A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “It is fitting that a son resemble his father,” the prior said to Maurontius. “Most would be proud to declare it.”

  “I have nothing to declare,” protested the bishop.

  “The evidence before us is testament that you do.”

  Brother Gilbert did not even try to conceal the glee on his face, while Cyfnerth and the servants simply stared, jaws agape.

  The bishop closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath. The muscles in his face twitched uncontrollably as he fingered the cross at his neck. Opening his eyes, he gazed wildly about him and began to pace.

  “No one is to repeat any of this. I will excommunicate anyone who does.”

  “Surely you have the power to swear silence from myself and the other brothers concerning this, Excellency. However, your threats may hold no sway over the knight, and I can see that the days of your son’s silence are over. No, Excellency. The box has been opened and the demons are loosed.”

  Glaring at Alwyn, Maurontius took a step to the left and, as if undecided took a step to the right. He threw his hands in the air and let them drop, spun on his heel and strode for the door.

  “Father,” Declan shouted. “Here lies your grandson. Will you deny him, also?”

  The door slammed, its sound reverberating off the walls. Everyone stood motionless.

  “The levy for treachery,” said Tristan, “is high indeed, brother.” Anger-soaked triumph showed on Tristan’s face as he taunted Declan. “After such extraordinary measures to be rid of me, you then find that you are a bastard, and entitled to nothing.”

  Though Declan’s face remained impassive, Tristan knew the truth had stung him. Walking to the edge of the presbytery, Declan slumped heavily onto a bench, bent forward, elbows on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. When he looked up, his eyes had lost focus. In a voice filled with bitterness, he said, “You only begin to know the means I employed to realize my ambition.” Snorting a short laugh, he turned his head to the side and looked into the darkness. “Getting rid of you was but a small part, yet the most difficult by far.”

  After a pause, Declan turned to once again gaze upon his brother. Gone was the faraway look. His eyes burned with enmity. How many times had this scene played out when they were lads, screaming at the top of their voices at each other? Tristan bristled that being in Declan’s presence elicited such a reaction.

  “You were the golden boy, the heir and pride of Pont Lliw. Turning your father against you was not easy. But I did it! For once, I was successful. I had the upper hand.” Declan shifted his corpulent body on the small bench. “But, Sir Beccan Cunniff was nothing if not a proud man. I used that pride to wear away at him.” He stood and threw his arms wide. “He was astounded that you actually thought that this fancy for your servant would be an acceptable alternative to the plans he had for you.”

  Declan put one foot forward, leaning in toward Tristan.

  “That farm boy was your servant,” he continued, “and yours to use as you chose. But not as a lover!”

  “Be very careful, brother, hoe you speak of him,” said Tristan. His hand went for his dagger.

  “The whole idea was preposterous. Your duty was to wed and secure a handsome dowry. A marriage was all arranged between you and Lady Althea du Monteforte. The revelation of your proclivities would have spoiled that, and ruined us.”

  “Althea du Monteforte was a shrew and certainly no lady,” spat Tristan. “Lord Harlan would have married her to anybody who would have her, so disagreeable was her reputation.”

  “Yes, but along with her came great wealth and a valuable estate. Adding to our wealth might have ensured there would be something for me. Still, there was no reasoning with you.” A small smile played over Declan’s face as he looked up at his brother. “You know what finally persuaded him? That your peasant lover was Welsh. The enemy!”

  “Rhonwellt is Cymraeg in blood by half, and Celt by all. We are Gael by blood, Welsh by birth and also Celt. We have been here for nearly five-score summers Father seemed to forget that when he took up arms against his neighbors to fight for the English. At least Rhonwellt is loyal to the land of his birth.”

  “Father was a knight who fought with the king to conquer this land,” Declan pressed. “You know how much he hated the Welsh.”

  “Father’s sword was always available to the highest bidder. This sudden hatred for his friends and neighbors belied a desire for advancement. It was bought and paid for with lands and money.”

  Declan took a tentative step towards Tristan. “Your precious Welsh spilled much blood,” he accused.

  “We outlanders drew blood as well. Fool! It was war. In war, men die,” raged Tristan. “And they die savagely. Had you ever seen a battlefield, you would know. Do not presume to speak as if you are familiar with it. You may wear a sword, but you are no soldier.”

  “We were the victors.”

  “There were no victors!” Tristan yelled. “Men died and lands were seized. And in the years since, many of those lands have been taken back. We are a conquering presence here, but these lands belong to the Welsh.”

  “I think the king would disagree. It was like you had become one of them,” Declan said in dismay. “To your father that was unforgivable.”

  “No, only inconvenient. I grew up here. You grew up here. You are as familiar with their tongue as I am.” He pointed accusingly at his brother. “The Cymraeg are a good and proud people. This is their home, and it is our home; we share it.”

  Declan slouched forward, hand on the grip of his sword as though leaning on it for support. “Your father did seem to have a change of heart a few years later.”

  “In old age it is easier for men of war to become men of peace.”

  “It was about the time he heard of Grenteville’s death in battle. He assumed you had died also, and realized that it was too late for you to ever come home. I think he regretted sending you away. It was just his anger…”

  The revelation hung round Tristan’s heart like a millstone. He had always wondered, always hoped that his father had rued his action.

  “Grenteville did not die in battle,” Tristan said, his face filled with the pain and rage the memory carried. “I killed him.” Tristan paused, grew quiet remembering. “The man was ruthless and cruel, without honor. He was ill thought of by all he acquaintanced, and quickly slipped from the minds of everyone who knew him after he was gone. He died not a hero, but a scoundrel who nearly buggered a small boy to death and made light of it. To a man, no one there saw humor in it. I made him pay for his crime.”

  “So now you see yourself as the hand of God, ready to right all wrongs? Do you wish to exact your pound of flesh for my sins against you? I have already paid,” Declan replied. “For years I have paid and dearly. Decades sharing a house with the whore who bore me, having to keep still about the truth.”

  “Do not defame her, brother,” warned Tristan. “What ever else she may be, she is still your dam.”

  Declan turned away from him and returned to the bier, placing a hand on Isidore’s body. His voice grew to nearly a whisper.

  “It was my life forfeit to keep the secrets of our family. A lifetime of hating a natural father who continued to see my mother, but still would not own me, even after her husband died and she was free. Knowing that the man I had always thought of as my real father had been reduced to a cuckold by his wife, and was, in fact, nothing to me.”

  “As I am nothing to you, father,” said Cyfnerth, a note of sadness, in his voice.

  Flinching at his sons accusation, Declan looked despondently to the floor. “I was as a stranger to the one I thought of as sire. In features of the body, we were nothing alike. It made no sense. My look is that of a Norman, not of a Gael. Upon seeing him,” he said, pointing toward the door of the transept, “I knew the truth.”

  Declan and Cyfnerth stared at each other. To Tristan, it seemed each was seeing the other for the first time.

  “You wear my fac
e. And that is ultimately his face, a face I had grown to hate. Isidore was gifted with favoring his mother. You are without fault in this, my son. Every time I look at you, I see him. Fondness for you is hard come by. We are each held hostage by the circumstances of our birth. I…..”

  Declan looked at Cyfnerth, turned to stare at Isidore a few moments, and then back to face Tristan. “You see, I am not the only one who has paid,” he whispered. “Even in my greatest grief, my father is not here to bear me up.” He scanned the faces in the room. “I see judgment in all your faces,” he said. Suddenly, he lashed out in rage. “But, I saw to it that he paid,” he shouted, pointing a finger towards the door the Maurontius had just exited. “His Most excellent Excellency paid eagerly, lest his secret corrupt his own ambition.”

  “Yes, brother. I have seen how dearly he has paid,” scoffed Tristan. “Pont Lliw looks very prosperous, indeed. A great stone addition to the hall, more livestock and more land. All this takes more churls to maintain. Such improvements are not made for mere farthings. It must have taken every shilling and pound he could muster.”

  “I cheerfully extracted what I could.”

  “Yet it was never sufficient.” All eyes turned to the door from the cloister. Rhonwellt emerged from the shadows leaning on Brothers Cathbart and Julian, a tight cluster of monks behind them looking eagerly in. “The nature of greed is to always want more.”

  Tristan’s heart leapt at the sound of the weakened but familiar voice.

  “His wealth is far greater than any one knows,” replied Declan. “Yet he is still miserly. And I was about to receive the largest payment of all. A tome of great value to be taken from the priory and sold for handsome profit. But Isidore overheard plans for its theft. He challenged me on it and when we quarreled he threatened me with exposure. He left to warn the priory and now is dead. It was then I threatened to kill him.”

  “And did you… kill your son?” demanded Rhonwellt, making his way carefully across the chamber.

  Declan did not answer, only shook his head.

  Tristan could only gaze with relief. He wanted to approach Rhonwellt, but his feet would not move. He fought back the water forming in his eyes. “Praise God,” he whispered, “you are awake.”

  “This is more of Satan’s handiwork,” mumbled Gilbert sarcastically under his breath. Concern knit his forehead for just a moment and was rapidly gone.

  Soon, all eyes turned to look. Rhonwellt stood before them looking frail.

  “Brother Rhonwellt,” exclaimed the Alwyn, “you are yet unwell. I bade you keep to your bed.”

  Rhonwellt smiled thinly. “My apologies, Brother Prior for disobeying you. The voices carried to my bed. I feared this meeting might not go well. I had to come.” He turned to Declan. “So you are behind the theft of the Medica.”

  Declan stared long and hard at the monk. With a flicker of recognition he flung his arms wide and expelled a loud howl that eroded into raucous laughter. Behind the laughter, his face showed great anguish.

  “Rhonwellt?” Declan sputtered.

  “Where is the book?” demanded Rhonwellt.

  “I intended to have it stolen. Obviously Isidore was successful in his mission to warn you, for it disappeared before an opportunity presented itself for my men to secure it.”

  “We do not have it,” said Rhonwellt.

  “Nor do I.” Declan laughed at the irony.

  “Then who does?” mused Rhonwellt quietly.

  “My failure is complete.” Declan exuded defeat. His shoulders sagged and his head hung. “All of my plans, carefully played,” he whined. “and now, added to all that, you both still live.”

  “Yes, I am alive, but the same cannot be said of my father,” said Tristan turning away from Rhonwellt for the first time since he entered the room. “Was it the bishop’s gold that paid for his assassination?”

  “I know nothing of his death.”

  “You lie!” spat Tristan, fire in his eyes.

  “He was a cuckold who sent his precious boy away. Why should I care if he lived or died? He was nothing to me.”

  “Murder is a mortal sin, my son,” gasped Alwyn.

  “You cannot lay that to me. There is no blood here,” he said holding his hands in front of him.

  “Paying an assassin does not leave one’s hands free of blood,” rasped Tristan. “The deed was born in your black heart and that makes you culpable.”

  Tristan was now face to face with Declan.

  “He may have been nothing to you,” Tristan shouted at his brother, “but he loved our mother, and he accepted you, because he loved her, even knowing you were sired by another.”

  “He did not! Mother swore he never knew I was not of his seed.”

  “I think she believes that, or wants to at any rate. But if you could see the truth, it would have been clear to father as well. Still, he never let on. Pride could surely have played a role in it, but whatever his motives, he claimed you. Since I was heir, there would have been little harm in it.”

  Declan gasped as Tristan grabbed the front of his tunic in both hands and leaned so close He could feel Tristan’s hot breath on his face. “And you repaid him by having his throat slit, alone in a dark alley. I will wager your avarice did not even allow you to pay his murderers, rather you told them they could have whatever coin was in his purse to make it appear a robbery. Surprisingly cheap for such a crucial part of your plan.” When Tristan had finished, he threw his brother aside. Declan spun away, catching himself on the bench before he could tumble to the floor.

  “You cannot have any proof to press a case,” taunted Declan.

  “It was many years ago, and proving it is of no consequence now. If I sought justice for your crimes, I would just kill you.” Declan visibly blanched at his half-sibling’s words.

  “Sir Tristan, please,” the Alwyn cut in. “Do not forget you are in the House of God. Revenge is not a business conducted here no matter the strength of your case against this man. He could have sanctuary should he wish to claim it.”

  “Forgive me, Father Prior. Murder is not my intent. His death may avail me some relief, but it would change nothing. Seeing his carefully crafted existence crumble before the eyes of the world is justice enough. Brother, I leave you to your grief.”

  Tristan motioned for Hewrey to help before he turned to Rhonwellt and said softly, a catch in his voice, “Now, we must get you back to bed.”

  Twenty

  Rhonwellt protested as Tristan and Hewrey carried him back to his cot in the infirmary. Brother Julian hurried ahead to open doors.

  “I am quite able to walk on my own, if you both would but allow me.” He looked at Tristan. “Touching of a religious, especially by those not of the order, is forbidden.”

  “You are still very weak, Brother Rhonwellt. Permit them to assist you,” said Brother Julian, voice full of concern. “Surely I could not carry you alone. I feel certain the prior would forgive the necessity.”

  “I assure you, I am perfectly well.”

  “I think not. Your breathing has become labored in your effort to walk.”

  It was not the exertion that caused Rhonwellt’s breath to catch in his throat. The monk was held so tightly by the knight, Hewrey’s assistance was hardly needed.

  The walk did prove arduous. Rhonwellt found the closeness disturbing and it was a welcome relief when he was safely deposited on his cot. Lying back, his head propped against the pillows, Rhonwellt found Tristan staring intently at him, almost through him. He had trouble meeting Tristan’s eyes, allowing himself only a moment to look and then turned away.

  Brother Julian broke the silence. “I must leave you now. But I leave you in Sir Tristan’s capable hands.” Blushing, the young monk turned and left.

  Rhonwellt turned his attention to Hewrey. “And who are you?” he asked.

  “His name is Hewrey,” replied Tristan, “and I have only just taken him into my service. We met upon my return from Pont Lliw.”

  “Th
at should prove an interesting tale,” replied Rhonwellt. “I anticipate the telling.”

  “Hewrey, wait outside,” said Tristan, drawing up a small stool next to the bed. The lad left.

  “I am afraid I have caused everyone considerable bother,” Rhonwellt said.

  “Everyone received quite a fright,” admitted Tristan.

  “That I truly regret.”

  “It is not a thing to regret. It was not done purposefully on your part. And now they truly rejoice at your recovery.”

  Though Rhonwellt would surely have rejoiced at another’s good fortune, he found it hard to accept so much good will in regard to his own.

  “They?” Rhonwellt said, in an attempt to deflect his discomfort.

  Tristan appeared to search the walls of the room. “I rejoice,” he said.

  Seeing Tristan’s discomfort, Rhonwellt immediately regretted forcing such an admission. To ease the embarrassed silence he changed the subject.

  “Would you really have killed him?” he asked at last. “He is your brother.”

  The knight stirred, leaned forward staring at his boots, elbows on his knees, hands folded, fingers white from the force of their grip. “I had declared such intent to my mother after she had revealed Declan as our betrayer.”

  “I had often wondered if it were him.” Rhonwellt fidgeted with the hem of the bed linens.

  “As had I. But to hear it confirmed unnerved me. I would have killed him on the spot had he been there.” Tristan’s voice sounded tight. “It was when mother revealed her own adultery that I became so confounded my ire momentarily subsided.”

  “Ah yes, the bishop. A secret well hidden these many years. Does she know Declan caused her husband to be murdered?”

  “She did not say as much, but I cannot help but think she must. Her servant said she fears Declan. At first I was in doubt, but if she suspects he had a hand in her husband’s death, that would explain it.”

  Rhonwellt leaned forward. “Do you believe he could also have had a hand in Isidore’s death?”