Wolves Among Us (2 page)

She had swallowed back her tears, but her eyes were still wide and watering. “The baby is well, thank you. She is at home with Mother. She doesn’t smell very good, though.”

Father Stefan pressed his lips together to catch a chuckle. “Yes, Marie, babies do smell. Tell your mother I will be glad to have her back with us for Mass.”

“But Mother is not well, Father Stefan. She cries a lot now that she has given birth. And she is pale. I try to get my brother to play with me outside, to let her rest, but I don’t think she notices.”

“I see.” He smiled and nodded, a signal that he was ready to be on his way.

Marie grabbed him by the hand. “Perhaps you could come see her?”

Stefan disentangled himself and stepped back. “My place is in the church. As is hers. Remind her of that. When she gets back to church, she will feel better at once.” He leaned down and flicked his hands at Marie, sending her away.

Marie hesitated, then rushed at him and planted a kiss on his cheek. She turned and ran off with her brother before he could say anything else. Stefan pressed a hand against the spot she had touched, mystified.

The sun broke free for a moment, warming Stefan’s arms. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, catching more of this sudden pleasure, the second unmerited grace of the day.

The thought prodded Stefan to turn and get on with his morning business. He couldn’t just stand here smiling in the sun like a fool.
Pleasure is a fool’s reward
, he thought,
a distraction that keeps good people from doing God’s work.
He must buy his dried hops and be back at the church before the next Mass. As he walked the square, he greeted the sweet young parishioner Elizabeth, who shopped at the herb market. She gave a shy nod and gestured back to the church, which stood at the far end of the square. Stefan smiled and nodded his head in agreement. Yes, it was almost time for Mass. They had both reason to hurry.

He then spotted Dame Alice with her wide, soft face. She sat on an upturned barrel at the front door of her home. Though wealthy, she rarely busied herself with women’s work, much to Stefan’s dismay. Instead she sat at her entranceway with her white hair neatly plaited above her ears, acknowledging those who passed.

Stefan watched as Mia, the sheriff’s wife, bustled past him, darting between the town’s children, clutching her coin bag to her stomach as she approached the butcher’s shop.

“Mia!” Dame Alice called out.

Mia stopped, clearly startled.

Dame Alice gestured widely with her arms. “Come and eat, child. I put a leg of lamb on the fire. Come and tell me of your morning.”

Mia glanced in every direction, her face turning red as others watched the interaction. She pulled her scarf lower over her eyes and hurried away.

“Mia!” Dame Alice shouted. “You need to eat. It’s how God made us.”

Mia pretended not to hear, though Stefan knew better. Her jaw muscles were flexing as if she was sorely tempted by Dame Alice’s invitation. But Mia was a good wife who she knew had no time for the gossip of idle women. Stefan would have to chastise Dame Alice once more at her next confession, though it would do no good. She had lost both her daughters and one grandson in a plague years before. Since then she had cared for the young women of the village like a mother might. He worried that too much gossip was exchanged at her kitchen table.

Stefan nodded in satisfaction as Mia ducked inside the shop. Perhaps she was too thin, but it was merely a testament to her tireless devotion to her husband and child.
A model citizen, that Mia,
he thought.
Never a moment spent in mischief with other women.

Stefan looked up to see an unfamiliar woman with a hard, lined face staring at him from across the square. From the distance her eyes were blue flames. Her dull gray hair was long and free, hanging down to her waist. The strange woman looked up into storm clouds that were now rolling toward the village. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to Stefan, accusing and cold, as if the night’s storm had been his doing.

A rooster crowed from the roof of a shop, distracting him. Thunder growled as it approached from behind the clouds. He turned back and strained for a glimpse of the woman again, but with no reward. Sometimes the market brought strange customers. She was, no doubt, just another oddity in his day.

Storm winds stirred his thin robes. He pulled his sleeves further down on his arms and put his mind back to his errand.

Mia’s husband, Sheriff Bjorn, had arrived on his doorstep last night. He had drunk a considerable amount of Stefan’s beer before he left for home. Stefan’s beer had no equal, though all the priests of his order learned the art of brewery. Wine tasted bitter and ruined many stomachs. But Stefan’s beer, made with grains he selected by hand and scent, ministered to anyone who drank it. His beer, the color of an emperor’s robe, was rich in nourishment and always bubbling. Even the pasty, flecked loam, leftover from the brewing yeast, proved good for ailing infants and livestock.

Bjorn, thirsty and agitated, had arrived at his doorstep, hoping for a draught. He had said he spent all night looking for the wolf that had stolen two of the sheep from the parish stock. Erick, Stefan’s servant, had wanted to join the hunt, but Bjorn refused him. Bjorn was not given to companionship. Erick would learn that in time.

The wolf—a tiresome, clever enemy who had yet to be caught—taunted then all. Taking two sheep was a crime that could not be overlooked. Stefan’s flock of sheep was small, only ten animals. His flock of parishioners was small too, perhaps one hundred people in total, not including those too weak or old to come to Mass. Stefan knew the wolf would be caught in time. But wolves and sinners had one thing in common: When they stole what was not theirs, their appetite for more only grew stronger. Appetite was always the doom of the unjust.

Another cloud rolled over the sun, and its shadow swept over the townspeople. A slinking darkness stole their last hope for a fine spring morning. Everyone paused, looking up and around. Shadows so early in the day meant a storm was growing in power, hiding itself at the edges of town, preparing for its first strike.

As the cloud peeled back from the sun, the shadow passed, and Stefan sighed.

A woman bumped into Stefan just then. He steadied himself and reached out to her, but she collapsed. His knees buckled under her sudden weight in his arms, and he struggled to get her to her feet. He lifted her and realized the woman was Catarina, a quiet, gentle wife from his parish. He looked up and saw Mia step from the butcher’s shop, carrying a roast, stopping when she saw the accident, as did a few others.

Catarina’s eyes were open, but she didn’t seem to recognize anyone. She pointed at the darkened alley that ran between two lopsided rows of houses.

“What is wrong, Catarina?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to gasp for a breath she could not catch.

“Did something scare you? Is it the wolf?”

She managed a deep breath that shook her body. “I love the Lord, as you are my witness. This crime is not my doing.”

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.