Forever His (41 page)

As the door closed behind Gaston, it did not even occur to him to kneel before the King. He went straight to Celine, meeting her halfway as she rushed into his arms.

“Are you all right?” He gathered her close with a mixture of relief and concern, feeling as if he had not truly taken a breath since the last time he saw her, days ago.

“I’m fine.” She hugged him back just as hard. “What about you?”

“Sir Gaston, I would have an explanation,” the King said impatiently, standing before the hearth, his jaw set. “The Duc has given me his version of events, and Lady Christiane related a most incredible tale, but I fear I have yet to hear the truth of what happened in the forest. Mayhap you would care to tell me?”

Gaston released Celine, just enough to belatedly bow to the King. “Aye, my liege.” As he straightened, he glanced down  at his wife with a raised eyebrow. “Lady Christiane?”

“I
tried
to explain to King Philippe who I am,” she whispered, “but I don’t have any proof.”

“Where is the bundle?” he asked with a frown.

She shook her head, her eyes dark with worry. “Lost in the forest somewhere. Royce says that Etienne mentioned it when he rode in, but he didn’t have it with him.”

“The lad was still feverish when I left him,” Royce said. “I am not certain if he even remembers where he dropped it.”

Gaston swore softly. He narrowed his gaze, running the backs of his fingers over the trace of a bruise on Celine’s cheek. “And who gave you that?” he asked darkly, slanting a murderous look at Tourelle.

Tourelle glanced away, turning to Philippe. “Sire, as you can see, Varennes is unharmed. As I told you he would be. I merely imprisoned him here because he and his men attacked us without warning—”

“It is too late for lies, Tourelle,” Gaston said derisively. “The King will not believe you. One of my men is
dead
. A mere lad, and you cut him down—”

“And two of
my
men are dead,” Tourelle countered, still addressing the King. “Varennes killed one, and his squire another. It was an ambush, my liege, just as I said. My men managed to subdue Varennes, and I brought him here, with my ward. I was forced to strike her when she tried to attack me, and I have had to keep her locked in one of the tower bedchambers. He has turned her against me, sire. She would say or do whatever he tells her. I thought merely to hold them both here until I could send for you. I dispatched a rider to Paris days ago—”

“That’s not true at all,” Celine cut in angrily. “You were holding us here until you could think of some way to
kill
us while making it look like an accident.” She turned to Philippe. “He told me everything, sir. He was originally going to make it look like I fell through the ice on a lake and Gaston drowned trying to save me. He had it all planned. But now the ice is melted and he needed to think of something else.”

“Dear Christiane, how can you
say
that?” Tourelle gave her a wounded look. “Do you see how Varennes has twisted her mind, my liege? You cannot believe that I would kill my own beloved ward. It makes no more sense than her mad tale that she is from the future! The poor child suffers from some strange brain-fever, and this knave has taken advantage of her enfeebled mind to feed her all manner of lies.”

The King gazed at Celine with an expression of pity. He was clearly having difficulty believing anything she told him. Gaston realized with frustration that the truth would avail them naught here; it was simply too unbelievable without the proof of Celine’s odd pouch and its contents. Until Philippe saw that, all she claimed about herself—and about Tourelle and his treachery—would remain in doubt.

“Sire, my wife does not suffer from a brain-fever,” Gaston said flatly. “There is proof of what she says. I have seen it.”

“Saints’ breath,” Tourelle exclaimed, “they are
both
mad!”

“And where is this proof?” Philippe asked incredulously.

“My squire had it with him, but it seems he lost it in the forest—”

“Most convenient,” Tourelle sneered.

“Etienne
did
speak of a bundle,” Royce said. “He seemed to think it important.”

“But you said yourself that he was feverish,” the King replied.

“Sire, you cannot listen to this madness.” Tourelle raised his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “I am the one telling the truth of what happened. Varennes attacked me. He broke the truce. He should be forced to forfeit his holdings—”

“This cur is a liar and a murderer,” Gaston retorted, “as I have said from the beginning. It was he who ambushed us, when we were on our way to my chateau. Had I been planning to attack him, would I venture out with naught but two lads? And bring my wife along?”

“An excellent ruse to cover your true purpose,” Tourelle spat.

The King exhaled slowly, as if trying to hold his temper in check. “Alain, it was Gaston’s men who reached me in Paris first. How do you explain that?”

“Part of his scheme,” Tourelle replied quickly. “He knew he was planning to ambush me, so he had his men at the ready to leave for Paris. He knew that sending word of what happened would make him look innocent in this.”

“By nails and blood,
that
is an incredible tale,” Gaston scoffed, furious at the way Tourelle tried to slither and coil around the truth. “Sire, you have proof enough of the
good
and
honorable
Duc’s guilt: he has kept me imprisoned in his dungeon for days without food or water—”

“Small punishment for what you did,” Tourelle said.

“Lying whoreson—”

“Enough, both of you!” the King demanded.

His voice rolled through the chamber like a peal of thunder, leaving silence in its wake. Gaston could feel his liege lord’s anger radiating outward in waves. Celine shivered, and almost unconsciously Gaston tightened his arm around her shoulders, drawing her protectively closer.

After a taut moment, Philippe continued in that same tone. “It is apparent that I may never know the truth of this! But one thing is clear: you have
both
ignored my commands once more. I decreed that neither of you would raise arms against the other, but blood has been spilled anew, on both sides. How many more men must die before the two of you accept the peace that I have declared shall be?”

The fury of his voice matched his expression as he glared from one of them to the other, his eyes forbidding further argument.

“God’s blood, I have had a bellyful of this.” He shook his head in disgust. “I have used peaceful means and failed. I have tried to negotiate a truce between you, but you will not accept it. This poor maiden has been driven mad, and that is not yet enough.” His voice turned frosty. “We will settle this once and for all upon the field of honor. You will decide it with single combat, my lords. A joust,
armes à outrance
. To the victor the spoils. Is that acceptable?”

Tourelle gave Gaston an assessing glance, then smiled. “Acceptable,” he agreed.

“Aye,” Gaston said with relish, anticipation burning through him.

“No!” Celine turned to the King with a look of dismay. “No, you can’t let them—”

“Milady, the choice is not yours. The challenge has been made and accepted.”

“But it’s not fair! Gaston was injured in the battle with Tourelle’s men, and he’s been locked up without food and water for five days. He’s not in any shape to fight anyone.”

The King raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Gaston. “You shall rest a day and we will meet on the next day at dawn. Will that be acceptable?”

“Aye, my liege.”

“Gaston!” Celine pleaded, turning back to him. “That’s not enough time—”

“There is no choice.” He softened his tone, raising a hand to her cheek. “There are but six days left.”

It was obvious she understood what he meant, though no one else in the chamber might. They had but six days to find her missing bundle and return to his chateau in time for the eclipse. Five, if he rested a day. He dared not take longer than that.

“But I don’t
care
about that,” she whispered.

“Then it is well that one of us is thinking of your future.” He gave her a grin, but she apparently was in no mood for teasing.

In fact, she looked ready to joust with him herself. “Damn it, you stubborn, reckless—”

He pulled her into his arms again and looked over her head at the King. “My liege, I would ask that my men be allowed to leave, that they might search for this bundle we have spoken of.”

Philippe shrugged. “As you wish.”

“Then we meet on the day after the morrow.” Gaston shifted his gaze to Tourelle, and smiled. “At dawn.”

***

Celine stood beside Royce, trembling with a chill that didn’t come from the morning mist curling around the hem of her cloak. The King had chosen a neutral field a few miles from Tourelle’s chateau, and a sizable crowd had gathered by the time the first pale rays of light had broken over the horizon. The King stood at the center of the spectators, flanked by his royal guards, who formed a blue-and-white neutral zone between Tourelle’s supporters and Gaston’s.

Celine barely glanced at anyone. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the two pavilions that had been set up on the right edge of the field, a few yards apart, their brightly colored pennants fluttering in the breeze. Her heart fluttered almost as wildly.

She kept telling herself there was nothing to worry about. This was just a joust, a ceremonial duel, not one of those insane tournaments like the one in which Gaston’s father and brother had been killed.

But she couldn’t shake her fear that Gaston might get himself seriously hurt.

She had seen him only briefly since their meeting with the King. His idea of “resting” had been to spend all day yesterday preparing for this moment. He and Royce had taken hours selecting and preparing weapons and armor. It had all been very grim and determined and efficient, with no time for feminine interruptions.

Pharaon had been readied as well. The stallion stood outside Gaston’s pavilion, decked out in chain mail and quilted padding and black silks. Someone had even strapped a metal faceplate on him, with a unicorn-style horn in the middle. Prancing and tossing his head, he looked absolutely ferocious. A small boy nervously held the reins, and one of Gaston’s guardsmen stood on the other side, ready to act as squire since Etienne was not available.

Her throat dry, Celine glanced at Tourelle’s pavilion.

The Duc was already outside, strutting around, laughing with his squire. His confidence made Celine uneasy. She wouldn’t put anything past him. Even with the King’s guards supervising all the preparations, he might attempt something underhanded. And it only increased her anxiety to realize how evenly matched he and Gaston were: Tourelle might not be as tall or broad-shouldered as Gaston, but he had a muscular build, several years’ more experience in battle—and he hadn’t spent the last few days in a dungeon.

And there was something Gaston had said once before that kept haunting her.

What if her love proved too great a distraction? What if she had weakened him, made him less of a warrior ... as he insisted had happened to his brother?

Gaston stepped out of his pavilion and a murmur went through the crowd. He looked strong and confident, moving easily despite the chain mail and pieces of plate armor that covered his chest, back, arms, and legs. He wore a great helm topped by a black plume, and mail gauntlets, and black silks over the armor ... and a strip of red velvet tied snugly around his left arm.

Her vision blurred, but she blinked rapidly and forced a smile. He had come to her last night after supper and gruffly asked for that: a favor from his lady, a bit of cloth from her gown. It was traditional, he had said.

She had given it to him with shaking fingers, and tried to ask a few questions about exactly what this joust entailed—was it like the ceremonial, colorful events she had seen in the movies?

He had laughed and asked what a “movie” was, and before she could bring the conversation back to her questions, he was gone. He’d assured her he would be all right, thanked her for the lady’s favor, given her the briefest kiss, then left to continue his preparations.

She knew him too well by now. He had been purposely hiding something from her. It had made her so nervous, she hadn’t been able to sleep all night.

Now, as she watched, Gaston and Tourelle mounted their horses, and their assistants handed them their shields and weapons.

Her stomach started churning. The weapons included evil-looking steel-tipped lances. And swords.

Celine turned to Royce, a chill dancing down her spine. “I don’t understand—why do they need those?”

“It is to be
armes à outrance
, milady.”

“What’s that mean? I thought they were just supposed to try to knock each other out of the saddle.”

“Aye, the object is to unseat the opponent, with the lance.” Royce nodded. “In
armes courtois
, blunted weapons are used, and the joust is ended when one is unseated, or when three lances have been broken. But this battle will continue on foot. It is to be
armes à outrance
—sharp points.”

Celine felt all the blood drain from her face. She turned back to the scene before her with gathering horror.

“Milady? Did you not understand before now?” Royce took her elbow when she swayed dizzily. “It is to be a battle to the death.”

G
aston could feel Celine’s heart beating as one with his, as vividly as he could feel the bit of velvet fluttering around his arm. But he did not allow himself to look at her. He did not dare. Not now. For a vexing uncertainty crouched within him, a nagging suspicion that his feelings for her, and hers for him, might have changed him somehow. Weakened him.

But as he sheathed his sword, a familiar calm descended over him.

The day became this moment. The field became these scant yards that separated him and Tourelle. It was an almost hypnotic sensation of the world narrowing to a single point. As if his weapons and armor wove a spell around him that blocked out all else—all fatigue, all questions, all feelings, all fear.