A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “This is my eldest, Cyfnerth. We search for my younger son, Isadore, gone these past two days. He has fourteen summers, small in stature, wearing a green tunic, a dark cloak and riding a gray.” The crowd offered nothing. “Has anyone seen such a lad?” Declan sneered, searching the faces as the men remained quiet. “It would be most unfortunate if any of you were found to be hiding him,” threatened Declan, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Now father,” said the second. “we do not even know that they have seen him. Let us not assume they are hiding him.”

  “Cyfnerth!” Declan spat. “Be still.”

  “As you wish, father,” the son answered, looking bemused, giving a mock bow from his seat and flourishing his hand.

  Their backs were turned as they dismounted. Tristan quickly slipped around the corner and through the door of the tavern, melting into the dim light at the back. That Declan was here and away from the manor was fortuitous. The time to face his younger brother would come soon enough. With Declan away, Tristan could visit his mother alone. But, for now, he would watch and listen. It is wise to know whether someone was your enemy.

  The two riders entered, followed by their servants, Declan barking orders to the taverner.

  “Landlord! Ale! Quickly!”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Master Gwyllm, retreating to the barrel behind the counter. He wore a thin smile. Mistress Wen emerged from behind the tapestry covering the door to the kitchen. She offered her warmest smile as she approached the table.

  “Welcome, my lords. We are...”

  “We have no need of a whore. Be off.”

  Master Gwyllm leapt from behind the counter as several other men rose threateningly from their seats.

  “You speak to my wife, my lord!” challenged Master Gwyllm, slamming a pitcher of ale down on the table and leaning in close to Declan.

  Cyfnerth's eyes widened and he answered quickly.

  “Our journey has taken its toll and the dust of the road has him vexed. My father most humbly asks your pardon.”

  “I am fully able to speak for myself, sir. I do not need a whelp to put words in my mouth.”

  “Perhaps not. But you would be wise to choose the words you do speak carefully, father,” Cyfnerth said, his smile widening, “lest one of these good men slit your throat and render you unable to speak at all.”

  Declan glared at his son, but no words were forthcoming.

  “You have given offense, sir,” the son cajoled, quietly leaning in toward his father. “I suggest you repair it.”

  “I do not bow to inferiors!” Declan hissed, angrily grabbing the pot of ale the serving girl was about to set on the table. He took a huge gulp, the bright red liquid running out the sides of his mouth and down his chin,

  “If you are dead it will not matter who is inferior,” Cyfnerth whispered, the room so quiet he could be plainly heard. Turning to the men standing threateningly over them, he rose and added with a slight bow of his head, “Again, Master Taverner, I humbly offer apology for any offense to the good mistress. An unfortunate error in judgment on the part of one who should know better.”

  Gwyllm stared, unmoved.

  “No offense taken, my lord,” Mistress Wen said behind a tense smile. “You are a gentleman and your apology is accepted. A tankard of ale and a good meal will be makin' my lords feel much better. Maeve!” she yelled toward the kitchen. “Food for my lords. Quickly now lass!” Mistress Wen laid a hand gently on her husband's arm. From the darkness, Tristan could see her fierce eyes warning her husband against further trouble.

  A few moments later a sullen serving girl emerged from behind the tapestry, lugging trenchers of cold meats, fruit, and bread. Her dull eyes moved from side to side as she set the trenchers down, and with a quick curtsy, turned and fled back through the tapestry.

  “Gwyllm, love,” Mistress Wen said loudly enough for all to hear, “see that their ale is refreshed. We allow none go thirsty here!” Then, she too, disappeared behind the tapestry.

  “Landlord,” shouted Cyfnerth, “a drink for everyone! Let us have no ill feeling over hasty words uttered through fatigue.”

  When each man's tankard had been filled, Cyfnerth raised his cup and toasted, “To the good health of the mistress.”

  Amid the grumbles and halfhearted assents could be heard the clinking of tankards touching in tribute.

  Tristan stared from his corner in the dark. Declan’s blunder could have played out very badly. It would seem his nephew was a diplomat. The same could not be said of his brother. Declan’s tongue was as sharp as his belly was fat, with all the ferocity of their father and none of his tact. The taverner may have forgotten his place by challenging his better, but no man present would have faulted him, including Cyfnerth,

  The other customers began to retreat to their own tables, conversation gradually replacing the tense silence of a few moments before. Still, nearly all eyes stole fleeting glances in the direction of the strangers in the room. Cyfnerth stood and walked to the bar. He turned and faced the room.

  “Gentlemen, our quest is in earnest. We are here to find my brother.”

  “If the lad be fourteen,” came a voice from the back, “ he be near a man, free to choose his way. Has he broken the King’s law that you come to drag him back?”

  “He has broken no law,” replied Cyfnerth. “It is unlike him to be gone without leave. His family is filled with concern for his wellbeing, that is all.” He let this sink in. “There is a halfpenny in it for any can help.” He laid the coin on the table.

  Another voice spoke up. “I think I may have seen the lad.” The old beggar with the magic tricks seeped from the shadows, startling Tristan who had not noticed his presence. “It appears that he were ‘round here a couple of nights past.”

  “You spoke with him?” Cyfnerth asked.

  “Well, none did what I know of,” the beggar replied, offering little more than was asked.

  “You are not the only ones who look for the lad, neither,” added Ednowain.

  “What do you mean?” Declan growled. “Who else looks?”

  “I believe the lad is wanted for questioning in a murder,” Ednowain again.

  “A murder!” Declan bellowed. “He would not have it in him!”

  “Aye,” Master Gwyllm stepped in. “A young monk from the priory was found beaten and near dead outside the stockade near the middens right behind this very inn. Ednowain here found him. Me and some of the lads took him back to the priory where he died right there on the church floor.”

  “And why would anyone think my brother had any part in such business?”

  “The monk who was beat was Brother Mark, a lad himself, my lord.” continued the taverner, recounting the story the Magus had told Tristan earlier. “Me and the lads are thinkin' they looked for each other. It may have been your brother and may not. Who can know? But if it be, could be he were last to see poor Brother Mark alive.”

  Cyfnerth bit his lip and ran his hand over the top of his head, combing his fingers through his hair, while a look of terror swept across Declan's face.

  “What business would my brother have with a monk?” asked Cyfnerth almost absently.

  “What business, indeed!” rasped Declan between clenched teeth.

  Tristan could not help noticing his brother's reaction. Why would his son meeting with a monk so concern to his brother?

  Cyfnerth collected himself. “That is the last he was seen?”

  “Actually no, my lord,” the beggar jumped in, eyes glued to the halfpenny on the table. “I am often about in the late hours. I come and I go. Twice now, I seen someone lurkin' about, keepin' to the alleys and the shadows, makin’ every effort to not be seen. Slight of build, wearin' a long cloak with a deep hood. Carries no sword, but perhaps a dagger at his waist. He is quick and light on his feet. Just yestereve I see him listenin' at a door at the priory. Was nearly caught, too, by a monk.”

  “Father. Perhaps we should pay a
visit to the priory,” Cyfnerth suggested. “We may find other information there.”

  “No, we will not be visiting the priory. And we must find your brother before he goes there. Everything may depend on it.”

  Tristan rose and quietly left by the alley door.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Climbing the stairs to the scriptorium, Brother Rhonwellt sought out the solitude of his pens and inks. They were what he needed now. Seated at his table with a manuscript in front of him helped him to think. There was truth in the tools of his vocation. The hypnotic work of forming the individual parts to each of the letters with every stroke of the pen centered his mind into a semi-prayerful state that enabled him to perceive things not clear to him otherwise; truth that he should have expected to find in the scriptures but seldom did. He remembered the Psalm that spoke of light and truth, and prayed to find both. But in his heart he wasn't sure if he was really ready for what he asked. He and Ciaran sought the truth of Brother Mark's murder, to know who killed the young monk and why. Though he needed to know the answers, he was afraid of what they might reveal. The idea of there being a murderer in their midst filled him with terror. Bad enough if it were someone from the village. He did not think he could bear it if it were one of his brothers.

  Even more disturbing, though, was the truth of Tristan's return. Where was Tristan's place if not in the shadows of best forgotten memories? Bringing those shadows into the light was painful. His impulse was to shove them back down, to turn his back on them and try again to forget. For someone else, this turn of events might indicate a future full of hope. But a score-and-ten summers of seclusion and loneliness had removed all hope from Rhonwellt and left in its place an aching dread that things would remain as they were for the rest of his days. Now Tristan was back, reminding him every day that things will never again be the same. The prospect of rediscovering hope in his dreary existence somehow brought him no joy.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs announced someone’s arrival. He turned to see Tristan striding through the open doorway. Rhonwellt shrank form the sudden intrusion.

  “I have news I think you will want to know,” said the knight, his gaze aimed the floor. “I may have discovered the identity of the one who waited for your monk.”

  “What?” Brother Rhonwellt asked, briefly regarding Tristan, then turning away.

  “The lad we think was the last to see the dead monk alive. I know who it is.”

  “The dead monk had a name.” Brother Rhonwellt stood up, fully alert and agitated. “He was Brother Mark. And what do you mean you know? Who is it?”

  “It appears to be my nephew Isidore, Declan's son.”

  “What? How do you know this?” Rhonwellt asked.

  “Our graveside encounter…well, it disheartened me.” Tristan idly fingered one of the sheets of parchment on the nearest table. “I went to the village to think over a pot of ale.”

  Rhonwellt thrust his arms deep into his sleeves. He had been dismayed, as well.

  “As I was about to enter the inn,” Tristan said, “four riders approached. The lead declared himself to be my brother, Declan.”

  “Did he see you or recognize you?”

  “I think not. When he announced himself, I slipped into the inn and buried myself in the shadows at the back. The time for confrontation has not yet arrived. I need to know some facts first.”

  Rhonwellt wondered what that could mean but did not ask. “What has brought him from Neath?”

  “He is accompanied by Cyfnerth, his eldest, and two servants,” Tristan answered. “They look for his younger son, Isidore,”

  “Well, apparently everyone looks for this lad, and it would appear he is very adept at not being found. How did your brother seem?”

  “Quarrelsome. His temperament reminds me a lot of father, although in features he does not resemble him at all. He must favor our mother more.” He knit his brow. “I think he could be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Rhonwellt said warily, crossing himself. “Dear God! How do you mean?”

  “I think he is used to getting what he wants when he wants it. And if his desires do not come to him, those standing in his way will pay.”

  “Much like your father. Yes?”

  Lips pressed into a grimace, Tristan nodded.

  “And what of his son? The one who accompanies him.”

  “Cyfnerth?” Tristan pondered a moment. “I think he is wary of his father and does not trust him. But I do not get the idea that he is afraid of him. Their exchanges gave me the impression that Declan presents a challenge Cyfnerth relishes. And, I would wager he is actually the more dangerous of the two, and bears watching. I do not think him mean, but a rather likable fellow. That is, if his father does not turn him hard.”

  “And you think it was this younger son who was to meet Brother Mark?”

  “It seems to fit,” Tristan replied. “He is missing and presumed to be here in Cydweli. A lad answering his description was seen by several townsmen hanging about the tavern and apparently looking for someone.”

  “How would they know each other?” asked Rhonwellt. “And, what would be their business?”

  “I do not know. But, Declan seemed especially desperate to find him. And there appeared to be some urgency in doing so before he spoke to anyone else here.”

  “What has led you to that?” Rhonwellt asked.

  “It is mostly just a feeling. But Cyfnerth mentioned that since Isidore had possibly been the one who awaited Brother Mark, then perhaps it would be logical to go to the priory and inquire after him. Declan was most adamant that they not come here.”

  Rhonwellt absently stroked one of his brushes while staring at the floor. “One thing is abundantly clear.”

  “What is that?”

  “It is clear that we must find Isidore or he must find us before your brother or anyone else finds him. It sounds as though his very life may depend on it.”

  “Can it be that bad?” asked Tristan.

  “This whole affair seems to be guided by the hand of Satan. That cannot be good.”

  Both men stood in silence. Rhonwellt raised his head to find Tristan staring at him but could not read the knight’s intent. They held each other’s gaze for a few moments.

  Suddenly, Tristan looked away. “As for me, I must ride to Pont Lliw Hall while Declan is here. I shall leave at the end of the day, after night has fallen. It is time I saw mother. I am certain she has the answers I seek.”

  Rhonwellt opened his mouth to speak as Tristan quickly turned to leave.

  “Upon my return,” said Tristan, “we must have the talk we have been avoiding.”

  Listening to the knight’s foot steps recede down the stairs, Rhonwellt realized this was the first time he was able to relax in Tristan’s presence since he had reappeared. With Tristan’s parting words, Rhonwellt’s unease returned accompanied by a churning in his stomach.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Tristan retrieved Ambisagarus from the stables, mounted and rode quickly through the town’s south gate and across the bridge to the priory. With a long ride ahead, he should start soon. He stopped by the guest house and threw some items into his saddle bags, and after pondering for a few moments, put on his mail and chest plate and grabbed his helm. He was about to leave when he abruptly set his things on the cot and left the guest house, walked around to the church and in the front door. Without stopping, he dipped his fingers into the stoup, crossed himself, and walked half-way down the north aisle to the statue of the Virgin sitting expectantly on her altar, her frozen smile emanating forth the illusion of tranquility and love. About a dozen small tapers burned on the mantel before Her. Tristan chose one from the box at the side and, lighting it from one of the others, dripped a small pool of wax on the marble to set it in.

  It was not in Tristan’s nature to spend much time in prayer, but the lighting of candles sufficed to connect him to something greater than himself. He was not sure what the outcome of his impending trip would be
and, since God seemed to seldom care, perhaps his acknowledgment of the Virgin would dispose Her to be more kindhearted. He knelt briefly before the altar. The cold stones of the floor made his war-weary knees ache. His reflection was short. He groaned as he rose and quickly left to collect his mount and saddle-bags. Within a short time, he was on the road, headed southeast toward Pont Lliw.

  He was going home. After living on the road and in the camps for two-thirds of his life on earth, he was riding towards the place that held buried memories of his childhood. The place of roots and kin, the things that should help a man feel grounded in this world, that should fill him with purpose. The place he had avoided for thirty summers.

  Ambisagarus was fast and strong, yet light on his feet. Glad to be in the open again after several days of confinement, he trotted easily on the deserted road, head high, again champing at the bit to run. Known for their speed, Tristan had to rein the courser in to keep him from tiring on the two-hundred furlong journey ahead. It would take all night. With luck, he would arrive a couple of hours before dawn, allowing him time to assess the situation before he risked approaching the hall.

  As the sun began to set, a dense ground fog rolled in, reducing visibility to less than a dozen yards, and a moonless sky loomed close overhead from a low ceiling of clouds. Trees crowded in on either side of the road for long stretches making Tristan feel claustrophobic and wary. This was still priory land, and the brothers had failed to keep the edges of the road clear of brush and trees. They must know they could be fined for crimes that should happen on their demesne. The brothers had been lax in their duty. Traveling in darkness was dangerous, even for a knight. He could not relax until the track was bordered by open fields edged with squat fence rows or stone walls.

  Almost no sounds emanated from the woods as he passed, save the rustling of the leaves and grass from a slight breeze, and the sound of Sag’s hooves on the road. He could smell the smoke of hearth fires from the farms that dotted the countryside. Tristan was glad he did not hold with superstition. The night was perfect for irrational minds to be undone by belief in tales of spirits who inhabited the darkness, bent on evil and destruction. Life as a soldier had taught him that it was usually man himself who engaged in such things on nights like this and needed no help from spirits. He remained alert and ready, testing his sword in its sheath to be sure it was loose and could be drawn easily. He was glad he had chosen to wear leathers. His helmet swung from a thong tied to his saddle.