Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter Twenty-Four - Scales

Never pull out the arrow. Every soldier knew that.

Guy was dimly aware that the man assigned the task was the king's physician. Ginger-haired and lean, he bent over him with his implements and a matter-of-fact authority which did nothing to reassure; Guy had seen enough arrow wounds to know what was in store.

Two arrows. One through his leg, another lodged by his collarbone.

"Not deep, that one," he heard the physician say, "the armour stopped it penetrating far. The leg worries me more."

Meg was there, stroking his hand. Djaq had been heating water over a brazier, soaking a sponge which was wrung out and placed under his nose. The fumes lulled, but not enough that he didn't feel the first, light touch on the wound. He howled, unintelligibly, wishing Meg gone – he didn't want her to see him like this - even as he gripped her hand with whatever passed for strength now. He didn't know.

"For pity's sake, Djaq, won't it do anything more?" Meg cried.

"Patience. Look - it's working. Soon he'll feel nothing."

Later, they brought him back with a sponge soaked in vinegar. But the next time he slipped from consciousness, it wasn't due to any sponge, and he didn't wake. He slept through that night, and the next day, but it wasn't a healing sleep, nor a gentle one. He threshed, sweated. Time shifted in meaningless patterns, like sand burrowing in from the desert, filling cracks, filming water, settling on surfaces.

People came and went; shadowy figures. Some he could identify.

"Will he be alright? Tell me, Djaq." Meg's voice, soothing - just for a moment - his erratic breaths.

"If this passes before tomorrow, then yes." Djaq. "I've seen it before - men take fever from the stress of their wounds. But if not, then it may be an infection. In which case...we will do all we can. In the meantime, we must keep him comfortable. Make sure he has plenty to drink."

Meg caressed his forehead; her hand, cool on heated skin. Placing and renewing tepid cloths, administering drinks, some bitter on his tongue, she also helped Djaq change his poultices and bandages, and when this was done Meg would stay with him, her fingertips sometimes tracing a tender path over his cheekbones and his brow. 

Still people came and went. Once, in his drifting state, he heard a new voice. Something about the tone of replies in the tent told him this was someone different. But by the time he realised that the Lionheart himself had been to visit, the king had gone.

Even in his fevered state, Guy wondered why the king had been. But his thoughts wouldn't knit together, any more than his body would do aught but ache and tremble. And so he lay there, blocking everything out except Meg's sweet touch and her murmurs of affection, knowing that there was every chance that these might be withdrawn from him once she discovered what he had done.

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Marian paced, though the tent – filled with muted sunlight – gave little scope for it.

Robin was late. He was angry with her, Marian knew; furious, in fact. But they hadn't argued. Instead he'd just disappeared, to sit with the king while he recovered, apprising him - she supposed - of events in England.

It would all change now; surely everything would change.

Because Vaisey was dead. Her own dagger had seen to that, along with Robin's arrow. Surely the king would dismantle the Black Knights – perhaps he would even come home.