On the Cold Coasts

handle our wives. Still, they are forgiven, for they know not what they do, as the Good Book says!” Laughter rang out, and trouble was averted, although Thorsteinn’s barbed words did not go unnoticed among those familiar with earlier events.
    Ragna took the empty wine jugs from the table and hastened from the room.

    The loud voices and laughter stopped, people shushed their dogs who quarreled over bones on the floor, and even those who were already drunk grew quiet when the quivering tones of the harp sounded through the hall: bright, true, sacred, driving out all evil.
    In a deep voice, the harpist began to sing a hymn from the Psalter of King David:
    “O God, you are my God, early will I seek you; my soul thirsts for you.”
    The sounds of the instrument were strong and cleansing; strange that such beautiful tones might be conjured from mere animal intestines, stringed between pegs across a wooden panel.
    “My flesh longs for you.”
    Ragna listened to Thorkell, enraptured. Was there not something unholy about the passion in his voice, or for a song of worship to be infused with this sort of mournful longing—even lust? She tried to look away but could not; she found herself falling, becoming lost in the deep blue of his eyes.
    “My mouth shall praise you with joyful lips, when I remember you upon my bed, and meditate on you in the night watches…”
    Later that evening, musicians from among John Craxton’s entourage performed. They had accompanied him from abroad and were said to have performed at court back in England. They blew into bulky krummhorns, conjuring dark and gloomy tones, and sang a song of worship. When they had finished, they put the horns away and took out pipes and tambourines. Vibrant tones filled the darkened hall with playfulness and joy, and the tambourine beat a quick rhythm. The guests looked at the bishop, and each other, with surprise. Those who had been abroad had heard frolicsome music performed by charlatans and fools. Was this not inappropriate at a bishopric, to say nothing of at a Yule feast? What sort of capricious individual was this foreigner, anyway, who had come to settle at Holar in Hjaltadalur Valley?
    The bishop smiled. “The psalms of David tell us to praise the Lord with the timbrel and dance, with stringed instruments and organs,” he said. “Good neighbors, let us obey the Word of God and celebrate, for a Savior is born!”
    Before too long the boldest among the guests were on the floor, hesitant at first, allowing themselves to be carried by the music. Hearts beat faster and feet took unfamiliar steps, almost of their own accord, and hands touched in tandem with the feverish beat of the tambourine.
    Ragna watched from a distance, feeling the tones swirl all around her, seductive and inviting, yet she remained stoic in the face of temptation. Then she felt someone catch her hand, and in an instant she was in the midst of a circular dance and Thorkell was holding on to her shoulders, laughing and happy, an entirely different man from the one he had been a moment before the harp playing began. She could not help smiling too, and she had to work to keep up with him.
    Then he was gone, and the bishop himself stood in front of her. He bowed deeply, took her hand, and pulled her to him in a strange, foreign dance. To her great dismay, Ragna felt all eyes upon them.
    “Allow me to lead. Hold up the hem of your skirt so that you don’t trip, and you’ll be fine,” said Craxton smiling, his gray eyes gleaming with excitement. She obeyed, and before she knew it, they were alone in the middle of the floor in front of the musicians and the bishop was performing complex steps with his hands on his hips, indicating that she should do the same. She tried to keep her dignity and mimic his dexterity, but her face was flushed and her chest heavy. One of the onlookers suppressed a laugh. It was as if the teasing trills of the flute underscored her lack of skill, and she looked helplessly at the bishop, silently begging for help. To her great relief, he took her hand and bowed to indicate that the dance was over, and the people applauded their bishop and his housekeeper. Ragna hurried out of the room, desperate to leave the throng and breathe in some fresh air.
    He was waiting for her in the dimly lit hallway, pulled her into a dark alcove and whispered bitterly: “Did you like dancing with John Craxton and having all those men ogle you and lust after you?!” She was