‘You heard what Father Prior said,’ one of them declared abruptly. ‘No one is to speak to him!’
Brother Paul seized Matthias’ face between his hands.
‘Be careful what you eat and drink!’ he whispered. ‘Take courage and wait!’
He stepped aside and the brothers hurried Matthias on. The door of the small prison house was flung open and he was thrust inside the square, stone box. The dirt and filth left by Brother Roger had been cleaned but the foul odour still remained. There was a cot bed, a small table and a rickety stool, and in the other corner a small recess for the latrine. The arrow slit windows provided little light and, when the door was slammed shut and bolted behind him, the chamber became even more dark and sombre.
For a while Matthias just crouched within the doorway. He found he couldn’t stop his trembling. He thanked God for Brother Pauclass="underline" if Prior Jerome had had his way those same brothers would have hustled him on a cart and taken him out to the gallows which overlooked the marshes. Nevertheless, he accepted that he was still in great danger. It might take months before the new Abbot arrived and anything could happen. He wondered if Abbot Benedict had been poisoned. When the door was flung open and a pewter jug of water and a wooden bowl containing scraps of bread were thrust in, Matthias decided to ignore them. Instead he got up and walked slowly round the prison house. The floor was of paved stone. The white, plastered walls were streaked with dirt. Near the bed Mathias found Brother Roger’s drawing.
The rose was crudely drawn. Beneath it, the green stem trailed down to the ground. Each of the bell-shaped leaves had a name scrawled above it: Santerre, Amasia, the Preacher and even some Matthias couldn’t recognise. All other traces of the dead monk had been removed: the mattress and the blankets had been replaced, the latrine cleaned. There were no books, nothing to distract him except peering through the narrow arrow slit windows. Bread and water were pushed in. Matthias, fearful of Jerome’s malice, crumbled the bread and threw it out of the window then poured the water down the latrine. By the morning of the third day, he was feeling weak and spent most of his time fitfully dreaming on the bed, lost in ghoulish nightmares from his past.
Later that day Matthias was woken by a rap on the door. Brother Paul pushed through the usual tray of bread and water followed by a second one, a bowl of diced meat, hot and covered with a rich, thick sauce, bread, a small jug of wine and marzipan chopped up and wrapped in a linen cloth. Matthias ate ravenously. He felt better, though the panic returned. How long would this go on? If Jerome was so powerful, so malicious, Brother Paul might soon be taken care of. Matthias did not want to die a lingering death or writhe in agony from some deadly poison.
On the following morning, therefore, he was surprised when the door was flung open. Brother Paul and two others came into the prison house. One of them carried Matthias’ belongings in a heap: clothes, saddlebag and war belt. These were piled just within the doorway. Brother Paul pushed a small purse of coins into his hands. Looking through the doorway, Matthias glimpsed his horse all saddled and harnessed.
‘You are to go now, Matthias,’ the guestmaster declared. ‘God’s judgment has been made known.’
Matthias stared back in puzzlement.
‘Prior Jerome had an accident this morning.’ One of the other monks spoke up. ‘He climbed the tower of the abbey church and, coming down, slipped and broke his neck.’
‘The brothers consider this God’s judgment,’ Brother Paul declared. ‘Prior Jerome’s accusations against you are false yet the brothers do not wish you to stay. You are to leave immediately. Don’t worry,’ he pointed to the saddlebags, ‘I found the parchments you asked for in Abbot Benedict’s room. You will find everything in order. Now, you must be gone. Some of the older brothers wish to bring in the sheriff.’ He looked back through the doorway. ‘Three deaths in one week, all in mysterious circumstances.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder. ‘The sheriff might detain you till he knows more about your past, Matthias. So, it’s best if you go now.’
Matthias hurriedly changed. Brother Paul helped him put his belongings into a bundle tied with some cord. These and other possessions were fastened securely to his saddle.
Matthias clasped the guestmaster’s hand.
‘I cannot thank you enough, Brother Paul.’
‘Yes you can.’ The guestmaster smiled back. ‘Four of the lay brothers are to take you on to whatever road you wish.’ He raised his hand. ‘Au revoir, Matthias.’
A short while later, escorted by four burly lay brothers, Matthias left the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s. He felt tired and depleted, not sure of what to do. When he came to the crossroads, the lay brothers stopped and looked expectantly up at him.
‘Rye or Winchelsea?’ one of them asked.
Matthias recalled Brother Paul’s warnings about people asking about him in Rye so he turned his horse towards the Winchelsea road.
‘Oh.’ The lay brother proffered a small, sealed parchment. ‘Brother Paul asked us to give you that. You are to go now,’ he added flatly, ‘and we are to make sure you never come back.’
‘Of that,’ Matthias declared, ‘there is no worry.’
And, digging in his spurs, Matthias cantered along the lonely trackway which wound through fields of ripening corn towards Winchelsea. When he was out of sight he reined in. He ate some of the food and drank a little of the wine he’d been given, then opened the guestmaster’s letter.
Brother Paul to Matthias Fitzosbert, greetings. I have not long to live. My body decays. Take the writings from Tenebral. They have little import. They were my memorial to you, Creatura bona atque parva. Brother Paul.
Matthias folded the manuscript and stared up at a bird wheeling in the blue sky.
‘When?’ he murmured. ‘When did the Rose Demon come?’ Matthias smiled to himself. Of course, he reasoned, now he understood Brother Paul’s bold defiance of Prior Jerome: his stalwart defence, the bringing of food and, of course, Prior Jerome’s fall. Matthias realised it was no accident. The steps up the tower of the abbey church were steep and sharp-edged. If a man was pushed, he would find it difficult to keep his balance. Such a fall would shatter bone and sinew, as it did for Prior Jerome.
Matthias put the parchment away and continued on his journey.
He arrived in Winchelsea late that evening. Even before he entered the town he caught the salty tang of the sea, the smell of fish mixed with tar. A prosperous place, Winchelsea, with its winding alleys and streets, was a thriving port; the best place, Matthias reasoned, for a man to lose himself. He stabled his horse and took a chamber at the Cog of War inn just within the town walls. He was well supplied with silver and began to plan for the future.
He felt safe enough, and spent the first week wandering the town. He became interested in the different companies of soldiers, wearing no particular insignia, who camped out on the open commons beyond the city walls. One night he went and wandered through the campsites. One banner caught his attention: a golden angel, on a blue background, a shield in one hand, a sword in the other. Matthias, intrigued, drew closer to study it.
‘Why the interest, sir?’ A figure came out of the darkness.
The standard was set well away from where a group of men squatted round the fire: one of them was idly turning a spit. The air was rich with the sweet smell of roasting rabbit.
‘The insignia interested me,’ Matthias replied.
‘I chose it myself,’ the man said proudly. ‘St Raphael.’ He stretched a hand out. ‘My name is Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. I am from Totton in Yorkshire.’
Matthias shook his hand. Ratcliffe was a young man with a strong, boyish face which he tried to hide by growing a luxurious moustache and beard. He was dressed in a leather tunic open at the collar. Beneath this were military black hose pushed into leather riding boots on which spurs clinked merrily.