‘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 —’