The Crowfield Demon

by Pat Walsh

  As he tried to settle more comfortably, he felt the holey stone dig into his chest. He took it off and hid it under his mattress. Nothing on earth would persuade him to look through the hole tonight.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  William woke with a start. A deep, earth-trembling rumble shook the kitchen. Pots rattled against each other, knives and ladles clattered on their hooks, and the pile of fire logs collapsed and rolled across the floor. William’s heart pounded as he pushed aside his blanket and clambered to his feet. His sleepy mind struggled to make sense of the terrible thunder of falling stone and timbers and the wild clang of bells. The sound shook the air and juddered through his bones.

  It’s the tower, he thought, flinching in terror and half expecting the kitchen to come crashing down around him. He felt his way to the door, stubbing his foot painfully against a log on the way. Outside, the gray light of dawn showed between the arches of the cloister alley. A misty drizzle was falling, and there was a gritty feel to the air. A dead silence hung over the abbey, though the echo of the tower’s fall still hummed inside his head.

  William ran across the cloister garth to the archway into the north alley. The monks were hurrying down the day stairs from their beds in the dorter, almost falling over each other in their panic. Peter stood nearby, his hair sticking up in untidy brown tufts, wringing his hands together and moaning, “God a’mercy,” over and over again.

  The south door of the church had been wrenched off its hinges and lay under a pile of rubble. Brother Mark’s writing desk had fallen on its side and the broken remains of his stool stuck out from beneath a heap of stones. The statues from the church were lined up along the alley wall, a crowd of pale ghosts beneath a thick coating of stone dust.

  William felt a flutter of panic in his chest. Where was the hob? Had Brother Walter been anywhere near the church when the tower had come down? Or was he hiding away, terrified but unharmed?

  Prior Ardo was suddenly there, white-faced with shock, taking charge. “Brother Gabriel, go and see if the chapter house has been damaged. Brother Stephen and Peter, see to the animals. The noise will have frightened them. Make sure that they are all right.”

  Peter and Brother Stephen set off along the passageway beside the chapter house, but returned a few moments later.

  “The passage is blocked, Prior,” Brother Stephen said. “The roof has fallen in at the far end.”

  The prior’s jaw tightened. “Go the long way around.”

  Brother Stephen nodded for Peter to follow him, and they set off across the cloister garth, heading for the kitchen and the door out to the yard and animal pens.

  Brother Gabriel picked his way through the litter of stones to the chapter house door. He opened it and peered inside. The short passageway leading to the main chamber was cloudy with stone dust. Moving cautiously, the monk went in. He was gone for a minute or so and looked visibly shaken when he came back.

  “Most of the stained glass in the window is broken, Prior,” he said, “and there’s a hole in the roof, a very big hole, and stones everywhere.”

  William stared at the prior. A muscle twitched beside the monk’s mouth as he took all this in.

  “The church, Prior,” Brother Snail said anxiously. “We have to see what damage has been done there.”

  Prior Ardo nodded, and when he spoke his voice was carefully calm. “Come with me, Brother.” He looked at the rest of the monks. “Everybody else, wait here.”

  The prior and Brother Snail covered their faces with the sleeves of their habits and stepped through the dark arch of the church doorway. Stone dust swirled out from the church on the damp air, looking like billowing smoke. The rest of the monks walked past the small crowd of statues to the far end of the north alley, away from the dust and debris, and started to pray, heads bowed and eyes closed. Brother Mark didn’t go with them. He stood beside his desk, muttering, “My books, all my pages, my work.” He turned to stare at the sacristy door, which was hanging by one hinge, then started to clamber over the rubble toward it.

  The back of William’s neck prickled. A sudden premonition of danger burned him like hot metal. “Don’t!” he called sharply as Brother Mark reached for the heavy ring handle. “Don’t touch the door!”

  “I have to save the books,” the monk said, glancing back at William, his dust-streaked face distraught.

  William darted forward, one hand reaching out to grab the monk’s habit, but he wasn’t quick enough. Brother Mark gripped the door handle with both hands and pulled hard. With a wrench of splitting wood, the second hinge gave way and the door fell forward, crashing onto the rubble and trapping the monk beneath it.

  William tried to haul the door aside, but it was solid oak studded with large iron nails and too heavy for him to move by himself.

  “Help!” he yelled desperately. “Quickly! Help me!”

  He could see Brother Mark’s right hand protruding from beneath the door. The fingers twitched and clutched at the air, and then went still. William heaved and pushed at the door. It shifted slightly, grating against the rubble on the floor beneath it.

  The monks, hearing the commotion, came running to see what the matter was. Brother Gabriel rushed forward to try and help. William stumbled as Shadlok elbowed him aside. Brother Gabriel stepped hastily out of the way as the fay leaned down and hooked his fingers under the door. He lifted it easily and pushed it away from Brother Mark. It slammed to the floor, sending up a choking cloud of dust.

  With an anguished wail, Brother Gabriel dropped to his knees beside the fallen monk. William stared down in horror at Brother Mark’s bloodied face.

  Shadlok knelt down and put his fingers on the side of the monk’s neck. “He is still alive.” He glanced at the shocked faces above him. “Fetch the prior,” he said, giving William a push toward the church door.

  William did as he was told, stopping briefly in the doorway to look back. By now the other monks were crowding around to lift Brother Mark from the rubble.

  William climbed over the fallen stones in the south aisle. He stared around in shocked disbelief at the scene of devastation in the church. A huge hole in the recently repaired nave roof let in the dusty daylight and rain. More light came through a gaping hole in the roof of the south transept. Where the tower should have been, there was just gray sky. The beautifully carved chancel screen lay smashed to rubble under a pile of stones and broken timbers. William could see one of the bells, still attached to a part of the bell frame, lying on the nave floor. The choir stalls were badly damaged and a flow of stones filled the south transept. Part of the cracked north wall of the chancel had come down, too, but as far as he could see, St. Christopher’s chapel had not been damaged.

  Something white swooped through the hole in the roof and settled on a heap of rubble in front of William. It was Fionn, Dame Alys’s crow. It strutted sideways along the stones and turned its head to fix William with its fierce stare. William looked around. He knew that if Fionn was here, the woman wouldn’t be too far away, and sure enough, he saw her standing just beyond the floodwater outside the hole in the chancel wall. Her hands were folded over the top of her walking stick, and there was a look of triumph on her face.

  Fionn cawed harshly and lifted into the air. He wheeled away through the church and glided in a low swoop past the old woman. She turned to follow him, giving William a smile that chilled him to the bone. On impulse, he snatched up a stone and flung it after her. Anger speared through him. How could she take pleasure from such devastation? Did she really hate the monks that much?

  Two figures moved through the gloom like ghosts.

  “Prior Ardo!” William called as he scrambled over the stones toward them. “Come quickly. There’s been an accident. Brother Mark is badly hurt.”

  The two monks stopped and turned.

  “What are you talking about, boy?” the prior said harshly. “I saw him just minutes ago and he was perfectly well then.”

  “The sacristy do
or fell on him.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Brother Snail said softly, crossing himself with a shaking hand.

  The prior clambered over the pile of rubble in the crossing, not seeming to care where he put his feet. Stones slid and rattled away, and the prior slipped a couple of times, but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t even glance at William as he ran for the church door. His face and habit were streaked with dust. The grit-sharp air eddied around him as he passed by. It caught in William’s throat, making him cough.

  Brother Snail followed more cautiously, edging around the rubble. William waited for him. The monk was wheezing and breathless when he reached William’s side.

  “How badly is he hurt, Will? Is he conscious?”

  William shook his head. “No.”

  Together they left the church. Brother Mark had been taken up to the dorter and put to bed. Brother Snail scurried up the day stairs to tend to him. There was nothing William could do to help, so he went back to the kitchen. He raked out the embers and relit the fire, then went to fetch water from the well in the yard. He broke the news of Brother Mark’s accident to Peter and Brother Stephen. The monk said nothing, but stood tight-lipped and gray-faced, a pail of water in one hand, staring up at the ruined roofline of the abbey church. Peter started to wail in anguish. Tears slid down his face into his open mouth. He twisted his fingers together against his chest as if William’s words had physically hurt him. William walked away in heavyhearted silence.

  As soon as mass was over, Prior Ardo and Brother Gabriel set out for Weforde to speak to Sir Robert, taking Peter with them. Before he left, the prior told the rest of the monks to go about their daily work as best they could while praying for Brother Mark. Shadlok and William were given the task of clearing the fallen stones and glass from the chapter house. The monks would hold all their services and masses in there until the church could be used again.

  The chapter house had been spared the terrible destruction that the church had suffered, but even so, William was shocked by the damage to the chamber. There was a hole in the roof where several massive blocks of stone had crashed through it. Bits of shattered tile stuck up from the floor like broken teeth. Several of the graveslabs of Crowfield’s long-dead abbots were chipped and webbed with cracks. The stained-glass window in the east wall looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it. Many of the small panes were shattered, and the lead cames that had held them together were twisted and broken. There was very little glass on the floor, so William guessed most of it was outside in the graveyard. All that was left of the Archangel Michael were his legs and part of one wing. Curiously, the dragon at his feet was mostly intact.

  Shadlok rolled up his sleeves and tied back his hair. He lifted a huge ashlar block that would have taken two brawny men all their strength to shift, and set it down on the pile of stones and rubble in the middle of the room.

  “I’ll fetch the handcart so we can take the stones out to the yard,” William said.

  “Bring a pail, too,” Shadlok said, “to put the glass in. Some of it might be reusable.”

  William nodded. He looked around to make sure they were not being overheard and added, “Have you seen the hob today? I’m worried that he might have been in the church when the tower fell.”

  Shadlok frowned. “No. I thought he stayed in the kitchen with you at night?”

  “He does sometimes, but he didn’t last night. I’ll go to the workshop and see if he’s there before I fetch the cart.”

  “Very well, but be quick.” The fay’s face was set. William knew he did not like being this close to the side chapel.

  William ran all the way to the workshop. He pushed open the door and peered inside.

  “Brother Walter? Are you there?”

  There was no reply. William tried to ignore the fear twisting in his stomach. What if the hob was lying beneath the rubble in the church? William ran back to the abbey to search for the hob there. He collided with Brother Stephen as he came around the corner of the south range.

  “Ouf! Watch where you’re going,” the monk said sharply, grabbing William’s arm to steady himself. “I thought you were supposed to be clearing the chapter house with Shadlok?”

  “I am. I came to fetch the cart,” William said.

  Brother Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “Then you would be better off looking for it in the cart shed, boy, and not in the vegetable garden.”

  To William’s relief, Brother Martin wasn’t in the kitchen. He found Brother Snail in the cloister garth, emptying out a bowl of water, red with Brother Mark’s blood.

  “Have you seen Brother Walter?” William asked anxiously.

  “No, not since yesterday afternoon,” Brother Snail said, a frown creasing his tired face. “Have you looked in the workshop?”

  William nodded. “He’s not there.”

  “I am sure he is hiding somewhere and is quite safe.” The worry in his voice belied his words. He took a bloodied rag from the bowl and wrung it out. “Let me know if . . . when you find him.”

  “I’ll keep looking,” William said, trying to stay calm. “He has to be somewhere.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  “Well?” Shadlok folded his arms and stared at William. He had a way of looking at you sometimes, as if he could smell something unpleasant, which made William’s hackles rise.

  “What?” William scowled at him.

  “The handcart? The one you went to fetch some time ago?”

  “Oh, that,” William muttered.

  “And the pail. You forgot that, too.”

  “Yes, all right, I’ll go and fetch them now.” William turned to leave the chapter house, then looked back at the fay. “I can’t find Brother Walter anywhere.”

  Shadlok straightened up. He was quiet for a moment, and William thought he caught a brief flicker of worry in the fay’s eyes. “Perhaps he is with the pig. He often spends time with her.”

  “I’ll look on my way past,” William said.

  “Bring the cart back with you this time,” Shadlok said.

  “And the pail,” William said under his breath as he set off along the passageway.

  “And the pail,” Shadlok called after him.

  William grinned.

  Shadlok’s guess proved to be correct. The hob was in a corner of Mary Magdalene’s sty. The pig was lying on her side in her mud wallow, grunting softly while the hob chittered beside her and scratched her back with a pawful of straw.

  Glancing around to make sure there wasn’t anybody within earshot, William leaned over the fence and said, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was worried you might have been hurt when the tower fell.”

  “I was in the snail brother’s hut,” the hob said, scrambling to his feet and coming over to the fence. He climbed up to sit on the gatepost and looked pleased to see William.

  “Is she all right?” William asked, nodding to the pig.

  “The noise frightened her, but she is calm now. The sheep are still unsettled and the horse is nervous. She is old and the noise gave her a terrible fright. The hens have run away to hide.”

  “How did they get out of the henhouse?”

  The hob looked guilty. “They would have hurt themselves in their panic to escape, so I opened the door and they ran into the garden. The brother man who tends the animals has gone to look for them.”

  “I suppose we should be grateful you didn’t set the goats free, too.”

  The hob looked away. William stared at him suspiciously. “You didn’t, did you?”

  The hob lifted a shoulder and said nothing.

  William stepped away from the sty and looked over at the goat-pen. The gate was ajar and the pen was empty.

  “It might be a good idea if you helped Brother Stephen to find them,” he said, hiding a smile.

  The hob nodded and climbed down from the fence post.

  There was a loud angry yell from the direction of the vegetable garden. The hob’s face split in a wide grin. “I
think the brother man has found them by himself.”

  “You’d better hope Brother Stephen never catches up with you.”

  “He can’t see me!” the hob said gleefully. He scampered away, tail in the air, and disappeared around the corner of the sty.

  At midday, the monks gathered in the east alley for sext, needing to keep to their daily routine in the face of the disasters that had befallen the abbey that day. They gathered at the foot of the day stairs up to the dorter, where Brother Mark lay unconscious in his bed, as if to include him in their prayers. Brother Mark’s right arm and two fingers were broken, along with his nose and several ribs. The bones would heal, Brother Snail had assured them, but so far Brother Mark had not woken, and that was a worry.

  William and Shadlok carried on with their work in the chapter house. A thought occurred to William, and he asked, “Could you use magic to heal Brother Mark? Knit his bones and wake him up?”

  “I could, yes, but I am not going to.”

  William frowned. “Why not?”

  Shadlok brushed stone dust from his hands and raised his eyebrows. “What do you imagine the monks would say if Brother Mark suddenly sprang out of bed, whole and healed?”

  William thought about this and said, “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Shadlok said drily. “If it is all the same to you, I would rather not be tied to a stake and burned by the prior for practicing the infernal arts, as he would no doubt see my healing skills to be.”

  William saw the gleam in the fay’s eyes and smiled ruefully. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “Brother Mark will mend in his own time,” Shadlok said, reaching down to pick up another ashlar block, “and that is as it should be.”