Flavion was quick, Stephen noted right off. But as the match progressed, it became painfully obvious that the colonel merely toyed with him. The hulk of a man never looked even slightly uncomfortable nor out of control.
He parried, he thrust, he lunged and moved about as though he were a cat with a mouse. Flavion did all that he could to keep the other man’s sword from making contact with his person — barely. As the fighting drew out, Stephen watched as perspiration dripped off Flavion’s face.
And then the colonel got serious.
What happened next was to be argued and discussed for weeks.
The colonel backed Flavion up against a cluster of boulders and for all intents and purposes had the younger man pinned. Stephen held his breath.
Flavion reached back, though, and felt one of the boulders behind him. Apparently, thinking he could take the advantage if he could reach a higher position, he went to leap backward and up.
And he would have landed there if not for the drizzle that had fallen earlier. But it had, and the boulders were still slick from the rain.
Just as the colonel stepped forward, and swiped upwards with his sword, Flavion lost his footing.
He slid into the weapon.
He slidontothe weapon.
Every man in attendance that morning, irrespective of whom he supported in the duel, cringed as the sword penetrated and was then withdrawn from between Lord Kensington’s legs. Blood instantly seeped into his buff-colored breeches. Unable to balance himself against the boulder, Flavion collapsed onto the ground.
In the weeks to come, all of thetondebated that the colonel had intended to unman the Earl of Kensington from the very beginning. Others adamantly argued that it had been an accident. Regardless of the colonel’s intentions, the end result was a razor-sharp sword piercing Flavion in a most painful whereabouts indeed.
Below the belt, the hit would later be considered disqualified.
Once the flowof bleeding was stemmed somewhat, a carriage was brought around, and Flavion was loaded up to be transported to Nottinghouse. Marcus assured Stephen he would take over the care of the mounts they’d ridden to the park so that Stephen could ride along with his cousin. For if Flavion were to die while being driven to Nottinghouse, Stephen did not wish him to be alone. Ignoring the rather large lump that had taken residence in his throat, Stephen settled into the carriage and helped support Flavion. The less movement the better, in order to keep the loss of blood to a minimum.
Luckily for Flavion, he’d lost consciousness as soon as he’d realized where Colonel Benning’s sword had impaled him. Or perhaps he’d lost consciousness due to the pain. Nevertheless, it precluded him from having to endure the jostling of the carriage and the process of being carried up to his bedchamber.
Stephen had seen injuries before but never one quite like this.
As with any entry wound, infection was the most dangerous outcome, but what effect would the injury have upon Flavion otherwise? What was the extent of the damage from Benning’s sword?
Concerned servants gaped and whispered as Flavion’s limp body was carried through the foyer and up the staircase to his chamber. Once inside, Stephen stepped aside so the surgeons could do their work. Flavion’s valet, Peterson, and a few footmen rapidly entered and exited with boiled water and clean linens. The door was closed firmly, however, when Flavion’s breeches were cut off him to reveal the wound. Blood was everywhere, and this had somehow managed to disguise the exact location of the injury. Stephen braced himself as the blood was cleaned away and the damaged organ exposed.
If ever Stephen might faint, this most assuredly would be it. He did not though, for Flavion was regaining consciousness. Stepping closer to lean over him, Stephen did his best to calm his younger cousin. In panic and agony, Flavion thrashed and moaned as he came to. The pain was obviously excruciating.
“Get him some laudanum!” Stephen demanded angrily.
Peterson nodded and exited quickly. The surgeons were cleaning the injury and discussing what tissue they ought to attempt to save and what ought to be cut away while two footmen tied Flavion’s ankles to the bedposts to limit his movements. Stephen used his own strength to hold down Flavion’s torso.
The worst, however, by far, was the look of terror in Flavion’s eyes. “Stephen…” he said tightly. “Stephen, I cannot live without it. If it cannot be saved, then let me die… let me die…”
“That’s nonsense,” Stephen said into his cousin’s ear. “You shall not have to live without it, and you shall not die. I will not allow it.” He did not know if there was any truth to his promises. He simply wanted to calm his cousin’s fears so that the surgeons could help him. He was not a praying man, but at a time such as this, it did not hurt to seek help from a higher power. For surely, Flavion was going to need a miracle.
“Stephen, tell Daphne I love her. Tell her I am sorry about Alice.” Flave was nearly out of his head from what was most likely a combination of pain and fear. “Please, Stephen, take care of her. She is the countess of my heart. Take care of her for me after…”
As Peterson returned with the laudanum, Stephen assisted Flavion to tilt his head so that he could drink it. Stephen felt a small measure of relief once Flavion had consumed most of it. Especially when he saw that the surgeons both wielded knifes now and looked as though they were ready to begin cutting away at Flavion’s manhood.
“Careful, now,” Stephen felt compelled to order.
The men looked up at Stephen in exasperation. “We must remove the testicles,” one of them said stoically. “Otherwise he will, in all likelihood, perish from gangrene, for the tissue has been damaged beyond any possibility of repair. Our hope is that it shall be enough. But there is then always infection to be considered…”
Oh God, poor Flavion. The laudanum was taking effect quickly, and his cousin’s eyes, so like his own, had drifted closed.
The surgeon then looked to the footmen and ordered, “Keep him steady. Even with the laudanum, he might begin to thrash while we perform the procedure, and we certainly don’t wish the knife to slip, eh?”
“If you slip, good doctor, then the next knife you find yourself looking at will be the one at your throat. I suggest you do all in your power to maintain a steady hand.” Stephen found nothing amusing about Flavion’s situation. He did not appreciate the surgeon’s attempt at a joke.
