‘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.’
‘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.
