Abbot Benedict was studying the accounts with his cellarer. He took one look at Matthias’ face and quietly asked the monk to leave.
‘What is it, Matthias?’
Matthias sat down and, in halting phrases, told the Abbot about Brother Roger’s wild rantings and threats.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do these dead always walk with me? I was not guilty of their deaths. Nor did I ask the Rose Demon to house himself in their souls. My hands are free of any blood or guilt.’
‘Matthias, Matthias.’ Abbot Benedict came round the desk and stood over him. ‘These were souls who were plucked, unprepared, from life. Our theology of life after death is so small, it could be summed up in two or three sentences. Yet death is probably like birth. A baby does not want to leave the womb and, when he does, he is born in blood and pain. He’s confused and, perhaps, that’s what happens to the dead. These men and women were thrust out unprepared and do not know where they are or what really happened. They blame you. They stay with you because of the strong bond forged between them and you during life. Now, as for Prior Jerome,’ the Abbot beat his hands against the desk, ‘it’s time some other house had the benefit of his expertise.’
Two days later, Matthias was woken by the tolling of the bell. Not the solemn calling to prayer or other duties but the wild clang of a tocsin. He tried to open his door but it had been locked from the outside. In the passageway beyond he could hear the slap of sandals, the shouts of monks. He went to the window but could see little so he sat on the edge of his bed and waited, trying to calm the panic seething within him. He’d spent most of the previous day in the library trying to hide himself in a world of study away from the rantings of Brother Roger and the cold malice of Prior Jerome. In the evening he had dined by himself, but when Brother Paul brought a tray of food across he whispered how the entire monastery knew that Prior Jerome had been summoned to the Abbot’s chamber.
‘The brothers are beside themselves with glee,’ the guestmaster informed Matthias. ‘The cellarer overheard the Abbot say that, by the end of the week, Prior Jerome will be gone.’
Matthias wondered what had happened. He went across and lifted his clothes from a peg on the wall. His war belt had been removed! Someone had slipped into his chamber during the night and quietly taken it. A key turned in the lock. He whirled round. Prior Jerome, accompanied by four burly lay brothers, all carrying staffs, burst into the chamber. The Prior was grinning cynically. He pushed Matthias back on to the bed.
‘Assassin!’ he snarled, his finger thrust only inches away from Matthias’ face. ‘Assassin and son of the Devil!’
Matthias tried to get up but two of the lay brothers seized his arms.
‘What’s the matter?’ he protested.
‘Last night, Brother Roger,’ Prior Jerome hissed, ‘was killed. Some force picked him up and flung him against the wall, dashing his brains out. More seriously, Abbot Benedict has also died. We found him lying on the floor of his chamber.’
‘God rest him,’ Matthias breathed. ‘But-’
‘His heart failed him,’ Prior Jerome retorted. ‘Yet what was the true cause, eh? Are you a warlock, Fitzosbert? Did you silence Brother Roger and Abbot Benedict?’ He took a step back. ‘The Abbot of St Wilfrid’s has his own jurisdiction: the power of the axe and tumbrel, the sword and the gallows. Now Abbot Benedict is dead, those powers are vested in me. You will stand trial, warlock, for your hideous crimes!’
29
Matthias was confined to his chamber. He received no visitors and his only food was bread and water. The cell was closely guarded by three lay brothers. Matthias was only released to relieve himself in the latrines at the far end of the guest house. The lay brothers refused to answer any questions but Brother Paul came down. The guestmaster had lost all his jollity, his eyes were red-rimmed from crying. He managed to gain admission to Matthias’ chamber by bringing the bread and water himself, for which he apologised.
‘The whole monastery is in uproar,’ he declared. ‘Two deaths in one night. Brother Roger was madcap. Abbot Benedict’s heart seems to have failed him.’ Brother Paul leant closer. ‘Matthias, your situation is most serious. Prior Jerome is now Acting Abbot. He has the same powers of life and death as any manor lord. He is claiming that you are a warlock, a magician, who brought about the good Abbot’s death and that of poor Brother Roger.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘Both their funerals take place this afternoon.’
‘Isn’t that too soon?’ Matthias asked. ‘They’ve only been dead two days. Prior Jerome’s haste to inter them is unseemly!’
Brother Paul looked at him from under lowering brows. ‘What are you implying, Matthias?’
‘Of Brother Roger’s death nothing. Yet I do find it strange that, on the very day the Abbot decided to send his prior to another house, Benedict dies. There are many potions, Brother Paul, to make an old man’s heart fail!’
‘Is that what you think?’ the guestmaster asked.
‘Abbot Benedict was my friend. A holy scholar, a man who was going to help me deal with a truly terrible problem.’ Matthias picked up the hard rye bread and nibbled at it.
Brother Paul got to his feet. ‘Such problems are nothing,’ he whispered, ‘to what will happen tomorrow. Prior Jerome is convoking a full Chapter meeting. You will be tried on charges of sorcery and black magic.’
‘Nonsense!’ Matthias sprang to his feet. ‘He has no evidence.’
‘Hasn’t he?’ Brother Paul replied. ‘Are you prepared to tell the brothers why you are here? Why you visited Abbot Benedict at night? What was so important? Why did Brother Roger mention you? How could a madcap monk know anything of a visitor to our monastery?’ He grasped Matthias’ hand. ‘These are only some of the questions Jerome, in his malice, is whispering among the brothers. He has sown a deadly crop, Matthias. Tomorrow you may well harvest it.’
After Brother Paul left, Matthias sat back on the bed. The full dangers of his situation now confronted him. He’d hoped that Prior Jerome would be only too willing to expel him from St Wilfrid’s. Matthias would have collected the parchment, whatever Abbot Benedict had deciphered, packed his belongings and ridden away. He had fully underestimated Jerome’s malice. The Prior did have the power of life and death. But would he use it? Would Matthias’ troubled life end here in this cold and dank monastery in the middle of Romney Marshes?
Matthias tried to pray but found he couldn’t. As the day wore on he also began to feel weak from the poor nourishment he had received. Brother Paul returned at noon with a bowl of meat and some diced vegetables. Matthias ate these greedily and quickly drank a cup of wine. He slept for a while and was awoken by the tolling of the funeral bell. From his cell he heard the faint strains of a Requiem Mass and the chanting of the monks. Matthias got up and, for a while, sat at his desk trying to prepare a defence against Prior Jerome’s accusations. In the end he threw his quill down in disgust. What could he say? Who would believe him?
Brother Paul came back late in the evening, bearing a tray of food.
‘I insisted on this,’ he declared, though he refused to meet Matthias’ eyes. ‘I pointed out that you were innocent until your guilt was proved.’
Matthias thanked him and pulled the guestmaster closer.
‘Brother Paul,’ he whispered, ‘I am innocent. I cannot tell the brothers why I am here. Even if I did, they would not believe me and it would only make a bad situation worse. You know I am innocent!’
‘I will do what I can,’ Brother Paul offered. ‘Prior Jerome is hated. However, he is wielding his power, making his influence felt. There will be few who will speak for you, Matthias.’