On the Cold Coasts

superior until just recently.
    “It seems to me that you yourself have forgotten the role of an ordained man,” answered Craxton coldly. “It is a decidedly more serious offense to violate the sanctity of the church and the home of one’s bishop than to defend him when he is attacked. You said so yourself only a few months ago. Or why are you here in the company of armed men?”
    “The bishop may be unaware that his countrymen, who now shelter themselves beyond the altar rails, are known to be robbers and murderers. They defile the house of God with their presence,” Thorkell replied. “Our business is with them, not our bishop. Our only wish is that the violators be turned over to the king’s magistrate so that they may be tried and sentenced according to the law of God and the land.”
    The bishop shook his head. “They have been offered the sanctity and freedom of the holy church. The inviolability of the church will not be broken.”
    “I would not have taken Your Grace for the protector of rapists and child murderers,” said Thorkell. “Or on what grounds does the bishop justify pardoning the slaying of an infant, the grandson of Lawman Thorsteinn Olafsson, as well as the elderly parents-in-law of his only daughter?”
    “Was the child the lawman’s grandson?” Craxton was visibly shaken, but he quickly regained his composure. “The sailors have told me that the guilty agents, four men, were tried and executed yesterday. They also said that five others from their ranks were fatally wounded in a merciless attack as they lay sleeping and oblivious.”
    Thorkell cried out in protest, but Craxton put up his hand, signaling for him to keep quiet; he had not finished. He continued, authoritatively: “The holy church of Holar will do all it can to prevent further bloodshed. Last fall, the Holar see purchased half a stake in the vessel Bartholomew , and now the captain and vessel owner have turned over their full share to Holar cathedral. Consequently, those who so much as touch the ship or its cargo receive major excommunication, as will those who threaten the lives and limbs of the men who now enjoy the protection of the church. If you wish to keep your position and your cloak, Father Thorkell, I would advise you to stop now and leave this place.”
    Thorkell stared at John Williamsson Craxton. The bishop’s words crashed over him like an ice-cold wave. Everything he had worked for was in ruins. The dream that had driven him these five long years was dissolving in the cold frost of the morning, and the throbbing pain in his head and chest had him gasping for air. He had wagered everything and lost. Why had it all gone wrong? He reeled, could not think straight, yet knew that he must say something, if only to retain his dignity and gain some sort of resolution. But no words escaped his lips.
    “Thorkell?” Someone touched his shoulder. He turned in a flash, ready to strike. Bjorn the magistrate recoiled as he looked into Thorkell’s eyes. There was madness in them.

    The gash was not as deep as it had seemed at first, in spite of all the bleeding. When her wound had been washed and dressed, Ragna requested that horses be saddled for her and Michael. Thorunn, the magistrate’s wife, protested loudly; Ragna needed to rest and recover from her injury, and her boy slept so soundly that he almost seemed in a coma, poor thing, exhausted as he was from all the horrors of the last few days. But Ragna was adamant: she would go to Hjaltadalur on foot if no horse was available; after all, it wasn’t such a great distance. She had to speak to Klaengur the Red today, before he left Holar for his ship. Tomorrow was Michaelmas, September 29, and Christopher of Hull would sail at daybreak. Thorunn shook her head with concern, but seeing that Ragna would not be dissuaded, she not only lent her horses but also ordered one of the two servants who had stayed behind at the farm to escort her.
    They set off near midday. They rode slowly, both on account of the pack horse carrying their belongings, and also because the servant was keeping the promise he’d made to his mistress not to let Ragna take off at a trot, for fear that her wound might open up again. They had just passed the woods by Hrishals Pass when they saw a group of riders coming toward them. Ragna shouted to Michael and the servant to follow her, tapped her horse with her whip, and took off at a gallop down the path and into the forest, colorful leaves