On the Cold Coasts

silver-trimmed drinking horn and proposed a toast, that those who now plagued the country with violence would be caught and punished. In that instant the servant women entered the hall with food, placing grilled legs of lamb on large serving plates made of tin on the tables. The scent of the piping hot meat was delectable, and the guests could think of little else. And so the feast began, with toasts being drunk to the cook and to holy men, the Mother of God and the Holy Trinity up above, not forgetting Sigridur, mistress of the house, who lay in her quarters in a virtual coma while her kinsmen and other guests enjoyed their meal.
    Ragna could not eat much; she only nibbled on the bread that was served with the lamb. The fat slab of meat on her plate remained untouched. Her mother owned dozens of shallow wooden plates, turned in England, that had beautifully carved patterns along their edges. She drank all the toasts, and soon the ale went to her head and her face became flushed. The ale was made from English malt, the red wine purchased from English traders. Occasionally she thought that Thorkell had glanced at her quickly, but when she looked up, he was looking the other way. Everything was moving so fast. How could she keep track when so much was happening at once? There was too much chaos.
    Klaengur the captain stood up and began reciting a verse about Skidi:
Tallest of men, thin as a reed,
    Long arms at his side,
    Walking hunched like one aggrieved,
    With hands both big and wide,
    Crooked teeth and scraggly beard,
    His facial bones protrude,
    Insolent and sometimes feared,
    To noblemen is crude.
    The guests laughed, and the atmosphere in the hall changed. The rage that had coursed through the guests’ veins in the wake of Thorkell’s speech gave way to cheer. All giggled at the tale of the wandering wretch Skidi, who had travelled all the way from the western districts, south across Norway and over to Denmark, to Asgard, to visit with Odinn. There he was invited to sit next to this most revered of the Norse gods in Valhalla:
Odinn asked him at that point,
    Seeking his advice:
    “Are there many more than you,
    In the land of ice?”

    I look at these people all around me. My people. They laugh and talk and argue and cry and mourn. They love and hate. Or do they? My sister coddles her son, so fair and lovely, healthy and promising; no doubt he will be the first of many, conceived in holy wedlock. What is bound together on earth is likewise so in heaven. He shall inherit this land. The future is his. The English bastard, my son, healthy and promising, with his dark eyes and dark complexion, also smiles at the little boy, but in his eyes there is bitterness because he knows how it has all been arranged. His future is uncertain. Thorsteinn, my foster-father, has unexpressed anguish in his eyes because my mother is dying. She is leaving him, having taken her last rites and received the final anointing, and is waiting for death to come. He suffers, just like poor Gudridur Aladottir when everything had been taken from her, even though he holds greater earthly possessions than most other people in these districts.
    Thorkell, my lover and a servant of God, is out for revenge. He seeks to punish those who induce hatred in his heart. And he wants power, in this world and the next, on both sides of the grave. Knowledge is the only way to gain real power—did he not tell me that once? Will he ever have enough to be satisfied?
    And who am I, Ragna Gautadottir? A fallen woman, who mourns for the life she never lived, the life that stretches out before her, and the people she has left behind.
    How do you break the bond between two hearts?

    The applause and shouting of the guests as Klaengur finished his verse brought her to her senses. It is almost like people are at a wedding banquet , she thought, and there was a stinging in her heart. Does no one remember my mother, who lies on her deathbed in her quarters? She stood up abruptly, spilling her drinking horn. Wine splashed onto her lap. A burgundy stain appeared on her white linen apron, widening and expanding, almost like blood. She quickly untied her apron, embarrassed, but none of the guests had noticed, save for Thorkell, who watched her with a grave expression. She pretended not to see him and hastened out of the hall, along the corridor, and into the sleeping quarters.
    Sigridur’s wide-open, blue-gray eyes seemed to stare into an endless distance. Her pupils were