Wolves Among Us (27 page)

“Pray for us, Father,” a woman called to him.

Stefan could hear a guard fling the cell door open to another cell. He heard the crack of palm to face and the guard’s voice. “Do not blaspheme. Not on my watch.”

“My son,” Stefan called. The guard appeared in the square window on the cell door.

“Perhaps you are thirsty?”

The guard frowned at the question.

“If I give you my keys, you will have complete access to my beer cellar.”

“Getting me drunk so you can escape?”

“I am your priest. I answer to a higher authority than yours. Even if I could break down my cell door, I would go nowhere, for God has sent me to serve you and this village.”

“You tried to hurt Bastion.”

Stefan nodded with a forced grin. “Have you ever had too much beer and done something foolish? My son, take these keys and bring a good priest a drink, won’t you? You know we are all well secured here. Nothing will happen.”

Stefan handed the keys through the window to the guard. He heard the guard rattling each cell door as if to check for strong locks, then heard the main jail door open and close.

“Is everyone all right?” he called out.

No one answered.

“We are alone now. The guard is gone. Speak!”

“We cannot trust you,” a girl called out. “Whatever we say will be twisted.”

“No,” Stefan called. “Am I not in jail like you? I can be trusted.”

“You will not be burned,” an older woman’s voice said. “Nothing you say can save us.”

“Why not let us die in peace?” another woman called. “It is too much work to convince you of our truths.”

Stefan did not recognize their voices, though the women must have been from his flock. He wondered if he had ever really heard them.

“I have made many mistakes,” Stefan said. “I will do everything I can to save you, but it may be too late. Just tell me, in what manner did Bastion accuse you? What is his proof?”

The first to speak was a woman Father Stefan knew well. Dame Alice. He closed his eyes in gratitude. Her voice was rough with no refinement. He had cringed often when she confessed to him, unaccustomed to a woman so devoid of interest in affectation.

“I was brought in for questioning just after I tried to save Nelsa. His proof? My back was sore.”

“What’s that?” he asked. “How did a sore back make you guilty of witchcraft?”

“Anything would have done. But Bastion is clever, I will admit to that.”

“But how did he do it?”

“Mary, the dairyman’s daughter, thought a witch had caused the milk to dry up on her prized cow. On advice of Bastion, she hung an empty kettle over the fire. When it was red hot, she began to beat it with a stick.”

Mary’s voice shot out from that same cell. “Bastion promised me that every blow would land on the witch’s back.” She sounded unrepentant.

“Bastion will see you dead too, Mary. You should realize that by now,” Dame Alice replied. “Father Stefan, you know my back is often sore. My babies were the biggest in the village. That’s no witchcraft.”

“Mary,” Father Stefan called, “why did you think a witch would have reason to curse your favorite cow?”

“Bastion spoke kindly to me, and I feared other girls might be jealous,” she answered. “He would be a fine catch for me, seeing my father has no money.”

“But why would Dame Alice care? She did not desire Bastion for herself.”

“I don’t trust her, Father Stefan, and neither should you. She’s always sheltering strangers, trying to feed people who wander about. She has no discretion. She takes anyone in. It’s not proper. She even admits to trying to save Nelsa, who proved herself a witch in front of everyone. I wasn’t surprised when Dame Alice was revealed as a witch herself.”

“But Bastion spoke kindly to me, too, and I am no witch.” A soft voice carried across the jail. Stefan was unsure who it was. “Would you like to see what he did to me last night?”

Stefan heard gasps. “What is it?” he asked.

“Iris showed us her fingers.”

“And?”

“They are burned. He laid a hot poker across them.”

“Iris? Is it true?” he asked.

No answer came.

“What is happening?” he asked.

Dame Alice answered. “She fainted. Poor thing. Her father hoped to marry her off this year. He hoped Bastion might be agreeable. Perhaps Bastion didn’t like his terms.”

Stefan took a few moments before he could speak again. “Dame Alice? Finish your story. How did Bastion link you to Mary’s cow?”

“One of their cows had wandered into the square again, and I brought it home to them. Bastion said it was proof that I was the witch. I had their cow, and my back was sore, as if the blows had landed on me.”

“But how did Mary get arrested, then?” Stefan’s head hurt.
How many lies did Bastion have to keep up with?
he wondered.

“Bastion said I tempted him. He blamed me for liberties he took.”

“He wouldn’t be the first.”

Stefan didn’t know who said that, but heard stifled giggles.

“What does he say will happen now?” Stefan asked.

Mary replied. “We are to be tried. If we are found guilty, we will be burned. Pray for us, Father.”

“It doesn’t seem enough,” he said.

Dame Alice answered. “Do it anyway.”

“But I am the one who brought him here. I brought this upon you.”

Mary answered. “Did you not know, Father? Have you not heard the stories of the witch hunters, that in some towns there is not a woman left?”

“I thought you were not like those women. You would not be accused.”

“Have you not heard, Father?” Dame Alice’s voice mocked them both. “Women are stupid, lusty, insatiable, gullible, given to imaginations. We must be driven from the garden.”

“I have taught this?”

“You have taught nothing in its place. That’s what will kill us.”

“What can I do now?”

His cell went white with light, a crack of thunder chasing it. Stefan jumped, his heart pinching in fear. Lightning killed shepherds and servants, anyone who worked lonely days in the orchards and fields. Stefan always told children not to fear it, feeling stupid even as he said it. Lightning was God’s creation, but so was hell, so what comfort was that? Impotent words, always. The lightning showed him his cell, his squalor.

“You have made your choice.”
The voice came from inside his mind.
“Well done.”

Stefan clapped his hands over his ears, and lightning lit his cell, thunder making the walls shake. He gritted his teeth and pulled his hands down, forcing them to his side.

“Father,” a woman’s voice moaned close by.

“Who called me?” He could not tell if the voice was weak, or he could not hear it well.

“I am here.”

A hand reached through the dirty straw on the cell floor at his feet. Lightning lit his cell, and he saw the woman struggle to rise. She was nothing but grime, her hair hanging in thick cords, looking like wax candles hung upside down to dry in the merchant square. Her face, stained with dirt, with stray pieces of straw clinging to it, had channels down her cheeks where tears had flowed. Dried blood crusted around her ears.

“How long have you been in this cell with me?”

“You were asleep last night when I was brought in.”

“Have mercy,” Stefan gasped. The words loosened his legs, and he went to her, helping her sit up. She flopped over, and he leaned her body into his, lowering himself to sit behind her, pulling her against him. “Do I know you?”

“I sold you hops,” she whispered.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Elizabeth, did Bastion hurt you? Did he put you in here?”

“No.”

She was sixteen, a lovely girl who worked for a farmer’s wife. She had no parents to provide for her, but she had done well for herself, finding a childless couple who needed the help and a young companion.

“Who put you in here, child?”

“He said you knew everything, that you would say this was my fault, that he was bewitched and could not be blamed.”

“Bjorn did this to you?”

He tried to turn her around.

“No. No. I do not want you to look on me.”

The jail door swung open, and he heard happy whistling.

“Excellent beer, Father. I will be enjoying some more tonight.”

Stefan helped Elizabeth sit up against the wall.

“Did you bring any back?” he called out to the jailer.

“Not a drop.”

“There are women in great need here. Bring them some of my beer, I beg you.”

The jailer’s face appeared in the small square window in the door.

“You know the law.”

“Yes, but it’s my beer. Surely I can offer it to these women.”

“If they want something to eat or drink, their families must provide it. I’m not your errand boy, and I don’t break the law.”

“But there is a girl in this very cell who needs a drink, and one more in the next.”

The jailer peered around Stefan.

“She doesn’t need a drink now.”

Stefan turned and saw Elizabeth face-first in the straw, her body slumped over, her arms behind her. She was unconscious. Stefan lifted his eyes to the wooden crossbeams of the ceiling as if to pray here in his squalor.

Outside, wind shook the building, and the night began to build in violence.

Chapter Twenty-two

Bjorn led Mia through the streets to the jail, through steam rising from the ground. The storm had passed by in the night here, too, punishing the town. Green buds littered the streets, torn from trees before they had the chance to bloom. She did not look up at the wounded, bare trees, or to the side to see what faces were in the windows, watching. She had never entered his jail before. She had always stayed clear from it, from Bjorn’s work, wanting to be home with Alma, not wanting to know who was imprisoned or for what crimes.

She watched Bjorn’s boots, still thick with mud and forest leaves. Bjorn had carried Alma for the last mile; it had driven his boots deeper into the sludge. He would be so angry. He hated muddy boots. Mia wondered what to do.

The door opened, and she felt the screech of its twisting hinges in her belly, the heavy wood swinging at her as if to strike her dead for her shame. He pulled on the rope, and she marched forward, struck by the smells inside. She could smell beer on the guard, standing close to Bjorn as he passed by, and she could also smell the salted metal of blood and urine. The jail was nothing more than a long, dirty hallway with horrid, dark cells on each side. Mia avoided looking through the square opening cut into each wood door, afraid to see what or who cried out from the darkness.

“I didn’t know.…” Mia said. She had thought Bjorn’s work, the work of justice, was a good and orderly affair.

Bjorn grunted. “You didn’t want to know. Did you?” He untied her hands and put his hand on her back.

Mia started to close her eyes before being pushed into the dark hole before her. Then a new fear struck her. “Your mother! Who is caring for her?” Mia asked.

“I sent her to another village with a sheriff I know. She is safe there.”

He pushed her through the door into a dark cell. He pushed Alma in after her and stepped back to lock the door.

“Bjorn. Look at me, please.”

Mia clutched Alma to her chest, shrouded in darkness. Bjorn stood in the door, light illuminating him, a frightening angel with a black shadow across his face. He did not seem to be looking at her, though she had called him. His head was bent low, as in prayer. Perhaps his heart had softened at last.

“My boots are filthy.” Bjorn used one foot to pull the other out of one boot, kicking it across the floor, striking Mia in the shin. He pulled off the other and flung it into the darkness. It landed near her.

“I’ve nothing to clean them with.” She meant it as a request.

“The shame you’ve brought me? Visiting a witch? Gossiping about me? Whispering about me to strangers? You should lick them clean.”

“No. You’re wrong. Drink the vial I gave you. Then you will know I am a good wife.”

Bjorn shut the door, leaving her in total darkness. She heard his steps fading away.

Mia heard voices from other cells. They spoke as if she couldn’t hear them, treating her like an enemy. No one was indifferent now, not after Bastion’s kiss on the church steps. Mia was an enemy, even if she was jailed too.

“Mia is here. Bastion must have changed his mind again.”

“What vial did she give him?”

“Where did she get it?”

“Who is there?” Mia called into the darkness. The voices softened into whispers so Mia would not hear.

“Mia? Is that you? Are you safe? Is Alma with you?” Father Stefan’s voice rose above the whispers.

“Yes, Father Stefan. We are together. And we are safe.”