‘Yes, Dame Emma, there is. In your cell, carve my name and that of Rosamund. Put a heart between them and pray for me.’
28
Even in summer, the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s, built amongst the fens and moors of Romney Marsh, which ran down to Dymchurch on the south coast, looked bleak and dour. The trackway leading to the main gate was laid with shingle collected from the nearby beaches: it rattled under Matthias’ horse’s hooves. He reined in before the main gate and stared up at the grey ragstone buildings before pulling at the bell rope. A small postern door opened. Matthias dismounted and led his horse through into the cobbled yard. Monks, clothed in black, were filing across the yard, answering the bell of the abbey church to attend Divine Office. They stopped and looked towards him. Not one of them smiled or raised his hand in greeting. The guestmaster, Brother Paul, was welcoming enough: a small tub of a man with a merry, red face, his auburn hair closely cropped, his cheeks and chin unshaven. Matthias was sure the guestmaster had been drinking rather deeply when summoned from his chamber.
‘Abbot Benedict is in church,’ Brother Paul declared, after Matthias had introduced himself. He gestured at the lay brothers dressed in grey, who stood silently behind him. ‘These will look after your horses and saddle and, whilst you wait, I may as well show you the monastery.’
They stopped at the buttery for two pots of tangy, highly flavoured ale and small finger slices of bread covered in toasted cheese. Afterwards, licking his fingers, Brother Paul led Matthias around the sprawling monastery. The buildings ringed a central court and cloister garth. On the north was the abbey church, to the west the long ground-floor dormitory with warming chambers below. On the south were the dining-hall or refectory, with more chambers and store rooms below; beyond these were the kitchens. On the south-east corner stood the Abbot’s apartments whilst on the east were the Chapter House, parlour and library. Matthias noticed how small streams surrounded the abbey grounds. Brother Paul explained these rivulets provided fresh water and also cleaned the latrines and sewers of the monastery. He then took Matthias round the cloister, which was made up of four covered ways or alleys: little cubicles or carrels were built along there so the monks could take advantage of the daylight to read or write. Brother Paul, wheezing and panting, his fat face covered in a sheen of sweat, led Matthias away from the main buildings. He pointed to a low, grey brick house which stood by itself in the corner of the great encircling wall of the monastery.
‘Don’t go there,’ he warned. ‘Brother Roger is kept close confined.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Gone in his wits, he is.’ The guestmaster went to go on but the abbey bell began to toll.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Abbot Benedict will be waiting.’
The Abbot’s quarters were a collection of rooms with glass in the windows, carved wooden ceilings, red hangings on the walls, with gold and silver gilt-covered plate and cups on tops of chests and cupboards. Abbot Benedict was seated on a throne-like chair behind a great, broad table. A small fire burnt in the square stone mantel hearth beside him. He rose as Matthias entered. Abbot Benedict was tall and thin, his white hair now a mere circlet round his dome-like head. His severe face was lined and marked with care, yet the eyes were kindly and the grip of his vein-streaked hand was surprisingly strong and warm. He thanked Brother Paul and, when the guestmaster had left, waved Matthias to a chair, offering refreshments. Matthias refused — the ale he had drunk so quickly was beginning to curdle in his stomach.
For a while they chatted about Matthias’ journey. Abbot Benedict described the monastery and then courteously asked the reason for Matthias’ visit. He handed across the letter Dame Emma had drawn up before he left Clerkenwell. Abbot Benedict picked up a pair of eyeglasses, perched them on the end of his nose, broke the seal and carefully read the letter. Now and again he’d pause and stare at Matthias as if he wished to memorise every detail of his face.
‘Your journey was uneventful?’ Abbot Benedict rolled up the letter.
Matthias recalled, when he left Clerkenwell, two beggars, standing on the corner of St John Street, who had followed him for a while, watching him carefully before disappearing up some alleyway. He had expected trouble but none had come and his journey south had been uneventful
‘Dame Emma says you might have been troubled?’ the Abbot explained.
‘No, Father. I think the Good Lord sent an angel to guide me.’
Abbot Benedict tapped the letter. ‘If this is true, and I am sure it is, then Matthias Fitzosbert, you need a legion of angels to guard you.’ He pushed the letter away. ‘St Wilfrid’s is a strange place, Matthias. In our chapel we have a relic of the great saint. He who worked and preached in these parts. We are of the Benedictine Order. We are pledged to prayer, work and study but,’ he rubbed his brow, ‘being a monk, Matthias, is no protection against anything. St Wilfrid’s is not an ordinary monastery. It belongs to an Order which stretches from Scotland through France, Spain to the eastern marches. In such a great Order,’ Abbot Benedict continued slowly, ‘we have our saints and we have our sinners.’ He smiled grimly. ‘St Wilfrid’s is where — how can I put it — my Order, in its wisdom, sends those who have sinned, who have broken their vows. It is my task, and that of my prior, Jerome, to bring back these lost souls to a clearer understanding of the monastic life.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I tell you this because you may find some of the brothers’ behaviour,’ he shrugged, ‘rather eccentric. Now, today, you can settle in. You may have a chamber in our guest house: feel free to wander the buildings. Dame Emma says that you are a clerk, so any help you can give to Brother John Wessington, our librarian, would be greatly appreciated.
The Abbot rang a small handbell. A lay brother answered. ‘Tell Prior Jerome that I would like to see him now,’ Abbot Benedict instructed.
A few minutes later, Prior Jerome Deorhan was ushered into the chamber. Matthias rose to greet him and took an immediate dislike to this tall, thickset man. Jerome shook his hand limply: his narrow eyes were unwelcoming, his thin vinegarish face puckered in disdain. Abbot Benedict described how Matthias was a messenger, a trained clerk who would be staying in the monastery for some time as his guest. Prior Jerome was not convinced. He scratched his long rather knobbly nose, his bloodless lips drawn tight in a false smile.
‘Why on earth should anyone come to Romney?’ he purred. ‘Our library is not famous,’ the smile became a sneer, ‘whilst our house does not enjoy a reputation for hospitality, sanctity or, indeed, anything else.’
‘Matthias is my guest,’ Abbot Benedict declared sharply and glared determinedly at the Prior.
Matthias could see that there was little love between the two.
‘Then he should be shown to his chamber in the guest house.’
The Abbot drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I want a further word with him, Prior Jerome. I would be grateful if you would wait outside.’
Prior Jerome, angry at such a rebuke, gave a mocking bow and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘God forgive me.’ Abbot Benedict rested his head in his hands. ‘God forgive me, Matthias, but that man has been sent to be a thorn in my flesh. I have prayed and I have fasted. I wish him well but I can’t stand the man. He’s full of ambition without the talent to match. He is suspicious of everything and everyone. He wants to be Abbot here. He has remembered everything and learnt nothing.’ The Abbot glimpsed the puzzlement on Matthias’ face. ‘Prior Jerome,’ he explained, ‘was leader of a small house in Salisbury. He had a zeal for the rule and a determination to punish ruthlessly any who had transgressed. He beat some of the brothers. One of them, an old man, nearly died under such discipline. That’s why Prior Jerome is here. He is dangerous and you should watch him. Do not tell him why you are here.’ He smiled. ‘Tomorrow I need to see these runes Dame Emma described. My eyesight is fading, whilst the fire in my brain doesn’t burn as fiercely as it once did. As you get older, you realise how the little we men know is written upon water, mere dust, and the wind can blow it away any time it chooses.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Prior Jerome awaits.’
Matthias was glad of the Abbot’s warning. They were scarcely out of earshot of the Abbot’s chamber when the Prior began his questions: what was his name? Where was he from? What was he doing here? Was he a monk? Was he a lay person?
Matthias tried to answer as truthfully and as diplomatically as he could, yet by the time Prior Jerome left him in the simple stark chamber in the guest house he realised he had made an enemy.
Matthias unpacked his saddlebags and laid out the clothing he had bought in London in a small aumbry
