On the Cold Coasts

stroked the under-side of her chin with the quill, a black raven’s feather, moving it down into the shadow between her breasts, then up again, tickling her nose. “It is not as if the ink is made from the blood of virgins, my lovely,” he said kindly. “No need for such a terrified expression.”
    She stammered something incoherent in response, and he became annoyed. He picked up sheets of vellum covered in writing from the desk and thrust them in front of her.
    “Look here, little fool. It is only a text about the variable illnesses and natural responses of the body, prayers to halt bleeding and separate infants from their mothers, charms, wrestling magic, and suchlike that may prove useful and bring harm to no one.”
    “Wrestling magic…” she said, and her voice trembled. “A relatively harmless galdur perhaps, but a galdur nevertheless. And what are you writing with those magic runes, designed to deceive? Thorkell, why do you do this?”
    He took hold of her shoulders.
    “My sweet Ragna, you who are closest and dearest to my heart, surely you can see that I must practice all that I have studied so that I will not forget it. I must learn as much as I can, for that is the only true power that a man has, over himself if nothing else—though gaining power over others is also useful. This can be possible only through the art of learning, and the knowledge that is hidden from others.” He grew agitated and went on excitedly: “Nothing is more important in this mortal life than understanding the machinations of this world and the world beyond, the world that is invisible to mortals, and to gain an understanding of the forces that govern them—both good and evil.”
    He let go of her, turned, and stuffed the manuscript into a gray sealskin folder that he tied with a narrow string.
    “I must use the secret runes in my Graskinna manuscript to keep this exclusive knowledge—useful to only a few—from falling into the hands of corrupt men. That is the only reason, dear Ragna. Everything I have gathered and written pertaining to the medical arts, bloodletting, healing, herbal balms and broths is written in a script that is easy to read. Some of it is even written in Nordic.”
    She did not dare to argue further, but fear had settled in her heart and would not be repealed. What if the bishop learned of this sorcery? Surely it was only a matter of time, since Michael had told her that the schoolboys chattered about it amongst themselves, and on more than one occasion, she had had to bite her tongue when he brought her the strange tales of Thorkell that were being related among them.
    She kept her double life carefully concealed from Michael, though sometimes she wondered whether he sensed that something was different from before. In a way she was surprised that he had not confronted her with it, considering how close they had always been and how jealous he became if he felt she was favoring others over him. But everything was different now. Michael was changed, too, she felt that, and she was seized by loneliness when she saw how quickly the time passed and how soon he would be fully grown and gone from her. Her longing to have Thorkell near her grew even stronger at these thoughts, and when she felt the intensity of her love for him, it made her almost desperate. What if he betrayed her trust again?
    They met only in secret, and Thorkell seemed to enjoy taking the risk. Many times he claimed to have business in the kitchen, and when the domestics looked the other way, he would plant a kiss on Ragna’s neck or inconspicuously slip her something small, like a bit of burnt sugar. She was on edge until he left again, and she scolded him harshly for his conduct when they were alone. He only laughed and caressed her as no one had ever done, tickled the soles of her feet with his toes so that she giggled, and she could not help feeling proud that he was willing to take such risks, just to demonstrate his love for her.
    For it was risky indeed. His position was at stake, and thereby all his future hopes. Even though throughout the centuries priests in Iceland had been known to keep mistresses and to adopt the children that they had fathered, one by one, surely Craxton, who had taken his vows in the Franciscan order, would not tolerate any priest close to him breaking the vow of celibacy.
    How greatly her life had changed within a short space of time, and how little it would take for everything to collapse into the