Free The Crowfield Demon by Pat Walsh Page A

Snail followed more cautiously, edging around the rubble. William waited for him. The monk was wheezing and breathless when he reached William’s side.
    â€œHow badly is he hurt, Will? Is he conscious?”
    William shook his head. “No.”
    Together they left the church. Brother Mark had been taken up to the dorter and put to bed. Brother Snail scurried up the day stairs to tend to him. There was nothing William could do to help, so he went back to the kitchen. He raked out the embers and relit the fire, then went to fetch water from the well in the yard. He broke the news of Brother Mark’s accident to Peter and Brother Stephen. The monk said nothing, but stood tight-lipped and gray-faced, a pail of water in one hand, staring up at the ruined roofline of the abbey church. Peter started to wail in anguish. Tears slid down his face into his open mouth. He twisted his fingers together against his chest as if William’s words had physically hurt him. William walked away in heavyhearted silence.

    As soon as mass was over, Prior Ardo and Brother Gabriel set out for Weforde to speak to Sir Robert, taking Peter with them. Before he left, the prior told the rest of the monks to go about their daily work as best they could while praying for Brother Mark. Shadlok and William were given the task of clearing the fallen stones and glass from the chapter house. The monks would hold all their services and masses in there until the church could be used again.
    The chapter house had been spared the terrible destruction that the church had suffered, but even so, William was shocked by the damage to the chamber. There was a hole in the roof where several massive blocks of stone had crashed through it. Bits of shattered tile stuck up from the floor like broken teeth. Several of the graveslabs of Crowfield’s long-dead abbots were chipped and webbed with cracks. The stained-glass window in the east wall looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it. Many of the small panes were shattered, and the lead cames that had held them together were twisted and broken. There was very little glass on the floor, so William guessed most of it was outside in the graveyard. All that was left of the Archangel Michael were his legs and part of one wing. Curiously, the dragon at his feet was mostly intact.
    Shadlok rolled up his sleeves and tied back his hair. He lifted a huge ashlar block that would have taken two brawny men all their strength to shift, and set it down on the pile of stones and rubble in the middle of the room.
    â€œI’ll fetch the handcart so we can take the stones out to the yard,” William said.
    â€œBring a pail, too,” Shadlok said, “to put the glass in. Some of it might be reusable.”
    William nodded. He looked around to make sure they were not being overheard and added, “Have you seen the hob today? I’m worried that he might have been in the church when the tower fell.”
    Shadlok frowned. “No. I thought he stayed in the kitchen with you at night?”
    â€œHe does sometimes, but he didn’t last night. I’ll go to the workshop and see if he’s there before I fetch the cart.”
    â€œVery well, but be quick.” The fay’s face was set. William knew he did not like being this close to the side chapel.
    William ran all the way to the workshop. He pushed open the door and peered inside.
    â€œBrother Walter? Are you there?”
    There was no reply. William tried to ignore the fear twisting in his stomach. What if the hob was lying beneath the rubble in the church? William ran back to the abbey to search for the hob there. He collided with Brother Stephen as he came around the corner of the south range.
    â€œOuf! Watch where you’re going,” the monk said sharply, grabbing William’s arm to steady himself. “I thought you were supposed to be clearing the chapter house with Shadlok?”
    â€œI am. I came to fetch the