A King's Ransom (115 page)

One of Richard’s sergeants had set up his large rectangular shield, and he and Mercadier were standing behind it as they debated where the castle seemed most vulnerable to an assault. They were soon joined by William de Braose. He held the barony of Bramber and extensive lands in Wales, where he’d earned himself a reputation among the Welsh as a man of no honor. But he was as capable as he was ruthless and he’d served Richard well as sheriff of Herefordshire and as a royal justice, proving to be an effective bulwark against the ever-restless Welsh. Glancing at Richard’s crossbow, he said, “You’ll get few chances to make use of that, sire. Our crossbowmen have kept the castle defenders off the walls for much of the day, aside from one lunatic by the gatehouse.”

Richard arched a brow. “Why call him a lunatic, Will?”

“See for yourself, my liege.” The Marcher lord gestured and Richard squinted until he located the lone man on the castle battlements. When he did, he burst out laughing, for this enemy crossbowman was using a large frying pan as a shield, deflecting the bolts coming his way with surprising dexterity. De Braose and Mercadier were not surprised by his reaction, for they’d known this was just the sort of mad gallantry to appeal to Richard. But because chivalry was as alien a tongue to them as the languages spoken in Cathay, they saw the knave wielding a frying pan as nothing more than a nuisance to be eliminated, sooner rather than later.

When the crossbowman used his makeshift shield to turn aside another bolt, Richard gave him a playful, mocking salute. He was still laughing when the crossbowman aimed at him and he was slow, therefore, in ducking for cover behind his shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder, just above his collarbone. The impact was great enough to stagger him, although he managed to keep his balance, grabbing the edge of the shield to steady himself. There was no pain, not yet, but he’d suffered enough wounds to know that would not last. His first coherent thought was relief that dusk was fast falling, for when he glanced around hastily, it was clear that none of his men had seen him hit. Only de Braose and Mercadier had been close enough to see what had happened, and while their dismay was obvious even in the fading light, he knew they were too battlewise to cry out, to let others know that their king had just been shot.

“Come with me,” he said in a low voice, remembering in time to call out to his sergeant, “Odo, leave my shield there for now.” He was grateful that his voice sounded so natural, as if nothing were amiss, and he was grateful, too, that he’d not ridden out to inspect the castle defenses, for he knew he’d never have been able to get up into the saddle without help. Mercadier and de Braose fell in step beside him, using their own bodies to shield him from any prying eyes. He was able to set a measured pace, but by the time they reached his tent, his legs were feeling weak and his arm had gone numb.

Arne was not within and the tent was dark. De Braose had a lantern, though, and he used its candle to light an oil lamp. Richard sank down on the bed as they closed the tent flaps. Mercadier had already drawn his dagger. Leaning over, he began carefully to cut Richard’s tunic away from that protruding bolt. With a few deft slashes, Richard’s linen shirt soon followed. Straightening up, Mercadier paused to take a deep breath. He’d removed arrows and bolts from injured men in the past, but only when there was no other alternative, for such wounds were best left to surgeons. It was then, though, that Richard reached for the shaft and yanked.

“No, wait!” Mercadier’s cry was too late. There was a sharp crack and the wooden shaft broke off in Richard’s hand.

None of them spoke in the moments that followed. Richard had never denied that acting on impulse was one of his worst flaws. But never had he regretted following an impulse as much as he did now, for he’d just made it needlessly difficult for the bolt’s head to be extracted.

It was then that the tent flap was lifted and Arne entered, with Morgan and Guy de Thouars right on his heels. “I saw your shield, sire. Shall I fetch—
Ach mein Gott!
”

There were smothered exclamations from Morgan and Guy, too, quickly stilled, as they all stared at the broken shaft in Richard’s hand. “You always have a surgeon for your men, Mercadier,” he said at last. “You’d best fetch him.”

W
HEN
R
ICHARD’S ARMY APPROACHED
Châlus-Chabrol, only a few of the villagers sought refuge in the castle, knowing it could not hold out for long; the rest had fled into the woods with whatever meager belongings and livestock they could save. The priest’s house was small, with only two rooms, and scantily furnished. But it had stone walls, windows with shutters, and a fireplace, which made it palatial in comparison to the nearby cottages. While Richard usually preferred his command tent at sieges, he did occasionally commandeer a nearby house, so they hoped the move would not cause comment among his soldiers.

The bedchamber soon felt stifling, warmed by as many torches as they could fit into the cramped space. As Arne scurried about, fetching wine, water, blankets, towels, and candles, Morgan felt a twinge of envy, for at least the lad could keep busy. All they could do was wait for the arrival of Mercadier’s surgeon. Richard was slumped on the bed, his mantle draped over his shoulders. His face gave away nothing of his thoughts, nor of the pain he must surely be experiencing by now. William de Braose and Guy de Thouars were leaning against the wall, and Guillain was straddling a rickety chair; he alone had been let in upon this dangerous secret so far, but Morgan knew others would have to be told, too.

Unable to endure either the silence or the suspense any longer, Morgan strode over to the table and poured a brimming cup from the wine flagon.
The Welsh were always a practical people,
Richard thought, reaching for the cup. He drained it in several deep swallows; wine was not much of a crutch, but it was better than nothing. Well, he also had anger, although that was not much help, since most of it was directed at himself, at his accursed, idiotic carelessness. There was some fear, too, a purely physical dread of the ordeal that lay ahead of him. And because he hated to acknowledge that fear, even to himself, he sought relief in cursing Mercadier’s missing surgeon, demanding to know why it was taking so long to find the man. “He’s probably off drinking himself sodden with a few of the camp whores!”

At that moment, the door opened and Mercadier ushered the surgeon into the room. Their first sight of the man was not encouraging. He was well dressed and clean-shaven, looking more like a prosperous merchant than one in the service of the notorious routier captain. But he was so ashen that his complexion had taken on a sickly, greenish-grey cast, a fine sheen of perspiration was coating his upper lip, and he kept his gaze aimed at his feet. Morgan was suddenly fearful that he might indeed be drunk. But after he took a closer look, he thought,
No, not drunk—terrified
.

“This is Master Guyon.” When the surgeon still did not speak, Mercadier impaled him with a piercing stare that somehow managed to freeze and burn at the same time. “Would you have the king think you’re a mute?” he snarled, and Morgan realized the surgeon was just as afraid of Mercadier as he was of the king. He might have felt pity for the man if the stakes in this high-risk wager were not Richard’s life.

Master Guyon shuffled forward to kneel before Richard. “If I may examine the wound, my liege?” he asked humbly.

“You can hardly extract the bolt if you do not examine the wound,” Richard snapped, for the man’s demeanor was not inspiring much confidence. But he was all they had, for they could not very well ask the Viscount of Limoges to send them one of his surgeons.

Master Guyon set his coffer of instruments on the table. It held the usual tools of his trade, for physicians spoke disparagingly of surgeons as being “in trade.” As if any of those smug pompous peacocks could have faced a challenge like this without their ballocks shriveling up like raisins. He stared down at the coffer’s contents: chisel, probe, tenaille, bisoury, saw, clamps, razors, hooks, mallet, cautery rods, tweezers, tongs, needles, sutures,
rugynes
for drawing out bits of bone, a trephine for boring holes in the skull. He was not attempting to decide which ones should be used. He already knew that: a tenaille to extract the bolt and, if that failed, a bisoury to dig it out. But he did need a few moments to calm his nerves. He’d never lacked for confidence in his own skills, yet now he felt as if this were his first surgery. “I will need as much light as possible,” he said, and a youth darted forward to hold an oil lamp over the bed.

Guyon’s first look at the wound confirmed his worst fears. The shaft had broken off close to the entry point, and there was not enough wood left for the tenaille to grip. Nor was it a good sign that bruising was already visible. Moreover, the king was naked from the waist up, so Guyon could see that he’d gained weight in the years since his knee injury, and that excess flesh would complicate his task, making it harder to locate and extract the bolt’s head. There were only three ways to treat an injury like this, and he ruled out two at once. Surgeons would often try to push an arrow through a man’s body, but even if the shaft had still been intact, that would not have been possible for the king’s wound. Many surgeons believed in waiting a few days until the tissue around the wound began to putrefy, making the extraction easier. Guyon did not agree with this method, for it had been his experience that such a delay too often caused the wound to fester, and when that happened, the patient almost always died.

“I fear, sire, that I shall have to cut it out.”

“I did not expect you to conjure it out.” Richard was rapidly concluding that the man was both timid and incompetent. “Fetch me more wine, Morgan,” he said abruptly. “I’ve made enough mistakes already and am not about to add facing surgery whilst I’m sober to the list.” After draining another flagon, he braced himself then for what he knew was going to be a very unpleasant experience. “Arne, did you find something for me to bite down upon?”

From the moment he’d halted in the tent, realizing that Richard had been shot, Arne had found that speech was beyond him; it was as if his throat were being squeezed so tightly that no words could escape. Mutely, he held out his offering, a pair of Richard’s leather gloves. As soon as he did, though, time seemed to fracture and for a horrifying moment, he was catapulted back to the Vienna market on that bitter December day, betrayed by those ornate gloves that only a king would have worn. Sweat broke out upon his forehead and he fought the urge to make the sign of the cross. How could he have been so witless? What could be a worse omen than gloves? He reached out to snatch them back, croaking, “Wait, sire! A piece of wood would be better. . . .”

As their eyes met, Arne swallowed a sob. He was sure Richard knew exactly what he was thinking, for his voice softened and he even managed the flicker of a smile. “No wood. The way my day has been going so far, lad, I’d be likely to break a tooth.”

Guyon would have given a lot to drain a wine flagon himself. He could feel Mercadier’s eyes boring into his back as he approached the bed again. “I’ll need more light. Sire, if you’ll lie down . . .” He hesitated then, not knowing how to say what had to be said without giving offense. “I’ve found that it is best if restraints are used during the surgery.”

The look he got from the king was sharp enough to draw blood. “You think this is my first battle wound? I will not need to be restrained,” Richard said, in so flat and dangerous a tone that Guyon dared not argue further.

Morgan, Guillain, and Guy carried torches over to the bed; they gave off more heat than light and cast eerie shadows that added to Guyon’s unease. He would rather have performed this operation in his own surgical tent during daylight hours. He would rather not have performed it at all. Saying a silent prayer that God would bless his efforts with success, he reached for the bisoury.

Richard flinched as he began to widen the wound, biting down upon the glove, but he did not shrink from the scalpel’s narrow blade as Guyon’s patients usually did. Blood was bubbling up and Guyon reached for a towel to blot it away. Sweat had already begun to sting his eyes. So much that could go wrong. If he cut into an artery, the king would bleed out at once. Bleeding from a vein would not be as quick or fatal, but it would be difficult to staunch.

“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.