Burial Rites(32)

At the large farm of Hvammur where Tóti knew Bj?rn Bl?ndal lived with his family and servants, on the other side of the river and within view from Kornsá, several chimneys could be seen giving off smoke. The flat wooden face of the adjoined turf huts boasted glass windows that glimmered brightly, even in the weak yellow light of morning. Like eyes, thought Tóti, feeling fanciful. He’d heard that much of the Illugastadir trial had been held in the guest room of the farm, which looked out onto the winding body of the river and its fringe of golden marsh grass.

I wonder what went through her mind, Tóti mused, peering at the farm from across the river. Sitting there in that room when they told her she had to die. Did she look out of the window and see the ice floe on the river? Possibly the world was too dark to see anything. Possibly they covered the windows with a curtain to block out the light.

District Officer Jón was outside his home with another man – a farmhand of some sort, thought Tóti – sharpening the scythes. Jón raised his whetstone in greeting and put his cap back on before walking over.

‘Reverend Thorvardur. God bless you.’

‘And you,’ Tóti said cheerfully.

‘You’re here to see her.’

Tóti nodded. ‘How do you find Agnes?’

Jón shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’

‘She’s a good worker?’

‘She’s a good worker, but . . .’ He stopped.

Tóti smiled gently. ‘It’s only temporary, Jón.’ He gave the man a reassuring clap on the back and turned to go into the house.

‘Jón Thórdarson has offered to kill them,’ Jón said suddenly.

Tóti turned around. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Jón Thórdarson. He came riding up to Hvammur a few weeks back, reckoned he’d play executioner to Fridrik, Sigga and Agnes. Said he’d swing the axe for a pound of tobacco.’ He shook his head. ‘A pound of tobacco.’

‘What did Bl?ndal say?’

Jón grimaced. ‘What do you think he said? Thórdarson’s a nobody. He has someone else in mind, although there’s some who are against it.’

Tóti glanced at the farmhand, who was slouching against the smithy wall, listening. ‘Who would that be?’ Tóti asked.

Jón shook his head, disgusted. It was the farmhand who spoke.

‘Gudmundur Ketilsson,’ he said, loudly. ‘Natan’s brother.’

‘We can sit inside if you prefer,’ Tóti said, nearly stumbling over the rocks next to the rushing stream by the Kornsá farm.

‘I like to watch the water,’ Agnes replied.

‘Very well.’ Tóti wiped the wet spray off a large rock and gestured for Agnes to sit down. He sat next to her.

The Kornsá stream offered a good view across the river. It was beautiful, but Tóti could think only of Jón’s earlier words about the executioner. He stole a glance at Agnes’s pale neck against the grey of the rock and imagined it slit.

‘How was the harvest yesterday?’ he asked, trying to clear his mind.

‘It was very warm.’

‘Good,’ Tóti replied.

Agnes reached into her shawl and pulled out a bundle of wool and several thin knitting needles. ‘You wanted to ask me about my family?’

Tóti cleared his throat and watched her fingers move as she began to knit. ‘Yes. You were born at Flaga.’

Agnes inclined her head towards the farm in question, a slouched croft to the left of Kornsá’s border. It was close enough that the voices of its servants, calling to one another outside, could be heard on the wind. ‘The very one.’

‘Your mother was unmarried.’

‘You learnt that from the ministerial book?’ Agnes gave a tight smile. ‘The priests always make sure they write the important things down.’

‘And your father, Magnús?’

‘Magnús was unmarried too, if that’s what you mean.’

Tóti hesitated. ‘Who did you live with as a child, then?’

Agnes gazed about the valley. ‘I’ve lived in most of these farms.’

‘Your family moved about?’

‘I don’t have any family. My mother left me when I was six.’

‘How did she die?’ Tóti asked gently. He was taken aback when Agnes laughed.

‘Does my life seem such a story of tragedy? No, she left me for others to deal with, but I suppose she’s still alive. I wouldn’t know. Someone told me she’d gone into the blue. Just upped and left one day. That was some years ago now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know anything about my mother. I wouldn’t recognise her if I saw her.’

‘Because you were only six winters old when she left you?’

Agnes stopped knitting and looked Tóti squarely in the face. ‘You have to understand, Reverend, that the only things I know about my mother are what other people have told me. Mainly what she did, which, you’ll understand, they didn’t approve of.’

‘Could you tell me what you were told?’

Agnes shook her head. ‘To know what a person has done, and to know who a person is, are very different things.’