35 Days (Violent Delights Book 10)

Day 24: The siege September 10, 1415

According to Richard Courtenay, Bishop of Norwich

When I wake I'm sweating with fever. It's bad but I don't know how bad. My sheets are soaked in blood.
I dress in a haze. I drink wine, but it's sour in my mouth. I spent the night in my tent that's good. I'm sick. I'm very sick.
I'll just go for a walk. It's not yet dawn. The king will still be asleep. Henry. He'll be sleeping. If I'm this ill I should be alone. I'll go to the doctors what I took didn't help apparently. They'll help and I'll get better. He's busy with the cannons he won't look for me which is well he doesn't need to get whatever I have.
I walk through the early morning. Sweat is draining down my face. Why am I this ill? I want to feel better. It's as though my body is boiling from the inside out. I'll just walk to the doctor's tent. They can give me something. Moving will do me good as will the air. But it's still hot and it stinks of death. I can smell death. We've lost, what, a thousand men?
I was working late last night. What were the messages it was important I thought of going to the king? Why can't I remember? I'm not thinking clearly it's the fever. This is bad. All right. I shouldn't have left. I should have lain down why am I even here? I can taste vomit and blood in my mouth.
"Bishop? Are you all right?" I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Jack—no, just leave me I'm just walking. Actually I—," I feel my knees buckle under me and I sink to the ground. The ground is cool. There's coolness to the earth. That is good.
"I had information for Henry it's in my tent I —,"
"No, sorry," Jack puts a hand under my legs and another around my back, picking me up quite quickly, "I'm taking you to get help. You're ill."
"I think I just need to sleep this —this fever off. No, listen I need to tell Henry, you need to tell him I had information," it's about the spy. The one who'd gotten out of Harfluer. I had his name. I need to get it to Henry that's what I was doing. Yes.
"Yes, we'll tell the king that, sure," Jack says, carrying me bodily. He's strong as an ox this boy. I'm a head taller than him.
"Do you remember the Christmas we went hunting?" I ask quietly.
"Yes, the boar hunt, you hated it," he says, tears dripping down his face, mingling with sweat.
"Why are you weeping?" I ask.
"Don't mind me, Bishop," he says, "We're going to get you to the King's tent you'll be all right."
"No, no you can't take me there. I'm infected, Henry could get ill, no, take me to my tent, I command you," I say.
"I'm very sorry. But you both, you and the king both, separately, ordered me to immediately inform the other one if the other one was in anyway hurt—that was confusing. I know what I mean. The point is the king swore me to bring you to him if you were hurt, he implied stabbed through during a clandestine meeting, and you nearly simultaneously ordered me to inform you if, and you said when, he got bashed in the head again, so I'm doing it. I'm sorry I don't even fully understand the rules but I know the king was very definite," Jack says, hoisting me a bit more in his arms. I'm glad of it's cold out now, I'm shivering.
"No, Jack I could be really ill the king—,"
"Would have my guts if he knew I'd taken you anywhere else."
"I'm well. It's not that bad I'm just weak I—," I'm shaking. I'm shaking it's so cold. Finally. Finally this heat broke. There's sweat on his face. It's not cold. "It's not cold. It's not cold is it Jack?"
"No, Father, sorry Bishop," he says, shaking his head, tears are on his cheeks.
"I'm so cold. It hurts I'm so cold," I say, my voice shaking. I know in the back of my head it's fever but my thoughts are out of order.
"I know. We'll get you better. We will," he says, "Just hold on now. Hold on for me."

According John Holland, Duke of Exeter

"The king is busy, don't tell him I'm this ill, I'll be better in a few hours," Courtenay coughs, he's dripping with sweat.
"Right," whatever. I'm getting the king. Now.
I finally make it to the king's tent. All the proper fancy people are there, servants, the like. They blessedly say nothing as I just bear the unfortunate Bishop to one of the beds. Meant for him? Or guards? I don't know. I lay him down gently and he immediately clutches his gut, moaning in pain. He's burning with fever and nearly delirious.
"Send for doctors, don't let him get up, I'm going to fetch the king," I say. I'm halfway down the hill when I realize I could have sent someone to do this. I don't know. I want to do it. I wipe the tears from my face as I jog through the lines. The men don't note me really. Half of them are sick as well. Thank god the King is predictable as ever. He's at the Messenger, our largest cannon.
"Your Majesty," I hurry up, bowing quickly.
"What is it?" Henry asks, no doubt sensing my mood.
"The Bishop of Norwich is ill," I say.
"What?" He tugs me up to my feet and I stumble.
"I took him to your tent—? You said to—?"
"What do you mean he's ill?" Henry asks, his voice dangerous, "What? Is he poisoned is he—,"
"He's got a fever, it's the flux, I sent for doctors—," I say, as he lets go of my shirt, striding away from me. He gave no instruction but I follow him, quickly, nearly tripping over my own two feet.
"How do you know what happened?" Henry snaps, not even looking back to see that I'm there.
"I found him he was in camp, he collapsed with fever. He said to take him back to his tent but I took him to yours because you'd said—,"
"Very good. Go fetch all my physicians. Now."
"I did, I sent for them then I thought I'd get you," I say.
He doesn't respond and his face is stone.
When we reach his tent his physicians are there. They've stripped Courtenay's shirt and have leeches on his chest. He's sweating profusely, black hair curling and sticking to his face. His skin is ashen, green sacks around his eyes, and his muscles are stiff.
"What do you think you're doing?" Henry asks, his voice impossibly casual, crossing to take his friend's hand.
"I've papers, you need to get them. My files I wanted to show you—," Courtenay says, blinking, sweat drips down his face.
"I got them. It's all taken care of, you need to rest now," Henry says, smoothly. He's gotten no papers. He's lying to placate him. I should have done that.
"I should be in my tent I—I'm so cold," Courtenay says.
"You should do as your monarch commands, and rest," Henry says, gripping his hand, "Now lie still. You'll be warm again soon."
Courtenay obeys, relaxing a little. I come over, cautiously, and Henry nods at me to come with him. Then he jerks his head to the doctors.
"Well?" He asks the main one. I don't know the man he's just a doctor.
"His fever is dangerously high. And he needs liquid. We're giving him wine. The leeches should draw out infection," the doctor says, "Once the fever breaks then we're out of danger."
"You need to do everything you can. You'll stay here. All of you. Get his fever down," Henry says.
"My lord," the doctor bows, then goes back to the sick bed.
"Jack, post guards on his tent. See that nothing is moved, men you trust, you understand—actually take a shift yourself. You and Cornwall take turns ensure no one moves anything."
"My lord," I nod, backing away. I glance back once more at Courtenay, limp and shivering with fever. And then I leave as Henry commanded. He didn't say I could come back and see him. So I suppose I can't.