Usually captivated by the spectacle and its effects, Rhonwellt was distracted, found himself idly peering around the church. His lips moved, but he could not concentrate on the words of the rite. He looked up and down the rows of monks in the choir, pausing a moment at each face as his gaze passed by. They were his comrades, his brothers in Christ. He had lived with some of them since they were young, had watched them grow old. He had eaten with them, slept on a cot in the same room with them, prayed with them, laughed and joked with them, or walked quietly in the cloister and cried with them. He had cared for them when they fell ill and knew he would hold the hand of some as they slipped through the veil and left this world. He was familiar with their saintliness and their pettiness, and they his. Yet, how well did he really know any of them, know what lay deep in their hearts?
Looking past the row of brothers, his eye wandered to the rood screen and the sea of faces crowded into the nave beyond. He knew most of them, too, had spent the greater part of his life near them. Many talked to him, when they passed him on the road or at the priory stall at market, making him an unofficial confessor. Rhonwellt knew their stories; their families, their triumphs and heartbreaks, had witnessed the christening of their children and later their marriages, had buried their dead. His body shuddered at the thought that one of them, or worse one of his brothers, could have perpetrated the heinous crime that had befallen Brother Mark. He so wanted to believe that this horror had been carried out by some unknown stranger passing through the town on his way to somewhere else. But the nature of the crime was vicious, personal, and all too familiar.
The more he pondered on it, he grew ever surer that Brother Mark had known his assailant. In that moment, Rhonwellt decided he must find out who that was.
Brother Ciaran coughed quietly into his sleeve, discreetly laying his hand on Rhonwellt’s arm, drawing him back into the moment. Emerging from his brooding with determination, Rhonwellt watched the swinging censer slow until it was almost still. The monks sang and chanted, “….Exaudi orationem meam ad te omnis caro veniet Requem aeternam dona eis Domine et lux perpetua luceat eis”, asking the Almighty for eternal rest for the deceased. Rhonwellt resumed the rhythm as the monks rose and sat, crossed themselves again and again, reciting the ancient phrases of the requiem, while the body was repeatedly aspersed and incensed. The spectacle went on for nearly an hour until Prior Alwyn crossed himself one final time, anointed the body with chrism, signaling the mass was over.
Brother Birinus left the choir and padded through the pulpitum screen, the church bell beginning to toll soon after he disappeared. The monks rose from their benches, filed past the bier to lay a hand on their brother and bestow a final kiss to the forehead. Brother Ciaran holding the tall processional cross in front of him, Brother Julian carrying the candlestick to one side, and Brother Llywarch swinging a small censer on the other, the burial procession threaded through the rood screen and out the front doors to the continued chanting of the monks; Brother Mark's final journey.
Around the outside of the priory to the graveyard behind the refectory, the local mourners, heads bowed reverently, followed slowly behind.
The rain had subsided during Mass. The procession stopped at an open grave in the small yard East of the church where all deceased monks from the priory were buried. Off to one side stood two men from the town. Drenched to the skin, the sexton had paid them a penny each to dig the grave, and now they waited to fill it in once the rite was completed. The graves, about twenty-nine in all, had been dug parallel to the side of the building so that the bodies, when interred, could be laid in on their side facing the dawn. Small wooden crosses, coated in white lime-wash, stood at the head of each grave. It was the novices’ job to add a new layer of coating whenever a new grave was added, a task Rhonwellt had done himself during his early years at Saint Cattwg’s. The people from the village and surrounding farms were interred on the North side of the church with the bodies from wealthy families set apart closer to the chaple. Deceased nobles from the castle and nearby manors could be found snugly tucked in under the slabs of stone in the floor of the presbytery.
More prayers and chants ensued accompanied by copious sprinkling and censoring, before the shroud was brought up and over the body and tucked under on the sides, both ends tied in a knot. A rope was slipped under each end and through two holes along one side of the bier. Monks placed themselves at the ends of the four ropes as the body was hoisted off the stand and hovered over the grave before being lowered into the open hole. Once at rest on the bottom, the ropes at either end of the bier were pulled free, and finally, those threaded through the holes in the side were pulled, bringing the side of the bier up and from under the body while, somewhat unceremoniously, dumping it and rolling it onto its side. Three shovels of dirt and it was over. Brother Mark had been committed to the angels.
The crowd started to slowly disperse, monks returning to the cloister, locals headed toward the bridge and town. Most were likely to end up at The Thorn and Thistle. Rhonwellt hesitated a moment, casting a final, lingering look into the grave. Mass had been said right after Terce and there was about an hour’s free time before Nones. Maybe he could spend a little time at his desk in the scriptorium. Hopefully, this time the feel of his pen in his hand would ease his troubled heart. He turned his head away from the grave, his body still rooted in place when he saw him. Tristan. The knight stared at him from across the grave and a few yards away. He had never noticed him in the throng at mass. Had he been there all along, or had he joined the procession once outside the church?
Rhonwellt looked around, panic starting to grow inside him. This time there would be no escape. Tristan stood between him and any place he might wish to flee. Suddenly, the monk was paralyzed in both mind and body, no movement and no plan. Rhonwellt thought he saw the knight waiver, appear unsteady on his feet. Before he could act, or think of an act, Tristan started walking toward him. His panic was about to overwhelm him. He drew in a deep breath as the knight stopped.
Rhonwellt felt light-headed. Inside his sleeves, he fisted his hands in an attempt to stop the trembling and prayed it was not noticeable. Face flushing and hot, a wave of nausea swept over him. He desperately wanted to run but his legs felt weak. Besides, there was no where to go. The monk pretended to regard the fish pond just beyond the far side of the graveyard so that he would not have to look at Tristan. Still, he could feel the intensity of the knight’s gaze, could hear the slight quavering of his breathing, smelled the wine on his breath.
After repressing his feelings for so long, Rhonwellt was surprised he could experience such an intense emotional upheaval.
The monk tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and the only sound coming from his throat was the air rushing over vocal cords that refused to work. With a loud clack of his teeth, he snapped his mouth shut, gripped his fists even tighter inside his sleeves, and took a couple of breaths before clearing his throat for a second attempt.
“I trust we are good hosts and you are well cared for,” Rhonwellt said, turning his head but keeping his eyes lowered. There was very little sound as he exhaled the words.
“I…I thought…I thought you were…dead,” said Tristan. His voice brimming with disbelief, the knight stumbled over his words.
Rhonwellt changed the subject. “Priory fare is simple, but our kitchener is competent. Our guests seldom complain.”
“For two days I kept telling myself it could not be you,” said Tristan, turning his hands palms-up in front of him, “that it must be another. How can it be?”
Rhonwellt still tried to avoid the obvious. “It is unfortunate you have arrived to stay with us at such a sad time.”
“How in the name of a confounding God came you to be here?”
“Still,” continued Rhonwellt, “your presence may prove a much needed diversion…for some.”
“It is a miracle. I…I saw what they did to you.” The knight’s tone became bitter. “He made me watch.”
For a moment, Rhonwellt remembered. His breathing grew rapid. He tried to push the images from his mind, to let it go blank. “I dare say the brothers will be chattering like magpies,” he said, willing himself to get the words out.
Tristan took a step closer. “You should not have survived.”
Rhonwellt prayed God would not let Tristan continue. Eyes still lowered, Rhonwellt looked to the right and to the left. Still nowhere to escape. “A knight as guest is rare and will cause much excitement” said Rhonwellt, seeking to escape through words. “Brother Jerome was once a knight.”
Tristan reached out his hand, put two fingers under Rhonwellt’s chin and gently tried to lift it. The monk flinched but would not raise his head. “Rhonwellt. Look at me.” Rhonwellt heard not a command, but a hushed entreaty.
“I nearly did not…” There was a long silence before he finished. “…survive.”
Tristan let his hand drop. “Look—at—me,” he whispered.
“I cannot.” Rhonwellt felt a tightness and tingling in his chest. He feared he might stagger, in his mind saw himself topple to the ground, but shaky legs bore him up. “You carry his face—the face of my assassin.”
“He is dead. The man you see before you is not him.” Tristan grabbed Rhonwellt by the shoulders. “I cannot change how I look. The resemblance is a consequence of birth. It ends there. Please. Look at me.”
Head still lowered, Rhonwellt looked straight ahead at the broad torso in front of him, the muscular forearms encased in mail, the rough, calloused hands, one on the hilt of his sword, the other hanging from his belt by a thumb. Summoning all his strength, Rhonwellt slowly lifted his eyes, taking in the image of Tristan, allowed it to push his fear aside and penetrate that place in his mind closed off for so long. Tristan was actually there and would not be denied. With a deep breath, he stared at the knight, long and hard. Care lines showed his age. The long scar bore witness to the battle of life hard won, a testament to survival. Flexing of his facial muscles said the knight struggled to keep his emotions from overwhelming him. Above a hard-set jaw, were eyes as black as the scrying mirrors used by soothsayers, bottomless, the kind that reflected nothing. No where in the face before him was the lad Rhonwellt had once known, only this man, this knight who claimed to be him.
“Is it really you?” Rhonwellt whispered, continuing to search Tristan’s face. He wanted to believe, wanted to look deeper, to find something of the youth he once loved. But, the eyes scared him, made him hesitant. What would he find there? Would he face a similar emptiness to mirror his own?
“I prayed,” said Tristan.
Lost in his uncertainty, Rhonwellt started at the sound of the knight’s voice. “For what?”
“I do not know. That it had never happened, that things had turned out differently, that you were still alive, that I might see you again, for life to be anything other than what it was.” Tristan cleared his throat and looked away. “I prayed that I should die in battle. Then, that I might live, then, again to die.”
Rhonwellt heard sadness in the knight’s voice. He had never thought to consider that Tristan could have suffered, only his own plight. Only the poor suffered, that the rich lived carefree, were not accountable in the same way for life’s mistakes. He realized he did not even know where Tristan had been these score and ten summers. Thinking him dead, Rhonwellt never had cause to wonder. Looking at Tristan now, it was evident the knight had seen hardship. Before him stood a warrior, one who had fought battles both won and lost, one covered with scars, some visible, others hidden beneath the armor of an iron will.
In that moment, Rhonwellt saw how close they were to being broken men.
He stood, silently regarding the knight who stared back, his mind spinning from the intensity of the moment. He did not know what to say, what to do. At least his initial fear had given way to a simple unease, an awkwardness bred from unfamiliarity. Whatever had caused his dread of this meeting had subsided.
“Brother Rhonwellt, I have found you!”
The monk’s head snapped around at the abrupt interruption to see Brother Ciaran padding along the path toward them. A small smile crept over his face and he offered a silent thank you to God for His timely intervention. With one quick glance back at Tristan, Rhonwellt turned to greet the novice as he rapidly gained on their position.
“Brother,” said a winded Ciaran, “Prior Alwyn has sent me to fetch you.” Turning to Tristan he looked him up and down.“You are the knight from the market,” he said, “who stared at us so intently.”
“As it is when faced with a ghost,” replied Tristan.
The novice scrunched up his face at the knight’s comment. “I am Brother Ciaran.”
For a moment, Tristan continued to stare at Rhonwellt, then turned. “Sir Tristan Cunniff, Brother.”
“Do you see ghosts, sir knight?”
“Often,” replied Tristan. “Only, I find this was no specter after all, the ghost has become flesh.”
“And, is Brother Rhonwellt your ghost-turned-flesh?”
“He is.”
“Brother Rhonwellt is many things,” said Ciaran, a smirk on his lips. “I had not counted ghost among them.”
“It is not possible to know everything about anyone,” said Tristan
“This is a house of God,” Ciaran replied without sarcasm. “There are no secrets here.”
“You are young,” said Tristan. “In time you will find everyone has secrets, especially in a house of God.”
“Brother Ciaran,” Rhonwellt interrupted, “you said the prior has sent for me. What does he want?”
“He would not say. Only that I was to find you and bid you come.”
“Then, I am afraid we must go,” said Rhonwellt regarding Tristan. A wave of relief passed over the monk as he and Ciaran turned away.
Nine
The prior’s order had been simple. “Find out who has done this horrible deed. This is church business and I prefer to keep it such. You are tenacious and have a good mind for seeing what is not so obvious. Do this, Brother Rhonwellt. Get to the bottom of this for all our sakes.”
Rhonwellt crossed the bridge, Brother Ciaran rushing beside him, entered the town gate and proceeded up Keep Street. He had persuaded the prior to allow the novice to accompany him, a request he was beginning to regret as the the young monk spilled over with uncomfortable questions.
“Who is Sir Tristan, Brother Rhonwellt?”
Eyes straight ahead, Rhonwellt’s pace hastened and his anxiety grew.
“He called you a ghost. Why did he say that, Brother Rhonwellt?”
The monk braced himself. Ciaran would not be put off without at least some brief answers to his queries. But how much could he tell the young novice. It was a complicated tale, known only to a few. Rhonwellt’s mind went back to Tristan’s words earlier, that everyone has secrets, especially in a House of God. Rhonwellt closely guarded his private affairs. As much as he loved Ciaran, he was not certain he could confide in him fully. Yet, with Tristan returned, Rhonwellt feared he could not keep the tale buried much longer. The truth had a way of working its way to the surface like a thorn or a splinter.
“Are you listening to me, Brother Rhonwellt? Who is Sir Tristan?”
“He is someone I knew long ago.” Rhonwellt fought to keep his voice even.
“From before you became a monk?” Ciaran asked. Rhonwellt glanced at Ciaran whose eyes had grown wide enough to show white all around.
Rhonwellt nodded.
“That is long ago, indeed.” The novice grew quiet for a moment. “You must have been lads together,” he said at last.
“Yes. We were…friends. My father farmed land on Tristan’s family manor.”
“And then you became a monk?”
“You might say Tristan is the reason I became a monk.”
“You were not called by God?”
“Let us just say that is was through God’s mercy I came to be at Saint Cattwg’s.” Though, Rhonwellt now wondered how merci
ful that act had been.
Several men were gathered at the front of the Thorn and Thistle.
“Good morrow to you, Master Taverner,” greeted Rhonwellt as he and Ciaran approached. “Lechyd da i chwi yn awr ac yn oesoedd.”
“And good health to you as well, Brother Rhonwellt,” Gwyllm returned.
“Good day, Brother,” added Ednowain. “A bad business this.”
“Yes, it is indeed,” agreed Rhonwellt. “Brother Mark is in God's keeping now.”
The townsmen murmured and signed the cross.
“I was hoping that you would be good enough to take us to the place where Brother Mark was found.”
“Of course,” responded Gwyllm. “It be but a short way, ‘round the back.”
Rhonwellt and Ciaran followed the landlord through the passage between the inn and the stables to the alley that backed the buildings along the street. The lane was filled with detritus from the tavern and shops; furniture broken in brawls common to drinking establishments, empty barrels and crates, discarded earthenware and containers no longer in use or broken. The ground was perpetually damp and smelled of urine as the tavern patrons used the area to relieve bladders overflowing with ale.
At the far side of the alley was a small ditch, slightly wider than a grave and of a depth half-way to a man's knees. A small trickle of effluent-laced water flowed though it. Originating with the street gutters where chamberpots and all other matter of waste were discarded, it was channeled between the buildings to eventually flow under the stockade wall and empty over the edge of the bluff to a place beyond the mill race that ran parallel the river forty feet below.
They opened the small postern gate in the town wall and went out. Beyond the sewage ditch, the town middens spread out for thirty paces before it too, spilled over the edge of the bluff. Garbage, bones and food scraps littered the fore-ground with the dung heap at the back closest to the rim. Rhonwellt used one sleeve to cover his nose and mouth against the foul stench while waving his other hand to ward off the swarm of flies that covered the bloated body of a dead cat. Even in daylight, rats could be seen scurrying in the shadows.
A Savor of Clove Page 9