Burial Rites(75)

‘It is the least I can do for Rósa,’ he said. ‘Thóranna was with us last winter as well. She is my daughter and it is only right that she come live with us for part of the year.’

Rósa’s words were sharp. ‘I did not realise you consulted with her on everything, Natan? I didn’t know you were so far under her thumb. It’s clear she doesn’t want our child in her home.’

Natan was laughing. ‘Her home? Rósa, Agnes is my servant.’

‘Only your servant, is that right?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t want her to watch over our daughter.’

‘I am happy to look after Thóranna,’ I said. I was lying.

‘What makes you happy does not concern me, Agnes.’

Natan must not have liked to see his past and present lovers collide. ‘Come, Rósa. Let’s all have some coffee together.’

Her laugh was shrill. ‘Oh yes, you’d like that! All your whores supping together under your roof! No, thank you.’ Rósa wrenched her arm from his grip and turned to leave. But she said something to me before she walked out the door.

‘Please be good to Thóranna. Please.’ I nodded, and Rósa suddenly leant in closer. I felt her hand light upon my arm. ‘Brennt barn foreast eldinn.’ Her voice was soft, careful. ‘The burnt child fears the fire.’ She left without turning back.

The little girl began to wail for her mamma and Sigga comforted her. Natan stared at the doorway, as though Rósa might return.

‘What have you told her about us?’ I whispered to Natan.

‘I haven’t told Rósa anything.’

‘What was that about the Rose of Kidjaskard? What was that about all your whores?’

He shrugged. ‘Rósa has a way of naming people. I expect she thinks you’re beautiful.’

‘It did not seem a compliment.’

Natan ignored me. ‘I’ll be in my workshop.’

‘Sigga is going to make coffee for us.’

‘Damn you, Agnes! Just leave it for once.’

‘Are you going after Rósa?’

He left without answering.




ONE NIGHT, IN A FEVER, Tóti saw Agnes appear in the doorway of the badstofa. ‘They’ve let her come here,’ he said to his father, who was bent over the bed, silently swaddling his shaking son in blankets.

‘Come in,’ Tóti said. His arms fought their way out of the bedding and reached for her in the stuffy air of the room. ‘Come here. See how our lives are entwined? God has willed it so.’

Then she was kneeling by his bed, whispering. He felt her long dark hair brush against his ear and a shiver of longing passed through him. ‘It’s so hot in here,’ he said, and she leant forward to kiss the sweat off his skin, but her tongue was rough and her hands were reaching around his throat, her fingertips clenching against his skin.

‘Agnes. Agnes!’ He fought her off, wheezing with the effort. Strong hands reached for his own and pressed them back into the blankets at his side. ‘Don’t struggle,’ she said. ‘Stop it.’

Tóti groaned. Flames were licking at his skin, smoke pouring into his mouth. He coughed, his chest rising and falling under the weight of Agnes as she climbed on top of him, lifting her knife.




‘I DON’T BELIEVE IT,’ STEINA argued, sweeping the badstofa so that the dust flew from the floorboards and floated in the air.

‘Steina! You’re making it messier than it was before.’

Steina continued sweeping furiously. ‘It’s a cruel story, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Róslín made it up herself.’

‘But she’s not the only person who has heard it.’ Lauga sneezed. ‘See, you’re making it worse.’

‘Fine, you do it then.’ Steina shoved the broom at her sister and sat down on the bed.

‘What are you two bickering about?’ Margrét entered the room and looked down in dismay at the floor. ‘Who did this?’

‘Steina,’ Lauga said reproachfully.

‘It’s not my fault the roof is falling down! Look, it’s everywhere.’ Steina stood up again. ‘And the wet is getting in. It’s dripping in the corner.’ She shivered.

‘You’re in a mood,’ said Margrét, dismissively. She turned to Lauga. ‘What’s she upset about?’

Lauga rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a story about Agnes that I’ve heard. Steina doesn’t believe it’s true.’

‘Oh?’ Margrét coughed and waved the dust away from her face. ‘What story is that?’

‘Folk remember her when she was little, and there’s some that say there was a travelling man who prophesied that an axe would fall on her head.’

Margrét wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you heard this from Róslín?’

Lauga pulled a face. ‘Not only Róslín. They say that when Agnes was young it was her chore to watch over the tún, and one day she discovered a traveller who had set up camp on the grass. His horse was ruining the feed, and when she told him to leave, he cursed her and shouted that she would one day be beheaded.’

Margrét snorted, and was overcome with a fit of coughing. Lauga put down the broom and gently ushered her mother to her bed. Steina stood where she was and watched obstinately.