The Crowfield Curse Read online

  The track skirted the abbey’s hazel coppice and reached a bank topped by a wattle fence and stretches of thorn hedging. It had once enclosed the abbey’s deer park, a remnant of more prosperous days, but there were no deer there now. Over the years the hedge had thinned to a straggle and the fence had fallen in places and lay rotting under the leaf litter. Now the park was only used to provide pannage for the abbey pigs, and the pigs of Crowfield’s two tenant farmers.

  The ditch was shallow and easily crossed. William climbed the bank, herding the pigs ahead of him. The undergrowth was sparse here. There were wide clearings around ancient oaks and stands of birch trees, and open sweeps of bracken. This was the heart of Foxwist, a place of deep green shadows in summer and mist and silence in winter. Local people told stories of strange creatures that haunted the glades on moonlit nights, of fays that danced between the trees. As William walked along, the stories came back to him and he wished that he was safely back inside the walls of the abbey.

  The swineherd’s hut stood on a low ridge overlooking a stream. Its wattle and timber walls leaned to one side and had been propped up with a couple of huge oak branches. The thatch was green with moss, and thorny whips of bramble twisted through it. In spite of its ramshackle air, the hut was weatherproof. Firewood was stacked against one wall beneath the overhang of thatch. A small wooden pail hung from a nail by the door.

  William dropped his bag on the ground and set off down to the stream to fetch water. The pigs were already there, drinking. Mary Magdalene would not stray far from the hut, but he knew he would have to keep an eye on the other two. He rubbed his arms to warm himself as he stood on the stream bank and looked around. He no longer felt he was being watched, but he knew he would be foolish to believe that whoever it was had gone for good. They would be back sooner or later, of that he was sure.

  William carried the pail back to the hut. He pushed open the door and peered inside. It was just as he had left it the last time he had stayed here. The bed, a frame of planks piled with dried straw and bracken, stood against the end wall. William poked through the bedding with the end of the pig-stick, to make sure there were no small creatures settled there for the winter, then unrolled his blankets and spread them out.

  The hut was simply furnished with a stool, a small stone-lined fire pit, and a lantern hanging from an iron hook on the wall. An old iron cooking pot, black with soot but scrubbed clean inside, stood on a flat stone by the fire pit, and a couvre-feu lay nearby.

  William took the bundle Brother Snail had given him from inside his jacket and laid it on the stool. He gathered up the nails and went outside to look for something to use as a hammer. He found a stone by the stream and used it to drive the nails into the wood around the door, then tucked the last nail inside the rolled-up cuff of his jacket sleeve.

  The wind had shifted around to the north and the day was growing noticeably colder. The sky between the branches of the oaks was a clear pale blue, and the low winter sun threw long shadows across the clearing. It was going to be a bitterly cold night.

  William looked around for somewhere to put the rowan twig, and decided he wanted to keep it close. He put it under his blanket at the head of the bed. He slipped the four-leafed clover, still inside its fold of parchment, into his other jacket cuff. He hoped it would be enough to protect him from whatever might walk the woods after dark.

  William went to fetch some firewood. The pigs were nosing through a drift of oak leaves nearby, searching for acorns, grunting and throwing leaves around, and generally enjoying themselves. William smiled as he stopped for a moment to watch them.

  He made a small rick of branches in the fire pit and opened the tinderbox he had brought with him. He took out the little strip of steel and the flint and poked a charred scrap of linen into place over bits of dried toadstool and flax. He had done this so many times before, but he still loved the sight of sparks dancing off the steel and touching the cloth, and the tiny curl of smoke as the sparks caught and fire was born.

  Carefully, William blew on the tinder to coax the small flame to grow. He set fire to the pile of dry bark kindling in the fire pit, then quickly patted out the fire in the tinderbox. He sat back with a satisfied smile as the flames grew and licked the branches. For now, he was content.

  Mary Magdalene came to the hut doorway and stood watching the fire.

  “You’re welcome to join me,” William said, grinning at her.

  As if she understood his words, the pig came into the hut and flopped down by the fire pit. William laughed and prodded her with his foot.

  “Don’t get too comfortable. We have to go and find the other two soon, before they take it into their heads to run away.”

  Mary Magdalene closed her eyes and gave a contented grunt. For now, old age and a love of comfort won out over the lure of acorns.

  The fire settled and William put the couvre-feu in place. The pig did not stir as he left the hut, so he closed the door quietly behind him and left her to sleep.

  A gelid breeze ruffled his hair and chilled his cheeks. He pulled up his hood and blew into his cupped hands to try to warm them as he looked around for the pigs. They were foraging beneath an oak tree on the far side of the stream. William herded them back toward the hut. By the first shadow-fall of dusk, the two pigs were safely penned for the night.

  William piled on the floor for Mary Magdalene what few acorns he had managed to find in the woods earlier that day, along with several small, wrinkled apples. When she had finished her meal, he led her out to the pen. She walked wearily into the shelter and settled down in the pile of bracken with her two companions.

  William returned to the hut. It was warm and smelled of pig. He sat on the floor by the fire to eat his supper of bread, cheese, and water. Somewhere close by, an owl hooted, a breathy hoo-hoo-ooo that emphasized the silence around it. William felt a small stirring of unease. The pigs had kept him busy that afternoon and he’d had little time to worry. But now, alone in the hut in the dark woods, he felt vulnerable. The hut walls did not seem like much protection against whatever might be outside.

  William built up the fire. He tried to think of cheerful things: summer days in Iwele, swimming in the river with the other village children; the Michaelmas goose fair on the green; working in the mill beside his father and brother; and later, sitting by the fire listening to his mother telling stories, tales rich with magic and color, like the best of dreams. He could remember her voice and the way her eyes almost closed when she laughed, and how she would sing sometimes, when she thought nobody could hear her. His memories were as precious as a purseful of silver pennies.

  William yawned and stretched his arms. The smoky warmth was making him sleepy. He covered the fire and lay down on the bed. He wrapped himself in one of the blankets and wriggled around to get comfortable on the pile of bracken and straw.

  He was drifting on the edge of sleep, his body tired and relaxed, when he became aware of a rustling in the roof thatch. He opened his eyes and listened. The wind, maybe? The rustling became louder. Bits of straw showered down between the rafters and onto his face.

  Fully awake now, William sat up, spitting straw and thatch out of his mouth. More scattered over him. It was not the wind, or a rat in the thatch. It was too big for that.

  Something was trying to get into the hut.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  William grabbed the rowan twig and clambered out of bed, banging his shin on the wooden frame. He backed away until he reached the hut door, kicking aside the couvre-feu as he stumbled over the fire pit. He held the twig out in front of him. It was a small, dark shape against the glow of the embers in the pit. He must have been stupid to believe that a bit of dead wood could do anything to protect him against fays.

  He had two choices: run into the dark wood and hide, or stay in the hut and fend off whatever it was with the rowan twig.

  As choices went, William thought grimly, one was as bad as the other.

  “O
uf!” Something fell onto the bed in a rush of thatch. William’s heart seemed to leap out of his chest. He brandished the twig like a sword while desperately scrabbling behind him for the door latch.

  “Stay back,” he said, his voice shaking. “I warn you, this is rowan and it will hurt you.” I hope, he added silently.

  “I know that,” a familiar voice said crossly, “but I am not the enemy.”

  William peered into the shadows. “Brother Walter?” he asked in astonishment.

  The hob crawled to the edge of the bed and sat there, a small, disheveled figure in the firelight, picking bits of thatch out of his fur.

  “What are you doing here?” William stepped over the fire pit and crouched down in front of him. “And how did you know where to find me?”

  “It was not difficult. Pig smell is easy to track,” the hob said, wrinkling his nose. “I came to warn you that Shadlok followed you from the abbey today. I lost him in the place of the cut trees.”

  “The hazel coppice,” William said, nodding. “Are you sure he was coming after me? He might just have been looking for food. Master Bone said they would see to their own needs.”

  The hob shook his head. “Shadlok has no need for food. Not mortal food. Nor has Master Bone. He was following you.”

  “He hasn’t come near the hut,” William said, but then he thought, How would I know if he had? He might be out there now, listening at the door. “Master Bone was asking questions about the angel earlier today. I told him I knew nothing about it, but I don’t think either of them believed me. Perhaps Shadlok wants to get me on my own and force me to tell him what I know.”

  The hob looked thoughtful as he took this in. “Most curious. The Dark King kills the nangel, Shadlok and Bone are age-old enemies of the king, and Bone wants to find out more about the nangel.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “It goes round and round, all joined together.”

  “But there are pieces missing,” William said, “because it still doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  He added some branches to the fire. He was glad to see the hob and was touched that Brother Walter had cared enough about him to come to the hut and warn him about Shadlok.

  “I hammered nails around the door,” William said. “They are not going to keep Shadlok out, are they?” He glanced up at the roof. Stars showed through the gap in the thatch.

  The hob shook his head. “No. His magic is too strong.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  The hob settled himself by the fire pit. He wrapped his arms and tail tightly around his body. “We wait and see what happens.”

  For a while, William put his ear to the door and listened for any slight noise outside the hut, but nothing disturbed the silence. At last tiredness overtook him and he yawned loudly.

  “You go to sleep,” the hob said. “I will keep watch.”

  William opened his mouth to argue, but the hob waved an impatient paw at him. “There is no sense in both of us staying awake.”

  “Very well,” William said, yawning again. “But wake me if you need me.”

  He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, and within moments he was asleep.

  When he woke again, it felt as if only minutes had passed, but the gap in the thatch now showed a patch of pale blue sky. He rolled onto his back and stretched sleepily.

  The hob was adding wood to the fire and the last of yesterday’s bread was warming on a stone on the edge of the pit. He was humming softly to himself and his tufted ears twitched as he listened to the early morning birdsong.

  “Was it a quiet night?” William asked, sitting up and pushing aside the blanket covering him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed frame.

  “I am not sure . . .” The hob frowned and glanced at the door. “There was something out there for a while. It passed the hut several times but did not pause. I don’t think it could see the hut.”

  William smiled uncertainly. “What do you mean? How could anyone miss it? It was a clear night and the moon is coming up to full.”

  “Somebody hid it.”

  William stared down at the hob, baffled. “How?”

  “By deceiving the eyes with deep fay magic. Hiding it in plain sight by casting a glamour over it. Disguising it as a tree, maybe, or a rock.”

  “Who would do that? And why?”

  The hob shrugged a shoulder. “I do not know, but I sensed a very old and powerful magic at work. It seems we have a friend out there.”

  William opened the door and looked out. A thin mist shimmered between the oaks in the early morning light. Somewhere nearby a robin sang. The pigs grunted and rustled in their shelter, impatient to be let out to forage. A fox stood on the far side of the stream, watching him. William started to turn away, then paused. There was something about the animal’s eyes . . .

  “Brother Walter?” William called softly, not taking his eyes from the fox. “Come here, quickly.”

  “What is it?” the hob asked.

  “Over there. The fox,” he murmured.

  He heard the hob draw a sharp breath and glanced down at him. The hob’s eyes were narrowed as he stared at the animal and the fur along his spine bristled.

  “It’s not really a fox, is it?” William said, already knowing the answer.

  The hob did not reply. William could sense the tension in the creature’s body and wondered if they were in danger.

  He felt inside the cuff of his jacket for the four-leafed clover. What had Brother Snail told him? It would let him see through fay glamour, to see a fay creature in its true form. But the clover had gone. It must have fallen out during the night.

  The fox walked forward. It hesitated by the water’s edge for a moment, then crossed the stream, stepping quickly and seeming to barely touch the water. It walked up the slope toward the hut. William’s first instinct was to go back inside and bar the door, but the hob stood his ground, so William did not move.

  The fox stopped a few paces away. Close enough that William could see its eyes were not the usual golden brown of a fox’s eyes, but a pale winter blue. In that moment he knew who the animal really was.

  The air around the fox shimmered like a heat haze rising from warm stone. Afterward William could not remember if he had seen the animal’s body actually change shape and grow, but one moment he was staring at a fox, and the next he was looking into the strange, cold eyes of the fay Shadlok.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  You know what I am?” Shadlok asked, looking at William. The fay was armed: A sword and long-bladed knife hung from his belt, and there was a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back.

  William nodded. He glanced down at the hob. “He told me. You’re a Seelie fay, from the court of Queen Yarael.”

  A fleeting look of pain crossed the fay’s scarred face. “That was a long time ago.”

  “What do you want with me?” William asked. “You followed me here, so you must want something.”

  “You know full well what I want.”

  The words, spoken softly, sent a chill through William’s chest.

  “You want me to help you find the hill in the drawings. I already told you, I don’t know where it is.”

  “Lie to me and it will be the last thing you do,” Shadlok said. “You know about the angel.” It was not a question.

  William swallowed a couple of times, his throat suddenly dry and tight, but he lifted his chin and looked the fay in the eye. Inside, he was shaking with fear, but outside, he tried to appear calm. “A little,” he admitted.

  “At last, we are getting somewhere,” Shadlok said. He glanced down at the small disheveled figure of the hob. There were still bits of thatch in the creature’s fur. “Do you trust this mortal?”

  “He saved my life.” The hob was visibly trembling.

  “But do you trust him?”

  The hob nodded. William smiled briefly, oddly touched by this.

  Shadlok suddenly stiffened and for a moment he seemed to
be listening to something that William could not hear. He turned quickly and stared into the woodland, his pale eyes wide and his expression sharp and alert.

  “Into the hut,” he ordered. “Now.”

  William did not argue. The hob limped ahead of him but hesitated for a moment by the doorway, as if reluctant to go through. He took a deep breath and hunched his shoulders up to his ears. He almost threw himself through the doorway and scuttled over to crouch down in a corner of the room.

  William stood by the fire pit and watched as Shadlok closed and barred the hut door. There was a tightness around his mouth, and William noticed he flinched when he touched the door. It seemed the iron nails were doing their work.

  William opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but the fay held up a hand to silence him.

  Shadlok closed his eyes. His lips moved as if he were speaking, but he made no sound. He raised his hands, palms out toward the door, and stood like that for the next few minutes.

  William looked down at the hob with a questioning frown, but the hob’s full attention was on Shadlok. There was a look of terror on the creature’s face, but William did not know if it was because of the fay’s strange behavior, or if something else had frightened him.

  The atmosphere in the hut began to change. The smoky air freshened and grew colder. William felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation where it touched his bare skin.

  At last, Shadlok lowered his arms and the tension left his body. He turned to look at William.

  “You are not safe in these woods. You should go back to the abbey.”

  “I can’t,” William said. “I was told to bring the pigs here to forage for acorns. The prior will be angry if I disobey him and return before he sends for me.”

  The fay’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “You would prefer a slow and painful death to a few hard words from your prior?”