Cecily dressed for the evening meal with extra care that night, not because she was desirous of impressing Father Simon, but because she wanted him to look kindly on her and have something pleasant to report back to William. The priest’s arrival had distracted her from her concerns about Adeline, but only briefly, and before she went down to the hall to meet the others, she consulted the all-knowing Christine de Pizan for advice. She had debated consulting Father Simon. He was a priest, after all, who had offered his services as a confessor, and as he was one of William’s dearest friends, she knew him to be trustworthy. But section twenty-six of The Treasure of the City of Ladies, titled Of the young high-born lady who wants to plunge into a foolish love affair, and the instruction that Prudence gives to her chaperone, guided her otherwise:
But she should not mention this situation for anything because of the perils and evils that could ensue from it. For whoever has a conscience and common sense ought indeed to dread making a report of such things to the husband or to friends or to anyone at all.
Of course, Cecily was not Adeline’s chaperone. She was young and in a position that carried with it no power. Did this alter the situation significantly enough that she might reach out to someone else for aid and assistance? She closed the book and opened it again.
The second cause that gives rise to slander is a wrong impression formed in something like the following manner: one person will have the idea that another is bad or at fault in something or in everything … on the flimsiest grounds she will misjudge and slander …
Was this what she was doing? Misjudging Adeline, who, in the past few days, had begun to treat her with more kindness? Cecily had witnessed no sin in the forest. Adeline and Gabrieli were standing close, but not touching. It was Cecily who leapt to the conclusion—erroneous, she hoped—that there was some strong emotion between the two.
But what of her prayer? Of the clear feeling that her divine purpose was to protect Adeline? Could she have misinterpreted that experience? Unsure of what to think, let alone what to do, she debated telling her friend a headache had come on and that she would not be down to dine. But she recognized the scheme for what it was: cowardice. She would go to the hall, she would eat, she might even dance, but she would not let down her guard. If she witnessed anything that might threaten Adeline’s reputation, she would intervene without hesitation. She would not, however, go looking for trouble.
She took her seat at the high table, Father Simon between her and Adeline. Gabrieli was at a lower table, but nearby. He paid no attention to his host’s wife, and Cecily almost wondered if what she thought she had seen in the woods was nothing but a mirage. She had not, however, forgot the divine bargain she had made. She would keep Adeline on a righteous path, and God would protect her husband in France.
* * *
Thomas Morestede had not operated on the future king after he’d been wounded at Shrewsbury; his predecessor, John Bradmore, had that honor and more. He had developed the instrument necessary to remove the arrowhead buried in young Henry’s cheek. But Morestede was capable of performing the operation; as a young man, he had watched Bradmore at work, holding his breath with wonder and fear as he waited to see if the physician’s procedure would work. Never would he forget that miraculous day. Here, in France, he had tended to many battle wounds, but even more illness. He’d sent the king’s brother the Duke of Clarence back to England only a few days earlier, as His Grace was suffering terribly from the bloody flux. The patient lying before him now, William Hargrave, gave him the opportunity to serve the king in a manner that might bring about a satisfying result in a more expedient manner. If the operation succeeded. Morestede said a silent prayer for the man-at-arms upon whom he was about to operate.
Hargrave’s injury, though in the same place as that the king had received, was not so deep. The knight’s recovery would be neither so agonizing nor so long as his sovereign’s. Morestede worked carefully, extracting the arrowhead using the tongs and screw of Bradmore’s invention. He cleansed the wound with wine and packed it with a mixture of flax soaked in a cleansing ointment, along with barley, bread, flour, and turpentine. The dressing would need to be changed regularly, but if infection didn’t set in, Hargrave would make a good recovery.
But infection was rampant in a place like Harfleur, and the king’s physician wouldn’t be able to focus on one man’s treatment. There was hope, though, that Sir William Hargrave would be left with nothing more than a scar that mimicked his king’s and stories of the glorious battle that brought it.