A King's Ransom (116 page)

Reaching again for the bisoury, he made a larger incision. He was amazed that Richard had so far been able to keep still. His jaw was clenched so tightly that Guyon thought they might have to pry that glove from his teeth afterward, the tendons in his neck were so taut they looked like corded rope, and his body jerked as the blade dug into his flesh. But his self-control was remarkable, for most patients thrashed around wildly even under restraints.

Guyon could see what was left of the shaft now and fumbled for his tenaille. If he could clasp the shaft, mayhap he could maneuver the bolt up and out. That hope was short-lived, for nothing happened when he tugged. It was as he’d feared: the bolt’s iron head was lodged deep in the king’s muscles, wedged between his scapula and rib cage. “Sire,” he said desperately, “the iron will not budge. I shall have to cut it out, and that will cause you great pain.”

Richard was drenched in perspiration by now and his chest was heaving with his every breath. His words were garbled, muffled by the glove, but Guyon understood. Closing his eyes, he made the sign of the cross, and then looked over at Mercadier and William de Braose, the only ones without torches. “You must be ready to hold the king down if need be,” he told them and then reached again for the scalpel before Richard could protest.
Holy Redeemer, Lamb of God, have mercy upon your servant. Guide my hand.

What followed would haunt Guyon for the rest of his life. He’d awake in the night, his heart thudding, remembering the heat of the torches, the blood, his shaking hands, his growing panic as he kept trying and failing to wrest the iron free, sure that if Richard died, he’d pay with his life; Mercadier would see to that. At least he and the other lord had done as he’d bidden them, and held the king down when his body finally defied his will and sought to escape that sharp, seeking blade. Thankfully, he’d soon passed out from the pain, the only favor that night that fate had deigned to grant either of them, king or surgeon.

At the last, Guyon had resorted to brute force, having cut away enough flesh to expose the bolt’s head, a lethal piece of iron as long as a man’s palm. Positioning his clamps, he said another silent prayer, and then yanked with all of his strength. When it finally came free in a spray of blood, he reeled backward and had to grasp the table for support. The youth called Arne had gone greensick and was vomiting into the floor rushes; the fair-haired knight they’d called Guy looked as if he were about to do likewise. Guyon knew one of the men was the king’s cousin, and he braced himself for the other’s accusations and recriminations. But he said only, “You did your best,” and Guyon felt such gratitude he could have hugged the man.

Mercadier had leaned over the bed, his fingers searching for the pulse in the king’s throat. “He still lives,” he said, and Guyon understood the warning in that terse commentary. Pulling himself together, he took one of the wine flagons and carried it over to pour into the king’s wound. When he asked for his jars of unguents and herbal balms, Arne wiped his mouth on his sleeve and hastened over to his side. They all watched intently as he mixed betony and comfrey with water, explaining that these herbs, Saracen’s root and woundwort, would assist in the healing. Once he had a thick paste, he applied it to a thin cloth and the king’s cousin helped him to lift Richard’s inert body up so he could fasten the poultice. He half expected them to demand to know why he was not suturing up the wound, but when none did, he realized why. They’d seen enough battlefield injuries like this to know that surgeons preferred to keep deep puncture wounds open so they could drain of pus.

By the time he was done, the surgeon was trembling with fatigue. “He ought to sleep through the night,” he said wearily. “I’ll fetch my bedding and sleep in the outer chamber.”

“I’ll send a man with you to carry what you need.”

Guyon mumbled his thanks, even though he knew that Mercadier’s helpful routier would really be his guard. But he was so weary that when Morgan asked him if the king would recover from his wound, he could not summon up the energy to lie.

“I do not know, my lord,” he said. “God’s truth, I do not know.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

MARCH 1199

Châlus-Chabrol, Limousin

R
ichard awoke to a world of pain. His entire body hurt and his shoulder felt as if it were afire. When he opened his eyes, there was an immediate outcry and then others were surrounding the bed—Arne, Morgan, Guillain. They looked so distraught that for a moment he almost believed this shabby, unfamiliar chamber was an alewife’s cottage in Ertpurch. But then the memories of last night’s botched surgery came flooding back.

They did not ask how he felt, for that was obvious to anyone with eyes to see. They concentrated instead upon what little they could do for his comfort, explaining that the surgeon had thought it best to leave him in the priest’s bloodied bed. They’d brought his own bed from his tent and they could help him into it if that was his wish. Once Richard glanced down at the damp, befouled sheets, it was. But he soon discovered that his body was not taking orders from his brain and something as simple as changing beds became as challenging as a winter crossing of the Alps. It left him limp and exhausted, feeling as feeble as a newly birthed lamb. For that was what he was now. Not a lion—a lamb at the mercy of his shepherds.

The shepherds were not lacking in solicitude, though; he’d give them that much. They hovered by the bed, fetching a wine cup and then a chamber pot as Arne folded up the priest’s straw mattress. Richard started to warn him to take care in disposing of it, for none must see those bloodstains, but then he realized that there was no need. They understood full well how important it was to keep his injury a secret from his men, from the castle defenders, from the French. He felt a little queasy, but thirst won out and he was taking a few swallows when the door opened and the butcher burst into the chamber—for that was Richard’s first uncharitable thought at sight of the surgeon.

Master Guyon snatched up the chamber pot, for although surgeons did not view urine the way physicians did—as an indispensable diagnostic tool—he thought there was always something to be learned by examining a patient’s piss. He busied himself in taking Richard’s pulse and feeling for signs of fever, all the while keeping up a strained flow of chatter as he nerved himself to loosen the poultice so he could inspect the wound. When he did, he felt weak in the knees, so great was his relief that there were no signs of infection. He knew how little that meant, for he’d seen wounds fester within hours and others not for more than a week. But each day that the king’s wound remained free of corruption was a day that moved the king—and himself—further away from the precipice. Aware that his presence was not welcome to Richard, he soon retired to a corner of the chamber to study the urine specimen, his nerves so shredded that he jumped and almost spilled the pot’s contents when Mercadier slammed into the room.

Richard had never seen the routier so haggard. “God’s blood, you look worse than I do,” he gibed, but Mercadier seemed to be lacking humor as well as sleep, for he just grunted. His eyes raked the chamber, lingering for an unsettling moment upon Master Guyon before he picked up a chair and brought it over to the bed.

“I promise you,” he said, “that I shall take that castle for you, and when I do, I shall hang every mother’s son in it.”

Richard was surprised, not by the vow, but by the raw emotion that underlay Mercadier’s rage, for the other man had never been one to show his emotions openly; many were convinced he had none. Richard started to sit up then—a great mistake. Falling back against the pillow, he gasped as the fire blazed hotter than the flames of Hell. Once he was sure it was not going to consume him then and there, he said, “When you hang the garrison, mayhap you ought to hang Master Guyon, too.”

Mercadier’s pale eyes glittered. “Just say the word, my lord.”

Morgan glanced over at the surgeon, who suddenly looked as if he were the one in need of medical care. Moving toward the man, Morgan said softly, “There’s no cause for fear. The king is not serious.”

Guyon’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed painfully. “Mercadier is,” he whispered, and when the routier shafted another glance their way, Morgan thought the surgeon might well be right.

“The fool mangled your shoulder, my lord.” Mercadier’s voice was so fraught with menace that the surgeon shivered. “I’ve seen Martinmas hogs butchered with more skill.”

The pain was making Richard feel queasy again and he was inclined to agree with Mercadier’s harsh assessment of the surgery. “You’re right . . . but if we hang that fool for mangling my shoulder, then we’d also have to hang the other fool, the one who tried to pull the bolt out on his own.”

Guyon’s shoulders sagged with the easing of tension, but Morgan decided they’d best keep a close eye upon him lest he flee when the first opportunity presented itself. Even a second-rate surgeon was better than none at all, for they knew Richard’s life still hung in the balance.

Mercadier had risen to his feet. “Châlus will be yours, my liege. May I burn in Hell Everlasting if I fail you in this.”

Richard would normally have retorted that Mercadier was likely to burn in Hell Everlasting no matter what he did or did not do at Châlus. But he had no energy for such banter and he merely nodded, keeping silent until the routier reached the door. “Mercadier, wait.” The other man turned, his hand on the latch. “When you hang the garrison, do not hang the crossbowman.”

Morgan thought he’d rarely heard a command so chilling. Mercadier obviously felt so, too, for he smiled.

T
HERE WAS DISAGREEMENT
as to when a new year began. Some argued for Christmas, the Nativity of the Christ Child. William the Bastard, England’s first Norman king, had chosen the Circumcision of Christ, January 1, the occasion of his own coronation. Others recognized Lady Day, March 25, as the date to start anew, while a minority insisted upon Easter. But for the small, select group aware of Richard’s peril, they counted time from Friday, March 26, the night of his surgery, knowing that his fate would be determined in the days that followed.

On Sunday evening, Master Guyon was hovering outside the priest’s house, scrutinizing the men passing by. Finally seeing the one he sought, he hastened over to intercept the king’s cousin. “My lord, may I have a word with you?”

Morgan and Guy de Thouars paused to allow him to catch up with them. Morgan had last seen Richard just an hour ago, but he knew how rapidly a wound could fester, and he frowned, glancing around first to be sure no others were in hearing range. “What is it, Master Guyon? He has not taken a turn for the worse?”

“No . . . He seems to be feeling better, and that is the problem. I can give him herbal remedies mixed in wine. I can change his poultice and I can offer prayers for his recovery. But he must do his part, too. When I visited him earlier today, I found him propped up in bed, consulting with Geoffrey de la Celle, his seneschal for Gascony, ordering assaults upon the viscount’s castles at Nontron and Montagut. He ignored my protests and would not let me examine his wound, telling me to come back once he was done speaking with his seneschal!”

He sounded so indignant that Morgan and Guy had to smile, for they were very familiar with Richard’s bad behavior whenever he was injured or ill. “If it is any consolation, Master Guyon, there is nothing personal about his disdain. He has been the bane of physicians for as long as I’ve known him.”

“So I’ve heard,” the surgeon said tersely. “But if he does not remain abed, rest, and heed my advice, he is putting his life at even greater risk. I tried to make him see that, to no avail. I only made matters worse, for I angered him by telling him he must listen to me. He cursed me then, saying ‘must’ was not a word he recognized. He said that if it pleased him, he’d be taken out to the siege on a litter tomorrow, as he’d done at Acre, and he might even have Mercadier bring him a few whores to pass the time tonight!”

Guyon was not sure how much help he’d get from these men, but he’d not expected to be laughed at, and they both were grinning widely. “Do you not understand? If he were to take a woman into his bed, it could well-nigh kill him!”