by Pat Walsh
William nodded and settled himself deeply in the straw. For now, he felt reasonably safe. The demon had gone for the time being and apart from Sir Robert’s illness and the burnt circle in the floor, had done no damage. It was not how William had feared the summoning would go. Nevertheless, as he felt sleep creep over him, he pushed away the frightening thought that the demon was simply biding its time. Sooner or later, it would be back.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
The sound of shouting and yells woke William from a deep sleep at dawn the following morning. Matilda was stamping and skittering around the stall, whinnying in panic. Her hooves narrowly missed William as he lay in the straw. He rolled out of the way and stood up.
And then he smelled it. Smoke. Fear tightened his chest. He glimpsed flickering yellow light through chinks in the timber walls of the stables. This was no dream. Something was on fire.
“Brother Walter?” William called, reaching down to feel for the hob in the straw, but the hob was not there. The smoke was getting thicker. William grabbed Matilda’s halter and, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, led her to the stable door. He lifted the heavy wooden bar and shoved, but the door didn’t move. Someone was pounding on it from outside, but the door was stuck fast.
William tried to calm the frightened mare, but Matilda wasn’t listening. She kicked out wildly, and William had to throw himself out of the way to avoid being hurt. The mare thrashed around and turned to charge wildly through the stables. Answering whinnies came from the other stalls.
William looked around for something to force the door open, and saw several hay forks and rakes hanging from pegs on the wall. He grabbed the heaviest-looking one and swung it with all his might, battering at the door. The heavy timbers held, and as the smoke caught in his throat and stung his eyes, he knew he was wasting his time. But he couldn’t leave the animals trapped inside to burn to death. He ran as fast as he could from stall to stall, releasing each horse in turn. They jostled and pushed each other in terror. There was no sign of the stable boys, but whether they had somehow managed to escape or had been overcome by the smoke, William didn’t know. A gash of light in the gable wall cut through the smoke. William waved his arms to drive the horses toward it. The light grew and, above the screams of the terrified horses, William heard the sound of axes splitting wood and saw hands reach through the gap to haul the timbers away. The horses started to stream through.
Smoke-blinded and barely able to breath, William stumbled to the last stall. The horse inside was stamping and snorting, desperate to escape. As William pulled open the door, the horse balked and kicked out, and a rear hoof caught William on the side of his head. Bright light shattered into splinters behind his eyes, and the world went dark.
William opened his eyes. His head was fogged with pain and shapes swam in and out of his vision. He groaned and tried to sit up.
“No, do not move.” It was Shadlok’s voice. Gentle fingers felt his head. “There is nothing broken, but you have a cut on your scalp.”
William tried to remember what had happened, but all he could see was a confusing muddle of smoke and terrified horses. None of it made any sense. He pushed Shadlok’s hand away and struggled to his knees. Shadlok held his arm to steady him, and William peered blearily around.
The courtyard was a nightmarish scene of flames and panic. For a moment, he wondered if this was hell. Was he dead and damned for letting his blood be used to summon the demon? He remembered that all too clearly. But if he was in hell, then so were Shadlok and most of the people from Weforde manor.
William slumped against the nearest wall. The storerooms, barn, and stonemasons’ shed were all on fire. Trails of smoke threaded up between the tiles on the roof of Sir Robert’s new hall, which probably meant the roof timbers had caught fire. Only the old manor house at his back remained untouched.
“There were two stable boys in there,” William wheezed, pointing to the stable.
“They broke out through the roof thatch,” Shadlok said. William heard the derision in the fay’s voice. “They made sure their own skins were safe.”
William couldn’t blame them for escaping any way they could. As he stared at the blazing buildings and felt the heat sear his skin, he began to shake. Memories of the night his family died in the burning mill in Iwele came flooding back. The smells and the sounds around him were bitterly familiar, and the sense of hopelessness he’d felt that night overwhelmed him again. He closed his eyes tightly against the hot tears. He had rescued the horses today, but he hadn’t been able to save his family. Life sometimes made very little sense at all.
With a wild leap of panic, he remembered who else had been in the stable.
“Where’s the hob?” he said.
“Do not worry, he is safe,” Shadlok said. “He was foraging for food in a storeroom when the fire started. I sent him to the barn in the demesne farm and told him to wait there for now.”
William felt as if a weight had been lifted from him, and he nodded.
“You saved those horses,” Shadlok said. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“Ha!” William said bitterly. That was the only thing he felt proud of. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “If we hadn’t set the demon free in the first place, I wouldn’t have needed to save them at all.”
Brother Snail washed the cut on William’s head and gave him a cup of water.
“You were very fortunate this wasn’t a great deal worse, Will,” the monk said. “A kick from a hoof could have killed you.”
The water soothed William’s raw throat. He was feeling much better, and the world around him had come back into focus. He stood up, and his legs were steady.
The buildings around the yard were just smouldering heaps of charred timber and blackened thatch. The horses were being taken to the demesne farm to be stabled in a barn. William saw Shadlok leading Matilda and a small brown mare out of the yard. The fire in the roof of the new hall had been put out by the stonemasons. They had used long ladders and a lot of courage to climb up and douse it with pails of water, passed along a line of villeins and manor servants from the well in the kitchen yard.
Word reached the manor that fires had broken out all over the village around dawn that day. Several houses had burned to the ground, and six people were dead. It didn’t take long for rumors to spread that the visitors from the abbey had brought something evil with them, rumors fueled by Master Guillaume and his stonemasons. Master Brice sent the kitchen boy to Dame Alys’s house for a second time. In the aftermath of the fire, there were burns and cuts to be tended. Brother Snail offered to help, but people were now wary of him and kept their distance.
William tried to help with the clearing up, but he, too, was met with a sullen suspicion that quickly grew into simmering resentment. Even Master Brice was offhand with him when they met in the kitchen yard. William was washing his face and hands in a bucket of water and trying to rinse the blood and ash from his hair.
“Still here?” the cook said, hands on hips. There was no invitation to sit at the table in the warm kitchen today.
“We’re leaving for Bethlehem shortly,” William said awkwardly. “Brother Snail is staying here, to tend to Sir Robert.”
The look on Master Brice’s face left William in no doubt that the cook wasn’t happy about the monk staying behind, but it wasn’t up to him who stayed and who left. And until Dame Alys could be found, Brother Snail was needed at Sir Robert’s bedside. Even so, Master Brice disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a plate of bread and cheese and a cup of small beer. “Bring the plate and cup back when you’ve finished with them,” he said gruffly. He nodded to a bench beside the door. “You can leave them there.”
William carried his meal into Sir Robert’s garden and sat beneath an arbor of rosebushes to eat it. The chilly breeze carried the smell of burnt timber, and the turf seat was dusted with ash. Bits of charred thatch lay scattered over t
he gravel path and flower beds. His throat was still sore from the smoke and ash he’d breathed in, and he ate the bread and cheese slowly, without tasting it. His thoughts were lost in memories of his home and family, and he was filled with an aching loneliness.
Noticing something tucked into his belt, William remembered the whistle the hob had found. He stared at it for a moment, then lifted it to his lips and blew a couple of notes, but his heart wasn’t in it. For the first time in months, he felt as if the music had gone from inside him. He put the flute on the turf seat and gazed off into the distance without seeing anything. The future seemed more than usually bleak this morning. The stonemasons were right to blame the people from the abbey for what had happened here, he thought dejectedly. Six villagers had died because they had brought the cursed bowl and the demon to the village.
William closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There was nothing to be gained from feeling sorry for himself, he decided. He rarely did wallow in pity for his lot, and didn’t plan to start now. What was done, was done, and they would just have to try and put things right somehow.
He got to his feet and slowly wandered along the gravel path to the middle of the garden. He stood by the mulberry tree, shivering in the cold breeze and rubbing his arms to try and warm himself. He stared up at the sky and thought about the angel he had helped Shadlok and Jacobus Bone dig out of its grave in the Whistling Hollow last winter. He remembered the look of compassion in its dark eyes. Surely it wouldn’t just stand by while so many innocent people were made to suffer?
“You came to fight the demon once before,” William whispered in desperation, “can’t you do so again? We need you. We can’t defeat it by ourselves; it’s just too strong.”
William held his breath and looked around the silent garden. He had the strangest feeling that somebody was there, listening to him. “Please help us,” he added softly.
Something small and white floated down on the breeze and settled on the gravel by William’s foot. He leaned down and picked it up. It was a feather, no longer than his finger, with a perfect, milky sheen. He looked around, but there were no birds in the garden and nowhere the feather could have come from. Was this a sign that the angel had heard him? he wondered, hardly daring to believe it. Hope sparked into life. The angel hadn’t turned its back on them, after all, he was sure of it. With great care, he tucked the feather into his belt. He looked up at the sky and smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
William took his empty cup and plate back to the kitchen and left it on the bench as Master Brice had told him to. Brother Snail was by the well, struggling to haul up a bucket of water. William hurried to help him.
“How is your head now, Will?” The monk asked.
“Sore, but I’ll live,” William said with a quick smile. He emptied the water into a smaller pail. “I’ll carry this up to Sir Robert’s chambers for you.”
“That’s very good of you,” the monk said with a smile.
William stood the pail on the floor by the door of Sir Robert’s bed chamber. The lord of the manor lay amongst the heaped bedcovers in the darkened room, so still and pale he might have been dead.
“Will he recover?” William asked.
“Sir Robert is in God’s hands now,” the monk said gently. William left the house and made his way to the demesne farm to find Shadlok. Yesterday’s fine spring weather had gone, and there was a spit of rain in the breeze. They needed to set out for Bethlehem before it settled in for the day. Unfriendly eyes watched as he passed by. Someone threw a stone at him. It caught him on the back and he turned quickly, just in time to see two people dart out of sight behind a shed.
William stood by the farm gate for a few moments and stared out across the village. He was shocked by the extent of the destruction. Apart from the burnt-out houses, other buildings had lost their thatch, and some of the crofts looked as if a herd of cows had trampled through them. It was Wednesday, but there was no market on the green today. Weforde was unnaturally quiet and people stood around in groups, taking stock of the damage to their homes and their tofts and crofts. Even the children were subdued and kept close to their parents.
The demon had been busy, William thought in dismay. But where had it gone now?
He caught sight of Dame Alys as she walked along the lane toward the green. Her white crow flew ahead of her. She looked over her shoulder, and when she saw William, she stopped and half-turned toward him. He saw that she was carrying a sack. Something inside it wriggled and thrashed furiously. William was filled with cold loathing. The sack, he was sure, held some unfortunate animal whose blood was about to be spilled as another offering to the demon. There was nothing he could do about it. Even if he went after her and somehow managed to free the animal, there would be others. He couldn’t be there to free them all.
Dame Alys turned and continued on her way, walking quickly and with a sense of purpose at odds with the apathy of the dejected villagers.
William trudged back through the muddy farmyard. He saw Shadlok leading the last of the horses from Sir Robert’s stables toward a barn. He broke into a run and caught up with the fay by the barn door.
“Where’s the hob?” William asked.
Shadlok nodded toward the far end of the barn. “With Matilda.”
“I’ll fetch him and we can be on our way to the grange farm.”
The barn was full of restless horses and ponies, their halters tied to whatever was available. Matilda was in the farthest corner of the building, beneath the hayloft. She smelled the smoke on William and rolled her eyes uneasily.
“There, Tildy, you’re safe now,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke her neck. She shied away from him and scraped at the floor with a hoof. He stepped back and looked around for the hob.
“Brother Walter, we’re leaving for Bethlehem now.”
There was no reply.
“Brother Walter?”
Matilda whickered and jerked at the rope halter. William knew he was upsetting her, and it was clear the hob wasn’t there anyway, so he hurried back to Shadlok.
“The hob’s gone,” he said.
Shadlok frowned at him. “I told him to wait with the mare.”
“Well, he’s not there now.” A sudden, appalling thought occurred to him: What did Dame Alys have in that sack?
“Oh, no! Oh, please, no,” he breathed. He looked at the fay in horror. “I think I know where he is. Dame Alys has taken him.”
“You are sure?”
“I saw her a few minutes ago, carrying a sack. There was something alive inside it, and I know it was the hob.”
Shadlok stared at him for a few moments, eyes narrowed, and then he nodded. “Follow me.”
William opened his mouth to ask where they were going, but Shadlok sprinted away and he had to run as fast as he could to keep up with him. He quickly realized they were heading for Dame Alys’s hut.
People stared at them as they raced through the village. William barely noticed. His breath came in great harsh gasps and his legs felt as if they would collapse beneath him, but he forced himself to keep going, running along the grassy lanes and muddy pathways between the crofts after Shadlok. The fay ran swiftly, his white hair streaming out like a banner behind him. He was standing by the open doorway of the hut when William, breathless and sweating, reached Dame Alys’s croft several minutes later.
“They are not here,” Shadlok said.
William pushed past him and went into the hut. It was dark and silent, and the hearth was cold. He ran his hands through his hair in despair. Where had she taken the hob? What did she mean to do to him? He shied away from the answer that slid into his mind.
The creak of floorboards made William start. The sound had come from the loft.
“Who’s there?” he called, leaning on the ladder and peering up at the dark square opening. There was a soft shuffling overhead and a face appeared.
At first glance he thought it was t
he hob. Then he saw the straggling red fur and graying muzzle. It was the Old Red Man, Dame Alys’s stub-tailed hob.
“Where is she?” William demanded. “Where has she taken my hob?”
There was a soft footfall behind him, and William glanced around. Shadlok came to stand beside him.
“Answer him,” the fay said, “and make sure it is the truth.”
The Old Red Man crept slowly down the ladder and stood in front of them, his dull gold eyes watching them warily.
“Old Woman has taken him to the forest,” he said in a voice dusty with disuse.
William and Shadlok glanced at each other.
“What does she want with him?” William asked.
The Old Red Man didn’t answer. Shadlok leaned forward. The hob cowered under the icy blue stare.
“Whereabouts in the forest has she taken him?”
“I will take you to her,” the Old Red Man said. He glanced away and licked his lips. He looked, William thought suspiciously, like a creature with secrets to keep.
Shadlok stood aside. He glanced meaningfully at the door, and the hob took the hint. He scuttled past William and the fay and out of the hut.
The Old Red Man led them past the mill and along a path to the West Field. The path kept to the drier ground along the ridges of the field headlands until it reached the track to Foxwist. When they reached the edge of the forest, Shadlok reached down and grabbed the hob’s arm. The creature’s eyes bulged in fright.
“If you try and escape from us, you will regret it. No tricks. Just take us to the woman. Do you understand?”
The Old Red Man nodded so hard his teeth rattled. Shadlok let go of him.
“Good. Now, move.”
William grew more uneasy with each passing minute. They only had the Old Red Man’s word for it that Dame Alys was in the forest at all. For all they knew, the creature could be leading them into a trap. He had been suspiciously quick to offer to show them where the woman had gone. But if there was even the faintest chance that he could help them to find the hob, then they had to take it. William felt sick with worry when he thought of what the woman might have done to Brother Walter. Had she harmed him? Was he already dead?
