Upon hearing this unexpected mention of his father, Sir Brun, his hair as white as the winter frost, turned his gaze toward Chloe. Chloe, however, could not provide an explanation.
“His Majesty has just awakened…”
“How long have I been confined to this bed?” Damien interrupted.
“Five days, Your Majesty.”
“Fuck!” The coarse expletive escaped his lips—an unusual occurrence, especially in the presence of his inferiors. Chloe’s fingers tightened around her handkerchief, startled by the uncharacteristic roughness of his tone.
“And what of the jousting tournament?” he pressed, prompting Chloe and the physician to exchange glances of confusion. Clearly, Damien’s prolonged state of unconsciousness had clouded his memory; it was not uncommon for those who had skirted the edge of death to utter nonsense upon waking.
Having arrived at this conclusion, the physician addressed Damien, who was fixing him with an intense stare. “Your Majesty, the jousting tournament was abolished long ago.”
