35 Days (Violent Delights Book 10)

Day 27: The siege September 13, 1415

According to Henry, King of England

The fever returns in the night with a vengeance. I wake because Richard feels as though he's burning alive in my arms. By the time I've woken doctors he's having fits. Blood drips from his nose and mouth. And he jerks and shakes, eyes rolled up in his head.
The doctors aren't big men. They can't hold him still. I can, I'm the only one who can there's strength his limbs when he's out of his mind.  I hold him still.  They treat him with what they have. Herbs. A few poultices rubbed into his head and neck. His hair is sticky with it. And he jerks helplessly in my arms, his skin burning with fever. I'm soaked in his sweat.
This all starts sometime past midnight, and lasts till dawn. He has a fit, then will go limp in my arms. We try to wake him. Only for another fit to start. Then he's just shaking in fever.
When Richard finally comes around the sun is well up. I'm sweating and nearly shaking myself. I feel terribly, utterly powerless.
"It hurts, please make it stop," Richard sobs, clutching his gut, "It's like I'm being torn apart."
"Get him laudanum," I snarl.
"Your majesty—,"
"You heard me, do not make me repeat myself," I say. Laudanum would be used for pain, not typically to treat flux. And we have a highly limited supply it's too expensive. I was given it when they did this to my head. Wholly vile, but it was the only thing that even dulled the pain. It's kept in reserve if I, or one of my brothers or perhaps the Duke of York or Exeter, were severely injured and needed surgery. We didn't have any when this happened to my face I don't think, I didn't get it till we were on our way back home to Kenilworth.  But if Richard is in pain he needs it. And what we are doing is clearly not relieving his suffering.
I do not have to repeat myself and they fetch it. 
"Wake up, wake up a bit for me, we have medicine," I say, stroking Richard's hair from his face. We are both quite soaked in sweat. It's warm in the tent and he's burning up and he's been in my arms so I'm sweating too.
"I'm awake I just can't move, it hurts, it hurts Henry, please, please," he says, gripping me tightly.
"This will ease you," I say.
They drip it into a spoon and raise it to his lips. I know from experience the brown liquid is terribly bitter. My father took variants for years which is a clue in the everlasting mystery of why he slept for nearly a year. It's powerful and I found it quite revolting. When my head was being forcibly caved in though I was grateful enough for it, though I refused it after as I hated how disoriented I felt. But Richard needs to sleep and be out of pain if it's pain he's now in.
It puts him right out, or mostly. He still thrashes in pain and he's still bleeding from his nose. His skin is ashen, and the fever is raging worse than it ever was.
Humphrey comes with news of camp. I'm going nowhere and concede to delegate most of my own tasks to him. I can do paperwork from my tent but nothing else.
Edmund Mortimer is severely weakened, but not dangerously ill. He has not yet shaken the flux but he's not feverish anymore. Cornwall, Porter, and most of the other commanders are entirely well, either having had brief illness or never falling ill. Most of us have had brief bouts of stomach upset from this foul water and conditions, Humphrey remaining one of the few who has been completely unaffected.  Thomas apparently had the same symptoms as I did, perhaps a day or two of mild illness alleviated by sleep and wine.
I get information to adjust the lists of sick to go home. No one leaves till the siege is done. I give copies of the lists to Humphrey.
"I put Richard on the list. In a few days when he's better and will expect to supervise it, we'll pack his things. After this severe an illness he should return to England," I say.
Humphrey nods in agreement, "He won't like that."
"He doesn't have to," I say, cruelly. Whatever is afflicting him, the fits, they could return. Campaign is no longer any place for him. He'll see that when he's in his right mind.
By evening Richard wakes a bit, finally. His fever is still burning just as high as before. I take over from the doctors wiping his face with the cool cloth. We are again fighting simply to bring the fever down. My last memory of such a thing was when Humphrey and I were ill as boys. We were the only ones affected. Our mother and grandmother who had come to stay, they both washed our faces with cool cloths. And then in the morning the fever had broken.
But Richard knows no relief. He twists a bit, he can speak nothing now other than to murmur my name.
"I'm here. I'm with you," I say, but I do not even know if he hears me. He does not seem to, just tipping his head away from the cloth, skin burning.
As before I sleep sitting up, with him lying across me, cradled to my chest. He takes some small comfort in that. He's incredibly still and his skin feels on fire.
"You'll get better," I tell him. But I am beginning to realize that my words have no power over what ails him. I cannot command him to get well, no matter how I may wish to.

According to Raoul de Gaoucourt

I wake up in my bed, with a parcel with 'manna from Heaven' written on it, containing dried meat and cheese.
"We can't spare these supplies—they should be given to the children, speaking of where are my children—?"
"Oh good you feel better," Jehan greets me in the garrison kitchens. It's the middle of the night.
"Lack of cannons, and no I'm not better I'm still with fever, thank you very little for drowning me with wine," I say, rubbing my face.
"You're very welcome, we're nearly out of food that's from me," Jehan says.
"So give it to the children," I say, say, putting it down on the table, "Gosse—and Eudes—and—-," Aimee is dead.
"Do you not get tired of being you?" Jehan sighs.
"What?" I ask.
"Fucking—noble —thinking of everyone all the time," he says, shaking his head, "Eat the damn food. Or you'll die too."
"I'm not going to die," I say.
"Men die."
"Maybe I'm not a man then. I don't really know. I don't philosophize. I'm a solider. That's all," I say.
"You're a good deal more than that and you know it," he says.
"What is this conversation about?" I ask.
"We're almost out of food. The people are sick. We're going to starve soon. You're going to die, we're all going to die, no amount of nobility, or grand gestures, are going to save Harfluer," Jehan says.
"No—but—,"
"No relief is coming. The Dauphin said he would try. In two days, I leave, to go and tell them we won't hold out another week," Jehan says.
I sigh, leaning against the wall.
"We won't, hold out another week. You did your best, Raoul. But one man can't save an entire country," he says.
"One man is going to try," I say.
"I knew you'd say something stupid like that," he grins.
"Two days time you said?"
"What?" He smiles.
"I'm going to create a diversion," I say, "While you swim out."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to do that. I want them to know we're not broken. Even if we are," I say, "And more than that I want to make Henry regret ever setting foot in France."