Squinting at the strange, soft, silken light, he realized that it was morning, and he could not recall the last time he had seen morning light. To him, it was something to be shut out by heavy velvet drapes and slumbered through after a long night spent drinking, gaming, and wenching. He blinked a few times, and his eyes adjusted. What did one do in the morning? Breakfast, he recalled, rolling onto his side while wincing at the pain of doing so. He reached for the bellpull beside the bed, groaning at the strain that it placed on his aching muscles and the subsequent crushing pain in his chest. His hand grasped helplessly at the air, finding no braided cord to tug on. There was no bellpull! How was he to eat if he could not alert a servant and inform them that he wanted food? He was going to starve to death. Phillip shifted once more to lie on his back, a shockingly painful activity. What the devil had he done? And where on earth was he? Looking around the narrow, rectangular room, he thought there was a good chance he was in prison.
