On the Cold Coasts

down on it. He felt sad, but did not cry, and he was proud of that. He was now standing next to Thorsteinn and glanced sideways at him, a bit awkwardly, but the lawman did not look at him. His face, marked with deep lines, seemed to be carved out of stone, until the priests began to sing “ Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine .” At that moment his eyes came to life and filled with tears that began to roll down his rugged cheeks, along lines carved by time and grief, like brooks that find their way down craggy mountain slopes. The boy was embarrassed and glanced around swiftly to see if anyone else had noticed, but no one was looking. Summoning all his courage, he slipped his small hand into Thorsteinn’s large one. The lawman kept his gaze firmly fixed on his wife’s coffin, but his rough, warm palm enclosed the boy’s hand and pressed it tightly. Thus they stood until the requiem ended.

    Ragna had no time that day or the next to mourn her mother’s death. She had to look after the funeral reception for over a hundred people and to give the servants their orders. Her foster-father was not in a good state, and neither was Kristin—both of them distracted and upset. Moreover, she needed to make arrangements concerning their belongings for the voyage, as their day of departure was swiftly approaching. Most of what she would take with her—household items and textiles—was at Akrar, but she would have to go to Holar to explain the situation to Bishop Craxton and fetch their things—their duvets, clothing, and other small items. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning on Saturday when the last guests finally took their leave and she could shut the door to her mother’s sleeping quarters. At last she had peace and quiet to search through Sigridur’s trunks for the cloths and linens that she would take with her as her inheritence and dowry. In a modest trunk with copper clasps, she found the embroidered textiles from her formerly planned marriage to Thorkell. They were all carefully folded together with sweet-scented vernal grass laid between them. At the top of the trunk was a small chest with a lid. Opening it, she found a silver filigree hair adornment, inlaid with glittering stones. It was the Akrar family bridal tiara, most recently worn by Kristin, two years earlier. Before she knew it, she had put it on and had the contents of the trunk laid out on the floor, all the textiles with the delicately embroidered R and T, encircled with green leaves and colorful entwines. Beneath the letters was the number 1420—the year the wedding was to have taken place, embroidered in gold thread. She ran a finger over the material. On a small white cloth, she found a rust-brown stain: a drop of blood that she had never been able to wash out. She had stung herself with the needle the first time she felt Michael move in her belly.
    The door opened behind her, but she took no notice, immersed as she was in painful memories.
    “So do you plan to unravel my initial and sew another one in its place?”
    Ragna looked up quickly. Thorkell’s voice was filled with hurt and anger, like his expression.
    “I don’t know. Maybe,” she replied self-consciously, fumbling to remove the tiara from her head. Of course he would have been informed about what was ahead. Thorsteinn had mentioned the wedding at the funeral service and told many of the guests about Sigridur’s last request—for her daughter to be secure in marriage as soon as possible. In quick succession the women had offered her their condolences and in the same breath had wished her a happy, prosperous life in Greenland. Their curiosity ill-concealed, they had asked about her intended: Who was this Valur Hauksson of Hvalsey? Who were his people? What were his holdings? Smiling timidly, she had referred their questions to her foster-father—she knew so little of the man; it had all happened so quickly.
    “You cannot leave me!” He came striding toward her and knelt down, the textiles lying all around them. He took her hands in his and pressed them hard. “Thorsteinn must not separate us, Ragna, I cannot allow it. You must be strong, not weak. You are a grown woman now, yet you might as well be a child while you allow others to make your plans for you.”
    She was offended. “You know that he controls all my affairs. How can I rise up against that which has always been—and why should I?! I have assurance that Michael will be adopted and given the right to