Forever His (42 page)

He had waited too long for this. Since that anguished day when word reached him that his father and brother had been killed, he had burned for it: his blade against Tourelle’s. No truce. No talking. No interference. The simple, inescapable justice of combat. Sinew and steel.

In the light of the rising sun, he became the lethal edge of the sword strapped to his side, the weight of the shield fitted to his left arm, the length of the lance gripped in his right hand. He was no longer man but warrior.

And he would either kill or die this day.

His heart pumping, his blood running hot, he glanced at Tourelle, then touched his spurs to Pharaon’s flanks and galloped to the far edge of the field.

The crowd, the pavilions, the mist faded from his vision. He turned and braced the wooden lance across his body, the deadly metal point angled to the left. His stallion pawed the ground. Gaston felt equally restless, eager for the signal to charge.

The King came to stand apart from the crowd. They would have none of the usual flourishes and formalities. No heralds to recount their past deeds, no trumpets blaring before each charge, no tilt fence between the horses to prevent them from crashing into each other. Naught but the essentials: power and prowess. Sinew and steel.

“If it is blood that you want, my lords, then you shall have it,” Philippe declared simply. “The match ends when one is dead.”

He stepped back to his place, and after a brief murmur, silence descended over the spectators. Gaston had the eerie sensation that he could hear the mist curling over the grass.

His hand tightened around the lance. The mail of his gauntlet was cold against his palm.

“
Allez!
” The King’s shout shattered the morning air.

A flick of the reins sent Pharaon charging across the field. He did not need the spurs. A battle cry tore from Gaston’s throat as his destrier galloped at full speed toward Tourelle’s bay.

He kept his body balanced in the saddle and stirrups, his strength united to the stallion’s, gathering behind the lance. The pounding of hooves was like thunder before a storm.

Shields raised, the opponents clashed with a deafening clatter of metal, guttural oaths, and the horses’ screams. Gaston threw his weight forward to force his lance into Tourelle’s shield even as he absorbed the blow to his own, shifting at the right moment to avoid losing his seat. Both lances shattered.

Their speed carried them onward, past each other. Gaston’s chest and arms ached from the force of the impact. He and Tourelle dropped the damaged weapons as they turned at opposite ends of the field, and their assistants ran forward with replacements.

They paused only long enough to take up the new lances before they launched themselves forth again, racing headlong across the field.

They slammed together in another clash and scrape of metal against metal, strength against strength. Tourelle’s lance missed the mark this time, but Gaston’s blow struck cleanly. His enemy almost tumbled from the bay horse. A rush of triumph firing through him, Gaston galloped to the end of the field, tossing aside the broken lance and signaling impatiently for another.

Only then did he feel the sticky warmth running down his side.

He glanced downward and realized that Tourelle had missed the shield apurpose: the sharp point of his lance had opened a gash in Gaston’s side, sliding between the breastplate and backplate of his armor and making short work of his mail tunic.

Pain flooded in, and fury at Tourelle’s cowardly tactic, but he forced both to the edge of his awareness. Ignoring the blood, he snatched up his third and final lance and moved into position.

And charged again.

He poised low over Pharaon’s neck, aiming at the bottom of Tourelle’s shield, the very center of his balance. But at the last moment, Tourelle’s lance suddenly tilted upward. He struck another coward’s blow—straight into Gaston’s
gorget
, the collar of metal that protected his throat. It sent Gaston sprawling and almost tore off his helm. A cry rippled through the crowd.

His head ringing, his wounded side afire, Gaston forced himself to his feet, drawing his sword even as Tourelle dropped his lance and dismounted. Too late Gaston realized his helm had been knocked askew, half blocking his vision. There was no time to set it aright. Tourelle was on him. He warded off the attack with his shield and they threw themselves at each other, fighting savagely even before the horses could be led from the field.

The metallic clang of blade against blade rang out, heavy and hot as the noise in a smithy’s forge. They hacked and slashed with brutal force, using the shields to both fend off blows and strike at each other. There was no grace to their combat, no strategy. They did not bother with taunts or jeers. There was naught but ruthless, deadly purpose.
Kill
. Sinew and steel.

Gaston felt every blow vibrate through his arms. Straining, swearing, they battled almost in place, neither gaining nor yielding ground. Gaston wounded Tourelle, a glancing blow to the shoulder. Tourelle feinted and opened a line of red along Gaston’s thigh. He did not feel the pain. His heart beat like a war drum. The sun rose higher, burning down on them until their breathing came harsh and loud, and still they fought on. Gaston felt sweat pouring down his body. His muscles tensed and dodged a little more slowly with each thrust and parry.

In a sudden burst of violence, Tourelle struck a rain of blows that shattered Gaston’s shield. Gaston tossed it aside—but before his assistant could reach him with another, Tourelle closed in. Gaston fended off the attack with his sword, but Tourelle had the advantage. He slashed sideways, a cut that Gaston could not ward off without a shield.

 Leaping backward, Gaston barely avoided being sliced in half—but the weight of his armor made it impossible for him to keep his balance.

He slipped on the grass and went down, flat on his back. He heard a single feminine scream from the crowd as the point of Tourelle’s sword stabbed toward his exposed throat before he could roll aside.

“Die like a dog!” Tourelle snarled, eyes wild.

Gaston twisted his head—and his skewed helm blocked the deadly thrust. The blade dented the metal but slid off the curved side. Before Tourelle could draw back, Gaston brought his legs up in a savage kick.

Tourelle went sprawling, his weapon flying from his hand. Gaston lunged to his feet and closed on his opponent, sword raised to deliver a death blow with all his strength behind it. Suddenly a small knife appeared in Tourelle’s hand.

Treachery.
Gaston’s full weight carried him forward. He could not twist out of the way quickly enough. Tourelle flung the knife. Gaston evaded it the only way he could: diving to one side. The blade missed his throat and buried to the hilt in his shoulder. He landed heavily on his side, his breath knocked from him, his head swimming in a haze of pain.

Tourelle was on his feet, running for his sword. But the knavery of the hidden knife had snapped something inside Gaston. It was precisely such murderous treachery that had killed his father and brother. Whatever last shred of control he possessed vanished. With a wordless snarl, he thrust himself to his feet, attacking Tourelle before he could reach his weapon.

Tourelle was forced to defend himself with naught but the shield. He began to retreat. Gaston pursued mercilessly, striking blow after blow, backing him across the open ground.

“I yield,” Tourelle cried. “I yield!”

“You have fought a coward’s battle,” Gaston said. “Die a coward’s death!”

His next thrust knocked the shield from his enemy’s grasp.

Tourelle raised his hands. “Let us strike a bargain!”

“You offered no bargain to my father and brother when you murdered them.” Gaston reached up and yanked the small knife out of his shoulder, not even flinching. He advanced for every step Tourelle retreated, a weapon in each hand.

“I will admit it!” Tourelle shouted. “I will admit all.”

“Admit it, then!” Gaston lifted his sword until the point was but an inch from his enemy’s face.

Frozen, Tourelle opened his mouth as if to speak.

But with a sudden move, he dove for the knife in Gaston’s hand.

This time Gaston was faster. He whirled aside and back, his sword arcing in a savage thrust just as Tourelle’s momentum carried him forward.

Instead of the knife he sought, Tourelle came away with the sword—buried deep in his belly.

He staggered, mouth agape, eyes wide with disbelief. He gripped the gleaming steel as if he might pull it free. Instead, with a gurgling cry of denial, he fell, his last breath a bubbling of blood on his lips.

Gaston stood where he was, shaking, breathing hard. His every muscle hurt, and he could feel the full, searing pain in his side and shoulder and thigh, now that the battle was done. Finished. Vengeance and justice. Sinew and steel.

The killing fever that had burned through his veins began to clear, like the morning mist that had vanished from  the ground.

It was over. He suddenly felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt in his life. Wrenching the dented, twisted helm off his head, he threw it aside, then pushed back the mail coif and padded leather he wore beneath. Sweat poured down his face, his body. Sweat and blood. Only by sheer force of will did he keep from sinking to his knees.

He raised his head to look for Celine, but the crowd of men had gathered round, a crush of warriors. He could not see her. The King came to stand by his side, and took the knife Gaston still held in his hand. He turned it between his fingers, looking at it with a frown of disgust. “Treachery. Knavish, cheating treachery.” He lifted his eyes to Gaston’s. “I fear I am in the awkward position of having to admit that I was wrong.”

Before Gaston could even begin to form a reply to that, or catch his breath enough to say a word, one of Tourelle’s men spoke, his expression troubled.

“Sire? Sir Gaston ... is our lord now.”

“Aye. To the victor the spoils,” Philippe confirmed. He addressed the gathered warriors in a stern tone. “All of you owe your homage and fealty to Varennes now.”

The man who had spoken glanced nervously at Gaston. “Then the vexing secret we have kept must be kept no longer. My liege, what the Duc said before he died ... it was true.”

“Aye,” another of Tourelle’s men said. “Sir Soren and Sir Gerard were killed by treachery, not by accident. The Duc hired mercenaries from the south to carry out the deed. The rest of us were not to know ... but we heard rumors of what he had done.”

“And why have you kept this to yourselves for so long?” the King demanded angrily.

“The Duc threatened that if any one of us but breathed a word,” the man explained, “some among our wives and children would meet with untimely ‘accidents’.”

“And there is more, my liege,” a third warrior added. “The ambush in the forest—that was our lord’s doing as well, not Sir Gaston’s. The Duc told Lady Christiane of his murderous plans. He intended to kill them both.”

“I was there,” another admitted. “I heard him say it.”

There were murmurs of assent from others in the crowd. His frown deepening, the King turned to Gaston.

“It would seem I have been the only one who did not recognize the real Tourelle,” Philippe said dryly. “What say you, Gaston? These men knew of the truth and concealed it. Their fate is in your hands. It is within your rights to order them stripped of their spurs and horses and banished from your holdings.”

His breathing steadier now, Gaston drew himself up to his full height, looking at each of Tourelle’s men in turn, meeting their gazes, taking their measure. They could have kept their secret forever, protecting themselves; instead they had admitted all before him and the King, risking much.

“Nay, my liege,” he said after a long moment. “I shall need men of strength and courage to keep safe my lands. The past is the past. All who will swear loyalty, all who are honorable from this day forth, will have naught to fear.”

A murmur of surprise went through the gathered men. Then, silently, one after another, they dropped to one knee, heads bowed in a gesture of fealty.

Watching them, Gaston felt as if a great weight had just slid from his shoulders. He finally had the truth of what had happened to his father and brother. Spoken aloud, for all to know.

And he realized another truth as well in that moment, accepting it more deeply than he ever had before: it would have made no difference had he been at Tourelle’s tourney.
He could not have saved them
. Had he been there, he would have been killed as well.

Mayhap it was not wise to question God’s plans; mayhap he had been meant to live, to seek this justice, to serve some other purpose.
The past was the past
.

And the future ...

He turned to speak to Celine, only to find that she had yet to make her way through the crowd to his side.

“Where is my wife?” he asked with sudden concern.

“I fear she fainted,” the King said with a rueful grin, “when you fell and Tourelle’s blade was at your throat. Royce carried her to your pavilion. Come.” He slapped Gaston on his uninjured shoulder and turned to walk back toward the tents. “You must have your wounds tended, and we must speak.”

***

Gaston was almost knocked to the ground once again, as soon as he stepped into his pavilion.

“You’re all right!” Celine threw herself into his arms. “Thank God. Oh, thank God, you’re all right! Royce wouldn’t let me watch the rest after I fainted, but I couldn’t tell anything from the sounds outside and—oh, God, you’re all right!”

Her arms tightened around his midsection. Gaston winced, but stifled a groan and gathered her close. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“Frighten me?” she sobbed, stepping back. “You could have been killed!”

“But I was not.”

“But you
could’ve
been.”

“But I was not,” he insisted with a gentle grin.

“Milady,” the King interrupted, holding aside the tent flap as the barber-surgeon, summoned from among Tourelle’s men, entered with his instruments. “Mayhap you would wait outside with Captain Royce? There are matters I would discuss with your husband, and he must have his wounds stitched.”