Iceland's Bell Read Free Page B

the sledgehammer and the ax. Then they mounted. The dark man led the horses by the reins. The pale man rode freely alongside the packtrain, following genteel custom.
    “Farewell, you old Bláskógar devil,” he said. “And give God’s greeting and mine to the Þingvellir priest and tell him that His Royal Majesty’s emissary and hangman Sigurður Snorrason has been here.”
    Jón Hreggviðsson sang:
    “The kingdom’s lord leads ladies and pages parading
Throughout his lands at furious pace
Throughout his lands at furious pace
Throughout his lands at furious pace
—On champing stallions they boldly ra-a-ace.”
    The packtrain left by the same route as it had come: over the ford at Öxará, up the slope of the ravine opposite the estuary, then southward to Mossfellsheiði, following the path to the west of the lake.

2
    Actually, nothing more than usual had been proven against Jón Hreggviðsson, even though he had, as always, been charged with the crime. In general, everyone able to do so tried to steal anything they could from the drying sheds of the fishermen on Skagi* during cruel springtimes; some stole fish, some cord for fishing lines. Every spring was cruel. But the regent in Bessastaðir always needed more workers and he was delighted when bailiffs sent thieves to his workhouse, known as the Þrælakista—suspected thieves were just as welcome there as proven ones. At the beginning of the haymaking season, however, the authorities in Borgarfjörður sent word to the regent that the rogue Jón Hreggviðsson should be sent home to Rein on Akranes, because his people had no provider and were close to starvation.
    The farm stood at the foot of the mountain in the place where it was most in danger from both landslides and avalanches. Christ owned the farm and its six-cow inventory.* A long time ago one of the bishops of Skálholt* had donated the farm to this particular landlord with the proviso that it be used to subsidize a widow in the parish of Akranes, particularly one who was pious, honest, and burdened with children; if no widow of this sort could be found in Akranes, one should be sought in Skorradalur. A long search was conducted but no such widow was found in either district, so Jón Hreggviðsson had been made the tenant of the farmer Jesus.
    His homecoming was as might be expected considering the dwellers there were either lepers or half-wits, if not both. Jón Hreggviðsson was drunk when he came home and he began immediately to beat his wife and his idiot son. His fourteen-year-old daughter laughed at him and his aged mother embraced him tearfully: these he did not beat to any considerable extent. His sister and aunt, who were both lepers, one glabrous and palsied, the other nodous and ulcerous, sat downcast in their black veils out by the dungheap, holding each other’s hands and praising God.
    Next morning the farmer went out to sharpen his scythe, and afterward began to cut the grass, loudly singing the
Ballad of Pontus.
The black veils moved reluctantly to the edge of the homefield and started pottering about with rakes. The half-wit and the dog sat on a hillock. The daughter came and stood before the door, barefoot and in a torn undershirt, to take in the smell of the newly mown grass, black and white and slender. Smoke reeked from the chimney.
    Several days passed.
    It then happened that a fine-looking courier riding a strong horse showed up at Rein and delivered to Jón Hreggviðsson a message that he was to appear in the bailiff’s court at Skagi after a week’s time. Jón saddled his jade on the appointed day and rode out to Skagi. The hangman Sigurður Snorrason was there. They were given soured whey to drink. Court was convened in the bailiff’s sitting room and Jón Hreggviðsson was accused of having, at Þingvellir by Öxará, slandered our Supreme Highness and Majesty, Count in Holstein, our Most Gracious Hereditary King and Sire, with unseemly gibes to the effect that this our Sire