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‘“The Story of Cain and Abel” will have to be withdrawn, of course, but the rest will go on as if nothing has happened.’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 prior smiled chillingly. ‘You won’t need to. I will take charge of the play. And nothing will be said of murder ever again. Brother Paul died in an unfortunate accident.’ His harsh gaze told both canons that this was the way it would be.
‘And what of me?’ Sylvanus’ question was filled with righteous anger.
‘You will prepare yourself for a journey. A long journey,’ the prior replied.
‘To where?’
‘There is a solitary cell on an island on Leven Sands close by Low Furness, in the north-west of England. You will spend the rest of your life there pondering on the great sin of murder.’
Sylvanus’ face went ashen, but he said not a word on his defence. So the triumphant prior, now convinced of his own rightness, continued his exposition.
‘You see, I could tell from the murder weapon that it had to be you or Wilfred who had killed Paul. Only you two, apart from myself, who suggested using a real jawbone, knew of the implement to be used in the play. Only you two harboured resentment at Paul’s – shall we say – zealous nature.’
Wigod showed with his own careful selection of words that he was aware how irritating Paul could be. The poor dead fellow had come close to irritating him more than once. But he had not harboured a desire to murder him, as Sylvanus obviously had. His old adversary found some words at last.
‘And so, when Paul was murdered, you found it convenient to place the blame on me, who has sought to check your excesses all these years. You could not even consider the possibility that it was Wilfred.’
The young canon in question blurted out a denial, but the prior was unmoved.
‘It could not have been Wilfred. I know that for sure. Because my punishment for him hitting Paul in your rehearsal was for him to prostrate himself before the altar all night until the matins bell rang. I watched as he lay face down, his arms forming the cross. He could not have got into the tower from the church because the door bolt that side is rusted in place. Nor could he have come out through the door into the cloister without me seeing him. To make sure he kept to my punishment, I sat up all night in my chamber, from where I can see into the north-east corner of the cloister. Unfortunately, I could not see the part of the cloister directly below me. So I did not see you, Sylvanus, creeping along to the bell-tower in order to kill Paul before midnight.’
‘That is that, then.’
Sylvanus was seemingly resigned to his fate. He glanced at Wilfred, who returned his look with one of simple innocence. Turning on his heels he left the chapter house in order to pack his few belongings.
The prior gazed sternly at Wilfred.
‘You, brother, must continue to expiate your sins. As it will be an onerous task for your lazy bones, I am appointing you as the bell-ringer in Paul’s place. I hope it will prove to be a burden to you.’
Wilfred bowed his head, but found it hard to suppress a grin. He hurried from the prior’s presence to begin his new task.
Wigod walked to the outer gate of Oseney Priory to observe a humbled Sylvanus already crossing the water meadow towards Oxford, and his long journey to his exile in the north. Something about Wilfred’s grin gave him a cold feeling in his chest, and he returned to the priory church to communicate quietly with God. But first, he walked down the nave to the bell-tower door, which had long been rusted shut. He wiped his hand over the rusty bolt, and it came away with a greasy smear on it. He pulled on the bolt, and it slid easily. The coldness in his chest became a fist squeezing his heart as he thought of Wilfred’s grin. He had chosen the wrong man as the murderer in his desire to be rid of Sylvanus. And his old enemy had finally triumphed, knowing that Wigod would be forever mortified by his banishment of an innocent man. But Wigod knew there was nothing to be done now – he had made his decision – and to go back on it would show weakness.
Instead of entering into a colloquy with God, he rushed back to his quarters, and got out his fair copy of The Play of Adam. Picking up his quill, and dipping it in ink, he added two lines to the angel’s words at the end of ‘The Story of Cain and Abel’ by way of a warning to others.
Beware the sins of envy and vainglory,
Else foul murder ends your story.
Act One
I
Oseney Abbey, Oxford, September 1199
It was a pretty day, although a nip in the air and the profusion of blackberries in the hedgerows told Canon Wilfred that a hard winter was coming. He settled more comfortably on the camomile bench and turned his face to the sun, breathing in deeply of the sweet scent of herbs, freshly cut corn and scythed grass. He sighed his contentment.
Life had been so much nicer once Prior Wigod had died. The old tyrant had kept Wilfred as ‘careful brother’ for the best part of fourteen years, a miserable existence for a man who liked his bed – getting up in the middle of the night to call the others to prayer was an onerous, thankless task, and Wilfred had hated it. Then Wigod had died suddenly in his sleep. At least, that was what had appeared to have happened.
That had been more than thirty years ago, and since then Wilfred had been careful not to earn the enmity of another Head of House. The current one was Hugh, a malleable, shy man, who had been only too pleased to accept fatherly advice from one of the foundation’s oldest members. Indeed, Hugh considered Wilfred a friend, one of the advantages of which was that Wilfred felt he had the right to lounge in the sun of an afternoon. The other canons resented Wilfred’s indolence, but he did not care. Surely, he had earned a little luxury in his evening years, especially after the suffering he had endured under the despotic Wigod.
Of course, Wigod had been a gentler, kinder man before Sylvanus – the canon he had exiled to Leven Sands in an act of poor judgement – had been killed by robbers on his journey north. Wigod had told everyone that he blamed himself for the death, but Wilfred knew it was a lie. Wigod held him responsible, which was unfair. It was not he who had ordered Sylvanus away. Wigod’s sour humour had not even improved when Oseney had been elevated from priory to abbey, with all the privileges that went with a more exalted status.