It was all well for Philipe to confess to Johanna that it was her he thought of every time he bedded another woman, but he doubted Wilhelm would appreciate such a sentiment. He tried a new tactic. “And who could make her happy, then? Do you have someone in mind for her?”
“Do not be cruel,” Wilhelm warned, the anger finally entering his voice. “You were never intentionally cruel before.”
“I am not being cruel, now. I do not suggest that your sister should settle upon me as her only choice. At least, not because of her scars. I think she might find a husband, when this is all done and you are a rich lord with an enormous dowry to offer for her. But I wonder, would you let such a thing happen?” Because he did not wish to find out what a broad, northern fist felt like, he clarified, “You don’t seem likely to let her leave. You are her brother, you wish to protect her from the world, that I understand. But your brotherly affection has become like a cage, you must see that.”
Wilhelm drew his horse up in front of Philipe’s, blocking the path. He stared at his prince with cold, furious eyes. “I follow you, Your Highness, because I believe you will be a better king than your father was. I will lay down my life for you on the battlefield, if I must. But I will not sacrifice my sister on the altar of your vanity. You have no idea what it has been like for her here, all these years. She mourned for you. She thought herself unworthy of any affection. She has had a hard life, and you let her live it, only to come to us for help and support and you expect she should open her arms to you? Because you are handsome and rich? I’d rather she marry a beggar who reeks of dung.”
“I am pleased to see that your tongue is loosened. Would that more men would speak their minds so freely to me.” Philipe would not argue with Wilhelm. He could not say for certain that he wouldn’t think similarly, in his position. “Think no more of this. I will not avoid your sister. And I won’t stop treating her with kindness. I do have feelings for her, Wilhelm, and not the lust of a spoiled prince. I love her. But I will remember this exchange, and watch my steps carefully.”
Urging his horse off the road and around Wilhelm’s mount, Philipe pressed on.
* * * *
The night was strange and unquiet with so many voices in the courtyard. For a week, men had steadily arrived, bringing more supplies, more support. Johanna had lost count after the first two days. Now, groups of hundreds came into the valley at a time, and their camp stretched down the mountain, with tents erected wherever the ground was flat enough. Wilhelm and Philipe spent most of the day among the men, coming back to the castle yard for supper with Philipe’s war council. With so many people about, it seemed absurd to Johanna that she would feel so lonely.
Something had changed in Philipe. She supposed it was to be expected, with so much on his mind, so many men to look after and organize. Johanna recognized how dangerous his position was. Not only was he a traitor to the crown, he had now amassed an army, albeit one a tenth the size of his father’s. He had more concerns than placating the feelings of a mutilated spinster.
There had been something, though. Something that had seemingly evaporated after that night at supper, when the knight had played his harp and she’d caught Philipe looking at her. Perhaps it had been wishful thinking, but she’d thought he looked at her in the same way he’d done when they’d been young.
She’d let herself hope. That was the worst thing she could have done, and stupidly she’d gone right ahead and done it. She’d thought that after she’d woken in his arms, something had happened between them. Something had been promised. But there was nothing, and she’d been stupid enough to think there could be. What man would want her, when he could have a real woman, not a monster?
She wiped angrily at a tear that trickled down her cheek. Philipe did not even sleep in the tower anymore. He had his own tent, behind the ruin of the great hall, and men who guarded him as he slept. He did not hear her nightmares down there. He did not come to visit her. And while he was not rude in her company, he was not so kind as he had been before. The intimacy of their conversations had vanished, condemning them only to politeness. She had enjoyed the freedom to rage at him, to blame him for all her misfortunes, to argue with him. It was far more pleasant than whatever they did now.
A noise on the stairs startled her, and she quickly dried her eyes on her sleeves. Below the window, the campfires on the mountainside looked like reflections of the stars, they were so numerous. “Philipe is well equipped now, I think. If men keep arriving at this rate, they’ll fill the valley so quickly he’ll have to march, just to get some space.”
It was not Wilhelm who answered her. “Yes, I think I’ve done rather well for myself.”
She turned, a hand flying to her mouth. “You frightened me!”
“You’re too easily frightened.” He grinned widely at her. “A mountain covered with armed men and you think yourself in danger?”
He held one arm behind his back. Johanna narrowed her eyes. “What have you got there?”
From behind him, he produced the small harp, the one that the knight often played at supper. “Gettrich felt that a bit of playing might lift your spirits. You have seemed…morose, of late.”
“You’re taking my brother off to war, and leaving me behind, to die if he does not return. Yes, I am morose.” That was the reason she should be melancholy, she knew. But she would not tell him the stupid, childish reason that she was. She took the harp from his hands, anyway. “It will be good to play again, if I still can. You mustn’t judge my playing by Sir Gettrich’s standard. I am a poor imitation.”
“I will not.” He waited until she sat on the edge of the bed, harp in her lap, before he seated himself beside her. “I have sent men into local villages, to look for women to help in the kitchen and men to rebuild the great hall. I do not intend that you should die here, alone, if my campaign fails.”
She plucked one string, then another, reacquainting herself with their sounds. “What will keep them here, once they arrive? I cannot pay them to rebuild the hall. I cannot pay them to farm the valley. This place will die with Wilhelm and I. Perhaps it should.”
“Then let me send you away.” He ran a hand over his hair. He always did that when he was frustrated. “I would send you to the palace as a hostage, if I thought my father was of sound mind to treat you well. But there are other places. I could send you to my sister. She would know enough not to turn you over to our father, and you would be safe there.”
“Until your father hears of it, and then your sister would not be safe. I will not endanger others to ensure my survival. But I do reserve my right to be unhappy about my fate.” She stroked down the strings, a shiver racing up her spine at the sound, clumsy though it was. “And besides, if you do not fail, I would like to be here to welcome my brother home.”
“You will both be very rich then, you know,” Philipe said with a laugh, though his tone changed for the serious with his next words. “I will take care of you, for your generosity to me.”
And there it was. The hope had returned, with nothing but a kind word after a week of barely speaking to her. Her stomach lurched, and anger flowed through her veins hotter than any fire could burn. “What are you doing?”
He seemed shocked, as though innocent of his hurtful actions. “I…am not certain I understand.”
She sat the harp aside. If she held it, she might be tempted to dash his brains out with it, and Sir Gettrich had been so nice to lend it to her. “You have barely spoken to me for a week—”
“I’ve spoken to you!” he insisted. “Just yesterday—”
“Nothing of substance, Philipe! You came into my bed the night before Wilhelm returned. You held me in your arms, and you soothed me through my nightmares. And now, you treat me as though I am just another subject you must appease through polite words!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be polite to you. What on earth is happening here, Johanna?” Philipe sat up, as though he would leave her, and she wanted him to. She wanted hi
m to stand up and walk out, and leave her alone with her misery.
But she could not let him. Yet, there was nothing she would allow herself to say to keep him there. “I thought, perhaps foolishly…please, I am too tired to make much sense. I will greatly appreciate the help that may arrive. Though I only prepare meals for you and your council, you must remember I am used to cooking for a much smaller table.”
“It’s all right.” He accepted her apology uncertainly, while she prayed that he would simply let it be.
She picked up the harp once more and plucked out a simple tune, her stiff fingers tripping over patterns that would once have flowed like water from her hands. And Philipe stayed, his eyes on her all the while, making her feel flushed and hot from embarrassment and other, more complicated feelings. She remembered this too well, pretending that she did not see how he watched her, while behind her mask of calm her brain worked feverishly. What did he think? Was he pleased with her? Did he wish she would say or do something she was not doing? Could he feel how the very air seemed alive with the tension between them?
The song ended. It was not very long, a simple beginner’s tune she’d learned when she was but a child. His hand covered hers on the strings.
When she forced herself to look at him, she knew all hope was lost. She would be heartsick and broken all over, and she did not care. He leaned forward, his lips brushed hers through her veil, and he pushed the harp away to fall on the bed between them. His hand cupped her jaw, and he kissed her again, once, sweetly, the veil still, maddeningly, between them.
Leaning into him, she was surprised when he drew back. Did he not want her? Had it been only pity, and he was still repulsed by her?
Prepared for her confusion, he smiled at her. “I may have promised your brother…ah, I’ve said and done too much already.”
“Oh, what did you promise him, Philipe? We are not children.” She had no patience for courtly games. Not when her heart hung precariously in the balance.
“I told your brother I would not…pursue old feelings.” He rose, and went to the door, leaving her bewildered. He paused and gestured to the harp. “You have leave to keep it for the night. Make good use of it.”
“Thank you.” She almost let him go, but she had insisted he speak honestly, and she should do the same. She called after him, “And new feelings, did you promise him anything in regards to those?”
Philipe did not answer her, but smiled, the same smile that had made her weak for him when they were young, and it was not the harp she wanted to set her hands to.
Chapter Nine
“Your army is surpassing even that of the Bravian king’s, Your Highness,” Wilhelm said, putting down his spyglass. “I must admit to some surprise.”
“Today Chevudon, tomorrow Bravia, I suppose.” Philipe took a deep, fortifying breath of cold mountain air. It did not calm his nerves. Now that his army stretched out across the valley, it seemed the die had been cast. “I received a letter from my sister’s husband, yesterday.”
“Oh?” Wilhelm rested his forearms against the new, gleaming stone. The first duty they had set the hired masons to was to rebuild the sentry posts that had been hewn from the mountain side. The first one, the one upon which they stood surveying the valley, had already been completed. “Anything of import?”
“Jacqueline is delivered of a healthy daughter. Both of them are doing splendidly. But they will not send support.” Philipe had not expected them to. They had been installed in their new home for less than a year, and last he knew, they had not rounded out their retinue of servants and guards. They could spare no one, especially with the kingdom on the brink of war. “And my father is very ill. Wilhelm, do you think we might postpone our attack? If we wait until my father dies—”
“Then you can take your crown without bloodshed. I have thought on that, myself.” Wilhelm lifted his spyglass again. “Our scouts have noted the movements of your father’s troops as close as the peaks of the three bears. Once they cross those hills, you will have nowhere to run. They may have already closed the gap. You are cornered, Your Highness.”
“Do not call me that when we are alone. It troubles me.” Philipe pushed his fingers into his hair, then scrubbed the stubble on his jaw. Not really stubble now, more of a beard. He made a face at the pain in his shoulder. “I am not in form for fighting. My arm is not yet healed.”
“You worry needlessly. Your father has been in many battles where he’s never raised his sword. No, the regent remains on his mount at the very edge of the fighting. He does not ride into the fray.”
“That isn’t how I want to win my crown.” Philipe squinted against the morning light. “I never wanted to win it. I just thought it would be…handed to me. I just had to wait for father to die.”
“If it was handed to you, you would not deserve it.” Wilhelm gestured to the sprawling camp below. “These men did not come to hand you a crown. And they did not come to wait for an old man to die. They came to fight for you. Because of that, they will be far more loyal than they ever would have if you’d simply sat behind the palace walls, waiting to become king.”
He was right, Philipe knew. Though he was a prince, and never seriously prepared for battle, Philipe knew enough of the hearts and minds of fighting men. They would see his hesitation for cravenness and then he would be in the same position his father had been in with the north. They would not trust him, and they would not follow him.
“It won’t take long,” Wilhelm said with a grin, slapping Philipe’s good arm. “When it’s over, you can go back to the palace and your bevy of women looking to snare a king for a husband.”
Philipe did not want to think of leaving Hazelhurn, and Johanna, behind. He certainly did not want to think of taking a woman who wasn’t Johanna to wife, but the ice that had frozen over Wilhelm had only just begun to thaw. So Philipe laughed with him in agreement.
“Ah, Johanna. Where have you been this morning?”
A Wilhelm’s words, Philipe’s heart seized. He turned, and there she stood, draped in her dour black. He saw the glint of her eyes behind the veil, focused on him, in the split second before she turned and ran.
“I wonder what’s gotten into her,” Wilhelm said with bewildered, brotherly concern.
Philipe did not bother to explain, leaving Wilhelm to stand, even more bewildered, as Philipe chased after his sister.
* * * *
At the top of the stairs, Johanna slammed the door and fell back on her bed, her chest heaving sharply, crushing the breath out of her. He had followed her, she knew he had followed her, and she would have to face him. She scrubbed at her face with her palms to erase the tears that would hang wetly upon every furl of her burned flesh. How could she be so stupid? How could she have fallen in love with him, after he’d abandoned her? For what, a borrowed harp and a few flattering words?
Did you honestly think a man, any man, could love you? Her hand turned to a gnarled fist, and she pounded her thigh, a long, thin cry stretching into an anguished wail.
Only his tread on the stairs silenced her, the sound of his voice speaking her name, and she swallowed her unspent pain. “Leave me. I am not well.”
“Open the door, Johanna,” he ordered, not Philipe anymore, no, His Royal Highness Philipe of Chevudon. In his tone it was clear he did not ask her as a friend, but as her future king.
She unlatched the door and quickly turned away, pulling down her veil. She couldn’t stand before him without that barrier.
“What happened?” The future king was gone, replaced by the bewildered boy.
“I heard what you said to my brother.” Her anger was enough to overcome her embarrassment. She turned, hoping she could impart to him all her hurt through her gaze. “You don’t plan to return here. And you’re so looking forward to a fine, pretty wife.”
He ran his hand across his forehead and looked away. Whatever he said next would be a lie, she knew him too well to think anything different. “Johanna, that was just teasing
.”
“I am not a child! Do not think to placate me with empty words.” She took a breath and it lodged behind her ribs. “I understand that you will be king, and that certain things will be expected of you. Marriage, sons, heirs to your throne, I understand it all. But must you hurt me so? Must you come here and behave as though all can be forgiven between us, when you have done nothing to earn that forgiveness?”
“Done nothing? I have apologized—”
“You have apologized with empty words and flattery. Then you treat me with kindness and you kissed me. You kissed me, as though you still might want me, after all these years and all of this.” She waved her hand before her face. “It might not have mattered to you, you’re likely used to women swooning for your lips, but it mattered to me. I was alone, Philipe! All I wanted in the whole world was to marry you and be your good wife. I wanted to bear your sons! It wouldn’t have mattered if you were a prince or a beggar, I would have taken you as you were, and you rejected me. The pain of the fire was nothing compared to the pain of waiting for you to come and tell me that you still wanted me, and you never came. And now—”
Her traitorous chest heaved with a thick sob she could not disguise, and tears she had struggled to hold back broke over the dams of her lids. She let it come, the weeping anguish she had not thought to feel again after the last time she’d cried over him, ten years before. Then, she had gone to the stables after yet another servant had fled. She had hidden herself away, too ugly and shy to face anyone, and she’d cried until her throat was raw and her eyes sore. She’d told herself then it would be the last time. She’d mourned Philipe for five years, and she had resolved she would waste no more tears.
Now look at her. Blubbering like a fool before a man who couldn’t love her, likely could not love anyone, no matter his flowery declarations. She would have endured the fire a second time, if only it would have made him love her.
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