A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  The stallion tossed his head and snorted, ears rotating to take in sounds from all directions. Tristan knew that Sag would be the first to sense any danger and warn him by his actions. The stallion had brought him through the carnage at Nimrod when the Crusaders lost the fortress. He had carried him through two years of wandering in the East, grieving the death of Amjhad, and trying to ascertain his future. Eventually, the horse delivered him here. He and the courser had been together for over ten summers, and the bond they shared was strong, the trust complete. That both had escaped serious wounds was a miracle.

  After trotting for about an hour, they slowed to a walk. The woods had given way to a stretch of open road with fields on either side. The blanket of fog added to Tristan's apprehension. He moved to the grassy side of the track to muffle the sound of the stallion’s hooves as they eased forward.

  “Easy now, old man,” Tristan reassured. “It is no easy night for travel. Be on your guard.”

  Sag tossed his head, keeping his easy pace, his ears still scanning for the slightest noise that did not belong with the sounds of the night.

  “What do you suppose we shall find on our arrival, old lad?” Sag snorted at the sound of Tristan’s voice. Talking softly to the stallion filled the time. The knight’s thoughts went to his mother, Claire. She would be over sixty if she still lived. Her beautiful copper hair would surely be gray, and her face would have lost its youth. Though he had not allowed himself to think about her much since last he saw her, he found her beauty was seared in his memory. He hoped he would not find her mind to be so addled with age that she would not recognize him when he stood before her.

  She had pleaded with father to have mercy on me. Tristan bit the inside of his cheek at the memory. She had fallen to her knees, weeping and grabbing his tunic, begging him not to send me away. It had been pointless. Once father had made a decision, he would not counter it. Being a proud man forced him to stay the course, even if he came to regret it.

  “What say you, lad? Did he have regrets? Did he ever wonder after me, speculate as to my fate, ever wish that he could see me again?” Sag shook his head and though it was most likely in defense against night insects, Tristan took it as an answer. “You are probably right.”

  “My brother moved swiftly into the void created by my dismissal. Even as a child, Declan was cunning. He would not let any opening to advance himself go unexploited. The opportunity for him, a second son, to escape life in the drudgery of a monastery must have seemed like a sign from God. It explains the arrogance in the man. That he is undeserving is, no doubt, the root of his cruelty. It is a mask for his insecurity, and we know that an insecure man is a treacherous one. Do we not, old son. If my suspicion about him is right, we must not underestimate the extent of Declan’s uncertainty or the depth of his corruption. It could be our undoing.

  “It matters not that we share blood. Family can be the most ruthless of enemies. It is the way of wealth and power. Those without it, want it, and those who have it, will fight to keep it, at any cost.” Tristan stopped short at that thought. “I intend no claim on Pont Lliw, so is it power I seek, or justice?” He patted Sag’s neck. “Do not answer that, you ignorant beast!” Sag snorted. “And no laughter, either.”

  Tristan sniffed the air, scanned the roadsides and watched Sag’s ears. The fog was beginning to thin as the cloud cover thickened and the air warmed. He allowed himself to relax just a little without becoming careless, and grew quiet, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Though Declan was certainly no fighter, it did not mean he would not employ an assassin to do his bidding. The son was another matter and would bear watching. If he was forced to confront his brother, must he eventually face Cyfnerth also? Patricide and fratricide were common maneuvers in the game of power. Should it come to that, it would not rest easy with his soul. How genuine was either’s concern over the missing son? He was another riddle not easily cyphered. Was Isidore the other face in the tavern window the night the young monk was murdered? If so, what was their connection? Everything about this dead monk seemed to weave a web of intrigue.

  Twelve

  Rhonwellt had no idea how much time had passed when he heard the shuffling foot steps of the monks descending the night stairs for Vespers; so lost was he in his dilemma, he had failed to hear the bell. The monks filed through the South transept and to the choir benches on either side of the chancel in front of the main altar. As soon as Prior Alwyn took his place, they began: first the Deus, then a Hymnus and Psalmus, each followed by a Doxology. Then the Lectio, Versiculuset Response, and the singing of the Magnificat sandwiched between Antiphonas. Finally, the Preces and Pater Noster, and ending with the Benedictus. Each piece automatically following the last, it was all precise, mechanical, and unchanged for centuries. Rhonwellt had long ago ceased to ponder their meaning.

  When the office had concluded with a final Amen, Prior Alwyn ordered the monks to remove themselves to the chapter house. They rose and filed from the chancel, mumbling to one another, and upon entering the chapter house, seated themselves, each going automatically to his assigned place. When they had settled, Rhonwellt rose and stood before his brothers, stated his offense and pled their pardon. He offered a Prayer for Forgiveness to which the monks responded with a Prayer for Grace and Mercy.

  With Rhonwellt’s ordeal over, Alwyn stood, moved to the lectern, and faced the monks.

  “Brothers, we are all still very much aggrieved and shocked by the horrendous fate befallen one of our own.” Fingers steepled and held close to his lips, Prior Alwyn paced back and forth in front of the lectern. “That someone could have committed such a crime upon someone dedicated to God is incomprehensible. It has happened, nonetheless, and we are left to grapple with its consequences. Someone is culpable for this crime, and if God is merciful, we shall find out who. Brother Rhonwellt wishes to speak with you all, and perhaps some of you individually, to see if we can piece together the events that led up to this actus horribillis.”

  “What has Brother Rhonwellt to do with this?” asked Brother Gilbert. “Should this not be a job for a proper magistrate?”

  “Ordinarily, yes,” replied the Prior, glowering at the corrosive monk. “However, it is not a topic for gossip, and with most of castle retinue away, I would wish to keep it under our jurisdiction to try and solve this mystery soon. Memories can become dull and the clarity of the facts diminish in even a short amount of time.”

  “Are we to add inquisitor to Brother Rhonwellt's extensive list of abilities? He was just reprimended for most grievously transgressing the Rule. Should we simply ignore his disrespect?”

  The muscles of the prior’s face twitched. “Brother Gilbert, you would do well to tend your own patch! The transgressions of others are their own, between them and their confessor, and none of your concern. I am certain God has still granted me charge here at Saint Cattwg’s. Has that changed? Have you experienced sudden elevation that we were not made aware of?”

  Several of the monks chuckled. “That will do,” admonished the Prior, casting his gaze over everyone in the room.

  Brother Gilbert downcast his eyes. “Well, no. It is just that Brother Rhonwellt seems always to be granted special favors. None of us is to be placed above the other, according to the chapter of the Rule regarding humility.”

  “You will find, brother, in that same chapter we are admonished to accept that which is hard or distasteful with patience and an even temper. It is the way of it, and not yours to question. Unless you would find yourself in contemplation for the foreseeable future, you might want to resist the urge to complain further. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Brother Prior.”

  “And you will give Brother Rhonwellt your unqualified cooperation. Is that also clear?”

  “Yes, Brother Prior.”

  “As will all of you. Am I well understood?”

  The monks nodded, heads bobbing in unison, and murmuring agreement. The prior turned and inclined his head in acknowledgm
ent of Brother Rhonwellt.

  “While the Lord of the Castle is away,” said Rhonwellt, “it falls to us to unravel this horrible crime. Let us see if, jointly, we can piece together the events of the last days and weeks of Brother Mark's life; his comings and goings, anyone he may have seen or spoken to. What was his demeanor? How was he feeling and acting? Any of you could have seen or heard something that did not seem noteworthy to you at the time, that may, in fact, hold meaning. I would ask you to think carefully and pray on it. Anything, however insignificant, could be very helpful. In this case, even if it is only conjecture it will not be viewed as gossip, and you shall not be reproved”

  A nod from the prior said he concurred.

  “We seek only the truth, and there are times when it is proper to surmise what that is. If God is willing, He will open our hearts to candor and we shall discover who is responsible for taking our brother from us.”

  A flurry of mumbling erupted among the monks as they began to speculate, and eventually the flood waters were unleashed and conjecture grew into a litany of Brother Mark’s questionable behavior.

  “He acted very normal around me,” said Brother Jerome.

  “What was normal for Brother Mark,” countered Brother Ignatius, looking sideways and down his nose at Brother Jerome, “was that he was duplicitous and secretive.”

  “He once tried to persuade me to take his place on night watch.” The voice coming from far to the left was that of the kitchener, Brother Cathbart. Rhonwellt wondered at the idea that Cathbart, normally a solitary monk who spent hours alone in his kitchen, had any contact with the dead monk at all.

  As if rousing from a nap, Brother Anselm yawned and cleared his throat. “He often appeared to suffer from melancholia. Eventually, I found that to be a ruse to be employed in manipulation. I concur with Brother Ignatius’ charge that our brother was duplicitous.”

  “He once tried to solicit an act of charity from me,” said Brother Julian, his voice so low it barely reached Rhonwellt’s ears. “He asked if I might relieve his aching muscles by rubbing his back––without the benefit of the wool of his habit between us.” The novice looked up at Prior Alwyn, horror painted on his face. “He actually wanted me to touch his naked body.”

  “He once asked me if he could have my loaf of bread at evening meal,” said Brother Oswald. “He said he would make it worth my lack.”

  “We know he was often absent his bed.” Rhonwellt fought to swallow the distaste he experienced every time he heard Brother Gilbert’s voice. He almost did not hear Brother Llywarch say that Mark had often told him he had much talent with a pen to which Brother Daffyd countered with raised eyebrows that Brother Mark had told him he no talent at all after Daffyd had refused him a favor.

  Though he suspected the reality of Brother Mark’s reputation, Rhonwellt was astonished at the varied responses. Without verification, it had all remained speculation—until now. Clearly, there were brothers who thought they were to be the only recipient of Brother Mark’s promises, that they were special to him and sworn to secrecy. Clenched jaws and stiff posture said the revelation they were only one of many such favorites had produced feelings of anguish and contempt. Allegiances faltered or changed camps, disappointments and hostilities grew. But in all, the information offered little insight into the case before them.

  Brother Remigius, a rotund monk whose head had long ago lost the ability to grow tonsure, hesitantly raised a hand.

  “Yes, brother,” said Rhonwellt. “You have an offering?”

  “I do, Brother Rhonwellt. About a fortnight ago, I was on night watch.” A shy and quiet monk, his hands fidgeted as he spoke. “As I passed through the church on my rounds, just after Compline, I noticed Brother Mark off to the side, alone and engaged in prayer. I assumed his heart was troubled or that he was on discipline.”

  “Brother Mark has not been on discipline for months,” remarked the prior.

  “Well, he was there. I was restless that night and my old legs ached much, I walked the grounds and the church most of the night to make the blood flow. I passed through the church more often than usual. Sometime later when I passed through, he was not there.”

  “He had probably gone to bed,” said Rhonwellt.

  “And so I thought. But when I made my way through again, just before Matins, he was back, sitting as before. I thought it strange then, but let it leave my mind.”

  “This was just before Matins?” Rhonwellt asked.

  “Yes. The rest filed in for prayer not long after.”

  “And after Matins?”

  “He came to bed with the rest of us.”

  “Brother Mark would have been most affected by the manuscript missing from the scriptorium,” Brother Anselm reflected. “He has aided me these two years on my own work and making much use of the Medica, had become very attached to it. He often remarked on its great worth. I recall he became very quiet upon hearing news of its theft.” Pausing a moment, he added, “I must admit I had expected more of a response.”

  “I experienced an occurrence similar to that of Brother Remigius about six nights ago,” added Brother Etheldrede, a stocky, barefoot monk of about five-and-fifty summers. “I stayed at prayer after Compline and noticed that Brother Mark had remained also. I continued praying for about one-half a candle ring, and when I arose to make for my bed, Brother Mark was no longer there. But, when I came to the dorter, Brother Mark was not asleep in his bed as I expected. His cot is right next to mine,” he explained. “I would notice if he were there. And he was not.”

  “And did he come to his bed later?” asked the prior.

  “When we arose for Matins,” Etheldrede went on, “he was not there. However, as we descended the night stairs and entered the transept, I noticed him at the rear of the line.”

  “He appeared like a specter,” said Brother Onslow. “One moment he was not there, the next right behind me. I never heard him approach, only sensed he was there. As I turned to look, his presence was confirmed.”

  “Did he remark at all?”

  “No,” said Onslow, “only smiled.”

  “On the day before the text went missing, he fell asleep at his desk in the middle of the forenoon,” said Brother Gruffydd. “I admonished him about it. He explained he had not slept well for a couple of nights. I let him rest for a while before the noon meal.”

  “A monk cannot sleep if he is not in his bed,” charged Brother Gilbert. “Except for Brother Anselm who seems able to sleep wherever his body lands.”

  “Why was I not informed of either of these incidents?” demanded Prior Alwyn.

  The monks sat, eyes downcast, saying nothing.

  “Because he had them all under his spell,” Gilbert said, sneering as he pressed his case. “But, I have always known that Brother Mark was not exactly as he appeared.”

  “He was comely like a woman,” accused Brother Llywarch, “ and used his appearance to manipulate favors with veiled promises of a peek beneath his habit—or more.”

  “He made no such unseemly promises to me,” said Brother Ignatius, “veiled or otherwise.”

  “Why would he?” asked Brother Thomas. “Looking glasses are forbidden to us. You do not have to endure what we must every time we look upon your countenance.”

  Rhonwellt heard several monks twittering.

  “Brother Thomas, your words were uncharitable!” said the prior, pounding his fist on the lectern. “Recant them at once!”

  The monk lowered his eyes and mumbled, “Apologies, Brother.”

  Rhonwellt looked around at the faces as they recounted experiences with the dead monk. He could see that among the brothers, each had his own experience of Brother Mark depending on their inclinations. While desired by some, he was clearly reviled by others. A few spoke of him with beatific smiles, but most with lips curled into a sneer. Rhonwellt suspected it had more to do with whether they had been rebuffed by the young religious if they had nothing more to offer for his favors than disapproval of
his actions. He especially noticed increasing agitation in Brother Jerome.

  “He was always showing himself to be so pious and obedient,” snarled Brother Gilbert. “He thought himself better than the rest of us; never really acted like he was one of us. Obviously he had us all deceived.”

  Brother Jerome lunged, a doubled up fist protruding from the sleeve of his robe. “Do not say such things about Brother Mark!” he screamed, swinging wildly at the venomous monk. “He never thought himself better than even the lowest. He was not hateful like you!”

  Gilbert shrank back from the hostile monk. “Brother Prior, make him cease!” he pleaded.

  Two monks moved in to restrain the quarreling pair.

  “You are loathed here!” Jerome’s face trembled with every word. “Far more than you despise us. No one will ever put their trust in you. I have seen you listening at doors, that you prey on men with a weakness for drink and ply them with too much ale on a feast day to glean information to use to your advantage at a later time.”

  They led Jerome to a bench and bade him sit as Gilbert continued to cower.

  “I will not have you say those things,” Jerome maintained quietly. “Mark was good. He was better than all of us.”

  “Do you think it has not been noticed how you sniffed after him constantly?” Gilbert purred. He then curled his lip and smiled contemptuously. “Forever trying to place yourself near to him, to touch him, and him enticing you on. It was disgusting!”

  “He would have naught of you!” screamed Jerome as he broke loose from the grasp of his captors and leapt upon Gilbert, knocked him to the floor, landing on top of him. The older monk began to pommel Gilbert as they rolled and thrashed about the middle of the room. Several monks rooted for Jerome who screamed for Gilbert to retract his accusations while the younger monk shrieked for rescue from his attacker. Jerome had trained as a knight and led a robust life until the age of twenty when he took to the cloth, and was well versed in the ways of men and fighting. He landed a solid punch to Gilbert's face just below his eye as they continued to roll about. Brothers Oswald and Llywarch stepped forward and pulled an angry Jerome off of Gilbert and dragged him to the side.