by Pat Walsh
William got to his feet. The prior noticed the now grubby altar cloth and, with tightly pursed lips, picked it up, refolded it, and put it on a corner of the altar. William flushed guiltily. Brother Snail, his small hunched body moving stiffly, leaned down and picked up one of the crow tiles. He examined it for a few moments, and then turned his head sideways to look at William.
“Why did you dig the hole, Will?” There was a worried look in the monk’s eyes.
With a wary glance at the prior, William said, “I noticed some loose earth and just wondered what was buried there.”
Prior Ardo crouched down and inspected the hole. He picked up some of the earth and ran it through his fingers. His thin face was tight with suspicion. “What did you find?”
“Nothing. It’s empty.”
“You got right to the bottom?” The prior managed to make it sound like an accusation.
“I don’t think so,” William said uncertainly.
“Then dig deeper.”
William’s stomach sank in dismay. For some reason, he felt a curious reluctance to go near the hole again.
The prior gave him a warning look. “Now!”
William glanced at Brother Snail. The monk must have realized from his expression that something was wrong.
“Perhaps William should get on with taking up the tiles for now,” Brother Snail said quickly. “Master Guillaume seemed most anxious to see them all so he could decide how best to lay them in the chapter house, and I fear we are delaying him. William can dig out the hole later.”
William smiled briefly at Brother Snail, grateful for his quick thinking, but his relief was short-lived.
“Master Guillaume can wait,” the prior said dismissively. He stared at William coldly. “Do as I told you.”
William slowly continued to scrape up handfuls of earth.
“Hurry, boy,” the prior snapped.
The two monks stood by silently to watch William as he worked. He had to lean into the hole to reach the bottom and was wondering how much deeper it would go when the chisel blade scraped against something flat and hard. He felt it with his fingertips. As far as he could tell, it was made of wood, with strips of metal running across it. Small rounded objects, about the size of a fingernail, were set into the metal here and there. Nail heads, perhaps? He was not sure; they felt more like stones than metal.
William sat back on his heels and brushed the earth from his hands. We shouldn’t be doing this, he thought with deep foreboding. The atmosphere in the chapel had changed subtly. The air felt heavy, and his skin prickled unpleasantly, as if a storm was coming. “There’s something down there. A wooden box, I think,” he said hesitantly.
“Bring it up.” There was a quiver of excitement in the prior’s voice.
William glanced across at Brother Snail. The monk’s face was grave.
“Perhaps we should leave it where it is,” Brother Snail said quietly.
William saw the prior’s look of surprise. “The box might hold the bones of a saint, for all we know! Maybe God in His infinite wisdom has seen fit to reveal it to us in our time of need.”
This box has nothing to do with God, William thought with fearful certainty. It should be left alone and the hole filled in.
“The bones of a saint will bring pilgrims and their money to our abbey,” the prior said, eyes gleaming. “Our church is in a sorry state, and what money we have for repairs will not go far. Perhaps God has taken mercy on us and has sent us our salvation.”
Brother Snail’s glance flickered over the pit in the floor, but he said nothing. He clearly did not share the prior’s optimism.
Prior Ardo’s sallow cheeks were flushed with anticipation. “Lift the box.”
It took several minutes of struggling to work the box up and out of the pit. It wasn’t particularly big, but it was heavy, and there were no handles to grab hold of. William huffed and grunted with the effort, scraping his knuckles painfully against the stones sticking out from the sides of the pit. The prior helped him drag it onto the floor and into the light near the doorway. He knelt down beside William and brushed the scatter of earth and stones from the top of the box. He looked around for something to clean it with.
“Pass me that,” the prior said, waving a finger impatiently toward the altar cloth. Brother Snail handed it to the prior, who set about rubbing the mud from the box, all regard for the embroidered linen forgotten in his excitement.
The box was made from oak. The wood was dark and as hard as iron in spite of having been buried deep in the earth. The corners were protected with gold mounts. Thin bands of gold, set with small polished stones, crisscrossed the lid and side panels. The stones glowed softly in a rich rainbow of colors, and the gold bands were exquisitely carved with tiny, strange-looking animals and birds, leaves and curving branches. The box was beautiful and clearly very valuable.
William glanced up at Brother Snail and met his worried gaze for a moment. He could guess what was going through the monk’s mind: Why would anyone bury such a treasure as this? Why hide it at the bottom of a muddy hole in a little-used side chapel?
The prior lifted the lid. Inside, the box was tightly packed with layers of straw and raw wool. The prior’s hands were shaking as he carefully pulled it all out, releasing a musty smell into the chilly air. William peered over the prior’s shoulder to see what lay beneath the packing.
The prior straightened up slowly and stared down into the box. The hoped-for saint’s bones were not there. In their place was a small wooden bowl, old and plain, like countless others that could be found on any table in any house in England. The prior’s disappointment was almost palpable.
“What’s that?” Brother Snail asked, reaching down into the box.
He took out a tightly coiled strip of lead. Carefully he unrolled the soft metal. William could see letters carved into it.
“What does it say?” William asked.
The monk stared at the lead strip for a few moments in silence. His cheeks were the color of ashes.
“It says,” he began with obvious reluctance, “Cave: Ira dei. Domine miserere nobis.”
William heard the prior draw a sharp breath, and panic fluttered in his stomach. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Brother Snail said softly, “ ‘Beware: Wrath of God. Lord have mercy upon us.’ ”
For a few moments, nobody spoke or moved. William stared at the bowl in its nest of wool. The words on the lead strip were a warning, but against what? Was the bowl cursed? And even if it was, what harm could a small wooden bowl possibly cause?
“We should bury it again,” Brother Snail said, his voice trembling slightly.
The prior picked up the bowl and turned it over to examine it. “There are words here,” he said, peering at the underside. He handed it to Brother Snail. “Your eyes are sharper than mine. Can you make out what they say?”
With distinct aversion, Brother Snail carried the bowl over to the doorway, where the light was a little better.
“It says, Velieris cecidum . . . I’m not sure what the next word is.” He angled the bowl to catch the light. “U . . . n . . . I think it says unum . . . in eterno . . . the last word is obscuro. Velieris cecidum unum in eterno obscuro.”
“ ‘Hide the fallen one in eternal darkness,’ ” the prior said softly, a puzzled look in his eyes.
William drew a sharp breath. The fallen one. Shadlok had said the god worshipped in the sacred grove, right here where the abbey now stood, was a fallen angel. Were the words on the bowl and the lead strip a warning of some kind? But what possible connection could there be between a simple wooden bowl and a fallen angel?
“There is more,” Brother Snail said. “Patterns of some kind. Symbols or ciphers, perhaps. I don’t recognize them. And more words, difficult to read.” He peered at them for several moments. “Deus indulgeo nos. ‘God forgive us.’ ” With one shaking hand, he quickly crossed himself. “We must rebury it, and we must do it now.”
&n
bsp; “No,” the prior said firmly. “We will keep it in the sacristy for the time being. The box is worth a small fortune. We can sell it and decide what to do with the bowl later.”
Brother Snail shook his head. “I think you are making a mistake.”
“A few idle words, probably written in mischief, and we imagine the worst,” the prior said dismissively, but there was a look of uncertainty in his eyes. “Neither of you will mention the lead strip to anyone, or the words on the bowl, do you understand?”
Brother Snail’s mouth drew into a hard line, and he said nothing. The prior looked at William, and William nodded.
“Prior?”
They all turned quickly. Master Guillaume stood outside the chapel. His gaze flickered from the box to the hole in the floor, then up to the prior’s face.
“Found that in there, did you?”
The prior seemed lost for words. William could see he was angry that the mason had seen the box, but it was too late to try and hide it now.
Master Guillaume nodded toward the bowl in Brother Snail’s hands. “Was that inside the box?”
“Yes,” the prior said stiffly.
“Well, now, that’s a curious thing, isn’t it?” Master Guillaume said. “A plain little thing like that inside a box fit to grace the treasury of the king himself.”
Brother Snail leaned down and put the bowl back into the box and closed the lid. “These things are none of your concern. They’re church property, and we are merely removing them to a place of safety while work continues on the church.”
“Oh, is that so?” Master Guillaume said, raising his eyebrows. “You left it until now to take them to a safe place?”
It was obvious that the master mason did not believe him. Master Guillaume was nobody’s fool. He knew perfectly well they had only just discovered the box.
“What are you doing here anyway?” the prior snapped, clearly annoyed by the man’s insolence.
“I came to see where the boy had got to with the tiles,” Master Guillaume said.
“Very well.” The prior gave William a warning glance. “Get on with your work, boy.”
Without another word, the prior picked up the box and left the chapel, sweeping past the mason. Brother Snail followed, but he paused in the doorway. “Fill in the hole, William.” He gave William a meaningful look and set off after the prior.
Master Guillaume waited until the monks had gone before turning to William. “A strange thing to bury under the floor of a side chapel, wouldn’t you say, boy? A valuable box like that?”
William was scraping the earth back into the pit. He said nothing.
“And all it held was that bowl? Nothing else at all?”
“No,” William said. “Nothing.”
“No clue as to what was so special about the bowl? Because it must be very special indeed to be placed in such a box, don’t you think?”
William didn’t answer. The master mason squatted down across the pit from him, his hands linked between his knees.
“Keeping your silence when I ask you a question is as good as lying,” he said pleasantly.
William glanced up at the mason. “I don’t know who buried the bowl or why. Maybe it’s a relic.” He didn’t know what made him say that, but he regretted it as soon as he saw the look on the mason’s face.
“A relic! Of course, and an important one at that,” Master Guillaume said, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “It would explain why such an ordinary little bowl would merit a box adorned with gold and precious stones. But why then hide it away beneath the floor of such a small and insignificant abbey?”
William straightened up and shrugged. He looked around for the chisel and hammer so that he could get on with lifting the tiles.
“Unless, of course, the relic is something very precious indeed,” Master Guillaume went on. “And what better place to keep something safely hidden than here, where nobody would ever think of looking? Where better to hide, say” — the mason paused for a moment, a strange light in his eyes — “the bowl Jesus himself used at the Last Supper?”
The words hung in the cold air of the chapel and echoed inside William’s shocked mind. Was Master Guillaume suggesting the bowl was the Holy Grail?
It couldn’t be, surely? William thought. Whoever had carved the warning onto the lead strip had called it the Wrath of God. The bowl was cursed, not blessed.
“It isn’t the Grail,” William said, staring up at the mason.
But Master Guillaume was not listening. The tiles were forgotten as he hurried from the chapel, his excitement shining in his face.
William scraped the last of the earth and broken bits of mortar into the pit and sat back on his heels. He stared down at the scatter of crow-headed tiles in dismay and thought: What have I done?
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
At dusk, Brother Gabriel rang the handbell to call the monks to the chapter house for vespers. William heard it clanging far off in the cloister and suddenly felt very alone. He was uneasily aware of the huge empty church around him. The masons had finished work for the day, but he still had half a row of tiles to lift before he could leave the chapel.
Hours spent kneeling on the rough mortar floor had taken their toll, and he stood up for a few minutes to ease his aching legs. The afternoon light had faded and it was almost too dark to see what he was doing, but if he didn’t lift all the tiles today he would have to come back tomorrow, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that. For the last hour or so he had caught fleeting glimpses of shadows flitting across the walls and heard soft rustling noises. An image of flexing wings had formed in his mind, and it had taken every last bit of courage he could muster to stop himself from making a run for the safety of the cloister.
As he stood there, a soft sigh breathed out close to his ear. William stared around the dark little chapel, eyes wide with terror, but there was nothing to see. His heart hammered in his chest as he forced himself to kneel down again and reach for the chisel. Fear made him clumsy, and he broke the next two tiles. Fighting back his rising panic, he wiped the sweating palms of his hands on his tunic. His gaze was drawn to the dark corner beside the altar and his breath caught in his throat, threatening to choke him. There was something there, a patch of darkness just a little denser than the shadows around it. He was sure that it hadn’t been there a few moments ago.
Slowly, William put the hammer and chisel on the floor and crawled cautiously away from the altar. He felt behind him for the door jamb and pulled himself to his feet. His breath was coming in short ragged gasps, and he forced himself not to turn and run in wild terror through the church. The shadow moved again. William’s foot touched the threshold, and moving as stealthily as he could, he stepped over it and out of the chapel, then turned and fled across the transept, glass and broken stone grating under his feet.
William reached the nave and skidded to a halt. It was too dark to pick his way through the rubble toward the cloister door with any measure of safety. Instead, he ran the length of the church to the West Door. Moments later, he was in the yard and running across the wet cobbles toward the abbey kitchen.
Peter was warming the monks’ evening drink of small beer in a cauldron over the fire. His face brightened when he saw William.
“Brother Martin said you were working in the church today, Will. I was worried about you.”
William forced a smile as he pulled up a stool to the hearth and warmed his shaking hands. “I’ve been lifting tiles in St. Christopher’s chapel.”
“You mustn’t go in there,” Peter said anxiously. “You mustn’t go near the birdman.” He wrapped a rag around the handle of the cauldron and lifted it from the hook. He set it on the table and started to ladle the warmed beer into waiting cups.
“I didn’t have any choice in the matter,” William muttered as he pulled off his boots and held his stockinged feet out to the fire. The wool steamed gently in the heat. Painfully itchy chilblains on his toes ached as the warmth slowl
y returned to his cold-numbed feet, and he rubbed them for a few moments.
“Did you see anything?” Peter asked. “Was the birdman there?”
William shook his head. Peter didn’t need to know what he’d seen and heard in the chapel.
“That’s good, Will,” Peter said earnestly. For a while, he concentrated on ladling the beer without spilling it. When he had finished, he stood the cauldron on a hearthstone. He glanced at William. “The stonemasons from Weforde said a bowl was found in the church today. They said it was the Holy Grail and that the prior brought it out of its hiding place to bring pilgrims to the abbey.”
William frowned at him. “I found the bowl, and it isn’t the Grail.”
“It isn’t? How do you know?”
William thought of the words on the bowl and the warning scratched onto the lead strip, and remembered the prior’s order not to tell anyone about them. “It just isn’t.”
“But the masons say it is,” Peter said, sounding confused.
William said nothing. He could not stop Master Guillaume from claiming the bowl was the Grail, if that’s what he wanted to do, but he wouldn’t add to the lie.
William woke at dawn on Monday morning from a restless sleep and strange, confused dreams about his family, but the dreams dissolved like smoke in the wind before he could grasp them. He lay huddled on his mattress until the cold draft under the yard door forced him to sit up, dragging his blanket up around his shoulders. He put a foot on the floor and gasped in surprise as the damp wool of his stocking touched cold stone. Where were his boots? He had been wearing them when he’d gone to sleep last night, as he did every night, but they weren’t there now.
William stared at his feet in bewilderment. Who would have taken his boots? And how? Both of the doors into the kitchen were still firmly bolted. He searched the room, but they were nowhere to be found.
What do I do now? he wondered, running his hands through his hair. Boots or no boots, he would certainly be punished if the fire wasn’t blazing beneath a cauldron of water when Brother Martin arrived in the kitchen. William fetched a pail and unbolted the door. A thin mist drifted across the yard in the gray dawn light, but at least it wasn’t raining. He picked his way slowly and awkwardly over the cobbles, trying to avoid the worst of the puddles. This is just ridiculous, William thought in exasperation. Of all the strange things that had happened at the abbey lately, the disappearance of his boots was amongst the most baffling.
