“With thy actions today, thou hast forsaken all rights to the sacrament and the company of Christian men!”
A low murmur passed among the priests and Jon’s entourage, many of whom still had arrows on their bowstrings, which had been cocked when Father Jon was pulled from his horse. They now let their weapons fall, as much from surprise as from fear. They were all aware of the severity involved in this greatest punishment handed down by the church. The threat had been made many times, but it was so rarely executed that none of them could remember anyone being excommunicated in North Iceland.
Jon turned pale and stared dumbstruck at the bishop, who towered above him with his crosier raised and continued in a stronger voice: “No Christian may interact with thee at the risk of excommunication minor, with the sole exception of thy most immediate relatives. This censure shall be lifted only if thou asks for clemency with true humility. Through our generosity we shall allow thee three days to repent. We order thee to deliver to Grenjadarstadur in full the funds thou hast collected since thou unrightfully assumed office, aided by the bishop of Nidaros, and without authorization from the Holar bishopric. Should thy impenitence be such that thou disobeyest, we shall publicly read three notices to this effect, which shall be followed by full excommunication, so help us God!”
As soon as the bishop stopped speaking, the gloomy sky opened and the rain poured down in large, heavy, reproachful drops, as if to underscore his divine mandate for excommunication and denouncement.
“Release the man,” Craxton said. Thorkell obeyed, placing his knife back in a sheath beneath his robe. Jon Palsson rose to his feet with some difficulty; the mail shirt was heavy on his shoulders, and the rings clattered against each other. He frowned as he cast a look at the crowd on the church pavement, looking more tired than angry. No one spoke a word; many avoided his severe gaze and looked down. Most of them had known him for years. He led his horse to a nearby hitching rock and mounted it silently, with some effort. The bishop gave a sign, and he was handed his riding whip, but not the sword.
“You shall all live to regret this,” Jon declared before urging his horse and galloping down the lane, mud splashing from under its hooves. His men followed in procession, Thorlakur bringing up the rear, his wide backside rocking in the saddle. He alone looked back over his shoulder and made a threatening fist at those who stood watching them.
Ragna shivered, and she tightened her hold on her son’s shoulders, who had come down from the belfry and clung to her side. She looked at Thorkell, but he seemed unfazed. He smiled.
Bishop Craxton read his notices at mass over the next three days as he had announced he would. Father Jon Palsson did not come to the church to hear the bishop’s words, nor did any of his representatives. No message was sent requesting reconciliation, nor were there any of repentance. Therefore on the final day of the synod, the Thursday after the feast day of St. Hallvard on May 17, it became evident that an excommunication would take place at Holar cathedral.
The rain had continued with only brief pauses, and the men’s garments became nearly soaked through in the short time it took to walk in procession around the cathedral before High Mass began. The yard and the camp areas were now one large muddy expanse, having been trampled on much more than usual, and the stone floor in the church, which the female servants at Holar had tirelessly scrubbed with sand prior to the synod, was now covered in a layer of mud.
The great church was stuffed full by the time everyone was inside: the bishop, learned canons, dozens of priests from around the see, the highest-ranking men from the monasteries, nearly all the residents of Holar, and most of the parishioners. Not to mention the bishop’s most highly esteemed guests of a worldly
A low murmur passed among the priests and Jon’s entourage, many of whom still had arrows on their bowstrings, which had been cocked when Father Jon was pulled from his horse. They now let their weapons fall, as much from surprise as from fear. They were all aware of the severity involved in this greatest punishment handed down by the church. The threat had been made many times, but it was so rarely executed that none of them could remember anyone being excommunicated in North Iceland.
Jon turned pale and stared dumbstruck at the bishop, who towered above him with his crosier raised and continued in a stronger voice: “No Christian may interact with thee at the risk of excommunication minor, with the sole exception of thy most immediate relatives. This censure shall be lifted only if thou asks for clemency with true humility. Through our generosity we shall allow thee three days to repent. We order thee to deliver to Grenjadarstadur in full the funds thou hast collected since thou unrightfully assumed office, aided by the bishop of Nidaros, and without authorization from the Holar bishopric. Should thy impenitence be such that thou disobeyest, we shall publicly read three notices to this effect, which shall be followed by full excommunication, so help us God!”
As soon as the bishop stopped speaking, the gloomy sky opened and the rain poured down in large, heavy, reproachful drops, as if to underscore his divine mandate for excommunication and denouncement.
“Release the man,” Craxton said. Thorkell obeyed, placing his knife back in a sheath beneath his robe. Jon Palsson rose to his feet with some difficulty; the mail shirt was heavy on his shoulders, and the rings clattered against each other. He frowned as he cast a look at the crowd on the church pavement, looking more tired than angry. No one spoke a word; many avoided his severe gaze and looked down. Most of them had known him for years. He led his horse to a nearby hitching rock and mounted it silently, with some effort. The bishop gave a sign, and he was handed his riding whip, but not the sword.
“You shall all live to regret this,” Jon declared before urging his horse and galloping down the lane, mud splashing from under its hooves. His men followed in procession, Thorlakur bringing up the rear, his wide backside rocking in the saddle. He alone looked back over his shoulder and made a threatening fist at those who stood watching them.
Ragna shivered, and she tightened her hold on her son’s shoulders, who had come down from the belfry and clung to her side. She looked at Thorkell, but he seemed unfazed. He smiled.
Bishop Craxton read his notices at mass over the next three days as he had announced he would. Father Jon Palsson did not come to the church to hear the bishop’s words, nor did any of his representatives. No message was sent requesting reconciliation, nor were there any of repentance. Therefore on the final day of the synod, the Thursday after the feast day of St. Hallvard on May 17, it became evident that an excommunication would take place at Holar cathedral.
The rain had continued with only brief pauses, and the men’s garments became nearly soaked through in the short time it took to walk in procession around the cathedral before High Mass began. The yard and the camp areas were now one large muddy expanse, having been trampled on much more than usual, and the stone floor in the church, which the female servants at Holar had tirelessly scrubbed with sand prior to the synod, was now covered in a layer of mud.
The great church was stuffed full by the time everyone was inside: the bishop, learned canons, dozens of priests from around the see, the highest-ranking men from the monasteries, nearly all the residents of Holar, and most of the parishioners. Not to mention the bishop’s most highly esteemed guests of a worldly
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