On the Cold Coasts

prison had not been cleaned in a long while.
    “Dearest, you’re so cold,” she said. “You must have been terrified out here all night in the cold and dark.”
    “Just a little,” he admitted so softly that it was almost inaudible. He was on the verge of tears. She stroked his cheek gently.
    “I should be the one asking for your forgiveness, my darling boy.”
    “Why?” he asked, surprised. She sighed deeply. What could she tell him? How could he understand her actions at his young age?
    “I put all my faith in Father Thorkell,” she said quietly. “I thought it would be best for us both to follow him. He was kind to me last winter.”
    Outside there was a clamor of shouting and stomping hooves. The men were leaving.
    “Do you love him, even when he talks to you like that?”
    Ragna was silent for a long while before answering. “I…don’t know anymore,” she finally said. “I think…” She shook her head, confused. “It’s almost like he’s possessed by a dark power.”
    Michael sat up and took his hand from his nose. The bleeding had stopped. “It’s so cold.”
    Ragna stood up, reeling slightly, and fumbled her way to the door in the dark. She peered out through the knothole. There were a few women standing in a cluster a short distance away, talking.
    “Help!” Ragna shouted, banging on the storeroom door with her palm. “Open the door!”
    The women glanced uncertainly toward the storeroom.
    “Please open it, in God’s name!”
    One of the women broke from the group and strode toward the storeroom door. It was Thorunn, the magistrate’s wife, a tall, vigorous woman. “Don’t just stand there like nervous chickens!” she called over her shoulder. “I may be strong, but I can’t lift the bolt by myself!”
    A moment later the door was open and they were free. The women exclaimed in alarm when Ragna and Michael stepped out into the daylight. Ragna held her torn and bloody dress against her chest with a flat palm, drops of blood seeping out between her fingers. The gash reached from her collarbone down to her breast. The boy’s face was swollen, and his clothes were covered with dried blood, though clearly from a nosebleed, since there was a line of blood from his nose down to his chin.
    “Help her, she’s about to fall!” Ragna heard the words as though from a distance. Her feet refused to obey, and then the world swirled before her eyes.

    “No doubt they have run straight to the bishop and are now hiding under his robe. And it’s just as certain that Craxton will believe all their distortions and lies,” Thorkell had told the men as they rode along Hjaltadalur Valley. Yet even he was taken aback when he saw the bishop’s men, both English and Icelandic, awaiting their arrival. They had formed a semicircle around St. Mary’s Cathedral and were armed and ready for battle. In the steeple windows, there were archers at the ready with their bows drawn and arrow tips gleaming. The villains themselves were nowhere in sight; it was obvious where they were keeping themselves. Just as obvious was the fact that the new arrivals were up against a force of superior strength, even though the bishop’s men were outnumbered. Craxton stood in full regalia on the stone pavement in front of the cathedral doors, his feet apart, arms crossed, stone-gray eyes glaring at them from under heavy brows. The battle was effectively over before it had begun. Bjorn the magistrate leaned toward Thorkell, remarking that it was useless to pursue the matter any further; it would be best for them to turn around before any harsh words were exchanged with Bishop Craxton. He spoke on behalf of those among them who cowered at the thought of the bishop’s power to excommunicate them, who feared the same the fate as Father Jon Palsson and who now wondered how they’d allowed themselves to be persuaded to take part in this fool’s errand in the first place.
    Thorkell ignored him. Dismounting, he took long strides up to the church step, only stopping when two of the bishop’s men crossed their spears in front of him, halting his approach.
    He put out his hands with his palms turned upward so they could see that he was unarmed. He fixed his gaze on Craxton. “Are you forbidding a servant of God from entering His house? Do you forget that it is grounds for excommunication to assault an ordained man?!”
    The men hesitated and looked at one another, then glanced at the bishop. Father Thorkell had been their