The Crowfield Demon by Pat Walsh Page B

of a sacred grove in Foxwist Wood. Were Dame Alys’s grove and the trees around the Hunter’s Oak one and the same thing?
    Like the fragments of a broken pot, the pieces slowly started to fit together. Was that why Dame Alys hated the monks? Because they had cut down the trees and built their abbey on ground that had been sacred to her ancestors?
    Shadlok had seemed sure the woman had not turned her back on the old ways. What if he was right? Fear uncoiled inside William’s mind as the full implication of what he had just seen hit him: What if Dame Alys’s god was the evil presence in the church?

C HAPTER
NINE

    S hortly after dawn on Friday morning, William took the handcart to the woodshed and piled it with logs to take to the kitchen and to Brother Snail’s workshop. After that, the prior wanted him to help Shadlok in the new orchard. The prospect of a day spent out in the breezy March sunshine lifted his spirits, and he whistled softly as he pushed the handcart along the path.
    The hob helped William stack the cut logs and kindling in the small woodshed beside the workshop.
    â€œYou can come with me, if you like,” William said. “I’ll be working in the new orchard with Shadlok today.”
    The hob’s face brightened. “Will you bring your flute?”
    â€œI suppose I could,” William said with a quick grin. He should be far enough from the abbey to play it without being heard.
    â€œI will fetch it,” the hob said, his eyes alight with excitement.
    William took the handcart back to the yard. The hob was waiting for him when he reached the orchard. The flute in its leather bag hung from a fence post nearby.
    Shadlok had cleared the ground of scrub and weeds and had chopped up the remains of a large old birch tree that had blown down in a winter storm. He had dug around the roots, cutting them up and unearthing them as he went. There was a huge pile of branches in the middle of the cleared patch, and a stack of logs by the sheep-pasture fence. William saw the fay over by the hazel coppice and called out to him as he climbed over the fence. “Prior Ardo sent me to help you.”
    Shadlok had taken off his tunic, rolled up the sleeves of his white linen undershirt, and tied back his hair with a strip of leather. The work was back-breaking, but in spite of that, he hadn’t so much as broken a sweat. His face with its fine mesh of scars was as pale as ever, and his shirt as fresh as if it had been newly washed and spread on the grass to dry in the sunshine.
    â€œThe monk thinks I need your help, does he?” He glanced around the bare ground of the new orchard pointedly.
    The color rose to William’s cheeks. Shadlok didn’t need anyone’s help. “There must be something I can do?”
    Shadlok nodded toward the pile of branches. “They have to be burned. After that, you can take the cut logs to the woodshed.”
    â€œI will fetch the tinderbox from the snail brother’s hut,” the hob offered.
    â€œAnd some dry kindling,” William said.
    The hob scurried off, leaving William to build a bonfire. Some of the wood was still green and would smoke, but the westerly breeze would carry it across the pasture and away from the abbey.
    The morning passed quickly. William stacked branches and tree roots into a huge pile and pushed handfuls of kindling into gaps around the base. It took a while to coax the sparks to catch, but at last the wood crackled and spat and flames waved like yellow rags between the branches. The hob ran around in excitement, gathering up stray bits of wood and throwing them onto the fire. He capered in and out of the billowing smoke, wheezing and coughing. A piece of burning wood fell from the bonfire and caught him on his tail, singeing his fur. He hurriedly patted at the burnt patch, then ran off to find more branches.
    â€œBrother Walter is enjoying himself.” William grinned as he watched the