Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 13: M*A*S*H* (part 2)

Yeah, we get our thirty five thousand crowns. One wind blown dragon ride later. That done we go back to Kenilworth, and 1403. I'm exhausted from all the going back and forth. My sole comfort is Courtenay is more handicapped than I am at the moment. I realize he's a scrawny teenager just now, but I know far too well the power he holds. He's a danger on a good day, but with his prince injured he's downright predatory, especially towards wizards. I am not interested in dealing with that. I'm not even supposed to be in this time.
Unfortunately, we are not the only ones descending on Kenilworth. The royal party is back, that is to say, King Henry IV, with more doctors.
Prince Hal was happily in bed, working on his three step 'colonize, marry, kill' plan for France. Well, that's what it looks like he's doing when Oisin and I stroll in with the sack of crowns. Courtenay is naturally with him and helping and naturally dives to collect the papers. Not two seconds after we show up the rest of the party descends and we're pushed aside. Prince Hal, who absolutely loves money, is disappointed by this, but he can't argue it.
"I've found a better doctor," King Henry informs his son, "He's going to get the arrowhead out of your skull, do you understand?"
"Whom? What doctor?" Prince Hal asks, politely, shoving more papers into Courtenay's hands. Courtenay slinks away.
"He's a Dr. Bradmore, he's a very good surgeon, the best in London," King Henry says.
"Dr. Bradmore we arrested for counterfeiting?"
"No, a different one," it absolutely is not.
"You—went to the Tower and got him out? To stick things in my head?" Hal asks, upset, hand on his face delicately, "What if—this is a thought—we not let him stick things up my head? And we leave it? I'm well the pain is better—,"
"Hal. They have said if it does not come out you will die. Now lie here, while he examines you," King Henry says, watching as the nurses descend on his son.
"But—but can't we talk about this father, privately?" Hal snarls, as the doctor comes in. A twitchy, small man, thin and rat like, Dr. Bradmore looks equally annoyed at being tugged from the Tower for this.
Hal grunts a little in pain as the doctor sticks his fingers in the wound. King Henry takes a step forward, but the mastiff loyally blocks him from accessing his son.
"Somebody get this dog out of here—? Where did it even come from?"
"It's mine, your grace," Courtenay dives over and drags the mastiff back. The mastiff is as big as Courtenay so this does not go overly well.
"Yours? You—it was in Wales," King Henry, confused.
Courtenay, who likely doesn't even know why they're lying about this, knotting his fingers around the custom thick black leather collar that has 'Athena' written on it in Greek, because his boyfriend is the most extra person alive, "Your grace, it must look similar; it's my dog I'll get it out."
"Do," King Henry gives up, shaking his head.
Dr. Bradmore completes his examination and returns to the King, beckoning him aside. Don't worry, Hal spends this whole time demanding to be told what is being said while Courtenay tries to listen to tell him.
"I cannot even see the arrowhead. It's deep into his skull. I can, perhaps, invent an instrument to tug it out," Dr. Bradmore says, fiddling with his hands.
"But?" King Henry asks.
"There is the possibility he will bleed out," Dr. Bradmore says, "He'll likely suffer seizures as well."
"But if it's left in?"
"He'll soon die."
"Do it," King Henry looks back at his son lying on the bed, defeated and miserable.
I wince. In reality it's more hazardous to the prince's life to attempt to remove it. The crude surgery is going to be unsterile, and painful. He'll be awake with no sedative or pain relief. Lodged as it is since he's already entirely lucid, the arrowhead might as well remain where it is. Now they don't know that. And I do know for a fact he's going to survive. However, that doesn't make what's going to happen over the next twelve hours, any less painful.
Yes. Twelve hours.
Dr. Bradmore goes to be directed to a forage. He's going to make an instrument to drill the arrowhead out. King Henry goes to talk to his son, one more time.
"If you don't let us do this, you will die. It cannot remain there."
"But it's there now," Hal says, softly.
"You have to let him do it. He will try. It's going to hurt again, but—look at me, I've brought a priest—,"
"Don't you dare," Hal breaths, "No."
"—I've brought a priest. We'll leave you alone—,"
"I have a priest."
"He's going to drill into your skull, Hal. You asked me to return. You may very well die," King Henry says, softly.
"I have had confession, send the priest away," Hal says, "We shall not need him."
King Henry says nothing. The new priest stays.
A priest is needed for last rites. In Catholicism, to enter heaven properly and all that, you have to have last rites as you are dying, immediately before death. If you die on the battlefield, then you get a priest to try to do it after but it's not the same. Point being, King Henry brought a priest to do last rites for if they start losing him. That's how dire the situation is seen to be. But to Hal that's admitting defeat that's why he's refusing.
The room is not cleared. King Henry lines us up in order of size to hold him down. I'm exempt from that because I turn invisible when he's picking. I'm not about to be involved I know I couldn't do it. Fastolf resolutely volunteers himself to hold one of the prince's arms, Erridge the other. A couple of stewards will take his legs. Scrope and Oldcastle and the others are lined up to take turns holding him if the other breaks. The priest hovers, Courtenay hovers more. Oisin comes and takes the dog to quiet it.
Dr. Bradmore returns with the instrument. It's a metal tool, much like a modern corkscrew, with a center shaft to bore into the arrowhead, and then sort of tongs on the outside to grip it, and, hopefully, pull it out. He also has an array of knives, and a few poultices.
Hal now resolved, lays there quietly, letting them take his arms. They give him a piece of leather to bite on.
First, in order to get the device in the wound, Dr. Bradmore must cut away from his face further, then widen the whole. This will cause even worse scarring that will mar his face for life.
That part doesn't go so badly. Hal makes little noise as the doctor cuts open his cheek, peeling the skin back. Then he sets to widening the hole, to allow the arrowhead to come out and the probe to go in.
Hal moans a bit, he doesn't twist away though, not at first. When he begins King Henry nods for one of the stewards to go and hold his head in place.
The trimming away of his face is brutal, everyone in the room is hit with the stench of blood. It's an arduous process that must take over an hour till the doctor is satisfied. But now the worst is about to begin:
Inserting the instrument, and attaching it to the arrowhead.
Hal bites down on the leather, but within moment's he's screaming. The screams as bad as before, echoing through the stone room now, and all the participants close to the surgery are splattered with blood.
King Henry lasts maybe twenty minutes before he leaves to vomit. The others follow suit fairly quickly, offering relief to those holding the prince down. All but one refuse to switch out. Fastolf remains, braced, holding the prince down, his own face set with pain.
Courtenay falls to his knees in prayer, head bent, hands clasped. His prayer, and this is very touching, I'll always remember this, goes "I know we haven't spoken in a while. But I'm sorry for the murders. And I could really use you right now". You know, like they teach you in seminary. He goes on but I can't hear it over the screaming.
Dr. Bradmore stops now and then. He tells them to give Hal water, and lets the men switch out holding him down, as needed.
Prince Hal takes it as best he can, accepting water or wine, and then lying back down for more torment. Fastolf does not switch out, gripping his arm and letting Hal dig his fingers into his forearm.
King Henry returns briefly but he can only make it so long. The third time he leaves he comes back with tears running down his cheeks.
By the third hour they still haven't hit arrowhead and blood is soaking the bed. King Henry keeps looking to the priest. Courtenay has yet to stop praying. We all long for this day to end.
Day wears on. Millimeters by millimeter, the instrument works it's way deep and deeper into Hal's skull. Awake as he is he's sobbing. Simply sobbing and screaming, when they take the gag out he begs them to stop.
"Keep going. Just keep going," King Henry breaths, unable to even look, now the instrument, all metal, is protruding from his son's face, a gaping hole in the boy's cheek.
Hal screams past the gag. He bites his tongue. Fastolf's arm is bloody and bruised from him gripping it. Hal has to stop more often now, every ten minutes or so, to spit out blood that is pooling in his mouth.
By the third hour we hit arrowhead. That's just clamping onto it. It takes well over forty five minutes for the doctor to position the device, now six inches deep into the princes' skull. Hal cries in agony, he's hoarse from screaming.
The long process of drawing the head out now must be. This is where the true pain lies, an arrowhead designed to cause injury as removed, scrapping against bone and dragging along the raw path of the arrow.
The progress is mind numbingly slow. Blood pours into Hal's mouth, and eyes. He has to keep sitting up to vomit it up. The doctor lets him. By now he's weak, passing out from pain and blood loss. He simply rolls over and vomits over the side of the bed, not about to do anything to upset the instrument sticking out of his face. Blood clots in his mouth so much he chokes. Blessedly, I suppose for his sake, he passes out from pain by the sixth hour.
"Wake him. He's not breathing enough he'll drown in the blood," Dr. Bradmore advises.
"My god, let him sleep if he sleeps," King Henry says, he's all shades of pale, at this point he's thrown up nearly as much as his son.
"Wake him. He'll drown in the blood," Dr. Bradmore says, emotionlessly.
"Hal, Hal come on now," Fastolf shakes his shoulder.
Hal comes to, more moaning than anything, sobbing and trying to twist free. Dr Bradmore just goes back to work. And the prince screams though his voice is raw.
By the seventh hour Hal is passing out with alarming frequency. He takes the water they offer and vomits it back up. They slap him awake only for him to lose consciousness the next steady tug. He nearly chokes on clotting blood in his mouth and after that Dr. Bradmore orders the men to keep him awake constantly, driving needles into his skin, or shaking him fiercely till he comes to.
Day turns to night. The watch shifts. Fastolf gives in for a while, just going outside to throw up, before returning red eyed to his post.
King Henry begins to lose hope. The priest gives the last rites.
Dr Bradmore glares but says nothing. By now Hal can't be woken.
We all are numb by the end. Hal is incoherent, waking only to sob and scream then quickly losing consciousness. The end comes in the form of the arrowhead, slipping smoothly from the wound, prince and bedsheets soaked in blood.
Dr. Bradmore, shaking but triumphant, clutches it and his instrument. He orders nurses to massage oils into the prince's neck and head to prevent seizures.
Hal wakes, pushing them away. He moans, clutching his face, shaking with sobs of agony.
"It's over now," King Henry says.
Hal gives no reply, he's rocking back and forth clutching his head. Moaning slightly, but just cradling his bleeding head as blood runs from his lips. It's not even clear if he's awake or coherent, he's just moaning in absolute agony, tears mingling in his bloodshot eyes.
Courtenay is still kneeling on the floor where he was praying. He's now quivering, as though it takes all the strength he has to stop himself from flying to the bed and holding the prince in his arms. Fastolf is leaning against the wall, equally defeated, blood on both of his arms from the prince and from himself.
"Clean the wound it's weeping," Dr. Bradmore says, calmly, the arrowhead still bloody in his palm.
A nurse moves forward, carrying the wash basin they've been using to mop up the blood.
"Don't fucking touch me," Hal snarls, his voice is shaking, completely gravelly from the screaming. He crawls a little bit away, hands still clutching his now wholly disfigured face. "I command you do not touch me."
King Henry like, visibly cheers up that his son is swearing and ordering people, "Out. Clear the room, let him rest."
"He—," Dr. Bradmore begins.
"You heard the prince, leave him alone. Let him sleep now—set up watches, all of you—Erridge see that someone stays with him."
"Leave me," Hal snarls, but tears bubble in his voice.
Courtenay is shaking, looks like he's going to actually obey and leave. Fastolf trips him and basically kicks  him under the bed because apparently Fastolf is a good wingman. Courtenay has been a part of the Lancaster family long enough not to react to this.
"Pray or something," Fastolf snarls at him, as he starts guiding the rest of us out.
Oisin, who put himself in charge of the dog this whole time, lets it go as the others clear the room. The big dog runs to the bed and hops up. When Hal does not react the animal lays down, putting her head on his leg, staring at him with sad eyes. He does not move, other than to rock and moan in pain.
I shrug at Oisin, and we both leave. We know he recovers fully to be Awful to people across Europe, but that doesn't make witnessing this any less painful. Out in the hall it's packed with people, most of the staff at Kenilworth have assembled to pray for their beloved prince.
"Well?" King Henry turns to Bradmore, "Will he live?"
"Impossible to say. Infection is the main concern. He needs to remain quiet, and the wound needs to be packed with honey. In all likelihood he'll start having seizures within a few days," Dr. Bradmore says, "It was a hand's width into his brain it's remarkable he's still conscious."
"All right, go, see that that's done," King Henry nods, looking back at the room as though wanting to go back in, but knowing better.
"Let's go hide before someone finds us something to do?" Oisin suggests.
"Agreed, he needs to sleep that off, and frankly so do we," I sigh. He'll be in no condition to sell us the sword for a while now.