Margrét looked over to where the Kornsá mowers were cutting the grass closest to the river. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’d dare set a foot wrong.’
The two women were resting on the pile of stacked wood outside the Kornsá croft. Ingibj?rg, a small, plain-looking woman from a nearby farm, had paid Margrét a visit, having heard that her friend’s cough was preventing her from participating in the haymaking. While Ingibj?rg had none of Margrét’s acidity, or her forthrightness, the two women were fast friends, and often visited one other when the river that divided their farms was low enough to be forded.
‘Róslín seems to think you’ll all be strangled in your sleep.’
Margrét gave a brusque laugh. ‘I can’t help but think that’s exactly what Róslín wants.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It would give that well-oiled mouth something else to wag about.’
‘Margrét . . .’ Ingibj?rg warned.
‘Oh, Inga. We both know having all those children has turned her head.’
‘The littlest has croup.’
Margrét raised her eyebrows. ‘Won’t be long before they all have it, then. We’ll hear them wailing at all hours of the night.’
‘She’s getting big, too.’
Margrét hesitated. ‘Do you plan on helping with the birth? She’s had that many you’d think she could do it herself.’
Ingibj?rg sighed. ‘I don’t know. I have a bad feeling.’
Margrét studied her friend’s grave expression. ‘Did you have a dream?’ she asked.
Ingibj?rg opened her mouth as if to say something, and then shook herself, changing her mind. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Anyway, let’s not be gloomy. Tell me about the murderess!’
Margrét laughed in spite of herself. ‘There! You’re as bad as Róslín.’
Ingibj?rg smiled. ‘How is she really, though? In character. Are you frightened of her?’
Margrét thought for a moment. ‘She’s nothing like how I imagined a murderess,’ she said at last. ‘She sleeps, she works, she eats. All in silence, though. Her lips might as well be sewn over for all she says to me. That young man, the Reverend Thorvardur, he’s begun to visit her again over these last few weeks, and I know she talks to him, but he doesn’t tell me what passes between them. Perhaps nothing.’ Margrét glanced over to the field. ‘I often wonder what she’s thinking.’
Ingibj?rg followed Margrét’s gaze, and the two women looked together at the bent figure of Agnes amidst the hay, hacking at the grass with her scythe. The blade flashed brightly as she swung it.
‘Who knows?’ Ingibj?rg murmured. ‘I shudder to think of what goes on inside that dark head of hers.’
‘The Reverend says her mother was Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir.’
Ingibj?rg paused. ‘Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir. I knew an Ingveldur once. A loose woman.’
‘No doves come from ravens’ eggs,’ Margrét agreed. ‘It’s strange to think of Agnes being a daughter. I can’t imagine my girls even thinking about something so wretched and sinful as murder.’
Ingibj?rg nodded. ‘And how are your girls?’
Margrét stood and dusted the dirt from her skirt. ‘Oh, you know.’ She started coughing again and Ingibj?rg began to rub her back.
‘Easy, now.’
‘I’m fine,’ Margrét croaked. ‘You know, Steina thinks she knows her.’
Ingibj?rg gave her friend a curious look.
‘She thinks we met her on the way to Gudrúnarstadir, way back when.’
‘Is Steina making up stories again?’
Margrét winced. ‘Only the good Lord knows. I don’t remember. Actually, I’m a bit worried about her. She smiles at Agnes.’
Ingibj?rg laughed. ‘Oh, Margrét! When did a smile ever get anyone into trouble?’