“It’s fate, the gods, that determine the return of ships,” he said. “The sagas of Icelanders witness it.”*
“Yes, it certainly is fortunate that both the gods and fate exist,” she said.
He said: “I wasn’t the finest man in the whole world.”
“No?” she said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have married the squire in Bræðratunga; I would have married the archpriest in Skálholt.”
“It was an autumn day. We were traveling, you and I, along with your sister and brother-in-law, on our way hither to Skálholt from the west; I was supposed to sail after a few days. It was one of those autumn days that are brighter than spring days. You were wearing red stockings. It seemed to me like I was living amongst elves, as it always did whenever you were near, and that my previous world across the sea was forgotten. We rode through Hafnarskógur. Just as soon as a traveler steps into the open spaces in this luminous country, with its sun and streams and the fragrance of the fields, he forgets that poverty rules here. The turf-grown farmhouses out in the countryside seemed to lie in a deep sleep, blessed and charmed. You were wearing a blue cloak, riding ahead of us, the wind blowing through your locks—to my eyes you were the undying woman for whom the heroes of the ancient sagas gave up their lives. She must not be betrayed though all else is lost, said the man riding after her through the copse. I was determined never to leave you. I knew that the king would give me whatever office in Iceland I desired most, and at that time the second magistrate’s office was unfilled. But—there was a book called the
Skálda.
For years this book dominated my mind, and I sent men into every corner of the land to search for its leaves. A hundred years ago it had fallen to the heirs of a poor aristocrat, and they tore it into pieces that came to rest in the hands of inhuman beggars scattered throughout the land. It took me incredible effort, but I managed to scrape together much of it, though I still lacked fourteen leaves, the most valuable leaves of all. I had a vague suspicion that there were several pieces of an old manuscript in a cottage on Akranes and you let yourself be persuaded to make a detour there with me. The place was called Rein.”
She said, “I remember when you led me inside.”
“How true it was, that place was ill suited to a woman of heroic tales. I remember clearly how you cuddled up to me in front of everyone and said, ‘My friend, why have you brought me into this dreadful house?’ And then you were gone.”
“You forgot me.”
“In that hovel I found the most precious leaves from the
Skálda.
We searched around until we found them buried with the rubbish in an old woman’s bed—this gem of books. I remember the moment when I stood there in the sitting room, the leaves in my hands, thinking about the folk who kept the crown of all that was precious to book-lore in the Nordic lands: the decrepit old woman and the simpleton, the farmer, a crabbed and disdainful cord-thief, his back swollen from the lash-strokes of the hangman whom he was accused of having murdered, the emaciated girl with the huge eyes, and the two lepers whose faces had been wiped away; but you were gone. I knew that I would leave and never return. At that moment I betrayed you. Nothing could force me to become the leader of a murdered people. Iceland’s books reclaimed me.”
Lady Snæfríður was standing.
“I never blamed you, Árni,” she said. “Not with words, not with thoughts. You must have known that by the messages I sent you with the ring.”
“I asked Jón Hreggviðsson to keep quiet,” he said. “I never received your messages.”
“I rode away from Skálholt,” she said, “and came to Þingvellir by night. I was alone. I had decided to send this criminal to you. His mother came to me over mountains and streams. I knew that you wouldn’t return, but I didn’t accuse you; I murdered my love willfully the night before, when I gave myself to Magnús from Bræðratunga for the first time. As I rode to Þingvellir I composed the messages I was planning to send to you, and then you refused to hear them, because you didn’t trust me. Now I’m going to say what I wanted to say, all the same, and ask that they be the last words between us tonight and every night as if it were the last.”
Then she spoke the words that she had once, long ago, bidden her father’s condemned criminal carry from Þingvellir by Öxará to her lover: “If my lord can save Iceland’s honor, even if I suffer disgrace, his face shall still shine for this maiden.”
13
One day the bishop’s wife went to her sister to inquire after Snæfríður’s health and to admire her embroidery, which was consistently masterful. The madam’s cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes flickered with a peculiar gleam. She asked her sister, amongst other things, whether she was getting enough sleep at night, and whether her own daughter Guðrún, who shared a bedroom with her aunt, did not keep her awake with all her typically girlish noise and bustle. If this were the case, she said, she could find the girl another place to sleep. Snæfríður automatically became her sister’s adversary whenever the madam showed up in a gracious mood. She said she needed nothing, and as far as the girl’s residing with her, it delighted her to no end.
“And she goes to sleep at a decent hour?” asked the bishop’s wife.
“She’s generally asleep before me,” said Snæfríður.
“But, my darling Snæfríður, I’ve always thought you go to bed so early.”
“I always get a bit drowsy in the evening,” said Snæfríður.*
“One of the girls in the weaving room happened to mention that she has noticed you downstairs sometimes at night,” said the bishop’s wife.
“Housemaids should sleep more at night,” said Snæfríður. “And speak less during the day.”
The bishop’s wife hesitated slightly, then said: “Since we are on the subject of the proper time to retire, it is probably best if I tell you, while it is still fresh in my mind, the latest news: the bishop has started to receive letters written somewhere in this district, containing complaints about the nighttime activities of folk here in Skálholt and threatening inquiries and lawsuits.”
Snæfríður acted, as expected, as if she were curious to hear more about these letters and their origins, and her sister informed her that a letter concerning the matter had been addressed to the king’s proxy, Arnæus, naming him as one of the parties being accused of engaging in certain late-night habits; the other party was the madam’s sister, Snæfríður herself. The bishop’s wife said that it had crossed her mind that her sister might be more knowledgeable about the reasons behind such a letter than she herself. Snæfríður said that she had never heard mention of this before.
The bishop’s wife then explained that Arnæus had very recently met with the bishop and shown him a letter sent to him by Magnús from Bræðratunga. The letter was written in a threatening tone in what nearly amounted to an open attack on Arnæus, accusing the royal commissary of pursuing, in Skálholt, a forbidden relationship with the letter-writer’s wife—word of this relationship was already being circulated amongst the general public. Magnús claimed to have received trustworthy report that his wife had gone frequently to Arnæus’s rooms when he was there alone, sometimes after noontime, when cunning men would be least suspicious, or else late in the evening when they felt sure that the others had gone to bed; she would then remain alone with him for an hour or so behind locked doors. In the letter Magnús testified that a long time ago his wife, then a nubile girl, had been discovered in some sort of liaison with the king’s proxy, then Assessor in Consistorio, and that now the old thread must have been taken up anew, since the woman’s obstinacy toward her husband had increased in the spring no sooner than she heard news of Arnæus’s arrival in Iceland. In addition, Magnús from Bræðratunga claimed to be oppressed by the hateful tyranny of the authorities related to him by marriage; these authorities had, during the previous autumn, seduced his wife away from him, her lawful husband, and he asked God to strengthen him against the vexations of high-ranking men and to thwart their haughty behavior toward a poor man bereft of family and friends.
When the story reached this point Snæfríður could no longer contain herself and she laughed out loud. The bishop’s wife stared at her in amazement.
“You laugh, sister?” she asked.
“What else can I do?” said Snæfríður.
“The Great Decree* is still in effect in this country,” said the bishop’s wife.
“I expect we’ll all be put on the rack,” said Snæfríður.
“All Magnús has to do is bring a charge of adultery against the see’s caretakers and all the knaves and wenches and that whole ragtag lot of beggars will have more than enough to keep them entertained. We will all have to bear the consequences.”
Snæfríður stopped laughing and looked at her sister. The woman was no longer in a gracious mood. When Snæfríður said nothing, the bishop’s wife asked:
“What am I, your sister, matron in Skálholt, to believe?”
“Believe whatever you think is most true, dear woman,” said Snæfríður.
“This news crashed over me like thunder,” said the bishop’s wife.
“If I really wanted to hide something from you, sister, do you think you would become better informed by asking me about it?” said Snæfríður. “You ought to understand your own kin better than that; especially one of your own gender.”
“I am the housewife here in Skálholt,” said the bishop’s wife. “And I am your elder sister. I have before God and men both the right and the responsibility to know whether or not this is a false accusation.”
“It was my understanding that the members of our family were great enough aristocrats that such a matter would be of little concern to them,” said Snæfríður.
“What is it that you think I desire other than your honor and mine and all of ours, to know whether the accusation is true or false?” said the bishop’s wife.
“It would certainly be a novelty if people here in Skálholt started making a fuss about something Magnús Sigurðsson has said,” said Snæfríður.
“No one knows what steps a desperate man might take: we can understand drinkers when they are drunk, but not when they are sober,” said the bishop’s wife. “And how am I to defend my household if I do not know where I stand once the trials and testimonies have begun?”
“It may not matter one bit,” said Snæfríður, “whether I swear yea or nay, now or later. And you might as well let it sink in, sister Jórunn: a woman will swear against her own better conscience everywhere and to anyone, once she decides to conceal a matter that is more precious to her than the truth.”
“God have mercy on me, I am horrified to hear you say these things. I am the wife of a spiritual man.”
“Ragnheiður the bishop’s daughter swore an oath at the altar in the sight of God.”*
“I could tell you all about myself, sister, under oath, without omitting a single detail, be it great or small,” said the bishop’s wife. “But whoever answers in absurd riddles awakens suspicion of an unclean conscience. Such a thing must never occur between sisters— each should instead act as confidante and refuge to the other if misfortune should befall them.”
“Once there was an old woman who died of regret,” said Snæfríður. “She’d forgotten to feed the calf. I’m certain that she had no sister.”
“This is mockery, Snæfríður,” said the bishop’s wife.
“I regret only one of my deeds,” said Snæfríður. “A deed so disgraceful that I can’t even reveal it to my own beloved sister except in summary: I saved a man’s life.”
“You are lost within your sorcerer’s storms, Snæfríður,” said the bishop’s wife. “But now I want to ask you to tell me a story, if not for your own sake and mine, then for the sake of our good mother and our father who upholds the honor of his country: is there any pretext in this affair for those who wish us ill?”
“One night in the autumn,” said Snæfríður, “I came hither to you, sister. I told you that I was saving my own life. All the same, I wasn’t in any more danger that night than I had been every other night for fifteen years. Magnús may be dextrous, but he doesn’t know how to kill, at least me anyway, when he’s drunk. I have no doubt that when he sobered up he must have found it strange that I’d decided to go to Skálholt that autumn, since I never went any other autumn, and he may have been right: I don’t know where I am nor where I stand, and I can’t make these things clear to myself though I try as hard as I can to do so. There is no artlessness in me. It may just as well have happened, though I can’t recall it clearly, that I stayed for some small amount of time in the few instances that I had urgent business with the royal commissary. You yourself know what a master he is at engaging in pleasant conversation even with those who are not particularly clever themselves, men as well as women. And there is nothing more likely than that his secretary was in the vicinity while we were conversing, though I don’t recall it clearly.”
“Hardly,” said the bishop’s wife. A somewhat coarse pucker had appeared around her lips. “Don’t you realize that his is the greatest family of philanderers in the country?”
Snæfríður’s face turned blood-red and its lines slackened for a moment. She reached for her embroidery and in a voice slightly lower than before said:
“Spare me from vulgaria, madam.”*
“I do not speak Latin, dear Snæfríður,” said the bishop’s wife.
They both sat in silence for a long moment. Snæfríður did not look up but instead attended calmly to her needlework. Finally her sister walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. Her gracious demeanor had returned.
“There is only one thing that I must know,” she said, “if my husband is to be held liable for the conduct of those who are within his keeping . . .”—when she reached this point she leaned toward her sister and whispered: “Does anyone know?”
Snæfríður stared coldly and aloofly at her sister, and answered emptily: “I swear it was nothing.”
A little later their conversation ended.
One evening shortly afterward, Snæfríður went to visit the commissary and brought up, amongst other things, the matter of the letter that he was rumored to have received from Magnús Sigurðsson. He replied that as an officer of the crown he had felt it his duty to bring the letter to the bishop’s attention; otherwise he considered the document to be inconsequential, since nothing could be proven to have happened.
She asked: “Then did nothing happen?”
“Nothing has happened unless it is possible to prove that it has,” he said.
“We’ve sat here alone some evenings,” she said.
“The ancient Icelanders were not idiots,” he said. “They introduced Christianity, of course; but they did not prohibit men from engaging in heathen practices—as long as they did it in private. In Persia lying was not prohibited—every man was free to do so if he wanted, as long as he did it in such a way that no one could refute him for it. But whoever lied in such a way that it evoked suspicion was ridiculed, and if he lied a second time in the same way, he was labeled a scoundrel; if it was proven that he had lied a third time his tongue was cut out. The laws in Egypt were much the same: it was considered not only permissible, but also praiseworthy, to steal, but if a man was caught in the act of stealing, both his hands were cut off at the wrists.”
“Shall our little acquaintance then be equated throughout eternity with a crime?” she asked.
The courtier’s lively, cheerful mannerisms disappeared abruptly, and he answered darkly:
“When has human fortune ever been regarded as something better than a crime, or been enjoyed in any other way than in secret, directly contrary to the laws of God and man?”
She stared at him for several moments. Finally she walked over to him and said:
“My friend, you’re tired.”
It was silent throughout the house for quite some time before she left him. In the foyer of the Grand Salon a little lamp was left burning at night in case anyone should need to go out, as was the case now. Another door opposite the building’s main doorway opened from the foyer onto the hallway that led to the pantry and the kitchen and then to the householders’ bedroom; a set of stairs led from the foyer to a loft above. Now it so happens, as Snæfríður leaves the Grand Salon, and Arnæus, who has accompanied her from his rooms, stands at her back upon the threshold and bids her good night, that she catches a glimpse of a face, illumined by the glimmer of lamplight, flickering and hovering in the doorway to the hall. The man saw them but did not move; he stood there in the doorway, ashen and startled, staring at them with black eyes, his features etched with shadows.
She looked at the man in the doorway for a second, then glanced at the assessor, who only whispered: “Go carefully.” She acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening and walked the few steps from the threshold of the Grand Salon to the stairway, then climbed silently up to her room. Arnas pulled the doors shut and returned to his rooms. The man in the hall doorway also drew his door quietly into place.
And all was quiet in the house.