Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘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 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!