Burial Rites (9 page)

I want to shake my head. That word does not belong to me, I want to say. It doesn’t fit me or who I am. It’s another word, and it belongs to another person.

But what is the use of protesting against language?

Margrét clears her throat.

‘I will not tolerate violence. I won’t take lazing. Any cheek, any step out of line, any idle, or thieving, or conniving hands and I will drive you out. I will drag you out of this farm by your hair if I have to. Are we clear?’

She does not wait for an answer. She knows I have no choice.

‘I’ll show you the stock,’ she says, taking a deep breath. ‘I’ll milk the ewes and cow while you . . .’

Her eyes slip from mine to the next farm along the valley. Something has caught her attention.

SNÆBJÖRN, THE FARMER FROM GILSSTADIR
, walked up the slope of the valley. Next to him was one of his seven sons,
Páll, entrusted that summer with shepherding the sheep of Kornsá. Struggling to keep up was Snæbjörn’s wife, Róslín, with two of her youngest daughters in tow.

‘God help me,’ Margrét muttered. ‘Here comes the horde.’ She suddenly gave a start and grabbed Agnes’s arm. ‘Go inside,’ she whispered. She pulled Agnes back beside the croft and gave her an urgent push towards the door. ‘Inside! Now.’

Agnes hesitated in the doorway, regarding Margrét, before disappearing into the darkness of the house.

‘
Sæl og blessuð
,’ Snæbjörn shouted. He was a stout, tall man with ruddy cheeks and dull blond hair that hung in his eyes. ‘Fine weather!’

‘Isn’t it?’ Margrét replied, tersely. She waited until he came closer. ‘I see you and Páll have brought me a few visitors.’

Snæbjörn gave a sheepish grin. ‘Róslín insisted on coming. Only, she’s heard about your, er, unfortunate situation. Told me she wanted to make sure you were all right.’

‘How kind of her,’ she said, through clenched teeth.

Róslín had come within earshot. ‘What fine weather!’ she cried, like a child, throwing one arm in the air. ‘Let’s hope it holds out for haymaking. Good morning, Margrét!’

Snæbjörn’s wife was pregnant with her eleventh child; her belly bulged in front of her, lifting the front of her dress and revealing swollen ankles, damp with morning dew. Her broad face was flushed with the exertion of the walk and she was panting, her breasts heaving over her round stomach.

‘I thought I’d come along with Snæbjörn and Páll here, and pay you a visit.’ Her five-year-old daughter staggered over a small tussock of grass and offered a covered plate to Margrét. ‘Rye bread,’ Róslín said. ‘Thought you might like a little treat.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, goodness me, I’m out of breath. Too old to be in this state, but they will keep coming.’ Róslín cheerfully patted her belly.

‘Indeed,’ Margrét remarked, sourly.

Snæbjörn coughed and looked from Róslín to Margrét. ‘Well, we two men had best get on with it. Is Jón about, Margrét?’

‘At Hvammur.’

‘Right then. Well, I’ll get Páll to work and take a look at that scythe, if you don’t mind me tinkering in the smithy.’ He turned to his wife and daughters. ‘Don’t keep Margrét from her chores for too long, eh, Róslín?’ He gave them both a brief smile then turned on his heel and began walking away in long, even strides, pushing the boy gently in front of him.

Róslín laughed as soon as he was out of earshot. ‘Men, eh? Can’t stand still. Go play with your sister, Sibba. Don’t go far. Keep by us, now.’ Róslín nudged her daughters out of the way and cast her eye around the farm as she spoke, as if looking for someone. Margrét shifted the plate of rye bread onto her hip. Its sweet fragrance combined with the hot, moist smell of Róslín made her feel ill. She fell into a fit of coughing that shook her body so hard Róslín had to grab the plate of bread before it toppled into the grass.

‘There, now, Margrét. Breathe easy. Still not well?’

Margrét waited until the spasm passed, then spat a viscous clump into the grass. ‘I’m well enough. It’s just a winter cough.’

Róslín tittered. ‘But it’s high summer.’

‘I’m fine,’ Margrét snapped.

Róslín gave her a look of exaggerated pity. ‘Of course, if you say so. But, actually, that’s why I came today. I’m a little concerned for you.’

‘Oh?’ Margrét murmured. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, your bad chest, of course, but I’ve also heard a few rumours over the past weeks. All nonsense I’m sure, but still . . .’ Róslín cocked
her head to the side and her fat face broke into a dimpled smile. ‘But here, I’m racing ahead of myself without even thinking to ask if you’re busy.’ She peered past Margrét’s shoulder towards the croft, putting a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting. It looked like you were with another. A dark-haired woman. Visitor?’ Róslín put on a face of polite indifference.

Margrét sighed, annoyed. ‘You’ve good eyes, Róslín.’

‘Oh. Ingibjörg perhaps?’ Róslín asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’ll go, then, and leave you two friends in peace.’

Margrét fought the urge to roll her eyes. ‘No.’

‘Of course not, too early for a visit from her,’ Róslín said, winking. ‘A new servant? You need all the help you can get for haymaking.’

‘Well, not quite –’

‘A relative, then?’ Róslín continued, taking a step closer.

Margrét sighed. She cleared her throat, realising that there was no way of avoiding Róslín’s inquisition. ‘The woman you saw has been placed with me by District Commissioner Björn Audunsson Blöndal.’

‘Oh, really? How strange. Whatever for?’

‘The woman is called Agnes Magnúsdóttir. She is one of the servants convicted of murdering Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson, and has been placed in custody with us until the date of her execution.’ Margrét folded her arms firmly over her chest and looked down at Róslín defiantly.

Róslín exclaimed, and set the bread on the ground so that she could better demonstrate her horror.

‘Agnes! As in Agnes and Fridrik? Natan Ketilsson’s murderers!’ She brought her hands to her flushed cheeks and stared at Margrét, wide-eyed. ‘But, Margrét! This is the very reason I came! Ósk Jóhannsdóttir said she had spoken with Soffia Jónsdóttir, whose brother Jóhann is a farmhand at Hvammur, and she said that Blöndal had decided to take Agnes from Stóra-Borg, because they couldn’t risk such an important family being slaughtered –’

Róslín stopped, realising her mistake. Margrét pursed her lips and glared at her.

‘Oh, Margrét, I didn’t mean . . .’ Her round cheeks reddened.

‘Yes, Róslín. It’s true that Blöndal has placed the murderess with us, and that neither I, nor Jón, had any say in the matter. But the reasons for his decision are known only to Blöndal himself.’

Róslín nodded her head emphatically. ‘Of course. Ósk
is
a terrible gossip.’

‘Yes.’

Róslín kept nodding her head, then stepped forward and placed a hand on Margrét’s shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for you, Margrét.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Why, for having to keep a
murderess
under your family’s roof! For being forced to look at her hideous face every day! For the fear it must inspire in you, for your own good self and your husband and poor daughters!’

Margrét sniffed. ‘Her face is not so hideous,’ she said, but Róslín wasn’t listening.

‘I actually know quite a lot about the case, Margrét, and let me warn you, I have heard fiendish things about the wicked three who robbed the good Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson of their lives!’

‘Good is not a word I think many would choose for Natan and Pétur.’

‘Oh! But they were good! They made mistakes, of course –’

‘Pétur slit the throats of thirty sheep, Róslín. He was a thief.’

‘But they were noble Icelanders all the same. Oh, and to think of Natan’s family! His brother Gudmundur, and his wife and all their little children. They’ve gone to Illugastadir, you know, to mend the croft and Natan’s workshop.’

‘Róslín, if I have heard rightly, Natan spent more of his time in the beds of married women than in his Illugastadir workshop!’

Róslín was taken aback. ‘Margrét?’

‘It’s just that . . .’ Margrét hesitated and turned around, looking towards the entrance of the croft. ‘Nothing is simple,’ she finally muttered.

‘You don’t believe they deserved to die?’

Margrét snorted. ‘Of course not.’

Róslín regarded her cautiously. ‘You do know she’s guilty, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know she’s guilty.’

‘Good. Then let me tell you, you’d be well advised to watch your back around . . . What was her name again?’

‘Agnes,’ Margrét replied, softly. ‘You know that, Róslín.’

‘Yes, Agnes Magnúsdóttir, that’s the one. Be careful. I know there’s not much you can do, but ask the District Commissioner for a guard to watch her. Keep her hands tied! Folk are saying that Agnes is the worst of the three convicted. The boy, Fridrik, was under her sway, and she forced the other girl to keep watch, and tied her to the doorpost to make sure she wouldn’t escape!’ Róslín took a step forward and brought her face close to Margrét’s. ‘I’ve heard that it was she who stabbed Natan eighteen times. Over and over again!’

‘Eighteen times, is that so?’ Margrét murmured. She desperately wished Snæbjörn would come back to collect his wife.

‘In the stomach and throat.’ Róslín’s face was flushed with excitement. ‘And – oh, the Lord bless us – even in the face! I heard she plunged the knife into his
eye socket
. Pierced it like an egg yolk!’ Róslín grasped Margrét tightly on the shoulder. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t sleep a wink with her in the same room! I’d rather sleep in the cowshed than risk it. Oh, Margrét, I can’t believe the rumours are true! Murderers on our doorsteps! This parish has gone to the dogs. Worse than the things you hear about Reykjavík. And
her
, just now, standing in the very spot where my daughters play. It gives me
the shivers. See, look at my arms – I am covered in gooseflesh! My poor Margrét, however shall you cope?’

‘I’ll manage,’ Margrét said briskly, bending down to pick up the plate of rye bread.

‘But will you? And where is Jón to protect you?’

‘At Hvammur, with Blöndal. Like I said.’

‘Margrét!’ Róslín threw her hands into the air. ‘It is wickedness for Blöndal to have you and the girls alone with this woman! I tell you what,
I
shall stay with you.’

‘You will do no such thing, Róslín,’ Margrét said firmly, ‘but thank you for your concern. Now, I hate to set you on your way, but the sheep will not milk themselves.’

‘Shall I help you?’ Róslín asked. ‘Here, let me take that bread and carry it inside for you.’

‘Goodbye, Róslín.’

‘Perhaps if I were to see her, I could gauge your danger. Our danger! What’s to stop her from sneaking about at night?’

Margrét took Róslín by the elbow and turned her in the direction she had come from. ‘Thank you for your visit, Róslín, and thank you for the rye bread. Watch your step, there.’

‘But –’

‘Goodbye, Róslín.’

Róslín cast a backward glance towards the croft, then attempted a smile and trudged heavily back down the slope towards Gilsstadir. Her little girls tottered after her. Margrét stood, gripping the plate of rye bread in front of her, and watched them leave, until they were nothing more than specks in the distance, then she squatted and coughed until her tongue was slippery. She spat wetly upon the grass. Then she slowly stood up, turned and walked back towards the croft.

WHEN I COME INTO THE
badstofa I see that the officer who was sleeping is gone. He must have joined his friends; I can hear men talking in a mixture of Danish and Icelandic outside the window. They must not have seen the farm mistress push me back inside. The two sleeping daughters have gone also. I’m alone.

I am alone
.

There is no watchful eye, no guard at the door, no rope, no fetters, no locks, and I am all by myself, unbound. I am paralysed by the thought of it. Surely someone has an eye to a keyhole? Surely someone has pressed his body to a crack in the wall, is waiting to see what I will do, waiting to storm the room with a finger pointing like a knife at my throat.