Burial Rites

by Hannah Kent

  Margrét sighed and sat up in bed again. Agnes still had not moved. The officer snored on. Margrét watched him as he pushed a hand into his groin and scratched it, audibly. She averted her eyes, amused and a little annoyed that this man was her only protection.

  Might as well get up and begin preparing something for the officers’ breakfast, she thought. Skyr perhaps. Or dried fish. She wondered whether she had enough butter to spare, and when the servants would return from Reykjavík with their supplies.

  Loosening her nightcap, Margrét cast one last glance at the sleeping woman.

  Her heart jumped into her mouth. In the dim recesses of the badstofa, Agnes lay on her side, calmly watching Margrét.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT IS SAID OF THE CRIME that Fridrik Sigurdsson, with the assistance of Agnes Magnúsdóttir and Sigrídur Gudmundsdóttir, came inside Natan Ketilsson’s home close to midnight, and stabbed and thrashed Natan and Pétur Jónsson, who was a guest there, to death with a knife and hammer. Then, due to the gushing and smearing of the bodies that was apparent, burnt them by setting fire to the farm so that their evil work would not be apparent. Fridrik came to commit this evil through hatred of Natan, and a desire to steal. The murder was eventually exposed. The District Commissioner was suspicious, and when the half-burnt bodies were revealed, he believed that those three had been a gang.

  From the Supreme Court Trials of 1829.

  I DID NOT DREAM IN the storeroom at Stóra-Borg. Curled up on the wooden slats with a mouldy horse-skin for warmth, sleep came to me like a thin tide of water. It would lap against my body but never submerge me in oblivion. There would be something to wake me – the sound of footsteps, or the scrape of the chamber pot on the floor as a maid came to empty it, the heady stink of piss. Sometimes, if I lay still with my eyes tightly closed and pushed every thought out of my mind, sleep would trickle back. My mind would shift in and out of consciousness, until the briefest chink of light crept into the room, and the servants shoved me a bit of dried fish. Some days I think that I haven’t really slept since the fire, and that maybe sleeplessness is punishment from God. Or Blöndal, even: my dreams taken with my belongings to pay for my custody.

  But last night, here at Kornsá, I dreamt of Natan. He was boiling herbs for a draught, and I was watching him and running my hands over the smithy’s turf wall. It was summer, and the light was tinged with pink. The herbs for the draught had a strong perfume, and it surrounded me as I stood there. I breathed in the bittersweet scent, feeling a slow wave of happiness rise over me. I was finally gone from the valley. Natan turned and smiled. He was holding a glass beaker filled with scum he had collected off the brewing herbs, and steam was rising from it. He looked like a sorcerer in his black worsted stockings and the smoke rising from his hand. Natan stepped through the pool of sunlight and I opened my arms to him, laughing, feeling like I might die from love, but as I did the beaker slipped from his grasp and smashed on the floor and darkness poured into the room like oil.

  I can’t be sure if I have slept since that dream.

  Natan is dead.

  I wake every morning with a blow of grief to my heart.

  The only thing for it is to push my mind back underwater, back to the dream, back to the golden moment that enveloped me before the beaker broke. Or to imagine Brekkukot, when Mamma was with me. If I concentrate I can see her sleeping in the bed opposite mine, and Jóas, little Jóas scratching at his fleabites. I will use my fingernail to crush them against my thumb.

  But the memories I haul up are cold. I know what comes after Brekkukot. I know what happens to Mamma, and to Jóas.

  When I open my eyes I see Margrét lying awake in her bed. She tosses and turns, and picks absently at her blanket. Her nightcap is a little loose, and I can see her grey hair scraped over her head and twisted into tight plaits, even as she rests. I can almost make out the contours of her skull.

  Her face is a blotch, half-hidden by the blanket she has drawn about her. She’s turned to study the sleeping officer lying in the cot opposite.

  The officer is snoring and the farm mistress clicks her tongue in disapproval. I hear you, old woman. You’ve had enough already? Try a year of them and their hard hands, hard looks.

  The dried seaweed in her pillow rustles as she turns her head. She sees me. She sucks in a quick breath and snatches a hand to her heart.

  I should have been more careful. Never be caught staring at someone. They’ll think you want something from them.

  ‘You’re awake. Good.’ The farm mistress smoothes her hair across her forehead, and regards me for a moment, unsure, perhaps, of how long I have been watching her.

  ‘Get up,’ she says.

  I obey. The wooden slats are cool under my feet.

  Margrét hands me a servant’s garb of blue wool and we dress in silence. She keeps a nervous eye on the snoring officer. I pull the rough cloth down over my head, and look about the room. There are other people asleep in the beds. Servants, perhaps. There is no time to find out who they might be – Margrét leads me down the dank corridor of the cottage, pausing only to tug at a strip of turf that has come loose and hangs in threads across a beam.

  ‘Falling to pieces,’ she mutters.

  She moves too fast for me to look into the other rooms of the croft. It’s not a large dwelling, but I remember from my first time here a storeroom for barrels, and that little room there, with the buckets and pans and a milking tray, must be the dairy, or perhaps they have turned it into a pantry. We pass the kitchen. My clothes from Stóra-Borg lie heaped in one corner.

  It is already a fine day outside. The grass is wet from a night rain, and the blades look bright in the light of the rising sun. There is a brisk wind and it blows ripples across the puddles in the yard. I notice the small things, now.

  ‘As you can see,’ Margrét begins, pausing when she trips on a piece of driftwood that has tumbled off the pile outside the croft. ‘As you can see, there is a great amount of work that must be done about this place.’

  This is the first thing she has said since bidding me dress. I say nothing and keep my eyes lowered. I notice that her skirt hem is stained from years of brushing the ground.

  Margrét stands up straight and puts her hands on her hips, as though trying to make herself bigger. Her nails are bitten to the quick.

  ‘I shall make no secret of my displeasure to you. I don’t want you in my home. I don’t want you near my children.’

  Those sleeping bodies were her children.

  ‘I have been forced to keep you here, and you . . .’ She falters a little. ‘You are forced to be kept.’

  Our shoulders are tensed against the morning wind, which buffets our dresses against our legs. When I was little my foster-mamma, Inga, showed me how to spread the material of my skirt out against a gale and pretend I had wings. It was a feeling of flying. One day, she told me, the wind would pick me up and I would be blown along in its path, and everyone in the valley would look up and see my shift. I used to laugh at that.

  ‘My husband Jón is at Hvammur, but he will return this morning. Our farmhands will be returning any day to begin the haymaking. It won’t do to act up. I don’t know what you did at Stóra-Borg, but let me tell you, you will have no opportunity to take advantage of us here.’

  She knows nothing.

  ‘Now.’ She clasps her hands tightly against her waist. ‘It is my understanding that you were in a serving position before . . .’ She pauses.

  Before what? Before Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson had their skulls hammered in?

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  It alarms me to hear my voice aloud. It seems a lifetime ago that I spoke freely at all.

  ‘A servant?’ She hasn’t heard me over the wind.

  ‘Yes, a servant. Since I was fifteen. A hireling before that.’

  She is relieved.

  ‘You know how to spin and knit, and cook, and tend the animals?’

  I could do it in my sleep.
>
  ‘Can you wield a knife?’

  My stomach drops. ‘Pardon, mistress?’

  ‘Can you cut hay? Can you wield a scythe? God knows how many servants have never cut grass in their lives, I understand it’s not common practice these days for women to mow, but we are a farm of few hands and –’

  ‘I can wield a scythe.’

  ‘Good. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you shall work for your keep. Yes, you shall pay for my inconvenience. I have no use for a criminal, only a servant.’

  Criminal. The word hangs in the air. Heavy, unmoved by the bluster of the wind.

  I want to shake my head. That word does not belong to me, I want to say. It doesn’t fit me or who I am. It’s another word, and it belongs to another person.

  But what is the use of protesting against language?

  Margrét clears her throat.

  ‘I will not tolerate violence. I won’t take lazing. Any cheek, any step out of line, any idle, or thieving, or conniving hands and I will drive you out. I will drag you out of this farm by your hair if I have to. Are we clear?’

  She does not wait for an answer. She knows I have no choice.

  ‘I’ll show you the stock,’ she says, taking a deep breath. ‘I’ll milk the ewes and cow while you . . .’

  Her eyes slip from mine to the next farm along the valley. Something has caught her attention.

  SNÆBJÖRN, THE FARMER FROM GILSSTADIR, walked up the slope of the valley. Next to him was one of his seven sons, Páll, entrusted that summer with shepherding the sheep of Kornsá. Struggling to keep up was Snæbjörn’s wife, Róslín, with two of her youngest daughters in tow.

  ‘God help me,’ Margrét muttered. ‘Here comes the horde.’ She suddenly gave a start and grabbed Agnes’s arm. ‘Go inside,’ she whispered. She pulled Agnes back beside the croft and gave her an urgent push towards the door. ‘Inside! Now.’

  Agnes hesitated in the doorway, regarding Margrét, before disappearing into the darkness of the house.

  ‘Sæl og blessuð,’ Snæbjörn shouted. He was a stout, tall man with ruddy cheeks and dull blond hair that hung in his eyes. ‘Fine weather!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Margrét replied, tersely. She waited until he came closer. ‘I see you and Páll have brought me a few visitors.’

  Snæbjörn gave a sheepish grin. ‘Róslín insisted on coming. Only, she’s heard about your, er, unfortunate situation. Told me she wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  ‘How kind of her,’ she said, through clenched teeth.

  Róslín had come within earshot. ‘What fine weather!’ she cried, like a child, throwing one arm in the air. ‘Let’s hope it holds out for haymaking. Good morning, Margrét!’

  Snæbjörn’s wife was pregnant with her eleventh child; her belly bulged in front of her, lifting the front of her dress and revealing swollen ankles, damp with morning dew. Her broad face was flushed with the exertion of the walk and she was panting, her breasts heaving over her round stomach.

  ‘I thought I’d come along with Snæbjörn and Páll here, and pay you a visit.’ Her five-year-old daughter staggered over a small tussock of grass and offered a covered plate to Margrét. ‘Rye bread,’ Róslín said. ‘Thought you might like a little treat.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, goodness me, I’m out of breath. Too old to be in this state, but they will keep coming.’ Róslín cheerfully patted her belly.

  ‘Indeed,’ Margrét remarked, sourly.

  Snæbjörn coughed and looked from Róslín to Margrét. ‘Well, we two men had best get on with it. Is Jón about, Margrét?’

  ‘At Hvammur.’

  ‘Right then. Well, I’ll get Páll to work and take a look at that scythe, if you don’t mind me tinkering in the smithy.’ He turned to his wife and daughters. ‘Don’t keep Margrét from her chores for too long, eh, Róslín?’ He gave them both a brief smile then turned on his heel and began walking away in long, even strides, pushing the boy gently in front of him.

  Róslín laughed as soon as he was out of earshot. ‘Men, eh? Can’t stand still. Go play with your sister, Sibba. Don’t go far. Keep by us, now.’ Róslín nudged her daughters out of the way and cast her eye around the farm as she spoke, as if looking for someone. Margrét shifted the plate of rye bread onto her hip. Its sweet fragrance combined with the hot, moist smell of Róslín made her feel ill. She fell into a fit of coughing that shook her body so hard Róslín had to grab the plate of bread before it toppled into the grass.

  ‘There, now, Margrét. Breathe easy. Still not well?’

  Margrét waited until the spasm passed, then spat a viscous clump into the grass. ‘I’m well enough. It’s just a winter cough.’

  Róslín tittered. ‘But it’s high summer.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Margrét snapped.

  Róslín gave her a look of exaggerated pity. ‘Of course, if you say so. But, actually, that’s why I came today. I’m a little concerned for you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Margrét murmured. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Well, your bad chest, of course, but I’ve also heard a few rumours over the past weeks. All nonsense I’m sure, but still . . .’ Róslín cocked her head to the side and her fat face broke into a dimpled smile. ‘But here, I’m racing ahead of myself without even thinking to ask if you’re busy.’ She peered past Margrét’s shoulder towards the croft, putting a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting. It looked like you were with another. A dark-haired woman. Visitor?’ Róslín put on a face of polite indifference.

  Margrét sighed, annoyed. ‘You’ve good eyes, Róslín.’

  ‘Oh. Ingibjörg perhaps?’ Róslín asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’ll go, then, and leave you two friends in peace.’

  Margrét fought the urge to roll her eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not, too early for a visit from her,’ Róslín said, winking. ‘A new servant? You need all the help you can get for haymaking.’

  ‘Well, not quite –’

  ‘A relative, then?’ Róslín continued, taking a step closer.

  Margrét sighed. She cleared her throat, realising that there was no way of avoiding Róslín’s inquisition. ‘The woman you saw has been placed with me by District Commissioner Björn Audunsson Blöndal.’

  ‘Oh, really? How strange. Whatever for?’

  ‘The woman is called Agnes Magnúsdóttir. She is one of the servants convicted of murdering Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson, and has been placed in custody with us until the date of her execution.’ Margrét folded her arms firmly over her chest and looked down at Róslín defiantly.

  Róslín exclaimed, and set the bread on the ground so that she could better demonstrate her horror.

  ‘Agnes! As in Agnes and Fridrik? Natan Ketilsson’s murderers!’ She brought her hands to her flushed cheeks and stared at Margrét, wide-eyed. ‘But, Margrét! This is the very reason I came! Ósk Jóhannsdóttir said she had spoken with Soffia Jónsdóttir, whose brother Jóhann is a farmhand at Hvammur, and she said that Blöndal had decided to take Agnes from Stóra-Borg, because they couldn’t risk such an important family being slaughtered –’

  Róslín stopped, realising her mistake. Margrét pursed her lips and glared at her.

  ‘Oh, Margrét, I didn’t mean . . .’ Her round cheeks reddened.

  ‘Yes, Róslín. It’s true that Blöndal has placed the murderess with us, and that neither I, nor Jón, had any say in the matter. But the reasons for his decision are known only to Blöndal himself.’

  Róslín nodded her head emphatically. ‘Of course. Ósk is a terrible gossip.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Róslín kept nodding her head, then stepped forward and placed a hand on Margrét’s shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for you, Margrét.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Why, for having to keep a murderess under your family’s roof! For being forced to look at her hideous face every day! For the fear it must inspire in you, for your own good
self and your husband and poor daughters!’

  Margrét sniffed. ‘Her face is not so hideous,’ she said, but Róslín wasn’t listening.

  ‘I actually know quite a lot about the case, Margrét, and let me warn you, I have heard fiendish things about the wicked three who robbed the good Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson of their lives!’

  ‘Good is not a word I think many would choose for Natan and Pétur.’

  ‘Oh! But they were good! They made mistakes, of course –’

  ‘Pétur slit the throats of thirty sheep, Róslín. He was a thief.’

  ‘But they were noble Icelanders all the same. Oh, and to think of Natan’s family! His brother Gudmundur, and his wife and all their little children. They’ve gone to Illugastadir, you know, to mend the croft and Natan’s workshop.’

  ‘Róslín, if I have heard rightly, Natan spent more of his time in the beds of married women than in his Illugastadir workshop!’

  Róslín was taken aback. ‘Margrét?’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ Margrét hesitated and turned around, looking towards the entrance of the croft. ‘Nothing is simple,’ she finally muttered.

  ‘You don’t believe they deserved to die?’

  Margrét snorted. ‘Of course not.’

  Róslín regarded her cautiously. ‘You do know she’s guilty, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I know she’s guilty.’

  ‘Good. Then let me tell you, you’d be well advised to watch your back around . . . What was her name again?’

  ‘Agnes,’ Margrét replied, softly. ‘You know that, Róslín.’

  ‘Yes, Agnes Magnúsdóttir, that’s the one. Be careful. I know there’s not much you can do, but ask the District Commissioner for a guard to watch her. Keep her hands tied! Folk are saying that Agnes is the worst of the three convicted. The boy, Fridrik, was under her sway, and she forced the other girl to keep watch, and tied her to the doorpost to make sure she wouldn’t escape!’ Róslín took a step forward and brought her face close to Margrét’s. ‘I’ve heard that it was she who stabbed Natan eighteen times. Over and over again!’