‘Sir,’ Steina mumbled. She set the bowl and cup on the table in front of him, and then gave an awkward curtsey. ‘May it do you good.’
‘Thank you,’ Blöndal replied. He sniffed the skyr appraisingly, then looked up at the two sisters. He smiled thinly. ‘Who is the elder?’
Lauga nudged Steina to prompt her, but she remained silent, gaping at the brilliant red of the man’s coat.
‘I am younger, District Commissioner,’ Lauga said eventually, smiling to show off her dimples. ‘By one year. Steinvör is twenty-one this month.’
‘Everyone calls me Steina.’
‘You are both very pretty,’ Blöndal said.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Lauga nudged Steina again.
‘Thank you,’ Steina mumbled.
‘Both have your father’s fair hair, though I see you have your mother’s blue eyes,’ he said, nodding at Lauga. He pushed the untouched bowl towards her and took up the milk. He sniffed it and set it down on the table again.
‘Please, sir, eat,’ Lauga said, motioning to the bowl.
‘Thank you, but I am suddenly sated.’ Blöndal reached into his coat pocket. ‘Now, I would have preferred to discuss this with the master of the house, but as District Officer Jón isn’t here and this cannot wait until his return, I see I must tell his daughters.’ He took up his sheet of paper and unfolded it upon the table for them to read.
‘I trust that you are familiar with the event that occurred at Illugastadir last year?’ he asked.
Steina flinched. ‘Do you mean the murders?’
Lauga nodded, her blue eyes wide with sudden solemnity. ‘The trial was held at your home.’
Blöndal inclined his head. ‘Yes. The murders of Natan Ketilsson the herbalist and Pétur Jónsson. As this most unfortunate and grievous tragedy occurred within the Húnavatn District, it was my responsibility to work with the magistrate and Land Court in Reykjavík to come to some sort of arrangement regarding the persons accused.’
Lauga picked up the paper and walked to the window to read by its light. ‘So it is all over.’
‘On the contrary. The three accused were last October found guilty of both murder and arson in the court of this country. The case has now proceeded to the Supreme Court in Copenhagen, Denmark. The King…’ and here Blöndal paused for effect ‘… The King himself must learn of the crime, and agree with my original sentence of execution. As you can read for yourself, they have each received a capital sentence. It is a victory for justice, as I am sure you will agree.’
Lauga nodded absently, still reading. ‘They’re not being sent to Denmark?’
Blöndal smiled, and swung back on the wooden chair, lifting the heels of his boots off the ground. ‘No.’
Lauga looked up at him, puzzled. ‘Then, sir, excuse my ignorance, but where are they to be…?’ Her voice trailed off.
Blöndal scraped back his chair and rose to stand next to her at the window, ignoring Steina. He peered out through the dried sheep’s bladder that had been pulled across to serve as a pane, noticing a small vein twisted in its dull surface. He shuddered. His own house had glass windows.
‘They shall be executed here,’ he said finally. ‘In Iceland. In the north of Iceland, to be exact. I and the magistrate who presided at Reykjavík decided it would be…’ He hesitated, deliberating. ‘More economical.’
‘Really?’
Blöndal frowned at Steina, who was eyeing him with suspicion. She reached over and plucked the slip of paper out of Lauga’s hand.
‘Yes, although I will not deny that the execution also brings with it an opportunity for our community to witness the consequences for grave misdemeanour. It requires careful handling. As you are aware, clever Sigurlaug, criminals of this stature are usually sent abroad for their punishment, where there are gaolhouses and the like. As it has been decided that the three will be executed in Iceland, in the same district in which they undertook their crime, we are in need of some sort of custodial holding until the date and place of execution have been agreed upon.
‘As you well know, we have no factories, no public house in Húnavatn that we may use to accommodate prisoners.’ Blöndal turned and eased himself back into the chair. ‘This is why I decided that they should be placed on farms, homes of upright Christians, who would inspire repentance by good example, and who would benefit from the work these prisoners do as they await their judgment.’
Blöndal leaned across the table towards Steina, who stared at him, one hand over her mouth and the other clutching the letter. ‘Icelanders,’ he continued, ‘who would be able to fulfil their duties as government officials by providing this accommodation.’
Lauga looked at the District Commissioner in bewilderment. ‘Can’t they be placed in holdings at Reykjavík?’ she whispered.
‘No. There are costs.’ He waved his hand in the air.
Steina’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re putting them here? With us? Because the court in Reykjavík wants to avoid the cost of sending them abroad?’
‘Steina,’ Lauga warned.
‘Your family will be compensated,’ Blöndal said, frowning.
‘What are we supposed to do? Chain them to our bedposts?’
Blöndal slowly rose to his full height. ‘I have no choice,’ he said, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. ‘Your father’s title comes with responsibility. I’m sure he would not question me. Kornsá has too few hands to work it, and there is the issue of your family’s financial state.’ He approached Steina, looking down at her small, dirty face in the dim light. ‘Besides, Steinvör, I will not suffer you and your family to hold all three convicts. It is only one of the women.’ He placed a heavy hand upon her shoulder, ignoring the way she recoiled. ‘You’re not afraid of your own sex now, are you?’
After Blöndal had left, Steina returned to the parlour and picked up the uneaten bowl of skyr. Cream had congealed at its rim. She shook with frustration and rage, and pressed the bowl hard into the table, biting her bottom lip. She screamed silently, willing the bowl to break, until the flood of anger passed. Then she returned to the kitchen.
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I wonder whether I’m not already dead. This is no life; waiting in darkness, in silence, in a room so squalid I have forgotten the smell of fresh air. The chamber pot is so full of my waste that it threatens to spill if someone does not come and empty it soon.
When did they last come? It is all one long night now.
In the winter it was better. In the winter the Stóra-Borg folk were as imprisoned as I; we all shared the badstofa when the snow stormed the croft. They had lamps for the waking hours, and when the oil ran out, candles to keep the darkness at bay. Then spring came and they moved me to the storeroom. They left me alone without a light and there was no means to measure the hours, no way to mark the day from night. Now I keep company with only the fetters about my wrists, the dirt floor, a dismantled loom, abandoned in the corner, an old broken handspindle.
Perhaps it is already summer. I can hear the footsteps of servants patter along the corridor, the creak of a door as they go to and fro. Sometimes I hear the shrill, piping laughter of workmaids as they chat together outside, and I know that the weather has eased, that the wind has lost its teeth. And I close my eyes and I imagine the valley in the long days of summer, the sun warming the bones of the earth until the swans flock to the lake, and the clouds lifting to reveal the height of the sky: bright, bright blue, so bright you could weep.