The Crowfield Demon Read online

  By the time the prior returned to the abbey shortly before none, the chamber was cleared of debris, though there was a large puddle on the floor and the wall paintings beneath the east window were streaked with rain. Shadlok wheeled the final cartload of stone out to the yard, leaving William to finish sweeping up the last of the stone dust.

  William leaned on the broom handle, looked at the bare mortar on the floor and the damaged roof and window, and felt sorry for the monks. The roof and floor could be patched up easily enough, but the window was probably irreplaceable. There was nobody at the abbey or in the local villages with the skill needed to put the small panes back together again, if that was even possible.

  Footsteps sounded in the passageway leading to the chapter house. William turned quickly. The prior walked through the doorway, followed by Sir Robert, Brother Gabriel, and Master Guillaume, the mason.

  “It is very generous of you to lend us your stonemasons, Sir Robert,” the prior said. “I am most grateful to you.”

  Sir Robert waved his thanks aside. “They will bring their tools and bedding to the abbey tomorrow and begin to clear up the mess.”

  The prior nodded. “They can stay in the large barn. I will have the sacks of grain moved to the small barn, so they should have plenty of room.”

  “I am sure that will be perfectly adequate,” Sir Robert said.

  The look on Master Guillaume’s face said that adequate was all it would be. The master mason paced around the room, assessing the damage with an air of detachment, while Sir Robert stood by the door, watching William intently. Indeed, he seemed far more interested in William than in the chapter house.

  There was something about the lord of Weforde that made William uncomfortable. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but some instinct warned him to be careful around Sir Robert.

  “Where is the servant, Shadlok?” Sir Robert asked.

  “In the yard, my lord,” William said, nodding his head in a quick bow.

  “Tell him I wish to speak to him, in private.” Sir Robert looked at the prior. “With your permission, Prior Ardo?”

  “Of course,” the prior said stiffly. He looked surprised by Sir Robert’s request, but William guessed he was not in a position to refuse. The stonemasons’ labor and the building repairs would not be cheap, and he would need to keep on the good side of Sir Robert if he wanted his help and money. The prior glanced at William. “Fetch Shadlok, then go and help Brother Snail in the herb garden, boy, and don’t dawdle.”

  William found the fay in the open-fronted shed, unloading the stone from the cart.

  “Sir Robert is here, and he wants to talk to you in private,” William said, sheltering under the thatch and pushing back his hood. The drizzle had turned to rain, and a cold breeze drove it in gusts across the yard. The thought of working in the garden in this weather, on an empty belly, was dispiriting. Dinner was late and would only be day-old bread and the last scrapings of yesterday’s pottage when it was served. If he had to wait much longer, he’d be fighting Mary Magdalene for the scraps in her swill pail.

  “Then Sir Robert can come and find me.”

  “I think he wants you to go to him,” William said.

  Shadlok lifted another stone from the cart and said nothing.

  “What does he want to talk to you about?” William asked, watching him.

  Shadlok glanced over his shoulder. “Ask him yourself and you will find out.”

  William wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “It just seems odd, that’s all. It can’t be about Jacobus Bone; he’s been dead a good three months and Sir Robert would have come to find you before now if he wanted to talk to you about him.”

  “I have something he wants.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  Shadlok laid the last piece of carved vaulting on the ground. His dark tunic was streaked with dust and his hands were powdery white. In the cold gray light his face looked eerily pale and his eyes an unearthly shade of blue. Strands of his white hair had come loose from the leather strip tying it back and clung to his wet cheek. William had noticed over the past months that a subtle change came over Shadlok when he was around the monks, making him look passably human. But when he was with William the mask slipped and he looked unmistakably fay, as he did now. It was unsettling to watch.

  “Does he know you’re a fay?” William asked after a pause.

  “Yes.”

  William frowned. “Isn’t that very dangerous? Can he be trusted to keep it secret?”

  “Until he gets what he wants, he will do nothing to anger me.”

  As far as William knew, Shadlok had no possessions other than his knife and sword. Perhaps Sir Robert wanted them. They were of fine craftsmanship, and he was sure a fay weapon would be far superior to a human one. But why would Shadlok keep that a secret?

  “Well, whatever it is, he must want it very badly,” William said, pulling up his hood.

  “He does.” Shadlok’s voice was soft, and anger sharpened his face. “But he is wasting his time.”

  “If the prior asks, make sure you tell him I gave you the message,” William said, bracing himself to go out into the rain again. “I don’t want a flogging for nothing.”

  He set off across the yard just as Brother Martin rang a handbell to announce that dinner was ready. William broke into a run. The herb garden could wait; his stomach couldn’t.

  By mid-afternoon, the rain had stopped. Patches of blue sky showed between breaks in the cloud and a mild breeze swayed through the trees. William and Peter were digging up weeds in the vegetable garden. They were both caked with mud, and their clothes were wet through to the skin. William inspected his hands, running a finger over the bone-hard calluses and rough skin on his palms from the last two years of hard labor. That was how long he had been at the abbey, he realized with a touch of surprise: two whole years come the first day of May. A sudden wave of homesickness caught him off guard. He missed his family so much. Their faces were there in his mind, as clear as if he’d seen them only this morning, smiling and happy. He wished with all his heart that he could wake up to find the last two years had been just a bad dream.

  “Why did God do this to us?” Peter’s voice pulled him back to the present, to the chill of damp boots and muddy clothes. The lay brother’s eyes were full of unhappiness. “Why did he harm our church and hurt Brother Mark, Will? Is he angry? Have we done something wrong?”

  William patted Peter’s shoulder awkwardly. “No. The church was built on waterlogged ground, that’s all. The tower fell because the ground wasn’t strong enough to support it. God didn’t do it, the rain did.” The lie came easily. There was no sense in frightening Peter any more than he already was. “And poor Brother Mark was just in the wrong place at the wrong moment.”

  Peter seemed to think about this as he wiped the mud from his hands with a hank of grass. “So He’s not angry about the birdman in St. Christopher’s chapel?”

  William felt as though ants were crawling all over his body. “The birdman?”

  Peter nodded. His face was pale with fear. “He waits in a corner of the chapel. He beckons me inside, but I won’t go, because I know he’ll hurt me.”

  Panic leaped inside William’s chest. “Don’t ever go in there, Peter. Stay away from the chapel. Do you understand?”

  Peter nodded again. “I promise. But Will, what happens if the birdman comes out of the chapel?”

  William drew a pail of water from the well to wash off the mud from the garden. He could see Sir Robert and Shadlok over by the gatehouse. He could not hear what they were saying, but even from this distance he could see that both of them were angry. Sir Robert was talking, one hand jabbing the air as he spoke. Shadlok shook his head, and this seemed to enrage Sir Robert. His hands clenched into fists, and William wondered if there was going to be a fight. He wiped his wet hands on the front of his tunic and glanced around. Should he call for help before Shadlok
laid out the lord of the manor on the cobbles? Before he could do anything, Sir Robert turned on his heel and strode away. Shadlok watched him go with a look on his face that was chilling to see.

  Sir Robert would be foolish to make an enemy of Shadlok, William thought as he walked back to the kitchen. He had no idea what Shadlok would do if he was pushed too hard, but his dealings with the Dark King had left William wary of fays and their unpredictable natures. Shadlok was not evil and he didn’t have the king’s streak of vicious cruelty. But if truth be told, William knew nothing of what went on inside his mind. Whatever secrets Shadlok kept, and William was sure he had a few, he kept them close. And at this moment, the biggest secret of all was what it was that Sir Robert wanted so desperately from him.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  The stonemasons arrived at the abbey early on Sunday morning, their possessions packed onto a cart pulled by two horses. William helped them unpack and carry bed frames, bedding, and tools into the barn. As soon as they had settled into their new home, Master Guillaume and his men began the task of clearing the rubble from the church. They stopped for an hour to attend mass in the chapter house, then trooped back to church to get on with their work.

  Peter came to the kitchen to find William later that morning. William was cutting up leeks and onions. His eyes stung and tears trickled down his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Prior Ardo wants you to go and help the stonemasons. I have to take over from you here,” Peter said, picking up a leek and holding out his hand for the knife.

  Surprised and pleased by this unexpected release from the kitchen, William hurried off to the church. The nave and chancel floors were covered in a thick layer of white mud. Rain came streaming down through the gaping hole in the crossing and soaked the walls, further damaging the wall paintings. Saints and angels were slowly fading to ghostly shadows as the paint ran down the plaster in thin ribbons of color. Many of the windows were shattered, and glass lay over the floor in silvery drifts. All the able-bodied monks were piling stones onto the handcart in the nave. There was no sign of Shadlok. William assumed he had refused again to work inside the church.

  Master Guillaume was talking to three of his stonemasons. They didn’t notice William at first. He stood there awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt them. One of the men was saying something in an angry undertone, which William did not catch.

  “There will be no more talk of ghosts!” Master Guillaume snapped, holding up a hand to silence the man.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Enough!”

  There was an angry muttering as the stone-masons turned to go. One of them saw William and nudged Master Guillaume. “It’s the boy.”

  The master mason gave the man a warning look. “Get on with your work. And say nothing.”

  The men walked past William in silence without looking at him.

  Master Guillaume looked William up and down. “Are you frightened of hard work, boy?” The mason stood with hands on hips and a half-mocking expression on his broad, weather-beaten face.

  “No,” William said.

  “Good,” Master Guillaume said, “because you will be doing plenty of it today. Follow me.”

  The mason led the way across the church. William’s heart sank as he saw that the mason was heading for St. Christopher’s chapel.

  There was a basket of tools on the floor near the chapel entrance. The mason took out a hammer and chisel and handed them to William. “You’ll need these.”

  Master Guillaume stared into the gloomy little chapel. He seemed reluctant to go inside. William saw the tense expression on the man’s face. He’s frightened, William thought. He knows there’s something in there. He won’t go into the chapel himself, but he’s prepared to send me in. And I have no choice but to do as I’m told.

  “I want you to lift the floor tiles in here,” Master Guillaume said. “We’re going to use them to repair the floor in the chapter house. Just break the mortar, and then lever the tiles free. The mortar’s damp, so they should come away easily enough. Put them over there and we’ll come and fetch them.” The mason pointed to the far wall of the transept, well away from the chapel. And with that, he turned and quickly walked away.

  William stood at the threshold of the chapel and looked inside. The darkness and silence in the small chamber made him uneasy. Was it here that the stonemason had seen the ghost? Had William been given the job of lifting the tiles because none of the stonemasons would go near the chapel?

  Taking several deep breaths, William stepped cautiously through the doorway. Apart from the bare patch where the saint’s face should be, the chapel had not been damaged at all, which struck him as odd. For several moments he stood quite still and listened. He had no clear idea what he was listening for, but the stillness wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, deadening the sounds outside the chapel. It was as if the church and the men working there had simply faded away. He glanced up at St. Christopher and at the crow-headed angel peering down at him from the ceiling. He remembered what Peter had said, about the birdman in the corner of the chapel, and felt a tremor of fear. Steeling himself, he knelt down. The sooner he finished lifting the tiles, the sooner he could escape from there.

  The first tile William tried to chisel free shattered into pieces, but the next one came away easily enough, and the one after that. As he worked, he had the unsettling feeling that there was something standing in the dark corner beside the altar, watching him. It was a struggle not to let his fear overwhelm him and send him running from the chapel in blind panic.

  William’s knees hurt from kneeling on the hard floor. He noticed an altar cloth, neatly folded on a stool against the wall. He rolled it up and knelt on it, and went back to work.

  For the next hour or so, William lifted tile after tile. At last, he put down the tools and sat back on his heels to rest his aching shoulders for a minute or so. Something caught his eye. A patch of tiles near the wall were noticeably different from the rest of the floor. They did not quite follow the neat lines of the tiles around them, and there was a bird’s head in the middle of each one. They were crows, he realized, and it felt as if a cold hand had closed around his heart. Surely it wasn’t by chance that these tiles were here?

  William had his back to the chapel entrance, so when something passed by outside, he didn’t see what it was. But a shadow crossed the wall above the altar. In the moments it took him to scramble to his feet and reach the doorway, whoever or whatever it was had disappeared. The transept was empty.

  “Are you all right, boy?” Master Guillaume asked, peering at William’s face.

  William looked away. What could he say? I saw a shadow on the chapel wall, but there was nothing there? He finished stacking the tiles into small piles against the transept wall. “Yes.”

  The master mason was quiet for a few moments. William could feel the weight of his stare. “They’re coming up easily? Not broken too many, I hope?”

  “One,” William said. “The rest were easy enough to lift.”

  The mason picked up a tile and turned it over to inspect it. His hands were large and his palms looked like tanned ox-hide. His nails were ringed with chalky grime. “Good workmanship, this. They’ll look better in the chapter house than hidden away in that gloomy little chapel.”

  “What did Reynaud see? Was it really a ghost?” The words were out before William could stop them.

  The mason’s face tightened and there was an angry glint in his eye. “Reynaud is a fool,” he said at last.

  “But he saw something, didn’t he?” William said.

  “He saw a shadow, boy, nothing more than that.”

  “I saw something, too . . . ,” William began reluctantly, but the mason didn’t let him finish.

  “No, you didn’t,” the mason snapped, leaning forward. His breath smelled of rotting teeth and the sour tang of small beer. “Understand? If my men get it into their heads that this church is haunted, th
en they won’t stay, and we won’t get paid. A word of this to anyone and I’ll tell your prior I caught you stealing. You’ll be out on your ear without a rag to call your own.”

  William’s cheeks flamed with fury. “I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life!”

  “Then keep your mouth shut and you’ll keep your good name. But cross me on this, boy, and you’ll regret it.”

  William watched the mason walk away, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Master Guillaume meant what he said. The sooner he was finished with the tiles and away from the side chapel, the better.

  By the time the handbell for sext rang out, William had lifted all the crow tiles. He broke up the thick layer of mortar with the hammer and scraped the bits aside. He looked around the chapel and saw that he still had just under half of the floor to go. He would need to hurry if he wanted to finish by dusk. He picked up the chisel and shuffled across the floor to start on the next row of tiles. Light from the doorway behind him showed a patch of loose earth where the crow tiles had been. He prodded it with the chisel, and to his surprise he realized that a hole had been dug into the hard-packed earth. It was roughly square, and each side was a little over three hand-spans in length. It was too small to be a grave. His curiosity roused, William scraped and hacked at the earth with the chisel, scooping it out of the pit and piling it up on the floor beside him. As he dug down, a feeling of misgiving stole over him. I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought, but something made him carry on.

  A harsh voice behind him made him jump.

  “What in the name of God are you doing?”

  Turning quickly, William saw Prior Ardo and Brother Snail standing in the chapel doorway, staring down at him in astonishment.

  “Well?” demanded the prior, nodding to the hole by William’s knees.

  William looked up at the two monks in dismay. “Taking up the tiles, as Master Guillaume told me to.”

  “Did he tell you to dig holes, too?” the prior said angrily, stepping over the threshold.