Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 7: M*A*S*H*

The business of ending battles is nearly as long as starting them. King Henry is mostly unscathed. A lifelong soldier, he gives quick and competent directions to his men about clearing the field and getting back to camp. Torches glow. And the mood is dismal if a note triumphant. We've won. But at a terrible cost.
Oisin and I slip back in among King Henry's men, getting suitably muddy first so we fit in. Then we slip back in. We're here for the Prince's sword, remember. And he may be separated from it soon. In theory he should be reporting to his father? Oisin who has kind of a nice dad, thinks that, so I decide not to be cynical and say Prince Hal is definitely somewhere else. But I'm right.
They've brought Hotspur's body back to King Henry. Erridge is with it, having brought it from the Princes' men, who found him.
"Bury him, I suppose," King Henry says, staring down at Hotspur's corse, bloody from the field, arrow still through one eye, and blood obscuring his face. The King has near tears in his eyes. He moves to wipe them away. "Just—yes I suppose we bury him."
"My lord," Erridge nods.
"What of—has my son returned from the field? I had word he was injured," the King says.
"He is, my lord," Erridge says.
"Well? Is he with the surgeons?" King Henry asks.
"No, my lord. He is—with his men," Erridge says, delicately.
"Then he's well?"
"No..."
"Well, in what manner is he injured?" King Henry asks, annoyed now.
"He was—struck by an arrow, early in the assault but refused to leave the field, his men say," Erridge says, clearly attempting to do this delicately and prevent further bloodshed.
"Then he's fine it's likely a flesh wound—where did the arrow strike him?" King Henry asks, no longer concerned.
"His—ah—face."
"What."
"His, most of his—face," Erridge says.
"Then— how is he still— living?" King Henry stutters, shaking his head.
"That is—not known, my lord."
I take Oisin's arm, "That's our cue. Let's go find him."
"Yeah, fair, before his father confiscates all his weapons," Oisin agrees.
Prince Henry's camp is a bit away from his father's by both their design they figured they needed a buffer zone I guess. I mean, they're not wrong. The prince's camp is a model of efficiency even in this state. Nothing if not a professional, Prince Hal is currently debriefing his men and ensuring all post battle tasks are completed. Yes. With an arrow. In his face.
Oldcastle, Fastolf, and Scrope, all much worse for the wear but reasonably alive, are watching with varying levels of disappointment.
"See that the bowmen are rested in the morning they are to go collect whatever arrows are usable, at first light. Those were expensive we'll salvage what we can they will know best but we need three patrols to go with them—," Prince Hal is lecturing a few sets of his commanders including some bowmen. The arrow is sticking out of his face. He's covered in his own blood, mostly out of armor save mail. There is an arrow sticking out of his face. Dark hair is sticky with blood. Every so often he has to stop and spit out clots of blood. That does not stop him from talking. There is an arrow sticking out of his face.
"Okay, you're gonna go see a surgeon now, we'll do that," Scrope says, taking his arm.
"Do not touch me! Go, if you've no occupation give word to my father that he needs to have Hotspur quartered to prove his death," Hal snarls, shoving Scrope away from him. The person suit is long since gone. He's pure malice now, in his element of war and in too much pain to wear a mask any longer. His eyes flash with evil. This is who he is. Soaked in blood, a leader, a king. And the last person you'd ever want to meet. He's entirely predatory at the moment, in too much pain to don any sort of charming pretense of normalcy.
"You have an arrow in your head, you need to see a doctor," Scrope says.
"You need to do as you're ordered, go take the message if you have no other employment do not concern yourself with me," Hal snarls, pushing his smaller friend nearly down as he goes on down the line of his men. He has his men like, line up  for him to debrief them.
"Collect the dead in the morning, identify who you can then we'll compile a list, and then prepare a grave, I'll need a count as well of rebel dead see to that—Oldcastle what do you think you're doing?" Hal snarls, Oldcastle was walking up behind him to just knock him out, but it didn't work Hal spun around into him.
"Nothing, nothing, just walking, is your face meant to look like that, d'you think? Or should I send a surgeon to your tent, when you're done here?" Oldcastle asks, not overly nicely.
"You'll worry about your own affairs. I believe I gave you a list of requirements for your own men as well as assessing our wounded. I will see a doctor when I'm finished not before, now go," Hal says, pushing past him.
"Oh well, I tried," Oldcastle returns to Scrope and Fastolf.
"Okay, we agree there's an arrow in his brain, right?" Fastolf asks.
"Most definitely," Scrope says, hand on his face.
"And yet, what is our rule if he's happy however he is? We leave him, yeah, he about pulled his sword on me," Oldcastle says.
"He's sixteen and has an arrow in his brain we're gonna forgive him that," Fastolf sighs.
"We absolutely are not. It says something significant, that the arrow isn't even affecting him," Oldcastle says.
"Is so—he's clearly getting worse," Scrope says.
"You two are so dramatic. He was always getting worse, even before the arrow he was worse," Fastolf scoffs, "Now, I'm gonna get him to a doctor. Anyone got a coin?"
"No," Scrope says.
"Why?" Oldcastle asks.
"Backbone of this bloody army, I am," Fastolf gets a coin out of his pocket and flips it in the air.
"You can't use a coin to get him to go see a doctor," Oldcaslte says.
"Watch me, this organization would crumble without me, I swear," Fastolf scoffs, "Just go have a surgeon in his tent, eh?"
"Already waiting on him," Oldcastle says.
Prince Hal is with, I suppose his livery, he's giving instructions for the horses. To be clear, all the people who he is lecturing look, excessively horrified. Like there is blood all down his normally craggy face and there is arrow protruding from it and it's fairly disgusting to look at. Also he tips his head and tries to kind of cradle it so it clearly hurts he's just, not stopping.
"See that the horses are washed, Bucephalus had injuries to his flanks and one arrow to his neck and shoulder those must be treated tonight," Prince Hal is saying, "The other horses likely will be little better. Have one of the cogs prepared for me to ride tomorrow when we move out, for now they'll all needed to be tended to before dawn you understand? Use as many torches as you need—,"
"Great plan, Hal, that's brilliant, they're doing good," Fastolf comes and takes his arm.
"You're to be setting up the patrols some rebels still may attack by night you can't have done it already so why are you back?" Hal asks, annoyed.
"By and by I had a question—oh what's that?" Fastolf flips the coin in the air so that it flips past the Prince's face. There's nothing this boy loves if not money his eyes follow it like a kitten watching a bit of string.
"Is that a crown?" Hal asks, turning and seeing it on the ground. A crown is like, the equivalent of a thousand dollars. But still. He moves as though to pick it up, but Fastolf just drives his shoulder into the boy's stomach, swinging him over his back.
"Sure was, shows how much I love you I threw that away, time to go see a doctor," Fastolf says, just swinging Hal over his back into a fireman's carry.
"PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW THIS IS TREASON—,"
"So's this, shut up," Fastolf puts a dagger to his throat, just carrying him back to his tent. Fastolf is not a small man, but he's not as tall as Prince Hal who is now struggling. After the night they've had I'm shocked that Fastolf can lift him. Well, he probably couldn't but the altercation causes Hal's wound to start bleeding afresh and so it runs into his eyes, which hinders his escape.
I, for my part, scoop up the crown off the ground, and go to follow them. Oisin does as well, but he's laughing. The english are looking on in general horror and fear for Fastolf.
The prince's tent isn't far which is good because Hal is nearly free.
The King and his men are approaching, with torches. They are mostly out of armor, save King Henry who is still like his son, wearing mail and a gauntlets and the like.. They intersect at about the entrance to the Prince's tent.
"Fastolf what are you doing with my son?"
"PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT I WON'T FORGIVE YOU THIS TIME—,"
"My lord, one moment," Fastolf, tosses Hal off his shoulders, and onto the bed, then springs to kneel on the boy who immediately tries to rise.
The mastiff immediately becomes involved, rising from sleeping beneath the table to pouncing on Fastolf, eager to protect her young master.
"Never do that again! I'm perfectly well—arrest him—," Hal is trying to get up even though Fastolf is wresting him down and wrestling off the dog.
"Oh my— fuck—fuck—," King Henry nearly gags when he sees his son's ruined face. One cheekbone is shattered, splinters stick through his skin. There is black, clotted blood all down his face and neck, and the skin on that side of his face is drooping nearly away from his eye. The arrow protrudes just an inch or two out of his skin, the shaft broken. The force of the arrow though has ruined that side of his face.
"Is no one listening to me—Fastolf unhand me what is it you think you're doing?"
"I love you, my prince. There is an arrow in your head, so you're gonna lie down now," Fastolf says, very nicely, pinning the boy down as best he can.
"What—Jesus—someone get that dog—where did that dog come from?" King Henry asks.
"I don't know. I haven't seen it before, that's odd," Prince Hal, who apparently just lies for fun.
"Here, here girl," Oisin snatches her collar. He's calming to animals, and the creature looked ready to bite anyone, growling as it tried to protect its master. "Shh," he kneels down and holds the dog back.
The doctor above Hal is clearly afraid of him, which is almost funny because the gangly sixteen year old filled with the rage of dying god, with acne on his non ruined cheek, is more tragic than frightening.
"What—the hell—get that out of his face!" King Henry looks like he's going to throw up.
"We need him to lie still, my lord," the doctor whispers.
"I need to be with my men—father, nothing is finished, I'm quite well—,"
"Hal, there is an arrow in your face," his father says, "When did that happen?"
"I don't recall," Hal lies.
"First half hour, my lord. He refused to leave the field for fear the men wouldn't hold," Oldcastle is a snitch apparently.
"If I want something done properly I do it myself which is why I really need to —,"
"HAL, lie the fuck down," his father just walks over and pushes him down by the throat, "There is an arrow. In your face."
"I can feel it," Hal snarls, his voice bubbling with rage, but he lies still for his father. "Don't you think I can feel it? It's in my head it's in the back of my head. But the battle isn't over I have to—,"
"You have to lie still, and close your damn mouth," King Henry says.
Fastolf moves away, tentatively, coming to stand with the rest of us. He's stained heavily with blood, and his face is bruised. He's watching with—concern? Oh, he likes that kid better than he thinks the King does. He loves that kid or he wouldn't have done what he did.
"Here," I hold out his crown to him.
"Oh. Solid man," Fastolf nods, smiling appreciatively, he rolls the coin in his fingers.
"I'm fine, father, I promise. I'm well, it doesn't hurt like it did before. Maybe in the morning? It hurt badly before it's dull now," Hal pleads. His dark eyes are near bubbling with tears, as his father the king keeps his hand over the boy's bloody throat.
"Hal, you're gonna lie here. They'll get it out, you have to lie still," King Henry says, his voice almost soft, "You hear me?"
"Please don't have them touch my head, please father, it was much worse before, it's all right now I'm fine, I'm fine, don't have them touch it," Hal says, his voice wavering almost, "You've plenty to do, my men are hurt worse surely the doctors are needed elsewhere."
"Hal they—they have to get it out. You'll lie here, just lie here for a moment, they'll get it out," King Henry looking up at the doctors, "It's—you must tug out mustn't you?"
"Yes," the doctor says.
"Don't—no it's fine I'm sure it is. Just in the morning perhaps it is stopping hurting," Hal says.
"Lie there, don't move," King Henry rises.
Hal lies there, defeated, tears in his big dark eyes.
The King draws the doctor nearer to the rest of us at the entrance to the tent.
"Is he going to live?" King Henry asks, his voice almost catching.
"It is remarkable he's still conscious. But he will possibly bleed out when we remove it. And the infection—,"
"He's going to die isn't he?" King Henry asks, "Then leave it. If he's going to die don't—,"
"My lord, his only chance of survival is if we do remove it. With the arrow inside he'll surely die of infection," the doctor says.
"But he'll likely die anyway?"
"Likely, your grace," the doctor lowers his eyes a bit.
"Can you not give him something for the pain?"
"Yes, my lord. We will. He will still need to be held down."
"Yes," the king turns back to look at his son there on the bed. Most of us heard that; Fastolf is looking away pointedly. Hal is half sitting up, a hand to the messed up side of his face, watching.
"Tell me, what did you just say to him—? Tell me, it's my head I—,"
"Just shut up a minute, Hal," the King says, putting a hand over his face. He's nearly going to cry.
"Deciding how they'll execute me, you know how you hate how wine makes your head go funny? You're gonna hate what they give you for pain, funny for days w' that," Fastolf says, going to kneel by the boy's feet.
"They aren't beheading you, I am," Hal says, but the malice has faded from his voice.
"Yeah, better keep it as well. Need something pretty to look at," Fastolf says, tugging on his foot,  "Do you want some water?"
"No," Hal says, trying to sniff but he gets blood. He gags it out.
"Why is it in your mouth?" The doctor asks.
"Because arrow is in my mouth, the top of it, at my throat," Hal says, disgusted, like they should have known that.
"Oh god," Scrope looks like he's going to be sick.
"Erridge, get his arm. Fastolf, the other arm. Oldcastle go hold his legs," the King says, fist to his mouth.
"No—no you don't need to hold me—wait they don't need to do it yet just till morning, father, please, stop them," Hal begs, tears now welling in his eyes, "It'll hurt worse."
"Stop struggling," King Henry says.
"Here, just hold my arm, grip it, hard as you like, that's all," Fastolf says, taking his arm, but very effectively pinning him down.
"Eh, I get your left hand, get hold of my arm see if you can break it yeah?" Erridge, asks, tears are nearly in his eyes too.
Oldcastle just goes and takes hold of his legs, looking like he thinks it's the worse job.
"Sip this," the doctor dribbles something into his mouth. It's going to be herbs, and some variant of opium. Which will relieve the pain but it's also not going to be a local anesthetic so he's still gonna feel pain.
"Just do it then," Hal says, lying back, attempting to submit to it.
Oisin and I exchange glances, trying to determine if it's worse to be here, or to leave and imagine it. We stay in the end.
Two doctors, with forceps, bear down on the Prince's head. There's just the click of metal at first, as they attempt to get a hold of the arrow shaft.
Then he starts screaming. They tug. He screams, and twists. The three men can barely hold him down. In a moment the doctors are sprayed with blood. Hal screams, unable to remain still, as the men pin his arms down, but he nearly flings them from him.
King Henry bears it maybe five minutes, then he stumbles outside to vomit. He comes back though, face sheet white and eyes lined with pain as he watches his child be tortured.
And the prince keeps screaming. They can't get it free. Nor is he staying still enough.  After the first fifteen minutes Erridge is also dry heaving, nothing on his stomach but water. Fastolf is just crying, face splattered fresh with blood from the surgery. He tips his face away but tears run from his eyes, as he grips the boy's arm for dear life. Hal's fingers claw his skin mercilessly, drawing blood. Fastolf bends down and kisses the boy's clenched white fingers.
Oldcastle is gripping his legs, nearly going green, just tipping his face away as he tries not to hear.
Scrope leaves within the first twenty minutes. He goes outside and throws up and does not return for a while, though, I hear him gag for several minutes. He does appear back in the doorway, but then the screaming begins again and he is forced to flee.
The screams echo around camp. Surely then men realize that their prince is now paying for his arrow wound. But so long as he screams he lives. So that's some hope I suppose.
The screaming is terrible. I didn't know he had that much energy left in him, or breath. I know from, well, future experience the painful flashbacks our Hal will have from this incident. It'll feel like his entire head is being torn open. Just unimaginable, pain. Something that never should be born without anesthetic or drugs. In a filthy tent, nothing properly clean, them sorting in his head.
And the screams continue. The surgeons aren't about to stop. Erridge and Fastolf are both just kneeling, eyes closed, wrestling his arms.
King Henry is visibly shaking. He's lost all color to his skin, eyes red, tears streaming down his cheeks. However he may feel or irritated he may be sometimes, that's still his son on that bed.
"Father, make them stop—make them stop—please I'll do anything you ask—please," Hal sobs his voice raw and cracking from pain, as the surgeons switch instruments. Blood is on the bed now, running into his eyes and he's gagging it out of his mouth again.
"They can't, Hal," the King says, his voice shaking. He can't even go over. "They can't stop."
"For pity's sake, they said, he'll die anyway," Erridge whispers.
"My son is strong. You're fine, just lie there Hal," King Henry looks at him then has to look away. The arrow is still sticking out of his cheek but now there's blood pouring around it.
"We can go back to London, please, father, I beg of you, not again," Hal sobs.
Fastolf is crying and just holding Hal's arm.
"We can't tell, it's—quite deep," the surgeon says. He's splattered in blood.
"They'll get it out. And you'll be well, lie there," King Henry says, not moving over to him.
"No, no, please it's not working please stop—Jesus—," he trails off into screaming and they begin again.
I'm curled up with my hands over my ears. The only reason I'm not leaving is because I can't bear to think of running away. I know the agony it causes him for the rest of his life.
The moments drag by. His screams are endless, and he keeps thrashing. The opium has done little for his pain, not anywhere near enough for that. And they're irritating the wound by prodding it.
Then there's more blood. The surgeons and the men pinning him are splattered, and Hal's screams are drown as he nearly chokes on his own blood filling his mouth.
They all move. The King steps over, hopefully. Hal rolls over on the bed, gagging out blood, tugging his arms free of the others. He's screaming and sobbing, both hands clutching his bloody face.
Fastolf leaps onto the bed, to stop him rolling off it and hold the tall boy up as he rocks back and forth, moaning absolute agony.
The doctors move to the king. They have the arrow shaft. But not the arrow head. The arrow shaft is over six inches long.
"That's how deep the arrow head is," the surgeon shows it to King Henry, "It—will not come out."
"There's no way, the wound is too narrow," the other doctor confirms.
"So he'll die?" King Henry asks, "If it's not out."
"Even if someone could remove it—then—it's unlikely he would survive such a procedure. It's never been done," the surgeon says, "I'm sorry, my lord."
Hal is sobbing, hands to his face. Blood is pouring from it, as he screams and sobs in agony, just rocking back and forth.
"Shh, shhh," Fastolf is red eyed and crying, holding him up and helping wipe blood that drains from his mouth.
King Henry says nothing. He's well aware of the odds. He also isn't a man who gives up.
Scrope has returned, the tent is now mostly full of nobles from both armies. Oldcaslte is sitting in the corner, defeated. Oisin pets the dog, which is growling and straining, angry at the people causing her master such pain.
"Here you are," Fastolf says, voice falsely calm, as he wipes the blood from Hal's face.
Hal slowly raises bloodshot eyes to the room, furious with anyone who witnessed his torment. No one will meet his gaze. At the moment he's entirely impossible to look at. The scarring is raw and terrible on his once soft cheek, the cheekbone is bent and crushed where the arrow entered, the skin drooping and nerves irreparably damaged. Much of it will soften with time, but he'll remain unmistakably marred from that side.
King Henry takes one look and averts his eyes in disgust. He's seen plenty of carnage, but seeing it painted across his own child's features? A child whose cheeks he kissed, whom he held when this baby was hours old, swearing to his mother that no harm would come to him. Now his face hauntingly ruined, and for all they know he'll live but a few more days.
"You can't even look at me. Look at me," Hal snarls, looking around at us. His voice is hoarse from screaming. "Look at me!"
Nobody moves. The wrath in his voice is terrible. All the honor and prestige of his station.
"I order you. Right now. Look at me. This is the face of your future king," Hal says, voice poisonous, all the usual anger seeping back in. He wears no mask anymore. Just a boy who knows damn well he was born to be king. he lowers his hands from his face, bloodied, shaking hands, revealing the full extent of the damage, "Look upon me."
Slowly they look, forcing themselves to look at him in all his war torn glory. Broken but oh so far from beaten.
"If I can bear it you can bear to look at it. Cowards. Everyone get out," he says, sitting up a bit straighter.
"Hal, you're going to die," his father says.
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said. I'm not going to die. That is my crown."  Oh right we got him high on opium. Ah, that is going to be terrible.
"You're going to die, you stupid child. That arrow is still in your head. They can't get it out. And until you die or I figure out how we're going to get it out you're going to lie there. And do as you're told. Or I'll have you tied down. You two—wash his wound, and clean it, with—whatever. Bandage it. And if he won't lie still, tie him down. He's not to move."
"My lord moving him is—," the doctor begins.
"If he dies he dies at home. We are going back to Kenilworth, at first light. Now do as I say. All of you!" King Henry growls. Everyone jumps to obey.
"I am not your prisoner—,"
"Give him what you can for pain. But he is to lie still so that—thing doesn't move in his head. In London we'll find another surgeon. He needs to be watched constantly, give him food and water, and he's not to move—Erridge see he's watched," King Henry says, putting a shaking hand through his hair.
"And you're going to go? You can't stand to see what you did to me. You did this to me. What would my mother say if she knew you'd done this to me?" Hal asks, voice dripping with unrestrained venom. No filter now, the drugs and pain took care of that. "Thinking I'm going to die. You wish I was going to die."
"You don't speak to me that way. Don't speak of your mother. You're a stupid, prideful, child. And you're going to die one. Are you happy now? You stayed on the field, you're going to die now. Which is probably better because you'd never have deserved my crown," King Henry snarls, leaning over his son. Erridge, per his orders, is lashing Hal to his bed.
"My crown."
"The only reason you still live after this display, is you're out of your head with pain," King Henry says, walking away.
"My crown," Hal mutters, tipping his head in obvious agony.
"We leave at dawn, have him ready, and do what you can to get him out of pain," King Henry says, then he does leave.