‘I hope that the text to be spoken by the canons will be in Latin, Brother Wigod.’ He alone called the prior by his name rather than using his title.
Wigod smiled wearily. ‘The liturgy will of course be in Latin, as will the psalms and songs. For example, at the end of “The Fall of the Angels”, the choir will sing “Te deum laudamus: te dominum confitemur”.’
Sylvanus smirked, believing he had cornered the prior. ‘I think I hear the sound of “however” hovering over your exposition.’
The prior was undeterred. ‘Indeed you do, Brother Sylvanus. The stories will be told in the vernacular. One of the purposes of our order is to preach and teach to the populace. How are we to do that properly unless we speak to them in their language?’
He looked across the sea of nodding tonsured heads, knowing that most of the canons agreed with him. Only Sylvanus’ head went from side to side but, seeing he was outnumbered yet again, the disgruntled brother merely satisfied himself with a hiss of disapproval. He seemed to have contented himself with the knowledge that his day would surely come. And almost in the prior’s next breath, he saw it had. Wigod, as was his nature, had the inspiration to seek some reconciliation with Sylvanus, and made an offer.
‘I would like you, Brother Sylvanus, to select which of our brethren will enact which scenes, and the characters they will portray. I am sure you will be able to match the abilities of each with the person they will represent.’
Sylvanus grinned wolfishly, seeing a way immediately to ruin Wigod’s plans.
‘I will indeed undertake the task you suggest, Brother Wigod, if I can also instruct those I select in their roles. And I will allocate the parts according to the zeal and piety of our fellow canons.’
That was not what the prior had intended, having thought more to match each canon’s personality with the part as he had written it. He had drafted the words spoken by Noah with Roger the cellarer in mind, because he was vague and uncertain at crucial times. And the spare and sinuous frame of Brother Alfred made him eminently suitable for the part of the Serpent in ‘The Fall of Man’. But his decision had been made, and he could not now rescind it. With an inward sigh, he accepted his former rival’s plan.
‘I am content to leave it all in your capable hands, Sylvanus.’
The prior was so occupied with meeting Sylvanus’ cold stare, that he didn’t notice the disappointed look on Brother Wilfred’s face. With Sylvanus in charge of selecting which brothers were going to take part in the play, Wilfred saw his chances of being involved slipping rapidly away. His standing in the eyes of the strict disciplinarian, who had been novice-master in the days of Wilfred and Paul, was as low as it could be. The pious Paul would be selected first, and then most of the other twenty-three canons well ahead of Wilfred himself. He sighed and slumped in his seat, hardly listening to the rest of the prior’s announcements.
He was greatly surprised, therefore, when he felt a restraining hand on his arm as later he shuffled out of the chapter house to his general duties of the morning. He looked round, and saw the beaming face of Sylvanus with a strange look on it.
‘I have you in mind for a part in the pageant, Brother Wilfred.’
Wilfred gasped at this unexpected turn of fortune. ‘Of course, Brother Sylvanus. I hardly expected such an honour, but I will be delighted to help in any way I can.’
‘Then you shall have the part of Cain. The . . . prior . . .’ Sylvanus managed to squeeze the offending word out somehow, despite his displeasure, ‘. . . is even now going to the scriptorium to have the best scribes write out the words for each part in his play. You will have only your words, and the word that will prompt you to say your lines. The whole text is far too long to allow a copy of it all for everyone.’
There was a suggestion in Sylvanus’ tone of the play being overlong and wordy, but Wilfred didn’t care about the politics of the priory. Let Sylvanus undermine the prior all he wished, he had a part in the Easter play. He thought he understood the principle of the performers’ scripts, and hoped he could cope.
‘Yes, Brother. I will not let you down.’
It was only after Sylvanus strode away to speak to Brother Paul that Wilfred had a niggling doubt about the part. Was his selection to play the part of Cain some reflection on Sylvanus’ opinion of Wilfred’s attitude to God? Did he think Wilfred somehow impious? But whatever his fellow canon’s opinion, it didn’t much matter. He would be in the Easter play.
It was three days before Sylvanus handed Wilfred the single sheet of used and scraped vellum that had his words on it. He peered at it, the minute and ragged script looking as though a spider had stepped in ink and scurried across the page.
‘Who wrote this?’ he complained. ‘It is too small to read, and the lines are not level.’
Sylvanus’ mouth turned down in a sneer. ‘Wigod has the best scribes making copies of the whole play cycle. Therefore he had the novices trying their skill at writing the actors’ pieces. I am afraid Alcuin has proved he is not cut out for the scriptorium. The only merit of his hand is the smallness of his text. At least it has not been wasteful of precious vellum.’
Wilfred was about to point out that the palimpsest he held had been so often scraped that its greyness made the text barely legible. Its worn nature meant it could hardly be said to be precious material. But he kept his mouth shut, fearing that Sylvanus might change his mind and give the part of Cain to someone else. He looked at the line and a half of Abel’s first speech that gave him his cue.
Come, brother Cain, I would we went
With hearts full blithe.
He guessed that the last word of this speech was probably rhymed with ‘tithe’. Abel’s tithe being more acceptable to God was the cause of the fight between the brothers, which had tragic consequences. Reading on, he mouthed his own words.
‘What? Where to now? In wastelands gone?
You think I wish this town to leave?’
He looked at the older canon, eager to get it right from the beginning. ‘A m I to be argumentative, then? Or do we just read the words solemnly?’
Sylvanus shook his head impatiently. ‘You are to put your heart and soul into the part. Don’t you understand? You are to be Cain, the first murderer on earth, slayer of his brother.’
‘And who is to be Abel?’
A sly grin replaced the sneer on Sylvanus’ face.
‘Why, have you not guessed? Brother Paul, of course.’
Sylvanus had selected Paul for Abel almost as quickly as he had settled on Wilfred for Cain. When he had suggested to the prior that he not only select the canons to play each part, but also instruct them in their preparations, he had thought he could ruin Wigod’s idea with ineptness. So he had chosen the lazy and feckless Wilfred immediately. Later, he had seen the possibility of being more subtle in his undermining of Wigod’s plans. Unwittingly, he had selected a person, in Wilfred, who suited Cain down to the ground. It became clear he should then oppose him as Abel with the most irritatingly pious canon in the form of the ‘careful’ brother. Paul was Wigod’s greatest advocate, and had been rewarded for siding with him in his election as prior by being appointed the toller of the daily warning bells. Sylvanus was therefore Paul’s natural enemy, and he sought any way he could to denigrate him. His direction of the pageant of ‘The Story of Cain and Abel’ would be an exercise in revenge.
As the weeks passed, preparations for the Easter play progressed slowly but surely. Because the weather was cold, the prior agreed for the rehearsals to take place in the warming room, the only chamber in the priory that had a fire other than the kitchen and the prior’s own hall. It was a large, low-ceilinged room below the dormitory with vaulted arches curving overhead. On the day he was to begin with Paul and Wilfred, Sylvanus was first tutoring those who were to present ‘The Deluge’. Progress had been slow because Brother Roger, the cellarer, was drunk. Sylvanus had been reluctant even to appoint the man as Noah, but the prior, finally poking his nose in Sylvanus’ sel
ection of characters despite his promise in the chapter house, had prevailed. One of the novices, a boy with a soft and feminine face, which caused him much embarrassment, was Noah’s wife. In recompense for all the ribbing he got about his appearance, he took to the shrewish part, as Prior Wigod had written it, with relish.
Wilfred walked into the warmth of the undercroft just as Noah was being chastised by his wife.
‘No; I must go home, I must,
My tasks are numerous.’
Roger, stumbling over the words, replied,
‘Woman, why do you thus?
To make us more mischief?’
The novice roared out his response:
‘Noah, you might have told me of it!
Morning and evening you were out,
And always at home you let me sit,
Never to know what you were about.’
There was a rustle of parchment as Roger fumbled the sheet that held his words, losing the place momentarily. Sylvanus sighed, and poked a bony finger at the text. Roger hiccuped apologetically.
‘Sorry, sorry. My lady, let me be excused for it.
It was God’s will, without a doubt.’
The novice, whose name no one seemed able to remember, rushed over to Roger.
‘What? You think that you’re going just yet?
No, by my faith, you’re getting a clout!’
He accompanied the words with an appropriate action, and Roger howled as the blow landed. Sylvanus grinned behind his hand.
‘Very well. That is enough for today. I see Wilfred is here, and I must practise “Cain and Abel” next.’
Brother Roger glowered at the fresh-faced novice, and slouched back to his duties as cellarer. It was likely he would sup some more wine through his straw to deaden the blow that had caught him round his ear. The novice blushed, but Sylvanus exchanged an encouraging word with him and he left flushed with pleasure.
Paul entered, apologetic about his lateness, though none had thought him tardy. It was another trait of Paul’s that irritated Wilfred no end. His constant regret for minuscule transgressions that no one else would have thought important was further proof of his earnest saintliness. He looked eagerly at Sylvanus.
‘Shall we begin, Brother? Only, it will not be long before I must ring the bell for terce.’
Wilfred glowered at the remark, but Paul merely smiled beatifically in return. Sylvanus raised a hand to acknowledge Paul’s reminder of his own importance.
‘Of course, Brother Paul, we should not delay the passage of the priory routines by one mote of time, should we? Brother Alcuin, who is to play the part of the foolish and lazy Brewbarret – and how appropriate that is – is not free today. So we will concentrate on the quarrel between the two brothers. Where are your scripts?’
Wilfred and Paul each produced the sheet with his lines on it. It was noticeable that, after only a few rehearsals, Wilfred’s was already tattered and creased. Paul’s parchment was naturally as pristine as the day he had been given it.
Sylvanus guided them quickly through the first section of the short play in which the two brothers paid their tithes to God. Cain did it with great reluctance, and his tithe burned badly as he offered it up. The prior had written this to reflect the situation in the real world where there was a shortage of wheat due to last year’s crop failures in England. It had not affected the wealthy priory at Oseney, but Cain’s worries would speak loudly to the peasants and landowners who would come to watch the Easter plays.
As the play progressed, Wilfred became as angry as the character he played. He spoke the lines to the sainted Abel in the form of Paul, with deep feeling.
‘Oh, go and kiss the Devil’s arse!
It is your fault it burns the worse.
I wish it all were in your throat,
Fire and sheaf and every sprout!’
Sylvanus could not help but encourage him in his anger, pointing at the horse’s jawbone he had obtained.
‘Very good, Wilfred. I have got Cain’s weapon for you. Take it up.’
Paul spoke next, as Abel, giving his lines the very saintliness that drove both Wilfred and Sylvanus mad.
‘God’s will, I suppose it were,
That mine burned so clear.
If yours smoked, am I to blame?’
Wilfred grabbed the jawbone, and stood close to Paul, his face bright red.
‘What? Yeah! And you’ll pay for the same!
With this jawbone, as I thrive,
I’ll let you no more stay alive!’
Wilfred swung the bony weapon, and in the spirit of the novice playing Mrs Noah before him, struck a heavy blow at Paul, who fell to the ground.
The prior, when informed by Sylvanus about Wilfred’s intemperance, was very angry. He stared balefully at his former opponent for the office he now held, who stood contritely before him. He took a deep breath before speaking his mind.
‘I cannot blame you for Wilfred’s evil action, Sylvanus. It was probably most unexpected. And you tell me that Paul is not seriously hurt.’
‘No indeed, Brother Wigod. He ducked just as Wilfred brought the blow down, and it hit him on the shoulder. He is a little sore, but his life is not imperilled.’
Prior Wigod grunted in relief that a more serious matter had not to be given judgement on. Heaven forbid that he would have to deal with a murder. He waved a dismissive hand at Sylvanus.
‘You may go. I will decide what to do with Wilfred this afternoon. Let him stew in the meantime.’
It was only after compline, late in the day, that the prior gave Wilfred his penance in the presence of his victim. Paul, for his part, conveyed by the look in his eyes his saintly forgiveness for the sin of his attacker.
It was out of a lifelong habit that Wigod awoke just before midnight.
He sat up in the chair where he had spent an uneasy night, and awaited the bell calling him and fellow canons to matins and lauds. When it did not come as he expected, he at first imagined that somehow he had mistaken the hour. But after a short time, he became convinced that he was correct in his thinking and that somehow the careful Brother Paul had mistaken the time.
Wigod rose from the chair and left his private quarters. He descended the wooden staircase to the cloister, and crossed to the north-west corner where the door to the bell-tower stood ajar. With a sense of foreboding, he peered into the gloom of the tower, where hung the ropes that connected to the church bells. His worst fears were realised when he saw in the dark of one corner a huddled figure lying on the floor. He stepped towards it, his heart pounding with trepidation. He groaned when he saw it was Brother Paul and, on closer examination, that he was lying in a pool of blood. Suppressing an urge to vomit, Wigod realised that Paul’s head had been stove in by a heavy object. Next to the body, covered in blood, lay the leering white jawbone of a horse.
The prior heard a gasp from behind him and, turning round, saw that other canons had risen as he had, and been curious about the lack of a peal of bells at the appropriate time. He controlled his own nausea, and waved a hand at the cellarer, who was at the front of the small group of black-robed men.
‘Brother Roger, you will close this door and stand guard. Do not let anyone enter until I allow it. Thank goodness the bolt on the other door to the tower, inside the church, is rusted in place.’ He approached the cellarer, who was for once sobered by what he had glimpsed, and whispered in his ear. ‘This will be resolved internally by myself. No one else will know of the unfortunate circumstances of Paul’s demise. Understand?’
Roger nodded and, allowing the prior to slip past him, pulled the door of Paul’s temporary tomb firmly closed. Wigod looked severely at the other canons, and pointed to the entrance to the church in the opposite corner of the cloister.
‘You will all carry on as normal. Brother William, you will officiate for me.’
The canons turned to obey, but the prior had a word for two of them.
‘Sylvanus, Wilfred, you will come with me.’
The two designated canons cast an uneasy glance at each other, and followed the prior towards the chapter house. Once there, Wigod slumped on his elevated seat, his head hung low, while the two canons hovered hesitantly before him. The silence was oppressive, until the comforting sound of the rest of the priory was heard from the church as they began matins. The chant seemed to calm the prior, who raised his head, having come to a decision. He was sure he knew who had murdered Paul, and resolved to deal with the matter in his own way. For the good of the priory. No one else but he knew that his Order had intimated that Oseney was soon to be declared an abbey. Nothing was going to stand in the way of that coming to pass. Not even a murder. He looked hard at Sylvanus and Wilfred. The older man returned his stare brazenly, but the younger looked fearful of what Wigod was about to say. Finally the prior spoke, mustering as much authority as he could.
‘I will not allow this . . . incident to disrupt the good running of this priory, nor will I let it prevent The Play of Adam going ahead on Easter Day.’
He saw that Sylvanus was about to protest, and raised his hand to stop him.
‘“The Story of Cain and Abel” will have to be withdrawn, of course, but the rest will go on as if nothing has happened.’
Sylvanus at last managed to get his protest out. ‘How can I go ahead directing the canons when one of our number has been murdered?’
The First Murder Page 2