The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  ‘But if the brothers say he should not be moved, my lady, we cannot…’

  Trembling with shock, Eloise found a sudden and vigorous anger swamping every emotion except love, taking poor Father Janos aback with its velocity. ‘Yes, we can!’ she snapped at him. ‘He’s mine, Father, and I am his. We belong together, and I’m not leaving him at St Bart’s when we can tend him ourselves. We have as much knowledge between us as they do. Probably more. And if we can’t get him safely home, then we’re not trying hard enough.’ She saw the concern in the priest’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I mean no disrespect, but I’m not going to lose him. Not now. It’s not going to happen again. I cannot let it happen.’ Tears flooded her eyes, making them sparkle like diamonds.

  With a nod, the priest placed a gentle hand on her arm and held it. ‘Courage,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again. We’ll go together and we’ll take him to Whitecliffe. Now, shall we go in and see how best to plan this? There’s no time to be lost, by the sound of things.’

  Saskia held her in comforting arms, confirming Father Janos’s opinion. ‘It won’t happen again,’ she said, smoothing her back. ‘This is not like those other times. This is different.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Then, you were not able to do anything about it. This time, you are. This time, you must; and you’ve got us.’

  They set out for London that same afternoon with at least six hours of daylight left to them. Marie had pleaded to be allowed to go, but Eloise insisted it would be best for her to stay at Haughton with her son, though Marie had some interesting advice to offer.

  ‘St Bartholemew’s is where I worked before I moved to St Katherine’s,’ she told Eloise as they packed an assortment of newly made salves and sedatives. ‘It’s where I met Sir Rolph when he was injured after a tournament, and I know the physician, Master John of Gaddesdon.’

  ‘Yes? Then he must be one of the best, I suppose.’

  ‘He has a reputation, my lady, and a conceit to go with it. He’ll not take kindly to having an important patient like Sir Owain removed from his care. Be careful.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning, Marie. Forewarned is fore-armed. But I shall have Father Janos with me, remember.’

  ‘Ye-s.’ The sound was not enthusiastic, but Eloise had had no time to ask why, or to care that it was not for a woman to enter a man’s domain.

  She sent a message to Whitecliffe, preparing Nathaniel and the household for their eventual arrival with Sir Owain, also one to her mother and brother. Stopping only to eat and sleep, the small party of riders used up every daylight hour to push forward, silent and intent and far removed in spirit from their last journey only a few weeks earlier. With each mile, Eloise’s determination hardened, willing him to hang on to life. She could not let him go.

  Exhausted, they arrived at Smithfield in the fading light to the sound of the muted Compline bell that echoed softly from the great priory church of St Bartholemew. Opposite, near the northern wall of the city, stood the hospital buildings which Eloise had never thought she would enter for any reason. At this moment, tired or not, she would have fought her way inside.

  Their request for admittance was at first politely refused. ‘The hours of visiting are past,’ they were told, ‘and Sir Owain has had a stream of visitors all day. Well-wishers have crowded our doors, and ladies are never permitted within the hospice, I fear. Only the nursing sisters and—’

  ‘Yes, brother, we are aware of that,’ said Father Janos, dismounting. ‘Kindly tell the master, Richard Sutton, that we are here as a matter of great urgency. We have travelled far. The lady is Sir Owain’s betrothed, and I am his chaplain.’

  The door-keeper returned with the master, a dark and sensuous man who bowed gravely, welcoming them in. ‘But of course, my lady,’ he said, in sympathetic tones, eyeing Eloise beneath lazily hooded lids. ‘Your father, Sir Crispin, has visited our illustrious patient each morning. The king himself has insisted that our physician, Master John, should tend personally to his needs. He can have no better attention than that. And who knows how much time Sir Owain has left? Of course you must see him. And you, Brother…?’

  Eloise put him on the right track. ‘This is Sir Owain’s personal physician and chaplain, Father Janos Leuvenhoek. And my maid, Mistress Borremans. Please, can you tell me how Sir Owain is?’

  Master Sutton sighed and shook his head, shifting his eyes away from Eloise’s figure for the first time. ‘Tch! We’ve tried most things to wake him, but to no effect, so far. It was a nasty blow to the head, my lady. Knocked his helm off. He fell badly, and we think there may be leg injuries.’

  ‘You think?’ Eloise frowned. ‘Where is he? May we see him now?’

  ‘Of course, since you are family. Almost. We’ve put him in a private cell, an expensive comfort, but it’s only a matter of time, I fear. We pray for him constantly, my lady, I assure you.’

  They followed the black-clad Master Sutton along whitewashed corridors to where a low arched doorway led into a dimly lit room, starkly furnished except for the white-covered bed, a small table and stools, and a crucifix on the wall. The monk who kept vigil at the bedside rose as they entered and, with downcast eyes, bowed and went out.

  Eloise took his place, horrified by the still pale face, almost unrecognisable in a swathe of head bandages, eyes sunk deep into brown sockets, lips blue-tinged, the nose pinched. ‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered. ‘Owain…beloved.’ Her lips on his forehead tasted his cold sweat. Appalled, she stared at Father Janos.

  The priest had seen. ‘What treatment is he receiving?’ he asked. ‘May we see his wounds?’ Already he had his hand on Sir Owain’s pulse.

  ‘Er…well,’ Master Sutton stuttered, uncomfortable with the request and unwilling to take responsibility, ‘…er, perhaps it would be best if you were to ask Master John Gaddesdon in the morning.’

  ‘I am Sir Owain’s physician, Master, and Lady Eloise is skilled at healing. None more so. We know what we are doing, I assure you. Could you provide us with a bowl of hot water and some towels, please?’ Father Janos removed the black cloak that covered his white habit, anticipating Eloise’s mind.

  Scowling, Master Sutton disappeared. It was too late for this game and he’d already interrupted his supper for them. People could be so unco-operative.

  ‘He said,’ Eloise muttered, folding down the sheet, ‘that they thought he might have leg injuries, but how can they not know after all these days? And haven’t they given him water? Or food?’ She lifted the white linen nightshirt off his legs and stared in horror at his left leg, mottled red and purple and swollen inside tight skin. ‘Look at this! They’ve not even poulticed it.’

  ‘We must get him out of here,’ said Father Janos, grimly. ‘Let’s have some more light, Mistress Saskia. Over here. Saints have mercy! This is nasty. Let’s take a look at his head wound, shall we, m’lady?’

  ‘Can you ease him forward while I undo the bandage?’

  A voice snapped at them shrilly from the doorway. ‘What in heaven’s name d’ye think you’re doing? Leave my patient at once!’

  None of the three paid the slightest attention.

  The door closed. ‘Do you hear me? I am John of Gaddesdon, Master Physician of this hospital. No one may interfere with my patients.’

  ‘Then if you wait long enough, Master John Gaddesdon,’ Eloise countered, ‘Sir Owain will not be your patient, will he? In fact, he won’t be anyone’s patient. What is there to interfere with, exactly? Life? Or death?’ By this time, the bandage had been removed and Sir Owain’s battered head laid back on the pillow. ‘Bring the light up, Saskie. I can scarce see which is hair and which is blood.’

  ‘I was about to begin a different treatment tomorrow morning,’ said John of Gaddesdon. He was very short and rotund in his all-black garb except for a rim of white surplice showing at the bottom. His face was ruddy and heavy-jowled, his lower lip hanging loosely over a chin that had lost itself in his throat. Eyes, mean and petul
ant, swept continually up and down the unwanted guests, particularly lingering over Father Janos’s white habit. ‘We would have shaved the back of his head and administered a plaster of oil or roses, verjuice and wild celery,’ he said, pompously. ‘And what do you know about wounds, sir?’ He advanced to the bottom of the bed.

  Eloise glared at him. ‘Master Gaddesdon,’ she said, ‘may we ask what you know about this wound? Have you taken the trouble to inspect it? Personally?’

  ‘Well…yes, of course I have. Such wounds are often best left alone, you know, and, in my long experience, the evil humours that cause false sleep must be extracted by blood-letting at the most auspicious times, which according to my reckoning, will be—’

  ‘Which will be when he’s got no more blood to give, sir, if I may say so,’ said Father Janos, angrily. ‘Can you not see his colour in this light? Does he look as if he has any to spare?’

  ‘And who are you, sir?’ Again, the Master Physician swept his eyes over Father Janos with obvious disdain.

  The priest, not given to boasting, was tempted too far. ‘Father Janos Leuvenhoek, chaplain to Sir Owain, trained in theology and medicine at Leuven and Bologna. A sound curriculum by anybody’s standards. And yes, Master Gaddesdon, Dominican priests have two arms, two legs and one head, just like Augustinian canons, as you see. Does that reassure you?’

  The man glowered uncomfortably. ‘I have nothing against Dominicans,’ he said, ‘but I cannot have my authority challenged; there can be only one line of treatment, Father.’

  ‘Then that’s easily settled, sir. We shall remove Sir Owain from your care.’

  ‘And condemn him to certain death. He cannot be moved.’

  While they spoke, Eloise was carefully examining the patient’s head under the lamp that Saskia held, parting the thick hair matted with blood and exclaiming at the damage. ‘Father,’ she said, urgently, ‘this must be attended to immediately. It’s a fracture.’

  ‘Tut, lady,’ John of Gaddesdon contradicted, ‘a poultice of pigeons’ droppings with honey will often cure…excessive harmful matter…’ He droned on as the hot water and towels arrived carried by two white-robed nursing sisters.

  Eloise took the chance to ask them, ‘Where is the young squire who was at his master’s side when he was brought in here? His name is Michael.’

  ‘Michael was dismissed, my lady,’ one of them said. ‘He was sent back to Cold Harbour, Sir Owain’s London home.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. Now, with St Bart’s reputation for hospitality, do you think you could provide the men and horses in our retinue with food and shelter for the night? We three will stay here, but they are exhausted and they cannot reach Cold Harbour now that the city gates have been locked and the curfew sounded.’

  ‘Certainly, my lady. We’ll attend to it.’

  ‘And tell Master Sutton, if you please, that my father will make a generous donation to the hospice.’ She smiled at them. ‘He’ll not be out of pocket. Now, Master Gaddesdon, do you wish to assist us, or do you prefer to be a spectator? We’re going to open this wound up. Saskia, bring up the physic-chest, will you?’

  Unwilling, but far too curious to be left out, John of Gaddesdon followed his guests’ example and rolled up his sleeves, washing his hands and watching with some scepticism as Saskia unrolled a waxed linen bag holding a mass of feathery plant-life.

  ‘Water-moss,’ she said.

  ‘Hold his head quite still,’ said Eloise, ‘while I snip this hair away.’ Carefully, she cut the hair close to the scalp, dismissing from her mind that this was the man she adored. She cleansed the bare patch with an infusion of St John’s wort and rosemary, then she cut the skin around the area where splinters of bone had been crushed into small particles like spears waiting to pierce and wound. Delicately, each tiny splinter was lifted away without piercing the membrane beneath, while Father Janos cleaned the area again with a distillation made only a few days ago of plantain, honeysuckle and white rose petals.

  ‘I think,’ Eloise told him, ‘that you should have the honour of packing your employer’s head with the water-moss. That’s it. In a tidy layer. No pressure. Now, we bind it gently and wait. Oh, my poor sweet thing.’

  It was well into the early hours of the morning before they had finished discovering and treating his wounds, including the cleaning and poulticing of a badly inflamed leg. Master Gaddesdon had no explanation for not treating the swelling, nor had he discovered the broken collarbone, a common injury.

  At intervals, Eloise moistened Sir Owain’s lips with boiled water sweetened with honey and, as dawn lightened the high window of the cell, they watched the faintest tint of pink to reach his lips, at last.

  John of Gaddesdon had bid them a subdued goodnight and left them to it, but Eloise and her two supporters nibbled at a cold supper brought to them by one of the women, too weary to taste it. ‘Now for the next battle,’ she said. ‘How to get him out of here.’

  Father Janos was full of admiration for her courage. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that when we came in here last night I could not have said with any certainty that he’d survive another hour or two. And he has. Unless something goes badly wrong, I believe he may yet pull through. You were right, you know.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘We do know more than they do. But you know more than any of us. I’ve never seen that done before.’

  ‘Nor have I. I’d only heard about a woman who did it on a man who fell off a cliff. And we found some water-moss just the day before we…’ Her face crumpled. ‘Oh, Janos! I can’t…can’t bear it. The thought of losing him…oh, please God…don’t let him go. Please!’

  The priest’s hand closed over her arm as Saskia placed an arm around her shoulders and, together with Saskia’s hand in the priest’s, they made a circle of comfort over the unconscious form in the bed.

  The problem of how to remove Sir Owain from the hospice without an undignified tussle was solved in a matter of an hour by the appearance of Sir Crispin de Molyns who, until his dawn arrival at St Bartholemew’s, had known nothing of his daughter’s prompt response to his message.

  ‘Father!’ Eloise flung herself into his arms, clinging like a lost child.

  ‘Lass,’ he murmured. ‘Nay, I’d no idea you’d be flying down at this pace. You arrived last night, so they tell me. You must hardly have stopped for breath. Father Janos, how do you do, man? And you too, Saskia.’

  ‘Did Master Sutton complain of the trouble we’ve caused him?’ Eloise wanted to know.

  Smiling at the radical change of heart, he hugged her. ‘Well, let me put it this way, love. They’re far more in awe of you than they are of me. Have they not done well for him?’

  She wiped her eyes and released him. ‘He’s in a mess,’ she said. ‘Look. Heaven knows what they’ve been doing. Emptied him of blood, for one thing.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Sir Crispin told her, ‘he bled profusely from the nose. They had a problem stopping it. I believe they did what they could.’

  Father Janos was looking ahead. ‘We need to get him away from here, sir. Could you use your influence to have him taken to Cold Harbour, for the time being?’

  ‘Of course. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Between us, we can give him all the care he needs. Then we can take him up to Whitecliffe. He must have the best. He’s very poorly. I never thought to see him like this.’ Her voice broke again.

  ‘You’re tired out, lass. And you, both of you. We’ll have him out of here in no time. Leave it to me.’

  More than anyone else in the king’s service, Sir Crispin had access to the most sumptuous wagons, the best horses and drivers, and teams of men to bear the recumbent knight, heavily bandaged, bolstered and supported, to the well-prepared chamber at Cold Harbour in which he and Eloise had spent the blissful night of their betrothal.

  ‘And now,’ Saskia said with a sad glance at the smooth bed with its unconscious occupant, ‘the place looks even more like a battlefi
eld than it did then.’

  Until then, Eloise had not known what it was to devote every moment of every hour to the struggle between life and death. Being sure of her love for him was one thing, but the all-consuming and desperate compulsion to keep him and hold him against every threat now became her one and only aim in life, not only to deny Fate another success but because life was unthinkable without him. Her bouts of weeping were few and private; her sleeping and eating fitful and brief. Her anger at the state of her beloved was fearsome, and it was not arrogance that made her sure she and Janos could do better but disgust that John of Gaddesdon of international reputation had done so little. She had heard it from one of the nursing sisters that the Physician’s next treatment was to have been to plunge Sir Owain into a bath in which a fox had previously been boiled so that he might absorb some of the fox’s characteristics. Exactly which ones were not specified.

  In theory, Father Janos, Michael the squire, Saskia and Eloise were to have taken turns to stay by Sir Owain’s bedside but, in practice, Eloise could not tear herself away for long, watching for any sign, taking his pulse, bathing him, feeding him sips of an infusion made from nettles, parsley, watercress and honey to renew his blood. To their delight, he accepted it and kept it down. On the second day after their abscondment from St Bartholemew’s, his eyelids blinked open long enough to show them that the man inside was aware of them, even in half-sleep and, later that evening, his fingers moved tentatively across Eloise’s hand as she sat cutting his fingernails.

  ‘Beloved?’ She looked up and saw his dark eyes resting upon her, pensively. His lips moved, and she placed her head near him, straining to catch the sound upon his breath. Then she smiled and kissed his forehead. ‘No, my love, you’re not in heaven. Not yet. You’re in bed at Cold Harbour, and Janos is here, and Michael, and Saskia. We shall care for you. You’re in good hands. And that’s as near to heaven as you’ll be getting for a while.’

  She thought he smiled at that before he sank back into sleep, but that delicate first contact was enough to prompt a hug of celebration for Father Janos and Saskia and, later, Sir Walter de Mauny who came to see his friend as he had done each day. The house at Cold Harbour was rarely empty of callers—Jolita and Henry, Sir Crispin, Lord and Lady Pace, and the French prisoner-of-war who had accidentally caused the injuries. His jousting horse, borrowed from an Englishman, was unused to his commands in French and had swerved at the critical moment, he explained to them. In trying to lift his lance up and out of the danger zone, he had caught its tip under the neck-piece of Sir Owain’s helm, making his injuries more serious by a fall onto the sharp edge of the damaged head-piece.