A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “In octauo Evangélium secúndum Lucam,” he began, his voice confident and loud. Then looking toward Tristan and Hewrey standing near the door, he translated. “In the eighth chapter of the Gospel According to Saint Luke, it says: non enim est occultum quod non manifestetur nec absconditum quod non cognoscatur et in palam veniat.” He paused. Rhonwellt knew it was for the effect, as it was no secret the monk struggled with the sin of pride at his ability. Again, Simplicius translated. “For nothing is hid, that shall not be made manifest; nor secret, that shall not be known and come to light.”

  “Thank you, Brother,” said Alwyn. “There are secrets in this room that must come into the light. And we shall remain here until such time as they do.” The old prior’s face was ashen and the look of fear was in his eyes. “Recent events are quite unprecedented—violence, murder, theft—and I am at a loss as to how or where to begin.” His hands trembled along with his voice. “God grant us wisdom in our hour of need.” He crossed himself.

  Rhonwellt waited a few moments and then cleared his throat before he spoke. “Perhaps I could ask some questions of these two, Brother Prior.”

  “If God has put the necessary words in your mouth, Brother, by all means ask.”

  The squeaking of hinges turned all faces to the door. Brother Ciaran slipped into the room with little sound and rushed to his seat, bowing to the prior as he sat.

  Rhonwellt turned to face the room. “First, let me ask this of Brother Simplicius. You said Brother Jerome had plundered the scriptorium. Please explain, Brother?”

  “Omnia prosternentur,” replied Simplicius.

  “No Latin, please Brother,” implored Rhonwellt. “Indulge us, if you would.”

  “Everything was strewn about. Manuscripts and pages all over the floor. Scrolls and tomes thrown from the shelves. Writing desks in disarray.”

  Rhonwellt spun around to face Brother Jerome. “What were you looking for, Brother?”

  The accused monk did not reply, rather he sat glaring at Brother Gilbert.

  “Might I suggest that he be searched?” asked Ciaran.

  “Searched?” said the Prior. “Where would a monk hide anything?”

  “Look up his sleeves,“ suggested the novice. “Or, in his pouch.”

  Prior Alwyn looked to Brother Ignatius and Brother Cathbart. “Do it,” he said.

  The two monks dragged Brother Jerome to his feet. One held him while the other one searched him, first his pouch where they found nothing, and finally shoving their hands up his sleeves. Brother Cathbart withdrew a folded piece of parchment, and held it up. The novice grabbed and unfolded it. He showed it to Rhonwellt. It was the list of scriptures they had discovered on Brother Mark’s desk over a sennight ago. Brother Jerome lunged to grab it.

  Rhonwellt peered over Ciaran’s shoulder. “Why would he want that?” he said.

  “What is it?” asked the prior.

  Ciaran explained how he came to find it. “When Brother Simplicius said that the scriptorium had been plundered, I surmised that Brother Jerome had been looking for something. I remembered the mysterious parchment and wondered if that was what he sought. We had left it on Brother Mark’s desk. I could find it nowhere and was sure he must have it. I’ve been thinking a lot about its meaning since discovering it. I think it has something to do with the stolen manuscript.”

  “But, I thought that mystery had been solved,” said the Prior, “and laid to the door of Sir Tristan’s brother.”

  “Yes, but it still has not been found. And, perhaps there were others who had an eye toward stealing it, as well,” said Ciaran. “Brother Rhonwellt and I had begun to look up the passages listed but were called to prayer before we could do so. Much has happened since. There was no opportunity to try again.”

  Rhonwellt took the parchment from Ciaran, and approaching Brother Jerome, waved it in the monk’s face. “What do you know of this, Brother?” he asked. “You do not work on manuscripts, so what reason could you have for wanting this?”

  Jerome could not take his eyes off the parchment. He moved his mouth and wet his lips. His fists clenched and relaxed several times. “Brother Mark meant it for me,” he growled.

  “Why? What is its significance?” asked Rhonwellt. “Is Brother Ciaran correct? Is it about the Medica?”

  Jerome said nothing. He continued to stare.

  Rhonwellt’s ire began to rise. His lips all but disappeared as he pressed them into a thin line “Was it you who tried to poison Brother Gilbert?” He waited but, again, no answer was forthcoming. “Did you attack him earlier?” he asked.

  “His black heart makes him especially hard to kill,” sneered Jerome.

  “What has he done that you have tried to take his life on two occasions?”

  Jerome squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. All eyes in the room were on him. He balled his fists and began to pound his knees. Rhonwellt thought the monk might actually weep. “He lied to me. All along it was just lies and deception; then new lies to cover old ones.”

  “What was Brother Gilbert untruthful about?” asked Rhonwellt.

  “No! Not him!” spat Jerome. “For that one to lie to me, he would have to speak to me. Brother Gilbert talks about people, almost never directly to them.”

  “Then who?” Waiting for Jerome to respond, the answer came to Rhonwellt. “It was Brother Mark who lied to you, was it not?”

  Brother Jerome nodded. “All of his promises were just that, promises and nothing more.”

  “What did he promise?” Rhonwellt wondered if he already knew the answer and if Jerome would in fact say it aloud. Moments passed and Jerome said nothing. Rhonwellt watched the monk’s shoulders sag, while his anger dissolved into despair and, in the end, grief. “Did Brother Mark promise to give himself to you?”

  Gasps and twittering spreading through. Brother Jerome to raise his head and glared.

  “I advise care with this line of inquiry,” cautioned Prior Alwyn. “If Brother Mark did make unseemly promises, must they be discussed here?”

  Rhonwellt stopped to consider the Prior’s admonition and how to proceed. He ran his hand over the stubble of his tonsure, a habit he employed when deep in thought. Somehow the action made for easier concentration. Safe to assume such improper assurances had been made, the prior was correct, the details were not important. However, one thing was sure, if Brother Mark had indicated such rewards could be had, they would only be in exchange for something he expected in return.

  “Whatever Brother Mark’s promises had been,” Rhonwellt continued, “what was to be your part in the bargain?”

  “I was to take him to London.”

  “Liar!” screamed Brother Gilbert. “Brother Mark was going to take me to London.”

  The room erupted, everyone speaking at once.

  “Silence!” commanded Prior Alwyn, clapping his hands. He waited until the monks had settled and he went on. “Brother Mark would not be going to London with anyone. He could not.” Rhonwellt waited with everyone else to hear the old cleric’s explanation. The Prior walked around and stood in front of the lectern. His mouth twitched as he appeared to contemplate whether to go on. At last he drew in a breath. “This was never meant to be known by anyone other than myself. Saint Cadog’s and the town were Brother Mark’s gaol.” Alwyn fidgeted with the cross hanging from his neck. “He had run afoul of the law in London and agreed to be sentenced to a cloister in lieu of prison.” More gasps echoed throughout the room. “The Sheriff of London contacted his old friend, Father Herbert, Abbot of our mother house in Shrewsbury, for permission to send him here. Father Herbert agreed.”

  “Did he…murder someone?” asked Brother Julian, his voice hushed and a little fearful.

  “No. Had he murdered anyone, he would have been hanged and put an end to it. Let us just say his actions involved a noble’s son and elicited the noble’s wrath. He was sent here. To those in England, it was as good as exile.”

  Rhonwellt could not hide his surprise. Ano
ther incident involving Brother Mark and a young man. His next question to Jerome was obvious. “What do you know of Brother Mark’s relationship with young Isidore?”

  “Only what he told me,” replied Jerome. “They met quite by accident. Isidore wandered onto the priory grounds one night, saying he must see the prior right away, that he had information about a valuable book. He said his father was involved in a plot to steal it. He was here to warn the prior.”

  The facts were beginning to become clearer. The dark aura around Brother Mark was turning blacker with each revelation. Rhonwellt was beginning to feel some pity for Brother Jerome and others who had been taken in by the comely young monk and his wiles. Though never enamored with the dark haired lad, Rhonwellt was alarmed by how much he too had been deceived. Mostly, he was saddened that the priory, a place that was supposed to be a haven from the harshness of the world, could end up harboring such a one as him.

  A thought struck Rhonwellt. “If Brother Mark had already acquired information he could exploit, why did he continue to meet with the lad?”

  “I do not know, exactly,” said Jerome.

  “That is because he toyed with you,” sneered Brother Gilbert. “He never intended to take you with him—anywhere.”

  Rhonwellt turned to Brother Gilbert. “And what makes you so sure he would have kept his word to you?”

  “He really thought Brother Mark loved him,” said Gilbert, leaning forward toward Jerome. “Ha! More the fool! I was not so simple-minded as to fall for that.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  “He surely did not care for you!” spat Jerome.

  “Of course not. Ours was a business arrangement, much more reliable than one based on pretty emotions or lust.” Gilbert laughed. “I watched with great glee as he plucked your strings, playing his tune on you like a minstrel plays a gittern. That is how he persuaded you to pleasure him.” Gilbert paused, then added with a disparaging smile and a curl of his lip, “He said you were eager…but possessed little skill.”

  A surge ran through the room as over a dozen hands flew up in unison to cover gaping mouths.

  A look of complete surprise came over Jerome. With the swiftness of a bolt from an arbalest, he flew at Gilbert, face contorted with fury, his eyes so black they showed no pupils. As he passed, Rhonwellt froze and the hair on his arms and neck stood on end. He spun, following Jerome with his eyes, feelings of panic surging through him, then charged in to stand between the two. Tristan and Hewrey appeared from nowhere at his shoulder, the second time this night. Tristan swung in behind Brother Jerome and wrapped an arm around his neck; Hewrey stood in front, his dagger poised at Jerome’s stomach. Tristan wrestled Jerome back to his bench and forced him to sit.

  While the prior restored order to the room, Rhonwellt struggled for composure. He paced a small circle in the space in front of the lectern. This was not going well and he began to feel doubt. What did he really know about eliciting a confession from a criminal? He was not sure he could. Even though confession in the church was required, it was still voluntary. This was different. The prior relied on him. He did not want to let him down.

  There was also Rhonwellt’s sense of justice at play. Regardless of the litany of sins Brother Mark may have committed, he had been murdered. Someone had stolen his life. Only God had that right—well, God and the King’s Justice. He had to find out who was responsible and persuade them to confess, to save their immortal soul whatever punishment was to be visited on them.

  After some thought and a quick prayer, he decided the time for subtlety was over. It was time to be direct. “I submit,” he began, “that one of you followed Brother Mark the night of his death as he went to keep his rendezvous with Isidore.”

  “I did not follow him,” said Jerome.

  “What about you, Brother?” Rhonwellt asked Gilbert.

  Gilbert bowed his head and after a moment looked up through his eyebrows at Rhonwellt.

  “I believe you encountered Brother Mark, had some kind of argument with him, and in your rage you beat him.”

  “No, no, no,” said Gilbert with finality.

  “…and fearing your deed would be uncovered, you murdered him.”

  “That is not true.”

  “I say that it is,” said Rhonwellt. He was losing his patience, pacing faster and faster in his tight circle. “And, in your haste to leave the scene you lost your sandal.”

  “I have already explained that to you. My sandals were stolen.”

  “If, as you say, they were stolen, why did you not just tell that to Brother Oswald and request a new pair? Instead, you went to considerable trouble to steal a replacement pair and conceal the effort. Your actions do not seem to confirm truthfulness on your part.”

  Rhonwellt decided to change the subject, to see if he could catch him off his guard. “What was the nature of your argument with Brother Mark?”

  “Who has said that we argued?” Gilbert shot back.

  “I say that you did,” said Rhonwellt. His voice was raising in pitch with each question. He was beginning to seethe at Gilbert’s unresponsiveness. “Did you argue about the book?”

  “No.”

  “Was it Brother Jerome? Did you argue about who Brother Mark was taking to London; whether it was actually Brother Jerome? Whether he had lied and you were being left behind? Had love won out in the end?”

  “He did not love Brother Jerome. He told me he did not. And then he laughed at the idea.”

  “Then you admit you were there,” accused Rhonwellt, nearly shouting.

  Gilbert hesitated before responding. He looked at the sea of faces staring back at him with accusations. “What if I was?” he said, finally.

  “Why were you there? Why did you follow Brother Mark that night?”

  “I was there because I followed him!” he exclaimed, spittle spraying as he shouted. His finger pointed directly at Brother Jerome.

  Twenty-nine

  The reaction from the brothers was swift and loud. Once again, the prior shouted for silence, his voice ringing off the walls. With each new revelation, the monks became more unruly, more difficult to control. Dire as the circumstances were, the gleam in their eyes and twittering behind raised hands attested to the fact this was the most excitement any of the monks had known for a long time, perhaps ever. They squirmed on their benches and clung to every alarming and salacious detail.

  “I think one of you had better start from the beginning,” said Rhonwellt. “Brother Gilbert, you say you followed Brother Jerome that night. Why?”

  “I had seen Brother Mark leave his bed in the middle of the night. I knew Brother Peter was on night watch and it would be quite easy to leave the priory undetected. I needed to know he was telling me the truth and would keep his word. Brother Mark was a scoundrel and untrustworthy. So, I decided to follow him.”

  “Now, you say you followed Brother Mark,” said Rhonwellt, “when just moments ago you told us you were following Brother Jerome. Which is it, brother?”

  “Actually, I followed them both,” Gilbert said. “First, Brother Mark went down to the kitchens. He wrapped some bread and cheese in a napkin and then went by the cellarium for a skin of wine. Afterward, I followed him to the bluff by the middens. He went there to meet the lad—Isidore.”

  “What made you think he was not trustworthy?”

  “I told you, he was a scoundrel.”

  “He was not a scoundrel,” said Jerome. His voice hissed as he seethed at the accusation.

  “Do not try to defend him,” sneered Gilbert. “You did not trust him either. Else, why would you have followed him?”

  “I…I feared for his safety,” stammered Jerome.

  “Bollocks!” screamed Gilbert. “You wanted to be sure you were not betrayed.”

  “He would never betray me!”

  “He already had,” replied Rhonwellt. “Prior Alwyn said he was sentenced here as if it were a gaol. Much like abjuring the realm, he could not leave. If he did, he would be subject t
o arrest.”

  “And, since monks leaving the priory grounds for the town are supposed to travel in pairs,” added the prior, looking directly at Rhonwellt, “it would have been easy to keep an eye on him.”

  “So you see, Brother Mark could not have gone to London or anywhere else with either of you. And, you suspected as much, did you not?” He directed his remarks to Brother Gilbert.

  “I feared something was amiss.”

  Rhonwellt resumed pacing for a few moments. In heightened emotional states, Rhonwellt’s skin became especially sensitive to the itchy wool of his robe and he scratched himself, trying to ignore the distraction. “How was the theft of the Medica to be fulfilled?” he asked at last.

  “Brother Mark was to take the Medica and hide it until such a time as we could complete our plan.”

  “And, when Brother Anselm declared that the volume was missing, you knew he had completed the first part of the scheme, that it was a simple matter of waiting for a convenient time to abscond.”

  Brother Gilbert nodded. “It was planned for the Feast of Saint Guthlac. Feast days are so chaotic, it would be a while before we would be missed, and perhaps the next day before anyone would become alarmed.”

  “It is a reasonable assumption. No one would have attributed your absence to the missing Medica, therefore no search would be initiated immediately.” Rhonwellt stopped pacing and stood staring at the floor, still scratching at the itchy wool. “Returning to the night of Brother Mark’s death, you said you followed both him and Brother Jerome.”

  “I had spoken with him just before he left to meet Isidore,” said Gilbert. “Brother Mark was nervous with the lad hanging about. He went to tell him that the Medica was safe from his father, in hopes he would go away.”

  “Where was Brother Jerome at this time?”

  “Brother Mark had left the grounds and headed for town when I heard the crunch of stones. I retreated to the shadows by the kitchen. Brother Jerome emerged from the darkness near the refectory building and began to follow Brother Mark, keeping a discreet distance behind.”