Burial Rites(39)

‘Yes, the Lord’s day,’ Tóti said. ‘For the Lord’s work,’ he added.

Reverend Jón pulled a piece of gristle from his mouth, examined it, and then began chewing again.

‘Father?’

‘I hope Bl?ndal knows how you slave to his will.’

‘The Lord’s will,’ Tóti said gently. ‘Thank you, Father. I’ll return tonight. Or tomorrow, if the weather is bad.’

Tóti was drenched to the bone by the time he reached the pass leading to the Vatnsdalur valley. He saw the messenger who had delivered him the note riding ahead and spurred his mare onwards to catch up with him.

‘Hello there,’ Tóti shouted, peering through the thick glaze of rain.

The man turned in his saddle and Tóti recognised him as one of the Kornsá servants. He was wearing fishing skins to keep himself dry. ‘So you’ve come!’ he shouted back. ‘That’s two of us riding in this miserable weather.’

‘Bad for the hay,’ Tóti said, by way of conversation.

‘You don’t need to tell me twice,’ the man snorted. ‘I’m Gudmundur.’ He raised his hand. ‘And you’re the Reverend that’s been trying to save our murderess.’

‘Well, I –’

‘A grisly business,’ the man interrupted. ‘She gives me the shivers.’

‘How do you mean?’

The farmhand laughed. ‘She’s wild.’

Tóti spurred his cob to keep pace. ‘What has happened? That note –’

‘Oh, she had a fit. Fought off Jón and me, scratching and clawing, screaming all the while, soaked like, lying in the mud like a madwoman. See this?’ He pointed to a bruise on his temple. ‘That’s her handiwork. I tried to lift her and she tries to stone my brains out. Howling things about Bl?ndal. Same act they say she put on at Stóra-Borg, what got her shifted.’

‘Are you sure?’ Agnes seemed so self-contained to Tóti.

‘I thought she’d kill me then and there.’

‘What upset her?’

The man sniffed and wiped his nose with a gloved finger. ‘Damned if I know. One of the girls said something. Mentioned the other servant girl they caught. Sigga.’

Tóti turned and looked at the puddles in the path before them. He felt ill.

‘Not bad looking,’ Gudmundur said, turning to Tóti with a glint in his eye.

‘Pardon?’

‘Agnes. Nice hair, and that,’ the servant said. ‘But too tall for me. Needs to be a head or so shorter, you know.’ He winked at Tóti and laughed.

Tóti pulled his riding hat more firmly over his head. The rain lightened for a minute, and then resumed falling as they turned into the valley, sheets of grey sweeping over the curved earth before them, and water falling over the rocky precipices of the mountains.

Agnes was in bed when Tóti entered the badstofa. Kristín, the workmaid, brought a stool for him, and the youngest daughter began to fuss over his wet clothes. As Lauga stooped to untie his boots, Tóti peered across to the unlit corner where Agnes sat. She was awfully still.

Lauga pulled away his remaining boot with a sudden jerk that nearly knocked him off the stool. ‘I’ll leave you, then,’ she muttered, and walked out of the room, holding the boots at arm’s length in front of her.

Tóti made his way to Agnes in his damp socks. She slouched against the wooden post by her bed, and as he grew closer he saw that she had been handcuffed.

‘Agnes?’

Agnes opened her eyes and looked up at him blankly.

Tóti sat down on the edge of her bed. Her skin appeared ashen in the low light and her lip was split and bloody.

‘What happened?’ he asked gently. ‘Why have they put you in irons again?’

Agnes looked down at her wrists, as if surprised to see them there. She swallowed hard. ‘Sigga is to have an appeal. Bl?ndal is appealing to the King to reduce the sentence he gave her.’ Her voice cracked. ‘They pity her.’

Tóti sat back and nodded. ‘I knew.’

Agnes was aghast. ‘You knew?’

‘They pity you too,’ he added, wanting to comfort her.

‘You’re wrong,’ she hissed. ‘They don’t pity me; they hate me. All of them. Bl?ndal especially. What about Fridrik? Are they appealing his sentence, too?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

Agnes’s eyes glistened in the shadow. Tóti thought she might be crying, but when she leaned closer he saw that her eyes were dry.

‘I’ll tell you something, Reverend Tóti. All my life people have thought I was too clever. Too clever by half, they’d say. And you know what, Reverend? That’s exactly why they don’t pity me. Because they think I’m too smart, too knowing to get caught up in this by accident. But Sigga is dumb and pretty and young, and that is why they don’t want to see her die.’ She leant back against the post, her eyes narrowed.

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Tóti said, trying to soothe her.

‘If I was young and simple-minded, do you think everyone would be pointing the finger at me? No. They’d blame it on Fridrik, saying he overpowered us. Forced us to kill Natan because he wanted his money. That Fridrik desired a little of what Natan had is no great secret. But they see I’ve got a head on my shoulders, and believe a thinking woman cannot be trusted. Believe there’s no room for innocence. And like it or not, Reverend, that is the truth of it.’