Anselm continued, his voice far away as if talking to no one in particular. “I locked it away in the cabinet, I am quite certain I did. Yes, yes, I put it there myself.” Then his voice grew louder as he addressed the others in the room. “I secured the cabinet and have the key here in my robe.” He held his hand out to present the key, laying in his palm. “But the lock was forced and the book is gone. I tell you, it is gone!”
“Who else had access to the key?”
“No one, directly. Anyone wishing entry to the cupboard must first retrieve it from me. Why would you ask about a key if the lock was forced?”
“The broken lock could be subterfuge if someone had used a key since only someone from the priory would have access to it.”
“How, when I alone hold the only one?”
The prior took an exasperated breath, putting his hands to his forehead. He paced in a small circle. “Never mind about the key. When could it have been taken?” he asked, stopping in front of the old monk.
“It would have to have been in the hours between my last visit to the scriptorium just after Nones and now,” replied Anselm, rubbing his hands nervously on his robe. “Nearly a whole candle’s time.”
“Many hours ago,” Alwyn reflected. “Certainly time enough. With the distraction of Brother Mark’s murder, the hour would have been opportune for such a deed, certainly.”
“Brother Mark was there at the time,” said Anselm, “perfecting an image for a prime page.”
Alwyn’s brows shot upward. Brother Mark was present when the tome was last seen and now he was dead. A coincidence?
“But why steal it?” asked Brother Jerome, a monk of over forty summers with a pocked and ruddy face. “It is worth a King's ransom. No one would be able to sell it nearby. And, none from around here would have the purse. It would have to be taken into England or abroad.”
“True enough,” said the prior.
“You mention ransom,” mused Brother Simplicius. “Could that not be the motive? To demand money for its return?”
“An intriguing idea, brother,” said Alwyn. “Certainly worth considering.” He thought for a moment. “Or, it could have been taken on behalf of someone who simply wished to own it.”
Anselm regained his breath. “Those who wish to own a priceless object, do so with the desire to boast of it, to show it off. That could not be done anywhere near to here.”
“If someone simply wished to own it,” Brother Oswald chimed in, “the reason would have to be because of what it is. It is a book, very rare and valuable. It would be of interest only to someone with a very extensive collection. There are no nobles or monasteries with libraries of note for five-hundred furlongs.”
“We can not be sure why it was taken, or at this point, if it was taken at all,” said the prior. “ In either case, we must find it.”
“Should we not begin to look immediately?” inquired Brother Jerome, his eyes wide, anxiety in his voice.
“If it is misplaced, it will still be where it now lies at the end of chapter,” replied the prior.
“But if it has been stolen and is being taken abroad, the delay will take it that much further,” said Anselm, sounding agitated again.
“If the book is bound for foreign places, it has likely left the area already,” replied the prior.
“We cannot know that for certain,” said Anselm.
“No, we cannot,” said the prior. “Meanwhile, The Almighty awaits. We were at prayer, brothers. Therefore, I suggest we employ ourselves to that task once again and include a prayer that the manuscript is found.”
As the melody of the Psalm rose once again toward heaven, the prior lamented that the fourth day of April had not begun on a very tuneful note.
✞ ✞ ✞
When the office had concluded, Rhonwellt found Ciaran still prostrated in front of the altar. He approached him. The sobs had ceased, but the mumbling went on uninterrupted as Ciaran continued his plea for forgiveness. Witnessing the novice’s struggle, unable to lighten his burden or ease his pain, Rhonwellt's heart ached with empathy. How often he had found himself locked in the same kind of wretched dialogue, pleading with God to show him why man was destined to suffer so, and why no path to relief was ever proffered? It seemed that as soon as one hurdle was cleared, another presented itself in some kind of divine joke. Some suggested that man could control his destiny if he had but the courage to grab ahold of the reins, as with a wild beast, and ride it until it submitted to his will. However, man’s ability to mold and shape it to his liking was not the teaching of the Church.
“Brother Ciaran.” Rhonwellt spoke kindly. “Do not grieve so.”
“Leave me, please, Brother Rhonwellt.”
“For a while longer, then. I must go and finish preparing Brother Mark's body. Will you not help me?”
Ciaran turned his head slightly, but would not meet Rhonwellt's eyes.
“I cannot. I cannot see him like that.”
“But you will see many more dead in your lifetime. You will get used to it.”
“It is not that,” answered Ciaran.
“Then what is it?” asked Rhonwellt, his voice soothing as he coaxed the young monk to put words to his thoughts, to reveal the source of his misery.
“I...cannot,” Ciaran hesitated. “I cannot see him unclothed,” he hissed. “It is a sin!”
“Then you have never seen a naked body before.”
“No, I have not. It is forbidden,” replied Ciaran. “We are bathe in private, dress in private, sleep in our clothes. When would I?”
“This is different. Mark is dead. Washing and preparing the dead to be placed into the earth and received into the arms of the Creator is a custom ancient in origins, and blessed by God. It is how we honor them. Where is the sin in that?”
“The sin was in my heart as I gazed upon him. In life, Brother Mark was so beautiful.”
“Yes, I guess he was,” said Rhonwellt.
Ciaran drew in a breath and released it with a stutter. “In spite of how he looked, so bloody and so damaged…. wicked thoughts filled me, disgusting thoughts. I longed to reach out and touch him though I knew it to be a sin. I wanted to know what it would be like. It was like a hunger. How could I think those things when he lay there dead and broken? I cannot look more upon him, or I will surely sin again. Oh, Brother Rhonwellt, what is wrong with me?”
Rhonwellt waited a moment. “Sit up and face me.”
Ciaran waited a moment. Pulling his arms in, he pushed himself to a sitting position, his gaze still averted.
“Look at me, Ciaran.”
Slowly he lifted his eyes to meet Rhonwellt's. “You loved Brother Mark?”
Ciaran hesitated. “Yes.”
“Perhaps as more than just a friend and brother?”
Ciaran shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. What else is there?”
“You are confused?”
He shrugged again, looking away as a fresh tear rolled down his cheek.
“Ciaran, you are still young. Manhood will soon rush upon you like stampeding horses. There will be no stopping it.”
Kneeling beside him, Rhonwellt took him gently by the shoulders and leaned in closer.
“Now starts the time in your life when you will be faced with profound change that is accompanied by great confusion. You will experience many new and strange emotions that will strive to overpower you. They can be frightening but are the natural order of things.” Rhonwellt let go of Ciaran and let his hands rest in his lap. “It will take time to sort them out. With patience, you will learn to comprehend their meanings and be able to see them in their proper light. Some you can embrace. But, if you wish to serve God, you will need to let some of them go, that you may strive to higher purpose. It is our ultimate test and you will have to decide. It is how it must be. Give yourself time, lad. You cannot comprehend it all at once. Be patient, and above all, be kind to yourself.”
“I am so frightened, Brother Rhonwellt. I do not know what t
o do.”
“Continue to pray for guidance. Punishment is not what you should seek from God at this time.” Rhonwellt searched the young monks face. “Seek understanding. Penance rarely brings clarity, relief probably, remorse surely, but rarely clarity. Remain here and pray until the morning meal. I will have finished preparing his body by then. Brother Remigius will assist me. I would not be the instrument of your further temptation.”
“Thank you, Brother Rhonwellt,” said Ciaran, sounding relieved. The two monks rose. Ciaran went to a choir bench to resume his prayers as Rhonwellt headed back to the infirmary, his mind wandering back to the conversation in the chancel about the missing book. Prior Alwyn had referred to Brother Mark’s death as murder. Though correct, it was the first time anyone had dared utter the word. Murder was a crime common perpetrated on ordinary men, not men of God. His whole body shuddered. He quickly crossed himself.
✞ ✞ ✞
On his way to the infirmary, Rhonwellt detoured to the dorter to retrieve Brother Mark's spare robe and scapular. As the sun neared the horizon, dawn prepared to blink away the horrors of the night just past but offered little hope for the impending day. Arriving at the small stone building where Brother Mark's remains lay covered by a thin layer of linen, Rhonwellt's sullen thoughts matched his leaden footsteps. The candles still burned, casting an eerie pall around the room as their orange glow waved and flickered joyfully in defiance of death.
He laid the spare garments on the nearest cot and was about to fetch more hot water from the kitchen when something drew his attention as he headed for the door. Two of the candles left burning by the body lay on the floor, their flames extinguished in the fall. He glanced towards Brother Mark's body. The soft linen covering was slightly askew and rumpled, not as he had left it before going to prayer. The difference was subtle. Someone had been here viewing the body, and not wanting to be discovered had carelessly replaced the cover prior to a hasty departure.
Who might have done such a thing?
He thought back to morning prayers. Had all the monks but Brother Mark been present? Trying to picture the group that had assembled, he found that he could not clearly recall any empty seats.
Rhonwellt retrieved two containers from the items he had brought earlier, a small vial containing balsam oil and a large jar containing olive oil. Taking down a bowl from the shelf over the table, he poured into it a gill of the olive oil and a dram of the balsam, mixing it together with a stirring stick. To this, he added a palm of ground calendula blossom from his cache of herbs and stirred again. Rolling up the wide sleeves of his robe, he began to softly rub the mixture into Brother Mark's skin. The aroma was heady and soothing, sufficient to cover the slight odor that had begun to emanate from the decaying flesh.
Rhonwellt worked quickly and was soon joined by Brother Gruffydd. One of the few Welshmen to endure monastic life at Saint Cattwg’s, he had wandered in to view the body and offer assistance. At nearly seventy years, he was short and plump, had large round eyes that protruded slightly, rosy cheeks, and a tonsure that had long ago ceased to grow but for a few stray tufts that resembled a slightly mangy cur. His advanced years had taken much of his mind and he was given to slovenly habits that caused him to smell of urine and sweat. On his robe could be seen the remnants of several weeks of meals and the ends of the sleeves were greasy from being used to wipe his mouth. The monks labored to keep him clean with small success. He was not incapacitated enough to spend his days in the infirmary, but that eventuality was not far off. Rhonwellt ordered him to wash his hands before he began, doubly grateful for the aromatic properties of the oils.
As they applied the mixture to the body, several other Brothers found their way into the infirmary and began to station themselves around the room, quickly losing themselves in prayer, reciting in unison, from years of habit, as if being led. However, most eyes were open and focused on the body of the young monk and the rite being carried out. It seemed that no matter the experience with death that the various Brothers had, little or much, all were compelled by the reality of that which lay in front of them. It was only the motivation that varied with each individual. Rhonwellt knew his brothers well.
Brothers Julian and Cathbart looked on in dread, knowing that one day they too would be lying on this table, or one very like it, a company of Brothers gathered around as they are oiled and dressed for their last appearance on this earth before being laid to rest, wondering if, at their time, their faith would have sustained them. Brothers Peter, Oswald, and Llywarch, who had already progressed in years past the few allotted Brother Mark, were grateful that death, for them, would not come so early, that they had behind them enough time to count as a meaningful life, and that they would not be struck down with the blush of youth still upon them. Brother Thomas hoped for a peaceful end, lulled placidly into death from the oblivion of slumber, safe from the kind of profanity that had snatched their young comrade from them. However, none there looked on with any peace or joy, feelings that they were taught would somehow miraculously precede their impending reunion with a fearsome God waiting in judgment in a far off heaven. Given the precariousness of the state of grace as compared to that of sin, it was doubtful that any would arrive in heaven unscathed. But, still they prayed.
Once the body was herbed and oiled, Rhonwellt pressed two younger and stronger brothers into service wrestling Mark’s remains into his robe and scapular. Having stiffened and cooled considerably in the intervening hours, the body had already become a corpse, a little less of what had been Brother Mark remaining as each moment passed. The skin was cold, becoming leathery and no longer pliable, as the ghostly pallor of death set firmly in. Once dressed in his habit, belt tied and feet left bare, a cross was hung about his neck and laid on his chest, his hands crossed below it, thumbs tied together with a thread. The bandage used to close his mouth was removed, and his fringe of hair was combed.
Just after sunrise, the rest of the Brotherhood was summoned to gather at the door to the infirmary to bear Brother Mark to the church. There, each would take their turn at sitting vigil for four hours over the next four and twenty with three other brothers, forgoing food at the meal preceding their time. A large processional cross, two tall candlesticks and swinging thurible belching thick aromatic smoke led the cortege, followed by six brothers bearing the body, the prior behind it. The rest of the brothers tread soberly in rows of two, each carrying a candle, hoods up, eyes to the ground, and singing the Office for the Dead, as the church bell tolled solemnly. The sound prompted people from the village to make their way to the church to offer up prayers for the young monk.
Six
The afternoon grew late.
Bishop Maurontius closed the curtain over the window as the carriage lurched along in a spring drizzle. A large, simple box, made cumbersome by its immense weight, its solid wheels amplified every bump in the track. The driver, astride one of a team of heavy horses, wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and hunched up against the precipitation. The cleric sat contented, happy to be warm and dry inside.
A tall, powerfully built man of two score ten and five summers, his tonsure long ago turned gray and concealed beneath a close-fitting cap, sat with his miter on the seat beside him. Maurontius leaned back, a tight-lipped smile playing across his face, her scent lingering in his nostrils. His manhood responded in a most ungodly way to the mere thought of her touch. Recently elevated to his office, he tried smoothing his new robes across his lap against the evidence of his sinful musings, glad the walls of his coach hid his transgression. The hypocrisy of it made him want to laugh out loud.
Availing himself of the joys of the fairer sex was a habit in which Maurontius had indulged since his days as a novice. There had been no shortage of village girls or local whores willing to pleasure a handsome young cleric disposed to stealing from the abbey confines for an evening of frolic. The habit was with him still. In most other ways, he was a Godly man. His attentions had been lavished upon his lady for many years,
keeping him from the clutches of common whores and the chance of pox. Days spent in her company always put him in an excellent mood. He would need every good humor to ease dealing with this business at the priory.
Bayard had been clear enough about his expectations, and the cardinal usually got what he desired. Maurontius resented His Eminence for placing him in this position. Prior Alwyn was a long time friend. Acquainted many years, beginning when the bishop was a young novice twenty years the prior’s junior, a deep bond had developed between the men. Though well into his seventies and of frail health, he knew Alwyn possessed a stout heart, full of compassion and understanding. The cleric had always been a good and faithful servant to God and sought to live according to the scriptures. He cared well for his flock, always with an eye on salvation. But Maurontius knew that the prior also believed compassion should regulate discipline, that punishment be tempered with forgiveness, and that it was possible for mortal men to duplicate the love of Christ; thoughts The Church saw as a breeding ground for disobedience and laxness in the Rule. Creating a sense of contentment in the brothers could only lead to trouble. Though he did not doubt Prior Alwyn’s faith, control was the key to a well-run abbey. The bishop believed that only the Church and those that served it could know the true love of Christ. The best that common men could hope for was purgatory, and at the worst, hell’s fire and damnation. To the contrary, the prior put his faith in the common man.
The priory at Cydweli was small by most standards, with slightly more than a score of monks in residence. Situated at the closed end of a fertile valley bound by rolling hills near the mouth of the River Gwendraeth, the Benedictine Priory was a daughter of Sherborne Abbey, a few miles to the north. Founded by Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, about thirty years before, it had been dedicated to Saint Cattwg to serve a poor community that grazed and farmed the mouth of the valley. The purpose of the monks in residence, it seemed, was to keep the locals faithful to the church. The villagers and farmers had a tendency to keep and follow some of the old ways. Steeped in superstition and myth, the feast days that centered around the sun and the moon, the solstices and equinoxes, were still celebrated vigorously throughout the countryside. They practiced a kind of local Christianity, revered the Celtic saints, now Roman saints, and had leanings more towards the old and less towards the new. Thus was the mission of the priory, to keep the faithful faithful.
A Savor of Clove Page 6