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?’