Ciaran crowded in next to Rhonwellt and was about to lift the cover when the chapel bell began to sound, summoning them to prayers. The two monks looked at each other and Ciaran saw a frown spread across Rhonwellt's face. “We shall have to postpone this until the morrow,” said Rhonwellt. “It is already the Hour of Vigils and after prayers we should retire. Run along lad so as to be prompt and avoid Prior Alwyn’s displeasure. I shall follow after extinguishing the lamps.”
“Yes, Brother Rhonwellt,” replied Ciaran as he turned and made for the door.
✞ ✞ ✞
Rhonwellt returned the stack of parchments to Brother Mark’s desk and began extinguishing the lamps as he heard Ciaran race down the steps on his way to the chancel. He put out the last cresset, set in the wall by the doorway, stepped out of the scriptorium and closed the door behind him. Something was wrong. There was no sound, even Ciaran’s footsteps were stilled.
“Brother Rhonwellt, come quickly. Hurry!” The urgency in Ciaran’s voice startled Rhonwellt.
He hurried down to the courtyard and found the young novice standing near the wall to the workshop.
“There, brother,” said Ciaran. “Look.”
First, Rhonwellt spied the legs, calfskin boots bathed in moonlight, silvery wraiths seeping from the shadows of the building. He froze, just stood there looking down, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The body lay wrapped in a cloak, in the middle of an expanding pool of its own fresh blood, shining black in the moonlight. The body lay on its side, the head twisted nearly around as if to see who followed, eyes wide as though discovering it was the Devil himself. The face was young, owning no more than sixteen summers.
“Is he… dead?” Ciaran asked with a quavering voice, making the sign of the cross.
Rhonwellt regained himself, and with a low groan knelt down and put his hand to the artery in the neck. He could feel no rush of blood surge past his fingers. Sensing no life, he too, signed the cross.
“May God have mercy on him, it is so. As he is still warm to the touch, his soul only recently took flight.” Overcome with foreboding, tingles ran up Rhonwellt’s spine and the hair on his arms stood on end. Was the murderer still nearby, watching from the shadows?
“Who can it be, Brother Rhonwellt?” asked Ciaran. Rhonwellt barely heard the novice until he leaned in so close the monk could feel him trembling.
“I cannot be certain. His clothes are not those of a villein or a street lad. He is high-born. It may our mysterious stranger, the one who sought out Brother Mark in the village before his death.”
“I have never seen him before. He is not from Cydweli,” said Ciaran, head drooping in dread, his shoulders hunched.
“No lad, he is not. If it is as I suspect, he is Sir Tristan’s nephew, Isidore.”
“How came you to that?” Ciaran asked.
“Sir Tristan said his brother and eldest son were in town searching for the younger. The description fits.”
“Then this would be the friend of whom Brother Mark spoke to me with such vagueness in the kitchens.”
Rhonwellt acknowledged with a nod.
“How… did he…die?”
“He was stabbed. The blade is still embedded in his back.” Rhonwellt carefully pulled the weapon from the body and probed the area of the wound with his fingers. “The blade entered between the third and fourth ribs, a direct path to the heart. A swift way to die, rest assured. Whoever did this was strong. The knife pierced his cloak, his tunic and cotte and yet reached its mark with the precision of one trained in the art of murder.”
Rhonwellt examined the knife. Well crafted and costly, it had a straight, slender, double-edged blue steel blade, engraved the length of it, nearly as long as the youth’s forearm, a bronze cross-guard in the shape of a writhing dragon, a leather covered grip, and a pommel affixed with a large blue gemstone.
Ciaran fell to his knees and began mumbling a prayer.
“Lad, there will be time enough to pray for his deliverance. Quickly. Go and summon Prior Alwyn and medicus.”
“He will not relish the news I bear.”
“He will not. But it cannot be helped. Now, please hurry.”
Rhonwellt heard Ciaran retreat across the courtyard towards the dorter. Closing his eyes and squeezing a tear from the corner of one, a question raced through his mind. What was our sin that would cause Death to visit us again so quickly? He searched for a possible answer but found none. Exhaling a deep breath with a sigh, he opened his eyes and absently took one of the youth’s hands in his. His voice low and sad, he said, “Surely, you have not enough time on you to have committed any sin grave enough to warrant this.”
Silently, Rhonwellt rolled the body onto its back and turned the head forward to make it appear at rest. With his thumb, he sketched the sign of the cross on the youth’s forehead and in the same motion, caressed the soft cheek with his fingers. The sightless eyes, staring in death at some unknown horror, became too much for Rhonwellt. He gently pushed the lids closed, but when he took his hand away, they slowly reopened as if to accuse their attacker anew. He closed them once more and held his hand there, waiting for the muscles to relax.
Rhonwellt heard a faint footfall behind him and was about to turn when something rushed past his eyes and wrapped around his neck. A cord! He felt powerful hands quickly draw it tight. He was yanked to his feet, but lost his footing and stumbled. The weight of his falling body caused the cord to cut further into his neck. He tried to struggle. Dropping the knife, he clawed at the hands holding the noose.
Hot breath blew past his ear, sounding like a gale wind blowing in from the sea. “Do not struggle, monk. Be at peace.” The voice was raspy, the soothing words empty, carrying no such emotion. “Prepare to meet your God, or His Demon.” The voice chuckled.
Rhonwellt silently screamed at God in defiance as he fought to loosen the cord. You saved me from death before. For what––for this? Damn you!
Dizziness started to overtake him as he tried in vain to turn and face his attacker. He had to know who it was. The noose tightened. He could feel his air being closed off and the pain from the cord was agony as it continued to cut into his flesh. His lungs were on fire. They screamed for air. He heaved his chest trying to fill them, but they would accept nothing. The pounding of his heart beat so loud in his ears he thought he would succumb from the noise alone.
“Now he will know the pain of losing someone he values,” said the voice.
Desperate, he once more clawed at the hands at his throat, this time feeling the flesh tear from the onslaught of his nails. His attacker growled. He clawed harder. Then, Rhonwellt felt himself slip into the black nothingness. Resignation formed a prayer for the preservation of his soul on his silent lips, while the strong smell of frankincense and a savor of clove floated past his nostrils.
✞ ✞ ✞
“Brother Rhonwellt, they are coming!” Ciaran shouted as he ran back across the courtyard. Reaching the spot where he had last seen Rhonwellt, the novice stopped, abruptly.
“Oh no!” his agonizing wail pierced the night. “Please, God, no!” he cried. He flung himself down and embraced the still figure. “Brother Rhonwellt!” Ciaran began to shake his friend to try to revive him, but Rhonwellt remained still, his body limp and lifeless. Putting his ear to Rhonwellt’s chest, Ciaran heard the faint thump of a heartbeat.
“God be praised,” he whispered.
Prior Alwyn and several brothers gathered around the bodies laying side-by-side on the stones. Several signed the cross.
“Mother of God, two more,” exclaimed the prior as he wedged his way through the knot of monks staring down at the ground.
“The youth is dead,” cried Ciaran, indicated the body of Isidore. “Brother Rhonwellt’s heart still beats, but he will not awaken.” Ciaran shook him again. “Speak to me, brother. Please!” He could not hide the agony he felt.
“Bring light!” commanded the prior.
One of the brothers scurried away and retur
ned quickly with a a blazing torch.
“Brother Julian,” commanded Brother Anselm, “bring me linen from the infirmary, if you please, and some salve.”
Julian hesitated a moment, looked worriedly at Rhonwellt, and left.
“There is a deep cut to his throat,” Anselm observed, bending over to peer at Rhonwellt’s neck. “It is the mark of a garrote. Why should an executioner attack one of us?”
“Why, indeed?” echoed the prior.
Brother Julian returned with the supplies, and the medicus set him to work cleaning the blood from Rhonwellt’s neck and applying salve to the wound.
“Has he also been stabbed?” inquired Anselm.
“I can find no other wound,” replied Ciaran after a quick examination.
“We must get him to the infirmary. It worries me he has not yet awakened. I fear something is terribly wrong.”
With great gentleness, several brothers lifted Rhonwellt and carried him away.
“How came you both to be absent your beds at this late hour, Brother Ciaran?” asked the prior.
“Sleep eluded us both,” said Ciaran. “Brother Rhonwellt and I were in the scriptorium. Unable to concentrate on work, Brother Rhonwellt had decided to prepare a pot of ink for use on the morrow. I had just discovered a strange parchment on Brother Mark’s desk when the bell summoned us to Vigils. I went ahead while Brother Rhonwellt remained to snuff the lights.” Ciaran tried to swallow it down, but the sob escaped against his will. He needed a moment to regain himself. After inhaling deeply, he went on. “Reaching the bottom of the stair, I saw something lying in the shadows and went to see what it might be. It was the one who lies there,” he said, indicating the youth. “He had been stabbed and lay dead. Brother Rhonwellt had extracted the knife and was holding it as I left him.”
“It is here,” said Brother Remigius, picking up the knife from the ground nearby. “He must have dropped it when he was attacked.” Remigius handed it to the prior.
“This knife is costly and well made. It is most unusual.” observed Alwyn, turning it over in his hands and studying it. “It is neither Norman nor Saxon.”
“Who would possess such a weapon?” Brother Jerome asked.
“Sir Tristan has such a knife,” said Ciaran.
“Rhonwellt’s knight?” said Alwyn.
“I have witnessed it among his belongings,” the novice continued. “He said it belonged to his squire who died in the east. He holds it in great esteem.”
“It would seem there is more to Brother Rhonwellt’s knight than honor and truth.” At the sound of Gilbert’s sneering words, Ciaran swung his head around. The grousing monk’s eyes gleamed with pleasure in the torchlight. “Could he also be a murderer?”
“Surely you dare not think Sir Tristan had any to do with this?” spat Ciaran.
“He has recently returned from the East,” accused Gilbert, “and is one of whom we know so very little.”
“It is simply not possible,” retorted Ciaran. “He loves Brother Rhonwellt.”
Ciaran regretted his words. Brother Gilbert raised an eyebrow, accompanied by a haughty look of disapproval. There was a hushed reaction among the monks.
“A most strange way to show love. Have you another suggestion?” said Gilbert, pressing his point.
“Sir Tristan has been away this day,” said Ciaran, “gone to Neath.”
“Perhaps so, brother,” said the prior, “but how do we explain his knife in this body.”
“I do not know, Father Prior.” Ciaran shrugged his shoulders. “His kit has been in the guest quarters since his arrival. Other than the cloister, we are not walled, and our outbuildings are accessible. If it truly is his, anyone could have taken it.”
“Yes, I suppose, if they knew it to be there.” The prior looked down at the body. “Do we know the identity of this unfortunate lad?”
“He is not a villein,” said the familiar voice of Brother Llywarch. “His clothes are too fine,”
“I believe him to be someone who was friend to Brother Mark,” said Ciaran.
“Brother Mark did not have friends,” said another voice, dripping with bitterness. Ciaran thought it to be Brother Onslow.
“It would seem you are in possession of much information concerning this,” said the prior. “Perhaps you could relate to me what you have learned?”
Brother Ciaran gave account of all the facts he had concerning Rhonwellt and Tristan’s inquiries into the death of Brother Mark. “They ascertained he was meeting someone not of the brotherhood and, in conversation, he told me of a friend he had who wished to take vows.”
“There are,” added Brother Jerome, “two men from Neath lodged at the inn who inquire after a young man of this description. Perhaps it is he whom they seek.”
“Well, there is nothing to be done at this hour,” said the prior, exhaustion weighting his words. “Convey him to the cellarium to be laid out until his identity can be verified. The chill there will retard the body’s decay. I shall send someone to the inn on the morrow to collect these men from Neath to see if they are able prove to him.”
Seventeen
The morning sun oozed over the top of the dune, unnoticed, its arrival heralded only by the cymbaline song of steel on steel, descant to the screams of men and mounts. Boots and hooves churned up a fine, choking dust that swirled about like a sandstorm, reducing visibility to a few feet. Blades rent the air, banged percussively against shields, sliced through muscle and bone. There was blood everywhere. It seeped into the sand under their feet, covered the men’s armor and soaked their tunics, turned the legs and rumps of their horses red. It dripped from their blades and shields and ran down their faces into terror-filled eyes. Its metallic scent, mingled with the fetid smell of death, hovered heavily over the whole of the field.
As Sag sidled up to a Persian rider, Tristan gripped the stallion’s sides tightly with his knees, swung his sword with one hand, his other fending off blows with his shield. A well-aimed slice caught a Persian rider in the neck, nearly severing his head. The rider fell from his horse, landing without grace on the sand. Lifeless eyes stared upward just before a hoof obliterated the face from sight.
To his opposite side, enemy eyes stared wide with astonishment, as life spurted from the end of a Saracen’s arm where his hand had been just moments before. Tristan maneuverd Sag around just in time to see a bronze-pointed shaft coming his way, wielded by a lancer. Deflecting the blow with his shield, his sword sliced through the air again, parting the shaft while parrying it down and away. Amjhad appeared behind the pikeman thrusting his sword into the man’s back. Tristan nodded and spun the stallion around to face the next attack.
With incessant savagery, casualties mounted with every passing moment. Tristan continued to slash and thrust his way through the melee of horses and bodies, men and mounts falling all around him. Those left standing tripped over the dead, slipping on the blood-slimed sand beneath their feet. Distracted by movement to his right, Tristan allowed his shield to drop a few inches. A glancing blow caught him on the upper arm just below his shoulder, slicing through a few links of his mail and cutting his skin. He grimaced at the pain, grateful it was not his sword arm. Amjhad rode in fast and hard to aid his master, the two of them fighting side by side, thrusting and parrying blows. The olive-skinned youth’s zeal for the heat of battle showed in his dark eyes and the gleaming white smile splayed across his face.
His helmet liner soaked, sweat trickled down Tristan’s back as he turned his attention to a trio of Persian riders inching their way through the melee in his direction, swords aloft and trilling their eerie, high-pitched battle cry. The keening sound always made the hair on Tristan’s neck stand proud. He swung his blade hard to the right only to have it bounce off a shield with a dull thud.
The noise around him was deafening and his ears had begun to ring. A horse screamed to his rear and would have gone unnoticed. But a familiar horse’s voice can be as recognizable as that of a man. He spun his he
ad around to see Amjhad’s mount crumble beneath him and sink slowly to the sand. The young squire slid off to the side, the point of a sword protruding from his chest. Tristan jerked the stallion’s reins to the right so quickly the horse reared up on its hind legs. The knight felt his mouth open to an unearthly noise but could not tell if it was his own voice, or that of another coming from the din of the battle.
As if directed by the hand of God, a spot opened in the melee around Amjhad. His horse struggled to its feet and spun around in confusion, leaving the bleeding boy alone on the sand. Tristan slid from his saddle. He pushed the flank of Amjhad’s horse to keep him clear, then went quickly to the young man lying on his side. The sand was already dark with his blood. Looking down, he knew the wound to be mortal. Tristan braced his foot against Amjhad’s body and pulled the sword free. The knight knelt down and rolled the lad onto his back. Taking his head in one hand, he gently caressed the squire’s forehead with the other.
Amjhad’s lips parted as his eyes darted back and forth, side to side. He raised a bloody hand and touched Tristan’s face. The knight grabbed it and held it to his cheek.
“Master…” the boy whispered hoarsely and then Amjhad’s eyes grew dull as his life flowed out onto the sand. Tristan turned his face away momentarily to steel himself. When he looked again, his eyes opened wide in disbelief. The face before him no longer belonged to Amjhad. Instead, the face of Rhonwellt, as he appeared in his youth, peered up at him through a death mask.
Tristan twisted his body violently. He searched for validation that what he saw was real. There was no one else there. He was on his knees, alone, and drenched in sweat, the world around cloaked in an eerie silence. The knight staggered to his feet, flailing blindly. He grabbed his head and shook it, trying to rid himself of the image. Gasping for breath, coughing and spitting, Tristan tried to focus his eyes. He fought to get his bearings, to remember where he was. Spinning in the darkness, the world around him slowly began to come into gloomy view. There was no desert, no war. He was back in Wales. The only battle at hand was an aftermath of the one lost to time spread out around him.
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