On the Cold Coasts

whispered, rolling the coin between her fingers. On one side there were imprinted letters that she could not understand, and on the other a profile of a clean-shaven man with a straight nose, his hair cut in a line parallel to his ears. His expression denoted a very important personage. “Is this perchance His Highness the King?”
    Craxton nodded. “It is His Royal Highness King Henry the Fifth of England.”
    “Is the English king our monarch now?” asked Gudridur, astonished, albeit not intending to offend her benefactor.
    Craxton gave a forced smile. “Ah, no, dear mother. Yet he is more kindly disposed toward the Icelanders than the one who now reigns over the Kalmar Union of Scandinavia and seeks to bring down his own subjects for the sole cause of trading with the English. And this even though all other trade is out of the question due to his own war with merchants of the Hanseatic League. Bergen is reported to be in ruins as a result.” He cleared his throat and looked at Jon the scribe, who was in the process of writing the most current entry into the debt registry. “Escort the woman to the kitchen, my good man, and leave me and the housekeeper alone for a bit. I must speak with her privately.”
    The notary laid down his quill and obeyed without a word. Gudridur was more bold than when she first arrived, being now a debt-free woman, and she gave only a half-curtsy when she left. Ragna felt a growing unease; what could the bishop wish to discuss with her that he thought right to hide from the scribe, his closest associate—unless it was that which must be hidden from all men, particularly him.
    “It concerns Thorkell Gudbjartsson,” the bishop said as the doors closed behind the scribe and Gudridur, and Ragna had obeyed his gesture to perch on a stool opposite him.
    A small cry escaped her lips. She instantly covered her mouth and faked a cough, hoping she could prevent Craxton from noticing her alarm, muttering something about the soot in the air. Concerned, he poured some ale into a goblet and handed it to her.
    “I hope you are not catching an infection, Cousin,” he said amiably. She shook her head and sipped on the ale, then realized what he had said, and frowned:
    “Cousin? Why do you address me in that way, Bishop Craxton?”
    “Yes, you heard right,” he said, smiling. “I am told by Father Steinmodur, who is familiar with all lineages here in the north, that your mother’s great-grandfather hailed from Gudbrandsdalur Valley in Norway, just like my entire maternal lineage.”
    Ragna had no other response to this astonishing information but to smile with relief; he was unlikely to reprimand her if their newly discovered affiliation was at the forefront of his mind. “And now, please, call me Jon Vilhjalmsson according to the Nordic tradition. You know I prefer that name,” he added, with a hint of impatience.
    “Mr. Jon Vilhjalmsson,” she said and lowered her head in humility.
    The bishop gave a perfunctory smile, then frowned once more. “I am concerned about Thorkell,” he said. “I have heard talk of him riding through the countryside with a group of armed men at his side, and that a few days ago his band was in a dispute with the crew from the balinger Bartholomew from King’s Lynn. Men were wounded in that conflict, both Icelandic and English, but none were slain, praise God. In my short time in this country, it has already come to pass that a priest has taken up arms against me and has refused to seek reconciliation despite this leading to his excommunication. I wonder if I might expect another to do the same.” He was quiet for a few moments and looked at her with an ambiguous expression, then continued. “I know that you and Father Thorkell are good friends. And that is why I ask, and you have my full confidence, as I have yours: What is his purpose, and why on earth has he not sought the help of the Holar see after such events?”
    Ragna was taken aback. “I was not aware of this danger; I can hardly believe it,” she said, and added a moment later, “Is it absolutely certain that Father Thorkell was involved?”
    “I have had credible reports that he was involved in the altercation along with his band of men, though it is not sure whether he was the perpetrator,” the bishop answered. “I am the first to admit that my countrymen are not all men of refinement, and there are even some who have sought employment on vessels bound for Iceland because they were