Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

‘What do you mean?’ Tóti asked.

The woman pulled a face and leaned in closer. ‘I hate to say it, but Agnes Magnúsdóttir never cared about anyone but herself, Reverend. She was always fixed on bettering herself. Wanted to get on above her station.’

‘She was poor?’

‘Bastard pauper with a conniving spirit like you’d never see in a proper maid.’

Tóti winced at the woman’s words. ‘You weren’t friendly.’

Dagga laughed. ‘No, not quite. Agnes was a different kind.’

‘And what kind is that?’

Dagga hesitated. ‘There’s some folk who are contented with their lot and those they have for company, Reverend, and thank God for them too. But not her.’

‘But you know her?’

The woman shifted her whimpering child onto her other hip. ‘Never shared a badstofa, but know of her, Reverend. Know her as folks know everyone in this valley. There used to be a poem about her in these parts, when she was younger. Folks were fond of her then, and called her Búrfell-Agnes. But she bittered as she grew older. Couldn’t keep a man, something about her. Couldn’t settle. This valley is small and she 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, or shall we return to Haukur’s pretty little wife for some breakfast victuals and coffee, if any can be found?’

‘REVEREND TÓTI!’ MARGRÉT OPENED THE door not three seconds after the young man had rapped smartly on its surface. ‘Nice of you to visit. We thought you might have gone back south. Come in.’ She coughed and pushed the door open wider, and Tóti noticed that she was balancing a heavy sack on her hip.

‘Here,’ he offered, ‘let me take that for you.’

‘Don’t fuss, don’t fuss,’ Margrét croaked, beckoning him down the corridor. ‘I’m perfectly capable. The workhands have returned from Reykjavík.’ She turned around to him with a thin smile.

‘I see,’ Tóti replied. ‘From the merchants.’

Margrét nodded. ‘Not too bad. No weevils in the flour, not like last year. Salt, and sugar, too.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘You’ve coffee?’ Tóti was surprised.

‘We sold all the woollen stuffs and some cured meat. Jón’s out sharpening the scythes for harvest. Care for ten drops?’ She directed him into the badstofa and pulled the curtain aside for him to step into the parlour. ‘Wait here,’ she said, hobbling out, the sack still on her hip.

Tóti sat down on the chair and began tracing his fingers along the grain in the wood of the table. He could hear Margrét break into a fit of coughing in the kitchen.

‘Reverend Tóti?’ a voice murmured from the other side of the curtain. Tóti got up and gingerly tugged the curtain across. Agnes peered around the gap and gave him a nod.

‘Agnes. How are you?’

‘I’m sorry. I just needed to get…’ She gestured towards a spool of wool that lay on the other chair in the room. Tóti stepped aside and lifted the curtain for her to enter.

‘Stay, please,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’

Agnes picked up the spool. ‘Margrét has asked me to —’

‘Please. Sit, Agnes.’ She obeyed, and sat down on the very edge of the chair.

‘Here we are!’ Margrét walked briskly back into the room bearing a tray of coffee and a plate with butter and rye bread. She suddenly noticed Agnes in the parlour.

‘I hope you don’t mind sparing Agnes for a moment,’ Tóti said, standing up. ‘Only I’ve come to speak with her.’ Margrét stared at him. ‘Blöndal’s orders,’ he joked, giving a weak smile.

Margrét pressed her lips together and nodded. ‘Do as you like with her, Reverend Tóti. Take her off my hands.’ She set the tray down on the table with a clunk and then turned and ripped the curtain across. Agnes and Tóti listened to her footsteps thump down the earthen floor of the corridor. A door slammed.