“It would seem I have been the only one who did not recognize the real Tourelle,” Philippe said dryly. “What say you, Gaston? These men knew of the truth and concealed it. Their fate is in your hands. It is within your rights to order them stripped of their spurs and horses and banished from your holdings.”
His breathing steadier now, Gaston drew himself up to his full height, looking at each of Tourelle’s men in turn, meeting their gazes, taking their measure. They could have kept their secret forever, protecting themselves; instead they had admitted all before him and the King, risking much.
“Nay, my liege,” he said after a long moment. “I shall need men of strength and courage to keep safe my lands. The past is the past. All who will swear loyalty, all who are honorable from this day forth, will have naught to fear.”
A murmur of surprise went through the gathered men. Then, silently, one after another, they dropped to one knee, heads bowed in a gesture of fealty.
Watching them, Gaston felt as if a great weight had just slid from his shoulders. He finally had the truth of what had happened to his father and brother. Spoken aloud, for all to know.
And he realized another truth as well in that moment, accepting it more deeply than he ever had before: it would have made no difference had he been at Tourelle’s tourney. He could not have saved them. Had he been there, he would have been killed as well.
Mayhap it was not wise to question God’s plans; mayhap he had been meant to live, to seek this justice, to serve some other purpose. The past was the past.
And the future ...
He turned to speak to Celine, only to find that she had yet to make her way through the crowd to his side.
“Where is my wife?” he asked with sudden concern.
“I fear she fainted,” the King said with a rueful grin, “when you fell and Tourelle’s blade was at your throat. Royce carried her to your pavilion. Come.” He slapped Gaston on his uninjured shoulder and turned to walk back toward the tents. “You must have your wounds tended, and we must speak.”
***
Gaston was almost knocked to the ground once again, as soon as he stepped into his pavilion.
“You’re all right!” Celine threw herself into his arms. “Thank God. Oh, thank God, you’re all right! Royce wouldn’t let me watch the rest after I fainted, but I couldn’t tell anything from the sounds outside and—oh, God, you’re all right!”
Her arms tightened around his midsection. Gaston winced, but stifled a groan and gathered her close. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
“Frighten me?” she sobbed, stepping back. “You could have been killed!”
“But I was not.”
“But you could’ve been.”
“But I was not,” he insisted with a gentle grin.
“Milady,” the King interrupted, holding aside the tent flap as the barber-surgeon, summoned from among Tourelle’s men, entered with his instruments. “Mayhap you would wait outside with Captain Royce? There are matters I would discuss with your husband, and he must have his wounds stitched.”
“Wounds?” Celine repeated in a suddenly small voice, looking Gaston up and down.
Gaston felt grateful that the tent flap had just fallen behind his assistant, who stepped inside to help him out of his armor. The only light in the darkened pavilion was provided by a candle on the trestle table in the center. He would prefer to spare Celine the sight of three deep blade-cuts.
“Naught to worry about,” he assured her, taking off his mail gauntlets and tossing them on the table with a casual air. “But mayhap it would be best if you waited outside with Royce. I would not wish you to faint again.”
“I am not the fainting type,” she insisted with a mutinous tilt to her chin. “Except when my husband is almost getting himself killed.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her. “Milady, your husband may become ‘the fainting type’ if you do not cease being stubborn. Allow us but a few moments with the surgeon.” He turned her around and sent her toward the exit. “And then you may return.”
With a muttered protest, she gave him a last worried look and went out.
“I congratulate you on your victory, milord,” Royce said with pride before he followed her.
“My thanks, Royce, for all you have done.”
As soon as the tent flap had closed, Gaston gave in to the pain, settling heavily onto the nearest stool, unable to grit back a groan. His assistant set to work quickly, unfastening the various plates of armor, removing the chain mail and padded leather beneath. Gaston felt relief as each heavy piece came off, not only because it made it easier for him to breathe but because it was almost as if his past questions and doubts and guilt were being removed with them.