A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “I cannot see a way.”

  “I shall find a way. I promise.”

  “Making vows you cannot keep is a great burden. I should know.”

  “If you recall, it is a vow I made to you thirty years ago, in a conversation very like this when you fretted about the differences in our rank. I told you then not to worry, that I would find a way. Forces beyond our control intervened then. It may have taken longer than I imagined to fulfill, but it is not too late.”

  Rhonwellt felt a glimmer of hope begin to grow in his heart when he heard sandals slapping some distance away on the dirt path. Grateful for reason to avoid Tristan’s demanding gaze, he turned to look and saw Ciaran and Hewrey running toward them.

  “Brother Rhonwellt come quickly,” said Ciaran, his words spewing forth between gulps of air. Hewrey stood bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Brother, you must come. Someone has tried to kill Brother Gilbert!”

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Rhonwellt pushed his way through the knot of monks gathered in front of the door to the infirmary. Brother Gilbert lay on his side leaning over the edge of his cot trying to vomit into a basin, Brother Remigius urging him to empty his stomach. Brother Anselm came in through the door to the herbarium and shuffled to the monks bedside.

  “Have him swallow this,” said the old monk, “and quickly. It is a drink of stonecrop and fig-wood ash. He will not be able to keep it down, but urge him to retain it as long as possible. It will produce the desired effect.”

  Rhonwellt scanned the room. Besides the monks gathered in the doorway, who one by one began to kneel in place, Brothers Jerome and Oswald were already kneeling in prayer against the wall, while Brothers Llywarch, Birinus, and Julian stood huddled together, arms about each other, their faces ashen and turned toward the ailing monk. Tristan and Hewrey stood with Ciaran outside, peering in.

  “Dear God, what has happened?” asked Prior Alwyn, stepping around and over the knot of monks to gain entrance to the room.

  “Someone has fed poison to Brother Gilbert,” said Brother Remigius. “Most likely it was monkshood. I fear they were trying to kill him.”

  “But, why?” asked the prior. “How could this happen?”

  “As to the how, I can tell you. It was my turn to sit with him.” He stopped and fed some of the purgative to Brother Gilbert who gagged trying to swallow it down. “When I entered, he lay staring at the ceiling. He said he had just awakened. His supper and a cup of ale sat on the table next to him and I encouraged him to eat. He ate a few bites of his supper and then took a couple of gulps of ale. Upon swallowing it, he grimaced and said it was too bitter to drink and threw the cup away.” Upon the pronouncement, Brother Gilbert retched over the side of the bed, missing the basin completely. “Not more than a few moments later, he howled, gripped his stomach and began to cough, said he was having trouble breathing. It must have been put into his ale. Luckily he did not drink much. As to the why, I cannot tell.”

  “Who sat with him prior to you?” asked Rhonwellt.

  “Ego sum, it was I,” said Brother Simplicius, stepping forward. “I came right after Nones.”

  “And you were with him when his meal was brought in?” Rhonwellt asked.

  “I was, Brother.”

  “Who brought it?”

  “Why, Brother Cathbart, of course,” said Simplicius. “He is kitchener, after all.”

  “Then, Brother Julian did not bring it?”

  “No, Brother Rhonwellt,” replied Brother Julian. “I was in the garderobe.” His face flushed red in the dim light of the room. “Brother Cathbart said he would take it.”

  “You realize,” said the prior, “that this makes you all suspect in this, do you not?”

  The brothers mumbled ojections and denials in equal measure.

  “I hold little charity for Brother Gilbert,” said Brother Cathbart, “but I do not dislike him enough to try to kill him.”

  “Nor do I,” said Brother Simplicius. “He is pessimum hominis, but does not deserve to die for it.”

  “Did you leave this appalling man, as you put it, at any time, Brother,” Rhonwellt asked Brother Simplicius.

  The stocky monk looked to the floor. “I did leave to ad balneo, to urinam, while he slept.”

  “How long were you away?” asked Rhonwellt. “And speak in our tongue, Brother.” Simplicius’s constant use of Latin had become a priory joke.

  “As long as it takes to piss, Brother.” His tone was somewhere between scorn and pique. Someone sniggered while others gasped.

  “And long enough to poison his cup,” replied Rhonwellt. “So any one of you could have entered and put it there.”

  “Why are you so certain it was one of us?” asked Brother Cathbart.

  “Who else could it be?” Rhonwellt turned to face the kitchener.

  “Why could it not be someone from town,” spat Brother Cathbart. “or your knight or his boy?”

  “Sit Tristan was with me down by the river,” said Rhonwellt. He felt stung by the accusation. A couple of the monks hissed in their breath. Rhonwellt froze for a moment. Surely this would set tongues to wagging. He glanced out the door at Tristan and saw his eyes narrow.

  “And Hewrey was with me by the pond. Then we came here and happened upon this,” added Ciaran.

  “Brother Gilbert seldom went to the town and had little to do with anyone there. And someone from the town would be noticed if they were in the cloister. Monks would be as invisible. I can see no reason for it.” Rhonwellt glanced around at the faces assembled. “It grieves me to say it, but this deed was born here, within these grounds, as was the death of Brother Mark. And I will find out who did it.”

  Twenty-seven

  An already diminished sun grew weaker as clouds moved in to darken the evening sky. It would be raining by Compline. Rhonwellt hurried to be back before dark. He could only think of one thing to do at the moment and that was to comb over the spot, one more time, where Brother Mark had been killed. He doubted he would discover anything new especially as it had rained several times since the murder and the area surrounding the middens received much traffic in the course of a day, let alone nearly a sennight. Even if he discovered nothing, it would give him time to think.

  Between the horrendous deaths and the conversation with Tristan, Rhonwellt overflowed with emotions, was restless and full of indecision. No matter how he attempted to occupy his time, it proved inadequate. For the first time, the priory grounds felt stifling, the closeness in which the monks lived, suddenly suffocating. Everywhere he looked were signs of dysfunction. Every brother could be a potential suspect, and though blame for the crimes would likely fall to one person, many others had their role, however passive, in this tragedy. Though it all looked very complex now, something inside made Rhonwellt hope it would turn out to be much simpler. But, at this moment, it all eluded him. Perhaps a change of place for a bit, before the bell for prayers, would help.

  Instead of entering the town and going through the postern gate behind the inn, Rhonwellt skirted the stockade and walked along the top of the bluff. He buried his face in his sleeve as he approached the middens. There was no breeze and the stench threatened to overwhelm him. At the priory, the monks piled their garbage a ways upstream from the compound on the bank of the river. The smell seldom reached them as most breezes came from off-shore and blew the smell away to the North. Not so the town, and no matter the amount of wood ash spread over the top, the smell was ever present.

  Going around the pile of refuse, the monk stepped aside to allow Dill the Dung Collector to pass on his way to empty his gong cart.

  “Good day, Brother,” Dill said. “God keep you.”

  “God keep you as well, Dill,” replied Rhonwellt. “Hard at work as usual, I see.”

  “Long as men and animals keeps shittin’,” said Dill, a sly grin spreading across his face, “I gots me job to do.”

  “It is as true as the Gospels, Dill,” said Rhonwellt. The dung colle
ctor quickly emptied his cart and was gone, back in through the gate, Rhonwellt sketching the sign of the cross at his back.

  He did not know what he had expected to find since everything looked as it had when they first inspected the site. He stepped to the rim of the ledge and peered over. A line of detritus, spill-over from the middens likely carried away by animals, trailed down the steep slope. Rhonwellt turned to look behind him. The distance from the ledge to the refuse pile was short, no more than thrice the measure of a grown man from head to toe. The monk studied it for several moments. Brother Mark’s body could easily have been rolled off the edge. But, it had not been. Was that significant? Could something important have fallen over the edge? He would search the bottom of the slope around the mill and along the race on his way back.

  Coming here as a distraction turned out to be ineffective. Rhonwellt tried to keep his mind on the task he had set himself: finding any overlooked clues as to Brother Mark’s death. But, it was the conversation with Tristan that gnawed at the back of his mind, would not let him concentrate. Only now did he begin to realize how greatly the exchange had affected him. Capturing his waking moments, as now, Rhonwellt feared it would invade his sleep as well. That Tristan had spoken of love, or even that he had asked what felt unanswerable was not the worst of the situation. Even now a reply was forming in his innermost thoughts. The problem was that it seemed impossible. If he did love Tristan still, how could he act on those feelings?

  Tristan had spoken of love with an ease that surprised Rhonwellt. How was it that a war-hardened knight could speak so effortlessly about such things, as though the subject was the most natural thing in the world, when, for Rhonwellt the thought brought only confusion and anxiety? What had Tristan said? Love was like a madness. That certainly described how Rhonwellt felt.

  The thought came as a flash of blinding light in his mind. Madness could cause a person to do many strange things, actions out of the ordinary. Even terrible, despicable deeds. What if this deed was born of love and not hate? What if the murder of Brother Mark had been a crime of passion from one besotted? All this time, everyone assumed the monk had been murdered because someone hated him. What if the opposite were true? What if the motive had been love? Had they been looking in the wrong direction this whole time? This changed everything. First, it narrowed the list of suspects considerably. Far fewer people could claim a fondness for the dead monk than would admit to hating him.

  He was wasting time here. Rhonwellt turned and headed toward the path near the front of the stockade that led to the mill below the bluff. As he rounded the corner of the wall, he spied Tristan and Hewrey entering the south gate. Not ready to encounter Tristan just yet, he stopped and hid around the corner until they were through the passage. He then edged up to the entryway and watched after them as they strolled up the street. They walked right past the inn and continued up the street toward the castle.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  The massive, iron-clad oaken gates were still open when Tristan and Hewrey walked through the tunnel between the inner and outer tower gates and entered the castle bailey. The knight was dressed in a new tunic of mulberry lawn over his mail, and fresh tan hose. The mud and dirt had been brushed from his boots and his spurs shone brightly against the dullness of the day. He had enlisted one of the monks to trim his beard close and his hair was clean. Hewrey sported new breeches and a short tunic and belt, for the first time in his life wearing anything but rags. His hand rested on the handle of Fulke’s fancy dagger he had rescued from the scene of the fight. He too had his hair trimmed and there was a new pride to his gait.

  It was grand chaos at the castle. As he crossed the yard, Tristan could see hostlers caring for the horses near the stables under the supervision of Sir Maurice deLondres. A balding, nondescript man of average stature having seen well over forty summers, Maurice was Lord of Cydweli. A half-dozen mastiffs and great danes danced around the legs of their master, happy to have him home. The Earl of Gloucester stood nearby, out of the flying dust, talking to Bishop Maurontius and Prior Alwyn. The bishop’s invitation to attend supper at the castle brought about the cleric’s first appearance since the debacle with Declan and his countenance was glum.

  Spying the Earl, Tristan approached and, slapping the fist of his sword arm to his chest, bent to one knee, and bowed his head.

  “My lord,” he said.

  “Tristan, God be praised!” said the Earl, his booming voice full of excitement. “I could not believe it when Prior Alwyn told me you were here.”

  “Thank you, My Lord. The town has been abuzz about your return, My Lord.” Tristan replied, looking up and smiling. “I am pleased to see my lord as well.”

  “Oh, do stand up, man,” said the Earl.

  Hewrey bowed as Tristan had taught him on the way there, then took his place behind Tristan and waited quietly. Tristan acknowledged the two clerics with a slight dip of his head.

  “Excellency. Father Prior.”

  Prior Alwyn smiled warmly. Clearly uncomfortable, the bishop refrained from offering his ring. Tristan took secret delight in his anxiety.

  Robert Fitzroy, the Earl of Gloucester, was a robust man of nine-and-thirty summers and of solid build. He weighed in excess of thirteen stone, and nearly as tall as a horse of eighteen hands, easily towered over Tristan.

  “Four summers, my friend,” exclaimed Fitzroy, “since I have seen you.”

  “It has, My Lord. Lady Mabel and the children are well?”

  “They are well but have been too long from my sight.” Fitzroy grabbed the knight by the shoulders. “I have sorely missed you.”

  “I was needed elsewhere, My Lord, as you well know.”

  “If I could have sent anyone else,” said the Earl, sadness lining his face at the thought, “I would have. However, you were the man for the job. You knew the territory better than any other. We needed that victory. I grieved that it cost the life of your squire.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Tristan, momentarily stricken by a memory he wished were gone. “Amjhad was a good lad.”

  “And a valiant fighter. But, that was over two summers ago. Word was that suddenly, you just disappeared after your release. I feared you may be dead, also.”

  “I took the long way home, My Lord,” Tristan answered, glad for a change of subject. He was as yet unaccustomed to his old friend’s elevation to Earl and hoped it would not appear Tristan still thought of them as equals.

  Fitzroy laughed heartily. “Come inside, sir. Drink with me,” said the Earl putting his arm across the shorter man’s shoulders as they walked towards the hall. “I should be cross at your absence. But it seems I never could stay angry with you for long—though you often vexed me.” He added this last broadening his grin.

  The Earl turned and motioned with his fingers for the clerics to follow.

  “I can never forget,” he said, loud enough for the clerics to hear, “the kindness shown to a green knight by a seasoned soldier not so very much older than himself; one who saved his hide from fool-hardiness on more than one occasion.”

  “You were always capable, My Lord, just—as you say—green,” Tristan blushed. “And now I behold the honorable Lord that unseasoned knight has become. I am honored to have played a part.”

  “You have developed a tongue of silk, I see,” said Fitzroy putting him at ease as he laughed again.

  “One must develop other talents when selling his skills to strangers.”

  “A mercenary, then.”

  “For a time, My Lord. I still had to eat and feed my mounts.”

  “Am I not still Robert to you, my friend?”

  “When we are alone, perhaps. In front of others it is not proper.”

  “That is when I hate being an Earl,” said Fitzroy seriously. He waited a beat and then grinned. “The rest of the time I take great joy in all that comes with it.” Robert winked and slapped Tristan on the back, laughing raucously.

  “First some ale, then you must tell me of you
r travels. After, we shall discuss getting you settled onto some land. It was my father’s wish and is now mine to bestow. You certainly have more than earned it.”

  Tristan began to feel genuinely relaxed in the company of his friend, a fellow soldier. Warriors were the kind of men he knew; ones he could relate to. He knew what drove them, made them who they were. It was profoundly different from what he felt when he was around the kind and gentle monk. The difference was striking and more than a little unsettling.

  The castle was abuzz with activity aimed at settling the household in after their long journey. Lady Matilda deLondres shouted orders at servants scurrying about the great hall, wiping down tables, sweeping floors, laying fresh rushes and putting candles in holders and oil in cresset lamps. Travel chests were brought in and unpacked of their goods, while cook fires were lit in the kitchens and the buttery stocked with supplies. Fresh kegs of ale and a wine tun needed to be tapped and water barrels filled. Wall tapestries were dragged outside to be beaten clean, while the skinned and cleaned carcass of a wild boar, hunted on the journey home, was dragged to a hastily built fire to be roasted for the morrow.

  The hall stretched a full four rods in length. Long and narrow at only a rod and a half in width, its ceiling soared high above the packed earth floor. The buttery and kitchens were at the north end, a raised solar over with one bank of windows looking down into the hall, and another looking out over the River Gwendraeth. A raised hearth sat in the middle of the room and soot from its many fires had blackened the roof trusses and thatch above.

  Lord Robert called for drink and the four men sat on benches near the hearth while Tristan and Fitzroy somberly reminisced on their time in the Holy Land and Tristan told of his journey home. They were eventually joined by Sir Maurice and Lady Matilda. After some time, the bishop and prior excused themselves and left to prepare for Compline. They would return after services to sup with the rest.

  “Tell me of this business at the priory,” Fitzroy said after the clerics had left. “Two murders, one your nephew, and an attempt on another monk’s life. A stolen manuscript that seems to involve your brother and maybe the bishop. The prior gave me the facts before His Excellency arrived, but seemed to not want to discuss it with him present.”