A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  Though he doubted Declan had done any of the work himself, his brother had done well. Much better than Tristan would have expected.

  He moved his horse to a small copse of beeches and sat scanning the surroundings. As the morning light spread, he could see servants beginning the day in anticipation of the household awakening. A shepherd began moving a small flock of sheep away towards the pastures aided by a couple of dogs while a scullery wench rummaged around in the hen house for eggs. A dairy maid came from the stable carrying the morning milk and turned two cows out for the day.

  Sag’s ears rotated quickly to a slight rustle in the leaves coming from behind Tristan. The knight turned slowly and carefully in his saddle to peer into the advancing morning light. A stocky peasant, about his own age, stood on the edge of the copse about fifteen paces away, warily holding a stout pole in front of him aimed at Tristan. The knight turned his horse to face the man full on, whose eyes bulged in terror as he crossed himself and crouched low, his free arm held protectively in front of his face.

  “Master?” the man asked, lowering his arm to peer over the top.

  Tristan said nothing.

  The man dropped to his knees and crossed himself again.

  “Demon,” he cried, averting his eyes and waving his arm, “be gone!”

  “Do you know me, man?” Tristan asked.

  At the sound of Tristan's voice the man cried out.

  “Mother of God, I have done nothing!” the peasant pleaded. “What do you want with me?”

  “I mean you no harm!” Tristan assured him. “Be at peace.”

  “I protects my lady!” the man cried. Gritting his teeth, his nostrils flaring, the man took a deep breath before rising to his feet. “Stand where you are!” he ordered.

  To Tristan, the command lacked the ferocity he knew the man had intended. He carefully dismounted and walked a few paces toward him. “You called me master.”

  “His ghost! He be dead this five-and-twenty summers.” The man groaned. “What do ye want from me?”

  “I assure you, I am no ghost,” said Tristan, advancing to within two paces of the end of the pole. “Nor, am I your master,” he said, staring intently into the peasant's eyes as he inched closer.

  Tristan carefully reached out to grab the end of the pole. Swiftly, the man took a step forward, and grabbing his staff with both hands, swung it hard. It caught the knight under the ear, sending him reeling to the ground. Dazed by the blow, it took Tristan a moment to regain himself. He shook his head to clear it before struggling to his feet. He thought of drawing his sword and ending it quickly, but there was no need to kill a frightened servant. And, besides, he wanted the man alive.

  They started to circle, Tristan returning the peasant’s stare. The knight feinted a movement forward. The man swung the staff again, wildly. Ducking, the intended blow sliced through empty air where Tristan's head had been moments before.

  “You will not let this be easy. Will you?” grinned Tristan.

  “I will not, until I know your business here.”

  “At this moment, my business is not having my brains bashed in by the likes of you.” Tristan rubbed the rapidly forming knot on his head. “Can you not see that I am no spirit?”

  He chuckled, searching the peasant’s eyes. Years of fighting had taught him that men's eyes would often betray their intent. There! The vaguest squint. He was preparing to strike again, and weighing his chances of success. With one swift movement Tristan grabbed the end of the pole with one hand, advanced and swung around behind him, and with the other hand pulled the pole up tight against the surprised man’s throat. The peasant tried to struggle but Tristan pulled the pole tighter.

  “Be cooperative or I shall have to kill you.”

  The man nodded. Tentatively, Tristan released one hand from the pole, spun him around, thrust a foot behind one of the peasant's legs and swiftly toppled him to the ground. The man lay there on his back looking up at Tristan, the point of his own staff pressed against his chest.

  “Please, master! I done nothing.”

  “I have told you, I am not your master. See!” said Tristan kneeling down and pulling the man's hand to his breast to feel the reality of him. With his other hand, Tristan felt the knot beginning to form on the side of his head. He pulled his hand away to see blood on his fingers. “See, I bleed. I am flesh, like you.”

  Rowain’s eyes grew large enough to show white all round. Slowly, as the reality of Tristan began to sink in, acceptance replaced the fear and mistrust his expression had shown.

  Tristan searched the man’s face. “I know you,” he said. “Rowain? Rowain Tully?” Tristan stood and grabbing the front of Rowain’s tunic, pulled him to his feet. The man’s mouth moved but no words came forth. “Do you not know me? I am Tristan.”

  “But young Tristan be dead, my lord,” he said, disbelief returning to his eyes, “killed in the Crusade, long ago.”

  “As you can see, Rowain Tully, I am very much alive. We were both lads when last we saw each other. To my shame, I am the same Tristan who used to taunt you as a child with my friend Rhonwellt.”

  “Rhonwellt were low-born too. I never knew why he did that to me.” Rowain’s expression softened for a moment. Then the hardness returned. “No. You be one of Satan’s imps sent to confuse me. You are the ghost of my master.”

  “You are the second in as many days to mistake me for the ghost of my father. I assure you, I am no specter.”

  The peasant rubbed the back of his neck and pursed his lips. With a shrug he said, “My lady always said you would come back. But she has not spoke your name in a long time.”

  “She is here? My mother still lives?” Tristan felt his heart quicken at the possibility.

  Rowain bobbed his head and looked off toward the hall. “For many summers, she believed. Over time, her faith failed her. She gave up hope.”

  “How does she fare, now?” Tristan asked quietly, the quickening turning to a stabbing pang of guilt.

  “She be rewarded with good health, my lord. But, great sadness weighs her down.”

  “What is the cause of her sadness?”

  Rowain looked carefully around the area and leaning in toward Tristan, lowered his voice. “Her own son, it is, my lord Declan. The monster hisself.”

  Tristan sensed Rowain feared even the trees witnessing this blasphemy against his master. “Has he harmed her?” he asked.

  “No, my lord. Nothing like that. He is just not kind to her and speaks rough to her. She is watched. She is kept at the hall, rare let out, and never alone.”

  “She is a prisoner in her own house?”

  “Not exactly. Just looked after, close. The master has got an anger in him. It eats him. We all fear him. All except young master Cyfnerth. He fears no man. He is good to her, and so is master Isidore. They dotes on her.” Rowain quickly glanced around and, again, leaned in to whisper. “But there is another who comes to see her. In the wee hours, once a fortnight. He is a careful one. None ever sees him. But I see. I watch. Not for his lordship, but for my lady, I watch.”

  “She welcomes this visitor?” Tristan asked.

  “She does, most warm.”

  The knight paced around the small clearing, his hand stroking his chin.

  “Who is this visitor?”

  Rowain shrugged his shoulders. “I never seen his face clear. I told you. A crafty one, he is.”

  “And you are sure she does not fear this man?”

  “Oh no, my lord! Not at all.”

  Tristan stopped pacing and turned to face the hall, scanning the grounds in front and what he could see of the rest. “When was the last time this man was here?” he asked, continuing to stare at the hall.

  “It were but two day past, my lord.”

  “Rowain. I must get into the hall and see my mother. Declan and Cyfnerth are in Cydweli searching for Isidore. How can I make this happen?”

  “Best not go into the hall, direct, my lord. But, m'lady walks and sit
s in her garden every morning after she breaks fast.”

  “Is the garden secluded and private?”

  “It has been walled since you left. It be very like a cloister, my lord.”

  “And where is this garden?”

  “Round the back of the east ell, up against the curtain wall. Ride in a wide circle around through the beech wood, here. Keep to the trees, a ways in. When you clear the beeches, you will see the wall with thick brush growin' along it. In the middle of the thickest shrubbery straight in from the big yew, look for a small postern gate. Hid real well. So well there be no lock. That is how my lady’s friend enters.”

  “Does she walk alone?”

  “Most times. But watch for Mistress Magreg.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My lord Declan’s wife. A curious woman. She keeps both eyes on my lady at all times. If she sees you, chances are my lord Declan will find out.”

  “Can you get word to your mistress to expect my visit?”

  “I think I can, my lord. What should I say?”

  “Just that someone she will wish to see awaits her. Do not reveal my identity, and tell her not to be frightened. I mean her no harm. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, my lord, I have. I will tell her just that.”

  “I shall take my time reaching the postern gate to give you opportunity to deliver my message. But be quick, man. I thank you Rowain Tully, for your loyalty to my mother. Speak of our meeting to no one but my mother. It is vital that my brother not know of my return just yet.”

  Fourteen

  Tristan walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. The fog had partially lifted and the activity around the manor was brisk now that the day had fully begun. Slowly, he picked his way through the thickest of the woods. Battle training had taught the stallion to move in near silence when circumstances required, and he stepped with care, ears turning to detect the smallest sound.

  They had advanced about half the distance when he heard voices nearby. Tristan stopped and dismounted quickly so as not to be seen above the undergrowth. He stood listening to determine their direction and distance from him, gently placing a hand over Sags’ muzzle to quiet him. The sounds were those of children lost in the games of youth, squealing in the thrill of adventure. They passed nearby and continued on. He would walk the rest of the way.

  When the children were a safe distance away, Tristan urged Sag forward, continuing to circumvent the hall. Soon the wall of the cloister appeared through the trees. Dense undergrowth grew along nearly its entire length as Rowain had indicated. He looked for the spot where the growth was nearly twice as thick as the rest. He dropped the horse’s reins, a signal for the stallion to stand, and walked carefully towards the thicket. Peering into the bush, he could see a small bower hollowed out in the center, room enough for a horse to await its master's return. Searching around the outside, he found an opening, well hidden, through which he and the stallion could enter.

  He collected the courser and led him through the opening. A small door pierced the enclosure, an iron ring attached to the wall next to it. Tying Sag to the ring, he put his hand to the latch. It gave easily and opened, its well-oiled hinges preventing any sound, creating an odd vulnerability that could admit an enemy as readily as a friend. The interior side of the postern gate was concealed in another dense cover of holly and yew. Tristan stood motionless, surveying the garden from his hiding place. For the moment it was deserted. He dared not leave his cover, but would wait for his mother to arrive.

  The sun had risen one finger in the sky before a door opened from the hall with a loud squeal. An older woman in a simple gown of lawn cloth and a gauzy wimple, carried herself elegantly as she entered the garden accompanied by a coarse featured, sturdily built woman, with an eye for finery. Her gown was a more costly nainsook, her wimple a finer gauze, and rings covered nearly all her fingers. Tristan’s breath caught at the sight his mother, surprised he recognized her so quickly despite the length of time. The other must be Declan’s wife. They were engaged in an animated discussion, the older woman looking anxiously around.

  “Rowain seemed very agitated this morning,” said the younger woman. To Tristan, the comment did not seem off=hand. He sensed she was probing his mother for information. “I am only concerned that all is well.”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Daughter. All is well. Rowain has always been prone to alarm over the slightest trumpery.”

  “Well, if you are sure, mother,” she pressed. “I would hope that you should confide in me if there were anything amiss.”

  “Rest assured, Magreg, you are apprised of all that should concern you.”

  Though her face betrayed little, his mother sounded slightly anxious, and he was sure she was trying to hide it. The younger woman was solicitous and respectful, yet it was obvious the air between them was cool.

  As Magreg continued to probe, Claire reached the end of her patience. “Do not vex me with further inquiries, Daughter! Leave me, that I may enjoy my garden in peace.”

  Magreg made a tight curtsy and turned to leave, resentment showing clearly on her face. “I shall be in the solar if I am needed.”

  “I have never had much need of you, before,” said Claire without turning to face her. At the sound of the door to the hall closing, she began making her way towards the postern gate. Her manner casual, she wandered idly through the rose garden and along a path edged with tall box hedge. At the last rose bush, she stopped letting her fingers linger over a delicate pink-white blossom, bending over to sniff its aroma. Peering through the foliage, Tristan saw her secretly steal a glance in the direction of the hall, scan the door to the solar and the covered walkway along the wall. She proceeded down the path towards the back wall of the garden toward the shrubbery that concealed the postern gate. She looked apprehensive as she stood in front of a trellis of woodbine. The leaves rustled as Tristan moved toward the opening. Claire let out a quiet gasp.

  “Who is there?” she whispered and waited.

  “My lady,” said Tristan.

  His mother froze. “Who seeks audience with me?”

  “Are we unobserved, my lady?”

  Claire took a quick look around.

  “We are.” She waited. “I demand to know your identity.”

  The bushes parted and Tristan emerged to reveal himself. His mother gazed at him, taking him all in from head to toe. Her brow knit with confusion, she started to speak.

  “Who are......” Her hand leapt to her mouth and she began to tremble as recognition crept across her face.

  “It cannot be!” she exclaimed, her voice barely audible. Tears welled in her green eyes as she continued to take him in. “Surely you are dead.”

  “Madam.....” He stalled.

  She took a couple of hesitant steps toward him, shaking her head as if to dispel the vision. She reached out her hand to touch him but pulled it back. Then, slowly she took his chin in her hand and turned his face from side to side. “He had no scar and the eyes are different.” She vacillated, unsure. “You are my son?” she asked.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And you are alive!” she whispered.

  “I am, madam,” he replied, swallowing past a tightness in his throat.

  “How?”

  “That is a mystery to me. It would appear, though I very much doubt I deserved it, God was with me these many years away from home.” He said the word without hesitation.

  They stood in silence, immersed in the sight of each other.

  “Oh, Tristan!” she whispered, staggering forward.

  Tristan reached out as she fell into his arms and enveloped her in a clumsy embrace.

  “I tried to believe,” she sobbed. “For years I clung to the hope that you would find your way back to us. God forgive me for not believing.” Claire leaned back to look up into Tristan's eyes.

  “I feared I would arrive and find only a grave to greet me,” he said.

  “Well, as you can see, I am still here.�
�� Her gaze grew soft. “Praise God I have lived long enough to see this day.”

  Tristan nodded as she studied his face, tracing the scar he bore with her finger.

  “I fear the years have taken their toll on us both,” she remarked, a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “Madam, you are still beautiful to my eyes.”

  “Nonsense! Surely your eyes trick you. I am an old woman.”

  With large calloused hands he lifted her small soft ones to his lips and kissed them.

  “How came you to the hall?” she asked, still searching his face. “By what route?”

  “I have stayed at the priory at Cydweli these four days past. I came from there.”

  “Did you see your brother?” Her eyes had turned serious.

  “I did, but did not wish him to see me at this time. I managed to avoid him and his son. I needed to assess things first.”

  “That was probably wise.” She hesitated. “Then you have also seen Rhonwellt?”