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.