All the way, all he could hear was his friend’s rasping breath, and those words spoken in his quiet, self-possessed manner.
‘My wife. Tell her … Tell her I loved her. I still … love her.’
Chapter Twenty-One
That night was the longest Simon had ever spent. The Dean gaped, and then ordered that his steward should rouse the Mayor’s household to ask who the best physician was in the city, and then bring him at once. Soon Ralph of Malmesbury was with them in Janekyn’s little room, and he at once set about his work.
While the physician studied Baldwin’s breast, Simon stood at his friend’s side. There was no great effusion of blood, which gave Simon some hope, but he knew that the danger which threatened Baldwin would only become clear when the arrow was removed and the wound could be studied more closely. Ralph opened a small vein to release some of Baldwin’s bad humours, and then started to work on the arrow itself. Baldwin maintained a steadfast patience, only showing his temper when the physician stood on his foot. ‘Do you not think I have enough damage done to me?’ he said weakly.
‘I am at least experienced in this kind of wound,’ the physician said. ‘Stop your bellyaching. Most surgeon barbers would pull the arrow through one way or the other. At least there are no barbs on this bastard, eh? If there were, a barber would bend them back and try to yank it through you again. Me, I think that’s daft. What’s the point?’ He took a pair of strong-bladed shears and rested them upon the arrow’s shaft. ‘Better to cut the arrowhead off like this. Are you strong?’
Baldwin gave a pale smile. ‘As strong as I can be.’
‘This may hurt,’ Ralph said, and he threw a look to Simon. Understanding, Simon put his arms on Baldwin’s shoulders and held him still as Ralph began to cut through the shaft, turning the arrow as he did so. ‘This will be uncomfortable, but by moving the arrow itself, I free it up ready to be withdrawn,’ he said. The process was slow, the shaft solid and difficult to cut. The grain was strong. Still, after some minutes, the shears were biting through the outer surface, and then sinking deeper and deeper. Although Baldwin grimaced, closing his eyes and grunting, he didn’t cry out. Simon could feel his muscles tense, but then he slowly relaxed, as if he was growing accustomed to this peculiar pain.
‘All done!’ Ralph declared suddenly.
He was about to throw the arrowhead onto the floor, when Simon said, ‘Put it on the table there. I shall want to look at it.’
Ralph glanced at him in surprise, looked at the bodkin in his hands, and shrugged. As though humouring the vill’s idiot, he placed it carefully on the table before turning back to the arrow shaft. He cleaned its length with a mixture that he produced from a small bottle, smearing it over the shaft with a finger that grew crimson from Baldwin’s blood, stoppered the bottle and rose. ‘I need to stand behind him.’
Simon stood before Baldwin, and the physician rotated the shaft in his hand gently. ‘This will hurt, I fear, but try to keep him still.’
Feeling the nausea in his throat, Simon took Baldwin’s shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. Baldwin was in great pain, that much was obvious from his wan features. Simon had never seen him look so colourless, and if that weren’t enough, the sight of Baldwin’s white knuckles on the stool’s seat was proof. Baldwin reached up as Simon took his shoulders, and put both his hands on Simon’s forearms, gripping them tightly.
Ralph was watching almost absently as he turned the shaft slowly, and then he began to pull it out as though it was screwed, constantly turning it, while his gaze remained unfocused on a point over Simon’s shoulder. Simon saw the cut-off end slip backwards until there was only an inch or so protruding from about three inches beneath Baldwin’s collarbone, and then it was gone. The dreamy-eyed Ralph remained there for a few more moments, slowly rotating the shaft, his fingers slick with blood, until the remaining section came free, and he glanced down at his hands with apparent surprise. ‘Ah! All done.’
Simon felt Baldwin’s hands lose their fierce grip, and then the wounded man sank into a merciful faint.
Baldwin was installed in Janekyn’s bed, while the porter was removed to a room nearby to sleep on a bench. The Dean, who had come to see how things were going, tried to conceal a yawn.
‘My dear Bailiff, do — ah — forgive me. You must be a great deal more tired than I am,’ he said. ‘I shall order that another bed be brought in here for you.’
‘No, thank you,’ Simon said. He was turning the bodkin over and over in his hands, frowning. Some blood still adhered to it, and his hands were growing stained, but he didn’t care. ‘If I sleep, the attacker may come back for another attempt.’
‘You don’t think that this was launched by a member of the community here?’ the Dean asked.
‘I don’t know, but it’s certainly possible, and I won’t risk his life,’ Simon said. ‘The assassin could have been a foreigner who fled by the Bear Gate or the Palace Gate, but he may equally well be hiding here in the Cathedral’s Close somewhere, and I won’t take any chances that he won’t try to murder Baldwin in his bed.’
‘I see.’
‘I was wondering where the arrow could have been launched from,’ Simon said. He walked to the door. From there he could see where he and Baldwin had hurled themselves to the ground. Behind them at that moment had been the Charnel Chapel, with the black mass of the Cathedral beyond. ‘It must have been either from the chapel or the Cathedral itself.’
He stared out. From here, the chapel blocked the whole of the Cathedral’s front. When they had been out in the Close, a bowman on the Cathedral’s walls would surely not have been able to see them — which meant the shot must have come from the chapel.
Simon was in two minds. He wanted to go to the chapel at once to test whether his theory was correct and the assassin had fired from there, but he knew that he would be better served to wait until daylight. Also, he feared leaving Baldwin in case he should need Simon — either because he had suffered a collapse, or because a killer tried again to dispatch him.
‘Dean, I shall remain here all night to protect Baldwin. Could you arrange for a pair of men whom you trust to come and help me? Not so slipshod as the three told to keep an eye on Thomas, either. I shall also want to send a messenger as soon as possible to Baldwin’s wife, to let her know about this attack.’
‘Naturally,’ the Dean said. He glanced back at Baldwin’s figure. ‘Bailiff, I cannot tell you how sorry I am, that this dreadful attack should have happened within my Close.’
‘Dean, I am sure that Baldwin wouldn’t blame you for one rogue, and I won’t either.’
‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘I should like a large flask of wine, and first thing in the morning, please arrange for Thomas to be brought to me from the cells.’
‘Are you sure he is safe?’
‘I think the idea that there could be two murderers running about the Close is far-fetched,’ Simon said. ‘Someone tried to kill Baldwin after Thomas was installed in the gaol, and that means it’s unlikely he is the guilty party. Yes, I am happy to vouch for his safety.’
But who, he wondered as he again stared about him at the darkened Close, who will vouch for mine?
The night was a long and uncomfortable one for Simon. The Dean had been as good as his word, and sent two lay members of the Cathedral staff to stand at Baldwin’s side; they were strong-looking young men, both armed with swords and knives, one with a club as well, and they exuded a general attitude of competence.