Free On the Cold Coasts by Vilborg Davidsdottir

floor between them.
    “Now you are mine in the pagan manner,” he said and smiled, the priest, with fire in his eyes that made her burn, inside and out.
    They consummated their oath up against the wall, with blood running both from Ragna’s palm and from between her legs. In the dark he did not notice, and afterward he was clearly upset, even shaken. But how could that be? He who feared nothing, not even her. She had not told him that she was bleeding, and she now registered the smell, thick and slightly sour, and apologized.
    “You are unclean,” he said sharply. “You should have told me.”
    “I…I’m sorry,” she stammered, ashamed, and felt to her greater dismay how her eyes stung from the harsh tone of his voice. “But…”
    “But what?”
    “What we are doing is acceptable to neither God nor men anyway,” she said, speaking rapidly, astonished at her own boldness. “Why should we keep to convention in these matters and not in others?”
    “Menstrual blood is unclean,” he replied. “It is the blood of death, not of life, and it saps a man’s energy. And precisely now I need all my energy, as never before.”
    A tear rolled down her cheek. His anger dissipated somewhat when he saw he had made her cry.
    “But how could you know that, my dearest, you who are so innocent and so good.” He wiped her tear away with his index finger. “Don’t cry. I forgive you. Your ignorance is not your fault.” He kissed her cheek, and all was well between them once again.
    She did not ask why he needed to be more energetic than other men precisely now, though she suspected the reason. It was being whispered that, at Thorkell’s instigation, the bishop planned to relieve Grenjadarstadur Parish of the noncompliant Father Jon Palsson. No parish in North Iceland had farms that were more prosperous, and Craxton would certainly have been able to make good use of the tax money that the clerk was surreptitiously said to have sent to the archbishop in Nidaros, rather than using it to maintain the church at Grenjadarstadur as he should have done. No doubt His Grace the bishop would appoint a loyal servant of Holar cathedral to oversee this prosperous parish, and he would reward him handsomely. Ragna made no comment when this came up among the domestics. Schemes relating to temporal affluence and power were none of her concern, nor theirs, she felt.

FROM THE RIB OF A MAN
    The sun rose higher in the sky, the days grew longer, and the first grass began to sprout alongside the retreating snow banks. Winter was over, and at long last the northern hemisphere welcomed the arrival of spring. Frost evaporated from the ground and the Hjaltadalur River rid itself of ice, so the mid-winter gloom and smell of staid urine could finally be washed from the linens. Ragna ordered that the bedding be removed from all the beds, sheets as well as blankets, and the girls knelt on the riverbank for days on end, washing and scrubbing, rinsing and wringing. Even with hands that were blue from the cold, they had perpetual smiles on their faces, for the sun was brilliant in a clear blue sky and the earthy smell of the newly thawed marsh filled their senses.
    Ragna monitored the girls closely, letting them know if something needed improvement and if they had done enough, even helping them lay the bedding out on the gnarled birch trees to dry, though strictly speaking it was not her duty. The smell of clean linen lifted her spirits, and she felt a childlike glee when the southern breeze blew the sheets to and fro on the branches.
    With one hand she gathered and lifted her long skirts, and headed into the spinney, pushing through the thick branches that were already sprouting buds, inhaling the scent of fresh vegetation and moist earth. She sank into the soft ground in some places, her boots leaving deep imprints. The wagtails, newly arrived from their winter sojourn in milder climes, tweeted cheerfully in the shrubs, and from the marsh not far off