Free On the Cold Coasts by Vilborg Davidsdottir Page B

heart, I who am only a woman, created from the rib of a man?

    At first she tried to pretend that all was the same as before. The hectic spring chores helped keep her mind off other things; there was so much to do with the sun finally shining and Easter not far away. The domestics were out working in the fields each day, women as well as men. It was time-consuming work, arduous and mucky, trampling manure into the tussocked ground, and those who were put to work indoors counted their blessings. Nonetheless, many of them grumbled about the harshness of the housekeeper’s demands after Lent had begun and they were allowed only bread and fish as nourishment, and only water to drink—at the bishopric, of all places. Ragna ordered them to air out all the parlors and chambers, to sweep and scrub every corner, clean out the floor rushes and dirt, and scatter fresh rushes on all the floors; everything was to be spick-and-span by the time Easter, the great feast of cleansing, arrived.
    She got up for work early each morning with the servant women, was not idle for a single moment all day, and fell exhausted into bed each evening. And yet, sleep never came until the early hours, and when it did it brought nightmares, so that she woke up gasping, soaked in sweat, more tired than before she lay down to sleep. Her dreams were all very similar, at least what she remembered of them: Gudrun and Thorkell lying in each other’s arms, a hoard of children in their bed, arms and legs and torsos together in one writhing pile, she herself a silent onlooker, lying on the floor in front of them, until Gudrun got out of bed and gave her a small kick, with a tinkling laugh.
    Sending Gudrun out to work in the fields gave her some respite; at least then she did not have to see her in the daytime, too. Yet this was short-lived. A few days later, Thorkell appeared and told her gruffly that the girl was not fit for outdoor work on account of her perpetual nausea and vomiting. Evidently she was with child.
    “Oh, is that so?” Ragna said, her eyes fixed on his face. He had not made an appearance in the kitchen for a while, though she knew he had been busy, like her. Thorkell shifted his gaze and his weight, impatiently.
    “This means she does not have to observe Lent, just like the young children—as you know,” he added quickly. “Go easy on her. She is in a bad state, poor wretch, and has nowhere else to go in her condition.”
    “Oh?” she said, her voice flat. She waited a few moments and then asked, her voice little more than a whisper: “And who is the father of the child?”
    But he had turned and was gone. Perhaps he had not heard her. Probably it was for the best—she did not want to hear his answer, to hear the truth from his lips—at least not yet. It was painful enough as it was.

    Gudrun held her young daughter by the hand when she came to see the housekeeper on the day that farmhands were permitted to leave or enter employment, shortly before Cross Mass. She was there to offer her services to the Holar bishopric for the coming year. She was beginning to show and did not try to conceal it. She held her head high and carried herself without shame.
    Ragna shook her head.
    “You will have to leave,” she said tersely.
    “Leave?” Gudrun repeated, astonished. “Has Father Thorkell not spoken to you about my condition?”
    “He has,” Ragna said, cloaking her own pain to stop the tears that forced their way to her eyes and made her hands tremble. “He and I are of the same mind: that the Holar bishopric cannot support the birth of countless numbers of illegitimate children by letting such actions by the domestics go unreprimanded.”
    Gudrun’s small daughter stared at Ragna solemnly and silently with her large, dusky blue eyes. Those eyes, everywhere she looked—a constant reminder.
    “I’ll not be able to get a good position anywhere else in my condition,” said Gudrun, her lower lip trembling slightly. “I will have to