“I awoke in great pain,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if he were speaking of someone else’s suffering. “I think what we feared has come to pass.”
The surgeon approached the bed with a leaden step. No one spoke as he began to unwind the poultice. Even though he was expecting to see it, he still felt a sinking sensation at the sight of that swollen, discolored flesh. Once gangraena laid claim to a man’s body, it moved with diabolic speed and Richard’s skin was a deep, raw red. It would soon take on a dark bronze color, and then it would blacken as his body rotted away from the inside. Guyon had no words; he knew there were none. But he still heard himself stammering, “I . . . I am sorry, my lord. . . . So sorry . . .”
The abbot knelt and began to pray. Morgan sagged down onto a coffer. Arne was weeping again, silently this time. Mercadier’s hand dropped to his sword hilt and Guyon froze. But then the routier whirled, picked up the chair, and smashed it into the wall, again and again, until it was reduced to kindling.
Richard paid none of them any heed. He’d known what the surgeon would find; nothing else could explain sudden pain of such intensity. But knowing it was not the same as seeing it, as looking into his open grave. He supposed he’d always known he would not make old bones. Scriptures spoke plainly enough on that. For all they that take up the sword shall perish by the sword. And he’d accepted it, for there were far worse ways to die. He’d just not expected it to happen here, in a siege of a Godforsaken rebel castle so far from the sacred battlefields of the Holy Land.
There was much in his life that he’d taken pride in, exploits of daring, some of them quite mad, but gloriously so, feats that had dazzled his friends and infuriated his enemies. Yet he took as much pride in what he was able to do now, keeping his voice so dispassionate as he said, “No one can know that I am dying. My brother is in Brittany. If the Bretons hear of my mortal wound ere he does, my mother will lose two sons.”
He paused, then, for the dragon was stirring again. He closed his eyes until the assault eased—all he could do. A pity that crossbowman’s aim had not been better. “How much time do I have?” He was not surprised when Master Guyon could not answer that. Will Marshal would have to be warned. Hubert Walter. His seneschals of Anjou, Poitou, Normandy; his castellans at Chinon and Gaillard.
“Send for my mother.” She was at Fontevrault, though. Would she get here in time? “Send word to my cousin, too. And I’ll need a scribe, one I can trust.”
Abbot Milo had always been able to offer aid both spiritual and secular, a pragmatic, capable churchman like Hubert Walter and Master Fulk, the sort of cleric who found greatest favor with Richard. He did not disappoint now, adjusting to this grim new reality faster than Morgan or even Mercadier. “I will pen your letters myself, my liege. And couriers will go out within the hour to your lady mother, to the Count of Mortain, and to your cousin; I assume Lord André is at Chateauroux?” He sounded admirably calm, but he kept his gaze averted from the bed. “Is it your wish that we summon your queen, too?”
“No . . . We can arouse no suspicions until my brother is safely away from the Breton court. Word is bound to get out that I’ve not been seen in days and half the countryside is spying for the viscount or the French. My queen’s sudden arrival would attract too much attention, too much conjecture, for she’s never visited me at a siege camp.” There was truth in that and he hoped it would give Berenguela a measure of comfort. He’d not been much of a husband to her. But it was too late to make amends. He’d need all of his waning strength to keep Death at bay long enough to see Johnny recognized as his heir. A wronged wife could not compete with a kingdom at risk. Nor did he want to deal with her tears. Surely dying was penance enough for past marital sins.
So was pain. By the time he drew his last breath, he’d likely have atoned for all of his own sins and those of his father, too, mayhap even Hal and Geoffrey’s as well. Knowing he’d need to fight the dragon alone, he said, “Leave me now. All but Arne.”
They obeyed, moving like men in a daze. He’d let Master Guyon come back later. They were a fine pair, he and Mercadier’s surgeon, between them making sure that March 26 would be the luckiest day of Johnny’s life. Was it too much to hope that the man might know of herbs that would dull some of the pain, but not his wits? He already knew the answer to that. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
THE SKY WAS THE COLOR of sapphire, Eleanor’s favorite gemstone, and the few wisps of cloud seemed as delicate as handmade lace. Sitting in the window-seat, she savored the warmth of the April sunlight; she felt the cold more keenly now, and she was giving serious consideration to accepting Joanna’s invitation to spend next winter in Toulouse.