The Crowfield Curse (17 page)

C
HAPTER
EIGHTEEN

 

 

T
he track left the trees and crested a low hill overlooking Weforde village and its three huge fields. They spread across the valley floor, the smaller individual strips showing as patches of green and brown. The village was a scatter of thatched buildings set squarely in their crofts on either side of the main village street. At the far end of the village, beyond the large square green with its duck pond and pinfold, stood Sir Robert de Tovei's stone manor house, with the newly built stone church beside it.

“Where does the Old Red Man live?” William asked, lifting the hob down from his shoulders.

The hob looked away and it was several moments before he answered. “In the house of the woman with the white crow, but I do not know where that is.”

William stared at him in astonishment. “He lives in Dame Alys's house?”

The hob nodded.

“Why didn't you mention this before?” William asked, an uneasy feeling prickling across the back of his neck. There was something not quite right here, but he could not put his finger on what it was. “Surely that means Dame Alys knows about the angel? The hob must have told her, if only to explain what happened to his tail.”

The hob, keeping his back turned, just shrugged. Again, William had the distinct feeling that there was something the hob was not telling him about Dame Alys.

“What does it matter?” Shadlok said with a frown. His patience, what little there was of it, was wearing very thin indeed.

“She has no love for the monks at Crowfield,” William said slowly, “so why, if she knew they'd buried the angel's body in the wood, didn't she tell anyone? She must have known what trouble it would have caused for them. Why did she keep their secret when she hates them so much? It doesn't make any sense.”

“Then stop wasting time worrying about it,” Shadlok said. “Ask her for yourself when we find her.”

William looked at the two fays and a problem presented itself. Shadlok looked passably human, but the hob would not fool anybody.

“We can't risk anyone seeing you,” he said to the hob.

“They will only see me if they have the Sight,” the hob said, “and very few humans do.”

“Even so, it's not worth taking the chance,” William said.

“Then they will not see him,” Shadlok said.

William watched in disbelief as the air around the hob shimmered and the hob faded away.

“What have you done with him?” he asked in alarm.

“I am still here,” the hob said.

William reached down and felt the hob, still standing where he had last seen him, as warm and solid as ever.

“Satisfied?” Shadlok asked, with a trace of sarcasm.

William nodded. To see such magic so effortlessly performed left him feeling breathless and a little fearful.

They followed the track as it curved down from the hill and cut across the West Field. In some of the strips, the rise and fall of furrows and ridges were showing the first green haze of winter wheat. Other strips were bare plowed earth, spread with clods of manure. Crows wheeled up from the field like smuts of soot, cawing loudly, as they passed by.

There were a few people about, busy around their crofts and closes, tending to livestock or just talking over fences, passing the time of day. The blacksmith was hammering a glowing piece of iron, the fire in his forge burning fiercely red behind him.

Several curious glances came their way, but most people recognized William and merely nodded as he passed by. Shadlok had spent three weeks as a guest of Sir Robert, but if any of the villagers knew who he was, they gave no sign of it. They stared at him, openly suspicious. A man on foot, armed with a sword and bow, was not a sight you saw every day in Weforde. They did not ask what business he had in the village, but William heard the hushed voices behind them as they walked by. They were no doubt wondering what the boy from the abbey was doing in Weforde with an armed stranger.

William spotted Ralph Saddler, a man he often saw at Weforde market. Ralph made and repaired harnesses, straps, and saddles, and usually did a brisk trade. Today, he was mending the handle of a scythe. William stopped by the gate of his croft. Ralph glanced up and nodded to him.

“Hello, Will. What brings you to Weforde this morning? It's not market day.”

“I'm looking for Dame Alys's house. Brother Snail at the abbey needs some herbs for a potion for the abbot,” he lied, thinking quickly. “He hoped that she might be able to help.”

“Hmm,” Ralph said, frowning. “I see. And who's he?” He nodded toward Shadlok.

“His name is Shadlok. He's staying at the abbey with his master, Jacobus Bone,” William said.

A look of understanding crossed Ralph's face. “Oh, that's right, the leper.”

Shadlok said nothing. He stared at the man, who seemed to find the pale eyes as unsettling as William did. Ralph looked away and busied himself rolling down his sleeves and brushing bits of sawdust from his tunic.

“Has the track through the woods become so dangerous that you need to carry so many weapons?” Ralph asked, glancing at Shadlok.

“I was hunting. With the prior's permission.”

“Hunting?” Ralph's eyes narrowed. “With a
sword
?”

Shadlok did not reply. His stare was cold and unblinking. He did not like being questioned and seemed to have no intention of justifying his choice of hunting weapon to the villager.

Ralph looked back at William. “You'll find Dame Alys's house along the lane past the mill. Across the green, past the alehouse, then over the bridge and up toward Frog Pond Wood. Can't miss it.”

William nodded his thanks. He felt something touch his leg and glanced down. He could not see anything, but he felt the hob climb up his body and settle on his shoulders. Thankfully, Ralph did not notice anything unusual.

William and Shadlok walked toward the green. Keeping his voice low, William said, “He didn't know who you were.”

“So?”

“You stayed in the village for three weeks, and you asked people about the angel, yet nobody seems to recognize you. That's very odd, isn't it?”

“They did not see me as I am now,” Shadlok said with a dismissive lift of one shoulder. “They saw what I wanted them to see.”

More fay magic
, William thought. He shivered suddenly. His few brief glimpses of Shadlok's power were enough to make him exceedingly wary of the fay. He could take another shape, another face, with the same ease with which William changed his clothing.

An alehouse stood on one corner of the green. A wooden board painted with a sprig of holly hung from a bracket near the door. The malty smell of brewing beer and the tantalizing waft of freshly baked bread made William's mouth water as he walked by. Hunger gnawed in his belly and he tried not to think about food.

In the middle of the green, beside the duck pond, was the pinfold, a fenced enclosure where stray animals were penned until they could be claimed by their owners, upon payment of a small fine to the pinder. This morning, the only occupants were a goat and two chickens.

They walked along the lane to the bridge over the stream. The lane branched in two on the far bank. They turned left and followed the lane as far as the water mill before turning onto a narrower path, which led to a small wood. Hidden away behind a hedge of holly bushes was a small house surrounded by a well-tended garden. The few remaining holly berries left by the birds were like drops of blood amongst the dark leaves. Smoke drifted up from a hole in the thatched roof of the house.

William helped the hob down from his shoulders. “What if Dame Alys won't let us talk to the Old Red Man?”

“There are ways of persuading her,” Shadlok said softly, an icy glitter in his eyes.

William hoped it would not come to that. He had the feeling Shadlok would be ruthless with anyone foolish enough to cross him.

A path of flat stones led between rows of cabbages and leeks, and past manured beds waiting for the spring planting. The white crow, Fionn, was standing by the hut door. It watched them as they walked up the path. Leaning forward, it cawed once, a loud, harsh noise in the quiet garden. The hut door opened and Dame Alys stood there. She looked from William to Shadlok calmly, then glanced down at the crow and said, “Leave them be.”

The bird moved aside with an ungainly hop and flapped up to sit on top of a water butt.

Dame Alys stepped out of the hut and rested her hands on her thin hips. Her gaze briefly flickered to the path by William's feet. “What is it you want with me, William Paynel?”

William cleared his throat, not sure how to explain why they had come to see her. “Eh . . . well, I was told you have a hob living here with you. The Old Red Man?”

She waited for him to continue, her oddly colored eyes sharp and watchful.

“We were wondering if we could ask him something.”

“And what would that be?”

William hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much he should tell her. “He saw something in the woods, one Christmas Eve many years ago. We want to know what he remembers of that night.”

“I see.” Dame Alys regarded Shadlok thoughtfully for a few moments. “And who are you?”

“Shadlok, servant to Master Jacobus Bone.” He said the words coldly with a look in his eyes that William did not like. Anyone less like a servant than Shadlok was difficult to imagine, but Dame Alys did not seem in the least bit intimidated by him. William felt a flicker of admiration for her.

“Fine weapons for a manservant,” she said, nodding to the sword and knife in Shadlok's belt. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And so unusual. If I didn't know better, I would say they were of fay workmanship.”

Shadlok remained silent. William glanced from the woman to the fay, aware of the tension in the air between them. He wondered how she knew what fay workmanship looked like. It seemed it was not just hobs she was familiar with.

“Perhaps,” Dame Alys said, turning to William, “you can tell me why you brought a fay to my house.” She glanced at the path again. “And a hob.”

“You can see him? Brother Walter?” William said, surprised.

“Is that what you have called him?” she said sharply, not sounding at all pleased by this.

William nodded.

“No, I can't see him, but I can sense him. I'll ask you again, why are they here with you? And what was it that happened in the woods that you are so keen to learn more about?”

This was a lot more difficult than he had anticipated. William made some noncommittal noise and shrugged one shoulder.

“That is none of your concern,” Shadlok said, a warning edge to his voice.

“Something puzzles me, William,” Dame Alys said, ignoring Shadlok. “I have the Sight, and I can see hobs and other fay creatures, but I cannot see the hob you brought with you. Now, why is that? It would take stronger magic than such a creature possesses to hide it from me. That begs the question, whose magic is it? Not yours, I am sure,” she added, gently mocking. She looked at Shadlok. “Yours, perhaps? You are no ordinary fay, then, to be able to do this. To hide it from
me
.”

Still Shadlok said nothing. He moved a hand and the air by William's feet shimmered and darkened, and the hob was there, solid and whole again.

Dame Alys turned and walked to her door. “William, you and the hob can come into the house but the fay must stay outside.”

William glanced uncertainly at Shadlok, half expecting him to refuse, but he merely nodded for William to follow Dame Alys.

“Keep watch, Fionn,” Dame Alys called as she went inside. The crow hopped onto the path outside the door as if to guard it from Shadlok. It could not have been made plainer that the fay was not welcome there.

William leaned the pig-stick against the bench and went through the low doorway.

The house consisted of one room, with a ladder up to a sleeping loft beneath the thatched roof. Bundles of dried plants hung from the rafters and jars of various sizes crowded the shelves that lined two walls. There was a fire pit in the middle, surrounded by a hearth of pitched clay tiles. A soot-blackened pot stood on an iron trivet set squarely amongst the embers. Something bubbled and steamed in the pot and smelled so wonderful that William's mouth began to water. It reminded him of his mother's pease pottage, with a hint of smoked pork for flavor. Just for a moment it felt as if he were back home in the mill house in Iwele, sitting at the table with his noisy, happy family, while his mother ladled pottage into bowls. A sharp sense of loss caught him off guard and tears blurred his eyes.

He blinked them away, pushed the memory of home to the back of his mind, and looked around the room. It was clean and as neatly ordered as the garden, with a long oak table, a chair and a stool, and a large cupboard providing the only furniture. Fresh straw covered the beaten earth floor.