On the Cold Coasts

country.”
    “Whatever it is, I must go and see my mother,” Ragna replied. “I received word from my sister Kristin a few weeks ago, after she had given birth to her first child, and she made no mention of an illness.” She rubbed her damp palms together nervously. “If it is smallpox, then what is to be done? Surely there are many at risk of being infected and dying. Hundreds of people perished in the last epidemic a few decades ago.”
    “You’re free to go as early as tomorrow. Keep calm and trust the Lord.” The bishop placed a comforting hand on Ragna’s shoulder, moving his fingers slowly and gently down her bare upper arm. His touch made her uncomfortable, and she flinched without knowing why.
    “I will get someone to escort you. Stay as long as you need to,” Craxton said kindly. “Your mother may well recover. Let us pray for God’s mercy. But no one knows when it is their time. If indeed it is the pox, it is likely that others will be affected. The last time it passed through England, some formed blotches on the first day, while others spent days with fever and delirium before the pox broke out on their skins. They seemed more likely to survive than the others, and the older people did better than the young. The children were the first to die. He holds our life and death in His hands. The main thing is to help one another and trust that the righteous will receive God’s mercy.”
    Before she and Michael rode away the following morning, the bishop gave Ragna a large, closed pail filled with consecrated water from the cathedral’s baptism font. It was the most potent—and, indeed, the only—medicine against the evil pestilence.

    Sigridur was dying. But it wasn’t the pox.
    She pulled back the duvet and unbuttoned the neckline of her thin linen caftan to reveal her swollen, red-blue breasts to her daughter. The skin was scabrous and slightly indented above the left nipple. An ugly, festering sore had eaten through her skin to the flesh. “Look. It’s horribly painful. It started here first, in early spring, hard and sore. It then moved into the pit of my arm and now it is all over my insides. The pain is so great that I can hardly get out of bed. The priest calls it the canker malady. It won’t be long until it has me completely consumed. That’s if I don’t give up the ghost first from the coughing. Hopefully I will find peace and get my eternal rest before Michaelmas. I can no longer keep down any proper nourishment.” She smiled in spite of this death sentence, courageous and calm, yet visibly emaciated from her hopeless battle against the chronic pain. Her matted eyes had dark circles beneath them; her skin, taut over the bones of her face, had the yellowish veneer of death. There was visible swelling beneath her jawline. Scraggly strands of hair that once had cascaded down in auburn waves peeked from beneath her nightcap, hoary and lifeless.
    Sigridur took Ragna’s hands and held them in her own, stroking her hot, dry fingers over them. The veins on her hands stood out, and her nails were convex and speckled with white. “It’s good to have you here, Ragna my dearest. There’s so much I want to say to you while I still have time.”
    Ragna searched for a response but found none. She had a big lump in her throat that refused to leave, no matter how often she swallowed. The corners of her eyes stung. How could her mother be dying? Surely it wasn’t true. Surely something could be done.
    “How would the priest know what this affliction is and whether or not it can be cured?” she finally asked in a choked voice, almost angrily. “Father Pall knows nothing about healing. What would he know about it? Has he tried bloodletting to help you?”
    “It wasn’t Pall who said it,” said Sigridur, somewhat awkwardly. She lowered her voice, taking on a slight warning tone. “It was Father Thorkell Gudbjartsson, who recently arrived from Grenjadarstadur to discuss some matter concerning the bishop with your foster-father. He is well informed about various illnesses and has even transcribed all sorts of pertinent knowledge from foreign books. Information on how to make balms and extracts, for example. He claims bloodletting will do little good at this stage. He has given me this concoction, and it has relieved the pain a little and helps me to rest.” She produced a small, round, glass flask containing a murky brownish liquid and showed it to Ragna, then took a gulp, grimaced, and