William peered around the corner of the barn. The yard was deserted. It was late afternoon and the monks were in either the vegetable garden or the cloister. The stonemasons were working in the church.
“There’s nobody about,” William said. “Run!”
The hob scampered across the yard ahead of William, heading for the rubble heap. William pushed aside any lingering feelings of guilt and ran after him. Prior Ardo hadn’t actually forbidden them to search for the statue, so if he and the hob just happened to be near the rubble heap and just happened to see the statue . . .
The mound of broken stones rose like a small white hill in the far corner of the yard. William stared at it and his spirits sank. He didn’t even know what the statue had looked like, so how was he going to find bits of it amongst all this?
A patch of ground beside an elder tree was covered with stone chippings and dust. Beside it was a pile of stones and damaged statues waiting to be smashed into smaller pieces with one of the heavy hammers propped up against the tree. William started to search through the stones and found fragments of several statues: a face with smooth cheeks and wide blue-painted eyes whose nose had been sheared away; two stone hands, pressed together in prayer; part of a foot . . .
“Do you recognize any of these?” he asked, holding them up for the hob to see.
“They are too big,” the hob said. “The holy man was smaller than me.”
For a while, they searched in silence. William was beginning to think they were wasting their time when the hob suddenly saw something.
“There! Look!” the hob said, waving a paw at a stone by William’s foot. It was St. Christopher’s neck and chest, with the remains of the holy child on one shoulder and part of the tree staff at his side.
“The rest of him has to be here somewhere,” William said, hauling the larger pieces of stone aside. The hob watched in a fever of excitement, jigging up and down and chittering. Every now and then, he darted between William’s legs to grab some bit of stone.
“Will you stop getting under my feet!” William said in exasperation after he nearly tripped over the hob. “Just stand over there, out of the way.”
The hob did as he was told with obvious reluctance, but it wasn’t long before he was pointing to stones and telling William where to look next.
William leaned down to lift a large piece of broken tracery from the chancel screen.
“There! There!” the hob gibbered, almost bursting with impatience as he pointed to something William had just uncovered.
William worked the stone free and held it up. It was a statue base with two legs, the hem of a robe, and the lower part of a tree staff. Crudely carved waves curled beneath the saint’s bare feet. William turned the statue over to examine it. If he hadn’t been looking so closely, he might easily have missed the carefully applied patch of plaster in the middle of the stone base. He tapped it with a fingernail. It sounded hollow.
“We’ve found it! This is it!” William said jubilantly.
One of the stonemasons emerged from the church, wheeling a laden handcart down the ramp. William quickly pushed the statue base down the front of his tunic. “Find Shadlok and tell him to meet us at Brother Snail’s workshop as soon as he can.”
The hob nodded and disappeared around the corner of the shed. It wasn’t likely that the stone-mason would be able to see him, but it wasn’t a chance worth taking.
William glanced over his shoulder as he walked quickly away across the yard, but the stonemason was unloading the cart and was taking no notice of him.
Brother Snail was washing his hands in a pail by the hut door after an afternoon spent working in the vegetable garden.
“We found the statue!” William said, hauling it out from inside his tunic and waving it in the air.
The monk’s eyes lit up with excitement. “You clever boy, Will! Quickly, bring it into the workshop.”
“The hob’s gone to find Shadlok; they’ll be here in a minute.”
Brother Snail nodded. “Good. Build up the fire and light the lanterns, Will, and let’s see what secrets St. Christopher has been guarding so discreetly.”
He took the statue base from William and, using the blade of his small herb knife, he began to chip away at the plaster. Time and weather had eroded it, and it gave easily. With growing excitement, William watched as it cracked and a large chunk fell to the floor. He caught a glimpse of a tightly folded square of parchment wedged into the hollow of the base. Brother Snail pulled it free and stood the base on the table. He carefully unfolded the parchment, then nodded slowly. “Good, it’s still readable.” He looked up at William. “As soon as the others arrive, we will see what it says.”
Moments later, just as the flames were beginning to catch the dry brambles William had tucked beneath a small heap of sturdier logs, the hob scampered into the workshop, with Shadlok behind him. Brother Snail settled himself on a stool by the fire. He angled the fragile parchment sheet to catch the light and began to read.
“ ‘Written on the twentieth day of January in the year of Our Lord 1236, at the Abbey of Saint Michael the Archangel at Crowfield in the Forest. This is the last testament of Abbot Bartolomeo de Albasiis. May God have mercy on my soul, which I believe to be damned for all eternity by the actions I have been forced to take to protect all who live in this place.’ ” The monk paused and cleared his throat. He glanced around at the faces of his three listeners. “The abbot writes in Latin. I will have to translate the words as I go, so please be patient.”
William nodded. The hob said nothing, but sat close to the hearth and listened intently. Shadlok stood silently just beyond the circle of firelight, arms folded.
Brother Snail turned back to the parchment. “ ‘I came to Crowfield Abbey on All Souls’ Day in the year of Our Lord 1235. The sweating sickness had taken the lives of the previous abbot and prior of this house, and many of its brethren. Grave misfortune had befallen the abbey for almost two years, and the surviving brethren believed it to be cursed.’ ”
William felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. He saw Brother Snail’s fingers tremble slightly. The parchment wavered for a moment, but the monk seemed to gather himself, and his voice was steady when he continued.
“ ‘Cattle sickened and died, the wheat and barley crops failed, and ewes miscarried their lambs. The brethren were sorely troubled by evil dreams and waking visions of a crow-headed demon with wings of the deepest crimson. This abomination, I most truly believe, is one of the fallen angels, cast from God’s presence for rebelling against Him during the War in Heaven. It is the demon Raum, who takes on the form of a crow. I have seen this creature for myself.’ ”
Brother Snail looked up. His eyes were wide with shock. “So, the creature has a name,” he whispered. “Raum. I admit I have never heard of it.”
“How did the abbot find out who it was?” William asked softly.
Brother Snail quickly scanned the parchment. “It seems Abbot Bartolomeo was sent here by the abbot of Crowfield’s mother house in France. He was chosen to fight the Great Evil at Crowfield because he had experience in exorcising demons. He had in his possession a grimoire, a book of magic, called Ars Goetia, which lists many demons. Presumably he learned about Raum from this book.” The monk paused for breath before continuing with the translation.
“ ‘Before disaster fell upon this abbey, a new tiled pavement was laid in the church, and a chapel dedicated to St. Christopher was built in the north transept. It was during the building of this chapel that a bowl was discovered beneath the floor of the transept. It was curiously marked with magical symbols, and Abbot Henry ordered it be destroyed. By some dark art, the bowl remained unharmed, and thereafter a Great Evil came to the abbey.’ ”
“Does it say how they tried to destroy it?” William asked.
“No,” Brother Snail said. “Nor does it tell us who buried the bowl originally, or why they did so.” He smoothed a fold in the parchment and continued to read.
“ ‘At Martinmas in 1235, Thomas Bolewyn, a freeman from Weforde, was caught trying to steal the bowl from the sacristy of the abbey. He was brought before Sir Guilbert de Tovei at the manor court in Weforde, where he claimed that the bowl belonged to his family. Under duress, he admitted that his ancestors were the guardians of a sacred grove that had been cut down and burned when the first abbey was built at Crowfield. Bolewyn admitted, after further persuasion, that the bowl was used to hold the blood of those sacrificed to his heathen god. The man was then taken out and hanged, and his body was buried in a pit of quicklime.’ ”
“Why did they do that?” William asked.
Frowning at the parchment, Brother Snail said, “It seems Sir Guilbert and Abbot Bartolomeo were frightened men. They wanted to destroy everything to do with the demon and the cursed bowl, including Master Bolewyn.”
“Except they did not succeed,” Shadlok said, stepping forward into the light. “The bowl could not be destroyed, and Dame Alys is most likely the descendant of Thomas Bolewyn, so his bloodline survives, too.”
“So it would seem.” Brother Snail sat quietly for a few moments, one hand holding the cross around his neck. At last, he lifted the parchment and continued to read. “Abbot Bartolomeo goes on to say that after Thomas was hanged, the demon continued to attack the abbey and the surrounding villages with renewed vigor. ‘The brethren of this abbey prayed day and night in the church for God to come to our aid, then in the December of that year a fever caused many of them to sicken and take to their beds, and I prayed in the church alone. I begged and pleaded and bargained with God, until at last, on Christmas Eve, He answered my prayers. He sent an angel of vengeance to Crowfield, but it was struck down in the forest by some unseen and unknown enemy, and that which I hardly dare put into words came to pass: The angel died. Two of my most trusted brethren struggled from their sickbeds, and between us we carried the angel to a place in the forest shunned by the people who live hereabouts, and we buried it. It is our burden to keep this most terrible of secrets. I fear God has turned his face from us.’ ”
There was a stunned silence in the hut. William stared at Brother Snail. “So that’s why the angel was in the forest a hundred years ago,” he whispered. “It was here to hunt down the demon. It came in answer to Abbot Bartolomeo’s prayers.”
“And it might have succeeded if Comnath hadn’t shot it with an arrow,” Shadlok said.
“At least we now know what happened that terrible night,” the monk said softly. “William, kindly pour me a cup of water.”
William took a cup from a shelf and dipped it into the pail of water near the door. He handed it to the monk. Brother Snail nodded his thanks and sipped it. Abbot Bartolomeo’s story had visibly upset him. It was a minute or two before he was ready to continue. “ ‘On the feast of Saint Stephen in 1235, I walked through the snow to Weforde and spoke with Sir Guilbert. He was rumored to be an alchemist and indeed, this proved to be true. I gave him a book of magic I had in my possession, Ars Goetia, and bade him keep it, and in return he agreed to bind the demon to the bowl, as I believe it to have been bound once before. I assisted him in his dark magic and for that, I have forfeited my eternal soul. The demon was imprisoned in the cursed bowl and both were buried beneath the floor of St. Christopher’s chapel. The place is marked by tiles carefully chosen to give warning of what lies below. I crave God’s mercy and pray that never again will the demon be free. If that hope proves a false one, and the demon is released, then at least you who are reading this testament will know the name of your enemy and the means by which we overcame him once before. May God have mercy on your souls.’ ”
Brother Snail tapped the foot of the parchment with a fingertip. “Someone has added a line at the end of the page. It simply says that Abbot Bartolomeo died at the abbey on Easter Sunday, 1236.”
Nobody spoke for a long time. The hob put a paw on Brother Snail’s humped shoulder and patted it in silent sympathy.
“I wonder what happened to the abbot’s book of magic?” William asked at last. Without it, there was no hope of binding the demon again.
“It is still in the manor house at Weforde, along with several other books of magic,” Shadlok said. “I saw it when Bone and I stayed there last winter. Sir Robert is an alchemist, like his ancestor before him.”
William heard Brother Snail gasp in surprise.
“What’s an alchemist?” William asked the monk.
“A conjurer, a magician,” Brother Snail said, his voice sharp with disapproval. He looked up at Shadlok. “Are you sure about this?”
The fay nodded. He squatted down by the hearth. The firelight was reflected in his eyes and threw shadows across the sharp planes of his face. His long silver-white hair hung down over his shoulders and gleamed like moonlight in the gloom of the hut. “He takes great care to hide it. His books are kept in a locked room in his house, and only he has a key.”
The monk frowned. “But he let you go in there?”
Shadlok nodded again. “Once. He thought I might be . . . of use to him in his work.”
“His work? And what would that be, exactly?” Brother Snail asked softly. The look of distaste on his face surprised William. He had never known the monk to judge someone harshly for their beliefs before.
Shadlok gazed at the monk as if trying to decide whether to answer the question. “He is searching for the al’iksir of life,” he said at last.
William was thoroughly baffled now. “The what?”
Before Shadlok could explain, Brother Snail cut in angrily, “What use did he think you could be to him in such a quest?”
“Fay folk live longer than humans. He thought I might know the secret of immortality.”
“I see. And do you?” There was a dangerous glint in the monk’s eyes.
“No,” Shadlok said evenly, “I am mortal, as you are. And it is for the Creator alone to decide the life span of all living things. It is not within my power to bestow that gift on another creature.”
“The Dark King made Jacobus Bone immortal,” Brother Snail said, “so it is clearly a secret known to some of your kind.”
“But not to me.” Shadlok’s gaze was steady and unblinking, as if challenging the monk to argue with him. William interrupted before Brother Snail had a chance to reply.
“What is the al’iksir of life? And why is it so terrible that Sir Robert is an alchemist?”
“Alchemists practice dark magic of the worst kind,” Brother Snail said. “They conjure demons to do their bidding and they seek to change the nature of matter, whether it is changing lead into gold, or a human life into an eternal one. The al’iksir of life is believed to bestow immortality on the one who discovers it, but that is for God alone to do, not man.” He fixed Shadlok with a hard stare. “And not fays. Alchemy is against nature, and against God.”
Shadlok stared down into the fire. His face was set and his mouth drawn into a thin line. He picked up a stick and prodded the logs, sending up a shower of sparks. Flames danced over the shimmering wood as the fire murmured and crackled.
“If Sirrobbit is an alchemist and can conjure demons,” the hob said, “then perhaps he can make them go away, too, like the other man did.”
“Only if he has the skill and the knowledge to use what is written in Ars Goetia,” Shadlok said.
Brother Snail did not look at all happy about this. He shook his head slowly. “We should not be using this kind of magic. It is utterly wrong.”
“Magic is simply a tool,” Shadlok said with a lift of one shoulder. “It is neither wrong nor right.”
Angry patches of color rose to the monk’s cheeks. “We are meddling with a demon!”
“I would say the demon is meddling with us,” Shadlok said sharply, “and the only weapon we can use against it is magic.”
“Shadlok is right,” William said. He nodded toward the parchment. “You read what happened back then. The monks had no choice but to use magic to fight the demon. If Sir Robert can help us, then I think we should let him.” He thought of the oak twig smeared with his blood, and he shivered. The sooner they found a way to get rid of the demon, the better. And preferably before Dame Alys used him as a sacrifice.
“Abbot Bartolomeo believed himself to be eternally damned for using spells to bind the demon, Will,” Brother Snail said. “We will very likely be damned, too.”
“No,” Shadlok said, “the abbot thought he was damned only after he found the angel’s body in the snow. He probably thought its death was a judgment upon him for failing to rid the abbey of the demon. He never knew what really happened in the forest that night.”
“He didn’t know about the Dark King,” William said.
“Exactly,” Shadlok said. “The abbot used magic to defeat Raum, but his intentions were pure. The Creator, I am certain, would never have turned away from him for that. The pity is that he went to his grave believing he was damned.”
Brother Snail closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Of course you are right. God would not turn His face from Abbot Bartolomeo for fighting this terrible evil the only way he could. If we must use magic to defeat Raum, then so be it. God will understand and forgive us for it, too, I am sure.”
Shadlok’s eyes narrowed. “I never doubted it.”
“I’m sorry,” the monk said, looking up at the fay, his face flushing with embarrassment. “I did not mean to insult you.”
It was hard to tell if Shadlok had taken offense at the monk’s words. “Magic is a part of fay nature. It is how the Creator made us. I have never felt I needed to ask forgiveness for that.”
There was a tense silence in the hut. It was only broken when the hob asked anxiously, “What if Sirrobbit won’t help us?”
“Why would he refuse?” William asked.
“Perhaps he doesn’t want people to find out he can do magic,” the hob replied.
“Brother Walter is right,” the monk said, his gaze softening as he looked at the hob. “We can’t force Sir Robert to show us his books or to help us.”
William remembered the argument between Shadlok and Sir Robert in the yard the other day.
“You have something that he wants,” William said, turning to Shadlok. “Perhaps you can give it to him in exchange for his help?” He saw the flash of anger in the fay’s eyes and knew he had said the wrong thing.
“Oh?” Brother Snail said, looking up at the fay hopefully. “What is it?”
“Something I have no intention of giving him.”
“But . . . ,” William began.
The fay turned on him furiously. “I said no!”
Brother Snail struggled to his feet. “Don’t talk to the boy like that! His suggestion was well meant.”
“Do not interfere in things that do not concern you,” Shadlok said, glaring at William and ignoring the monk.
“It does concern me,” William said, staring back at Shadlok. “It’s not you who’s in danger of being sacrificed.”
Anger burned brightly in the fay’s eyes. “You do not know what you are asking of me, or the trouble it will bring if I give in,” Shadlok said.
“No,” William agreed, “but I know the trouble we’re facing if Sir Robert refuses.”
Brother Snail shuffled forward to stand between them. “Hopefully Sir Robert will agree to help us without expecting anything in return.” He folded the parchment and tucked it into the pocket inside his cloak. He looked weary, and the burden of what lay ahead seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. “I will go and speak to Prior Ardo now and tell him what we’ve discovered. Let us hope that he is willing to listen.”