“Forgive me, brother,” he said, his lips close to Mark’s ear. “I must know the extent of your injuries.” The monk moved his hand to clasp Rhonwellt’s robe and tried to speak. He cried out again, a little less audibly, and reached for the cross hanging from his neck. His hand fell back to his side. Several brothers knelt in tears, the rest stood rooted. Making the sign of the cross, they began to mutter barely audible prayers. The villagers stood back, their inability to comprehend displayed on their blank faces.
Rhonwellt slipped his knife from its sheath at his waist. “Assist me to cut this away,” he said, turning to Brother Cathbart. “Brother Ignatius and Brother Peter, lower your lamps.” Their yellow glow was still unable to conquer the dark, the light only bouncing off the feet of the closest spectators, leaving those further back in total darkness. Rhonwellt began at the neck, his sharp blade easily parting the coarse wool. Brother Cathbart opened it as Rhonwellt cut, revealing the damages to the torso. Some monks averted their eyes at the reveal, the rest compelled to stare at the welts and wounds already discolored by bruising. The left side of his chest was partially caved showing an indentation about the size of a skull.
“His ribs are broken and point inward. They may well have punctured his lung.”
“Is there blood when he coughs?” asked Anselm.
“Yes,” answered Brother Remigius.
Rhonwellt turned and silently nodded, remembering the bloody bubbles on Mark’s lips. Anselm shook his head from side to side, sketching the sign of the cross in the air in front of him, the palm of his hand pointed toward Brother Mark.
Rhonwellt cut open the remainder of the robe, Brother Cathbart spreading it open to expose Brother Mark’s groin and lower limbs. Loud gasps bounced off the bare walls of the stone chamber; a few monks cried out. All hands sketched the sign of the cross in eerie unison, automatic as though the act had been rehearsed repeatedly. His tarse, testicles and inner thighs were red with blood. Brother Oswald covered his mouth and silently retched. Brother Gilbert leaned into the light to look, raised an eyebrow and retreated again into the shadows.
Brother Mark moved a hand and tried to cover himself. He gasped with the effort, his breath wheezing. He scanned the faces pasted onto the blackness over him, a look of terror filled his eyes. He heaved a breath, the terror suddenly turning to a glint.
“You see, brothers. Dreams do come true.” He coughed. His throat rattled. “Fill your eyes. Behold my nakedness!” He tried to laugh, the resulting sound monstrous. The effort produced a coughing spasm. More bubbles of blood formed and burst on his lips. Heads turned away.
Brother Ignatius set his lamp on the floor, rose and raced toward the back of the chancel.
“Brother, you must be still.” Rhonwellt laid a finger on Mark’s lips, his voice quiet, unsure whether the brother could hear him.
Brother Mark’s eyes darted back and forth across the row of faces. “Father?” His voice was liquid. He struggled to catch his breath. He coughed. More blood.
Prior Alwyn knelt close to him. “Yes my son?”
Mark opened his eyes and tried to speak but seized once more. Rhonwellt leaned over and put an ear to his chest. The sound of Mark’s lungs fighting to take in air and expel it sickened him. He was bleeding internally, drowning in his own blood. Rhonwellt’s heart sank. Even the wise medicus’ skills would serve naught to stave off the inevitable. He closed the robe, signing the cross. Brother Mark’s eyes gave thanks before they closed against the pain.
Brothers Simplicius, Thomas and Remigius hurried into the nave, Brother Ciaran puffing at their heels to keep up. Carrying the litter and medicines, they rushed up to the group surrounding Brother Mark. Rhonwellt waved them off with a hand, shaking his head, his slack facial expression masking the great sadness he felt.
Brother Ignatius wedged himself back through the crowd, chalice in one hand, a piece of the host laying on a napkin in the other. He knelt beside the prior who nodded and turned his attention to Brother Mark.
“The Body and Blood of Christ,” Prior Alwyn prayed, blessing the sacraments.
He then took Brother Mark’s hand and held it between his own.
“Brother, do you confess your sins before God and ask His forgiveness?”
The monk’s breathing grew rapid as he tried once more, in vain, to speak. He nodded his head instead, staring wide-eyed at he prior, grimacing with the effort.
The prior broke off a tiny piece of the host and placed it between Brother Mark’s lips and signed the cross. Next, he dipped a corner of the napkin into the chalice and squeezed a few drops of the wine into the monk’s mouth. A moment of fear appeared before the light softly faded from Brother Mark’s eyes and his face grew slack, the Body of Christ slipped from his lips and rolled, like a table crumb, down onto his robe, while his Savior’s Blood ran, forlorn, down his chin.
✞ ✞ ✞
The silence was relentless.
It clung to the bare walls of the large stone chamber and curled around the line of pillars standing as ghostly sentinels in the dark along the north aisle. Rhonwellt stood with his brothers peering in disbelief at the lifeless body on the floor. The blanket of death hanging over the monks made breathing difficult, its weave too tight to admit any air. Though life can be tenuous, this should not be its inevitable conclusion, not even for those with thoughts or dreams of martyrdom. Those should be fearless deaths in defense of the faith at the hands of an infidel. This was senseless murder and Brother Mark had been afraid.
Brother Rhonwellt's mind raced with questions demanding answers. The village market had closed hours ago. Why was Brother Mark outside the walls of the cloister in the small hours of the night? He was, by chance, seen at Compline, but Rhonwellt could not recall seeing him at Matins. It was not his custom to notice a brother’s absence from the choir unless a monk on either side of him was missing. Why would he leave again? Why he was so savagely beaten, and left to die in a ditch? The blood around his genitals indicated Brother Mark had been violated, an unspeakable horror unknown at the priory. Surely a crime of passion, but was it the result of love or hate? The heart could be duplicitous. Did not each of those spring from the same place? Did this crime begin as one and explode into the other? Were the defilement and the beating committed by the same person?
Rhonwellt watched as Prior Alwyn rose, turned towards the main altar, his eyes fixed on the large golden cross behind it. Finally, he turned and said, “Communion is out of the question, but the prayers will be said and he shall still be anointed. It will have to do.”
Praying that Christ intercede on Brother Mark’s behalf and keep him from the Eternal Fire, Rhonwellt marveled that he could feel concern for the monk’s soul in death when he had felt little Christian compassion for the man in life. Complicated feelings around a person of great complexity. Rhonwellt sighed. Another sin he must add to his litany of others, transgressions not serious enough to send him to Hell, but sure to keep him in purgatory for eternity.
Prior Alwyn knelt beside Brother Mark and tried in vain to close the lifeless eyes, against the disconcerting death stare. Brother Cathbart took Alwyn’s place at the head of the body and held the lids shut until the muscles relaxed and held them closed on their own. Alwyn pulled a vial from a pocket of his robe. The scent of balsam filled the air.
“This is the ultimate blasphemy!” whispered Brother Gilbert from the darkness, the horror on his twisted face made sinister by the dim light. “His sin was evident and unrepented and yet you would use the chrism and give him absolution.”
“The sin was not Brother Mark’s,” the prior responded, “but rather that of the minion of Satan who committed this outrage.”
“This is heinous…”
“Retire from my sight, Brother Gilbert, before I have you flogged.” Rhonwellt could feel the heat of the prior’s rage as Alwyn closed his eyes and would not look at the bad-tempered monk. “Now!”
Brother Gilbert shrank further into the darkness like a rat scurryi
ng from light, turned and made his way to the back and out of the church.
Making the sign of the cross, Prior Alwyn opened the oil and, pouring some on his thumb, made the same sign on Mark’s forehead.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.” The priors voice droned in the darkness. The villeins doffed their caps and joined the monks as they knelt, crossing themselves and bowing their heads. The monks chanted with trembling voices: “Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine, et lux perpétua lúceat eis. Requiéscant in pace. Amen.” Everyone there knew the words well, whether in Latin or the tongue of the king: ‘Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.’
At the conclusion, the villagers rose and exited the front doors in silence, their caps dangling from their fingertips, heads down, eyes to the floor. Rhonwellt glanced around. The rag-tag knight was no longer with them.
Rhonwellt enlisted six of the strongest monks to carry Brother Mark to the infirmary to be washed and prepared for burial. Brother Thomas and Brother Oswald wrapped the lifeless body in the blankets, and assisted by Brother Llywarch, lifted it and lay it on the plank. Brothers Etheldrede, Simplicius and Jerome joined them to hoist it to their shoulders. The cortége of monks made its way slowly through the nave, shuffling footsteps dull and dragging in concert with the heaviness of heart. Brother Cathbart and Brother Peter lit the way for Brother Anselm who leaned on Brother Remigius’ arm. Brother Ciaran and Rhonwellt followed. Ciaran held his trembling arms tucked deeply into the sleeves of his robe, slightly bent as though his stomach were cramping. Rhonwellt drew him close. Some brothers fell away from the line in the chancel to take up their stations in the choir, falling to their knees to quietly weep. Drinking from the well of prayer might quench their thirst for solace and drive the terrifying images of what they had just witnessed from their minds.
Porters led the procession through chancel and out the side door to the cloister. The air outside felt cool and tranquil after the oppressive closeness of death that lingered in the narthex. Sunrise still a few hours away, the night remained moonless and dark. Flickering flame from the lamps cast but meager light along the path. Their steps fell into a natural rhythm along the covered walk. Brother Julian rushed ahead to open the door to the refectory and let the procession through. The door at the far end was already open and waiting. Those not attending the body went immediately up the stairs to the dorter to kneel beside their beds, to take comfort in something solid and familiar, something temporarily their own, in a world where none owned anything.
The procession passed through the final door, stepped out into the night, turned left and made its way the last few yards to the infirmary.
The booming of the tower bell fractured the silence. Its mournful song rose up bearing Brother Mark’s soul toward judgment.
✞ ✞ ✞
After the procession of monks carried the body from the church, Tristan materialised from his place of concealment in the darkness and headed for the front door. He lunged into the night, the moist air outside soothing, expansive compared to the confines of the church. Sweat ran down the back of his neck soaking his under-shirt. He leaned against the cold stone of the church wall.
The knight was not afraid of death, nor unaccustomed to its horrors. It was commonplace in his life as a soldier. Even as Amjhad lay dying is his arms, he remained strangely immune to its impact. Amjhad, his ‘bright and shining star’. Tristan had grieved the loss, but not profoundly. They both knew it could end that way, and had vowed to enjoy each other for the time they were given. It was death in battle, expected, inescapable, the way of war. But this death rattled him. A cold chill ran down his spine as he fingered the ragged scar running the length of his cheek, a grisly reminder of a nearly indistinguishable event that had come close to taking his own life when he was a lad with fewer summers than the monk.
Tristan peeled himself off the wall and walked in the direction of the town. A thick low-hung fog obscured the road, limiting visibility to only a few yards. He would be bedding down in the barn on day-old straw again, as the inn would be locked at this hour, the landlord and his wife asleep in their bed. He was glad he had yet to purchase his new tunic, and the barber could clean the chaff from his hair and beard.
The Devil employs the most wily of tricks to make a man question the soundness of his own mind, and Tristan had experienced much this day that caused him doubt. The reality behind the beggar would surely prove to belie his appearance. He was more than the little he appeared to be. The vanishing act, his most astonishing trick, was evidence to support that. Everything about the man was curious and unexpected. The one thing of which Tristan felt certainty, was that the man had looked directly at him, a sneer filled with purpose displayed stealthily across his face. He had sensed evil in the man. To what end? A prickling sensation passed through his body. He signed the cross.
Not even the roar of the Gwendraeth as it rushed under the bridge could drown out the voices in his head. The grisly death of Brother Mark had discomfited him. However, another occurrence had taken the very breath from him, caused him to feel weak at the knees, as if the earth had quaked under his feet. Had he heard it right? The monk from the market said his name was Rhonwellt. It must be a coincidence. Were his wits abandoning him? Evil One, unhand me. It cannot be him, the Rhonwellt I knew must surely be dead. Over the years, the knight had seen that face in his nightmares, but it had never manifested in flesh and bone until now. It had been too dark in the church to see the monk’s face with any clarity, yet, he looked to be about the right age. He would be certain if he could see him up close. Were Tristan to look into the monk’s eyes, he would know the truth.
If he had abided by his decision to forego drink and stay away from the inn, he would not have gone to piss over the bluff by the middens, never have seen the body being carried to the church, not heard the name that opened an old wound that had ever failed to heal. He would have had a good night’s sleep at the inn and rode out on the morrow to a reunion filled with dread. That would have been better than what possibly lay ahead.
The hostler was not pleased at being drawn from his pallet to admit Tristan to his bed of straw and demanded extra coin. He should get on his horse and ride for Pont Lliw without delay, but knew he would not. Not before his questions had answers.
Four
Brother Mark’s body was placed on a long table near the door in the infirmarium, a single room in a modest structure next to the guest house behind the kitchen. Sparsely furnished, there were eight beds dressed in clean linens and woolen blankets, with a small table beside each, arranged in a row along the back wall opposite the door. During the day, a meager allotment of light clawed its way in through three small windows luxuriously filled with parchment to keep the heat in—there were braziers for warmth, the infirmary being one of the few buildings at the priory to provide such comfort. Still, the room was not wholly conducive to health or healing. Even the whitewashed walls could not supplant the gloom.
“God bless you, brothers,” said Rhonwellt. “Brother Remigius and I will see to this. Make to your beds, morning prayers will be upon you shortly. Brother Mark has found his reward this night. Go in peace.”
Brother Peter set his lamp on the table. Rhonwellt tried to manage a smile as the monks cast a final glance toward the body, left silently, heading towards the dorter, each alone with his own thoughts.
Ciaran stood trembling just inside the door, his face ashen. Rhonwelllt walked to the boy and held him close, gently rocking him back and forth. The young boy sobbed lightly in Rhonwellt’s arms.
“Do not grieve too deeply, lad,” said Rhonwellt, his own heart full of conflicting emotions. “The worst is now over for our brother. He will soon be in God’s embrace. Surely that is reason to rejoice. It is we who must learn to endure without him.” Rhonwellt attempted to stifle any cynicism from his voice or betray his own feelings about the slain monk.
“Brothe
r Remigius and I could use your assistance if you are up to the task.” said Rhonwellt stepping back, hands on Ciaran's shoulders. Ciaran looked into Rhonwellt’s eyes and nodded. “Good lad. Now go to the chandlery cupboard and gather candles, about a dozen, and some of the Castile soap Brother Cathbart keeps in the kitchen. And when you have brought those items, go and fetch linens from the cabinet, a sheet and some smaller cloths for washing and drying. If need be, find Brother Oswald for the key. Will you do that?”
“Yes, Brother Rhonwellt,” and he was off, arms tucked in his sleeves, eyes downcast. Though Rhonwellt did not believe in any superstitions about the dead, he was aware of Ciaran’s discomfort and that he would be glad to be gone from the body if only for a short time.
Caring for the dead was a mission sacred to Rhonwellt, no matter who the corpse may have been. It was a rite he began to perform shortly after his arrival at Saint Cattwg’s. Once shriven and anointed, washing and dressing the body for interment was the final step in preparing the departed to meet their God. A last kindness. Even men whose lives had been less than exemplary deserved as much, though Rhonwellt’s feelings on the matter went against the tide. In monasteries, the duty fell to the Medicus and, if there was one, his sub-infirmarian. Were Brother Anselm to have his way, that job would have gone to Rhonwellt and he began to train his young novice for the role when first he entered the cloistered life. For two complete changes in the seasons, Rhonwellt worked under Anselm to learn all the infirmarian’s knowledge, only to find his true calling lay in the scriptorium with parchment, pen and brush. But, over the years, he had continued to take part in this hallowed duty with a sober heart.
Rhonwellt automatically offered up a short prayer, “May Christ who called you, take you to Himself.” He began to slowly unwrap the blankets from Brother Mark's body, letting their edges fall down over the sides of the table. He opened the cut robe, again exposing the wounded flesh.
A Savor of Clove Page 4