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.”