Tristan stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees to keep from staggering. There was not enough air to fill his lungs, and his mouth was dry from his hoarse breathing. Retracing his steps to where he had been sleeping, he reached for his wineskin. The image of Rhonwellt’s face still lingered. The wineskin was gone.
Scarecrow! He had tossed it over the fire to the runaway before going to sleep. He stomped through the ashes in the hearth, sending buried embers flying with his heavy boots. He searched the earthen floor. The wineskin lay neglected, nearby. Scarecrow was nowhere to be seen. Tristan picked the skin up and shook it. Empty. He let loose a howl that bounced off the stone walls and disappeared into the night. The skin was empty. He threw it violently across the room and stumbled back through the hearth, across the room and out the door to the well in the courtyard.
There was no vessel to draw water and unlikely there was even water to be drawn. Moving clumsily through the night, tripping and falling on several occasions, he made for the stream that cut across the road a furlong away. He miscalculated the distance and upon reaching the ditch he fell headlong into it. Tristan raised himself to his hands and knees, shook himself violently and stopped. Scooping water into his hands he splashed his head and face and sucked some into his mouth. Muddy from his thrashing around, he spit it out.
He lurched to his feet and stood in the calf-deep water, staring at the bank. The specter of Amjhad’s death continually plagued his dreams. Every time it was the same; every time it ended with those black eyes looking up at him as the life faded from them. Every time except this time. Rather than producing feelings of pain and grief, this new vision of Rhonwellt staring up at him instead of Amjhad, unnerved him. He splashed more water on his head to clear it. He eyes stared, unable to see into the darkness, his mind searching for meaning.
“Why?” he rasped into the night. “Why his face this time?”
He crawled up the bank and stood at the top for a moment to gather himself, then started the walk back to the hall. “What portent…?”
Suddenly, like a blast of winter, a chill overtook him. The knight stopped, frozen in place, the hairs on his arms and neck again standing on end. His heart pounded in his chest and the air grew thick. “No! Whores in Hell, no!”
He started to run. Hysteria overtook him as he slipped and stumbled through the gloom, clawing his way back to the ruins of the hall. When he was nearly there, he whistled for Sag. The stallion stood alert and waiting as he entered the room. Frenzied, he saddled and readied the courser, grabbed his cloak and belongings. For some inexplicable reason, in his rush he made note that nothing seemed to be missing from his kit. Scarecrow had taken nothing. An insolent but honest thief.
With one final look at where he had last seen scarecrow, he went to the stallion and mounted. “The time has come, old son, to give me everything you have. Pray God we arrive in time.”
✞ ✞ ✞
The monks in the dorter tossed fitfully on their pallets, anticipating the bell for Prime. Vigils had turned to disaster, and after stumbling through Lauds, the brothers had been given a couple of hours respite to collect themselves after the horrors of the night before. Most arrived for Prime bleary eyed and numb, and the recitations lacked any conviction. The morning meal, taken in silence, was more sullen than usual, the lecturer droning through a reading that no one heard. Chapter was dispensed with for the day, the brothers being instructed to pray and meditate on the fragility of life, while taking their turns at sitting vigil with the corpse in the Presbytery or keeping a prayerful eye on Brother Rhonwellt lying unconscious in the infirmary. Remaining by his side throughout the night, Ciaran had finally succumbed to exhaustion and slept, seated on a stool, his head resting on the edge of the bed.
Brother Anselm roused himself from a nearby cot where he rested to be near his patient and approached to determine if there had been any progress in his condition in the last few hours. With great difficulty, the old monk bent to listen to the sounds emanating from Rhonwellt’s chest. The steadiness of his breath and the regular rhythm of his heart gave the medicus some hope for his recovery, but the fact that the monk had not yet awakened worried him.
Prior Alwyn entered and went directly to the cot where the stricken monk lay.
“He is yet insensate?” asked the prior.
“I fear he has lapsed into a state beyond sleep,” Anselm replied. “He is not dead, yet neither is he fully alive. It is a condition known to the Greeks as koma.”
“What would cause such a state?”
“The garrote deprived him of air for too long which has greatly traumatized his body. It is believed that the body forces itself into deep sleep to recover from such a trauma.”
“Will he awaken?”
“I cannot say. It is written this state of sleep can persist for days into weeks, though I have not witnessed it.” The old monk stopped and looked at his patient, stroking his chin. “If Brother Rhonwellt does not awaken in due time, he will eventually succumb to starvation and thirst.”
“He cannot eat or drink?”
“He cannot. The most we can accomplish is to wet his lips regularly, and let a few drops drip into his mouth. He is unable to swallow. Were his throat to open, too much at once could drown him.”
“There really is no way to tell the duration of this…koma?”
“There is not. He is of reasonable good health. He will be restored to us, or he will not. It is a matter of time.” Anselm brought his hands together and closed his eyes a moment before looking toward the heavens and crossing himself. “Pray God he has enough of it. We can do naught but wait. He is in God’s hands.”
Alwyn reached down and gently shook Ciaran to wake him. The novice opened his eyes slowly, stretched his long lithe body and yawned widely. With a start, he became alert and looked at Rhonwellt lying in the bed. He then searched the face of Brother Anselm. The old infirmarian only shook his head.
“Brother Ciaran,” said the prior, “it is time to be about your work.”
“Must I, Father Prior?” Ciaran grabbed Alwyn’s hand and bent to touch it with his forehead.
“My dear brother, you have demonstrated admirably your devotion to Brother Rhonwellt. None can fault you in this. However, you cannot remain here.”
“Please, Father Prior. I cannot abandon him.”
“He is not abandoned and will be well cared for. We all fear for his survival, but now it is up to the Almighty. Meanwhile, my son, we have a priory to run. Returning to your chores will give your mind other things to dwell on. Each brother has his duties, and you have yours.”
Closing his eyes, Ciaran drew a deep breath and nodded.
“Brother Ciaran, you must obey me in this. Duty shall befall you to attend with him again before the day is through,” the prior said. Taking the novice’s chin in his hand, he raised the young face to peer into his eyes. “Stay only a few moments more, but then you must be about your duties.”
✞ ✞ ✞
The pain on his father’s face at the news of Isidore’s death stabbed at Cyfnerth, believing that no such grief would manifest if it were he who had been killed. Accompanied by his servant, he followed the two monks through the front of the church. They paused briefly at the main altar before passing through to the Presbytery.
Entering the large, cool chamber, hand at rest on the hilt of his sword, Cyfnerth began to tense when he saw the bier. The body lay covered to the chin with a shroud, bathed in the eerie light from a half-dozen candles. Four monks sat vigil, offering prayers of deliverance.
Still some distance away, the familiar features of his younger sibling were already recognizable. Cyfnerth’s heart began to sink. He steeled himself, forging ahead until he stood next to Isidore’s remains. Rhawn hung back in the dim light, speechless, shifting his weight from foot to foot, appearing uncomfortable in the presence of the dead. Brother Llywarch pulled back the shroud.
“My lord?” the monk inquired gently.
“It is he,”
Cyfnerth replied, nearly inaudibly. His chin quivered as he fought back tears, sure that his heart would break. His hands began to shake but he fought the urge to give in to the grief.
Llywarch crossed himself, and giving Cyfnerth a short nod, waited a few moments before he spoke again.
“My lord,” he said gently, “as you can see, he is attired as we found him. There was much bleeding and there is mud and grime. Is it your desire to clothe him more suitably for mass and burial?”
“It is. I will see to it,” he said, regaining some of his composure as he addressed the monk.
“The priory stands ready to offer any assistance you may require.”
“Thank you, Brother. I shall send Rhawn back with a tunic and hose of mine. It will be a little large, but it will have to do.” Cyfnerth looked back at Isidore’s body. “It will please me to have him wear it.”
“As you wish, my lord. In the meantime, we shall wash and prepare his body.”
Taking a few coins out of his purse, Cyfnerth handed them to the cleric.
“I would have you say mass for him here, but he will be borne back to Neath for burial at Pont Lliw next to his grandfather.”
“Of course, my lord. I will notify the prior of your wish.”
“Leave me, please. I would commune with my brother for a while.”
“My lord.” said Llywarch as he motioned for the other monks to move discretely into the chancel.
Rhawn remained in the shadows, head down, while Cyfnerth approached Isidore, placing his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.
“What manner of trouble did find you, brother, that you should come to this?” Cyfnerth spoke softly. Isadore had owned their father’s love to his own lack of it yet, he loved him dearly in spite of it. It remained a mystery to him why their sire had withheld affection from his eldest and heir who but for his age, bore his likeness as that of a twin to favor the younger who carried no resemblance at all, as if he were sired by another. Such things mattered where sons were concerned. When he married, he would not make the same error.
He touched the cold hand at rest on the unmoving chest, blinking against the moisture welling in his eyes, his jaw set firm, quarreling with emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
“This was not father’s doing. He would not even hire another to do it. Of that, I am sure, no matter what he said. Yet, when you disagreed, I know he was angry enough to kill.”
Cyfnerth lifted Isidore’s hand in both of his, absently rubbing it with his thumbs. He traced the ring on his finger, a gift from their father when Isadore had reached fourteen summers.
“Would it surprise you to know that he loved you very much; more than he loved me? It pained me, but that was the truth of it.” Cyfnerth lifted his face toward the ceiling, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek.
“If he was hard on you,” he said, kneeling down and resting his forehead on the edge of the bier, “it was because he worried for your future, not due to any lack of affection. His hatred for the church would not let him honor your wish to join the brotherhood. Despite the fact that you would receive no inheritance, nor would you ever have made knight and earned your own right to lands, he would not let the monks have you. I never really understood why.”
Cyfnerth looked abruptly away, again. His jaw clenched, sobs shook his body. He let go of his brother’s hand and clenched his fists.
“Damn you,” he hissed, seemingly to no one in particular. Turning back to Isidore: “Whores in hell, brother, you and father were equal each to the other in your stubbornness. It is why you continuously quarreled. Neither would yield. There was more of him in you than in me in those matters. Your gentle nature was given you by mother, for he lacked any semblance of such. And when you finally become decisive in the matter…”
Bowing his head, Cyfnerth tears fell on their intertwined hands. Did his family live under a curse? Now a series of events; Isadore’s murder; the disappearance of his father’s brother so long ago that no one would discuss; the strange murder of his grandfather at the hand of bandits before he was born; the strained relations, bordering on hatred, between his father and his grandmother that defied explanation; all lent credence to the notion the residents of Pont Lliw lived under an ill omen. He could not reason why.
Cyfnerth rose and approached Brother Llywarch, who sat praying with the monks in the chancel. “A word, brother.”
“My lord.” Llywarch rose and gestured for Cyfnerth to enter the cloister. Once in the garden, Cyfnerth stopped and faced the monk.
“When my brother left the hall, it was evident that he did not intend to return. He took pack and horse. Do you have knowledge of their whereabouts?”
“I do not, my lord. It appears your brother was most secretive in his presence here. He existed as a phantom, apparently known only to Brother Mark.”
“Then I would speak with Brother Mark.”
“I am afraid that is not possible, my lord. You see……,” Llywarch swallowed hard, “…. Brother Mark was the one murdered two days ago.”
Cyfnerth was momentarily stunned into silence. His head tilted to the side as his eyes scanned the cloister garden, and he snorted a quick breath, his mind racing with the news.
“You propose that this monk was the only one to know of my brother’s presence here and he was murdered and now my brother is also dead?” Cyfnerth was confused. “Is there meaning in this? Is there connection?”
“I do not have the answers you seek, my lord. Perhaps the prior….”
“Who discovered him?”
“Brother Rhonwellt and Brother Ciaran chanced upon him as they walked to chancel for Vigils. Brother Rhonwellt was also accosted, probably by the same assassin. He is overcome by death sleep in our infirmary. We watch and pray for his recovery.”
“If a monk and a boy can be murdered,” said Cyfnerth, “can anyone be safe? Does God even abide in this house?”
Eighteen
Tristan rode hard through the remainder of the night, demanding as much from his aging mount as he dared. The voice of panic rode with him, its grip a stranglehold on his mind. Behind the panic, another voice told him there was no need for haste. It must be past Lauds and if Rhonwellt were already dead, he would be no less dead by Prime. A little wine would ease the fear, but there was no inn to be found on this deserted part of the road, while any alewives would be in their beds and wary of admitting an unknown traveler in the middle of the night. He fought the urge to make Sag run faster. It would be of no use to have him drop dead beneath him, the old stallion’s heart having been unable to keep up with his master’s frantic demands.
Tristan could not shake the image of Rhonwellt’s face in the dream. It hung in the air before him and behind the lids when his eyes were closed, lifeless eyes staring up at him, haunting him. His brooding blinded him to the small branch hanging low over the road which struck with the sting of a whip across his eyes. Bending low, he gasped and wiped away the tears that welled as he closed his lids against the pain, nearly losing his seat. Passing the fletcher’s cottage, he knew he was but a dozen furlongs away.
The knight pushed on, leaving one furlong after the other behind. Mindful of the strain the push was having on the stallion, he let Sag slow of his own accord, feeling his strength beginning to wane. The priory tower came into sight just around a bend in the road. He slowed the stallion to a walk, feeling unprepared for what he was about to face. It was not knowing that scared him most. Were dreams truly a vision of what must be?
Approaching the complex of buildings, Tristan stopped, alighted from the saddle, and ordered the first monk he saw to see to his horse. Grumbling, the monk did as he was asked. Tristan wondered where he should look for Rhonwellt. Would he be in the Presbytery laid out on a bier or in the infirmary asleep in a bed? He prayed for it to be the latter.
He approached the infirmary door and stood in front of it with his hand outstretched, struggling to calm his breathing, afraid to grab the latch, recalling the first time he had
to accustom himself to the possibility Rhonwellt was likely dead. After a deep breath, his courage finally in hand, Tristan was about to grasp the latch when, unexpectedly, the door flew open. One of the brothers emerged, ramming into the knight as he was about to enter.
“Apologies, sir knight,” said the monk, bowing and continuing on his way.
Through the open door, Tristan could see Rhonwellt lying on one of the beds. His face was pallid, almost ashen. His hands were crossed on his chest with a cross entwined in his fingers. Two of his brothers knelt beside the bed, lost in prayer, soft sobs drifting out from between clasped hands. The knight staggered against the door frame, unable to cross the threshold. He slowly shook his head back and forth and pressed his fists to the sides of his head. His nostrils flared, his breaths becoming short and rapid.
Slowly, he turned away and walked in a daze to the guest house next door. Entering the single-roomed building, he lit a candle from the cresset lamp in the wall by the door and set it on the table. On a corner shelf was a small cask of wine kept there for guests and a jug of water for diluting it. Tristan grabbed a cup and filled it, forgoing any water. He emptied it in three gulps and refilled it, and drained it again. His hands shook. His head was swimming, more from the turmoil inside than from the elixir he guzzled. Putting a hand against the wall to steady himself, he stood there waiting for the oblivion the alcohol offered to overtake him.
But instead of oblivion came a great unstoppable sadness, building gradually until it owned him. He grit his teeth to keep from making any sound lest sobbing overtake him completely. He bowed his head to let his tears roll, unseen, down his face. When was the last time he had really cried. He could not begin to remember. He had shed tears often, but had no recollection when he had last given in to uncontrollable grief, to real despair. Probably not since the first time Rhonwellt had been taken from him.
A Savor of Clove Page 19