On the Cold Coasts

time went for studying Latin. Michael sighed. Surely it would make more sense to teach the boys English so they could speak with traders and merchant sailors, and—not least—so that he would be able to speak to his father when they finally met. Mind you, he already knew the odd word in English, had learned bits and pieces from the crew of the Christopher , Thorsteinn’s ship, and still more at Holar, where there were a number of Englishmen who were part of the bishop’s entourage, and where there were frequently English visitors.
    A rustling out by the wall, near the small bells. A plump mouse stuck its quivering nose into the fish skin he’d tossed aside. Probably it was so well-fed from eating all that dried fish, the little rascal. He sat perfectly still with legs outstretched, watching it. Then he heard someone taking slow, heavy steps up the stairs. The mouse rushed for cover, and the boy stood up calmly. Hrafn, the ringer, stuck his head up past the edge and gave him a nod.
    “Ah, so you’re still here, boy…all right, well, let’s ring the bells together.” And they sounded the bells like sometimes before, the boy ringing the smaller bells according to the old man’s instructions, and Hrafn the larger ones. The pendulums rang out against the tin and copper, creating a divine composition, old yet new, played daily, yet never exactly the same. The clanging of the bells was so fantastically loud that the old man’s hearing was nearly gone. The boy stuck little bits of wool into his ears to keep his eardrums from bursting.
    Reminding Michael to get out before mass began, the ringer patted the boy’s cheek, still scratched and bloody from the fight, and told him to be more careful next time. He then descended the stairs once more.
    Michael promised he would take more care and remained in the belfry, looking out to see if he could see his foes. A short a distance away he saw them, under a basalt wall, looking at the procession of priests who now approached the church from the camps. Never had he seen so many clerics gathered together in one place. He hadn’t even realized there were so many in the entire country. He tried to count them but found he couldn’t be bothered, made a guess that there were dozens, maybe even a hundred. Most were beautifully clothed in colorfully woven chasubles; some were not quite so ostentatious, dressed in unassuming dark woolen cloaks, abbots and priors from the monasteries at Munkathvera, Thingeyrar, and Modruvellir. Some were barefoot and apparently more God-fearing than others, as they traversed the mud between the church and the buildings. At the head of the procession was His Grace, Bishop John Craxton, the most splendidly dressed of them all, with a miter on his head and holding a crosier with a curved top made of walrus tooth. Beneath it a piece of cloth was tied, fluttering in the wind like a small banner. The boy watched in awe as the procession wound its way across the field, heard the strains of song, and soon looked down on the shaved crowns, saw them disappear into the church one by one, and then the singing was under his feet, moving further inward along the nave, alternately rising and falling, into the narthex.
    Through the music his ears could make out a soft, rhythmic beat, overlapping the sounds of the mass. Hooves beating against the ground. Michael pricked up his ears like a dog, stood up, and stuck his head through the belfry window so that he could hear better. There was no mistake: it was the sound of galloping horses. He peered out into the valley, gray from the rain. There was a low-lying fog on the slopes of Mt. Holabyrda and Mt. Kalfastadahnjukur, making it hard to see. There they came, galloping out of the raw morning. Many of them, riding in a cavalcade, so fast that chunks of grassy earth were flung high into the air. They were wearing armor: iron headpieces, mail shirts. Longbows and crossbows were slung across their shoulders, swords tucked into belts, their quivers full.
    Fear coursed through the boy’s veins and into his consciousness. What business did men in full armor have at a synod? Were they Icelanders, or English? Or perhaps Danish, sent by the king to penalize the bishop and the rest of them for breaking the trade ban. He stared out of the window and could see the riders approaching quickly; they would catch everyone off guard unless…unless…
    He did not finish the thought, just groped for the bell rope closest to him and