The Rose Demon

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