A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “It is a brew well turned, mistress,” said Tristan, while Hewrey smacked his lips.

  “My ale be known in all the county,” she replied, her broad, open grin attesting her pride.

  “Its reputation would not be undue,” said Tristan.

  They both took healthy swallows.

  “Since I now know which is Elias, I assume this other lad is Glyndwer.”

  The eldest boy stretched to extend his height to its fullest, puffing out his chest.

  “I be Glyn, my lord,” he crowed, with a comical attempt to lower his voice.

  “You come highly recommended to me, master Glyn,” said Tristan. He noticed, at the corner of his vision Elias staring at Hewrey.

  “I do?” the boy replied, hardly able to believe his ears.

  “I have need of your skills.”

  Milisandia’s eyes grew dark with fury as she raised her hand, heading in the boys direction.

  “Have you been drawlatchin’ again, boy?”

  “No, mam, I swear,” screamed the lad, spinning away, ducking the blow Tristan knew to be on its way.

  “That be where I knows you,” said Elias to Hewrey. “I seen you drawlatchin’ in town.

  “Shut yer muzzle, gutter rat!” snapped Hewrey.

  “I seen you in the same gutter!”

  “Enough!” shouted Tristan, intervening without hesitation. “Apologies, mistress. Hewrey is still a bit feral and yet to be tamed. I assure you, he will be leaving his criminal ways behind him.” The knight glowered at the scarecrow whose look turned sullen. After a moment, Tristan turned back to face Milisandia who had a sour look to her. “As for master Glyn, I assure you, it is no such skill I require. It is his knowledge of the comings and goings around the town I seek.”

  Milisandia still seemed unsure.

  “Gossip be women’s business, my lord, not that of a man-child.”

  “I require no gossip. Only a ready eye for observance—such as that of a soldier or merchant.” Tristan hoped the last would secure some good will. “The lad’s reputation for such keenness is widely regarded.”

  “So is his fondness for drunkenness and devilry. Good to know he have such a keenness when the ale be upon him.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Go ahead, sir knight. Ask your questions.” Millisandia turned to enter the cottage, muttering her disbelief. She turned back. “Elias, come. Leave your brother to learn a man’s business.” The younger boy’s whole body sagged with disappointment.

  “Permit the young one to stay, mistress. He will soon be a man himself and may be of assistance.”

  “Oh, very well. But be quick. They both have men’s business right here waitin’ to be done.”

  The boys looked at each other and beamed. Elias, seemed suddenly seized by a need for pride in appearance for he made a pass with his hand to flatten his unruly hair as he approached Tristan. The action caused Hewrey to laugh. Elias glared openly. Glyn stuck his thumbs in the frayed rope belt about his waist, strutting like some game bird, its ruff in full swell.

  “Tell me, master Glyn, do you know the old beggar who performs the conjure tricks?”

  “You mean the one with the pebble and cups, my lord?” asked Elias.

  “Yes, that is the one.”

  “I do, my lord,” said Glyn. “What about him?”

  “How long has he been about?”

  “Less than a fortnight,” said the younger boy, quickly.

  “Quiet, Elias,” Glyn bristled. “He be askin’ me.”

  “I ask you both,“ soothed Tristan. “Does he stay in the town?”

  This time it was Glyn with the answer. “No, my lord. He have a camp out the road west of town, but some way out. Maybe fifteen furlongs.”

  “You have seen this camp?” asked Tristan, taking another drink from the clay cup.

  “Yep. I were foragin’ the geese out that way one day when I seen this camp. Pretty good hid, it were. In ‘mong some rocks, in a clearing ‘hind a thick coppiced wood. Little gooser went in an’ I had to fetch it out.”

  “How do you know it was the beggar’s camp?”

  Elias quickly refilled Tristan’s cup after the knight took the last swallow.

  “It smellt like him, my lord.”

  “What do you mean, ‘smelled like him’?” asked Tristan, although he thought he already knew. For in a flash of remembrance he recalled the first time he had encountered the magus, and the strange feeling there was something very familiar yet just out of reach of comprehension.

  “He smells like a church, like a priest.”

  “Well done, lad!” exclaimed Tristan, heartily clapping the boy on the back. Glyn looked confounded at the knight’s outburst.

  “What did I do?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Exactly what I had hoped you would do,” replied Tristan, a very satisfied grin splayed across his face. “You have shown me how clever you are. And how dulled I have allowed my own wits to become.”

  Tristan had become accustomed to the smell of incense since his arrival at the priory. All the monks and anyone who had attended mass carried the scent. The familiarity caused any awareness of it on the beggar to slip by his scrutiny as anything at all unusual. He should have questioned its presence in such strength then, especially on one whom he had never seen at the sparsely attended morning mass at St. Cattwg’s.

  “Tell him about the horse,” exclaimed Elias.

  “You tell me, Elias. What horse?”

  “He have one, my lord.”

  “But not at his camp,” interjected Glyn

  “Then where?”

  “At the tanner’s,” said Glyn.

  “Keeps it hid,” Elias broke in, and both boys began talking at once.

  “Whoa, one at a time,” said Tristan, hands palm out in front of him. “Where do I find this tanner?”

  “A ways further on, my lord. Around beyond the tor,” explained Glyn.

  “Where would a tanner hide a horse? Is there a barn?”

  “No barn, my lord. He hides it in the cut,” said Elias. “Like a cave in the tor, my lord. Not big, but room enough for a horse. Everybody knows the cut, but nobody goes there. No use for nothin’”

  “What manner of horse?” asked Tristan, draining his cup. Elias moved to refill it but the knight waived him off.

  “Rouncy… bay,” answered Glyn. “Not fancy, but well fared.”

  Tristan muttered half under his breath. “A beggar would not own such a beast. He would be branded or hung as a horse thief. How came he by it? Who is this would-be beggar?”

  Tristan and Hewrey took their leave and as they walked away from the cottage, Tristan grabbed Hewrey by the sleeve and dragged him along. “I will civilize you yet.”

  “He accused me of bein’ a thief!” said Hewrey.

  “Which you are—were. And you will change. We all have a past, even you. And you will rub up against it, now and again, for the rest of your life. Become accustomed to it. Own it. After a while, it will cease to chafe as it does now.”

  Twenty-one

  Rhonwellt leaned around the corner and peered in the door. The dorter was deserted.

  “You look under the beds on that side, Ciaran,” said Rhonwellt as they walked into the room. “I shall take those on this side. We are looking for possibly a lone sandal, or none where there should be a pair.”

  The two monks worked their way along the rows of cots lining the longer walls of the large room. Lifting the straw filled mats they peered down through the rope supports or stooped to peek beneath them one-by-one, noting the presence or absence of footwear for all of the brothers. Issued a pair of each, there should be either shoes or sandals under every bed, depending on which they were wearing that day.

  Reaching the end of his row, Rhonwellt straightened up and for a moment thought he might swoon. He steadied himself on the edge of a cot, tried to calm his breathing. He still felt odd moments of weakness left over from the attack. His hand went to his neck to test for fresh blood. The bandage re
mained dry. “All is as it should be on this side,” he said, at last.

  “And all is not exactly as it should be over here,” said Ciaran.

  “Explain, please. What have you found?”

  “Well, there is an empty pottle under Brother Peter’s bed that he has not yet returned to the cellarium. Brother Rhonwellt, why does Prior Alwyn allow him to sneak wine and be so intemperate?”

  “I cannot answer for the Prior,” said Rhonwellt, looking around the rest of the chamber, “except to say that Brother Peter is in the twilight of his years and his body betrays him with aches and pains that seem to be soothed by drink. And then, there are the ghosts.” Stroking his chin, in an aura of pondering, he continued to search the corners and far reaches of the room. “You found nothing else?”

  “All else is as it should be. A pair of either shoes or sandals under each cot.” Ciaran paused. “Ghosts, Brother Rhonwellt?”

  “All old men have ghosts from their youth that sometimes rise up to haunt them in their dotage.”

  Ciaran shivered causing Rhonwellt to laugh. “Perhaps not you, brother,” he said. “You are far too young to have collected many ghosts.”

  Looking sideways at Rhonwellt, Ciaran appeared little calmed by the reassurance.

  “What shall we do now, brother?” the novice asked finally.

  “It would appear that whoever was missing a sandal has already replaced it to cover its loss. None of the ones you saw were recently crafted?”

  “No, brother. All were old and worn.”

  Rhonwellt let his gaze fall on a large wooden cupboard at the far end of the room that held clothing issued to the brothers by the chamberlain. He went to it and tried the door but found it locked.

  “We shall ask Brother Oswald if anyone has complained of one gone missing and asked to be issued a replacement. He keeps his cabinet secured and guards the key, so one would have to ask.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  “Have my horse readied,” said Tristan, a bit more short tempered than was necessary. “Put saddle to the sumpter, too. I will return for them in a trice.” The man set to immediately in compliance. After leaving Glyn and Elias the unbelievable wealth of a farthing each for their assistance, he and Hewrey had hastened back to the village with a vague plan forming in his mind.

  The hubbub of the market fair was in full swing, the streets teeming with celebrants, pushing and shoving to navigate the throngs milling about the booths and entertainments. Lords and ladies, knights and nobles rubbing elbows with merchants and beggars, servants and serfs all caught up in the surging tide of excitement. Tristan seemed fairly certain the beggar would be in the middle of the crowd, performing his tricks for any loose coin that might come his way. But, the density of the mob made it difficult for him to spot him anywhere. Insuring the beggar was at the fair would guarantee a safe examination of the man’s camp.

  Tristan elbowed his way through the tight crowd swarming across the bridge, Hewrey close behind cursing with every difficult step. The knight’s mind puzzled with a notion, so near yet still out of reach; something there, shrouded in darkness, unseen, yet tantalizingly close to the light. He could not put meaning to it, and he could not coax it forward from the shadows. But he knew there was significance, and the stubbornness to reveal itself increasingly annoyed him. His pique grew to match Hewrey’s and he began to cast aside those unlucky enough to hinder his way. Their impatient march was met with grumbles and curses, but none dared confront the angry knight or his surly boy.

  Tristan could sense his humors once again falling out of balance, that a rise in black bile was about to plunge him down into a deep well of despondency, listlessness and irritability. Melancholia was an enemy he battled often. An intermittent invader, it would creep in and attack when least expected, plunder his spirit and then slowly recede into the murkiness of his psyche to await another unguarded moment to strike again. As usual during such onslaughts, he felt a great urge to imbibe, but the shame of the memory of his last disastrous bout with unwatered wine gave him pause to resist. It had nearly resulted in great bodily harm to Ciaran and caused him to abandon Rhonwellt when he was needed most. He prayed that would not happen again no matter how bad the melancholia became.

  Once across the bridge, they passed the church and rounded the corner between the cellarium and the workshop. About to enter the guest house, Tristan saw Rhonwellt and Ciaran emerge from the refectory, heads together in conversation. He had hoped to find Rhonwellt alone, as guilt over the events in the guest house still made it difficult to look Ciaran in the eye.

  The knight approached, his mood like a storm rolling in from the sea. “Are you well enough to come with me—now?”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Tristan’s voice was cold and detached.

  Rhonwellt took a step back, making no attempt to mask his surprise. “Tristan, what has occurred?” he asked.

  The knight’s whole countenance had changed. With his fingers, he combed back his hair, damp with sweat and hanging down over his face nearly covering his dark eyes, eyes that darted back and forth, soaked with anger and doubt. Rhonwellt searched his face, clearly confused. Tristan’s impatience buffeted him and the monk wondered at the knight’s furtive attempt to meet his eyes, only to look away.

  Rhonwellt implored again. “What has caused you such distress?”

  “I do not have time for your questions,” he spat. “I may need a witness. Are you able to accompany me, or not?”

  Ciaran stepped in to stand between Rhonwellt and the knight. “Your serving lad can be witness,” he said. “Rhonwellt is not yet fully recovered and will not be going anywhere. Moreover, he cannot leave without the prior’s permission.”

  With a terse nod, Tristan stomped off in the direction he had come. “Come, Hewrey,” he said over his shoulder.

  Rhonwellt, confused by the knight’s demeanor, watched him retreat back towards the village, his shoulders stooped as though he carried some burden, the immense weight of which threatened to break him.

  “At least he is not drunk,” Ciaran said, half aloud. Then to Rhonwellt, “What is the matter with him?”

  “I do not know, lad. I am as perplexed as you.” Needing but a moment to recover his equilibrium, Rhonwellt said quickly, “Come, Ciaran,” and headed off to follow Tristan.

  “Brother Rhonwellt, where are you going?”

  “I must know what has put Sir Tristan in such a state,” said Rhonwellt keeping his eye trained on the disappearing figures.

  “But, Brother Rhonwellt, it is true. You are not yet recovered.”

  “I will be fine, Brother. Now, come before we lose sight of them.”

  “And the Prior?” reminded Ciaran.

  “It is a feast day. It is allowed.”

  Some distance behind the knight and his boy, the two monks threaded their way through the heavy traffic headed to and from the village, concentrating on the retreating figures. They only cursorily acknowledged the many greetings proffered them. The going was slow and laborious. Though they struggled to keep Tristan and Hewrey in sight, they were swallowed up by the crowd, disappearing somewhere around the tavern. Rhonwellt grabbed Ciaran’s arm, dragging him along.

  “Brother Rhonwellt, surely you do not intend to enter this place.”

  “It is a tavern, Brother, not Hell itself. You are old enough to see the inside of one.”

  Rhonwellt pushed open the door and entered. Ciaran followed so closely the two appeared conjoined.

  “Good day, Brothers,” said Gwyllm, emerging from the crowd in the center of the room with an inquisitive grin. “It is a great joy to see you.”

  “Good day Master Taverner,” replied Rhonwellt, hastily surveying the room. “Have you seen Sir Tristan?”

  Ciaran merely stood, his arms jammed into his sleeves with a stupefied look, and his mouth open.

  “I have not, brother. Is anything amiss?”

  “I wish I knew, Master Taverner.” He spun around and left, dragging Ciaran by the
arm.

  Emerging onto the street, Rhonwellt thrust himself into the throng.

  “Brother Rhonwellt, you are about to detach my arm,” Ciaran protested.

  Rhonwellt let go and stopped, again scanning the crowd. He turned towards the stables beside the inn in time to see a war horse come charging out of the narrow alley and into the street. It shied from the people, rose up on its hind legs, just missing the two tonsured heads standing there. Ciaran thrust his arms up to fend off flying hooves that came perilously close to his face. Attempting to snatch the novice out of the way, Rhonwellt quickly recognized Tristan’s courser, the knight astride and struggling to control him. At last, the stallion settled. The warrior’s dark eyes met Rhonwellt’s for only a moment. In addition to the fury witnessed earlier, Rhonwellt sensed great pain, deeper than the rage, peering out at him. Pleading. In an instant it was over and the knight spun the stallion and galloped out of town, people scattering as he passed. His eyes tightly closed, face white with fear, Hewrey clung to the neck of the rouncy as it followed dutifully along.

  “Ciaran, are you all right?”

  “I believe so.”

  Both monks made the sign of the cross and stared after the knight.

  “He has a demon,” said Ciaran.

  “Yes, and from the look of it,” said Rhonwellt, “his lad cannot ride. Let us hope Tristan’s demon does not get either of them injured or killed.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Champing at the bit and eager to run, Tristan was wary of allowing the aging courser to open up, holding him back to a small degree through commands with his legs and spurs. Bred to war, Tristan knew the stallion’s response to any sense of urgency from his master would be immediate, and he would run until he dropped if asked. The knight slowed him to an easy walk and eventually to a stop. The rouncy walked up beside the stallion, Hewrey still clinging to its neck.

  “You cannot ride, can you?” asked Tristan.

  Loosing his grip on the rouncy’s neck, the lad straightened up, his ashen face turning to a deep red. “I can! It is just…”