Geoffrey’s shield had been ripped from his shoulder and his lance sent spinning out of reach. Hastily unsheathing his own sword, he spat out one of his father’s favorite Angevin oaths and made his refusal even more emphatic by slashing at the other man’s leg. His defiance was unthinking, dictated by pride. A knight unhorsed was in grave peril, and he was a particularly tempting target; his opponents would soon be trampling one another in their eagerness to capture the Duke of Brittany. He knew, though, that he need not hold out for long. A knight’s first duty was to protect his liege lord and his Bretons would race to his rescue as soon as they noticed his plight. It was just a question who would arrive first, friends or foes.
Sparks flew as he parried the other man’s sword thrust and then jumped back, forcing the knight to rein in his mount. “Do not be a fool,” the man panted. “Yield and if you give me your parole, I’ll free you to rejoin the melee!” He swore bitterly then, not at Geoffrey, but at the riders coming up fast. “Stay back! He’s mine, to me!”
“You always were a greedy sod, Ancel,” one of the new arrivals laughed. “A duke’s ransom is too much for one man!”
Geoffrey had seized his opportunity and snatched up his shield. Spurning Ancel’s repeated demands to surrender, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc to keep the horses at bay, taking a blow on his shield that staggered him. Facing down three knights, he despaired when he saw others galloping toward them. But then he heard the sweetest sound this side of Heaven’s golden harps. “Saint Malo! Saint Malo!” The battle cry of the Bretons.
His attackers were turning to meet this new threat. Geoffrey recognized Gerard de Fournival in the lead, with Matthew de Goulaine and his cousin Morgan only a few strides behind him. More and more of his men were turning away from the melee, too, starting to ride in his direction, and Geoffrey saw salvation was at hand. He had no time to savor his reprieve, though. Gerard’s destrier, screaming like a banshee, smashed into the closest of its foes, and the other animal reared to meet the attack, unseating its rider. All was chaos, shouting men and slashing swords and maddened horses. Acutely aware of his danger, Geoffrey darted for the closest open space. But before he could break free, the riderless stallion bolted and he was brushed by its haunches as it turned, knocking him off his feet. Blinded by the clouds of dust being churned up, he never saw the flailing hooves above his head.
“ I think he’s coming around!”
The voice seemed to echo from a great distance, and when Geoffrey opened his eyes, he saw nothing but sky. The sun was so bright that he squeezed his eyes shut again as he sought to orient himself, to understand why he was lying on the ground, feeling as if every bone in his body was broken.
“Geoffrey…my lord!” This voice was familiar and so urgent that he tried to filter the glare through his lashes, enabling him to focus upon the circle of worried faces clustered around him. He was not surprised to see Gerard and Morgan, but he was puzzled by the presence of his sister. Although he did not remember what had happened, he sensed that she ought not to be here.
Seeing his confusion, Gerard knelt and leaned over so Geoffrey could hear. “You are in the recet. You were unhorsed and trampled…do you not remember? We drove them off and carried you to safety. The men-at-arms are guarding us, making sure none of those knaves make another try at capturing you.”
It alarmed Geoffrey that he remembered none of this. He did not even remember the estor, the start of the tournament. “How…?”
“Ancel de Vernon cheated!” Morgan came back into Geoffrey’s line of vision. “That whoreson did not couch his lance, kept it in the fautre. He denied it, but he’s done it in the past.”
Geoffrey understood what Morgan was saying; it just did not seem very important at the moment. Marie obviously did not understand, though. “‘In the fautre’? What does that mean, Morgan?”
“The fautre is a spear rest, my lady, attached to the front of a man’s saddle, enabling him to balance the lance upright whilst riding. He ought to have braced the lance under his arm when he charged. By leaving it in the fautre, he gave his thrust much more power. That is why he was able to knock the duke from his horse even though the lance did not strike my cousin’s shield a direct blow.”
One of the knights produced a wineskin, and Marie took it from him, tilting it to her brother’s lips. Geoffrey swallowed gratefully. “You ought…not to be here…” he mumbled, surprised that his words sounded so slurred.
“I should have remained in the stands and watched the estor? When I did not know if you lived or not?”
Marie frowned down at him, and Geoffrey thought hazily that she looked like his mother, sounded like her, too. He was touched that they’d all been so concerned for him and he wanted to reassure them that his greatest injury was to his pride. “Are…are we winning?” he asked, and they burst out laughing, taking his question as proof that the legendary luck of the English king held true for his son, too.
Marie had lost all interest in the tournament after Geoffrey’s narrow escape. She’d accompanied him back to his tent, not departing until she was sure that he had indeed suffered no more than bruises, scrapes, and contusions. She’d have preferred to go to her lodgings at the abbey of St Pierre, but she’d left her young son in the stands with her ladies and his nurse, and she did not trust them to keep Thibault out of mischief. Upon her return, she found that the melee had long since broken up into smaller presses, continuing the fighting out of sight and sound of the spectators. But Thibault was still so excited that she had to promise she’d bring him back later to watch the awarding of the prize.
True to her word, Marie and Thibault were back in their seats several hours later. She knew they’d have a wait, but she did not have the heart to deny her son, whose enthusiasm for the tourney had not been diminished by his uncle’s mishap. To Thibault, the day had exceeded his expectations, and he was soon proving to be a handful for his harried nurse, bouncing up on his seat to watch knights returning to the field, squirming and wriggling and demonstrating that no adults could hope to match the boundless energy of puppies, colts, and small boys. Marie kept a sharp eye upon him, for she was not a novice to motherhood, and her vigilance soon paid off, for she was able to stop Thibault from dashing down onto the field when he sighted her eldest son.
The young Count of Champagne rode over, delighting his little brother by swinging him up into the saddle and taking him for a slow gallop around the lists. After turning Thibault over to one of his knights, Henri reined in beside the stands and Marie hastened down the steps to meet him. His flaxen hair was tousled, his face smeared with sweat and dirt and there was a reddish stain on his hauberk that was worrying until she could be sure the blood was not his.
“Maman, I heard what happened to my uncle Geoffrey and so I stopped by his tent. He insisted that he was unhurt and said he means to attend the dinner tonight.”
“What? Why must you men be so loath to use the brains God gave you?”
Henri grinned, for this was a conversation they’d had before; his mother was convinced that males were born without any common sense whatsoever. “I’d want to go, too, if I were in his place,” he admitted. “It is a matter of pride. But…” Lowering his voice, he said, “The thing is that I do not think he is as well as he claims. He is very pale and hollow-eyed, like a man trying to pretend he’s not suffering from a morning-after malaise. I think it would be best if he keeps away from the revelries tonight; they can last till dawn, after all. I thought mayhap if you talked to him…” Finding a smile, he joked that she was a force to be reckoned with and Geoffrey would not dare to defy her. But Marie was not misled by his attempt at humor; Geoffrey must look like Walking Death if her daredevil son Henri had taken notice.
Tents of the nobility were often so large that they had to be erected with winches, and Geoffrey’s was a spacious one, but it was so crowded that Marie did not at once see her brother. Geoffrey knew most of the tournament participants and friends had quickly gathered once word
spread of his fall. A number of French knights and lords were there, too, their presence confirming Marie’s suspicions that Geoffrey and Philippe were plotting together. She finally found Geoffrey seated on the edge of his bed, talking with the renowned French knight Guillaume de Barres. One glance was enough to convince her that he was in pain; her husband had suffered from chronic headaches and she knew the signs: the tightness around Geoffrey’s mouth, the vein throbbing in his temple, the ashen cast to his skin.
Marie was, at forty-one, still a beautiful woman and an accomplished flirt. She drew upon that charm now to disperse the men clustered around her brother. Sitting beside Geoffrey, she asked if he had seen a doctor. He swore he had, saying the physician had been impressed that his injuries were so trifling. Marie hoped he was right, but did not let that distract her from her purpose, and launched into her argument why he should not attend the night’s dinner.
Much to her surprise, Geoffrey did not dispute her. “I am not feeling so good,” he admitted. “My headache has gotten worse and I’m having some pain here.” He gestured vaguely toward his abdomen. The mere thought of food roiled his stomach, but he saw no need to share that, saying with a flickering smile, “So you need not fret, Sister. I shall keep to my bed tonight, I promise.”
“I am glad to hear that.” But the more Marie scrutinized Geoffrey, the more uneasy she became. “I want you to come back with me to the abbey,” she said. “Their infirmarian is experienced in the healing arts, and I can vouch for his skills, which I cannot do for your tourney leech. Do it for me, Geoffrey, I implore you.”
“You’re forgetting the Church’s hostility to the tournament, Marie. I doubt that the abbot would be pleased if one of his monks tended to a sinful tourneyer.”
“And you are forgetting that my husband’s father was a great patron of St Pierre’s. Not only is he interred in their church, his son Hugh was the abbot there for seven years. Trust me when I say the monks will bid you welcome.”
Marie was both relieved and disquieted when Geoffrey raised no further objections, for if he was willing to see the infirmarian without being coaxed into it, he must be in considerable pain. “Henri promised to stay with Thibault through the ceremonies, so we can go straightaway,” she said, determined not to give him a chance to change his mind. But then he turned to face her, and she felt a throb of fear, for the pupil of his left eye was so dilated that it looked black. “I’ll be back,” she said and jumped to her feet, going in search of Gerard de Fournival, for she knew the French knight better than the others in Geoffrey’s mesnie.
Gerard did not protest when she told him Geoffrey was going to see the abbey infirmarian. He did balk, though, when she told him to find a horse litter or cart. “I cannot do that, Madame! The duke would be shamed to ride in a conveyance meant for women and the elderly. I’ll order horses saddled-”
“We have more urgent concerns than the duke’s pride,” she snapped. “I fear he has suffered a serious head injury.”
Gerard stared at her and then beckoned to the closest of Geoffrey’s knights, Matthew de Goulaine and Morgan. After a brief murmured exchange, they both hastened toward Geoffrey. At their approach, Geoffrey started to rise, but he felt so dizzy that he had to grab Matthew’s arm for support.
“I am all right,” he insisted, “just a little light-headed.” Releasing the knight’s arm, he stepped back to show he’d regained his balance. But then his knees buckled. They caught him before he fell, maneuvered him toward the bed. Marie and Gerard were beside him now, and when his sister grasped his hand, Geoffrey tried to squeeze it reassuringly. “My head hurts…” he said indistinctly, and by the time they got him onto the bed, his eyes had rolled back in his head and he’d gone limp in their arms.
Gerard de Fournival sat up with a start, surprised that he’d actually dozed off even though he’d slept little since Geoffrey’s collapse. Getting stiffly to his feet, he glanced quickly toward the bed where his liege lord and friend lay motionless, as he’d done for the past two nights and a day. The infirmarian and another monk moved quietly about the chamber, but Gerard found their composure to be oddly comforting; these aged men of faith had seen too much to fear death. Some of the knights were napping, sprawled in the window-seat, slumped in chairs, or on the floor. A few of them-like Morgan and Matthew and Geoffrey’s friend Ivo de la Baille-were still staving off sleep, for keeping vigil was all they could do for their duke now. Marie was not present, and Gerard assumed she’d gone to check upon her son, for only the duties of motherhood had taken her away from her brother’s side.
Gerard stretched and winced as his knotted muscles protested, then crossed to the open window. Dawn was streaking the sky in delicate shades of pink and pearl, the last of the night stars flickering out like quenched candles. It took Gerard a moment to remember the day of the week…Wednesday, the feast day of St Bernard of Clairvaux. Gerard would normally have implored the saint’s intercession on his day, but Bernard was a newly made saint, and the mortal Bernard had been a fierce foe of Geoffrey’s parents. “From the Devil they came and to the Devil they’ll go” had been Bernard’s terse judgment upon the Angevins. Would he bestir himself on Geoffrey’s behalf?
Geoffrey had been taken to a private chamber rather than to the large infirmary hall and, from the window, Gerard had a view of the abbey garth, watching without interest as riders were admitted. But then he leaned forward in amazement. “Jesu!”
That attracted the attention of the other men, and Morgan and Ivo came to stand beside him, though they saw nothing unusual about these new arrivals. “That man on the chestnut palfrey,” Gerard cried. “It is my brother Roger!” They looked at him blankly, unable to understand how he could be so excited about a family reunion when their lord might be breathing his last. Seeing their lack of comprehension, Gerard said impatiently, “Roger is the French king’s best physician!”
The men were dismounting by the time Gerard came striding toward them, with Morgan and Ivo on his heels. Hastening forward, he enveloped his brother in a grateful embrace. “Never have I been so glad to lay eyes upon you, Roger! Your arrival here is so providential that the Almighty Himself must have directed you to Lagny!”
“Not the Almighty, the king.” Roger handed his reins to one of his companions. “The countess’s messenger reached Senlis late yesterday afternoon. King Philippe was sorely distressed to hear of the Breton duke’s injury and dispatched me at once with orders to spare neither expense nor effort to save him. We rode all night,” he said, sounding vaguely surprised that he’d proved up to such a great exertion, for a royal physician’s life was not usually so arduous. “Now…tell me what you know.”
“The infirmarian thinks Duke Geoffrey has a grave head injury. He cannot be sure if his skull has been fractured, for there was no open wound. He lost consciousness briefly when it happened, but once he came around, he was quite lucid, although he did complain of a headache that got worse as time went on. But we’ve not been able to rouse him since he collapsed in his tent. Can you help him, Roger?”
“God Willing,” Roger said, reverting to the professional tone he used with patients. He did not like what he’d just been told, but he saw no need to share his misgivings with Gerard. If the duke’s prognosis was as poor as he feared, there’d be time enough for that. “God Willing,” he repeated resolutely. “Take me to him.”
They waited in the abbey guest hall while Roger conducted his examination, were soon joined by Marie and Henri. The hosteller sent servants over with food and wine, but none of them had any appetite. They sat without talking, for there was only one voice they wanted to hear now-that of the French king’s physician. When Roger was escorted by one of the monks into the hall, they went to meet him in such haste that several benches were overturned.
A royal physician was expected to have the social skills of a courtier, and Roger greeted Marie and her son with the deference due their rank and the sympathy due their kinship to Geoffrey. Once the formalities had been obse
rved, he looked from the countess to his brother and then said quietly, “Was the duke shriven?”
“Yes, he was. He heard a votive Mass of the Holy Spirit on Monday morning, and then my chaplain heard his confession ere the tournament began…” Marie’s words faltered for she could still hear Geoffrey’s laughing voice, joking that he never passed up an opportunity to seek absolution of his sins any more than he passed up an opportunity to sin anew. “Are you saying that there is no hope?”
“I am saying that he is in God’s Hands, Madame,” Roger said carefully, “for his wounds are beyond my abilities to heal.”
Marie closed her eyes for a moment and then turned away without speaking. After a brief hesitation, Henri hurried after her. The other men were struggling with disbelief, for even though they’d known of the severity of Geoffrey’s injuries, they’d been holding on to hope. Gerard and Morgan were the most incredulous, for Gerard had enormous confidence in his brother’s medical skills and Morgan was by nature an optimist, always expecting the best outcome, never the worst.
“But…but there must be something you can do,” he stammered. “I know head wounds are dangerous, but even so…One of the Breton lords, Andre de Vitre came back from pilgrimage last year and he told Duke Geoffrey about some miraculous surgeries performed in the Holy Land, about a Christian knight saved when the doctors bored into his skull. Can you not do something like that?”
“No, I cannot. I am not a surgeon-”
“But we could find one, Roger!” In his urgency, Gerard grabbed his brother’s arm in an iron grip. “I know surgeons are not held in high regard by physicians, but surely that would not matter now? If there is nothing you can do and a surgeon could-”
“This has nothing to do with my well-founded misgivings about most surgeons. I know about the procedure in question. It is called trepanation, and is done to drain blood and pus and noxious humors from the skull. But it is rarely if ever successful when the patient is unconscious or feverish and the duke is both. I could not in good conscience recommend-”
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