Vallon gripped the arrow close to the entry wound and pushed, gently at first, then with increasing force. Richard cried out like a beast under torture.
‘It’s not moving.’
Hero washed away the blood. ‘Try twisting slightly.’
Richard uttered another pitiful cry.
‘I think it’s coming,’ said Hero. ‘Keep twisting. The edges of the arrowhead are probably bent over.’
Vallon sat back. ‘Damn!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The shaft’s come loose of the head. I can turn it freely.’
‘Don’t move it any more,’ said Hero. He drenched the incision and saw a tongue of iron protruding between the ribs. ‘Part of it’s through. Enough to get purchase on. I’ll have to make another cut.’
He made the second incision parallel to the ribs. He wiped sweat from his eyes and selected a pair of forceps. He cleaned the cuts again, clamped the hooks on the point and pulled. The pincers slipped off. He tried half a dozen times but couldn’t get a proper grip. With each tug, Richard screamed.
‘I can’t get a firm purchase.’
Vallon held out his hand. ‘Let me try.’
Hero held apart the wound to reveal the iron point. He sluiced blood away to let Vallon align the forceps.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Vallon. His jaw trembled with effort. He pulled and Richard shrieked. He pulled so hard that he tumbled backwards when the forceps slipped. ‘I felt it shift.’
When Hero inspected the wound, half the arrowhead was clear of the ribs.
‘Oh God!’ Richard cried. ‘Let me die!’
Hero mopped Richard’s brow. ‘It’s nearly out. One more effort.’
Vallon clamped the forceps again and this time he tore the arrowhead out, ripping through muscle and blood vessels. Arterial blood spurted and it seemed like Richard’s life essence would drain completely before the cold- water dressings staunched the flow. He’d fallen unconscious and his heart fluttered like a bird’s. Vallon withdrew the shaft from his back and another spout of blood gushed and ebbed. Hero turned the buckled arrowhead in his hands.
‘You’re a braver man than me,’ Vallon said. ‘And so is Richard.’
*
They were back on the river when Richard recovered consciousness. He breathed a little easier and could drink water one sip at a time. They camped that night on another island and took it in turns to support him in the position that caused him the least severe pain. In the morning the Cumans had gone. Hero changed the dressing on Richard’s wound. He’d left it open so that it could drain. In the dull light, Richard had the pallor of a corpse two days dead, his dark eyes sunk in his skull.
They drifted through empty steppe. The next day Richard was able to take a cup of broth. The surgical wound hurt him less than the internal pain. At each breath, it felt like a stitch was being pulled tight inside his lung. Cupping the wound afforded some relief, allowing him snatches of sleep. After three days Hero dared to hope of recovery. Morning, evening and night he changed the dressing. There was some suppuration, but that was to be expected, and the lips of the wound were beginning to granulate.
Hero’s fragile hopes were crushed on the fourth day, when the cupping treatment produced a copious effusion of foul-smelling pus. By evening Richard had a high fever and was delirious. The next morning gas was bubbling from the wound, enveloping the boat in stinking purulence.
On the sixth day they reached the mouth of the Dnieper and landed on the island of St Aitherios, more than a mile from either shore. It was about half a mile long, flat and featureless except for a few grave-barrows. The travellers knew it was deserted even before they went ashore and found the remains of recent campfires and a freshly dug grave. No trees grew on the island and they propped Richard against a Viking runestone erected to commemorate another traveller who’d perished on the Road to the Greeks. They ate supper in a morbid silence while Hero sat with Richard, waiting for him to die.
In the middle watch Richard recovered consciousness. ‘Hero?’
‘I’m right here.’
‘It doesn’t hurt any more.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘I won’t live to see tomorrow. Don’t weep. Remember the happy times we’ve shared. Think of what I would have missed if I’d stayed at home. I’ve lived a lifetime in the last eight months. I’ve seen so much, learned so much and learned how much more there is to know. I’m still a fool, but I’m a fool who can ask questions that ten wise men can’t answer.’
In the starlight his eyes were dark pools of shadow.
‘I wish I’d reached the sea.’
Hero held him. ‘We
‘I don’t want to be buried here. It’s full of ghosts. They talk to me. I don’t want to be with them. Cast my body into the river.’
Those were Richard’s last words. His breathing grew increasingly feeble. Drogo came over and laid a hand on Hero’s shoulder.
‘I want to speak to him.’
‘He can’t hear you.’
‘It’s what I have to say that matters.’
Hero went to the shore and squeezed his skull between his hands. Waves sighed on the bar. He could hear Drogo murmuring, his monologue broken by many pauses, as though he had to dredge the words from deep inside. At last he stopped. Hero stood and watched him approach.
‘He’s gone.’
‘I should have been there when his soul departed.’
‘I wanted to make peace with him.’ Drogo’s mouth quivered. ‘He was a better man than I gave him credit for, but when you grow up in a family like mine … ’ He swung round, his body shaking.
‘It’s not too late to make your peace with Vallon.’
Drogo whirled. ‘Richard never did me any harm. But Vallon … ’ Drogo shot out a hand. ‘That man has taken everything I have.’
In the morning they wrapped Richard in a shroud and laid him in the skiff and consigned him to the sea. A cold wind raised whitecaps and a flock of pelicans stood on the shore facing a window of light in the grey sky. After the others had left, Hero remained, watching the boat drifting away.
He was deep in mournful reverie when Wayland said his name. He turned, smiling. ‘I was miles away. Has Vallon called a council? Am I holding things up?’
‘It’s Syth. She’s sick.’
‘Oh, no! Why didn’t you say?’
‘She didn’t want to bother you. She only told me this morning. She’s been sick for three days.’
‘In what way sick?’
‘Throwing up. Three of the falcons are showing signs of sickness, too.’
‘I’ll tend to her straight away.’
Syth watched him with a very guarded expression when he approached. She didn’t look her usual bright self. There were bruises under her eyes and her hair was brittle and lifeless. He took her pulse, listened to her breathing, felt her brow. Nothing untoward there.
‘Describe your symptoms.’
She made a gargoyle face and uttered a retching sound.
‘Vomiting?’ said Hero. ‘After eating?’
‘At the thought of eating. Sometimes a smell makes me throw up.’
‘You don’t have a fever. Perhaps it’s something you ate.’
Caitlin walked over. ‘What’s wrong with the maid?’
‘She’s ill. Vomiting.’
