she’d been uncertain whether to mourn for her brother or not, but she would not soften the truth. While she had worried she would have to bury Philipe and survive on her own in the desolate valley, Wilhelm had been off playing soldier. He hadn’t even bothered to send word back.
Wilhelm shrugged, and pushed a pitcher into her hands. “Reinforcements will arrive within days. And these men are soldiers, not lords. They are used to the hardship of the battlefield. If they must go hungry for a day or two, they will bear it, for they know it will not be forever.”
With a sigh, so that he knew she acted under protest, she followed him, filling the cups of the men seated on the benches. She noticed how they lowered their eyes or found something very interesting in the opposite direction as she passed. It is not a reflection on you. It is a reflection on them, that they can’t act but through pity. She leaned over her brother’s arm to pour for a knight who’d already had too much. “They can bear it, but what about Philipe? Only last night he struggled through fever. His wound is reopened, and fouled. Starve him any further and I fear he might succumb.”
“I thought you didn’t care what happened to him,” Wilhelm said mildly.
She had such a powerful desire to pour the wine over his head. “I care, if it means we are now at war with King Albart on behalf of a dead man! What did you hope to accomplish, Wilhelm?”
“I hope to gain a very powerful ally, one who will not turn his back on us when it is convenient.” Wilhelm faced her, gaze flicking over her shoulder for but a moment before meeting her eyes again. “I know you think he is not a man capable of loyalty. But his father is not, either. I trust the sane son who might neglect his subjects over the man king who lashes out maliciously at his own children. Sir Donovan said he heard rumors that the king sold Princess Jacqueline to a giant.”
“There are no such things as giants.” She looked over her shoulder at Philipe. He sat apart from the rest of the knights, though he spared them a pained smile when they acknowledged him. It was his arm, she knew, but it would look to the rest of the men like ingratitude. “If you truly believe this is the right course, I will trust you. You know I shall. But not blindly. Not without question.”
“Just…make him comfortable. Not just from his wound.” Wilhelm lowered his voice, eyes darting about furtively. “I know he has done you a great wrong, but it would not help us to hold it against him. He will be king. It isn’t just the northern lords who will see to that, but time. Albart is not in good health. Lord Stern received word only last week that Albart’s physicians have been moved into the royal apartments.”
“You must tell Philipe at once!” she insisted, too loud, but too late to stifle herself.
“I will tell him nothing that would send him into danger.” Wilhelm took a breath and paused with it held. “You recall the story father used to tell us, of the man and the rat?”
“Do not treat me as though I were a child,” she snapped. She did remember the story, of the farmer who neglected his fields to catch the rat who’d been eating his grain. He’d successfully rid himself of the rat, but his harvest had rotted, waiting for him to come cut it.
“We must not be like that farmer, Johanna,” Wilhelm told her. His seriousness might have been funny, if his next words had not passed a chill over her heart. “If you make Philipe the rat you must destroy, you’ll destroy us, as well. These men will not fight for me. But they will fight for Philipe. Without him, I’ve just raised a rebellion against the king. We won’t starve to death, as the farmer did. We’ll hang from a pretty tree on the palace lawn.”
Her hands shook as she set the pitcher aside. “You finish this. I’ll see to the prince.”
He’d sat slumped with his arm cradled surreptitiously against his body, not looking up but to offer a few polite words to the men who paid him homage, but he straightened when he saw Johanna approaching. A flush heated her ruined face, and she hoped the veil hid it. She did not want to admit to the intimacy that had passed between them in the night, but the ghost of his arms around her haunted every step she took toward him.
He smiled, but it did
not reach his tired eyes. “My lady, I thank you on behalf of my army for your hospitality.”
“You’re very welcome, Your Highness. I’ve come to check on the royal shoulder.” She curtseyed, mindful that the men around would be watching, to see what deference they should use with the traitor prince.
“The royal shoulder is like to commit regicide,” he admitted in a low voice. “I don’t want some wits-dulling potion, but it aches and itches.”
“And burns?” she asked, already knowing the answer. If the wound were still putrid, the burning would be all he could think of.
He shook his head. “No. That has thankfully passed.”
“That’s good. It means Your Highness is healing. Might you spare a moment? I could change the bandage and wash the wound. “When it looked as though he would protest, she added, “It would help with the itch.”
The first true smile she’d seen from him all day subtly twisted his lips. “My lady, you have me at your leisure. Lead me, and I will be yours.”
“Hush.” She didn’t need his flirting. It was bad enough he’d laid beside her in the night, cradling her against his hard, warm body. An ache pricked her low in her belly, a ghost of feeling from those days when she would sit in his lap and let him kiss her for hours. In those days, she’d gone to her bed and slyly touched herself beneath the covers. She wouldn’t have such relief now, with men bunking in every spare bit of the castle that remained.
She headed for the wooden stairs, knowing that Philipe followed her without looking back. Perhaps she should have waited, and followed him? She did not remember all the royal protocol.
“Couldn’t you find a prettier serving wench to bed, Your Highness?” a voice called out, like a fist pummeling Johanna in the chest. The insulter wheezed a laugh and continued, “Something a little less well done, perhaps?”
If she hadn’t heard the commotion, she would not have turned. She did not care to see who had spoken of her so crassly, and she would not give any man who dared to speak thus the satisfaction of her attention. But a clatter and a shout, that was worthy of noting, and she turned in time to see Philipe pull a man across the table. Short and fat, the knight had a mop of graying ringlets all about his head, like a ram too ill-tempered to sheer. His pock-marked face was red from wine, both the wine he’d drunk and the contents of the tankard Philipe splashed on it. For his part, Philipe did not scold the man with words, but his fists, each blow landing sharp and brutal, powered by cold rage. Blood leaked from the man’s nostrils and the corners of his eyes, huge, black bruises blossoming like spilled paint.
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