The feeling took him by surprise, yet it was undeniably true. If he never left this cell alive, if he died here without seeing her again, if all his hopes for vengeance and justice for his murdered father and brother were thwarted and Tourelle triumphed, he would not care ... as long as she lived.
Never in his life had he had such thoughts. For as long as he could remember, his own plans and desires and needs had been foremost in his mind. Now, for the first time, someone else mattered more.
The realization made his heart beat strangely, made him pace the cell restlessly, made him do something he had not done in many years.
Alone in the darkness, he knelt on the cold stone floor, and began to pray.
He prayed that she had escaped. That she would go to his chateau and await the eclipse. That she would return to her time—and not waste precious hours she could not spare trying to save him.
Never in all his years on the battlefield had he prayed so fervently. And never had he made the offer he made now: his life for hers. He would give up all he had, all he was. He would die willingly, if only God would save her.
He was still kneeling there, head bent and eyes closed, when he heard a sound. At first he thought he had only imagined it, that he was delirious from hunger and thirst and fatigue. But then it grew louder, closer, inescapably real.
Footsteps. In the corridor outside. Four men, mayhap five.
Gaston rose and flattened himself against the wall next to the door, poised to make a bid for freedom if the chance presented itself.
A key turned in the lock. The portal opened a bare inch. Torchlight flickered in the gloom. Squinting, he tensed, ready to strike.
“Hold, Sir Gaston,” one of the men said urgently, pushing the door open only a crack. “Allow us to speak.”
Gaston remained mute, started to lunge—then froze when they stepped inside: four men, three wearing the royal blue and white of the King’s guard.
“Milord,” one said, bowing low as if they were at a courtly feast rather than in a dank dungeon, “his Majesty wishes to see you.”
***
They brought food and water with them, and a change of clothes, and they waited outside while Gaston washed and donned the garments and barraged them with questions.
He did not bother with the food when they informed him that his wife was waiting above with the King.
She had been captured when he was, they explained as he hurried with them down the corridors, emptying the flask of water as he walked. Nay, she was not hurt. It was his squire, Etienne, who had gone for help; wounded, he had managed to make it to Gaston’s chateau before slipping into unconsciousness. Nay, they did not know the lad’s present condition, but the captain of Gaston’s guardsmen, Royce, was here—it was he who had sent riders to fetch the King.
Above in Tourelle’s great hall, royal guardsmen milled about, along with Tourelle’s men and several of Gaston’s own. His escorts accompanied him to the solar at the rear of the chamber, where the others waited, all standing in separate areas of the room, like combatants awaiting the call to battle: the King, Tourelle, Royce ... and Celine.
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.