Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Last Rituals

"Was he connected with witch hunts?" Thora asked.

"Of course," replied Thorbjorn. "He was bishop at the time, but he was generally considered to take a soft line when it came to witches. It is known that he kept some boys at the school in Skalholt from being burned at the stake when a sorcerers' quire was found in their possession. But on closer examination it's an untenable view. For example, he did nothing to restrain his relative, Pall from Selardalur, who was one of Iceland's most vigorous witch hunters. Seven men were burned at the stake on suspicion of causing an outbreak of illness at Pall's farm."

"This sorcerers' quire that you mentioned, was Harald particularly interested in that?" Matthew asked.

Thorbjorn shook his head slowly. "No, not that I recall. It goes by the name of the Skalholt Quire and Bishop Brynjolfur probably had it destroyed. Though he did make a record of the eighty spells described in it, I think. Harald was fascinated by Brynjolfur's library, which contained an assortment of manuscripts and books. And his personal history also aroused Harald's interest, of course."

"How?" asked Matthew, adding by way of apology: "I know very little about Icelandic history."

Thorbjorn gave him a pitying smile. "In short, Brynjolfur had seven children, but only two reached adulthood: Ragnheidur and Halldor," he explained. "Ragnheidur gave birth to a son out of wedlock nine months after Brynjolfur had made her publicly swear an oath, on her hands and knees, that she was a virgin. The oath was taken because of rumors that she was having an affair with her father's young assistant, a man by the name of Dadi. Ragnheidur's bastard son was taken from her arms and sent to be brought up by the father's family. She died shortly afterward, when the baby was about one year old.

"Halldor, Brynjolfur's son, died a few years later while studying abroad. Brynjolfur then brought back his only surviving heir, Ragnheidur's son Thordur, who was six by then. He soon became the apple of the old man's eye. Brynjolfur's wife died three years after the lad moved to Skalholt and to top off the bishop's tragedy Thordur died of consumption at the young age of twelve. So Brynjolfur, one of the great figures of Icelandic history, was left with no family or heirs. I think Harald was enthralled by the bishop's story and what could be read into it. If Brynjolfur had treated his daughter more fairly at the fateful moment, somehow you feel things would have turned out better for him and his family. Ragnheidur had tricked him, you see. Popular belief has it that she swore an honest oath in the church but allowed herself to be seduced by Dadi the same evening, in vengeance against the old man."

"I'm not surprised that such a story appealed to Harald," said Thora. He must have felt sympathy for Ragnheidur, she thought. "Was Harald still studying Brynjolfur when he was murdered, or had he turned to another topic?"

"If I remember correctly, his interest in Brynjolfur had started to wanehe'd studied him comprehensively. I'm told he took a week off before he was murdered, so I don't know exactly what he was up to then."

"Do you know if Harald had any other business in Iceland apart from studying? Was he trying to buy up antiquities or objects of possible historical value?" asked Matthew.

Thorbjorn laughed. "Do you mean treasure troves? No, we never discussed anything like that. Harald seemed to have both feet firmly on the ground, he was a devoted student and I found him nice to work with. Don't let Gunnar's hysteria deceive you."

Thora decided to change the subject and asked about the meeting in the faculty building on the fateful night.

"Quite right," said Thorbjorn. The playful glint had vanished from his eyes. "We were here, most of the teachers from the department. Are you implying anything?"

"Not at all," Thora retorted. "I was just asking in the vague hope that you noticed something that might help us. Something that may have dawned on you since you gave your statement to the police. Memories often take a while to gestate."

"You won't learn anything from those of us who were at the meeting. We left long before the police said the murderer appeared. We were celebrating our application for a grant in cooperation with a university in Norway. We're not exactly party animals, and we don't have much stamina at such gatherings. We'd all left before midnight."

"You're certain?" Matthew asked.

"AbsolutelyI was the last to leave and I switched on the security alarm myself. If anyone had been left inside it would have set off every bell in the building. That's happened to me and it's not exactly pleasant." He looked at Matthew, who appeared unconvinced, and added: "The printout from the security system can corroborate that."

"I don't doubt that it can," said Matthew, stone-faced.

The good weather from the previous evening seemed likely to hold. They were at the aviation school office where Thora and Matthew had hired a plane the day before. While Matthew completed a form for the pilot, Thora took advantage of the complimentary coffee. The fare had surprised herthe scheduled flight time to Holmavik was just under an hour either way but it cost less than if they had driven and stayed at a hotel. She had even been offered a lower price if they were willing to accept a trainee pilot. She opted for the higher fare.

"Okay, we're ready." The pilot smiled. He was so young that he must have just been promoted from the lower fare bracket. They followed him to a small plane that accommodated four people including the pilot. Matthew offered Thora the seat in front, but she declined when she saw how cramped it was in the back. Although tall, she was still smaller than Matthew and therefore less likely to need a shoehorn to get her out at the other end. She climbed in and buckled up.

The pilot took his seat and handed them each a headset. "Put these on. The plane's a bit noisy, so we have to communicate through the mikes on these headphones." Thora and Matthew put the clunky apparatus over their heads and plugged them in. The pilot turned on the engines, and after a short discussion with the control tower they took off.

They flew over Reykjavik, which looked much larger from the air than on the ground. Matthew looked down, fascinated, but Thora found it more rewarding to look ahead, a rare opportunity on a plane. "There aren't many tall buildings," observed Matthew, looking back at Thora. She found it mildly embarrassing to talk over the sound system in case the air traffic controllers were listening in, so she just nodded and averted her gaze downward, watching the low-rise houses zip by. The city and its suburbs were characterized by the Icelandic need to live in a house. Not an apartment, a house. Apartments were mere stepping-stones. Thora craned her neck to try to see her own home, but could not. They were heading inland, away from the sea. Once they had flown over the boundaries of the residential areas, Matthew turned back to Thora. "What happened to your trees? There's hardly any vegetation down there," he said in an unnaturally loud voice.

"Oh, most people think the sheep ate them," replied Thora, now almost certain they were out of earshot of flight control.

"Sheep?" repeated Matthew incredulously. "Since when do sheep eat trees?"

"They don't," said Thora. "They get the blame, though. I don't think there were ever any trees, to be honest. Maybe some shrubs." She looked down at the barren ground. "I like it this way, actually. Who needs trees?"

Matthew shot her a quizzical glance and then went back to scanning the mountainous landscape up ahead.

The flight to Holmavik went quickly and the airstrip in the village soon appeared. Thora saw a gravel runway with a single shed, nothing more. It was just outside the village beside the main road. The pilot flew over the runway and sized it up; then, satisfied with what he saw, he turned the plane and made a soft landing. They unfastened their belts and got out.