The Crowfield Curse by Pat Walsh

ordinary next to this wonderful instrument. The golden grain of the wood glowed in the light coming through the open doorway. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
    He plucked the strings, one at a time. The pure sound shivered on the cold air and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. In that moment, he knew he wanted, more than anything he had ever wanted in his whole life, to be able to make music. He wanted to play a lute like this one.
    William sighed and returned the instrument to its bag. That was never going to happen. He was an orphan without a penny to his name. Lutes and the music they made were not part of his world.
    Carefully, William laid the lute on the table, out of harm’s way. He hurried out to the yard to help the carter drag the posts and frame of a huge bedstead down from the back of the cart, and carry them indoors.
    The bed was decorated with carvings of fantastic animals, the like of which William had never even imagined before. He traced the outline of a horse with a single horn growing from the middle of its forehead, and he smiled. How strange! And below it was a winged creature with a long tail and curved claws, its body twisting around one of the posts. Peering closer, William realized there were flames coming from the creature’s open mouth.
    â€œStop idling, boy, and take t’other end of this ’fore me back breaks,” the carter called.
    William looked around and saw the carter struggling with a huge oak chest, which was balanced on the edge of the cart and in danger of sliding forward and crushing him. William hurried over to help, and between them they lowered it onto the cobbles.
    â€œEe, that were a bugger,” the carter gasped, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He sat on the chest for a few moments to catch his breath.
    â€œDon’ s’pose there’d be any chance of some beer and summat to eat?” the carter asked hopefully.
    â€œAsk him,” William said, nodding toward Brother Martin, who had just emerged from the kitchen and was standing in the yard nearby, watching them, hands on hips, lips drawn back in a snarl, and a distinctly unfriendly glitter in his single eye.
    â€œMebbe later,” the carter said hurriedly. He got to his feet and grabbed a basket from the cart.
    William eyed Brother Martin warily. The monk pointed at him and yelled, “You slackin’ again, soldier? I’ll have ye strung up by the heels and skinned . . .”
    â€œI told him to help the carter,” Brother Stephen called, walking across the yard toward them, wiping his hands on a wisp of straw. Fresh manure steamed on the pile beside the byre, and bits of straw and manure clung to the monk’s boots. “Peter can help with the vegetables today.”
    Brother Martin did not take his eyes off William, but he did not argue. Cursing under his breath, he turned and stumped back into the kitchen.
    â€œMaster Bone certainly has a great many possessions,” Brother Stephen said in mild surprise as he looked through the doorway. “Are those musical instruments in those bags?”
    â€œYes,” William said with a smile.
    The monk frowned. “Prior Ardo won’t tolerate music being played for pleasure .” He managed to make the last word sound like a cardinal sin.
    William turned away and his mouth hardened into a straight line. It was one more thing he did not understand about the monks, this dislike of music other than their own sung masses and psalms. It was as if the sight and sound of people dancing and singing for the sheer joy of it was offensive to God. He thought of Master Bone’s lute and wondered how anyone, be it monk, man, or God himself, could possibly be offended by any sound that wonderful instrument might make.
    â€œBut I am sure Master Bone will respect the sanctity of the abbey while he is with us,” the monk added, “and keep his silence.”
    Brother