The Crowfield Curse

by Pat Walsh

  William puzzled over the abbot’s words. What did the abbot mean by “the darkness”? Did he mean the Dark King? But how could the bedridden old man possibly know anything about him? No, William thought, the abbot had said “the coming darkness.” Whatever it was, it hadn’t happened yet. A feeling of foreboding passed over him like a cold shadow.

  “Have a care, boy!” Brother Stephen said sharply. William had not been paying full attention to what he was doing, and he had trapped the monk’s hand between the edge of the hurdle and the wall.

  “Sorry,” William muttered.

  “Yes, well, don’t do it again.”

  They reached the foot of the staircase and angled the hurdle out into the cloister alley. It was snowing again. A restless wind sent flakes whirling across the cloister garth and through the arched openings of the north alley. William put his head down against the wind as the icy snowflakes stung his face and briefly blinded him. It was a relief when they reached the door into the south aisle of the church and went inside the building.

  A pile of snow lay on the nave floor beneath the hole in the roof. Prior Ardo stared at it, momentarily distracted from the task at hand. He glanced up at a patch of white sky between the bare roof timbers and his face hardened into its habitual lines of weary resignation. It was just one more thing he would have to see to.

  William and Brother Stephen carried the abbot into the chancel. Brother Snail and Brother Mark hurried to collect as many lanterns, candlesticks, and wax and tallow candles as they could find. They put them on the chancel floor, the altar, and in brackets on the choir stalls. Brother Odo followed along behind, lighting them with a taper. The flames glowed like little white stars in the gloom.

  “Put the hurdle here,” the prior said, pointing to the floor in front of the steps up to the high altar. For a moment William hesitated. The abbot’s covers would not keep out the biting chill and drafts that cut across the tiled floor. Then he thought, Does it matter? The old man was as close to death as it was possible to be.

  William stepped back from the hurdle. Someone touched his arm. He looked around and saw Brother Snail. The monk gestured for him to stand over by the choir stalls.

  The monks took their places in the stalls and began to sing. The Latin words of a psalm rose into the darkness above the shimmering haze from the candle flames. At a nod from the prior, Brother Gabriel slipped away from his stall and returned several minutes later carrying a wooden box. As he passed by, William saw that it was the box from the sacristy cupboard, the one in which the feather was kept. The monk carried it over to Prior Ardo and William watched as the prior lifted the lid.

  There were one or two wary glances in William’s direction from the other monks, as if they were not sure that he should be watching this. William ignored them. He had as much right here as any of them. After all, he was the only person in the church who had ever actually seen the angel.

  There was a collective gasp as the prior carefully lifted the feather from the box and held it up. It gleamed with a soft radiance in the candlelight. He knelt beside the abbot and laid the feather on the old monk’s chest.

  With an effort, the abbot freed one hand from beneath the covers and his thin fingers clutched the feather. William thought he saw a smile lift the corners of the old man’s mouth.

  William noticed a small point of light near the east wall. At first he thought it was a reflection off the silver crucifix on the altar, but after staring at it for a couple of moments, William realized the light was hovering somewhere between the altar and the dying abbot. His scalp prickled uneasily as he watched the light begin to move slowly down the chancel.

  The singing faltered and faded away as one by one the monks saw the light, until the only sound was the fitful gusting of the wind outside the church. William glanced around and saw fear in the eyes of the monks nearest to him. Peter Borowe, standing on the far side of the chancel, stared at the light with a look of wonder on his face. His mouth widened into a smile and he clapped his hands together softly.

  The candle flames in the chancel guttered in the drafts. The painted faces of saints were briefly illuminated before shadows wavered across the walls and hid them again.

  The light became steadily brighter. It reached the foot of the abbot’s hurdle and stopped. William held his breath and watched as the light began to grow in size, spreading downward until it touched the floor, and upward to the roof beams. It took on the shape of a human body, filling the chancel with a dazzling white glare that hurt William’s eyes. The terrified monks huddled in their stalls, praying aloud. The prior crouched beside the abbot, his thin arms covering the old man’s body as if to protect him.

  Gradually, the light eased and lost its painfully bright intensity. Blind spots swam in front of William’s eyes but he could just make out a huge glowing figure, arms spread wide. Blue fire shimmered around it like a halo. Light radiated from its face, so that all William could see of its features were shadows where the eyes should have been. Its hair hung over its shoulders and shone like molten silver. In one outstretched hand it held a sword with a golden blade. From its back, two feathered wings spread out, their pointed tips almost touching the floor tiles.

  The angel bore little resemblance to the one in the Hollow, but William knew with a deep certainty that it was the same creature, just as he felt sure that this was closer to its true shape: a being of light that filled him with a bewildering mixture of bone-melting fear and a joy so profound it hurt.

  The prior knelt beside the hurdle, his whole body shaking, his hands clasped together tightly in prayer. His head was bowed and his eyes squeezed shut.

  William watched as Abbot Simon struggled to sit up and push aside his coverlets. He was still holding the feather and he seemed to be drawing strength from the angel. His face was lit with a radiance that was startling to witness. Tears trickled down his sunken cheeks and his eyes seemed to stare beyond the walls of the church at something only he could see. Without stopping to think, William darted forward and helped Abbot Simon to his feet. He put an arm around the old monk’s waist to support him.

  A wave of painfully brilliant light billowed out from the angel. It lit up the inside of William’s skull, and for a few moments he could not move. Then, just as suddenly, the light was gone and the abbot slumped in his arms. Shaking with fright, William lowered the abbot’s body to the floor. He knew the monk was dead.

  Prior Ardo hurried over to kneel beside the abbot. He crossed the abbot’s arms on his chest and straightened his linen tunic around his legs. William looked around for the feather, thinking that the abbot had dropped it, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  “The feather,” he said, looking at the prior, “it’s gone.”

  The prior glanced at him with a quick frown and turned his attention back to the abbot.

  William stood up and gazed around the chancel. There was nothing to show that the angel had been there, but something had changed inside the church. Or maybe, William thought, the church is just the same as always, but I’ve changed. He felt stronger, calmer. The hardships and the losses of his past no longer mattered. It was as if he had spent his life peering at the ground and had just looked up and seen the sky for the first time.

  Brother Snail came to stand beside him. The monk was smiling and there was a light in his eyes that told William he was feeling the same sense of wonder. He looked up at William and the smile broadened. William grinned back. There was no need for words.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  William stood in the archway to the cloister garth, watching the snow weave complicated patterns against the gray afternoon sky. He hardly noticed the cold. He could hear the monks singing in the church and understood their need to mark what they had just witnessed. For them it was by praying and singing psalms; for William it was standing in the snow and feeling the swirling flakes brush his face with their icy softness. High above the abbey, the slow toll of the passing bell rang out.

&n
bsp; William took the flute from inside his tunic. Through the leather bag, he traced the shape of the instrument. His fingers touched the holes along its length as he tried to imagine the music he would one day be able to play on it. He sensed rather than saw Shadlok come to stand beside him.

  “What is that?” Shadlok asked.

  “It’s Master Bone’s flute.”

  “His flute?” Shadlok’s tone was sharp.

  William nodded and turned to look at the fay. “He asked the prior to give it to me.”

  Shadlok closed his eyes for a moment and smiled grimly. “I should have known.”

  “What?” William asked, mystified. “What’s wrong?”

  “Bone did not leave you the flute.”

  “But the prior said . . .”

  “I know what he said,” Shadlok said softly. “But Bone left you his lute, not the flute.”

  William stared at the fay, feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He half-turned with some idea of going back to the chapter house and asking the prior for what was rightfully his, but then he stopped.

  “Prior Ardo will deny it,” he said flatly. “It’ll be our word against his.”

  Shadlok said nothing. He folded his arms and turned to look out at the falling snow.

  William was torn between resentment at the prior’s deceit, and understanding what had made him do it. The lute was a beautiful and valuable instrument. The money the prior could raise from selling it would pay for repairs to the nave roof, or perhaps buy a couple of goats and an extra pig next spring. He looked down at the leather bag in his hand. Let the prior have the lute, he thought, I have something far more precious. I have a future.

  “I’ll need to find someone to teach me how to play,” William said. “One day, I’ll leave the abbey and make my way in the world as a musician.”

  “I can teach you,” the fay said with a shrug, glancing at him. “I taught Bone. I can make a musician of you.”

  William grinned. “That will annoy the prior.”

  “I know,” Shadlok said with a gleam in his eye. “Fair payment for his dishonesty, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Very fair. Does this mean you intend to stay at Crowfield for now?”

  Shadlok’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “I have no choice in the matter.”

  William frowned at him, puzzled. “Why?”

  It was some moments before the fay spoke. There was a strange expression in his pale blue eyes when he turned to face William. “The Dark King put a curse on me a long time ago. It bound me to Jacobus Bone for as long as he lived.”

  “Master Bone is dead,” William said. “Surely now you’re free to go wherever you want?”

  Shadlok’s face twisted with sudden anger. Snowflakes caught in the silver-white strands of his hair. “My curse is to have my fate bound to that of a human until such time as the king sees fit to release me, which I very much doubt he ever will. I am no longer bound to Bone, I am bound to you.”

  “Me?” William gasped. “Why did he bind you to me?”

  “He didn’t,” Shadlok said. “When the possibility that Bone might finally die became a reality, we chose the next human for me to be bound to. We chose you.”

  William stared at him, appalled. That was what Jacobus Bone must have meant yesterday in the Hollow when he said, “We chose well, my old friend.” The words echoed inside William’s mind. He had been like a pig to the slaughter, not seeing the blade at his throat until it was too late.

  “You had no right to do that,” William said angrily. He gripped the flute so tightly that his knuckles went white. “Isn’t there some way to break the curse?”

  “No. Only your death will free you. You must accept it.” The pale eyes glittered dangerously, daring him to argue.

  William felt sick. What if Shadlok grew tired of being bound to him? Would he simply kill him and move on to the next person?

  As if guessing what was in William’s mind, Shadlok smiled thinly and said, “I cannot harm the human I am tied to, if that is what you are thinking. It is part of the curse that I have to protect and . . . serve this one person. That was why we had to choose carefully.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” William said with feeling, “but you must know that it means you’ll have to live here at Crowfield as long as I do.” If that didn’t force Shadlok to find a way to break the curse, then nothing would.

  “I am only too well aware of that,” Shadlok said grimly.

  William felt a flicker of gleeful pleasure at the thought of Shadlok rubbing shoulders with the monks of Crowfield Abbey every day, though he realized that his life was never going to be the same again. Wherever he went, whatever he did, this fay warrior would be at his side. He remembered what Abbot Simon had said, that his path would not be an easy one, but that he’d never be alone. Somehow, the dying monk had seen what was ahead of William and had tried to warn him. Only, there was nothing he could do about it. He would simply have to try to make the best of this strange turn of events.

  “Have you asked the prior if you can stay at Crowfield?” William asked.

  “This morning, before Bone’s burial, but why would he refuse?” Shadlok’s voice was edged with contempt. “In return for a bed and two meals a day, which I neither want nor need, I will work from dawn till dusk. The prior knows a bargain when he sees one.”

  “What about the rest of Master Bone’s possessions? What will happen to them?”

  “He left them to the abbey. The prior will most likely sell them along with the lute.”

  “I suppose you can’t blame him for that,” William said grudgingly.

  “I don’t. Bone has no further need of them.”

  “Then it seems we are stuck with each other,” William said at last. “If you teach me to play my flute, perhaps one day we can leave Crowfield and travel the world together.”

  “The prospect fills me with delight,” Shadlok said scathingly.

  William made a face. “You have only yourself to blame, you know. You didn’t have to choose me.”

  “No? Perhaps I should have bound myself to the prior, or one of the other monks. At least you are young and have the Sight, and you are as anxious to leave this place one day as I am. You have . . . potential.”

  “Does this mean you are now my servant?” William asked with feigned innocence. The look of outrage on the fay’s face told him he had hit his target squarely, and he laughed.

  “Most amusing,” Shadlok said, scowling. He brushed past William and walked away.

  William was still grinning to himself when he set off to find the hob and Brother Snail, to show them his flute. Perhaps being bound to Shadlok might not be so bad after all.

  Later that evening, when the monks were in bed and silence had settled over the abbey, William sat by the fire in the kitchen, his blanket around his shoulders. The hob sat beside him, tucked under a corner of the blanket. William told the hob everything that had happened that day, from Master Bone’s burial to Shadlok’s curse. But it was the appearance of the angel in the church that interested the hob the most, and he made William tell the story several times before he was satisfied.

  “I am glad the nangel isn’t dead,” the hob said sleepily. He leaned against William and settled himself more comfortably.

  “So am I,” William said, nodding. “I wonder if we’ll ever see it again?”

  “I didn’t see it this time,” the hob said. He had been very put out to realize he’d been busy in Brother Snail’s workshop when the angel had come to take the abbot’s soul away.

  William yawned loudly and stretched his arms above his head. His body ached with tiredness. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for my bed.”

  The hob curled up on the mattress. “Nangels and squirrels and snow,” he murmured drowsily, “magic and shadows, roundy-round, all together.”

  William smiled and tucked the blanket around the hob. He lifted the couvre-feu and placed it carefully over the fire pit, then lay down
beside the hob and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was in a deep and dreamless sleep.

  WINTER TIMETABLE

  FOR DAILY LIFE AT

  CROWFIELD ABBEY

  2:00 a.m. — vigils, first Greater Hour of the Divine Office, then reading and prayer.

  Sunrise — lauds, second Greater Hour of the Divine Office.

  6:00 a.m. — prime, the First Hour of the Little Hours of the Divine Office, followed by High Mass.

  8:00 a.m. — tierce/terce, the Third Hour of the Little Hours of the Divine Office, followed by Chapter Meeting.

  Morning — work.

  12:00 p.m. — sext, the Sixth Hour of the Little Hours of the Divine Office. If the monks were away from the abbey, in fields, they stopped and prayed where they were.

  1:00 p.m. — nones, the Ninth Hour of the Little Hours of the Divine Office, followed by dinner, then into the church to give thanks for food and to sing Psalm 31: “In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust . . .”

  Afternoon — work and time spent in cloister or cale-factorium (warming house).

  Dusk — vespers — third Greater Hour of the Divine Office, followed by reading in cloister, then the eighth and last of the canonical hours, compline, warm drink, and to bed.

  GLOSSARY

  Book of Hours: a book of prayers, psalms, and holy texts, handwritten and illuminated by monks.

  Caudle: a medicinal hot drink for minor ailments, made with wine or ale, thickened with bread crumbs, egg yolks, or ground almonds.

  Cellarer/Cellarium: the cellarer is the monk in charge of the abbey’s provisions and storeroom, or cellarium.

  Cesspit: a pit for garbage and/or sewage.

  Chapter House: a room off the cloister, close to the south door of the church. The monks meet here each day to discuss abbey business and listen to a reading from the Rule of St. Benedict.