The two bodies splayed across the church steps had none of the peaceful repose Stefan was accustomed to. There was no embroidered pillow or handsome cloak. Their limbs were spread apart, splattered with mud. Stefan crossed himself, wondering again if this was a dream. Shiny fat flies buzzed around Cronwall. His face was bloated. The woman lay facedown, thrown over him as if in an embrace, her skirts exposing her slender white calves. Stefan had never seen a woman’s calves, but he cleared his throat and tugged at the edge of the skirt to cover her, looking away from her body. He saw Bjorn taking in the scene with an expression of sadness and anger. A dark resolve passed across his face.
Bjorn had no other hesitation, no signs of shock. He set to work with a pursed mouth, pulling out the pockets lining the man’s belt. They were filled with money. Using his foot, Bjorn rolled the woman’s body off the man’s, her dead eyes open to the morning sun.
Stefan shielded his eyes from the glare, craned his neck, and leaned closer in. He wanted to be mistaken. He asked God to take it back, to make it go away.
It was Catarina.
Stefan inhaled with a high-pitched, keening gasp, like a child about to burst into a wail. Bjorn gave him a withering glare. Stefan knew he shouldn’t react to death this way. He saw it every month. But he wanted to point out to Bjorn that death and murder were not equal. Death was natural, to be expected even. Murder was a stunning perversion.
“What do we do?” Stefan asked.
Bjorn held the fistful of money out to the crowd. “This was not a robbery. Did anyone see anything? Does anyone want to speak?”
No one in the growing crowd moved.
“Why would both bodies be left on my steps?” Stefan asked.
Bjorn watched the crowd. “This is a message.” He watched the crowd, his eyes moving back and forth, searching for something Stefan did not understand.
Bjorn turned back, shaking his head, and handed the money to Stefan. “Keep this.”
Erick came out of the church with a blanket, offering it to Bjorn.
“Set it there. I’ll cover them when I’m done,” Bjorn said.
Erick did what he was told. He looked as if he, too, was wandering about in a dream, lost and confused.
“Erick? Check on Mia and her home. She will worry if she hears news of this and is alone,” Stefan said. The young man nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Bjorn turned and knelt by Catarina’s body, ran his fingers along her neck, then pushed against her cheek. Her head twisted as far as he pushed it. “Broken,” Bjorn said. The words carried to the back of the crowd with great urgency by the onlookers.
“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?”