Page 87 of The Quest for Excalibur
I kept my arm linked through Arthur’s in unobtrusive support in case he staggered.
My anxious gaze slid over the crowd, picking out my loved ones, my relief rising at the sight of each familiar face: Cei, Llacheu, Bedwyr, Drustans, Gwalchmei, Anwyll. And Cerdic.
Arthur straightened, with a grimace of not-so-well-disguised pain, and held out his bloody right hand to Custennin. The young man took it, clasping forearms in a manly shake that brought another grimace. Then Arthur, teeth gritted, raised his nephew’s arm. “King Custennin,” he shouted, with perhaps less strength than usual. “God save King Custennin.”
Chapter Forty-One
All around usmen raised their voices– the warriors of Powys of course, cheering Custennin, their new king, but also our men of Dumnonia, and Cerdic’s men from Caer Guinntguic. With gusto, Cerdic joined the chorus of cheers, his face alight with what might well have been a sense of belonging.
How hard must it have been for him, brought up at a foreign court, to take up his father’s crown and try to rule a kingdom of predominantly hostile subjects. A sudden sense of bonding rose unexpectedly in my heart. Like me, he’d been a stranger to his people. Like me, he’d had to win them over. But for him it must have been ten times harder.
Arthur released Custennin’s arm and took a couple of unsteady steps back, face drawn. Bedwyr was by his side in a moment, a hand slipping under his right elbow. “Leave this,” he muttered, keeping his voice low. “You need to come with me and let me get that arrow out.”
“I’ll help.” I followed Bedwyr as he forcibly escorted Arthur away from the center of activity, leaving the body of his brother and the celebrations of the new king behind us. How ephemeral was kingship that Custennin could be cheered with his father’s last breath still hanging in the air? Would Arthur’s men do that when he was gone? A shiver wracked my whole body, and I hurried my footsteps.
After a dozen wary paces, Arthur halted. His wound must be jarring with every step he took, the numbness adrenalin would have provided dissipating. With awkward precision, he turned to face me, almost as though he’d not noticed me until now. “Gwen.” His tone was apologetic. Pulling free of Bedwyr’s hold, he gingerly put his hand to his shoulder, taking care not to touch the arrow. “It’s nothing. Bedwyr will get it out.” He managed a faint and not-at-all convincing grin.
“It’s an arrow,” I said, my voice wobbling despite a heroic effort to keep it steady. “I’m not an idiot. I know how bad that is.” Images of the wounds removing an arrow could cause kept flashing through my mind, impossible to chase away.
Bedwyr caught Arthur’s elbow again. “This way. I need to get it out.”
Arthur shook his head, wincing. “I have to organize a new camp. What to do with the prisoners. Set up lookouts.”
I met Bedwyr’s anxious gaze. “Cei can do that,” I said. “You know he can. Do as Bedwyr says. Please.”
For answer, the sound of Cei’s raised voice rose behind us, shouting orders. He didn’t need telling he was in command for the time being.
Arthur’s failed effort to shrug made him screw his face up in pain. “Very well. Get it out and bandaged up and get me back where I belong.”
Where he belonged was in a hospital bed after a proper, sterile, surgical removal of this arrow, but that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon.
“This way,” Bedwyr ordered. Where the trees crowded the roadside, two of our younger warriors, his apprentices, stood holding his horse and their own, all three laden with heavy saddlebags that would be full of wound dressings and medicines. As the nearest thing to a doctor we had, Bedwyr had come prepared.
He rummaged in the copious saddlebags and came out with a small saw.
Arthur managed a chuckle. “Which bit of me are you thinking of amputating?”
Bedwyr shook his head, face serious. “Sit down.” He indicated the hump of a dead horse. “You’ll need to. I need to get this out as quickly as possible and make sure no dirt was carried in with it. No bits of your clothing.”
Oh God. I hadn’t thought of that. Not only did we have to face digging out an arrow, but also the possibility the wound was already infected. Hadn’t Richard the Lionheart died from an arrow wound? I wouldn’t think about it.
With only a cursory glance, Arthur sat down on the horse’s flank, setting his feet apart and his hands on his knees. “Get on with it.”
Bedwyr pursed his lips. “Better take a swig of this.” He handed Arthur a flask from a pouch on his hip. He eyed his friend. “On second thought, better have it all.”
Arthur needed no encouraging. He put his head back and drained the flask.
“What shall I do?” I asked, trying to instil in my voice some hint of capability and confidence. The very day I’d met Arthur, all those years ago, I’d treated his wounded hand, and been able to do so with perfect equanimity, save for the worry that if he died from the wound I might well have been blamed. He’d meant nothing to me then. Twelve years had wrought a huge difference to my feelings.
Bedwyr glanced at me out of anxious eyes. “Do you think you can hold him steady?”
I set my teeth and nodded. No ambulances here. It wasn’t a matter of choice– I had to.
He grunted. “Then get behind him, brace your knee against his back and take hold of his shoulders.”
Swallowing my fear, I did as I was told, stepping over the spear lodged in the dead horse’s belly to stand between its legs, my shins pressed against its cooling skin.
The arrowhead had come right through Arthur’s shoulder to stick out between the broken links of his mailshirt on the far side. When I took hold of him, he grunted in pain, but I knew better than to let go and have to try again. Best to be firm the first time. I put my knee against the small of his back, bracing myself, compressing my lips in a hard, determined line.
