The Rose Demon

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. 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.

‘You are to go now, Matthias,’ the guestmaster declared. ‘God’s judgment has been made known.’

Matthias stared back in puzzlement.

‘Prior Jerome had an accident this morning.’ One of the other monks spoke up. ‘He climbed the tower of the abbey church and, coming down, slipped and broke his neck.’

‘The brothers consider this God’s judgment,’ Brother Paul declared. ‘Prior Jerome’s accusations against you are false yet the brothers do not wish you to stay. You are to leave immediately. Don’t worry,’ he pointed to the saddlebags, ‘I found the parchments you asked for in Abbot Benedict’s room. You will find everything in order. Now, you must be gone. Some of the older brothers wish to bring in the sheriff.’ He looked back through the doorway. ‘Three deaths in one week, all in mysterious circumstances.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder. ‘The sheriff might detain you till he knows more about your past, Matthias. So, it’s best if you go now.’

Matthias hurriedly changed. Brother Paul helped him put his belongings into a bundle tied with some cord. These and other possessions were fastened securely to his saddle.

Matthias clasped the guestmaster’s hand.

‘I cannot thank you enough, Brother Paul.’

‘Yes you can.’ The guestmaster smiled back. ‘Four of the lay brothers are to take you on to whatever road you wish.’ He raised his hand. ‘Au revoir, Matthias.’

A short while later, escorted by four burly lay brothers, Matthias left the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s. He felt tired and depleted, not sure of what to do. When he came to the crossroads, the lay brothers stopped and looked expectantly up at him.

‘Rye or Winchelsea?’ one of them asked.

Matthias recalled Brother Paul’s warnings about people asking about him in Rye so he turned his horse towards the Winchelsea road.

‘Oh.’ The lay brother proffered a small, sealed parchment. ‘Brother Paul asked us to give you that. You are to go now,’ he added flatly, ‘and we are to make sure you never come back.’

‘Of that,’ Matthias declared, ‘there is no worry.’

And, digging in his spurs, Matthias cantered along the lonely trackway which wound through fields of ripening corn towards Winchelsea. When he was out of sight he reined in. He ate some of the food and drank a little of the wine he’d been given, then opened the guestmaster’s letter.

Brother Paul to Matthias Fitzosbert, greetings. I have not long to live. My body decays. Take the writings from Tenebral. They have little import. They were my memorial to you, Creatura bona atque parva. Brother Paul.

Matthias folded the manuscript and stared up at a bird wheeling in the blue sky.

‘When?’ he murmured. ‘When did the Rose Demon come?’ Matthias smiled to himself. Of course, he reasoned, now he understood Brother Paul’s bold defiance of Prior Jerome: his stalwart defence, the bringing of food and, of course, Prior Jerome’s fall. Matthias realised it was no accident. The steps up the tower of the abbey church were steep and sharp-edged. If a man was pushed, he would find it difficult to keep his balance. Such a fall would shatter bone and sinew, as it did for Prior Jerome.

Matthias put the parchment away and continued on his journey.

He arrived in Winchelsea late that evening. Even before he entered the town he caught the salty tang of the sea, the smell of fish mixed with tar. A prosperous place, Winchelsea, with its winding alleys and streets, was a thriving port; the best place, Matthias reasoned, for a man to lose himself. He stabled his horse and took a chamber at the Cog of War inn just within the town walls. He was well supplied with silver and began to plan for the future.

He felt safe enough, and spent the first week wandering the town. He became interested in the different companies of soldiers, wearing no particular insignia, who camped out on the open commons beyond the city walls. One night he went and wandered through the campsites. One banner caught his attention: a golden angel, on a blue background, a shield in one hand, a sword in the other. Matthias, intrigued, drew closer to study it.

‘Why the interest, sir?’ A figure came out of the darkness.

The standard was set well away from where a group of men squatted round the fire: one of them was idly turning a spit. The air was rich with the sweet smell of roasting rabbit.

‘The insignia interested me,’ Matthias replied.

‘I chose it myself,’ the man said proudly. ‘St Raphael.’ He stretched a hand out. ‘My name is Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. I am from Totton in Yorkshire.’

Matthias shook his hand. Ratcliffe was a young man with a strong, boyish face which he tried to hide by growing a luxurious moustache and beard. He was dressed in a leather tunic open at the collar. Beneath this were military black hose pushed into leather riding boots on which spurs clinked merrily.

‘There are many such companies,’ Matthias declared.

‘Aye.’ Ratcliffe scratched his close-cropped head. ‘It’s a miracle how a good idea seems to appeal to so many people.’ Ratcliffe played with his leather wrist brace and laughed to himself. ‘I am the second son of a second son.’ He gazed up at the banner now fluttering bravely in the evening breeze. ‘There are no more wars. What’s your name?’

‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’

‘There are no more wars,’ Ratcliffe repeated. ‘King Henry is desirous of keeping the peace with everyone. The Turks now control Constantinople and Jerusalem, so it’s Spain for the likes of us.’

‘Spain?’ Matthias asked.

At St Wilfrid’s he’d heard the gossip of how the Tudor King was growing closer to this powerful kingdom and their warlike king and queen; Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile dreamt of uniting their kingdom which, if realised, would turn Spain into the greatest power in Europe.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Ratcliffe asked. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’

‘In a monastery,’ Matthias replied. ‘And I’m not joking.’

Ratcliffe looked up at the banner, an adoring look on his face.

‘It’s the last crusade, Matthias! Ferdinand and Isabella have collected a huge army and moved south to besiege Granada. If that falls, the Moors will be driven from Spain for ever. I have raised the company of St Raphael.’ He turned back and pointed to the campfire. ‘Twenty mounted men, ten hobelors and the same number of archers, though God knows where those idle buggers have gone. Probably drinking their wages in the nearest tavern.’ Ratcliffe poked Matthias in the chest. ‘You look like a fighting man. I can tell that from your chest and arms. The pay is not good, a shilling a quarter but there’ll be food, comradeship and fair shares of any plunder taken.’ He held out his hand again. ‘Well?’

Matthias shook it and laughed. ‘Sir Edgar, if I decided to go to Spain then it would be with you under the banner of St Raphael. Yes.’ He looked up at the standard. ‘That would be rather fitting: protection from one of God’s great archangels!’

He walked away even as Sir Edgar shouted that they would tarry here a while until all were assembled and then leave for Rye. Matthias raised his hand in acknowledgment and walked slowly back to the tavern. The prospect of fighting with a company of St Raphael, of going to Spain, appealed to him. Such a venture would be godly and take him away from a country where he was no longer welcome. Tewkesbury, Gloucester, Sutton Courteny, Oxford were all closed to him. He doubted if Dame Emma was still alive and he was not too sure of what reception the Hospitallers would give him. He stopped beneath the creaking tavern sign. Emloe and his gang would be waiting for him in London, even elsewhere. Yes, he’d be party to a crusade, to fight for Church and the Cross, whilst Ratcliffe looked a worthy man. Matthias was tired of his own loneliness.

He walked through the inn yard and up the stairs to his chamber. He opened the door and unseen hands pushed him deeper into the room. The door was slammed and bolted behind him. A tinder scraped, candles were lit. Matthias’ hand went to his dagger.

‘Don’t! Just stand there!’

The room was full of shadowy figures. Emloe stepped forward, pulling back his cowl, his arms pushed up the sleeves of his gown, his cadaverous face smiling and welcoming.

‘Matthias! We have waited many a week!’

Matthias stared round: there were at least six of them, two were carrying crossbows. He caught the glint of naked steel and heard the clink of chain mail.

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Matthias, we have had people waiting at the ports for many a month. You know I have a finger in many pies, take a deep interest in what comes in and out of our kingdom. You weren’t at Winchelsea an hour before a messenger was speeding to London.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Matthias, must I spell it out as if you are a child? That night in my secret chamber.’ Emloe stepped closer. ‘Never have I seen such power, such a manifestation.’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘True, the house was burnt but nothing that cannot be replaced. You, however, Matthias, cannot be replaced. You are more precious to me than the costliest silk or rarest diamonds.’ Emloe’s voice took on a more mocking tone. ‘And we looked for you, here and there. What happened to my riders? Sent into deepest Gloucestershire, they were! It was months before I discovered their rotting corpses round that church!’ Emloe’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘What happened, Matthias? Did you release the power?’ He wagged a finger. ‘Then back and forth to the Hospitallers at Clerkenwell. Tush! Tush! We dare not seize you there.’ He spread his hands. ‘The good knights cannot be bribed and bought. They have a tendency to smite first and ask afterwards.’

Matthias pulled his cloak around him and glared at Emloe. He was not afraid, just angry, seething with fury. Emloe and the rest — James of Scotland, Fitzgerald, Prior Jerome, men who would not leave him alone — and now what? Trussed and bound, taken back like a puppet to London? Matthias’ hand went to the second dagger he wore strapped close to his belt. He slipped this easily from its pouch. Emloe was revelling in his good fortune.

‘So, what is it to be, Matthias? A knock on the head and bundled into some cart? Come back to London! Live like a lord! Wine, gold, any wench you want! A house? Favour at court?’ He waggled a finger. ‘I’ve been a good detective, Matthias. There are still warrants out for your arrest! That business at Oxford, and your name was among the list of rebels captured at East Stoke. And what happened at Barnwick? Who did let the Scots into that castle?’

Matthias idly wondered if this was the confrontation Dame Emma had spoken of. Was the Rose Demon here? Emloe smirked, lording it over him.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Matthias declared. ‘You want to see the power, Master Emloe?’

The warlock nodded.

‘You wish to see the demons rise? So you shall, and here’s my hand on it.’

Matthias stepped forward. As he did so, his hand came up, and before Emloe could even move Matthias struck the dagger deep, turning it into the man’s stomach. He pulled Emloe close, pushing in the dagger with all his strength.

‘Go down,’ he whispered. ‘And meet the demons!’

Matthias threw Emloe, gagging and choking on his own blood, to the floor.

Figures came out of the darkness but Matthias knocked them aside. He reached the door, fingers pulling at the bolts. Then he was out, racing down the stairs.

‘Murder!’

A scullion coming up the stairs was knocked sideways.

‘Stop him!’ a voice shouted. ‘Murder!’

By the time Matthias reached the cobbled yard, he could hear the shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’, the usual call when the hue and cry were being raised. Matthias raced along the alleyway. At the bottom he stopped and turned. His heart sank. He could see pinpricks of torchlight, people shouting, hurrying towards him. He thought of Sir Edgar Ratcliffe but realised the camp was too far away. He ran on into the marketplace and through the open door of a darkened church.