A Savor of Clove

by Tom R McConnell

  “We searched the passages in the Canonica first and the Pentateuch after because it was easier. How they are listed here may be specific. I shall call them out in this order and you will give me your text as I do. Luke twenty two.” He waited. “Oh, that is mine,” he said. “At my table in my kingdom. Now, Genesis eighteen?”

  “And he lift up his eyes and looked,” said Ciaran.

  “Matthew seven?”

  “Seek and ye shall find,” said Etheldrede.

  “Genesis five?”

  “This is the book,” quoted Simplicius.

  “And, lastly, Matthew nine?”

  “Healing every sickness and every disease among the people,” said Birinus.

  As the monks fell into silence trying to put meaning to the list of passages, Rhonwellt noticed Brothers Julian, Llywarch and Oswald slip into the room.

  “What occurs here?” Brother Llywarch asked, approaching the knot of brothers bent over the two books.

  As they turned at the sound of his voice, Ciaran said, “Brother Mark has left us a riddle that we are attempting to solve.”

  “A riddle?” said Brother Julian.

  “It is not so much a riddle,” said Rhonwellt, “as it is a message to do with the missing Medica. We think it was meant to appear as one of Brother Mark’s practice sheets,” said Rhonwellt. “In truth, it was far more significant.” Rhonwellt explained how they had progressed thus far in their quest to decipher the message.

  “So we have the five passages,” said Ciaran, “and have translated them. But the message is still unclear. It seems obvious that the last three refer to searching for the book. But where?”

  “The first passage is: at my table in my kingdom,” said Birinus.

  “Well, surely it must refer to the altar in the chancel,” said the prior after some thought. “The altar is God’s table and the church is His kingdom here on earth.” Heads nodded. “But if, as you say, this refers to searching for the book, it would be to no avail, as there is no place to hide it. Though the floor beneath it contains a hollow, the altar is quite heavy. It takes three or four grown men to move it.” Heads nodded again.

  “You are right, Prior Alwyn,” said Ciaran. “And how could Brother Mark have carried it there without being seen? No, it is not the altar. At my table, in my kingdom. What significance would those words have in relation to Brother Mark?”

  Eyes knit and foreheads furrowed but no one seemed to have the answer.

  “His writing desk, here in the scriptorium?” said Brother Simplicius, his tone reluctant and unsure.

  Ciaran’s eyes lit up. “Exactly, brother!” He went and sat at Brother Mark’s desk. “What is the next passage? He lift up his eyes and looked,” Ciaran said, reciting the one he had assigned to himself. He stared at the desk top in front of him and then looked up. “All I see is the cupboard at the end of the room. Brother Anselm searched it thoroughly several times. I even searched it myself. It is simply not there.”

  Rhonwellt went and stood behind him and studied the cabinet, looking it up and down. “Cast your gaze further up,” he said to Ciaran. Everyone did so. “What is there?” he posed.

  “The deep crown that decorates the top,” replied Ciaran.

  “Exactly,” said Rhonwellt. “It is a very deep crown; a forearm deep.”

  “But how would Brother Mark have gotten it up there?”

  Ciaran stood up and they both walked and stopped in front of the cupboard. The others crowded around them, staring up at the crown that graced the top.

  Rhonwellt let his gaze fall to the floor. “Look here,” he said. “Scratch marks on the floor.” His eyes followed them. “They lead here,” he said pointing to the desk closest to him. “He must have dragged this desk to the cupboard and climbed up to stand on it.”

  “Brother Mark was certainly tall enough and strong enough,” remarked Etheldrede.

  “Yes, that he was,” said Rhonwellt. “Help me move this.”

  Together he and Ciaran shoved the desk to rest in front of the cabinet, then Ciaran dragged the stool over. He looked around at the assembled monks.

  “Brother Llywarch, you are the tallest. Would you climb up, please?”

  Llywarch shrank back at the suggestion. “Oh no, Brother, I have no skill for climbing. I would surely fall.”

  “Oh, very well, I shall do it,” Ciaran replied.

  He eyed the desk and the height warily, climbed up to stand on the stool and up to the desk, placing his feet on the supply ledges on either side of the slanted work surface.

  “You will not be tall enough,” declared Simplicius, standing far enough back to see the proportions. “You must stand at the very top of the writing surface.”

  “Be careful, lad,” said Rhonwellt, putting his hands up to hold Ciaran’s legs as the novice climbed unsteadily to the very highest point of the desk. Leaning against the front of the cupboard for support, Ciaran stretched his arm as high as it could reach, but could only touch the top of the molding. He could not reach behind it.

  “I still lack the proper height,” he said.

  Rhonwellt looked up at Ciaran and then to Brother Llywarch. “Brother, come and stand here,” he said, motioning to Llywarch. The lanky monk did as he was asked. “Ciaran, stand on Brother Llywarch’s shoulders.”

  Ciaran looked down with uncertainty, scrunching his mouth and biting the inside of his cheek, and stepped gingerly onto the gangly monks shoulders. His feet and legs wobbled as he strove to gain his balance.

  “Hold him,” said Rhonwellt. Several pairs of hands shot upward to lend support.

  Ciaran reached up and over the top of the crown. “I find nothing there,” he said, after a moment and started to withdraw his hand. “Wait! There is something…a strap. Hold me fast,” he said, his voice shaking, as he carefully rose onto his tiptoes atop his perch on Llywarch’s shoulders. Rhonwellt worried he might fall as Ciaran shoved his hand further into the void behind the cornice so his armpit rested on the rim. “I cannot quite reach it. Brother Llywarch, can you raise yourself onto the tips of your toes, please?” Llywarch complied. Ciaran groaned as he stretched further. “I have it!” he shouted, almost laughing. He pulled his arm forward to the front of the cabinet, and as his hand appeared it grasped a leather strap. Pulling the strap, the binding of a large book came up and over the top of the moulding.

  The monks cheered as the volume came into view. Still wobbling atop Llywarch’s shoulders, Ciaran turned and let the book down into waiting hands. “Now help me down,” he said, relief in his voice.

  Once safely on the floor, Ciaran took the book from Brother Simplicius’ arms. It was the De Materia Medica. He walked to the Prior. “Well done, Brother Ciaran,” said Alwyn.

  “Where is Brother Anselm?” Ciaran asked.

  “I believe you will find him taking sun in the cloister,” replied Alwyn.

  He turned and gave a sharp nod to Rhonwellt, and without further comment, went straight for the door, out and down the stairs. Rhonwellt, Prior Alwyn and a line of monks followed close behind. Rhonwellt intended this should be Ciaran’s victory.

  He caught up with Ciaran as he struggled across the courtyard, sandals flapping on the path, clutching the heavy portfolio to his chest. With cheeks puffed out, the novice held his breath as he trudged, stopping every few steps to readjust the bundle in his arms and gasp for air. Across the courtyard, in through the refectory and anteroom, he stopped one last time in front of the door to the cloister, his chest heaving. The door was off the latch and slightly ajar. Rhonwellt gave it a mighty push with his foot and it swung slowly open. There, sat Brother Anselm in a cluster of monks, on benches at the edge of the garden, basking in the sun. Occasional light laughter could be heard wafting across the air. Brother Anselm sat sleeping soundly, head bowed, his chin resting on his chest.

  The sunning monks turned as the claustral procession crossed the green. Walking directly to Brother Anselm, Ciaran carefully laid the leather bound tome in the aged monks l
ap. Ciaran gently shook the medicus’ shoulder to rouse him. Anselm started awake with a snort and looked up into the face of the young novice. After blinking several times, a look of recognition crossed his face. His lips formed a warm smile.

  With a flourish of hands, Ciaran indicated the object in the medicus’ lap. Brother Anselm looked down. As he ran his hand over the leather cover, a haunting sound emanated from the old monk that Rhonwellt could not describe; somewhere between an agonized sob and a discomfiting groan, making it difficult to guage whether it was an indication of joy or pain. The old monk just sat there, eyes riveted on the ancient collection of leather and parchment. Then, trembling, Anselm reached out to Ciaran and took the young novice’s hand in his and pressed it to his lips.

  “Dearest child,” he whispered, tears running down his face. “You have saved us from ruin. Praise be to God!” he said as he signed the cross. “How…where?”

  “Right where brother Mark hid it.”

  “Brother Mark hid it?”

  “Do you not remember, Brother?” said Rhonwellt.

  Anselm slowly shook his head, his brow narrowed with confusion.

  “Do not fret, Brother,” said Rhonwellt, softly. “It is of no consequence. Let us rejoice that it is found.”

  Thirty-two

  The sounds of hammers ringing off stone and timber echoed through the trees as Rhonwellt left the main road and approached the hall. The early August air was mild and the sun warmed his back as it penetrated the heavy wool of his habit. He rode the gentle rouncy Tristan had sent him. Though he had assured the knight a sturdy mule or ass would suit him as well, Tristan was adamant. “You shall have a horse!” he had said.

  As he crossed the stout new bridge spanning the rill, since widened into a creek, Rhonwellt looked admiringly at all Tristan had accomplished in restoring the manor during the spring and summer. The knight had labored tirelessly alongside his workmen, fed them well, and showed himself to be a fair master. They worked without grumbling. The days were long and the work was hard, but the hall roof was now complete, and the task of enlarging the small barn was well underway. The dilapidated ghosts of stone walls that once surrounded the demesne were whole again, and the plan was to raise them to double their height. A handsome new gatehouse was partially complete and would soon be ready to receive its pair of heavy wood and iron gates. The defensive ditch in front of the wall was being dug out, redefining the earthwork that raised the hall higher than the surrounding ground.

  Hewrey ran out to meet Rhonwellt as he and his horse climbed the incline to the door of the hall.

  “Good day, Brother Rhonwellt,” he said, bowing slightly. He took hold of the rouncy’s reins.

  “Good day indeed, lad.” Rhonwellt slid from the horse’s back.

  “Master is inside the hall. He be pleasured to see you,” said Hewrey. Rhonwellt marveled at all the activity.

  The monk nodded. “Be a good lad. Give Epona a drink and tie her out, please.”

  “Yes, Brother,” said the boy. “You here to work in the church, Brother Rhonwellt?” he asked, leading the horse to the trough.

  “I am, Hewrey. There is still much to do.”

  “Bet you be glad to move in here, all that travelin’ to be here Saturday to say Mass every Sunday and back to the priory for the week. Must be burdensome. Why did you not just come live here right off?”

  “Saint Tysilio’s is not due to be consecrated until Ember Day and the Feast of the Holy Cross on the fourteenth day of September.”

  “Conscrated?” said Hewrey, his nose scrunched up, brow narrowed.

  “Made holy, declared a church.”

  “I thought it already are a church.”

  Rhonwellt laughed. “Yes, Hewrey, it is, but there is a ceremony that must take place to make it official.”

  “Church got a bloody ceremony for ever’thing,” said Hewrey, shaking his head.

  “Indeed it does, Hewrey,” replied Rhonwellt, laughing harder. “The Church will not be denied any chance to burn incense and have a spectacle.”

  “Should you be saying that, being a priest an’ all. Them sounds like sinful words.” Hewrey did not wait for an answer. “People comes here every day to pray. Can they do that if it are not a church?”

  “One can pray anywhere, lad.”

  “I sometimes prays while laying my pallet at night.”

  “God hears you no matter where you are when you pray.”

  “Why does Master go to Mass all the time? He and God always be buttin’ heads, but he still goes.”

  “Because he is a good master. We all experience our own struggles with God, lad, and Sir Tristan is no different. As lord here, he has responsibilities. His people expect him to be God-fearing. He must be seen to set an example.”

  Since arriving, Tristan had visited every cottage and farm attached to his manor, and Rhonwellt marveled that in such a short time the knight could recall so many of their names—there were more than two hundred homes. The people were adapting to their new lord well. Already the town had nearly doubled in size. He provided enough work that many free men had relocated there and were likely to stay once the hall and its demesne was complete. Much had changed and only for the better.

  Rhonwellt entered the hall through the stout oaken door, fashioned after the ones from Tristan’s childhood memories of visits to the hall. It had huge strap hinges made from iron and shaped like serpents, an iron latch, and a two large bolts on the inside to guard against unwanted intrusion, thanks to the addition of a talented smith to the village. To the right of the door stood a simple-but-sturdy screen passage of ash leading to the kitchens and buttery. The windows had received heavy wooden shutters, open now for the light, but when closed would offer significant protection from attack. Recently arrived tapestries lay rolled up in a corner waiting to be hung around the walls. Tristan had been secretive about their themes, and Rhonwellt found himself excited to see what Tristan had chosen.

  The noise of renovation sounded all around him and filled the great room, yet not a soul was in sight. The monk walked to the hearth in the center of the room and sat on a bench beside the remains of the morning fire. Despite the warmth of the day and the sun streaming in through the windows, the chill from the night still clung to the stone walls and the heat from the fire was welcome.

  “Good, you are here at last.”

  At the sound of Tristan’s voice, Rhonwellt’s eyes darted around the room. Tristan stood at the top of the stairs leading to the solar, fists resting on his hips and wearing a broad smile aimed directly at him.

  “It is well past mid-day,” said Tristan. “I expected you earlier.”

  “I left straightaway at the ‘amen’ of Lauds. Would you have me leave earlier and be on the road in the dead of night?” Rhonwellt was feeling playful, something he had yet to become comfortable with.

  “Tease me all you will,” said Tristan. “In truth, I worry of you traveling alone and cannot be at ease until you arrive.”

  “Do not fret so. I am here, now. I put my trust in God. That should give you comfort enough.”

  “Now you are here, I am comforted. But I still wish you would let me send Hewrey or another of the men to fetch you.”

  “My habit is well respected and I should occasion little danger on the journey.”

  “I surrender!” Tristan threw his hands into the air. “It does no good to argue with you.” He descended the stairs. “Cyfnerth will be stopping to say goodbye on the morrow. He is to accompany Lord Gloucester on a journey North for a fortnight but both will be back for the consecration.”

  Tristan crossed the chamber and sat down on the bench next to Rhonwellt, stretching his legs out in front of him and folding his hands in his lap. A prickling sensation charged through the monk at the nearness of Tristan’s body. Rhonwellt was still not used to the freedom from scrutiny that being away from the priory afforded, and he fought the urge to make sure they were not being observed. Rhonwellt turned to find the knight try
ing to hide a faint smile.

  “Are things well between you?” Rhonwellt stammered. “He has been much absent since your brother’s death.”

  “As well as can be. Learning that his father’s body had been found by peat-diggers at the cliff-bottom at Tor-faen, had a profound impact on him. Declan was gone a fortnight before word reached Cyfnerth of his fate. Since my return, life has changed for everyone. Cyfnerth must blame me, at least a little, for his father’s death.”

  “Your brother’s whole life was built on lies and murder. Once exposed, there was no turning back. How can he blame you for that?”

  “The fact Declan’s body had been ravaged by animals and recognizable only by his clothing,” replied Tristan, staring at the floor, “said it likely he had fallen only a day or two after Isidore’s funeral. After Cyfnerth identified the remains, the body was never unwrapped from the canvas, his wife and mother unable to look upon anything recognizable one last time before he was buried.”

  “It is a great sadness, indeed.” After a period of silence, Rhonwellt asked, “Do they still seek Padrig, the servant?”

  “No, and Padrig has not been seen since. Though there was speculation as to whether my brother had fallen from the cliff or whether his man had pushed him, there was no way to tell for sure. Cyfnerth did not press the case, so no hue- and-cry was ever sent out to charge him, and no effort made to bring him back. Truth be told, I do not think Cyfnerth cares one way or the other.”

  “Why would Padrig not return on his own if he is innocent?”

  “Padrig felt no particular loyalty to the rest family as he only served Declan. Declan was cruel in all ways a man can be cruel. He cannot be blamed for wanting rid of this place.”

  “Where could he go? He is a runaway servant.”

  “He could easily have fled across the border into England, or taken refuge with any of the Welsh princes still in power in parts of the northwest where he was from. We shall likely never hear of him again. If the man can find a better life elsewhere, I say let him.”