“Then make some. There is a dead birch outside the door. But, I am sure you already know that. Since you have had a fire, you must have a tinderbox. So, be about it with no further delay.”
“My kit be in the solar.”
“Then get it!” Tristan had run out of patience.
“What if I run? You be a knight sure, but old. I could outstrip you, easy.”
The comment struck Tristan hard. No one was more aware of his advancing age than he. Clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white, he worked the muscles of his jaw. “That may be true. You still have the vigor of youth. But you cannot outrun him,” he said, nodding his head toward the stallion. “If I told him to, Sag would chase you until one of you dropped, and that would not be him. On that, you have my oath.”
The scarecrow studied Tristan closely. The knight felt his eyes burn into him. The lad was young, stubborn and full of himself. “However, if you wish to flee, I shall not stop you. Plan it while you build a fire if you like. At least I would not have to feed you.” Tristan took a step toward where the lad still lay after being thrown. “God’s teeth, boy, do not trifle with me! Now, build a bloody fire!”
While the scarecrow ran to the solar for his kit, Tristan walked to the stallion, grabbed his wineskin and took a long drink. “Bloody hell,” he said to the courser, leaning his head against the saddle. “Looks like we both shall sleep with one eye open this night.”
Tristan freed Sag of his saddle as darkness began fall, while the scarecrow set about building a fire. In no mood to hunt for his evening meal and having little stomach for food, he would be content with the last of his dry bread and remainder of his wine. Meager fare to share. Though the lad had a wild and rangy look about him, Tristan could see he was resourceful and had not missed too many meals. Unless the knight missed his guess, scarecrow had dined on meat in the last day.
A friendly blaze alight in the hearth belied the atmosphere as the two sat in an uneasy silence on opposite sides of the fire. Tristan had not intended company, and the lad’s presence did not play well with his mood. The lad’s pinched brow, narrowed eyes, and pouting lips said he felt the same. The knight tore off a chunk of bread and held it out to the youth. His face lowered while looking out the top of his brow, he declined with a shake of his head, but looked longingly at the wineskin. Tristan put the skin to his lips, put his head back, took three large gulps and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Scarecrow wet his lips and continued to stare. With one more large gulp wending its way to his stomach, Tristan stoppered the skin and after the slightest hesitation, tossed it across the fire. With the speed of a sleeping dog waking to catch a bone thrown from the table, scarecrow caught it and drained the last of its contents.
Resting his head on his saddle, Tristan lay back and stared at the sky overhead through an opening in the decaying roof. He had spent so long lamenting the loss of a familial love that had existed only in his mind, Tristan could not determine precisely what it was he should be feeling. Arranged marriages were common and Tristan had always known that his parents had entered into such a union with very little real love or affection between them. He had always suspected that his father had at least one mistress. However, the news that his mother too had sought attention in the arms of another was a stunning revelation; that there had been a child seemed unimaginable; that child turning out to be Declan, impossible. She believed her husband had never known the truth, and only after his death did she find he had always known. With that, Declan had learned he held no birthright and if that actuality had become known, under Norman law he could not inherit. Because of it, his mother had said, a dark cloud settled over Declan’s life and he was forever changed by the news.
Fearing a bout with melancholy, Tristan drove these thoughts from his mind, and instead, searched the sky. The stars in the heavens this far North and West were not the same as those over the southerly deserts of Persia. Different from the ones that had shone over the camps, these distantly familiar constellations were the ones he had gazed upon with a young Rhonwellt wrapped tightly in his arms so long ago; a memory that he could only now allow himself to conjure up after being forbidden these many years. In his mind he could feel the warmth of Rhonwellt’s body, the earthy smell of hay in his hair, the musty odor of wood smoke on his clothes. He could hear the sound of his laughter, feel the heat of his breath on his neck. With the tenderness of these memories trying to thaw his cold heart and the warmth of wine warding off the chill of the night, he felt himself being lulled into sleep.
“You be him.”
“Who?” asked Tristan.
“The sod’mite.”
The scarecrow’s mispronunciation had done nothing to lessen the impact. The word hung frozen in the air between them, dead as the body at the end of a gibbet rope after the jerking and twisting of its soul struggling for release had ceased.
Tristan could feel the heat rise in him as he digested the moment. His lips twitched. The question burned in him though he was unable to put voice to it.
As if reading his mind, scarecrow replied, “I just know, is all.”
Tristan did not move for a long time, but continued to look for something in the stars overhead, perhaps a response, he was not sure. What was there to say? With a quiet sigh, he turned onto his side to face the fire. Sliding his dagger from its sheath, he held it close to him, took one last glance at scarecrow, and closed his eyes.
✞ ✞ ✞
The candle sputtered in its holder from some bit of unseen impurity in the wax. Tallow was far less desirable to beeswax, known to hiss and spit while giving off sooty black smoke and less light, but Brother Rhonwellt was being frugal. The priory apiary could not supply sufficient wax for the brothers’ use and thus their supply was supplemented by purchase. Beeswax was expensive. The hour was late, long past Compline, and by design, he was the only one at work in the scriptorium. He had come when evening prayers were completed to seek the solitude of his work table to think. Coals from the small brazier near his desk gave off a warm glow, countering the chill of the evening and illuminating his face in amber light, while the dancing flame of the candle gave movement to his features. Though trained on the parchment in front of him, his eyes did not focus there. Instead, they conjured events far from his surroundings.
Tristan had been gone since evening last, and Rhonwellt had wandered aimlessly through the routine of his day. After mumbling through his prayers, he opted for a few hours work in the garden where mental concentration would not be required, just physical movement. With Tristan gone, feelings arose in Rhonwellt he had trouble naming. He was not sure yearning was accurate, but he was surprised how quickly he had grown accustomed to having the knight near and how he could think of little else. Except of course, the grisly murder of Brother Mark and the mysterious events leading up to it. He could not help thinking that the murder and the theft of the Medica had happened too close in time to each other to be merely coincidental. Brother Mark had been intimately involved with the Leechbook project, then the Medica had been stolen and now the monk was dead, all in the span of a few days. They must be connected. The question was how.
Rhonwellt was restless. Sleep would not come easily this night. He tried to keep busy but lack of concentration on the page in front of him caused him to decide upon another task. He rose from his desk and walked to a long table made of planks and trestles at the end of the room nearest the door. He lit a cresset lamp hanging overhead, its glow revealing an odd assortment of vessels and bowls containing the various ingredients for making ink and paint. Ordinarily the purview of the novices charged with aiding the scribes, Rhonwellt preferred to make his own inks. He pulled a large pot covered with a wooden lid towards him. In it was a dark, thick liquid with a pungent, earthy smell. The broth was the result of Hawthorn bark pounded from dried branches mixed with crushed oak galls, soaked in rainwater for about nine days, and then boiled to thicken. As it boiled, white wine was added turning it from brown to black. Rhonwellt stirr
ed it with a spoon to test the consistency. It was nearly ready to be put into a water tight waxed-cloth bag and hung in the sun or near the kitchen fires, close enough to the warmth to dry but not so close as to melt the wax.
Staring at his own dim reflection in the shiny black surface of the liquid, Rhonwellt soon disappeared into the depth of it. This feeling of longing was unfamiliar to him. Even the memory of it was remote. He knew not where it came from nor where it belonged. Somehow it felt wrong, and yet the ache of it was reassuring. It meant that his heart, beginning to feel again after all this time, could now be reached by the warmth of caring after so many years of cold indifference. Even his feelings for Ciaran, though genuine, were guarded. He could not reconcile this longing with the vows he had taken so long ago. How can something be right and wrong at the same time? He shook his head to clear it.
Covering the container again, he reached for a bag, its contents dried and ready to mix. He poured some of the powder into a clay bowl, chipped and stained from much use, and ran his fingers through the fine grains to break up any lumps from the drying process. Next, he lifted down a small clay jar filled with a green crystalline substance, a mixture of sulphuric earth mixed with vinegar in which small bits of iron were soaked for several days, strained and then dried. He added a portion of the green vitriol to the powder and mixed them thoroughly, throwing in some acacia gum, a few grains at a time, to thicken. Lastly, just enough white wine was poured in to turn it back into a liquid, and some powdered egg shell to tame the caustic solution. He reached for the fig branch laying nearby and began to mix it. He had no idea why a fig branch was necessary, only that it had always been done this way, and tradition was everything. His mind wandering again, the bowl tipped and rolled off the edge of the table, crashing to the floor.
“God’s teeth!” Rhonwellt exclaimed in exasperation as he stood staring at the ink running down the front of his robe and rolling across the floor at his feet.
Sixteen
Hood up, eyes to the ground, Ciaran made his way across the courtyard. Always in a hurry, he travelled as fast as his large feet would carry him. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he lifted the hem of his robe and started to climb when he heard the crash of pottery followed by a curse that bounced off the walls. The young novice blushed at the words of the familiar voice.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the top and burst through the door to find Rhonwellt on his hands and knees attempting to corral a flood of ink spreading out before him.
“Brother Rhonwellt, what has happened?” he inquired, suppressing a giggle and struggling to mask a grin.
“Quickly, lad. Bring me cloths to soak up this mess and stop asking foolish questions. It must be very evident what has happened.”
“Yes, brother, it is,” said the novice, the grin widening and the giggle no longer able to be contained. He collected cloths from a shelf of cast off linens along the side of the room. Returning, he bent to help.
“I find no humor in this,” said Rhonwellt.
Ciaran made no attempt to hide his smile. “I am sorry, brother,” he responded. “It is not your misfortune that I find humorous, rather the utterance that resulted.”
“Ah. It crept beyond this chamber, did it?”
“It did not creep at all, brother. In its boldness, I am sure that even God heard his teeth being praised, although I am not sure it is his mouth we are instructed to laud.”
Rhonwellt turned to Ciaran. “Your wit is honed to a fine edge this evening,” he said, good humor slowly returning to his voice.
Ciaran cast his eyes to the floor but could not wipe the grin from his face. Together, they continued cleaning the spill and when finished, cast the soiled cloths into a corner to be dealt with by the launderers, then stood to face each other in the dim glow of the cresset lamp.
“How is it that you are not in your bed, asleep?” Rhonwellt asked. “Should he awake, Brother Daffyd will needs come look for you.”
“I was awakened by Brother Remigius's snoring. It is especially bad this night. I knew it would be some time before sleep would return to take me, and I noticed you were absent from your cot. Are you unwell, brother?”
“My body is well, however, my heart is heavy and has me out of sorts.”
“What troubles you, brother?” Ciaran laid a hand on Rhonwellt’s arm.
“There is a litany of things to keep me from sleep this night.”
“Brother Mark?” Ciaran worried about the tired look to Rhonwellt’s eyes and the dark circles surrounding them.
“The weight of his death––no, his murder––proves a heavy burden,” remarked Rhonwellt with a sigh.
“I find Brother Mark never to be far from my mind as well.”
“Indeed, it has cast a pall over the entire cloister.” Rhonwellt’s attention seemed to stray for a moment, then he looked in Ciaran’s direction though his eyes were downcast. “Even those who bore no love for him are shocked by the savagery of the deed.”
“Many of the brothers fear his death is God’s retribution for his sins,” said Ciaran. “Those who, well, sought his favor fear the same fate awaits them. Since his death, there has been much lingering, between the late offices, for personal prayer.”
“It is during the hours of darkness,” said Rhonwellt, signing the cross, “when drowsiness has overcome us and left us vulnerable, that the Evil One comes most often to tempt us and steal our souls. It is frequently when men succumb to their lusts and is why they fear the night so. Men of God are no different.” Rhonwellt spread his hands on the work table and leaned his weight against them. “What is most puzzling to me is that Brother Mark’s murder occurred shortly after the theft of the Medica. I cannot help but wonder. Are these incidents related or random?”
As Rhonwellt busied himself mixing a fresh pot of ink, Ciaran wandered the aisle between the rows of writing desks, lingering occasionally to admire a page or passage that caught his eye. He stopped at the last desk in the row closest the window, Brother Mark’s.
Topmost on a pile of parchments lay a partially completed botanical drawing. A brushlike cattail labelled polygonum bistorta, the plant had long, pointed, tongue-shaped leaves on individual stems growing from the base, and a nodular root. The lines were smooth and confident, the depiction so full of life as if to grow right out of the page in front of him. Ciaran stood staring at the rendering with a sense of wonder at the rich technique displayed by the controversial monk. He ran his fingers over the image half expecting to feel the roughness of its dark medicinal root.
Behind the drawing were several pages of text showing the same control and attention to detail. The letters were uniform and carried the same height throughout. Even the places where he had to refresh his pen in the midst of creating a letter, there was barely a transition to be seen between the start and the finish. Moving the texts aside, Ciaran uncovered several practice sheets, work executed at the very beginning of a copy session to steady the hand and ready the pen before beginning on any pages of consequence. The last sheet uncovered had the ink of its lines smeared across the page.
“This is most strange,” said Ciaran, mostly to himself.
“What is strange?”
“This sheet of practice lines. See how the ink is smeared as though the sheet had been placed behind the others in some haste before it had dried. An act of carelessness not in keeping with Brother Mark's meticulous attention to care.”
Ciaran held the sheet up for Rhonwellt to see.
“You are right. It is certainly not like Brother Mark to do such a thing even with practice sheets,” said Rhonwellt.
“Neither are they the typical passages of scripture that most scribes use to warm their hand.”
Rhonwellt peered over Ciaran’s shoulder at the parchment.
Lucas XXII
Genesis XVIII
Matthaeus VII
Genesis V
Matthaeus IX
“They are scriptural references,” said Rhonwellt,
“five of them.”
“Yes, brother. But notice these others.” Ciaran pulled other sheets from the pile on the desk. “Here, for instance, the reference is from Corinthios, chapter eighteen. The passages are written out and in Latin.”
“This is a Holy House. Everything is written in Latin.” Rhonwellt’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Yes but, while some brothers translate their practice sheets into our own tongue to improve their skills at translation as well as penmanship, Brother Mark does not.” Ciaran held one of the sheets in front of Rhonwellt. “Notice here, in each passage the term caritatem autem, charity. Brother Mark would always choose several passages on a similar theme. It was easy for him. Items committed to Brother Mark’s memory were as etched in stone. He had memorized the entire Vulgate.” Ciaran pulled another sheet from the stack. “Here are several references from the Psalterio. They are all about joy. Notice how they all have some form of the word exultent. And this page, salvation. See,” he pointed to the word, “Salutem. However, this page,” he said, indicating the one with the ink smears again, “is entirely different. Only the chapter is listed. The passages have not been written out, and I do not think there is a commonality in theme.”
“Two of the citations are from the Pentateuch and the remaining three are from the Canonica,” observed Rhonwellt. “First, let us consult the Canonica.”
He walked to the large cabinet at the end of the room which contained the many tomes of the scriptorium library. The height of a man and half again, the cabinet was made from durable oak with two massive carved doors covering the front and capped with a large crown molding at the top. Inside, several shelves contained scores of rolled parchment and some bound books, volumes the monks used most often for copying and reference. On a shelf of their own, lay two significant tomes with covers of boiled leather, their dimensions nearly matching the length of a man’s arm in both directions. He pulled one of the hefty volumes out, carried it to the table, and laid it down with a thud. Canonica Euangelia Jesus Christus was embossed across the front cover in gold letters.
A Savor of Clove Page 17