On the Cold Coasts

see unless that man has the support of those who control the fish trade at any given time. Alternatively—and there is more hope for this now—he must have the support of a bishop who voluntarily renounces office and returns to his home country. After all that has transpired, Craxton will no longer be secure on the bishop’s seat, and since that is the case, our only option is to seize power—without violence if at all possible, with violence if all else fails. The next bishop of Holar will be Icelandic, selected and supported by Icelanders.” Thorkell caught hold of her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. He no longer appeared loving; instead, he seemed threatening, and there was fire in his eyes. “We live in times of change and upheaval, Ragna. It is every man for himself. You must now decide, simple woman, where you want to stand: with me, or against me.”
    His sudden change of mood shocked her, and she moved back, accidentally bumping into Magistrate Bjorn, who rolled from the bench and onto the floor with a thud. He groaned and touched his head with his hand, then turned over on his side and continued snoring beneath the table, his upper body hidden behind the tablecloth that nearly touched the floor. Thorkell raised his eyebrows scornfully. The sounds in the hall remained as before; no one paid any attention to the passed-out magistrate.
    “I may be only an ignorant woman,” Ragna said nervously, “but even I know that Mr. Craxton is appointed by the pope in Rome and the pope is chosen by God.”
    Thorkell laughed coldly. “The pope is chosen by men, cardinals, who are born as sinful as you and I. They are bought and sold like prostitutes. He himself is born of a woman, conceived in sin and lust, just like…”
    “Blasphemy!” she interjected, upset. “This is madness!”
    He lifted his hand swiftly, his expression furious. Instinctively she raised her arm, thinking he was going to hit her. He lowered his hand again and leaned forward so close that she felt the heat from his breath. He spoke slowly, his tone caustic:
    “No, my dear Ragna Gautadottir, there is no madness in thinking differently from others and aspiring to higher things. The secret lies in daring to be different, finding strength in knowledge, and understanding things that are concealed from others. Thanks to your betrayal, I attended seminaries in both Germany and France, and one of the things I learned is that those who want to rise from the dust and become greater than the rest must dare to go after what they want. John Craxton will bend to my will, just you wait and see. Otherwise, those twenty-three men will be hanged like the robbers and thugs they are.”
    She looked at him, filled with despair, and did not know what, if anything, she should say. All she knew was that this would come to a terrible end.

    From his nook, Michael saw the magistrate hit the floor. He could hardly believe his luck. He waited a short while; his mother and Father Thorkell were deep in conversation and saw only each other, and the men next to them had their backs turned. He would scarcely get a better opportunity. Slowly he moved closer, without them noticing, then got on his hands and knees and crawled under the table. The magistrate’s breath smelled so foul that he felt sick. He worked fast, pulling out a small dagger and cutting the leather tie that fastened the keychain to Bjorn’s belt. The keys jangled when he stuck them under his cloak. That same instant someone seized his shoulder roughly and dragged him out from under the table.
    “What are you doing, boy, moping around under there?! You weren’t eavesdropping, were you?” asked Thorkell harshly. “Get yourself to bed!”
    “No sir, I mean yes…yes, sir,” the boy stammered, staring at the floor and crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Had Father Thorkell seen the keys, it would have been all over. Michael glanced up at his mother. Her expression was stern, and his head sank even lower. “I’ll be off, then; God give you a good night,” he mumbled into his chest and rushed out before they could answer, half-running out of the hall and down the corridor.
    The calm autumn night was dark and freezing. He wished he’d put on a better overcoat. His cloak reached only just below his groin, and there was little warmth in his tight breeches. But he had to be quick; his mother was just as likely to check on him soon in the bed that had been made for them. Michael put his