Wolves Among Us (20 page)

“But why?”

“Because these are dangerous times. If harm came to you, in my name, I would die in my heart, Mia. Promise me that you will tell no one you have helped print it. Keep that secret. Memorize it if you want, but tell no one what you know. Store it up in here,” he said, pointing to her heart. “But trust no one.”

Mia had begun to hear whispers in the streets as she fetched eggs or bought bread for her father. Those caught with Tyndale’s book were burned to death like criminals, they said. But for Mia’s father this book meant life, not death; bread for the table and eggs for his daughter. She forced herself to eat them, smiling, as if she did not understand the risks her father took to feed her.

“I will store it up in my heart,” she said, taking Tyndale’s hand. He drew her into a hug, kissing the top of her head.

“And keep me in there as well,” he whispered. “Always.”

“I’d like a taste of beer before I sleep.”

Mia was startled back to attention, refocusing her thoughts on her husband. She fetched a wooden mug and poured some of Stefan’s brew into it from a ceramic pitcher. She cocked her head to the side with a new thought. “How does Bastion interrogate the women? Surely no woman would confess to a crime if the punishment is burning.”

“Bastion knows what women hide in their hearts. And he knows every trick of the Devil. It is written that the Devil forbids some women to confess, even under the most severe torture, so that they will not admit the truth. Bastion must bring some to the very moment of death before they confess.”

“Could they not be innocent?”

“What do you know? You know nothing about witches or their foul sins. You’ve never read the
Malleus Maleficarum
.”

Her chin trembled.

Bjorn’s face softened. “Mia, we are near the very root of our troubles. Trust me. Bastion and I will clean this village. I will have peace, no matter what it takes.”

Mia kept her voice gentle. “I want you to have peace. But I would say, although I am but a woman and know very little, that peace is a gift of God. I thought gifts were freely given.”

“You do amuse me with your logic. If peace were freely given, as you say, I would be out of work tomorrow.”

Mia made no reply.

“I will sleep now, at last. Try not to wake me.”

Mia watched him stretch and prepare for bed.

Bjorn saw nothing in her except a dutiful, dull wife. Once that had seemed enough. It had seemed more than enough. But she had let another man kiss her. Was her heart infected with witchcraft, or was this her true nature? How could she harbor this sin in her heart, the same place she kept the sacred Word, the same place she kept the memories of her father and Tyndale? How could a good woman have such hunger?

Mia looked down, shielding her eyes with her hand. Bjorn had changed since their wedding day too. The once-friendly women of this village had changed, as had Rose. Everything had changed.

Please God,
she prayed.
Give me something to hold onto, one unchangeable thing.

“Answer me.” Stefan shook the bars of the cage, but the witch would not look at him. “How do you know her to be a witch? Just answer that.”

“Your midwife, Nelsa, she kills newborns and offers them to the Devil,” the caged woman said.

“What? Why do you say that?”

“Bastion says it.”

“How does he know? Where is his certainty?”

“You never asked me my name.” She turned her back to him, sitting there on her rear, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Stefan groaned. “What is your name?”

She shook her head.

He changed his tone. “What is your name?”

“Ava.”

“Ava? It’s a good name.”

“It’s not my name.”

He was so tired.

“Are you so easily discouraged? I am asking you a riddle. Now, think: How do you know Ava is my name?”

“Because you told me. I believed you.”

She turned her head and grinned. “Yes! That is the answer. You believed me.”

Stefan understood. “Bastion tells you these things, and you believe him. Does he have proof?” His heart beat faster.

She wagged a finger at him. “I am not the only believer. And believers do not need proof.”

“But he killed a woman. She might have been innocent. He might kill more. We cannot do that on his word alone.”

She shrugged and went back to picking at lice in her bedding.

Stefan was alone in his doubts. Earlier everyone had filed out of Mass, eager to rush the day along, rush along with the business of living so they could return and see another witch burned. None of them would have let him confess his doubt to them. He had no refuge, save for his faith, and his words—words that had proved worthless to Catarina and Cronwall, words that had condemned Rose. Words in Latin, a language he did not even understand.

“Wait,” he said. “Did Bastion give any proof that you are a witch?”

She scooted around to look at him. “Yes. I had lost a babe not long after it was born. He died in his sleep. I told everyone that I didn’t know how it happened, but I knew it was my fault. A good mother would have known something was wrong. She would have saved him.”

“And then Bastion accused you of being a witch?”

“No. He showed me the evidence. One day I worked in the fields, and I said, ‘I believe it is going to rain today,’ and it did. We were in a drought, Father Stefan.”

“’Tis not witchcraft to feel a rain coming.”

“Only witches know the future, Bastion said. He showed me who I truly am. I must be punished. If I am punished, my son will see the face of God. If I am punished, enough of my sin will be burned away that one day I can see my son again. I want to burn, Father Stefan. It is all I want. Bastion will deliver me from this body of death, but I must serve him well first.”

“No, no. ’Tis not right. ’Tis not right at all.”

“I don’t want you to speak to me anymore. I want to burn. Why can you not understand? I want to see my son.”

“What if Bastion’s words are wrong? What if you’re not a witch? What would your son think of your punishment then?”

“He’d know I deserved it. Please, let me die. You have words. Bastion has words. I have already chosen whom I believe.”

“Stop! Stop right there!” Dame Alice’s scream interrupted Stefan’s reply. Turning, he saw a line of women tied together by a rough rope, being led to the church by Bastion. Dame Alice screamed at Bastion, trying to grab the rope away from him. He pushed her back and kept walking. Dame Alice saw Stefan and screamed at him next.

“This is not right!” she shouted.

Stefan backed away from Ava’s cage, saying nothing, then turned and ran back into the church, locking himself in, tears stinging in his throat.

Erick ran down the aisle to him. “Father? What’s happened?”

“Don’t go outside.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Bastion has authorized Bjorn to arrest more women. He’s bringing them into the jail for interrogation.”

“Women from our village?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Are you going to stop him?”

“I don’t know how. Everything he says sounds right to my ears. But not to my spirit.”

Erick lowered himself to sit next to Stefan on the floor. “You think he’s wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Praise God. I thought I was the only one.” Erick rubbed his palm across his forehead, then through his hair. “What are you going to do?”

Stefan’s chest hurt as if crushed from all sides by a heavy weight, a malicious embrace he could not escape. He was confused beyond all hope of reason. For every action he thought seemed right, his mind shouted five reasons it was wrong.

The door behind their backs thundered and shook as Dame Alice first tried to swing the doors open, then began beating against them with her fists.

“Father Stefan! I know you’re in there! Come out and help those women!”

“I don’t know what to do!” he shouted through the door, then looked at Erick and spoke quietly. “I was never taught about witches, or women, or how to tell lies from truths. I don’t know any prayers for this. What should I pray? Deliver these people from my stupidity?”

“It’s a start.” Erick’s face offered no compassion.

“Erick!”

A shadow at the window caught Stefan’s eye. Dame Alice was trying to peer in through the cheap, muddy glass, looking for him.

Erick grabbed him by the shoulder to get his attention. “I know two things about God, two things you have taught me. He is a Father. And He is a Savior. I have never had a real father, but I imagine that a real father, a real savior, doesn’t wait for his children to say the right words when they are hurting. He would throw his arms around them, wanting to save them. Why is it not enough for you just to cry out to Him? Why do you depend so much on what you say, place all your trust in words instead of His heart?”

“Words are all I have as a priest. Those words are who I am.”

Dame Alice knocked on the glass. “You can’t hide! You must act!”

Stefan stood. “Please get rid of her. I need time to think.”

With Bjorn asleep for hours, his heavy breathing unbroken, Mia set out. Margarite and Alma had dozed off in the early afternoon, just after the noon meal, and Mia could wait no longer.

Though the sun burned bright, she took care on the winding uneven path through the forest. Low-lying birds’ nest pines were always a cause for stumbling, and the moss could hold the night rain and be slippery at any hour. Still, she moved with good speed, feeling her spirits lift again when she walked through a portion of the path lit by the sun. Mia had had enough of darkness. She did not relish those portions of the path that made the journey difficult.

At last the town square and church were within view. Mercifully, Dame Alice was not on her steps. Mia surveyed the house freely now. Mia had tried to walk where the old crow couldn’t see her. She did not want to be invited inside to eat. When Mia came to this village she wanted to forget who she had been, why she was broken. Dame Alice pried too hard too often. Mia did not trust herself to stay strong if Dame Alice fed her and spoke kindly to her. An unearned kindness might destroy the hard shell she had built around her heart. Mia knew that such kindnesses, and Alma, were her only weaknesses.

Mia saw the caged witch sleeping on her straw. A group of people stood across the street from the church, each peering at something in the jail through its windows. Mia paid them no mind. She had no time for curiosity. She wished they had slipped the cover back over the witch.

Heaving open the wooden church doors, she removed her head scarf and inhaled the perfumed air, the scent of burning wicks and incense, of the oiled wood altar and fresh straw on the floor. Stefan was removing his outer robes. He must have finished Mass. Mia had missed it, one more sin she would have to atone for.

He froze when he saw her. He did not look pleased.

“Father Stefan?” she asked. “May I speak to you?”

“I am busy,” he said, folding his robe and smoothing out the wrinkles. “You can stay and pray, but I must attend to my work.”

“I will not take but a moment. Please?”