The Crowfield Demon Page 4

  “Maggots and black fur,” the hob said softly, poking the contents of William’s stomach with a long stick where they lay beneath the tree. “Not bread at all.”

  William stared at the mess at his feet in revulsion. Then he began to retch again.

  A short while later, William sat and shivered by the fire. Brother Snail gave him an infusion of crushed fennel seeds in warm water to sooth his stomach.

  “So,” Shadlok said softly, his eyes wide and gleaming with anger, “the king has come back. I am just surprised he has waited this long.”

  Brother Snail went a shade or two paler. “You think this boy Robin was the Dark King in disguise?”

  Shadlok nodded. “He covered his true appearance with glamour and tricked William into seeing and tasting bread, when in truth he was eating . . .”

  “Don’t say it, please,” William interrupted quickly, putting a hand to his mouth. He couldn’t bear to think about what he’d eaten. His stomach rumbled queasily.

  The hob, sitting across the hearth from William, said, “I wonder why he didn’t just kill you.”

  “He made a fair attempt at it,” William muttered.

  “No, he only meant to frighten you,” Shadlok said.

  “Well, he succeeded.”

  Shadlok gazed into the fire. The flames were reflected in the pale depths of his eyes. “Comnath enjoys the hunt more than the kill. Like a cat with a bird, he plays with his prey and finds new and more unpleasant ways to torture it.” He looked from William to the monk and let his gaze linger on the hob for a moment. The harsh lines of his face softened slightly. “But it is me he wants to destroy. He will hurt me in whatever way he can, and that includes coming after those close to me. None of you are safe now. You least of all” — his gaze shifted back to William — “because you and I are bound together by his curse, and because you dug the angel from its grave and helped Bone to die. He will make you pay for that.”

  William remembered the first time he had seen the king, in the Hollow last winter, with his unnaturally green eyes and dark red hair, startling against the pallor of his skin. As the boy Robin, the king had been almost unrecognizable. Almost, but not quite: The king could not fully disguise his eyes. If William had been paying closer attention, those green eyes would have given him away much sooner. I should have trusted my instincts, William thought in frustration. I knew there was something not quite right about him.

  “Isn’t there any way to stop him?” William asked. “We have to fight back.”

  “Oh, we will fight him, human, make no mistake about that,” Shadlok said softly, “but it will be two of us against the whole of the Unseelie Court, and I do not care for our chances.”

  “Three of us,” the hob said, patting his chest.

  A rare smile lit Shadlok’s face. “Your bravery does you honor.”

  The hob looked delighted by the fay’s praise. His face creased in a wide grin, which showed two rows of sharp teeth.

  “Make that four,” Brother Snail said.

  William looked at him and felt a rush of affection. The monk might have the heart of a bear, but his thin body with its twisted spine and humped back was frail. He would be of no use in what was to come, and they all knew it. And what chance would the hob stand against one of the Dark King’s fay warriors?

  The truth was, William and Shadlok stood alone in this fight.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  William was chopping logs in the woodshed early on Thursday morning when someone banged on the abbey gate.

  “Master Guillaume to see the prior,” a voice called.

  William hauled open the gate and stood aside. The mason dismounted and lifted down a large leather bag.

  “We meet again, boy,” the mason said. He handed the bag to William. “Take this, and then let your prior know I’m here.”

  The bag was heavy and clanked as whatever was inside it shifted. William got a good grip on the handles and said, “I think Prior Ardo is in the church. I’ll take you to him.”

  Master Guillaume tied the pony’s reins to the wattle fence of the pigpen. Mary Magdalene, the abbey’s elderly sow, came over to inspect the animal, grunting as she lifted her snout to sniff the pony. William leaned over the fence to give her ear a quick scratch. She grunted again and settled herself in the muddy wallow by her trough. The pony found a patch of grass and began to graze.

  It had stopped raining, and the sky was a clear light blue. The mud in the yard was starting to dry out in the breeze. The kitchen door was propped open with a stone, and William could hear Brother Martin banging around inside.

  “Get out of here before I wring yer scrawny necks!” the monk yelled. “Ye’ll be in the pot feathers an’ all if I catch ye in here again, ye little buggers.” There was a loud crash, a squawk, and a flurry of hens flapped out through the kitchen doorway and scattered across the yard.

  William grinned at Master Guillaume’s look of surprise. “That’s the cook, Brother Martin. We’ll go the long way round to the church. It’s best to keep out of his way when he’s cooking.”

  William took the stonemason through the vegetable garden to the dark arch of the passageway beside the chapter house that led to the cloister.

  Brother Mark was sitting at his desk overlooking the cloister garth, his head bowed over a sheet of parchment and a goose quill pen in his hand as he copied a prayer from a Book of Hours beside him. He glanced up when William and Master Guillaume emerged from the passageway.

  “Master Guillaume is here to see Prior Ardo,” William said, nodding to the mason.

  “The prior is in the church,” the monk said, putting down his pen and rubbing his hands together to ease his cramped, ink-stained fingers. “He will be glad to see you. The crack in the chancel wall is worse this morning.”

  After the bright, mild day outside, the light in the church was dim and the building was chilly. Prior Ardo, Brother Gabriel, and Brother Snail were standing outside St. Christopher’s chapel in the north transept.

  “It can’t be rain damage,” Brother Gabriel was saying insistently, “because only the saint’s face has been affected.”

  “I can see that for myself,” the prior said sharply, “but what else can it be, if not the damp seeping through the wall?”

  “In just that one small patch?” Brother Gabriel said. His plump cheeks were pink, and there was a shrill note in his voice. “I think it might be a sign.”

  The prior turned to frown down at the monk. “A sign of what, exactly?”

  “I don’t know,” Brother Gabriel said, sounding flustered, “but I don’t think it’s anything good.”

  Brother Snail noticed William and the stone-mason and touched the prior’s arm.

  “This is Master Guillaume,” William said, nodding to the mason.

  “Perhaps we can have your opinion on the matter,” Prior Ardo said, gesturing to the chapel entrance, inviting Master Guillaume to come and look.

  William glanced at Brother Snail and saw the worried look in his eyes. What now? he wondered as he peered over the stonemason’s shoulder. He had never been inside the chapel before and stared around in wonder at walls painted with fish beneath little blue waves, and trees and flowers on grassy riverbanks. Above the altar, there was a painting of St. Christopher carrying the infant Jesus on his shoulder. The child was plump and smiling, and a halo circled his head. William barely glanced at him but stared up at the saint instead. Where St. Christopher’s face should have been was a patch of bare stone. The plaster had fallen away from the wall in a neat circle and lay in a small heap on the altar.

  “Well?” the prior asked. “Is the wall damp?”

  The mason stepped into the chapel and slowly walked around, running his hands over the walls, peering up at the ceiling and down at the floor. “It’s damp, right enough. And the floor. Even so, it’s strange that the plaster’s come away like that, just the saint’s face and nothing else. Very strange,” he said with a puzzled frown. He looked at
the prior. “Sir Robert told me there is a crack in the chancel wall. Can I see it?”

  “This way,” the prior said, brushing past William without seeming to notice him. Brother Gabriel and the mason followed him, but Brother Snail stayed where he was, twisting sideways to look up at the damaged wall painting.

  “What do the words say?” William asked, pointing to a ribbon of letters above the saint’s head.

  “Cristofori faciem die quacunque tueris,” Brother Snail read slowly. “Illa nempe die morte mala non morieris. It means that whoever looks on the face of St. Christopher shall not that day die an evil death.”

  “He doesn’t have a face,” William said uneasily.

  “No,” the monk agreed, “he doesn’t.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  William glanced around. There was an atmosphere in the gloomy little chapel he did not like. He looked up at the painted ceiling. Two angels flew between stars and a large full moon. One was clothed in white and had sweeping feathered wings. It had clearly been painted by the same person who had decorated the walls of the chapel, but the other angel was different. It was crudely painted and looked as if it had been added by a different hand. Its robes and wings were red, and it had the head of a crow and carried a sword. William found it deeply disturbing. There was something in the back of his mind, a vague feeling that he had seen something like this before, but it was gone before he could grasp it. He remembered Shadlok’s reluctance to go near the church and his certainty that something evil lurked there. Shadlok was right, he thought. The chapel might have been a holy place once, when St. Christopher watched over it, but it wasn’t now. The saint was blind, and something else inhabited the chapel. They were not welcome here.

  Brother Snail put a hand on William’s arm. “Come away, Will. This is not a good place, not anymore.”

  William nodded and followed the monk out of the chapel.

  Master Guillaume stood by one of the massive stone pillars supporting the tower. He peered up as he slowly circled the pillar, then looked down at the floor.

  “This isn’t good,” he said, leaning down to pick up something. William and the monks crowded around to see what he had found.

  “The pier is showing signs of subsidence.” The mason held a sharp-edged piece of stone in the palm of his hand. Mortar dust and bits of stone lay scattered over the floor around his feet. Seeing four blank faces, he added, “The ground on the north side of the church is waterlogged. Half of the building is just sitting on wet mud, more or less, which is why the wall is starting to crack. I need to take a look up in the tower.” He looked at William. “I have two wax candles and a tinderbox in my bag. Fetch them, and then you’re coming up the tower with me.”

  It took a minute or so to strike a spark onto the tinder and coax a flame, but at last the candles were lit. William followed the monks and the mason to a small door set into the wall in a corner of the north transept. A spiral of steps curved up through the thickness of the wall. Light from William’s candle leaped ahead of him, chasing the shadows. The stair treads were narrow, and it was difficult to get a safe foothold. William’s legs burned with the effort of climbing. He could hear the mason behind him, huffing as he squeezed his stocky frame around the tightly twisting spiral.

  William finally reached a tiny landing. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the narrow triforium gallery, where a row of arched openings looked down onto the floor of the church and the wooden roof of St. Christopher’s chapel. A couple of startled sparrows darted out of a dark corner and sped away across the church, chirping in alarm.

  The door of the ringing room was tucked in beside the column on the northwest corner of the tower. William pushed it open and stepped inside. The bell ropes hung down through holes in the ceiling and were looped back behind an iron bracket. A ladder led up to the bell chamber through a square opening in a corner of the room.

  Master Guillaume walked around the room, examining the walls. From time to time he said a thoughtful “Hmm.”

  William waited by the foot of the ladder, shielding his candle flame with a cupped hand against the drafts funneling down from the bell chamber.

  “Are the walls all right?” he asked.

  The mason glanced at him. “No. The mortar is loose over there.” He nodded to the northeast pier. “The floorboards are rotting in that corner, too.”

  William felt his stomach clench with fear. Noticing the look on his face, the mason grinned, showing two rows of brown teeth.

  “Scared, boy?”

  William stared at the mason and said nothing.

  “It’s a long way down,” the mason added, his eyes narrowing slyly. He jumped up and down a couple of times and the floorboards shook. William’s heart missed a beat. For one awful moment, he wondered if this wasn’t the mason, but the Dark King in disguise. They seemed to share the same streak of casual cruelty.

  “I’m only having a bit of fun with you, boy. The floor is sound enough for now,” the mason said, holding up his candle to inspect the upper walls.

  William relaxed a little.

  “These walls, now, they’re another matter altogether. Plaster’s coming away in handfuls, and the mortar is crumbling. Up the ladder with you, and let’s take a look at the bell chamber. Don’t touch anything and stand quite still when you get up there.”

  William didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed the ladder and stood by the opening in the floor, almost too afraid to breathe. Master Guillaume followed a few moments later and moved cautiously around the chamber, candle held aloft.

  The chamber was at the top of the tower. The huge timbers of the bell frame took up most of the space inside it. Five large bells were fixed to the crossbeams. Two arched windows were set into each wall and covered with louvered shutters, to allow the sound of the bells to roll out across the countryside. Several of the shutters were broken, though, and rainwater had come through the windows, soaking the frame and staining the floor. Master Guillaume frowned down at a puddle. “Those shutters should have been mended long ago.”

  William snorted. The monks had barely enough money for the most essential repairs, so a few broken shutters were not high on the list of things to be done. And quite how they were going to find the money to repair the chancel wall, and possibly the walls of the tower, was anybody’s guess.

  The mason turned to stare at him. “Don’t underestimate the damage rain can do, boy.” He patted a beam. “This, for example, should be taking the weight of the bells on this side of the frame, but it’s rotted away until it’s barely even touching the wall any longer.”

  “Could the bells fall?” William asked anxiously.

  “They could, and to tell you God’s honest truth, I don’t know why they haven’t already.”

  The mason edged around and between the frame timbers, to peer into dark corners. He emerged a short while later, covered in cobwebs and bits of dried bird droppings. His face was pale, and his lips clamped firmly together. He looked shaken.

  “What?” William asked nervously.

  “I think,” the mason said evenly, “we should get down from here now. Careful on the ladder, boy, and don’t hurry.”

  “Why? What have you found?” William’s voice was edged with fear.

  “Enough to tell me this whole bloody tower could come down at any moment. And that it probably will.”

  Every muscle in William’s body hurt as he forced himself not to clamber wildly down the ladder and make a run for the stairs.

  “Slowly, slowly,” the mason said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  They reached the ringing room and hurried along the triforium gallery to the stairs. Minutes later they were in the transept, where the monks were waiting for them. The mason pinched out the candle flame between his thumb and forefinger and handed his candle to William. “Put them back in my bag, boy.”

  “Well?” the prior said. “What did you find?”

  The mason slapped the dust and cobwebs from
his clothes. “The tower is in a dangerous state. It’s going to come down, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

  “What, nothing?” the prior gasped. “Nothing at all? The whole tower?”

  “Not a damn, bloody thing, begging your pardon, Prior. Though” — the mason hesitated and glanced upward — “it’s not the waterlogged ground that’s doing the worst of the damage.”

  “Then what is it?” the prior asked in surprise.

  There was an odd look on the mason’s face. “I don’t rightly know,” he said slowly. “If I were a more fanciful man, I’d say something’s been scratching the mortar out from between the stones.”

  A stunned silence met the mason’s words. William peered uneasily up at the roof above the crossing. He could almost hear the sound of nails on stone, scraping and scratching.

  The prior was the first to speak. “That’s ridiculous!” he snapped.

  The mason shrugged, but an angry flush rose to his cheeks. “Just saying what I saw. The mortar’s been gouged from between the stones in the bell chamber, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s gone in a few more places, too. It won’t take much to topple the tower, Prior.”

  “How could such a thing happen?” Brother Gabriel asked in panic. “Was it rats?”

  The prior gave Brother Gabriel a withering look.

  The mason’s face was grim. “If it was, Brother, then they were armed with chisels.”

  “We must get the bells down as soon as possible,” the prior said.

  The mason shook his head. “It’s too late for that. Move whatever you can carry out of the church and then keep everyone out of the building.”

  “We’ve already taken most of the smaller statues from their niches and put them in the north alley,” the prior said. “We’ll need help to move the heavier ones.”

  The stonemason shook his head. “I wouldn’t want any of my men working in this building, Prior. You might just have to leave the rest of the statues where they are and let them take their chances.”