A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “Why is he not attending here?” said Tristan, after letting his words sink in for a moment. “I know he is in Cydweli,”

  “He was seriously aggrieved by the news of Isidore. I offered to attend in his stead.”

  “Then, he is at the inn?”

  “That is where I left him.”

  The bell announcing Vespers began to ring. Tristan spun around and, headed through the chancel, gave a quick apology as he passed the prior. He was quickly out the front doors and headed for the village, walking the distance to clear his head and ponder his next move. The promising morning had grown overcast and little dust devils rose from the street, churned up by a stiff breeze. Tristan’s pace was brisk, his footfalls firm, causing the rowels on his spurs to jingle with each step. When next he noticed, Cyfnerth strode next to him, his dagger retrieved and in his belt, his sullen servant a few safe paces behind.

  “You have still not told me,” said Cyfnerth, “if you are who you say you are, where you have been and why you remained away for so long.” Keeping abreast with Tristan’s long strides looked difficult for the shorter man.

  “As I said, it is a long story. The time for telling is not yet at hand. Do not push me.”

  Cyfnerth seemed to let it go.

  “What do you know of this?” Tristan asked, glancing at the nephew he had only just met.

  “Isidore overheard something he should not and he and father argued. They always argued. There is a large cupboard against the wall just inside the screens. As children, Isidore and I would secret ourselves there to listen when father had business or entertained. It was a game that ceased to interest me years ago, but to Isidore it apparently was not a game. There is a man who visits father on occasion. They were deep in discussion when Isidore was discovered. As I was coming from the solar, I heard shouting and stopped to listen. Isidore said that if he was not allowed to go to the priory as he wished, he would reveal what he had heard. Father said that if he did, he would kill him.”

  “What is it that he heard?”

  “I know not. I did not hear that part of the argument. But for father to make such a threat against Isidore, it must have been serious, indeed.”

  “With whom did your father meet.”

  “I do not know that either. No one was allowed in the great room when this man was in attendance.”

  Tristan was silent for a moment. “What do you know of a man visiting your grandmother on occasion?”

  “How come you to know that?”

  “She told me.” And with that statement, they entered TheThorn and Thistle.

  The tavern was empty of customers at this early hour. Gwyllm was behind the counter, preparing to fill ale pots, while his wife, Wen, and the kitchen girl spread heady fresh rushes on the floor. The rainy spring weather caused them to need freshening often.

  With Cyfnerth and Rhawn at his heels, Tristan ascended the stairs. “Where are your best rooms?”

  “At the end, facing the street,” said Gwyllm. “The rooms at the back smell like the middens.”

  Tristan went to the next to last door at the front of the building and pushed it open. It was empty.

  “That is my room. Father’s is here,” said Cyfnerth, opening the door to the last room on the hall. It, too, was empty.

  “Well, where is he?”

  “I do not know. It mystifies me that he is not here.”

  Tristan pushed past him and went out the door, down the hall and descended to the public room below. In the time they were upstairs, a pair of patrons had taken a table near the door. Mistress Wen was bringing two pots of ale and the men were engaged in conversation.

  “Where is he?” the knight demanded of Gwyllm.

  “I do not know, my lord. He left right after his son and the two monks departed. He seemed… oh…. lost.”

  “See if his horse is still stabled,” he said to Rhawn, who looked to Cyfnerth for confirmation.

  “Go,” said Cyfnerth.

  Rhawn raced out the door and returned a few moments later shaking his head.

  “It be gone, master.”

  “Hell’s teeth!” Tristan hissed. “What ails that man? His son lays dead in the church and he leaves town. Where would he have gone?”

  “Is it your intent to search for him, uncle?” Cyfnerth asked Tristan.

  “Not at this time,” Tristan answered and strode out the door and off in the direction of the priory.

  “Master!” The voice was familiar and made him stop. “Master, help me.”

  Two men, dressed in rags, had the scarecrow in tow, daggers aimed at his back, and were headed down the alley by the stables toward gate to the middens. Tristan stopped, looked at the door to the inn, then looked at scarecrow and his captors, and back to the door of the inn.

  “Christ’s blood!” he spat, and headed down the alley. At the sight of the knight in pursuit, the men tried dragging the screaming lad faster.

  One of the men slapped scarecrow’s head hard. “Shut up you worthless piece of dung!”

  “If I be worthless, why does you want me?”

  Tristan closed the distance and grabbing the lad by the collar of his grimy shirt and yanked him from the grasp of his captors. “He belongs to me,” said Tristan. He spat on the ground. “Whatever your quarrel with him, it is finished as of now! Understood?” The men eyed each other and bolted down the alley, veering behind the inn and out of sight.

  Without a word, Tristan dragged the scarecrow back to the entrance of the alley. “What is your name, scarecrow?”

  “Do not call me that!”

  “Then what is your bloody name?” Tristan got no response. “If you do not want me to call you scarecrow, then tell me your bloody name.”

  “Hewrey,“ the lad said, at last.

  “And your second name?”

  “Gots no other name, just Hewrey.”

  “Well, Just Hewrey, you called me master. That tells me you are interested in serving me. I accept.”

  “I told you before, I not be servin’ nobody.”

  “Then I shall have to give you back to them,” said Tristan, nodding his head toward the back of the alley. Hewrey’s face went ashen and his eyes grew wide showing white all around. Tristan let out a small chuckle. “I thought not,” he said.

  Still dragging Hewrey by the collar, he stomped into the inn. “Landlord! I want to hire a bath…for him.”

  “Christ’s bones, a bath!” said the scrarecrow, trying to wriggle from Tristan’s grasp. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “You stink like a pig sty, lad. It is a miracle the smell alone has not killed you.”

  Nineteen

  It cost three farthings to bathe Hewrey—the tub had to be filled twice—and to have his clothes washed. After, Tristan sat across the table at the Thorn and Thistle watching the lad wolf down gravy-soaked bread from a trencher of mutton stew, two eel pasties already resting securely in his stomach. Hewrey’s eyes never lifted from his food.

  “You cannot be that hungry,” Tristan said, astonished at the lad’s appetite.

  “Figure I best eat fast afore you figure your mistake.”

  “My mistake?” said Tristan, brow raised in genuine confusion.

  “Takin’ me on,” Hewrey replied.

  “You believe it an error in judgment?”

  “Not for me to say,” the scarecrow replied, through a mouthful of bread. “That be your decision.”

  “Well, you have just proved it will be costly to feed you,” replied Tristan with a chuckle. “You eat so much it has made you poor to carry it.” Tristan motioned for the serving girl to bring more ale and requested plenty of water. “There is no need to eat as if it were to be your last meal. Stay with me, serve me and be obedient, and you will eat well daily.”

  Hewrey stopped chewing and grew quiet for a moment before he raised his head, his eyes staring straight into Tristan’s. He swallowed the bread that had been puffing his cheeks. “You ever try an’ do me like a woman, I will kill you.
” As he said it, a small dagger with a broken tip appeared from under his shirt and he laid it carefully on the table between them, though his hand never left it. “I swear it!” His tone was low, cool, and controlled, the noise in the inn nearly drowning out his words.

  Tristan pressed his teeth together, worked his jaw while he matched Scarecrow’s gaze, searched the lad’s face. His hand squeezed his thigh as he fought for control. They sat silent and motionless for several moments. Then, Tristan slowly drew his dagger and laid it in front of him in like manner. “I have never taken anyone to my bed who did not come willingly. That is not how you will serve me. Your honor and manhood are safe with me. That, I swear!”

  Hewrey held Tristan’s gaze a few moments more, gave a terse nod and popped the last of the bread into his mouth. “Then we have a deal,” he said.

  “Since when do serving boys bargain with their masters?” There was a bit of a wild animal in the scarecrow and he had pluck. Tristan admired that.

  “Since this boy were asked to serve a sod’mite.”

  “There is one more part to the deal,” said Tristan, without hesitation, biting the inside of his cheek.

  Hewrey’s eyes narrowed and grew dark. “And that be?”

  “This serving boy will never call his master that again! Ever!” In a subtle movement, Tristan’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger. “If he does, the dogs will have what is left of him.”

  The scarecrow’s face showed no emotion.

  After he was fed, Tristan took Hewrey to the stables and ordered the hostler to oversee showing him the proper way to care for Ambisagarus. Hewrey had shown great admiration for the stallion and Tristan hoped caring for the animal would be enticement enough for the lad to forsake his runaway life. He had no fear the scarecrow would try to steal Sag again but the knight was wise enough to know he could return later to find the lad long gone, his belly full and carrying whatever he could carry.

  Tristan spent most of the time between sext and nones sitting at Rhonwellt’s bedside, staring silently for any sign of renewed life. The monk’s breathing was even and untroubled leading anyone to think he could be awakened with a hand to his chest or a mere shake of his shoulder, something Tristan tried more than once with hope in his heart. But Rhonwellt slept on.

  At the bell for nones, the knight slipped into the back of the church, hidden away in the dark, and witnessed a bit of Rhonwellt’s daily life unfold as he listened to the brothers pray the office. There was beauty in the simplicity of it: monks lined up in front of their choir benches, eyes staring straight ahead for the most part, hands clasped, voices raised in unison. Yet, in the last few days, he had sensed the unrest residing just under the surface of the picture-perfect scene.

  The questionable fate of Rhonwellt kept Tristan feeling restless all day. At the conclusion of nones, he looked in on the monk again, briefly, and then tried to get some rest in the guest house. With so much happening in recent days, he had slept only sporadically and was feeling exhausted. To his surprise, he slept through vespers and nearly until compline. Upon waking, he found Hewrey asleep on the floor beside his cot.

  Late evening found Tristan once again in the church on his knees before the Altar to the Virgin, Hewrey sitting propped up against one of the pillars lining the north aisle. Vigils had concluded. The knight’s heart was heavy and his mind struggled to process all he had experienced and learned in so short a time. It had been a full day dealing with Hewrey, but through it all, his mind never strayed far from Rhonwellt. He had been inclined to stay at the monk’s bedside until he awakened, but did not want to interfere with the brother’s ministering to him. And, truthfully, he worried he could become despondent at the lack of change in Rhonwellt’s condition if he did not otherwise engage himself. The scarecrow had proved to be a good diversion.

  The groan of hinges went nearly unnoticed but the thud of the closing door did not. Footsteps crossed the stone floor to the interior passage at the end of the north aisle. Peering behind him and to the right, Tristan saw Declan enter the north transept.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Declan waited for the brothers to conclude the office of Vigils and retire to their beds. He had spent the day riding aimlessly through the countryside, trying to shake the despair that had settled over him since the news of Isador’s death. He passed other travelers without actually seeing them, the burden of grief lying so heavily upon his heart that his befuddled mind could not grasp the fact that Isidore was dead. Why did life seem to be one disaster after another?

  Everything in him said he was making a mistake coming to the priory, but he could not bring himself to stay away. Hearing that Tristan had returned, he knew the life he had spent the last thirty years building up was about to collapse. His treachery would be revealed, and his life most likely forfeit at the hand of the one he had betrayed. Only he knew that in such a case he would meet his maker with many more sins on his wretched soul than mere betrayal.

  He crossed the north transept toward the bier set up at the mouth of the presbytery. All was quiet but for the soft chanting of the two monks sitting vigil. He steeled himself as he caught his first glimpse of Isidore, the pallor of death evident from several feet away. Trembling slightly, he approached the small altar near the back wall. The brothers, alerted by his presence, looked up briefly without interrupting their chanting. Declan eased his rotund body down to a kneeling position, head bowed, eyes wet with tears. Overcome in the moment, he mourned his own fate as well as that of his youngest son.

  His heft quickly began to take its toll on his knees and he struggled to his feet. He skulked to the shadows at the side of the chamber and sat where he could still gaze upon his son. He again bowed his head and became quickly lost in his despair.

  The monks suddenly stopped chanting. “Leave us!” The sharp voice yanked him from his solitude as the startled monks scurried away. “We had an agreement. You were never to come here!”

  Startled, Declan was immediately filled with panic. As he turned, he looked into the face of the bishop who looked around furtively.

  “He is my son. How could I not come?” he whispered.

  “What if you are seen?” exclaimed Maurontius, clearly agitated.

  “Then, I am seen,” Declan said, allowing his voice to raise in defiance.

  “That cannot happen,” replied the bishop through a clenched jaw. He grabbed Declan’s sleeve and started to pull him away.

  “Let go of me. I am not leaving.” Declan was nearly shouting as he extracted himself from Maurontius’ grip.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  At the sound of Declan’s raised voice, Tristan got to his feet, put a hand to Hewrey’s shoulder and holding his finger to his lips, he motioned the lad to follow him down the aisle. They paused at the doorway to the north transept and peered into the cross-chamber.

  “Stop shouting.” Maurontius sounded desperate as his voice drifted through the empty space. “Be reasonable, my son.”

  “What a difference one small word makes.” Declan faced the bier, not looking at the bishop. “So easily said as His Excellency the Bishop, but not as a father?”

  The Bishop shrugged, but said nothing.

  “It is of no consequence now. He is my son and I am here to acknowledge him.” Declan turned swiftly to face Maurontius. “A feat you seem incapable of even now in the hour of my grief?”

  It was then that Tristan saw it: two men, mirror images of each other, the only difference being that one was much older. Though his mother had never said, the moment he saw them standing together he knew the truth.

  “This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation,” said Maurontius.

  Tristan finally stepped through the door into the dim light, his boot scuffing the stone floor. Hewrey followed at a safe distance.

  “Seldom is the time or the place convenient for such a conversation between a father and his son,” said the knight. Their heads snapped around as he spoke.

  “This is
none of your affair, sir knight,” hissed the bishop, swinging his whole body about, his lip curled and eyes narrowing in Tristan’s direction.

  “He is my brother—or my half brother now it seems—and that makes it very much my affair, Excellency.”

  “Brother?” replied Maurontius. “His brother is dead.”

  As Declan drew his sword and held it in front of him, the bishop quickly backed away. In response, Tristan turned to face Declan square-on, feet spread apart, fists planted on his hips, but saw no need to draw his own weapon. “As you both can see, brother, I am very much alive. May I still call you brother?” Declan froze. Tristan could see his brother’s jaw tense and the hatred in his eyes. “Do put that away, brother. I could best you with my bare hands.”

  The color drained from Declan’s face. He shook so violently, he grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands.

  “Think on it,” Tristan goaded. “You are a schemer whose actions are carried out in secrecy and darkness. You can lay no claim to bravery and are certainly no swordsman. Use care lest you look the fool.”

  Declan lowered his blade, the tip of it hitting the floor with a loud clink.

  “Sheath it,” Tristan ordered.

  Declan stood there, his shoulders rounded, arms hanging limp at his sides. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He sheathed his weapon. The air between them crackled with tension. Maurontius cleared his throat nervously and looked long and hard at Tristan.

  “I can see it now,” said the cleric. “You have the look of Beccan about you.”

  “And Declan decidedly has the look of another,” replied Tristan, his eyes tracking back and forth between Maurontius and his brother.

  The door from the cloister flew open, banging against the wall. Prior Alwyn swept into the chamber, dogged by Brother Gilbert peering over his shoulder from behind. Cyfnerth, Rhawn and another servant followed.

  Maurontius started to raise his hands, but let them fall again to his sides. “See what you have done?”