On the Cold Coasts

hardly knew what to say; she did not want to believe it, although she knew the butler to be capable of many transgressions. Still, she told Brynhildur that she would support her insofar as she could.
    Brynhildur shook her head despondently, despite Ragna’s pledge of support. “You don’t know how it is. It’s like you’re not a person because you own nothing. Not even yourself,” she said bitterly.
    Although it would come to mind later, Ragna made no mention of this response when an hour later she recounted the girl’s predicament to Thorkell, standing next to his writing desk in the great hall.
    He surprised her with his coldness. “Brynhildur’s accusations are irrelevant to this case,” he said, “even though they are probably true. In any case, the charges against the butler cannot be proved. The important thing is to reiterate to the servants that desertion will not be tolerated, especially now, when there is a perpetual shortage of domestics.”
    “But why not ask other servants whether they will support the girl’s accusations?” Ragna asked.
    “It’s of no use,” said Thorkell. “Mr. Craxton has already decided on the fine. The girl should consider herself fortunate to be able to pay it off through work. She could just as easily have been flogged—but the bishop is too practical for that. And it is difficult for him to punish Thorlakur the butler, as he is brother to Father Jon Palsson, previously the officialis in matters of the church. There is enough discord over that affair as it is.”
    “Has he already decided on the fine?” Ragna repeated, scarcely believing what she was hearing. “How can that be? What about the panel of judges that will be called together today?”
    Thorkell shrugged. “Men know what is expected of them.”
    Ragna was speechless. “But what if Thorlakur is guilty?” she finally asked. “Is there nothing to be done?”
    “It is her word against his. Why should anyone believe a young servant girl over a grown man who has been appointed butler? Send her down around noon to be given the ruling.” He waved a hand in the direction of the door to indicate that the conversation was over, and turned back to his desk.
    “How small men’s hearts can be,” said Ragna calmly and quit the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.
    That afternoon, a panel of six judges made up of canons and laymen ruled that Brynhildur’s parents should pay a fine of fifteen marks for removing their daughter from service when she had been hired as a domestic for twelve months. Brynhildur herself was ordered to pay a fine of thirty marks for her desertion. The fine was to be paid in the coins of the realm by the end of the term of agreed service, otherwise the girl would have to work it off, meaning the bishop would deduct it from her wages. By Ragna’s calculations, it would take Brynhildur at least another year and a half in the service of the bishop to work off the debt.

    It was the dairymaids who found her. She had hung herself by a leather belt that was later discovered to have been taken from the butler. She had tied it over a beam in the cowshed, climbed up on a three-footed milking stool, and kicked it away beneath her. When they had taken her down and laid her on the floor, it became clear that her belly had begun to expand. She had killed her unborn child with her.
    “God damn that Thorlakur,” one of the farmhands muttered. Ragna got down on one knee next to the girl and lowered her eyelids over her staring eyes. Her neck was badly bruised; it had taken a long time for her to suffocate in the noose. Ragna felt a hot tear push into the corner of her eye but steeled herself and instructed the men to carry the girl into the mortuary so she could be washed and prepared for burial. A thick smell of bodily fluids rose from the corpse and the puddle of urine that had formed on the floor beneath it. Small rivulets of liquid ran into the manure.
    Thorkell arrived at that same moment, half-running; someone had reported the incident down at the school. His face drained of color when he saw the corpse, and he crossed himself.
    “She cannot be buried in the churchyard, you know that,” he said, his voice hollow. “She has committed murder. That is an unpardonable crime.”
    “You killed her,” said Ragna, her voice trembling. “The butler, the bishop, the judges, and you, the priests—you tied the noose around her neck and kicked the stool from under her!”
    “Hold your