Excerpt of The Traitor's Mark by D.K. Wilson

He sent one of his colleagues in search of water and, when a bucket arrived, he gently washed down the skin around the hole in my body. ‘What we have to do,’ he said, ‘is close this up as much as we can, then bind it as tight as you can bear.’

‘You seem very expert.’

I’ve watched many field surgeons at work.’

‘Is it very bad? Am I likely to …’

‘Die? That you’ll have to ask a priest.’

Strong fingers pinched the edge of the wound. Fresh padding was applied.

‘Hold that while I bind it,’ my ‘doctor’ ordered. He wound long strips of cloth round my stomach so firmly that I could take only shallow breaths.

‘I suppose Black Harry and his companions will get clean away,’ I muttered disconsolately.

‘I don’t fancy their chances in the dark – not in all this mud and marsh.’ He helped me into a clean shirt.

‘Pray God you’re right,’ I said. ‘If that murderous hell- hound slips through our fingers after all we’ve been through … Our men must be feeling very dejected.’

‘I’ve seen troops with better morale. No one likes losing friends in battle but when you can’t see the point of the battle … When you’re just obeying orders because they’re orders …’

‘I’m afraid I’ve led you all into a real mess and we’ve nothing to show for it.’

‘No one blames you, Master Treviot. Most of us know you were caught up in this against your will. Please God, you’ll live to laugh at this fiasco. Right, that’s patched you up. Keep as still as you can. Don’t waste whatever strength you’ve got. You’ll need it when we get ashore – if we get ashore.’ With those comforting words he departed.

The next few hours seemed like days. I had nothing to do but try to keep my mind off the pain. I thought back over the events of the last two months. Should I have done anything different? Every single event had been like a link in a chain pulling me inevitably towards the situation in which I found myself now. Could I have broken any of those links or was I the victim of inexorable fate. Strange that a respected London merchant should end his days on a foreign ship wallowing through turgid waters of the east coast of England. I thought of my prim brothers of the Worshipful Goldsmiths’ Company. My unconventional passing would make a fine topic of conversation in our hall on Foster Lane. I imagined the solemn, nodding heads and the wiseacres who would claim they had always known young Treviot would come to a bad end. I laughed. That was a mistake. I yelped loudly as arrows of pain pierced my torso.