The Crowfield Curse by Pat Walsh Page B

companionable silence, eating the hazelnuts and gazing into the fire. William’s thoughts turned to Master Bone’s lute. One day, people will sit and listen to me play an instrument like that , he thought with a deep certainty. They’ll nod and agree that they’ve never heard anything so wonderful before. I don’t know how, or when, but I will make it happen somehow.

C HAPTER
NINE
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    S t. Clement’s Day was wrapped in a shroud of fog. The abbey, a cheerless place at the best of times, was gloomier and chillier than usual. The fire in the kitchen burned sullenly that morning and seemed reluctant to part with any heat. William riddled the embers and broke up a couple of branches to add to it. He crouched beside the hearth and watched as small flames licked the new wood.
    There was a tight knot of excitement in his stomach. Master Bone was due to arrive sometime that day. William thought of the musical instruments, waiting for their owner in the guest chambers, and he smiled gleefully. Perhaps now the endless silence of the abbey would be broken occasionally, and he might finally hear the golden lute being played.
    William’s first task of the day, after seeing to the fire, was to fetch water from the well in the yard and take it to the kitchen and the monks’ lavatorium in the west cloister alley, where they washed their hands and faces before going through to the frater to eat. After that he would take a pail to Brother Snail’s workshop. Today, there would be one extra trip to the well, to fetch water for the guest chambers.
    By the time the monks filed into the chapter house for the daily meeting, William had delivered water to the lavatorium and the guest chambers and had hung a cauldron of water to heat over the kitchen fire. He carried a pail of water up the day stairs to the reredorter beside the monks’ dormitory, where he washed the wooden seats of the latrines. He poured the last of the water away, down into the drain that ran below the row of small wooden stalls and out into the river. A thin stream had long ago been diverted to run through the drain, to flush it out, but even so, Peter still had the all-too-frequent job of cleaning out the drain itself. William would sooner be thrown out of the abbey and left to starve than crawl through that fetid stone tunnel, clearing away the buildup of human waste. He and Peter had to make do with the small wattle-walled latrine hut on the far side of the yard. Peter had to clear out the cesspit beneath that, too.
    William set off to take a pail of water to the workshop. The fog drifted like a mournful ghost through the trees on the edge of the abbey vegetable garden. Beyond the trees, the world faded to nothing. The cawing of the crows, high up in the branches of Two Penny Copse, sounded far-off and eerie.
    In the monks’ graveyard, beyond the wattle garden fence, Peter Borowe stood, a dark shape in the fog, staring at the ground. Even from this distance, William could see the unhappy droop of Peter’s shoulders. He set the pail down on the path and walked over to see what the lay brother was doing.
    Peter stood beside the shallow beginnings of a grave, shovel in hand. He looked at William but said nothing. There was no wave or smile today. William could see the trail of tears on Peter’s mud-streaked cheeks. His thick brown hair was lank from the damp fog.
    William looked down into the dark scrape at his feet. “Whose grave is this?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s for Abbot Simon.”
    William stared at him in shock. Abbot Simon was dead? Shouldn’t the passing bell be ringing? “When did he die?”
    Peter shook his head. “He’s still alive. Prior Ardo thought it would be wise to dig the grave before the ground freezes again, just to be ready.”
    â€œWhy isn’t he being buried in the chapter house?” William asked, puzzled. It was where all of Crowfield’s abbots were