The Rose Demon

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 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 to others. Brother Paul had darkly hinted that Brother Roger was not so much mad as possessed of an evil spirit. Matthias had kept well away. During his stay at St Wilfrid’s, he had experienced no mysterious phenomena, visions or apparitions but he was wary of this possessed monk and kept his distance from that grey forbidding prison just within the monastery walls.

One day, just after dark, he slipped into the Abbot’s chambers and told Abbot Benedict about his anxieties.

‘I have heard nothing.’ The Abbot shook his head. ‘But, there again, knowing Prior Jerome, he would want that. You should not be a-feared, Matthias. This is hallowed ground. If poor Brother Roger poses a problem or, more importantly,’ he wagged a finger, ‘Prior Jerome tries to turn it into a problem, you have my authority to confront them.’ He ushered Matthias to a seat. ‘But I have good news for you, Matthias. I have begun to translate the messages copied from that wall in Tenebral.’ He held a hand up. ‘No, still not all of it. It’s written in a logical sequence. Different symbols were used and you must decipher each one before you can move on to the next. The writer was very subtle. They are not just Anglo-Saxon runes but a mixture of ancient signs used by civilisations long vanished. The writer was playing a game with any scholar who attempted to decipher them. He deliberately turned some symbols on their head or, to confuse, has used symbols which can stand for one, two or even three letters of our own alphabet. In other well as Latin and Hebrew. I haven’t done much but I think you’ll understand this.’ He picked up a piece of parchment and handed it over.

Matthias studied it carefully and his blood ran cold.

1471: Tewkesbury Battle, the Hospitaller dies. Matthias the Beloved watches this. 1471: Christina the Beloved is ill. Matthias, my son; the Preacher has come. The fires burn but I shall return. 1471: the clerk brings vengeance but the Beloved remains.

There were other entries for each succeeding year, 1472, 1473 and 1474 all describing Matthias’ whereabouts, predicting exactly what Matthias would be doing. Matthias looked up.

‘He knew the future. He could see what was happening.’

Abbot Benedict gazed soulfully across the table at him.

‘I don’t believe he could see the future, Matthias. I certainly don’t think he controlled it — no being under God can do that — but he could predict. Like the pilot of a ship who calls out the depths as he leads his craft through rocky shoals.’

‘Why did he write it?’ Matthias asked.

Abbot Benedict shrugged. ‘As an act of defiance. A last will and testament, only this was about the future rather than the past. Or, there again, he knew that one day you would return. You would try and decipher them and learn that the Rose Demon will never leave you.’

‘Can’t you hurry on?’ Matthias replied.

Abbot Benedict shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, Matthias. It’s like peeling an onion, you must take the top layers off first. Any other method and I’ll just become lost in a maze of puzzles. Matthias, I appreciate you have been here months, but soon I will reach the end.’

The following morning Prior Jerome, a spiteful look on his face, was waiting for Matthias outside the abbey church.

‘You must come with me, Master Matthias.’

‘Prior Jerome, I am under no obligation to go anywhere, least with you.’

The Prior stepped closer. In the early morning light, his face looked livid, his breath stank stale.

‘Brother Roger has been asking for you,’ he whispered, his eyes glittering with malice. ‘He says he has messages from your friends, Amasia and Santerre. Who are these, Brother Matthias?’ He cocked his head sideways. ‘They mean something to you, don’t they? Now why should a worthy man like you have anything in common with a mad, possessed monk? More importantly, how does such a person know so much about you?’ He stepped back, slipping his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. ‘Either you come with me or I will repeat Brother Roger’s request to the full chapter.’

‘Then you’d best show me,’ Matthias retorted. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

They walked across the dew-wet grass. Matthias hid his unease as he approached the squat, ragstone building: its iron-studded door was barred and bolted whilst the windows were mere arrow slits, so narrow, a person couldn’t even slide his hand through. As he approached, Matthias heard his name being called.

‘Come on, Matthias Fitzosbert! Hell awaits. Those who’ve gone in darkness before us require an answer!’

They reached the door. Prior Jerome pulled back the small wooden flap. Matthias turned away, revolted at the stench which seeped through the grille.

‘Oh, don’t be like that.’ The voice was soft, but the glaring eyes in the unshaven face were full of madness. Brother Roger pressed his lips against the grille and licked the cold iron. ‘I have messages for you, Matthias. Santerre stands in the darkness, as do Amasia and others. Fulcher and John the bailiff, Fitzgerald. Aye, and even a king, James Stewart, whose blood was spilt at Sauchieburn. Like children they are, lost in the night! They ask you to free them. They scream into the dark that they were innocent, their lives snatched away, sent unprepared into eternal night. I’ve drawn a rose,’ he whispered, ‘a lovely rose, red as the dawn, with a long, green stem. Prior Jerome gave me the paints and each leaf stands for one of your friends.’ The mad, crazed face fell back; dirty, long nails scrabbled at the bars. ‘Come in, Matthias, come in and meet your friends!’

Matthias pushed the slat of wood across the grille and turned away. On the other side of the door a terrible pounding and screaming broke out.

‘You’ve got to come in! You’ve got to come in!’ The voice grew so strident it cracked. ‘They are your friends yet they’ve become my guests! They haunt me at night!’

Matthias, however, was striding across the grass. Prior Jerome caught up.

‘What is all this?’ He caught at Matthias’ arm. ‘Tut, tut, Brother!’

Matthias grabbed the Prior by the front of his tunic and, drawing his dagger, pricked the side of his neck. Fear replaced malice in the Prior’s close-set eyes.

‘Stay away from me, you whoreson!’ Matthias cursed. He pressed the dagger tip against the Prior’s nose. ‘Keep that out of my business and out of my affairs!’ He pointed back to where Brother Roger still cursed and ranted. ‘And leave that poor soul be!’ He pushed the Prior away. ‘And don’t worry about our good abbot. He knows everything about me, as he will about this!’

Abbot Benedict was studying the accounts with his cellarer. He took one look at Matthias’ face and quietly asked the monk to leave.

‘What is it, Matthias?’

Matthias sat down and, in halting phrases, told the Abbot about Brother Roger’s wild rantings and threats.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do these dead always walk with me? I was not guilty of their deaths. Nor did I ask the Rose Demon to house himself in their souls. My hands are free of any blood or guilt.’

‘Matthias, Matthias.’ Abbot Benedict came round the desk and stood over him. ‘These were souls who were plucked, unprepared, from life. Our theology of life after death is so small, it could be summed up in two or three sentences. Yet death is probably like birth. A baby does not want to leave the womb and, when he does, he is born in blood and pain. He’s confused and, perhaps, that’s what happens to the dead. These men and women were thrust out unprepared and do not know where they are or what really happened. They blame you. They stay with you because of the strong bond forged between them and you during life. Now, as for Prior Jerome,’ the Abbot beat his hands against the desk, ‘it’s time some other house had the benefit of his expertise.’

Two days later, Matthias was woken by the tolling of the bell. Not the solemn calling to prayer or other duties but the wild clang of a tocsin. He tried to open his door but it had been locked from the outside. In the passageway beyond he could hear the slap of sandals, the shouts of monks. He went to the window but could see little so he sat on the edge of his bed and waited, trying to calm the panic seething within him. He’d spent most of the previous day in the library trying to hide himself in a world of study away from the rantings of Brother Roger and the cold malice of Prior Jerome. In the evening he had dined by himself, but when Brother Paul brought a tray of food across he whispered how the entire monastery knew that Prior Jerome had been summoned to the Abbot’s chamber.

‘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!’