“Murderer!” shrieked Gilbert. “He tried to kill me. You are all witness. He probably murdered Brother Mark!” he said pointing at Brother Jerome. “He must be punished! Prior Alwyn, I demand that you punish him! He must be locked away! He must be whipped!” Continuing to weep and tremble, Gilbet picked himself up and stood within a ring of clerics surrounding him.
“Enough!” demanded the prior. “You will both cease at once!”
“He tried to murder me,” Gilbert said more quietly as he broke through the line of men, walked to the side and sank onto a bench.
“Fear and grief cause emotions to run high at this hour,” said the prior, “but now is not the time to fight amongst ourselves. A monk has been murdered and we must work together if we are to arrive at the end of this satisfactorily.”
Life in the cloister seldom had entertainment as exciting as this, and when the prior put an end to it, the monks grumbled disapproval. Rhonwellt smiled discreetly behind his hand.
“And as for the two of you,” said the prior, his voice regaining its calm as he pointed his finger at the pair of miscreants, “fighting cannot be tolerated among us, no matter the cause. It was violence that took Brother Mark from us. If violence is what you desire, then you shall have it. You shall each receive three lashes, one for each aspect of the Trinity. They shall be administered immediately upon conclusion of our business here. It cannot wait for the morrow. Then you both shall spend the time until Compline prostrated in reflection and penance. You shall join the rest of us for prayer, and after Compline, you shall forego sleep, spending the entire of the night in prayer, praying for deliverance and God’s forgiveness.”
Gilbert wailed at the pronouncement while Jerome sat stoically. Rhonwellt knew full well that, to Jerome, the price was not too great to see Gilbert get his comeuppance. His pronouncement that Brother Gilbert was despised was true enough.
“You are most generous, Brother Prior,” said Jerome, “I accept my fate. But Brother Gilbert should not have said those things.”
“Be wise, brother. Rein in any further words before they chance flight from your tongue.”
Jerome bowed his head while Gilbert sighed, but neither spoke.
“Does anyone else have anything to offer?” asked the prior turning back to the monks.
They all looked at him in shocked silence.
“Very well, you shall all witness this discipline and then go to evening meal and then to your beds. You will do this in silence. We must not let these events cause us to stray from our routine. On the morrow, there are manuscripts to be worked and a most valuable one to be found.” Heading for the door, the prior said, “Brother Ciaran, bring the book.”
✞ ✞ ✞
The Chapter House was a bare, single room structure with six sides located between the church and the dorter. A single window of adequate size and placed high up, pierced each wall. In the mornings when the room was most used, the early rising sun caused the room to be well lit. Stone benches built in at the base of four of the walls were the only accommodation to comfort, and the lectern, a substantial piece made from oak with intricate carvings on three sides, the only piece of furniture. A large iron cresset lamp hung suspended from the ceiling over the lectern, and several smaller cressets were built into the walls.
The brothers stood in front of their seats while the penitents stood in the center of the room facing Prior Alwyn who took his place at the lectern. The room was deadly still, no one daring to move or speak. Brother Ciaran entered carrying a large leather tome, padded across the floor, and exerting great effort, lifted it up onto the lectern. Regula Sancti Benedicti was emblazoned across the cover.
“Brother Jerome, Brother Gilbert,” said the prior as he flipped through the pages of the book, each leaf crinkling as it was turned, “ you stand before your fellow brethren for the offense of blasphemy against them and each other by not having shown the proper respect and devotion to fellow emissaries of God. You have also violated the Rule of Saint Benedict in matters of conduct. You have both presumed to strike another brother which is specifically forbidden in Chapter LXX of the Rule—“That No One Presume to Strike Another. Let every occasion for presumption be avoided in the monastery. We decree that no one be permitted to excommunicate or to strike any one of his brethren, unless the Abbot hath given him the authority. But let those who transgress be taken to task in the presence of all, that the others may fear.” You have failed to be obedient to one another which is forbidden in Chapter LXXI. You have failed to be obedient to me as is instructed in Chapter V. Brother Jerome, you have presumed to come to the defense of another in word which is forbidden in Chapter LXIX of the Rule. Brother Gilbert, you have failed to show humility, which we are all instructed to do in Chapter VII. For these offenses, you will stand before your God and before your Brothers in Christ for punishment. Your sentence is three lashes each.”
With a signal from the prior, the brothers formed a semi-circular line in front of the lectern with the two penitents in the center. From behind the lectern, Prior Alwyn retrieved the lash which was kept in a compartment in the back. Its handle was intricately woven leather around a wooden core about the length of a large dagger with sixteen leather thongs, knotted at the ends, hanging from it. The thongs were arranged with one in the center about a yard long representing the Christ. Surrounding this were three, shorter by half the length of a man’s foot, representing the Trinity. Around these were twelve, one for each of the Apostles, and shorter than the others. Even in the cruelty of discipline, Rhonwellt marveled how the Church could still manage to ingrain a sense of ritual steeped in religious symbolism.
Prior Alwyn walked to the center of the semi-circle and sketched the sign of the cross, the signal to begin. At his nod, the brothers silently pulled up the hoods of their robes burying their heads deep inside and turned their backs to the rueful pair of miscreants while they disrobed. Since it was always the same, Rhonwellt knew the routine by heart. They would remove their crosses first, then their cowls, neatly folding them and placing them off to the side. Untying the ropes they wore knotted about their waist, they would coil them up and lay them atop the cowls, then pull their woolen robes up and over their heads, fold and add them to the growing pile. Finally, they would take their sandals off and setting them beside the folded clothes, they would stand in only their thin linen shifts they wore next to the skin to preserve their modesty. Taking up their crosses, they stood next to each other, humiliated and exposed.
“They are ready,” Alwyn said, his voice full of sadness.
The brotherhood turned and faced their comrades who were kneeling and loosing the ties of their shifts. They let them fall to their waists. Gilbert continued to mewl while Jerome stared ahead in silence. Alwyn raised the lash and let it hang there a moment. All hands signed the cross, the brothers intoning the Orationis Gratia Misericordia, the penitents the Actus de Contritionis. The prior swung his arm. The thongs hissed like serpents as they flew through the air. The sickening sound when they made contact with the flesh of Brother Jerome’s back rebounded off the walls.
“In nomine patris,” intoned the prior.
He swung his arm a second time and the serpents hissed again.
“Et filii.” Brother Jerome remained unmoved as the thongs cut into his back.
The serpents hissed a third time.
“Et spiritus sancti. Amen.”
Jerome signed the cross.
Prior Alwyn took a few steps to the side and positioned himself behind Brother Gilbert. He sketched the cross, then swung the lash.
“In nomine patris.”
Gilbert cried out.
“Et filii.”
Gilbert’s cries quieted to a whimper then grew silent. He did not finish his prayer.
“Et spiritus sancti. Amen.”
Gilbert’s hand trembled as he joined his brothers in making the sign of the cross.
The monks rose and left the chamber in silence.
Alwyn recited t
he Prayer for Forgiveness.
“You may now dress yourselves and proceed to the chancel and begin your prostrations.” Alwyn said nothing else and turned and left the chamber.
Rhonwellt lingered a few moments watching the two penitents steal glances at each other, their expressions filled with contempt and hated. He made no sound when he left and stationed himself behind the pulpitum screen.
The two monks rose and began to dress themselves, moving stiffly and wincing from the pain of the lash marks. When finished, they walked to the center of the chancel directly in front of the main altar, knelt down, signed the cross and prostrated themselves in the shape of the implement of Christ’s final humiliation, all the while keeping as much distance between them as the cramped quarters would allow. Rhonwellt shuddered at their prospect: hash, scratchy rushes and the penetrating cold of the stone floor. Rhonwellt crept from the chamber. He heard Brother Gilbert’s voice break the quiet.
“I shall not forget this, nor forgive it!” The monk’s voice hissed like the lash that had welted the skin of his back moments before.
“Have faith, Brother,” replied Brother Jerome, “nor shall I. That I promise you.”
Thirteen
“Who is there?”
It was Brother Ciaran’s voice. Rhonwellt pushed open the door to the scriptorium and stepped out to find the novice staring off into the darkness.
“Brother Rhonwellt,” Ciaran said, “someone was listening at the door. Just now he ran off into the night as I called him out!”
“Did you see who it was, lad?”
“I did not, Brother. He was tightly wrapped in a cloak. I could not see him at all.”
Rhonwellt wondered if it could have been Tristan’s nephew. Why would he still lurk about? Surely he would know Brother Mark was dead. What could be his purpose?
“Why are you here, Brother? Should you not be on the way to your bed?”
“I was on my way from the kitchen,” the novice replied. “I looked up and saw your light burning. It was then I saw someone lurking outside the door and as I approached, he leapt from the stairs and ran past the workshop off into the night.”
Rhonwellt stared, trying to see into the darkness, still pondering whether it had been Isador creeping about. Remembering something from his talks with the monks, he suddenly turned to Ciaran. “When I listened to the other brothers tell their tales, much heretofore unknown about Brother Mark came to light. Yet, you offered nothing. You had often drawn kitchen duty together cleaning the cooking pots. Did he never say anything then that may offer a clue?”
“Brother Rhonwellt,” Ciaran replied, lowering his eyes, “you know silence is the rule when at work.”
“Then I must have heard God’s angels praising your diligence as I walked past and heard hushed chatter coming from the room.”
“I confess,” Ciaran blushed. “Brother Mark would always engage me in conversation. I just could not help it. Eventually I gave in and we talked together. When we finished, he would tell me I was a bad influence as if it had been my idea to break the rule.” Ciaran's face scrunched up. “Why would he do that?”
“Why, indeed,” Rhonwellt said, his brow wrinkled and his lips pressed into a thin line. “What passed between you during your silences in the kitchen?”
“Very little. Life here at the priory, about how much he desired to serve God, how he loved working in the scriptorium on the manuscripts and helping Brother Anselm, and how he hoped to be able to start gilding soon.”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Rhonwellt fought the urge to countermand Ciaran’s assessment. Obviously Brother Mark told Ciaran exactly what he thought the novice wanted to hear. “Did Brother Mark ever try to extract favors from you?”
Ciaran grew quiet, did not answer right away. Thrusting his hands deep into his sleeves, he swallowed hard and wet his lips.
“What is it, lad?”
Ciaran’s eyes darted around but would not look at Rhonwellt.
“Tell me.”
After a long moment, Ciaran took in a deep breath before he spoke. “On one occasion, he said to me that his leg hurt him much and asked me to tell him if it appeared swollen.”
Rhonwellt pressed his eyes closed and sighed. “Go on,” he said, gently.
“He then lifted the hem of his habit to show me.” Ciaran hesitated. “He lifted it…very high.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he went on. “So high he was about to expose those places expressly forbidden. I rushed to him and pulled his hem down, pleading with him to cease.”
“And, did he?”
“Yes, brother.” Suddenly Ciaran looked at Rhonwellt, his eyes wide. “He laughed at me, grabbed my arm with force and swore me to secrecy.” A sob escaped the novice’s throat. “It hurt where he grabbed me. I prayed hard for God to forgive my sin.”
“The sin was not yours. It was Brother Mark’s and had you not stopped him, his sin would have been greater. You actions showed good judgment. I am certain God has forgiven any error.”
“Then, why do I feel so badly?”
“It is the nature of temptation. Even in victory, we know we are very near to yielding. We are reminded of the power of the Dark One and how easy it is, at all times, to doing his bidding.”
Since Tristan’s return, Rhonwellt had been faced numerous times with the verity of this. But, now was not the time to dwell on it.
“But he did say that he had discovered a great talent,” Ciaran added, “a friend who wanted to work at the priory, but that it was also a secret.”
“Why was it to be kept secret?”
Ciaran looked pensively at the floor. “Would it be a sin to tell, Brother Rhonwellt? To break my word to him?”
“Was the name of the Almighty invoked in the swearing of this vow?”
“No,” replied Ciaran. “It was not really so much a vow, more a promise.”
“Then, I think you were released from that promise upon his death. Brother Mark has been brutally taken away and we must find the perpetrator. If you know anything that might help, the telling of it may help his soul to rest.”
“Are you sure, Brother Rhonwellt, that God will not be angry with me?”
“Ciaran, we all make God angry from time to time,” said Rhonwellt.
“I feel that I must make Him angry a lot.”
“God knows each of our hearts and how hard each of us tries. I fear you worry too much about such matters.” Rhonwellt put his hand to Ciaran's cheek and let it linger for a moment. “You are a good lad. God knows that.”
Ciaran took in a deep breath and looked into Rhonwellt's eyes.
“Now what of Brother Mark's friend?” Rhonwellt asked.
Ciaran paused. “He was not from the village, I think.”
“How old is this lad?”
“Fourteen, fifteen summers, I think. Maybe sixteen.”
“This lends credence to what Sir Tristan said to me yestereve before he left,” said Rhonwellt.
“He has gone? Where?”
“Home,” responded Rhonwellt, a touch of longing in his voice. “Prior to taking his leave, he stopped to say that his brother was in the village with his eldest looking for his younger son. The description they gave caused Sir Tristan to believe it was the same lad who was to meet with Brother Mark. His name is Isadore. Is there anything else you can recall of your conversations with him?”
Ciaran scrunched up his nose as though giving great thought to the question. “That is all, Brother Rhonwellt.”
“That is quite a lot gleaned from a time of silence,” teased Rhonwellt. “Now off to your bed before you are counted missing and Brother Daffyd comes looking for you.”
Ciaran smiled. “Good night, Brother Rhonwellt.”
“God grant you peace and good rest,” said Rhonwellt as the young novice left for the dorter.
“And also you,” Ciaran called back.
The monk walked back into the scriptorium, extinguished the candle, and exited closing the door behind him. Overcome with fatigue
, he passed through the refectory and climbed the stairs, headed to his own bed. He hoped he would be able to sleep. For it seemed that with every answer gained, a new question arose.
Not the least among them was what would he do about Tristan.
✞ ✞ ✞
They had traveled about one-hundred furlongs when Tristan stopped to rest the stallion and drink a little wine. The air had begun to chill again in the hours before dawn. Tipping his head back to drink from the skin, he pulled his cloak tighter around him. The unwatered wine was strong and warmed his belly. The temptation to get drunk was powerful. Luckily, the skin was small and there would not be enough to fully satisfy that hunger. In any case, he had sworn it off, and it would not help in this situation.
“We are both beginning to show our age, old friend,” he said. “The night chill settles in my bones where it never used to and you now require rest on an easy journey. Do you miss the vigor of youth as much as I do?”
The stallion tossed his head and issued a soft snort. Tristan affectionately stroked his neck.
Back in the saddle, the knight urged the stallion into a trot, eager to reach their destination.
After another twenty furlongs, he slowed the horse to a walk. The road made an abrupt turn to the North and opened onto the fields surrounding Pont Lliw Hall. The horizon had begun to lighten, and though the sun had not yet risen, the fog was nearly gone. Tristan was not sure what he had expected to find, but certainly not what lay before him. Pont Lliw Hall and its demesne of two carucates of land had been given to his father, Beccan, as a knight's fee for service to Robert of Gloucester, father of his own liege, after the Norman incursion into Wales in 1093. The rest of the estate comprised eighteen carucates of fields and farms, much of it enclosed by low stone walls and thick copses of beech and myrtle. The hall had been a modest when he was a child, timber frame filled by wattle and daub, with one large great room on the ground floor and a solar lofted over one end. Now, stone had replaced the timber frame of the original hall on the ground floor and had been used to build an addition off one side. Though only a single story in height, the ell was large enough to contain two or three rooms and a second solar. An undercroft contained a set of double doors that nearly filled the whole of the end, likely leading to stables and storage. There were gardens sitting immediately outside the Hall, grain fields beyond the gardens, and pastures occupying the outer most reaches of the grange. In all, Pont Lliw presented a very prosperous enterprise.
A Savor of Clove Page 14