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“Only two poor madmen, Sergeant,” Father Fletcher intoned, “newly orphaned; and their saner, grieving sister.”

Saner. Dirk wondered about that.

One of the troopers leaned down to yank Madelon’s cowl back; rich auburn hair tumbled down. The Soldier whistled.

“Under my protection, of course,” Father Fletcher murmured. The sergeant glared at the trooper, and the man drew back. Dirk was amazed; he hadn’t realized the clergy had so much influence.

“And where would you be traveling to, Father?” The sergeant was measuring Gar with his eyes.

“Why, to the nearest Bedlam house, of course,” Father Fletcher said easily. “The Hospice of Saint Orthicon, at Chambray.”

“Three, they are,” the second trooper growled, “and, if you straightened out the big one—”

“Pray do not attempt it,” Father Fletcher murmured. “He becomes violent if you touch him.” The trooper eyed Gar’s bulk, and moved his horse back a little.

“Well, what of it?” the first trooper growled. “Do we arrest them?”

Father Fletcher looked up in mild puzzlement. “What for? Surely these poor unfortunates could have harmed no one.”

“I’m sure they could not have.” The sergeant’s sarcasm was thick. “But, ridiculous as it may seem, we Soldiers are bound to consider that even you, a man of the cloth, might be trying to smuggle dangerous criminals past us.”

“No!” Father Fletcher was appropriately scandalized. “Is there really so little faith left among your superiors?”

“Even so,” the sergeant lamented. “But—ours not to question why, Friar.”

“Sergeant,” the priest reproved him gently, “I am a man of peace.”

Dirk thought about arrows and kept his mouth shut.

“My superiors, I fear, are not,” the sergeant pointed out.

Father Fletcher’s tone became more severe. “Sergeant, if you meddle with those under the protection of a priest, you earn the displeasure of the Almighty.”

“There’s some truth in that,” the sergeant said thoughtfully. “But if we don’t, we earn the displeasure of Lord Core—which is apt to come a little sooner than God’s.”

“But it doesn’t last quite as long.”

“There’s some truth in that, too.” The sergeant glowered down at Dirk, who had fallen into a rapt study of the grains of dust in the roadway.

Madelon looked up at him wide-eyed, almost adoring.

The sergeant straightened in the saddle, with an air of decision. “Well enough, then, Father—we won’t interfere with the clergy. We’ll let you take your charges to the Bedlam house.”

“I thank you,” Father Fletcher murmured.

“In fact,” the sergeant went on, “our respect for your cloth is so great that we’ll even escort you.”

“Oh.” Father Fletcher pursed his lips, thinking that one over for a moment. “I thank you greatly, but … surely that is too much bother to ask of you.”

“Not at all, not at all,” the sergeant said affably. “After all, we couldn’t have you being set on by outlaws, now, could we?”

The sun was setting as the priest brought the madmen to the Hospice of Saint Orthicon—with three steel-clad Soldiers behind him. Their sister kissed them a fond, tearful farewell at the door—and muttered between kisses, “Keep your hearts up, as well as you can. We’ll get you out somehow—I just can’t promise how soon.”

Then she stood back, hand raised in parting, while the priest blessed them, and the attendants ushered them in, out of the sunlight—and into a dank, chilly gloom, filled with the smell of unwashed bodies and excrement.

They stopped in the doorway, involuntarily pulling back as a pandemonium of moans and wails hit them. Dirk’s eyes fought to adapt to the gloom; there was only a little light, from a few small windows way up high on the walls—barred windows, set in granite thirty feet above them. By the time this modicum of sunlight filtered down to the floor, it had spread out to a sourceless, uneven murk, out of which rose islands of pallid bodies clothed in rags and filth. Some of the islands moved in a constant, slow churning.

The attendants pulled them forward, and, as they passed between rows of poor madmen lying on straw pallets, Dirk saw an occasional one whose movement was hurried, frenzied—and totally aimless; a kind of threshing pantomime of violence. Dirk tried to shrink away, inside his skin, away from them all; they filled the long, narrow room, standing, sitting, or lying against the walls. Each one had a chain, some on the ankle, some on the wrist; the other end of the chain was driven into the wall. He stared about him, horrified, following the attendant, feeling as though he was wading through a sea of groans, walls of despair, cries of rage, and shrill, gibbering laughter. Suddenly, he doubted if he could even make it through one night here. He could only stare, horrified, as the warder riveted a chain around his ankle and went away, leaving both of them chained between a Tradesman who crouched against the wall, glaring at an unseen persecutor and cursing steadily in a low, even voice; and a Farmer, squat and flabby, who sat hunched against the wall, munching slowly at a sore on the back of his hand.

“It’s a madhouse,” Dirk whispered, stunned.

“Yes.” Gar swallowed heavily, his eyes bulging. “Not a mental hospital, not an insane asylum. A madhouse. The real, genuine medieval article. A Bedlam.” He swallowed again, thickly.

“I don’t know if I can even make it through one night here.”

“Shut up,” Gar snapped, his eyes burning. Cold sweat stood out on his brow.

Dirk frowned up at him, puzzled—and felt a sudden hollow fear, as he watched the anger bleach out of Gar’s eyes, leaving only agony. The big guy looked like a wounded man fighting against a burning pain clawing inside him, able to hang on only because he knew the doctor was coming. “What’s the matter with you?”

Gar swallowed thickly again and muttered, “The walls … agony … despair …” He turned on Dirk furiously. “Shut up, can’t you? You’re tearing my ears out!”

Dirk shrank back into a crouch, staring up at the big man as fear scooped out his entrails and jellied his legs. He hadn’t been saying anything.

As the light faded, Gar sank back against the walls, lower and lower into a crouch, back plastered flat against the rough stone, staring bug-eyed up at the little, high window across from him, sweat trickling down his face in the chill.

When the sun had set, and the huge stone room was cloaked in twilight, a warder came by with bowls of food—a hunk of stale brown bread, a cup of water, and a bowl of gruel for each man. There were no spoons; the inmates ate with their fingers and drank the gruel, or spooned it up with their hands—or turned it upside-down over their heads.

Gar wouldn’t touch his food. He sat on his heels, jaw clenched tight, eyes bulging, sweating. Dirk watched him, and wisely held his peace. At least, he thought it was wisdom.

Clank of keys; a warder stopped in front of Gar. Dirk looked up at a miniature gorilla, obviously chosen for the sensitivity and delicacy of his feelings. He scowled down at Gar. “Come, then—eat! We’ll not have you wasting away, and robbing us of the penny a day the King gives us for you!”

But Gar just sat on his heels, staring off into space.

The attendant looked worried. With a shock, Dirk realized the Neanderthal actually had some dedication. He sat on his heels, staring into Gar’s eyes. “Come, come, it’s not so bad as that. Only eat, and hold onto life, and all will grow better.”

Gar’s throat muscles worked, but he stayed silent.

The warder scowled, and Dirk remembered that even the finest empathy can be blunted by the wrong environment. He screwed up his courage and reached over to give Gar a shake. “Nay then, coz! Will you not do a king’s bidding? His Majesty bids you to eat—why, then, glad fellow, you were ever a man for the trencher! Come, ‘tis a fat pullet, and wine from the King’s own table!”