Sorrow Without End by Priscilla Royal

to think that questioning someone so bereft of wit would be of any value? Then he shook his head as he thought about his last encounter with the man. Surely the fellow was not mad at all, despite his odd dancing. The words the man had spoken held more wit than the speech of many who claimed greater ones. Had Ralf been one to play at dice, he would have bet that the dancing was an act, and that act did not ring like any king’s freshly minted coin. Besides, Brother Andrew had sent word that he could find no one who had seen the man enter the priory gate, and Ralf did find the encounter with Brother Thomas most curious.
    That settled it. He would talk to the madman even if doing so meant the man would scuttle up the walls to the wooden beams above, dance on those rafters, and wake the dead in all the graveyards of Tyndal Priory.
    Ralf lifted his fist and shook it at the lay brother. “See this? Should he show signs of straying, I will make him sleep once more.”
    Brother Beorn grimaced, then spoke to a lay sister about the children and, with weary resignation, gestured at Ralf to follow him.
    ***
    Ralf shook his head when he saw that no one was on watch at the private hospital cell. “You left none to guard him despite his wildness?” he asked the lay brother.
    “We have few enough to care for these.” Beorn gestured at the rows of sick, moaning and praying for respite. One man sat up, gasping for air, and a lay brother rushed to his side. “We are healers, Crowner, not soldiers guarding prisoners.”
    “You have not even sent a priest to exorcise him?”
    “Sister Christina will see him again soon. Her prayers heal as often as exorcism. After her last visit, he fell into a sleep more peaceful than either the mad or possessed are wont to do.” He glared at Ralf. “We had considered that a blessing.”
    Ralf ignored the hint. “I will send word for you to come when I leave so he will not be left unattended.”
    Beorn’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated as if he would say something further, then turned and marched away in silence.
    ***
    The man was truly sleeping, if his loud snores were genuine. Asleep, he did not seem any different from other men, Ralf thought as he studied the man’s face. Perhaps sleep, like death, healed the mortal ills of many men?
    “Fa!” he muttered. “I am beginning to sound like one of my courtly brother’s foppish poets.” He spat, then took a few more moments to look the madman over carefully.
    The fellow did not appear to be a wandering felon. Both ears were intact and his nostrils were not slit, although the nose had been broken just below the bridge at some time past. Had he been in a street brawl or had he been a soldier?
    Ralf studied the one visible hand. All fingers were present, although crisscrossed with many white scars. This was a man who had worked with knives, perhaps, or other sharp things. Had he been a craftsman before he had, willingly or not, discarded his reason?
    The man shifted from his side onto his back. There was no sign of a crusader cross, nor was there any other indication that he had been a man of arms. The cut of his robe was monkish in its simplicity with a bunched cowl around the neck and a rope tied around his waist. The cloth was unbleached, dirty and rough, but bore no mark that would distinguish him as belonging to any particular Order.
    The faded reddish color of his face did suggest to Ralf that the man was either fond of drink or had spent time in a more southern climate. Perhaps the man was one of those wandering preachers like Peter the Hermit who had taken aged men, women, and even children off to Outremer to fight with just their staves, fists, and faith, then left his followers to die or be sold into slavery. Peter the Hermit, unlike his converts, had escaped.
    Ralf shook his head. He had only contempt for those who drew the ignorant and innocent into mad plans that brought only sorrow to the followers. He hoped this man was not such a