On the Cold Coasts

of her, the scoundrel,” said Gudridur, bitter. She looked at her daughter’s grave with dry eyes and made the sign of the cross over it in the name of the Lord with a work-weary hand. “How can one forgive something like that, and how can one not? She was my own flesh and blood, and always good to her little siblings. And now she is in eternal damnation. It has even been said that she did not lie still in her grave this past winter.”
    Ragna hesitated. “She received a requiem from an ordained priest,” she said quietly. “I am sure that she rests in peace…now, at least.”
    Gudridur looked at her, astonished. “What did you say? Who was the merciful soul?”
    “I cannot tell you, and I beg you not to tell anyone. The gesture is the same, regardless.”
    Gudridur nodded. “To be sure, and may God bless the man and forgive him, and my Brynhildur, too.” Her eyes grew moist, and she blew her nose on her patched sleeve.
    Yet her courage failed her completely when they were ushered into the great hall and her eyes took in the curtains with gold stitching and tapestries on every wall, writing desks and carved benches bolstered with brocade and plush, gold candle holders on the bishop’s table, and gold-trimmed caskets that could have contained the finger bone of a saint or even a wooden splinter from the cross of the Savior. The old woman sank to her knees, overcome with humility, and kissed the bishop’s purple cloak hem instead of the ring that he extended toward her, stammering “May the peace of God be with you” and entreating Holy Mary to help her. A smiling Craxton raised her up and asked her to sit down on a bench, despite her own reluctance, saying that he was merely one of Christ’s most humble brothers, being of the order of Saint Francis, who gave away all his belongings and lived by the mercy of God and the charity of men.
    “Just like you, dear mother,” he said in his strange foreign accent, sat down in an elaborately carved chair, and looked inquisitively at Ragna. The woman was downcast, stared at the floor, and said nothing other than what might be interpreted as prayers. Her expression was restless and anguished, as is common among those who have lost most of their children to the grave, or to strangers, or both.
    “What is it that the housekeeper feels warrants our attention on this day?”
    “This woman is the mother of Brynhildur Gudmundsdottir,” Ragna replied. “She has lost her husband, her livestock has been sold, and her children have been sent to foster homes.”
    The bishop frowned. “Brynhildur?” he asked. Then it was as though it dawned on him. “Ah, the servant girl who ran away and they had already taken out her salary and…” He stopped mid-sentence, slightly uncomfortable.
    “She is a hard worker and is offering to work off the rest of the debt.”
    Ragna placed her hands over Gudridur’s shoulders, as if to draw attention away from her hump. The woman stooped even more.
    “What do the books tell us about her debt to the Holar bishopric, good notary?” Craxton addressed his scribe, Jon Egilsson, a thin man with a convex nose and a sharp gaze. The notary deftly pulled out a large vellum book and flipped carefully through its densely written pages until he found what he was looking for.
    “Brynhildur Gudmundsdottir shall pay a fine of thirty marks, and her parents fifteen,” he read, his voice slightly nasal. His tongue, sticking out from the corner of his mouth, was black from a long habit of sticking the end of the quill into his mouth to wet it before he started writing. “The debt shall be paid in the coins of the realm prior to the end of service; otherwise, it will be deducted from Brynhildur’s salary, et cetera.” He flipped through a few additional pages, running his finger down the columns. “The parents have completed their payments; in arrears are…thirty marks.” He closed the book.
    Gudridur was still downcast, staring at the floor. She whispered something, and Ragna leaned forward to hear better.
    “She says she still owes the parish priest for her husband’s funeral service.”
    The bishop reached into his pocket and took out a silver coin that he handed to the woman.
    “Dear mother, your debt has been paid in tears and grief, and here is silver to pay the priest. You will perform the tasks that the housekeeper gives you and receive the appropriate remuneration for your service.”
    “May God reward Your Grace,” Gudridur