A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

He sucked in an audible breath. “You are aware he lives, that he is there?”

  “I am.” she answered.

  “But, how?”

  “You forget, Anselm is my cousin, although we have not seen each other in years. We have both reached the age where travel takes its toll. He came to the hall years ago to tend my health before we obtained our own medicus here.”

  “Then you have also seen him?”

  “No, never. Surely he would have no desire to see me after what had befallen him, and I had no wish to see him. Anselm told of a young lad who had recently been rescued and brought to the priory,” she continued. “After explaining the circumstances under which he had been found, I realized that by some miracle God had spared Rhonwellt’s life and he lived in safety with the brothers. I swore my cousin to secrecy lest your father become aware that he yet lived. I felt the secret was safe.”

  “Did you not feel compelled to tell father?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “But, why?”

  “Had not enough been done to him already? Your father had destroyed the only life Rhonwellt had known, as well as yours. Your father would have had him killed and I could not be the instrument of further injustice.”

  “Were you not angry with Rhonwellt?”

  “Of course, he is the reason I lost my son!” She looked wistfully at Tristan.

  “No, madam. Your husband is the reason you lost your son. Rhonwellt is blameless.”

  Claire continued to gaze at Tristan and slowly nodded her head. “It was so long ago,” she sighed. “Discovering the nature of your relations with him was not to my liking. It is not what a mother wants to hear of her first born son. I guess I knew it was not all his fault as your father tried to believe. It was quite plain to me when you were together there was great fondness between you. However, I looked for you to grow beyond it.”

  “But we did not.”

  “No. It was soon evident that you would not. But I still hoped you both would do what must be done.”

  Tristan felt anger and resentment roiling in the pit of his stomach.

  “And what would that be?” he asked, with no attempt to keep the edge from his voice. He knew what she was about to say .

  “To produce heirs for your families. Once you had done that, the nature of your relations would not have mattered as much.”

  “It would have mattered to us.”

  “It is how society works,” she snapped.

  “These last thirty years I have seen very much how society works, madam. It is brutal and shallow and cares little for what anyone feels, only what must be done!”

  “Perhaps, but it is the way of it.” She turned and appeared lost in the greenery, running her fingers over the surface of the leaves. “And now that you have seen him?”

  “I honestly do not know,” he answered. “I never allowed myself to think I might see him again. I had no plan for that possibility. But now that it is so, I am at a loss as to what to do.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I did then.” Tristan bowed his head, avoiding his mother’s gaze. “Over the years, I have lost sight of what love is.”

  “And now that you have seen him, do you find you love him still?”

  “I do not know that I could recognize love anymore. What I do know is I could not bear to lose him again.”

  “You can be so sure so quickly?”

  Tristan nodded. “I am sure.”

  “But he belongs to God and the church now. What of that?”

  “I would not ask him to forsake his vows. I cannot.”

  “It would be a grave sin if you did!”

  “God and I are not friends.” Tristan turned his head and spat on the ground, his hands balled into fists. “I am not greatly concerned what God thinks of me nor do I think He cares what I do. He has done little for me these many years but keep me alive. Only now do I begin to understand why.”

  “The years have made you bitter,” she said sadly.

  “Life has made me bitter, madam!” he said, trying not to shout.

  “Do not recriminate me!” she said, her eyes narrowing and turning dark. “Do you think I did not suffer at the loss of you? I despaired knowing I should never see you again. Your father was a hard man, but he was my husband. His word was law. His plan in sending you away was that you not return. I think he did it to hurt me.”

  Claire stopped so short Tristan knew she wished she had not said the words. “Why would father wish to hurt you?” She said nothing. Tristan took her by the shoulders, forcing her regard him. “Mother, why would father wish to hurt you?”

  “It is a tale that would serve no purpose in the telling,” she answered, finding a sudden interest in the garden again.

  Confusion flooded over Tristan. He had always thought his father had been devoted to his wife, and now he found that there was another truth.

  “Why?” he asked again.

  “Do not press me on this.” She faced him and looked him in the eye, her lips forming a thin line. “Please!”

  Again there was silence between them. Tristan decided to let it pass for now. Somehow, this reunion was not turning out at all as he might have envisioned. In truth, he had not known what it would be, and now he wondered if he had been wise in coming here at all. He considered leaving, but thought of another question that had burned within him for years.

  “How did father come to know of Rhonwellt and me?”

  Claire sighed but could not look at Tristan.

  “Is it so very important?” she asked. “He found out. That is all”

  “It is very important to me. How did he know?”

  She put her face in her hands and shook her head slightly.

  “I have dreaded this moment,” she said, “but I guess it is your right to know. It is not news you will welcome.”

  “I am sure I will not. I have suspicions, and I must know.” Suddenly, a thought came to him he had never considered. “Was it you?”

  “No, it was not.” Putting her hand on his arm and searched his face. An eerie silence fell over them. Tristan watched her struggle with the decision. “It was Declan.”

  Tristan stood there, working the muscles of his jaw, unable to speak.

  “I had wondered as much.” he said at last. “But, why?”

  “A great many reasons come to mind. But you will have to ask him to know the truth of it.”

  “The point of my sword will know the truth of it as his guts spill out onto the ground!” Unconsciously, his body assumed a fighting stance.

  Claire put her hand on his. “I am sure that could be easily done. Declan is no fighter. He is a schemer, out for his own gain. Killing him will change none of the past, and will only succeed in staining the future with blood. Are you sure you want that?”

  “I want justice!”

  “What is justice? Killing your brother will change nothing that happened!”

  “Do you defend him?”

  “I understand him. He saw what was to be his future and was desperate to change it. It was not just, but it happened. He was twelve years old and not yet able to think as a man.”

  “Treachery is a man's art. He proved old enough for that! Am I to simply forget?”

  “I know you cannot. But there must be another solution.”

  “Well if you know of it, madam, pray tell me. For I can see no other.”

  “Killing Declan will not end it.”

  “You have still not told me why Declan betrayed me. How did he even know of Rhonwellt and me?”

  “As I have said, Declan is a schemer. His whole childhood was lived in your shadow. He made it his business to know. You know the fate of second sons. Your return will not be welcomed by either Declan or his son. There is much at stake and neither will relinquish it readily.”

  “Neither the money nor the lands are the issue, though they are my birthright. I am entitled to a knight's fee of my own in return for my time in the Holy Land. And I am not without coin. I wi
ll do well without Pont Lliw. But, because of Declan, I have been deprived of my family and everything else that would have been mine. What he did to me was unthinkable. What he did to us was unthinkable. Have you forgotten that he destroyed Rhonwellt and his family as well?”

  “I have not forgotten,” Claire responded quietly.

  “He should have killed me himself, to be sure I never returned. That was his mistake. Now he will have to deal with the consequences.”

  Claire looked furtively around the garden then turned to him with big, solemn eyes. “There is much more to all of this than you know. It is time that you are told the whole truth. ”

  Fifteen

  Tristan sat his horse in front of the ruins. The sun, warm on his back, could not thaw the icy chill gripping his heart. His mothers words still echoed in his mind. Her revelation had been stunning. So much that had transpired had been kept from him, and the sudden admission of it all altered what he had known of the past while repainting the present and future. Nothing had been as it appeared to be. Finally, learning for certain his brother had been his betrayer staggered him. It filled him with rage and thoughts of revenge. He spent two full cycles of the seasons wandering the desert in the East trying to purge himself of his rage and its stranglehold. He thought he had successfully emptied his heart and left this ghostly companion behind left behind. He was disconcerted to see how quickly it had returned.

  He wanted wine and the oblivion it brought. Grabbing the skin tied to his saddle, he took a long, comforting drink. He felt its tender embrace as it travelled down past his blistered heart to warm his stomach and soothe his misery. With renewed regret he wished he had brought more to ease the hours ahead. Greedily, he took another drink and replaced the stopper.

  Declan would never have been suited for life in a cloister. Being his fate, it did not stretch the imagination to know that he would have sought any means to avoid it. Yet, Tristan found it hard to believe that his brother could employ such treachery at so young an age. The lives of so many people had been inextricably altered due toit. And, in the end, it had all been for naught.

  Riding aimlessly for hours trying to calm the tempest swirling within him, morning had progressed into afternoon and finally into evening when Tristan found himself at the intersection of the road leading to Croesfan Lliw, the small barony that had belonged to Lord Grenteville. To anyone’s knowledge, Grenteville had no heirs, and upon his death at Tristan’s hands his estate would have escheated back to the king for a year and eventually back to Lord Gloucester. If the estate had not been squatted, then it would be abandoned these many years.

  Tristan guided Sag into the lane that led to the manor. Though the sun had dipped below the tree tops, there was still plenty of light. Growth crowding in from either side showed the road was seldom travelled. Remnants of past prosperity could still be seen as he peered through the trees and shrubs. The distance to the manor was several furlongs. Phantoms of low stone walls lined part of the track. A trifling stream had worn a trough through the road about half way in. Shallow enough to wade through in years past, he recalled, the cut was now knee deep and fast moving. Too wide for Sag to jump, they would need to find a place to cross.

  Threading through the trees, they skirted the rill until the hall was in sight. Seeing it now brought a flood of mixed memories into his already troubled mind. Far grander in its day than Pont Lliw, it now stood in sad disrepair at the edge of a stand of trees. New spring growth pushed its way up through a mat of dead grass that covered a large expanse of meadow behind the trees. Most of the hall roof was rotted or gone. Although only occasional sheaves of thatch hung forlornly from a few surviving purlins, much of the elaborate oak truss-work remained. Well-executed masonry accounted for walls that stood mostly intact with only a couple of window openings crumbling in decay. The great oaken door with the huge decorative iron hinges he remembered as a youth was gone.

  Absorbed in the memories, he nearly missed it. Something moved in the trees just to the East of the hall. From this distance he could not be sure and he cursed his feeble eyesight made worse by the dimness of the rapidly advancing pre-twilight. Before scanning the woodland again, he glanced at Sag’s ears for any sign and saw them pivot toward the place where he had seen the flash of movement. He squinted in an effort to make his aging eyes see. Senses alert, head cocked to the side, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He urged Sag forward.

  Advancing a half-furlong and seeing nothing further, he began to wonder if he had been mistaken. He forced his body to relax but sat tall in the saddle while he surveyed the rest of the landscape. To the left was a small barn showing much the same plight as the hall, while the compact chapel with its slate roof built years later looked barely touched by time. The surrounding defensive ditch had partially filled; the rampart, comprised of the removed earth, had slowly eroded with time and looked now to be just undulating terrain. Despite the current condition, Tristan could easily envision a bustling enterprise with people and animals milling about engaged in the daily activities of keeping such an estate profitable and viable.

  Locating a shallow to ford the rill, he rode up the incline to the hall. Ducking low to get through the door, he dismounted inside. Birds nesting in the trusses voiced loud disapproval. Feathers and dust motes drifted on the air as they called and fluttered about, agitated at the disturbance. The room had been stripped bare of any furniture, the screens either taken or burned as well as the window shutters, and the tapestries had long ago been removed from the walls by looters. Animal droppings and feathers littered the floor. The bones and detritus of meager meals tossed nearby must have been recent for animals not to have carried them away. It appeared travelers knew of this spot and used it as a refuge for the night.

  There was charred wood and ash from many fires in the hearth. Bending low to put his hand over them, he was alarmed to find them still warm. They were not from a morning fire, but one more recent. With slow and determined movement, he stood up and glanced around the space, looking for further signs of habitation.

  Tristan walked to the far end of the great room and began to mount the stone steps leading to the solar stretched across the back above the kitchens. Stealing a glance in Sag’s direction, he saw the courser toss his head and issue a terse snort. His back tight against the wall, the knight advanced up the stairs, placing each foot with care, his faculties ever vigilant. He drew his sword, the action slow to keep the steel from singing out as it dragged against the bronze ring at the mouth of the leather scabbard.

  At the top of the stairs, a landing opened into a large bedroom. He peered around the corner and scanned the space. It was empty, relieved of its furnishings. Damage to the floor was minimal. The roof here had succumbed less to the ravages of time, and the solar afforded the best shelter in the hall. A door in one wall indicated another chamber to the right off this one. He approached the entry leading to it and looked in. A ragged brychan was thrown carelessly across a pallet of dried grass that lay against the inner wall.

  An urgent squeal from Sag, accompanied by the sound of his hooves pounding the packed dirt floor below, sent Tristan racing for the stairs. He reached the landing and looking down into the great room saw the stallion rear up on his hind legs, his forelegs flailing, hooves pawing the air.

  “Get off me, you bloody beast!”

  Sag had brought to bay a lad cowering in a corner at the opposite end of the hall, his arms in front of his face as protection against the flailing hooves. About seventeen summers, dressed in rags, hair like straw, Tristan thought he resembled a scarecrow fallen from its pole in the field. The lad picked up a small stone and threw it in the stallion’s direction. As Tristan brought two fingers to his lips, a shrill whistle split the air. Without hesitation, Sag settled on four feet.

  “He knows only one rider and does not look kindly on anyone else who attempts to mount him.” Another whistle from the knight, this time low and warbling, saw the stallion back away a few paces from the lad and
stand.

  “I never…” protested the scarecrow.

  “In your attempt to steal him, you should have just led him away. He might have followed. Unlikely, but he might have. Instead, you thought to ride him to make your escape.”

  The lad’s eyes continually shifted back and forth between the stallion and Tristan.

  “Just call him off!”

  “He will not harm you now, scarecrow. Step away toward the hearth.” Tristan descended the stairs quickly and crossed the floor. Rising, the scarecrow advanced toward the hearth, eyeing the sword still in the knight’s hand. “He is a handsome horse. How much did you think he would bring if you could have gotten him away? More coin than you have ever seen I am sure.” Tristan sheathed his sword. In a trice, he covered the distance to the scarecrow, and with one hand, grabbed the front of his rags and, lifting him off the ground, stood face to face with him, noses almost touching. The lad lowered his eyes to see the point of a dagger threatening the soft skin of his throat.

  “You are a thief,” said Tristan through clenched teeth, “and a very bad one, by the look. I should sever your hand now as an inept highwayman. At least it would save you from the gibbet as a horse thief.”

  Panic filled the youths eyes and his breath came in short pants. Tristan could feel him tremble in his grasp as the lad’s head slowly shook from side to side. “Please, …my lord. No.”

  They stood eye to eye for many moments. “I shall do neither,” said Tristan holding the youth at arms length, looking him up and down. A small grin formed across his mouth “At least you have not wet yourself. I will say that for you.” Just as quickly as he had grabbed him, the knight let the scarecrow go with a shove, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Make a fire,” he ordered.

  “I do not serve you!” spat the youth, his insolence reignited once he knew he would not lose his hand.

  “Tonight you do,” said Tristan, “as payment for keeping your hand.” The lad eyed him, an attempt at insolence in his manner. He did not move. “Do it! Now!”

  “I got no tow,” said the scarecrow.