The Crowfield Curse

by Pat Walsh

  For several moments, William could not move. It felt as if the bones had been drawn from his legs. He began to shake.

  “Brother Snail?” he whispered. Pain seared through his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  Then he was running across the yard. He pushed Peter aside and collided with Brother Martin in the kitchen. He ignored the monk’s angry yell and ran out into the cloister alley. Peter followed close behind. William stopped by the archway leading into the cloister garth.

  A small dark bundle lay across one of the newly dug herb beds. Brother Gabriel and Prior Ardo knelt beside it, stunned expressions on their faces.

  William walked slowly forward. His whole body was numb with shock and disbelief. He sank to his knees on the path. Gravel bit into his knees, but he barely noticed.

  Brother Gabriel rolled Snail onto his side, the plump hands gently cradling the stricken monk’s head.

  “Is he dead?” the prior asked, his voice sounding strained, his face gray with shock.

  Brother Gabriel held a hand close to Brother Snail’s mouth, and then lowered his head to listen to Snail’s chest.

  “I think so.”

  “No,” William said desperately. “He can’t be.” He touched the side of the monk’s neck, as Snail had once shown him how to do. There seemed to be a faint pulse. William’s hands were trembling so much he could not be sure if he had really felt it. Taking several deep, steadying breaths, he tried again.

  “He’s still alive,” he said, hope bursting into life inside him. “Feel here, on his neck.”

  Frowning, Brother Gabriel did so. He glanced up at the prior. “The boy is right. There is a pulse, very weak, but it is there.”

  The prior looked about. By now, all the monks were gathered around, watching anxiously.

  “We need to get him off the cold ground. Brother Stephen, and you, Peter, lift him up and carry him to the infirmary. Be quick, now.”

  Between them, the lay brother and the monk carried Snail across the garth and into the cloister alley. Prior Ardo turned to face the remaining monks.

  “Go about your work. There is nothing you can do for our brother now except pray for him.”

  Reluctantly, the monks dispersed and went back to whatever tasks they were supposed to be doing.

  “You, too, boy,” the prior said, glancing down at William. His expression softened for a moment. “He is in God’s hands now.”

  William watched the small procession make its way around to the passageway beside the chapter house. He thought of the small infirmary, set well away from the abbey buildings and as lonely as a boat on a pond, a short distance beyond the monks’ graveyard. He decided to take a basket of firewood there straightaway, a little of the precious apple wood. The prior had told him to get on with his work, and that was one of his tasks. At least that way, he would be able to see for himself that Brother Snail had been made as comfortable as possible.

  William took the basket from beside the fireplace in the kitchen and ran across the yard to the woodshed. He was piling logs and branches into it when a shadow fell across the woodpile. He looked over his shoulder and saw Shadlok standing in the hut doorway.

  “The monk told us where to find the angel’s grave.”

  “I know,” William said impatiently. He did not care about the angel or Master Bone. The only person who mattered at that moment was Brother Snail.

  “Master Bone and I will leave tomorrow,” Shadlok said, “soon after noon.”

  William frowned. “Do what you want, it’s none of my concern.”

  “We will go to the Hollow,” the fay continued as if William had not spoken. “The angel must be taken from its grave before the Dark King’s followers find us and try to stop us.”

  So the hob was right, William thought with a shiver; Shadlok and Master Bone wanted the angel’s bones for a healing spell.

  “Can’t you just take one bone and leave the rest of the angel’s remains in peace?” William asked, straightening up.

  A flicker of surprise crossed the fay’s sharp features. “That is not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “You will see for yourself tomorrow.”

  William frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You are coming with us to the Hollow.”

  William stared at him in disbelief. “Me?”

  Shadlok said nothing.

  “No,” William said, shaking his head. “No, I won’t. And you can’t make me.”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Shadlok said, his voice as soft as the whisper of a blade through the air, “if you want the monk to wake again.”

  As the meaning of the fay’s words slowly dawned on him, cold rage surged through William’s body.

  “What have you done to him?” His hands clenched into fists, and he took a step toward Shadlok. “If he dies, I will kill you.”

  The fay smiled thinly. “You care deeply for your friend. It is your weakness, human, and it makes you vulnerable. You will help us tomorrow because if you do not, then the monk will die.”

  “You bastard!” William spat, his face close to Shadlok’s.

  Shadlok’s eyes narrowed. “Tomorrow at midday, be waiting for us by the gatehouse. Live or die, the monk’s fate is in your hands.”

  “Prior Ardo will never agree to let me go with you,” William said.

  “He will.” Without another word, Shadlok turned and walked away across the yard.

  Angry tears filled William’s eyes. He grabbed the axe from the chopping block and swung it blindly at a pile of logs. Bits of wood flew up. One piece hit him on his injured cheek and the sting of pain made him angrier still. He hacked at the logs and let his rage and frustration spill out. He hated Shadlok for using Brother Snail as a weapon to force him to dig up the grave; he hated the fay for being prepared to harm one of the few truly good people William had ever known.

  At last, his fury spent, William sat on the floor, his back against the shed wall. He folded his arms across his up-drawn knees and rested his head on the coarse wool of his sleeve. A great weariness settled over him. His broken nose throbbed painfully and he felt sick.

  He had no choice but to go to the Whistling Hollow tomorrow. Brother Snail’s life depended on it. And he knew, with a dreadful certitude, that creatures of the Dark King would be in the woods, waiting for them.

  For a moment, self-pity weakened him and tears stung his eyes. To think he had felt sorry for Jacobus Bone! To think he and Snail had imagined they were doing the right thing in trying to help him find a cure for his leprosy. If they had kept the location of the grave secret, then the monk would not be lying close to death in the infirmary, and William would not be facing an uncertain and possibly very short future at the hands of the Dark King’s fays. One small act of compassion could well have cost them both their lives.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The infirmary stood between the monks’ burial ground and the sheep pasture. Brother Snail had once told William that it was easier to stop sickness from spreading if patients could be kept isolated. It was built of timber and thatch, and if it had not been for the small shuttered windows set high up in the walls, it could easily have been mistaken for a barn.

  William carried the basket of firewood into the modest building. Shafts of gray winter light streaked down through the stale and dusty air from the gaps around the edges of the shutters. There were four beds in the single room, plain wooden frames with straw mattresses. At the far end of the room there was a wooden altar, covered with a white linen cloth. A simple iron crucifix was nailed to the wall above it. There were brackets around the walls for rushlights. Two iron braziers were the only source of heating in the infirmary, as far as William could see.

  Brother Gabriel was making up a bed for Snail from the bundle of blankets he had hurriedly grabbed from the bedding cupboard outside the monks’ dormitory. William dragged one of the braziers closer to the monk’s bed and got a fire going.

  Pete
r and Brother Stephen lowered Snail onto the bed, rolling him onto his side. Brother Gabriel pulled the blankets up to cover him. Only his face and one hand showed.

  Brother Odo, elderly and deaf, was chosen to stay with Brother Snail. He was too old to be useful around the abbey and its fields, but he still had most of his wits and could be trusted to watch over the unconscious monk.

  “Fetch me if there is any change in our brother’s condition,” Prior Ardo said loudly, forming the words with exaggerated care. Brother Odo watched the prior’s lips and nodded.

  The prior, Brother Stephen, and Brother Gabriel left the infirmary, their mouths moving in silent prayer, their heads bowed. They had no idea what was wrong with Brother Snail and William had no intention of telling them. If he crossed Shadlok, then the fay would kill the monk for sure.

  Brother Odo took no notice of William, but went to pray at the altar. His knees were stiff and he could no longer kneel, so he sat on a stool, eyes fixed on the cross on the wall, his hands loosely clasped together.

  William stood beside Snail’s bed for a few minutes, staring down at the monk’s pale face. He felt as if his heart were breaking into small pieces. What was the point of caring for people if all they did was leave you? His brother Hugh had left home without a backward glance, and the rest of his family had gone to another place without him. And now Brother Snail was hidden away somewhere inside the small crippled body, out of reach.

  He heard a soft rustling in the straw by his feet, and glanced down to see the hob crawl out from under the bed.

  “Is the snail brother dying?” the hob asked. His small face was pinched with anxiety.

  “Shadlok has put him under a spell of some kind,” William said softly.

  The hob climbed onto the bed and sat beside Brother Snail. He lifted one of the monk’s eyelids. “That is very bad. Why did he do it?”

  “To make sure I’ll help him dig up the angel’s grave tomorrow. If I don’t, he will let Brother Snail die.”

  Brother Walter’s eyes widened in surprise. “You told him where it is?”

  “Brother Snail did, and this was the thanks he got,” William said bitterly.

  The hob settled himself against Brother Snail’s back. His tail curled across the monk’s neck, the tufted end tucked beneath Snail’s cheek. “I will stay with him.”

  William nodded. “Good. Look after him. I will bring you some food later. Take care around Brother Odo, he’s old and deaf but his eyes and wits are sharp enough.”

  “He will not see me, he does not have the Sight,” the hob said.

  William looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

  “He almost sat on me in the place where the brother men go to sing to their god. The place with the stone people.”

  “You were in the church?” William asked, not pleased to hear this. “What were you doing there?”

  The hob lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Just looking at the stone plants and birds and people.”

  “And he nearly sat on you?”

  The hob nodded. “The other brother men stand up to sing, or they kneel down. That one sits down.” He paused for a moment and frowned over at Brother Odo’s back. “Except I was already sitting on the seat. I only just moved in time. But he did not see me.”

  “I told you not to wander around the abbey,” William said, exasperated by the hob’s indifference to the danger he was putting himself in. “I have work to do in the kitchen, but we’ll talk about this later.”

  The hob sniffed and pulled the edge of the blanket around his shoulders. William added another couple of logs to the brazier and left the infirmary.

  The last gray glow of daylight faded in the western sky. The fields and woods around the abbey were peaceful and still in the freezing dusk, apart from the distant cawing of crows settling to roost for the night. William shivered as he hurried through the graveyard, heading for the passageway to the cloister. The bell for vespers rang out, clear and sharp, a little later than usual, though that was hardly surprising after the events of the day.

  At least Brother Snail was safe enough for the moment, William thought, and the hob would watch over him. For now, that was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As he stood shivering by the well soon after dawn the following morning, William looked up at the gray clouds gathering in the sky to the north. There would be snow before nightfall.

  William was preoccupied as he went about his morning chores. He fetched water, carried firewood, took food to Brother Odo and the hob in the infirmary, and helped Peter carry turnips from the small shed at the far end of the garden to the kitchen. Time and again, his thoughts turned to what lay ahead, to the walk through the forest to the Hollow. When they got there, how would they find the grave? And what if the monks had buried the angel deep in the earth?

  No, he told himself, they wouldn’t have. They had dug the grave at night, in a snowstorm, and they had been in a hurry. The grave would be shallow.

  On his way to fetch a basket of kindling from the woodshed, he saw Shadlok sharpening the blade of his sword on the big circular whetstone in the carpentry shed. The fay glanced up at him but said nothing. William paused in the doorway, listening to the rasp of metal on stone.

  “What if we don’t find the . . . what we’re looking for?” William asked, glancing around, even though he knew there was nobody about. The monks were all in the church for mass.

  Shadlok lifted the sword blade from the whetstone and examined the cutting edge. “We will find it.”

  “We might not,” William persisted. “There might be nothing left.”

  Shadlok’s eyes narrowed. There was a warning note in his voice. “I said, we will find it.”

  William watched as Shadlok polished the blade with a rag. The metal gleamed, sharp and deadly.

  “Why do you want me there with you?” William asked. It was something that had been troubling him. The fay was strong enough to dig out the grave in half the time it would take William. Shadlok did not need his help.

  The cold blue eyes glanced at him briefly. “I have my reasons.”

  “Do you ever give a straight answer to a question?” William asked, exasperated.

  “Sometimes.” Shadlok held up the sword and turned it slowly. It glinted in the light and William saw an interlaced pattern welded into the blade.

  William waited to see if the fay had anything else to say, but he didn’t.

  “Just don’t forget your promise not to harm Brother Snail,” William said.

  “I did not promise,” Shadlok said, sheathing the sword. As he brushed past William, he added, “I do not make promises to humans.”

  William watched him walk away across the yard with deep dislike. Shadlok was a Seelie fay, a creature of the light, but as far as William could see, he was no better than the Dark King.

  William fetched a shovel from the barn. Brother Stephen kept all the abbey’s tools clean and well cared for, so the shovel was good and solid, with a sharp iron blade. He let himself out through the wicket gate and hid it in the reeds beside the bridge. It would be safe there until he retrieved it on his way to the Hollow.

  When the bells for sext clanged out at noon, William made his way to the gatehouse to wait for Master Bone and Shadlok. He wondered what excuse Master Bone had given for wanting William to leave the abbey with him. What if the prior refused to let William go? There was a flutter of panic in William’s chest. Would Shadlok just let Brother Snail die?

  William paced back and forth as he tried to keep warm. A chilly breeze played chase with dead leaves and bits of straw across the yard. It was not a day to be standing about, and even the hens had chosen to stay indoors. At last, Shadlok and Master Bone walked around the corner of the west range, accompanied by Prior Ardo and, at a safe distance, Brother Gabriel.

  Brother Stephen led three horses out of the stable and waited while Shadlok helped his master to climb up into the saddle. The thi
rd horse was Matilda, the abbey’s mare. She carried bundles and bags of Master Bone’s possessions. The rest of his things would be sent for later.

  “Here, boy!” the prior called, beckoning William over. “Lead the mare to Sir Robert’s house at Weforde for Master Bone. You can stay there tonight, and Shadlok will see you get back safely in the morning.”

  William took the mare’s reins. Dread was like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at Shadlok, but the fay’s face was expressionless.

  The prior did not look happy with the arrangement, but William suspected he had been paid well for his trouble. He turned to Master Bone and added, “I sent our lay brother, Peter, to Yagleah this morning, to warn them that outlaws were at large in Foxwist again. They’ll have taken word to Sir Robert by now and he’ll have sent his men into the forest to hunt for them. Your passage to Weforde should be safe enough, God willing.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Master Bone said, his voice muffled behind the mask. He bowed his head slowly to the prior. It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or not. A flush rose to Prior Ardo’s sallow cheeks and he looked uncomfortable. He must have been aware of how thinly spread his hospitality had been.

  “Travel safely, and God protect you,” the prior said stiffly.

  Shadlok turned his horse’s head and set off toward the gatehouse. Master Bone followed. William gave Matilda’s reins a gentle tug and she ambled after him. The prior caught hold of William’s arm and, with a wary glance at Master Bone, whispered, “Keep your distance from them, boy, as much as possible. Do not touch Master Bone’s possessions any more than you have to, and do not let him breathe on you.”

  “I’ll try not to,” William said. At least he and the prior were in agreement about that.

  The prior nodded. “We will pray for you.”

  The gates were closed and barred behind them before they were halfway across the bridge. William retrieved the shovel and wedged it between two bags on the mare’s back.

  William wore every bit of clothing he owned, as well as a pair of coarse woollen mittens he had borrowed from Peter, but he was still cold. His nose hurt more today than it had yesterday and he knew his face was mottled with bruises, because Peter had told him so. He also knew a broken nose was likely to be the least of his problems by the end of the day. I’ll be lucky if I still have a nose, he thought, or anything else, come to that.