In the forest, in a stream, under the dark of the night sky, a gnat silently flit its wings with the fatigue of the end of a long day. As gnat don't buzz, it made no noise (see the adverb, "silently," in the sentence prior). So it was with an absence of noise that Renaldo made his way through the woods.
While grateful for the silence, Renaldo was not in a hurry. Sure, the blood on his hands and tunic would have given a pursuer good reason to haul him to the nearest hangman's platform, but it was simply out of the question that any reasonable person would have given chase. After all, there were several scapegoats whose necks would best be adorned by a noose. No, there was no possibility of this discovery of his involvement in Brother Frederic's ultimate demise.
As he pushed through the underbrush, he took care not to leave a trail. Best not to leave clues to his whereabouts, should his absence become suspect. The clergy were a dumb lot, but merciless when avenging their own. His brother's unhinged elbow was proof enough. No trail would they find, then.
A weasel caught his attention in the peripheral of his left eye, which animal movement caused him to pause mid-stride. He held his breath for several seconds, then exhaled slowly.
"Thankfully not the exact vermin I feared might interrupt my abrupt journey this afternoon," Renaldo mumbled with palpable relief. While a lynch mob was unlikely, it was not entirely improbable. He continued to move along.
Hours later, and shortly before sunset, Renaldo paused near the damp-smelling earthen edges of an uprooted tree whose gnarled roots were at least a third of the height of the fallen snag. The resulting hole was full of webs and, presumably, spiders, but welcomingly spacious and partly hidden. This would be his shelter for the night.
He tossed his stag-hide sack--spoils from his abbey adventures from earlier in the day--into his evening's quarters. The sack slid neatly through the ephemeral cloak of webs, down a spill of loose soil, and rested in the crook of a root that had not yet relinquished its connection to forest floor. Bending one leg deeply at a time, Renaldo shifted his body down and into the hole, pulling handfuls of web from his face with one hand as he gripped looping wood shafts on the underside of the tree's base with his other. It was times like these that he was grateful for his slight frame, a build for which he was passed over when his countrymen assembled mobs to seek revenge against barbaric invaders, and caused him endless ridicule when the town drunkards felt restless. But tonight he was light and agile--something of a relief in the ease it brought him now after a long day's journey.
Despite the moistness in the air, the space was pleasantly dry, having been protected by the dense canopy in this region of the wooded land, and by the umbrella of the rootball overhead. Renaldo adjusted his sack where it had landed on the wall, reached in both hands, and pulled out a rock the size and roundness of a chicken, roughly hewn with man-made tools, but surprisingly light. So light, in fact, that Renaldo had many times feared in the course of the day's adventures that it had somehow fallen from the sack. His relief was so great at holding it in his hands that he bent his forehead to the rock and murmured a quiet prayer of gratitude.
After a moment of silent reflection, he set the object aside and reached back into the sack. This time he pulled forth a wedge of cheese and a skin of what he assumed would be wine, both specialties of the monks. He crumbled the tip of the wedge into the palm of his hand with two careful fingers and gingerly set the pungent pieces in his mouth. The flavor seemed to wind up the cracks of tongue and surge into the tastebuds that glorified the presence of salt and sour. It was every bit delicious as his memory allowed. He followed with a taste of the wine--careful at first, and then in solid, but respectful, mouthfuls. Had he been a less knowledgeable man in the ways of the Abbey, he would have abandoned his given errand and begun a fresh pilgrimage back to the village and to the front door of the Abbey, just to obtain more of that precious wine and cheese. But now he was burdened with his knowledge and the actions he had taken thereby.
Renaldo's journey was a spiritual quest, but in quite an opposite direction from the Abbey, and with less than heavenly acts under God.
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Merci!