A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  Brother Gilbert, on the other hand, was not to be saved from his destiny. His offense was serious—it had been perpetrated upon a fellow cenobite and had led to a death—but was only subject to church law and discipline. It was a bit of irony that the bishop would take part in determining his punishment along with the prior. He would likely be sent to Sherborne for remedial instruction under the tutelage of Prior Robert, a harsh taskmaster who accepted no excuse for error. After a time he would be sent to another out-of-the-way house where the need for brothers would outweigh any desire to scrutinize his past. For him to remain at St. Cattwg’s would be awkward and could prove dangerous.

  Rhonwellt and Ciaran sought solace together, walking silently in the cloister, each taking comfort in the mere presence of the other. While Ciaran succumbed to frequent bouts of weeping, Rhonwellt simply stared at the ground in front of him. The image of Jerome’s body sliding down the bell, being swallowed by the hole in the floor, and the soft thud as it smashed on the hard stone below, replayed over and over in his thoughts. It left him sick to his stomach as though he had drunk milk gone sour. To assuage his mood, he needed to occupy him mind with other problems. He was headed to his desk in the Scriptorium when Brother Julian found him. He had been summoned to the prior’s chamber.

  ✞ ✞ ✞

  Rhonwellt climbed the stairs to the prior’s chamber. He was wary, his mind trying to ferret out possible explanations for the summons. He had been involved in numerous events of late, some propitious but most had been tragic. There could be any number of pretexts for the request. Yet, deep in his heart, Rhonwellt thought he knew the reason. Prior Alwyn had been very disconcerted over Tristan killing the beggar, no matter the justification. Was he going to expel Tristan from the grounds?

  Reaching the landing at the top, the monk paused, made the sign of the cross, and took a deep breath, and knocked on the heavy door.

  “Enter,” came the voice from inside.

  Rhonwellt stepped into the room to find the prior seated at a large table, the only other piece of furniture to inhabit the sparse chamber save a chair, a bench and a bed. Alwyn’s head was bowed and resting on the palms of his hands, his elbows propped on the table in front of him. He exuded a weary sadness so evident Rhonwellt was startled at the sight of him.

  “Are you well, Brother Prior?” Rhonwellt waited for an answer that did not come. “You seem so troubled. Have I given offense?”

  Alwyn did not say anything immediately, rather he sat up and leaned into the back of his chair, fingers steepled in front of his lips. Clearly dealing with strong emotions, the prior regarded Rhonwellt for several moments, the silent interval increasing the level of the monk’s anxiety. Alwyn cleared his throat as he stood up.

  “Come, Brother. Walk the cloister with me. I have given orders that we are not to be disturbed.”

  Things must be worse than he thought. They descended the stairs in silence and went out to the garden, the prior pausing by the door to let the monk enter first. Alwyn then led the way along Southern end of the walk that ran the perimeter of the garden. The prior set a slow pace, their footfalls nearly drowned out by the thumping of Rhonwellt’s heart echoing in his head. With his arms folded into the sleeves of his robe, he hugged himself to quell the trembling in his body. As they reached the corner and turned to start up the West side, the prior took a deep breath.

  “You have been with us a great many years, Brother Rhonwellt.”

  “Very nearly all of my life, Brother,” the monk replied, barely able to get the words out.

  “And, have you been happy here?”

  Rhonwellt grew confused that the conversation was not about Tristan. Taken aback, he had to think a moment. “I have never considered it.” He paused. Was he happy? “With so much emphasis on obedience and humility, I have never been certain that monks are allowed to feel such a thing. According to the Rule, laughter is frowned upon. We are to speak softly and seldom. We own nothing, are to spend out time at prayer and work, are forbidden our families of origin and know we shall never create families of our own, save our brothers. I am not so certain those circumstances and restrictions are meant to provide what one would think of as happiness.”

  “You do not find happiness in serving God?”

  Rhonwellt stared at some point on the wall at the end of the arcade, his thoughts swirling. What was this about? “I have known some pleasure. Happiness is different. I guess I have learned to be contented, and that is the closest we can hope for.”

  Alwyn stopped and searched Rhonwellt’s face. Rhonwellt wondered what the old monk sought. Moments ticked by as they remained motionless. Then the prior began to walk again.

  “And will you be able to remain contented, now?” he asked.

  “I do not understand,” Rhonwellt replied. “What do you mean, now?”

  “Now that Sir Tristan is returned and once again part of your life.”

  So, it was about Tristan, after all, just not what he had expected. How many times had he asked himself similar questions and never found an answer? Stunned, Rhonwellt’s breath caught in his throat. Now, Prior Alwyn was asking and expected an answer. Did the monk yet have one to give?

  “This is the only life I have really ever known,” Rhonwellt finally managed to say.

  “But it is not a life you chose,” replied the Prior.

  “I know no other.”

  “Still, you did not choose it. It is a life that was thrust upon you by circumstances beyond your control.”

  “Had Brother Anselm not brought me here, I would have had no life at all.”

  “Perhaps that is so. Still, was it a choice consciously made?”

  They stopped in front of a bench along the wall, the prior motioning for Rhonwellt to sit.

  Rhonwellt took his time sitting down. His arms still tucked into the sleeves of his robe, he stared out between the arcades at the large birdbath surrounded by herbs in the center of the garden. He had avoided this moment in his own mind for some time, but now the prior was forcing it upon him.

  “I have been here so long, I never thought of it as a choice. It was just my life.” After a beat, he turned to his superior. “Are you saying that after all this time, I suddenly must choose?”

  Alwyn gave a short, almost imperceptible nod.

  “And what are my choices?”

  “Life here with us,” the Prior paused for effect, “or life with Sir Tristan.”

  Prior Alwyn had said aloud words that had not even existed in Rhonwellt’s head. “What if I cannot choose?”

  “Sooner or later you shall have to, Brother.”

  Rhonwellt turned away. Looking out across the garden, he thought he saw a monk conceal himself behind a pillar on the opposite side of the enclosure. Fortunately, they were not yet close enough to overhear. He stood up and turned to face the prior, lowering his voice. He felt sure the the old man had seen it too.

  “Why can I not have both?”

  “That path is fraught with difficulty and disapprobation.”

  “And, if I am willing to carry that burden?”

  “Since the beginning,” said Alwyn, “I have worried that the circumstances of your arrival here would be the same reasons for your departure.”

  “How do you mean, Brother Prior?”

  Alwyn stared across the garden. “In Ecclesiastes it says: ‘Consider the work of God: for who can make that straight, which He hath made crooked?’ ”

  “I do not understand,” said Rhonwellt.

  “God has made you as you are, Brother Rhonwellt. No one can change that, not even you.”

  “The Church would say Satan made me as I am.”

  “We are all works of God, and the same love that made us all, created you—as you are. You cannot deny your nature. No matter how long you remain here, you will always be what you are. God expects us all to be tempted by the flesh, and to resist. Satan would have you give in to the temptation. I know you, Brother Rhonwellt. For the whole of your time here y
ou have resisted. Now, real temptation is before you. Will you be able to continue the fight?”

  “I have already said I do not know.”

  “And that is why I fear your time with us here at Saint Cattwg’s must come to an end.”

  “What?” said Rhonwellt, drawing the word out. A look of near horror overcame him. “Why must I leave?”

  “Out of fairness to your fellow brothers here.”

  Rhonwellt closed his eyes and in doing so squeezed out a tear that ran down his cheek. He took a couple of steps backward and slumped onto the bench.

  “I only know ora et labora, prayer and work.” His voice was shaky. “My life is here. It is copying manuscripts during the day,” he held his ink stained hands in front of him, “eating in silence in the refectory, sleeping in the dorter amongst my brothers, rousing ourselves in the middle of the night to pray, gathering herbs for Brother Anselm and plants for pigments for ink and paint, attending mass and contemplating God whilst trying to find fulfillment in any of it.”

  “And, are you fulfilled?”

  “Most of the time,” said Rhonwellt. “I know nothing else and I fear I am too old to learn anything new.”

  Was God mocking him?

  “I understand, Brother. Honestly, I do. I see you both struggle with your feelings, trying to keep the war raging within you each from the other. If I can see it, others must also. I must consider this. Our confinement here, in such close quarters, has always brought with it a struggle against sins of the flesh. In foregoing women, brothers often turn to each other. Of course, there are those who prefer that practice. Either way, the Church and the Rule are very clear: it is forbidden. Yet, I know reality is not that simple. The fact that we must abstain from these acts does not make the yearnings go away. They are with us always. There are those among us who are weak and give in. It is confined to secrecy, but accomplished nonetheless. It is our duty to root it out, and if we cannot, then pray for them.”

  “What of Ordo ad fratres faciendum,” replied Rhonwellt earnestly.

  “What used to be commonplace among us,” said Alwyn, “has now become an issue with the Church. The rite of the Order for the Making of Brothers has slowly fallen from favor, at least as official doctrine.”

  “Yet, I think you will find it has stubbornly remained as practicehere. I have lived here all my life.”

  “You have lived behind these walls all your life.”

  “That is so, but I am Welsh, and we do not change so easily. Wales is still full of simple people, steeped in their ancestry.” Rhonwellt became animated, gesturing with his hands, shifting his position on the bench. “What is looked upon as profane elsewhere, is still seen as sacred here. The making of pair bonds among the brothers should be regarded as the natural state of our confinement, not an aberration. Our love for each other is what fosters our unity.”

  Rhonwellt looked directly at the Alwyn who sat listening dispassionately.

  “Though vows of chastity keep us free from the responsibilities of family and children, bonding in love as brothers enables us to experience earthly affection, hence making our love for God stronger and more profound. Much as the Theban Band were mighty fighters in the time of the Greeks, our bonds to each other make us formidable warriors in matters of God and the Church.”

  “It is” Alwyn began, “the act of carnal love that is sometimes the result of these relationships that the Church deems unfit; breaking the vow of chastity. Sir Tristan is not a brother and has taken no such vow.”

  “Do you believe that…Are you saying…?”

  “I am not,” said the Alwyn. “But, you have taken that vow.” Alwyn tilted his head a little and Rhonwellt could feel his probing scrutiny. “Do you intend to break it?”

  “In all honesty, I do not know,” Rhonwellt said at last.

  “Well, regardless of its nature, if you decide to pursue this association with Sir Tristan, jealousies could arise. Others could wish to establish relationships of their own.”

  “You have admitted that you know that these relationships already exist amongst us. Brother Mark and Brother Jerome proved that.” said Rhonwellt, as he rose to his feet again. Alwyn retreated back against the wall at the sudden movement.

  “And look what happened there,” Alwyn said. “There are those who would deny they exist, but, of course I know they do, try as they might to keep them hidden from the light of day.”

  “Then, what is the difference?” Rhonwellt asked, hands wide in front of him.

  “The difference is though we know these bonds exist, they are so discreet we may never know whether they have strayed beyond the filial and into the carnal. And that is as it must be.”

  “Yes, that is the official stance of the Vatican.”

  “And, thus, that of Cardinal Bayard. But, for him, I fear there is something much deeper and more sinister at work. For him and others, it seems to be the actual feelings of love expressed between brothers, not just the carnal act, that lies at the root of their crusade. Doctrine says we are to be singular in our devotion, and love for anyone or anything but God is misplaced and should be rooted out. The Church knows love has power, and fears it. ”

  “That condemns us to a life of emotional abstinence,” replied Rhonwellt. “Surely that is not what God asks of us.” After a moment he went on. “How can one truly know how to love God, if we cannot love our fellow man.”

  “There is love for your fellow man,” said Alwyn, “and there is…this.”

  Rhonwellt went on, passionately undeterred. “Most of us experience love for mankind long before we experience love for God or from God. We are born with love for mankind, beginning with our parents and family. The love for God comes to us later when we are ready to comprehend it and receive His love in return. They should not be mutually exclusive. Does not one depend wholly on the other?”

  “This, in essence, dear brother, is the conversation I had with the bishop over a sennight ago. His Excellency is not unaware of these arguments. He is responding to pressure from above. There is disquiet in Rome and it has everyone fearing for their place.”

  Alwyn grew quiet and then added in a hushed voice, “Bishop Maurontius is an ambitious man. His climb from lowly monk to the higher office of bishop, without patronage, is remarkable in itself, but his ambition will not rest there. The casualties left in the wake of this unprecedented ascent are not insignificant, and is sure to rise further before he is done. I am sure that the office of Cardinal is his aim, and I am equally sure that he will stop at nothing to achieve it, including buying it with money or lives. Acquiescing to Bayard is but a tiny concession.

  “I fear your bond with Sir Tristan will never be inconspicuous, even if it remains chaste. This will be especially true if you continue in the vocation. It cannot appear that we condone it, and Maurontius would dare not tolerate it here. Even his corruption has its limits. Therefore, for the sake of your brothers, temptation must be removed from their sight.” Alwyn put his hand on Rhonwellt’s shoulder and looked squarely at him. “Surely you must see that, Brother Rhonwellt.”

  Alwyn paused, holding Rhonwellt’s gaze while letting the monk absorb his words. Rhonwellt felt his heart sink under the weight of the knowledge that the Prior was right.

  “You asked why you could not have both. Each of your eternal souls is still at stake here. You would needs pursue this path with great discretion. You are afforded some rebuttal due to circumstance behind these walls. Not so, out there.” Alwyn motioned his hand somewhere vague. “You will never be able to live that life in the open.”

  Rhonwellt again looked toward the ceiling as though searching for his words in the rafters above. “We do not really know what that life is, as yet.” He took a long breath and let it out with a sigh. “We are men approaching the autumn of our years. The fiery lust of youth is behind us. What has gripped us is not merely about the pleasures of the flesh. Tristan holds a significant place in my heart, and his return has only shown me that he was always there.
”

  “And so, I must ask you,” said Alwyn, “does Sir Tristan’s place supersede that of God?”

  “God holds primacy. The two are separate and cannot be compared.”

  Alwyn became deadly serious. “To some, those words would be considered heresy.”

  “Perhaps so, but it is what is in my heart. I cannot ignore that. I will not.”

  “And this only deepens my great despair in knowing that you must be separated from us.” Alwyn lowered his face. Rhonwellt watched as pain washed over it, tears rimming the old man’s eyes. After a moment, Alwyn looked up again, appearing to have regained some of his composure.

  “Where will I go? What will I do?” asked Rhonwellt, his voice colored by pleading. His eye caught a flash of wool blown by a small breeze from behind a pillar now only a few feet away. He nodded in that direction, alerting the prior to someone’s presence.

  “Yes, Brother, what is it? Show yourself.” The prior’s pique showed in his tone.

  Brother Julian stepped from behind the pillar, eyes to the ground, face flushed with embarrassment, or perhaps fear.

  “Apologies, Brother Prior. I would speak with you a moment.”

  “Can it not wait?”

  “Someone wishes audience with you. It seemed urgent.”

  “Who is it?” Alwyn snapped.

  “I was asked to reveal that to you only. He awaits in your chamber.”

  Alwyn thought for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Oh, very well.” He said to Rhonwellt, frowning slightly. “Apologies, Brother Rhonwellt. Consider all we have discussed. I shall return shortly.”

  As Rhonwellt watched the prior and Brother Julian walk away, he could hear the prior admonish Brother Julian on the sin of eavesdropping. Eventually, they disappeared through the door into the anteroom. Rhonwellt could not remember when he had felt so alone. Life at the priory was such that he was seldom, if ever, solitary, and the feeling unnerved him.