Chapter XLIV #2
The Norman was sitting in the great wooden bed, his back propped up with pillows against the carved headboard.
His flesh was a terrible gray color and hung from his huge frame like lumpy sackcloth.
The lodge staff had swaddled him in cushions and blankets in an attempt to make him comfortable in his sitting position.
Bandages were wound around his head, holding in place a thick wad of cloth on the back of his skull.
His lush grenadier’s mustache, always so carefully waxed and curled, was now bristly and unkempt, like barley straw.
One glaring eye was a ghastly red, like fresh liver.
“Unwell” indeed. Not quite as unwell as his son, but it won’t be long, said my Guest.
Sarmodel was correct; Enneval’s anima was very gradually peeling off his body like mist. Without serious medical intervention, he would be dead within days.
“He has been shot, sir,” said Bauterne, closing the door behind me. He was, as ever, dressed in his fine hunting attire of soft chamois britches and sturdy waistcoat with cabled silk galloons—all black, of course. “Though he begs to differ.”
“Ah.”
“I told you I was surprised by a boar and fell from my horse, you pompous cock! I will carve that smirk off your face with my knife,” snarled Enneval.
“Indeed, but you are too weak to rise, as we have discussed many times,” said Bauterne evenly.
“If you had allowed us to take our own hounds on the hunt, it would never have happened! As soon as Jean-Francois returns, he will tell you—Ah! By the Lord!” A spasm of terrible pain gripped the hunter.
He attempted to clutch at his skull, but it seemed to cost him a dreadful effort just to lift his arms. His muscular limbs shook pitifully and, in the end, he simply rested his chin on his chest, panting.
A small amount of clear fluid ran from his ear as he moved.
“Monsieur Enneval, if I had let you take your dogs, you would all be trapped in this blizzard by now. Your pack did not deserve to die because you cannot properly judge the weather.” Bauterne shook his head.
He seemed more disheartened than anything, or perhaps he was just worn down by Enneval’s vicious fury.
I cleared my throat and spoke to the suffering man in the bed. “Monsieur Enneval, might I examine your wound? It appears to be causing you some pain. I may be able to help.”
His head snapped up with sudden, furious energy and his whole body strained as he sought to lunge at me from the bed.
Thankfully, he was too weak and too deeply engulfed in the cushions to do more than shift his weight.
“Do not dare touch me, anticoniste!3 You may examine my knife with your liver!” he roared.
Another trickle of watery liquid dripped from his ear.
I waited, smiling gently with my hands folded in front of me. It took only a few seconds for the Norman’s agitation to exact its toll. His eyes fluttered and his heaving shoulders slumped. He sank back into the pillows, unconscious.
I immediately called for a manservant to fetch my medical kit from my valise. I asked Bauterne to support the Norman’s bulk as I tipped him gently forward and tugged at the bandages around his head. I lifted away the clump of wool cloth and grimaced.
“You are correct, sir. It is a shot wound.”
Even with the Norman’s blond hair matted into the blood, it was easy to see the sizable hole in the back of his skull. It was undoubtedly made by a musket ball. As I unpacked the wadding from the wound, more clear liquid seeped out from beneath the clot.
“That was not in question. I suspect some violent dispute with another group of hunters, though he will admit to nothing.” Bauterne seemed to find his task distasteful. “Professor, you offered to help. Are you able or not?”
Sebastian, this one—surely this one is beyond help. I can see his thinking parts!
I am inclined to agree. But I can’t kill him with Bauterne watching.
I shook my head regretfully. “He will not recover, I am afraid. His violent temper and confusion are caused by damage to his brain, and it would take more skill than I have to repair it, even if I were able to remove the pellet. There is little I can do except ease his suffering.”
Bauterne swore under his breath. “Then I will continue to pray for him, and I will thank you to take your leave.”
“Of course, sir.”
I replaced the crusted wadding with fresh, dry cloth and wound the bandages firmly around his head again. We returned the big man to his sitting position, arranging his limbs as comfortably as possible.
When we were finished, I took a small green glass bottle from my kit. I gave it to the lieutenant.
He closed his eyes briefly in forbearance. “Opium? You are indeed a physician of rare skill. I could have purchased this from any village in France.”
“It is my own recipe, sir. Do not confuse it with some midwife’s tonic.
” I held up a glass pipette, wrapped in soft leather.
“Now listen. There are ten drops in a measure. Three measures will soften his pain and hopefully his tone. Four will grant him sleep. He will not awaken from five. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“Repeat it.”
“For the love of the Lord—I am not an idiot, sir!” Bauterne’s lip curled.
“Then listen to me again. The Normans were indeed surprised in the woods, but not by a boar. Lord Enneval’s son is not going to return.
We found him this morning, killed by the Beast. There was no ‘violent dispute’—it was his musket, fired by accident during his final struggle, which caused his father’s injury.
” I showed him the pipette again. “I will ask once more—do you understand?”
Bauterne’s sneer faded. He took the glass dropper from my hand, his eyes grave. “Three for relief. Four for sleep. Five for peace. I understand.”
“Excellent. I will see you at dinner, sir.”
1. This was a joke—the Archangel has come to the flesh only once (ref. Luke 2:1–20) and we all know how that ended up.
2. If I recall correctly, Enneval’s exact words were “Professeur Pipe,” which amounts to a juvenile epithet related to oral sex, and a slur on my professionalism—both entirely uncalled for.
3. Yet another base insult from the Norman. This one implies an aversion to female genitalia, which is quite unearned in my case. I am partial to snails and oysters both.