The Rose Demon

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