by Pat Walsh
“I don’t know,” William said. Should he have gone with Shadlok? It did not seem right, somehow, hiding in the warming room when the monks and the fay were in the church, at the mercy of the demon.
“There must be something I can do to help them,” William said.
“No, no, no,” whimpered the hob. “Don’t go out there!”
William opened the door cautiously and looked out. The wind had dropped and the rain had eased. An unnatural silence hung over the cloister, as if the evening was holding its breath. William glanced back at the hob. “I have to find Brother Snail.” Perhaps the hob heard the desperation in William’s voice, because he didn’t argue. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay here. Don’t be tempted to follow me, no matter what.”
William closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, peering down the empty alley. He could just make out the south door of the church, a patch of darkness against the stone walls. It was closed, and there was no sign of Shadlok.
William gathered together the few shreds of courage he could muster and walked toward the church. He breathed in deeply, trying to steady the wild thump of his heart, then reached for the handle and slowly pulled open the door.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
The church was lost in darkness. Rainwater dripped into puddles in the nave. The sound echoed eerily around the building. Somewhere close by, a stone crashed onto the floor, stopping William’s heart for a second. He froze in terror as a violent gust of wind blew open the great West Door. The icy wind rushed up the nave, and there was a thunderous sound of falling planks, clattering and thudding onto the floor at the east end of the church. The terrified screams of the monks sent the blood pounding through William’s body. Someone collided with him, almost knocking him over. He heard the desperate scrabble of feet on rubble as more of the monks ran past him, heading for the south door. He was shoved roughly aside and stumbled against a pillar. He decided it was safer to stay there until the escaping monks were out of the way.
The wind whipped between the pillars and slammed the south door shut with a crash that seemed to make the whole building shudder. William crouched by the pillar, half expecting the aisle roof to come down on his head. There were shrieks of terror as the monks tried to open the door, but they were driven back by the savage wind. Someone stumbled against William.
“Who’s that?” a frightened voice called.
“It’s me, William.”
“Open the door, boy, quickly!” It was Brother Gabriel. He pushed William into the aisle. “Go on, hurry!”
William elbowed his way through the knot of monks by the door and felt for the latch. With a howl, the wind caught him and sent him sprawling. He landed heavily and hit his head on the floor. Tiny points of light sparked behind his eyes. A wave of dizziness left him feeling sick, but he forced himself to crawl back to the door. He had no idea what had happened to the monks, but the doorway was clear. Slowly, he got to his knees and reached for the latch. Desperately, his fingers slipping on the bitterly cold iron, he tried to lift it. The wind threw itself at him like a frenzied dog, and William fell sideways. He tried again, reaching up for the latch, and again, the wind tossed him aside.
William slumped on the floor, his back against the wall. The demon isn’t going to let us go, he thought in despair. Forcing himself to move, William crawled toward the door once more, keeping as close to the wall as he could. He had to keep trying. He reached the door and slowly slid his fingers up the wood, edging his way toward the latch. An ear-splitting crash reverberated around the church. William flinched and closed his eyes. It was a couple of moments before he realized the sound had come from the chancel. Someone started to scream in pain, then more stone thundered down and the screaming stopped. Heart pounding, William seized his chance and made a desperate grab for the latch. He pushed it up and rolled aside as the heavy door swung open.
“Quickly!” he shouted. “Get out of the church!”
There was a scurry of movement as the monks closest to the doorway made a run for the cloister alley. William scrambled after them. “Into the warming room!” he shouted above the angry howl of the wind. “It’s the safest place!”
Like a flock of terrified sheep, the monks jostled and pushed their way into the small chamber. William followed, with Shadlok close behind him. The fay closed and barred the door. In the lantern light, William could see that Shadlok’s face was bruised and bloodied from a cut above one eye, and there was blood in his hair. William looked at the monks. Not one of them had escaped unscathed. Their habits were soaked through, torn and streaked with mortar dust. Their faces and hands were battered and bleeding. Brother Mark’s broken arm and ribs were giving him a lot of pain, to judge by the agonized look on his face. Peter huddled silently in a corner of the room, eyes wide with shock. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, and he wiped at it with shaking fingers. William felt a cold twist of fear in his chest as he realized that Brother Snail was not here. There were others missing, too.
“Brother Snail is still in the church,” he said, turning to Shadlok, “so are Brother Odo and the prior.”
“There is nothing we can do for them now,” the fay said bleakly. He wrapped his arms around his body and stared without seeing into the shadows.
Brother Gabriel started to pray. One by one, the rest of the monks picked up the Latin words. Even Brother Martin mumbled along, though he managed to make the holy words sound like curses. None of them could see the hob, sitting near the door, a miserable bundle of ruffled fur. William sat down beside him, his back against the wall, and the hob shuffled across to lean against him. William felt the small body shiver. Keeping a wary eye on the monks, he put his arm around the hob to try and warm him, but the monks were too lost in their misery to notice.
Was Brother Snail still alive? William felt sick with fear for the monk, but Shadlok was right: There was nothing anybody could do to help Brother Snail, or the prior and Brother Odo. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall and tried not to think about what might be happening to them.
Shadlok remained on his feet, his back to the door. Glancing up at him, William saw the tense set of the fay’s face and the distant look in his eyes. Wherever Shadlok’s thoughts were, they weren’t in the warming room.
Gradually, the exhausted monks fell asleep, propped against the wall or curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace.
William slept fitfully. When he woke at dawn, the monks and Peter were still asleep, but Shadlok and the hob had gone. William left the warming room and closed the door quietly behind him. He stood in the alley and looked around.
The wind had blown itself out during the night, and the misty gray morning was still and silent. The cloister garth was littered with broken branches and last autumn’s dead leaves, scoured out from hidden corners. Several branches had snapped off the old walnut tree. Rainwater flooded the herb beds, turning them into small ponds. It would take a full day’s work to clear it all up.
William saw that the south door of the church was ajar. He walked slowly toward it and peered cautiously around the edge. It seemed peaceful enough inside the building. He could hear voices somewhere over toward the chancel. He jumped when a figure loomed out of the gloom. To his delight, he saw that it was Brother Snail, bruised and cut, but still alive.
“You’re safe!” William grabbed the monk in a tight hug.
The monk patted William’s back. “It’s good to see you, too, Will, but perhaps you could let me go now?”
William blushed and released the monk. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . .”
Brother Snail put a hand on his arm and nodded. “I know.”
“Most of the monks are in the warming room. None of them are badly injured,” William said.
“I am relieved to hear it,” the monk said quietly. “Brother Odo was not so fortunate.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“He’s dead. Part of the chancel wall collapsed on him.”<
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William felt a stab of pity for the old monk. What a terrible way to die. “What about Prior Ardo?”
“His arm is broken and he has some deep cuts, but he will live.” Brother Snail sat on the stone bench in the cloister alley, exhausted and drained. “Forgive me, Will, I need to rest for a moment.”
William looked down at the monk. His pitifully small body was hunched forward and his thin hands rested in his lap. There was a large bruise on the side of his face and cuts on his tonsured head. He needed much more than a moment’s rest, William thought anxiously.
“I’ll fetch you some warmed beer,” William said, but Brother Snail shook his head.
“Time enough for that later, Will. Your help is needed in the church. I will go to the warming room. There’ll be cuts to clean and salve.” He raised his arm. “Help me up, please.”
William steadied the monk as he rose slowly to his feet. “Someone else can see to them; you should go and lie down.”
Brother Snail smiled briefly. “I will rest later. Hurry along now. The prior has need of you. Oh, and I sent the hob back to the workshop. He told me what happened there last night, and he is going to see what can be salvaged.”
With deep misgivings, William stood aside and watched Brother Snail shuffle away. The monk struggled to put one foot in front of another. The night in the church had cost him dearly, but at least he had survived, and for that, William was deeply grateful.
William was horrified by the state of the church. All the recent hard work of the stonemasons and the carpenters had been undone in a frenzy of destruction. Boarded-up windows were once more open to the raw morning light. Rubble and timbers littered the floor of the nave and chancel. Puddles reflected the sky like the shattered pieces of a vast mirror. William looked up at the paintings on the walls, and his heart seemed to miss a beat. The faces of the saints and angels had gone, leaving patches of bare stone above rain-streaked but otherwise untouched bodies. It looked as if they had been gouged from the plaster with something sharp. He shivered and looked away, sickened by the lingering feeling of hatred that poisoned the air in the ruined church.
Another stretch of the chancel wall had come down. William could see Shadlok and Prior Ardo pulling stones from a large heap of rubble. The prior moved awkwardly, his broken arm held tightly to his chest. His face twisted with pain as he slowly reached for a stone. He crouched there for a moment, eyes closed and breathing through his open mouth, before throwing the stone aside.
“Over here, boy, we need your help,” he called when he noticed William. His voice sounded tired and small.
William stared at the rubble. Somewhere under the stones lay Brother Odo. He pushed aside all thought of what they were going to find and set to work.
Nobody said a word when at last a foot in a scuffed old boot was uncovered. As William quickly pulled smaller pieces of rubble aside, he felt a stir of cold air against his face. Just for a moment, he thought he heard the rustle of wings. A small red feather floated down to rest on the rubble by William’s feet, several shades darker than the monk’s blood staining the stones around it. A draft lifted the feather and sent it tumbling away. William glanced at the gaping hole in the roof. The demon was up there, and it wanted him to know that it was watching.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Brother Odo was carried to the guest quarters and laid out on a trestle table, where Brother Snail washed the body and prepared it for burial.
William built up the fire in the kitchen and warmed small beer in a cauldron. He poured the beer into a jug, and Peter carried the jug and a tray of cups to the warming room for the monks. William took two cups of beer to the guest quarters. The prior was standing beside Brother Snail, praying over Brother Odo. His broken arm was held in a sling made from a torn linen strip. The smell of blood and death made William’s stomach churn. He breathed through his mouth to try and block it out, but the smell had a taste, thick and cloying. He stood uncertainly in the doorway until the prior beckoned him forward. The monk accepted the cup with a nod and sat on a stool nearby to sip the warming drink. Brother Snail wiped his bloodied hands on a wet rag and took the other cup from William. His face was gray with exhaustion and there was a smear of blood on his cheek.
“This is very welcome,” he said with feeling.
William glanced down at Brother Odo’s body, then quickly looked away. What was left of the monk barely looked as if it had once been a man. Brother Snail took his arm and drew him away from the table. “You should leave now, Will. Ask Brother Stephen if he has any work for you. I am sure he’ll be glad of your help.”
As William turned to go, there was a loud rap on the door.
“Come in,” the prior called wearily.
The door opened and Master Guillaume stepped into the room. He saw the body on the table and froze, a look of horror on his face. He crossed himself quickly.
“Yes? Did you want something?” the prior asked sharply.
Master Guillaume dragged his gaze away from Brother Odo and stared blankly at the prior. “What? Oh. I . . .” He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “I’ve come to tell you that I’ll be taking my men back to Weforde as soon as we get our belongings packed away and onto the cart. We won’t be coming back. Not after last night.”
The prior stared at the master mason in silence for several moments. There was a look of resignation on his dirt-streaked face. “Very well.”
The mason looked ill at ease. “I don’t know what’s haunting the abbey, Prior, but it’s too dangerous to stay here a day longer. We’re leaving before” — Master Guillaume’s gaze slid back to the bloody mess on the table — “before it’s too late. You might want to think about getting your monks away, too.”
“Thank you, but I will decide what is best for the people in my care,” the prior said stiffly.
“Please yourself,” the mason muttered. With that, he left the room, and the door closed quietly behind him.
“I think it is fair to say your prayers for help did not work.” Shadlok folded his arms and stared at Prior Ardo. The monk sat on a stool by the newly laid fire in the warming room, cradling his broken arm. Abbot Bartolomeo’s sheet of parchment lay in his lap. He’d read it in bitter silence. He looked up at the fay and scowled. “So it would seem,” he said stiffly.
“It is time to ask Sir Robert for help,” Shadlok said.
William saw the look of revulsion on the prior’s face. Even now, with his church all but reduced to rubble and the abbey facing ruin, the prior was still reluctant to use magic to fight the demon.
“I will not do that,” the prior said. “I don’t know why God didn’t answer our prayers, but it’s not for me to question the Almighty’s decisions and I will not go against Him by asking an alchemist for help.”
“Then you will stand by and watch as the abbey is destroyed around you and your monks die one by one, because that is what will surely happen.” There was an edge to the fay’s voice. The cuts and bruises William had noticed earlier on Shadlok’s skin had already faded. He stood there, clean and unmarked, in stark contrast to the filthy, bloodstained monk. “Abbot Bartolomeo knew he had no choice but to use magic against the demon. Do you claim to be wiser than him?” Shadlok didn’t try to hide the biting contempt in his voice.
Spots of angry color rose to the prior’s cheeks. “I claim nothing! And the abbot only lowered himself to use magic after he found the angel lying dead in the forest.” He paused and stared at Shadlok with something close to hatred. He snatched up the parchment and shook it at the fay. “He never knew who fired the arrow, and that added a terrible burden to his anguish. He never found out that it was brought down by an arrow shot by one of your kind! But God answered his prayers, and I believe He will answer ours.”
“Then he had better do it while there is something left to save.”
“Prior,” Brother Snail began. The prior shot him a warning glance. The monk seemed to brace himself as he continued
. “Perhaps God means for us to help ourselves. Perhaps there will be no angel to rescue us this time. We are defenseless as we stand now, so we should at least find out if Sir Robert can do the binding spell.”
“I said no!” The prior got to his feet. The parchment slipped to the floor. “We will burn the bowl. We should have done so long before now. I will fetch it.” He turned to William. “You, boy, build up the fire.”
“No, Prior, you can’t do this!” Brother Snail said in alarm. “Abbot Bartolomeo wrote that his attempt to destroy the bowl failed. We have already angered the demon enough. Who knows what it will do if we provoke it any further?”
“The bowl and the demon are bound together,” the prior said furiously. “Destroy one and you will destroy the other. We will try again, and this time we will succeed.”
“He’s gone mad,” William said, after the prior swept from the room.
Brother Snail shook his head. “He is simply trying to fight something he does not understand.”
“The man is a fool,” Shadlok snapped.
“Build up the fire, Will,” Brother Snail said. “Let the prior try to destroy the bowl. Maybe after that he will allow us to speak to Sir Robert.”
It was with deep misgivings that William did as he was told.
The prior returned a few minutes later. He bolted the warming room door and stood by the fireplace, the bowl in his hand. He leaned forward, flinching away from the heat of the flames, and dropped it into the heart of the fire.
“More wood, boy,” he called sharply. “Quickly!”
William grabbed a couple of logs from the basket and threw them onto the blaze. The wood cracked and spat and sparks scattered across the floor. The prior took a branch from the pile of kindling beside the wood basket and prodded the logs, sending a huge rush of sparks and flames up the chimney. He threw the branch into the fire and stepped back.
For a while, the only sounds in the room were the roar of the fire and the hissing and spitting of the logs as they shimmered in the fierce heat. William’s damp clothes began to steam gently, and he felt the sweat trickle between his shoulder blades. Brother Snail lowered himself onto a stool and sat there, a hunched bundle of dark robes, his eyes closed and his lips moving in silent prayer. Shadlok stood by the door, his face set, his body tense. The prior stared down into the fire with wide, unblinking eyes, as if willing the inferno to consume every last bit of the cursed bowl.
