The old man shook his head, upended his pot and drained the contents. “Your coin tries to purchase more than its worth, sir knight. We are finished.” The Magus rose and left the table.
Tristan started from his seat and stared after the Magus, feeling unsettled and confused by the encounter with the old man, though he could not fathom why. For a beggar, he was very sure of himself. As with his disappearing coins, the eye could be easily deceived by the appearance of this old man.
Ten
Though he had eventually become somewhat talkative, the effects of the strong ale were no longer evident on the Magus as Tristan stared after him shuffling, stooped and bent, from the Thorn and Thistle. The scant information extracted from the old beggar provided little in the way of solving the mystery of his identity.
Tristan was tempted to stay for more ale and the pain reducing haze that accompanied it. But lately, he was beginning to prefer clarity over oblivion, and fought to leave that part of his history behind. Since finding Rhonwellt alive, his pain had grown less constant, and though not gone, he sensed he would find it easier to live with. However, he still found it hard to replace the despondency with any real hope.
Tristan gathered his resolve, exited the tavern and stood for a moment, contemplating whether to return to the priory or search out Rhonwellt. It was obvious the monk was still discomfited by his presence, but Tristan could not deny his compulsion to know the answers to the many questions that had formed in his mind, not the least of which was, what now? It suddenly dawned on Tristan he never actually had a plan for what he would do if he ever found Rhonwellt had survived. By the monk’s reaction, neither had Rhonwellt. Yet, here they were.
With the passing of the morning rain, the day was turning pleasant with a warm sun peeking through fast-moving clouds riding on a slight breeze. As soon as the thought came to him, Tristan went to the stable and asked the hostler to saddle the stallion. Ambisagarus had not been exercised since they had arrived in town, and a ride would be the perfect thing to clear both their heads. Being astride was nearly as good as being in a battle when he was in such a mood, and battles were rare in a land now struggling to maintain a strained peace. Tristan was a knight, and a knight out of work was like a rudderless ship, without direction.
In the time it would have taken to down another pot of ale, he was astride the stallion and headed up a meandering trail that ran parallel to the river. Since his return from the Holy Land, he delighted in riding through the lush landscape of forests and fields with its abundant rivers and streams, and could not get his fill of it. How quickly the hushed dunes of the desert had lost their allure, with birdsong replacing the sound of the wind as it kissed the sand. Amjhad had called the sound the whispers of Allah.
Tristan settled easily into the rhythm of the stallion’s gait, the horse tossing his head and champing excitedly at his bit. “Easy, old lad, there will be no running today. Take ease and enjoy it.”
Tristan still could not comprehend all that had come about recently. After serving faithfully for over a score-and- five summers in the Christian armies fighting for the preservation of Jerusalem, he took his leave from Lord Gloucester and his comrades. He wandered for a time in the desert, trying to figure out in his mind where in this world he belonged. He had been in the Holy Land longer than he had been anywhere in his troubled life. The battlefield had been his home, a tent his bedchamber, and the rough company of soldiers a family of circumstance, as he struggled from adolescence to manhood and into middle age. Though violent and harsh, it had been a decent life, and he knew that he felt most at ease in the company of others like himself.
Grieving the death of Amjhad, he had packed away his white crusader tunic, adopted the dress of a knight for hire, and made his way slowly back from the sands of Persia, through eastern Europe and the Germanic states, offering his skill with a sword for hire. Backtracking on the way through the city states that surrounded Rome, he went to see the home of the Holy Father, and travelled up and through the French territories. Amid the hustle and strife that was the civilized world, the more he wandered the more he wondered if he would find his place. The towns and cities through which he passed felt claustrophobic and pestilence ridden. Finding himself in a constant state of anxiety, longing to be away and alone in the openness of the countryside, no concept of going home and yet ever drawn by some internal guidance to that part of the world from whence he had come so long ago, he drifted alone with no squire or servant, no apparent destination, a pot of ale his only friend.
And, in his loneliness, he drank.
To excess.
After wandering in a stupor for nearly two years, he found himself at the edge of the channel that lay between France and England that would take him eventually to the Welsh territories and home.
Home.
A totally foreign concept. The idea of a home that did not change from day to day, month to month, with no permanence, a place where he had roots, a past and a future, were unknown to him. His life had always been lived now, in the present, with thoughts of the past causing only pain and grief. There was no future beyond the next fight, the next battle, not knowing whether he would even survive beyond that, most of the time praying he would not. Yet, here he was, alive, back in the land of his birth, awkwardly reunited with the love of his youth, and for the first time wondering if there might be something waiting for him beyond the now.
The sun felt refreshing as Tristan lifted his face to the sky. The stallion had settled into an easy pace, and confident the horse would alert him to any danger, he relaxed and let the reins hang loose over the pommel, running his fingers back through his hair. The gorse was in bloom and the pungent smell hung heavily on the air. Tristan inhaled the memory from his youth and held it for a moment before letting it go.
He had no idea what he should do with this future that suddenly loomed large on the horizon of this new chapter in his life. His father whom he hated was long dead. The estate had surely gone to his younger brother, Declan, who would be a grown man with a family of his own. He could try to claim his birthright, although would almost surely have to kill Declan to do so. Since he had earned a knight’s fief, he could try to lay claim to what had been Grenteville’s holdings. It was a large estate and with no heir, it had been escheated back to the King and, according to Lord Gloucester, was available for claim. That it might cause his dead master to turn in his grave made the idea all the more appealing.
On a section of the track that was low enough to the river that it surely flooded in high water, Tristan dismounted and led Sag down to the river’s edge for a drink and to graze a bit on some nearby grass. The water still ran high and was cold enough for runs of sewin to be plentiful, their silver bodies with red spots glinting in the sun as they swam close to the surface. Watching them move through the current mesmerized Tristan and his mind still wandered.
He had enough gold to see him to the end of his days. He had deposited his holdings with the Templars, a new religious order of warrior monks who had recently established houses and castles all along the route to Jerusalem and eventually England. He had been given a letter-of-demand that entitled him to an amount equal to his holdings that could be withdrawn from any Templar house in England. Lord Gloucestor had given the Templars some marshland near Bristol which was rapidly turning into a thriving estate. It seemed the logical choice to withdraw his treasure. He could make the journey in a little over four days if the weather held. However, it was not yet time for that. Each piece of the puzzle must be put in place at the proper time.
Tristan wondered what role Rhonwellt would play in all this, if he was not permanently lost to the Church. He was not sure he could stay here, so close to him. Could life ever be as it was for them then? His mind jumped from one dilemma to another. He shook his head angrily to dislodge these foolish thoughts, and still his mind raced. Strange how good fortune should befall him now. He could not manage to get himself killed during so many seasons of war, or even drink hims
elf to death in the aftermath, though he had given both his all. And, now? At the mercy of a capricious God, who never seemed to tire of toying with His beloved creation.
While watching the fish, another question began to rise to the surface, a nagging suspicion Tristan had carried with him wherever he went, a hunch he hoped would be shown false but was certain would prove to be fact. Whatever the truth, he was confident he knew where to find it. He remounted the stallion and headed back toward the town. It was time to satisfy one more piece of the puzzle.
✞ ✞ ✞
After talking with the taverner’s wife and finding she had little to offer, Rhonwellt returned to the cloister to face the prior. He had failed to appear for Terce and was away without permission. Climbing the steps under the causeway leading from the dorter to the chapel night stairs, the door to the prior’s room opened and slammed shut behind the emerging Bishop who rushed down past Rhonwellt without a word.
“Excellency,” Rhonwellt said, stepping aside as the bishop sped by, relieved the cleric was preoccupied.
He continued up the stairs and tapped softly on the door and waited. Nothing. He tapped again, a bit louder.
“Yes, yes, come!” snapped the voice from inside the room.
Timidly opening the door, Rhonwellt entered. Once again the prior faced the table, leaning on it with hands spread wide. He waited, then said, “I have come to give cause for my absence and suffer your judgment, if that please you.”
“Oh Brother Rhonwellt, it is you,” he said absently. “What is it?”
“My absence.”
“You were not at Terce.”
Rhonwellt nodded. “I was in the village viewing the site where Brother Mark was found and questioning those who discovered him.”
“Sending Brother Ciaran back with the items you found was generous and kept him from the same truancy.”
“Then, they are safe here.”
“They are,” said Alwyn. “They are locked away in my cupboard.”
Alwyn walked around the table and sat in the large chair behind it. Dark circles ringed his eyes and fatigue caused his aging frame to sag beneath the weight of his many concerns. His gaze wandered aimlessly around the room while his fingers toyed with a quill he had been writing with some time before. “It is obligatory to secure leave to be absent prayers?” he said.
Rhonwellt bowed his head, eyes closed. “It is, Father Prior. Since you charged me with the task of uncovering the truth, I did seek you out, although not earnestly, I admit. I was eager to begin.”
The prior appeared to drift for a moment. “Fortunately, the matters at hand take precedence over this breech of discipline, brother. You shall, however, make for the chancel and spend two rings of the candle in penance. We will join you at Vespers, after which you will plead forgiveness from your brothers. Understood?”
“Understood, Father Prior. Thank you. I am not worthy of such lenience.” Rhonwellt rounded the table, knelt down on one knee and kissed the prior’s hand.
“Oh, Rhonwellt. Do get up!” said the cleric. “You so seldom vex me that I have trouble knowing how to respond. It is more for the appearance to the other brothers that I punish you thus. We are all greatly aggrieved at Brother Mark's passing. None of us is truly ourselves, and I know you well enough to be certain you will not rest until you reach the truth of this.”
“This is so.”
“Well, do what you must, but try and stay within the confines of the Rule. I give you a somewhat free hand in this, but it must be accomplished in your free time, and you must attend all offices unless sanctioned otherwise.”
“As you wish, certainly.” Rhonwellt started to take a step towards the door. “By your leave, I would wish to speak to each of the other brothers at some point. They could hold information that they do not know they possess. I would seek to know of Brother Mark's demeanor and his presence about the priory in the last weeks. There were issues with him that we knew not. Of that I am certain.”
“The sooner we can clear this up, the happier it will make the bishop, and of that I am certain,” Alwyn retorted.
“Hmm,” said Rhonwellt. “I passed him leaving your chambers. He appeared…nettled. All is well?”
“All is not well. But duties take him to Neath, so we shall be rid of him for a few days, in which time I hope to be done with this business.”
“I shall do my very best, Father Prior.”
“Brother Ciaran tells me you are acquainted with the knight lodged in the guest house. He is a friend of yours?”
Rhonwellt bristled under his robe. Of course. There really were no secrets here. Better done with it. “Yes, Brother Prior, someone I knew from childhood.”
“And, how is it seeing him after all these years?” Rhonwellt heard something in the prior’s tone, but could not put his finger on any meaning.
“Confusing,” said Rhonwellt. Alwyn gave Rhonwellt a nod. Rhonwellt bowed and took his leave. Was that understanding in the prior’s look?
Crossing the causeway and descending the night stairs to the chapel, Rhonwellt felt himself flush. Had Prior Alwyn guessed the truth of Tristan’s identity? It made him feel unsettled. He went to his place in the choir and knelt at the rail in front of his seat and made the sign of the cross. For Rhonwellt, prayer was a personal conversation with God, talking to Him as he might with a brother or the prior; plain talk, nothing formal. A time for pouring out the confusion, despair, the fear and anger that lay on his heart, hoping that God was truly there and listening with a loving and compassionate ear, ready to bestow upon him the Grace that brought the clarity and peace he so hungrily sought.
“For years, my life has been so simple, ordered.” His voice was barely a whisper. “It has nearly always unfolded as I would expect, with few surprises. Knowing what awaited comforted me. His return has shown me just how deceitful predictability can be. Even now I find it hard to say his name. Why? What is Your purpose in tossing me into this sea of chaos and confusion? Have I not atoned sufficiently for giving in to desire that You must conjure up the object of my wickedness? What more must I do?”
Rhonwellt rested his forehead on the rail, his eyes open and staring at the stones in the floor of the chancel.
“His presence unnerves me. I am filled with a confusion of feelings, feelings born of memories too frightening to relive. I have never forsaken my vows. I have remained chaste to the hungers of the flesh in spite of the temptation of the many comely and willing brothers You have put in my path. Why is it not enough?”
Rhonwellt’s nose was running as though he wept, despite a lack of tears. He snuffled and turned to wipe it on his sleeve.
“It is my work with pen and brush that speaks to my heart and fills my soul. I have occupied my days faithfully with it. I expressed my love for You through the creation of Your sacred texts. My love for You was all I had. I thought it was sufficient. But his return…,” Rhonwellt had to say his name, “…but Tristan’s return has stirred something inside me. Something I know not how to express, or if I even should. I have never desired another’s touch. We have been taught to live in denial of our bodies. Now, I am overwhelmed with such a sense of shame at what I feel, and I fear that shame could change to longing with little difficulty. What will I do when it does?”
Rhonwellt raised his head and stared, transfixed, at the large golden cross on the altar; the symbol of tremendous pain and agony that was the horror of crucifixion, but now, through the resurrection, represented the peace that should come with salvation. He thought of the Son of God praying in Gethsemane in His final hours, and wondered at that conversation between Father and Son. Did the Son know then that His Father would not answer His plea to have the cup removed from Him at the hour of His deliverance?
“I am in Hell!” The sudden echo of his voice off the stone walls told Rhonwellt he was shouting. Taking a deep breath, he quieted himself. “Will You not remove this cup from me?” he whispered. “Or, will You forsake me as You did Your Son?”
Eleven
“Brush Sag down,” said Tristan to the hostler, “give him a light meal and prepare him for travel. I shall return for him soon.”
“My lord is leaving?” inquired the hostler.
“I have business near Neath. The outcome will determine when I return.”
“Very good, my lord. He will be ready.”
Tristan flipped the man a coin and left. Emerging from the alley and rounding the corner of the tavern building he heard pounding horses hooves on the packed earth of the street. A small group of men lounged in front of the tavern door and gawked as four riders hurriedly reined in before them, two well dressed men astride exceptionally fine mounts, accompanied by two servants. The lead rider, astride a sturdy black, was a man of over forty summers with auburn hair. His close set piercing eyes, unable mask the cruelty behind them, continually scanned the street. Thin lips, pressed into a grimace, his heft at fourteen stone attested to good living and little exercise other than perhaps tossing bones to his dogs from the table. The second man, riding a roan, was a younger version of the first, about twenty, fit but lacking the intensity of the other. The lines in his face said he smiled far more often than his sire.
“I am Declan Cunniff, master at Pont Lliw,” snarled the rider on the black.
At the sound of the name, Tristan sucked in his breath and ducked back around the corner. He did not recognize his younger brother as the man carried no resemblance to their father. Closer inspection might find he favored their mother. Pressing himself against the wall, he cautiously peered out onto the street. Whispers and talk had erupted among the men gathered.
A Savor of Clove Page 11