On the Cold Coasts

petrified. Einhildur seized his shoulder roughly, dragged him to a trunk bench with a lid, and opened it.
    “Get in. Now!”
    He hesitated. “What about you?”
    “NOW!” she hissed and shoved him into the trunk, slamming the lid so quickly that it banged on his head. Although it hurt, he lifted the lid just a touch and saw Einhildur turning in circles in the middle of the floor, still holding the baby at her breast. Then she seemed to find the way to safety—the door to the pantry was open. She managed to shut it just as the kitchen door was thrown open. A group of men entered, dressed in armor, with helmets on their heads and their swords held high. Instantly Michael doubled up inside the trunk bench, allowing the lid to close all the way. They were English, he could tell that much from their talking, which was mostly cursing and swearing. Judging by the ruckus, they were looking for something to eat and were overjoyed to find the fat slabs of meat in the pot; such delicacies they had not enjoyed in a long while. Benches and chests were dragged across the floor, and to Michael’s horror one of the men plopped himself down on the trunk bench above him.
    And then…the sound of a crying baby from the pantry. Michael thought his heart would stop beating. Or maybe they simply knew that the door to the pantry had been open a short while earlier and that someone must have closed it; they would have looked in there sooner or later, even if little Ingvaldur had not started crying when he had drained the breast of milk.
    Einhildur shouted angrily, the infant wailed loudly, there was a commotion, and then a thud. For one instant, all was quiet. Then the agonized scream of the wet nurse sliced through the thick air inside the closed bench. One of the men laughed and said something the boy could not understand. Michael shoved his fingers into his ears, bit his teeth together so that his jaws hurt, and squeezed his eyes shut, but to no avail; he heard Einhildur’s dress being torn, heard her anguished crying, and knew what the men were doing to her. Bitter gall filled his mouth, and he desperately needed to pee. Shaking with terror, he felt the warm urine begin to trickle and then flow down his thighs. Pater noster, pater noster , he recited silently in his mind and somehow managed to clasp his hands together, but however much he tried, he could not remember what came next in the Lord’s Prayer, pater noster, pater noster…
    Finally, after a long while, Einhildur went silent, and Michael realized that he was sobbing. Quickly he covered his mouth, but it was too late. The lid of the bench was jerked open, and he looked straight into the eyes of Oswald Miller, who stood above him with a pike, poised to strike. The sailor stared at him, astonished, hesitated one moment, then lowered the pike and dropped the lid with a loud thud.
    “There’s nothing there, just a squeaking mouse,” he heard Oswald say loudly to his mates. “Let’s go, there’s nothing more to take.”
    Just a squeaking mouse. Yes, a mouse that just pissed itself with fear.

    The dusky evening sky over Hjaltadalur was tinged red with the rays of a setting sun. Thorkell had told Ragna to meet him after dark, but it was only just twilight. All the halls were illuminated and many people were still about, even though it was near nightfall. Ragna had excused herself from the dinner table as soon as possible, claiming she was exhausted and that she wanted to rest for the long voyage ahead. She finished packing her things in the women’s quarters and then lay down, fully clothed, pulling a large woolen cover over herself. She had not been untruthful about the exhaustion, but despite that she did not fear falling asleep—she was too anxious for that.
    She had found lying to Craxton difficult, and had been so reticent and halting at their meeting in the great hall that Klaengur had ended up speaking on her behalf. He had explained the situation and the need to sail as soon as possible, since the route to Greenland would soon be impassable until next summer. The bishop interpreted her silence to mean that she was much opposed to the marriage and was both understanding and kind, praising her for respecting her parents’ wishes. That made her feel even worse. She could barely look at him as he wished her the very best in the most amiable manner, and before she left, he paid her even more than the salary that he owed her.
    She had been quick to pack their