The Crowfield Curse (15 page)

The hut was simply furnished with a stool, a small stone-lined fire pit, and a lantern hanging from an iron hook on the wall. An old iron cooking pot, black with soot but scrubbed clean inside, stood on a flat stone by the fire pit, and a
couvre-feu
lay nearby.

William took the bundle Brother Snail had given him from inside his jacket and laid it on the stool. He gathered up the nails and went outside to look for something to use as a hammer. He found a stone by the stream and used it to drive the nails into the wood around the door, then tucked the last nail inside the rolled-up cuff of his jacket sleeve.

The wind had shifted around to the north and the day was growing noticeably colder. The sky between the branches of the oaks was a clear pale blue, and the low winter sun threw long shadows across the clearing. It was going to be a bitterly cold night.

William looked around for somewhere to put the rowan twig, and decided he wanted to keep it close. He put it under his blanket at the head of the bed. He slipped the four-leafed clover, still inside its fold of parchment, into his other jacket cuff. He hoped it would be enough to protect him from whatever might walk the woods after dark.

William went to fetch some firewood. The pigs were nosing through a drift of oak leaves nearby, searching for acorns, grunting and throwing leaves around, and generally enjoying themselves. William smiled as he stopped for a moment to watch them.

He made a small rick of branches in the fire pit and opened the tinderbox he had brought with him. He took out the little strip of steel and the flint and poked a charred scrap of linen into place over bits of dried toadstool and flax. He had done this so many times before, but he still loved the sight of sparks dancing off the steel and touching the cloth, and the tiny curl of smoke as the sparks caught and fire was born.

Carefully, William blew on the tinder to coax the small flame to grow. He set fire to the pile of dry bark kindling in the fire pit, then quickly patted out the fire in the tinderbox. He sat back with a satisfied smile as the flames grew and licked the branches. For now, he was content.

Mary Magdalene came to the hut doorway and stood watching the fire.

“You're welcome to join me,” William said, grinning at her.

As if she understood his words, the pig came into the hut and flopped down by the fire pit. William laughed and prodded her with his foot.

“Don't get too comfortable. We have to go and find the other two soon, before they take it into their heads to run away.”

Mary Magdalene closed her eyes and gave a contented grunt. For now, old age and a love of comfort won out over the lure of acorns.

The fire settled and William put the
couvre-feu
in place. The pig did not stir as he left the hut, so he closed the door quietly behind him and left her to sleep.

A gelid breeze ruffled his hair and chilled his cheeks. He pulled up his hood and blew into his cupped hands to try to warm them as he looked around for the pigs. They were foraging beneath an oak tree on the far side of the stream. William herded them back toward the hut. By the first shadow-fall of dusk, the two pigs were safely penned for the night.

William piled on the floor for Mary Magdalene what few acorns he had managed to find in the woods earlier that day, along with several small, wrinkled apples. When she had finished her meal, he led her out to the pen. She walked wearily into the shelter and settled down in the pile of bracken with her two companions.

William returned to the hut. It was warm and smelled of pig. He sat on the floor by the fire to eat his supper of bread, cheese, and water. Somewhere close by, an owl hooted, a breathy
hoo
-
hoo-ooo
that emphasized the silence around it. William felt a small stirring of unease. The pigs had kept him busy that afternoon and he'd had little time to worry. But now, alone in the hut in the dark woods, he felt vulnerable. The hut walls did not seem like much protection against whatever might be outside.

William built up the fire. He tried to think of cheerful things: summer days in Iwele, swimming in the river with the other village children; the Michaelmas goose fair on the green; working in the mill beside his father and brother; and later, sitting by the fire listening to his mother telling stories, tales rich with magic and color, like the best of dreams. He could remember her voice and the way her eyes almost closed when she laughed, and how she would sing sometimes, when she thought nobody could hear her. His memories were as precious as a purseful of silver pennies.

William yawned and stretched his arms. The smoky
warmth was making him sleepy. He covered the fire and lay down on the bed. He wrapped himself in one of the blankets and wriggled around to get comfortable on the pile of bracken and straw.

He was drifting on the edge of sleep, his body tired and relaxed, when he became aware of a rustling in the roof thatch. He opened his eyes and listened. The wind, maybe? The rustling became louder. Bits of straw showered down between the rafters and onto his face.

Fully awake now, William sat up, spitting straw and thatch out of his mouth. More scattered over him. It was not the wind, or a rat in the thatch. It was too big for that.

Something was trying to get into the hut.

C
HAPTER
SIXTEEN

 

 

W
illiam grabbed the rowan twig and clambered out of bed, banging his shin on the wooden frame. He backed away until he reached the hut door, kicking aside the
couvre-feu
as he stumbled over the fire pit. He held the twig out in front of him. It was a small, dark shape against the glow of the embers in the pit. He must have been stupid to believe that a bit of dead wood could do anything to protect him against fays.

He had two choices: run into the dark wood and hide, or stay in the hut and fend off whatever it was with the rowan twig.

As choices went, William thought grimly, one was as bad as the other.

“Ouf!” Something fell onto the bed in a rush of
thatch. William's heart seemed to leap out of his chest.
He brandished the twig like a sword while
desperately scrabbling behind him for the door latch.

“Stay back,” he said, his voice shaking. “I warn you, this is rowan and it will hurt you.”
I
hope
, he added silently.

“I know that,” a familiar voice said crossly, “but I am not the enemy.”

William peered into the shadows. “Brother Walter?” he asked in astonishment.

The hob crawled to the edge of the bed and sat there, a small, disheveled figure in the firelight, picking bits of thatch out of his fur.

“What are you doing here?” William stepped over the fire pit and crouched down in front of him. “And how did you know where to find me?”

“It was not difficult. Pig smell is easy to track,” the hob said, wrinkling his nose. “I came to warn you that Shadlok followed you from the abbey today. I lost him in the place of the cut trees.”

“The hazel coppice,” William said, nodding. “Are you sure he was coming after me? He might just have been looking for food. Master Bone said they would see to their own needs.”

The hob shook his head. “Shadlok has no need for food. Not mortal food. Nor has Master Bone. He was following you.”

“He hasn't come near the hut,” William said, but then he thought,
How would I know if he had?
He might be out there now, listening at the door. “Master Bone was asking questions about the angel earlier today. I told him I knew nothing about it, but I don't think either of them believed me. Perhaps Shadlok wants to get me on my own and force me to tell him what I know.”

The hob looked thoughtful as he took this in. “Most curious. The Dark King kills the nangel, Shadlok and Bone are age-old enemies of the king, and Bone wants to find out more about the nangel.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “It goes round and round, all joined together.”

“But there are pieces missing,” William said, “because it still doesn't make any sense to me.”

He added some branches to the fire. He was glad to see the hob and was touched that Brother Walter had cared enough about him to come to the hut and warn him about Shadlok.

“I hammered nails around the door,” William said. “They are not going to keep Shadlok out, are they?” He glanced up at the roof. Stars showed through the gap in the thatch.

The hob shook his head. “No. His magic is too strong.”

“So what do we do now?”

The hob settled himself by the fire pit. He wrapped his arms and tail tightly around his body. “We wait and see what happens.”

For a while, William put his ear to the door and listened for any slight noise outside the hut, but nothing disturbed the silence. At last tiredness overtook him and he yawned loudly.

“You go to sleep,” the hob said. “I will keep watch.”

William opened his mouth to argue, but the hob waved an impatient paw at him. “There is no sense in both of us staying awake.”

“Very well,” William said, yawning again. “But wake me if you need me.”

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, and within moments he was asleep.

When he woke again, it felt as if only minutes had passed, but the gap in the thatch now showed a patch of pale blue sky. He rolled onto his back and stretched sleepily.

The hob was adding wood to the fire and the last of yesterday's bread was warming on a stone on the edge of the pit. He was humming softly to himself and his tufted ears twitched as he listened to the early morning birdsong.

“Was it a quiet night?” William asked, sitting up and pushing aside the blanket covering him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed frame.

“I am not sure . . .” The hob frowned and glanced at the door. “There was something out there for a while. It passed the hut several times but did not pause. I don't think it could see the hut.”

William smiled uncertainly. “What do you mean? How could anyone miss it? It was a clear night and the moon is coming up to full.”

“Somebody hid it.”

William stared down at the hob, baffled. “How?”

“By deceiving the eyes with deep fay magic. Hiding it in plain sight by casting a glamour over it. Disguising it as a tree, maybe, or a rock.”

“Who would do that? And why?”

The hob shrugged a shoulder. “I do not know, but I sensed a very old and powerful magic at work. It seems we have a friend out there.”

William opened the door and looked out. A thin mist shimmered between the oaks in the early morning light. Somewhere nearby a robin sang. The pigs grunted and rustled in their shelter, impatient to be let out to forage. A fox stood on the far side of the stream, watching him. William started to turn away, then paused. There was something about the animal's eyes . . .

“Brother Walter?” William called softly, not taking his eyes from the fox. “Come here, quickly.”

“What is it?” the hob asked.

“Over there. The fox,” he murmured.

He heard the hob draw a sharp breath and glanced down at him. The hob's eyes were narrowed as he stared at the animal and the fur along his spine bristled.

“It's not really a fox, is it?” William said, already knowing the answer.

The hob did not reply. William could sense the tension in the creature's body and wondered if they were in danger.

He felt inside the cuff of his jacket for the four-leafed clover. What had Brother Snail told him? It would let him see through fay glamour, to see a fay creature in its true form. But the clover had gone. It must have fallen out during the night.

The fox walked forward. It hesitated by the water's edge for a moment, then crossed the stream, stepping quickly and seeming to barely touch the water. It walked up the slope toward the hut. William's first instinct was to go back inside and bar the door, but the hob stood his ground, so William did not move.

The fox stopped a few paces away. Close enough that William could see its eyes were not the usual golden brown of a fox's eyes, but a pale winter blue. In that moment he knew who the animal really was.