On the Cold Coasts

they’re not too good to travel this way, disgraced and on foot, taking the same route they previously took looting and maiming on stolen horses,” said Thorkell. Residents of farms they passed came out of their houses to watch this curious procession go by—a line of prisoners flanked by armed men on horseback. The more bold among them picked up stones from the ground and threw them at the Englishmen, the odd person even coming close enough to spit.
    Thorkell was furious, and the humiliation of the English gave him little comfort. Yes, his men had emerged victorious, mostly thanks to him and his thunderous explosion. Only one Icelander had been killed—the man who was shot—and three others had received minor abrasions and wounds. But Jon Palsson, the rat, had betrayed them. No one had seen him or his band of men from Oxarfjord, as had been promised. Moreover, no messages had arrived, thus it could only be surmised that he had always planned to lie to and deceive them. The battle had been won without him—yet the war was not over, and what lay ahead would be more difficult without his support and that of his followers. “May he rot in his excommunication for all eternity,” said Thorkell bitterly. “And anyway, people turn against those who don’t keep their word.” The magistrate and the others concurred. Henceforth, Father Jon would not be trusted.

    The women and children stood in front of the Enni buildings and watched in wide-eyed silence as all twenty-three prisoners were led up the bridle path to the farm. Frightened children hid behind their mothers’ skirts, and the women crossed themselves in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. So their men had triumphed over those rapists and murderers. The women who had feared for their lives and doubted their assiduousness and skill now felt ashamed of their lack of faith and smiled with nervous relief.
    Michael stood next to his mother, holding a lantern. He held it high so that it would cast a better light. The English appeared defeated, the majority plodding along with their heads down, bruised and battered, staring at the ground. Some of them he recognized, including Captain Bell and Edmund Smith, who had presented the grand altarpiece to St. Mary’s Cathedral. There was a bloody bandage around Bell’s right thigh and he limped with every step, yet his head was held high and he gave the onlookers a harsh stare as he was led past.
    The boy avoided the stinging gaze of the captain and saw another familiar face—that of Oswald Miller. His face was grimy, and he had a split upper lip and an immense black eye, though he appeared otherwise uninjured. He gazed at Michael with pleading eyes, his lips moved, and the boy saw rather than heard him whisper his name and ask for mercy: “Save my life now, Michael, my lad, like I did yours!”
    The boy shuddered and wanted most of all to pretend he didn’t know him and that they had never been friends. Maybe Oswald was one of those who had murdered Ingvaldur and Einhildur. He did not want to think about the fact that this man had saved his life and he had repaid him by unleashing terrible acts of vengeance against the English. Yet it was impossible for him to look away when the sailor moved slowly past. Oswald was forced to look straight ahead to see where he and his comrades were being taken, and he called out in broken Nordic, pleading with the kind people standing there to have mercy on these pathetic sinners, in God’s name.
    “We hungry, give eat?” he said in a trembling voice. His comrades stopped all at once, as though it had been planned. They stared at the women, and a few extended their palms like beggars and pointed at their mouths and stomachs; they had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. The women looked at each other hesitatingly; yes, these men were criminals, but they were a pitiful sight to be sure, broken and tattered, with soaking wet feet. Did they deserve pity, or perhaps just a morsel of food? Someone yanked on the rope that held them together, ordering them to be quiet and to keep walking. The English dug in their heels and resisted, but they were forced to obey when the archers pointed their arrows at them with gestures that could not be misunderstood.
    Michael was about to follow them, thinking it probable that they would be locked in the large storehouse to the east of the farm. Ragna put her hands on his shoulders and stopped him.
    “You stay here,” she said