The Crowfield Curse (4 page)

“Have you ever been there?” William asked, watching the monk's face closely.

Snail did not reply at first. He gazed into the distance and seemed troubled. At last, he looked back at William. “Many years ago, not long after I came to live at Crowfield, I had cause to go to Weforde,” he said. “Some matter of a message from the abbot to Sir Robert. I stopped to look for plants along the way and forgot the time. When I realized I wouldn't have time to deliver the message and get back to the abbey before dark, I did a foolish thing. I took a shortcut through the woods. My path took me down into the Hollow.” The monk stopped, and William saw him shiver. It might simply have been the cold, but William had the feeling it was more than that.

“It was a wet autumn day and the ground was boggy near the pool. There was a tree growing out over the water.”

William nodded. “Above the spring, a hazel tree.”

Snail looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected William to have noticed such a detail. “Yes, that's right. Its leaves had turned color and it looked as if someone had hung gold coins from every branch and twig. I remember it so clearly, because the leaves in the rest of the wood were a dull brown, and the hazel tree shone like a beacon in the gloom.” He paused for a moment and smiled faintly at the memory. Then his eyes clouded again. “I looked back when I reached the far side of the Hollow. I saw something by the pool. It was just a misty shape, but I had the feeling it was watching me. I have never been so frightened of anything in my whole life, Will. I had the distinct feeling I should not have been there and that I was not welcome.”

William nodded again. “That's what I felt, too. What did you do?”

Snail smiled thinly. “I ran.”

William grinned. “Me, too.”

“And I never took a shortcut through the woods again,” Brother Snail finished. “And neither should you. Stay away from the Hollow, Will. You might not be so lucky next time.”

“Lucky?” William repeated, puzzled.

“You're still alive.” Snail turned and set off again, shuffling along, his head bowed between humped shoulders. It was hard to imagine him as a young man, still able to run.

“Have people died there?” William asked in alarm.

“All I know is that people have sometimes gone missing in Foxwist. Maybe they're dead, maybe not, but whatever the truth of it is, I think you had a narrow escape, Will. Be grateful for that and don't go near the Hollow again.”

“The figure you saw, was it a ghost, do you think?” William asked, falling into step beside the monk.

“I doubt it.”

“Oh? What was it, then?”

“Something as old as the woods and the hills,” the monk said quietly, turning to gaze across the river, toward Foxwist. “I believe it was here long before the abbey and Weforde and Yagleah, and will still be here long after they've gone. I don't have a name for it, Will, but I believe it was the spirit of the place.”

William shivered. He did not realize places could have spirits. He glanced around uneasily. The world was beginning to feel far stranger and more dangerous than he had ever imagined. His life growing up in the mill at Iwele had been much simpler than his life at the abbey.

They reached the workshop and Snail lifted the latch. “Perhaps the hob will be able to tell me what it really was,” he said with a quick smile at William.

“If he's still alive,” William said grimly.

“Well, let's find out, shall we?”

C
HAPTER
FOUR

 

 

B
rother Snail kept a lantern on a shelf inside the door, along with a tinderbox and a couple of spare tallow candles. He lit the stub of candle inside the lantern and looked around the workshop. “Where is he, then, this hob of yours?”

It was some moments before William spotted the creature, huddled between a basket of logs and the hut wall. “Over there.”

Snail frowned as he peered into the gloom. “Where?”

William crouched down beside the basket and held out a hand to the hob. The creature shuffled forward awkwardly and grabbed William's fingers. As gently as he could, William helped the hob out of its hiding place.

The creature seemed weaker now. There was a trail of blood on the floor where it dragged its leg. William heard Brother Snail gasp. He glanced over his shoulder. The monk was staring down at the injured creature, his eyes wide with shock. It seemed the monk hadn't fully believed in hobs until that moment.

“Can you help him?” William asked anxiously.

“I will try,” Snail said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Bring him to the table, Will.” He rolled up his sleeves and poured water from the pail by the door into a bowl.

William did as he was told. He cleared a space amongst the pots, bowls, and bundles of dried plants, and settled the hob on the scrubbed oak boards. The thin-fingered paws held tightly to William's hand, and the small body trembled. William stroked the fur on the hob's back to try to reassure it. The hob tensed. William had the feeling he didn't like being touched like this. He lowered his hand and saw the hob relax a little.

Snail examined the hob's leg, his fingers careful and gentle as they wiped the blood from his fur with a rag dipped in the water. “The break is clean. The trap snapped the bone but didn't crush it into pieces, which is a good thing,” he said, glancing at the hob. “It should mend and be as good as new. I'll clean the wound and splint the leg, and then I'll mix you a caudle to ease the pain. You will need to rest until the bone heals.” He dried his hands on a clean corner of the rag and turned away to fetch what he would need to treat the hob. “You are welcome to stay here at the abbey until you are well enough to go back to the woods.”

The hob looked up at William. The creature's face was drawn and his eyes shadowed with suspicion. He clearly did not trust people, and who could blame him?

“It might be for the best,” William said. “You can't fend for yourself if you can't walk.”

“Hobs and men have never been friends,” the hob said, looking from William to Brother Snail. “Sometimes men let us live in their homes, tend their animals, and clean their pots, but they do not like us or trust us. Mostly they do not even believe in us. Why should you be any different?”

“Well, for a start,” Brother Snail said, raising his eyebrows, “I believe in you, seeing as you're sitting there in front of me. And I have no reason to dislike or distrust you, unless you give me cause to do so. Is that good enough for you?”

The hob nodded slowly.

“Good,” the monk said briskly. “Now I'll prepare that caudle. William, you have work to do in the kitchen. You can come by and see our patient later.”

William opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. Brother Snail was right. He should be in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

“Hurry along, then,” Snail said, glancing at him with a smile, as if understanding his reluctance to leave the hut.

William walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch and looked back at the hob. “What's your name?”

The hob's eyes narrowed and he looked away. “I will not tell you.”

“Why not?” William asked in surprise.

The hob did not reply.

Brother Snail smiled slightly and glanced at William. “He can't tell you, because if he does, it will give you power over him. Fay folk never tell humans their names, ever, unless they are tricked into doing so.”

The hob continued to stare at the wall, determinedly silent.

“So what are we meant to call you?” William asked.

The hob raised one shoulder in a shrug.

“We'll call you Brother Walter,” Snail said with a gleam in his eyes. “Would that suit you?”

The hob turned and regarded the monk thoughtfully for several moments, and then nodded. “It will do.”

“That's settled, then,” Snail said. “Brother Walter it is.”

William grinned. “That'll please Prior Ardo and the other monks.”

“They don't need to know,” Snail said firmly. “Now, get back to your work, Will, before Brother Martin comes looking for you.”

William did not need to be told again. It was very unwise to get on the wrong side of the abbey's cook, an old soldier with one eye and a foul temper.

“I'll be back before dinner,” he said, opening the door.

The monk nodded. “Bring some food with you for Brother Walter.”

William made a face. The most he could hope to smuggle out of the kitchen was a bit of bread and a bowl of Brother Martin's vegetable pottage.

As if the hob had not already suffered enough for one day.

 

“Yer late,” Brother Martin growled, his one brown eye fixing William with a steely glare. “Where you bin?”

“Helping Brother Snail,” William said, picking up the basket of vegetables that Peter Borowe had delivered to the kitchen. He carried it over to the table and dumped it down beside a pail of water. Rolling up his sleeves, he started to pull the leaves off a cabbage and drop them into the water. He knew the routine; he had done it almost every day since he'd come to live at Crowfield. Peel, wash, and chop cabbage, carrots, and leeks, a few onions, and anything else the lay brother had managed to scavenge from the fields and woods around the abbey. Today there were three small carp from the abbey fishpond to add to the vegetables. William frowned down at them. At least one of them looked as if it had died of old age. They would do little more than add some flavor to the pottage, and if the smell was anything to go by, it was not going to be pleasant.

Brother Martin was making maslin bread for the main meal of the day, using a mixture of coarse dark rye and wheat flour. Soft white wheat bread was unheard of at Crowfield. It was just one more reminder, not that it was needed, of how frugally the monks lived.

Brother Martin had already been at the cider, it seemed. He made it himself from the apples growing in the abbey orchard, and it was strong enough to kill a horse. His cheeks were mottled dark red and he muttered to himself as he pounded the dough, his heavy fists pummeling it with a savagery that was frightening to watch. William eyed him warily. The stockily built monk with his scarred face and leathery skin seemed to be permanently full of rage, but at what or whom, William had never found out. You could not hold a conversation with Brother Martin; he spoke only to snap orders or pour scathing contempt on William's efforts in the kitchen. Sometimes he seemed to forget he was no longer a soldier and had on several occasions threatened to tie William to a post and have him flogged.

“As if we ain't enough damned work to do without
guests
dragging their stinking carcasses to the abbey gates and living off us like leeches,” the monk spat, knuckles thumping the dough. “Cook meat for 'em, Brother Martin, make pretty food and fine white
bread for 'em, Brother Martin, wipe their arses for 'em,
Brother Martin,” he sneered. He turned to scowl at William. “Get that lot finished and then go and help that idle layabout Borowe to muck out the guest chambers.”

William stared at him in astonishment. Here was an unexpected piece of news: guests coming to the abbey. Who were they? How long did they intend to stay? From what Brother Snail had told him, it was many years since anyone had stayed at Crowfield. Why would they? There were a couple of larger, richer abbeys within a couple of days' ride of Crowfield, both far more suited to the needs of hungry and weary travelers. All he could think was that the guests, whoever they were, had no idea what they were letting themselves in for.

Brother Martin took a short-bladed knife from his belt and slashed the dough into smaller pieces, ready to shape into loaves and bake in the oven in the yard. “Mark my words, soldier,” he said suddenly, pointing the knife blade at William, “there will be trouble. Strangers in the camp, not good. Not good at all, you wait and see.”

It was a relief when the last of the vegetables was cut up and added to the cauldron hanging over the fire, and William could escape from the kitchen.