On the Cold Coasts

cousin sleeping soundly in the arms of Einhildur, the wet nurse. It would not be him who would teach Ingvaldur to carve arrows, to shoot a bow, to swing a wooden sword. At first he had been sick with jealousy: this little baby would inherit countless acres of property and thousands of heads of livestock, all because he had been born in holy wedlock. He, meanwhile, would receive nothing, having been born a bastard. But all that would change now. Michael’s spirits lifted slightly when he thought of all that lay ahead, and anyway, how could anyone not love a tiny imp like the ever-ravenous Ingvaldur, with his large, innocent eyes and toothless smile?
    Einhildur, who rode a short distance ahead of Michael with the infant, slowed her horse, like she had sensed his thoughts. They rode side by side. She smiled warmly at him, all rosy cheeks and wholesomeness. Her blonde hair was gathered into two thick braids that danced on her back with each step of the horse. He smiled awkwardly back. Einhildur was not much older than he was. She was fresh-faced and petite, and despite the tribulation of having given birth to a stillborn child only a few weeks earlier, she had a perpetual smile on her face, especially when she had the child at her breast. A strange thrill passed through Michael, and he blushed with shame. At seeing her feed Ingvaldur, he had desperately wanted to take his cousin’s place and lie against her swollen, milky-white breasts.
    The riders parted ways when they came to Vidvik district. Father Thorkell, Magistrate Bjorn, Helgi Gudnason, and their entourage headed eastward toward Enni. Ragna rode on through Hrisskogur woods over the mountain ridge to Hjaltadalur, along with Klaengur the captain and a few other sailors who planned to transport goods from the bishopric to Greenland. Kristin, her in-laws, Einhildur, and Michael continued riding north along Hofdastrond.
    From the ford in the Kolbeinsa River, the travelers could see the blue-green Skagafjord gleaming in the fall sunshine. Near the mouth of the river, four ships with sails rigged were moored. Three of them were late-season English vessels with their snow-white cloths wafting gently in the breeze, loaded down with stockfish and stones from the shoreline for ballast; they would later be used to pave the streets of harbor towns on the other side of the ocean. The fourth, which was also the largest, was Christopher of Hull, owned by Thorsteinn Olafsson and captained by Klaengur the Red. It was tarred black, with castles at the front and back, a massive mainmast and lower mizzenmast, sails rigged on the crosstrees. A few crowing ravens glided overhead, their hoarse croaking carrying a long way in the cold sea air.
    “One day, Michael, son of Ragna, from Hvalsey in the Eastern Settlement will be captain of this ship,” said the boy to himself. He straightened his back and his chest widened with anticipation and pride about the heroic life that awaited him on the oceans and in the unexplored lands beyond.
    It was well past noon when they rode up to Holl. The dogs leapt up to greet them, barking and yapping ecstatically as though welcoming their owners back from the dead. They were so eager that Gudni had to loudly scold them and snap his whip to curb their excitement, and even that was barely enough to settle them down. Einhildur rushed into the kitchen to tend to little Ingvaldur, who had been edgy during the second half of the journey. Michael followed her. He’d had the misfortune of getting his pant legs wet when they crossed the Hofsa River, and his feet were freezing. The kitchen was warm with a cheerful fire burning in the hearth. The delicious smell of boiling lamb rose from a pot on the fire. Yet there was an odd silence, and none of the domestics could be seen. Something was not right. Einhildur called out along the corridor for the girls to find something dry to put on the baby, but there was no answer. She shook her head, surprised, and unbuttoned her blouse, freeing her ample breasts to feed Ingvaldur, who stopped complaining as soon as the warm milk flowed down his throat and into his belly.
    Suddenly a commotion could be heard, and a woman shrieked. Old Thorbjorg, perhaps. The barking of the dogs grew louder, and they heard a man’s voice shouting curses, then unknown voices and the kicking of hooves. Another woman cried out; yes, it was Thorbjorg. A few moments later came the sound of people in the corridor. Michael stared at the door,