Forever His(121)

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.”





Chapter 24


Gaston 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.

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.