A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  Master Gwyllm turned and proceeded North a ways toward the castle and stopped. “It were here, Brother Rhonwellt. You can see the blood. Not all has washed away.”

  “So much,” whispered Ciaran.

  “Steady, lad,” said Rhonwellt as he looked around. On the bank above the sewage run was a spot, dark with dried blood, the size of a man's head. The soft earth near the bottom of the ditch was covered in a confusion of foot prints. Many people had come to view the site where the body was found. Leading away from the place were two parallel scuff marks, trailing up the side of the ditch and along the alley for about ten paces, ending at an area where the earth had been scuffed and trampled.

  Rhonwellt heard the jingle of his spurs first over his left shoulder. His gut clenched for a moment. He felt as though he were being stalked, and steeled himself.

  “There has been a struggle here,” said Tristan. At the sound of the knight’s voice, Rhonwellt turned to see him pointing toward the ground. “These marks originated here and proceeded that way, down into the ditch. See how they are deeper at that end than where they started. They are possibly heel marks. Something or someone was dragged through here.” Tristan moved closer, enough so that Rhonwellt became aware of a familiar scent, the savor of clove.

  “You are versed in flushing out murderers as well as ghosts, sir knight?” asked Ciaran.

  Before he could stop himself, Rhonwellt’s hand flew up and cuffed the back of Ciaran’s head.

  “Owwww! Brother Rhonwellt!” the novice whined.

  As soon as the deed was done, Rhonwellt wished to take it back. He admonished himself for losing control. It was not the lad’s fault. He put his hand gently on the novice’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  Tristan put a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “A soldier must be able to do many things besides wield a sword, brother, such as read signs. He must be able to distinguish the tracks of his comrades from those of his enemies, to tell who has been walking around camp, to know if an assassin has breeched the perimeter and lies in wait.”

  “What do you see here, sir?” asked Ciaran. Rhonwellt remained quiet, content to watch the knight.

  “Those foot prints,” said Tristan. “Most are made from the soft soled shoes of men from town as well as some from bare feet.” Tristan stepped aside, and pointed down. “A couple of them are made from hard-soled boots like mine. The prints from your sandals are indistinguishable from the others. Also, it has rained in the last day to further obscure what remains. The prints tell us almost anyone from the inn could have been back here.”

  Tristan turned and walked a few paces off, skirting the edge of the middens. Rhonwellt faced Ciaran, extreme remorse written on his features.

  “My apologies, brother. An ill-considered action. Satan possessed my hand.”

  “It is all right, Brother Rhonwellt,” said Ciaran. “Words often escape my mouth before I have cause to rein them in.”

  “No harm was done, lad. I am unsettled, today. Still, that is no excuse for striking you.”

  “Brother Dafydd swats us all the time.”

  “As novice master, discipline is his job. But, I am not your disciplinarian.”

  “What has you distraught, Brother Rhonwellt?”

  “Murder,” Rhonwellt replied.

  “Not ghosts?”

  “Perhaps that, too. Now, no more questions.” Rhonwellt looked around him. “Brother Mark was so fastidious,” he muttered. “What was he doing on the middens?”

  Stepping carefully around the many odorous piles of shit, he scouted the area for a few paces in several directions and found nothing. South of the middens, the incline of the bluff became more gradual and the path to the mill and the riverbank below began to descend just beyond a small copse surrounded by tall grass. Rhonwellt entered the trees, Ciaran close at his heels. Ahead stood Tristan, eyes locked onto something on the ground in front of him.

  “You had better come and see this,” Tristan said. The two monks peered over the knight’s shoulder. The grass had been thoroughly flattened in a circle about the height of a man across. “Someone has lain here. Perhaps, more than one person.”

  “Brother Rhonwellt, Sir Tristan, look here.” Ciaran had wandered a few steps away and was squatting in the grass pointing at something on the ground. It appeared to be leather. Tristan knelt down and tugged at it; a sandal with a broken strap.

  “Look for the other,” said Tristan. The three searched the bower for the mate. It was not to be found.

  “There is no blood here,” Rhonwellt observed. “None here at this spot nor on the trail leading out.”

  “You noticed that as well,” replied Tristan. “But someone obviously lay here and eventually exited by way of this track.”

  “This sandal would indicate it was Brother Mark, or some other monk.”

  “The direction the grass is laid down,” said Tristan, “and the width of the track says that he did not walk from this spot but crawled. Perhaps this is the place where the first blows were struck.”

  Looking around, Rhonwellt shook his head. “You are not entirely wrong, nor are you correct. The first blows were not the ones that killed him. They were rendered to subdue him. I believe this is the place where the violation took place,” he said quietly so the others could not hear.

  Tristan quickly sucked in a breath, his eyebrows shooting skyward.

  “Shhh! Only Brothers Remigius and Anselm know of this detail besides myself. Mark was raped before he was beaten. As I cleaned his body, I noticed that as well the blood from the wounds, man-seed had seeped from him.”

  “God’s teeth,” said Tristan, crossing himself. “You are sure it was forced and not welcomed?”

  “I believe it was coerced. Mark would not have submitted to it willingly. It is said he made promises he had no intention of keeping. Were he to submit, there would have been a hefty price attached.”

  “Perhaps someone tried collecting on a promise overdue,” said Tristan.

  “If he did not walk away but crawled, his attacker could have stunned him with an initial blow to the head, and when done with him, left. When Mark regained his senses, he may not have had the strength to rise and walk, so he crawled toward safety.”

  “Then what of the signs of a struggle over near the ditch?”

  “I do not know. His attacker may have had second thoughts and decided to cover the rape with evidence of an attack, maybe a robbery, and thought him already dead when he left him.”

  “I am sorry, brother, but that makes no sense,” Tristan added. “Why did the attacker not simply roll him off the bluff? And, who would try to rob a monk? Everyone knows you have no money but a few coins.”

  “I did not say it made sense,” Rhonwellt muttered. “None of this makes any sense.” When they returned to where the men from the town were still gathered talking among themselves, Rhonwellt addressed Gwyllm again. “There were no sounds of commotion heard before he was found?”

  “Nay, brother,” said Gwyllm. “None what I heard. You know how the lads are when tippin’ the ale, shoutin' and laughin' and all. It were young Dafydd here what found him whiles out havin' his self a piss.”

  “No one else was about, then?” he asked of Dafydd.

  “No Brother,” the young Welshman replied.

  “And you heard no sounds?”

  “Only the lads inside.”

  “The door was on the latch?” inquired Tristan, having only spoken to Rhonwellt until now.

  “No, Sir, it were open,” Dafydd said meekly. Obviously intimidated, he could not meet Tristan’s eyes.

  “Had anyone ventured in or out the door in the moments before you went out?” Tristan continued, addressing young Dafydd but indicating everyone.

  “None what I noticed, sir.” No one else claimed to have seen anyone enter or leave.

  “We found this, sir,” said Ednowain, “hidden some under the dross.” He handed Tristan a stout Alder limb about the thickness of the blade of a sword
and the length of a man's arm. Taking it, Tristan carefully looked it over, before handing it to Rhonwellt. Scraped and marked with bark missing, there were tiny bits of skin and hair clinging to dried blood at one end.

  Rhonwellt looked up from his study of the limb to see Tristan striding off toward the entrance to the inn, leaving without a word. The monk could see some things were still as they had always been. Time had not lessened his moodiness. He was caught off-guard by the recollection. How strange to remember a thing about someone after so long.

  Rhonwellt watched the figure of the knight recede for a few moments then turned to the landlord. “Were there any strangers drinking last night, Master Taverner?”

  “None, brother,” Gwyllm replied.

  Rhonwellt looked at the other men silently asking the question. No one answered.

  “And your goodwife, Master Gwyllm. Was Mistress Wen about last night?” asked Rhonwellt.

  “She were, brother, servin' and jokin' with the lads like always.”

  “If you please, might we speak with her?”

  “Well, brother, she will be at the butcher’s stall selecting meats for supper.”

  “I shall look for her there. Master Gwyllm. I thank you. Good morrow to you.

  “God’s peace to you,” they mumbled in return.

  “Ciaran, take these back to the priory,” Rhonwellt said, handing the limb and sandal to the novice. “Leave them with Prior Alwyn for safe-keeping and tell him their significance. After I have spoken to Mistress Wen, I shall meet you back there.”

  As Ciaran headed for the priory, Rhoonwellt started out in search of Mistress Wen.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  It had been the merest glimpse of rags that caught his eye as they lurched past the end of the alley that opened onto the street. Tristan had not seen the beggar anywhere in the town since he had disappeared in the passageway on market day. The knight hurried to the street in time to see him disappear through the entry of the Thorn and Thistle. Tristan was at the door before it had time to close behind the man.

  Even in the daylight, the atmosphere inside was gloomy as the majority of the lamps had yet to be lit. Master Gwyllm hosted a well-run establishment, but did not waste good wax and oil lighting rooms during the day, rather saved it for the evening trade. Tristan stopped at the hearth in the middle of the room, stretched out his hands to warm over the small blaze while letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Business was slow this time of day and less than a score of patrons occupied the benches and tables scattered around the hall. The knight scanned the room.

  A dozen tables lined the walls of the taproom, while around the hearth at the center of the room were several benches and stools. The bar was at one end with a door leading to the kitchen behind it and a flight of stairs next to it led to the three rooms to let on the second floor. Sconces for torches were hung around the room and a large oil lamp was suspended over the bar.

  The serving girl bustled about the room wringing her hands in her apron when not carrying trays of drinks or trenchers of food in an effort to keep up with the demands of even a small drinking crowd, and casting quick glances toward the door in the hope her master would soon reappear. Though she seemed a capable girl, it was obvious she did not like being left on her own with the customers.

  Before long, Gwyllm, Ednowain, Dafydd and the others returned. With a slap to her rump, Gwyllm had the girl pour them drinks. By the look of it, surveying the scene where a murder took place was a thirsty business.

  Tristan finally spied the old man in the corner at the back of the room hunched over a pot of ale. He stood and watched him for a while. The beggar sat with the hood of his cloak pulled close, most of his face concealed in the darkness of its folds. Elbows propped on the table, his hands trembled slightly as he raised the pot to his lips, something Tristan was sure was not the case when the old man performed his tricks. Then, his hands were steady and sure. Though something gnawed at him, from this distance Tristan could sense nothing familiar about the man. The knight strode casually to his table.

  “You certainly are an illusive one, my friend,” said Tristan off-handedly.

  “To my recollection, I be no friend to you,” replied the beggar, cautiously sipping his ale. His voice was raspy and breathy as though his lungs were incapable of filling sufficiently with air to project his words more than a few feet away.

  “I always thought that any who knew the horror that was Jerusalem were entitled to call one another friend, even brother. I would toast your extraordinary skill with a tankard.”

  “You are mistaken, sir. I know nothing of far-off places, and I am not your brother.”

  Tristan reached across the table and took hold of the beggars arm, focusing his dark eyes on the shadow of a face in front of him. The man kept his face lowered and deep in the back of his hood.

  “Unhand me, knight!” ordered the beggar, caution in his tone as he yanked his arm from Tristan's grasp.

  “You illustrate skill learned only from a Magus. I have witnessed it many times, in those far-off places. It is not unfamiliar to me. Your skill is unparalleled to any in these lands,” cajoled the knight.

  The beggar raised his head and leveled his gaze at Tristan. Cool blue eyes peered out from a sea of scars covering the old man’s face. Some horrific fate had befallen him, and the knight felt sure that not even the beggars own mother would recognize him. The intensity of the eyes could make one forget the scars. They seemed to glow, like those of an owl in moonlight, intense, as though peering into the knight’s soul. “What is your purpose with me?” the old man asked, lowering his face.

  “I would toast a pot and have a few words with you.”

  “It is your coin spent, sir.”

  “That it is.” Tristan said, flourishing his arm in the direction of the serving girl. He ordered a jug and when she brought it she filled the beggar’s pot and one for Tristan.

  “To your good health, friend,” toasted Tristan, raising his ale pot towards the ragged man.

  “Aye,” replied the beggar raising his own pot, staring at the table in front of him, not meeting Tristan's eyes.

  “Have you a name, friend?” Tristan probed.

  “Your purse bought a pot, not a name.”

  “I have not seen you about, friend,” Tristan probed again.

  “I have told you, I be no friend to you.”

  “Perhaps not, but my purse did provide you with ale, therefore I would know with whom I drink.”

  The old man was still for a moment, probably tossing about his response in his mind.

  “Magus will do,” he replied.

  The old man’s answer was well-played. Tristan toasted temporary defeat.

  “Very well, Magus, I am Sir Tristan Cunniff.” He raised his pot again. “You are a stranger to this village? I have not seen you about.”

  “I would say that it is you who are stranger here, friend,” he retorted. “You came here but two days ago looking as though come you had come back from the dead.”

  “You are right. Then you have been here some time?”

  “A fortnight, maybe more. Why?”

  “I would wager that you are an observant fellow,” flattered Tristan.

  “I keep my eyes open and my mouth closed, mostly.”

  “I would also wager that you hear a lot of interesting things.”

  He raised his head and looked at Tristan.

  “Folks often do not notice me. Like my coins, I become invisible. I am here, just not seen. They feel free to talk, I feels free to listen.”

  “A most useful talent,” Tristan affirmed.“You were here, but not here yesternight?”

  “For a time,” the Magus agreed, raising an eyebrow, his face emerging from concealment a bit.

  “You know of the events that transpired here?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you see or hear anything that could shed light on these events?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. A man often sees things that have
no apparent meaning at the time, but become significant later.”

  “Such as?” Tristan asked.

  The Magus pushed his empty pot out in front of him indicating the price for further conversation. Tristan obliged. His cup refilled, the Magus continued. “A man can see the comings and goings of this whole place from this table.”

  “And what did you observe?”

  “A young lad, hair shaved at the back like the church, peering through that window,” he said indicating the window looking out onto the street. “He had a look about him.”

  “A look?” Tristan urged.

  “A look of fear.”

  Tristan wondered what could have frightened Brother Mark. “Fear? Are you sure?”

  “I know the look of fear in a man's eyes!” snapped the beggar. “And he had it.”

  “He feared something he saw through the window?” Tristan suggested.

  After a moment of thought, “I think he feared what he didn't see.”

  “I do not understand,” said Tristan.

  “He seemed to be searching for someone, and expected them to be here. When they were not, he appeared to panic.”

  “And then he left?”

  “Fled is more like it.”

  His tongue loosened by the ale, the magus was growing talkative. Tristan tipped his own cup to drink, trying to piece together what information the magus was offering. The beggar talked on.

  “The young monk had been gone but a short while when another lad appeared at the window.”

  “Can you describe this other lad?”

  “Young,” said the Magus taking a hefty drink from his pot. “Younger than the monk. His face was near hid in his hood as if he wished none to know him.”

  “And what did this lad do?”

  “Same as the monk. He peered through the opening, looked about and vanished.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Nothing more, though he had a familiar look about him. Like I had seen him before, or he resembled someone familiar.”

  “But, you know not who? Think, sir! This could be important. Whom did he resemble?”