“Your suspicions began to rise,” said Rhonwellt.
“It was ridiculous. Brother Jerome mooned like a maid over him. He could become jealous at the slightest provocation. I am sure he thought Brother Mark was having relations with the young lad and wanted to catch them in the act.”
“And did he—catch them?”
“It was only obsessive delusion. As we all know, Brother Mark was nothing but promises, and he would never give anything more than was absolutely necessary to get what he wished. He already had what he wanted from Isidore, therefore had no reason to give him anything. And, it did not seem the lad was so inclined. He was just an innocent trying to do what he thought was right.”
“Kind words, coming from you.”
“I am not kind,” said Brother Gilbert. “and, I care not for kindness. I speak only the truth. But, he was a fool to trust Brother Mark.”
“So, you followed them.”
“I did, until Brother Jerome disappeared.”
“He disappeared?” asked Rhonwellt, his eyes going wide.
“Yes. As I came around the corner of the stockade wall, near the path leading down to the mill race, he had been there, ahead of me, and in the next moment he was gone.”
Rhonwellt whirled around to face Brother Jerome. “Where did you go?” he asked.
Jerome’s eyes swept the room, his silent lips quivered.
Rhonwellt grew impatient. He leaned in, his face mere inches from Jerome’s. “I ask you again, Brother. Where did you go?”
“I detoured by way of Swiving Lane.”
“Where?” asked Rhonwellt.
“Swiving Lane,” replied Jerome. “It is the name given to a path that runs parallel to the bluff, just below the rim, away from the smell of the middens. Somewhat hidden, it is where the doxies take their clients to…well…swive. It is well known in the town. The way is narrow and many a couple has slipped from it to roll down the hill mid-act. It is a joke among the villeins.”
“It is not known by me, and should not be familiar to you or any of us,” said Prior Alwyn, sweeping his arm around the room of monks.
A wave of guilt washed over Rhonwellt as he stole a glance toward Tristan and imagined what other activities were common there. Signing the cross, he took a moment to recover. “What occurred then, Brother?”
“I fell,” Jerome responded, his voice just above a whisper.
“What was that, Brother? We did not hear you.”
“I fell,” Jerome repeated. “These accursed sandals made my foot slip from the path.”
“Then you will be the new town joke,” Brother Llywarch called out, “when folks find you visited Swiving Lane and tumbled down the hill attached to no one.”
The whole room erupted in laughter. The prior’s fist came down hard on the lectern. The room grew silent. “Mirth is ill-placed at this time. We are engaged in truth-seeking. A heinous crime has been perpetrated on one of our own—by one of our own—a crime that violates both the Rule and The Sixth Commandment. You will exhibit propriety and humility until we are concluded.”
Rhonwellt held his hand to his forehead and took a couple of steps away before turning back to Brother Jerome. “Well? What occurred then? Did you roll all the way to the bottom?”
Prior Alwyn glared. Sleeves flew up to cover faces, but no one laughed aloud.
“No, only part of the way,” replied Jerome. “By the time I had regained the path, I heard raised voices from the bluff. It was Brother Gilbert and Brother Mark. I tried to climb up closer, but the hillside was too steep. I could only get half the way up.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?” asked Rhonwellt.
“Brother Mark was laughing,” said Jerome, glaring at Brother Gilbert. “Brother Gilbert was angry. He was shouting ‘where is it?’. Brother Mark only laughed louder.”
“It was then Brother Mark confessed he had lied to you both,” Rhonwellt said, looking from Gilbert to Jerome for confirmation. Neither moved or answered. “Since he had told you both the same tale, you each realized he had hidden the Medica, but had not told either of you where. You were each desperate to know its location. Brother Gilbert, was it then he told you about the parchment?”
“I knew nothing of the parchment until you retrieved it from his sleeve,” said Gilbert swinging his arm toward Brother Jerome.
Rhonwellt ran his hand over the top of his head and down the back to his neck. He closed his eyes and raised his face toward the ceiling. What was he missing? Did Brother Jerome already know about the parchment, and if so, why did he wait so long after Brother Mark’s death to retrieve it. Had he been wrong? If only there were a reliable coroner in the town, then perhaps they would have the answer already. But there was none, and it fell to him. The best Rhonwellt could do was keep them talking in the hope that one would reveal something damning.
“So, you beat Brother Mark until he was near death to make him confess where he had hidden the tome.”
“I did not!” said Gilbert.
“I heard you arguing!” screamed Jerome.
“Yes, we argued,” replied Gilbert. “I threatened to hurt him if he did not tell me. But the idea that I could be dangerous amused him even more. He laughed again. I reached out to grab him. He backed away to avoid my grasp and fell to the ground. He lay there, on his back looking up at me, his eyes mocking me.”
It was then it happened, Rhonwellt realized. Could he bring himself to say the words? Rhonwellt felt his gaze being drawn to the side. He had to look away. As his head slowly turned, he locked eyes with Tristan. The knight’s face appeared impassive. Upon closer scrutiny, Rhonwellt saw surprise in his eyes. Tristan’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword, his mouth twitched, a movement so slight as to be nearly imperceptive. Rhonwellt held the knight’s gaze for a moment, then turned back to Brother Gilbert. “It was then you fell upon him and…violated him.”
“He would not stop laughing,” said Gilbert, his lip curling as he spoke. “His eyes held that same mocking look they would have when he knew he had someone in his control.”
“So you decided to take from him what he would never willingly give.”
An eerie silence hung over the company. The monks sat motionless. It seemed no one dared speak or make any sound. All eyes were glued to the scene at the front of the room.
“He may have worn the cowl,” said Brother Gilbert, “but his behavior was that of a common doxie. However, he only sold the promise of a service. With him you never really received what you had paid for.”
“So, you set upon him to exact your pleasure.”
“He was arrogant. He needed to be taught a lesson.”
“You took it upon yourself to sit in judgment over his perceived sin, to exact your own punishment. To play God.”
“He tried to protest so I covered his mouth.” Gilbert’s eyes grew wide with excitement in the telling. “That quieted his laughter. I saw real fear begin to creep into his eyes. He was afraid…of me! His struggles were preposterous. It made me angry. I hit him. Despite that, he struggled more so I picked up a rock and I hit him again.” He paused a moment and his voice grew quieter. “That stilled him. I rolled him over and he accepted me into him easily enough. It was in that moment I knew he had not been untouched. Even that was a lie. His humiliation tasted sooo sweet.”
“Enough!” bellowed the prior.
“And when I had finished,” Gilbert went on, undeterred, “I walked away and left him to lie in his own degradation. I received what I had paid for.” Gilbert was triumphant. He sneered at Jerome. “He gave to me what he never would give to you.”
There was a collective gasp from the witnesses who heard his confession. Many signs of the cross were sketched into the air. Tristan drew his dagger, bent down and peered into Gilbert’s face. “I should kill you now, monk,” he sneered, “and save the hangman the trouble.”
“Do your worst, Sir Knight. My will to live was forfeit the day I entered this accursed place. There is no life he
re, only agonizing poverty and drudgery, day after grueling day. Killing me would be a mercy. Free me from my misery. But I swear to you all, he was whole when I left him. I know what I have done, but I will not die for a murder I did not commit.”
✞ ✞ ✞
Had Rhonwellt been right all along? Could Brother Gilbert be telling the truth? He had lied so much already. Had his only crime been one of rape? Was Brother Mark truly whole when Gilbert left him lying on the bluff? If so, there was only one answer, and it came back to Brother Jerome. Rhonwellt slowly turned to face the monk, taking measure as he approached him.
“Then it was you,” he said to Jerome. “You must have retraced your steps along the path and come around to the top of the bluff. You could not believe your eyes at the sight you beheld.”
“The evidence of his betrayal leaked from him, damning him,” said Jerome, eyes closed, his fists clenched, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke.
“You beat him,” said Rhonwellt. “You had been spurned for your ardor, and thought you had just witnessed betrayal. You were overcome with rage. In a frenzy, you looked for something—a stick—anything. You began to hit him. Over and over you hit him. It was your hair I found tangled in the weave of his robe. You must have laid down near him. Did you take your pleasure from him too? If Brother Gilbert could have it, why not you?”
“Stop it!” Jerome cried. He began to sob. “Please, stop. I only loved him. I would not harm him.”
“But, you did harm him, grievously.”
“It was not supposed to be this way,” said Jerome. His eyes glazed over as he retreated into himself. “We were to go away, be together. I loved him. I wanted him to love me. I was…so very angry. He gave himself… to another… to Gilbert. How could that be?”
“Brother Gilbert took what he wanted by force,” said Rhonwellt.. “He has said as much. Brother Mark gave himself to no one.”
Brother Jerome’s whole body seemed to sag, as if from the weight of the despair that showed in his eyes. “I did not know that then,” he said. “If I had…” He paused. “It should not have been this way,” he sobbed in a barely audible whisper. His hands clawed at his face, nails tearing into the flesh leaving welts and traces of blood. “This should not have happened. God in Heaven, it should never have come to pass.”
A low, mournful wail began to rise from deep inside him, as Jerome swayed from side to side, his hands clasped tightly together at his forehead.
“He is possessed!” cried someone.
The brothers seated at the edges of the room leaned back, as though a great demon might leap from him and they feared being too close. Several crossed themselves and arms covered many faces against this evil as the wail grew louder.
With a sudden burst of movement, Jerome sprang from his seat, crossed the room and sped out the door.
Tristan sprang into action. “Hewrey, come,” he called over his shoulder. As Tristan and Hewrey hurried to the door, Rhonwellt and Ciaran fell in close behind. Reaching the anteroom, they saw a swish of robes disappear in through the door of the south transept. Thinking Jerome had gone to throw himself on the altar, Rhonwellt rushed in, went through the opening in the pulpitum screen and into the chancel. It was empty. Rhonwellt stopped and looked around. Where could he have gone? He could hear no footsteps, so Jerome was not trying to escape the church. There were few places to hide.
“The tower,” Rhonwellt said. “He has gone to the tower.” There would be no escape from there. What was Jerome thinking? And then, he knew. “Oh, no. He must be stopped.”
Monks had already started up the winding steps to the tower. Rhonwellt squeezed into the line and tried to push ahead. The stairs were too narrow to pass anyone. The steps were steep and the climb was agonizingly slow. At last they reached the stage under the bell with the large sound-hole opening to the crossing below. The room was black as night.
“Bring light,” yelled Tristan as he entered the room. The tower was silent as everyone waited. Soon, three monks appeared carrying torches. Tristan took one and, holding it in front of him, he and Rhonwellt peered into the darkness. The stage was empty. The groan of timbers caused all faces to turn up, eyes searching the darkness above. Tristan held his torch high and swept it across the room. The faint figure of Brother Jerome began to stand out against the gray walls. He was half-way up the stairs and climbing with care. He stumbled in the dark and the structure shook. His sobs bounced off the cold stone of the tower.
Rhonwellt called out to Jerome, keeping his voice even so as not to alarm him. “Brother Jerome, come down at once.”
“And be hanged? I will not!”
“You cannot escape,” Rhonwellt said to him. “There is nowhere to go up there.” Rhonwellt went to the base of the stairs and looked up.
“It is no physical form of escape I seek, Brother Rhonwellt.”
“Rhonwellt, it is not safe,” hissed Tristan. Rhonwellt waved his hand in dismissal.
“I will not let you go up there,” said Tristan, pushing the monk out of the way. He started to climb the stairs.
“You must not,” said Rhonwellt. “This whole structure is rotten. Your mail and your weapons will make you too heavy.”
“I am small and light,” said Hewrey. “I will go, master.”
Though Hewrey presented a brave face, Rhonwellt could sense fear in the lad’s voice. He grabbed Tristan’s arm. “You cannot let him go up there.”
“I know,” Tristan replied. He nodded to Hewrey. “No, lad, I will go.”
With a grimace, Tristan started to ascend the stairs.
Watching the knight climb, Rhonwellt sought to distract Brother Jerome. “Think on what you are about to do, Brother. Your immortal soul will be lost forever.”
“My soul was already lost the moment I met Brother Mark. I knew then I could never retrieve it.”
“Brother, the stairway is not safe,” said Rhonwellt. “Please come down now, before something untoward occurs.”
“No,” said Jerome. “I will not.” He gained the top of the stairs and proceeded out on to the causeway.
A loud crack issued from the wood, alarming the monk and forcing him to stop and cling to the rail. As he stood motionless, the structure shuddered. The wood groaned and sagged, dropping a few inches. Jerome took a slow, cautious step farther out and paused as the wood protested his weight once again. He hesitated, looking back toward the stairs.
As Tristan flattened himself against the wall, the structure shuddered again. “Brother Jerome, come down,” said Tristan. “Do not make your Brothers witness your death.” The knight put his hand out. “Brother, come back.”
Brother Jerome remained still. The causeway shifted again and he fell backwards to a sitting position, all movement frozen.
“Brother, come down,” Rhonwellt called up, again.
Jerome seemed not to hear him. After a few moments, with calculated care he attempted to stand. In the weak light from Tristan’s torch, Rhonwellt could see droplets of sweat shine on Jerome’s forehead. Jerome continued to sob. Tristan stayed motionless, back to the wall. Another shift in the structure sent Jerome back to a seated position. He hesitated, and then in what looked like a flash of decision, he bolted upright and began to retrace his steps, shaking the causeway. A final, deafening snap issued forth from the wood. All eyes watched as a rotten stringer tore itself from the wall and plunged downward, flinging Jerome into the air, and Tristan tumbling down the lower steps. As if it were a dream, Rhonwellt thought he was seeing a repeat of the accident that had befallen Brother Gilbert many days before. Jerome’s body arced out of the darkness toward the immense copper-bronze bell. He slammed into the metal giant with a muted thud that set it to droning. As if in motion slowed by time, Jerome’s body slid down the smooth surface, seemed to cling for a moment to the raised rim at the bottom, then dropped silently through the air, ricocheting off the edge of the sound-hole in the belfry stage and finally through the opening to the stone floor of the crossing below.
Whether it was from astonishment or resignation, Rhonwellt could not tell, but Brother Jerome uttered no cry as he fell. Only the wood crashing to the floor and the mournful murmur of the huge bell lingered in the silence of the tower.
Thirty
All day Thursday, sullenness pervaded the priory at the harshness of revelations too frightening to contemplate. Mass was said for Isidore in the morning. After, a cart was hired to carry his body to Pont Lliw for burial. Declan told Cyfnerth and Rhawn to accompany the remains home, saying he and Padrig would soon follow.
Rhonwellt took no joy in unveiling the perpetrators of the crimes visited upon Brother Mark since discovering they had been committed by two of their own. Stunned by shock and confusion, morning bled into afternoon and slipped into evening without notice. The Rule of Silence was strictly enforced to avoid idle chatter and speculation. In a state of near catatonia, the brothers shuffled through their daily routine with dazed, faraway looks in tear laden eyes, trying desperately to make sense of it all. Even the heavens wept as heavy rains engulfed the area.
The rule of silence came easily, as none had words to express their sadness. Rhonwellt joined with the others as each retreated into the solace of their own grief. Prior Alwyn showed compassion and allowed some reprieve from the typical daily chores. But he knew work was the best analgesic and endeavored to keep them busy, if only to occupy their grieving minds. In the scriptorium, work on major manuscripts halted and the scribes busied themselves with copying Psalters and other simpler tasks. They could be seen in the chancel, alone or in twos and threes, weeping, praying for understanding and pleading for this misery to be lifted from this poor house and their aching hearts.
In the town, there was only disappointment. Brother Jerome’s dramatic death, though atonement for his crime, left its citizens feeling cheated out of the entertaining spectacle of a public hanging. Had he lived, not even the church could have protected him from such a fate. He had met his end as a felon. Despite the fact that he had been absolved by the Prior Alwyn after death, he perished outside of a state of Grace and must be buried without a funeral, apart from the others in unconsecrated ground. Brother Jerome had been well liked, however, and there would be those who would mourn him.
A Savor of Clove Page 34