The Crowfield Demon (18 page)

“It's a thing of evil,” Brother Snail said, an angry flush coloring his pale cheeks. “It was used to hold the blood of creatures slaughtered as offerings to the demon.”

“How can you
possibly
know that?” the prior demanded.

Brother Snail started to say something and then stopped. He glanced at William and gave the smallest shake of his head. William guessed the monk didn't want any mention of the holey stone to be made. The prior had accepted William's innocence in all this, but if he found out that William was using fay magic to look into the past, that would be quite a different matter. If he discovered that William had the Sight, then William would be in deep trouble. So Brother Snail said nothing.

The prior stood up. “The bowl is the only thing of any value that this abbey has left. It will bring pilgrims to our gates. Their money and gifts will help to rebuild our church. I will not hide it away on a superstitious whim. Do you understand? And as for this” — he handed the book back to Brother Snail — “we have more important things to do with our time than go searching for something that has, in all probability, long since disappeared. We know what is haunting the church. All we need to do is have faith in God, and pray for salvation.”

“The bowl is cursed, Prior!” Brother Snail protested.

Prior Ardo held up a hand. “That's enough! I will decide what is best in this matter, Brother. Just be grateful that I believe what you've told me about the boy's innocence and that I am allowing the fay creature to live within these walls with impunity. Do
not
push me any further!”

The prior turned to William. “I accept that none of our misfortunes are of your making, but others may not believe it so readily.” He glanced at Brother Snail. “I will tell the brethren the bones of what we have talked about today, but no word of any of this must leave the abbey or reach the ears of the stonemasons and carpenters. Is that understood?”

“As you wish,” Brother Snail said stiffly.

The prior looked at Shadlok. He seemed very wary of him. “You must find a way to break the curse binding you to the boy and leave the abbey. A house of God is no place for your kind.”

Shadlok's eyes narrowed, and he leaned toward the prior. “If I knew the way to break it, I would have done so a long time ago,” he said softly.

The prior flinched and gazed at Shadlok as if he were a dangerous and unpredictable wild animal.

Which, William thought, wasn't so far from the truth.

The prior hurried from the room, closing the door behind him with a bang that echoed around the walls.

Brother Snail's face was white with anger. “I hope for his sake that the prior is not making the worst mistake of his life.”

C
HAPTER
TWENTY

W
illiam peered around the corner of the barn. The yard was deserted. It was late afternoon and the monks were in either the vegetable garden or the cloister. The stonemasons were working in the church.

“There's nobody about,” William said. “Run!”

The hob scampered across the yard ahead of William, heading for the rubble heap. William pushed aside any lingering feelings of guilt and ran after him. Prior Ardo hadn't actually
forbidden
them to search for the statue, so if he and the hob just
happened
to be near the rubble heap and just
happened
to see the statue . . .

The mound of broken stones rose like a small white hill in the far corner of the yard. William stared at it and his spirits sank. He didn't even know what the statue had looked like, so how was he going to find bits of it amongst all this?

A patch of ground beside an elder tree was covered with stone chippings and dust. Beside it was a pile of stones and damaged statues waiting to be smashed into smaller pieces with one of the heavy hammers propped up against the tree. William started to search through the stones and found fragments of several statues: a face with smooth cheeks and wide blue-painted eyes whose nose had been sheared away; two stone hands, pressed together in prayer; part of a foot . . .

“Do you recognize any of these?” he asked, holding them up for the hob to see.

“They are too big,” the hob said. “The holy man was smaller than me.”

For a while, they searched in silence. William was beginning to think they were wasting their time when the hob suddenly saw something.

“There! Look!” the hob said, waving a paw at a stone by William's foot. It was St. Christopher's neck and chest, with the remains of the holy child on one shoulder and part of the tree staff at his side.

“The rest of him has to be here somewhere,” William said, hauling the larger pieces of stone aside. The hob watched in a fever of excitement, jigging up and down and chittering. Every now and then, he darted between William's legs to grab some bit of stone.

“Will you stop getting under my feet!” William said in exasperation after he nearly tripped over the hob. “Just stand over there, out of the way.”

The hob did as he was told with obvious reluctance, but it wasn't long before he was pointing to stones and telling William where to look next.

William leaned down to lift a large piece of broken tracery from the chancel screen.

“There!
There!
” the hob gibbered, almost bursting with impatience as he pointed to something William had just uncovered.

William worked the stone free and held it up. It was a statue base with two legs, the hem of a robe, and the lower part of a tree staff. Crudely carved waves curled beneath the saint's bare feet. William turned the statue over to examine it. If he hadn't been looking so closely, he might easily have missed the carefully applied patch of plaster in the middle of the stone base. He tapped it with a fingernail. It sounded hollow.

“We've found it! This is it!” William said jubilantly.

One of the stonemasons emerged from the church, wheeling a laden handcart down the ramp. William quickly pushed the statue base down the front of his tunic. “Find Shadlok and tell him to meet us at Brother Snail's workshop as soon as he can.”

The hob nodded and disappeared around the corner of the shed. It wasn't likely that the stone-mason would be able to see him, but it wasn't a chance worth taking.

William glanced over his shoulder as he walked quickly away across the yard, but the stonemason was unloading the cart and was taking no notice of him.

Brother Snail was washing his hands in a pail by the hut door after an afternoon spent working in the vegetable garden.

“We found the statue!” William said, hauling it out from inside his tunic and waving it in the air.

The monk's eyes lit up with excitement. “You clever boy, Will! Quickly, bring it into the workshop.”

“The hob's gone to find Shadlok; they'll be here in a minute.”

Brother Snail nodded. “Good. Build up the fire and light the lanterns, Will, and let's see what secrets St. Christopher has been guarding so discreetly.”

He took the statue base from William and, using the blade of his small herb knife, he began to chip away at the plaster. Time and weather had eroded it, and it gave easily. With growing excitement, William watched as it cracked and a large chunk fell to the floor. He caught a glimpse of a tightly folded square of parchment wedged into the hollow of the base. Brother Snail pulled it free and stood the base on the table. He carefully unfolded the parchment, then nodded slowly. “Good, it's still readable.” He looked up at William. “As soon as the others arrive, we will see what it says.”

Moments later, just as the flames were beginning to catch the dry brambles William had tucked beneath a small heap of sturdier logs, the hob scampered into the workshop, with Shadlok behind him. Brother Snail settled himself on a stool by the fire. He angled the fragile parchment sheet to catch the light and began to read.

“ ‘Written on the twentieth day of January in the year of Our Lord 1236, at the Abbey of Saint Michael the Archangel at Crowfield in the Forest. This is the last testament of Abbot Bartolomeo de Albasiis. May God have mercy on my soul, which I believe to be damned for all eternity by the actions I have been forced to take to protect all who live in this place.' ” The monk paused and cleared his throat. He glanced around at the faces of his three listeners. “The abbot writes in Latin. I will have to translate the words as I go, so please be patient.”

William nodded. The hob said nothing, but sat close to the hearth and listened intently. Shadlok stood silently just beyond the circle of firelight, arms folded.

Brother Snail turned back to the parchment. “ ‘I came to Crowfield Abbey on All Souls' Day in the year of Our Lord 1235. The sweating sickness had taken the lives of the previous abbot and prior of this house, and many of its brethren. Grave misfortune had befallen the abbey for almost two years, and the surviving brethren believed it to be cursed.' ”

William felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. He saw Brother Snail's fingers tremble slightly. The parchment wavered for a moment, but the monk seemed to gather himself, and his voice was steady when he continued.

“ ‘Cattle sickened and died, the wheat and barley crops failed, and ewes miscarried their lambs. The brethren were sorely troubled by evil dreams and waking visions of a crow-headed demon with wings of the deepest crimson. This abomination, I most truly believe, is one of the fallen angels, cast from God's presence for rebelling against Him during the War in Heaven. It is the demon Raum, who takes on the form of a crow. I have seen this creature for myself.' ”

Brother Snail looked up. His eyes were wide with shock. “So, the creature has a name,” he whispered. “Raum. I admit I have never heard of it.”

“How did the abbot find out who it was?” William asked softly.

Brother Snail quickly scanned the parchment. “It seems Abbot Bartolomeo was sent here by the abbot of Crowfield's mother house in France. He was chosen to fight the Great Evil at Crowfield because he had experience in exorcising demons. He had in his possession a grimoire, a book of magic, called
Ars Goetia
, which lists many demons. Presumably he learned about Raum from this book.” The monk paused for breath before continuing with the translation.

“ ‘Before disaster fell upon this abbey, a new tiled pavement was laid in the church, and a chapel dedicated to St. Christopher was built in the north transept. It was during the building of this chapel that a bowl was discovered beneath the floor of the transept. It was curiously marked with magical symbols, and Abbot Henry ordered it be destroyed. By some dark art, the bowl remained unharmed, and thereafter a Great Evil came to the abbey.' ”

“Does it say how they tried to destroy it?” William asked.

“No,” Brother Snail said. “Nor does it tell us who buried the bowl originally, or
why
they did so.” He smoothed a fold in the parchment and continued to read.

“ ‘At Martinmas in 1235, Thomas Bolewyn, a freeman from Weforde, was caught trying to steal the bowl from the sacristy of the abbey. He was brought before Sir Guilbert de Tovei at the manor court in Weforde, where he claimed that the bowl belonged to his family. Under duress, he admitted that his ancestors were the guardians of a sacred grove that had been cut down and burned when the first abbey was built at Crowfield. Bolewyn admitted, after further persuasion, that the bowl was used to hold the blood of those sacrificed to his heathen god. The man was then taken out and hanged, and his body was buried in a pit of quicklime.' ”

“Why did they do that?” William asked.

Frowning at the parchment, Brother Snail said, “It seems Sir Guilbert and Abbot Bartolomeo were frightened men. They wanted to destroy everything to do with the demon and the cursed bowl, including Master Bolewyn.”

“Except they did not succeed,” Shadlok said, stepping forward into the light. “The bowl could not be destroyed, and Dame Alys is most likely the descendant of Thomas Bolewyn, so his bloodline survives, too.”

“So it would seem.” Brother Snail sat quietly for a few moments, one hand holding the cross around his neck. At last, he lifted the parchment and continued to read. “Abbot Bartolomeo goes on to say that after Thomas was hanged, the demon continued to attack the abbey and the surrounding villages with renewed vigor. ‘The brethren of this abbey prayed day and night in the church for God to come to our aid, then in the December of that year a fever caused many of them to sicken and take to their beds, and I prayed in the church alone. I begged and pleaded and bargained with God, until at last, on Christmas Eve, He answered my prayers. He sent an angel of vengeance to Crowfield, but it was struck down in the forest by some unseen and unknown enemy, and that which I hardly dare put into words came to pass: The angel died. Two of my most trusted brethren struggled from their sickbeds, and between us we carried the angel to a place in the forest shunned by the people who live hereabouts, and we buried it. It is our burden to keep this most terrible of secrets. I fear God has turned his face from us.' ”