They mounted the ramp to the Constable's Tower. Ordinarily there'd be guards on its entrance, but now all available men were on the walls. Corotocus and Navarre's iron-shod feet echoed in the tight, switchback stairwell as they ascended to the battlements.
'In that case, arrest him while he's sleeping,' Navarre said. 'Bring charges, make it legal.'
'Much as I'm loathe to admit it, we need his sword. We need everyone's sword.' The earl halted again, thinking. 'But from now on, Navarre, stay close to him.'
'Of course.'
'Watch his every move.' Corotocus smiled coldly, as though anticipating a treat. 'When the time is right, Ranulf FitzOsbern will learn what it means to defy my will.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the darkest and quietest part of the night, with his assistant sleeping in the wagon, Doctor Zacharius made a solo round of his infirmary, checking bandages and dressings, delivering herbal draughts, either to relieve pain or induce sleep. Most of the casualties were at least comfortable, though the air was filled with coughs, whimpers and soft moans. Once he had finished, Zacharius crossed the courtyard to one of the other outhouses, where a copper bowl filled with water simmered over a brazier. First he washed his hands, using sesame oil and lime powder, and then, one by one, cleansed his surgical implements, towelling each one dry and laying them all out on a fresh linen cloth, which he'd spread on a low table.
'Doctor Zacharius?' someone asked from the doorway.
Zacharius turned. One of the earl's knights stood there — in fact it was the young knight who had survived the mission to destroy the scoop-thrower. Zacharius had seen him many times before and, though he had never had cause to treat him and didn't know his name, he had always thought him a sullen fellow.
'Do you really believe that dismembering one of these creatures will help us understand why they are invulnerable to death?' Ranulf asked.
Zacharius continued with what he was doing. 'In truth, they aren't invulnerable to death, are they? From what I hear, these things are already dead.'
'You know what I mean,' Ranulf said, entering.
He'd finished another late meal in the refectory, as the earl had instructed, but sleep had eluded him for the last hour or so — for two main reasons.
Firstly, though he didn't think he could have done much more than appeal to Countess Madalyn's humanity, which was well known throughout the border country, he wasn't absolutely sure. He hadn't known the priest, Gwyddon, would be present. That had caused an unforeseen problem. Likewise, the Welsh had discovered that the English were in their camp sooner than he'd hoped. None of these things had been under his control. But couldn't he have reacted more appropriately? Perhaps he should have killed Gwyddon. Perhaps he should have taken Countess Madalyn hostage? It would have been difficult, but maybe he could at least have tried. Uncertainty about this was now torturing him.
The second reason was Doctor Zacharius and his comments before they had departed — about returning with a captive specimen. Of course, once the mission had got under way that would have been totally impractical, and Ranulf had quickly forgotten it. But now, with the diplomatic door closed, all sorts of wild thoughts were occurring to him. Had he missed another opportunity to turn the tide in their favour? But what did it actually mean to eviscerate something — even something as hideous as these walking dead — to take it apart piece by piece while it writhed and thrashed, purely to learn how it was composed and controlled? Such knowledge was surely not intended for Man; this was what Ranulf had always been told and had always believed. Such things were best left to God — and yet, after what he'd seen here, particularly outside in the rain and the mist, a terrible fear was now taking root inside him. At the end of the day, if God came down to Earth enraged and cast celestial fire on his children, would those children not justifiably seek to escape it — even if it enraged God all the more? Willing martyrs were made of very rare stuff indeed; only now was Ranulf realising this.
'I can't answer your question,' Zacharius said, still cleaning his tools. 'But put it this way, I don't believe in sorcery.'
'Even after everything we have seen with our own eyes?' Ranulf asked.
'Oh, it exists… superficially. But when a man performs acts of 'sorcery', what he's really doing is manipulating the laws of nature in ways not yet known to the rest of us.'
'And you think you can learn about such laws by opening the flesh of one of these walking dead?'
'The Greek physician, Hippocrates, was convinced that diseases did not afflict mankind as a punishment from the gods, but because the systems of organs that make up our bodies were for some reason malfunctioning. He developed many remedies through his studies of the human body, often after life had expired. He saved innumerable lives and the human race was no worse off for that. The Roman doctor, Galen, produced countless books containing detailed sketches of human anatomy, which enabled his students to treat a variety of previously serious ailments with simple procedures. My proposal was similar, if not exactly the same — a straightforward investigation, the results of which might benefit us all.'
Ranulf pondered this.
'Why do you ask?' Zacharius wondered. 'Are you planning to go out there again, when the last time only two of you returned alive?'
'The choice would not be mine,' Ranulf said.
'In which case don't agonise over it. The reality…' Zacharius shrugged. 'The reality is that I am neither skilled nor experienced enough to reach immediate and accurate conclusions. I would need the assistance of other learned doctors. In addition, it would take time, which we clearly will have less of once the fighting recommences. I would also need a better place in which to work. Somewhere light and dry to tabulate my findings, collate my samples…'
'I don't understand any of these things.'
'But you evidently do understand that this battle will not be won by the usual means. You proved that not two hours ago.'
'It wouldn't take a clever man to realise that.'
'No, but it would take a brave one to admit it.' Zacharius continued cleaning his implements. 'What are you called?'
'I am Ranulf FitzOsbern.'
'You're one of the earl's indebted knights, are you not?'
'I am.'
The doctor smiled to himself.
'Something amuses you?' Ranulf asked.
'It certainly does. You occupy the lowest of the equestrian ranks, yet you speak to Earl Corotocus almost as an equal.'
'At some point I'll be punished for that.'
'I've no doubt you will. But he tolerates you for the time being because during this crisis he clearly considers that he needs you. And after what I heard you tell him, about your wise attempt to parley with Countess Madalyn, I would make the same decision.'
'It was a poor plan. It failed.'
'At least it was a plan. And you have my commendation for it, FitzOsbern, if no-one else's.'
There was brief silence, Ranulf eyeing the gleaming knives, scalpels and forceps arrayed in their orderly rows.
'Why do you clean those things so thoroughly?' he asked.
'Because I will have to perform more surgeries with them.'
'Is one man's blood poisonous to another?'
'Maybe. I don't know for certain, but why take the risk?' Zacharius laid down another tool — a screw-handled speculum, which he regularly used to open and clamp deep wounds in order to remove foreign objects buried inside them. 'It may also be that even the smallest speck of filth will cause an injury to fester, and lead to blood disorders
