“Thank you, my lords, for easing my mind. The king . . . He is a challenging patient,” Guyon said, which made them laugh outright, appreciating his fine flair for understatement. “I fear, though, that he is still wroth with me. I would be most grateful if you would accompany me to see him.” And he felt a flutter of relief when they showed themselves willing to humor him.
Guyon was relieved, too, to find Richard was with the Abbot of Le Pin, his almoner and a trusted confidant, for he thought Abbot Milo would be an ally if need be. “My liege,” he said, hoping his anxiety was not too obvious, for he knew Richard had no respect for men who were timorous, fainthearted. “How are you feeling?”
That question had earned him a scathing “Filled with bliss” earlier in the day. They were all taken aback now by the candor of Richard’s response. “My shoulder seemed better this morning, but it has gotten worse in the last few hours. Master Guyon, I have a question to put to you. And do not lie to me. Do you expect me to regain the full use of my arm?”
“I . . . My liege, I would hope so. But it will take time and you will have to be patient, which does not come easily to you.”
Richard studied the other man’s face, deciding that he was telling the truth. Or was it that his need for hope was strong enough to drown out his doubts? “I never held patience to be a virtue,” he conceded. “I suppose I shall have to change my thinking about that.”
And grow angel wings whilst you’re at it, Guyon thought skeptically, for he considered that equally as likely as the king’s embrace of patience and forbearance. “I need to change your poultice, my liege,” he ventured, not sure how far to trust Richard’s current cooperation. “I am going to add honey to the mixture, for it has proved very effective in healing wounds.”
“Do what you need to do.” Richard’s gaze shifted to the other men. “Whilst Master Guyon tends to my wound, I want you to tell me how the siege is going.”
They were happy to do that and began to describe the ferocity of Mercadier’s bombardment of the castle as Guyon carefully unwrapped the poultice. While there was more swelling than there’d been earlier, that was to be expected. But when he lifted the poultice to expose the wound, he sucked in his breath, for a red line now showed clearly on the king’s skin, surrounding the affected area like a border of blood. A quick glance told him that Morgan, Guy, the abbot, and Arne did not understand the significance of what they were seeing. But Richard did, for he had tensed, one hand clenching into a fist.
“Gangraena,” he said softly.
The surgeon felt as if time had stopped. All he could think was that this Latin word was too dulcet a sound for such an ugly ailment. When his eyes met Richard’s, he could not look away. By now the other men had realized something was very wrong, but neither Richard nor Guyon heard their agitated questions. They were aware only of that spreading red streak, as ominous as the Mark of Cain.
“It does not necessarily mean . . .” Guyon gave up the attempt, let his words die along with his hope.
“Tell me this.” Richard struggled to a sitting position, ignoring the pain that effort cost him. “I know you’ve treated many men whose wounds festered. Did any of them survive?”
The surgeon had buried all but one of his patients who’d been stricken with gangraena. The sole survivor had lived because the infected arm had been amputated in time. He could not offer false hope, though. The king had told him not to lie.
Guyon’s stricken silence gave Richard his answer, one that shook him to the core. He was quiet for a long time, but when he finally spoke, it was with a touch of his familiar bravado. “Well, I shall have to be the first, then.”
ARNE WAS JOLTED FROM sleep the following morning by a sound that chilled him to the bone, a loud groan from his king. He was on his feet at once, lunging toward the bed, a despairing prayer on his lips. Merciful God, let it be a bad dream! For only those harrowing memories of Ertpurch and Trifels had ever been able to wrest such a cry from Richard. But if it was not a dream?
Richard was trembling, his mouth contorted, his breath coming in ragged gulps. When Arne leaned over the bed, he clamped his hand upon the youth’s arm, gasping, “Christ’s blood, I never felt pain like this, never. . . .” And Arne began to weep.
BY THE TIME Richard admitted his surgeon, he had regained his composure and his control, for he would never let the rest of the world see what he’d shown Arne. Only Morgan, Mercadier, and Abbot Milo were permitted to enter with Master Guyon, and he could see on their faces the dread roused by his urgent summons.