Thomas sees they have a black bull’s-head badge on their jacks, and each carries an unnocked bow.
‘You are William Hastings’s archers?’ he asks. He almost doesn’t know why, or how he knows the badge, but the two men are proud of it and straighten themselves.
‘Lord Hastings, it is now, since three years ago,’ the older of two says. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I am Thomas Everingham.’
The name means nothing to the younger one, and why should it? But the older one narrows his eyes and looks at Thomas carefully.
‘Christ on His cross,’ he says. ‘Thomas Something. I remember you.’
Thomas feels the air go out of him. Is this good or bad?
‘We found you in the woods outside Mortimer’s Cross, didn’t we?’ the archer says. ‘Pulled your fat from the fire then, and no mistake. You were with some fancy lady, weren’t you? A surgeon herself, I recall.’
Thomas nods mutely. The archer peers around at Katherine. He pulls a face.
‘Well, it’s her you need now, then, not old Mayhew,’ the archer says. ‘He can only stitch cuts and grazes, not bring folk back to life.
‘If I did not get the chance to thank you,’ Thomas says, ‘I do so now, and will again, only please, sirs, if you would show me to your surgeon. This Mayhew.’
The archer nods.
‘I will,’ he says, ‘for that woman you were with – she showed kindness to me. This would be a deal worse had she not stitched it up right tight.’
He points to the silvery whorl of his cheek.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he goes on. ‘And I recall you then were favoured by Lord Hastings, yes! And King Edward! You were at the front when the three suns come out weren’t you? What a day that was, eh? He rubs his wound as if it aches to be spoken of. Thomas can only nod.
‘Please,’ he says.’
‘But look at us,’ the archer says, ‘We’re dawdling like old soldiers already. Come the fuck on.’
He relieves Thomas of half his burden, joining him at his end of the plank, while Thomas joins Jack at Katherine’s feet. She lies eyes-closed, bone-white and she looks halfway to death already. They set off through the jostling crowd again, the archers shouting and bullying their way through the throng.
‘Stand aside! Mind your backs! A Hastings! A Hastings there!’
Thomas feels the weight of sorrow shift in his guts. Mayhew, he thinks. Mayhew. He is taking her to see Mayhew, and Sir John Fakenham, and then , of course, inevitably Richard Fakenham. The man who believes himself to be her husband. Oh Christ. What is he doing? What will they say when they recognise her? They will see she is this Lady Margaret Cornford whom they believed dead. They will recognise that she is not as dead as was thought? They will want her back! They will want her back! They will take her back! She will no longer be his. He almost stops then. He raises his face to the sky and he almost cries out in his grief and anguish at what he is giving up.
‘It will be all right, Thomas,’ Jack says. ‘She’ll live for another day.’
‘You’re right, Jack’ he says. ‘You are right. That is all that matters now,’ and his voice catches. ‘All that matters is that she lives. She must live. Otherwise …’
Otherwise what? Christ. She is slack on her board. Her head is lolling.
‘Katherine! Katherine! We are to see a surgeon! Stay awake, my love, stay awake!’
There is a flutter of resistance to the plank’s rolling as they hurry, and it is as if she is not yet gone.
‘Mind your backs! Coming through! An injured man! Coming through!’
They are between two rows of grand tents now, all striped linen and pennants, and there is straw underfoot and servants and women and men standing aside as they come through, their pale faces staring down at Katherine, and Thomas will kill the first who makes a sign of the cross to mark the passing of the dead.
And then here they are: the surgeon’s tent, smaller, shabbier, more worn than those around. Thomas is given no time to hesitate, no time to gather himself or decide if this is indeed what he wants to do. A servant lingers by the door, mouth agape, arms filled with a sack of something. He is barrelled past, left watching, and they carry Katherine into the centre of the tent and stand there a moment looking around in the cool gloom. A man with eyeglasses looks up from where he lies on a pile of sheepskin-covered mattresses. He is in dark hose and very dark doublet, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He has been studying a sheaf of parchment filled with shaded pictures of the moon. He looks familiar.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
The first archer tells him that Thomas is a friend of William Hastings and of King Edward, and as soon as he mentions Thomas’s name the eyes behind their glasses sharpen, and the man’s features concentrate. He tosses aside the chart and rolls to his feet. His hands are gangly.
‘Thomas Everingham,’ he says. ‘Thomas Everingham, by God. But you are dead. You were killed at Towton, or are you some other Thomas Everingham?”
‘Difficult question, that one,’ the archer answers for Thomas, but Thomas nods. The surgeon stares at him. His eyes are very wet.
‘We can talk of this later,’ Thomas says. ‘Sir. I have – my wife. She is …’
He can hardly say the words. Tears sting the corners of his eyes. They are still standing with Katherine held on her plank between them.
‘Your wife?’ the surgeon says. ‘Dear God! Is this her? Yes. Put her down. What is wrong with her? Is she wounded?’
While they set her down Thomas remains crouching, and tells Mayhew about the gun’s stone, and about the collapsed building, and about Riven’s kick, but he does not mention that she is pregnant. He talks quickly, in a rush, but before he has finished he realises that Mayhew has stopped, frozen, and is staring wide-eyed down at Katherine’s face. He is speechless with confusion.
‘But she – she is—’
‘Please,’ Thomas says. ‘Please. Just save her. We can – discuss whatever needs discussing later.’
Mayhew is struck silent for a long moment. He blinks behind his eyeglasses.
‘How – how did she come to be here? She is known to be dead already and yet—’
‘I know,’ Thomas says. ‘But she. Please. Just – save her.’
Mayhew asks him to repeat what has happened to her and while he listens he runs his hands over Katherine’s body just as Master Payne did in the eastward gatehouse. He presses here and there. Opens an eyelid. Smells her breath. Then he works down the body. He frowns. Presses again. Then he looks up.
‘You two,’ he says, to the lingering archers, ‘leave us.’
The archers turn to troop out.
The old one squeezes Thomas’s shoulder as he passes. Good luck. Thomas thanks him. Jack looks to Thomas, and Thomas nods. Jack goes too, taking John Stump with him.
‘We’ll be outside,’ he says.
When they are gone Mayhew turns to Thomas.
‘She is with child,’ he states.
Thomas can only nod. There is a silence. Thomas can hear Mayhew breathing quickly while he thinks.
‘This is out of my experience,’ Mayhew says. ‘We should find a wise woman, or a midwife, or someone who knows the bodies of women. I can stitch and cut. I can remove an arrowhead, but that is all.’
‘Please,’ Thomas says. ‘Please. She would have wanted you to treat her. She did not want any midwives with their magic stones and incantations. She said so. She spoke often of you. Of how much you taught her. How much you showed her. She would want you to treat her.’
Mayhew stares at Thomas a long time.
‘Please?’ Thomas says. ‘At least look at her. And then we can decide.’
Mayhew nods.
‘May I?’ he asks, indicating her skirts. Thomas nods. Mayhew rolls them up. He places his hands on Katherine’s body, feeling under the weight of her gown. He looks up into the roof of the tent and he nibbles his lips. He stops. Looks down. Then he removes his hand from under her skirts. He holds
it out flat and his palm is dark with blood.
‘No!’ Thomas cries. ‘No.’
Jack comes back in. Mayhew is on his feet. He eases past Jack and shouts to the servant waiting beyond the tent flap.
‘Bring linen,’ he says. ‘Hot water. Rose oil. Fresh urine. Bring salve. Quick, man!’
Thomas is stricken. He cannot move. He looks down at Katherine with her skirts and underskirts pulled up around her blood-fingered thighs and her hose bunched around her knees and he lets out a wracking sob.
‘You will have to wait elsewhere,’ Mayhew says.
Thomas shakes his head.
‘Come on, Thomas,’ Jack says. ‘Come now. Let the surgeon do his work.’
But Thomas will not go. He will not leave Katherine there on the soiled floor of a stranger’s tent, especially a stranger who thinks she is someone she is not.
‘Very well,’ Mayhew says. ‘But you cannot abide there.’
‘I will sit here,’ Thomas says. He scrabbles to place himself by her head. Jack too. Her linen cap is loose, her hair spilled. Something makes him tuck it back in, and hide her quartered ear. He strokes the pale hair at her temples, and smooths the dirt from her forehead.
‘It is all right,’ he says. ‘It is all right.’
Her eyelids flutter. She is still alive.
‘I will wait outside, Thomas,’ Jack says quietly. ‘Within earshot, so if I can help …’
Thomas nods. Jack places his hand on his shoulder.
‘I will pray,’ he says. Thomas nods again. Jack meets the returning servant at the entrance, and holds the flap open to admit him and one other, and together they bring steaming jugs of water and urine, a fat fold of virgin linen, a clutch of earthenware bottles, some good candles and a brass crucifix. They gather around Mayhew who snaps quick orders. Cloth is ripped. The candles lit. Bottles are unstopped. A coffer is dragged up and on it, the crucifix.
Mayhew washes his hands in the urine. Then he dries them very thoroughly on a piece of linen and then he begins his examination. He lifts the skirts and begins dabbing and discarding bloodied cloth. Thomas sits and watches Katherine for signs of enduring life. It takes a long cycle of prayer while Mayhew crouches over her spread legs, his servant holding up a candle, his eyes averted, murmuring the prayers, until finally the surgeon lets out a long sigh and throws down his cloth. He removes his misted eyeglasses. Sweat beads his forehead, has dampened his shirt. He pulls the skirts down and looks at Thomas.
He shrugs.
‘It is in God’s hands.’
Thomas says nothing.
‘Should I call the priest?’ the second servant asks.
Mayhew frowns in thought. Thomas can hear his own heart booming in his ears.
‘Not yet,’ Mayhew says. ‘Let us see how she goes through the night.’
The four of them lift her and carry her to Mayhew’s bed. She seems much lighter than before. She lets out a murmur and moves her thin arm to cover her tummy.
‘A good sign,’ the first servant says, though Thomas cannot believe him.
They place the pollaxe and ledger next to the bed, and prop the board against the side of the tent.
‘Find wood for a fire,’ Mayhew tells the servant. ‘Both of you. Ask Lord Hastings himself for some if you cannot find any. He will want to provide what he can for the wife of Thomas Everingham.’
Thomas cannot interpret the tone of his last remark, but both servants disappear. There is a long silence. He watches Katherine, consumed by the thought that if he looks away, she will die. Mayhew offers him a drink of something. Thomas takes it and wets Katherine’s lips with the wine.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Mayhew says, ‘for I will not be able to save the child. I cannot perform miracles.’
‘No,’ Thomas says, because he cannot mourn for the unborn child yet. Perhaps there will be time enough in the future for that.
The silence is awkward for a long moment, broken eventually by Mayhew.
‘I do not expect you to tell me,’ he says. ‘But others will wish to know.’
Thomas allows himself a glance at Mayhew. When he looks back, she is still alive.
‘It is not an easy story to tell,’ he admits.
‘No,’ Mayhew supposes.
And Thomas leans against the bed, with a hand on Katherine’s arm, and he intends to start to try and tell her story, in the manner of a confession, to expiate his sin, to make a downpayment on the sum he would willingly pay to have her live, but fatigue overtakes him. His eyes close, and a moment later his chin is against his chest, and he is asleep.
He wakes at Matins when it is still dark and he touches her hand.
It is still warm.
He wakes again at Prime, and her arm is yet warm.
He is woken some time in the morning by Mayhew’s servant.
She is still alive.
Mayhew is there. He is looking serious.
‘She is still bleeding,’ he says.
Thomas holds her hand, and he is certain she knows it is him, and that she squeezes his fingers.
‘You must keep up your own strength,’ Mayhew says. He offers him ale. It is very good.
‘There is someone waiting to see you,’ Mayhew tells him.
And Thomas knows that this is it. This is where he must explain to Richard Fakenham why he has brought the woman who was once his wife, whom he thought dead, back to him, half-alive, and with child. He takes another series of swallows of the ale. Mayhew is right. He must have some strength for this.
He hears voices without. Long and grumbling. Then the flap opens and Mayhew brings in Thomas’s visitor. Old, almost as round as tall, a swag of white hair under a dark cloth cap he has bent to one side, he is in very sombre clothes, as if in mourning, and unsteady on his feet.
‘Thomas!’ he cries. ‘By all that is holy! Is that you?’
It is Sir John Fakenham. He is peering at him through his eyeglasses.
Thomas cannot speak for a long moment. Something is blocking his throat.
‘Sir John,’ he manages. ‘Sir John.’
‘Let me have a look at you, Thomas,’ Sir John says. ‘Let me rest my eyes on you again, though for the love of God I can hardly see a thing these days. And these bloody things only seem to make things worse.’
Thomas stands before him while Sir John peers long and hard at him. His eyes are very vague, milky even, and his eyeglasses so scratched and chipped it is a wonder anyone can see a thing through them. He has aged sharply this last year.
‘Ha!’ he says. ‘Still got that red hair!’
‘As if he should not?’ Mayhew chides.
‘Hush, Mayhew,’ Sir John says. He takes a drink from him with clumsy, grasping fingers and then Mayhew guides him to a chair and helps him sit. He does so with a heavy sigh and then looks over at the pile that bears Katherine, pale and still as a marble effigy.
‘And Christ, this is her, is it?’
Neither Thomas nor Mayhew says a word. Thomas holds his breath.
‘I am sorry for your pains, my boy,’ Sir John says. ‘And hers. She looks like a pretty girl. Only you could have plucked such a jewel from out of so miserable a place as this, Thomas. My congratulations, boy!’
He raises his cup and drinks again. Thomas does too. He sees that Sir John has reached that age when nothing now bothers him much, and it is as if he is meeting someone he knows he will never come to know very well, so why become involved? Thomas feels the warmth of relief at having an obstacle removed, but it is tempered by the thought that none of these obstacles matters if Katherine is dead.
‘But tell me,’ Sir John goes on. ‘Tell me, my boy, what you have been up to? What news of Kit? Where is he?’
Thomas is struck silent for a moment. Kit! Dear God.
‘Kit returned home,’ he mumbles. Sir John raises an eyebrow.
‘Home, eh?’ he says, and once again Thomas is left wondering what that means. How much does Sir John know?
He cannot tell.
‘I have the ledger,’ he says, to change the subject.
Sir John is instantly still, his face a passive mask.
‘The ledger, my boy? The ledger? What is this ledger?’
‘There,’ he says, pointing to it where it sits behind Katherine’s head on the board.
Sir John does not even bother to look. He could have his fingers in his ears. It is an act.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I know of no ledger.’
Thomas sees what he is saying, and he might almost laugh. The trouble it has caused, the dangers it has led them to, the price it has cost; and now it lies there, something to be ignored. He might throw it on the fire, were there one alight.
‘And Giles Riven is dead,’ he says. ‘By my own hand.’
And now Sir John looks truly alarmed. He holds out his hands and hisses at Thomas.
‘Shush! Shush! Christ! Keep your voice down. Dear God! If any should hear you saying something like that it will be straight back to that bastard Edmund Riven, and he will send his murderers and assassins and what-have-you and that will be that. I will be in mourning for another six months.’
Thomas says nothing. Mourning? For whom?
‘But great God in heaven, boy, I am glad to hear that. It is bad enough that that little shit Edmund Riven is alive, even with us in the camp, can you believe it, though the Earl of Warwick will not tolerate him at council for the fearful stink of his eye – but he is still here! Still alive, and as far as I know – well, he has Cornford still, and had been aiming for greater things yet, with all his schemes. I am glad to hear his father is dead and gone to hell as he deserves. Was it a painful one? God’s bones, I have imagined it so often over the years.’
Thomas tells him how it happened.
‘But it was not before he kicked Katherine,’ he says.
Sir John nods sadly.
‘The trouble that man has caused. Makes you wonder why God allows it, sometimes, doesn’t it? My wife Isabella says these troubles are God-sent to harden us, to prove us, as a swordsmith might a blade, but she is increasingly devout thanks to that infernal canon you left with us, and I think I don’t know what to think.’
Kingmaker: Broken Faith Page 43
