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your corpse for Sister Anne. Even her fine skills could not bring life back to this ravaged body, but she might have some observations about how he and his soul were parted.”
    As the two men turned toward the hospital, Andrew suddenly brightened. “I almost forgot to give you some good tidings! Word is that Brother Thomas will soon be home. One of the villagers told me yesterday that someone had seen our brother on the road from Cambridge.”
    “That does cheer my heart! I have missed his wit.” The crowner grinned. “He has an agile mind and a soldier’s courage, as I remember well from that sad affair last year.”
    Andrew nodded concurrence.
    “Your mention of the inn reminds me that Brother Matthew spends more time at its door than is meet for a man who forswore the world.”
    “He may bear little love for our hospital, but he hates the new inn more. I am told he stands on a small rise near the entrance and berates those who go inside for bone-warming ale.” Andrew’s laugh was less than monkish.
    “Perhaps he hopes that someone, for a prayer, will give him a free drink,” Ralf replied with scorn. “I, for one, am grateful for the place. The innkeeper gives good value for the coin he takes. I see no sin in good ale and a decent stew—or, for that matter, in enjoying the sight of Signy. Her beauty is a credit to God’s skill in creation.”
    Andrew smiled but chose not to comment further on God’s craft. “With the roads to Tyndal crowded with so many coming here to seek our cures or travelling to Norwich to visit the relic, our good brother fears an increase in drunkenness and lechery because of the inn. Thus he takes on the burden of seeking both sinners and the holy alike for long talks on their spiritual needs on fair-weather market days.”
    “Our Brother Crow has cawed in my ear as well when I have gone to take some ease at the inn,” Ralf grunted. “How can anyone avoid him?”
    Andrew clapped the crowner’s shoulder with good humor, then gestured toward the hospital. “Come to the one place he rarely visits, my friend.”

Chapter Six
    The man from Acre looked around the crowded hospital courtyard, his mouth twisting with contempt. What mewling and weeping! Did these fools truly think their living bodies had ever been anything but decaying flesh? He could understand those awed into silence by imminent death, but he felt only disdain for the ones who squalled about it like spoiled children. Why did they imagine that God paid any more heed to mortal whining than He did to the sound of wind over an empty sea?
    A sharp pain stabbed through one eye. Once. Twice. He held his breath to keep from groaning. For him, the act of living had become too hard, and he longed for the hour when only flies and worms made his rotting carcass quiver. The knife-like jabs stopped. He breathed in deeply, but the cold air now burned his lungs like ice on skin.
    Yet there had been a time when he’d believed as they did. He fought the onrush of recollection, but the pungent scent of green English earth was too strong an ally to his bitter memory of hope. A drop of blood crested on his lip, broke, and wove slowly down his chin.
    That day the silver-tongued priest had come to preach the crusade had been a fair one, sweet as only an English spring could be, damp and soft with the scent of expectant life. Although the man of God had spoken to many, his words had challenged
his
manhood, filled
him
with lust to fight for His glory in Outremer. Thus he had knelt before the priest, pledging his sword for the Cross, and taken the pilgrim’s staff with joyful conviction. Long before the king’s own son had done so, he had set off for Acre.
    With high passion, he had battled against the infidels, sending scores to Hell with his sword while the red cross of the true faith burned over his heart. After this combat, his body might have ached, but he felt only profound satisfaction. Nor was he alone in that. Knowing they had