On the Cold Coasts

disappear down through the floor, consumed by her own shame, not daring to raise her eyes.
    After much hemming, hawing, coughing, and spitting, Gudbjartur Floki finally spoke. Despite this sudden and unfortunate matter, he said, he did not wish to automatically terminate their earlier agreement, though obviously circumstances were very much altered and called for compensation in the form of land and livestock, for everyone understood the damage to the reputation of all those concerned.
    Ragna sat silently while they bickered about land and livestock and her. She stared into the crackling fire in the hearth and in her mind recited bits of a rhyme that her nurse had sang to her when she was a child, hoping to calm herself and block out what was being said, but alas, without success. In the end she could take no more; she stood up and left the room without a word. Her mother went after her and took hold of her shoulder, but Ragna tore herself loose and Sigridur let her be.
    She sought refuge next to the large haystack to the west of the barn, sat down with her legs extended, and began to weep. As it was the Lord’s day of rest, there was no one about, yet a moment later, a shadow fell on her.
    “Thorsteinn has offered a decent patch of land in Greenland with you and the bairn, but he’s only willing to part with Litla-Grund here at home, even though he’s a major landowner, with a dozen pieces all told.”
    She was startled and looked up, teary-eyed, to see her intended, Thorkell Gudbjartsson, towering above her, long-legged in tight breeches and long-toed shoes with curved pikes. His golden hair with its tight waves radiated in the sunshine. He had a deep voice. “Seems your stepfather is no longer so keen to marry you off, Ragna. Unless he would prefer us to pick up and move to the Eastern Settlement in Greenland.”
    She made no reply and looked away to hide the redness in her eyes; she looked straight ahead. It felt uncomfortable to have him so near, and above her. Thorkell sat down on his haunches next to her and leaned his back against the haystack. He rested his elbows on his knees, put a hand under one cheek, and looked at her with those ambiguous eyes. In her range of vision were his thighs and calves; she could see that they were strong and muscular.
    “What would you think of that, young miss, seeing as you were born and raised in that faraway hinterland, or do you not remember that time?” He pulled up a straw, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed, arrogant and carefree. He seemed to not give a hoot that at that very moment there were deals being made with both of their lives in the main parlor, schemes and negotiations about what should become of the two of them.
    Clouds alternately merged and separated in the sky above Blonduhlid. She gazed at them and tried to make it seem as though she cared as little as he did.
    “The Eastern Settlement of Greenland is not a hinterland,” she finally said softly, and sniffled. “And anyway, what does it matter what I think about anything?”
    “Stop sniffling,” he said with a hint of compassion and pulled a small kerchief from his sleeve for her to blow her nose; he came from a good family. “I’ll get a better piece of land out of the deal, and it will all work out.”
    Ragna took the kerchief; it was made of linen and laced with fine blue embroidery, with his monogram stitched in one corner. Carefully she dried her eyes and nose. In a large chest inside the house, she had a grand collection of fine textiles: bedding and tablecloths woven with golden threads, and wall tapestries, many ells in length, all marked with their initials, and in Roman letters the symbol of the coming year, their wedding year, with sprays and leaves and blossoms in all colors embroidered around them. All those stitches, each infused with her dreams and eagerness to become her own mistress on her own farm. Most likely they had all been for naught and would come to nothing. All of it was unraveling before her eyes, and it was her own fault. Ragna wanted to start weeping again but collected herself and handed Thorkell back his kerchief, grimy from the charcoal that had been used on her eyes.
    The child in her belly kicked and thrashed. It might even be turning somersaults in her womb. She couldn’t help herself—she liked the feeling. She put her hand on the spot where the movement had been, for suddenly it reminded her that, at the very least, the two of them had each other, no