“You were nothing but a filthy cow when I married you.”
“Is that why you don’t love me anymore? Am I too dirty for you?”
“You know what you are.” His grip grew tighter. “Say it.”
“What am I today? Shrew? Cow? Nag? What does that make you?”
“A fool.”
He dropped his hold on her, grabbing his cloak as he walked out. “You will regret talking to me like this. When you cannot stop Alma from coughing and you are on your knees saying your rosary, begging God to hear you, you’ll remember what you said to me in my own home. You’ll know why God won’t answer your prayers.”
Chapter Seven
Stefan polished the altar until his arms burned, not knowing when his secret rebellion would be made known. He saw that Erick had already spread fresh straw and polished the wood doors and had done a fine job. After Stefan checked that his robes were clean and his hair combed, he sat on the first bench, staring at the altar with the picture of Christ hung above it. The air in the church rested still and cold, faint scents of straw and incense tempting him to close his eyes, just for a moment, and savor a brief, secret rest.
Instead he stood, walking back up to the altar, turning to look down at the pews. Everything must look perfect before the Inquisitor’s arrival. He mentally noted where he would like to see certain people seated for the next Mass. He wanted his esteemed guest to have a stunning first impression. He rubbed his chin, considering what else must be done.
He remembered an errand he had to run in the square, so he walked down the church steps. He turned around to look at his church and took it in with a grin. It had never looked better. Everyone would be impressed, even those who usually slept through Mass. But that would not happen again. Never again, once his guest arrived.
Opening the church doors, little Marie squealed to see him, rushing to grab his hand. She had been on her way in.
“Come and see, Father Stefan! The sheriff caught the wolf last night! He was enormous!”
A wolf’s limp body hung from a stake in front of the church, visible to all in the market. Shepherds who killed predators would hang the carcass near their flock as warning to other animals. Stefan wondered why Bjorn chose this spot; his flock was behind the church, farther out where the pleasant grazing was.
Stefan had never seen a dead wolf, and he approached it with cautious steps. It held a strange beauty. Stefan stood under it, fascinated as he reached up to touch its paw with a deep sigh. He had not realized that he had been holding his breath, and the sudden gasping exhalation left him light-headed. The wolf was so beautiful. Had he been wrong to have it killed? How could an animal of such majesty and beauty be evil?
Stefan ran his hand over the ridges of his paws, through the soft sable perfection of his fur. He ran his hand next over the velvet muzzle and saw a flash of red wipe across his palm. Lifting one side of its thick black lip up, he saw the flesh of one of his own lambs shredded between the sharp teeth of the wolf. Stefan dropped his hand and stumbled backward. Appearances deceive, he reminded himself. Nothing is as it seems in a fallen world.
“What will you do with him?” Marie chirped. He looked down, realizing she was at his side. She was unafraid of the dead wolf. She seemed more fascinated by Stefan. He wondered how he must appear to her, how the young saw the old. He probably seemed like a living relic.
“I will have Bjorn take it down and carry it into the woods to dispose of it. He has made his point to the village.”
Marie nodded and saw something of interest in the market. She motioned for him to lean down, as if to whisper a secret, then pecked him on the cheek before dashing away. He shook his head. Mysteries abounded in the world.
Turning for the market as well, he concentrated on steady breathing, clasping his hands behind his back to maintain his dignity. He saw little work being done and very few sales being made. Yet he saw many people, mostly villagers, standing close to each other, mincing tender details among themselves, lurid speculations about poor Catarina and who her lover might have been.
“What are you doing?” Stefan said, tapping the villager Paulus on the shoulder. The man was standing in a circle of gossipers. “If we feed on the details of sin, we’ll stir up our own appetites. I suggest you direct your energies toward finer pursuits. Make ready your stalls; put out your finest merchandise.”
Paulus, red in the face now to be caught at a woman’s game of gossip, nodded and attended to his stall at once.