The bells for sext rang out from the tower of the abbey church as William and the pigs set off into Foxwist. Mary Magdalene, who had made this journey many times over the years, was content to trot along beside William. Every so often, she stopped to rootle through a pile of dead leaves or nose a patch of earth, grunting softly to herself. The two younger pigs ran off in all directions, excited by their unexpected freedom. William rounded them up if they strayed too far, prodding them back onto the trackway with the pig-stick, an ash rod dark and shiny from countless years of use by abbey swineherds.
From the moment he crossed the bridge by the abbey gatehouse, William had the feeling he was being watched. The feeling persisted when he turned off the main trackway and headed northward. He was tense and watchful as he walked along, but whatever was keeping pace with him through the trees remained hidden.
The track skirted the abbey’s hazel coppice and reached a bank topped by a wattle fence and stretches of thorn hedging. It had once enclosed the abbey’s deer park, a remnant of more prosperous days, but there were no deer there now. Over the years the hedge had thinned to a straggle and the fence had fallen in places and lay rotting under the leaf litter. Now the park was only used to provide pannage for the abbey pigs, and the pigs of Crowfield’s two tenant farmers.
The ditch was shallow and easily crossed. William climbed the bank, herding the pigs ahead of him. The undergrowth was sparse here. There were wide clearings around ancient oaks and stands of birch trees, and open sweeps of bracken. This was the heart of Foxwist, a place of deep green shadows in summer and mist and silence in winter. Local people told stories of strange creatures that haunted the glades on moonlit nights, of fays that danced between the trees. As William walked along, the stories came back to him and he wished that he was safely back inside the walls of the abbey.
The swineherd’s hut stood on a low ridge overlooking a stream. Its wattle and timber walls leaned to one side and had been propped up with a couple of huge oak branches. The thatch was green with moss, and thorny whips of bramble twisted through it. In spite of its ramshackle air, the hut was weatherproof. Firewood was stacked against one wall beneath the overhang of thatch. A small wooden pail hung from a nail by the door.
William dropped his bag on the ground and set off down to the stream to fetch water. The pigs were already there, drinking. Mary Magdalene would not stray far from the hut, but he knew he would have to keep an eye on the other two. He rubbed his arms to warm himself as he stood on the stream bank and looked around. He no longer felt he was being watched, but he knew he would be foolish to believe that whoever it was had gone for good. They would be back sooner or later, of that he was sure.
William carried the pail back to the hut. He pushed open the door and peered inside. It was just as he had left it the last time he had stayed here. The bed, a frame of planks piled with dried straw and bracken, stood against the end wall. William poked through the bedding with the end of the pig-stick, to make sure there were no small creatures settled there for the winter, then unrolled his blankets and spread them out.
The hut was simply furnished with a stool, a small stone-lined fire pit, and a lantern hanging from an iron hook on the wall. An old iron cooking pot, black with soot but scrubbed clean inside, stood on a flat stone by the fire pit, and a couvre-feu lay nearby.
William took the bundle Brother Snail had given him from inside his jacket and laid it on the stool. He gathered up the nails and went outside to look for something to use as a hammer. He found a stone by the stream and used it to drive the nails into the wood around the door, then tucked the last nail inside the rolled-up cuff of his jacket sleeve.
The wind had shifted around to the north and the day was growing noticeably colder. The sky between the branches of the oaks was a clear pale blue, and the low winter sun threw long shadows across the clearing. It was going to be a bitterly cold night.
William looked around for somewhere to put the rowan twig, and decided he wanted to keep it close. He put it under his blanket at the head of the bed. He slipped the four-leafed clover, still inside its fold of parchment, into his other jacket cuff. He hoped it would be enough to protect him from whatever might walk the woods after dark.
William went to fetch some firewood. The pigs were nosing through a drift of oak leaves nearby, searching for acorns, grunting and throwing leaves around, and generally enjoying themselves. William smiled as he stopped for a moment to watch them.
He made a small rick of branches in the fire pit and opened the tinderbox he had brought with him. He took out the little strip of steel and the flint and poked a charred scrap of linen into place over bits of dried toadstool and flax. He had done this so many times before, but he still loved the sight of sparks dancing off the steel and touching the cloth, and the tiny curl of smoke as the sparks caught and fire was born.
Carefully, William blew on the tinder to coax the small flame to grow. He set fire to the pile of dry bark kindling in the fire pit, then quickly patted out the fire in the tinderbox. He sat back with a satisfied smile as the flames grew and licked the branches. For now, he was content.
Mary Magdalene came to the hut doorway and stood watching the fire.
“You’re welcome to join me,” William said, grinning at her.
As if she understood his words, the pig came into the hut and flopped down by the fire pit. William laughed and prodded her with his foot.
“Don’t get too comfortable. We have to go and find the other two soon, before they take it into their heads to run away.”
Mary Magdalene closed her eyes and gave a contented grunt. For now, old age and a love of comfort won out over the lure of acorns.
The fire settled and William put the couvre-feu in place. The pig did not stir as he left the hut, so he closed the door quietly behind him and left her to sleep.
A gelid breeze ruffled his hair and chilled his cheeks. He pulled up his hood and blew into his cupped hands to try to warm them as he looked around for the pigs. They were foraging beneath an oak tree on the far side of the stream. William herded them back toward the hut. By the first shadow-fall of dusk, the two pigs were safely penned for the night.
William piled on the floor for Mary Magdalene what few acorns he had managed to find in the woods earlier that day, along with several small, wrinkled apples. When she had finished her meal, he led her out to the pen. She walked wearily into the shelter and settled down in the pile of bracken with her two companions.
William returned to the hut. It was warm and smelled of pig. He sat on the floor by the fire to eat his supper of bread, cheese, and water. Somewhere close by, an owl hooted, a breathy hoo-hoo-ooo that emphasized the silence around it. William felt a small stirring of unease. The pigs had kept him busy that afternoon and he’d had little time to worry. But now, alone in the hut in the dark woods, he felt vulnerable. The hut walls did not seem like much protection against whatever might be outside.
William built up the fire. He tried to think of cheerful things: summer days in Iwele, swimming in the river with the other village children; the Michaelmas goose fair on the green; working in the mill beside his father and brother; and later, sitting by the fire listening to his mother telling stories, tales rich with magic and color, like the best of dreams. He could remember her voice and the way her eyes almost closed when she laughed, and how she would sing sometimes, when she thought nobody could hear her. His memories were as precious as a purseful of silver pennies.
William yawned and stretched his arms. The smoky warmth was making him sleepy. He covered the fire and lay down on the bed. He wrapped himself in one of the blankets and wriggled around to get comfortable on the pile of bracken and straw.
He was drifting on the edge of sleep, his body tired and relaxed, when he became aware of a rustling in the roof thatch. He opened his eyes and listened. The wind, maybe? The rustling became louder. Bits of straw showered down between the rafters and onto his face.
Fully awake now, William sat up, spitting straw and thatch out of his mouth. More scattered over him. It was not the wind, or a rat in the thatch. It was too big for that.
Something was trying to get into the hut.