Sorrow Without End

by Priscilla Royal

“Aye, but you left before you were granted the salvation He gave me.”

  “You saw me leave the road and go into the forest.”

  “Aye.” The man began to sway once again.

  “What did you see on that road to Damascus?” Thomas asked, deciding to enter into the man’s feigned, or unfeigned, imaginings. This talk of Damascus might be odd, but he suspected there was some logic to it. If the man was only pretending madness, perhaps he was afraid of something but was trying to give Thomas a riddle to untangle without endangering himself. If mad, well then, there would be no harm in spending a few minutes humoring the fellow.

  “What could a man like me see? God blinded me with the brilliance only a poor man can see. Afterward, I found this place.” He waved his hands in circles above his head and moved his feet to the music of a harp only he could hear. “And that was enough.”

  However strangely the man might be phrasing it, Thomas was now convinced he had not told any more than the truth. The man had seen him on the road, something he could not condemn the man for saying, but the madman was not claiming Thomas had anything to do with a murder.

  Had the madman himself seen the murder? What was this light of which he spoke? A vision? A flashing sword? What did he mean? “What blinded you, my friend?” he asked in a kind tone.

  “Nothing more than I could have wished, then a safe place to lay my head. I did follow your path through the woods. You should be comforted that you did His will in leading me here, monk. More than that, you need know nothing else.”

  Thomas studied the man dancing in front of him. The man had not been upset at the sight of him nor did he see in the man’s eyes the kind of evil capable of brutal violence. Such a conclusion might be called illogical by many, but he did trust his instincts when logic had nothing on which to lay hold. What would the prioress make of this strange conversation, he wondered?

  The man must have seen something, however. How could he not have seen the corpse, even the murderer? He must have gone farther than Thomas had. Was the blinding light, of which he spoke, madness brought on by the grisly sight of the corpse? Or could the man not remember what he had seen because his madness would not let him? Or was he clever enough to deny all knowledge because he knew he would be the easiest suspect, a man of no rank or wealth who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time?

  “A dead man? Did you see a corpse?” Thomas asked with intentional directness, watching for the man’s immediate reaction.

  There was none. “La, la!” the man sang in a low voice, repeating himself like a child who has just discovered a delightful word.

  Thomas asked again, then again, and finally threw up his hands. He wanted to shake the tale out of the man but restrained himself. Perhaps the prioress could see the truth hidden in the man’s strange story. Whatever had happened on that road and whatever the man may have seen were locked away in the mind of a man who was either mad or clever enough to pretend he was.

  Thomas watched the man for a moment longer, then left.

  On the other side of the screen, Eleanor was waiting for him. After they had walked some distance in silence, Thomas asked, “What think you, my lady?”

  “I would not have dismissed him as a suspect as quickly as our crowner did. Whether he is a murderer may remain a question, Brother, but I do believe he is guilty of something.”

  Outside in the damp-laden air, the church bell dully tolled for prayer.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Shivering with misery and cold, Ralf hastened toward the stables. Just above the horizon, a band of brilliant light lay between the North Sea and the black clouds that promised a coming storm. That glow reminded him of intense, dazzling days before the autumn frosts, days that deceitfully suggested brighter times than could ever come to pass. Tonight Ralf had no patience with false hope. Tonight he was going to get drunk.

  As the crowner walked to where his horse awaited him, the dark stream flowing nearby mocked him with its babbling. Silently, he cursed its tactless joy. Lights from rushes and flickering candles began to dot the darkness that now cloaked the priory. At least they made no pretence of conquering the gloom, Ralf thought, then turned his mind to murder.

  That dagger still haunted him. Sister Anne had confirmed, as Brother Andrew had suggested, that the script was Arabic. The porter had scoffed at the idea of a murdering Assassin, suggesting that a man like that could not easily escape notice in East Anglia. Anne had more earnestly considered the possibility, then decided against it as well. Should he, a rational man, dismiss the presence of any Assassin except as a fantasy useful only in scaring children into eating their peas?

  “My dear brother would love the idea of an Assassin loose on English soil! He would make much political coin with that, calling for increased tallage or heavier fines on the Jews, there being no Saracens in England to tax.” Ralf snorted.

  Sister Anne and Brother Andrew must be right. Fear of the alien, the strange, should not blind him from reason. No Assassin had done this, but the killer must have wanted to leave a message for any finder of the corpse. What was meant? he wondered. Had it been intended to wreak havoc by sending men, like his brother, down the road to false retribution? Or had it a narrower significance, a more individual one? Whatever the truth, the murderer was still free. Somewhere near, the man must be holding his sides, laughing at Ralf’s failure to find him.

  He picked up a rock and threw it with anger in the direction of that merry stream, then squeezed his eyes shut. Mixed with the rain on his cheeks was the burning salt of his tears. With no one around to hear him, Ralf yelled at the dark heavens, “Rational I might be, but I am not made of iron.”

  Fear he had dealt with for years, both as a mercenary and as crowner. As any other mortal, he had suffered failure, and he had also learned to live with emptiness in his heart. Since the discovery of the dead man, he had suffered all these things in equal proportions and more than he could endure. He was weary of fighting his battles alone. “Satan can take that cursed corpse,” he swore. After all, why should he not have what other men had to soothe them when burdened with difficulties? Why could he not have the comfort of a woman’s arms?

  He loved Anne. He had always loved her. There was no reason to think he would stop doing so. Most times he could set his longing aside. Tonight, he could not. Tonight he ached with it. He must find himself a woman, any woman who would hold him against the warmth of her breasts and make him forget everything for a few hours.

  “And I shall,” he said, shaking his fist against chill melancholy.

  But it was not any woman he wanted. He wanted Anne as his wife.

  “May Satan’s balls fry!” he shouted into the misty quiet around him. Aye, he would go to the inn and get drunk, swyve any wench whose name he could forget and pretend he was content. If he were lucky, he would awaken the next morning alone, his head and stomach protesting against the abuses forced on them, and he would rise, throw water on his face, and pour out his foul mood on someone who deserved it.

  Perhaps he’d find the seller of fake relics and make him swallow the saint’s toe, the Virgin’s nipple, or whatever fraud he was trying to pass off on the innocent. Better yet, he might find the poor soldier’s killer. If that happened, he would take joy in making him beg for the rope. After all, a rotten mood should never be wasted when there were men of evil acts around.

  Despite the deepened darkness, Ralf found his horse, saddled it, and mounted. If nothing else, he could always make life miserable for that sheep thief his sergeant was hunting, he decided. His grim humor growing ever blacker, the crowner rode off in search of the bright inn.

  As he did, he failed to see two shadows emerging from behind the stables.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A bolt of pain struck him, lodging between his eyes. He grabbed his head, tearing at his face, but nothing he ever did could drive away this agony. Why had the affliction returned with so much strength? He had not suffer
ed thus when his wife was with him. She had always known what to do.

  His wife? Where was she? As he looked around, he suddenly grew faint and reached out to brace himself against the stone wall. “She is dead, is she not?” a voice echoed in his head. He wiped the sweat from his face. Of course, she was. He had killed her.

  His hand slipped and he lost his balance, falling to the stone floor. As he lay there, his cheek pressed to the rough coolness, a surge of hot pain tore through his eyes. He howled. The sound blended with the moans of the dying.

  “I could not have murdered her,” he cried. “I loved her!” He pulled himself to his knees. The pain eased ever so slightly, leaving him nauseous. “I must find her,” he whimpered. “She will cure me.”

  A black shadow glided toward him. He stared, trying to see what it was, but his sight wavered. Everything before him rose and fell like waves. Quickly, he motioned the creature away, but, as he did, his hand passed through it as if it were fog. For a moment, the thing shimmered in front of him, then turned and drifted toward the glittering candlelight of the chapel. Slowly the phantom began to take solid shape against the yellow light of the entrance.

  He crawled after it. The guise might have been deceptive, but Satan had underestimated him. He watched the figure fall to her knees in front of the altar. Why, he wondered, had the Devil dressed his wife as a sexless nun? Satan’s strumpet, that creature who called herself a prioress, must have decided on this cruel jest.

  It no longer mattered. He had discovered the truth. He knew that his wife would never have left him to suffer like this. “Look at her, praying for my relief!” he whispered, then vomited air. Perhaps Satan let her pray only that his soul might come to Hell, but that would be a joy.

  The pain in his head returned. It flashed in his eyes like lightning. He groaned. Surely she must love him still, he thought. Why else would she kneel so near the man who had butchered her? She could not be praying for that corpse’s burning soul!

  “Why not? It was not he that was guilty of the deed,” a voice mocked. “You were. Had you told your fellow soldiers of the marriage and taken me to your dwelling as your wife, I would not have been butchered as an infidel whore!” It was her voice, he realized, and the sound of it stabbed like dagger blows inside his skull.

  Trembling, he wanted to cry out to her but held his tongue. She had still not forgiven him for his cowardice. Perhaps she did not know that he had taken revenge against her killer? Might she not be satisfied with his gutting of the man who had done those unspeakable things to her?

  He must speak to her, he decided. He must tell her. Then she might realize at last that he was not the weak thing she had called him. Perhaps then she would return to his arms, warm his heart with forgiveness, and chase this violent pain away.

  He pulled himself to his feet and walked into the flickering chapel light.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “My lady!”

  Deep in unremarkable dreams, Eleanor scowled.

  “My lady, please wake!”

  Eleanor opened her eyes. Why the wavering torchlight? Surely they had just returned to bed from the Night Office. What strange vision was this that her maid should stand so over her bed?

  “Brother Andrew is at the door.”

  Eleanor sat up. “What has happened?”

  “He said only that you must be awakened.”

  Arthur mewed in protest as Eleanor eased the disgruntled cat off to one side, then slipped out of bed. From her basin, she splashed icy water over her head, rubbing her eyes and face to bring alertness back to her sleep-dulled mind. In the moment it took her to dress, she was wide awake.

  “I am ready to receive him.”

  Before she followed Gytha into the public chamber, however, Eleanor hastily tucked a warm blanket around Arthur and ran her hand over his soft fur. Perhaps now, she thought, she might be ready to confront whatever tidings the porter had brought.

  ***

  “Sister Christina was attacked, my lady.”

  “How seriously…?” Surely not dead, she prayed. Not that gentle soul.

  “She will live. According to Sister Anne, our infirmarian was unconscious when found but has suffered only cuts and bruises.” He hesitated. “Nothing more, I believe.”

  “Who found her and where?”

  “You must ask Brother Thomas for more details, my lady. After Sister Anne came to tend her, he sent a lay brother to find me so that I could bring you the news. He wished to stay with our sisters in case the attacker was close by.”

  “Has Sister Christina regained her wits? Did she see who injured her?” Eleanor started toward the door.

  “I know little of that but was told that she has spoken but is still dazed and remembers nothing.”

  “Let us go to her, Brother. Gytha, would you bring me a torch?”

  ***

  As the two monastics made their way through the cloister, they remained silent as if any mention of this deed would trouble the innocent dreams of the sleeping nuns in the dormitory nearby. When they left the protection of the inner priory walls, speech became impossible in the howling wind.

  The rain was falling so forcefully that the torch sputtered and died. Clinging to the hoods of their robes, they fought to stay upright against the fierceness of the gale. As the rain pelted down on her, Eleanor shuddered but more from fear of the malevolence lurking in her priory than from the cold.

  At last they arrived at the shelter of the hospital entrance. Sister Anne and Brother Thomas were waiting for them inside.

  “We came straight away,” Eleanor said, shaking what water she could from her robe. “Brother Andrew told me that you had further details.” She looked at Anne, then turned to Brother Thomas.

  Thomas averted his eyes as if caught between the need to greet her with courtesy and his inability to do so.

  “I did report that our dear sister would recover, but that she was too confused when she awoke to give information about the attack.” Brother Andrew gestured to his fellow monk. “Brother Thomas?”

  Eleanor had been watching the monk while Andrew spoke and realized he was frightened. What had they not told her?

  “I would hear what you have to report, Brother Thomas,” she said. “I would hear any observations you might have as well, for I respect your abilities in these matters.” And, she added to herself, I am most grateful that you called for our porter, not Brother Matthew.

  “You are kind to say so, my lady, although I fear I am unworthy of your confidence.” This time he met her eyes and, briefly, smiled.

  “Tell me what you have discovered.” Eleanor quickly glanced at Anne as well, fearing that her expression might not be quite a motherly one.

  “The man, Walter, found me in the ward and begged that I bring Sister Anne forthwith. As soon as I did, he took us to the chapel.”

  “Then he held us back until he looked inside. For our safety, he said,” Anne added.

  “When we entered, we found Sister Christina unconscious and injured but alive. Nonetheless…” Thomas hesitated.

  Eleanor looked over at Brother Andrew. The porter turned his head away. Then she looked back at Thomas. “You both hesitate. Why?”

  Thomas spat as if bile had flooded his mouth. “When we found Sister Christina,” he said, his voice hoarse, “she lay on her back, her legs spread. Her garments were torn. We feared she had been raped.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The infirmarian lay warmly covered in bed, her body rigid as a corpse. Although her face was pale, both eyes were swollen and ringed with purplish bruises. Her lip was cut. She clutched a wooden crucifix to her breast and thickly whispered a prayer.

  Eleanor knelt by her nun, placed one hand most gently over Sister Christina’s, and joined in the saying of the Morning Office. Behind her, the prioress heard rustling as Anne and Thomas knelt in the dried lavender scattered about to deter fleas. The muffled voices of the two, repeating t
he words in unison, were soothing in their ordered repetition. Even more comforting was the presence of the guard the prioress had ordered to remain outside Sister Christina’s room in the hospital until the infirmarian could be safely moved to the nuns’ quarters.

  She had sent Brother Andrew off to a warm fire and dry clothes. She most certainly did not want her favored candidate for prior sickening or even dying from the damp. The idea of being left with Brother Matthew as the only candidate was not a happy one. Perhaps she should not think these things during prayers, she thought, and quietly chastised herself.

  Nonetheless, while the infirmarian pursued her orisons with grim determination despite her wounds, Eleanor’s mind stubbornly persisted in wandering. She tried once more to concentrate on the Office—and failed.

  Perhaps Sister Christina had recovered her memory of what had happened? If God was willing, she might even know who did this to her and he could be bound over to the crowner before he committed yet another or an even worse offence. On the other hand, she hoped the young nun did not remember anything about the attempted rape.

  Even that was puzzling. Sister Anne had determined that the nun’s virginity was intact while Sister Christina was still unconscious. Thus her chastity had not been violated; yet, from the position in which she was found and her torn robes, the attacker had clearly tried to do so. Had he been interrupted?

  Why had she been beaten and why was only her face injured? Surely such a gentle woman would not have made so violent an enemy. Each action by itself might suggest anger, personal vengeance or a Satan-inspired lust, yet only her eyes and lips had been bruised, and…

  “My lady, you are kind to come.” The voice was plaintive, like that of a child who has just discovered there is evil in her world and does not understand why.

  “I wished to observe the Morning Office with you.” Not the complete truth but a small lie with enough gentleness in it that Eleanor hoped her confessor would give her a lighter penance. “I see that you have the cross from your room.”