On the Cold Coasts

find,
    For often there is strife twixt young and old,
    And the end to wedlock easily foretold.
    Just at that moment, Ragna entered the hall and stopped short when she heard the singing. A few elderly and derelict patients had raised themselves up in their beds, some looking foolish and baffled, not understanding a single word of the sailor’s song and, indeed, looking like they had never heard a song before in their lives. Others were more sullen, offended by the ruckus that had roused them from their afternoon nap. Michael alone seemed contented and happy, sitting on a low stool by the sailor’s bed and tapping his foot to the beat.
    Oswald Miller’s rough voice stopped singing in mid-verse. He had seen Ragna.
    “Oh, beautiful, merciful lady, whose delicate hands saved my wretched life,” he said, lowering his head with humility.
    Ragna strode over to them with a furious expression, and Michael leapt to his feet. The smile vanished from his face and was replaced by obstinacy. She did not so much as waste a glance on the sailor.
    “So here you are. Have you not heard anything of what I’ve been telling you?” she said angrily. “Why don’t you listen? What do you think people will say about you loitering here in the company of this lout?”
    “They can say what they want,” he answered stubbornly, staring at her with flaming eyes. “Why should I care what others think when they don’t even know me?”
    Ragna was speechless. The boy was using words she herself had uttered a long time ago. She was saddened by the bitterness in his voice.
    “People think ill of those who take up arms against ordained men, and so they should,” she said, her voice slightly more kind.
    “Oswald says the men from Grenjadarstadur ambushed them and none of them knew that there was a priest among them until Father Thorkell took off his helmet and showed his bare crown.”
    “Oh, is that what he says? And you believe him?!” She looked at her scowling son with mockery and astonishment, feeling a strange combination of love and repulsion. When had Michael gone from being a child to this adult-like boy, becoming almost as tall as her in the process? “Has he also told you how badly injured Thorkell and his men were after such an unwarranted attack, seeing that they were completely innocent?”
    Michael nodded. “They were bleeding when they fled, him and two or three others. Father Thorkell was hit in the side with an iron arrow from a crossbow.”
    The color drained from Ragna’s face, and she crossed herself. “Lord have mercy!” She glared at Oswald, who sent her a bewildered, gap-toothed smile, having understood nothing of the conversation other than that the mother was somewhat less kindly disposed toward him than the boy. “The English will get their just rewards, the almighty Lord will see to that,” she said. “And now go, get to your chores, and don’t let anyone see you in here again, fawning upon this man like a dog. I should have thought twice before I started attending to this rat.”
    Michael clenched his fist in impotent rage. “Why shouldn’t I make friends with an English sailor in need? Or have you forgotten about my father?”
    “You have but one father and that is God in heaven, and don’t you dare answer back to me or so help me I will whip you!” she hissed furiously. Michael squeezed his mouth shut and strode to the door with his head held high. Opening it, he mumbled through clenched teeth, more for his own benefit than his mother’s: “I do so have a father…and one day I’ll find him.”

A WALRUS-TOOTH COMB
    The seal was easily recognized: a lily and sword in a cross on a shield, with a bird above. Her stepfather Thorsteinn’s emblem. Ragna cracked the seal open and unfolded the vellum leaf with trembling hands; a croaking raven had flown before the bishop’s postal delivery man as he rode up to the house. There were only a few lines, scribbled in Thorsteinn’s hand: her mother was terminally ill on her deathbed. With the bishop’s kind permission, Ragna should come to her immediately, and bring the boy with her. Urgent business awaited her.
    She handed the letter to John Craxton, distraught. “My mother is ill.”
    He squinted his myopic eyes and slowly read the lawman’s note, clearing his throat several times. “He does not say what ails her. I have recently had reports of an outbreak of pox on the West Fjords. This may mean that it has reached this part of the