“The queen!” someone shouted in alarm, and the king erupted like a wild animal caught in a snare.
He tried to sit up, and the men around him held him down. He struggled. Someone sensible used both hands to pin the hook, with its knife-edge, to the bed. Someone less sensible tried to consolidate his grip on the king’s other arm and staggered back, holding his face.
“My stitches, my stitches!” the physician yelled.
“Your Majesty, Your Majesty!”
“Damn your stitches!” he snarled. “Let me up.”
With one hand free the king was forcing himself to a sitting position, but more people were pushing him back down, all of them shouting. Someone fell back from the end of the bed, kicked solidly. The doctor cried out again, all his work going to waste.
Costis saw no good to be had by involving himself in the melee. He watched as Ornon stepped forward, seized a man efficiently by the hair, and pulled him sharply backward. The man sat down hard, and Ornon stepped into the space he had left by the king’s bed.
He splayed his hand across the king’s face and slammed his head back hard against the pillow. Keeping his hand planted on the king’s face, he leaned over and roared into his ear, “The queen is fine!”
This scene has the energy of a renaissance/baroque painting.
