had a reputation for a sharp tongue and loose skirts.’
Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. The farmer had returned with another man, who was yawning and scratching at the stubble on his neck.
‘Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson, please meet Reverend Pétur Bjarnason.’
Undirfell church was a small house of worship with no more than six pews and only standing room at the back. Not large enough for all the farmers of the valley, thought Tóti, as Reverend Pétur absently pushed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
‘Ah, here’s the key.’ The priest bent down to a chest by the altar and began to struggle with the lock. ‘Now, you said you were staying at Kornsá?’
‘No, just visiting,’ Tóti said.
‘Better you than me, I suppose. How is the family there?’
‘I don’t know them well.’
‘No, I meant, how are they taking it – having the murderess?’
Tóti thought of Margrét’s spiteful words the night Agnes arrived from Stóra-Borg. ‘A little upset, perhaps.’
‘They’ll do their duty. A pleasant enough family. The younger daughter is quite a beauty. Those dimples. Conscientious and smart as a whip.’
‘Lauga, isn’t it?’
‘Quite. Runs circles around her sister.’ The priest heaved a large leather-bound book onto the altar. ‘Here we are. Now, how old is she, my boy?’
Tóti stiffened with displeasure at being called a boy. ‘I’m not sure. More than thirty years, I’d guess. You don’t know her?’
The priest sniffed. ‘I’ve only been here one winter myself.’
‘That’s a shame. I was hoping to learn something of her character from you.’
The priest scoffed. ‘Surely Natan Ketilsson’s dead body is a fair indication of her character.’
‘Perhaps. But I’d like to know a little of her life before the incident at Illugastadir.’
Reverend Pétur Bjarnason looked down his nose at Tóti. ‘You’re awfully young to be her priest.’
Tóti blushed. ‘She requested me.’
‘Well, if there’s anything worth knowing about her character it will be in the ministerial book.’ Reverend Pétur carefully turned the yellow pages of scrawled handwriting. ‘Here she is. 1795. Born to an Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir and Magnús Magnússon at the farm of Flaga. Unmarried. Illegitimate child. Born October 27th, and named the next day. What else did you want to know?’
‘Her parents were unmarried?’
‘That’s what’s written here. Says “the father lives at Stóridalur. Nothing else noteworthy.” Now, what else do you want? Shall we look up her confirmation? It’s in here. District Commissioner Blöndal had me write out the details for him a few months ago.’ The priest sniffed and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Here’s the notice. You can read it for yourself.’ He stepped out of the way to let Tóti lean closer to the page.
‘The 22nd of May, 1809,’ read Tóti, aloud. ‘Confirmed at fourteen with . . .’ He paused to count. ‘Five others. But she would have been thirteen.’
‘What’s that?’ The priest turned from where he had been looking out the window.
‘It says she was fourteen. But in May she would have been thirteen.’
The priest shrugged. ‘Thirteen, fourteen. What does it matter?’
Tóti shook his head. ‘Nothing. Here, what does this say?’
The priest leaned over the book. Tóti caught a whiff of his breath. It smelt of brandy and fish.
‘Let’s see here. Three of these children – Grímur, Sveinbjörn and Agnes – have learnt all of the Kverið . Then, it goes on. You know, the usual comments.’
‘She did well?’
‘Says she had “an excellent intellect, and strong knowledge and understanding of Christianity”. Shame she didn’t end up following its teachings.’
Tóti ignored the last comment. ‘An excellent intellect,’ he repeated.
‘That’s what it says. Now, Reverend Thorvardur. Would you like to keep us out here in the cold looking up family trees for a while longer,
Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. The farmer had returned with another man, who was yawning and scratching at the stubble on his neck.
‘Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson, please meet Reverend Pétur Bjarnason.’
Undirfell church was a small house of worship with no more than six pews and only standing room at the back. Not large enough for all the farmers of the valley, thought Tóti, as Reverend Pétur absently pushed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
‘Ah, here’s the key.’ The priest bent down to a chest by the altar and began to struggle with the lock. ‘Now, you said you were staying at Kornsá?’
‘No, just visiting,’ Tóti said.
‘Better you than me, I suppose. How is the family there?’
‘I don’t know them well.’
‘No, I meant, how are they taking it – having the murderess?’
Tóti thought of Margrét’s spiteful words the night Agnes arrived from Stóra-Borg. ‘A little upset, perhaps.’
‘They’ll do their duty. A pleasant enough family. The younger daughter is quite a beauty. Those dimples. Conscientious and smart as a whip.’
‘Lauga, isn’t it?’
‘Quite. Runs circles around her sister.’ The priest heaved a large leather-bound book onto the altar. ‘Here we are. Now, how old is she, my boy?’
Tóti stiffened with displeasure at being called a boy. ‘I’m not sure. More than thirty years, I’d guess. You don’t know her?’
The priest sniffed. ‘I’ve only been here one winter myself.’
‘That’s a shame. I was hoping to learn something of her character from you.’
The priest scoffed. ‘Surely Natan Ketilsson’s dead body is a fair indication of her character.’
‘Perhaps. But I’d like to know a little of her life before the incident at Illugastadir.’
Reverend Pétur Bjarnason looked down his nose at Tóti. ‘You’re awfully young to be her priest.’
Tóti blushed. ‘She requested me.’
‘Well, if there’s anything worth knowing about her character it will be in the ministerial book.’ Reverend Pétur carefully turned the yellow pages of scrawled handwriting. ‘Here she is. 1795. Born to an Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir and Magnús Magnússon at the farm of Flaga. Unmarried. Illegitimate child. Born October 27th, and named the next day. What else did you want to know?’
‘Her parents were unmarried?’
‘That’s what’s written here. Says “the father lives at Stóridalur. Nothing else noteworthy.” Now, what else do you want? Shall we look up her confirmation? It’s in here. District Commissioner Blöndal had me write out the details for him a few months ago.’ The priest sniffed and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Here’s the notice. You can read it for yourself.’ He stepped out of the way to let Tóti lean closer to the page.
‘The 22nd of May, 1809,’ read Tóti, aloud. ‘Confirmed at fourteen with . . .’ He paused to count. ‘Five others. But she would have been thirteen.’
‘What’s that?’ The priest turned from where he had been looking out the window.
‘It says she was fourteen. But in May she would have been thirteen.’
The priest shrugged. ‘Thirteen, fourteen. What does it matter?’
Tóti shook his head. ‘Nothing. Here, what does this say?’
The priest leaned over the book. Tóti caught a whiff of his breath. It smelt of brandy and fish.
‘Let’s see here. Three of these children – Grímur, Sveinbjörn and Agnes – have learnt all of the Kverið . Then, it goes on. You know, the usual comments.’
‘She did well?’
‘Says she had “an excellent intellect, and strong knowledge and understanding of Christianity”. Shame she didn’t end up following its teachings.’
Tóti ignored the last comment. ‘An excellent intellect,’ he repeated.
‘That’s what it says. Now, Reverend Thorvardur. Would you like to keep us out here in the cold looking up family trees for a while longer,
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