Burial Rites(81)

Margrét extended her hands towards the flames. ‘I think a fire is a useful thing to keep a body warm,’ she said.

Agnes nodded. The fire crackled and flared in front of them. ‘When I worked at Gafl, the fire went out during winter. It was my fault. We were snowed in and the children were starving, and I was so busy trying to get the youngest to take a little whey from a rag that I forgot to check the kitchen. We went three days without a light, without a fire, before the weather cleared and we could get help from the next farm. I thought our neighbours would find us dead and blue in our beds.’

‘It happens,’ Margrét conceded. ‘There’s more than one way a body can die.’

The two women fell silent. The milk began to tremble, and Margrét got up to pour it off. She handed a steaming cup to Agnes and sat down again.

‘Your family is lucky to have enough supplies,’ Agnes said.

‘We had a little extra money this year,’ Margrét replied. ‘District Commissioner Bl?ndal has given us some compensation.’ She regretted her words as soon as she spoke, but Agnes did not react.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said eventually.

‘Not much, mind you,’ Margrét added.

‘No, I’m not worth much,’ Agnes remarked bitterly. Margrét glanced at her. She sipped her milk, feeling the hot liquid fill her stomach and begin to spread its warmth through her body.

‘The Reverend has not come recently,’ Margrét said, changing the subject.

‘No.’ Agnes’s face was still puffy from sleep, and the older woman suddenly felt an impulse to put an arm around her. It is because she looks like a child, Margrét thought. She tightened her hands about her cup.

‘I didn’t mean to wake you before,’ Agnes said.

Margrét shrugged. ‘I often wake at night. When my girls were small I used to wake to check that they were still breathing.’

‘Is that why you’re awake now?’

Margrét looked at Agnes sharply. ‘No. That’s not it at all.’

‘I’m sorry you have been afraid for them,’ Agnes said. ‘With me here, I mean.’

‘A mother is always afraid for her children,’ Margrét said.

‘I’ve never been a mother.’

‘No, but you have one.’

Agnes shook her head. ‘My mother left me when I was small. I haven’t had a mother since.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Margrét said eventually. ‘Wherever she is, she thinks of you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Margrét paused. ‘A mother always thinks of her children,’ she repeated. ‘Your mother, Fridrik’s mother, Sigga’s mother. All mothers.’

‘Sigga’s mother is dead,’ Agnes said bluntly. ‘And Fridrik’s mother is going to be sent to Copenhagen.’

‘Why?’

Agnes glanced cautiously at Margrét. ‘Thórbj?rg had an inkling of what Fridrik planned. She knew about some sheep Fridrik stole. She lied to the courtroom.’

‘I see,’ Margrét said. She took another sip of milk.

‘Thórbj?rg saved my life,’ Agnes added after a moment’s pause. ‘She found me on her doorstep after Natan threw me out. I would have died had she not brought me inside and let me stay there.’

Margrét nodded. ‘No one is all bad.’

‘When Thórbj?rg was young and a servant, she set fire to her mistress’s bed and killed her master’s dog with an axe. They brought it up in the trial.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘It did not help my case,’ Agnes said quickly. ‘She said we were friends. She told them Natan and I had fought, and that I had sought her advice.’

‘But you hadn’t?’

‘She never told me to burn down Illugastadir, as they claimed. I never went to Katadalur to ask for Thórbj?rg’s assistance or to conspire with Fridrik. They made it seem that I had gone to Katadalur on purpose. To plan murder.’ Agnes sipped her milk, spluttering as she swallowed. ‘I went to Katadalur because Natan would not let me stay at Illugastadir and I had nowhere else to go.’

Margrét was silent. She stared into the fire and imagined Agnes creeping about Kornsá at night, lighting a torch in the kitchen and setting the farm ablaze while they slept. Would she smell the smoke and wake?

‘It was Fridrik who burned Illugastadir down, wasn’t it, Agnes?’ Margrét tried to keep the concern from her voice.

‘At the trial I said that the fire spread from the kitchen,’ Agnes said firmly. ‘I said that Natan had set a pot of herbs to boil. It spread from there.’

Margrét said nothing for a moment. ‘I heard it was Fridrik.’

‘It wasn’t,’ Agnes said.

Margrét coughed again, and spat into the fire. The moisture bubbled upon the live embers. ‘If you are protecting your friend –’

‘Fridrik is not my friend!’ Agnes interrupted. She shook her head and set her milk on the ground. ‘He’s not my friend.’

‘I thought you two spent a deal of time together,’ Margrét explained.

Agnes frowned at her, and then returned her gaze to the hearth. ‘No. But at Illugastadir . . .’ Agnes sighed. ‘Natan was not often home. Loneliness . . .’ She struggled for words. ‘Loneliness threatened to bite you at every turn. I took what company presented itself.’