The Crowfield Curse (26 page)

“How beautiful,” Brother Snail sighed. “You are truly fortunate to have seen it for yourself.” A little of the light left his eyes. “I am sorry for Master Bone, but I think he must have suffered terribly all these years. He is at peace now.”

William stood up. He was reluctant to leave, but he still had a day's work ahead of him. “I'll come and see you later, and bring you some food.” He saw the expectant look on the hob's face and grinned. “Both of you.”

“Don't trouble yourself, Will,” Brother Snail said, struggling to sit up. William reached out to help him, and wrapped a blanket around the monk's bowed back. “I am feeling much better and I have work to do, potions and salves to prepare against winter chills and aches.”

“You should stay here,” William said. “It's a bitter day and you need to get your strength back.”

“If I waited for that to happen, I'd never leave my bed,” Snail said wryly. “No, I'll be all right, Will, and I have Brother Walter to help me.”

William knew it was pointless to argue with the monk. He could be very stubborn when he wanted. “Very well, but I'll bring some bread and cheese and warm milk to the workshop.”

William pulled on his mittens and walked to the door. The hob scurried after him.

“Is the forest safe again? Do you think the nangel will guard it against the Dark King and his followers?” the hob asked, the bright green-gold eyes searching William's face for reassurance.

William's heart sank. Did the hob want to return to Foxwist? Now that his leg was better, there was no reason for him to stay at the abbey. He would miss him sorely.

“As safe as it can ever be, but I don't know if the angel will stay to watch over it,” he said.

A worried look puckered the hob's small face. “Do I
have
to go back to the woods?” he asked, the words tumbling out in a rush.

William smiled. “Not if you don't want to.”

“The snail brother needs me to help him, and the old pig asked me to keep her company sometimes . . . ,” the hob hurried on, his paws twisting together and his tail curling and flicking straight in his anxiety to convince William of his need to stay at Crowfield.

“You are welcome to stay for as long as you want,” William said gently. “I want you to stay.”

“Then I will,” the hob said, sounding more cheerful.

Brother Walter went back to Brother Snail's bed and William could hear the two of them talking quietly.

In the distance, the bell for mass tolled. It was almost time to bury Master Bone.

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

 

 

A
few flakes of snow drifted down and settled on the dark earth heaped up beside the newly dug grave. A small plot in a neglected corner of the graveyard was all Prior Ardo had been willing to spare for Master Bone. It was well away from the monks' graves. Even in death, it seemed Jacobus the leper was to be shunned.

William leaned on the handle of his shovel and watched Peter push the handcart containing Jacobus Bone's shrouded body along the path. The wooden cart wheels left deep ruts in the snow. Prior Ardo, Brother Gabriel, and Shadlok followed a short distance behind him. The prior's murmured prayer for the dead was the only sound in the wintry stillness.

Peter stopped beside the grave and set the props of the handcart down.

“Can you help me lift him?” he asked, turning to William.

William nodded. Together, they lifted the body from the cart and carried it to the edge of the grave. The grave was shallow, little more than knee-deep. William clambered awkwardly into the hole, while struggling to keep hold of Jacobus's feet. Wiry roots caught at his legs and snagged on the tightly wrapped folds of the shroud, which was really an old linen altar cloth, much patched and faded from years of use and no longer wanted. Peter stepped into the other end of the grave. There was just enough room for them to brace their feet against the sides of the hole and lower the body.

William climbed out and wiped his hands on his trouser legs. Jacobus's body had been surprisingly light, but his flesh had felt unpleasantly soft and cold through the thin linen.

William picked up a shovel. He glanced at Shadlok. The fay was staring down at the body of his former master, his face expressionless. The dark tunic and cloak he wore made his skin and hair look eerily pale in the harsh winter light. The cuts on his cheek were dark, ugly weals. If he felt any grief at Jacobus's death, he gave no sign of it. William started to shovel the earth into the grave.

The prior crossed himself and tucked his bony hands into the sleeves of his habit. “Come to the chapter house as soon as you've finished here, boy,” he said, looking at William. “I want to talk to you.”

William nodded, surprised by the unexpected request. Prior Ardo turned and walked away, followed by Peter and Brother Gabriel.

“I wonder what he wants with me?” William said with a frown.

There was a trace of impatience in the look Shadlok gave him. “Go and find out.”

When the last shovelful of earth had been patted into place, William pulled on his mittens and trudged back through the snow to the abbey. He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the passageway to the cloisters. Shadlok was standing beside the grave, staring into the distance. There was a look of such bleak despair on his face that William hesitated for a moment. Should he go back and say something to try to comfort him? But what could he say?

Shadlok wrapped his cloak closely about him and walked off, and the moment was lost. William went on his way, his heart heavy with pity.

The chapter house door was open. William hesitated on the threshold. He had never been allowed in here before. When it needed to be swept and the cobwebs brushed from the corners, Peter did it.

He knocked on the heavy oak door.

“Come in,” Prior Ardo called.

William stepped inside and glanced around curiously. The chamber had a high vaulted ceiling and the floor was patterned with red and white tiles. There was a tall arched window high up in the east wall, in the center of which stood the Archangel Michael, made from small pieces of colored glass set in a web of lead strips. A warrior angel, dressed for battle, wings spread wide behind him. Yellow hair curled around his face, and a golden halo ringed his head. He wore a breastplate over a chain-mail tunic and held a sword above his head. One foot rested on the neck of a dead dragon and there was a look of triumph on his face.

On either side of the window, the walls had been painted with robed figures. William had no idea who they were supposed to be. Then he noticed an angel, tucked into a gloomy corner of the room. This one had outstretched wings, too, but with its curly brown hair and plump pink face, it looked nothing like the angel in the Hollow or the dragon-slaying warrior in the east window.

William noticed that someone had drawn a feather to one side of the angel's head. William suspected it had been drawn as a reminder to each successive abbot of Crowfield's dark secret.

There were ornate stone niches around the walls for the monks to sit in. One seat was grander than the rest. The carved canopy was painted red and gold. It took the place of honor in the wall opposite the door. This was, he guessed, the abbot's seat, but today, Prior Ardo sat in it. There was a large oak table in front of him. On it lay a long, narrow leather bag.

“Come forward, boy, where I can see you.”

William did as he was told. He pushed back his hood and stood awkwardly in front of the table, ill at ease beneath the prior's brooding stare. The snow on his boots melted into puddles around his feet.

Prior Ardo reached forward and pushed the leather bag across the table toward him. “Master Bone asked me to give this to you in the event of his death.”

Startled, William picked up the bag and pulled open the drawstring. He took out Master Bone's wooden flute. He looked up at the prior, instinctively trying to hide his delight. He saw the prior's disapproving frown and put the flute back in its bag.

“I don't know why he left it to you, though I am sure he had his reasons, but I do not want to hear you play that instrument in the abbey,” the prior said. He waved a dismissive hand at William. “Now go about your duties.”

William hugged the bag to his chest. Any fears he might have had at owning a leper's flute were far outweighed by his gratitude to Master Bone and his sudden burning excitement at the thought of one day being able to play the instrument.

As William turned to leave, Brother Gabriel burst into the room, slamming the heavy door back against the wall. His plump face was scarlet and he gasped like a fish on a riverbank. William's first thought was that the monk was ill. The prior got to his feet and hurried around the table toward him, a look of alarm on his face, but Brother Gabriel held up a hand and crouched forward for a moment as he tried to catch his breath.

“Come . . . quick . . . ly,” he panted. “Abbot . . . Simon . . .”

Prior Ardo did not wait for him to finish. He was out of the room at a run. Brother Gabriel lowered himself onto one of the stone seats around the wall and sat there, hands on knees, breathing wheezily. Drops of sweat beaded his flushed face and the shaved circle of the tonsure on top of his head.

“Is the abbot dead?” William asked.

Brother Gabriel shook his head. “No. He is awake and asking to be taken down to the church, and he told me to fetch the . . .” The monk's mouth closed like a trap, biting off the last word. The color in his cheeks darkened a shade or two and he looked away. “Nothing.”

“He asked you to fetch nothing?” William said, baffled by the monk's odd behavior.

“It is none of your concern, boy,” Brother Gabriel said sharply. “Go to the barn and fetch a fence hurdle and bring it to Abbot Simon's quarters. And hurry!”

William stared at the monk, bewildered. A fence hurdle?

“Go on, boy, run!” Brother Gabriel snapped. He dabbed at his sweaty face with the sleeve of his habit and struggled to his feet. “If you see Brother Stephen in the yard, tell him he is needed here.”

Tucking the flute into the front of his tunic, William did as he was told. He could see several monks on the far side of the cloister garth, gathered outside the doorway of the abbot's quarters. He heard anxious voices and sensed their agitation. He thought of the abbot, lying close to death in his bed these last weeks, and wondered how the frail old man had rallied sufficiently to ask to be taken to the church. And what had he asked Brother Gabriel to fetch? Was it, by any chance, the angel's feather?

William went out to the yard through the kitchen door. The drift of snow that had piled up against the outside of the door collapsed onto the floor. He stepped over it and headed across the yard toward the small barn. The snow was ankle-deep in places, but knee-deep where it had been blown against walls, or had slid from rooftops to land in huge, soft heaps. It worked its way inside his boots and melted there, quickly soaking the feet of his hose.

Brother Stephen had cleared a patch of ground around the goat- and pigpens. The doorway of the henhouse was still closed, with the hens safe and warm inside, though the monk had cleared a narrow path to it so he could feed them. Of the monk himself, there was no sign.

The small barn was used to store barley and oats, and it was in here that Brother Stephen kept the fence hurdles that he, William, and Peter wove from hazel withies cut in the coppice in Foxwist early in the autumn. The hurdles were good and sturdy, and would be used to replace sections of old and rotten fencing around the sheep pasture. William hauled one from the stack against the barn wall and, twisting his fingers between the withies, lifted it and carried it out to the yard.

“What do you want with that, Will?”

William turned and saw Brother Stephen, his thin face reddened by the cold wind, standing in the doorway of the carpentry shed, hands on hips and sawdust on his habit.

William explained briefly. The monk's mouth tightened and he merely nodded when William finished. Never one to waste words, he closed the shed door behind him and hurried over to take one end of the hurdle from William. Between them, they carried it back to the abbey and up to the abbot's quarters.

The bedchamber was crowded with monks, most of them praying and getting in each other's way. The abbot lay amongst the blankets and cover lets heaped on the bed. There were patches of feverish color on his cheeks, and his rheumy eyes in their shadow-ringed sockets were open. His gaze settled on William, and he watched him with an intensity that William found unsettling.

“Put the hurdle here,” Prior Ardo said, pointing to the floor beside the bed.

William watched as Brother Gabriel dragged a sheepskin cover from the bed and put it on the hurdle, and then put a folded blanket on top of it. The prior pulled back the abbot's covers and with great care, slipped his arms under the old monk's body and lifted him up. Silence fell in the chamber as the prior gently laid the abbot on the hurdle and settled him comfortably. William held his breath and wondered how a body that was no more than a bundle of bones held together with skin as fragile as old parchment could still cling to life.