On the Cold Coasts

laid them in a pile on the pavement. Two of them remained next to the pile; the others walked into the cool shade of the great hall to meet with His Grace Bishop Craxton.
    The meeting was short, lasting barely an hour, and when Jon Palsson came striding out, he was fuming, his face dark red with agitation. Not only had the bishop demanded that he give back to the holy see of Holar the two lands that were his rightful property, constituting wages for the years that he had been steward following the death of Bishop Jon Tofason, he had also wanted twenty head of cattle as penance. On top of all else, he had flatly refused to reinstall Father Jon at Grenjadarstadur, even if the debt was paid. The chapter had already ruled and reiterated that the Holar see was in charge of appointments for that parish, and not the archbishop in Nidaros.
    “Such a great price I shall not pay for indulgence and forgiveness,” Jon Palsson shouted, slamming his fist on the table. And so there was no repentance and no reconciliation, and nothing remained behind but the large cloud of dust that trailed Father Jon and his men as they galloped down the Holar yard and out along Hjaltadalur Valley.

    A few days later, a new group of visitors arrived at the Holar bishopric. There were twenty of them together, apt horsemen, but clearly tired. One of them lay slouched and dazed across the mane of his horse, which was led by one of his cohorts. Their garments and dark, weathered appearance suggested that they were English sailors, and the harsh manner of the two men who led the procession indicated that those two were a rank above the rest. The locals made a point of moving out of their way, mistrustful and some of them fearful. Rumors of conflict between English sailors and the men of Grenjadarstadur had passed throughout the country, and the new arrivals all had long daggers in their belts, or longbows and quivers over their shoulders. They carried a large chest with supplies and two barrels of ale, but they allowed no one to come near to help unpack the horses, nor did they seem likely to offer anything for sale.
    The two who appeared to lead the group, a bowlegged captain and a merchant with a callous look in his eyes, disappeared into the great hall to meet with the bishop, while the rest of the men lay flat on the sloping grass and refused offers to step inside. They kept their horses with them and would accept nothing but ale, which Ragna had brought to them. The one who appeared the weakest had a bloody bandage tied around his right arm and appeared more dead than alive, his eyes burning with fever. Ragna ignored the objections of the men and had farmhands support him into the quarters that held bedridden elders and the ill. As soon as he was laid in a bed, the man lost consciousness, surrounded by curious servants and old people who groped their way onto the edges of the beds to catch a glimpse of the foreigner.
    When the dirty linen bandages, suffused with coagulated blood, were removed, such a stench rose up that everyone around began to retch and fled the premises, one by one. Finally only Ragna and an elderly woman known as Herbal-Anna remained behind to administer to the man. The wound was large, clearly from a blow, and was partially closed by a bloody scab. It oozed putrid, greenish pus.
    “Some say that the secretions are the best thing for removing evil from the body and stopping the purulence, but in my experience it is best to remove it and then burn the place from whence the foulness oozes, for otherwise it will never close,” said Herbal-Anna and handed Ragna a damp cloth. “Wipe him clean while I heat a blade for burning and put together a poultice to apply to the sore.”
    Ragna obeyed, holding her nose, as the stench was overpowering. The man mumbled something incoherent, tossed and turned, and opened his eyes wide, terrified in his delirium. She shushed him and hummed soothingly, which seemed to work since he stopped mumbling, closed his eyes, and lay still while she finished cleaning the filth from the wound. Herbal-Anna put a pot on the hearth, into which she threw her medicinal herbs, reciting the Lord’s Prayer and something else that perhaps was not quite as Christian, while Ragna sat on the side of the Englishman’s bed and washed his face and his calloused hands. She pulled off his darned, grimy togs and could not help but think back in time. She even felt as though there was a resemblance between them, this