Wolves Among Us(5)

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.

“Shhh, mother, not so loud,” Mia said. “Bjorn is in bed.”

Margarite frowned, thrusting her face closer to Mia’s. Mia took Margarite’s face in her hands and turned it.

“Your son is asleep,” she repeated directly in Margarite’s ear.

Margarite nodded gravely. Mia sighed, reaching up and smoothing back Margarite’s thinning white hair. It fell forward again, the ends smearing across the mess on her mouth.

Mia patted her own hair, her searching fingers pulling free the tortoise-shell comb, a wedding gift from Father Stefan. She admired its beautiful brown patterns for a moment. A lovely piece, not fitting for a housewife who never had visitors. Father Stefan had been so generous to give it to her when she was still a stranger. Bjorn had brought her here from another town years ago, and Father Stefan had been kind. This comb gave her courage to attend his Masses. The gift meant more to her than he could know.

She pushed Margarite’s hair back and tucked the comb into place on her head. Letting go, she ran her fingers across Margarite’s face. “There. That’s better. You look lovely.” Margarite grimaced and moaned.

“Is the pain worse today?” Mia asked, not expecting an answer.

Urine pooled under Margarite’s chair. Mia stood to grab some straw to scatter over it, holding her back in pain from so much work. She spread the straw under the chair and sat to resume the feedings. She could try asking again if anyone in town knew of more remedies she could try, but the women were so cold to her—all but Dame Alice. Dame Alice wanted to feed her, surely only to pry her heart open and see what Mia hid. Mia did not trust herself yet. Not enough time had passed. Her memories were still open wounds. Unless she could find a salve for those—a salve that made her forget.

Mia knew the women whispered of a healing witch who lived far off in the woods, but the thought of her frightened Mia. What good was a healing if it was cursed? Mia did not want healing if it angered the Lord. Even if healings could ease Margarite’s pain. Or save Alma, whose breathing became high whistles when the air turned cold. Every shriek for air, each shredding sound from her chest twisted Mia’s heart, making her half mad with fear.

Alma stared at Mia, raising one tiny, soft finger to wipe a tear off Mia’s cheek. Mia took her hand and blew a raspberry into it. Alma smiled and squealed, showering them both with pottage.

Bjorn stood in the doorway between the main room and the bedroom. His bedclothes were dark with sweat. Mia rose and took him by his arm, leading him to sit by the fire.

“I am sorry,” she said. “We woke you.”

He took the long spoon and used it to stir the ashes beneath the pot, then stood gazing at the swords hanging over their doorway and the pilgrimage badges on either side. Bjorn’s family was descended from a ghost warrior who served under Arminius. The memory of the ghost warriors of Germany still left villagers cold. Soldiers would paint themselves black, waiting until the darkest hour of night to attack. Victims saw only the whites of a ghost’s eyes before they died. Arminius had used them, used all the warriors Germany had, to betray his Roman master and slaughter the Roman army as they marched through the Black Forest. Ghost soldiers left a legacy of shrewd betrayals.

She watched Bjorn without speaking. There seemed to be no end to the emptiness behind his eyes. She alone knew this about him. She alone knew this secret, how empty his eyes could become. She blamed herself for being a poor wife.