Rhonwellt nodded. “May God watch him,” he said.
“Cyfnerth’s life belongs to the Earl for the next four summers,” said Tristan, drawing his legs in and resting his elbows on his knees. “Since entering into service to Lord Robert, his time is not his own. But it shall be well spent. The tour will make him eligible for knighthood and he will learn to be a man, something Declan never saw fit to teach him, probably out of spite. Then he shall have title to Pont Lliw by his own merit, not by means of scutage like his father. It will benefit him well now that his wife is with child.”
“Pont Lliw will be in sore need of an heir, that is certain. Who cares for his wife and your mother while he is away?”
“Maurontius has increased the household service, and has sent a few soldiers to keep order there. Rowain is fiercely loyal to my mother. They are safe, for now. Declan’s death affected His Excellency more than he could have imagined. He has drawn much closer to mother, and is quite attentive of late. Apparently he offered to take her to his manor, but she would not leave Pont Lliw.
“She, on the other hand, seemed to know Declan would come to no good end, considering her fear that he had been instrumental in father’s death. Having been unfaithful to her husband for years with a man who sired a child in her has given her no real happiness. The bishop is all that has kept her life from being in ruins.”
Knowing the conversation about his mother was difficult, and wishing to spare Tristan any more discomfort, Rhonwellt slowly rose to his feet. “While there is still light, I have much to accomplish at my house.”
“It is odd to hear you say that.”
“It is stranger still to feel it. I know the cottage belongs to the manor church, but, as one who has never owned anything, including the clothes on my back, it pleases me to think of it as mine.” How easy it was to slip through strict boundaries of the Rule when on one’s own. He would needs remember not to lead Brother Ciaran astray by his poor example. Another sin he would keep between himself and God. “I should be about it.”
“I will send Hewrey when it is time to sup.”
“Hewrey has proved himself quite capable. You two have built a rapport.”
“The lad is completely faithful. And, while a handful, he is less feral than when I first encountered him, but still a bit wild. I hope he never loses that completely. He is bold and unafraid. It defines him and I prefer it.”
“Has he friends here?”
“He is a randy young thing and favors more than one lass in town. They seem to like him as well. Being attached to the Hall makes him a good prospect. However, he still has an appetite for shady deals and could find himself in trouble if he is not careful. I often have to rein him in. He must learn that business arrangements that benefit both parties are more desirable than those that only benefit him. I just hope he does not have to learn the hard way.”
“Those are the lessons best remembered, but yes, I agree. I shall pray for him.”
“He may need it,” replied Tristan. “Even so, he causes me little complaint.”
“Until supper then,” said Rhonwellt, as he rose.
“It will be simple fare, I fear.”
“Simple suits me,” said Rhonwellt, on his way to the door. “I am a monk, remember.”
Rhonwellt exited the Hall and ambled down the hill toward the parish church. A cloud had obscured the sun temporarily, but the day was still warm. Though he had not the gift for names that Tristan had, he was beginning to recognize some of the people from both the manor and the town, and could address them correctly as he passed. Since Prior Alwyn had told him that people like you to remember who they are, he put much effort into learning their names and their place in the scheme of things. If he should forget, he would apologize and ask them to remind him.
At the bottom of the hill, Rhonwellt crossed the yard and went through the tunnel of the gate house and onto the street. After the huge tithe barn, Saint Tysilio’s was the second structure to come into view. At less than half the size of the priory church, Saint Tysilio’s was a modest structure made from local stone, the slate roof supported by handsomely arched trusses, and four large window openings. A small, arched bell tower sat perched on the front peak of the roof.
Inside, the chancel was simple. A single room with no crossing, the ample openings made the diminutive space light and airy, a distinct departure from the perpetual gloominess that was the cavernous Saint Cattwg’s. There were no rood or pulpitum screens, only a waist-high prayer rail across the room some small distance in front of the altar. A large gold cross and a pair of candlesticks, commissioned from a goldsmith in Cardiff, sat proudly on a new altar, built from oak, displaying intricately carved stories from scripture, covered with a cloth of nainsook decorated with fine embroidery.
Behind the chapel stood a small cottage with two rooms; the place Rhonwellt and Ciaran were to live. Made from wattle and daub, it had low walls and a new thatched roof. Self-contained, there were now two beds, a table and benches, a basin for washing and a chamber pot, cupboards for small stocks of food and a hearth for heat and cooking, though most meals would be taken at the Hall.
Rhonwellt knelt at the rail, offering a quick prayer before setting to work at his chores. Today, he would sweep out the cottage and the chancel as he did every week and remove the cobwebs and rat droppings from the cupboards. Workmen had fixed the door so it closed properly. That, and the window shutters should help solve the rat problem. He would walk back up the hill to the Hall for candles and bed linens and when done, he might even have time for a bath.
✞ ✞ ✞
Loosing the tie at his neck, Rhonwellt pulled his woolen robe over his head and let it fall to the ground. The diminishing sounds of the workmen, about to end their day, floated beneath the gurgling of the river shallows nearby. A dense copse of myrtle and gorse sheltered him from any prying eyes, still he stood, hesitant, looking around to be sure he was alone. Closing his eyes, he inhaled a deep breath, pulled off his tunic, and added it to the pile of wool at his feet. His alabaster skin shone like the full moon already above the horizon in the eastern sky, his tanned face and hands standing out in sharp contrast. The low slanting rays of a sun soon to set felt seductive on his naked body. He stood, soaking in its warmth. With his arms extended out to each side, as if in penance for his corruption, he raised his face to the celestial orb, presenting God with a defiant, open mouthed grin.
Since beginning his work at Saint Tysilio’s, he had taken to bathing weekly, a luxury that bordered on sinful. At the priory, bathing was difficult, and made to seem wicked and self-indulgent. While fighting in the Holy Land, Tristan had embraced the pleasures of warm baths in Persian hammams and had carried the custom of frequent bathing back home with him. Since his move to the hall, the knight had taken to washing his whole body two to three times weekly, a wickedness Rhonwellt was learning to enjoy as well. Tristan said often he wished there was a natural warm spring nearby, but the well at Ffynnon Taf near Cardiff was the only one in all of Wales.
Holding his breath against the expected chill, Rhonwellt slipped off his sandals and gingerly stepped a foot into the water. He found it cool, not cold as he had feared. The River Tywi flowed lazily this time of year. Running ankle deep as it rounded a bend, forming the seldom used crossing that gave the manor its name, the shallows encouraged the water to surrender most of its mountain chill. The monk stood motionless, mesmerized as the lethargic current caressed his feet and ankles, carrying the accumulated dust and dirt of the world away as it journeyed downstream.
Rhonwellt knelt down and, cupping water in his hands, splashed his face. He savored the feel, and repeated the action several times, on each occasion allowing it to run down his neck and chest, as though baptizing himself against the uncertainties ahead.
He stared at his reflection in the water. The only time monks saw their own image was when reflected in a wash basin. An absence of looking glasses at the priory protected the monks from the sin of vanity. It felt
odd to see himself clearly. With his hand, he disturbed the water’s surface to obscure it. It was difficult to reconcile that what he saw reflected back at him was actually him. It seemed like a dream. Is this what others saw when they looked upon him? Is it what Tristan saw?
The mere thought of him caused Rhonwellt’s mind to play tricks as an image of the knight appeared in the water next to him. He smiled at the illusion. The image smiled back at him. He again churned the water to make the image disappear, but after the water calmed, it stared back at him still. He was lost in the sight of their faces side by side when the image of Tristan raised an eyebrow. The monk momentarily froze, then suddenly gasped and turned his head. Tristan stood behind him, smiling broadly. Rhonwellt stood up slowly. Tristan bent down and grabbed the monk’s tunic and held it out to him.
“I fear it is a bit late for that,” said Rhonwellt. He turned to face Tristan full on. To his own astonishment, Rhonwellt felt no shame or embarrassment as the knight’s eyes took him in from head to toe. He stared back. Tristan’s grin faded as he swallowed hard. He said nothing. The profound silence in the moment was impassioned, but not uneasy.
“You have come to take a bath?” Rhonwellt said at last.
“After all these years, you are still a wonder to behold,” said Tristan.
“You speak of a lad long gone,” the monk replied, lowering his eyes.
“The lad is gone, but the man he has become stands before me and is no lesser a beauty.”
Again, Rhonwellt marveled at Tristan’s ability to express himself, to articulate thoughts that his own lips could not form. In the moment, he felt inadequate. The vocation had stifled his ability to think in those terms. Was it something he could learn?
Without taking his gaze from Rhonwellt, Tristan pulled off his tunic, then his shirt, and tossed them to the ground. Dancing on one foot and then the other in a circle, he removed his boots and hose.
They stood facing each other, bodies uncovered, their souls naked and vulnerable. In Tristan’s eyes, Rhonwellt saw something raw and primal, entirely human, something alluring and frightening at the same time. Something he prayed the knight would not try to make real or say aloud; at least, not yet.
“You are a man of God. You have taken vows that I would never ask you to forsake,” said Tristan.
Rhonwellt let out a breath he did not know he held. Despite Tristan’s words, Rhonwellt could sense the same war raging in the knight that stormed inside himself, no matter how hard he fought to mask it. “They are my vows taken, and therefore mine to break or keep,” Rhonwellt said.
Open and honest, unashamed, Tristan’s arousal would not be ignored. “As you can see, my cock wants all of you, I cannot control what it desires. Yet, I will make my heart be content with this moment as it is,” Tristan said at last. “I can neither ask nor expect anything more.”
“My heart is at peace as well. My body, however, is another matter. The entire of my life, at least my existence while in cloister, I have had to ignore the yearnings of the flesh; to discover other ways to express and experience love. I learned to divert the love of men to love for God. It has had to suffice. Now I am confronted with my very real and profound emotions; my loins are as if on fire and I am dealing with feelings which surpass those which I hold for any other mortal. And I am at a loss as to what I should do.” Rhonwellt was astonished at his sudden clarity.
“Can you not just feel it—just let it in?”
“I do,” said Rhonwellt, hardly able to get the words out, “and it nearly overwhelms me. The problem is not how to receive it. My failing is how to express it in return.” He looked away from Tristan, toward the water. He was quiet.
“It is a thing far different from any love for God,” Rhonwellt continued. “I have abstained from carnal desire for so long, I now find it difficult to yield to indulgence. Indoctrination is not so easily overcome.” He shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “I am a priest, and not one to abandon myself to passion. I would not even know how. I hope I can learn. But, you must have patience with me.” He turned back to face Tristan. “I know for some the decision would be easy. That I experience difficulty is not unexpected. However, whatever my decision, it will be one made without regret.”
“I grieve that my want for you has burdened you so,” said Tristan. “It was not my intention.”
“You are without fault. It is hard for us both.” Rhonwellt reached for Tristan’s hand. “It is that unease that has prevented us having this conversation until this moment. Now, the words are said, providing some ease to the situation.” Pulling on Tristan’s hand, Rhonwellt started leading him toward the river.
“The events of our separation,” said Rhonwellt, “are great wounds that have remained open and weeping all that time. They would not heal. Surviving against all odds to reunite is the thread to stitch them closed, and finding that the feelings remain is the salve to ease the pain.”
At the water’s edge they stopped. As Rhonwellt swept his gaze over all of Tristan, he smiled with true joy. “You have enchanted me,” he said, “allowing me to speak as never before. It is a miracle. It is said that angels rejoice at miracles.” Rhonwellt smiled, his bashfulness returning. “Now, let us take our bath.”
Tristan wrapped his arms around Rhonwellt, drew him close. The monk hesitated, unsure. Tristan did not force it. Realizing the decision was his to make, Rhonwellt raised his arms to return the embrace. He could feel his excitement grow as Tristan pressed his stiff manhood against him, buried his face in his tonsure, inhaled deeply, and then placed a gentle kiss at Rhonwellt’s temple. They stood pressed together, taut flesh to taut flesh, Rhonwellt’s heart a furious drum beat in his chest.
He should pull away, but found he did not want to. Tristan’s skin felt hot against him. Or was it his own skin burning? He pressed harder against Tristan, felt a tingling in his groin as he too became aroused. Rhonwellt had all but forgotten what that felt like. Barely able to breathe, his body trembled though not from lack of air. The knight’s palm cupped Rhonwellt’s chin, drawing his face toward him, gently nipping his lip with his teeth, then kissed him—deep and urgent, yet tender. Rhonwellt opened his mouth to admit Tristan’s probing tongue, their bodies shifting to make room for each other’s urgency while never losing contact.
The monk moaned and ground his groin harder into the knight’s. Tristan drew his head back and Rhonwellt opened his eyes to find the knight staring at him, a look somewhere between fear and hope on his face. If Tristan expected to see anger or regret in Rhonwellt’s eyes, the monk vowed he would find none. Confusion perhaps, but no regret, only desire.
Rhonwellt held Tristan’s face in both his hands and let his lips brush across Tristan’s cheek, his chin, his neck and finally his lips. He found himself surprised at their softness. Rhonwellt pressed harder, moving deeper into the kiss, his tongue thrusting against Tristan’s like a dueling sword, the knight’s automatically thrusting in return, their grinding bodies falling into a rhythm. Suddenly the duel was over. Their mouths still pressed together, no longer kissed but open to each other, Rhonwellt’s breath hissing, desperate for air while Tristan’s breath rushed into his mouth. Rhonwellt greedily sucked in as though Tristan offered him the breath of life. The monk felt a surge charge through his whole body, a torrent he could not stop. This was not how he had thought it would be, that glorious moment when they would join, but here it was, overtaking him faster than he wanted. Lust was just as the Church said, uncontrollable, all-consuming. All his words uttered just moments ago about not giving in to passion came rushing back. He had passed the point of no return. Rhonwellt’s own desire had taken him over and he had no choice. He let go, gave in to it. He gave himself to Tristan.
Tristan tightened his embrace, the friction of their bodies rubbing together increased in urgency, adding to their fervor. Rhonwellt felt light-headed, his body began to spasm. Tristan cradled the back of Rhonwellt’s head and pulled him closer. Tristan’s embrace made Rhonwellt feel secure,
protected in these uncharted waters. He wanted to stay there forever. With a sudden gasp and a small cry escaping his throat, Rhonwellt went rigid and sunk his teeth into Tristan’s chest. His muscles seized, then twitched like he was having a seizure. His seed erupted, warm and moist against his stomach, trapped between them with no place to go. Before he could draw another breath, Tristan grunted and added his own, Rhonwellt feeling its warmth mingle with his.
They stood for several moments without moving, without speaking, spent as their lungs scratched for air. Tristan’s arms gradually eased their vise-like grip while his hands moved gently up and down Rhonwellt’s back. The tremors in his body slowly subsided and Rhonwellt nestled his face into the crook of Tristan’s neck, comfortably wrapped in the knight’s strong arms.
The silence went on for what seemed to Rhonwellt like an eternity. Tristan finally spoke. “What has just happened…” He paused a moment without finishing. He started again. “Have I done anything to cause you pain or regret?” Rhonwellt sensed Tristan’s worry. “I only wanted to hold you.”
Rhonwellt put a finger to Tristan’s lips. “Do not speak of regret. I have none.” Could he admit to his utter surprise and confusion? “I only hope I have not disappointed you. I know you must have expected this moment to unfold quite differently.”
“I am not sure these events ever happen as we expect them to. I only know my heart is full and my body sated.” Tristan placed a kiss on top of Rhonwellt’s head.
Now it was done. Had he just lost his soul? Had his fear ever been about that as he thought? Or had it been something else? He now knew Tristan had owned his heart and his soul since they were lads. Rhonwellt knew it would take time for him to sort out the jumble of emotions swirling through him. But, he had been truthful when he said he did not regret what had happened. He felt redeemed. Had he just reclaimed his right to love and be loved. He was at peace in the moment and had every confidence he would later find clarity in all the implications of what it meant. In time.
A Savor of Clove Page 38