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.
‘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 Paul: 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.
