On the Cold Coasts

pulled on it with all his might. The copper pendulum slammed against the body of the bell, and a mighty sound rang out, again and again. The noise was deafening. Michael let go of the rope, suddenly exhausted. His knees buckled, and he collapsed on the floor, eardrums pounding.
    The singing below stopped, and anxious voices asked what in God’s name was going on. From the stairs came the sound of many quick footsteps. Fortunately Hrafn was the first to reach Michael, and he immediately obeyed the boy’s gesture to look outside.
    “God have mercy!” he cried. The men all rushed back down and out onto the pavement. Someone called loud and clear for them to remain within the sanctity of the church. The ringing of hooves drew nearer. Dogs ran barking to greet the new arrivals. People had come out of the buildings and tents, and they were shouting, asking what was going on. In the flash of an eye, there was pure chaos: excited voices, barking, and the neighing of horses, all rolled into one.
    Michael looked into the valley. They were no longer moving at a gallop but rode their horses more slowly, at a tolt , the gait that is unique to the Icelandic horse. They approached the yard in a long procession, two-and-two together, nearly thirty men in all.

    Ragna was out of the house before the ringing had stopped, checking to see what the commotion was about. Then the riders came into view. Craxton shouted for the people to go inside and bolt the doors, and for the priests to stay inside the church. Ragna happened to look up at the steeple and thought she saw a familiar face flash by. Yes, there it was again, his face filled with fear.
    Oh dear Lord! Ragna crossed herself and without thinking began running across the field to the church, not stopping to wonder if her son wasn’t actually safer where he was. She wanted him close to her, and she would protect him with her life if need be.
    She had just got to the church doors, that by now were closed, when the men came riding up the yard. Their horses were snorting and out of breath, wet with perspiration and rain, the dogs yapping, each trying to outdo the other. She immediately recognized the two men at the front of the procession, though like many others she had already surmised who it might be: Father Jon Palsson from Grenjadarstadur and his brother Thorlakur, former butler of Holar. They were now here at the synod, no doubt having learned of the bishop’s plans to remove Jon from the bountiful Grenjadarstadur vicariate and take it once more under the control of the Holar bishopric, with the help of the king’s governor and most of the influential men in Thingeyjarsysla district.
    She paused for a brief moment and looked at the armored men, more surprised than anything else. Who would have believed that ordained priests would call on the bishop brandishing weapons—servants of God with double-edged swords? Was this not blasphemy?
    Jon Palsson, dressed in a mail shirt, bearing a sword in an ornamented sheath, and carrying a riding whip in one hand, urged his gray horse up to the church pavement. His entourage stopped a short distance away, forming a semicircle behind him.
    Ragna pulled on the heavy doorknob, but it was stuck. Terrified, she pounded on the door, shouting for those inside to open in God’s name.
    “Oh, what bravery the residents of Holar show now, running for shelter when guests arrive and barricading the church doors to a woman in their haste.” The voice was high-pitched and the tone not unfriendly. Ragna turned slowly and looked into the eyes of Father Jon Palsson, known for his poetry written to the Holy Mary, and former officialis in spiritualibus of the Holar bishopric. A corpulent, rotund man, he leaned forward onto the mane of his horse, his cheeks red from the ride. His iron headdress was fastened with a narrow band that almost disappeared into his double chin, and he appeared quite harmless, despite the armor.
    Her fear left her. She knew that these men were not likely to harm a defenseless woman, irrespective of how they behaved toward each other. She was embarrassed that she had let them see her so afraid.
    “Why do you assume they are hiding? It is mass day, as the good priest will most likely know,” she replied haughtily, attempting to cover up her awkwardness. “On such days ordained men normally dress in priests’ garb, not in armor, like common soldiers,” she added, her courage returning.
    He laughed a dry laugh, devoid of