by Caroline Lea
She laughs and kisses him back. His touch seems to strip her of everything so that, clothed as she is, she feels raw and exposed. He tastes of salt and heat. But her kisses are fuelled by a growing terror.
She gasps and pushes him away. ‘No! I am –’
‘You are truthful.’ He sighs, then kisses her forehead. ‘Fear not for your chastity, fair maid. I will sleep at your feet, like a faithful dog.’
‘Fool!’ She laughs. ‘But, dog, I suspect you will try to crawl beneath my blanket in the night. Hounds must sleep on the other bed.’
He pretends to whine, then darts at her, as if to lick her cheek.
‘Off!’ She shoves him across to the other bed. He gives a growl of frustration and then she hears him stretch out.
She knows by his breathing that he is still awake. And she still shivers at the burn of his lips on her skin. But she will not court death. So she lies awake in the dark, skin aflame.
Eventually, sleep claims her. Outside, the wind drops.
Sometime in the shadow between night and morning, the earth shifts, and the sea ice breaks. And a body comes bobbing to the surface.
Arm aloft, as if waving.
Part Six
Men shall be beheaded, women drowned. And he who has taken a life will be subject to lifelong outlawry.
Grágás Laws
Rósa
Stykkishólmur, November 1686
The sight of Anna’s face, after her body has been pulled from the sea, is horrifying: the translucent skin with a map of blue veins beneath. Her blackened lips; her eyes, half-open and blank as the sky. Worse than her face, though, is the livid rent across her stomach, but no one peers closely enough to see that, underneath the wound, her womb has been torn open and emptied. Rósa’s breath is tight in her chest as Jón carries the body into the baðstofa ; the villagers follow, buzzing with excited dread.
Rósa can remember the smoothness of the warm skin beneath her knife. The resistance of flesh, then the sickening jolt as the blade punctured the body. Her stomach convulses.
Katrín sobs and kisses Anna’s pale cheek again and again.
Old Gudrun steps forward, eyes wide with feverish horror and excitement. ‘No smell of rot – she’s not been in the sea long. Anna died months ago . . .’
Pétur and Jón exchange a glance. Then Pétur bustles people from the croft, pushing them out the door. The goði must have time to grieve, he declares.
‘This smacks of murder!’ Olaf cries, as Pétur herds them into the chill night.
Pétur holds up his hands. ‘We will root out the wrongdoer, have no fear.’
The wrongdoer. Jón will never confess that his first wife abandoned him, then returned with another man’s babe in her belly. With a shiver, Rósa realizes they will need a villain. She looks at Jón’s face for reassurance; he will not meet her eyes, but gazes at Pétur. His eyes flick towards Rósa and he raises his brows. Jón nods, slowly, tight-lipped.
Rósa steps backwards until she feels the hard turf of the wall against her back. Where is Páll? He must be outside with the others. She thinks of Sigridúr, far away in the tiny pinched croft in Skálholt. She stifles a sob.
Katrín is still hunched over the body, weeping and clutching Anna’s cold hands. Rósa would like to embrace her, but guilt and shame pinion her to the spot.
‘How?’ Katrín whispers, without taking her gaze from Anna’s body. ‘She was . . . Jón, you told me she had died months past. A fever. But . . . Who? How?’
A leaden silence weights the air. The men exchange glances. Then Jón looks at Rósa again. Their language of raised eyebrows and tightened lips opens an abyss inside her.
Finally, Pétur sighs. ‘It is baffling.’
‘You claimed she had died,’ Katrín hisses. ‘Two months before the Solstice.’
‘I . . .’ Jón spreads his hands. He doesn’t even blush.
‘You buried her. You dug her grave out on the hill. I laid flowers –’
‘She left,’ interrupts Pétur. ‘She abandoned her loving husband –’
Katrín snorts.
‘– and we couldn’t find her. What else could we think, but that she had died?’
‘If you had loved her,’ Katrín growls, ‘you would never have stopped searching. Never. And you, Jón, seem not to grieve at all.’
And Rósa thinks of Katrín, trudging through the blizzard every year, scanning the snow for any sign of Dora, who must be dead, devoured by the land years ago.
‘It was easier to believe Anna dead,’ Katrín hisses. ‘Did you rejoice when –’
‘What would you have me do, Katrín?’ Jón asks wearily. ‘Would it breathe life into Anna if I howled and tore at my hair? Such shows are only for the living. They give nothing to the dead.’
Katrín dashes away her tears with a hand, then nods curtly. ‘She must be avenged, Jón. To savage an innocent girl, and bundle her into the sea – what butcher would do it?’
Butcher. Rósa’s mouth trembles.
‘How will we ever know?’ Pétur shrugs. ‘There are a thousand darknesses in men’s hearts that the world never sees.’ His voice is smooth. His hands don’t shake.
‘The settlement must know the truth,’ Katrín says, ‘even if her own husband doesn’t care to.’
Again, Jón’s eyes flick to Rósa. Then he stares morosely into the distance. She can feel her life being tested, like a loose thread.
Finally, he stirs, blinking slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep.
‘Egill,’ he murmurs.
‘Egill would not stoop to murder,’ Katrín scoffs.
‘No. But he will be rubbing his hands at the chance to use this against me.’
‘You think he will accuse you?’
Jón shakes his head. ‘He is too clever to attempt it. He would aim for someone close to me – someone the villagers might easily distrust.’
His gaze rests on Rósa. Pétur looks at her too, and something like pity clouds his expression. Then Katrín stares up at her and brings her hands to her mouth.
Rósa raises her hands, as if she can ward off the maelstrom that will devour her.
‘You can’t think . . .’
Jón’s face is grave. ‘It will not matter what we think, elskan.’
‘But no one would believe –’
‘Egill will persuade them that you stood to gain from Anna’s death,’ Jón says. ‘He will slander you to blacken my name. Who will respect a goði whose first wife deserted him and whose second wife murdered the first, then hid the body?’
Rósa clutches the table. It is as if her whole world has tilted, yet someone is attempting to convince her that it is perfectly logical to be standing on her head.
Katrín holds her. ‘We will protect you.’
Rósa watches the men for a sign that they agree, but they stand fixed and staring at one another. Their faces are chiselled stone.
None of them leave the croft that night. Rósa feels the urge to weep and howl at the cage that is growing around her, the bonds that seem to tighten with her every thought and word.
But tears change nothing, so Rósa remains dry-eyed, holding Katrín as she sobs. They wrap sheets around Anna’s body, as if cocooning a sleeping child.
She tries not to think of the baby, resting on the seabed, alone and unknown, lullabied by whalesong.
The next morning dawns blackly: the sun barely rises from the belly of the sea.
A steady rain skitters on the turf roof, echoing Rósa’s scrabbling thoughts – an itchy tension kept her wakeful all night and still hums beneath her skin. Jón was restless too – he feigned sleep in the bed opposite; she heard his anxiety in the staccato rhythm of his shallow breathing. But now he yawns and stretches.
‘The rain will start the thaw. I’ll begin repairing the people’s crofts.’
Rósa sits up. ‘You can’t. Your wound . . . and . . .’
‘What better way to earn trust? I am goði still, Rósa.’
‘They wi
ll expect you to be grieving.’ How can he be so dull-witted? If he begins rebuilding the crofts the day after his dead wife has been dragged from the sea, with her stomach laid open, people will think him callous. Worse, they may believe he knew she was dead. All suspicion will fall upon his croft, and it will be easy for him to direct it towards Rósa. ‘You mustn’t do it.’
Jón grimaces, but then Pétur enters the baðstofa, his expression dark. ‘Egill has ridden past the barn twice today and has been talking in the village.’
‘So he spins the tale of Anna’s death already.’
‘Not her death. He is calling you . . . an adulterer.’
‘And wants to see me beheaded at Thingvellir? Egill is nothing if not predictable.’
‘Predictable, yes, but he’s also as persistent as the stench of shit on a boot. He called for your croft and buildings to be examined for more evidence of your dishonesty.’ Pétur coughs. ‘They stopped alongside the pit-house too.’
Jón’s eyes widen and Rósa gasps. ‘They didn’t . . .’
‘It is locked,’ Pétur says. ‘But still . . .’
Rósa has a sudden flash of the carnage: the bloodstained floor and bed. ‘I will clean it.’ Her stomach twists at the memory of the thick, metallic odour, but if the blood is discovered, it will stand as evidence of her violence.
‘It is no work for a woman.’ Jón scowls.
She raises her chin. ‘You wanted a wife to scrub and sweep.’
Jón sighs. For a moment, Rósa feels a surge of pity. Perhaps Jón is also crushed by guilt and anxiety. But then his gaze goes to Pétur and she has that lurching suspicion, once again, that her husband would feed her to the fire to keep himself from being burned.
Jón presses his fingers to his eyelids. ‘If the rain continues, we can bury her.’
Rósa nods. ‘Perhaps once she is . . . After the burial, the talk may cease?’ Rósa can imagine the flames licking at her feet. She looks at her husband.
Jón’s smile is taut. ‘These people are carrion birds. They will feed upon this story for years.’
Later, Rósa watches from the doorway as Pétur, Katrín and Páll walk down the hill.
Jón stands at her side. She can feel his gaze on her face; she freezes.
‘You have done well, Rósa,’ he says finally. ‘You have not breathed a word.’
‘And you . . . You will not say anything?’
His face is grave. She exhales, then holds her breath.
He steps closer, locking his fingers lightly around her wrist. Her skin is cold and pale. She thinks of Anna and shudders.
His skin is the colour of old wax. ‘If you spoke to Egill, he could have me killed. If I spoke out . . .’ He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. The shadows under his cheekbones give him a skull’s empty glare.
She pulls her wrist away. ‘I wouldn’t see you killed.’ And as she speaks the words, she thinks they may be true.
His face softens and she catches a glimpse of a lonely boy, shouting into the darkness to scare away the night. Trembling, she places the palm of her hand on his cheek. It is like stroking the muzzle of a half-tame wolf.
He takes her hand, then clasps her in a quick, tight embrace, squeezing her until she can barely breathe. She stays absolutely still in his arms. Eventually, he releases her. ‘Go. You must scrub the pit-house.’
She takes the pail and brush and walks down the hill. She doesn’t look back, but she can sense his eyes upon her. She can still feel, deep within her chest, like the grinding hum of shifting glaciers, the echoing tremor of his limbs as he held her.
The pit-house is chill and empty. It has not been touched since that night. There is more blood than Rósa remembered. It has frozen, forming perfect iced puddles of gore, filigreed with ruby crystals. But now, with the thaw, the dark pools are turning to liquid, as if the floor itself is bleeding.
It smells too: sour copper. Rósa’s stomach clamps; she fights the urge to retch.
She works quickly, sluicing the bed and the mattress first, then scrubbing the floor. The water dilutes the blood and she mixes it with the mud and straw from the pit-house floor, then sweeps it into a pile. But how to move the grisly mess outside? Perhaps she should have used less water. Then she might have burned the straw.
In the end, she gathers armfuls of it and heaps it back into the bucket, then carries it down to the stream, where she stamps on the frozen surface until the ice fractures, then feeds the foul mixture into the water.
She is covered with the blood-black paste, so she splashes water over her chest and arms, wiping the muck from her tunic as best she can.
At least the smell in the pit-house has faded. Only when she holds her fingers very close to her face can she catch the faintest scent of something . . . raw. Rósa closes her eyes and swallows until the painful constriction of her throat eases.
Suddenly there is a cough behind her. Rósa whirls around.
Páll is standing in the doorway, panting, as though he has been running. He blinks at her wet clothes, then shakes his head. ‘People are talking,’ he gasps. ‘In the settlement.’
Her stomach lurches. ‘What have they said?’
‘The old woman – Gudrun? She says she knows who must have killed Anna.’
‘Then she has the gift of prophecy.’ Rósa feels sick: she knows what Páll will say next.
‘They say that Jón’s second wife, you, stood to gain from Anna’s death.’
A peal of laughter bursts from Rósa’s mouth. It surprises her as much as Páll, but she cannot stifle it and bends double. Even as she laughs, she can see how it will unfold: they will take her before the Althing and they will hang her. Men, they behead for murder, but women are hanged – Pabbi told her so. The bodies of the dead are left to rot as a warning to others. Their bones are picked clean by ravens.
Her laughter becomes a ragged gasp. Jón will not allow it. Yet . . . if her guilt proves his innocence . . .
‘I will keep you safe.’ Páll holds her.
‘No!’ She pushes her hands against his chest and backs away. She cannot risk him, cannot allow him to step into a marsh that will swallow them both.
He moves towards her again and she holds up her hands, as if warding off an assailant. ‘I’m married, not yours to save.’
He stops then, and the pain in his eyes is almost enough to make her relent and rush to him again. She draws a breath. ‘I must . . . I must tell Jón what they are saying.’
He nods tightly. ‘May I come with you?’
‘Of course.’ It is like speaking to a stranger.
She walks ahead of him up the hill, the stinging rain turning the beautiful swathes of white into a sludgy grey mire. If the rain continues, the settlement will be in more danger from flooding than it was from the snow.
Something gleams in the mud in front of her. Rósa stoops. It is the little glass woman. One arm has broken off, and, when she peers more closely, Rósa can see a deep crack running through the very centre, as though a boot has crushed it. It is ruined and useless now. She stuffs it into her tunic pocket, the fragile thing she had so treasured for being unbreakable.
Páll and Rósa are more than ten paces from the croft when they hear the commotion: men’s voices bellowing and a woman shrieking.
For a terrifying second, Rósa imagines that Anna has risen, unwound her shroud, and now stands in the croft, screaming murder.
But as she runs closer, she recognizes the woman’s voice. The door is flung wide and Katrín’s words gust out. ‘I know you, Jón. I see the shame in your eyes.’
‘Hold your tongue, woman,’ Jón snarls.
‘You are a monster to stand and let them accuse her.’
Rósa freezes outside the croft door.
Jón’s response is slow, his voice quieter. ‘Idle chatter is not the same as standing before the Althing.’
‘But one may lead to the other. And if you let harm befall that girl –’
Rósa enters the kitchen and Katrín
falls silent. She and Jón stand at either side of the hloðir, red-faced and scowling. Pétur glowers in the corner.
‘Rósa!’ Jón folds her in his arms. ‘I will not let them harm you. You must trust me!’ His face is earnest, as if he believes his own words.
‘Their whispering harms her,’ Katrín says.
‘What can I do? I don’t know what befell Anna!’ Jón’s tone is harsh but he sounds full of conviction – there is no hint in his voice of the lie on his lips.
‘Then why don’t you seek her killer?’ Katrín demands. ‘The people expect you to be raging, determined to find who slit your wife open like a fish. Why don’t you scour every cave in Iceland? Unless . . .’ Her eyes widen. ‘You know!’ She claps a hand over her mouth. ‘Lord! You know who did it!’
‘Of course I don’t! But I do not see how my rage would lead to confession. I must bide my time, not scare the villain away.’
‘And while you wait, the people have decided Rósa’s guilt.’
Rósa feels her life slipping between her fingers, like melting ice. It would be so easy for Jón to paint her as the murderer. She readies herself to confess. Perhaps Páll and Katrín will understand: she was not trying to kill Anna, only to save the baby, the shrunken little creature that never drew breath.
‘Katrín is right, Jón,’ Pétur murmurs. ‘If you do not find some culprit, then the settlement will name their own. Egill will delight in –’
‘Egill!’ Jón spits. ‘Egill be damned. I will not let him accuse Rósa.’
‘And yet he will,’ says Pétur, firmly. ‘You know he will.’
They both seem entirely earnest, utterly convincing in their desire to protect her. Yet Rósa cannot escape the suspicion that this is a performance and that their true desires lurk in the twin darknesses in their eyes. Still, when Jón looks at her now, his face seems shadowed with grief. She dares to allow herself to hope.
She holds her breath. Outside, the rain drums down. Beyond the wall, in the storeroom, Anna’s body warms.
‘You could accuse me.’ It is Páll, standing behind Rósa, grave-faced. ‘Say I did it.’ He shrugs, as if he is suggesting that they light the fire to keep warm, or that they eat to ward off hunger.
