35 Days (Violent Delights Book 10)

Day 26: The siege September 12, 1415

According to Henry, King of England

Richard has the first seizure in the early hours of the morning. I wake the doctors because his skin is covered in bruises. I tug the leeches off myself. But his chest is black and blue. And when he wakes he's nearly incoherent. I tip wine down his throat and that stays down.
"The fever isn't breaking. You said the leeches would help they are bruising him," I say. I'm ready to threaten them with death. But they already shake in fear when I speak. And I need them to do their jobs.
The first seizure comes as I shout at them to do something. Why is he bruising? That means there's blood under the skin why is he bleeding?
And then he starts convulsing, head tipped back, lashing out. I dive to the bed and hold him still as he twists. The doctors bolt for poultices and other useless remedies. They start trying to rub honey and herbs into his neck. I let them do it as I try to hold him still from hurting himself.
He comes to after a moment, blinking those deep liquid blue eyes.
"Henry?" He whispers.
"Yes, I'm here. You had a bad night," I say, calmly. The doctors are unsettled by my change in demeanor.
"I think the fever's lower, I could be better now," Richard says, sinking back in my arms.
I put my hand to his forehead. He does feel cooler.
We get him wine. He sips it, and it stays down. The doctors also allow broth.
His skin is rife with bruises, I didn't help holding him still but he shouldn't be bruising that badly. But he's more lucid. He accepts the food and drink. And he is well enough to ask for more wine and noticing the bruising on his arms.
"Just the fever. You're much cooler, try to sleep," I say, briskly. He is cooler. Was that it ending somehow?
"Yes, I shall, don't keep from your work," he says, sinking down in the bed. They changed the linens again. I had him moved to my bed.
"Don't trouble yourself with my schedule," I say.
I do go to work, telling them to notify me if there's any change. After he falls asleep again I do go. I check the cannons, and walk camp, then I check my own correspondence. No one dares speak to me. I'm sure word has spread of his illness. And I truly do not care what they say or think. I am allowed one friend am I not? One companion? David had his Jonathan. I simply want him with me. They all have their vain, pitiful, sexual, attachments. I just have this and that is all I want.
When I return Richard is awake and drinking wine again. This is mixed with water. The doctors are cautious, meeting me outside.
"The fever is much lowered. He's warm but not burning. And he hasn't vomited again. We'll give him more herbs to prevent the fits," they tell me.
When I go in Richard is paler than ever. His cheeks are devoid of color. This does not look like a man on the mend. But he smiles for me. Perhaps it is just hitting him harder than the rest.
"See, you're drinking all the good wine," I say, sitting down on the bed beside him.
"The fever's better, but," he says.
"What?" I ask.
"The pain in my gut, and, I feel like my skin is on fire, on the inside. Can they do nothing?" He asks.
"They are doing what they can, you simply must bear this," I say, touching his cheek. He usually had good color. He looks so pale. "In another day perhaps it will have worked itself out. Just be strong."
"I shall, I'm still cold, I know I complained of the heat, now there's just cold," he says, "I had so much work to do—,"
"And you'll do it later. You can learn to lie here. We're in France. I'm going to take you to Paris. We'll walk by the Sienne. You can meet your disgusting people. And we'll barter with the royals for hours. And I'll get the crown, and all of France will be ours," I say, stroking his sweaty hair from his face.
"You'll hate Paris, there's no war for you there. Nothing to set on fire," he says, lying back though.
"Then you'd best find me entertainments eh?" I ask, holding his hand. He still wears the ring I gave him. His fingers are cooler, not so burning. The fever is breaking now. It's just taking time.
"Yes, I shall," he says, smiling almost.
"Dream on that," I say, rubbing his cheek with my thumb. No color to his skin at all, bloodless. He's getting weaker.
The doctors converge and rub more poultices into his skin. I don't know how much of it is for his benefit or for mine. But I retreat to my paperwork while they fuss over him.
Humphrey comes not long after dark. I've eaten little. Richard fell into a rough, troubled sleep. The tent is still swarming with doctors.
"Jack told me—how is he?" Humphrey asks, actual concern in his face as he looks to Richard lying in the bed.
"Ill. He had a fit this morning I don't—it's the worst I've seen," I admit, getting up from my work.
"The men had fits," Humphrey says, quietly, "Some of them."
"The ones who died?" I ask, hearing my voice drop into anger I don't intend for my brother.
"Yes," he says, glancing at me worriedly.
I nod. I can't speak; it's not his doing.
"He's strong. And younger than them. And you've good physicians," Humphrey says.
"Yes," I say, appreciating his steadiness, "Will you sit with him? I have a few things I must see to—the cannons before tomorrow. He's delirious when he wakes just stay with him—will you?"
"Yes, of course," Humphrey says, quickly, "I care for him as well."
"No, you don't," I say, and then I just leave. I can't be charitable to my brother I have little charity left in me. I feel like I have nothing left in me. He simply has to get better. That's all.
I return after a few hours. The tent is mostly quiet when I do. Humphrey is sitting at the foot of the bed, chatting with Richard who is half awake.
"Causing trouble?" I ask, putting a hand on Humphrey's head. He smiles a bit.
"Yes, I thought at Christmas you decided not to leave us alone together," Richard says, smiling a little.
"You're bleeding," I say, coming over. Blood is dripping from his nose, and I can see it on his lips.
"I'm not doing well," he says, tipping his head towards me a bit.
"Don't be dramatic," I say, getting a cloth.
Humphrey rises, his eyes are tired.
"You go, you don't need to fall ill yourself," I say to him.
"I'll see you in the morning Bishop," Humphrey says, smiling a bit for him.
"You'd better. I'll go mad here with nothing to read, my abacus confiscated by royal command," Richard says.
"You are feeling better if you can be insolent," I say, wiping the blood from his face. His nose is bleeding as though he was punched. And there are bruises still purple and angry yellow on his chest. But his skin is cooling.
"The fever's lower, I'll sleep and be well in the morning," Richard says.
"Yes, close your eyes," I say, putting a hand to his cheek. He is cooler. He's on the mend.
I dismiss most of the doctors save a few. They need rest as well. I take bread and wine and can stomach little else. Richard takes more wine when I bring it to him.  He's very delirious, for him. Most men would be completely incoherent, he can still thread together thoughts but he's far from lucid. That concerns me.
"I should go back to my tent," he mutters, "I've been here what two days?"
"You should be quiet," I say. Does he not realize he's been racked with fever? He does not. His eyes are still glassy. He's not back yet. But that's lack of sleep and food. "Will you close your eyes and sleep if I play for you?"
"You do not have to play that for me," he mumbles.
"We've established I do as I like when I like," I say, going to my harp, "Now close your eyes. You'll be out in ten minutes."
He obeys. I play and within a few moments he's asleep. I don't know what I play, scales more than likely, my own mind is far from calm. And nothing gives me peace not with him this ill. I'm exhausted as well. His fever is down. I need to sleep.
I crawl into bed beside him. I slip an arm around him and sit up, letting him lie against my chest. When I was a boy I had a high fever once, my mother did the same, cradling me to her chest through the night so she would feel if it spiked worse, or I became distressed. I cradle him now, as she held me so many years ago. Where did she learn to nurse the sick in that manner? I'll never know. I never thought to ask her. I was a child. I took such care for granted. She was dead within a year of that.
I lean back against the bed. My own eyes are heavy. But I can feel his breathing steady against my chest. And so I know he's well. The doctors say nothing. I stare at them with obvious scorn and they close their mouths. I don't give a damn what people say.