William was unrolling his mattress, ready to settle down for the night, when Brother Snail came to see him after vespers. The monk’s breath rasped in his throat as he lowered himself onto a stool to rest for a few moments.
“The prior has refused to ask Sir Robert for help,” Brother Snail wheezed. “He wants nothing to do with alchemy or magic of any kind. I suspect he would have nothing more to do with Sir Robert, either, if he didn’t need his help rebuilding the church.”
William stared at him in dismay. “Did you tell him there’s no other way to defeat the demon?”
“Of course I did, Will, but the prior was adamant. He believes that what we must do is pray for the angel to come again and help us. We begin this evening after compline. The brethren will keep vigil in the church, just as Abbot Bartolomeo and his monks did.”
“That’s all he’s going to do?” William asked in disbelief.
“It worked once before,” the monk reminded gently. “The angel came to Crowfield when Abbot Bartolomeo prayed for help.”
“And look what happened that time,” William muttered. “I wouldn’t be in a hurry to come back here if I were him.”
The monk said nothing. His eyes were clouded with unhappiness, and William felt sorry for him. He sometimes forgot that this was Brother Snail’s home and that the monks were his family. Watching what was happening to them must have been hard for him.
“The demon isn’t just going to sit around and do nothing while you keep your vigil,” William said. “It’ll try to stop you.”
The monk’s jaw tightened. “We’ll just have to take that chance.”
“All you’re going to do is make it angry,” William persisted, “really angry.”
“I know, but the prior has made up his mind,” Brother Snail said softly, his expression bleak. He got to his feet and stood for a moment, one hand on the table for support. “I have to go. It is almost time for compline.”
“Are you going to be praying in the church all night?” William asked, looking at the monk’s frail body and listening to him struggle for breath.
Brother Snail nodded. “We all are.”
“Is that a good idea?” William asked after a brief hesitation. “I mean . . .”
The monk seemed to understand his concern and smiled. “A little discomfort is a small price to pay for divine help, Will. I will be all right.”
William wasn’t convinced by this. He didn’t like the thought of Brother Snail spending a night kneeling on the floor of the bitterly cold church, under the malevolent gaze of the demon. It was sheer madness. It would do more harm than good to the monk’s already fragile health. William knew he would be wasting his breath, though. Brother Snail would do what the prior asked of him with quiet dignity, and he would neither ask for nor expect special treatment.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” William asked.
“Stay away from the abbey tonight, and keep Brother Walter close by you.”
William watched the monk walk to the door, a small figure in a habit that seemed to have grown too big for him these last few weeks. He felt a surge of anger at Prior Ardo’s stubbornness. What if the only thing the monks succeeded in doing tonight was goading the demon into a rage?
And even if by some miracle their prayers were answered and the angel came back to Crowfield, what if it was not powerful enough to defeat the demon?
With the fire built up to a crackling blaze, the hut was warm and comfortable. The hob sat by the hearth, roasting some small, wizened apples on a stick.
“Will you play your flute?” the hob asked hopefully.
William started to say no, that he wasn’t in the mood, but then decided it was a good way to take his mind off what was happening in the church. He fetched the flute from its hiding place and pulled a stool over to the fireside.
The hob grinned in delight. “Play the summer song, and I will sing the words.”
William smiled. He knew which one the hob meant. It was the first tune Shadlok had taught him and was the hob’s favorite.
“Summer is a-coming in,” the hob sang as William played. “Loudly sing cuckoo!”
William tried not to laugh as the hob added several more cuckoos, though they weren’t in the song. It was the bit the hob liked the best.
“Cuc-KOO! Cuckoo, cuckoocuckoocuckooo-ooo!”
“That’s not how it goes,” William said, lowering the flute for a moment and grinning.
“Groweth seed and bloweth mead, and spring the wood anew,” the hob trilled, and with a triumphant look on his face he took a deep breath and finished, “sing CUCKOO!”
William resisted the hob’s pleas to continue playing. He cleaned the flute and put it back in its bag. It seemed all wrong to be making music when the monks were risking their lives in the church. The hob was disappointed, but he seemed to pick up on William’s somber mood and sat quietly by the fire to turn the apples on their sticks.
William felt oddly restless. He stood up and paced around the hut. Outside, an owl hooted, its call quivering on the damp night air. In the distance, a fox screamed, an unearthly sound that made him shiver.
William lay down on his mattress and stared up at the thatch between the rafters. In his mind, he could imagine the monks kneeling in the chancel of the church, huddled inside their habits against the damp and drafts. He could almost smell the incense and hear the murmur of prayers rising on the candle-hazed air, and see the dark shape of the demon high up on the church roof, wrapped in its crimson wings, watching and waiting. He pushed aside his blanket and sat up, too unsettled to lie still.
“Will the good nangel come back?” the hob asked, pulling a hot apple from the fire and holding it out to William.
William frowned. “I don’t know.” The apple burned his fingers, and he rolled it from hand to hand to try and cool it. It didn’t seem to bother the hob, though. William watched him take another apple from the stick and bite into the peel with his sharp teeth, holding it cupped in his paws. “The prior seems to think it will.”
For a while, they ate in silence. When the latch rattled suddenly, William almost jumped out of his skin.
“Open the door!”
Recognizing Shadlok’s voice, William scrambled to his feet and hurried over to draw back the bolt.
Shadlok pushed past him, fury in every line of his body. “Did you know what the monks intended to do?” he demanded, his eyes burning like blue flames.
“Brother Snail told me this evening,” William said, closing the door behind him.
“And you did not think to tell me?”
“I didn’t know where to find you.”
“Then the monk should have told me.”
“Why?”
“Because I would have tried to stop them. It is too late now, the fools are already in the church, and the demon is there with them. They have no idea what they have done. This will not end well.”
William heard the hob whimper quietly behind him. “Can’t you go and warn them?”
“I would be dead before I crossed the threshold.”
“What will the demon do to them?” William asked unsteadily.
Shadlok didn’t answer. His silence said more than any words.
William started toward the door. “Then I’ll go. I’ll make the prior listen to me.”
Shadlok grabbed his arm as he passed by.
“There is nothing you can do to help them now.”
William tried to pull his arm free, but the fay’s grip was too tight. He turned on Shadlok angrily. “I can’t just stay here and do nothing!”
Shadlok started to say something, but his words were lost when a gust of wind suddenly slammed into the hut, shaking bits of thatch and dust from the roof and flinging open the door, crashing it back against the hut wall. The fire guttered and the lantern went out. William gasped in shock, and Shadlok let go of his arm. The wind howled through the hut, raging like a wild boar, sweeping jars and bowls from the shelves. William crouched down, his arms shielding his head, as things flew through the air, sharp-edged and deadly. Hot embers from the fire pit were scattered across the floor. Something hit him painfully hard on the arm. A moment later, a stool caught him on his back, sending him sprawling. Bits of broken pottery cut into his hands and face. Panic-ridden, he rolled into a tight crouch and lay there, battered and bleeding, as the world tore apart around him.
A hand grabbed the scruff of his tunic and he felt himself being hauled to his feet. He was dragged across the hut and out into the raging dusk. Rain lashed his face and stung his eyes. The wind howled and broken branches slashed through the air. William stumbled away from the hut and fell to his knees in the wet earth of one of the herb beds. Moments later, the hob was there, wrapping his thin arms tightly around William’s neck and clinging to him for dear life.
William looked back at the hut just in time to see the thatch lift from the rafters and scatter into the wind. He hugged the hob to his chest and crouched forward as a rafter wrenched free and cartwheeled across the garden, missing them by a whisker.
“Run!” Shadlok shouted, grabbing William’s arm. “Follow me!”
William ran after the fay, skidding in the mud and slipping on the wet grass. The hob hung on grimly, his head knocking painfully against William’s jaw as he was bounced around.
It wasn’t until he saw the dark arch of the passage beside the chapter house up ahead that William realized they had run toward the abbey.
Shadlok bundled him into the shelter of the passageway. William’s ears rang as the noise of the storm was dampened by the thick stone walls.
“Go to the warming room, you should be safe there,” the fay said. “I will try and get the monks out of the church.”
William ran along the passage behind Shadlok and took a deep breath before following him out into the east alley. The wind hit him like a hammer blow, almost knocking him off his feet. Keeping close to the wall, William fought his way to the door of the warming room and scrabbled for the heavy latch. He managed to lift it, and threw himself headlong into the small chamber.
For a long time, he stood with his back to the door, his breath ragged and harsh in his throat, and hugged the hob tightly. He was trembling from head to foot. The hob lowered himself to the ground unsteadily. William felt for the lantern and tinderbox on a shelf by the door and lit the tallow candle with shaking fingers. He lit a second lantern hanging from a bracket near the fireplace. Light wavered over the walls and flickered across the vaulted ceiling, and shadows turned the empty fireplace to a dark cave. When the shock and fear finally cleared a little, William realized Shadlok had chosen their refuge well. The walls of the warming room were solid and thick, and there were no windows. William had no doubt that the storm had been raised by the demon. It still howled outside the door, but it couldn’t reach them in here.
“Are we safe?” the hob asked in a whisper, looking up at William with frightened eyes.
“I think so,” William said. “For now, at least.”
The hob glanced at the door. “What about the brother men? And Sceath-hlakk?”
“I don’t know,” William said. Should he have gone with Shadlok? It did not seem right, somehow, hiding in the warming room when the monks and the fay were in the church, at the mercy of the demon.
“There must be something I can do to help them,” William said.
“No, no, no,” whimpered the hob. “Don’t go out there!”
William opened the door cautiously and looked out. The wind had dropped and the rain had eased. An unnatural silence hung over the cloister, as if the evening was holding its breath. William glanced back at the hob. “I have to find Brother Snail.” Perhaps the hob heard the desperation in William’s voice, because he didn’t argue. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay here. Don’t be tempted to follow me, no matter what.”
William closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, peering down the empty alley. He could just make out the south door of the church, a patch of darkness against the stone walls. It was closed, and there was no sign of Shadlok.
William gathered together the few shreds of courage he could muster and walked toward the church. He breathed in deeply, trying to steady the wild thump of his heart, then reached for the handle and slowly pulled open the door.