Burial Rites(12)

I wonder where Sigga might be now. Why they refused to keep her with me at Stóra-Borg. They took her away one morning when I was in irons, not telling me where she was held, although I asked more than once. ‘Away from you,’ they said, ‘and that is enough.’

‘Agnes Magnúsdóttir!’

The man riding beside me has a hard look on his face.

‘Agnes Magnúsdóttir. I’m to inform you that you’re to be held at Kornsá, until the time of your execution.’ He is reading something. His eyes flicker down to his gloves. ‘As a criminal condemned by the court of this land, you have forfeited your right to freedom.’ He folds the piece of paper and slips it in his glove. ‘You’d do well to wipe that scowl off your face. They’re gentle people at Kornsá.’

Here, man. Here is your smile. Is it a good one? Do you see my lips crack? Do you see my teeth?

He passes my mare, and the back of his shirt is damp with sweat. Have they done it on purpose? Kornsá, of all places.

Yesterday, when I was shut up in the storeroom of Stóra-Borg, Kornsá would have seemed a heaven. A place of childhood, the river, the bright grass, the hillocks of turf oozing water in spring. But I see now that it will be a humiliation. People will know me in the valley. They will remember me as I was – as a baby, as a child, as a woman running from farm to farm – and then they will think of the murders and that child, that woman will be forgotten. I can’t bear to look about me. I gaze at the horse’s mane, at the lice crawling about the hair, and I don’t know if they are from the mare or from me.




REVEREND TóTI STOOPED IN THE low doorway and squinted against the rosy hue of the midnight sun. At the lower end of the farm’s northernmost field, he could see a trail of horses approaching. He searched for the woman among the riders. Against the golden flood of hay that surrounded them, the figures seemed small and black.

Margrét stepped out of the door and stood behind him.

‘I hope they will leave some men behind, to make sure she doesn’t kill us in our sleep.’

Tóti turned and looked at Margrét’s hard face. She, too, was squinting to see the riders, and her forehead was puckered in creases. Her grey hair had been pulled into two taut braids and coiled, and she was wearing her best cap. Tóti noticed that she’d changed out of the dirty apron she’d received him in earlier that night.

‘Will your daughters join us out here?’

‘They’re too tired to stand. I’ve sent them both to bed. Don’t see why the criminal has to be brought in the middle of the night.’

‘To avoid disturbing your neighbours, I should think,’ he remarked, tactfully.

Margrét bit her lower lip, and a flush of colour spread across her cheeks.

‘I do not like to share my home with the Devil’s children,’ she said, her voice lowering to a whisper. ‘Reverend Tóti, we must make it known that we do not want her company. Let the woman be removed to an island if they won’t keep her at Stóra-Borg.’

‘We must all do our duty,’ Tóti murmured, watching the trail turn and head up towards the home field. He took a snuff horn from his breast pocket and removed a small pinch. Delicately setting it on the hollow beside the knuckle of his left thumb, he bent his head and sniffed.

Margrét coughed and spat. ‘Even if it means we are stuck like pigs in the night, Reverend Tóti? You are a man, a young man, yes, but a man of God. I don’t think she would kill you. But us? My daughters? Lord, how will we sleep in peace?’

‘They will leave an officer with you,’ Tóti muttered, turning his attention to a lone rider who was now cantering towards them.

‘They must. Or else I’m marching her back to Stóra-Borg myself.’

Margrét twisted her hands against her stomach, and turned her gaze to a small flock of ravens flying silently across the mountain range of Vatnsdalsfjall. They looked like ashes, whorling in the sky.

‘Are you a man of traditions, Reverend Tóti?’ Margrét asked.

Tóti turned to her, considering the question. ‘If they be noble and Christian.’

‘Do you know the right name for a flock of ravens?’

Tóti shook his head.

‘A conspiracy, Reverend. A conspiracy.’ Margrét raised an eyebrow, challenging him to disagree.

Tóti watched the ravens settle on the eaves of the cattle barn. ‘Is that so, Mistress Margrét? I thought they were called an unkindness.’

Before Margrét had time to answer, the rider who was cantering towards them reached the edge of the home field.

‘Komie tie s?l og blessue,’ he shouted.

‘Drottin blessi yeur. And may the Lord bless you,’ they responded, in unison. Margrét and Tóti waited until the man had dismounted before they approached him. They exchanged formal, customary kisses. The man was damp with sweat and smelt strongly of horses.

‘She’s here,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I think you’ll find her wearied by the journey.’ He paused again, to remove his hat and run a hand through his damp hair. ‘I do not think she will trouble you.’

Margrét snorted.

The man gave a cold smile. ‘We’ve been ordered to stay here tonight to make sure of it. We’ll camp by the home field.’