✞ ✞ ✞
Tristan’s head throbbed, his throat was dry, and his mood most black. He had drunk far too much wine yestereve attempting to ward off the chill of the storm — after spending two-thirds of his life in the desert, he would never get used to this infernal rain — and to keep his demons at bay. Today, Satan was demanding his due. He had tried breaking his fast with a trencher of pulse and mutton, only to sit and stare at it until it had gone cold and congealed. Perhaps some air would ease his head and sooth his roiling stomach.
Riding through the night, he had arrived in Cydweli before dawn; he heard the priory bell ring Lauds as he came into town. He roused the grumbling hostler out of bed, who demanded to see his coin before stabling his horses, and caught a couple of hours of fitful sleep in the barn on stinking straw that had been there the whole of the day before, securing a room when the inn opened.
Too much burdened by the war being waged in his head, he welcomed the sight of market day being assembled in the center of town. Relaxing and watching people would be a fine distraction. How could he let himself get so out of control? He would drink no wine today. Christ, this journey was proving more difficult than he could have imagined.
He stepped out the door of the Thorn and Thistle onto Keep Street, hand on the hilt of his sword, cautiously scanning the street already teeming with people. Always in the thick of the action on the battlefield, Tristan preferred to keep to the edges of crowds like this. In battle, everyone who was not his comrade was there to kill him. In the world of men, he had to sense who meant him harm before they could act. Surviving thirty years as a crusader only to be murdered by a dagger in the back or between his ribs at a town market would not be his fate today, God willing. The constant danger facing a knight alone, especially one traveling with gold, made him over wary. It was why he chose to present himself as being impoverished. The torn, blood-stained tunic, his beard and hair left untrimmed would lessen the chances of his drawing the attention of highwaymen. He had even packed his spurs away to give the illusion he had been forced to sell them to live. It would be good to hear their metallic jingle again. Once he deposited his treasure with the monks at the priory for safe-keeping, he would then feel safe enough to shed his faḉade.
The lone exception to his masquerade had been his sword which he kept clean and polished and razor sharp without fail, always ready. No one would take it from him.
Now that he was this close to Pont Lliw — he had not uttered the name of the manor where he had lived as a child in such a long time it felt strange to even think it — Tristan knew it was time to invest in a new tunic and begin his transformation. He had seen a cloth merchant drive by with his cart in the early morning fog, on his way to set up his stall. If fortune was with him, the merchant would also be a tailor or have one in his employ. He could have new clothes by the morrow.
In his short time back, he was struck by the similarities of the markets here to those in the desert towns of the Holy Land, the same colorful booths and the same pressure to buy, the same enthusiasm and joy. The same sounds of bleating animals and the cries of excited children running about. The laughter, the drinking and the fights. However, the smells were vastly different. The heady aroma of spice was everywhere in Persia. On the clothes, in the homes and public buildings, there was seldom a time when it could not be noticed. It had become commonplace.
Tristan missed the food the most. English food was bland and uninteresting when compared to Persian fare. Most places on the continent were well acquainted with the exotic spices that could be had from the Arab world. Somehow their use had not yet crossed the channel with any enthusiasm. Upon first arriving at Acra, it had taken a while for him to grow accustomed to the unusual flavors. They were even used in camp food. Once he developed a taste for them, he found them preferable to those at home.
He moved through the crowd, keeping his own counsel. Since an impoverished knight was hardly worthy of notice, people ignored him, averting their eyes, shifting their bodies slightly when he passed.
Eventually finding the cloth merchant, Tristan became absorbed in looking at the fabrics there on display, when his attention was drawn to a small crowd gathered nearby. All were watching a rag-tag beggar perform sleight-of-hand and card tricks. Tristan had not seen such mastery of technique since leaving the Holy Land where entertainments such as these were enjoyed by the Persians and had reached a pinnacle of perfection. He stood captivated. When first in the Holy Land, his new surroundings were foreign to him, but gradually became familiar. Suddenly, standing here in the land of his youth, what should seem commonplace now felt alien.
“Move away so that them with coin can see.”
He felt the merchant’s hand on his arm, pushing him to the side. Already on edge from the throbbing in his head, Tristan snapped, grabbing the man in a grip that caused him to wince. The merchant swallowed hard, his free hand reached for the knife at his waist. Tristan spied the weapon, looked back at the merchant and shook his head slightly, then slowly placed the man’s hand on the counter and leaned close to his face.
“Do you want to take that chance?” Tristan asked in a voice only the merchant could hear. Tristan glanced down, the merchant’s eyes followed. The tip of Tristan’s dagger brushed the cloth of the man’s tunic, pointing straight at his gut. The merchant’s lips grew thin, his breath uneven and rapid. The muscles in his face twitched under one eye. In one swift movement, Tristan withdrew a small pouch from inside his tunic, snapped the thong holding it around his neck with a single yank, and slammed it down on top of the merchant’s hand, grinding the coins within against the man’s bones. “Here is my coin. I shall look all I like.” The merchant gave a small nod and withdrew his hand, his eyes never leaving Tristan’s.
Slowly, a feeling of disease crept over him, raising the hair on the back of his neck. He was being watched. Letting his gaze drift over the crowd, Tristan spied two monks watching the show. One was about his own age. The other, still a youth, stared openly at him, only to look away when Tristan returned his gaze. Turning his attention another time to the beggar, he felt the monks eyes on him once more, and again the monk averted his eyes when Tristan stared back. Pretending to watch the show, a lopsided smile started to form on his lips, his feelings of being ill-at- ease faded. It was universal, young boys and youths staring wide-eyed at knights. He had done it himself as a lad. It was the desire of every boy of rank who possessed a stout heart. It must be just that.
The yet-to-be fully formed smile disappeared in an instant. The beggar, too, was staring in his direction, the smile that had started to form on his own lips became a sneer on those of the beggar. His feeling of disease returned. Who was this old man and what was his interest in him?
Tristan grabbed his pouch and ducked behind the stall’s awning. He needed a moment to think. With hundreds of people on the square, was he being just overly suspicious? Was it coincidence the old man and the monk both stared at him? Tristan shook his head.
The older monk’s face turned toward him as the two religious searched the crowd around the merchant’s stall. The knight sucked in his breath. Christ’s teeth, even when he was sober it plagued him. The resemblance was eerie, almost too much to grasp. How can two people have such similarity? Might this be how he would look if he were alive? A knot formed in the pit of Tristan’s stomach as he prayed the monk did not possess green eyes. He could feel his promise to forego drink today slipping through his fingers. The Devil was a demanding master.
Presently, the old man finished his performance, rose and hobbled down the street in the direction of the inn. The crowd began to disperse. Tristan swung his head to and fro as he watched the beggar head one way, the monks another. A brief moment of indecision came upon him. It was a safe assumption the monks were from the priory. They could be easily found at another time. The beggar, on the other hand, might leave town at the end of the day or on the morrow. He had to know. Tristan strode off in the direction the old man had taken. Spyin
g him veer into a narrow passageway between two buildings, Tristan followed, keeping a short distance behind. Rounding the corner, Tristan stepped into an empty alley. The old man was gone. It was not possible. There was no other exit, nowhere to go — but up.
Three
He did not know the hour, but guessed it to be nearly half-Compline. In his effort to remain unseen, he had been delayed and could not be there at the appointed time. Frantically, he searched behind the inn. Why did he insist they meet near the middens and this horrible smell? The monk was not there. Though the hostler was surely asleep in his straw, the lad silently crept past the stable doors to the street in front of the inn. The lane was empty, but the noise coming from the inn said business was good.
Retreating deep into his hood, the lad walked slowly along the front of the building to the small window. The shutters were open to allow the heat from so many bodies to escape. As he approached the opening, he lifted the front of his hood to look around. With so many customers, it took much longer than he would have liked to thoroughly scan the crowd. Once he was finished, he quickly withdrew. The monk was not inside either. He returned to the alley in a panic to wait. Concealed behind a large crate, he lay holed up in the darkness. The back door to the inn opened and one of the patrons came out to relieve himself, standing right beside the crate where he hid, nearly pissing on his boot. Holding his breath, heart in his throat, he managed to remain still and motionless until the man finished and went back inside.
A sound on the far side of the drainage ditch caught his attention. Was he here at last? Peering into the darkness and training his eyes on the far side of the gully, he cautiously walked forward down the shallow bank. His foot caught on a root. He lurched forward. Squeezing his eyes shut, he put his hands out, trying to brace himself for the fall. To his surprise, his landing was softer then expected, cushioned by something warm and firm, yet not as unforgiving as the ground. Even so, the fall knocked the wind from him. As he inhaled to recover his breath, he detected the strong fragrance of incense.
Hands to the side, he pushed himself to a kneeling position, his legs straddling that which had broken his fall. With trepidation, he felt under him. His fingers detected wool, and upon further inspection, hair, matted with a sticky substance that was now on one of his hands. He pushed it up close to his nose to smell it. Blood! There was a dead body under him. He froze. His skin prickled and his breath caught in his throat. He scrambled to get his feet under him, he stumbling backward and landing on his arse in the trickle of filth running along the bottom of the ditch. In a state of panic, he turned and clawed his way up the side of the trench and ran, his mouth open wide in a silent scream.
✞ ✞ ✞
The crisp peal of the visitor’s bell shattered the late-hour quietude.
In the small hours after Vespers, Rhonwellt lingered with a half-dozen monks to engage in contemplation after praying the office.
The bell rang again, urgency declared by the speed of the clapper. “Ho, the priory,” cried a muffled voice from outside. “Brothers, help!”
All eyes turned to the nave and the large entry doors. Brother Peter was night watch and headed through the screen on unsteady legs, the meager glow from his lantern never quite reaching the extremities of the room in the eerie struggle of light trying to win a war against shadow.
“Who is there?” called Brother Peter.
“Gwyllm Taverner, Ednowain and some of the other lads. Hurry, Brother.”
The monk threw open the small door to the Judas window and held his lamp high, the crude iron grill on the outside reflecting back. Rhonwellt and the others had begun to drift slowly toward the door.
“Brother, please hurry,” pled a second voice. “He be real bad hurt.”
Rhonwellt thrust himself forward, threw back the bolt and pulled hard on the massive door, the great iron hinges groaning loud in protest. Outside stood five men from the town and a rag-tag knight, in their midst a large bundle wrapped in wool. The monks gasped audibly as they recognized the robe of a monk.
“What has happened?” cried Rhonwellt, making the sign of the cross.
“Someone done him most savage, brother,” said Gwyllm. “He is in a bad way.”
The men conveyed the monk through the door and into the nave and, using great care, laid him gently on the stone floor. Brother Peter held out his lamp. Its light fell within the circle of men forming around the body. The monk’s head rolled to the side. Rhonwellt knelt beside him and put his ear to his chest.
“He still lives, Praise God, but only just.”
Prior Alwyn, Brother Gilbert and several other monks hurried in through the presbytery, arriving with an echo of footsteps. The knight retreated just beyond the reach of the light, like a specter claiming kinship with the shadows.
“Oh,” breathed the prior, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other grasping for the cross hanging from his neck. “It is Brother Mark. He is barely recognizable.”
“The miller him lying down by the race below the middens. He were arse up—oh, I asks your pardon brother,” said the man looking to the floor. “His robes was—well, he were exposed, his face near in the water.”
“Been better if he died.” Ednowain looked cautiously around the room. “Considerin’ the foul thing what were done him. But, he still breathed, so we covered his shame and brung him here, straightaway.”
Prior Alwyn’s face drained of all color. “Praise God you found him. You did well to bring him to us.”
“This be beyond my knowin’,” said Gwyllm. “Who would do that to a man?” The townsmen nodded and mumbled. Several brothers peered at the floor where Brother Mark, lay sobbing, wet and caked with mud, his clothing torn. What could have been the face on a Greek statue was now heavily bruised, one eye swollen shut, several cuts on his face and scalp, his raven hair matted with blood. He owned only nineteen summers.
“Mother of God,” Rhonwellt whispered. Rocked by the eerily familiar horror, he knelt beside the monk and stared. The reek of ale nearly smothered the smell of incense and lanolin familiar with all monks. Not even he deserved this. “Where is medicus?” he asked.
“I am here.” Brother Anselm made his way through the choir on the arm of Brother Remigius. “What has occurred?”
“A terribleness I cannot describe,” said Rhonwellt. “It is Brother Mark. He has been…attacked.”
Brother Anselm met Rhonwellt’s gaze, made the sign of the cross and looked down at the wounded monk.
“What would cause him to be absent prayers and the priory at this late hour?” enquired Brother Gilbert, a querulous monk with an imperious tone. “This is most improper!” Rhonwellt did not need to be looking at Gilbert to know he held his head back and gazed down his nose as he spoke. It was his standard pose. “It certainly comes as no surprise. He smells as if he has bathed in ale.”
“Peace, Brother Gilbert,” Rhonwellt hissed. Eyes narrowed in annoyance, he turned and stared at the monk standing above him.
“I am merely saying that—.”
“Brother Gilbert, be still!” said the prior, biting his words.
The monk sucked in his breath, dipped his head in obeisance, and took several steps backward, casting a look of disgust over the assembly.
“My eyes are not as they once were in this meager light, Brother Remigius,” said the old medicus. “You and Brother Rhonwellt tell me what it is you see.”
“Bring light that I may look closer,” said Remigius, his hand beckoning to Brother Peter to lower his lamp. Brother Ignatius added a second lamp, the pool of light intruding further into the void. Brother Remigius knelt beside Rhonwellt.
“Will he survive?” whispered Rhonwellt, finally turning his gaze from where Brother Gilbert had stood. His words were hesitant, as though reluctant to say them aloud and give them worth.
“I do not know,” replied Brother Remigius. “His wounds are most grave.”
Rhonwellt reached out and placed a hand gently on Brother Mark
’s forehead. “Brother,” he said, softly. “Can you hear me? It is Brother Rhonwellt.”
The ravaged monk said nothing. His breathing was shallow and uneven.
“Who has done this terrible thing?”
Again the monk said nothing, only shook his head. Bubbles of blood had formed on his lips.
“I see contusions, medicus,” said Remigius. “He has bled much and there are broken bones in his face around his right eye.”
Rhonwellt’s brow rose, furrowed. The wounds indicated a swing from right to left if his attacker had come up behind him him. No righteous man would admit orientation to the left hand of Satan. But such a fact, if true, would greatly narrow the field of suspects if it could be discovered who bore such an affliction.It would also explain his inability to denounce his assailant.
The assembled brothers jostled and shifted, vied for advantageous position, those in back looking over the shoulders of those barring their view, whispering among themselves.
“We must get him to the infirmary,” said Brother Anselm. “Simplicius, Thomas, fetch a board and brychan from the infirmary. And bring my chest of medicines. Please hurry. Take Brother Ciaran, he will help you carry it.”
“Brother Ciaran is not here,” said Brother Simplicius.
“Then, Brother Remigius, you attend. And do hurry!”
The monks scurried off. Rhonwellt took over the task of examining the lad. He explored the arms, gingerly feeling the length of each from fingers to shoulder.
“His left arm is broken,” said Rhonwellt. Another injury to the left side of his body. He felt along the shoulders and neck. “Other than bruising, all is as it should be here.” Moving to the chest, he cautiously assessed the ribcage. Rhonwellt found he needed to press too firmly to feel through the thick woolen robe. Brother Mark cried out, gasping for breath.
A Savor of Clove Page 3