A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  Two

  Dodging puddles and mires of mud, the monks walked the soggy road toward the bridge over the river separating Saint Cattwg’s from the town. Happily anticipating a few hours at market, they had departed the priory immediately following chapter.

  “Brother Gilbert is on punishment… again,” Brother Ciaran said, rolling his eyes. He fairly skipped as they walked, a fete in itself as the young novice’s feet were not in proportion to his body, like a puppy expected to grow into large paws and turn out to be a large dog.

  “What has he done this time?” Brother Rhonwellt asked, a tiny smirk on his face.

  “Oh, Brother, it was truly awful!” Rhonwellt saw a look of glee on Ciaran’s face and feared the lad might giggle. “While you were away, Brother Gilbert spilled a whole pot of ink over a page which Brother Mark had nearly completed. You know how beautiful Brother Mark's work is.”

  “Yes, it is true. He is a real master with brush and pen.”

  “Well, it was completely ruined. Ink went all over the page, Brother Mark’s table and his apron. Of course Brother Gilbert tried to say it was an accident.”

  “Was this a page from the Leechbook?”

  “It was. Brother Anselm wept.” Ciaran's eyes grew large with excitement, his hands waving as he talked. “There was so much shouting as Brother Jerome came to Brother Mark’s defense and called Brother Gilbert a liar.”

  “Brother Jerome is not a scribe,” said Rhonwellt. “What purpose found him in the scriptorium?”

  “It is no secret that he follows Brother Mark around whenever he is able.”

  Rhonwellt nodded in agreement.

  “Brother Anselm tried to bring order,” Ciaran continued. “Brother Jerome kept shouting that Brother Gilbert had done it on purpose because he is jealous of Brother Mark's skills. And Brother Gilbert shouted back that everyone always picked on him and how Brother Mark could do no wrong in everyone's eyes and they all hated him. They all hated Brother Gilbert, that is.”

  “It could truly have been an accident, could it not?” Rhonwellt asked, gently.

  In the middle of the bridge, Ciaran stopped walking. The suddenness of his halt caused Rhonwellt to slam into him. The novice peered over the edge at the water as it surged beneath the planks. The Gwendraeth ran full and fast this time of year from the copious amount of rain that fell each spring.

  “Brother Mark said as much,” the novice answered. “He tried to console Brother Anselm who was so very disturbed. Brother Mark was very kind.” After a moment, he raised his head. “But, I do not think it an accident. Honestly, I do not. I think Prior Alwyn thought it was not as well, although he could not prove it. Still, he put Brother Gilbert on a day’s fast. So Brother Gilbert is very angry — as usual. I think Brother Gilbert truly hates Brother Mark. And I know everyone hates Brother Gilbert!” As abruptly as he had stopped, Ciaran began to walk again.

  “Your words are strong, lad, and the accusation harsh,” said Rhonwellt, taking a few quick steps to catch-up. “Take care lest you be accused of engaging in gossip.” Unfortunately, he agreed with Ciaran. Dislike for Brother Gilbert was universal among the monks.

  “Oh, I know,” said Ciaran, squeezing his eyes shut. “My words were hasty and uncharitable, God forgive me.” He blew out a breath and sketched the cross against his chest. “But, it is true. At least I think it is.”

  “Well, I will not speak for God, but I think He would be more disappointed than angry over such words.”

  “I think God is always disappointed with me,” Ciaran remarked, his head downturned, hands falling to his sides. “I am always so very wicked. Why am I so sinful, Brother Rhonwellt?”

  “Wicked you are not, lad. You are just young.”

  “I am fifteen, Brother Rhonwellt.” Ciaran straightened his back and stuck out his chest, as if he were trying to appear larger.

  Rhonwellt laughed softly. Just yestereve he had mused on this oft-repeated dialogue. “You have but fourteen summers, lad. Swelling yourself up will not make it fifteen.”

  “But, I am closer to fifteen than fourteen, Brother Rhonwellt. Am I not?”

  “You are that,” Rhonwellt had said many times with a smile. “But remember, youth is fleeting. You will spend a much longer time growing old. Enjoy your early years. They will abandon you all too soon and leave you with only wistful longings to recapture its joys lost to manhood.”

  “I know, Brother Rhonwellt,” he would answer, rolling his eyes, then shooting back a wide grin.

  “You still possess the heart of a child, Ciaran, pure and open. You assess things on what you see. You have not yet learned that man is complicated and not always as he appears.” Brother Mark came to mind, but he refrained from saying it. “God will not fault you for it. And whatever else transpires, do not allow yourself to lose the one as you learn the other. Because of your young heart, you could surpass many older and wiser men in service to the Heavenly Father.

  “I am so happy you made it back for market day, Brother Rhonwellt.”

  Reaching the far end of the bridge, the village of Cydweli spread out before them. There had been a settlement on the spot between the two branches of the River Gwendraeth for over two-hundred years. Only in the last score-and-ten, with the building of the castle and priory, had it become a full fledged town of over one-hundred. Cydweli Castle sat atop a low escarpment backing to the river, and the village spread itself on the flats to the seaward side of the rise. A wide street with paths and alleyways branching in all directions passed through the middle, widening into a square at the far end. The backstreet ran along the western edge of the town. The two converged at the newly built stone gate tower, recently replacing the old timber structure. However, the town was still surrounded by a palisade, its pointed wooden timbers standing side-by-side around the outer edges like a row of pikemen’s staves ready for battle.

  The small shops of the local tradesmen lined Keep Street, the main thoroughfare leading to the fortress: the cobbler, the carpenter, the potter, pie maker, butcher, chandler, fletcher and bow maker. To Rhonwellt’s amazement, Ciaran knew them all by name and spoke to each one as they passed. Monks got so little time away from the priory. How could he become acquainted with so many of them? As the young novice spread his greetings, Brother Rhonwellt dispensed blessings upon request.

  The Thorn and Thistle sat at the beginning of Motte Lane, the backstreet that ran from the tower gate to the foot of the castle motte. The town’s only inn, it had second-floor rooms to let, and obscured the small postern gate through the palisade leading to the town middens scattered along the high bluff and spilling down to the mill race and waterway below. A smith who kept stables and a small forge occupied the space next door and other trades that supported the scriptorium at the priory were spread further along the lane. Dye makers provided inks and pigments to supplement those made by the monks, and a binder who made books out of completed manuscripts. Ednowain the pig farmer produced meat and hides on the edge of town. Milisandia the fowler, an young widow who raised geese with her two sons for meat, down and writing quills, had a cottage farther out. Gideon Tanner who refined hides for book covers and produced manuscript parchment, lived a mile on.

  Market days were a motley collection of carts, stalls sporting brightly colored awnings and counters that swung up to cover the front when they were closed. Thick smoke hung in the air from fires turning to embers now that an early morning chill had given way to a mild spring day. The square was filled with every sort of man, woman and child from the village, the castle and the surrounding farms. A lively respite from the every day drudgery of their lives, market day was a chance to see friends and catch up on news.

  A cacophony of sound emanated from the hubbub. Hammers clanged, echoing off the buildings surrounding the hard packed dirt square. Cart wheels creaked, hooves clopped, minstrels played and sang. Mothers tried to corral lively children who ran shrieking as they chased a stray pig or a vocal chicken desperate to escape the butcher's axe.
Sellers busked their wares, beckoning passersby to come see what they had on offer. All manner of livestock were tied to stalls, pleading their fate with loud bawls.

  Lusty men with loose coin and silk tongues eyed the whores that sashayed about, while eagle eyed wives tried in vain to keep track of their errant husbands. Not even monks were out of bounds to receive their enticements. Monks, however were immune from the band of child cutpurses slithering through the crowd, their compact, lightning fast hands ready to relieve any unwary man of a full purse dangling from his belt with the swift slice of a small, sharp knife. Itinerant tranters added variety to the predictable fare. Relic sellers, huge packs on their backs, roamed in search of the pious or gullible who sought guarantees of favor with God by purchasing dubious body parts of saint and savior alike. Small chicken bones looked amazingly similar to those of human fingers, dried blood from a pig looked the same as that from a man, and apparently Christ had hair that was brown and red as well as black. Any sliver of wood could pass for a piece of the ‘true cross’. Such was the disarming power of faith in the overtrustful.

  Rhonwellt inhaled the olio of smells wafting through the throng. Hot meat pies of fish, fowl, and mutton, steam rising out of the crust at the first bite. Fresh bread, still warm and smelling of yeast from the priory ovens, the monks who worked the priory bakery having started mixing the dough right after Lauds. The tart odor of a freshly tapped keg of ale from the Thorn and Thistle. The subtle smell of spring flowers. All mixed with the odor of urine and manure from the livestock; the pungency of offal and meat on the verge of rotting from the butcher’s stall; the strong fragrance of lanolin from fleeces newly shorn; the stench of the poor, derived from close quarters, sporadic bathing, and hard work, easily maintaining dominance over the sweet, perfumed bodies and clothes of the rich.

  Dill, a simpleton who served as the town’s dung collector, hurried through the crowd filling his small cart, trying to keep ahead of the piles already accumulating at the edges of the street, only to have a group of mischievous young boys dump it when his back was turned. He roared and swung his shovel at them, his part in a twisted game he would win only when the youths grew bored. Moving on, the pack careened past the monks, intent on their way to new pranks in another location.

  “I should like to say good morrow to Mistress Rosamund,” said Ciaran, once they had finished their latest round of greetings and blessings.

  “And perhaps be rewarded with one of her delicious meat pies?” said Rhonwellt, his brow furrowing, trying to hide the glint of humor in his eyes by gazing down his nose.

  “Am I being wicked again, Brother Rhonwellt?”

  “No. Just hungry, as growing lad should be. Another reason to be glad you are still young. When you receive tonsure, you will be limited to our three simple meals a day.”

  “I do not look forward to that, Brother Rhonwellt.”

  After greeting Mistress Rosamund with due courtesy found Ciaran with pie in hand, the monks stopped at the edge of a small clearing in the crowd. A thick mat of straw had been spread in the center of the square to cushion the falls of wrestlers grappling to the cheers and jeers of the crowd. A thickset tower of a man moved about like a lumbering dancing bear. Known as y mynydd to the Welsh and the mountain to the outlanders, he laid opponents down one after another to the delight or dismay of the onlookers. Coins changed hands from wagers won and lost, and ale pots toasted both winners and losers. His opponents surety rose with each successive cup of brew that they would certainly beat him. None ever did. Those who cast wagers against him always saw their coin disappear.

  Targets resembling scarecrows were being set up at the far end of the street for the archery contests, the purse being offered the sum of the three-farthing entry fees.

  “Do you think Brother Oswald or Brother Jerome will enter the match today?” asked Ciaran, juices from a mouthful of eel pie running down his chin. Detesting eel, Rhonwellt refused the novice’s offer to taste the delicacy with grace. Rhonwellt detested eel.

  “They may. Luckily they never win, for if they did, they would forfeit the prize money to the priory.” Rhonwellt removed one hand from his sleeve to wipe his nose against the smell of the eel.

  “I think they lose intentionally,” replied Ciaran, popping the last of the pie into his already full mouth, his cheeks straining to contain the volume.

  On the far side of the square, a shout went up followed by cheering. Rhonwellt turned toward the sound. Before he could act, Ciaran grabbed his sleeve and began to pull him through the crowd. Wending their way to the opposite side of the street, they came upon a group of twenty-odd citizens gathered in front of a clear space between two booths. The monks approached, peering over the shoulders of those at the back to see the cause of the commotion.

  Sitting upon an upturned crate was a grizzled and bent man of indeterminate age. His appearance was that of a beggar. Of the scores of beggars to pass through Cydweli, Rhonwellt had never seen the like of him before. His face, heavily disfigured by scars, resembled a granite cliff-face that had been forever open to the elements of time and weather. It was deeply lined like cracks in stone, somewhat blunted by the erosion of years. His beard clung to his face like lichen, his hair was like dried grass atop a windswept cliff. More than a man, he resembled a geologic formation, firm and grounded in place, undeniable. The lips of his twisted mouth were like drought stricken, parched earth. Yet, in contrast, set in the middle of this outcrop of a face were eyes of a soft, cool blue, eyes that could look right through a man. Rhonwellt shivered. A full length tunic, once colorful and fine, held together by threads stiffened from grime, encased his body, a hardened shell designed to ward off the cold. Rags spilling out of the gaps and holes, his shoes appeared to be a couple of sizes larger than his feet.

  Rhonwellt stared at him, unable to turn away. Engaged in a masterful routine of sleight of hand, the man was delighting the crowd with disappearing and reappearing coins and pebbles. A man his age should have hands that are stiff and misshapen. His were nimble and his fingers moved extremely fast, belying his appearance. Rhronwellt stood mesmerized. So engaged was he, when the others applauded, he found himself clapping enthusiastically with them. He nearly whooped with glee, but quickly restrained his demeanor before engaging in such behavior as was unbecoming in a monk.

  The beggar continued his entertainments with knot tricks performed with short lengths of rope, cups and peas and finished with card tricks. Rhonwellt had never seen playing cards before. Where would a beggar obtain such a thing?

  He felt Ciaran tug his sleeve. “Who is that knight, Brother Rhonwellt?”

  Rhonwellt turned to look at Ciaran.

  “What knight?”

  “The one in front of the cloth merchant’s stall,” replied Ciaran. Rhonwellt followed the novice’s gaze. He saw no knight. “He has gone now. But he was there and he stared at us for the longest time.”

  “Many wandering knights stop here, especially on market days and feast days. What was so extraordinary about this one?”

  “I felt his gaze, and turned to see him eyeing us with great interest. Of course I pretended not to notice.”

  “Was there a look of menace about him?”

  Ciaran looked in the direction of the stall, again. “No, his gaze did not threaten. But it was very intense.”

  “Could it be that he was merely absorbed in the entertainment?”

  “He was talking with the cloth merchant and looking occasionally toward the beggar. Then he seemed to notice us, and would not turn his gaze from us.”

  “I am sure he is just a traveling knight — and nothing more,” assured Rhonwellt.

  “Perhaps,” said Ciaran. “But he was a very threadbare knight, quite down-at-the-heel, with a long scar running the length of one side of his face.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  The figure, wrapped tightly in a long cloak, head and face buried deep in its hood, huddled unseen in the shadows of a doorway just off the street, eyeing the monks
as they waded through the crowded market. His garments were covered in detritus from the forest floor where he had slept the night before and where his horse still waited in a secluded thicket. His appearance was unkempt but clean. The small portion of his ruddy round face revealed in the deep shadows showed him to be young, perhaps sixteen summers. He was well dressed, his cloak of the finest wool, his tunic, sticking slightly out from it, made from costly nainsook embroidered at the bottom, his boots tooled from soft calfskin. The hand that gripped the front of the cloak was strong but not one scarred or calloused from hard work. Skulking further into the shadows, he trembled, his breathing shallow and quick from fright. He could not afford to be seen in the village or at the priory, at least not yet. Knowing they would soon come looking for him, he knew he must stay out of site for the time being. If he were caught now, the result could be disastrous, perhaps fatal.

  The distractions of the market would keep him from standing out were he to venture from hiding, still he remained concealed, trying to figure out what to do. He needed desperately to talk to someone at the priory without anyone seeing or overhearing, but could not risk being discovered in the light of day. Perhaps grandmother’s cousin, Brother Anselm. But, what did he look like? Which monk was he? He would have to remain secreted until darkness fell and try to steal his way onto the cloister grounds. Two days ago his own father had threatened to kill him and he had fled in terror. He knew he could never return there. No love for him abided in that house, save that of his mother and grandmother, who were powerless to intervene. Nothing would draw him back. That life was behind him now, and despite the events of the night before, he must keep moving forward, into what he knew not. But the monks needed to know. He turned and retreated further into the shadows.