The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  Matthias grabbed the Prior by the front of his tunic and, drawing his dagger, pricked the side of his neck. Fear replaced malice in the Prior’s close-set eyes.

  ‘Stay away from me, you whoreson!’ Matthias cursed. He pressed the dagger tip against the Prior’s nose. ‘Keep that out of my business and out of my affairs!’ He pointed back to where Brother Roger still cursed and ranted. ‘And leave that poor soul be!’ He pushed the Prior away. ‘And don’t worry about our good abbot. He knows everything about me, as he will about this!’

  Abbot Benedict was studying the accounts with his cellarer. He took one look at Matthias’ face and quietly asked the monk to leave.

  ‘What is it, Matthias?’

  Matthias sat down and, in halting phrases, told the Abbot about Brother Roger’s wild rantings and threats.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do these dead always walk with me? I was not guilty of their deaths. Nor did I ask the Rose Demon to house himself in their souls. My hands are free of any blood or guilt.’

  ‘Matthias, Matthias.’ Abbot Benedict came round the desk and stood over him. ‘These were souls who were plucked, unprepared, from life. Our theology of life after death is so small, it could be summed up in two or three sentences. Yet death is probably like birth. A baby does not want to leave the womb and, when he does, he is born in blood and pain. He’s confused and, perhaps, that’s what happens to the dead. These men and women were thrust out unprepared and do not know where they are or what really happened. They blame you. They stay with you because of the strong bond forged between them and you during life. Now, as for Prior Jerome,’ the Abbot beat his hands against the desk, ‘it’s time some other house had the benefit of his expertise.’

  Two days later, Matthias was woken by the tolling of the bell. Not the solemn calling to prayer or other duties but the wild clang of a tocsin. He tried to open his door but it had been locked from the outside. In the passageway beyond he could hear the slap of sandals, the shouts of monks. He went to the window but could see little so he sat on the edge of his bed and waited, trying to calm the panic seething within him. He’d spent most of the previous day in the library trying to hide himself in a world of study away from the rantings of Brother Roger and the cold malice of Prior Jerome. In the evening he had dined by himself, but when Brother Paul brought a tray of food across he whispered how the entire monastery knew that Prior Jerome had been summoned to the Abbot’s chamber.

  ‘The brothers are beside themselves with glee,’ the guestmaster informed Matthias. ‘The cellarer overheard the Abbot say that, by the end of the week, Prior Jerome will be gone.’

  Matthias wondered what had happened. He went across and lifted his clothes from a peg on the wall. His war belt had been removed! Someone had slipped into his chamber during the night and quietly taken it. A key turned in the lock. He whirled round. Prior Jerome, accompanied by four burly lay brothers, all carrying staffs, burst into the chamber. The Prior was grinning cynically. He pushed Matthias back on to the bed.

  ‘Assassin!’ he snarled, his finger thrust only inches away from Matthias’ face. ‘Assassin and son of the Devil!’

  Matthias tried to get up but two of the lay brothers seized his arms.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he protested.

  ‘Last night, Brother Roger,’ Prior Jerome hissed, ‘was killed. Some force picked him up and flung him against the wall, dashing his brains out. More seriously, Abbot Benedict has also died. We found him lying on the floor of his chamber.’

  ‘God rest him,’ Matthias breathed. ‘But-’

  ‘His heart failed him,’ Prior Jerome retorted. ‘Yet what was the true cause, eh? Are you a warlock, Fitzosbert? Did you silence Brother Roger and Abbot Benedict?’ He took a step back. ‘The Abbot of St Wilfrid’s has his own jurisdiction: the power of the axe and tumbrel, the sword and the gallows. Now Abbot Benedict is dead, those powers are vested in me. You will stand trial, warlock, for your hideous crimes!’

  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.