The Crowfield Curse Read online

  “Will you help me, boy?”

  William hesitated. “Help you with what?”

  Jacobus shifted in his chair. He rested his elbows on the carved arms and leaned forward. “I have come here to find something. You know the woods and fields around the abbey. Perhaps you can help me find it.”

  William glanced over his shoulder at Shadlok. Whatever these two were up to, some instinct told him he would be foolish to get involved. “What is it?”

  Jacobus nodded, once, slowly. Without a word, Shadlok crossed the room and lifted the lid of a chest. He took out a roll of vellum tied with a narrow red silk ribbon and handed it to William.

  “Look at it,” Jacobus said.

  The vellum was a piece of fine and smooth calfskin, unlike the rougher and far less expensive sheepskin parchment used by the Crowfield monks. William unrolled it and saw that it was a page cut from a book, a book of hours, perhaps. The text was decorated with small colored pictures. William had seen Brother Mark working on pages such as this at his desk in the cloister, before they were gathered together and bound into books.

  “Look closely at the drawings,” Jacobus said. “Tell me what you see.”

  William angled the page to catch the light from the fire. The words were meaningless to him, just black lines and curves crawling across the page like neat rows of ants. Along the right-hand margin of the page were two long-bodied dragons, one blue, the other red, biting each other’s entwined tails. There was a single large letter in a blue and gold square in the middle of the writing. Behind it was a man in red robes with the lower part of his body in the jaws of a large fish: Jonah, perhaps, being swallowed by the whale. William knew the story from the priest at Iwele, who liked to liven up his sermons with spirited retellings of Bible stories. William peered closely at the drawing and smiled briefly at the look of surprise on Jonah’s face.

  “There are dragons, and Jonah and the whale,” William began, glancing up at Jacobus. He looked back at the page and tried to make out the details in the three small drawings at the foot of the page. They were enclosed by a border of crows amongst twisting branches and leaves.

  The first picture showed a hill with trees growing on the top, and in the foreground a white-robed figure with feathered wings. There was what appeared to be the shaft of an arrow sticking out of its chest. A chill went through William as it dawned on him what he was looking at.

  The second picture showed a group of black-robed figures carrying a shrouded body. Their tiny faces looked anxiously out of the page, as if frightened of discovery. Behind them, the dark blue sky was dotted with gold stars and a full moon. In front of the huddle of monks was an acorn, which struck William as odd. The acorn was the same height as the figures and carefully painted, as if the artist had wanted to make sure it looked as realistic as possible.

  The third picture was harder to make out. William moved closer to the fire so more light fell on the page. What at first just seemed like a jumble of shapes resolved themselves into a white feather and something that looked like a hazelnut.

  “Well? What else do you see?” Jacobus asked softly.

  “I . . . I’m not sure,” William muttered.

  “Then look closer.” Master Bone’s voice was as soft as thistledown, but it held an edge of suppressed excitement that William did not like.

  “I think . . . ,” he ventured, and then hesitated. “I think there is an angel. And monks. And a feather. And an acorn.”

  Jacobus nodded. “Very good, William. Now tell me, does any of that mean anything to you?”

  “Why would it?” William’s voice sounded odd to his own ears, too high and strained. He could not look Jacobus in the eyes.

  “The hill with the trees, do you know of a place like that hereabouts? And look at the picture again. What of the animal behind the angel?”

  Animal? William frowned and looked again. Yes, now that he was looking for it, he could see something small and white, almost hidden by a fold of the angel’s robe.

  A sheep, he thought suddenly. Didn’t Brother Snail say the angel died at the ford over Sheep Brook? Was the sheep a clue to the name of the place? And if the first picture showed Sheep Brook ford, then the hill behind it was Gremanhil.

  He peered at the other two drawings with renewed interest. Perhaps the acorn and the hazelnut, and the crows in the border, were also clues to place names? The crows could mean Crowfield.

  William met Jacobus’s steady stare. Should he tell him what he knew? He decided against it, for now. He would keep it to himself until he found out what Jacobus Bone wanted with the angel. He shook his head and shrugged, and feigned an air of ignorance.

  “The hill with the trees?” Jacobus said, with a trace of impatience. “Do you know such a place?”

  “There are hills everywhere around here,” William said. “Crowfield is in a valley. So is Weforde, and you have to go over two hills to get to Yagleah. There are trees on most of them. Except the small one north of Yagleah. There is a windmill on that one.”

  Jacobus sat back in his chair, his movements slow and stiff. His eyes never left William’s face.

  “I see,” he said evenly. “Very well, you can go.”

  Shadlok appeared at William’s side and held out a hand for the vellum page. William gave it to him and for a couple of moments, their eyes met.

  A shiver of unease went through William. He had the feeling Shadlok knew he was hiding something. He would wager that Shadlok was the stranger who had been asking questions in the local villages about the angel.

  William walked quickly to the door and stepped out into the cloister alley. He took deep breaths of damp morning air and leaned against the wall for a moment, relieved to be away from the dark room and its unearthly occupants.

  At least now he knew what Jacobus Bone was doing at Crowfield Abbey, even if he did not know why he was so interested in the angel.

  But whatever his reasons, they were important enough to have brought him to Crowfield in winter, a difficult enough journey for someone young and in full health, and Master Bone was neither.

  As William hurried off to the relative safety of the kitchen, he told himself he would have to be careful. If Shadlok and Master Bone suspected he knew more about the angel than he was saying, then what were they prepared to do to make him talk?

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  The monks had finished discussing the problem of what to do about Master Bone and had filed out of the chapter house in a solemn-faced line. Brother Stephen came looking for William.

  “I want you to take the pigs into Foxwist,” he said, “to forage. Stay there until the prior sends word for you to bring them home.”

  William looked at the monk in astonishment. Take the pigs to forage in winter? He had spent a few weeks in the woods with the pigs early in the autumn, watching over them while they foraged for beech mast and acorns in the abbey’s old deer park. The Weforde villagers had rights of pannage in Sir Robert’s part of Foxwist, but nobody had told the pigs where the boundary was, and they often strayed onto abbey land and helped themselves to the acorns there. It meant that by now, the ground was all but bare. Brother Stephen knew that as well as William did, but it seemed the monk was in no mood to discuss the matter.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, boy,” he said briskly. “The pigs won’t take themselves into the woods.”

  The monk walked away. He had big feet and his boot soles slapped on the muddy cobbles like hand-claps.

  William stared after him in dismay. Under different circumstances, he would have been delighted to go into Foxwist with just the pigs for company, but now it was the last thing he wanted to do. Somewhere out in the woods were fay creatures who thought nothing of killing an angel. The only good thing about leaving the safety of the abbey walls was that he would not have to eat Brother Martin’s rook stew for supper.

  William hurried to the kitchen and packed some bread, cheese, and apples in a leather bag, enough to last a coup
le of days, until Peter brought more food out to the wood for him. He was rolling up his blanket when Brother Martin banged open the yard door and came into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, and stared at William.

  “You bin in the guest chambers today?” he growled.

  William nodded. “Master Bone asked to see me.”

  The monk made a strange gurgling noise in his throat and crossed himself. He stood aside and pointed out into the yard with one meaty fist. “Out!” he yelled. “Get yer leprous hide out of this kitchen, and don’t come back.”

  “I don’t have leprosy,” William said angrily, picking up the bag and cramming the blanket into it.

  “Out!”

  White-faced with fury, William slung the bag over his shoulder and walked to the door. He paused beside the monk and saw the fear in his eye. The monk backed away and crossed himself again. Without a word, William stepped out into the yard. The door slammed behind him.

  William felt sick. Is that why he was being sent out to Foxwist? Because the monks believed he might have caught leprosy from Master Bone?

  The thought made him go hot and cold in quick succession. Perhaps the monks intended to leave him in the woods and not allow him back to the abbey at all. They would not send Peter with food and he would be left to starve.

  William’s hands were shaking as he pulled up his hood. Surely, if they wanted him to go, they would not be sending him off with the abbey’s pigs? They were worth far more than he was. The monks would never risk losing them.

  He crossed the yard to the pigpens. Mary Magdalene was lying in the straw in her thatched shelter. The two younger pigs in the next-door pen were rootling through a pile of scraps. William knew Brother Stephen had intended to slaughter them in the next day or so. That would have to wait now, though the monk had already put it off as long as he could to make sure there would be meat, however sparse, through the winter months. William leaned over the fence and rubbed one of the pigs on its back, glad that the animals’ last few days would be spent out in the woods, and not in this small, muddy pen.

  “William!” someone called.

  William looked over his shoulder and saw Brother Snail hurrying across the yard toward him.

  “I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Snail said breathlessly, one thin hand pressed to his chest. “I tried to talk the prior out of sending you into the woods, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Does he think I might be a leper now, too?” William asked, straightening up. “Is that why he wants me to go?”

  The monk’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course not, Will. Quite the opposite. He wants to keep you safe, and that means keeping you away from Master Bone. He will see to it that water and firewood are left outside the door to the guest chambers every morning, but beyond that, he doesn’t want anyone from Crowfield having unnecessary contact with our guests. You can bring the pigs home as soon as Master Bone leaves the abbey.”

  Relief surged through William but it was short-lived. That was one worry out of the way, but another, darker one took its place.

  “It’s not safe in Foxwist,” William said, folding his arms around his shivering body. He hesitated, then, looking away, added softly, “I’m scared.”

  He would not have admitted that to anyone else, but Snail understood.

  “I know, Will, I know.” The monk took a small bundle from inside his sleeve and held it out to William. “It isn’t much, but it might help against . . . any unwanted visitors to the hut.”

  William unwrapped the square of cloth. Inside were several iron nails, a few twigs with withered leaves and shriveled berries, and a folded scrap of waste parchment. William opened it and found a dried clover leaf tucked inside. He looked up at the monk with an uncertain smile. “How will these help?”

  Brother Snail picked up the twig. “This is rowan, an effective protection against fays. Keep it close to you. Wear it inside your tunic.”

  “What do I do with these?” William asked, picking up one of the nails.

  “Hammer them into the wood around the hut door, but keep one back. Carry it with you at all times. Fays do not like iron. It burns them if they touch it, and if they stay close to it for long, it poisons them.” The monk smiled briefly. “Brother Walter assures me it works.”

  William frowned. “But I saw him chopping leaves with a knife the other day.”

  Brother Snail took his small herb knife from his belt and held it out to William. “The blade is made of bronze, not iron.”

  “What about the clover leaf?”

  “Clover usually has three leaves. This one has four. It can break a fay spell and dispel glamour, so you can see any fay in its true shape.” The monk pulled a small lead cross on a leather cord from beneath his habit and handed it to William. “And wear this, too.”

  William put the cross around his neck. He wrapped the nails, clover, and rowan twigs in the cloth and tucked them inside his tunic.

  “How do you know about these things?” he asked. In his experience, monks did not believe in fays and suchlike. Brother Snail not only knew they were real, he seemed to have an understanding of their ways.

  The monk smiled. “I have not always been a monk, William. When I was a boy, I was sickly and did not play much with the other children. My father was a freeman and comfortably wealthy, so I was neither needed nor expected to work on the land. Instead my time was spent in the fields and woods, learning about the plants and the creatures that lived there. I think I have always known there was another world, a hidden, magical place existing alongside our own. I could sense it out there in the wild places, where the hand of man has not left its mark.”

  “But you chose to be a monk,” William said, puzzled. He could not imagine Prior Ardo giving him advice on how to protect himself from fays. Anything with the faintest whiff of magic that crossed the prior’s path was likely to be tied to a stake and burned or damned to hell for all eternity. How could Brother Snail live amongst men who saw evil in things that were merely different?

  “I chose to worship God in the only way I could, Will,” Brother Snail said with a smile, “by living quietly and simply, and helping any of His creatures, be they man, beast, or fay, in need of my skills. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “No,” William said after a moment’s thought, “I suppose not.”

  The monk was quiet for a moment. “The prior and men like him follow their own path to God. Perhaps theirs is just that bit longer.”

  And with a few more potholes and heading in the wrong direction, William thought, but he kept that to himself.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” Snail said, holding up a hand. “One more thing.” He took a harness bell from the pouch hanging from his belt. “The hob told me fays do not like the sound of bells. I think he meant church bells but this will have to do, because I’m sure Prior Ardo wouldn’t be too happy to see you haul the bells down from the church tower and drag them into the woods with you.”

  William shook the bell and grinned at the small jingle it made. “I don’t think this would scare a flea, let alone the Dark King, but thank you anyway.”

  “Take no chances, Will.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” William said, putting the bell inside his tunic. He glanced around to make sure there was nobody about and added, “Jacobus Bone knows about the angel.”

  “He does?” Brother Snail sounded startled. “How did he find out?”

  “He has a page from a holy book with pictures showing its death and burial.” William described the details in each picture. The monk listened intently, a look of worry shadowing his eyes.

  “Did he say where he found this book?”

  William shook his head.

  Snail lowered himself slowly and stiffly to sit on an upturned pail next to the pigpen and rested his hands on his knees. William squatted down next to him, so their faces were level.

  “One of the monks who helped to bury the angel that night left soon after for the abbey of Our
Lady of Bec, in France,” the monk said. “He was a fine scribe and illuminator. He must have continued his work at the French abbey, and for some reason, he hid the story of the Crowfield angel amongst the illuminations. I am sure that is where Master Bone must have found the page.” The monk was quiet for several moments. “But it doesn’t explain why he is so keen to find out more about the angel. What did you tell him, Will?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.” Snail nodded. “We must keep it that way until we find out what he’s up to. Now”— he slapped his knees and forced a bright smile —“it’s time for you to be on your way.”

  There was a sinking feeling in the pit of William’s stomach as he stood up and helped the monk to his feet. In spite of the things Brother Snail had given him for protection, he felt as if he were about to climb into a bear pit.

  “With luck, the prior will send Master Bone on his way in a day or so, and you’ll be back home and safe before you know it.”

  William opened the gate of Mary Magdalene’s pen. He hoped the monk was right, because somehow, he did not think the Dark King of the Unseelie Court was going to be fended off with a withered twig and an old harness bell.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  The bells for sext rang out from the tower of the abbey church as William and the pigs set off into Foxwist. Mary Magdalene, who had made this journey many times over the years, was content to trot along beside William. Every so often, she stopped to rootle through a pile of dead leaves or nose a patch of earth, grunting softly to herself. The two younger pigs ran off in all directions, excited by their unexpected freedom. William rounded them up if they strayed too far, prodding them back onto the trackway with the pig-stick, an ash rod dark and shiny from countless years of use by abbey swineherds.

  From the moment he crossed the bridge by the abbey gatehouse, William had the feeling he was being watched. The feeling persisted when he turned off the main trackway and headed northward. He was tense and watchful as he walked along, but whatever was keeping pace with him through the trees remained hidden.