It was then that the tent flap was lifted and Arne entered, with Morgan and Guy de Thouars right on his heels. “I saw your shield, sire. Shall I fetch— Ach mein Gott!”
There were smothered exclamations from Morgan and Guy, too, quickly stilled, as they all stared at the broken shaft in Richard’s hand. “You always have a surgeon for your men, Mercadier,” he said at last. “You’d best fetch him.”
WHEN RICHARD’S ARMY APPROACHED Chalus-Chabrol, only a few of the villagers sought refuge in the castle, knowing it could not hold out for long; the rest had fled into the woods with whatever meager belongings and livestock they could save. The priest’s house was small, with only two rooms, and scantily furnished. But it had stone walls, windows with shutters, and a fireplace, which made it palatial in comparison to the nearby cottages. While Richard usually preferred his command tent at sieges, he did occasionally commandeer a nearby house, so they hoped the move would not cause comment among his soldiers.
The bedchamber soon felt stifling, warmed by as many torches as they could fit into the cramped space. As Arne scurried about, fetching wine, water, blankets, towels, and candles, Morgan felt a twinge of envy, for at least the lad could keep busy. All they could do was wait for the arrival of Mercadier’s surgeon. Richard was slumped on the bed, his mantle draped over his shoulders. His face gave away nothing of his thoughts, nor of the pain he must surely be experiencing by now. William de Braose and Guy de Thouars were leaning against the wall, and Guillain was straddling a rickety chair; he alone had been let in upon this dangerous secret so far, but Morgan knew others would have to be told, too.
Unable to endure either the silence or the suspense any longer, Morgan strode over to the table and poured a brimming cup from the wine flagon. The Welsh were always a practical people, Richard thought, reaching for the cup. He drained it in several deep swallows; wine was not much of a crutch, but it was better than nothing. Well, he also had anger, although that was not much help, since most of it was directed at himself, at his accursed, idiotic carelessness. There was some fear, too, a purely physical dread of the ordeal that lay ahead of him. And because he hated to acknowledge that fear, even to himself, he sought relief in cursing Mercadier’s missing surgeon, demanding to know why it was taking so long to find the man. “He’s probably off drinking himself sodden with a few of the camp whores!”
At that moment, the door opened and Mercadier ushered the surgeon into the room. Their first sight of the man was not encouraging. He was well dressed and clean-shaven, looking more like a prosperous merchant than one in the service of the notorious routier captain. But he was so ashen that his complexion had taken on a sickly, greenish-grey cast, a fine sheen of perspiration was coating his upper lip, and he kept his gaze aimed at his feet. Morgan was suddenly fearful that he might indeed be drunk. But after he took a closer look, he thought, No, not drunk—terrified.
“This is Master Guyon.” When the surgeon still did not speak, Mercadier impaled him with a piercing stare that somehow managed to freeze and burn at the same time. “Would you have the king think you’re a mute?” he snarled, and Morgan realized the surgeon was just as afraid of Mercadier as he was of the king. He might have felt pity for the man if the stakes in this high-risk wager were not Richard’s life.
Master Guyon shuffled forward to kneel before Richard. “If I may examine the wound, my liege?” he asked humbly.
“You can hardly extract the bolt if you do not examine the wound,” Richard snapped, for the man’s demeanor was not inspiring much confidence. But he was all they had, for they could not very well ask the Viscount of Limoges to send them one of his surgeons.