The Crowfield Demon (19 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

W
illiam 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?