The Rose Demon

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