Forever His(122)

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.