“Hold the lamp closer,” he told Arne, for its fitful flame was still safer than the smoldering torches. After switching to a probe, he wiped away more of the blood obscuring his view. He did not expect them to understand what he’d be telling them, but he’d gotten into the habit of keeping up a running commentary during his surgeries, a holdover from his early days of training. “It looks as if the bolt entered behind the king’s collarbone and went down into the muscles in front of his shoulder blade.” He knew the Latin terms for these bones—clavicle and scapula—but like most surgeons, his had been a hands-on apprenticeship, his knowledge gained on the battlefield and in surgical tents, not in university classes, and he preferred to use the names that his patients would have used themselves.
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
Chalus-Chabrol, Limousin