A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  A half-dozen brothers were seated silently at their desks, with Brother Gruffydd, the Librarian, pacing up and down the aisle, giving the occasional nod of approval or a grunt as he passed each desk. Brother Etheldrede wept inconsolably after a tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the page he was working, causing the ink to blur. Rhonwellt was not alone in seeking out something to be busy in order to keep his mind off so many deaths. Brother Anselm had renewed his frantic efforts at finding the missing Medica. In the last half-day, he had searched the library cupboard thoroughly three times to no avail. Rhonwellt was sure he had no real hope of finding it there, but knew the old infirmarian simply needed to be occupied with some task.

  Bishop Maurontius still had not been seen on the priory grounds or in the town since the debacle in the presbytery, and Rhonwellt mourned how so many lives had been profoundly altered by those events. That, and Tristan’s return. One remarkable event on an otherwise ordinary day and the world would never be the same for so many. It reminded Rhonwellt how the past could never be altered and a changeable future could not play any significant role in how they lived their lives, that the only thing to be relied upon was today.

  Tristan was here, and the toll that years of war had taken on the knight was becoming more evident to Rhonwellt with each day that passed. Tristan’s latest bout with melancholia made Rhonwellt wonder if his friend would ever be able to adjust to a way of life absent war, without killing, any more than Rhonwellt himself could imagine an existence outside the church and the Rule. In his heart he kept asking the same question: could they reclaim something that no longer belonged to them, or must they continue traveling down roads they did not choose?

  “Brother Rhonwellt,” whispered Brother Gruffyd, “I fear your heart is not in your work today.”

  Rhonwellt looked up, startled at the old monks voice. “You are correct, Brother,” replied Rhonwellt. “It is not. All this death of late has my spirit truly troubled.”

  “Perhaps prayer is in order,” said Brother Gruffyd.

  Rhonwellt thought for a moment. “God is surely all-knowing. But, recent events have raised so many questions that I do not have answers for.”

  “Could the answers not lie with Him?”

  “I am certain they do, but these are not heavenly questions and I do not think the answers are the kind that will be revealed through prayer. But, I could ask God to give me the insight needed to discover the solutions to such earthly problems.”

  “All problems are God’s, my son, both heavenly and earthly.”

  Not wanting to argue with the old monk, Rhonwellt steepled his hands and inclined his head in deference. “Then I shall be about it.”

  Rhonwellt stuck his brush into the water pot on his desk, stood and walked toward the door. Passing Ciaran’s desk, he stopped and bent over to speak in a whisper. “Would you walk with me, Brother?”

  Both looked toward Brother Gruffyd to find the old monk watching them. Rhonwellt asked permission with his eyes. Gruffyd nodded and Rhonwellt and the novice left.

  “Where are we going, Brother Rhonwellt?” Ciaran asked, as they descended the stairs.

  “It is not raining. Perhaps we could walk down by the river.”

  They crossed the courtyard and took the path that passed behind the dorter, through the graveyard, and eventually wound its way to a bench at the top of the shallow bank that led to the water’s edge. Ciaran seated himself while Rhonwellt stood staring at the rushing current.

  “In Spring,” mused Rhonwellt, “the Gwendraeth seems in such a great rush to complete its journey to the sea. While we are mindful of the river, it pays us no heed. It travels without worry or burden.”

  “Are the boats that travel on it not a burden?” asked Ciaran.

  “They are at its mercy. The river cares not.”

  “I do not like it when you talk like this, Brother Rhonwellt. It means the black bile has disrupted your humors.”

  Rhonwellt regarded Ciaran; a wave of emotion washed over him at his friend’s concern. “Now you sound like Brother Anselm. Your heart is so open, dear Brother. I am grateful for your concern. It is not melancholia that plagues me, rather the frustration over so much death recently visited upon us. First Brother Mark, then Isidore, the mysterious beggar and now, the tanner. I keep asking why.”

  “Sir Tristan holds the answer to the tanner’s death and that of the beggar,” said Ciaran.

  “Then why has he not been forthcoming about it?”

  “He will, in time.” Ciaran looked down at his feet, his hands wriggling restlessly in his lap. “Your knight is hard to fathom. He is dark and moody.” He looked up at Rhomnwellt. “But, I believe him to be honorable. The story will come to light in time. He will have to tell it in order to satisfy the law.”

  Rhonwellt’s stomach lurched at Ciaran’s words ‘your knight’, but he said nothing. He could feel his face getting hot and knew he was flushing. He quickly changed the subject.

  “Everything points to Brother Gilbert as the one who killed Brother Mark. Yet, why do I believe him when he professes his innocence?”

  “But who else could it be, Brother?”

  Rhonwellt sat next to Ciaran. “I do not know. The problem is we know so little.”

  “Then let us recount what we feel sure of.” Rhonwellt held out one finger in front of him. “First, we know that Brother Mark was often absent the Priory later at night.” He added another finger. “Secondly, we are fairly certain he was meeting someone on at least some of those journeys into the night.” Another finger joined the first two. “Thirdly, he was subjected to unspeakable horrors and eventually died from his wounds. Why?”

  “Brother Mark was not well liked by at least half of those among us.”

  “True. But did someone dislike him enough to kill him?” Both remained silent for a moment.

  “Fourth,” Rhonwellt continued, “a youth, no older than yourself is stabbed in the back. What could anyone possibly gain from that?”

  “Do you not think he was murdered in connection with the Medica?”

  “An argument has been offered for that theory. But, I am not so sure, for that assumption would cast suspicion upon his own father. My heart has trouble accepting that. But the mystery of the missing book is surely item number five on our list.”

  “And the murder of the tanner is item number six,” added Ciaran.

  “It is. And one of the questions we need to answer is: are these events all related, are only some of them related or are they all random?” Rhonwellt paused. “I believe Brother Gilbert is not telling us all he knows.”

  “But you said you thought him to be innocent.”

  “Of murder, yes. But he is withholding something important and we must find out what that is.”

  Twenty-six

  Rhonwellt rose and with a final look at the river, turned up the path toward the Priory.

  “Wait for me, Brother Rhonwellt,” came Ciaran’s voice from behind. As he looked behind him, he saw the young novice stooping to dislodge a stone from his sandal. Ciaran’s head came up and he said, “Brother,” as he nodded in the direction of the path beyond. Rhonwellt heard the footsteps before he ventured to look. Sir Tristan and Hewrey approached; the knight walked with determination, his attention focused on the ground in front of him.

  “Hewrey, accompany Brother Ciaran back to the cloister,” Tristan said when they arrived. “I would speak with Brother Rhonwellt.”

  Rhonwellt’s brows shot skyward and he gripped his forearms inside his sleeves. What could he want? Ciaran slipped in beside Rhonwellt and took hold of his arm. For a moment, Rhonwellt could not answer.

  “Please,” entreated the knight, regarding Rhonwellt with a gaze that spoke of uncertainty.

  The monk took a long, slow breath and inclined his head in acquiescence. “Go with the lad, Brother Ciaran. Give us a few moments.”

  “Are you certain, Brother Rhonwellt? Have you confidence all will be well?”

  “I
mean him no harm, Brother,” said Tristan, “but I am determined.”

  “Very well. I shall wait just up the path.”

  “No, Brother,” replied Rhonwellt, “go back.”

  “Hewrey, leave us,” said Tristan, tossing the words over his shoulder.

  “Yes, Master.” Hewrey motioned for Ciaran to follow him. “Come Brother. It seem we both be cast aside for a time.”

  The two lads proceeded back up the path toward the cloister leaving the monk and the knight alone, Ciaran looked back several times before they disappeared from sight. Rhonwellt stood there rigid, continuing to grip his forearms hard enough for his close fingernails to dig into the flesh. Tristan stood equally still, hand gripping and releasing the hilt of his sword his only movement, eyes burrowing into Rhonwellt.

  After a few moments, Tristan broke the awkward silence. “Please, sit.” He motioned toward the bench. Rhonwellt returned and positioned himself on the edge of the seat, too uneasy to sit back and relax. Tristan began pacing back and forth on the small patch of ground between the bench and the edge of the bank.

  Rhonwellt felt a well of panic flooding inside him. Though he did not know for sure the purpose of this meeting, he sought to divert the conversation. His gut told him he would be less than happy with its reason. He was not prepared for this, not now. He must put it off, or at least stall for time.

  “How did the tanner die?” he asked.

  Tristan sat down, his solid body hitting the bench with a dull and heavy thud. “Fulke butchered him,” he replied.

  “Fulke?”

  “The beggar who practiced trickery at market.”

  Rhonwellt shifted his body to face Tristan. “How do you know his name?”

  “I knew him from the Holy Land. He served the lord to whom I was squired as a lad.” Tristan related the tale of his life with Grenteville, of the knight’s death, Fulke’s escape into the night, and the presumption he had been killed by the Saracens. As the details of the story unfolded, the character of his voice went from fury to sadness to coldness to no emotion at all. Listening, Rhonwellt was seized by grief. Knowing who Tristan was as a young man, before war hardened him, Rhonwellt sensed how much pain Tristan must carry.

  Though his own life had been filled with times of sadness and the occasional reminder of his own misfortune so many years before, since that time, until only recently, he had never really known danger. There were monks who had disliked or even hated him over the years, but those feelings in monks were generally manifested in cold, silent stares, petty gossip and name calling and the rare altercation such as the recent one between Brother Gilbert and Brother Jerome. Besides the dangers of war, those same interpersonal feelings in Tristan’s world could be held by men trained to kill and inclined to do so. He could not imagine hatred so deep that it would be bottled up to ferment for that long before being acted upon.

  Tristan leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee. “Rhonwellt, we must talk.”

  “About what?” Rhonwellt asked. He sat with his head down, not moving a muscle.

  “About this,” said Tristan, using a finger to point first at Rhonwellt and then at himself. “About the fact we both live. About the fact that God spared us and brought us together to reunite. About us.”

  Rhonwellt was quiet. He searched frantically for something to say, anything to fend off this pressure. “It is you who must needs discuss this. I have no such desire.” Tristan flinched a little and Rhonwellt could tell the knight was stung by the comment. In his regret, he said, “What would you have me say?”

  Tristan directed his gaze toward the river, projecting his words at the water, “Perhaps, that you are glad I am alive, that I made it home safely.”

  Rhonwellt’s head snapped up. “Praise God, of course I am happy you are alive. It is a great miracle we both live.”

  “Then what are we going to do about it?”

  “To do?” asked Rhonwellt, turning the palms of his hands up in front of him and hunching his shoulders forward. “What can be done?”

  “That depends on you…and on me.”

  “It depends on a great many other things,” replied Rhonwellt, “not just you and me.”

  “Such as…?”

  “The church and, therefore, society. We are taught it is a sin.”

  “There are places in the world where it is not seen in that way.”

  “And we do not live in those places. We live in Wales, and though this thing was part of our ancient past, the coming of Christianity changed everything.”

  “This thing!” said Tristan. “Is that all we are to you, this thing?”

  “You are being unfair, Tristan.” Rhonwellt’s eyes were full of fire, his voice tense. “If you have lived in a place where it is seen as normal, then you are indeed fortunate. But I have had to live here. My life has existed within these walls, bound by the Church and its laws, my vows, and the Rule of Saint Benedict. And in this place, it is not well accepted.”

  “It was not so much seen as normal, there,” replied Tristan. “The things that matter on the battlefield are that a man has devotion to God, bravery in his heart and skill with his weapons, that he honors his oath to his king and fealty to his lord and that he is loyal to his comrades-in-arms. If a man fulfills all these, what he does and especially who he loves is of little import. It is a world of men and of hardship. A man does what he must to survive both on and off the battlefield.”

  “You make it sound so simple, so full of honor and purity.”

  “It is anything but that,” said Tristan, his features softening.

  “Life here should be exactly that,” said Rhonwellt, gesturing around the grounds of the priory. “Instead, it is full of pettiness. Men vying, each to be more pious than the other and hoping to expose one another for their sins and transgressions, thinking it will lead to a higher place in heaven.”

  “There are good monks here,” said Tristan, “I have seen them.”

  “With apologies to Cicero for misquoting his words, they are the exception rather than the rule.”

  The men remained still for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

  “What about your family,” said Rhonwellt, at last, “your lands and your title?”

  “My lands are secure. I am owed a fief of my own. Declan must have paid scutage on Pont Lliw after father’s death to retain the land. If Cyfnerth does not swear fealty to Lord Robert, which he should have done years ago, he will do the same if he wishes to inherit. As for my family, they are all strangers to me. I honestly cannot predict the future there. However, it would have no bearing on us.”

  “Us!” exclaimed Rhonwellt.“What is us?”

  “Us is whatever we say it is. Let us figure that out together.”

  To Rhonwellt, it seemed so simple for Tristan to visualize. Why could he not see it?

  “What about God?” Rhonwellt’s voice was nearly inaudible.

  “It was God who brought us together again.”

  “You have an answer for everything, it would seem.” Rhonwellt clasped his hands together, his fingers intertwined so tightly they turned white.

  “Not everything,” Tristan responded. “There is one I do not have, as yet.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Do you still hold love for me?”

  Blood of the Crucified Christ! There it was, plain and straightforward: Tristan asking the answer to a question Rhonwellt had not dared ask himself, had not thought to. The monk clasped his hands even tighter so as not to betray his inner disquiet. So many times, since the knight’s return, Rhonwellt had tossed similar issues around in his mind. Where did they go from here? Was there a future for them? How and to what extent had they both changed? What about the church and his vows? So many questions when the one that really mattered, the simplest of the lot and yet hardest to answer, never entered his mind. Did he still love Tristan? Now, Tristan wanted to know, was asking him to say it…aloud…to him…now.

  Rhonwellt’s lips
trembled, his tongue felt thick and unforgiving. Was it his mouth that could not form the words? Did his heart feel what his mouth could not say?

  “I see,” said Tristan. The sadness in his voice was profound.

  Tristan had misunderstood. “No!” replied Rhonwellt. “I mean, my silence is not my answer.” He drew in a breath but could only stare at his hands. “The truth is, I do not know. I only know that breathing becomes difficult when I am with you. My mind feels addled and I cannot think. I ask myself: is madness overtaking me?”

  “Love is madness, there is no stability,” said Tristan, leaning in to Rhonwellt. “It is like war. Defeat can throw one into the depths of despair, whereas, victory can allow one to soar to the heavens with joy. It is uncontrollable with a mind of its own. You long for an end to the madness, and at the same time realize you cannot live without it. There is no cure, only relief when you know that the love is returned. It is still madness, but the tumult becomes manageable.”

  “How does one know,” Rhonwellt asked, “if it is the heart that cries out for another or the cravings of the flesh?”

  “The cravings of the flesh are never satisfied. They always hunger for more.”

  “And love does not?”

  “It is different. The desires of the flesh are like the thirst for wine, a kind of drunkenness. It will not sustain you. Love, however much like madness, when it is returned is like food, it nourishes you.”

  Tristan’s words reminded Rhonwellt of David’s poems in the Psalms. Could the young shepherd’s rejoicing in his love for God be the same? Or did David sing of something else? Was all love pure?

  “We cannot go back,” said Rhonwellt.

  “You are right, we cannot.” Tristan reached out his palm and placed it over Rhonwellt’s clenched hands. The monk’s body stiffened and he started to pull away. Tristan’s palm closed into a grip over his. “Our only choice is to figure out how to move forward.”