Tristan refilled his cup three more times and drained each, the full-strength wine at last accomplishing its task. He leaned his back to the wall and let himself slide down to the floor, resting his head against the wall as the room began to spin. He closed his eyes against the dizziness. He could feel himself slipping away from reality, hurtling down into the well of unconsciousness. The empty cup fell from his hand and crashed to the floor.
✞ ✞ ✞
Following Terce and morning mass, Ciaran spent until half-Terce in the scriptorium. His mind had been unable to think of anything but Rhonwellt all morning and the text he had copied in the last session would surely prove useless. Brother Gruffydd had attempted a stern reprimand but, in the end, relented, allowing that all the brothers were distracted by this latest turn of events. The novice bounded down the stairs and racing through the passage between the cellarium and the bake house, headed for the infirmary. Gray skies were giving way to sun and the promise of a warm day and he hoped this turn in the weather would portend good tidings and speed Rhonwellt’s recovery.
The door to the guest house stood open and, as he sped by, Ciaran could see Sir Tristan, sitting on the floor and propped against the wall with his eyes closed. Giving praise to God for Tristan’s timely return, he veered into the infirmary. Ciaran sketched the sign of the cross when he saw Rhonwellt lying on the bed exactly as he had been the last time he was here. Brothers Remigius and Julian knelt in prayer beside the bed. A lone candle burned on a small table near the head of the bed, and the strong odor of incense blanketed the silent room, burning to ward off evil humors. The novice was about to kneel when Brother Remigius rose to leave.
“Brother,” Ciaran whispered. “A word, please.”
Remigius nodded.
“His conditioned is unchanged?” Ciaran asked.
Remigius shook his head, sadness showing on his face that he had no better news.
“Well, Praise God Sir Tristan is back and has seen him.”
Brother Remigius looked surprised. “The knight has not been here, to my knowledge.”
Ciaran was confused. “He is back. I have just seen him asleep in the guest house.”
“That my be, but he has not been to the infirmary, and I have been here since before mass.”
“And I have been here since Prime,” said Brother Julian, rising from his prayers. “He has not been here, although I confess to hearing footfalls on the path some while ago.”
Ciaran said nothing as he retreated from the infirmary and went back to the guest house. The knight was still propped up against the wall, head back, his mouth open, his breathing raspy.
“Sir Tristan?” Ciaran said as he approached. There was no answer and the knight did not stir. He reached out a hand and gently shook the knight’s shoulder. “Sir Tristan,” he repeated. The knight snorted and closed his mouth, but did not wake. Ciaran shook his shoulder again and leaned in close to call his name once more. The pungent odor of strong wine emanating from the knight’s breath nearly caused him to retch. He stumbled backward.
“You are not asleep. You are drunk! And before it is even midday.” Ciaran could feel his ire rising. “How could you do this?” he asked. “Rhonwellt lies near death in the next chamber and needs you near him, and you sit here passed out from drink.” Ciaran grabbed both of the knight’s shoulders and shook him violently. Tristan groaned and worked his tongue in his mouth. The novice could still not bring him to full consciousness. He drew back his hand, swung hard and slapped the knight across the face. “Wake up!” he screamed.
“Bloody hell!” Tristan roared, his eyes snapping open. Before Ciaran could dodge it, a hand shot toward him, its iron grip closing around his throat. Almost as quickly, a blade appeared, the point teasing the tender skin under his chin. Clawing to loose the fingers choking him, Ciaran began to gasp for air. Staring at the knight’s face, he saw the eyes focus and slowly, fill with recognition.
“Devil’s balls, Brother! Never do that again. I could have killed you!”
“Then, let go of me before you do,” the novice croaked, his voice barely audible, still bent over in the knight’s grip.
Tristan eyed the hand gripping the young monk’s throat, his expression detached as though the hand belonged to another. He gradually released his grip and let it fall. He returned his dagger to its scabbard.
“I thought you cared for him,” Ciaran said, with disgust.
“What do you know of such things?” Tristan replied, surging to his feet, his brow narrowing.
“I know he lies next door near death.”
Tristan rubbed his hand over his face. “He still lives?”
“You make me repeat myself,” Ciaran spat. “Had you been conscious when I said it the first time, you would know he lives and needs you there. Instead, I find you bladdered like a common sot.”
Tristan went to the wash basin, poured water into it and splashed some over his head. He cupped some into his mouth, swished it around and spit it on the floor. He leaned on the table with both hands as the water dripped from his face and hair.
“You mean he is not…?” Tristan looked back over his shoulder.
“No, he is not.” replied Ciaran, his hand rubbing his neck, knowing it would surely to bruise. “Now, gather your wits and go to him. And no more wine!”
The knight faced him again Ciaran met the man’s gaze with unyielding fire.
In three strides Tristan was out of the guest house, Ciaran at his heels and, in ten more, standing next to the bed in the infirmary. He ran his hands through his hair pushing it back from his face, intent on the prone figure in the bed.
“See how he breathes,” said Ciaran pointing to the subtle rising and falling of Rhonwellt’s chest.
“He is truly alive,” said Tristan, suddenly becoming still.
Prior Alwyn entered without a sound. “The fire still burns within him, God be Praised,” the prior’s voice startled them, breaking the momentary silence, “though it burns low. It is our hope that prayer will fan the embers back to life.”
Ciaran put his hand to his throat, covering it with his sleeve. Now was not the time to explain why another religious had been attacked, and by a guest of the priory.
“What happened?” Tristan asked, taking a step closer to the bed.
Alwyn spoke in low tones. “Brother Rhonwellt and Brother Ciaran discovered a body, that of a dead youth. They were leaving the scriptorium on their way to the chancel for prayers. Rhonwellt had sent Ciaran to summon the rest of us. Apparently he was attacked while Ciaran was gone.”
“Who is this dead youth they discovered?” Tristan’s eyes narrowed at the news.
“You may be able to help us with that. Come with me,” said Alwyn, motioning toward the door. “There is a question to which I believe you can supply an answer.”
“First, I must know how he fares,” said the knight. “Does he just sleep?”
“He does. But he is experiencing the deadly sleep of koma.”
Tristan closed his eyes and held his breath. “I have witnessed this in the East,” he said exhaling heavily. “Some do not awaken, but drift into death. The bandage?” he said, pointing toward Rhonwellt’s throat. “What is his injury?”
“Garrote,” replied the prior.
“One of the weapons used in the East by the Nizari,” said Tristan. “It appears to be a universal implement for murder.”
Ciaran could see it in the prior’s face that the old man did not want to believe it.
“The wound to his neck is grievous?” Tristan asked, his hand going to his throat.
Alwyn nodded. “But it will heal. As for the rest of him, that we cannot predict. We offer continuous prayers for his recovery, but the matter rests entirely in God’s hands.”
✞ ✞ ✞
Tristan followed Prior Alwyn through the refectory, into the ante room and up the stairs to his chambers on the second floor. He watched as the old priest went to his cupboard and pulled out a bundle of linen. He
turned and held the bundle across the palm of one hand in front of him as he unfolded the cloth with the other to reveal the dagger inside. Tristan blinked in surprise.
“It is mine.” The knight reached out to take it. “How come you to have it?”
The prior held it back. “It was used to murder the lad.”
“But, how? It was in the priory guest quarters, wrapped tightly in a spare tunic at the bottom of my kit.”
“I cannot say how,” the elder brother replied. “I only know that we are faced with an awkward dilemma.”
“You cannot think that I….?” Tristan was unable to finish. Did the prior suspect him of this crime?
“In my heart, I do not. As do at least half the brothers. The other half probably hope as much but will still wonder. You are just arrived and new to us. And yet, someone would have us believe you have done this. The longer the question remains unanswered, the more they will speculate.”
“Then I must find who is responsible,” said Tristan. “Do those in doubt think I could have also attacked Rhonwellt?”
“There, again they are divided. Though you have been discreet and tried to keep it hidden, everyone knows of your regard for Rhonwellt. It is one factor that will leave some in doubt as to your complicity in the matter. Others may think it a motive to cover your suspected sin.”
Tristan bristled but remained silent, letting the prior finish. There truly were no secrets here.
“Another is that there is no proper magistrate in residence at the castle at this time to investigate the matter. To many a sheriff, it would be enough to warrant your arrest. Even with no officer of the King’s law, it becomes a Church matter as it occurred on priory grounds.” Alwyn folded the cloth back over the blade and put the bundle back in its place in the cupboard. “I shall keep this safely locked away for the time being. They may not be yet so convinced that you should be seen carrying it.”
“I never carry or use it, Father Prior. Its significance to me is too great.”
“Nonetheless, I shall keep it. I promise you it will come to no harm and be returned to you in time.”
Tristan stared at the cupboard as he watched the door close on his only memento of his time with Amjhad. Reluctantly, he gave a gesture of agreement.
“Now, walk with me to the church, as there is something else I think you should see.”
✞ ✞ ✞
Brother Gilbert heard footsteps coming from the direction of the refectory. About to leave the library, he slipped back into the room and concealed himself around the corner from the doorway to blend into the gloom of the darkened chamber. Prior Alwyn came through the doorway and began to climb the stairs to his chamber. Brother Rhonwellt’s mysterious knight followed the prior closely, both their faces betraying little emotion. The monk watched them ascend, enter the prior’s room and close the door. Once they were safely inside, Gilbert crept up after them and placed himself at the entrance with an ear pressed to the thick planks. He could hear no sounds coming from inside. He pressed his ear closer. The squeak of hinges said the prior had opened the doors to his large cupboard.
The room remained still until the knight’s raised voice could be heard. “It is mine. How come you to have it?”
Gilbert’s eyebrow shot up and a small smile spread across his face. The voices became muffled and he could discern no more of the conversation, but remained until he heard their steps approach. He sped across the causeway and slipped into the doorway to the night stairs. He would be safe there as no one but monks were allowed to use that passage.
Prior Alwyn and Tristan emerged, went down the stairs and disappeared into the door to the presbytery, while Gilbert crept down the night stairs and secreted himself behind the pulpitum screen to watch and listen.
✞ ✞ ✞
Brother Llywarch intercepted Tristan and the prior as they entered the door of the south transept.
“The lad’s identity is confirmed, Father Prior.”
“Who is he?” ventured Tristan.
“He is master Isidore Cunniff, second son to Declan Cunniff of Pont Lliw. It is his elder sibling you see there with him.”
Tristan snapped his head toward the bier, then strode to the figure kneeling beside it with his head bowed. Cyfnerth got quickly to his feet and faced Tristan, his hand searching for the hilt of his dagger. At the knight’s approach, a servant emerged from the shadows, to stand at his master’s side.
“Sir. You disturb my prayers for my brother. What is your business here?”
“You, and he,” said Tristan, pointing to the body, “are sons to Declan Cunniff?”
“Who asks?”
“Sir Tristan Cunniff, son of Beccan Cunniff, brother to Declan. Your uncle. That is who.”
Cyfnerth drew his dagger, backing away from Tristan. “Your words are lies, sir. My uncle is long dead. You cannot be he. So, what is your business here?”
“I have no quarrel with you, boy. Put the knife away.”
“I assure you, sir, I am no boy.” Cyfnerth widened his stance, shifting the dagger from hand to hand.
“Then cease to act as a hot-headed whelp and sheath your weapon.”
“And if I do not?” taunted Cyfnerth.
The young fool was serious. “A man who draws his weapon should do so with intent,” answered Tristan, his stony gaze battering at Cyfnerth’s defenses. “If I am forced to draw mine, it shall be with deadly purpose. Though you claim to be kin and the thought does not please me, I will kill you. If you intend to use that, then you had better keep it in one hand.”
“Master?” said the servant, his voice quavering, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He drew his blade, apparently trying to decide what action, if any, was expected of him.
“Is it your wish to die for your master?” asked Tristan, as the man started to approach.
“I…I..would die for my master,” he answered boldly.
“You shall not die this day, Rhawn,” Cyfnerth responded. “I have this well in hand,”
To the knight he seemed over-confident, the demeanor of one who was self-possessed without cause.
Tristan continued to stare into Cyfnerth’s eyes as the young man, still grasping his dagger, stared defiantly back. The knight was nearly sober now. Upon seeing Rhonwellt helpless and near death, the warrior that had been lulled to sleep during his desert wanderings after Amjhad’s death had, now, been awakened. In a flash, all patience left him. Tristan lunged forward, driving his fist down hard on the arm that held the knife. Cyfnerth cried out in pain as the dagger flew from his grasp and clattered to the floor several feet away. Grabbing a handful of cotte, he pulled Cyfnerth to him, swung him around and backed him into a nearby pillar.
“I could have broken your arm, boy,” he rasped, spittle flying in Cyfnerth’s face. Placing one hand on his nephew’s chin and the other at the back of his head, his gloved hands held Cyfnerth’s skull in a deadly grip.
“I can as easily break your neck.” Tristan leaned in until they were nose to nose, glaring into each other’s eyes.
The servant stealthily tried to close the gap between him and Tristan.
“Stand back, Rhawn,“ Tristan ordered, tilting his head back as though to sling the words over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving Cyfnerth. Rhawn stopped.
“Master?” he pleaded again.
“Sir Tristan, please,” Prior Alwyn pleaded. “You are in God’s house.”
Tristan ignored the prior. “It is but a simple choice, nephew: live or die?”
Tristan noted Cyfnerth’s eyes. They said his mind was racing, searching for options. He was twice his nephew’s age, and seemingly double him in his strength. The young man had not the hardness of a soldier and Tristan was sure he had never experienced deadly battle before, only drunken fights and duels that ended in superficial injuries in order to satisfy a wounded ego; the stuff of boys and hot-headed youth. Cyfnerth’s gaze did not leave Tristan’s face. The knight returned his stare with the cold, detached determination
of a trained killer.
The younger man struggled to speak. “Live,” he managed to say, his voice a mere squeak.
“Do not vex me further.”
Cyfnerth managed to move his head in agreement. Letting him go, Tristan moved back a few paces, but his eyes continued to train intently on his nephew. Gagging and trying to get his breath, Cyfnerth started to retrieve his dagger.
“Leave it!” demanded Tristan. “You have no need of it now.” He turned towards Rhawn. “Stand with your master and put your weapon away.”
As the servant moved to his side, Cyfnerth cast a disgusted look towards him. “You are all but worthless, sometimes,” he said, landing a smarting blow to the back of the man’s head.
“But master…”
“Silence, you halfwit!”
“Yes, master,” said Rhawn, nostrils flaring, his face reddening. He looked to the floor.
Cyfnerth faced his uncle, still scowling.
“Does father know of your return?” His tone was almost conspiratorial.
“He does not,” said Tristan, standing with his fists planted on his hips, his feet spread apart. It was a victor’s stance.
“He will not rejoice at your home coming.”
“I should be greatly surprised if he did.” Tristan repressed a smile. “In fact, he has much to dread by my return.”
“Why is that?”
“It is a long story, nephew, the details of which your father would better know than any. But, you forget, I am the heir. I can take everything he has.”
“He will not let you,” responded Cyfnerth. He said it with finality.
“There is little he can do. I am first born. The law is on my side.”
With great satisfaction, Tristan noticed Cyfnerth look truly worried for the first time.
A Savor of Clove Page 20