The Crowfield Demon (14 page)

The prior was not going to waste the abbey's precious wax candles on villagers from Yagleah, William thought wryly, even if they
were
pilgrims.

Brother Gabriel nodded in agreement. He looked at William. “Go about your work, boy. You're not needed here now.”

William walked away across the nave, but on impulse he hid behind one of the huge pillars to watch as Brother Stephen led the pilgrims into the church. The villagers stared around in shock at the ruined building as Brother Stephen herded them toward the shrine. They crowded around to peer into the box, their faces shining with awe, then knelt in front of the table and bowed their heads as the prior began to pray.

The cold air stirred as something drifted past William, an unseen presence that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A foul odor wafted along behind it, and he caught his breath in disgust. It smelled like rotten cabbage and meat that had gone bad, with more than a hint of a ripe cesspit thrown in for good measure.
Oh, that is revolting!
William thought, putting his hands over his nose. It was so bad it made his eyes water. He breathed through his mouth and watched as one by one, the pilgrims and the monks looked around uneasily and sniffed the air. Cloaks were pulled more tightly around shivering bodies, and noses were held as the stink reached them. One of the children started to cry.

Prior Ardo, his face strained and his nose wrinkled with distaste, crossed himself hurriedly and urged the villagers to their feet. Brother Stephen led them out of the church. The prior closed the box and handed it to Brother Gabriel. William darted back behind the pillar and hid as the monk scurried across the nave toward the cloister door. William risked a glance around the edge of the pillar and saw the prior standing near the West Door, his head to one side as if he was listening to something. He crossed himself again, then turned and quickly left the church.

William edged away from the pillar. Brother Gabriel had left the door to the cloister ajar, and a thin shaft of gray light cut through the gloom in the south aisle. A small dark shape crossed it, and William's heart almost leaped out of his chest in fright. Something touched his leg, and he jumped.

“Has it gone?”

To his relief, William saw that it was the hob. “I don't know,” he said softly, “but I don't think we should wait around to find out.”

The hob ran ahead of him and reached the cloister door first. Thankfully, there was nobody about.

“Ugh, I can still
smell
it,” William said in revulsion. True, the foul odor wasn't quite so bad here in the cloister and had more of a fishy tang now, but it still turned his stomach. The hob climbed onto a stone bench nearby and sat hunched up and shivering in the chilly breeze that chased its tail through the arches of the cloister alley.

“I was looking for you,” the hob said, wrinkling his nose against the lingering stench. “The snail brother sent me to tell you that he found some writing, hidden in there.” He pointed to the sacristy door. Edgar the carpenter had rehung it that morning, and someone had scrubbed Brother Mark's blood from the timbers. “He wants us to go to his hut this afternoon, and he said Shadlok must come, too.”

Whatever it was Brother Snail had found, it had to be important for him to call William and the fay away from their work.

“Shadlok is helping the carpenters. I'll find him and give him the message. Tell Brother Snail we'll be there as soon as dinner is finished.”

The hob nodded and jumped down from the bench, and with a flick of his tail, he was gone.

Out in the yard, the bell calling the monks to the frater for dinner rang out. William suddenly realized that the smell in the cloister had nothing to do with the fetid stench of the demon in the church. It was Brother Martin's fish stew, and the reek of it seeped through the abbey like a marsh mist. Quite what the cook had done to the stew to make it smell so bad, William couldn't imagine. But one thing was for sure: He didn't think he would
ever
be hungry enough to want to sit down and actually eat it.

After dinner, William went to find Shadlok. “Brother Snail's found something about the bowl in the sacristy. He wants us to meet him in his workshop this afternoon,” William said.

“Very well,” Shadlok said, nodding. “The carpenters will be returning to Yagleah soon to fetch another load of timber. I will go to the monk's hut then. You will need to make some excuse to get away from the stonemasons.”

William had already planned his escape. He would plead a belly gripe and say he needed to ask Brother Snail for something to soothe it. It wasn't so far from the truth, either, he thought queasily, remembering the bowl of stew and the glassy-eyed fish head that had stared back at him from the thin gray stock in his bowl.

Shadlok lifted a plank onto his shoulder and carried it up the steps to the church door. He paused and seemed to take a deep breath before stepping over the threshold. William followed a few moments later, one hand clutching his belly and his face pulled into a suitably pained expression.

Luck was on his side; Master Guillaume had smelled Brother Martin's fish stew and could readily believe that William was an innocent victim of the cook's food.

“But don't make a habit of this, boy,” the mason warned. “Gripes or no gripes, there's more than enough work to do here.”

William grinned to himself as he left the church and set off for Brother Snail's workshop.

“Come in, come in, Will,” Brother Snail said, ushering him into the hut and closing the door behind him. “I was beginning to worry that you wouldn't be able to get away from Master Guillaume. What excuse did you give?”

William grinned. “Belly gripes.”

Brother Snail smiled, but there was a look of sadness in his eyes. “So many lies.”

“Well, I couldn't tell him the truth.”

“No, of course not, that wasn't what I meant. But small lies have a habit of growing into bigger lies and tripping you up.”

The hob was sitting on a hearthstone. Shadlok, arms folded, stood by the fire. William glanced at him in surprise, wondering how he'd managed to get here so quickly.

Brother Snail took William's arm and led him over to the table, where a small leather-bound book lay beside a lantern. The stub of tallow inside it was lit, and the smoky flame flickered and guttered. The book's shadow flapped like a little black wing on the table beside it.

“I found this in a cupboard in the sacristy. It is a history of the abbey, written over a hundred years ago.” Brother Snail opened the book and slowly turned the exquisitely decorated vellum sheets.

The hob climbed onto the table and squatted between William and the monk. William had to peer over his head to see the book.

Brother Snail seemed to be searching for a particular page. He found it and smoothed it flat with his fingertips. There were lines of writing and a small painted picture of the abbey. The workmanship was impressive, but the look of the page was spoiled by the untidy scrawl of words in black ink at the foot of the page and the small drawing beside it. It showed a bowl above what looked like a stick with a bundle of feathers tied to the top.

“This was added after the book was finished,” Brother Snail said. “I think this drawing is meant to be the bowl we found in the side chapel. The words at the bottom of the page say
Verum est ad sanctum pedem
. That means ‘The truth is at the saint's foot.' I think whoever buried the bowl may have written a full account of why he did so before hiding it somewhere here in the abbey, at the feet of a saint.”

“Yes, but which saint?” Shadlok said with a trace of impatience. “There are a great many to choose from.”

“I don't know,” the monk admitted.

William pointed to the drawing of the feathered stick. “What's that supposed to be?”

The hob traced the drawing with a fingertip, his curved claw scratching the vellum. “It is a tree.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at the hob in surprise.

“It looks nothing like a tree,” William said.

“The painted man in the church is carrying a tree with feather leaves at the top, just like this one,” the hob said with a shrug.

Brother Snail frowned thoughtfully for some moments and then said slowly, “I believe you're right.” He turned to William and Shadlok in sudden excitement. “It's a palm tree. It's one of St. Christopher's sacred symbols. They don't grow in England, but in the Holy Lands far to the east, they are as common as weeds. So I have heard, anyway.”

“Why did he go around carrying a tree?” William asked, baffled.

“He was a giant of a man, and he used the tree for a staff,” the monk explained. “But the point is, it was drawn as a clue. The truth is at
St. Christopher's
feet.”

“It is likely that whoever drew this wrote down in secret what he could not say in this book,” Shadlok said. “If we're looking for a sheet of parchment, it could be hidden in the smallest of spaces, though there is a fair chance it will not have survived the damp rising through the walls or the destruction of the tower.”

“Even so, we have to try and find it,” Brother Snail insisted. “And the side chapel is the only place in the abbey linked to St. Christopher.”

“There was nothing else buried in the chapel,” William said. “I took up all but the last few tiles, and there were no more holes dug into the floor.”

“Then we must have missed something,” Brother Snail said, with a helpless little shrug.

“Maybe it's under the feet of the
other
holy man with a feather tree,” the hob suggested innocently. He jumped with fright when William leaned down and grabbed him by the arms.

“
What
other holy man?” William demanded. “Where?”

“There is another St. Christopher in the abbey?” Brother Snail asked, his cheeks pink with excitement.

The hob nodded. “He has no head, and the small man on his shoulder has mostly broken away, but he still has his tree.”

“Where did you see him?” William asked.

“In the square place where the brother men sit sometimes,” the hob said, “with the garden in the middle.”

“The cloister?” Brother Snail sounded surprised, but then his eyes widened and he turned to William. “Of course! There must have been a St. Christopher amongst the small statues on the chancel screen. It must have been taken from the church and put in the north alley with the other statues.” He turned to the hob with a wide smile. “Your sharp eyes might well have solved this riddle, Brother Walter.”

The hob looked delighted. His ears twitched, and he smiled back at the monk.

William grinned and poked the hob in the ribs. “Even so, you might have told us about the statue before now.”

“No matter,” Brother Snail said, still smiling. “At least we know now. Will, can I ask you to find the statue and bring it back here? The brethren will be in the chapter house, and the stonemasons will have finished for the day. You won't be disturbed. Brother Walter will show you where to look.”

The hob nodded, but he looked worried. “We won't have to stay there long, will we?”

“Only as long as it takes to find the saint,” William assured him. The statues from the chancel screen were small, barely the length of his arm. St. Christopher would be light enough to carry back to the workshop.

A problem suddenly presented itself to William. “But what if the abbot hid whatever it was in the chancel screen itself? The screen is just a pile of rubble now.”

“One thing at a time, Will,” Brother Snail said briskly. “Let's just find the statue and take it from there.”

William peered around the corner of the passageway. The east alley was deserted. He could hear the murmur of voices coming from the chapter house. The daylight was fading, and shadows were creeping through the cloister. He looked down at the hob. “Show me where you saw the statue.”

Glancing around fearfully, the hob crept out of the passage and along the alley. William followed close behind him. They turned the corner into the north alley.

The statues were eerily lifelike in the half-light, their painted eyes watchful. Some of them were as small as the hob; others were the size of a fully grown man. Many of them were chipped and cracked, or missing hands or noses. Their colorfully painted robes and faces gave a rainbow glow to the gloom of the cloister walk.

Countless stone eyes seemed to follow William as he picked his way carefully between the throng of saints and angels. The hob disappeared for several moments, but then he reappeared, dust and cobwebs on his fur and a look of panic on his face.

“The holy man has gone!”

“Are you sure?” William asked. “Perhaps someone's moved him?”

The hob shook his head. “Other stone people have gone, too. Look.” He pointed to a patch of empty floor between an angel playing a flute and a small statue of St. Catherine, carrying a wooden cartwheel. Bits of broken stone and dust marked the gaps where other statues had been.

“The stonemasons must have taken the most badly damaged statues out to the rubble heap in the yard,” William said. “We'll have to search there.”

The hob looked dubious. “There is a
lot
of stone in the yard, and the holy man is very small. It might take a long time to find him, and it's getting dark.”

“Then we'll have to do it tomorrow,” William said. “We
have
to find whatever was hidden at his feet.”

The hob made a face. “Then it's just a great pity his holy feet aren't a good deal larger.”

William managed to find a few minutes to speak to Brother Snail as he brought the monks their warmed bedtime beer that evening.

“The statue's disappeared,” William said, keeping his voice down. “I think the stonemasons have taken it out to the yard to break up for rubble.”