Startled, the monk jumped a little. “Yes, brother?”
“You can recall nothing unusual in the past few days?”
“No, …well… yes.” His thoughts wandered off again.
“Oswald? Tell us. What was unusual?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. On the eve of the sabbath it was my turn for night watch. As I sat in the chancel, at prayer of course, a very kind brother brought me a pottle of wine from the cellar to ward of the chill. I wondered then at his uncharacteristic generosity of spirit, for not only was it unusual, it was not the watered down wine that we brothers are ordinarily allotted. It must have been from the Bishop’s private stock that he is served while visiting. It was very fine indeed. So smooth… and strong. Not bitter.” He took on a faraway look at the memory of it.
“He brought you some of the Bishop’s wine… and you drank it?” Ciaran stammered, incredulous to the boldness of it.
“I said I only thought it to be the Bishop’s. But, yes, I did, brother. I drank it. Though it shames me to admit it, I became quite inebriated and must confess to falling into a deep sleep for a couple of hours.”
“The perfect time to liberate you of your key and long enough to access your cupboard,” deduced Rhonwellt. “A dereliction, to be sure, Brother. Who was it that demonstrated such benevolence?”
“Why, now that I recall, it was Brother Gilbert.”
Twenty-three
Skulking behind the hangings in a nearby tapestry booth, Brother Gilbert watched Brother Rhonwellt grab Brother Oswald by the sleeve, drag him behind an empty pony cart and lean in close. What could that rawboned blob-tale want with the chamberlain, and why so secretive? He strained to hear the content of their conversation. The noise of the crowd was to great. God’s teeth! What should he do? If Brother Oswald confessed, the consequences could be dire. Gilbert could be accused of murder.
Looking all around him, Gilbert started to feel hemmed in, oppressed, short of breath. He put a hand to his chest and drew in a sharp breath. He had to get out of this commotion, get to safety. Gilbert needed time to think, alone and away from the filthy masses. He would retreat to the place so many monks used for time apart in a place where time alone was rare and the desire for it treated as suspect. As panic set in, he began to run, bumping into carts and counters, lurching and staggering his way along the area behind the stalls. Jugs and pots fell crashing to the ground in the potter’s booth.
“A pox on you, Brother! Who will pay for these broken pots?”
“Apologies,” the agitated monk muttered, putting a sleeved arm in front of his eyes to avoid the hostile glares. He ducked his head and stumbled on, his mind racing faster than his footsteps could carry him.
All those eyes accusing him! He was suffocating, a sense of doom crushing in on him. Aware of all the ill will he had cultivated over the years, surely the other brothers hated him and would find it easy to accuse him. In his mind he could see himself standing on the gallows, the hangman’s noose passing over his head and settling onto his neck, drawn tight by the strong hands of the hooded executioner. His ego took little comfort in the fact that one would have to be built especially for him as none existed in the town. His eyes bugged out in terror as though he were already being strangled by the noose.
Gilbert’s foot struck a rock and he crashed to the ground, the breath forced from his lungs. He could see nothing but a sea of legs and feet, attached to voices that grumbled as they tripped over him. He thrashed around on the ground like a fish just pulled from the stream and left on the bank to die. Market activity had dried the damp earth and ground it into dust. He crawled on his hands and knees looking for an island of calm in the sea of confusion. Spying a small place between two stalls, he scurried there. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, the monk sat for a minute trying to clear the dirt and dust from his lungs. When he had recovered his breath, Gilbert clawed his way up the side of the booth and looked around until he spied a clear path through the crowd.
✞ ✞ ✞
With the sun dipping behind the buildings lining the street, it would soon be dark and time for the fair to close. Their shopping done, the crush of patrons and pilgrims milled about, many waiting for the priory bell to toll Vespers. After prayers, the pious would head back to their cottages and farms, while the not-so-godly would carouse and drink late into the night.
Bodies crammed into The Thorn and Thistle like fish in a full net until there was no space left to move. The air in the room grew stale and thin. The racket was deafening, the heat and smell suffocating. Finding it hard to breathe, and impossible to think, Tristan squeezed his way to the door. Hewrey followed like a dog on a tether, licking the last remnants of food from his fingers with a sated expression.
The two emerged onto the street. Here, there was enough air to relieve the aching in Tristan’s head from the noise and close quarters straightaway. Stepping over a pile of fresh dung, about to wade into the throng, Tristan was rammed headlong by flying woolens.
“Watch where the bloody hell you are going,” Tristan growled, as he stared into the startled face of Brother Gilbert. The monk looked first at Tristan and then behind him whence he had come. With a yelp, the monk tried for a speedy retreat only to be blocked by the knight’s sturdy frame.
“Why such haste, brother?”
“I… am late for prayers,” Gilbert replied, short of breath.
Terrified, the monk ducked to the left, slipped around Tristan, and vanished into the crowd in the direction of the bridge.
“He were like a rabbit with the hounds nippin’ at his heels,” said Hewrey with a snicker, looking after the vanishing monk.
Tristan gave a terse nod.
A trice later, Brothers Rhonwellt and Ciaran approached in a great rush. The priory bell had begun to toll Vespers. The pair was being carried along by a steady stream of monks and parishioners were already on their way to the church.
Tristan stepped into their path. “Is punctuality such a virtue that it causes everyone to run at the sound of the bell?” Short of breath, the monks stopped and stared, his attempt at mirth falling flat. Hewrey stood like a rock in a stream forcing the crowd to flow around him.
“I have no time to explain,” Rhonwellt said, heaving to catch his breath. “I must find Brother Gilbert.”
“The monk with the pinched face?” replied Tristan. “He nearly ran me down but a moment ago.”
“Brother Gilbert was here, at market?” Ciaran asked.
“Apparently,” replied Tristan, “and could not leave fast enough. He claimed to be late for prayers and ran, looked behind him as if Satan, Himself, pursued him for his tardiness.” Tristan was glad Rhonwellt’s preoccupation with the events of the moment eased any possible tension between them, but he observed that Ciaran kept himself at a safe distance.
“There are questions we would put to him,” said Ciaran.
Rhonwellt nodded, looking in the direction of the bridge and the priory. “It appears the sandal found at the place where Brother Mark was murdered belongs to him. Brother Gilbert must have been there, and may have committed the deed itself.”
“Iesu,” replied Tristan—Ciaran quickly crossed himself and Rhonwellt looked down toward the ground. “Apologies,” said Tristan.
“We must go.” Rhonwellt tugged at Ciaran’s sleeve.
“Who is reeve here?” Tristan asked.
“The one who calls himself reeve is a corrupt sot,” Rhonwellt replied, “who has not drawn a sober breath for ten summers. No one ever bothers to call on him.”
Tristan stroked his chin. “Do you think he will become violent?”
“The only thing violent about Brother Gilbert is his tongue,” quipped Ciaran.
“Still, perhaps I should accompany you,” said the knight.
“Prior Alwyn wishes to keep this a church matter. But, if you were to attend Vespers and be at hand if needed, he might be more amenable to your assistance.”
Tristan saw that Rhonwellt remained guarded and
could not blame him. Now that he had a plan, the beggar could wait. Without a word, the soldier turned and started off towards the priory.
Hewrey let out a sigh. “Christ’s balls, I just ate. Why the rush? Where can the weasel go?” His face covered by a sulk, he trailed the knight, the monk and novice close behind.
Tristan trod resolutely ahead, an apology on his mind and in his heart that could not find the path to his lips. He could navigate any battlefield but that of the heart. For him, it was an arena too terrifying to inhabit with any confidence. He had explored its intricacies more self-assured when he was young. Since Amjhad’s death, he found it overwhelming and frightening. War and fighting were clean, by comparison. Emotion had no foothold there.
Once across the bridge, the crowd diverted in the direction of the front doors to the church. The monks separated from the others and headed for the outbuildings next to the cloister.
“You must go through the front entrance,” Rhonwellt said to Tristan. “If for some reason he is not at prayers, he will be somewhere in the priory. It is the safest place he knows.”
Tristan spun around and headed for the front of the church.
✞ ✞ ✞
“Do you think Sir Tristan is recovered now?” asked Ciaran as they watched him disappear into the distance.
“I do not know, lad. He has become more complicated than I remembered,” replied Rhonwellt, his gaze lingering a bit. “We must not be late.”
They threaded their way through the refectory, into the cloister, along the covered walkway, reaching the entrance to the chancel in time to see the last monk enter the church. Joining the end of the procession, Rhonwellt took stock of the company as the brothers seated themselves in the choir. Leaning forward onto the prie-dieu, looking up and down the row, he saw Ciaran doing the same. There was one empty seat on the benches; Brother Gilbert was not present among them. The two monks exchanged a look, Ciaran shrugging his shoulders. On the chance he came in late, Rhonwellt glanced back toward the door, but no-one was there.
“Venite, adoremus,” called the Prior, summoning attention.
“Deus, in adiutorium meum intende,” the cantor’s voice sang out, clear and melodic.The Brothers joined in with, “Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.” Rhonwellt searched the sea of faces in the Narthex trying to find Tristan, absently mumbling, “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Alleluia.”
As they were about to begin the hymn, he spotted the knight, head slightly above the others, standing on a bench off to the side, his face scanning the crowd of worshippers. Rhonwellt waited until, at last, the knight shook his head — Brother Gilbert was not in the Nave. Rhonwellt shook his head. He was not in the Chancel, either. Where could he be? Brother Gilbert did not feel safe in the town yet, he had been at market. Could he have seen Rhonwellt talking to Brother Oswald? Even so, Sir Tristan saw him running in the direction of the Priory, so he must be hidden somewhere on the grounds.
Rhonwellt looked to the ceiling, deep in thought. Then it came to him. He felt sure he knew where to find Brother Gilbert. Rhonwellt could not leave the service and would have to be content to wait until it concluded before he could test his theory. Drawing his attention back to the rite, Rhonwellt realized that the hymn had been sung, as had the psalms, each with their accompanying Gloria Patrii and antiphona. Brother Remigius, the lector for the week, was well into the recitation of the scripture.
As Rhonwellt anxiously surveyed the parishioners again for any sign of the suspect, he began to grow impatient. He knew it would take more than a quarter hour to get through the verse, Gloria Patri, another verse, sing the Magnificat, with antiphona before and after, recite the preces and Pater Noster, sing the oratorio and the Benedictioni Sanctissimi Sacramenti. He fidgeted as the moments slowly passed, unable to get comfortable on his bench.
The brothers began the Song to Mary. Only a few notes into it, the chanting was interrupted by a horrific cry followed by an eerie hum from the huge copper-bronze church bell, and finally an ominous thud. Not the same clear peal the bell made when rung, it was muffled and out of place for the moment. Seconds later, the sound of something crashing to the stone floor echoed off the upper walls of the chamber, before filtering down to the crowd below. All eyes turned toward the bell tower, high above the transept.
The singing stopped as the other brothers began to rise from their places in the choir, turning to look at each other, uncertainty spreading from one face to another.
Rhonwellt had been right. His heart rose into his mouth. Brother Gilbert had gone to the bell tower. Rising from his bench, he squeezed past the row of monks, ran through the opening in the pulpitum screen to stand at the middle of the crossing. A large piece of wood lay at his feet. He bent his head back to look straight up.
At a height of about five men above the transept floor was the wooden belfry stage with a large square opening in the middle below the bell, which hung from its anchor the same distance above. Craning his neck, Rhonwellt noticed an almost imperceptible movement to the immense bell.
“This way,” Rhonwellt said, as Tristan and Hewrey appeared at his side, joined a heartbeat later by Ciaran. Rhonwellt ran toward a small door in the wall of the south transept revealing the night stairs and the nearly hidden passage to the bell tower.
The four men climbed a narrow stairway, pressed through an even narrower door and ascended the almost vertical steps that twisted their way upward around the inside the wall of the tower. The opening at the top emerged onto the belfry stage. Tristan put flint and steel to one of the pitch torches that hung from iron brackets fitted to the walls. Its yellow light cast eerie shadows around the room.
The belfry stretched for about ten paces in each direction and appeared empty in the dim light. Stone stairs wound up two walls splitting at a landing part way, a catwalk to where the bell hung to the left and stairs leading to the roof and the battlement on the right. Holding the torch in front of him, Tristan took the lead, climbing to the landing and onto the catwalk.
“I cannot go out there, Brother Rhonwellt,” said Ciaran. “It is so high and I am too frightened.”
“It is all right, Ciaran. Wait for us here.”
“It may not hold all of us,” said Hewrey, his voice tiny and wavering. “I will wait with him.”
“Very well,” replied Tristan.
The catwalk was narrow—just wide enough for a man to pass—with a handrail on either side. They carefully worked their way along it, the timbers groaning in protest from their weight. Rhonwellt proceeded slowly, his knuckles turning white form his grip on the rail. Reaching the bell, he stuck out one arm and touched it with his hand. A barely perceptible vibration tickled his palm, confirming it had been struck. In the flickering light, they saw that part of the handrail nearest the bell had broken away.
“This piece of rail must be what fell to the floor,” said Tristan. “But, where is the monk?” He knelt down and let the torch shine under the catwalk. “There!” he said.
Far below, face down on the belfry stage, just inches from the edge of the opening, lay Brother Gilbert. He was not moving.
“Hewrey, he is there, on the floor behind the bell.”
“Yes, Master.”
Startled by the sight, they stared a moment then spun about and began to their way back. The wooden structure swayed from their movement and continued to creak and moan.
“Be careful,” said Tristan, “the way is not stable.”
“The timbers are rotting,” said Rhonwellt. “The tower roof has leaked for years.”
Moving with greater care, Rhonwellt and Tristan worked their way back to the stairs and descended.
Once on the belfry floor, they ran to where the monk lay. Brother Ciaran and Hewrey were already there, kneeling over Brother Gilbert. Rhonwellt crouched down next to them, his fingers searched for the vein in Gilbert’s neck.
The wrinkling of Tristan’s forehead ask
ed the question. Rhonwellt nodded.
“Yes, he lives.” He then examined the monk for signs of injury. “Nothing appears broken, but I cannot be sure.”
Prior Alwyn emerged onto the belfry stage followed by a steady line of curious brothers. He must have offered a hasty benediction and hurried up the stairs. More torches were lit. The excited voices of the townsfolk, still milling about the nave, could be heard wafting up into the tower.
“Brother Rhonwellt?” It was Prior Alwyn.
“It is Brother Gilbert,” said Rhonwellt, from the dim light. “He has fallen.”
Approaching them, the Prior crossed himself. “Mother of God, not another death.”
“No, he is alive.”
“Praise be to God,” answered Prior Alwyn.
Rhonwellt called out for Brother Anselm.
“I am here,” the old man answered, laboring to breathe.
Rhonwellt searched the sea of faces until he spied him. “Have you quicklime?”
“I have,” Anselm replied, extracting a small, thick leather pouch from the sack at his waist as he wound through the cluster on the arm of Brother Remigius. “Carefully,” he cautioned, handing it to Rhonwellt. “Use it sparingly.”
Rhonwellt accepted the pouch and loosing the string at the top, took out a small clay jar with a wide mouth and wooden stopper. Withdrawing the stopper, he passed the opening close to Brother Gilbert’s nose, then quickly withdrew it. The monk did not stir. He tried once more, leaving the jar under his nose a bit longer. The caustic fumes prompted Gilbert to involuntarily inhale deeply, followed by coughing and gagging. Those closest covered their faces against the acrid odor. Rhonwellt stoppered the jar.
Gilbert raised himself up to one elbow, then sat up with a wince. In a spasm of movement, his eyes flew open wide and he cried out with pain.
“I need to ask you some questions, Brother,” said Rhonwellt.
A Savor of Clove Page 27