Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

Tóti swallowed. ‘I commend both Reverend Jóhann and Herr Birni Olsen for their achievement.’

‘As do I,’ Blöndal said. ‘Does Agnes Magnúsdóttir repent of her crime in a similar manner?’

Tóti hesitated. ‘She does not speak of it.’

‘And that is because she is reticent, secretive and guilty.’

Tóti was silent for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to run from the room and join the rest of the household of Hvammur, whose chatter slipped under the door of Blöndal’s office.

‘I am not a cruel man, Assistant Reverend Thorvardur. But I am God-fearing, and it is apparent to me that this District is overrun with criminals of the worst kind. Thieves, thugs, and now murderers. During the years that have passed since my appointment as District Commissioner, I have seen the moral boundaries that have kept the people here safe from depravity and vice disintegrate. It is a political and spiritual embarrassment, and it is my responsibility to see to it that the criminals in this District, who have gone so long unpunished, are given their justice in the eyes of their peers.’

Tóti nodded, and slowly picked up the swan feather. The down near its base clung to his damp fingers. ‘You mean to make an example of her,’ he said quietly.

‘I mean to deliver God’s justice here on earth,’ Blöndal said, frowning. ‘I mean to honour the authorities who have appointed me by fulfilling my duty as lawkeeper.’

Tóti hesitated. ‘I hear that you have appointed Gudmundur Ketilsson as executioner,’ he said.

Blöndal sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve never known tongues to wag faster than they do in this valley.’

‘Is it true that you’ve asked the brother of the murdered man?’

‘I do not have to explain my decisions to you, Reverend. I am not accountable to parish priests. I am accountable to Denmark. To the King.’

‘I did not say I disapproved.’

‘Your opinion is writ large upon your face, Reverend.’ Blöndal picked up his pen again. ‘But we are not here to discuss my performance. We are here to discuss yours, and I must say that I am disappointed with it.’

‘What will you have me do?’

‘Return to God’s word. Forget Agnes’s. She has nothing that you need to hear, unless it is a confession.’

Reverend Tóti left Björn Blöndal’s study with a pounding head. He could not stop thinking of Agnes’s pale face, her low voice in the dark, and the image of red-headed Fridrik, raising a hammer above a sleeping man. Had she been lying to him? He fought off a compulsion to cross himself in the corridor, in front of the busy huddle of female servants lugging pails of milk and pots of waste. He pulled on his shoes against the wall.

It was a relief to be outside. It had grown cloudy and dim, but the cold air, and the strong smell of fish drying on racks near the cowshed, seemed sympathetic to his confusion. He thought of Blöndal’s greasy finger against his throat. The crunch of bone. Natan Ketilsson begging for his life. He wanted to be sick.

‘Reverend!’ Someone was calling him. He turned around and saw Karitas, Blöndal’s servant, running hurriedly after him. ‘You left your coat, sir.’

Tóti smiled and extended an arm to take the garment, but the woman did not let go of it. She pulled Tóti closer and whispered to him, looking at the ground.

‘I need to speak with you.’

Tóti was surprised. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Shh,’ hissed the woman. She glanced over to the servant men gutting the fish on the stone. ‘Come with me. To the stable.’

Tóti nodded and, taking his coat, stumbled towards the large cowshed. It was dark inside, and smelt strongly of manure, although the stalls had already been cleaned. It was empty — all the animals had been taken out to pasture.

He turned around and saw Karitas silhouetted against the open doorway.

‘I don’t mean to be secretive, but…’ She stepped closer, and Tóti saw that she was distressed.

‘I didn’t mean to grab at you like that, but I didn’t think I’d have another opportunity.’ Karitas gestured towards a milking stool and Tóti sat down.

‘You are the Reverend attending Agnes Magnúsdóttir?’

‘Yes,’ Tóti said, curious.

‘I worked at Illugastadir. With Natan Ketilsson. I left in 1827, just before Agnes arrived to work there also. She came to take my position as housekeeper. Well, that is what Natan told me.’

‘I see. And what did you want to tell me?’

Karitas paused, as if trying to find the right words. ‘“The treachery of a friend is worse than that of a foe,”’ she said eventually.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s from Gisli Sursson’s Saga.’ Karitas swivelled to the open doorway, checking to see if anyone was coming. ‘He broke his word to her,’ she whispered.

‘His word?’

‘Natan promised Agnes my position, sir. Only, before she arrived, he decided that Sigga should have it.’

Tóti was confused. He absently stroked the feather Blöndal had given him. He still held it in his hand.

‘Sigga was young — fifteen or sixteen, Reverend. Natan knew it would embarrass Agnes to be under her authority.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Karitas. Why would Natan promise Agnes a position and then give it to an inexperienced girl half her age?’

Karitas shrugged. ‘Did you ever meet Natan, Reverend?’

‘No, never. Although I gather that many here in the valley knew him.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve been hearing some rather mixed opinions. Some say he was a sorcerer, another a good doctor.’

Karitas did not return his smile.

‘But you are of the mind that he deceived Agnes?’

Karitas scuffed her slipper against the straw on the ground. ‘It’s only… Folks here have blacked her name, and that does not rest well with me.’

Tóti hesitated. ‘Why are you telling me this, Karitas?’

The woman bent closer. ‘I left Illugastadir because I couldn’t bear Natan any more. He… he toyed with people.’ She leant closer still, her lip trembling. ‘It was as though he did it to amuse himself. I never knew where I stood with him. He’d tell me one thing and do another. And if I had a mind to ask for leave to church-go, well.’ The woman looked askance at Tóti. ‘I’m a good Christian woman, Reverend, and I swear that I have never heard a man spout such disbelief.’ Karitas pulled a face and looked back towards the doorway. ‘You won’t tell Blöndal I’ve spoken with you?’

‘Of course not. But I don’t see what good it does to tell me this about Natan. I can see that opinion is divided about him, but even still, mischief-makers, even if they are non-believers, don’t deserve to be stabbed in the middle of the night.’

Karitas was taken aback. ‘Mischief-maker?’ She gave him a look. ‘Has Agnes said anything about Natan?’

‘No. She doesn’t talk of him.’

‘What has Blöndal said?’ She jerked her head in the direction of the farmhouse.

‘I have heard very little to trust from anyone besides superstitious talk of his being named for the Devil.’

Karitas gave a weak smile. ‘Yes, they say that. Blöndal wouldn’t speak badly of him anyway. Natan healed his wife.’

‘I didn’t know she was ill.’

‘Deathly. He paid plenty for him too. But it worked. Natan Ketilsson fetched his wife from heaven’s gate.’

Tóti suddenly felt angry. He stood up and brushed his trousers clean of straw and dust. ‘I should go.’

‘So you won’t tell Blöndal I spoke with you?’

‘No.’ Tóti attempted a smile. ‘Karitas, I wish you well. God keep you.’

‘Reverend, you must ask Agnes about Natan. I think they knew each other better than they knew themselves.’