A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

Tristan put a hand to the monk’s chest and gently pushed him back into his pillows. “His own son? Nay, I do not. I believe his grief for Isidore is genuine.”

  “That seems at odds in a man who would murder the one he thought of as father.”

  “There is a rent in Declan’s character that defies explanation. There is hatred coursing through his veins that is very much at war with the love he bears his son.” Tristan said, extending his hands, palms up, then letting them fall to his lap. “Yet, I believe the affection he has for his sons to be genuine. Though warmth for Cyfnerth has been withheld, it exists some where inside the man, nonetheless. My brother’s anger has ruined him.”

  “You almost sound as though you pity him.”

  Rhonwellt reached over and placed his hand on top of Tristan’s. The knight stared at it. After a moment of hesitation, he placed his hand over the monk’s.

  “I will never forgive his actions, though his motives are clear. Declan is the engineer of his own demise. His deeds were those of an untempered youth, driven by fear, greed and jealousy. His cunning is without cleverness or depth. He is only capable of simple deceit, blackmail, maybe murder. But, his intrigues would never be complex or seen as artful.”

  “You seem to know him well despite such a long separation.”

  “I have known other men like him; Grenteville was one. He was cruel, but not particularly smart. Men of that ilk are much the same.”

  They fell into an insecure quiescence, hands piled atop one another, not looking at each other. The road before them was still in shadow, undefined and uncertain, yet this moment held promise.

  As Rhonwellt withdrew his hand from the pile, Tristan started to speak, but apparently the words would not come for he remained still. After a moment, the knight cleared his throat. “What do you remember of the attack?”

  “There is not a lot to remember,” Rhonwellt answered, wiping his sweating palms on his robe. “It happened so quickly. I had dispatched Ciaran to fetch the others. I was still in the process of examining the body when I heard a vague sound behind me. By the time it reached my conscious mind the noose was about my neck and being drawn tight.”

  “Did he speak?”

  Rhonwellt hesitated. He was not prepared to reveal the attacker’s words until he could ascertain their meaning. Instead, he lied. “I am not sure. If he did so, I did not hear it.”

  “That is not particularly useful.” Tristan scowled. “Is there nothing else?”

  Rhonwellt closed his eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the memories.

  “Frankincense,” he said at last, “and a savor of clove.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  The eleventh of April, the Feast Day of Saint Guthlac, dawned to gray skies with no rain. Preoccupation with the issues of theft, murder, and attempted murder, caused the monks to leave the preparations for the celebration until the last minute. As a consequence, activity started extra early at the cloister, long before first light. With two brothers sitting vigil for the dead in turns and others working in the infirmary, there were fewer hands available for managing the arrangements. Between Lauds and Prime, anyone who could walk or crawl to the church attended high mass, full of Psalms associated with the Saint intended to relieve depression and cast out demons. His Excellency, the Bishop was conspicuously absent from the mass and the offices.

  By mid-morning, the scribes, cellarers and bakers had loaded priory goods onto carts and headed across the bridge and through the village gate to stock the priory’s stalls for the market fair. Feast days were lucrative for the church’s coffers and offered the monks a rare chance to wander outside the priory. Though not walled, Saint Cattwg’s could still feel very much like a gaol with Prior Alwyn giving good effort to controlling the comings and goings of the brothers. He was mostly successful.

  Feeling his strength returning, Rhonwellt had insisted on attending morning mass as well as praying the offices of Prime and Terce. At the conclusion of the liturgy, deposited back on his cot in the infirmary—for at least another half-day the prior had said—Rhonwellt set his mind to collecting the known facts surrounding the theft of the Medica, the murders of Brother Mark and Isidore and the attempt on his own life. The preponderance of violence and death of late had pushed the issue of the missing Medica into the back of everyone’s mind, but it was, nevertheless, still of pressing import. It must be found before its theft became known and the already poor monks of Saint Cattwg’s faced financial ruin. And these murders needed solving lest knowing a killer was on the loose among them cast a pall of terror over all the village and priory.

  Rhonwellt absently fingered the bandage at his neck. His close brush with death had left him shaken and afraid, though he endeavored to keep it hidden. Displaying a brave face was easiest when he was with others. When he found himself alone, his bravery completely abandoned him.

  Why should anyone want him dead? Surely it must be a mistake. No! It was no mistake. The words whispered in his ear as he drifted into the void—‘Now he will know the pain of losing someone he values.’ The words made no sense. Why say he? If Rhonwellt was the intended target, why refer to someone else? With a shudder, Rhonwellt wondered if he would ever feel safe again. Trembling, he felt a tear roll down his cheek. He shook himself to force his thoughts away from the paralyzing fear.

  Though he tried to keep his mind focused on only the known facts, Rhonwellt found himself drifting into conjecture just as often. Tristan’s knife was used to kill Isidore, adding an element to the murder Rhonwellt found more than a little troubling. How well did he really know this war torn soldier who had mysteriously dropped back into his life after so long? Considering the revelations of the night before, the knight would have more than enough reason to kill. But, why Isidore? It would have made more sense to kill Declan. His gut said it was not Tristan. Surely, it must have been someone else trying to implicate him.

  Lost in thought, Rhonwellt rose from his cot and began to pace the small open space at the front of the room. Mid-stride, staring at the floor, he noticed the forgotten wool bundle crumpled under the edge of a cot, hardly visible in the gloomy light. It was Brother Mark’s robe, still laying where he had tossed it while examining the young monk’s body only five days before. It must have remained there, unnoticed amid the frenzy of the traumatic events that had unfolded since.

  Rhonwellt retrieved it and carried the garment out into the light of the overcast day for a better look. Much of the wool was stiff from dried mud and blood. He turned it over and around in his hands, examining every inch. Detritus from the ground, where Mark had crawled and finally lain, clung to the fibers. Wax from dripping candles spotted the front, and the ink stains marking all scribes, ringed the ends of the sleeves. Here and there was evidence of recent meals from his last days. In all, nothing remarkable.

  “Wait. What is this?” he said, half aloud as he examined upper portion of the robe near the neck. A few strands of hair had attached themselves around the collar. Most were the dark, almost black hair of Brother Mark. But here was one that surely did not belong there. It was dark gray to Mark’s black, coarse to his fine. It surely belonged to another.

  Rhonwellt carefully plucked it from the robe and held it between his fingers. One hair, out of place. The filament gently swayed back and forth, moved by the same slight breeze that caressed his face, lulling him into a thoughtfulness that carried him back to the day before, and being held by Tristan as the knight helped him back to his bed. His whole body tingled at the memory, raising little bumps all over his flesh.

  Blushing, he admonished himself. He was no longer a stripling and such juvenile thoughts would lead to nothing. He had a murderer to catch and must be about it!

  He grudgingly prodded his mind back to the present, realizing he had allowed the hair to drift away on the breeze. It probably counted for naught, anyway. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and re-entered the infirmary. He fought the urge to try to smooth and fold the robe as he recalled the towering monk with the dark c
urly hair and ready smile ambling along on immense feet that were nearly always bare.

  “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Mother of God, how could I have been so foolish? Even a halfwit would have noticed.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Tristan rose early, even attended mass, and now strode across the bridge toward town. The cool morning air felt good as he tried to clear his head of the disturbing thoughts that had persisted there throughout the night and into the morning. The heady scent of incense and wool that clung to Rhonwellt still lingered with the soldier. He trudged along the roadway, agitated at his inability to shake the nasal memory. With it came other thoughts far more disturbing. After nearly losing him a second time, desires long repressed, to the point of being forgotten, had arisen. Tristan hungered, once again, to experience the feel of Rhonwellt, the taste and scent of him, to know the lad he had left behind. A time so long ago yet seemed like yesterday. In truth, he longed to relive that yesterday where life had seemed so simple, where everything that meant anything was within his grasp.

  Now, it was all so close yet still out of reach. Surely it must be an act of moral wickedness that he should want to lure a man of God into his bed. How could he ask a monk to submit to the desires of the flesh and forsake his vows to the Church and the Almighty? It was simple, he could not. He could not have that which had been given to God. He would have to set his own desperate desire aside for Rhonwellt’s sake as well as his own soul. His foot steps grew heavy as the hopelessness of the situation poured over him and soaked his psyche. Coming home was proving to hold nothing but sadness and disappointment .

  Still, there was no where else for him to go. War was a young man’s occupation, and with the twilight of his years in sight, he found he did not retain the heart or the stomach for it. By some strange twist of fate he had survived the constant danger. Now he must make a life for himself; must discover some purpose to fill his days. If he were to claim his fee for his years in the Holy Land, he would continue to be bound in service to the Earl of Gloucester. The King was aging and the faint beat of war drums could be felt as his heirs positioned themselves to act the moment Henry rattled his final breath. The future was as uncertain as it ever was.

  Perhaps he should follow convention and find a youngish widow to marry. She would be a companion and could run his manor, and if she were young enough, she might bear him children and an heir. His life would have a look of normalcy, stilling the potential for wagging tongues at his being so late unmarried. It was not a plan that he relished. There would be no real love in it. He now realized his heart belonged completely to Rhonwellt. But, marriage would be right and proper. It would have to do. At least Rhonwellt would be at the priory and close at hand.

  The knight was so lost in his own mind that he collided with a servant hurrying across the bridge, probably on an errand for his master. Both were nearly thrown to the ground by the impact.

  “Watch where the bloody hell you are going!” Tristan roared.

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” the man responded, eyes downcast.

  Tristan blinked. “Oh, never mind,” he snarled and continued on toward town. He had taken but a couple of steps when he turned back. “Wait,” he called after the man.

  The servant stopped dead and slowly turned to face the knight, fear clearly evident in his eyes.

  “My lord?” he asked, his voice low and quavering.

  “At ease, man. I have but a question for you.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the man said, appearing to relax, but only a little.

  “You are known in the village and know all who abide there?”

  “Yes, my lord. I think so. Mostly.” The man’s whole being grew wary again as he rubbed the back of one hand with the other.

  “Well, I am in need of information.”

  “What kind, my lord?”

  “I seek one who is keen in observation.”

  “What, my lord?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Talk plain, my lord.”

  Tristan began losing patience again as the man became warier. He pushed his temper down.

  “Someone who pays attention to the actions of others.”

  “Like who?”

  “A stranger,” he said carefully. “Recently arrived but a fortnight ago.”

  A moment’s thought and a sly grin made its way over the man’s face. “There be a few. But you might try Glyndwer, the fowler’s lad. He knows everyone, whether they belongs here or not. If you wants to know on any strangers, ask Glyn.”

  “Where might I find this lad?”

  “Tavern. Gettin’ drunk, most likely, my lord.”

  “How old is this lad?” chuckled Tristan

  “Round about twelve summers, give or take.”

  “A drunkard at twelve,” Tristan said, suppressing a laugh. “If not at the tavern?”

  “Home, my lord.”

  Tristan waited, frustration building that he must draw out each piece of information. “Well? Where is home?”

  “Road to Glanyfferi, west of town; he, his mam and his brother. End of Keep Street. Take the track to the left away from the castle. ‘Bout two furlongs farther on. Just listen for the geese. Ole Millie will know someone be comin’ long a’fore ye gets there. Better make your purpose clear if ye wants Millie’s good will, for she be a she-wolf when it come to her lads. She’ll not fear your sword neither. Watch yerself, my lord.”

  Tristan nodded, tossing the man a farthing.

  “Thank you, my lord,” bowed the man, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Rhonwellt dropped to his hands and knees beside the cot and peered beneath it. “There it is,” he muttered. He had to lay flat on the floor in order to reach far enough under to grasp the leather strap to haul the discarded sandal into view. Clutching it triumphantly, he got to his knees and then stood, using the cot to push himself erect. He stared at it.

  “Why did I not notice this before?” he mumbled.

  “Do you commune with yourself, Brother Rhonwellt?” said Ciaran standing in the doorway.

  Rhonwellt jumped at the sound of the novice’s voice.

  “What?” said Rhonwellt turning.

  “You were speaking to no one.”

  Rhonwellt ignored the comment and held the sandal out toward Ciaran.

  “Look at this and tell me what you see.”

  Ciaran hesitantly took the shoe, giving Rhonwellt a sidelong glance as he did so, and made a great show of examining the article.

  “You know well it is a sandal. More correctly, a monk’s sandal,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Rhonwellt’s with an inquisitive twinkle. “Why do you tease me, brother?” He tried to hand the sandal back to Rhonwellt.

  “I assure you, I am quite in earnest, Ciaran. This was found at the place where the attack on Brother Mark took place. We assumed it to be his. Study it with a discerning eye.”

  Ciaran looked at it once again, this time in earnest, staring as he looked it over from all sides. Gradually, his perplexed expression changed to one of recognition. “This cannot have belonged to Brother Mark. It is much too small for his gigantic feet.”

  “Exactly. And one of the reasons why he was nearly always barefoot. Good lad.”

  “But to whom does it belong, Brother Rhonwellt?”

  “I do not know, Ciaran. But I believe it will prove to be of the utmost importance to discover just that. Will you assist me?”

  “Oh yes, Brother Rhonwellt!” Ciaran’s whole being radiated excitement. “What must I do?”

  “Come with me, lad. Most of the brothers are in the village for the market fair. Except for the ones sitting vigil, the priory is nearly deserted. We shall start by searching the dorter. Let us see if we can find which of our brothers could be missing a sandal.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  In the time it would take the hostler to prepare their horses, Tristan decided he and Hewrey could cover the distance to the fowler’s house and back on foot. Though Hewrey had shown an affinity toward the
stallion, Tristan had soon realized the lad did not know how to ride. Teaching him would wait for another day. The cottage lay about two hundred paces off the side of the road at the edge of a rocky field now mired in mud.

  As soon as the hovel came into sight, yet still some distance away, a clamor of squawking and honking arose as the feathered sentries raised the alarm that someone was approaching. By the time he actually reached the cottage, Milisandia and her two boys were outside, waiting.

  The fowler, standing feet apart and hands on her hips, was a short, sturdy woman, with an open expression, piercing eyes in a round face topped with an irrepressible mass of black hair. Standing close behind were her two boys, the youngest about nine and the eldest twelve, looking very like diminutive versions of their mother, except for lighter hair. All three were filthy, smelling of goose dung, grease and wood smoke, yet not unhealthy due to having meat and eggs at table regularly.

  “My lord,” said the fowler, polite but wary.

  “Mistress,” answered the knight. “I am Sir Tristan Cunniff.”

  “Refreshment, my lord? I have a brand new batch of ale achin’ to be tested.” Her eyes twinkled when making the offer.

  “I will and be grateful for it. Thank you, mistress.”

  “Elias, cups.”

  The youngest of the two boys, bone thin, bare foot and nearly as tall as his older sibling, ran inside the hovel and returned with two pottery cups and a jug. Milisandia used the inside of her apron, only slightly cleaner then the outside, to wipe them out before handing one to Tristan.

  “Pour,” she commanded the boy, who immediately filled the cups with trembling hands. He did not, however, spill a single drop. That the eldest could not hide his disappointment at not being allowed to drink made Tristan smile behind coughing into his hand. He did not have to look to know Hewrey’s displeasure.

  Tristan cautiously put the cup to his lips. The aroma was heady and he was pleasantly surprised by the excellent taste and quality. He had expected swill.