She laughed or coughed—he couldn’t be sure which—and flecks of spit landed across his cheek.
When he unlatched her hand from his arm, Catarina ran off, leaving Stefan to wipe off the spit. His wet fingers were tinged with what looked like blood, but Catarina had said nothing about being hurt. The crowd that had gathered was whispering, watching him. Stefan walked between them to peer down the lane Catarina had pointed to.
Church bells rang, calling everyone to Mass. Stefan frowned at the reminder. He belonged in church, not in the street, and not down a dirty, empty lane looking for a lone horse and a dead man on the word of a confused woman. Women were prone to hysteria. He found it most discouraging. His fine morning was ruined.
He turned for the church, which was only a few doors down, but no one followed.
“Time for Mass!” he shouted. A few people glanced at each other. “Bjorn will not be here for a good hour; we all know that.” At this, people followed.
Stefan glanced back at the lane just once more. Sin was his responsibility. Crime belonged to Bjorn. As for women—well, only God knew what to do with them.
Chapter Two
Stefan refused to rush the benediction. He heard the constant sounds the congregation made, the restless tapping of feet, all those fingers drumming against jiggling knees. As soon as he finished the service, the people would rush for the doors, curious to see what Bjorn had done about the morning’s drama.
Wind rattled the doors, destroying the last perfect moment of peace—Stefan’s favorite moment in the service. He dismissed the congregation, remaining behind as they rushed out, watching dead brown leaves blow in from the streets in their wake. The storm was edging ever closer. Stefan left the church, struggling to close the doors behind him against the winds.
Bjorn had not yet arrived. Stefan saw the crowd eyeing him again, waiting to see what he would do next. He wanted nothing more than to be done with the morning.
“Can you see him? Is he on his way?” Stefan asked them. He liked submissive church crowds that sat politely on benches, not restless, gawking throngs milling about. “We should wait.”
“Why?” Dame Alice said. “You know women can’t be trusted. We’re prone to imaginations; you have often said it yourself. Surely there could be no real danger there.”
“There has been a wolf among us,” Stefan answered. “It might not be safe to wander alone.”
“Is it really the wolf you are afraid of?” Dame Alice said. “Or are you afraid Catarina was telling the truth?”
Stefan smoothed his robe and adjusted the belt. He would bring this up at her next confession. Her tone was not fitting for her sex or his station. “I see I must do this if you are to give me any peace.”
He stepped into the quiet lane. For the sake of his flock, he would determine himself whether there were dangers. The houses huddled close together, each built as high as the builder could manage, to keep the upper bedchambers warm. Roofs leaned across the lane as if to gossip with other roofs, blocking the sunlight as he came around a curve. The builders of old, while coveting height for the warmth it created, had given little care to keeping the lane straight. Houses looked as if they had been dropped from the sky along the lane. Each house had a different width and was made of different materials; together they signaled a lack of foresight among the town elders. Stefan clucked his tongue, creating the only sound to be heard above the scratching rustle of leaves and straw blown against walls by the winds. The lane appeared empty; not even a cat stirred to chase its breakfast. He cleared his throat and walked further down around the next house as an unseen animal wailed in warning. Probably only a howl made by the wind, he thought.
Cronwall’s horse ate greens out of a window box, his heavy mouth tearing entire plots free and sprinkling shreds of his breakfast all over the lane. Stefan craned his neck and looked past the old fellow. He had eaten his way all along the lane, leaving a sad trail of broken greens. The horse looked up, then went back to his breakfast. Steam billowed out of his wide black nostrils as he exhaled.
Stefan ran a hand across his forehead. The horse was alone and definitely the one who belonged to Catarina’s husband, Master Cronwall. The crest on the horse’s blanket made that clear. Catarina had at least been right about that. But Cronwall abandoning it did not alone signal a serious crime, although Bjorn would have to be the final judge of that.
“Cronwall?” Stefan called his name without much force. Cronwall was not in danger, but the horse was. When the wives spied their destroyed window boxes, this horse would feel the wrath of a hundred brooms.