THE SKY ALONG THE HORIZON was glowing like the embers of a dying fire as this last Friday in March ebbed away. There was still enough daylight remaining for Richard to assess Chalus’s weaknesses, though. His sappers, shielded by a wheeled wooden cat, were working industriously to tunnel under the castle walls. Once they’d excavated far enough, they’d shore up the cavity with timber, then fill it with combustible fuel and set it aflame; when the timbers burned, the wall above would collapse with it. But that would take time Richard was not willing to spare. The sooner he could take Chalus, the sooner his army could move on to Aimar’s strongholds at Nontron and Montagut. So he and Mercadier were reconnoitering the castle’s defenses to see how feasible it would be to take Chalus by storm.
One of Richard’s sergeants had set up his large rectangular shield, and he and Mercadier were standing behind it as they debated where the castle seemed most vulnerable to an assault. They were soon joined by William de Braose. He held the barony of Bramber and extensive lands in Wales, where he’d earned himself a reputation among the Welsh as a man of no honor. But he was as capable as he was ruthless and he’d served Richard well as sheriff of Herefordshire and as a royal justice, proving to be an effective bulwark against the ever-restless Welsh. Glancing at Richard’s crossbow, he said, “You’ll get few chances to make use of that, sire. Our crossbowmen have kept the castle defenders off the walls for much of the day, aside from one lunatic by the gatehouse.”
Richard arched a brow. “Why call him a lunatic, Will?”
“See for yourself, my liege.” The Marcher lord gestured and Richard squinted until he located the lone man on the castle battlements. When he did, he burst out laughing, for this enemy crossbowman was using a large frying pan as a shield, deflecting the bolts coming his way with surprising dexterity. De Braose and Mercadier were not surprised by his reaction, for they’d known this was just the sort of mad gallantry to appeal to Richard. But because chivalry was as alien a tongue to them as the languages spoken in Cathay, they saw the knave wielding a frying pan as nothing more than a nuisance to be eliminated, sooner rather than later.
When the crossbowman used his makeshift shield to turn aside another bolt, Richard gave him a playful, mocking salute. He was still laughing when the crossbowman aimed at him and he was slow, therefore, in ducking for cover behind his shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder, just above his collarbone. The impact was great enough to stagger him, although he managed to keep his balance, grabbing the edge of the shield to steady himself. There was no pain, not yet, but he’d suffered enough wounds to know that would not last. His first coherent thought was relief that dusk was fast falling, for when he glanced around hastily, it was clear that none of his men had seen him hit. Only de Braose and Mercadier had been close enough to see what had happened, and while their dismay was obvious even in the fading light, he knew they were too battlewise to cry out, to let others know that their king had just been shot.
“Come with me,” he said in a low voice, remembering in time to call out to his sergeant, “Odo, leave my shield there for now.” He was grateful that his voice sounded so natural, as if nothing were amiss, and he was grateful, too, that he’d not ridden out to inspect the castle defenses, for he knew he’d never have been able to get up into the saddle without help. Mercadier and de Braose fell in step beside him, using their own bodies to shield him from any prying eyes. He was able to set a measured pace, but by the time they reached his tent, his legs were feeling weak and his arm had gone numb.
Arne was not within and the tent was dark. De Braose had a lantern, though, and he used its candle to light an oil lamp. Richard sank down on the bed as they closed the tent flaps. Mercadier had already drawn his dagger. Leaning over, he began carefully to cut Richard’s tunic away from that protruding bolt. With a few deft slashes, Richard’s linen shirt soon followed. Straightening up, Mercadier paused to take a deep breath. He’d removed arrows and bolts from injured men in the past, but only when there was no other alternative, for such wounds were best left to surgeons. It was then, though, that Richard reached for the shaft and yanked.
“No, wait!” Mercadier’s cry was too late. There was a sharp crack and the wooden shaft broke off in Richard’s hand.
None of them spoke in the moments that followed. Richard had never denied that acting on impulse was one of his worst flaws. But never had he regretted following an impulse as much as he did now, for he’d just made it needlessly difficult for the bolt’s head to be extracted.