Wolves Among Us Read online

Stefan saw in his peripheral vision Dame Alice, who jumped up and moved toward them.

  “Do you believe me?” Catarina asked, her voice straining. “Father Stefan,” she said, grasping his arms. “I’m trying to tell you he’s dead.”

  “Who is dead?”

  Dame Alice came from behind Father Stefan, pushing him aside, taking Catarina by the shoulder. “Who is dead, child? What are you talking about?”

  “My husband.”

  Catarina kept pointing down the lane, but there was no sign of mischief. “Nonsense, dear,” Dame Alice said. “Why would you say he is dead?”

  “His horse is in the lane. My husband is not on it.”

  “You saw his horse wandering alone?” Dame Alice asked, stroking her arm. “Is that all? My dear …”

  “From this one fact you have imagined your husband’s death and have frightened us all?” Stefan tried to control his indignation. “He’s probably drunk again, is all. Sleeping it off somewhere to get out of the rain.”

  Catarina should have been happy. Cronwall was not known for being a gentle husband.

  Dame Alice reached for Catarina’s hand. “You’re so cold, child.” She took off her outer cloak and wrapped it around Catarina, who did not notice.

  Stefan pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. “Now, Catarina …”

  “You’re going to say this is my fault.” Catarina looked up at him. She dug her fingers into his arm. “The village is in danger.”

  Father Stefan tried to pry away her fingers. “Stop this. Cronwall is just sleeping his liquor off somewhere. He will be home soon.”

  She gripped his arm tighter, making her knuckles go white, then she buried her face in his robe. “You don’t understand.”

  “Elizabeth,” Stefan called out, hoping the young girl would still be about. When he saw her peering through the crowd, he nodded to her. “Bring Catarina a dried apple. She has no color in her face.” The girl obediently ran off to the market.

  He sighed. “And someone wake Bjorn,” he called out.

  Catarina shoved him away. “No.”

  “My request for Bjorn should please you. If what you say is true, we’ll need the sheriff. He can make an arrest.”

  She laughed or coughed—he couldn’t be sure which—and flecks of spit landed across his cheek.

  When he unlatched her hand from his arm, Catarina ran off, leaving Stefan to wipe off the spit. His wet fingers were tinged with what looked like blood, but Catarina had said nothing about being hurt. The crowd that had gathered was whispering, watching him. Stefan walked between them to peer down the lane Catarina had pointed to.

  Church bells rang, calling everyone to Mass. Stefan frowned at the reminder. He belonged in church, not in the street, and not down a dirty, empty lane looking for a lone horse and a dead man on the word of a confused woman. Women were prone to hysteria. He found it most discouraging. His fine morning was ruined.

  He turned for the church, which was only a few doors down, but no one followed.

  “Time for Mass!” he shouted. A few people glanced at each other. “Bjorn will not be here for a good hour; we all know that.” At this, people followed.

  Stefan glanced back at the lane just once more. Sin was his responsibility. Crime belonged to Bjorn. As for women—well, only God knew what to do with them.

  Chapter Two

  Stefan refused to rush the benediction. He heard the constant sounds the congregation made, the restless tapping of feet, all those fingers drumming against jiggling knees. As soon as he finished the service, the people would rush for the doors, curious to see what Bjorn had done about the morning’s drama.

  Wind rattled the doors, destroying the last perfect moment of peace—Stefan’s favorite moment in the service. He dismissed the congregation, remaining behind as they rushed out, watching dead brown leaves blow in from the streets in their wake. The storm was edging ever closer. Stefan left the church, struggling to close the doors behind him against the winds.

  Bjorn had not yet arrived. Stefan saw the crowd eyeing him again, waiting to see what he would do next. He wanted nothing more than to be done with the morning.

  “Can you see him? Is he on his way?” Stefan asked them. He liked submissive church crowds that sat politely on benches, not restless, gawking throngs milling about. “We should wait.”

  “Why?” Dame Alice said. “You know women can’t be trusted. We’re prone to imaginations; you have often said it yourself. Surely there could be no real danger there.”

  “There has been a wolf among us,” Stefan answered. “It might not be safe to wander alone.”

  “Is it really the wolf you are afraid of?” Dame Alice said. “Or are you afraid Catarina was telling the truth?”

  Stefan smoothed his robe and adjusted the belt. He would bring this up at her next confession. Her tone was not fitting for her sex or his station. “I see I must do this if you are to give me any peace.”

  He stepped into the quiet lane. For the sake of his flock, he would determine himself whether there were dangers. The houses huddled close together, each built as high as the builder could manage, to keep the upper bedchambers warm. Roofs leaned across the lane as if to gossip with other roofs, blocking the sunlight as he came around a curve. The builders of old, while coveting height for the warmth it created, had given little care to keeping the lane straight. Houses looked as if they had been dropped from the sky along the lane. Each house had a different width and was made of different materials; together they signaled a lack of foresight among the town elders. Stefan clucked his tongue, creating the only sound to be heard above the scratching rustle of leaves and straw blown against walls by the winds. The lane appeared empty; not even a cat stirred to chase its breakfast. He cleared his throat and walked further down around the next house as an unseen animal wailed in warning. Probably only a howl made by the wind, he thought.

  Cronwall’s horse ate greens out of a window box, his heavy mouth tearing entire plots free and sprinkling shreds of his breakfast all over the lane. Stefan craned his neck and looked past the old fellow. He had eaten his way all along the lane, leaving a sad trail of broken greens. The horse looked up, then went back to his breakfast. Steam billowed out of his wide black nostrils as he exhaled.

  Stefan ran a hand across his forehead. The horse was alone and definitely the one who belonged to Catarina’s husband, Master Cronwall. The crest on the horse’s blanket made that clear. Catarina had at least been right about that. But Cronwall abandoning it did not alone signal a serious crime, although Bjorn would have to be the final judge of that.

  “Cronwall?” Stefan called his name without much force. Cronwall was not in danger, but the horse was. When the wives spied their destroyed window boxes, this horse would feel the wrath of a hundred brooms.

  Stefan took the horse’s reins and gave a good yank. The horse refused to leave his breakfast. Stefan yanked again, and the horse swayed his head back in protest. Stefan understood. No one—not even a horse—wanted to abandon a perfectly good sin. Many believed the time to repent came only after nothing remained to be enjoyed.

  Stefan swatted him hard on the flank, and the horse finally walked back to the square. He held the reins with a strong fist. The horse whinnied in his grief but followed nonetheless.

  At the mouth of the lane, a crowd waited and whispered.

  “There is no wolf here,” Stefan announced. “Cronwall’s horse is loose. That is all. He was eating the window gardens.”

  A woman scowled, brandishing her walking stick at the horse. Stefan stepped between her and the horse, an act of certain mercy. He searched the crowd for Catarina. She was not to be seen. Perhaps she had run home. He hoped she would have something cooking when Cronwall returned. He was nicer when he was full.

  After a quarter of an hour, Bjorn met Stefan at the head of the lane. The townsfolk parted and then filled in behind him, daring to edge closer to hear the men talk. Bjorn was a big man, well suited for his profession. People feared big men. He often had only to stand up or push out his chest to quiet down a drunk or calm an enraged husband. But he had a gentle face, with soft blue eyes and a slow smile.

  Bjorn shrugged when he saw the horse. “Where is Cronwall?” Bjorn asked, reaching out and patting the horse on the flank. Several townspeople leaned their heads in closer, to catch every word.

  Stefan frowned at them and motioned for Bjorn to step away to afford them more privacy. Bjorn refused. “No need, Father. Gossip dies faster when they hear the facts.”

  “No one has seen him.”

  “Did you want me to arrest the horse?” Bjorn’s mouth twitched as if he might smile. The townspeople snickered.

  Stefan gritted his teeth before replying. “I assume Cronwall deposited himself in a cellar and slept through the storm. But Catarina was hysterical. She stirred everyone up, coming to outrageous conclusions. That is why I called you.”

  Bjorn rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. It took him a long while to speak again, but when he did, his voice was clear and loud. “Catarina, yes. She is prone to imaginations. She is becoming a problem.”

  “I want you to return the horse to her,” Stefan said.

  “Since there is no crime, I’ll going back to bed, Stefan. You can return the horse.”

  Stefan leaned in. “But there’s more. Her neck looked raw. Cronwall hasn’t shown restraint in his discipline.”

  “What am I to do? He’s committed no crime.”

  “It’s not him I want you to talk with. Speak to Catarina. You’re a husband. Tell her how it
is. She should have been glad to be free of him for one night. Instead, she causes a public spectacle, probably cost the merchants a tidy profit. Scold her so this doesn’t happen again.” Stefan thought a moment. “Come. We’ll run the errand together.”

  Dame Alice interrupted them. “What is to be done?”

  Stefan turned toward her. “We will see that the horse is returned and Catarina has been calmed,” Stefan replied, walking the horse forward with Bjorn by his side. They passed a house where the wife tossed grain out from her doorway. The horse craned his neck to look back at the lane, oblivious to the chickens squawking at his clumsy feet plodding through their breakfast.

  At the edge of the square, Bjorn stopped and turned for home. He waved one hand over his shoulder. “Tell her I will visit after I have slept. Or after I have found Cronwall.”

  A chicken pecked Stefan sharply on the leg, making him squeal, to the delight of everyone who watched. He jerked the horse’s reins with authority, but the horse reared back and broke away.

  He watched as the horse followed its appetite back into the darkened lane, where certain punishment would follow. The horse did not seem to mind.

  Stefan walked back to the church, defeated. Appetite seemed to rule his village.

  Chapter Three

  Mia held the spoon in front of Margarite’s face. Her mother-in-law’s eyes, clouded from cataracts, focused on it. Margarite’s shaking hands, the fingers bent at odd angles, grasped it, and she aimed for her mouth. The pottage landed on her lips, then oozed down her chin.

  Little Alma’s lips smacked together. She was hungry too. Mia grinned at her daughter and held a smaller spoon of the same pottage to her. Alma grabbed it, bringing it to her cheek before sliding it into her mouth. Mia wiped both mouths—Alma’s first, then Margarite’s—with her apron.

  At three years old, Alma should have been filling their home with laughter and songs, but instead she often fell sick, a relentless cough erupting from her chest—a cough so frightening that it made Mia’s heart constrict with fear. Alma never had a month free of her sickness, but she had better days almost every week now that the hardest days of winter were over. Her coughs were worse on cold, rainy days, and the sky had been a dead gray for hours. Surely the rain today would be heavy.

  Margarite shouted a garbled word.

  “Shhh, mother, not so loud,” Mia said. “Bjorn is in bed.”

  Margarite frowned, thrusting her face closer to Mia’s. Mia took Margarite’s face in her hands and turned it.

  “Your son is asleep,” she repeated directly in Margarite’s ear.

  Margarite nodded gravely. Mia sighed, reaching up and smoothing back Margarite’s thinning white hair. It fell forward again, the ends smearing across the mess on her mouth.

  Mia patted her own hair, her searching fingers pulling free the tortoise-shell comb, a wedding gift from Father Stefan. She admired its beautiful brown patterns for a moment. A lovely piece, not fitting for a housewife who never had visitors. Father Stefan had been so generous to give it to her when she was still a stranger. Bjorn had brought her here from another town years ago, and Father Stefan had been kind. This comb gave her courage to attend his Masses. The gift meant more to her than he could know.

  She pushed Margarite’s hair back and tucked the comb into place on her head. Letting go, she ran her fingers across Margarite’s face. “There. That’s better. You look lovely.” Margarite grimaced and moaned.

  “Is the pain worse today?” Mia asked, not expecting an answer.

  Urine pooled under Margarite’s chair. Mia stood to grab some straw to scatter over it, holding her back in pain from so much work. She spread the straw under the chair and sat to resume the feedings. She could try asking again if anyone in town knew of more remedies she could try, but the women were so cold to her—all but Dame Alice. Dame Alice wanted to feed her, surely only to pry her heart open and see what Mia hid. Mia did not trust herself yet. Not enough time had passed. Her memories were still open wounds. Unless she could find a salve for those—a salve that made her forget.

  Mia knew the women whispered of a healing witch who lived far off in the woods, but the thought of her frightened Mia. What good was a healing if it was cursed? Mia did not want healing if it angered the Lord. Even if healings could ease Margarite’s pain. Or save Alma, whose breathing became high whistles when the air turned cold. Every shriek for air, each shredding sound from her chest twisted Mia’s heart, making her half mad with fear.

  Alma stared at Mia, raising one tiny, soft finger to wipe a tear off Mia’s cheek. Mia took her hand and blew a raspberry into it. Alma smiled and squealed, showering them both with pottage.

  Bjorn stood in the doorway between the main room and the bedroom. His bedclothes were dark with sweat. Mia rose and took him by his arm, leading him to sit by the fire.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “We woke you.”

  He took the long spoon and used it to stir the ashes beneath the pot, then stood gazing at the swords hanging over their doorway and the pilgrimage badges on either side. Bjorn’s family was descended from a ghost warrior who served under Arminius. The memory of the ghost warriors of Germany still left villagers cold. Soldiers would paint themselves black, waiting until the darkest hour of night to attack. Victims saw only the whites of a ghost’s eyes before they died. Arminius had used them, used all the warriors Germany had, to betray his Roman master and slaughter the Roman army as they marched through the Black Forest. Ghost soldiers left a legacy of shrewd betrayals.

  She watched Bjorn without speaking. There seemed to be no end to the emptiness behind his eyes. She alone knew this about him. She alone knew this secret, how empty his eyes could become. She blamed herself for being a poor wife.

  Bjorn closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping forward.

  “Bjorn, what is it?” she asked, a little fear pricking at her heart. Bjorn was not a weak man. He did not stumble under his burdens.

  Bjorn reached for her skirts, pressing his face into her stomach.

  “Bjorn.” She pushed him back to look at him, her hands trembling. “What has happened?”

  Bjorn watched the fire. “I am tired,” he said.

  “Bjorn, come,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Go back to bed, husband. There will be no more mischief for now. It’s daylight.” She pointed to the window. He did not move.

  “Unless you would wish me to come with you.” She teased, trying to make him abandon this dark stupor.

  He recoiled as if she had bit him. He stood up, glaring down at her.

  “You don’t know what you are saying,” he said.

  “Bjorn.”

  “You have a child to tend to,” he said.

  “Aye, and I’d like another,” she murmured, stung. Other women flirted outrageously with their husbands, and they found it delightful.

  “Look at her, Mia,” he said, pointing to Alma. “Look at your sick daughter and say that again. What good is another child when you can’t care for the one you have?” He turned his back, walking into the bedroom.

  Mia sank down onto the floor, burying her face in her hands. Little Alma came to her and rested her head in her lap. Out of habit, Mia pressed a hand on her back to feel her breathing. Tiny ribs rested under her palm, each taut and sharp under the linen shift. Margarite banged her spoon, probably wanting explanation, not more pottage. Mia kissed the top of Alma’s head and set her mind on the day ahead. It would not do to weep for any of them, and if Mia stopped for one more moment like this to think on their plight, she might never get back up.

  Chapter Four

  The rains came in the night, without thunder or wind, soaking into the cold earth, making the morning air crisp. The next morning Mass was well attended, more for the hope of fresh gossip than for forgiveness of sins, Stefan knew.

  He was hungry. He had searched the cellar below the church, but he and Erick had eaten the last of the vegetables stored from the last harvest. His stomach grumbled as he climbed the steps and locked the door for the last time this season.

  Hard work would make him forget his hunger. He swept straw away from the church aisle onto the street. One of the altar boys trimmed the wicks as Erick, who was his main attendant, polished the wood altar. Erick had been abandoned in the market square years ago, just before he sprouted up into a tall, lean young man. His parents probably had not been able to afford to feed him, but he never mentioned them or spoke of his previous life. Still, he bore the shame with silent grace, even as he quietly rebuffed Father Stefan’s confused attempts to help him. Erick was often a mystery to Father Stefan, who taught on forgiveness weekly but had never had to forgive a great debt himself. Erick also worked harder for the church than anyone else in his parish. Stefan liked that very much. He nodded at Erick before closing the doors and walking back down the center aisle.