On the Cold Coasts

“Why, Michael?!”
    He reeled, still unsteady, his feet numb from the ropes. “Mamma,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Mamma, I…I only wanted to open the door for Oswald. He was my friend. My only friend.”
    Thorkell was livid with rage. The veins on his temples and neck looked about to burst, and his narrow face was inflamed. Ragna had never seen him like that. “Your friend?!” he hissed. “I’ll teach you how to be friends with those English mongrels!” There was a loud slap as he hit the boy across the face with his open palm, first once, then again, and again, and again. Michael howled in pain and fell to the floor crying, holding his burning cheeks. Ragna grabbed Thorkell’s arm and tried to drag him away from the boy, but to no avail. Horrified, she watched as he dragged Michael to his feet by the hair and hit him again, this time with a closed fist so that he was propelled across the floor. Michael lay motionless where he had fallen, blood streaming from his nose.
    “Thorkell, stop it!” she shouted, on the verge of tears. “What’s gotten into you?! You’re not yourself! Are you mad?”
    He turned to face her, his eyes black with rage. “Do not accuse me of madness, you harlot! Don’t you understand what your bastard has done to me?!” He lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes, taking a step in her direction. “Or perhaps you do understand. I wouldn’t put it past you to have planned this whole thing and handed him the keys. You whore! Don’t think I don’t know why you were so loath to follow me from Holar!”
    Ragna took a step backward, shocked. “What are you talking about? How can you say such things?”
    He took hold of her upper arm and pulled her to him roughly. “I saw often enough how he ogled you, that English swine, and now they say that he is calling you his cousin. Imagine! Cousin to an English bishop! Everyone knows what that means. You’ve lain under an Englishman before, and don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”
    Finally it dawned on her what he was accusing her of. All at once her pain, anguish, jealousy about Gudrun, and accumulated rage bubbled to the surface like a geyser about to erupt. A manic scream rang out, and somewhere in the distance she recognized that it was she who screamed. The knife she had used to cut Michael’s fetters was still in her hand, and almost as though it had a mind of its own, her hand rose into the air and the sharp knife headed straight for Thorkell’s heart. He dodged the blow, lashed out at her, and suddenly the knife was in his hand. Her wrist was throbbing from where he had hit her, but she refused to let him get away and leapt at him again, reaching for the knife. In the same instant, she tripped and fell forward. The knife blade grazed her breast and she felt a burning sting. That same moment more people came into the storeroom, shouting about what was going on and asking what had happened to the Englishmen.
    Thorkell tossed the knife into a corner and told the people in a harsh voice to leave. It was vital now, he said, for all able-bodied men to ride to Holar as soon as possible; the villains had escaped while they were sleeping off their drunken stupor.
    A few people made a move to attend to Ragna, who lay doubled up on the dirty floor, clutching her chest. Her breath was labored, and she made hollow sucking noises as though she might suffocate. But Thorkell ordered everyone out and accepted no protests. The door was shut and darkness surrounded Ragna and Michael, save for a small ray of light that shone in through a knothole in the door panel. A scraping sound could be heard on the other side as the bolt was dragged across the door. Thorkell’s deep voice forbade anyone from opening it. “The woman is hysterical. She’s a danger to herself and others.”
    With difficulty, Ragna rose up on all fours and crawled over to Michael, who was lying motionless on the floor. She could barely see the outlines of objects in the storeroom, but as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw that he was conscious and holding his nose to stop the bleeding.
    “Mamma, I’m sorry,” he whispered desolately. “I only wanted to let Oswald go because he saw me at Holl and spared my life.”
    She did not answer, just removed her shawl and wrapped it around him, tucking the ends beneath his arms. She shivered; she only had on a thin woven dress, and the storeroom was freezing. Judging by the stifling odor, the magistrate’s makeshift