Richard 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.