by Mark Butler
"Wake, young one, wake," the old woman crooned. Olivia's eyes snapped open and she was sitting at a recline, her legs propped in the air. Her dress was hiked up past her knees, and she heard the old woman talking to herself.
"The pain gives them pleasure, they must have the pain. But are they ever sated? Never, and they only create more pain, more pain . . ."
"Uh, mademoiselle?" Olivia said. "What can I call you?"
"Call me Vaille, dearie," the woman said.
"Okay, Vaille. What is wrong with me? I was having sex with the king, and afterward I was bleeding, and then—"
"You passed out on my doorstep! Couldn't have my evening smoke with a cold body on my doorstep, could I? Never mind that, did you say the king? The king of what? He's the king of your body! The king of your body!" the old woman laughed and repeated herself, over and over. Olivia's face reddened, but she didn't want to disturb the woman who had saved her life and was currently elbow-deep in her body.
"The King of France, Louis IX," Olivia finally said.
"Truly?" Vaille asked.
"Yes."
"We are done," Vaille pressed some sort of lever and Olivia's legs began to close and lower, and then she was sitting normally. Vaille stared at her, looking for duplicity in her face.
"What happened?" Olivia asked.
"You were with child, perhaps for three or four weeks. It was not formed; mind you, but growing all the same. Have you been traveling roughly?"
"We just came here from Paris," Olivia said, her lips moving but her voice empty. She was pregnant? How was that even possible? Well, there was the obvious reason, but still—
"That absolves King Louis a bit, then. The fetus could not survive in you, for the true reason, none may know. But it left your body and took part of your insides with it, so that you could not stop bleeding. I stopped it, though, and you will be fine," Vaille said. "Now, would you like to join me for a smoke? I do not know what a dead bastard son means for the king's Seventh Crusade, but it can't be a good omen. I will consult spirits, if you will help."
Olivia carefully stood and took in the cabin. It was filthy at first glance, packed wall-to-wall with books, masses of unidentifiable plants, flesh, and strange devices. A cauldron, squat and black, sat in the corner of the cabin, next to a window. Olivia noticed wisps of steam coming from the cauldron, and she cautiously looked over the rim—
An odor hit her full in the face, and she fell back, dazed. It was the scent of her blood, boiling with roots and hemp. There was a floating mass in the cauldron, too, and Olivia forced herself to look at it. "How long was I unconscious?" she asked Vaille.
"Almost a full day. I had some boys from the town collect your leavings in buckets, and then deliver them to me. They must be examined, you see, to detect illness in your womb."
Olivia put her head down and vomited a stream of yellow and green bile. The puke splashed on her knees, legs and feet. She felt like a dirty whore, not even fit to stand in this grimy, blighted cabin. "I'm sorry," she stammered, looking around for a cloth to soak up the vomit.
"It's nothing, dearie, my dogs will eat it up," Vaille said, almost cheerfully. Olivia felt another wave of vomit rise in her throat, but she only dry-heaved, her body shuddering with the unproductive effort.
"I need fresh air," Olivia said, moving for the door.
The woods were utterly black and the air moist, brackish. Olivia could see no trees, no paths, not even the sky. She took a deep breath and coughed gently, placing her hands on her knees. She heard Vaille behind her, silently watching and breathing shallowly.
"You are fine in the body, yes, the body. The mind? None may know," Vaille said.
"Can I leave?"
"I have a dog that can guide you, though the sun won't be rising for a few hours. I think you should sleep here, but you can leave. You'll be in Aigues-Mortes as the fishermen bring in their night catches and the governor sneaks out of his mistress's house!" Vaille said, laughing. Her humor seemed impenetrable.
"I'll take that dog guide," Olivia said.
The surgeons were grateful for Francois' help. He had a calm, thoughtful manner and they walked him through their practices, from triaging patients to staunching heavy hemorrhaging. Francois soaked up the knowledge they bestowed, and he grew close to the top doctor, a man from England named Henry. To Francois' delight, Henry was fluent in English, French, Italian, and Spanish.
"What role shall we serve in combat?" Francois asked, two days after his arrival in the clinic.
"We shall be closer to men than their mothers, their wives, and their God," Henry said, as he poured clean water on a man's lacerated hand. The man moaned in a mixture of pleasure and pain, and Henry bandaged his hand quickly before sending him away. Francois hovered nearby, ready for the next patient.
"But what shall we do in combat?"
"We are close to the fighting, to pull men from the brink of death. We will carry weapons and, if necessary, take life. It is not in our nature, you understand, but sometimes you must take life to preserve it. Next!"
A boy, no more than sixteen summers, approached Henry and Francois. He was cradling one arm close to his body, and his tunic was torn to serve as a makeshift sling. His face was resolute, though, and his voice was even as he spoke.
"I was struck in combat training," was all he said.
Henry instructed the boy to lie down, and he gently took the sling off the arm, revealing a protrusion under the skin.
"A closed fracture," Henry said. "We need to set this bone, or it will heal crooked and the boy will be deformed for life. Francois, I need your help."
Henry went to his medicine table and selected a small white cup. "We must anesthetize the boy," he whispered to Francois, "with cowbane."
"Cowbane?"
"It is a very toxic poison that grows in central France and other places. In large quantities, cowbane will kill a man. It can cause the shakes and stomach pain, too. A small amount, boiled in water, will take away a man's pain, for a time. It is necessary to give it to the boy, or he won't stay still so we can set his fracture."
Henry smiled at the boy and offered him the cup, tipping it to his lips. The boy had seen Francois and Henry whispering, but he hadn't heard their words and his trust in the doctor was implicit, total. Francois marveled at the boy's confidence. He drank the liquid and screwed up his face at the bitter taste, and Henry signaled for two other assistants to attend them.
"Hold him down," he said coldly. He took a coiled bit of rope from his pocket and jammed it between the boy's teeth. "This is so you don't bite through your tongue," he said.
The fracture was between the elbow and wrist. It was a tricky spot, because there were two bones there, instead of the single bone that lay between the elbow and shoulder. Henry instructed one assistant to sit on the boy's chest and pin his shoulders down. Another held his legs, and Francois held the boy's injured arm. Henry wrapped a tourniquet around the fracture and gently tightened it, and the boy moaned in pain.
"Francois? Switch with me," Henry said. They changed spots and Francois could swear he saw Henry smiling. "I need you to pull on his wrist, hard. I'm going to tighten the tourniquet while you pull, and the bone will slide into place. Ready? Now!"
Francois yanked on the boy's wrist as hard as he could, and the boy reacted immediately, convulsing while his eyes rolled back into his head. Henry grabbed the tourniquet and savagely twisted it, and Francois could hear the bone scraping back as it went back into its place. Henry kept turning until the tourniquet was very tight.
"Leave that on for the next week, but loosen it if your fingers begin to feel numb. Don't take it off, and your arm will be as good as new in three months," Henry instructed the boy, who didn't appear conscious.
"I don't think he heard you," Francois said.
"Well, when he wakes, repeat my words to him. A shame, a strong lad like this to be so grievously injured, but it's necessary I suppose, for honest training. Regardless, he won't be going
on this particular crusade. Don't worry, child!" Henry patted the boy's forehead, "There will be many wars you can attend in the future, there are always are."
Chapter Fourteen
THE COMMAND TENT WAS TWO SHIPS, docked close to each other. A humongous, brown tarpaulin was affixed to the masts of the ships and two nearby cottages, creating a massive shield against the burning sun. The men who worked in that shadow were high-ranking officers and nobles, with tables and maps spread out alongside the docks.
King Louis split his time between his flagship and his personal cottage, where he worked, ate, slept, and used his women. His bodyguards were located around the cabin and on the ship, lazily waiting for the day when they would cast-off for Egypt. In Aigues-Mortes, the king was in essentially no danger, though they always stood at attention and snarled at unwitting soldiers when they were in the king's presence.
The captain of the king's bodyguards was a man named Mikel D'Souza. He was young for such a high post, barely forty. He was silver-haired and of average height, though his biceps bulged whenever he moved his arms, and his neck was as thick as a normal-size thigh. For that reason, his underlings affectionately called him, "Trunk."
Trunk was not in the command area, enjoying the shade from the sun. He was practicing his swordsmanship on the beach with a half-dozen younger soldiers when Dimon found him, Artois in tow.
"What's this?" Trunk asked. Dimon halted and executed a perfect salute, his eyes fixed on a point in the Mediterranean, where the waves heaved and pitched thousands of gallons of brackish saltwater.
"Sir, I present to you Artois Coquet, of Troyes," Dimon said. Trunk looked past Dimon at the oversized Frenchman, not bothering to stand at attention.
"And?" Trunk asked.
"I want to propose him for the king's bodyguard," Dimon said.
"Can he fight?"
"Yes."
"You there!" Trunk yelled, but he was not looking at Artois, he was looking at one of the soldiers he was training with, a big man with cruel eyes. "Fight this man, barehanded."
"Sir?" Dimon asked, taken aback. When he recommended a man for a post, it was usually acknowledged immediately, the recommendation more a formality than anything. He did not expect Artois would have to compete for the position.
"This man is also vying for a chance to work under me," Trunk said. "Let them fight for the right. To the death."
Artois rolled his shoulders and stepped into the open area, a few feet from the water. His opponent was not as big as he, but looked equally dense. His left ear was missing, and a scar wrapped around his neck, like he had been sentenced to hang-but somehow survived. Artois flexed his arms and took a deep breath. He didn't expect to fight for a second time today, after already besting Dimon.
"Begin!" Trunk announced.
The man circled Artois, his hands covering his cheeks. He bounced on the balls of his feet, and Artois backed up, ready for anything. With lightning speed, the man swung at Artois, missing with his right but whipping his torso around and landing a clean left hook. The blow landed behind Artois' ear, and he saw stars. He saw the next punch coming, a straight blow for his nose, and he ducked his head. The other man was expecting that, though, and he threw a huge uppercut that knocked one of Artois' teeth lose. This was bad. He was losing, quickly.
The man dangled his left hand in front of Artois' face, trying to distract him from the right. Artois felt his blood surge. I will not lose to this man, he told himself. Faking his own punch, Artois ducked low and rammed his shoulder into the man's gut, landing on top of him. They scrambled in the sand, and Artois found himself on the man's back. With a grunt of pleasure, he elbowed the man in the back of the head. The man stopped moving briefly, and Artois slithered his arm under the man's neck. Artois grasped his hands together and squeezed as tight as he could, the blood still running from his own mouth as he tightened the choke.
"It's over," he heard Trunk say from somewhere far-off. Artois felt strong hands pull him to his feet, and he looked down at the broken thing that had been his opponent. The man was clearly dead. He would've killed me, Artois thought. The knowledge didn't make him feel any better.
"May I be dismissed?" Dimon asked.
"Go away," Trunk said. Artois watched Dimon disappear back to Aigues-Mortes, and he went to the water and vomited. The fight should not have been so difficult, but he had won.
"Report to the command tent this evening. We will have an assembly and I will introduce you to your new comrades. Welcome to the king's bodyguard," Trunk said. Artois was still at the water, and he vomited one final time before turning around.
"Thank you, sir."
The king's bodyguards were under the command tent, assembled into a square formation. Artois stood in the front rank, and he could hear the men behind him chatter.
"Who's the ox?"
"I can't stand behind this guy, I can't even see over his shoulders!"
"He must know Trunk."
To Artois' ears, their voices were confident, unafraid of being heard by him. Rightful that, because these were the fiercest warriors in France, men specially selected to guard the king. Each was at least thirty, proven in combat and always eager for a fight. Glancing to his left and right, Artois thought some of the men were selected simply because of their imposing physiques. Their arrogance was almost a living thing, choking the air with testosterone and bravado.
Trunk appeared from King Louis' cottage. He walked with his head down, picking his way around the flowers and expensive statues. His arms were bare against the summer wind, and his eyes were watchful, calm. When he reached the front of the formation, the men stopped talking and stood straighter, every eye on Trunk.
"Artois Coquet, step forward," Trunk said. Artois took two steps forward, holding himself still under the gaze of so many hardened warriors. He hated that he cared what they thought; a small part of Artois wanted to find the man who had called him an ox and beat him into dust.
"I am Artois."
"Under my honor and on your soul, I elect you to the king's royal bodyguards. Are you prepared to take your oath?"
Artois nodded. Trunk grinned and clapped his hands together. "Your majesty!" he shouted.
The door of the cottage opened again, and King Louis IX stepped into view. He was in a purple robe with bright, blue leggings. A sword was in its scabbard at his hip, and he wore a magnificent golden crown. With measured steps, he approached Trunk and Artois. As he neared, Artois realized for the first time ever that the king was very small, with delicate features. His shoulders were narrow and his skin too smooth, his eyes too feminine. When he was at Trunk's shoulder, the captain of the bodyguards dropped to one knee. Artois mimed him and the king looked down on them, relishing his power.
"Who are you?" Louis asked Artois.
"Artois Coquet."
"Do you pledge to serve me, first and foremost? Shall you always remain loyal to the crown of France, on pain of death? Will you live your life with the greatest care and intelligence, so that you might protect your king with your fullest ability?"
"Yes, my king."
"Will you watch over me while I sleep? Will you wield your sword with courage when I command you to? Will you follow me anywhere, even unto the ends of the Earth?"
Some distant part of Artois' mind wanted to scream ‘NO’! He wanted to walk away from these burly, confident warriors and their girly king. He wanted to hear the simple logic of his father and the perspicacity of Francois. He wanted to go back to the cabin in Troyes and hide under his bed. "Yes, my king."
"Stand and be recognized," Louis said, extending his hand. Artois thought he was offering him a hand to stand, and he grabbed the hand firmly. Tugging it slightly, Artois pulled himself to his feet. To his horror, Louis was looking away, his face red. Trunk was still down on one knee. The shade they stood in suddenly felt very hot, and Artois realized that he was supposed to kiss the king's bejeweled hand before he stood. He quickly knelt and pressed his lips against the ruby ring on
the king's small finger.
"Now stand," Louis said. Artois did and he looked Louis in the eye, irritated that he had to kiss the man's ring. It was degrading; he didn't care if it was the bloody pope's ring. If the king had been born between any other set of legs than his mother's, he would just be another man. A weak one, too, with a pale face and pretty eyes.
The king, his official function complete, left his bodyguards to welcome their newest member. Trunk broke the men out of formation, and they each shook Artois' hand, introducing themselves and scrutinizing this new arrival.
"I'm Georges," a burly warrior shook Artois' hand, maintaining eye contact for a fraction too long.
"Pierre," another one said.
"Jean," the smallest among them said when he reached Artois. His facial hair was carefully manicured along the edge of his jaw line, and his hair was many colors, his eyes sparkling with some sort of fairy dust. He was the strangest looking man Artois had ever seen.
"There's some shit in your eye," Artois said.
"Pardon, monsieur?" Jean said.
"You heard me; you look like a cheap whore from Paris." Jean cocked his hand back, ready to strike Artois, when Trunk stepped between them. Jean lowered his hand immediately, and Trunk grabbed Artois by his tunic and dragged him away from the others.
"What are you doing?"
"Meeting my new brothers in arms, sir," Artois answered.
"You are still an outsider, while Jean has killed three assassins who have sought the king's head. He has respect, credibility. You are a farmer from a shit-hole town in eastern France, until you prove yourself. Don't make enemies so casually, Artois, you will regret it," Trunk said. He didn't wait for Artois to retort, he simply walked away.
The next few days were arduous for Artois. Each man in the bodyguard regiment took Artois through basic protection protocol. Always scout ahead. Know where the king is at all times. Trust only men you know. Never speak of the king's movements, and never disrespect the king. Artois took the lessons in stride, even the one from Jean that scared the life out of him.
