Beast (11 page)

“No, Your Highness.” She smiled sadly. “You remember correctly. I did play, years ago. But never with the skill of Sir Gettrich. Truly, he has been given an abundance of talent.”

“Yes,” Philipe agreed quickly, nodding toward the singer. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you wished to take a turn at it. His throat must be getting sore by now.”

“I am no singer, “Johanna said politely. She lifted her hands, raw red from her burns even all these years later. “And my fingers are no longer so nimble as they once were. I would make very poor entertainment, indeed.”

She turned back to the source of the music, swaying slightly with the tune. A glimmer of hope existed in her gentle movement. She wanted to dance, to hear beautiful music. She wanted company and suppers and entertainments. Philipe could offer her those. And though she might never grow to love him again, though she might never grow to even tolerate him, would she turn down such a chance at happiness?

 
Would she be so shallow as to marry you for parties and frivolity?
He picked up his cup and drained it in a long swallow. He would have liked nothing more than to walk away, to be alone with the cold and the night sky to think. Instead, he listened to the harper and feigned enjoyment. He smiled at the jokes of the men who began, slowly, to warm to their prince. By the end of the night, he knew he’d won them over.

But not Johanna. There, he was certain, he had no hope.

Chapter Eight

Two mornings later, a watchman spotted a group of fifteen riders crossing the valley under a banner of peace. Philipe and Wilhelm saddled their horses with the intent of riding out to meet them. It would mean more, Wilhelm had reasoned, if Philipe could personally greet new arrivals, if he could.

None of the original twenty had left them. After that first, admittedly rocky day, they had settled into a right military camp, each man doing his job so the man next to him didn’t find himself in a rough spot. The camaraderie warmed Philipe. His entire life, he’d been taught to expect obedience as his right. The more time he spent among these men,
his
men, he learned that the opposite was true. A prince could expect obedience, but it was only given on the condition of reciprocal fairness and gratitude. Though the man he’d beaten still gave him sour looks when he thought Philipe would not notice, none of the other men had made unkind remarks about Johanna, and none of them seemed inclined to listen when the beaten man saw fit to complain about their prince.

While the rest of the men had been eager enough to forgive Philipe his transgression, Wilhelm had become more formal and cold to him. If it had been a simple matter of hatred, blaming Philipe and his family for their role in the unrest that had led to the fire at Hazelhurn, Philipe could have easily accepted it. But he’d seemed to genuinely warm to Philipe, again. They had not been close friends in the past, but it seemed the potential had been there. Philipe had made Wilhelm his second, but the knight’s attitude toward his prince had turned icy.

“Wilhelm,” Philipe tried, as their horses picked down the rocky slope, “have I done something to offend you?”

“I am your second. Don’t you think I would have told you if you’d caused me offense?” Wilhelm’s reply, while a denial, was all the confirmation Philipe needed.

“I’ve learned, in my years at court, that some men have a way of speaking that is not entirely honest. They may tell me what I wish to hear, and they do it without lying. But they do not tell the truth. I hear that, in your answer. I
have
offended you—only, you do not wish to tell me how.” Philipe clucked to his horse and sped her over a bit of unbroken ground, then slowed her again.

Wilhelm urged his horse on in the same fashion, slowing as he drew up beside Philipe. “I was raised to respect the order of nobility, Your Highness. A poor lord does not criticize his king.”

“I am not king, yet.” Philipe struggled to keep his temper down. Why could the man not simply give him a straight answer? “Best to have it out with me now, before you yield to the temptation to stick a dagger in my back while I’m sleeping.”

Wilhelm made a noise, a sound somewhere between a sigh of resignation and a breath of indignation. “I do not trust your intentions toward my sister.”

“Ah.” That was plain enough, then. Philipe almost argued, opening his mouth to say, “I can assure you—” before Wilhelm cut him off.

“Spare me your words, Philipe. You are a man grown now, yes, and your earlier actions were those of a thoughtless boy. But you cannot expect that I would be happy to see you take an interest in my sister. You hurt her, deeply. She might be willing to forgive you, but I am not.”

That was fair enough, Philipe reasoned. “I must confess, when I think of my own sister…” It might not be his tale to share, but he must, if it would convince Wilhelm to bear no ill will toward him. “The first time I saw my sister’s husband, he was in shackles, in my father’s dungeon. I must admit to skepticism. After all, she is a princess, and here he was, a lowly crofter, a freak of nature, and a criminal, at that. But he made her happy, Wilhelm.”

“I do not think you can make my sister happy.” Given leave to speak freely, Wilhelm proved a blunt man. “Not only because of what you did back then. I think perhaps you could never have made her happy.”

Philipe shook his head. “That is unfair.”

“Unfair? I have heard the tales of your exploits with the women at court. The orgies. You were engaged to the woman who is now your best friend’s wife, and only for a few days, at that.” Wilhem’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You are not the kind of man who could make my sister happy.”

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!”