which stood in a corner of the guest chamber. He hung his cloak and war belt on a peg, washed his hands and face before walking round the monastery. He visited the stables, found everything in order and went into the abbey church. He walked up and down the desolate nave. He knelt outside the sanctuary, sitting back on his heels, staring up at the great crucifix which dominated the high altar and the polished stalls on either side. Above him the bell began to toll. Matthias watched as the monks filed through a side door to sing the Office of the hour. Many of the brothers did not have their hearts in what they sang. The chanting was desultory, some of the brothers dozed, others scratched themselves or picked their noses. A few gossiped and quietly laughed until Prior Jerome, who sat in the Abbot’s seat, would beat his white wand on the bench in front of him and glare at the offending party.
The service lasted no longer than half an hour. Matthias was about to leave when Brother Paul hastened up and said he had arranged for food to be taken to the guest chamber. Matthias took the hint. The brothers did not like him wandering where he wanted so he returned to his own room and the rather delicious meal of fish cooked in a white sauce, bread, a bowl of vegetables and a goblet of white wine.
Matthias ate, then slept for a while. He woke later in the day and returned to the church where the whole community had assembled to sing Vespers. Matthias sat with his back to a pillar far down the nave. Abbot Benedict now presided in full pontifical robes. The singing was vigorous, the chanting rising and falling in rhythmic cadence. Matthias listened carefully to the psalms which asked God, as night approached, to guard them against the power of the Evil One. Matthias, distracted, turned to the dangers confronting him. He accepted what Dame Emma had told him. He no longer felt troubled or anxious but calm, like a soldier before a battle: soon, the mist would lift and the enemy clearly show himself. Nevertheless, he heeded Dame Emma’s warnings. How long would it be? What was the date? It was now the end of June 1490. If Barnwick hadn’t been stormed! If Rosamund were still alive, they would have a child now. Matthias closed his eyes. Someone he could have taught how to fish? Ride a horse? How pleasant it would have been to hold a little hand. This prompted bittersweet memories of the past: he was walking through a field, a small boy, one hand held by Parson Osbert, the other by Christina. They were going to eat and drink down by the mere. They were picking him up and swinging him. He and Rosamund could have done that!
Matthias closed his eyes, breathing deeply. If only she had lived. He slipped back into memories: Rosamund teasing him, imitating him, the way he walked, the way he looked. He felt his foot being tapped and opened his eyes. Abbot Benedict was looking down at him.
‘Are you tired, Matthias? Come.’ The Abbot helped him up. ‘Vespers are finished. Soon the candles will be out.’ He stared round the church. ‘And all will be dark.’
Matthias shivered. He liked this old abbot, holy and worldly-wise, but, deep in his heart, Matthias wished he was elsewhere. This was not his world.
‘Go to bed, Matthias,’ the Abbot said kindly. ‘And tomorrow we shall begin!’
The next morning Matthias handed over his copy of the Tenebral runes. Abbot Benedict said he would decipher them but it would take time.
‘I am a busy man, Matthias,’ he explained. ‘The decoding of these symbols could take weeks, even months. But, until then,’ he spread his hands, ‘until I have finished, you are my guest.’
Matthias, despite his reservations, settled down to the tedious round of monastery life. The routine kept the darkness at bay: Matins just after midnight, followed by Prime, the Chapter Mass, the Abbot’s high Mass at midday, then, in the afternoon, Matthias helped wherever he could: in the scriptorium, or with the cellarer, chamberlain, sacristan or the keeper of the Galilee Chapel which stood at the west end of the abbey church and housed the relic of St Wilfrid. Matthias even donned the robes of a lay brother, working in the fields or orchards. As long as he kept busy, St Wilfrid’s provided a refuge.
He soon became aware of Abbot Benedict’s warnings about the monks. In the main they were a cheerful band of rogues. Some were gamblers, others, like Brother Paul, too fond of their ale and wine. A few had anxieties about their past lives or found it difficult to accept the obedience of their rule. In this, Prior Jerome was their nemesis: a harsh disciplinarian, ever ready to criticise and correct. He held the brothers in fear, and when he walked the cloisters or dormitory Matthias glimpsed terror in some of the brother’s eyes. The Prior, however, kept well away from Matthias, except for hateful, baleful glances.
One afternoon, when Matthias was sharing a tankard of ale with Brother Paul in the buttery, the guestmaster leant across and tapped the side of his bulbous, fleshy nose.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said in a gust of ale-drenched breath. ‘Brother Jerome is suspicious of you, Matthias. He believes you are a spy sent here by the Mother House.’ Brother Paul leant back and chortled with laughter. ‘Your Latin is so good, he really thinks you are a monk and, if anything happens to Father Benedict, you will take over the running of this monastery.’ Brother Paul picked up his stoup of ale and stared across its rim. ‘You should be careful, Matthias. Jerome is a son of Cain. I see murder in his eyes!’
Matthias heeded the advice and kept well away from the Prior. To a certain extent, Matthias became lulled by the monotonous routine of the monastery. At first he was wary, watching the community for any sign of the Rose Demon. He took a particular interest in the Eucharist and who partook of the Body and Blood of Christ. Nevertheless, he could detect no one who refused the sacrament or practised any trickery to deceive. Abbot Benedict, meanwhile, was immersed in deciphering the runes. Matthias had to be patient. The Abbot had to send couriers to Oxford and Westminster asking for the loan of precious books to assist him in his task. As they waited for such manuscripts to arrive, Matthias began to tell him the story of his life. The Abbot would sit fascinated. He was not repelled but gave his own commentary, briskly dismissing any of Matthias’ fears.
‘You are what you are,’ he declared tersely. ‘Not who begot you. Every soul on earth is created by God and don’t you forget that, Matthias. What I want to know is what part these runes play in your mystery. I have never seen the likes before.’ His face grew grave. ‘I must warn you, Matthias: it may yet take months to decipher the symbols, let alone understand what the hermit wrote.’
Matthias had to accept this. The weeks rolled into months. The weather changed: driving winds, ice-cold sleet and snow, stripped the trees, making the marshlands around the abbey even more gloomy. Sea mists rolled in, thick and clammy, seeping into the cloisters, even into the monastery buildings. Advent came, the galleries and chambers were decorated with evergreens, the church vestments were purple to mark the time of fast and abstinence in preparation for the great Feast of Christmas. This, when it arrived, was celebrated in regal style. The rule of Benedict, fairly lax at the best of times, was virtually ignored during the twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany.
At the end of these holy days, Abbot Benedict proudly declared that he had deciphered some of the symbols.
‘Each symbol stands for a letter,’ he explained to Matthias as they sat before a roaring fire. ‘Soon I’ll be able to make out words.’
Matthias’ excitement began to mount. He found it hard to disguise his curiosity and determination to see the Abbot at every possible moment. According to Brother Paul, he truly fanned Brother Jerome’s suspicions until Matthias, heeding the guestmaster’s warnings, only visited the Abbot at night. Outside the weather changed. Spring came, an end to the biting winds and ice-cold rain. Some of the brothers travelled down to the sea ports of Rye and Winchelsea to buy supplies: leather, parchment, seeds for the sowing, materials for the scriptorium and library, tuns of wine from Gascony. Brother Paul invited Matthias to accompany him. Matthias refused, still fearful that Emloe and his men might be hunting for him. His worst fears were realised when, after a journey to Rye, Brother Paul took Matthias for a walk in the cloisters.
‘You have no family here?’ he began. ‘No relations or acquaintances? And yet in Rye?’
Matthias’ heart sank. He stopped his pacing and faced the guestmaster squarely.
‘I am a stranger here, Brother Paul, and you know that.’
‘Not in Rye,’ Brother Paul replied. ‘Robert Peascod — he’s a parchment-maker and ships’ chandler — he asked if I knew of a man called Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Brother Paul winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I told him I didn’t but asked why I should.’ He tugged at Matthias’ sleeve and they continued their walking. ‘Old Peascod was open and frank. He explained how he and other merchants in the town had been approached by journeymen who, despite their apparent poverty, had offered good silver if they could provide information. So, Matthias, the outside world still takes a deep interest in your wellbeing. Oh, by the way,’ he continued, ‘Prior Jerome’s beginning to whisper. He talks of some connection between you and Brother Roger. You know, our madcap brother.’
Matthias walked away, more to hide his shock and unease. From the gossip in the monastery he’d learnt that Brother Roger had been declared insane and was kept a virtual prisoner, being a danger to himself as well as
