‘Tell them not to.’ Matthias tried to hide the anger in his voice. ‘But if you can, Brother, for friendship’s sake, go to Abbot Benedict’s chamber. Look for two manuscripts: one bearing strange symbols, the other Abbot Benedict’s translation. Don’t bring them here. Just keep them safe.’
‘Prior Jerome may have already found them.’
Matthias recalled the huge leather-bound tome in which Abbot Benedict had kept the parchments well hidden. He described this to the guestmaster, who said he would see what he could do.
The next morning, just after High Mass, four lay brothers opened Matthias’ cell. They bound his hands behind his back, escorted him along the stone passageways and up into the Chapter House. The entire community were seated round the walls on their stone sedilia. Prior Jerome sat in the Abbot’s chair, his face a mask of solemnity as Matthias was brought up to the table where the scribes sat. The doors were closed. Prior Jerome led the community in prayer and the mockery of a trial began.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Prior Jerome rose from his seat; he came down the steps and stood across the table, confronting him. ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, why did you come to St Wilfrid’s Monastery?’
‘That is no business of yours,’ Matthias retorted. ‘It was a confessional matter between me and Abbot Benedict. Moreover, I am not a member of this Order, or of this community. You have no power over me.’
‘A matter for the confessional?’ Prior Jerome stared in mock wonderment at the other assembled monks.
Matthias followed his gaze. Many of the community, eyes down, heads lowered, were not happy with the proceedings but any hopes were dashed as Prior Jerome pulled a document from the sleeves of his gown and held it up.
‘A matter of the confessional,’ he repeated in a loud, ringing voice. ‘But this, dear brothers in Christ, is a letter written from an anchorite in London, in which she insinuates that the bearer, Matthias Fitzosbert,’ Prior Jerome stretched his hand dramatically towards Matthias, ‘is greatly troubled by a demon.’
‘You misquote her words,’ Matthias replied hotly. ‘Dame Emma is my friend, my counsellor, as was Abbot Benedict.’
‘Are you troubled by a demon?’ Prior Jerome asked silkily. ‘Place your hand on the Bible in front of you and say that you are not!’
Matthias stared back.
‘So, why don’t you tell us why you were at St Wilfrid’s?’
‘It is a matter of the confessional.’
‘But it isn’t,’ Prior Jerome insisted. ‘It’s a matter discussed by this anchorite and our late deceased abbot. Why don’t you answer my questions? Why don’t you take the oath and say that you are not troubled by a demon? Again, I ask you solemnly, why did you come to St Wilfrid’s? Why did poor Brother Roger know you? Why did he claim to have messages for you from deceased friends? Do you commune with the spirits, Master Fitzosbert?’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘Do you deal with the Powers of Darkness?’
‘Nonsense!’ Matthias yelled back. He struggled at the bonds which held his hands. ‘I am innocent of any crime, either of Brother Roger’s death or Abbot Benedict’s!’
‘I don’t think so.’ Prior Jerome forced a smile and walked slowly back towards his chair. ‘I think, Master Fitzosbert, you are a warlock.’
‘Nonsense!’ Matthias replied. ‘The good brothers here know me. I attend Mass every day. I take the sacrament.’
‘Then, if you are such a good Christian,’ Prior Jerome turned, ‘why not take the oath and give honest answers to honest questions?’
‘It does not concern you,’ Matthias declared.
‘Oh yes it does. Oh yes it does.’ Prior Jerome walked back briskly. ‘I accuse you, Matthias Fitzosbert, of using your devilish powers to silence Brother Roger.’ His eyes smiled maliciously. ‘And, because you knew the Abbot was growing concerned at this, you invoked curses and brought about his death.’
Matthias stared back. Prior Jerome had neatly trapped him. His allegations were nonsensical but, because he would not answer them, he was trapped.
‘It stands to reason.’ Prior Jerome stretched out his arms and turned slowly to address the assembled community. ‘Here we have a man who will not tell us why he is here. Who is known quite intimately to Brother Roger but cannot explain the reason why. Then, in one night, Brother Roger and Abbot Benedict die.’
‘You have no jurisdiction over me!’ Matthias shouted.
Prior Jerome lowered his arms and smiled. ‘Ah, but I do. It says in the rule, and this is accepted by the Crown, that any man who stays in a monastery more than six months and dons the habit of that community, falls within its jurisdiction.’
Some of the older monks nodded in agreement.
‘Do you find him guilty?’
Matthias stood, horror-struck, as some of the monks raised their hands and mumbled, ‘Aye!’ Others, however, kept their hands pushed up the sleeves of their gowns yet Jerome had the majority. He smiled in satisfaction and sat down.
‘Sentence will be passed,’ he said clearly. ‘I have the power of the gallows!’
‘Wait!’ Brother Paul sprang to his feet. ‘Father Prior, with all due respect, there is no evidence connecting this man with either the tragic deaths of Brother Roger or our Father Abbot. Coincidence,’ Brother Paul shouted, coming down the steps to stand directly in front of the Prior, ‘coincidence is not evidence. Brother Matthias did have secret talks with Abbot Benedict but how do we know they were not confessional matters? Never once did I, or any of our brothers, ever hear our Father Abbot speak disparagingly of our guest here.’
A murmur of agreement ran round the Chapter House. ‘Moreover,’ Brother Paul added defiantly, ‘in this matter you do not have power of life and death, the rule is quite explicit: in between the death of one Father Abbot and the appointment of another, any monk, facing a capital charge, must be reserved for final judgment by the new Abbot.’
This time the chorus of agreement was louder. Matthias closed his eyes and muttered a prayer of thanks. Because this community was drawn up of men who found it difficult to accept the rules, they were also men only too willing to question authority, particularly someone they hated like Prior Jerome. Now they had a spokesman in Brother Paul.
‘There is one other matter,’ Brother Paul continued. ‘When I visited the prisoner in his chamber, I noticed his war belt had gone.’ He winked at Matthias.
‘What has that got to do with it?’ Prior Jerome, who could scarcely control his anger, sat forward, fists clenched on his knee.
‘Matthias,’ Brother Paul asked, ‘where is your war belt?’
‘It was taken the morning Abbot Benedict was found dead. My door was locked, my war belt was removed.’
‘I did that,’ Prior Jerome replied hastily. ‘I thought it was best.’
‘In which case,’ Brother Paul replied tartly, ‘you’d already judged our good brother guilty.’ Brother Paul took a step forward and spread his feet. His whole body breathed defiance. ‘Abbot Benedict is dead,’ he declared flatly. ‘According to our rule, Prior Jerome, you have authority in this monastery, but your malice towards this man is well known. You have already made up your mind that he is guilty. I know the constitution as well. I appeal to the authority of our Mother House and to the new Abbot. How say ye?’
A chorus of delighted ‘Aye!’ greeted his declaration.
Prior Jerome sprang to his feet and came down the steps.
‘That is true.’ He found it difficult to control his breathing. ‘But I still have the authority of sentencing. Matthias Fitzosbert will be kept in the same house as Brother Roger. No visitors will be allowed, no food and drink given except bread and water.’
The smiles on the assembled brothers’ faces faded. Prior Jerome clapped his hands.
‘That is my sentence and it will stand!’
Matthias was hustled out of the Chapter House. The lay brothers, holding him fast by the arms, bundled him through the corridors out across the grounds. Brother Paul caught up with him.