Stefan took the horse’s reins and gave a good yank. The horse refused to leave his breakfast. Stefan yanked again, and the horse swayed his head back in protest. Stefan understood. No one—not even a horse—wanted to abandon a perfectly good sin. Many believed the time to repent came only after nothing remained to be enjoyed.
Stefan swatted him hard on the flank, and the horse finally walked back to the square. He held the reins with a strong fist. The horse whinnied in his grief but followed nonetheless.
At the mouth of the lane, a crowd waited and whispered.
“There is no wolf here,” Stefan announced. “Cronwall’s horse is loose. That is all. He was eating the window gardens.”
A woman scowled, brandishing her walking stick at the horse. Stefan stepped between her and the horse, an act of certain mercy. He searched the crowd for Catarina. She was not to be seen. Perhaps she had run home. He hoped she would have something cooking when Cronwall returned. He was nicer when he was full.
After a quarter of an hour, Bjorn met Stefan at the head of the lane. The townsfolk parted and then filled in behind him, daring to edge closer to hear the men talk. Bjorn was a big man, well suited for his profession. People feared big men. He often had only to stand up or push out his chest to quiet down a drunk or calm an enraged husband. But he had a gentle face, with soft blue eyes and a slow smile.
Bjorn shrugged when he saw the horse. “Where is Cronwall?” Bjorn asked, reaching out and patting the horse on the flank. Several townspeople leaned their heads in closer, to catch every word.
Stefan frowned at them and motioned for Bjorn to step away to afford them more privacy. Bjorn refused. “No need, Father. Gossip dies faster when they hear the facts.”
“No one has seen him.”
“Did you want me to arrest the horse?” Bjorn’s mouth twitched as if he might smile. The townspeople snickered.
Stefan gritted his teeth before replying. “I assume Cronwall deposited himself in a cellar and slept through the storm. But Catarina was hysterical. She stirred everyone up, coming to outrageous conclusions. That is why I called you.”
Bjorn rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. It took him a long while to speak again, but when he did, his voice was clear and loud. “Catarina, yes. She is prone to imaginations. She is becoming a problem.”
“I want you to return the horse to her,” Stefan said.
“Since there is no crime, I’ll going back to bed, Stefan. You can return the horse.”
Stefan leaned in. “But there’s more. Her neck looked raw. Cronwall hasn’t shown restraint in his discipline.”
“What am I to do? He’s committed no crime.”
“It’s not him I want you to talk with. Speak to Catarina. You’re a husband. Tell her how it is. She should have been glad to be free of him for one night. Instead, she causes a public spectacle, probably cost the merchants a tidy profit. Scold her so this doesn’t happen again.” Stefan thought a moment. “Come. We’ll run the errand together.”
Dame Alice interrupted them. “What is to be done?”
Stefan turned toward her. “We will see that the horse is returned and Catarina has been calmed,” Stefan replied, walking the horse forward with Bjorn by his side. They passed a house where the wife tossed grain out from her doorway. The horse craned his neck to look back at the lane, oblivious to the chickens squawking at his clumsy feet plodding through their breakfast.
At the edge of the square, Bjorn stopped and turned for home. He waved one hand over his shoulder. “Tell her I will visit after I have slept. Or after I have found Cronwall.”
A chicken pecked Stefan sharply on the leg, making him squeal, to the delight of everyone who watched. He jerked the horse’s reins with authority, but the horse reared back and broke away.
He watched as the horse followed its appetite back into the darkened lane, where certain punishment would follow. The horse did not seem to mind.
Stefan walked back to the church, defeated. Appetite seemed to rule his village.
Chapter Three
Mia held the spoon in front of Margarite’s face. Her mother-in-law’s eyes, clouded from cataracts, focused on it. Margarite’s shaking hands, the fingers bent at odd angles, grasped it, and she aimed for her mouth. The pottage landed on her lips, then oozed down her chin.
Little Alma’s lips smacked together. She was hungry too. Mia grinned at her daughter and held a smaller spoon of the same pottage to her. Alma grabbed it, bringing it to her cheek before sliding it into her mouth. Mia wiped both mouths—Alma’s first, then Margarite’s—with her apron.
At three years old, Alma should have been filling their home with laughter and songs, but instead she often fell sick, a relentless cough erupting from her chest—a cough so frightening that it made Mia’s heart constrict with fear. Alma never had a month free of her sickness, but she had better days almost every week now that the hardest days of winter were over. Her coughs were worse on cold, rainy days, and the sky had been a dead gray for hours. Surely the rain today would be heavy.
Margarite shouted a garbled word.