On the Cold Coasts

that can explain the victory of that girl from Lorraine. They say it was proven when they finally captured her last year. And now she’s said to be dead, burned at the stake like any other heretic and witch in the market square in Rouen last spring. That may turn the tables, though it is probably too late.”
    “A girl?” Michael stared at Oswald in disbelief, sure he had misheard. “A girl led the French army…and beat the English?!”
    “Joan of Arc was a witch, pure and simple, and was in cahoots with the prince of darkness,” Oswald reaffirmed with a frown. “A beastly she-devil she was, cavorting around the battlefield like a man with her hair cut short and astride a horse in full armor, spouting curses and spells so fierce that a black fog came over our men and they couldn’t see a thing. Viciously slaughtered they were by those French bastards. God bless those valiant boys who fell at Orleans; may they rest in peace.” He crossed himself with a pious expression, and Michael quickly followed suit, despite his doubts as to the validity of the story.
    Then he had another thought and wrinkled his forehead. “Must all Englishmen fight wars for the king?”
    Oswald nodded. “All except those who can be of other use, like sailing to Iceland, for example. The soldiers get stockfish as provisions and still more stockfish when they go to war. French livestock is not considered safe or dependable anymore.” He chuckled softly, and his expression suggested that he was revisiting a few more memories. Then he grew serious. “Where did you say your father sailed from, boy?”
    “His ship was from Bristol, but he left Iceland on another ship more than six months before I was born. He didn’t even know about me.”
    “And no word from him since then?”
    Michael shook his head dolefully. “Nothing.” He added, so softly that it was almost inaudible: “My mother has had people ask about him at the Kolbeinsaros fishing station in the spring, when the ships come in from abroad. But these days they mostly come from King’s Lynn and Hull.”
    “He may have given up the sea and probably has a family in Bristol,” said Oswald pleasantly. “Men who have many mouths to feed also don’t have to go to war. Or maybe he sailed to Greenland. Many men from Bristol do, and have done very well for themselves.”
    Michael brightened. “Really? My grandfather Thorsteinn has a ship that sails to Greenland, and land in the Eastern Settlement.” Then he became downcast once more. “Thorsteinn would have ordered his men to kill my father if they heard of him being there.”
    “Well, if that had happened, you would have found out—right? And you haven’t, so it’s just as likely that he’s alive and kicking,” said Oswald reassuringly. He rearranged himself in bed, wincing in pain. “Run along now, boy, and fetch me something to quench this thirst. I’ll recite an English poem for you. That’ll make us both feel better.”
    Michael leapt to his feet. Herbal-Anna, who was sitting on a bed at the other end of the hall tending to one of her male patients, snorted loudly when he asked her for a drink of ale for Oswald. She ladled whey into a tin cup and handed it to him. “This is good enough for that louse. And does your mother know that you are always hanging around him and running his errands?”
    Michael avoided her stern gaze and muttered something unintelligible before scampering away with the cup.
    Oswald snorted as loudly as Anna had when he took a swig of the acidic drink. “What hideous ratsbane is this! Though it does get the job done,” he said, wiping his mouth on his soiled sleeve. Then, in keeping with his word, he began to sing, his deep voice occasionally cracking on the highest notes. The verse was about a foolish carpenter from Canterbury who had a pretty wife and rented the garret of his house out to a clever young student who was well-versed in the secrets of love, as well as the stars:
The old carpenter, he found himself a wife,
    And vowed to cherish her for all his life.
    She was a lovely thing of just eighteen,
    The prettiest girl that he had ever seen,
    Yet distrust began to plague his aging heart;
    From other folks he made her stay apart.
    A foolish ploy; she was a dazzling swan,
    And quick to be unfaithful to her man.
    Oh this trap was entirely of his making.
    It was his fault; there was no escaping.
    The old adage he should have kept in mind,
    That a woman of one’s age is best to