Wolves Among Us (8 page)

“Blessed be God in heaven,” Stefan said. “May we be reminded of our sins as we sit in silence, that we may confess and be forgiven. I will begin our service.”

Heads pointed down now, everyone staring straight into their laps. Stefan continued with the Mass for several minutes, intoning the Latin perfectly.

He became distracted as he thought of Bjorn and the wolf.

Bjorn did not understand the burdens of a priest. A priest had to give answers, had to explain it all—unanswered prayers and death and misfortune. Of course no one ever questioned Stefan about good health and fine houses. He never had to worry about finding answers for those any more than Bjorn had to worry about being invaded by peaceful citizens and obedient women.

Bjorn had the easier job. He could arrest and punish. He could go home and sleep with his wife and watch his child play. Stefan would have liked to arrest and punish, would like to return to a warm home and not a cold room with no one to prepare his meals. Still, he did not regret the priesthood. He simply regretted that so many made outrageous demands of him.

He began the benediction, surprised to be ending the Mass already. He spoke faster, probably because he was so excited, he guessed.

In the silence of prayer he could hear feet scuffing the floor, people shifting their positions on the stern wood benches, the soft breathing of the elderly ones who had fallen asleep, and a sound he loved: the quiet gentle pause after a prayer is finished. People always hesitated in that moment to look at each other, or at him. He sensed God most in that moment.

Outside, wood wheels dug into the path, sending pebbles shooting out from under the heavy turning. The horse clopped along slowly and steadily, the steps of an animal with only one long journey, never a home. His footfalls did not quicken as he neared the town.

The people rushed to finish their own prayers, their hands flying across their chests as they made the sign of the cross. The quiet grace Stefan loved lifted away, back into the rafters; every face turned to the doors. Outside, the horse’s steps stopped.

Both doors swung open together, and strong sunlight swept in, causing the people to wince and squint. All could see only the darkest outline of a man standing in the doorway, his cape swirling around his calves. The man carried an enormous bag. When he dropped it on the floor, the noise exploded across the church. Everyone lurched in fear as a cloud of dust and dirt swirled around the man, obscuring him further. Stefan knew with certainty the man’s identity. His stomach churned.

The man stepped out of the doorway, and Stefan got his first good glimpse of him. He had light brown hair that hung in curls down past his ears and a dark brown beard neatly groomed; there wasn’t even a hint of silver in his hair. Stefan hoped this man was not younger than himself. The man had spring blue eyes and perfect teeth that flashed beneath his mustache as he smiled. He walked down the aisle, turning to look straight at each person as he passed, his serene eyes noting each upturned face. He nodded as if he understood everything they had come here to whisper to God. Extending his hands, he began to touch the shoulders of those who sat on the edge of each pew, nodding with mercy. Stefan marveled at his demeanor. The man preached a sermon simply by the way he walked down an aisle. Stefan cleared his throat to break the spell.

“Welcome, brother,” Stefan said. “I have concluded our Mass, but I have yet to finish the benediction.”

The man clasped his hands as if to pray.

“Forgive me, Brother Stefan,” he said. “I have interrupted, haven’t I?”

Stefan finished the benediction, allowing himself a deep breath before the end, not knowing what would come next. He had called for this man, the Inquisitor Bastion. Stefan watched the faces of his villagers, who were shocked by the sight of this new man in richly done clothes, a cape over his shoulders that would cost any of them a year’s labor. The villagers did not glance back at Stefan.

“Go in peace,” Stefan said with a sense that he had just released something, something that would fly away, never to return. That could not be.

The people always began their exodus with great speed, but this time no one left. Instead, they sat in their pews, waiting. Only Dame Alice stood to leave, her mouth a tight, thin line. When she looked at Stefan, he thought she looked disappointed in him.

Bastion had sat for the benediction but now rose, extending his arms to Stefan first. Stefan walked down the altar steps into the embrace. He glanced at the women in the pews. They seemed to find him attractive. Stefan positioned himself to block Bastion from their view.

“Well done, my brother,” Bastion said. “You have a good voice.”

Moving away from Stefan, he turned to the people and addressed them.

“You have in Father Stefan a good and constant shepherd. He alone has recognized the evil that is at work among you. He alone has called for the church’s assistance. For this reason, I have come.”

He moved to the bottom step of the altar, making it easier for all to see and hear.

“My name is Father Bastion, and I am an Inquisitor. I have heard of your troubles. I have come to give you assistance. You must not regard me as a priest, for I have no interest in ordinary sins. You must not regard me as an enemy, for I have no interest in persecuting the innocent. I am called for one reason alone: to find evidence of witchcraft, and if witches are found, to free you of their influence.”

Stefan positioned himself in front of Bastion, though he stood below Bastion on the steps. He saw Dame Alice standing at the back of the church, her arms folded. Curiosity had gotten to her, he surmised.

“Most of you would agree that it is better to know for certain that we are safe rather than wait for further proofs of evil,” Stefan said. “We live in dangerous times. The church is under assault from heretics across the empire, under assault from scholars who claim to be outside her authority, under assault from princes and rulers who desire power over principle. I will not let danger come to our village. Bjorn has hunted and killed his wolf; now I must hunt mine.” Stefan exhaled and pursed his lips as he stepped aside. He had not rehearsed any more than that.

“Tell me, my friends,” Bastion said, “what could compel a woman such as your very own Catarina to cuckold her husband? Was she not a good woman? Was he not a good man?”

“She seemed the best of us,” Stefan answered, looking at his people for agreement. “We were shocked to discover she lived a secret life of sin.”

“You should hope sin is all I find.” Bastion said. “Sin has a remedy. Christ has given us means to atone. But heresy, witchcraft, the trampling of the sacred Host wafers from Communion and fornicating with devils—there is no remedy we can apply to such actions. We can only purge the evil and trust God’s punishment will be enough. Father Stefan cannot conduct this investigation alone. It is a civil matter as much as it is a religious concern. My job is to secure your village, purge the evil I find, and assure you that you will suffer no more.”

Soft murmurs floated past, but no one spoke up.

“Men,” Bastion continued, “how can you trust your wives? Who among you will be next to discover that his faithful wife is a bawd and his children bastards? Women, why did Catarina hide herself from you? Why did she not trust any of you enough to reveal her true face, her secret adulteries? Were you to be her next victim? Or her next recruit? Who else hides among you?”

Any movement would seem an admission of conscience. Stefan saw his flock frozen in their shoes; not even their chests moved as they breathed.

“Prepare yourselves,” Bastion said. “Tonight we begin.”

Erick moved out from the shadows and walked toward Bastion. Dame Alice reached for him, trying to grab his arm, but Erick did not seem to notice.

“Can I stable your horse for you?” Erick asked. Stefan pressed his lips together to discourage a grin. Erick had no stable. But given the command to stable a visiting dignitary’s horse, he would convince one of the wealthy families to assist. Everyone loved Erick, who always shoveled snow from widows’ doorways in the winter and supplied the poorest with fresh firewood and a few hens when babies were born.

“Whose son is this?” Bastion asked.

No one moved. Erick’s face went red, his eyes looking only at the floor.

Stefan realized he should speak up, but Erick spoke first. “I have no mother or father. I serve the church.”

Bastion stared at him, his eyes wide. Stefan could not tell if Bastion might be ready to yell or laugh; he had the unreadable face of a feral cat.

He broke into a wide grin. “Well done,” he said. “Well done indeed. Yes, stable my horse. Then take my bag.…”

Bastion stared at Stefan.

“Oh!” Stefan caught on. “Yes, I’ve prepared a bed for you in our dormitory. Erick knows where it is.”

“Then, Erick, my son, take my bag to the dormitory. And for you, my good people, go in peace. Meet me in front of the church steps tonight when the sun sets.”

Erick walked to open the doors for the people, bending down to lift the bag. He needed a second attempt to lift it. Stefan wondered what could be so heavy. A traveling man often brought an extra cloak but rarely anything more.

Some of the people wove around Erick, slipping out at once, while most stood around, eager for something else to happen. Dame Alice crossed to Mia, her head cocked as if to ask a question. Mia saw her coming and hurried down the aisle and out the door. Stefan watched her flee and caught sight of another woman in dark robes, her long gray hair blown back by the wind. She stood beneath the wolf, stroking his fur, then turned and caught sight of Stefan, her ice blue eyes glaring at him in fury. She crooked one finger at Stefan, her lips pulling back over her teeth in a snarl.

Stefan stepped back into the shadows of the church, his heart thundering in his ears.

Chapter Eight

Bastion paced in front of a covered cart as the bonfire grew higher. Stefan watched him through the flames, standing in front of the congregation of villagers. Bastion’s eyes glittered in the flames as his gaze swept side to side over the people, searching their faces. He seemed hungry, but it was an appetite Stefan did not recognize. Smoke between Stefan and Bastion rose in waves, a thin veil separating priest from prophet.

The people moved closer and closer to Bastion, edging Stefan out. Only a few lingered on the periphery of the crowd, perhaps too intimidated to come closer.

Bastion stopped and signaled for Stefan to cross over. Stefan approached, unsure what would happen. Bastion kept his words soft as he grasped Stefan’s hands.

“You were wise to call for me,” Bastion said. “A man must admit when he is outnumbered by his enemy. Only if he has courage will he live.”

Stefan shook his head in confusion. “I am not outnumbered, sir. We seek one person here, one murderer.”

“You have a sheriff to rid your town of murderers. Should I leave?”

“No.” Stefan was humbled. “I need an answer. The mystery is how a woman such as Catarina could stray so far without any of us noticing.”

“And you think that is a mystery? Do you know nothing of women? Or of witches?”

Stefan looked away before answering. “We so rarely have crimes, Inquisitor. It’s a quiet village.”

“A quiet village with bloodstains on the steps of the church.”

“We might have one witch here; I don’t know. But no more than one, I’m sure. It would explain why a good woman was caught up in this.”

Bastion set a hand on his shoulder. “You called for an Inquisitor. Trust your instincts. One man cannot fight one witch. They are powerful; so must we be. I know priests who died fighting their witches before anyone thought to call an Inquisitor.”

Stefan opened his mouth to say more, then shut it. What knowledge did he have of witches? Who would call in an Inquisitor and then be so bold as to argue with him?

“My friends,” Bastion called, circling the fire to either side. The heat distorted his face. “Can a good woman be forced to commit adultery? Would a good woman welcome the Devil into her home, destroy her marriage, provoke her husband’s murder?”

Stefan saw looks exchanged among his people. What the looks meant he did not know. His people had their own language, just as he had his Latin, he supposed.

“Catarina was no good woman. She was the witch,” Bastion declared.

Heads in the crowd swiveled, words were murmured as hands clutched onto arms, and children put their hands to their mouths. Stefan caught sight of Dame Alice, arms folded, jaw set. She did not believe Bastion. She turned to look at Stefan, shaking her head at him.

“Does the news shock you? In the Spanish royal court, we saw many of these cases. But I will prove it easily. How did the husband die?”

Stefan spoke for the village. “Stabbed in the side.”

“The wounds of Christ.” Bastion smiled to himself. “Stabbed in the side, just like our Lord and Savior. Betrayed with a kiss, no doubt, just as our Lord and Savior. A righteous man dying an unjust death. Do you see it, the mockery of what you hold sacred?”

The people nodded. But Stefan didn’t see it, certainly didn’t see the Savior in Cronwall, not with Cronwall’s drinking and temper.

“And the witch, the woman you call Catarina, how did she die?” Bastion called.