‘What happened?’ he asked gently. ‘Why have they put you in irons again?’
Agnes looked down at her wrists, as if surprised to see them there. She swallowed hard. ‘Sigga is to have an appeal. Bl?ndal is appealing to the King to reduce the sentence he gave her.’ Her voice cracked. ‘They pity her.’
Tóti sat back and nodded. ‘I knew.’
Agnes was aghast. ‘You knew?’
‘They pity you too,’ he added, wanting to comfort her.
‘You’re wrong,’ she hissed. ‘They don’t pity me; they hate me. All of them. Bl?ndal especially. What about Fridrik? Are they appealing his sentence, too?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
Agnes’s eyes glistened in the shadow. Tóti thought she might be crying, but when she leaned closer he saw that her eyes were dry.
‘I’ll tell you something, Reverend Tóti. All my life people have thought I was too clever. Too clever by half, they’d say. And you know what, Reverend? That’s exactly why they don’t pity me. Because they think I’m too smart, too knowing to get caught up in this by accident. But Sigga is dumb and pretty and young, and that is why they don’t want to see her die.’ She leant back against the post, her eyes narrowed.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Tóti said, trying to soothe her.
‘If I was young and simple-minded, do you think everyone would be pointing the finger at me? No. They’d blame it on Fridrik, saying he overpowered us. Forced us to kill Natan because he wanted his money. That Fridrik desired a little of what Natan had is no great secret. But they see I’ve got a head on my shoulders, and believe a thinking woman cannot be trusted. Believe there’s no room for innocence. And like it or not, Reverend, that is the truth of it.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in truth,’ dared Tóti.
Agnes lifted her head off the post and stared at him, her eyes paler than ever. She grimaced. ‘I have a question for you, speaking of truth. You say God speaks the truth?’
‘Always.’
‘And God said, “Thou shalt not kill”?’
‘Yes,’ Tóti said, carefully.
‘Then Bl?ndal and the rest are going against God. They’re hypocrites. They say they’re carrying out God’s law, but they’re only doing the will of men!’
‘Agnes –’
‘I try to love God, Reverend. I do. But I cannot love these men. I . . . I hate them.’ She said the last three words slowly, through clenched teeth, gripping the chain that connected the irons about her wrists.
There was a knock from the entrance to the badstofa and Margrét entered with her daughters and Kristín.
‘Excuse me, Reverend. Don’t mind us. We’ll work and talk amongst ourselves.’
Tóti nodded grimly. ‘How goes the harvest?’
Margrét huffed. ‘All this wet August weather . . .’ She returned to her knitting.
Tóti looked at Agnes, who gave him a bleak smile.
‘They’re even more scared of me now,’ she whispered.
Tóti thought. He turned to the group of women. ‘Margrét? Is it not possible for these irons to be removed?’
Margrét glanced at Agnes’s wrists, and put down her needles. She left the room and returned with a key shortly after. She unlocked the irons.
‘I’ll just set them here, Reverend,’ she said stiffly, lifting the cuffs onto the shelf above the bed. ‘In case you need them.’
Tóti waited until Margrét had returned to the other end of the room and then looked at Agnes. ‘You mustn’t act like that again,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I was not myself,’ she said.
‘You say they hate you? Don’t give them further reason.’
She nodded. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ There was a moment before she spoke again. ‘I had a dream last night.’
‘A good one, I hope.’
She shook her head.
‘What did you dream of?’
‘Dying.’
Tóti swallowed. ‘Are you afraid? Would you like me to pray for you?’
‘Do what you like, Reverend.’