The Crowfield Demon

by Pat Walsh

  Perhaps Abbot Bartolomeo was wrong about the bowl, William thought as he felt the searing heat on his face. Surely nothing could survive this blaze?

  The minutes passed until at last the fire began to burn down. The logs turned to ashy gray ghosts, fragile and spent on the hearth. Prior Ardo leaned forward to peer into the embers.

  “I can’t see the bowl,” he said after several moments.

  William took a stick from the wood basket and poked through the ashes. The stick touched something hard. With a terrible sense of helplessness, William scraped the embers aside. The bowl lay on its side, the wood not even scorched. William picked it up on the end of the stick and it dangled there, covered in ash but whole and unharmed. He set it down on the hearth.

  “We have no choice but to speak to Sir Robert now,” Brother Snail said softly.

  The prior said nothing. He crossed himself slowly and turned away from the fireplace. “Very well,” he said at last. It sounded as if the words were being dragged from him. “I will gather the brethren together for mass. Afterward, we will decide how best to approach Sir Robert with our request.”

  With that, he left the room. There was a look of defeat on his sallow face that William had never seen there before. Brother Snail stood up and shuffled over to pick up the bowl. For a long time, he held it in his cupped hands. “Such a small thing,” he murmured, “and so full of evil.”

  He placed the bowl on the stool and followed the prior to the chapter house.

  William and Shadlok left the warming room and stood for a while in the cloister alley, breathing in the cold fresh air. The early morning sky above the garth was cloudless and blue. Sunlight polished the puddles in the herb beds to sheets of silver. Raindrops beaded the branches of the walnut tree and sparkled like tiny stars. Spring was just a breath away, and William felt a brief lift of his spirits.

  “We should go and see if there is anything left to salvage in the workshop,” Shadlok said at last.

  William nodded. He was bone weary and his body ached from the night spent on the cold floor of the warming room, but he needed to keep busy. Maybe that way he could block out the images and sounds that crowded into his mind, if only for a while. But he didn’t think he would ever forget the noise and the blood and the fear of the last few hours, not if he lived to be an old man. And that was looking less likely by the day.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  All that was left of Brother Snail’s workshop were four walls that had shifted sideways to lean against the blackthorn tree. Shadlok used broken roof timbers to shore them up, to try and stop them from collapsing altogether. The hob carried the few pots of salves and bundles of dried herbs that had survived out of the hut and lined them up on the grass nearby.

  “Your flute is broken,” the hob said unhappily, handing William the leather bag. “The music has gone. No more dancing and singing.”

  William opened the bag and tipped the shattered bits of flute onto the grass. It was beyond repair and he felt a pain beneath his ribs at its loss, but it wasn’t just the beautiful old flute he’d lost, it was the hope of a different future. He looked at the wreckage strewn across the garden and felt a surge of despair. Almost nothing had survived the storm. There was a loud creak and a sharp crack of splitting wood. William turned just in time to see the walls of the hut fold in on themselves and collapse in a heap. A cloud of dust rose from the broken daub, and bits of wattle poked up like thin fingers from the wreckage.

  The hob grabbed William’s leg and whispered, “Oops!”

  William stared at the remains of the hut in dismay. For the second time in two years, he had lost his home.

  Shadlok stood with his hands on his hips and glared at the fallen walls, his frustration plain on his face. He leaned down and picked up a piece of the flute. He turned it over in his hands. “I made this for Bone a long time ago.” A brief look of sadness crossed his face. Without looking at William, he said, “I will make you a new one. It will not be as fine as this one was, but it will suffice.”

  For the first time that day, William smiled. “You will?” In the midst of all the terrible things that were happening at the abbey, the fay’s kind gesture shone all the more brightly. William tucked the leather bag into his belt. “I’ll keep this, then.”

  “I still have hope of turning you into a good musician one day,” Shadlok said, throwing the broken flute onto a pile of wattle and timbers. “And when that day comes, we will leave this place.”

  “It can’t come soon enough for me,” William said grimly. There was a small cough somewhere by his knees. Looking down, he saw the offended expression on the hob’s face.

  “You can come with us,” he said, squatting down beside him.

  “Will there be a forest where we are going?” the hob asked, the green-gold eyes apprehensive.

  William remembered what Robin had told him about London, and his heart sank. How could he take the hob there? How could he take him anywhere where there would be more people than trees? The hob was a woodland fay. He wouldn’t be happy in the noise and bustle of a town, nor would he be safe. William glanced helplessly up at Shadlok. The fay seemed to understand what was going through his mind because he turned to the hob and said in a surprisingly gentle voice, “We have time enough before we need to think about leaving.”

  The hob nodded and looked relieved. “I would like to see the world, but I don’t think I would like to live where there are no trees to talk to.”

  William got to his feet. He was filled with a great sadness at the realization that one day he would have to say good-bye to the hob.

  But not yet, he told himself fiercely. Not for a long time yet.

  Brother Snail came to find William, Shadlok, and the hob after the chapter meeting finally finished.

  “Prior Ardo is taking everyone to Bethlehem,” the monk said. “They will be safer there for the time being. Brother Stephen and Peter will come back to tend to the livestock and chickens every day, but other than that, the abbey will be abandoned.”

  Bethlehem was the larger of the abbey’s two granges, over near Yagleah, and home to John Holcot the freeman and his family. William could just imagine the look on John’s face when the monks turned up at his door and told him they had come to stay.

  “So the demon has won,” William said bleakly.

  “For now perhaps,” Brother Snail said. The bruises on the monk’s face were an ugly mottled blue in the morning light, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. “There is still hope, Will. The prior has finally given me permission to go and talk to Sir Robert, to see if there is anything he can do to help us. You and Shadlok are to come with me, and we are to leave immediately.”

  “What about me?” the hob asked anxiously.

  “You’re coming with us,” William said.

  Shadlok went on ahead with the hob, leaving William and the monk to follow along more slowly. Brother Snail leaned heavily on a stick and moved stiffly, as if his joints and twisted back were hurting him. When William and the monk reached the yard, Shadlok was waiting for them by the stables. Matilda stood patiently beside him, saddled and bridled. There was no sign of the hob, but William knew he would not be far from Shadlok’s side and would be hidden with fay glamour. William noticed the sword and knife hanging from the fay’s belt. It seemed Shadlok was taking no chances on their journey to Weforde.

  Edgar the carpenter had arrived for work as usual that morning, unaware of what had happened during the night. His load of timber had been stacked against the kitchen wall, and the monks were now lifting sacks of grain and baskets of vegetables onto the back of his cart. Brother Matthew hurried over to William and pushed a bundle of blankets into his arms. “Here, boy, put these on the cart.” The monk sprinted back inside the abbey to fetch another load.

  Edgar helped William to pile the blankets on top of a stack of mattresses. “Much more an’ ol’ Scrat here’ll wind hisself tryin’ to pull this lot to Beth’lem,” Edgar s
aid, watching Brother Stephen staggering across the yard with a stack of cooking pots and bowls, all crammed into a large iron cauldron and black with soot from the kitchen fire. “Always s’posing Scrat can shift it at all.”

  William glanced at the sturdy brown horse standing patiently between the cart shafts. The animal rolled a baleful, white-rimmed eye in William’s direction and blew loudly through flared nostrils.

  Seeing William’s wary look, Edgar grinned. “Yer wise to keep away from ol’ Scrat, lad. Nastier beast ye won’t find if ye look ’til Christmas Day.”

  As if to back up the carpenter’s words, the horse bared his teeth at William.

  Edgar gazed at the animal affectionately. “But he’s a good worker, and I can’t ask for better’n that.”

  William helped Brother Stephen to wedge the cauldron between a large chest containing the abbey’s few pieces of silver and a basket full of the abbey’s books.

  “Ye forgot summat,” Edgar said, eyeing the monk sourly.

  Brother Stephen wiped the soot from his hands onto the front of his habit and glanced at the carpenter. “Have I? What?”

  “The font. It’s ’bout the only thing you ent piled onto the cart.”

  The monk colored and looked awkward.

  “Mebbe we should make two journeys,” Edgar suggested, but Brother Stephen glanced fearfully at the abbey buildings and shook his head.

  “The prior wants to take whatever we can carry in one journey.”

  “ ’Cept it ent you carrying it, it’s me poor ol’ horse,” Edgar muttered as he watched the monk hurry back to the kitchen. He turned to William. “The holy brothers are tight lipped ’bout what’s happened here, but I ent blind, lad. The stonemasons have packed up and gone, now this lot are leavin’ and takin’ everything that ent nailed down, and it don’t look like they’re coming back in a hurry.” He eyed William narrowly. “I know there’s summat wrong in the church, ’cause I seen things in there these last few days that ent Christian.”

  “Oh?” William said cautiously, remembering the prior’s order not to talk about the demon to anyone outside the abbey.

  The carpenter put his face close to William’s and whispered, “I think, whatever it is, it’s guardin’ the holy relic. It’s got wings like a gret big crow and a beak that could pin a man to a barn door, and that ent summat you see every day.”

  “No, it isn’t,” William muttered.

  “We’re ready to leave, Will,” Brother Snail called. He was over by the stables with Shadlok and Matilda.

  “Eh well, you’re better off away from here, lad,” Edgar said. “The abbey’s got a mite too many secrets for my likin’.”

  William remembered that it was the carpenter’s ancestor who had found the angel dying in the snow and had run to the abbey for help. Edgar knew Crowfield’s secrets better than almost anyone.

  Brother Matthew staggered toward the cart, carrying more mattresses. With a heavy sigh, Edgar turned to help him, and William sprinted away.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  William crossed the yard to the gatehouse where Brother Snail was sitting uncomfortably in Matilda’s saddle. “This is really not necessary,” the monk was protesting mildly. “I can walk.”

  “You will slow us down,” Shadlok said brusquely, as he guided Brother Snail’s foot into a stirrup.

  A leather bag hung from the pommel of the saddle. A feeling of evil seeped into the air around it, and William guessed that it held the bowl. He saw Matilda shiver when it touched her shoulder. One gentle brown eye rolled in panic.

  “I’ll carry the bag,” William said. It was an effort to force the words out. “It’s scaring Matilda.”

  Brother Snail untied the bag and held it out to him. “It might be for the best.”

  William took it and caught his breath. It felt as if he had plunged his arm into a pail of freezing water. He pulled his sleeve down to cover his fingers and gripped the neck of the bag tightly.

  Shadlok took Matilda’s bridle and led her toward the gate. William hauled it open and stood aside to let them pass. The horse shied away from the bag, and Shadlok had to hold tightly to stop her from bolting. Brother Snail clung to the pommel as the horse’s hooves slipped and skidded on the wet bridge timbers. For one terrible moment, William thought she was going to fall into the river, taking the monk with her. Shadlok moved quickly. He hauled her to a standstill, talking softly to her in his own tongue and running a hand gently down her nose. The wild look gradually left her eyes, and her ears pricked forward as she listened to his voice. Shadlok guided her onto the causeway and up to the trackway. William kept his distance as he followed them into the forest, not wanting to scare her again.

  When they reached the oak tree at the fork of the track, Shadlok made the hob visible again. He lifted him up to sit behind Brother Snail, and the hob settled himself comfortably on Matilda’s broad back. He grinned over his shoulder at William, clearly very pleased with this unexpected bit of comfort.

  The day warmed as the sun rose in the sky, but it was going to take more than one spring day to dry out the muddy track. William trudged along, keeping to the grass along the edges whenever he could. Up ahead, he saw Matilda struggle through the mud, her large hooves sinking deep into the oozing ruts. A short distance beyond the rag-hung bushes near the Whistling Hollow, Shadlok turned the horse’s head and led her into the undergrowth. Brother Snail and the hob ducked low to avoid a tangle of elder branches. William followed them into the woodland and to his surprise saw that Shadlok had found a dry path leading away between the trees. It narrowed to the width of a fox in places and disappeared completely into the undergrowth in others, but Shadlok’s pace never faltered, and they always picked it up again.

  The lightest of breezes swayed through the branches high overhead, and sunlight dappled the forest floor with light and shadows. New green growth unfurled beneath the trees, and here and there blackthorns were covered in clouds of white blossoms. The woods were full of the sound of birdsong, and somewhere close by, a woodpecker hammered. William breathed in the damp scent of old leaf mold and warm bark and felt a stir of anticipation. Spring was creeping through the forest and summer would be close behind. If it wasn’t for the chill from the bag numbing his arm, William would have enjoyed the walk. He hummed to himself to keep his spirits up and wondered how long it would take Shadlok to make his new flute. In an effort to keep his mind from dwelling on everything that had happened, he went through all the tunes he had learned, the fingers of his free hand moving to form the notes on an imaginary flute.

  They reached a clearing and Shadlok pulled Matilda to a halt. He helped Brother Snail down from the saddle.

  “When nature calls . . .” The monk smiled sheepishly at William. He hurried over to the ivy-smothered hulk of a dead tree and disappeared behind it. William hung the bag on a branch and stood in a patch of sunlight, rubbing his hands together to try and get the feeling back into his fingers.

  Shadlok stood in front of Matilda, stroking her head. She closed her eyes and rested her nose against his shoulder contentedly. The hob shuffled forward onto the saddle and began to plait Matilda’s mane.

  “Why hasn’t the demon come after the bowl?” William asked. The farther they traveled from Crowfield, the more he wondered why the demon had made no move to follow them.

  “What makes you think that it has not?”

  William glanced around uneasily. “Is it following us?”

  Shadlok’s long fingers continued to stroke the horse’s face, but his expression was grim. “It has been keeping pace with us since we left the abbey.”

  The hob turned in the saddle to look around the clearing with frightened eyes. William felt as if he had been doused with cold water. “Why hasn’t it attacked us?”

  “I do not know,” Shadlok said softly. “It must know where we are taking the bowl and what we intend to do, but for some reason it is not trying to stop us.” He stared at William for a few moments. �
�And that worries me.”

  Brother Snail hurried over to them. “There is something in the trees over there,” he said, keeping his voice down and pointing toward a stand of birches on the edge of the clearing.

  “It’s the demon,” William said softly. He peered between the trees but couldn’t see anything.

  “God help us,” the monk whispered, crossing himself quickly.

  William fetched the bag and waited while Shadlok helped Brother Snail back up into the saddle. They set off again, picking up the path again on the far side of the clearing and moving as fast as they could through the undergrowth.

  “Are we going the right way?” William called. It seemed to him they were traveling east, but he was sure Weforde lay more to the south.

  “This path should cross the Old Way a short distance from here. We will turn south then,” Shadlok said over his shoulder.

  William glanced around as he pushed his way through dense thickets of blackthorn and hazel. Thin branches whipped back at him and tangled in his hair. He stumbled over tree roots and for a couple of heart-stopping minutes he lost sight of the others when the path wove its way through a grove of oaks. He felt a sudden snatch of panic when he caught a glimpse of something red off to his left. He was certain it was the demon. It was moving silently through the undergrowth, shadowing him. Terror burned through him like wildfire. He tried to run, but the harder he tried, the more entangled in branches he became. Fighting down his terror, he pulled himself free from the sharp spines of a blackthorn and pushed his way through a hazel thicket. He glimpsed Matilda’s rump and tail up ahead and called out, “Wait!”