Last Rituals (34 page)

 

 

"Was he just wondering about these bishops in general terms?" Thóra asked. "Or was he interested in anything special connected with them?"

 

 

The young man turned to Matthew and switched to English. "I don't know how familiar you are with the story of Jón Arason."

 

 

Realizing this remark was intended for him, Matthew answered: "I know as much about him as I do about his mother. In other words: nothing."

 

 

"Oh, I see." The man sounded almost shocked. "To cut a long story short, Jón Arason was the last Catholic bishop of Iceland. He was bishop of Hólar from 1524 and controlled Skálholt for a while as well. He was beheaded here in Skálholt in 1550, thirteen years after King Christian III of Denmark abolished Catholicism in Iceland and other parts of his realm. Jón Arason tried to prevent the Reformation and led a revolt against the new Lutheran faith, but he failed and ended up with his head on the block. The execution was a separate story because two weeks before, Jón had been granted immunity until the next parliament convened to discuss his case and that of his two sons. They were executed too."

 

 

Matthew wrinkled his brow. "His sons? Wasn't he a Catholic bishop? How could he have sons?"

 

 

The young man smiled. "Iceland had won some kind of dispensation—I don't know exactly how—whereby priests, deacons, and bishops could have mistresses. They were even allowed to make formal contracts that were tantamount to marriage vows. If they had children they paid a fine and everyone was happy."

 

 

"How convenient!" exclaimed Matthew, taken aback.

 

 

"Yes, very," came the jovial reply. "Your friend Harald seemed to know the story well; he'd clearly read up on it. Of course I've only summarized it for you, there's much more to it. But anyway, that's the background to the question you were asking." He looked at Thóra, who tried to conceal the fact that she had forgotten her question long ago. "Your friend was mainly interested in one thing when he talked to me: the printing press that Jón Arason had sent to Iceland in 1534 and set up in Hólar, and what he printed on it."

 

 

"And?" prompted Thóra. "What could you tell him?"

 

 

"It was a big question," the young man replied. "Very little is known about the first print. Some sources say it was a missal—a sort of manual for priests with a calendar of services, psalms, and the like. The four gospels of the New Testament were also printed at some stage. As far as I can establish nothing else is known about printing in Jón Arason's day. I remember your friend asking some rather curious questions—for instance, if the bishop could have published a certain book that was very popular at that time. I asked if he meant the Bible but he just laughed. I didn't quite see the joke."

 

 

"No, I can imagine," said Matthew with a glance at Thóra.
"Malleus?"
She had thought precisely the same.
Malleus Maleficarum
was the most printed book after the Bible in those days. Maybe Harald was trying to unearth whether it had been printed in Iceland. A copy would have been priceless, not to mention its symbolic value to a passionate collector such as him.

 

 

"And what did he want to know about Brynjólfur Sveinsson?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"That was quite interesting," the young man said. "At first he was only interested in seeing his grave—which is impossible because it hasn't been found yet."

 

 

Thóra interrupted him. "Not found yet? Wasn't he buried here?"

 

 

"Yes, he was, but he asked to be buried outside the church, beside his wife and children. There's an account of the location, but it still hasn't been excavated. He wanted to rest in an unmarked grave."

 

 

"Wasn't that unusual?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"Very much so. In fact, the grave was marked later with a wooden fence that stood for thirty years. Then it began to fall down and wasn't maintained, in defiance of the church's orders. No one really knows why he didn't give himself a tomb beneath the nave, as was the custom at that time. It's thought that he found it too cramped when he attended the funeral of one of his clergymen here. Maybe he wanted to put an end to the practice."

 

 

"And did it end?" asked Matthew.

 

 

"No, not at all. But there may have been another reason. He died a broken man. Understandably—dying alone, that remarkable figure, with all his family dead and no descendants. Most people find his fate very moving."

 

 

"But you said Harald was interested in seeing Brynjólfur's grave at first—did he move on to something else?" asked Thóra.

 

 

"Yes, he did. I started talking to him about Brynjólfur when I saw how upset he was about the grave. I took him into the crypt and the archaeological exhibition there. Then I showed him the excavations outside. We got onto the subject of Brynjólfur's library—you know that he owned a large collection of Icelandic and foreign manuscripts?" Thóra and Matthew shook their heads—neither had any idea. "And you know that he gave some of Iceland's most remarkable calfskin books to King Frederik of Denmark?" Thóra shook her head again.

 

 

"Your friend got very excited when I started telling him about the manuscripts and wanted to know what had happened to them when Brynjólfur died. I couldn't tell him exactly, but I did know that he gave his foreign books to the infant son of the governor of Iceland at the time, who was a Dane named Johann Klein, and that he shared out the Icelandic ones between his cousin Helga and his sister-in-law Sigrídur. As far as I recall, some of the Icelandic books went astray; at least, some were missing when Johann Klein came to collect them. The clergy at Skálholt are suspected of hiding them to stop them from being sent to Denmark. Those books and manuscripts have never been found. No one even knows the titles."

 

 

"Where could they have hidden them?" Thóra asked, looking all around.

 

 

The young man smiled. "Not in here. This building dates from 1956. The old church that Brynjólfur had built in 1650–51 collapsed in an earthquake in 1784."

 

 

"And you haven't looked for them?"

 

 

"We still haven't found the graves of Brynjólfur and his family, in spite of the description of the location. He died in 1675. We certainly wouldn't look for books that were only rumored to have been buried here at that time. And the fate of the books he bequeathed is uncertain. Apparently Árni Magnússon came across a few when he began collecting manuscripts. Some of Brynjólfur's books can be recognized from his monogram."

 

 

"BS?" Thóra asked, for the sake of contributing something.

 

 

"No. LL." The young man smiled.

 

 

Thóra repeated in surprise: "LL?"

 

 

"
Loricatus lupus
—Latin for 'armored wolf,' which is what the name Brynjólfur means." He smiled at Thóra who could not restrain herself from clicking her fingers.
"Loricatus lupus"
was written on Harald's scrawled map. They were clearly on the right track if his jottings had some connection with the murder.

 

 

Their conversation soon came to an end. Matthew and Thóra thanked the young man for his patience. Before starting the car, Matthew turned to Thóra and said: "
Loricatus lupus,
yes. Should we wait until everyone's gone home and dig up everything we can get a shovel through?"

 

 

"Definitely," Thóra said with a smile. "Let's start with the cemetery."

 

 

"You'll have to do the shoveling, then—you're dressed for the part. I'll sit in the car and light you up with the headlights."

 

 

They left Skálholt. "I know where we could go next," Thóra said, with an air of innocence. "There are caves near Hella that were probably dug out by Irish monks. Maybe we can find an explanation there for Harald's interest in the hermits. I have a hunch Harald borrowed the flashlight to take a look around there."

 

 

Matthew shrugged. "It's worth looking into—won't we need a flashlight too?"

 

 

"Maybe we can pick one up at a gas station."

 

 

By the time they reached Hella it was pitch-dark. They began by buying two flashlights at a gas station. The attendant told them they could find information about the caves at Hótel Mosfell. It was only a stone's throw away, so they left the Jeep and walked. At the hotel a friendly elderly man followed them outside to point out the caves, which were just visible beyond the main road on the other side of the river. He also showed them the best path to take, since the caves could not be approached by car. After thanking him, they returned to the Jeep and drove straight over the bridge to where he had advised them to park. Much to Thóra's delight they had to walk a fair distance over a meadow that appeared to belong to the farm there. Matthew kept stumbling in his slippery shoes but always managed to keep his balance by flapping his arms like he was trying to fly. When they reached the edge of the slope down to the caves, Thóra was in excellent spirits.

 

 

"There," she said, pointing with her flashlight. She feigned concern. "Do you think you'll make it down there, Fred Astaire?"

 

 

Frowning back, Matthew tried to suck it up. He inched his way down the slope like a ninety-year-old man while Thóra bounded down like a spring lamb. She struck a pose in front of him, determined to enjoy the moment, and called out mischievously: "Chop-chop!" Matthew ignored her and finally made it all the way.

 

 

"What a rush you're in," he said as he caught up with her. "Are you that excited about having dinner with me afterward?"

 

 

Thóra swung her flashlight up and shone it in Matthew's eyes. "Hardly. Come on." She turned round and they entered the first cave. "Wow, how on earth did they think of this?" she said in astonishment, casting the beam of light around the wide space. Unless she had misunderstood, the caves had been carved into sandstone by Irish monks using primitive tools.

 

 

"What do you think they were for?" Matthew asked.

 

 

"Shelter, mainly," said a voice from the mouth of the cave.

 

 

Thóra let out a piercing shriek and dropped her flashlight. As it rolled along the bumpy floor of the cave, the beam bounced along the facing wall until it stopped. "God, you made me jump out of my skin," she said, bending down to pick up the flashlight. "We didn't know anyone was in here."

 

 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," said the man, whose voice gave the impression that he was quite elderly. "We're even actually," he added. "It's a long time since I've had a shock like the one your scream gave me. They phoned me from the hotel to say some sightseers were on the way to the caves. I thought you might want a guide. My name's Grímur and I own the farm above here. The caves are on my land."

 

 

"Oh, yes," said Thóra. Not a bad property to own, she thought. "We'd be delighted to have a guide—we don't really know very much about what we're looking at."

 

 

The man walked inside the cave and began explaining what they could see. He spoke Icelandic and Thóra translated the gist for Matthew. Grímur showed them where beds had presumably been arranged by the walls. Then they examined a chimney that had been carved out through the ceiling to let air in, or smoke out. He pointed out an altar and cross that the monks must have chiseled or carved in the wall behind it. "Well, well," Thóra said, surprised and impressed. "This is quite remarkable."

 

 

"Yes, it is," the man said feelingly. "This has never been an easy land to live off of—or in, for that matter. Any efforts to acquire shelter would have paid off for the early settlers in the long run."

 

 

"I can imagine." Thóra took another look all around with the help of her flashlight. "Have the caves been investigated—I mean, couldn't there be valuables hidden away in here?"

 

 

"Valuables?" He looked surprised and then laughed. "It was used as a cattle shed until around 1950. You couldn't really hide anything here. It would have to be very carefully concealed, I can tell you that."

 

 

"Ah," Thóra said, disappointed. "So it's all been searched?"

 

 

"No, I didn't say that," the man replied. "As far as I know my caves have only been studied once."

 

 

"When was that?" asked Thóra. "Recently?"

 

 

Grímur laughed again. "No, not recently. I don't remember exactly but it was a good while ago. It didn't yield much, as expected. They found remains of animal bones and a hole that was apparently used for cooking." He pointed to a hole in the ground near the altar. "No, the little that remained to be found has already been found, I assure you."

 

 

Thóra's last question was whether the man had noticed Harald visiting the caves. He did not recognize the description but added that it didn't necessarily mean he hadn't been there—the caves weren't fenced off and were easy for people to reach without being noticed.

 

 

"Go and get changed, then, Crocodile Dundee," Matthew said when they were back at the hotel. "I'm so lucky I can just throw off my jacket and go to the bar—and win back the time I lost on that slope."

 

 

Thóra stuck her tongue out at him, but went to her room to change. She put on nice slacks and a plain white blouse, washed her face and put on a little lipstick. There was nothing wrong with a little makeup for a dinner invitation—that didn't necessarily mean you were expecting anything. Yet she paused at the word "necessarily." It wasn't quite convincing enough, and worried her slightly. She brushed the thought aside and went up to the bar. Matthew was standing there deep in conversation with the barman—presumably Óli. Matthew smiled at her, clearly pleased with the transformation.