The Rose Demon

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