 “’We’re outnumbered’” Sir Farnan told his king grimly as he returned from his place on the crest of the hill, ‘by at least five to one according to the scouts.’ King Carrow said nothing, and the lords and knights gathered around him shifted uncomfortably in their armour.
‘Perhaps we should surrender now,’ a voice suggested from the back, causing the king to frown, ‘and stop any blood from being spilled.’ The men fidgeted again, exchanging glances as they tried to work out which of them had spoken.
‘I’ll not do it!’ a second man shouted in a booming voice, “I will not bow to a king who is not my own!” A murmur of agreement rumbled around as the lords began to nod.
‘We’ll hold!” Lord Hale shouted, raising his sword in a challenge, “we’ll hold for the king!’”
A knock at the door caused Arthur to break off and glance up, the book falling slack against the heels of his hands. Tristan made a noise of protest from his place propped up against the pillows and the king smiled a little; if his son was well enough to complain, then he was recovering, and that was all for the best.
“Come in!” the King called, and a second later the door was pushed open and a doctor edged his way into the room. He stopped a few feet away from the prince’s bed and bowed.
“I’ve come to change His Highness’ bandages, Your Grace,” explained the doctor with a glance at Tristan, “and he’s got some more medicine to take.” Tristan made a revolted gagging sound at the prospect, and it was enough to make the king laugh. Good, his sense of humour was on its way back too. Arthur gestured at the bed, giving his permission for the doctor to proceed.
Tristan still looked pale, there was a thin layer of sweat across his forehead where the fever lingered and, although the darkness under his eyes had faded a little, it was still easily noticeable. The colour had not quite flushed back into his cheeks. Resigned to his fate, and not strong enough to protest too energetically, Tristan pulled his arm out from beneath the covers and offered it to the doctor. The boy sighed. When he had been properly out of it in the infirmary when he was in the height of his fever he had been unaware of the passage of time. As he recovered a little bit he had spent most of his time sleeping, but now he had made even more progress he was spending more and more time conscious. Tristan was starting to get bored; not only would they not let him get out of bed; he wasn’t strong enough to get up. The prince however was energetic and athletic and he had started to find it very difficult to keep himself occupied whilst sitting still.
As the doctor unwrapped the bandages Tristan noticed that there was still a thin layer if yellowish discharge which had seeped into the white fabric, along with the purple-white paste the doctor had been using to fight the infection. The wound itself however was much improved. It hadn’t closed much, but the damaged tissue was now a fresh healthy pink colour. It was enough to make the doctor (a short plump little man) clap his hands together in delight. “Oh yes, Your Highness!” he enthused in his delight, “much much better! We’ll have you back on your feet in no time!” Tristan muttered something under his breath which prompted a stern look from his father. Things really were getting back to normal.
“Would you pass me a cushion, Your Highness?” the doctor asked. Tristan obliged, and the man lifted his arm and placed it on top of the cushion. “We’ll let the air get at it a little while,” he explained, as he turned to rummage in his little leather bag and pulled out a glass bottle stopped with a cork. He pulled the stopper off and handed it to Tristan. “The whole lot please, Your Highness” he instructed, with far too much enthusiasm in Tristan’s view. Screwing up his nose he downed the lot in one go, swallowed and then shuddered. Fortunately, Arthur was standing by with some sweetened wine to take the edge off it.
Another knock came at the door and Arthur moved to answer it as the doctor packed up his things again. Tristan craned his neck to see who it was and was surprised to see Alethea moving into the room. The prince smiled at her, and managed a little wave with his good hand.
“I’m going to go to the Chapel, Tris,” Arthur explained, before looking over at the other man in the room, “doctor, walk with me, I’d like a word.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the doctor responded with a bow, leading the way out of the door.
“Father!” Tristan called as Arthur made to follow him. The king paused and looked back at him curiously,
“Are you going to chapel again this evening?” Arthur nodded, “can I come?” Tris finished. The king looked at him in surprise, but nodded,
“of course, I’ll arrange something to get you there.”
The king and the doctor departed, and the door clicked closed behind them.
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