Wolves Among Us (6 page)

“Those are new bruises, Bjorn,” Stefan whispered. “They’re not the same bruises I saw on her last week after Cronwall disappeared.”

“Do not add to her shame,” Bjorn whispered. “Say nothing of those injuries.”

Bjorn spoke rightly,
Stefan thought. Catarina had been so modest. She should not have her marriage picked over in plain view of the village. Stefan’s heart pinched a little. Why did Bjorn always know what to do and he did not?

“Bring a horse and cart here,” Bjorn said to him before turning to the crowd. “Who among you loved Catarina?”

The astronomer’s wife, Ducinda, stepped forward. She kept a palm flat on her face, her eyes red with grief.

Bjorn put his arm around her, leading her between Stefan and himself. He spoke down to her, keeping one arm around her shoulders, his hand rubbing her other shoulder. She calmed somewhat, swallowing down great sobs.

“Ducinda, you say Catarina was your friend?”

She nodded yes.

“Then you must know who would have done this.”

Ducinda looked up at him with wide eyes. “I surely do not know, sir. She was a lamb. No one would want to hurt her.”

“She said nothing to you? Nothing at all? No hints of trouble?”

Ducinda shook her head no.

Bjorn closed his eyes and exhaled. “A shame. Now, Ducinda, will you do something for your friend?”

“Anything for her, sir. And for you, of course.”

“I’ll remove the bodies to the church. Father Stefan will give you access to them. See to it they are prepared for a burial by tomorrow morning. Stefan will make sure you are reimbursed for all your expenses. But Ducinda, please,” he added, “no gossip. Gossip dishonors your friend and muddies the waters I am to fish in. Do you understand?”

Ducinda looked back at the crowd doubtfully. She pressed her arms closer into her body. “But who did this?”

“I will find out.” Bjorn rested his hand on her shoulder. “Ducinda, your job is to see that your friend is well cared for now.”

Stefan approached Bjorn. “Surely you must have an idea.”

“Look at the bodies. Cronwall has been dead for a while. Catarina is still fresh. What do you think this means?”

Stefan’s cheeks flushed, and he cleared his throat, looking at the crowd. They were of no help, looking away as soon as he met their eyes. Stefan saw all the directions they looked instead—at their feet, at the clouds, or at their hands, which were picking at dead lice clinging to their wool cloaks.

Bjorn nudged him for an answer. “All right, then,” Bjorn said, shaking his head. “Tell me this: Where was God? If God is good, why didn’t He stop this?”

“We can’t always understand His will.”

Bjorn laced his fingers together, resting them against his chin. “Let me tell you what I understand: Prayer changed nothing here.” He sighed, dropping his hands, preparing to lift Catarina’s body. He turned around, avoiding Stefan’s face and addressing the crowd. “This is what I suspect: Catarina was unfaithful. That is why Cronwall left in the middle of the storm: to confront her lover. We all knew him to be a proud man. As for her, she paid for her sin—at the hands of her lover, I am sure.”

His last words could barely be heard over the crowd.

“Why dump them here?” Stefan asked. “Why would he not conceal his crime?”

Bjorn looked at Stefan, his eyes narrowing, as if willing him to understand. “Who committed the greatest crime? Catarina cuckolded two men.”

“But why would he murder Cronwall?” Stefan said. He wished he knew more of why lovers came together and what drove them apart. He wouldn’t feel so stupid in the face of their senseless crimes.

“Cronwall must have attacked the man. The man struck back in self-defense,” Bjorn suggested. Stefan noticed that many in the crowd were still listening to Bjorn. “My wife saw the whole thing last night,” he said, looking at the crowd. “You don’t see her here, do you? She knows justice has been done.”

The crowd erupted into whispers. One of the younger girls, Iris, noticed Bjorn staring at her and tucked her chin down with a blush. Stefan understood very little of women. Older women had cold hatred in their eyes, even as their mouths worked furiously, chattering to each other. He shook his head in wonder. A scandal worthy of Avignon had come to his quiet town, and Mia had seen the whole thing, though she had smiled at him this morning and offered him breakfast.

Bjorn trotted down the church steps, parting the crowd to get through. Stefan ran to catch up to him.

“Are you angry with me?” Bjorn asked. Stefan waved him off, embarrassed. Bjorn knew him well. “I am just curious. What should be done next?”

“You could try praying.”

“Don’t mock me.” Stefan looked at Bjorn to see if his friend teased.

“I’m not. I’m mocking prayer.”

Bjorn ducked into a doorway with room only for Stefan to follow, giving them privacy.

“I know you do not understand what goes on between a man and a woman,” Bjorn said. “But the murders are God’s failure, not mine. I am out here every night. I answer every cry for help that I hear.”

“That’s not fair. We can’t know the mind of God. That does not mean He does not hear our cries.”

“Are you sure? That makes Him a devil, doesn’t it? That He hears and does not act?”

“You do not mean that.”

Bjorn opened his mouth to say something else, then sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t escape these questions.”

Stefan patted him on the back. “Your profession is to blame, not you.” He gestured back toward the square. “The merchants are afraid of losing the best weeks of the market. What are you going to do?”

“A tart stirred up two men and paid for it. It doesn’t involve the merchants.”

“Two bodies left on the steps of the church? You have to arrest the man. It’s a scandal.”

Bjorn laughed, stepping out of the doorway. Stefan caught him by the arm. “You do not understand my meaning.”

“What would you have me do? Ask politely at every door, ‘Are you the man who was seduced by Cronwall’s wife and murdered them? Would you mind coming with me so I can hang you?’”

“The women are superstitious and fearful. If you do not make an arrest, they’ll travel in another direction to go to market. The first weeks of market are critical while we wait for the crops to ripen. We need the money. The church needs the money.”

“What is the reason you are so frightened? Is it the money or the scandal?”

Stefan held a finger up to stop Bjorn from saying anything more. Bjorn was failing him. But there might be a solution that saved them all. “There is an Inquisitor in nearby Eichschan,” Stefan said as the idea surfaced. “The bishop has said the Inquisitor is highly regarded by the pope, even commissioned in Nuremberg.”

“What are you saying?”

“Hear me out.”

“But this is not witchcraft. Just wickedness.”

Stefan swallowed, rubbing his hands together before weaving them through the air, as if to stir Bjorn’s imagination. “Wickedness is the Devil’s work. These circumstances are unusual for Dinfoil, and I think they merit a visit from such a man. A man of higher learning will have answers for you and the merchants. If it goes well, other villages will be talking about it too. We’ll have more visitors. More money. The prince would be pleased. Perhaps he would even mention us to the emperor.” Stefan had never argued with Bjorn. He did not know what to do after speaking, so he dropped his hands and waited.

“No. Do not bring a stranger into this. We do not want every other village hearing of our troubles.”

“Try to imagine it. I will bring in the Inquisitor and let him find the guilty man. Then he will declare the town free of all evil influences, and the markets will thrive. It will be over in a fortnight. You won’t have to do anything. No one will care if you don’t make an arrest. But we will all gain recognition. God could very well be in this tragedy for our good.”

“No,” Bjorn said in a tone meant to end the conversation. “No outsiders. Don’t speak of it again.”

“Bjorn,” Stefan said, his face turning red. “Have you seen the way they look at me? Everyone in town looks at me as if I allowed this. Even you accuse me, in your way. I’m not stupid.”

“Then don’t act it. An Inquisitor will come here looking for the Devil, and he may very well find one. How will you look then?”

“You’re wrong,” Stefan said.

“Look at your feet, my friend.”

Stefan looked down. The edges of his robe were a bit dirty, but his feet were clean, despite the mud and chaos of spring.

“Do you see the ground you’re standing on?”

Stefan looked up. “Yes.”

Bjorn pointed a finger at him. “That’s the only thing you know for certain. You hear what people want to tell you, only the sins they feel guilt for. The difference between you and me? I see what they do when they leave your church. I see the sins they commit without guilt or shame.”

Stefan watched him walk away, standing there in the dirt with chaos not far away. A red fleck caught his eye, a cardinal in a barren tree. The branches were just beginning to build up at the ends, preparing for spring, and the bird glistened, a trembling ruby startling in its perfection, in its dazzling, unrepentant red. Stefan stared at it until the sun caught its feathers just right, and for a moment he saw his whole village blinded with red. Beyond the barren tree, behind the houses with dark smoke curling from their chimneys, a wolf howled.

Cold wind stung his cheeks, and he shook free of the moment, pulling his arms in with a shiver. Winter had not finished with them yet.

Chapter Six

Mia was startled awake when she heard a spoon bang against the wall. Margarite was anxious for supper.

“Coming, Margarite,” Mia yelled. Yelling made her sound angry, but Margarite could not help being deaf.

Margarite groaned and hit the spoon against the wall once more. The busyness of meals, of interacting with Mia, made Margarite forget the pain, Mia suspected. Food became something they could still do together, one last link. Mia did not know if the woman even tasted the food or just wanted Mia to touch her and look at her. When old ones stopped eating, they died. Everyone knew that, including Margarite. She wasn’t ready to die.

The old woman held on even though her body failed more every day and the pain in her bones grew steadily worse. Her wasting disease showed no remorse, daily marching her closer to death. Mia did not understood why Margarite held on. She, too, once had a will to live, even through times when nothing existed to live for. But then she had been young, and there had been hope. For Margarite, what hope was there but death? Death would relieve Margarite’s suffering, so why did she resist it?

Mia sighed, walking to the pottage, waving a hand at Margarite to signal that the meal was on the way. She stirred the pottage, careful to scrape along the bottom where most of the meat had sunk. Margarite should put some more weight on her frail frame. She might feel better if she had more cushion, more softness around her bones.

Mia hoped Margarite’s sense of smell was still intact. The sage, already good for picking this early in the season, blended well with the rosemary. Sage lent a lovely green undertone in their tiny home that always smelled of sharp, sweet rosemary. Rosemary stayed green and lush through the final frost of spring and needed no care from Mia. She loved it for being so dependable. She loved it for not needing her.

Ladling the pottage into a wooden bowl, Mia pushed a chair close to Margarite’s and took the spoon from her. Margarite stared at her with a closed mouth, nodding in the direction of Alma, who played with a kitten. The kitten’s mother had depended on Mia for scraps in the winter, and Mia regarded the kitten as a welcome visitor. She would have to shoo it outside before Bjorn got home. But it was not the kitten that agitated Margarite.

Little Alma had those dark red circles under her eyes again, looking as if she had been beaten overnight.

Mia looked back at Margarite, her own stomach churning. Margarite nodded. Though deaf and not always lucid, this one thing she understood: Alma remained very sick, and Mia remained helpless. A rare moment of understanding passed between the women, a generous miracle. Another woman saw her struggle and did not judge. Mia would spoon a thousand mouthfuls of pottage for that one blessing.

Since her first true friend, Rose, had abruptly deserted her two years ago without reason, refusing to have anything to do with her, Mia had not known the comfort of another woman’s reassurance. Mia’s heart pinched at the thought of Rose’s strange, silent betrayal. Mia had poured herself, for the first time, into friendship with another woman, nursing Rose along after her husband died, when she had nearly died herself from grief. Mia reminded herself she could not think on it any longer. It only caused confusion, and Mia had plenty of confusion already. Even if she scraped the bottom of that old pot, what would she find but more trouble? She didn’t have to know the truth. Truth wouldn’t make it hurt less. She remembered what truth did to those who were not ready for it. What Mia needed was answered prayer for Alma. If God ever heard her prayers and healed Alma, Mia would not ask for anything else again. She swore this to Him, but it had not prompted Him to act.