The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One), Page 3

Catherine had awoken that dawn certain that someone was coming to see her. She didn’t know how she could be so sure of the fact, but nevertheless had no doubt that today she would be visited. It would be about the murder of course, what else? And what part she had played. Her story was so wild that she herself had cause to doubt her conviction in it.

  Perhaps she had finally lost her mind; it was what the Abbess had already concluded. But as she stared numbly at the rotting timbers in the roof, her mind was suddenly drawn back to that dark evening. She shivered as she remembered the killer’s green eyes and how they had gleamed at her from beneath the hood of his cloak. They had shone with such diabolical hunger that her soul had frozen and even now she began to tremble, as if she was once again locked in his malevolent grip. His features had been obscured by such blackness that even the moonlight could not expose them and so she had begged the faceless monster to let her go. But she knew he would not, and then she heard a voice call out, the tanner’s voice and then . . . Catherine jolted upright as the bolt of the lock slid back and the door creaked slowly open.

  “What news Sister Margaret?” Catherine said before she saw who it was.

  “How did you know it was me?” the portly nun enquired, as she appeared around the door frame holding a bowl of water and stale crust of bread.

  “I can smell your sweat.” Catherine said, crinkling her nose and sitting up. It was true, Margaret smelled especially bad today. She didn’t care if she caused the girl offence. Margaret was only too pleased when Catherine was in trouble and seemed to take pleasure from her punishment.

  “Witch!” Margaret retorted viciously. “You should be burned a witch. We all know where you were the other night, up to no good. A man died because of you, you and your evil. Nobody wants you here. The Abbess will wash her hands of you this time.”

  “Good! Now get out!” Catherine screamed with such vehemence that Sister Margaret dropped the bowl and crust she was holding. She stumbled backwards, rapidly retreating from the room. She slammed the door forcefully as if she was containing a devil within, slid the bolt across and scurried away. Catherine lay back on the bed. Someone’s coming, she thought, for ill or good, someone comes. She closed her eyes and awaited their arrival.