Mercadier had risen to his feet. “Chalus 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 Chalus. 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.
THERE 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!”
The fear in his voice sobered their amusement. “We were laughing,” Morgan explained, “because we know the king is not going to do anything so foolhardy. When he is angry, he often says things he does not mean, raving and ranting and uttering bloodcurdling threats that he never carries out. His lord father was the same.”
Guy saw that the surgeon was not convinced and, because he sympathized with the man’s plight, he offered an anecdote from his own past. “When I was about seventeen, I was wounded in a tournament, my leg gashed to the bone in the mêlée. I daresay you remember how it is for lads at that age; they fill their every waking hour with lustful daydreams about naked women. But until my leg healed, I could have been a monk, so circumspect were my thoughts. And the king’s injury is far more serious than mine was. It is that painful shoulder he’ll be heeding, not any stirrings of his cock.”
“Nor will he demand to be carried out to watch the assault on the castle,” Morgan reassured the surgeon. “He wants his injury kept secret, at least till he is on the mend. Once he regains some of his strength, he might insist upon that, but by then Mercadier will have taken the castle.”