William glanced around. There was an atmosphere in the gloomy little chapel he did not like. He looked up at the painted ceiling. Two angels flew between stars and a large full moon. One was clothed in white and had sweeping feathered wings. It had clearly been painted by the same person who had decorated the walls of the chapel, but the other angel was different. It was crudely painted and looked as if it had been added by a different hand. Its robes and wings were red, and it had the head of a crow and carried a sword. William found it deeply disturbing. There was something in the back of his mind, a vague feeling that he had seen something like this before, but it was gone before he could grasp it. He remembered Shadlok’s reluctance to go near the church and his certainty that something evil lurked there. Shadlok was right, he thought. The chapel might have been a holy place once, when St. Christopher watched over it, but it wasn’t now. The saint was blind, and something else inhabited the chapel. They were not welcome here.
Brother Snail put a hand on William’s arm. “Come away, Will. This is not a good place, not anymore.”
William nodded and followed the monk out of the chapel.
Master Guillaume stood by one of the massive stone pillars supporting the tower. He peered up as he slowly circled the pillar, then looked down at the floor.
“This isn’t good,” he said, leaning down to pick up something. William and the monks crowded around to see what he had found.
“The pier is showing signs of subsidence.” The mason held a sharp-edged piece of stone in the palm of his hand. Mortar dust and bits of stone lay scattered over the floor around his feet. Seeing four blank faces, he added, “The ground on the north side of the church is waterlogged. Half of the building is just sitting on wet mud, more or less, which is why the wall is starting to crack. I need to take a look up in the tower.” He looked at William. “I have two wax candles and a tinderbox in my bag. Fetch them, and then you’re coming up the tower with me.”
It took a minute or so to strike a spark onto the tinder and coax a flame, but at last the candles were lit. William followed the monks and the mason to a small door set into the wall in a corner of the north transept. A spiral of steps curved up through the thickness of the wall. Light from William’s candle leaped ahead of him, chasing the shadows. The stair treads were narrow, and it was difficult to get a safe foothold. William’s legs burned with the effort of climbing. He could hear the mason behind him, huffing as he squeezed his stocky frame around the tightly twisting spiral.
William finally reached a tiny landing. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the narrow triforium gallery, where a row of arched openings looked down onto the floor of the church and the wooden roof of St. Christopher’s chapel. A couple of startled sparrows darted out of a dark corner and sped away across the church, chirping in alarm.
The door of the ringing room was tucked in beside the column on the northwest corner of the tower. William pushed it open and stepped inside. The bell ropes hung down through holes in the ceiling and were looped back behind an iron bracket. A ladder led up to the bell chamber through a square opening in a corner of the room.
Master Guillaume walked around the room, examining the walls. From time to time he said a thoughtful “Hmm.”
William waited by the foot of the ladder, shielding his candle flame with a cupped hand against the drafts funneling down from the bell chamber.
“Are the walls all right?” he asked.
The mason glanced at him. “No. The mortar is loose over there.” He nodded to the northeast pier. “The floorboards are rotting in that corner, too.”
William felt his stomach clench with fear. Noticing the look on his face, the mason grinned, showing two rows of brown teeth.
“Scared, boy?”
William stared at the mason and said nothing.
“It’s a long way down,” the mason added, his eyes narrowing slyly. He jumped up and down a couple of times and the floorboards shook. William’s heart missed a beat. For one awful moment, he wondered if this wasn’t the mason, but the Dark King in disguise. They seemed to share the same streak of casual cruelty.
“I’m only having a bit of fun with you, boy. The floor is sound enough for now,” the mason said, holding up his candle to inspect the upper walls.
William relaxed a little.
“These walls, now, they’re another matter altogether. Plaster’s coming away in handfuls, and the mortar is crumbling. Up the ladder with you, and let’s take a look at the bell chamber. Don’t touch anything and stand quite still when you get up there.”
William didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed the ladder and stood by the opening in the floor, almost too afraid to breathe. Master Guillaume followed a few moments later and moved cautiously around the chamber, candle held aloft.
The chamber was at the top of the tower. The huge timbers of the bell frame took up most of the space inside it. Five large bells were fixed to the crossbeams. Two arched windows were set into each wall and covered with louvered shutters, to allow the sound of the bells to roll out across the countryside. Several of the shutters were broken, though, and rainwater had come through the windows, soaking the frame and staining the floor. Master Guillaume frowned down at a puddle. “Those shutters should have been mended long ago.”
William snorted. The monks had barely enough money for the most essential repairs, so a few broken shutters were not high on the list of things to be done. And quite how they were going to find the money to repair the chancel wall, and possibly the walls of the tower, was anybody’s guess.
The mason turned to stare at him. “Don’t underestimate the damage rain can do, boy.” He patted a beam. “This, for example, should be taking the weight of the bells on this side of the frame, but it’s rotted away until it’s barely even touching the wall any longer.”
“Could the bells fall?” William asked anxiously.
“They could, and to tell you God’s honest truth, I don’t know why they haven’t already.”
The mason edged around and between the frame timbers, to peer into dark corners. He emerged a short while later, covered in cobwebs and bits of dried bird droppings. His face was pale, and his lips clamped firmly together. He looked shaken.
“What?” William asked nervously.
“I think,” the mason said evenly, “we should get down from here now. Careful on the ladder, boy, and don’t hurry.”
“Why? What have you found?” William’s voice was edged with fear.
“Enough to tell me this whole bloody tower could come down at any moment. And that it probably will.”
Every muscle in William’s body hurt as he forced himself not to clamber wildly down the ladder and make a run for the stairs.
“Slowly, slowly,” the mason said, trying to keep his voice calm.
They reached the ringing room and hurried along the triforium gallery to the stairs. Minutes later they were in the transept, where the monks were waiting for them. The mason pinched out the candle flame between his thumb and forefinger and handed his candle to William. “Put them back in my bag, boy.”
“Well?” the prior said. “What did you find?”
The mason slapped the dust and cobwebs from his clothes. “The tower is in a dangerous state. It’s going to come down, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”
“What, nothing?” the prior gasped. “Nothing at all? The whole tower?”
“Not a damn, bloody thing, begging your pardon, Prior. Though” — the mason hesitated and glanced upward — “it’s not the waterlogged ground that’s doing the worst of the damage.”
“Then what is it?” the prior asked in surprise.
There was an odd look on the mason’s face. “I don’t rightly know,” he said slowly. “If I were a more fanciful man, I’d say something’s been scratching the mortar out from between the stones.”
A stunned silence met the mason’s words. William peered uneasily up at the roof above the crossing. He could almost hear the sound of nails on stone, scraping and scratching.
The prior was the first to speak. “That’s ridiculous!” he snapped.
The mason shrugged, but an angry flush rose to his cheeks. “Just saying what I saw. The mortar’s been gouged from between the stones in the bell chamber, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s gone in a few more places, too. It won’t take much to topple the tower, Prior.”
“How could such a thing happen?” Brother Gabriel asked in panic. “Was it rats?”
The prior gave Brother Gabriel a withering look.
The mason’s face was grim. “If it was, Brother, then they were armed with chisels.”
“We must get the bells down as soon as possible,” the prior said.
The mason shook his head. “It’s too late for that. Move whatever you can carry out of the church and then keep everyone out of the building.”
“We’ve already taken most of the smaller statues from their niches and put them in the north alley,” the prior said. “We’ll need help to move the heavier ones.”
The stonemason shook his head. “I wouldn’t want any of my men working in this building, Prior. You might just have to leave the rest of the statues where they are and let them take their chances.”
Brother Gabriel made an odd little whimpering sound and crossed himself several times. “We must pray for a miracle,” he said in a quavering voice, “that God will stop our tower from collapsing.”
“Then He’d better send St. Michael down with a bucket of mortar and some strong timbers,” the mason said, “though I don’t think even the archangel himself could do anything to stop it falling now.”
William followed the monks and the mason out of the church. The prior turned to Brother Gabriel. “Go and tell all of the brethren to come to the chapter house immediately.”
“I’ll let Sir Robert know what’s happening here,” Master Guillaume said. He nodded to William. “Make yourself useful, boy, and fetch my pony.”
William led the mason’s pony to the gatehouse, where Master Guillaume was waiting for him.
“Tell the prior to send word when the tower comes down, boy,” the mason said as he settled himself in the saddle, then settled his bag in front of him. With a flick of the pony’s reins, he set off through the gateway at a smart trot. “And remember to stay out of the church!” he called over his shoulder.
William closed the gate and pushed the bolt home. He stood with his back against the timbers, a cold knot of dread in his stomach. It didn’t seem possible that the massive stone tower could fall down, but the mason seemed quite certain that it would.
Something unholy was stirring in the abbey, William thought, something that seemed intent on destroying it. Shadlok and the hob had sensed its presence, and the forest fays were running away from it. Even the Dark King was reluctant to come anywhere near the abbey.
The image of the crow-headed angel painted on the chapel ceiling slid into William’s mind and he shivered. He had the overwhelming feeling that it had been painted as a warning. The question was, what was it warning them against?