Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head from side to side.
“Is he in any danger?” asked the Prior.
“I think not.”
“Whatever has transpired and resulted in this…accident,” said the Prior, “any questions about it must wait.” He turned and motioned to four monks standing by. “Carry him to the infirmary.” To Rhonwellt, he said, “You may question him when we know he is safe.”
Twenty-four
Tristan sucked in a breath as the icy water ran down his face and dripped back into the basin. Agitated from his inability to find any restful sleep the night before, he was already awake when the church bell tolled Prime. Hewrey snored softly from his pallet on the floor. Tristan stood bent over the basin with his hands on the small wooden stand, his dripping hair rippling the surface of the water, contemplating what he must do. Little by little it had become clear who the beggar might be, but the likelihood was so remote, Tristan could not settle on it completely.
Tristan reached for his hauberk and pulled it over his head. He had not worn it for a few days, and the freedom from its weight had been pleasant. However, the feeling of it falling down into place around his chest was familiar, comforting. It reminded him of who he was. He needed that assurance for the task ahead. Finally, he eased into his leather chest plate, fastening the buckles up each side.
“Master?” Hewrey raised his head, his eyes still full of sleep, his voice cracking.
“Go back to sleep, lad.”
“Where you be goin’?” Hewrey said, raising to one elbow. “And why you be sportin’ armor?”
“I am going to the stables,” replied Tristan, trying to keep his voice even. “Now, go back to sleep.”
“Since when you need armor to go to the stables? You afraid of the hostler?”
“Cheeky runt!”
“Now, Master. No need to be discharitable. I be coming with you.”
“The word is uncharitable and no you shall not.”
“If you says it.”
Tristan did not want to involve Hewrey in this, but knew it would be difficult to curb his curiosity. The lad would find the prospect of a fight enticing. Tristan could not chance it. He was certain the beggar would not hesitate to kill the lad if something were to go wrong and Tristan lost. “The monks will bring you food to break your fast. I will come back soon and we will attend mass.”
“Mass,” Hewrey groaned. “Must I?”
“Today, they will hold service for my nephew,” said Tristan, “a boy I never knew. You will be at my side.” His tone had a finality that said Hewrey had little choice.
“Yes, master.”
As soon as mass had concluded, Tristan bundled himself tightly in his cloak, pulled the hood up against a cold drizzle and walked with determined strides from the priory church back to the town. Hewrey was given strict orders to remain at the priory until supper when he could go to the inn to eat. Tristan’s best guess, however, was that the lad would spend the entire time in town. Hewrey was not comfortable among the brothers. “Some of them looks at me most unholy,” he said, “licking their lips with a wicked twinkle in their eye.” The knight remained impassive though he wondered if the remark was a barb aimed at him.
The road was nearly deserted. Under his heavy wool wrap, he kept the fact he was dressed in full armor, sword and dagger strapped to his waist, hidden from prying eyes. He carried his helm in a sack slung over his shoulder.
Away from the distraction of being near Rhonwellt, he was more able to consider his plan. At the moment there were too many unknowns to guarantee success, yet he trudged on, blinded to any caution. Tristan knew the Magus was not exactly what he appeared to be, but was not entirely sure what kind of threat he actually posed. His years as a warrior had taught him to read men well, but the man in rags remained an mystery. However, for every puzzle there must be a solution, and he was determined to ferret this one out.
Tristan had neither seen nor heard from the beggar since parading through the town with the man’s horse two days before. Though not immediately, he had fully expected to provoke some eventual reaction from him, and was confused by the fact there had been none. To have claimed the animal publicly would have told everyone he was not what he seemed—a beggar would own no such animal—but neither did he come as a thief in the night to retrieve it. Leaving a few coins with the hostler at the inn had produced no report of a visit from him.
Everything about the man nagged at Tristan. The rags were obviously a ruse, a clever disguise. The fiber from the sajjāda supported that. They allowed him to entertain and beg for sustenance, and despite his startling appearance to remain relatively invisible. He had shown he was an observer, alert to the affairs which transpired in towns and villages; a keen assayer of man’s habits and foibles, valuable information for orchestrating events to one’s advantage.
Tristan stopped by the stables and bade the hostler make Sag ready for him. Tossing him a coin, he went to the tavern door. It would not yield so he went back and waited for his horse to be saddled and bridled. In truth, he knew he was better off without any wine, but the desire still tugged at him. When the stallion was ready, he put on his helmet, mounted up and rode out the gate, turning into the road to Glanyfferi.
He pulled his woolen cloak close about him. A brisk wind had blown in a chill wind from the coast. He had waited long enough. The sooner it was done, the better. It was the sheer impossibility of the situation that filled him with doubt. But finding himself home in Wales after all these years and the discovery that Rhonwellt still lived, now showed him that anything was possible. Even this. The possibility was nothing less than astounding; the how of it would be remarkable to hear. His biggest concern was not knowing exactly who or what awaited him. He thought he knew who, was certain it was the man Fulke. The question was what had he become? Hatred, driving a man for thirty years, could have created a monster. Though confident, he hoped he had not misjudged the situation.
He spurred Sag into a trot. Tristan was eager to get there and get it done, but careful not to push his horse too hard lest he slip on the slick road. Sag must have felt his master’s excitement for he stepped lively, champing at his bit.
“Easy, old man,” said Tristan. “There will be no battle for you this day. This fight is mine alone.”
The courser snorted and tossed his head.
Anticipation, and a touch of anxiety rode with him through the wind-driven drizzle that was slowly turning to rain. The same tightening in his stomach that had led him into so many battles was there now, pushing him forward. If the beggar posed any real threat, it would soon be accompanied by the low hum in his ears that blocked out all sound, allowing him to function fully on instinct without the distraction of the harrowing noise of battle. The phenomenon had first come upon him at Sidon in 1109, his first crusade battle. The fierceness of the Persians had terrified him, causing him to reach deep inside for the courage to go on. The tactic had never failed him. Still, in his mind he asked the same question every time.
Could this be the day he would die?
✞ ✞ ✞
Prior Alwyn pushed open the door to the infirmary. Rhonwellt drew in a deep breath and followed him into the room. Over the Prior’s shoulder, he could see Brother Gilbert laying with his back propped against the wall, gripping the bedding, holding it to his chin. The monk slowly raised his head and stared past the Prior, directly at Rhonwellt, the uncontrollable spasms of a tic under his left eye further distorting his already terrified face.
“What do you want of me?” Gilbert implored.
Rhonwellt could hear the soft swish of robes as a small knot of monks formed outside the door. He turned to see them peering in with expectant looks. Ciaran pushed his way to the front, then entered and stood directly behind Rhonwellt. “We have questions for you in the matter of Brother Mark’s death,” said the prior.
“I had naught to do with that.” Gilbert paused, his mouth curling into a sneer. “Though his loss i
s less than significant.”
Rhonwellt pressed his lips together, suppressing the urge to reply in kind. “Be at ease, Brother,” he said, instead. “An innocent man need hold no fear.”
“Leave me to the misery of my injuries.” Gilbert lowered his eyes and sniffed.
“I would gladly leave you in misery,” Rhonwellt replied, “once you have answered our questions.”
“Who accuses me?”
“None has implicated you,” said Prior Alwyn.
“It is no secret,” Gilbert shouted, extracting a hand from the bedsheets and sweeping an indicting finger past Rhonwellt, over the attending company, “any here would damn me.”
“None has,” said Rhonwellt. “Yet there is compelling evidence that warrants answers.”
“What evidence?” Gilbert asked.
Ciaran stepped from behind Rhonwellt to stand next to him. “Brother Gilbert, where are your sandals?”
“What? Your question is ridicuous. What could possibly be so significant about my sandals?”
Rhonwellt ignored the question. “Where are they, Brother?”
“They are on the floor under the edge of this cot.”
Rhonwellt walked over and bent to peer under the bed. There, in the dim light, lay a pair of sandals. Rhonwellt straightened up. “Have you had occasion to acquire a new pair recently from Brother Oswald?”
“New?” said Gilbert. “As you can see, Brother, my sandals are quite worn.”
“You are saying they were not recently issued to you?”
“They were not.” Brother Gilbert folded his arms across his chest in defiance, grimacing with pain from what Brother Anselm had declared to be a badly bruised shoulder. He kept his head down, avoiding the gaze of his interrogators.
Burying his arms into his sleeves, Rhonwellt steadied his gaze on the monk lying on the bed. This was going nowhere. Perhaps another line of inquiry was in order. “Did you have occasion to visit with Brother Oswald as he sat night watch on a sabbath evening? Perhaps engage him in conversation while sharing some wine with him?”
“Night watch can be a lonely time,” Gilbert responded. “Fellowship is always welcome, as is a little wine to ward off the chill of the night. Where is the sin in that?”
“Brother Oswald has said the wine was especially good, not the everyday vintage usually allowed, and was unwatered. He also has said that it caused him to fall into a deep sleep.”
Gilbert worked the muscles of his jaw, licking his lips. “I thirst. I need something to drink.”
Ciaran went quickly to the table to pour Gilbert a cup and brought it to him. The combative monk gulped a mouthful, the reddish liquid spilling down his chin and onto the bedding. His hands trembled.
Rhonwellt pressed on. “Could you not have, perhaps, taken his key while he slept and visited his cupboard to secure a replacement sandal because one of yours was lost?”
Gilbert emptied his cup and set it aside. He covered his face with his hands, groaning as he shook his head from side to side. Then, running his hands up and over the top of his head through the stubble of his tonsure he let out a low growl. “I did not lose one!” he spat. “Mine were stolen from under my cot. It would seem we have a thief at Saint Cattwg’s”
Why should Rhonwellt believe the monk since he had lied about the sandals in the first place? Yet, he had to admit the to possibility it was true. He would try another, more direct question. “Brother Gilbert, can you tell us where you were on the night Brother Mark was killed?”
The accused monk furtively kept wetting his lips with his tongue, hesitating, his gaze jumping from face to face. His chest heaved.
“I…I was in the dorter, asleep with the others.”
“That is a lie!” came a voice from the back.
“Who calls me liar?”
“I do,” said Brother Llywarch, advancing to the front to face him. “I say that you are lying.”
“A serious accusation, Brother,” said Prior Alwyn. “Say further.”
“On the night Brother Mark was taken from us,” Llywarch said, signing the cross, “I was plagued by the flux and had taken many trips to the garderobe to relieve myself. As I passed by, you were not in your cot as you claim.”
Rhonwellt swung to Llywarch. “Why did you not mention this when first questioned, Brother?”
“I just now recalled the incident,” the lanky monk said, a tiny smirk on his face.
“See how he laughs at me. He speaks falsely, I tell you.”
“It seemed unimportant at the time and I gave it scant attention. In the small hours, there are often empty beds that should be filled.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked at the monks crowded into the doorway.
Several voices from the assembly began to speak at once, some disputing, others verifying his statement.
“Silence!” exclaimed Prior Alwyn, clapping his big hands. All chatter ceased at once.
“Go on, Brother,” said Rhonwellt.
“What I say is true, Brother Rhonwellt,” Llywarch replied with calmness. Then, looking squarely into Gilbert’s face, he said, “You were not where you profess.”
Gilbert began to visibly tremble, small mewing sounds barely escaping his throat. Mucus ran from the monk’s nose and down his lips while bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth. Breath stuttering, his face grew grotesque, his eyes wide, mouth curled into a hideous sneer. Spittle flew when he screamed, “I did not kill Brother Mark!”
✞ ✞ ✞
Tristan rode past the place where the beggar had made his camp, knowing it would be deserted, and straight on to the tor where he had found the horse. The jumble of rocks had formed a small cave, sufficient to escape the elements. Tristan would start his search there.
A coastal wind had driven in a squall of heavy rain. Seeking shelter under a dense canopy of trees, Tristan waited not-so-patiently, knowing the northerly breeze would blow it through in a short time. Now that he knew what he had to do, he wanted no more delay. Tristan was sure the man had killed Isidore and made an attempt on Rhonwellt’s life. The attacks were personal and, if he had guessed right, he knew why.
As the rain slowed to a drizzle again, horse and rider emerged from the trees. Water ran in rivulets along the sides of the road and formed large puddles, some stretching the full width of the track.Tristan guided Sag slowly in case any of the puddles concealed deep ruts. The tanner’s cottage came into view, but again seemed deserted. The knight had learned before how deceiving that could be.
There in the yard, outside the door to the cottage lay the tanner, face up, throat slit, the pool of blood nearly washed away by the rain. The body could not have laid there long for the birds had not yet taken his eyes.
“Son of a whore!” growled Tristan, under his breath.
Looking at the corpse, his face grew hot with anger. He held his teeth clenched firmly together. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and rode forward, leaving the road to go around the large rock formation.
There was no need to hide his thoughts any longer. “Fulke!” he bellowed. His voice faded into the distance and then there was silence.
Tristan approached the backside where the cave was situated.
“Fulke,” he shouted again. “You murdering bastard. Show yourself.”
The cave was just coming into view when Tristan heard a swish of cloth from above. The beggar dropped unexpectedly from the rock onto Tristan’s back, razor sharp dagger poised to slice across his neck.
“You surprise me, sodomita.” The Magus’ voice rasped in his ear. “You make it so easy to kill you.”
The knight had been caught off his guard and it rattled him as he struggled to throw his attacker off. The Magus moved his hand up to Tristan’s face to pull his head back, exposing his neck. He was surprisingly strong. With his other hand, Fulke pulled the knife across Tristan’s throat. The knight’s coif had shifted in the struggle and both men could hear the sound of steel on steel as the blade grated across the protective m
ail at his neck.
With a swift jab of his elbow behind him, Tristan caught Fulke squarely in the stomach and with a loud grunt the man tumbled off the rear of the stallion and dropped to the ground, his dagger flying from his hand. Tristan leapt from the saddle. He drew his sword and with his shield hand unfastened the clasp of his cloak and let it drop, kicking it out of the way with his foot.
In the time it would take to blink, all pretense at being a stooped and grizzled beggar vanished as Fulke rolled and rose to his full height with surprising agility, shedding his ragged coverings to reveal armor and full battle gear. With the scrape of steel on leather he drew his sword. The two fighters circled slowly, facing each other.
“You are alive,” said Tristan. “How? We all heard your screams from the Saracen camp.”
“It were never their idea to kill me, only to make me wish I were dead. In that, they succeeded. Red hot coals to the face will do that.”
Tristan looked deeply into Fulke’s eyes taking measure of the man, looking for clues as to how he would fight. Nothing but pure hatred gazed back. “They left your eyes, I see.”
“Some wanted to take them. But the Mir said I could not work as good if I was blind.”
Tristan made to attack to test Fulke’s reaction. Fulke responded with a bluff of his own.
“You escaped,” Tristan stated rather than asked.
“No, taken back in the fuss after the Battle of Hab. They found me chained to a tree and freed me.” He stopped a moment and let loose a small chuckle. “Took ’em near a month to feed me up and get me right. And then a foot soldier for the infidels, once again. But alive!” Fulke made small circles in the air with the tip of his sword. “I have never been far from you, sodomita.”
Without warning, Fulke attacked, his sword coming down hard in a cut aimed at Tristan’s scalp. The knight quickly raised his weapon above his head to deflect the blow. Fulke followed immediately with a slice from right to left, coming perilously close to Tristan’s chest. Leaning away from the whistling steel, Tristan was put on the defensive, a position he did not relish. They continued to circle.
A Savor of Clove Page 28