“You cannot,” replied Tristan. “But you will learn soon enough.” He leaned over Sag’s neck and spoke softly to him. “It would seem I am at war again, old son,” he said, patting the stallion’s neck, using the opportunity to break free of the growing effects of the black bile, “but you are not. I nearly injured the young monk again. The darkness is returning and I would not see you forced to submit to something that seeks to be my master.”
“You have no master,” snorted Hewrey.
“Everyone has a master, lad.”
“You be a knight,” said Hewrey, looking sidelong at Tristan. “Who be your master?”
“You are a knight,” replied Tristan.
“What?” said Hewrey.
“It would seem I must teach you to speak as well as ride.”
“No need to teach me nothin’,” the lad replied, acting once again like the scarecrow Tristan first encountered. “I be fine without you.”
“Yes, I saw that at the entrance to that alley,” said Tristan. “You you had that situation well in hand.”
Hewrey bristled at the sarcasm. “I would have tricked them and got away.”
“Perhaps you would have, at that,” said Tristan, tsking out one side of his mouth. “But it was you who called out to me for help. Remember?”
“And you said I could leave anytime. Remember?”
Tristan thought for a moment. “Yes, you can. You are free to leave now if you wish. The walk back to town is not far.”
Tristan smiled to himself while Hewrey grew quiet, his expression humorless. They rode that way for some time.
“So,” Hewrey said at last, “who be…who is your master?”
“Robert, Earl of Gloucester is my master,” replied Tristan. “He is the one whom I must obey.”
“And who is the Earl’s master?”
“Why, the King, of course,” replied Tristan.
“And the King, he have no master. Right?”
“The King must answer to God, who gave him his power. Everyone has a master.” Tristan let this sink into Hewrey’s mind. “And, I am your master. So, sit up straight. Hold to the front of the saddle for support, if you must. Move with Rouncy’s gait, not against it.”
“You calls him Rouncy? He have no name?”
“It is a sumpter. I never felt the need to name it.”
“Well, if I be ridin’ him, he will have a proper name.”
“If you like,” replied Tristan.
They walked until they came to the spot where the fowler’s lad told Tristan to leave the track.
About a hundred paces into the wood, Glyn had said they would find a thick copse of haw-berry, hazel and woodbine, with some furze tucked in at the bottom, up against a rock wall, a big laurel on the opposite side of the lane.
Recognizing the place Glyn described, Tristan came to a stop. He handed his reins to Hewrey and dismounted. “Hold the horses and stay here,” he said.
Hewrey shrank back, casting an uneasy look toward the stallion.
“It will be fine. You are not trying to ride or steal him this time. He will cause you no trouble.”
The knight walked around the outside of the thicket, looking for an entrance. He soon found it, off to one side and well hidden, as the lad had said.
Parting some branches, Tristan slipped through.
The center of the copse opened onto a small clearing, about ten feet across. An overhang low on the boulder wall created a nook in which the beggar had set his fire. The upward curve at the back wall of the recess would allow the heat to be directed out at one sitting in front of it. Tristan placed his hand on the stone. It was cold. The magus had not been there for several hours.
Then, little by ittle he began to notice. Beneath the smells of charred wood and cooking odors, a faint scent that his senses had not fully registered upon his first encounter with the old man. Tristan bent close to the rock and inhaled deeply. He sniffed again to confirm it. Clove. Strange. Not a typical scent of Christian holy places. Was this what Rhonwellt smelled? His suspicions about the beggar grew stronger.
Turning from the stone, he surveyed the clearing. It was empty. No possessions or detritus could be seen as evidence that anyone had been recently there. Only the residue of a fire that had burned so completely that only ash remained. Even his footprints had been rubbed out. Strange that he would be so meticuous as to build a smokeless fire only to betray this location by not burying the ashes.
Satisfied he had seen all there was to see, Tristan started to exit the thicket when his sleeve became snagged on a on a branch. He turned to release it and noticed something else had attached itself to the twig.
“It would seem our beggar is not as careful as he might be,” he mumbled.
Reaching in, he carefully extracted a long, fiber that had caught there. Though the color of raw linen, it was much finer and delicately spun.
“He has left his mark after all.” Tristan grinned as he tucked the find deep into the finger of one of his gloves tucked under his belt. After a last look around, he exited the thicket. Hewrey sat waiting atop the rouncy, a look of relief passing over him at Tristan’s reappearance. Tristan took up the reins and climbed into the saddle. Making their way back to the road, they turned in the direction Glyn said he would find the tanners cottage and the tor beyond.
By now, it had turned midday, and traffic on the road had begun to wane as most pilgrims had already passed on their way to the market fair. They encountered no one in the two furlongs to the tanner’s cottage. Except for the barking of a dog contained behind a low wattle fence, when they arrived the place appeared deserted.
The tanner was likely attending the feast day. He was either a good Christian or a drunkard. Perhaps both.
A ways further, the granite tor rose up beside the road. Small by most standards, Tor Cefn rose only about forty feet, with a gentle slope of earth on the side facing the road, that had eroded away creating a cliff-like face at the back. The tor was made up of many huge boulders, thrown together by some long-ago violent event of nature. Some of the fissures between them had filled with earth, while others still contained voids large enough for a man to enter.
There were no trees or shrubs growing at the windswept back of the tor, making the entrance to a large cleft conspicuous. A pole as thick as a man’s calf was propped across the front. As they rode up to the entrance, he and Sag were greeted by nickering as the head of a curious rouncy appeared at the opening.
“A friendly enough greeting, eh old man,” said Tristan patting Sag’s neck. “Shall we say hello?”
The knight slipped from the saddle and approached the make-shift stable, his hand out, his voice gentle as he spoke encouragement to the animal. Sag nickered his own greeting.
“A handsome bay you are and well looked after,” said Tristan, noticing the cleanliness of the chamber floor, and a small pile of dung outside the rock room, off to one side. A battered oaken bucket containing water hung from the stub of a branch on the pole blocking the rouncy’s escape, and remnants of grain littered the floor where it had been thrown in. Retrieving a lead he had tied to Sag’s saddle, Tristan pulled the pole away from the entrance, slipped a loop around the rouncy’s neck, and was about to lead it into the open when Sag uttered a low, throaty warning followed by Hewrey’s quavering voice.
“Master! Owww!”
Tristan heard a blow and something hit the ground.
“The horse does not belong to you, my lord,” a voice behind him advised.
“True, Master Tanner,” replied Tristan, alert and turning to face the man, “but it goes with me, none-the-less.”
Hewrey lay sprawled on the ground at the feet of a rough-looking man. A tall, mostly bald man of about four and thirty, he had small eyes that squinted. He was dressed entirely in leather and held a stout staff, taller than he by about an arm’s length, pointed at the middle of Hewrey’s chest. Taller than Tristan by a head-and-a-half and much heavier, he appeared confident.
�
�Hewrey, are you all right?”
The lad nodded, all the while staring at the tanner, nostrils flared and his lip curled, with hatred in his eyes.
“Let the boy up, Master Tanner, now.”
In that moment, Hewrey grabbed a fistful of dirt and flinging it in the man’s face, rolled from under the staff and dashed to Tristan’s side.
“Christ’s balls, boy!” growled the tanner, as he wiped at his eyes with the back of a grimy hand. He raised his staff took a step in Hewrey’s direction.
“Do not take another step!” yelled Tristan.
The tanner froze for a brief moment.
The he relaxed, planted his staff upright in front of him, grabbed it with both hands and leaned into it. His whole face broke into a wide grin. Only his squinting eyes were not smiling.
“I says the horse stays, my lord.”
“You appear brave, Master Tanner, not stupid.” The muscles of Tristan’s face twitched as his temper grew short.
“My staff is stout and long, and though I be big, I be quick and strong,” replied the leather-clad man.
Tristan recalled the last man he met with a staff. The place behind his ear still ached from the blow.
“And my sword is sharp,” he replied, putting hand to hilt and drawing his steel from its scabbard. “Sharp enough to rend your staff, and kill you if the need arises.” The knight advanced a couple of steps toward the tanner, his blade extended in front of him. “I am taking the horse. Are you so certain you wish to stop me?”
The grin vanished from the tanners face, replaced by an emotionless mask, his squinty eyes narrowing even further, as he spun his staff level in front of him, and planted his feet firmly.
“Why do you risk your life for a horse that is not yours?” Tristan began to move in a circle around the peasant who turned in place to keep facing the knight.
“I am paid well to keep it.”
“Surely, not well enough to forfeit your life.”
“What is my choice? You would kill me to take it and the ragged one will kill me sure if I let you have it.” Once again the tanner’s face changed, now presenting resignation, tinged with sadness.
“Your heart is not in this fight. I can see it in your eyes. Leave the ragged one to me,” assured Tristan. He stopped and looked the man squarely in the face. “He is not what he appears to be.”
Tristan noticed Hewrey move with stealth toward the opening in the cut. He stopped circling when the tanners back was to the lad.
“What he appears to be is of little concern,” offered the tanner. “Is just what he might be has me troubled.”
Hewrey picked up a stout limb, moving carefully so as not make a sound and began to creep up behind the tanner.
“Be at ease. He will not bother you further.” Tristan was careful not to betray Hewrey’s movements. He kept his eyes on his opponent.
“What is your need of the mount?” the tanner asked.
“My business is with its master. I need the mount to get his attention.”
The tanner mustered his resolve. “Well, an honest man earns his coin.”
Instantly, before the tanner could think, Hewrey sprinted forward, jammed the limb between the man’s legs and with a swift lunge to the side, began to run around him, twisting the limb and throwing him off balance. The tanner crashed to the ground while Tristan moved in and put the point of his sword to the man’s chest.
“You did your best,” Tristan chuckled, kicking the staff away. The man lay on the ground in front of him, unable to hide his surprise. “Your honor is intact. You earned your coin. And I did not have to kill you. Now go home.”
The wary tanner got to his feet, eying Tristan all the while, grabbed his staff and strode off towards his cottage.
After the tanner was a safe distance away, Tristan turned to the boy, pretended to doff his hat and gave a slight bow. “You may yet earn your keep, lad. Well done.”
Tristan watched as Hewrey stared at him for a long time, stood witness to the struggle going on behind the expressionless face as the scarecrow struggled against a smile Tristan knew would not, could not come. Finally, a nearly imperceptible movement of his head that could have had the makings of a nod—an acknowledgment.
“Then, to town where we can eat, master,” he said. “I have a hunger. You can start by feeding me. ”
Tristan suppressed his own smile. At least one thing was now clear. The lad had called him master.
Twenty-two
Wearing an apron and carrying a bucket of lime-water and a brush, Brother Gilbert trudged back from the cemetery where he had been employed to freshen the look of the crosses in honor of the feast day and Easter, only four days hence. It was a chore he hated and his sour mood was lightened only a little by the fact that, this time, he had gotten none of the whitewash on his robe. His mind engaged in woolgathering, he dragged past the infirmary where he spied Brother Rhonwellt and Brother Ciaran inside, huddled close, speaking in hushed tones, and holding a sandal between them. They examined it as though it were an extraordinary object instead of a common shoe. Fools, both. What were they about?
The monk had nearly reached the workshop to dispose of the tools when Brother Ciaran’s raised voice drifted between the buildings. Brother Gilbert did not fully hear what had been said, but his curiosity was piqued. Depositing the tools in a hurry on the worktable, he exited the shop to see the two monks scurry round the corner to the refectory building. He hastened down the path, arriving at the door in time to watch them mount the stairs to the dorter on the second floor. Allowing them time enough to enter the room at the top, he followed. Crouched in the middle of the stairs, his eyes just above the floor, he peered in to find the two monks searching under each of the Brother’s cots, pause at the far end of the room and then make their way toward the stairs again.
Gilbert fled down to the refectory and hurried to the back of the room where he squatted behind one of the large dining tables and waited for them to leave. Where were they going in such a hurry? Would this sandal business prove trouble in the brew? When the sound of their foot falls grew distant, he rose from his place of concealment and followed.
The two brothers were heading for the village, a place Gilbert loathed, especially on market days; too many people pushing and shoving, the noise, the thieves and cutpurses, the brawlers and drunks, and worst of all, the many odious smells. Gilbert put a cloth to his face against the odor of the unwashed and the rotting stench of the butchers shambles and middens and continued to trail the brothers through the surging crowds. So rarely did he venture away from the priory and into the town, finding himself in the midst of the clamor was soon overwhelming. Slipping on some discarded offal and blood, nearly losing his footing, his hands began to tremble and, for a moment, he thought he might retch.
Clearing the vicinity of the meat sellers, Gilbert stopped to fill his lungs with some most welcome fresh air. He crossed to the other side of the thoroughfare, passing the fletchers and bow makers, parchmenters, cobblers, cordwainers and harness makers. He kept his quarry in sight as they headed to the far end of the market in the direction of the cloth merchants, pie makers. Beyond them were the stalls selling bread from the priory kitchens, wines from the cellarium, psalters made by novice scribes, and small, rude crosses to be worn about the neck produced by the older monks who could no longer labor.
All about him, the citizenry laughed and celebrated, crying out merry greetings to one another as though they were unaware they were dressed in filthy rags, seldom had enough to eat, lived in poverty or knew that God despised them for the foul creatures they were. Gilbert could not comprehend it. How could they be so joyful leading such pitiful lives? He shrank back as two men, arms locked together and singing a bawdy song about a buxom wench barged past him. He could only stare with an air of disapprobation.
“Good day, brother,” came a voice from behind. Startled, Gilbert turned quickly to see a man whose clothes hung from his skeletal frame like skin from a rotting
corpse and carrying a large pack on his back. Bits of bone and hair and a few teeth hung from a crude rack of sticks he carried in front of him.
“Go away,” demanded Gilbert.
“But, brother,” His voice became hushed and conspiratorial, “I have an object of great value that may interest you.”
“I am not interested in any ‘pieces of the True Cross’ nor ‘little toes of Christ’ nor the ‘leg bone or tooth of some dubious saint’ or any other such dishonesty.”
“Yes, Brother. It are a crime the way some tries to swindle folks. But, I assures you…”
“I am not interested you filthy creature.” The monk curled his lip and spat at the man’s feet.
The peddler’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Brother, that were most uncharitable. I could not even interest you in the chalice Saint Guthlac hisself used every day to drink from the holy well at Croyland?”
He held out a crude wooden cup.
“Croyland is a swamp!” spat Gilbert. “There is no well there. Now go a…” He was interrupted by a small group of soldiers, well plied with ale, who staggered between them, jostling the cup from the huckster’s hand and dropping their own pottle of ale.
“Bugger,” grumbled one of the men, lumbering along like an ox and smelling as bad. He stepped forward, just missing the cup with his enormous foot and grabbed the bone-seller by the front of his shirt. In a heartbeat, the tranter was hurled though the air, flying over the counter of the weaver’s stall, bringing down the many lines of brightly colored fabric hanging across the back and landing amid a tangle of bolts and samples. The weaver began shouting, the drunks shouting back. The peddler lay on his back, one arm held protectively in front of his terror-stricken face, his gaze tracking back and forth between the weaver and the roughs.
Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief that everyone’s attention had been drawn from him. Now, he needed to find Rhonwellt and Ciaran. He was about to resume his search when he spied the forgotten cup lying in the dirt. A quick look around to be sure no one saw him, he scooped up the vessel, shoved it up his sleeve and hurried away.
A Savor of Clove Page 25