Behind him, Rhonwellt heard the sound of Brother Anselm dropping wearily onto a bench nearby. “Tell me what you see, Brother,” he said, sadness and fatigue in his voice.
“The bleeding has, of course, ceased,” answered Brother Remigius, “and the blood has already started to settle in the lower portions,”
Rhonwellt went to the head of the body. Its eyes finally remained closed. “I find nothing in the mouth,” said Rhonwellt after a cursory examination of the open mouth. Using a short strip of cloth bandage, the monk put it under the chin, drew it up and over the top of the head and tied it. Then, he slowly closed the mouth by drawing and tightening the knot. It would remain closed on its own by the time they finished.
Brother Remigius worked at cutting the sleeves of the monk’s robe. Gently rolling the body away from him, he worked the robe from under it until the garment was free. He held it up to the lamp light. The garment was still very damp, splattered with mud and blood, and here and there, pieces of dried leaves and moss clung to the fibers of the wool.
Rhonwellt took the garment and examined it. “There seems nothing remarkable about his clothing other than detritus from the ground. But, a large amount of blood indicates he has bled profusely from his anus. We can look at it more closely in the daylight.” Rhonwellt tossed the robe aside.
Rhonwellt heard the slap of Ciaran's sandals moments before the novice scrambled back into the infirmary. He dumped his armful of candles on a nearby cot and set the vial of thick liquid soap on the table, then darted out the door again. He returned a short time later clutching a stack of linens to his chest.
“Good lad,” said Rhonwellt, “Now, go to the kitchen and bring any hot water you may find while I go next door to get herbs and oils. Wait for me here.” Ciaran nodded and ran for the kitchen.
As soon as they had both returned, they set to work helping Brother Remigius.
“Ciaran, place four candles at each end of the body, here and here, then light them. Will you, please?”
“Yes, brother,” said Ciaran.
“And when you have finished with that, pour a half-jack of soap into that large bowl on the shelf, fill it with water, and wet two of the linens in it.”
Ciaran lighted the candles, the glow from the flames dancing on the surrounding stone walls, lighting the chamber with false joy.
“You may begin washing his feet and legs while Brother Remigius and I examine his wounds.”
“Most of the trauma to the body is on the face and upper torso,” said Brother Remigius.
“Then at some point, he faced his attacker,” Anselm observed.
“Perhaps,” said Brother Remigius, “but there are no defensive marks on the hands or arms. It does not appear as though he blocked the blows or fought back.”
Knowing it was his first experience with a corpse, Rhonwellt watched Ciaran closely, his hand poised over the body for a moment until he hesitantly laid a cloth on one foot and began to rub. His hand shook.
“He will not come clean with so light a hand, Brother. Be firm. He is beyond harm.”
Rhonwellt examined the wounds to the face and head, stopped by the most serious just below the swollen right eye.
“These blows were fueled by great rage,” Rhonwellt said to Remigius. “The contusions are deeply embedded with bark and grit. A club, I think. Alder. Long dead but not rotten.”
“Picked up randomly at the moment perhaps,” Remigius answered, “indicating a crime not planned ahead.”
“Surprise would explain why he did not fight back. The first blow could have rendered him senseless.”
Rhonwellt did not mention his theory that the assailant was dominant with the left hand of Satan. He had no proof and did not want that news to alter anyone’s behavior while he looked for those with such an affliction. He began to pick at the tiny bits of matter in the wound, placing them in a bowl nearby. He examined the smaller abrasions near the ear and chin, but other than blood, they were clean. Taking a wet cloth, he slowly wiped away the mud and blood from the gash and cleaned the rest of Mark's face and hair. He had been an overly handsome lad. It was no wonder so many of the monks were drawn to him.
Rhonwellt continued to keep one eye on Ciaran as he worked. The novice washed the feet and legs to about midway and stopped. Above the knees an abundance of gore covered the thighs and genitals. Ciaran stared, his hand hovering over Brother Mark’s groin. Monks knew it to be the forbidden place, the place where desire was formed. It was the center of sin, responsible for the downfall of man. To touch it, even on one’s own body, was the height of wickedness. Ciaran stood frozen, holding his breath. Rhonwellt wanted to reach out and take the cloth from him, to relieve him from the responsibility of a decision. He could not. Ciaran would need to wrestle with this on his own. The novice opened his hand, his fingers outstretched, and let the linen fall. Staggering backwards, he collapsed on a bench, tears coming in a torrent.
Rhonwellt sat wordlessly beside him, quietly attentive to his pain, listening to his sobs. Abruptly, Ciaran rose and bolted for the door, disappearing into the night. Rhonwellt heard him retch through his agony, coughing and spitting the contents of his stomach onto the ground. At this moment, Rhonwellt could be of no comfort to him. He listened to the novice’s running footsteps receding towards the refectory. He let him go, sure of where he would find him later.
“He will recover, in time,” said Anselm. “It is much for one so young.”
“Death is a frightening reality,” said Brother Remigius.
“It is so. Ciaran is nearly a man, yet he often reacts as a child.” Rhonwellt continued to look out the door. “He is so sheltered here. I fear Ciaran wrestles with demons other than death this night.”
“I know,” said Anselm. “Puberty holds great mystery and confusion.”
“I sense it only terrifies Ciaran.”
“In a monastery, where everything is forbidden, terror is most appropriate.”
Rising, Rhonwellt rejoined Brother Remigius. He spread the legs and thoroughly cleaned the inner thighs and genitals, carefully inspecting each part. The bowl of water had become thoroughly fouled and he tossed it outside, poured fresh water in, added some soap, then delicately rolled the body over and began to clean, scrubbing the legs and back, saving the midsection for last, the part he had dreaded most. Therein lay the gravest of the injury done to Brother Mark. Rhonwellt bathed the buttocks and gently parted the cheeks to reveal the damage to the orifice. He swallowed hard, his lips pushed to one side as he chewed the inside of his cheek.
“The flesh of the orifice is badly torn, and there is more bark and grit.”
“Was he penetrated?” Anselm asked.
“Yes, violently, but not carnally, it appears. It looks to have been a branch.” Remigius looked at Rhonwellt.
“It would seem to be a symbolic rape,” said Rhonwellt, “not actual sexual penetration. Perhaps an assault intended to humiliate as well as cause pain, carried out in a disturbed savage frenzy.” Rhonwellt closed his eyes to shut out this horror only to be faced with his own painful memories. He had not thought on it in years. For a moment he stood, forcing his heaving chest to calm, to quell his anxiety. Regaining his composure, he cleared away the debris from the orifice. As he began to wash it, he stopped.
“I was wrong,” he said. “There is seed.”
“Then his innocence was taken,” sighed Anselm.
Brother Remigius closed his eyes and blew out a long groan. Rhonwellt sat down on the bench next to Anselm, bent over and put his head in his hands. He took in a few cleansing breaths. He wished it might be true that Brother Mark was innocent. However, rumors among the brothers placed his innocence in serious doubt.
✞ ✞ ✞
Tristan tossed and turned in the straw, unable to sleep. The acrid odor of urine and manure stung his eyes and burned his lungs. The barn was nearly empty of horses—the few animals stabled there did not generate enough heat to keep it warm—and he lay wrapped tightly in his cloak
against the chill, his face buried in the wool to blot out the smells. He had spent a few minutes looking over his stallion and sumpter when he arrived, making sure they were well fed and without injury before he bedded down. Though exhausted, he lay wide awake, his mind churning. At one time, he would never have imagined being separated from his lover, would have believed he would always be near, part of his life. Life then seemed predictable and settled. In the course of one night, that was supplanted by the belief that Rhonwellt was dead and he would never see him again, indicating the fates could be fickle and God’s love for mankind conditional.
Now this, whatever this was. The unlikelihood of Rhonwellt being alive had loomed large for so long, Tristan had never prepared for the possibility he might still live, and for the moment, did not know what to do. What would his life have been like had he known? Would they have yielded to societal pressure, married and had families, kept their feelings secret and relegated their passions to the shadows in out-of-the-way rendezvous? Or would they dismiss them as indiscretions of youth, something to be out-grown and left behind? Could they ever have rejected those confines and the teachings of the church, forgo family obligations to devote themselves to each other, living as moral outlaws, facing possible imprisonment, even execution? Would their feelings have been strong enough to face whatever could come their way? He thought he knew what the answers to those questions would have been at that time. Tonight, he had serious doubts, given what he knew of the world and of men.
What good was all this speculation? He did not yet know for sure it was Rhonwellt. In fact, the more he thought on it, the more he doubted it could be. He rolled over and punched the straw with his fist as if smoothing a lumpy pillow. His mind was playing tricks on him again, or perhaps the wine. He would wake on the morn to find it had all been a mistake, that the monk was someone else entirely. Yet, he had to know.
✞ ✞ ✞
Rhonwellt roused from his daze by the sound of the bell calling them to prayer, surprised by how quickly time had passed. Brother Remigius and Brother Anselm were gone. He rose dully and went to Mark's body, rolled it onto its back, covered it up to the chin with a sheet and walked out of the infirmary, headed for the chancel. He could hear the shuffling feet of the monks overhead in the refectory, hurrying lest they be late. Through the anteroom and out the door to the cloister, he walked along the arcade and entered the door to the South Transept where he was met by the stream of brothers dragging down the night stairs. Rhonwellt doubted any had slept. As they passed the small altar in the transept, his eyes went to the floor immediately in front of it. There, on the unforgiving, rush-covered stone dais Ciaran lay face down, arms straight out to the side, mumbling prayers between incoherent sobs.
Rhonwellt approached him and kneeling down he implored him, “Come lad, it is time for morning prayers.”
“I cannot, Brother,” Ciaran sobbed, without turning his head. “I have gravely sinned, and I am not worthy to sit with my brothers.”
“That is not for you, but for God and the prior to decide. Now raise yourself up and come to prayer.”
Ciaran said nothing, defiantly shaking his head in the negative. He would not move. Rhonwellt sighed and rose to join the brothers in the Chancel when the prior entered, Brother Gilbert close at his heels like a loyal puppy.
“What is this?” sought the prior.
“Ciaran is engaged in a dialogue with God. It is best to leave him to it.”
“That is not your decision, Brother Rhonwellt,” injected Brother Gilbert. “You presume too much.”
Rhonwellt glowered at the monk, the prior visible in his periphery.
“Nor is it yours, brother.” The prior turned just his head to look behind him and raised one eyebrow. “However, Brother Rhonwellt is probably correct.” The prior turned his head back around and looked down at the monk prostrated on the floor. “Brother Ciaran is nothing if not determined in his devotion. He is engaged in prayer, and that is what is required at this hour. We shall, in fact, leave him to it. After you, Brother.”
Brother Gilbert cast a disparaging glance over his shoulder as he passed the prior and headed for the chancel. Prior Alwyn’s forehead furrowed with concern. Rhonwellt stood for a moment. The consequences of Brother Mark's death had a reach much greater than he could have anticipated.
Five
Light from half-dozen candles danced in the darkness, animating the faces of the two dozen monks, huddled inside their woolen robes, steam from their breaths visible on the chilly morning air, the words of their song punctuated by occasional yawns. The notes of the Psalm floated upward, past the ceiling rafters and through the roof of the chancel, on their journey to heaven. The brothers of Saint Cattwg’s settled down in the choir and prayed the early morning office of Lauds.
The land was still, no other sound but the collected voices of the monks, wafting over the cottages and the countryside. Lulling those still asleep in their beds and giving comfort to those awake and beginning their day, the routine was as predictable for them as it was for the monks.
Prior Alwyn scanned the rows of brothers and scowled at three empty places. He was making a mental note of the truants when Brother Jerome ran in from the back, made a quick bow at the altar, and threaded his way to his seat. Alwyn knew the whereabouts of Brother Ciaran so that left only Brother Anselm.
The monk’s voices raised in crescendo, filling the room in spite of their exhaustion and numbed emotions. It was instinctive and required no forethought. They could possibly even do it while asleep.
“It's gone!” The shout shattered the tranquility, echoing off the stone walls as the door from the cloister burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud report. The prior’s head snapped toward the direction of the sound, two dozen others following as if connected by a cord.
Brother Anselm, the aged Medicus, labored through the opening in the pulpitum screen, his birdlike frame bent into a decided stoop, his carelessly shaved chin nearly resting on his chest.
The Psalm began to disintegrate on the air.
“The Medica. It is gone.” The old monk’s voice trailed off as he labored to kneel at the altar and cross himself.
A few more abandoned the recitation.
“Brother!” admonished the prior. “We are at prayer.”
“You don't understand!” Anselm said, clearly agitated, waving his arms and breathing heavily. “De Materia Medica. It is gone!”
“We cannot endure this interruption of our devotions,” proclaimed Brother Gilbert. “It angers God and cannot be tolerated.”
The Prior Alwyn’s retort was swift and terse. “Who is prior here, brother? It is not for you to speak in my stead. Be still.”
“I only meant...” Meeting the prior’s gaze, Gilbert went silent.
The prior turned to Anselm. “Calm yourself, brother.” He led the old infirmarian to a bench and bade him sit. “Now, tell us what has happened.”
Anselm took in a staccato breath, his head swaying from side to side as tears welled in his eyes. “The manuscript is gone,” he rasped. “Taken!”
“So you have said, three times,” mumbled Brother Gilbert. The prior closed his eyes, took a breath and let it out, but decided not to respond. He would deal with Brother Gilbert later.
The monks closed in on the two men, all attempts at prayer abandoned.
“Nonsense, brother.” Alwyn concentrated on Anselm. “De Materia Medica is safely tucked away at the monastery at Mount Athos in Greece. Do you not remember?”
Anselm labored to breathe.
“No, no, no,” he answered. “The copy … borrowed … oh dearest Mother of God! We shall be ruined!”
“It is but a book, you foolish old man!” Gilbert’s teeth clacked shut with an audible click.
“It would seem the grip of Satan holds fast to your tongue this night, brother, and causes you to disobey and to speak without thought. It is fitting the morrow find you in earnest prayer that God will render it silent and humble as yo
ur brothers break their fast in the refectory.” The prior had lost count of the number of meals Gilbert had missed doing penance.
“Balthazar of Alorn might disagree, you impudent pup!” Anselm snorted, his eyes bulging as he struggled to raise his chin. “It is a priceless two-hundred-year-old tome. A rare pharmacopeia, copied from the original by the said same monk while on pilgrimage to Athos.”
“Sniping at each other will avail you nothing, brothers. Cease it immediately!” The prior glared at the outspoken monks while a few of their brothers, visible behind them, chortled behind their hands.
Brother Julian knelt down in front of the old man and held his hands. “I am sure it will turn up, brother,” his tenor silky, soothing.
“It is Book Four,” Anselm mumbled to himself, “the volume on narcotics and poisons. Oh… where is it? Where is it?”
“Are you sure that you have not merely mislaid it, brother?” asked Brother Julian.
“Yes,” said Prior Alwyn. “There have been many distractions the last few hours. Could age have let it slip from your mind to lock it away? We shall set the brothers to search for it after chapter. I am sure it will be found.”
“After the incident in the chancel, I could not sleep. Brother Mark lay heavy on my heart and mind. I went to look over the page he completed yesterday, to hold it in my hands,” said Anselm, looking lost.
“And obviously did not hear the bell for prayer,” sniveled Brother Gilbert, softly.
“Brother, enough,” said Alwyn in a low tone, looking down his nose at the grousing cenobite, a pose Gilbert often struck himself. “Why wait until the morrow to plead for mercy and find your humility. You may begin your prayers at once. As night watch, Brother Peter will look in on you. Continue your contemplation until chapter.” Gilbert’s face twitched at the harsh pronouncement. He hesitated, then slowly turned and returned to his seat in the choir.
A Savor of Clove Page 5