be trampled to death; as weak as he was, he’d never be able to regain his feet. His head was throbbing and the dull morning light was suddenly so bright that he had to squint. Someone was beside him. He felt a hand clamp down on his arm, and after that, nothing.
MORGAN HAD BEEN LOST in a shadow world of strange, fragmented dreams, none of which made any sense to him. Waking up was not much of an improvement, for he felt wretched. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and his stomach was heaving as if he were back on a galley in the middle of the Greek Sea. Most troubling was his confusion; he wasn’t sure at first where he was or how he’d gotten there. As he studied his surroundings, he realized he was in a hospital tent. All around him, injured men were lying on blankets, some of them moaning. Others were sitting on stools or walking around. He could hear a familiar voice close at hand; after a moment or so, he recognized it as André de Chauvigny’s. André was seated on a coffer, arguing with the surgeons. But as Morgan watched, his shoulders slumped and he nodded. He went white as they manipulated his right arm, biting his lip until it bled while they realigned the bones and then applied pulped comfrey root to the fracture. One of the surgeons was bending over Morgan now. He started to speak, but instead slid back into sleep.
When he awoke again, the scene was calmer, quieter, lit by flickering oil lamps. As soon as he stirred, a voice said, “About time! I thought you were going to sleep all day.”
This voice seemed familiar, too; after a pause, he said tentatively, “Warin?”
“Who else?” The other knight was stretched out on a pallet beside him. He shifted toward Morgan and then winced. “Holy Mother! They say I cracked a couple of ribs. But the way it hurts, I think every blasted one of them could be broken. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve . . . been better. . . .”
“We can all say that. At least your skull was not fractured. When the doctor examined you, he said there were no indentations, no protruding bone. So he just applied an ointment of feverwort ere he bandaged . . .” Seeing the blank look on Morgan’s face, he stopped. “You do not remember any of that?”
Morgan started to shake his head, discovered that was a bad idea. His memories were hazy, as elusive as drifting smoke. “I remember the battle . . . at least, most of it. . . .”
“The doctors said you might be forgetful, that it ofttimes happens with head injuries. I assume you remember André de Chauvigny’s rescue? You looked like you were about to pass out, so I grabbed you and got us both clear of the fighting. Some of our men were eager to join in and indeed did so as soon as weapons began to litter the field. But I figured you and I would be more of a hindrance than a help. It was a fierce struggle. Say what you will of the infidels, they do not lack for courage.”
Morgan slowly propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze searching the tent until he found the man he sought. “André was hurt, then? I thought I may have dreamed it. . . .”
“He blames himself, has been fuming about it for hours.” Warin glanced admiringly toward André, who was seated on a narrow bed, scowling at his splinted forearm. “He killed the emir leading the Saracens, but the man was still able to stab him with his spear.” He anticipated Morgan’s next query. “Leicester is battered and bruised, but he has no serious hurts.” He gestured across the tent, where the earl was having his numerous cuts and contusions tended to. “God was indeed smiling upon him this day, for he charged back into the fray and had a second horse killed under him.”
A memory floated toward the surface and Morgan frowned, troubled that he could not remember the name of a man he knew well. “The knight who gave the earl his mount . . . he survived?”
“He is in better shape than either of us,” Warin said with a smile. “As for you, they think you’ll soon be on the mend since you showed none of the signs of a fatal injury; no seizures or fever and you can obviously talk,