He stared down at his hands resting in his lap, ink-stained fingers interlocked. Gone was any memory of them ever being clean. The stains were as much a part of him as his hair or his teeth, or the robes he wore, there so long he doubted they would ever fade. Without them, they would be the hands of another.
Absently, Rhonwellt lifted his face and scanned all that lay within his view. Everywhere he looked, everything he saw held indelible memories that reminded him of who he was. The dorter and the chapter house across the cloister, the scriptorium to his right, the church to his left and the arcade in which he sat, all had been marked by his presence, as they had with every other monk who roamed these grounds. The essence of this place inhabited his being. Until this moment they had seemed inseparable. Now, all that constituted his life was about to be torn from him, just as it had all those long years ago. Losing it all felt akin to losing his very salvation. He doubted he could bear it again.
Leaving those who had become friends and family behind was perhaps the greatest assault to Rhonwellt’s emotions. The make-up of the company of brothers was complex and he embraced the variations in humanity that were so strongly evident. He would miss hearing Brother Etheldrede’s laugh, which resembled the braying of an ass; Brother Simplicius’ annoying and unforgiving piety and constant use of Latin; Brother Julian’s unbridled romantic notions that were a constant source of irritation to Prior Alwyn, but an occasion for him to exercise his long-suffering patience in dealing with the short-comings of man. He enjoyed Brother Ciaran’s enthusiasm and spirit of adventure and unwavering devotion. Brother Anselm was capable of being brilliant one moment, irascible the next, and at other times appear as though he had taken complete leave of his senses. But, beyond those traits, the old man had saved his life and the thought of never seeing Anselm again threatened to break him.
Utter despair washed over Rhonwellt as he sat there. Where would he go? What would he do? He slipped from the bench and knelt on the stones of the arcade walk, closed his eyes and sketched the sign of the cross in front of him. It was an automatic gesture that further spoke to his connection to this place and its ways. Though he always seemed at odds with the Almighty, it was a concrete action he could take in time of doubt. His body shook with sobs as he gave himself to the moment.
✞ ✞ ✞
Rhonwellt had no idea how long he had been kneeling there, nor had he heard Prior Alwyn return until he realized the old monk was there on his knees beside him. He again signed the cross and turned his head to look at his old friend. Alwyn signed the cross as well.
“Help an old man to stand, Brother, if you will please.”
Rhonwellt stood and assisted Alwyn in rising from the unforgiving stone.
“Sit,” said the prior, gesturing toward the bench.
They sat, once again, side by side.
“Have you considered all we discussed?” Alwyn asked.
Rhonwellt nodded silently, his head bowed.
“And you are resigned to follow this path?”
“I can do nothing else,” answered Rhonwellt.
“Then, I believe God has gifted us with an answer to your dilemma.”
Warily, Rhonwellt regarded the prior.
“Heed me. There is a remedy for the situation.”
“What?”
“The Parish of Saint Tysilio is in need of a priest.”
Rhonwellt knit his brow in genuine confusion. “St. Tysilio’s? I know it not,” he replied. “It must be far away indeed if I have not heard of it. How does this help?”
“Actually, it is less than a day’s walk from here.” The Prior’s features began to soften as he looked down at Rhonwellt.
“Where?”
“At the hall at Ryd Lliw.”
“Tristan’s manor?” Rhonwellt said, eyes growing wide in astonishment. So lost was he in self-pity he had completely forgotten Tristan and his part in all this. Suddenly, the knight was central to it again. Was Fate so determined they be together? Was this truly the Hand of God at work?
“Yes. It has a church big enough to serve a parish. Sir Tristan is entitled to a priest to minister there, and the choice of whom is his. He has requested you to serve, and I have agreed.”
“What about the bishop? Will he concur?”
“Is it not reasonable to think that, after recent revelations, Tristan’s goodwill should be paramount with His Excellency.”
“That is asking a lot of His Excellency’s desire for secrecy,” said Rhonwellt dripping sarcasm.
“He has already agreed.”
Rhonwellt did not know whether he should laugh, cry or both. This seemingly perfect solution carried with it such profound loss and, at the same moment, showed questionable gain. He had never imagined leaving his home and his friends. And now that he must, a solution presents itself that complements that development.
“Is the answer really that simple?” he wondered aloud.
“It is, and it is not,” stated the Prior. “You are being given a great responsibility—a parish. A flock to which you will be shepherd. Their spiritual wellbeing and the safety of their souls will be in your hands. This must be your paramount purpose. All else must be secondary, even Sir Tristan. Do you understand?”
As Rhonwellt’s mind drifted once again to the thought of leaving all the brothers behind, one face loomed large in the specter of his sadness.
A bold idea came to him. “Am I to lead this parish alone, Brother Prior?” he asked.
“You think you will need someone to assist you?”
“I think I might, Brother Prior. Tristan says it is a large manor and, therefore, I assume it will be a large congregation indeed.”
“And, of course, you have someone in mind for this assistant.” The monk could see it in the prior’s face that he was aware of the direction this was headed.
“I do,” he said.
“You ask much, Brother Rhonwellt. He is young. But, I think he would follow you to the ends of the earth. I shall think and pray on it. If I give my permission, I will not order him to go. He must agree to this on his own. You shall have my answer soon. Meanwhile, say nothing to Brother Ciaran yet.”
Thirty-one
Rhonwellt scraped peevishly at the surface of the parchment with the blade of his pen knife, muttering words of chastisement to himself for such a foolish mistake. Allowing his mind to wander, he had over-loaded his quill, and an errant drop of ink had fallen onto the page with a splash. After blotting away most of the liquid, he worked in a pique to obliterate the error, but with caution, lest he scrape through the hide entirely.
He had come to the scriptorium after morning Chapter to immerse himself in work. Few scribes were seated at their desks as this was the hour of free time for the monks; most would be lounging in the cloister garden taking the sun.
For two days he had tried to grasp the idea of becoming a priest, leaving the shelter of the priory and going to live at Saint Tysilio’s. Yet, for all his pondering, it still did not seem real. No matter how many times he heard ‘God works in mysterious ways,’ Rhonwellt never expected to have such a vibrant demonstration of its veracity. It was at times like this, when things seemed to work for the best, he came closest to deep and abiding belief in the Almighty as a benevolent being, rather than the God of cruelty and vengeance.
Laying down his knife, he reached for the smooth agate stone and began to burnish the place roughened from scraping away the wayward ink. Once the spot was smooth again, he sprinkled a bit of pounce on the area, rubbed it in gently with his little finger, the least stained of them, and blew away any excess of the fine resinous powder.
The prior’s words—‘a great responsibility, a flock to tend’—played over in his mind. More than a flock, they were dozens of human souls seeking comfort, who would look to find meaning in lives filled for the most part with troubles and hardships. Given time to reflect, he wondered if he was up to the task, or even worthy of this enormous trust. Strangely enough, he found that he sincerely want
ed to succeed, he wanted to be a good priest.
Prior Alwyn had shown great compassion in reminding Rhonwellt that his life here at the priory had not been of his own choosing. Yet, when faced with the possibility of leaving it all behind, the profound sense of loss he felt had caught him quite off guard. Since entering this life had not been a conscious choice, it was something he took for granted, and Rhonwellt realized, for the first time ever, this life suited him. He loved his fellow monks, the scratchy wool, the perpetual lack of sleep, the cold and gloomy rooms, the gruel and rarity of meat, market days, endless hours at his desk, the ink stains on his fingers, even the aching sameness of the routine. The life was familiar, dependable, nurturing in the limited companionship it provided, and his work with pen and brush deeply satisfying. It was safe. He suddenly found he did not wish to change or abandon it.
Rhonwellt dipped his quill into the ink pot and scraped the excess off on the side. He would not make the same careless mistake again with an overloaded pen. He sat there with his hand poised over the parchment. About to touch the pen to the page, he stopped and set the quill on the side ledge. Chin resting in the palm of his hand, elbow on the desk, he drifted away again.
He was bound by three vows; poverty, chastity and stability. Though there were houses in England corrupted by wealth, Saint Cattwg’s was not one. Here, not unlike his childhood, poverty was the natural order, and he was used to it. Though poor, the monks were fed daily, adequately clothed and safe from the rigors of life outside—it was enough. Since the need for a priest at Saint Tysilio’s had arisen, he would not be leaving the vocation, therefore breaking his promise of stability had been averted. Prior Alwyn had asked him directly if he intended to break the final covenant, that of the vow to remain chaste. Did he? Could he? All Rhonwellt knew for sure was lately, nearness to Tristan caused the beat of his heart to quicken, his face to flush with heat, and his body to tremble. Did that mean he had already broken it—at least in thought?
A hand on his arm lifted Rhonwellt gently from his musings. He turned to see Ciaran standing next to him.
“Brother Rhonwellt, your thoughts take you far from here. All is well?”
“I have much to consider, lad.”
“As do I,” replied Ciaran.
“Then, Prior Alwyn has told you my of my request,” Rhonwellt said.
Ciaran nodded, looking over his shoulder toward the prior standing at the far end of the room. Though the features of the novice’s face conformed to smile, Rhonwellt could see uncertainty reflected in Ciaran’s eyes. “You are troubled by it?” Rhonwellt asked.
“I do not know what to think. Though I try to appear older, I know I am not yet a man, and fear I may not be worthy or up to the great responsibility.”
“I would not have asked if I thought that were so. Besides, the responsibility will be mine. Your job will be to remind me lest I forget.” He put a hand to Ciaran’s shoulder. “Will you join me?”
“Prior Alwyn has instructed me to pray on it before I give you my answer,” Ciaran glanced back toward the old cleric, “but, I have already decided. Yes, I will.”
“If you are certain, it gladdens my heart to hear it.”
“I am certain.”
It was Rhonwellt’s turn to look toward the prior. “What brings him here? He seldom comes to the scriptorium.”
“He thinks it is time we find out if the mysterious parchment will truly lead us to the Medica.”
“Where is it…the parchment, that is?”
“It is here,” said Ciaran, withdrawing it from his sleeve and laying it on Rhonwellt’s desk.
Rhonwellt nodded concurrence. “Let us be about it.”
Ciaran read off the references listed. “Lucas XXII, Genesis XVIII, Matthaeus VII, Genesis V, Matthaeus IX,” he read. “Three references from the Gospels and two from the Pentateuch,” said Ciaran. “Let us start with the Gospels.”
Ciaran walked to the book stand in front of the oak cupboard. A large leather-bound tome, the length of a man’s arm, wide as his forearm, and thick as his palm, sat face up on the stand. The binding was wood covered in intricately embossed leather with gold letters blazoned across the front: Canonica Euangelia Jesus Christus. He looked again at the parchment and turned to the Book of Luke, the twenty-second chapter. Rhonwellt joined Ciaran, and, heads together, they scanned the text.
“It is the story of Christ meeting with the twelve apostles in the upper room and the Eucharist,” said Rhonwellt.
“A most wonderful story indeed,” said Etheldrede, leaning over Rhonwellt’s shoulder, the monk’s unexpected presence causing him to jump. “You seek inspiration from the scriptures, Brothers?”
“Most assuredly, Brother,” said Ciaran. “Just not the kind you may suspect.”
Etheldrede’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Brother Mark has left us a riddle that we must solve.”
“A riddle?” said Brother Simplicius from his desk not far away. He quickly rose and joined them to look over the open volume.
“I can see nothing here,“ said Ciaran, sounding disappointed. He slipped a scrap of parchment into the page to mark the place.
“Go to the next reference,” suggested Rhonwellt, “Matthew, chapter seven.”
“You will find it a continuation of Christ’s sermon to the multitude on the mountain top,” proclaimed Brother Birinus, walking up to join the group.
Ciaran scowled, tapping his finger on the page as he considered the two references. “What is the next one?” he asked, grabbing an old quill to mark the page.
Looking at the parchment, Rhonwellt said, “The ninth chapter of Matthew.”
Ciaran turned to the correct page. “Miracles of Christ and His sending the disciples forth to preach and to heal the sickly,” he said after skimming through the text. “I find no connection or similarity with any of these.”
“Nor can I,” said Rhonwellt.
“Let us turn to the Pentateuch and see what we can discover,” Ciaran suggested.
“Genesis, the eighteenth chapter,” read Rhonwellt.
Etheldrede opened a leather-bound volume, similar in size and shape to the Canonica, containing the first five books of the Old Testament. Finding the reference, he and Simplicius perused the page.
“Here, Sarah is told she will have a child and the evils of Sodom are laid down.”
“And the last?” prompted Rhonwellt.
“The fifth chapter of Genesis,” Ciaran replied.
“That is easy,” said Etheldrede before Simplicius had even reached the requested place. “It is the lineage of Adam.”
“This volume seems to have been copied by a rather inexperienced scribe,” said Birinus looking over Etheldrede’s shoulder. “See how he has carelessly created holes in the page with the tip of his knife or an awl. They do not serve to plot lines nor do they indicate any need for correction. I can see no reason for it.”
“This volume is an exemplar,” stated Rhonwellt. “It should be without error.” Rhonwellt pondered for a moment. “Return to the eighteenth chapter.”
Simplicius turned the pages to the correct place. Five heads crowded in over the book for a better view.
Simplicius ran his fingers over the page until he detected the irregularities made by the holes. “There are punctures here as well,” he said.
Ciaran turned to face one of the windows overlooking the courtyard and dorter across the way. “What text is isolated by these perforations?” he asked.
“Cumque elevasset oculos apparuerunt,” Rhonwellt replied.
“And he lift up his eyes and looked,” mumbled Ciaran. With arms folded, he began to pace in a tight circle. He repeated the phrase, a little louder this time.
“What does it mean, Brother?” asked Birinus.
“I do not know. What text is indicated in the chapter on the lineage of Adam?” he asked.
Turning the pages back, Rhonwellt said, “Hic est liber: this is the book.”
“The book!�
� exclaimed Ciaran. “This does pertain to the Medica. I am certain of it.”
“When would Brother Mark have had the time to do all this?” asked Brother Llywarch.
“God gifted Brother Mark with a perfect memory,” said Simplicius. “It would have taken no time at all for him to do.”
Ciaran and Rhonwellt went back to the stand where the Canonica sat. Ciaran fumbled to open the book to one of the marked places. It opened to the seventh chapter of Matthew. Ciaran ran his fingers over the surface of the page.
“Here! Two more holes. Vobis quaerite et invenietis: seek and ye shall find,” he read. He quickly turned to the first reference. “And, here, Mensam meam in regno meo.”
“At my table in my kingdom,” said Rhonwellt.
Ciaran then turned to the final page, found the perforations and recited, “Curans omnem languorem et omnem infirmitatem: healing every sickness and every disease among the people. It is the Medica. It must be.”
Ciaran went over the references again and assigned one to each of the monks present to remember. “There is a message here. A clue. But it is not clear.” He paced another moment. Going around the room, he asked them each in their turn to recite the line they had been given. “Brother Birinus? Just the translation, please.”
“Healing every sickness and every disease among the people,” recited the monk.
“At my table in my kingdom,” said Rhonwellt.
“This is the book,” added Simplicius.
“Etheldrede?”
“Seek and ye shall find.”
“And he lift up his eyes and looked,” added Ciaran, as the last.
“It makes no sense,” whined Birinus, looking thoroughly confused. “What can it mean?” There was silence as they all tried to find meaning in the list of passages.
“They are out of order,” said Rhonwellt absently. He picked up the parchment Mark had made and looked at it carefully.
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