The stonemasons arrived at the abbey early on Sunday morning, their possessions packed onto a cart pulled by two horses. William helped them unpack and carry bed frames, bedding, and tools into the barn. As soon as they had settled into their new home, Master Guillaume and his men began the task of clearing the rubble from the church. They stopped for an hour to attend mass in the chapter house, then trooped back to church to get on with their work.
Peter came to the kitchen to find William later that morning. William was cutting up leeks and onions. His eyes stung and tears trickled down his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Prior Ardo wants you to go and help the stonemasons. I have to take over from you here,” Peter said, picking up a leek and holding out his hand for the knife.
Surprised and pleased by this unexpected release from the kitchen, William hurried off to the church. The nave and chancel floors were covered in a thick layer of white mud. Rain came streaming down through the gaping hole in the crossing and soaked the walls, further damaging the wall paintings. Saints and angels were slowly fading to ghostly shadows as the paint ran down the plaster in thin ribbons of color. Many of the windows were shattered, and glass lay over the floor in silvery drifts. All the able-bodied monks were piling stones onto the handcart in the nave. There was no sign of Shadlok. William assumed he had refused again to work inside the church.
Master Guillaume was talking to three of his stonemasons. They didn’t notice William at first. He stood there awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt them. One of the men was saying something in an angry undertone, which William did not catch.
“There will be no more talk of ghosts!” Master Guillaume snapped, holding up a hand to silence the man.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Enough!”
There was an angry muttering as the stone-masons turned to go. One of them saw William and nudged Master Guillaume. “It’s the boy.”
The master mason gave the man a warning look. “Get on with your work. And say nothing.”
The men walked past William in silence without looking at him.
Master Guillaume looked William up and down. “Are you frightened of hard work, boy?” The mason stood with hands on hips and a half-mocking expression on his broad, weather-beaten face.
“No,” William said.
“Good,” Master Guillaume said, “because you will be doing plenty of it today. Follow me.”
The mason led the way across the church. William’s heart sank as he saw that the mason was heading for St. Christopher’s chapel.
There was a basket of tools on the floor near the chapel entrance. The mason took out a hammer and chisel and handed them to William. “You’ll need these.”
Master Guillaume stared into the gloomy little chapel. He seemed reluctant to go inside. William saw the tense expression on the man’s face. He’s frightened, William thought. He knows there’s something in there. He won’t go into the chapel himself, but he’s prepared to send me in. And I have no choice but to do as I’m told.
“I want you to lift the floor tiles in here,” Master Guillaume said. “We’re going to use them to repair the floor in the chapter house. Just break the mortar, and then lever the tiles free. The mortar’s damp, so they should come away easily enough. Put them over there and we’ll come and fetch them.” The mason pointed to the far wall of the transept, well away from the chapel. And with that, he turned and quickly walked away.
William stood at the threshold of the chapel and looked inside. The darkness and silence in the small chamber made him uneasy. Was it here that the stonemason had seen the ghost? Had William been given the job of lifting the tiles because none of the stonemasons would go near the chapel?
Taking several deep breaths, William stepped cautiously through the doorway. Apart from the bare patch where the saint’s face should be, the chapel had not been damaged at all, which struck him as odd. For several moments he stood quite still and listened. He had no clear idea what he was listening for, but the stillness wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, deadening the sounds outside the chapel. It was as if the church and the men working there had simply faded away. He glanced up at St. Christopher and at the crow-headed angel peering down at him from the ceiling. He remembered what Peter had said, about the birdman in the corner of the chapel, and felt a tremor of fear. Steeling himself, he knelt down. The sooner he finished lifting the tiles, the sooner he could escape from there.
The first tile William tried to chisel free shattered into pieces, but the next one came away easily enough, and the one after that. As he worked, he had the unsettling feeling that there was something standing in the dark corner beside the altar, watching him. It was a struggle not to let his fear overwhelm him and send him running from the chapel in blind panic.
William’s knees hurt from kneeling on the hard floor. He noticed an altar cloth, neatly folded on a stool against the wall. He rolled it up and knelt on it, and went back to work.
For the next hour or so, William lifted tile after tile. At last, he put down the tools and sat back on his heels to rest his aching shoulders for a minute or so. Something caught his eye. A patch of tiles near the wall were noticeably different from the rest of the floor. They did not quite follow the neat lines of the tiles around them, and there was a bird’s head in the middle of each one. They were crows, he realized, and it felt as if a cold hand had closed around his heart. Surely it wasn’t by chance that these tiles were here?
William had his back to the chapel entrance, so when something passed by outside, he didn’t see what it was. But a shadow crossed the wall above the altar. In the moments it took him to scramble to his feet and reach the doorway, whoever or whatever it was had disappeared. The transept was empty.
“Are you all right, boy?” Master Guillaume asked, peering at William’s face.
William looked away. What could he say? I saw a shadow on the chapel wall, but there was nothing there? He finished stacking the tiles into small piles against the transept wall. “Yes.”
The master mason was quiet for a few moments. William could feel the weight of his stare. “They’re coming up easily? Not broken too many, I hope?”
“One,” William said. “The rest were easy enough to lift.”
The mason picked up a tile and turned it over to inspect it. His hands were large and his palms looked like tanned ox-hide. His nails were ringed with chalky grime. “Good workmanship, this. They’ll look better in the chapter house than hidden away in that gloomy little chapel.”
“What did Reynaud see? Was it really a ghost?” The words were out before William could stop them.
The mason’s face tightened and there was an angry glint in his eye. “Reynaud is a fool,” he said at last.
“But he saw something, didn’t he?” William said.
“He saw a shadow, boy, nothing more than that.”
“I saw something, too . . . ,” William began reluctantly, but the mason didn’t let him finish.
“No, you didn’t,” the mason snapped, leaning forward. His breath smelled of rotting teeth and the sour tang of small beer. “Understand? If my men get it into their heads that this church is haunted, then they won’t stay, and we won’t get paid. A word of this to anyone and I’ll tell your prior I caught you stealing. You’ll be out on your ear without a rag to call your own.”
William’s cheeks flamed with fury. “I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life!”
“Then keep your mouth shut and you’ll keep your good name. But cross me on this, boy, and you’ll regret it.”
William watched the mason walk away, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Master Guillaume meant what he said. The sooner he was finished with the tiles and away from the side chapel, the better.
By the time the handbell for sext rang out, William had lifted all the crow tiles. He broke up the thick layer of mortar with the hammer and scraped the bits aside. He looked around the chapel and saw that he still had just under half of the floor to go. He would need to hurry if he wanted to finish by dusk. He picked up the chisel and shuffled across the floor to start on the next row of tiles. Light from the doorway behind him showed a patch of loose earth where the crow tiles had been. He prodded it with the chisel, and to his surprise he realized that a hole had been dug into the hard-packed earth. It was roughly square, and each side was a little over three hand-spans in length. It was too small to be a grave. His curiosity roused, William scraped and hacked at the earth with the chisel, scooping it out of the pit and piling it up on the floor beside him. As he dug down, a feeling of misgiving stole over him. I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought, but something made him carry on.
A harsh voice behind him made him jump.
“What in the name of God are you doing?”
Turning quickly, William saw Prior Ardo and Brother Snail standing in the chapel doorway, staring down at him in astonishment.
“Well?” demanded the prior, nodding to the hole by William’s knees.
William looked up at the two monks in dismay. “Taking up the tiles, as Master Guillaume told me to.”
“Did he tell you to dig holes, too?” the prior said angrily, stepping over the threshold.
William got to his feet. The prior noticed the now grubby altar cloth and, with tightly pursed lips, picked it up, refolded it, and put it on a corner of the altar. William flushed guiltily. Brother Snail, his small hunched body moving stiffly, leaned down and picked up one of the crow tiles. He examined it for a few moments, and then turned his head sideways to look at William.
“Why did you dig the hole, Will?” There was a worried look in the monk’s eyes.
With a wary glance at the prior, William said, “I noticed some loose earth and just wondered what was buried there.”
Prior Ardo crouched down and inspected the hole. He picked up some of the earth and ran it through his fingers. His thin face was tight with suspicion. “What did you find?”
“Nothing. It’s empty.”
“You got right to the bottom?” The prior managed to make it sound like an accusation.
“I don’t think so,” William said uncertainly.
“Then dig deeper.”
William’s stomach sank in dismay. For some reason, he felt a curious reluctance to go near the hole again.
The prior gave him a warning look. “Now!”
William glanced at Brother Snail. The monk must have realized from his expression that something was wrong.
“Perhaps William should get on with taking up the tiles for now,” Brother Snail said quickly. “Master Guillaume seemed most anxious to see them all so he could decide how best to lay them in the chapter house, and I fear we are delaying him. William can dig out the hole later.”
William smiled briefly at Brother Snail, grateful for his quick thinking, but his relief was short-lived.
“Master Guillaume can wait,” the prior said dismissively. He stared at William coldly. “Do as I told you.”
William slowly continued to scrape up handfuls of earth.
“Hurry, boy,” the prior snapped.
The two monks stood by silently to watch William as he worked. He had to lean into the hole to reach the bottom and was wondering how much deeper it would go when the chisel blade scraped against something flat and hard. He felt it with his fingertips. As far as he could tell, it was made of wood, with strips of metal running across it. Small rounded objects, about the size of a fingernail, were set into the metal here and there. Nail heads, perhaps? He was not sure; they felt more like stones than metal.
William sat back on his heels and brushed the earth from his hands. We shouldn’t be doing this, he thought with deep foreboding. The atmosphere in the chapel had changed subtly. The air felt heavy, and his skin prickled unpleasantly, as if a storm was coming. “There’s something down there. A wooden box, I think,” he said hesitantly.
“Bring it up.” There was a quiver of excitement in the prior’s voice.
William glanced across at Brother Snail. The monk’s face was grave.
“Perhaps we should leave it where it is,” Brother Snail said quietly.
William saw the prior’s look of surprise. “The box might hold the bones of a saint, for all we know! Maybe God in His infinite wisdom has seen fit to reveal it to us in our time of need.”
This box has nothing to do with God, William thought with fearful certainty. It should be left alone and the hole filled in.
“The bones of a saint will bring pilgrims and their money to our abbey,” the prior said, eyes gleaming. “Our church is in a sorry state, and what money we have for repairs will not go far. Perhaps God has taken mercy on us and has sent us our salvation.”
Brother Snail’s glance flickered over the pit in the floor, but he said nothing. He clearly did not share the prior’s optimism.
Prior Ardo’s sallow cheeks were flushed with anticipation. “Lift the box.”
It took several minutes of struggling to work the box up and out of the pit. It wasn’t particularly big, but it was heavy, and there were no handles to grab hold of. William huffed and grunted with the effort, scraping his knuckles painfully against the stones sticking out from the sides of the pit. The prior helped him drag it onto the floor and into the light near the doorway. He knelt down beside William and brushed the scatter of earth and stones from the top of the box. He looked around for something to clean it with.
“Pass me that,” the prior said, waving a finger impatiently toward the altar cloth. Brother Snail handed it to the prior, who set about rubbing the mud from the box, all regard for the embroidered linen forgotten in his excitement.
The box was made from oak. The wood was dark and as hard as iron in spite of having been buried deep in the earth. The corners were protected with gold mounts. Thin bands of gold, set with small polished stones, crisscrossed the lid and side panels. The stones glowed softly in a rich rainbow of colors, and the gold bands were exquisitely carved with tiny, strange-looking animals and birds, leaves and curving branches. The box was beautiful and clearly very valuable.
William glanced up at Brother Snail and met his worried gaze for a moment. He could guess what was going through the monk’s mind: Why would anyone bury such a treasure as this? Why hide it at the bottom of a muddy hole in a little-used side chapel?
The prior lifted the lid. Inside, the box was tightly packed with layers of straw and raw wool. The prior’s hands were shaking as he carefully pulled it all out, releasing a musty smell into the chilly air. William peered over the prior’s shoulder to see what lay beneath the packing.
The prior straightened up slowly and stared down into the box. The hoped-for saint’s bones were not there. In their place was a small wooden bowl, old and plain, like countless others that could be found on any table in any house in England. The prior’s disappointment was almost palpable.
“What’s that?” Brother Snail asked, reaching down into the box.
He took out a tightly coiled strip of lead. Carefully he unrolled the soft metal. William could see letters carved into it.
“What does it say?” William asked.
The monk stared at the lead strip for a few moments in silence. His cheeks were the color of ashes.
“It says,” he began with obvious reluctance, “Cave: Ira dei. Domine miserere nobis.”
William heard the prior draw a sharp breath, and panic fluttered in his stomach. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Brother Snail said softly, “ ‘Beware: Wrath of God. Lord have mercy upon us.’ ”
For a few moments, nobody spoke or moved. William stared at the bowl in its nest of wool. The words on the lead strip were a warning, but against what? Was the bowl cursed? And even if it was, what harm could a small wooden bowl possibly cause?
“We should bury it again,” Brother Snail said, his voice trembling slightly.
The prior picked up the bowl and turned it over to examine it. “There are words here,” he said, peering at the underside. He handed it to Brother Snail. “Your eyes are sharper than mine. Can you make out what they say?”
With distinct aversion, Brother Snail carried the bowl over to the doorway, where the light was a little better.
“It says, Velieris cecidum . . . I’m not sure what the next word is.” He angled the bowl to catch the light. “U . . . n . . . I think it says unum . . . in eterno . . . the last word is obscuro. Velieris cecidum unum in eterno obscuro.”
“ ‘Hide the fallen one in eternal darkness,’ ” the prior said softly, a puzzled look in his eyes.
William drew a sharp breath. The fallen one. Shadlok had said the god worshipped in the sacred grove, right here where the abbey now stood, was a fallen angel. Were the words on the bowl and the lead strip a warning of some kind? But what possible connection could there be between a simple wooden bowl and a fallen angel?
“There is more,” Brother Snail said. “Patterns of some kind. Symbols or ciphers, perhaps. I don’t recognize them. And more words, difficult to read.” He peered at them for several moments. “Deus indulgeo nos. ‘God forgive us.’ ” With one shaking hand, he quickly crossed himself. “We must rebury it, and we must do it now.”
“No,” the prior said firmly. “We will keep it in the sacristy for the time being. The box is worth a small fortune. We can sell it and decide what to do with the bowl later.”
Brother Snail shook his head. “I think you are making a mistake.”
“A few idle words, probably written in mischief, and we imagine the worst,” the prior said dismissively, but there was a look of uncertainty in his eyes. “Neither of you will mention the lead strip to anyone, or the words on the bowl, do you understand?”
Brother Snail’s mouth drew into a hard line, and he said nothing. The prior looked at William, and William nodded.
“Prior?”
They all turned quickly. Master Guillaume stood outside the chapel. His gaze flickered from the box to the hole in the floor, then up to the prior’s face.
“Found that in there, did you?”
The prior seemed lost for words. William could see he was angry that the mason had seen the box, but it was too late to try and hide it now.
Master Guillaume nodded toward the bowl in Brother Snail’s hands. “Was that inside the box?”
“Yes,” the prior said stiffly.
“Well, now, that’s a curious thing, isn’t it?” Master Guillaume said. “A plain little thing like that inside a box fit to grace the treasury of the king himself.”
Brother Snail leaned down and put the bowl back into the box and closed the lid. “These things are none of your concern. They’re church property, and we are merely removing them to a place of safety while work continues on the church.”
“Oh, is that so?” Master Guillaume said, raising his eyebrows. “You left it until now to take them to a safe place?”
It was obvious that the master mason did not believe him. Master Guillaume was nobody’s fool. He knew perfectly well they had only just discovered the box.
“What are you doing here anyway?” the prior snapped, clearly annoyed by the man’s insolence.
“I came to see where the boy had got to with the tiles,” Master Guillaume said.
“Very well.” The prior gave William a warning glance. “Get on with your work, boy.”
Without another word, the prior picked up the box and left the chapel, sweeping past the mason. Brother Snail followed, but he paused in the doorway. “Fill in the hole, William.” He gave William a meaningful look and set off after the prior.
Master Guillaume waited until the monks had gone before turning to William. “A strange thing to bury under the floor of a side chapel, wouldn’t you say, boy? A valuable box like that?”
William was scraping the earth back into the pit. He said nothing.
“And all it held was that bowl? Nothing else at all?”
“No,” William said. “Nothing.”
“No clue as to what was so special about the bowl? Because it must be very special indeed to be placed in such a box, don’t you think?”
William didn’t answer. The master mason squatted down across the pit from him, his hands linked between his knees.
“Keeping your silence when I ask you a question is as good as lying,” he said pleasantly.
William glanced up at the mason. “I don’t know who buried the bowl or why. Maybe it’s a relic.” He didn’t know what made him say that, but he regretted it as soon as he saw the look on the mason’s face.
“A relic! Of course, and an important one at that,” Master Guillaume said, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “It would explain why such an ordinary little bowl would merit a box adorned with gold and precious stones. But why then hide it away beneath the floor of such a small and insignificant abbey?”
William straightened up and shrugged. He looked around for the chisel and hammer so that he could get on with lifting the tiles.
“Unless, of course, the relic is something very precious indeed,” Master Guillaume went on. “And what better place to keep something safely hidden than here, where nobody would ever think of looking? Where better to hide, say” — the mason paused for a moment, a strange light in his eyes — “the bowl Jesus himself used at the Last Supper?”
The words hung in the cold air of the chapel and echoed inside William’s shocked mind. Was Master Guillaume suggesting the bowl was the Holy Grail?
It couldn’t be, surely? William thought. Whoever had carved the warning onto the lead strip had called it the Wrath of God. The bowl was cursed, not blessed.
“It isn’t the Grail,” William said, staring up at the mason.
But Master Guillaume was not listening. The tiles were forgotten as he hurried from the chapel, his excitement shining in his face.
William scraped the last of the earth and broken bits of mortar into the pit and sat back on his heels. He stared down at the scatter of crow-headed tiles in dismay and thought: What have I done?