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 observed, 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-”
“Surely it is worth trying!”
“If you would have me speak bluntly, Gerard, it is too late. Dilation of one or both pupils is a sign of bleeding in the brain, and the duke’s other symptoms are not encouraging. His skin is cold and clammy to the touch, his pulse is weak, and his breathing has become shallow and uneven. Moreover, I fear that he has suffered damage to his liver or spleen-”
“That is not so,” Morgan interrupted, “for I helped the infirmarian to undress my cousin. His body was badly bruised and scraped, but there were no contusions on his belly-”
“Internal injuries do not always show external signs. What I found far more significant than the presence or absence of bruises was the swelling of the duke’s abdomen. This usually means that the liver has been lacerated and is bleeding into the abdominal cavity. Either injury would be grievous enough to kill a man.”
They stared at him, momentarily stricken into silence. “What are you saying, Roger? That we just sit back and let him die!”
“I said nothing of the sort,” Roger said testily. “We’ve been trying to get him to swallow yarrow and white willow, though that is obviously not easy. And there most certainly is something you can do for the duke. You can pray for him. Now, I need to see the hosteller about getting a meal.”
They watched him go, and then, by common consent, headed for the abbey church, where they lit candles and prayed for Geoffrey’s recovery. When they returned to the infirmary, they found Marie and the abbot standing by the bed. Marie clutched a jeweled reliquary, and they felt a flicker of hope, remembering that St Pierre had one of Christendom’s most sacred treasures-a nail from the Holy Cross. Leaning over, Marie kissed her brother’s forehead, then opened the reliquary and placed the nail in his hand, gently closing his fingers around the blessed relic. Then she and the abbot knelt by the bed and began to pray. Geoffrey’s knights knelt, too, and added their voices to hers.
Marie was sitting on a bench not far from the infirmary hall. Several of her attendants hovered nearby, close enough to be summoned, far enough away to give her the semblance of privacy. The day had been a scorching one and dusk had not yet dispersed much of the heat. There was not even a breath of wind, and Marie’s tears dried on her cheeks almost as soon as they trickled from the corners of her eyes. She’d lost track of time, would never know how long she sat there, so weary that her thoughts drifted without direction or purpose. She was heedless of passersby, the curious eyes of monastery guests, the silent solicitude of her own knights and ladies. It took a sudden stir of excitement and noise to dispel her sorrowful reverie, to bring her back to the August eve and the illusory peace of the abbey. Looking up, she gazed dully at the man coming toward her. It was only when he was several feet away that she rose to her feet and made a dutiful curtsy to her brother the French king.
She was puzzled by Philippe’s presence at Lagny, but not enough to dwell upon it. He always looked rather untidy, but he seemed more disheveled than usual, his unruly brown hair flopping across his forehead, his clothes layered in dust, his eyes glazed with fatigue. He surprised her by reaching out, taking her hands in his. “Sister…is it true? The porter at the gate said that Geoffrey…?”
“Yes, it is true. Geoffrey died as Vespers was ringing. Just like Hal…” She was not sure why that was relevant, but her tired mind was blurring her losses and she could not separate Geoffrey’s death from Hal’s, the brothers she’d loved, taken too soon.
Philippe released her hands and stepped back. She thought he would go, but instead he sat down heavily on the bench, gestured for her to do the same. Marie obeyed and they sat in silence for a time, while Philippe’s men milled about in some confusion, unsure whether to wait or take their horses on to the abbey stables, sure only that Philippe would not welcome their intrusion. Marie glanced at him, thinking it was very unlike Philippe to ride all the way from Senlis in such haste; he’d shown no such compunction when their father lay dying. But his unexpected presence here might be a blessing, might forestall any unpleasantness with the Church.
“We must give him a fitting funeral,” she said firmly, as if daring him to object. When he did not, she continued, less defiantly. “There might be trouble with the Church, though.”
Philippe seemed lost in his own musings, but at that, he turned to look at her and she was stunned to see his eyes were wet with tears. “Why?”
“The Church forbids men who die in tournaments to be buried in consecrated ground,” she reminded him.
