A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “What the bloody hell is going on there, Sir?” asked deLondres in earnest.

  “Grave events indeed, My Lord,” said Tristan. He told them all that had transpired in the last sennight and a half.

  “I can arrest your brother and the bishop,” offered deLondres.

  “I think not, my lord. There is no evidence of any crime committed by His Excellency other than questionable conduct which makes him little different from many men of the cloth. The murder of my nephew is another matter entirely. As for my brother…”

  Tristan stopped and took a long drink form his cup, swallowing his ire with the wine.

  “As for Declan, any crimes he may have committed were done over a score years ago and quite unprovable now.” He held his cup out for Hewrey to refill. “Matters with Declan are mine to deal with and can sit for the time being. As for the manuscript, although he did intend to steal it, apparently he did not succeed. Yet, it still is not found. The fact that his plan failed is punishment enough for the moment.”

  “This is not London. How do such events as murder find their way to an out-of-the-way village like Cydweli?” wondered Fitzroy. “You and those at the Priory shall have any assistance you need,” he said. DeLondres nodded in agreement.

  Afternoon turned into evening and the clergymen returned after services. A simple but ample meal was laid of a thick, hot stew made with chicken, venison, quail, and vegetables, accompanied by fruits, cheeses and bread, all washed down with an especially good French claret brought from England. By the time a pudding course was served, they had returned to the fire and the hour had grown late. After serving his master during the meal, Hewrey reluctantly retired to the far corner to eat along with the other servants. Tristan noticed a sour look on the lad’s face. He did not like being relegated to sit away from his master, but was obedient and did not cause trouble. Tristan would needs remember to praise him for it later.

  With some persuasion, Fitzroy agreed to Tristan’s request for the ruined Ryd Lliw Hall.

  “After thirty summers, it must be a ruin,” said Fitzroy sipping his claret.

  “It will need much work, My Lord. That is true.”

  “You have seen it recently?”

  “I spent the night there while returning from a visit with my mother. It is where I found Hewrey, living rough. Much of the hall roof is gone. However the walls and trusses are sound and will need only minor repairs. There is one small barn, but no other outbuildings left save the modest church which is in very fine shape indeed.”

  “You will need a priest for your church.” said the Prior, looking directly at Tristan. Quite taken by surprise at the statement, the knight noticed a hint of conspiracy in the old monk’s eye.

  “I suppose that I will, indeed,” replied Tristan.

  “The selection will be up to you,” Alwyn added, and then to the bishop: “Will it not, Excellency?”

  Maurontius did not answer and met Alwyn’s penetrating gaze, it seemed, reluctantly.

  “Will it not, Excellency?” Alwyn pressed.

  Maurontius nodded.

  “Well, that is settled,” said Fitzroy after a discomfiting silence. “You will need money to effect a renovation.”

  “I am not without funds, My Lord,” answered Tristan in a serious tone.

  “I am sure you are not,” Robert replied, holding up a hand to quiet further objection. “Still, in addition I shall add this as boon for your service.” He handed Tristan a leather pouch heavy with coins.

  “I was merely a soldier serving my Liege and my King.” Tristan bowed his head toward the Earl.

  “Yes, but the favor you rendered my father in befriending and mentoring his headstrong son, as well as ridding him of Grenteville, was a service that surpassed mere allegiance.”

  “That was so long ago, My Lord. The first was my greatest pleasure, the other was…necessary.”

  Fitzroy leaned forward, one forearm balancing on his knee, and spoke in earnest. “No less considered, regardless of how distant. A service well rendered and a boon well earned.”

  “You are indeed generous, My lord,” said Tristan tapping his chest with his fist.

  “Not really,” quipped Fitzroy, sitting back up straight. “I intended that to be a real boon but, due to your choice, it will take every coin to transform that rabble into something livable. I am trusting you to turn it into a thriving enterprise once again. That whore-son Grenteville was despicable, but he ran a prosperous manor. He accomplished it with cruelty; I trust you to do better. It is good land and should serve you well.” Fitzroy raised his cup. “To Ryd Lliw and her new lord.” Robert smiled warmly.

  All raised their cups in salute.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” said Tristan, acknowledging the Earl, then nodding around at the others.

  “And now, sirs,” deLondres cut in, “We shall bid you good night. Lady Matilda and I are weary after so many days of travel and wish to retire.” Everyone rose and bowed as they swept from the room.

  “One more drink and I, too must retire,” said Fitzroy. As they retook their seats, a servant refilled their cups and they drank in silence, staring into the fire. It reminded Tristan of the camps, the familiarity of it warming him.

  “My paliasse awaits,” said Fitzroy at last, standing and addressing his companions. The men rose to their feet as Robert stood. “Excellency, Father Prior, Tristan, I shall say good night. As my lady still awaits my return, I shall leave at first light and the night will be short.”

  He bowed slightly and turned to Tristan. Tristan stared at him, dumbfounded. Fitzroy walked to Tristan, and as each grasped the other’s forearm while clapping each other on the back, they exchanged the warm look of devoted comrades.

  “Thank God you are well, my friend,” said Robert quietly. “I may need your services soon. King Gruffydd is making noises for war in the Northwest. His sons, Owain and Cadwaladr are restless to test their mettle. We must be ready to answer any call from the king.”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, My Lord. Good night, My Lord.”

  “I must hear you call me Robert at least once before you leave,” said Fitzroy.

  “Good night, Robert.”

  Then it was over, the Earl spun around and left the room.

  Maurontius and Alwyn were already out the door and headed for the castle gate when Tristan emerged into the darkness of the cool evening.

  Tristan broke the silence. The knight’s voice was gentle and firm. “You performed well tonight, lad. You did me credit.”

  “I never seen a real Lord before, Master.”

  “Well, as you see, some of them are much like the rest of us.”

  ”Not really, Master.”

  Tristan laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

  Twenty-eight

  Rhonwellt lay on his back staring up at the roof trusses overhead. Long past Matins, the monk had tossed and turned on his cot since prayers. Exhausted, he would have expected trouble in remaining awake, not difficulty finding sleep. He considered going to the chapel. But, soon they all must rise for Lauds and his blankets were warm and he was loathe to leave them for the cold of the church before he must. Instead, he turned on his side, rested a whiskered cheek on folded hands and drew his knees up to put his feet closer to his body, glad to have the woolen stockings knitted by Brother Thomas to keep them warm.

  Between the bad breath and farting, a consequence of a diet heavy with peas and lentils, the smell in the dorter at night could be overwhelming. The stench was worse in the summer when the air refused to move. And, on these restless nights it became almost unbearable. If only he could quiet his mind, sleep might come. But, since his afternoon trip to the bluff and the mill race, Rhonwellt’s attention had been scattered.

  Though nothing was found in either place that could shed any new light on the mystery, the trip had not been a total loss. The revelation that Brother Mark might have been murdered from love brought a whole new perspective, a new approach to explore. It also showed Rhonw
ellt how little he knew of the emotion, of how love felt or how it worked. His only acquaintance with it had been the blush of first love, experienced in the spring of youth so long ago, and he had learned nothing more of it since; not from lack of opportunity, he had simply not allowed it. Now, familiarity with it might help, but he could claim none.

  Rhonwellt returned to his back and stared at the trusses again.

  Now, he was being forced to look at it from two opposing points of view, and neither made any sense. On further reflection, the emotions surfacing in him resembled more an illness—feelings of lightheadedness, disorientation, loss of appetite and listlessness—symptoms far removed from madness. Try as he might, Rhonwellt could conjure no scenario that would lead anyone from these benign feelings down a path to murder. The story of David orchestrating the death of Bathsheba’s husband Uriah notwithstanding, Rhonwellt saw no way to make love and violence go together. Yet, his mind kept coming back to just that.

  “Of course,” exclaimed Rhonwellt under his breath as he bolted upright to a sitting position. He quickly looked around the room to make sure his muted cry had not awakened any of the brothers. A few stirred and turned on their cots, but everyone remained asleep. Why had he not thought of it before? He had seen it in action, not so long ago, but made no sense of it then. “Rhonwellt, you are God’s own fool,” he murmured. The answer had been right in front of him all along but he had not the eyes to see it. And now that he did, how was the monk going to prove it?

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  He had no sooner fallen into welcome sleep when Rhonwellt was jolted awake by the bell for Lauds. With a groan, he rubbed sleepy eyes, sat up, and hung his feet over the edge of the cot. He made no effort to stifle a wide yawn while slipping his feet into sandals stiff with cold, stood, and shuffled toward the night stairs in line with the others. The offices sung in the middle of the night were the hardest on the religious, but especially so now with all the emotional turmoil pervading their lives and keeping many from any restful sleep. Their arms shoved inside their sleeves, most of the Brothers’ heads were bent and buried deep in their hoods, eyes trained on the floor as they filed into the chancel and took their places in the choir. Brother Thomas began the opening notes of the first Psalmas, the rest joining in with varied amounts of enthusiasm.

  Rhonwellt stood, lost in the recitation, just barely present, not concentrating on anything in particular except a longing to set his weary bones down on a bench. A flicker of the light caught his eye, and he raised his head in time to see a pigeon flutter by, the flapping of its wings causing the flames of the candles to dance. It soared to the topmost of the rafters and then dove down toward the Brothers. She must have had a nest in the trusses. Rhonwellt watched it for a moment as it flew toward the pulpitum screen. Glancing down the row of monks to follow her flight, he noticed the two empty places. Brother Gilbert still lay abed in the infirmary, ever whining and complaining that someone had tried to kill him. But, there was another empty seat. Where was Brother Jerome? Had he risen with the rest at the bell, or had he already been gone from his bed? In his drowsiness and agitation Rhonwellt had taken no notice and it vexed him.

  Rhonwellt searched up and down the row of benches to be sure the monk had not taken a place in front of the wrong seat. No. Everyone but Brother Gilbert and Brother Jerome was present, singing with drowsy voices. Where could he be? A feeling in his gut told Rhonwellt to go look for him. If Brother Jerome was the one who had tried to poison Brother Gilbert, was the monk in danger that Jerome might try again? But the never ending battle between obedience and acting on a feeling made him question his next move. If he stayed put, he would escape Prior Alwyn’s displeasure and set a good example for the other Brothers. If he did not follow his intuition, would they find Brother Gilbert dead after prayers? Hardly a fair exchange.

  Taking in a deep breath, Rhonwellt made up his mind. With a hurried bow in the direction of the altar, he rushed from his place toward the rear of the chancel and out the cloister door, headed for the infirmary. A sense of dread gripped him at what he might find when he arrived.

  The monk skidded to a stop in front of the infirmary door. Pushed forward as someone slammed into his back, he turned to find Brother Ciaran sitting in the path, thrown to the ground from the impact. In his haste, Rhonwellt had not known the novice was behind him.

  “Apologies, Brother,” Rhonwellt said, quickly extending a hand and helping Ciaran to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you,” the novice replied. “When you bolted from your place, I got a foreboding sense, one of danger.”

  “As did I,” replied Rhonwellt. “It brought me here.”

  They turned and looked into the room. Brother Gilbert lay sprawled on his cot, one arm flopped over the edge. He did not move. Rushing to his side, Rhonwellt leaned over and put his ear to the monk’s chest.

  “He lives,” said Rhonwellt. “He has lost consciousness, but his heartbeat is strong. He will be all right.”

  Rhonwellt slapped the monk’s cheeks. When there was no response, he slapped him harder. All of a sudden, Brother Gilbert gasped, sucking in a loud breath as though returning from the dead. He stared wide-eyed at Rhonwellt and Ciaran.

  “Where is he?” Rhonwellt asked the frightened monk. “Where is Brother Jerome?”

  “He tried to strangle me,” replied Brother Gilbert, his voice cracking and hoarse.

  “Where did he go?” asked Brother Ciaran.

  “He ran toward the scriptorium.”

  The monks turned to leave and ran into a knot of brothers, who by now had clustered in the doorway. Prayers were obviously over. The Prior appeared last. “What goes on here, Brother Rhonwellt?” asked Alwyn. “They all followed you like iron shavings to a magnet.”

  “Brother Gilbert was attacked,” Rhonwellt replied.

  “By Brother Jerome,” added Ciaran.

  “Where is Brother Jerome now?” the Prior asked.

  “Follow me,” Rhonwellt said.

  “You stay with Brother Gilbert,” the Prior said to no one in particular, then turned and followed as Rhonwellt and Ciaran pushed their way out the door.

  Entering the courtyard outside the kitchen, Rhonwellt glanced up at the scrpitorium on the second floor over the cellarium. The door stood open, a light flickering inside. In the darkness, three monks mounted the stairs at a run, went inside and moments later appeared with a struggling Brother Jerome in tow. The wild-eyed monk broke free from his captors. He lost his footing at the top step and rolled down the stairs, slamming into several other brothers like a rogue ball in a game of bowls.

  “Turbata est in totum,” said Brother Simplicius, one of the three standing at the top of the stairs. “He has plundered the scriptorium.”

  Brother Jerome lay at the bottom of the stairs, panting but unhurt. Brother Cathbart and Brother Ignatius picked him up, holding his arms behind his back and looked toward the prior.

  “Take him to the Chapter House,” said Alwyn. “Brother Remigius, Brother Etheldrede, accompany them and keep him well in hand. Someone blow the light in the scriptorium. Meanwhile, Rhonwellt, bring Brother Gilbert from the infirmary. We shall all meet in the Chapter House. This is business for our entire company to consider.”

  As Rhonwellt stepped into the infirmary, Gilbert gave a slight start as though he intended to flee. Appearing from out of nowhere and squeezing through the thinning crowd, Tristan and Hewrey stepped in front of him. Each had daggers in hand and pointed at a startled Brother Gilbert.

  “Do not try, monk,” Tristan warned. “Any attempt at resistance would be futile.”

  Gilbert, stopped, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

  “I am glad you are here,” said Rhonwellt to Tristan.

  “We were up at the first shout,” Tristan replied. “One could not sleep with such commotion outside one’s door.”

  With a nod of his head, Rhonwellt turned to Brother Gilbert. “Come now, Brother. Let us get this over with.”r />
  ✞ ✞ ✞

  The company filed into the Chapter House. Prior Alwyn directed lamps to be lit and two benches to be dragged to the front, one placed on each side of the lectern. When all was prepared, the monks went obediently to their assigned places, all staring at the two miscreants who were instructed to take the benches at the front. Brother Jerome still struggled to get free from the grip of those holding him, while Brother Gilbert sat shrinking from the scrutiny of his fellow monks, sullen and silent.

  Prior Alwyn stepped to the lectern and looked out over the assembly.

  “What are they doing here?” shouted Brother Gilbert, pointing at Sir Tristan and Hewrey standing next to the door.

  Rhonwellt had to think quickly. He did not want Tristan to leave in case he was needed to keep order—by force.

  “Prior Alwyn wishes to keep this priory business,” he replied. “Would you rather we called Lord Maurice or perhaps see if the reeve is sober enough to take charge?”

  “I will allow them to stay in case there is trouble,” said Alwyn, echoing Rhonwellt’s thoughts exactly. “Where is Brother Ciaran?”

  “I saw him headed for the garderobe as we walked here,” said Brother Llywarch.

  “Then, I assume he will be along presently,” replied the Prior. Crossing himself, Alwyn recited the invocation: “In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen.” A sea of hands sketched the sign of the cross. “Brother Simplicius,” the Prior continued, “an appropriate scripture for the revelation of truth, please.”

  Besides speaking almost exclusively in Latin, the stocky monk of over fifty summers could bring up any requested scripture, on any subject, from memory when asked, his capacity for recall was so great. Simplicius closed his eyes and lifted his face for a brief moment and then came a smile.