The Crowfield Demon

by Pat Walsh

  THE

  CROWFIELD

  DEMON

  PAT WALSH

  TO JOHN,

  WITH LOVE ALWAYS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  GLOSSARY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  MARCH 1348

  William put the pail of water on the bench beside the workshop door and blew into his cupped hands to warm them. The March morning was cold, and a biting wind whipped the gray clouds across the sky. Rain fell steadily, as it had done for weeks past, filling ditches and puddles, and dripping from the reed thatch of Brother Snail’s hut.

  He heard a rustling in the blackthorn tree growing beside the hut. A twig dropped onto his head, and he peered up through the branches. A long tail with a tuft of red fur on the end curved around the trunk of the tree. It twitched and flexed and suddenly flicked out of sight.

  “Brother Walter?” William called. “What are you doing up there?”

  “Watching things,” the hob said softly.

  William walked around the tree until he could see the hob, sitting in the fork of a branch, his golden-green eyes wide and fierce as he stared out over the sheep pasture beyond the vegetable garden of the abbey. His fox-red fur was sleek with rainwater.

  William peered into the misty distance but couldn’t see anything to explain the hob’s odd behavior. “What things?”

  “Them,” the hob said softly, pointing to the far side of the pasture, toward Two Penny Copse, where a huddle of wet ewes and lambs sheltered beneath the low sweeping branches of the oak trees.

  “The sheep?”

  The hob shook his head impatiently. “No, no, no. Them.”

  William squinted through the rain. The hob’s eyesight was sharper than his, and it took him some moments before he saw what the hob was watching so intently. Crows perched beside twiggy nests in the upper branches of the trees, cawing into the wind as the trees swayed and creaked like ships at sea. Far below them, four of the strangest creatures William had ever seen were making their way hurriedly past the sheep. Hunched and wizened and no taller than a small child, they looked like little old men in tattered dun-colored clothing. They moved furtively, scurrying between the animals and the tree trunks, clearly anxious to stay hidden.

  William caught his breath. “What are they?”

  “Mound elves,” the hob said. There was something in the tone of his voice that told William that he didn’t like these creatures. “They live inside the grave mounds where humans buried their dead long ago. Something must have frightened them very badly to make them come above ground in daylight.”

  William watched as the creatures darted toward the thorn hedge marking the western boundary of the abbey’s lands, then disappeared from sight.

  Why were they in such a hurry? What were they running away from? William looked across the sheep pasture toward the misty gray outline of Foxwist Wood uneasily.

  What if it’s him? William thought with a sudden shiver. What if the Dark King has returned?

  The hob climbed down from the tree. He stood beside William for a few moments, his face sharp with anxiety. “Something bad is coming,” he whispered.

  William crouched down beside him. “Is it the king?”

  “No,” the hob said, edging a little closer to him, “not the king. Something much, much worse than him.”

  “And it’s in the forest?”

  The hob nodded. “It’s close by, maybe in the forest, maybe here in the brother men’s stone place. I don’t know for sure, but I can feel it.”

  With a last fearful glance around, the hob hurried to the door of the hut and disappeared inside. Slowly, William got to his feet. He trusted the hob’s instincts. If something evil was stirring, then Brother Walter would sense it long before William did.

  But if it wasn’t the Dark King, then what was it?

  William trudged along the path through the abbey garden. The ground was sodden underfoot, and water oozed up to soak his boots. He reached the wattle gate and climbed over. It was easier than fiddling with the bit of wet rope tying it closed.

  Three monks emerged from the passageway between the abbey church and the chapter house. Their cowls were pulled up against the rain, hiding their faces, but William recognized tall, skinny Prior Ardo and plump little Brother Gabriel. The third monk was Brother Snail, small and hunchbacked. He trailed a little way behind his two companions as they walked around the east end of the church.

  The prior saw William and called, “Come here, boy.”

  William broke into a run, jumping over puddles, and came to a skidding halt in front of the monks. The prior frowned at William’s muddy boots and stockings. His expression was more than usually sour.

  “Come with us,” the prior said. He turned and walked along the narrow path around to the north side of the church. Here the ground was rough and overgrown and permanently in the shadow of the huge building. It had been used as a burial ground by the first monks at Crowfield, but the abbey’s dead were now buried in the graveyard behind the chapter house.

  William walked along beside Brother Snail. “Where are we going?”

  Brother Snail pointed to the corner between two walls where a triangle of deep water reflected the rain clouds.

  “Here?” William asked, glancing at the monk. “Why?”

  Brother Snail twisted his head and shoulders sideways so he could look up at the wall of the chancel. “Because of that.”

  William followed his gaze. A crack, wide enough to fit his fist into, had split the stonework from the roof to the edge of one of the windows.

  “It’s wider than it was yesterday,” Brother Gabriel said anxiously. Raindrops collected on the end of his nose, and he wiped them away with his sleeve. “Perhaps if we drain the water . . .”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference,” the prior interrupted impatiently. “It will just flood again. The ground on this side of the church has always been waterlogged.”

  “But why has the wall started to crack apart now?” Brother Snail said. He spoke calmly, but William saw the worried look in his eyes.

  “Does it matter? The wall has probably been weakening for years,” the prior said.

  “I am sure it has, but it doesn’t look as if the wall is sinking,” Brother Snail said slowly. “It looks more like something is pushing it up from under the ground.”

  An uneasy silence fell as William and the monks stared down at the base of the wall. Brother Snail was right, William realized. Ther
e was a definite upward tilt to the courses of stone.

  “But what could possibly be doing that?” Brother Gabriel asked, a quiver of panic in his voice.

  “What indeed?” Brother Snail murmured.

  “An underground spring?” William suggested.

  “Quite possibly,” the prior said. “But what matters now is that if the crack continues to grow, it could bring the wall down. We should move whatever we can out of the church, just in case. You, boy, go and fetch Shadlok. He can start taking the statues to safety. And then I want you to take a message to Sir Robert at Weforde.”

  “Sir Robert?” William asked, mystified.

  “He has stonemasons working on alterations to his manor house,” Brother Snail said. “He might be kind enough to spare one to come and look at the crack and tell us if there is anything we can do to prevent it from getting worse.”

  The prior’s frown deepened. He didn’t look pleased that one of his monks was taking the time to explain such important matters to a servant boy. “Don’t just stand there!” he snapped. “Do as you’re told.”

  William sprinted back around the end of the church, through the monks’ graveyard, and on past the hazel coppice. Shadlok had spent the last week clearing a patch of rough ground between the coppice and the sheep pasture, where the monks intended to plant a new orchard. The old trees were giving less fruit with each passing year, and the prior had decided it was time to start again on new ground.

  Shadlok looked surprised to see him. He straightened up and rested his hands on the handle of his shovel. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his long silver-white hair and soaked the shoulders and back of his dark green tunic. “You are going the wrong way,” he said, and nodded to the abbey buildings. “The kitchen is over there. Isn’t that where you are supposed to be?”

  “The prior sent me to fetch you. He has work for you in the church.”

  Shadlok went very still. There was a strange look in his pale blue eyes as he stared at William. “In the church?”

  William nodded. “He thinks the chancel wall is in danger of falling down, and he wants you to move whatever you can out of harm’s way.”

  Shadlok’s long fingers gripped the shovel handle tightly. “It is not a place I care to go near.”

  “Why not?”

  Shadlok pulled the shovel from the ground and turned away. “I have my reasons.”

  William stood for a few moments, not sure what to do now. He didn’t relish the prospect of telling the prior that Shadlok had refused to do as he was told.

  “There’ll be trouble,” William said with a helpless shrug. “Prior Ardo expects his orders to be obeyed without question.”

  Shadlok said nothing. He swung the shovel into the ground and started to dig. William watched him in silence.

  The fay glanced over his shoulder with a quick frown. “Why are you still here?”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me why you won’t go into the church. And I know it’s not because you’re a fay and you can’t,” he added, “because the hob goes in there all the time, even though I tell him not to.”

  Shadlok straightened up and turned to face him. “There is something in the building that I have no desire to go near.”

  William didn’t like the sound of this. “Oh? What is it?”

  “I do not know,” Shadlok said slowly. “It is hidden from my sight.”

  “The hob and I saw some mound elves this morning,” William said. “They were crossing the sheep pasture, heading westward. They were running away from something.”

  “They are not the first fays to leave the forest in the last few days. I have seen others, all moving westward. Something is waking . . .” The fay’s voice trailed away, and with a frown he turned to gaze at the rain-misted bulk of the abbey church. It was several moments before he spoke again. “They sense a growing threat. I feel it, too.”

  “The hob said something evil is coming.”

  “Perhaps it is already here,” Shadlok said grimly.

  Was it a coincidence, William wondered, that Shadlok and the hob could sense the stirring of something evil at the same time that the crack had begun to split apart the chancel wall? Was there something beneath the church, as Brother Snail believed, pushing its way up through the waterlogged ground? And if there was, why was it waking now?

  Shadlok hefted the shovel in his hand and turned away. “You can tell the prior that I will not step inside the building. If he wants the statues moved, he will have to find someone else to do it.”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The prior’s bony nose was barely a hand’s span from William’s face.

  “He said what?”

  William swallowed. “He said . . . no.”

  Prior Ardo straightened up. His face was white with anger. William expected him to turn in a whirl of black-robed fury and march off to find Shadlok, but the prior remained where he was. Perhaps he realized there was nothing he could do or say to force Shadlok to obey him. Shadlok wasn’t a monk or a lay brother, so the prior’s authority meant very little to him. He might work as a laborer, but he was no man’s servant and the prior knew it.

  William saw the uncertainty in the monk’s eyes and almost felt sorry for him. The prior did not have the faintest idea why Shadlok had chosen to stay at Crowfield after the death of Jacobus Bone — how could he? He didn’t know that his taciturn new laborer was a great and noble fay warrior, or that Shadlok’s fate was now tied to William’s with bonds of deep magic that could only be broken by death.

  “Very well,” Prior Ardo said at last. He stared at William for a couple of moments, his eyes cold and hard. “Take word of what has happened to the church to Sir Robert. Tell him I would deem it a great favor if he would send one of his stonemasons to the abbey to look at the crack in the wall. Be as quick as you can.”

  Brother Snail insisted on lending William his old woollen cloak for the journey. They walked to the workshop to fetch it.

  “It’s good and thick and will keep out the worst of the rain,” Brother Snail said, taking the cloak from a peg near the hut door and handing it to William. It smelled of wood smoke and old dried herbs, and William wrapped it around his shoulders gratefully.

  “Go quickly, Will, and be back here before dark. You don’t need me to tell you it’s not safe to be out in the forest by yourself after sunset.”

  It probably wasn’t much safer before sunset, William thought, but he just nodded. He decided not to mention the mound elves, or what the hob and Shadlok had told him earlier. There was no sense in worrying the monk with talk of some nameless threat, when he had no choice but to do as the prior told him. He would keep to the track and hurry as fast as he could, there and back.

  William tied the cloak firmly at the neck and arranged the cowl of his hood over his shoulders. The cloak was shorter on him than it was on Brother Snail, and it stopped just below his knees. But it would keep him warm and dry, something he rarely was these days.

  “Just be careful, Will,” Brother Snail added, a trace of anxiety in his voice. He was clearly not happy that William was being sent out from the abbey by himself. “We don’t know when the Dark King might decide to come back to the forest, if indeed he ever left.”

  There had been no hint or whisper of the Dark King’s presence in Foxwist Wood for the last three months, not since the day William and Shadlok had dug up the angel in the Whistling Hollow and released it from the king’s spell. But the king was a dangerous enemy. He would never forgive them for freeing Jacobus Bone from the curse he had placed on him many years ago. William knew it was just a matter of time before the king reappeared.

  “Don’t worry,” William said, sounding more confident than he felt. “I’ll be back before dark, if I have to run all the way.”

  The monk smiled and patted his shoulder. “Good lad.”

  They left the hut, and with a quick wave the monk headed back to the abbey. William cut across the vegetable garden and past the goat-p
ens to the abbey gateway. He glanced up at the shuttered windows of the two small chambers above the gate passage. They had been empty for years, apart from spiders’ webs and nesting starlings, but the chambers were now Shadlok’s quarters. William was sure the fay never used them, though where Shadlok went at night, and whether or not he actually slept, William had never discovered.

  William let himself out of the abbey by the small wicket gate and crossed the bridge over the river. He was alarmed to see the water lapping over the edge of the timbers. After weeks of rain, the river had broken its banks and flooded the meadows below Foxwist Wood. On the abbey side, the restless brown water had now reached the fence running alongside the vegetable garden. And it was still rising.

  The track beyond the bridge was raised up on a causeway built from hard packed gravel and stone, to carry it across the flood-meadow and up to the main Weforde to Yagleah trackway. Nevertheless, a stretch of the causeway close to the river was underwater. William’s boots and the feet of his stockings were wet through by the time he splashed his way up to drier ground. He sighed in exasperation as he watched water ooze out from a hole in the toe of one boot. It was going to be a long and uncomfortable walk to Weforde.

  The track through the forest was ankle deep in mud, and puddles filled the cart ruts. William kept to the grass along the edge as much as possible. When he reached the rag-hung bushes near the Whistling Hollow, he quickened his pace, as he always did. The memory of searching for the grave of the angel in the Hollow was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. He felt a shiver of fear as he peered into the undergrowth. There was nothing to see or hear, but William sensed something lurking there, among the tangled branches, watching him. He suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable.

  William broke into a run and didn’t slow down until the track dipped down into a wide glade of oaks and dead bracken, and he could no longer see the bushes with their straggling wet rags. The rain had eased off for now, though the scudding clouds warned that it would only be a brief respite. He pushed back his hood and took deep breaths to steady the wild thump of his heart. Already he was dreading the return journey.