The cloister presented safety to the monks, security in a troubled world. That the evils of life on the outside could penetrate the sanctity of their refuge was an actuality seldom considered. Now it had happened and the event had shaken them to a man, and Rhonwellt anticipated the relief a few moments with pen in hand might bring.
Quite by chance, Rhonwellt had taken the path behind the kitchens instead of the most direct route across the courtyard, necessitating he pass by the infirmary and guest house. The infirmary stood dark, the door closed, as there were no monks housed there at the time. He doubted any would claim illness or seek refuge there for at least a sennight after it had played host to a corpse. The sting of death lingered as a bruise that would only lose its color gradually, over time, before it disappeared. In the mean time, the brothers would enjoy a spate of good health and the infirmary would see little use.
On the other hand, the door to the guest house stood wide and light from a lamp leaked from the interior out into the night. Slowing to a walk, Rhonwellt heard Brother Julian’s voice coming from inside. Having assumed the position of hosteller upon the death of Brother Mark, it was the novice’s job to see to the comfort of any guests taking lodgings at the priory. Curiosity seized Rhonwellt and he peeked in.
A man stood with his back to the open door, a knight, his feet spread in an aggressive stance, hand on the hilt of his sword. Average in height, Rhonwellt noted his body was symmetrical—he favored neither arm or had much used a large two-handed sword for fighting. His clothes were new, a tunic of soft wool the color of malachite girded at the waist by a studded belt, boots of calf-hide in a deep chestnut. He still wore his mail, no doubt from long habit.
Brother Julian’s demeanor bubbled. “The prior bids you welcome, sir, as do we all. Ours is a humble house, but you will find nothing lacking. The beds are free of fleas and vermin and the linens fresh.”
“A welcome change from my previous night’s lodgings, brother, God be praised.” The knights voice was full, and a bit husky.
“The kitchen is closed, but if you hunger I will see to it Brother Cathbart prepares a platter of cold meats and cheese.”
“Do not burden your kitchener as compline will soon be upon us. The food at the inn is more than passable. I shall take a light meal there before retiring.”
“How long will you lodge with us, sir?” asked Brother Julian.
“That will depend. There is a matter I must clear up and will determine the length of my stay.”
Rhonwellt was about to continue on his way to the scriptorium when Brother Julian glanced over the knight’s shoulder and addressed him standing there. “Good evening, brother. You are in time to welcome our guest. Sir…?”
“Sir Tristan, Sir Tristan Cunniff,” said the knight as he turned to face Rhonwellt, illuminated in the doorway.
“Sir Tristan,” said Brother Julian, “this is Brother Rhonwellt.”
Hearing the name gave Rhonwellt a start. He felt he must have heard wrong, shock from the events of the last day finally having settled in. But, there was no mistaking that face for, otherwise, it was the same. It was the face of Beccan Cunniff, one of the last he had seen before darkness overtook him and he woke into his new life so many summers ago. The long, ragged scar running down one cheek was new, at least he did not remember its presence. Rhonwellt sagged against the doorframe, his breath having completely left him. Hands tucked into his sleeves, he dug his fingers into his arms as the scene before him began to slowly spin. Extracting his hands, he grabbed the doorframe behind him, clutching at it to keep from sliding to the floor.
Like a specter, the face was that of Beccan Cunniff but, it could not be him. Surely he would be greatly advanced in years or long dead. Tristan? That was equally impossible for he too must long ago have perished. Yet, a fact he could not know for certain. In that moment, a long ago abandoned prayer offered daily for years, had suddenly been answered only to became an impossible curse.
The knight stirred as though he might take a step toward Rhonwellt, but at the last moment checked his movement and held firm. Instead he approached Rhonwellt with his eyes. Gazing directly, the knight’s stare was deliberate, penetrating, reaching down to the depths of the his soul. Rhonwellt allowed his own lids to sink slowly, to block out the dread before him, and held that pose. When he opened them, he would discover his error and the face would be gone. Please, God. Let it be so.
Summoning all his courage, Rhonwellt opened his eyes, hoping to see a stranger before him. And though the man standing there had indeed become as a stranger, he was still so familiar to him, someone he could never forget. Unable to take it all in, he turned from the room and fled along the path and up the stairs to the scriptorium, the echo of his sandals slapping against his heels on the night air.
✞ ✞ ✞
In the customary hours of silence after evening prayers, Rhonwellt quietly made preparations to retire for the night. He had spent the last hour before compline in the scriptorium, no candle to breech the dark, trying to make sense of the episode in the guest house. Shivering from the chill of the night air, his breath trembled as he blew on still glowing embers in the brazier in an effort to bring them to life. This cannot be happening. Rhonwellt breathed into his hands and rubbed them together. He pulled his hood up. Nothing helped. Though sweat ran down the inside of his robe, he could not get warm. Why now? He put more charcoal in the brazier.
He should put spark to a cresset, but the dark was comforting, as if lighting the chamber would lend credence to the nightmare whereas, the darkness somehow nullified it. Taking up his pen, hoping for inspiration, the feel of it had brought him no peace, did not urge him to strike a light, had been no salve for the ache he suddenly felt in his heart. Instead, he was plagued by unpleasant memories of the circumstances that had brought him to Saint Cattwg’s in the first place. Memories he thought banished to the past were now back, unnerving Rhonwellt to his core. He stared into the glowing embers of the brazier. The sin that lay on his heart, for sin it must have been considering the swift retribution exacted because of it, must still be unforgiven. Why else would God visit this horror upon him now after all this time? Yet, back when he was a lad of fourteen, it did not feel like sin.
His efforts to concentrate proved futile. With a sigh, he rose from his stool, covered the brazier and felt his way through the darkness, out the door and down the stairs to the courtyard. This time he avoided the guest house as he walked quickly to the dorter.
Monks were afforded three hours of sleep before midnight prayers which were said beside their bed, a crude affair consisting of a wooden cot and a pallet stuffed with straw. Morning prayers at the hours of three and six found them back in the chancel. The dorter was filled with the soft melody of shuffling feet and the rustle of cowls lain aside and beds being turned down. An occasional cough or sneeze, the spit and fizzle of candles and cresset lamps acted as descant to the melody, the tempo marked by the creaking groan of the floor timbers.
Rhonwellt inhaled the smells in the room: the essence of man barely covered by the aroma of wool and lanolin from the monk’s robes, the scent of melted wax from extinguished lights, and lingering food odors wafting up from the refectory below. It was orderly, a routine of life in the cloister he and his brothers repeated night after night.
He sat on his cot, slipped off his sandals and stretched his legs, bending and spreading his toes. His place at the end of the room enabled him to view the entire length of the dorter, like royal seating at a spectacle. Two dozen men. How different they all were, each with their own story for choosing the vocation and ways of coping within its confines. Though his own story was unique, many of the others were not.
Brothers like Oswald, Llywarch and Anselm thrived in the carefully crafted existence that played out over the months and years. The vocation instilled a sense of safety and reassurance that was often absent in the world outside their walls. Prescribed order in the mundane tasks allowed one day to slip into the next. It
simplified life and allowed complete concentration on prayer and contemplation in the ongoing struggle to become closer to God. It left the worries of the secular world to those who lived in it. The result for them was peace and security.
However, not all his brothers flourished in this stifling condition. Brother Julian had bridled at the lack of freedom when he first entered the brotherhood. Still mostly a boy on the eve of manhood, Rhonwellt could see how he longed for the freedom of the life so recently forfeit. At first the prior feared he would run away, as many novices did, usually finding their way back in a matter of a day or two, the predictable safety within the cloister preferable to the chaos, hunger and danger of life outside. Though Brother Julian was unsettled at times, Rhonwellt rejoiced that the young novice had never made such an attempt.
Second sons of the nobility and the rich were most often given to the church, through oblation, to protect the first-born and heir from any competition for inheritance. Such was the case of Brother Gilbert. Rhonwellt made an uncharitable grimace as he glanced across the dorter at the quarrelsome brother, a scowl plastered across his face like a perpetual mask. The youngest by minutes of a set of twins, Gilbert was sent from the far north country to Wales at the age of ten to live with the outlanders, thus enabling the family to escape the conventional wisdom that since he was a twin, his mother must have been unfaithful and slept with another man. He made it clear he had pleaded to be sent to one of the larger, more prestigious abbeys in England—meat several times a week and a private cell at Malmesbury or Saint Augustine’s certainly sounded better than vegetable gruel and a cot in this barn. But, the farther away the better and Saint Cattwg’s it was to be. He had never been happy here.
Brothers Cathbart and Etheldrede came from poor families with too many children. Parents often sent one or two of the younger children to the Church, thus providing relief for the struggling family. It ensured they were well-fed and taken care of in a world that could offer little in the way of comfort or reprieve from a rigorous life of toil and strife. Rhonwellt might have seen some of his own siblings sent away had fate not dealt him the hand it did.
Rhonwellt glanced at the bed next to his. On it sat old Brother Peter, chin on his chest, dozing before his turn at night watch. He had been an orphan who wandered into another monastery as a child over two score summers ago, seeking refuge behind cloister walls to escape the harsh realities of being on his own at such a tender age. He was sent to Saint Cattwg’s to join Prior Alwyn as one of his first monks when the priory was built.
Next to Brother Peter, Rhonwellt’s eyes fell on Brother Jerome. He had come to dedicate his soul to God after having lived a rather full life in the world of men. He came to Saint Cattwg’s as a wounded crusader returning from war. Try as he might, Rhonwellt could never get him to converse on his experiences or his decision to join the cloister. But the traumas of war often left invisible scars on men like Jerome. He would only say his wounds rendered him no longer fit for battle, thus he had little choice but to choose the contemplative life, as his only real skill was the art of war.
Brother Ignatius was a bit of a mystery. A widower with no living family, he grew too old to work the fields and had to forfeit his farm and resided at the monastery through charity. Becoming a monk would ensure he was cared for until the end of his days and would not starve. Had he been able to retain ownership of his land, he might have given it to the church for his care. Rhonwellt felt no real calling in the old man though he was obedient and worked as hard as his advanced age allowed, yet he sensed in Ignatius great sadness whenever he remembered his family, all dead these many years.
Brother Gruffydd was a scholarly man and saw the monastery as a way to further his pursuit of knowledge, since the monastic system often retained extensive libraries and the monks and nuns were often the only people in an area, aside from nobles, who could read or write. Rhonwellt admired his patience and his ability to recall anything from his vast knowledge that was needed and apply it to the moment. It was he who inspired Rhonwellt to the scriptorium, who nourished his talent.
The placidness monastic life offered was sought by grown men and children alike. Brother Mark arrived unexpectedly at the cloister one day begging admittance and giving very little information about what brought him there. Clearly not liked by many of the monks and adored by others, he remained an enigma. Rhonwellt wondered if he had escaped the clutches of the King’s justice. Once, he related his fears to Prior Alwyn who reminded him in his own gentle way that it was not theirs to question why God would send a soul to them, but to welcome him in with open arms and loving hearts. Only God needed to know the truth of his quest. Nonetheless, Rhonwellt could not help but wonder if Brother Mark’s mysterious past had contributed in some way to his demise.
Once inside, however, it was not uncommon for thoughts of life in the world shunned, to come creeping back in on a monk’s good intention. The appeal of the forbidden was strong. Of all the restrictions placed on religious, especially the older men, perhaps the most difficult was the discipline of obedience. Having been masters of their own destinies as far as their station in life would allow, surrendering in absolute obeisance to God and the head of the order proved hardest to embrace. Irritated by the removal of their freedom, more delusion than reality in this merciless feudal system, they continually struggled with God and the prior for control. Some lost the battle and left. Those able to surrender found peace and contentment. Most often the battle was simply ongoing, with sporadic victories and the occasional defeat. For the various ranks from highest to lowest, knowing where control of your own destiny began and ended, gave even those at the lowest rungs of society the illusion of some small ability towards self determination. Giving up the illusion proved almost impossible.
Feigned disobedience, resulting in a night's prostration before the main altar in the chancel, and many hours alone, out of sight of prying eyes, opened the opportunity for a monk to be absent on occasion. With no outer wall enclosing the priory, it was possible to escape and return quite unnoticed, a fact brought home to roost in the past day.
Rhonwellt lay down on his cot and stared at the rafters in the darkness high above him, crossing his hands on his chest, the cross about his neck beneath them. Over the years Rhonwellt had succeeded in keeping the truth of his arrival here secret, a thing of the past, a truth known only to God, Prior Alwyn and Brother Anselm. Now, he was reminded once again that his story was unlike any other and the shame of it lay heavily upon his heart.
Eight
What started as a drizzle eventually turning to rain, continued throughout the night. In spite of the weather, Rhonwellt felt sure the church would be crowded this morning. Funerals, hangings, and market days were crowd pleasers, drawing large numbers to mass, and were a boon to the church coffers. Though many would come from a sense of devotion, most would be there out of curiosity.
Rhonwellt assembled with his brothers in the presbytery, thankful for the thick haze of incense that floated on the air, partially masking the fetidness of a body already turning to decay. Though of little comfort to the living, the stench of death was the same for all who departed this life, no matter their station, making all men equal at least once in their wretched lives, and attesting to the fairness and egalitarianism of the Almighty. Rhonwellt stared at Brother Mark laying in quiet repose on a bier that was no more than a rough wooden plank a bit wider and longer than the corpse. At a discrete signal from the prior, six monks hoisted the body to their shoulders and slowly headed for the chancel in a procession that mirrored the one that had brought it here yestermorn. The arch in the pulpitum screen was widened by opening a hinged second panel, and the crude trestles that held the bier were rushed ahead and put in place just as the procession arrived to put the body down.
The church had already begun to fill. About seventy curious souls jostled each other to get a better view of the activity beyond the rood screen that separated them at the back of the church from the chancel. More wer
e pouring in as Rhonwellt and Ciaran took their places with the other brothers in the choir on either side of the center aisle. The bell ceased its slow dirge leaving the church quiet but for the rustling garments and shuffling feet of the onlookers.
A large metal thurible hung from a rope threaded through a pulley high in the arched ceiling at the center of the chancel. The size of a child but weighing as much as a grown man, incense scented smoke belched from the vessel's pierced shell. The smoke was sweet and strong. Brother Birinus took hold of the rope and raised the vessel to head height while Brother Jerome grasped its bottom and pushed it several steps away from where Brother Birinus stood. Letting go, the heavy thurible swung slowly back as the monk pulled the rope hoisting it up twice as high. Completing its arc like a large pendulum, it swung back the opposite way, and as Brother Birinus raised and lowered it with each change in direction, it swung in an ever widening arc. Soon it traveled wildly all the way from the front to the back of the chancel and into the nave. As it glided over the heads of the crowd, air passing through the piercings created a loud roar that increased with each pass until it thundered like a raging, fire-breathing dragon out of legend, filling the cavernous room with suffocating smoke and causing the mourners to tremble. Such events had a much more profound effect on the devout than any Latin texts or chants or admonitions against sin. Peering around and over each other for a better view, the crowd stood spellbound, as though they listened to the voice of the Almighty.
A Savor of Clove Page 8