Her heart tumbled over itself, and relief rushed in like a gust and swept away her fears. She started across the room, tears stinging her eyes. He was alive and safe and here. She rapidly closed the distance, the need to be in his arms greater than her need for another breath. She started to throw her arms around him, but he captured both of her hands in a bruising grip.
“You disobeyed me, wife.” His voice was hard and angry.
She winced. She’d expected him to be happy to be reunited but should have known he’d be upset at her blatant disregard of his orders to leave with Thad. Even so, she wouldn’t cower. “Sarah is disguised as me. Thad will spread the rumor that I’ve left with the others, and no one will suspect otherwise.”
Will’s hold loosened. He swayed, and one of the other knights steadied him. “You have lost a great deal of blood, sire.”
Somewhere behind her, servants had begun to light the sconces, which brought to life Will’s ruggedly handsome face covered with dust and blood. He still wore pieces of his plate armor but had shed much of it—likely so it wouldn’t slow him down during his ride.
“Everyone is safe?” His eyes were glassy.
“Yes, we’re all fine. The boys were very brave.”
He yanked off his glove, lifted a hand, and touched her cheek, as though to make sure she was indeed standing before him alive and well. She leaned in to his calloused fingers, but before she could melt into his caress, he crumpled to the ground.
“Will!” She dropped to her knees beside him.
“He was wounded during the melee, my lady.” One of the knights knelt next to Will. She recognized the thin man with the silver hair and pointed silvery beard as Sir John of Rochester. “We warned him against riding this far, but he insisted on coming. He would not be swayed otherwise. I am astonished he lasted this long before succumbing to his injuries.”
“How badly is he hurt?” She glided her hands over Will’s arms and chest, searching for signs of his wound.
“I am afraid ’tis severe, my lady.”
As her fingers skimmed along his side, she grazed a slick, sticky spot. “He needs a doctor.”
“I already took the liberty of sending one of my squires for my surgeon. He is very skilled, the best in all of Kent.”
Will needed to go to the emergency room in an ambulance where he could receive immediate care by experts, not languish here waiting for a doctor from the Middle Ages to show up without access to modern equipment, sterilization, or antibiotics.
“Help me carry him up to his chamber,” she said with mounting frustration. “We must tend to his wounds until the doctor arrives.”
Sir John and two of the squires lifted Will, and she led the way to his room, where they laid him on the bed. Marian began to help the servants free him from the rest of his armor and garments, ordering others to bring hot water, soap, and clean towels.
She gave instructions for several different herbal salves, praying the servants would be able to locate what was needed to provide a healing balm, ordering them to ride to the apothecary at St. Sepulchre if need be. She might not have access to modern medicine, but at least she knew enough to create something that might help—even if just a little.
As they peeled away the last layer of Will’s blood-soaked garments, she sucked in a sharp breath. He’d been stabbed in several places. The puncture in the fleshy part of his upper arm had severed muscles and oozed crimson even though Will had attempted to staunch the flow by tying a piece of his shift around it.
Another wound in his lower back was long and jagged and would need many stitches. But it was the gash at his right side that worried Marian the most. The blade had gone deep. Without an MRI scan, she wouldn’t know what had been damaged—a kidney, liver, gallbladder, perhaps part of his large intestine, depending on the angle the blade had entered.
She suspected Will was bleeding internally, but without proper surgical instruments, she had no way of helping him. Even though she’d taken numerous medical classes over the years, she was definitely no surgeon.
Later when the surgeon arrived, Marian rose from the side of the bed where she was keeping vigil. She’d been administering herbal water as often as she could get Will to swallow the bitter decoction, and she’d plastered poultices to his wounds. She was beyond frustrated at the length of time it had taken for the surgeon to arrive, silently lamenting that she couldn’t call for a medevac to fly Will to the best medical facility money could buy.
The surgeon took one look at Will’s wounds and shook his head gravely as though he didn’t hold any hope. Marian attempted to explain what she believed to be the problem and urged the surgeon to cut Will open and perform surgery—at the very least attempt to sew his insides together and stop the internal bleeding.
But the gray-haired surgeon only peered at her with pursed lips and flaring nostrils as he laid out an assortment of crude instruments.
Marian ordered a servant hovering nearby to bring her boiling water so she could sterilize the instruments first. As the servant rushed to do her bidding, the doctor shook his head. “My lady, you must leave the chamber. There is naught more you can do for him except to pray.”
“I intend to stay and help you with the surgery.”
“Surgery will not save him.”
Without the proper instruments, anesthesia, and antibiotics, the surgery might only make things worse. But they had to try, didn’t they? “What are you planning to do?”
“Since the wound is so deep, I am left with no option but to cauterize it.” He picked up an iron poker instrument.
Chills crept up Marian’s back at the image of the red-hot tool searing Will’s flesh in an attempt to seal the wound and blood vessels shut. He’d face excruciating pain and would likely continue to bleed internally. “There must be some other option.”
“My lady.” The surgeon’s voice became testy. “Sir William may succumb to his injuries, but ’twill most certainly be so if you do not allow me to do what I was called here for.”
“You were not called here for this.” She didn’t realize her tone had escalated until someone touched her elbow from behind. She swung to find Sir John standing there, his kind face etched with compassion and sadness.
“My lady, my surgeon is a good man. He will do all he can for Sir William.”
Marian tried to quell the frustration and panic climbing from her stomach to her chest and throat. Will was dying. She glanced again to his pale face, to the slow rise and fall of his chest, to the lifeblood already draining away.
“If you will allow me, my lady,” Sir John was saying, “I shall accompany you to the chapel and together we shall beseech God to spare Sir William’s life.”
“If we hope that God will spare my husband’s life, then we must find another way to help him.”
“Sire.” The surgeon addressed Sir John. “Please usher this woman from the sickbed. We are wasting time.”
Sir John took her arm more firmly.
“No!” She jerked away from the knight. He was only trying to do what he thought was best for Will, but surely even rudimentary surgery would be better than the cauterizing.
“You are distraught, lady.” Sir John spoke gently. “And rightly so. Your husband is a courageous man. If not for his brilliant plan today, we might all be dead. As it was, he brought about the end of the rebellion, and for that we are all in his debt. If he perishes, it will be with great honor for having saved his king.”