On the Cold Coasts

interest in supporting at any given time. King Henry of England, King Eric of Pommern, Archbishop Aslak in Nidaros…they all want to get rich off Icelandic resources.” He spoke fast and lowered his voice, even though he had locked the door to the office behind them. “Or can you tell me what it matters to us whether the bishop is an English pope’s man like John Craxton, or a Danish king’s man like Jon Gerreksson Furhat in the Skalholt see in South Iceland, who surrounds himself with an army of thugs who go around robbing and plundering in this country?!” He did not wait for an answer and was now so excited that she recoiled, slightly alarmed. “None, I tell you! It does not change a damn thing. They treat us like puppets in the name of God, the pope, and the king, but the only thing that is holy to them is the silver they collect for themselves and their masters in foreign lands. And we stay behind, impoverished beggars, humiliated, idiotic, and stupid.”
    “It’s almost like you aspire to be bishop yourself.” She said it half-jokingly, finding his passion a little daunting, but when she saw his expression, she realized that maybe she had it exactly right.
    “There has not been an Icelandic bishop at Holar for nearly a century,” he said, “whereas in the past there were many.”
    “Then wouldn’t you need to ride to Rome, rather than Grenjadarstadur?” she asked. She enjoyed provoking him. What lofty ideas he had about himself!
    He seemed not to catch her sarcasm; his gaze was distant, almost as though he were trying to see the future.
    “Those who control the fish trade tell the pope whom to appoint. Observing Lent calls for vast stores of stockfish…” Thorkell stopped, briefly thoughtful. Then he seemed to return to his normal self. He laughed and grasped her waist tightly.
    “Ah, but I should not speak of such things with a woman. Come to Grenjadarstadur with me, Ragna. I’ll teach your boy myself. Stop your stubbornness. You care for me and you cannot change that, even if you are upset about Gudrun right now. It will pass.”
    “Don’t belittle me or my thoughts,” she said drily and removed his hands from her waist. “I don’t like it.”
    “What do you want from me?” he said harshly. “Do you want me to prostrate myself before you, to beg your forgiveness?”
    She made no answer, just moved toward the door. The key was in the lock. Before she could reach it, Thorkell was standing in her way.
    “All right,” he said tenderly, “I beg you. I love you like no man ever will. Come away with me. Let’s stand together and show them what we are capable of.”
    “A priest’s concubine is not capable of anything,” she answered curtly. “Let me pass!” She pushed him from the door and tried to turn the key with trembling hands, but without success.
    “Is this how we shall say good-bye, dearest Ragna?”
    She did not answer, just worked the key in the door until it opened.
    “I have work to do,” she said. She was about to leave, but he slammed the door, close to her face, and held it closed.
    “You’re one to talk of betrayal,” he said, and was angry again. “You, who betrayed my trust, your son a living and perpetual reminder of my humiliation.”
    She gasped for air. “Your humiliation?! How dare you…” At a loss for words, she raised her hand to slap him in the face, but he caught her wrist. In his eyes she saw all that remained unsaid and of which they had never spoken. At that moment she realized that his pain was no less real than hers. It was because of her that he had become a priest. He would have become a leader among chieftains had not everything turned out differently than intended.
    “Stop,” she begged.
    But Thorkell Gudbjartsson had kept quiet long enough.
    “Every single vagabond makes a meal out of that story. Oh yes, it is a tasty morsel for the beggars of this country. They get meat and dried fish for telling whoever cares to listen how my betrothed let a shipwrecked and pathetic English sailor knock her up. They also say he was unconscious at the time, so he must have needed quite a bit of help.”
    “I was only a child.” He voice was tearful. “I had no idea…”
    “No idea?!” He shook his head. “Oh, you had an idea, already fourteen winters old, how children are made. Stop lying, Ragna. You have flaws, just like everyone else.”
    “How cruel you are. How can you claim to love me if that is what you think of me?”
    “Because