A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  His attention again on the crowd, Gilbert’s relief changed to annoyance when he could not spy his quarry anywhere ahead. He carefully worked his way through the swarm of revelers and shoppers, careful to make sure he saw the monks first should he suddenly come upon them. Advancing a few yards, he finally saw that Rhonwellt and Ciaran joined with a knot of people watching an old beggar perform his sleight of hand. Gilbert quickly hid behind a cutler’s stall.

  The old man was in the midst of a disappearing coin trick when he suddenly stopped and stared at something in the street behind the cluster of spectators. Gilbert noticed his eyes grow wide in surprise, then narrow in a combination of disbelief and anger. Following the beggar’s gaze, the monk saw Rhonwellt’s knight and his servant on horseback, a third horse in tow, wending their way through the crowd.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Astride Ambisagarus, the bay following on lead and Hewrey at the rear on Rouncy, Tristan slowly wound his way along the street, the dense crowd holding them to a slow walk. The knight had deliberately chosen a path that would take them closest to where he hoped to find the magus performing his tricks. Peering over the top of the knot of spectators, Tristan spied him, in his usual place, hands deftly at work on his illusions. The crowd stood watching in hushed excitement. Slowing Sag even more, Tristan stared intently as if to compel the old man to look up by the sheer force of his will, however the beggar continued to focus on his work. They were about to pass the spot and be swallowed once again by the crowd when Tristan deliberately scraped the back of one of the spectators with the toe of his boot causing him to turn and curse. It worked; the beggar looked up. When he did, he dropped the coin before he could cause it to vanish to the delight of the crowd. He bent to pick it up, his gaze locked on the knight.

  Though the old man did not readily show it, Tristan knew he had surprised him.

  Following the trickster’s gaze, many onlookers turned to see what had distracted him. Soon, all faces were staring from the beggar to the knight and back to the startled magus. The coldness of the magus’s glare, accompanied by a slight twinkle, made the hair at the nape of Tristan’s neck stand on end and sent a shiver down his spine. He recognized the leer of a cold blooded killer.

  The knight and the magus took measure of each other. Tristan began to hold no doubt the magus was far more than he appeared to be and more capable than anyone would suspect. Now that an image of who he might be was beginning to materialize in his mind, Tristan felt sure the magus plotted to kill him. But, how would he accomplish it? The knight knew he must keep up his guard and not allow the old man the luxury of surprising him in return. He pondered what the man’s next move would be. What ever was to happen, it would be soon, and he would have to be ready.

  The encounter was over in an instant. The crowd returned their attentions to the beggar who turned away, awkwardly returning his full concentration to his performance. But he was clearly shaken. About to face forward, Tristan noticed the beggar turn to leer at him again. He gently nudged Sag on, pulling the bay along, and headed for the stables, the heat of the old man’s gaze burning into his back. Tristan continued to fix his gaze straight ahead, despite the temptation to look behind him.

  The next move would fall to the old man.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Leaving Hewrey at the stables with the hostler to care for the horses, Tristan trudged into the inn. His success at catching the beggar off-guard was tempered by thoughts of his recent encounter with Rhonwellt and Ciaran. His dark mood had wreaked havoc once again and he was consumed with shame at not being able to face them standing on the outer edge of the crowd. Owing them an apology, he had avoided their stare, achieved his aim and ridden away. He could still see their faces as they stood outside the infirmary.

  Rhonwellt appeared bewildered at his actions, but young Ciaran looked truly frightened and still angry. It was not fair. They never asked for such treatment, yet when the darkness was upon him, Tristan lost all reason. Unlike the battlefield, life was no place to do things with no forethought. If he were to face them at this moment, no words of remorse would be forthcoming, though well deserved. He would be unable to voice them. Now, there was only unexpressed but heartfelt regret,.

  The sea of drunken patrons parted as he plowed his way through the room, hand on the hilt of his sword, head down to shut out the rest of the world. A lone stool in the far back corner near the alley door beckoned to him; a place he could sit, in near darkness, isolated from the surrounding celebration. Somewhere to ply his mind as to his own next move.

  The serving girl hurried up to him, her breasts bouncing, pot and jug in hand, a smile splayed across her face.

  “Ale, my lord?”

  Tristan nodded, barely lifting his head. Filling the vessel, she handed it to him.

  “Anything else, my lord?”

  “No,” he replied, so low she probably could not hear. Slowly, he shook his head.

  “We have some very tasty stew, fresh today,” she pressed. “Beef.”

  “No, lass, just leave me be.”

  “Suit yourself, my lord.” With a quick wink in his direction, she danced off to tend to other customers.

  Tristan leaned against the wall, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The floor rushes, soured with the odor of spilled food and ale, the stench of sweat and farting customers many of whose shoes were covered in dung, reminded him of how much he hated these places. The crowds, the hustle and bustle and never-ending intrigue of towns, like the war camps, made him yearn for the open places; just him astride Sag, Rouncy in tow, picking their way at an easy pace along a route that led nowhere definite. The soldier longed to be far from here, for nights under the stars or snug and sheltered in a small cave, the stillness, the flickering of a fire, the ease and simplicity of being on his own,. Away from the haunting memories of the past.

  All the same, Tristan knew he could not leave. The lure of the past-made-present was too great. He could not escape it, rather, would have to accept it, make peace with it. Though Rhonwellt could never be his, Tristan was painfully aware that regardless, he must have him near. As soon as the puzzle of this beggar was solved, he would seek out the Earl, claim his fief, and shut himself away in his manor. With his monk close by, the knight would forget everything and everyone else. It would have to suffice.

  Gaining the beggar’s attention had been easy. Now Tristan needed a plan. He had laid the bait and felt sure the old man would come for him. He wondered just how much a threat the old man posed, if his life could be in any real jeopardy. Certain that the image of a stooped and aged beggar was just a ruse, he must be prepared for a ruthless and cunning attack by someone who would likely prove a man younger than he appeared. The only question was when and where. He thought it best not to go back to the priory, being unsure of his welcome and not wishing to bring any danger or blood-shed to the brothers. Wherever he chose, the beggar’s network of spies would be sure to reveal ahead of time. The inn was full of pilgrims in town for the Feast of Saint Guthlac. There would be no room for him there. He must find a place to wait, safe enough to rest, yet difficult enough to approach as to eliminate surprise by giving ample warning of the magus’s approach. And he must decide what would become of Hewrey if things with the beggar went badly and he did not come back.

  The knight suddenly remembered the fiber he had found at the old man’s camp. Pulling his gloves from his belt, he searched each one, turning the fingers inside out until it floated free and drifted to the floor. In the gloom, the knight had trouble seeing it, but combed among the floor rushes until his fingers found it. He held it to the light and studied it, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger. Close inspection reaffirmed that it was not of a coarse spin. Bringing it nearer to his face, Tristan stroked it with the fingers of his other hand and determined it was not linen. Cotton? There was no cotton outside Persia that Tristan knew of. And, what were those fine threads in amongst the cotton? Silk? There would be little or no silk here in Wales. Though not
unheard of in Britain, it was far more common in Europe. He doubted it was from clothing, the fiber was too thick. If it were not from an article of clothing, then from what? He focused his eyes on the fiber one more time pondering on it for a moment, then returned it to the finger of his glove.

  “…drink, my lord?” So lost in thought he had not heard her come near, Tristan jumped at the sound of the serving girl’s voice.

  “What?” he stammered.

  “Does my lord wish more to drink?”

  He nodded the affirmative holding out his pot. This would be his last one. He needed a clear head for the task ahead. As he sipped the warm, bitter liquid, it came to him. He knew exactly the place.

  “You can bring me a bread trencher of that stew I smell,” said Hewrey, peeking out from behind the girl.

  “You have finished with the horses?” asked Tristan.

  “Yes…,” there was a long pause, “…master.”

  “Good.” Tristan nodded to the serving girl. “Bring him food and a cup of ale.”

  Hewrey brought his gangly legs over the bench and sat opposite Tristan.

  “Sag give you any trouble?” Tristan put his cup to his lips and drank.

  “Gentle as a lamb, he were,” replied Hewrey.

  “Good.”

  The girl returned immediately with a bread trencher filled with stew and set it in front of Hewrey. Tristan saw the scarecrow’s hand come up and rub the girl’s plump backside, but said nothing. The lass giggled and spun away. The lad dove into his food with relish, stuffing his mouth until his cheeks were full and smacking his lips as he chewed.

  “You eat like a pig,” remarked Tristan.

  Hewrey appeared to ignore him and kept on bolting down the stew. When it was gone, he started tearing at the bread. “The Priory bell sounded,” he said, through a lump of dough. “Not goin’ to prayers?”

  Tristan stared at him for a moment, then pounded the table with his fist causing Hewrey’s cup to jump. The lad grabbed it and leaned back from the table. His jaw went slack, his mouthful of food forgotten.

  “Christ’s bones, of course! A sajjāda,” said Tristan. His face was alight and his eyes danced. “It is from a prayer rug.”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  People pressed in on them from all sides as Rhonwellt and Ciaran jostled their way through the crowded market fair. Rhonwellt’s attacker was still at large and had yet to be identified, and the size and closeness of the throng filled the monk with apprehension. It could be anyone. Everywhere he turned, it seemed, was the scent of clove, resulting in bit of panic in his guts. Could his assailant be close by? Used for tooth ailments by rich and poor alike, it was also employed by wealthy women to scent their bodies and the men rubbed it into their hair—as Tristan had done in his youth. At the thought, Rhonwellt stopped abruptly, Ciaran ramming into him from behind. Rhonwellt wavered and put a hand behind him, looking to Ciaran for support.

  “Brother Rhonwellt, you are unwell?” the novice asked. “You are so very pale.”

  Rhonwellt slowly shook his head. “I am well enough. But perhaps we could stop for just a moment. It would seem I still tire easily.” It was strange he had not remembered the hair-oil until now. When Rhonwellt first came to the priory, it remained one of the last tangible memories of Tristan he had clung to even though it gave rise to much pain. The incense-soaked aromas that permeated every corner of the priory and its people were far different than the odors of manor and farm became the norm, so even that memory soon faded and, in the end, vanished.

  Did the knight even now the oil? He realized he had never been close enough to notice. Had its significance only arisen now because of the connection to his attacker? A cold chill swept over him. It could not be. Trying to sweep the thought from his mind, he gingerly turned his head from side to side to survey the throng. He winced at the pain from the wound to his neck.

  “He was so angry, Brother Rhonwellt.”

  Rhonwellt looked at Ciaran, one eyebrow arched.

  “Sir Tristan,” the novice continued. “What is this darkness that abides with him?” He paused, his lips pursed, a small frown creeping over his face. “I am finding that Sir Tristan has a very mean side to him.”

  Rhonwellt could find no words to counter Ciaran’s assessment. The lad Rhonwellt remembered had not carried the darkness he bore as a man. He was learning that war hardened men, slaughtered their joy, left them but an empty shell of their former selves. Rhonwellt wondered if Tristan was capable of happiness any more, or for that matter, was he. What wreckage the intervening years had brought to both of them.

  Rhonwellt shrugged off the dark thoughts. “Come, lad, we must find Brother Oswald and see if he can shed light on the missing sandal.”

  “Do not stress yourself, Brother Rhonwellt,” warned Ciaran. “The going is slow. If we go with care, we shall nonetheless get there. Lean on me as you walk. I am strong.”

  “Indeed you are,” said Rhonwellt, placing a steadying hand on Ciaran’s shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  The afternoon was rapidly waning, and the sparse crowd in front of the stall showed business had slowed. The chamberlain was busy at the back, loading the last of the unsold stock from the shelves and arranging it on the small hand cart in order to be at the priory in time for Vespers. Looking up from his work as they approached, the concentration on his face grew into an expansive smile, warm and genuine. He was a jolly monk, short and round and a bit dullish of mind. His jet black tonsure was bushy and thick, his dung colored eyes danced.

  “Brothers,” said Oswald. “Welcome.”

  “Good day, Brother Oswald,” replied Ciaran. “Market appears to have been lucrative today. Prior Alwyn will be most pleased.”

  Placing the last loaves of bread onto the cart, Oswald replied, “Yes it has. As you can see, the Psalters have all been sold and there is little bread left. Even so, the poor shall not hunger this night,” he said. “The castle wanted a pipe of wine; way too much for our meager cellars to provide. They settled for a barrel. Lord Maurice is on his way home and they make ready to receive him.”

  He acknowledged Rhonwellt. “You are much improved, brother?” he asked, his notice going to the bandage at the monk’s neck, as his eyebrows narrowed with concern.

  “My voice is still a little hoarse but I grow stronger each moment, God be praised.”

  “Yes, God be praised.” Oswald walked to the front of the cart. Rhonwellt followed.

  “Brother Oswald, a word, if you please.”

  “Yes, Brother Rhonwellt? How may I help? The bell for Vespers will soon toll. Can we not converse as we walk?”

  Rhonwellt took his arm and gently guided the monk out the back of the stall in search of a quieter place to talk. They stopped at a row of pony carts and stepped behind a large one with a wooden box structure which served as a place for the merchant to sleep when not filled with his goods. Quickly checking to see if anyone was inside, Rhonwellt spoke as softly as he could yet still be heard.

  “Brother Oswald, in your capacity as chamberlain, has any of the brothers occasioned to ask you to replace a lost sandal or for a new pair in, say, the last few days? Specifically, since the death of Brother Mark?”

  At the mention of the dead monk, Brother Ciaran quickly made the sign of the cross, followed in kind by the other two.

  “No, brother, none has,” replied Oswald, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger in thought.

  “Have any sandals gone missing?”

  “No, I do not think so.”

  “Are you sure?” Ciaran pressed.

  “Yes, I am quite sure.” Oswald paused a moment. “At least I am fairly certain. I am sometimes forgetful.” Oswald waved a hand as though it was an issue of little significance.

  “Well, a monk is missing a sandal, brother, for we have the second of the pair. Brother Ciaran is the only monk besides Brother Mark to occasionally go barefoot, and it is too small to be his. It must belong to another. Yet, a search under
the beds in the dorter revealed that all are present and accounted for. Therefore, there must be some missing from your cupboard, and someone must have taken them.”

  “Do you suggest theft?” Brother Oswald sucked in his breath, pursed his lips and puffed out his cheeks and expelled his breath, all in a couple of seconds. “Do you really think a religious would steal, Brother Rhonwellt? Could it not be that I have miscounted, or given some out that had escaped my memory?”

  Rhonwellt looked around furtively to see if anyone listened. “What else could it be, Brother, if not theft? You are the chamberlain. You maintain the supplies in your cupboard under lock and key against any unauthorized access.”

  “Yes, that is so,” said Oswald, with a look of confusion.

  “And, yet, I am sure you will find that footwear has gone missing.”

  “Have you loaned your key to any other?” Ciaran inquired.

  “I have not, Brother. It is forbidden.”

  “Are there any duplicate keys to your cupboard?” asked Rhonwellt.

  “None. Not even the prior has one,” he said with an air of importance. “It is my purview alone.”

  “Then, does it not seem likely that someone must have broken in and taken what did not belong to them?”

  “Well, yes it could be as you say.” Oswald looked bewildered. Theft among the religious was rare. And, sandals were there but for the asking. “No, I must have miscounted, surely. The lock was not damaged.”

  Ignoring this last comment, Rhonwellt ran his hand over the top of his head and down the back of his neck, eyes closed in thought, chewing the inside of his cheek.

  “Then it must have been opened with a key.”

  “But how,” asked Ciaran, “if there is only one, and Brother Oswald keeps it near?”

  “I do not know, lad. However, it can be the only answer.” Rhonwellt turned to Oswald. “Brother, what…?” He could see the Chamberlain was not listening. “Oswald?”