Burial Rites (34 page)

‘Shh!’

I was sick of his temper. ‘No one is out to get you, Natan. You’re not so important as that.’

I wrenched my hair out of his grasp and turned to walk back up to the croft, but Natan grabbed me by the sleeve of my blouse, twisted me and struck me full on the face.

I gasped and immediately brought my hand to my cheek, but Natan seized my fingers and held them tightly in his own, forcing me to crouch close to him. Even against the chill of the wind I could feel the blood rush to where he had hit me.

‘Never speak to me like that again.’ Natan’s mouth pressed against my ear. His voice was low and hard. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you here.’

He held me for a moment longer, twisting my fingers until I cried out from the pain, and then he released his grip and shoved me away from him.

I stumbled along the outcrop and up the hill to the croft in the low light, tripping over my skirts, the wind aching in my ears. I was crying, yet even over the sound of the wind, and my own ragged breathing, I heard Natan shout to me from where he stood on the knoll by the sea.

‘Remember your place, Agnes!’

I waited for Natan to return to the croft that night, and kept a lamp burning in the hope that when he returned we could make up our quarrel. But the hours crept past like the guilty and midnight came and went, and still he did not come inside. Sigga and Daníel
had long undressed and fallen asleep in their beds, but I remained awake and watched the flame of the lamp dance upon its wick. My head pounded. I understood that I was waiting for something bad to happen.

Several times I thought I heard footsteps outside the croft, but when I opened the door it was only to the darkness and the sound of the waves breaking against the shore. A thick fog had come down and I could not tell if Natan had a light burning in his workshop. I returned to my cooling bed and continued to wait.

I must have fallen asleep. I woke in shadows; the lamp had extinguished itself, but I knew that Natan had not yet come to bed. Then I recognised his footfall sounding in the corridor – the rattle of the door latch must have woken me. I held my breath and hoped I would feel his warm hands drawing back the blankets of my bed. I would feel his body as he eased it in next to mine, and in my ear his soft voice would murmur, full of apology.

But Natan did not come to my bed. Out of slitted eyes I saw him sit upon a stool and take off his boots. He pulled down his trousers and slowly lifted his shirt above his head. His clothes lay scattered on the floor. He stood up again, and for a moment I thought I saw him move in my direction. But then he took two soft steps towards the window, and in the poor light I saw him draw back the covers of Sigga’s bed.

I knew then what Rósa meant when she had called us his whores. My body was stiff with the effort of not calling out, of not giving myself away, when I heard his whispered words and Sigga’s muffled response. I bit down on the flesh of my hand as a gauze of nausea wrapped about my stomach. My heart stopped. I choked on its missed beats.

I could hear him grunt as he thrust inside her. I closed my eyes and held my breath because I knew that if I exhaled it would come
in a wail, and I screwed my fingernails into the flesh of my arm until I felt a slipperiness and knew there was blood.

I waited until Natan climbed out of Sigga’s bed and turned into his own. I waited until Sigga’s breath grew calm and even, and Natan began to snore. I waited until I knew they were asleep before I sat up and gazed at the blankets before me. My throat closed up with pain, and something else, something hard and inciting and as black as tar. I did not let myself cry. Rage flooded through me until my hands and back grew stiff with it. I could have quietly gathered my belongings and left before it grew light, but where would I have gone? I knew only the valley of Vatnsdalur; knew where it was scabbed with rock, knew the white-headed mountains and the lake alive with swans, and the wrinkled skins of turf by the river. And the ravens, the constant, circling ravens. But Illugastadir was different. I had no friends. I didn’t understand the landscape. Only the outlying tongues of rock scarred the perfect kiss of sea and sky – there was no one and nothing else. There was nowhere else to go.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THERE, STANDING IN FRONT OF THE
court on the 19th of April, was Bjarni Sigurdsson again, Fridrik’s brother from Katadalur, a ten-year-old boy who looked to be clever and intelligent. After a long time of questioning he still gave no information, until at last he said that Fridrik had slit the throats of two milk-giving sheep and one lamb last autumn, when his father was not home. Bjarni Sigurdsson remembered that these sheep were Natan’s. His mother, he said, had, for a long time, told him he should say he didn’t know about this, and told him not talk about it when it came to the trial. However we tried then, both with toughness and gentleness, we could not get any more information out of him.

Anonymous clerk, 1828.

MARGRÉT WOKE TO THE SOUND
of whimpering. She peered through the darkness to where her daughters lay. They were asleep.

Agnes.

Margrét put her head down on the pillow next to her husband’s and listened. Yes, the criminal was crying; a thin, tight wail that made Margrét’s throat close up. Should she go to her? Perhaps it was a trick. Margrét wished she could see better in the gloom. The cries stopped, and then broke out anew. She sounded like a child.

Margrét carefully got out of bed and felt her way to the doorway, turning down the corridor, until she could see the glow coming from the dying coals in the kitchen hearth. Taking a candle from its bracket, she kindled a flame from the embers and lit the wick. Before she left the warmth of the kitchen, Margrét paused. She could still hear the plaintive cry. She realised she was scared without understanding why.

The candlelight danced over the walls and rafters of the badstofa. Everyone was asleep, their heads tucked under blankets to ward off the December cold that had left frost on the walls. Margrét placed a hand around the flame to protect it from draughts, and slowly walked towards Agnes. The woman was asleep, but her eyes darted under her lids, and the blankets had been pushed to the end of the bed. Agnes was shivering, her elbows tightly tucked to her sides, her hands bunched into fists as though she was about to fight, bare-knuckled.

‘Agnes?’

The woman groaned. Margrét reached down for the blankets with her spare hand, and started to draw them up over the woman’s exposed body, but as she pulled them over her chest, Agnes grabbed hold of Margrét’s wrist.

Margrét opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She froze at the sudden grip of Agnes’s cold fingers.

‘What are you doing?’ Agnes’s voice was as unfriendly as her grasp. The candlelight sputtered.

‘Nothing. You were shivering.’

‘You were watching me.’

Margrét coughed and tasted blood. She swallowed it, reluctant to set the candle down. ‘I wasn’t watching you. You woke me. You were crying.’

Agnes regarded Margrét for a moment, then dropped her hand. Margrét watched as Agnes examined the tears she wiped from her cheeks.

‘I was crying?’

Margrét nodded. ‘You woke me.’

‘I was dreaming.’ Agnes stared at the rafters.

Margrét coughed again, but this time too suddenly to bring a hand to her mouth. Both of the women looked down at the blankets and saw the small spot of blood. Agnes looked from the stain to Margrét.

‘Do you want to sit down?’ She drew up her legs and Margrét eased herself onto the edge of the bed.

‘Two dying women,’ Agnes murmured.

At any other time Margrét knew she might have been insulted, but sitting across from Agnes she saw the truth of this.

‘Jón worries for me,’ Margrét admitted. ‘He says nothing, but when you’re so long married to a man, there’s not much need for speaking.’

‘Did you tell him about the lichen jelly?’

‘He knows you have a hand with herbs. He heard about Róslín and her baby.’

Agnes was thoughtful. ‘He doesn’t mind it?’

Margrét shook her head. ‘You mustn’t think he’s a bad man, my Jón.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘He does his best to live a quiet Christian life. We all do. He wouldn’t wish harm to any soul, only with you here . . .’ She opened her mouth as if to say more, but stopped herself. ‘There’s a deal on his mind, is all. But we’ll carry on, for as long as we’re able.’

‘But he knows your sickness is worsening?’

Margrét felt the heaviness on her lungs and shrugged. ‘What were you dreaming about?’ she asked, after a moment’s silence.

Agnes drew the blankets up about her neck. ‘Katadalur.’

‘Fridrik’s farm?’

Agnes nodded.

‘A nightmare?’

The younger woman’s gaze slipped to the bloodstain on the blankets between them. She seemed to be studying it. ‘I was staying there in the days before Natan died.’

‘I thought you were living at Illugastadir?’ Margrét shivered, and Agnes reached for her shawl, which lay draped across the headboard. She handed it to Margrét.

‘I stayed at Illugastadir until Natan threw me out. I didn’t have anywhere to go so I went to Fridrik’s family in Katadalur.’

‘You said you weren’t friends.’

‘We weren’t.’ Agnes looked up at Margrét. ‘Why haven’t you asked me about the murders?’

The question took Margrét by surprise. ‘I thought that was between you and the Reverend.’

Agnes shook her head.

Margrét’s mouth had gone dry. She looked across to where her husband lay. He was snoring. ‘Would you like to come to the kitchen with me?’ she asked. ‘I need to warm my bones or I’ll be dead by morning.’

Agnes sat on a stool brought from the dairy, and watched as Margrét broke open the embers in the hearth, prising flames from them with pieces of dried dung. She coughed in the smoke and wiped her eyes.

‘Are you thirsty?’

Agnes nodded, and Margrét set a small pot of milk on the hook. She sat down on the stool next to Agnes and together they watched the flames begin to crowd the kindling.

‘My mother would never let the hearth die in her home,’ Margrét said. She felt Agnes turn to look at her, but didn’t meet her gaze. ‘She believed that as long as a light burned in the house, the Devil couldn’t get in. Not even during the witching hour.’

Agnes was quiet. ‘What do you believe?’ she asked eventually.

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 Blöndal 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. ‘Thórbjörg 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.

‘Thórbjörg 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 Thórbjörg 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 Thórbjörg’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.’