The Glass Woman Read online

  Dedication

  To my two sons, Arthur and Rupert.

  I love you more than books.

  Epigraph

  Jafnan er hálfsögð saga ef einn segir.

  A tale is but half told when only one person tells it.

  Icelandic proverb, from

  The Saga of Grettir the Strong

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  Rósa

  Part Two

  Rósa

  Part Three

  Jón

  Rósa

  Jón

  Rósa

  Jón

  Part Four

  Rósa

  Jón

  Rósa

  Jón

  Part Five

  Rósa

  Jón

  Rósa

  Jón

  Rósa

  Part Six

  Rósa

  Jón

  Rósa

  Jón

  Part Seven

  Rósa

  One Week Earlier

  Jón

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary of Icelandic words

  Also by Caroline Lea

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Stykkishólmur, Iceland, November 1686

  The day the earth shifts, a body emerges from the belly of the ice-crusted sea. Bone-white fingers waving, as if alive.

  The men and women of Stykkishólmur stumble into the cold air, cursing as the tremors shower tufts of turf onto their heads. But the sight of the arm, beckoning them towards the frozen water, freezes them in their tracks, half-finished words left unspoken, mouths agape.

  The men surge forward, scrambling over the wrinkled hillocks of solid seawater. It is hard work. He struggles among them, cradling the throbbing wound in his side. His tattered breaths rip from him with every jolt of his sealskin boots on the ice.

  Behind him, safe on snow and frozen soil, people are watching. He can feel them weighing his every step – hoping for the ice to give way.

  He remembers carrying the heavy body in the winding sheet, weighted with stones; remembers his wound paining him as they scraped through the snow and smashed the ice with long staves before sliding the body in. The sea had swallowed it immediately, the flash of white vanishing into the darkness. But the knowledge of the body stayed, like the blood-spattered scenes at the end of the Sagas: those age-old, heat-filled stories, which are told to children from birth and fill every Icelander with an understanding of violence.

  Six days ago, he had muttered a prayer over the black water, and then they had laboured back to the croft. The ice had crusted over the hole by moon-down, and by the time the pale half-light of the winter sun seeped into the sky, the snow concealed it. Weather masks a multitude of sins.

  But the land in Iceland is never still. The grumbling tremors or the sucking of the waters must have dislodged the stones, and now the body has bobbed upwards and broken through the cracks in the ice. And here it is. Waving.

  He slips and falls heavily, grunting as the smack of the ice throbs through his side. But he must carry on. He heaves himself upright, gasping at the pain. The ice creaks under his boots. Beneath him, the black water gulps, endless and hungry. He eases himself forward.

  Gently. Gently.

  The earth shudders again – no more than the shaking of a wet dog, but it throws him to his knees. The world reduces to grating, shifting sheets of ice. He lies face down, gasping – waiting for the crack that will echo like a shattering bone. It will be the last noise he hears before the sea swallows him.

  The ice stills. The world stops shivering. Silence settles.

  He pulls himself to his knees and the two men alongside him do the same.

  They exchange a look, eyebrows raised, and he nods. The ice groans. Underneath, the dark current seeps, like a secret.

  ‘Hurry!’ one of the people on shore calls. ‘Another quake will take you!’

  He sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair.

  ‘It would be best left,’ says one of the men, who is tall and black-eyed, as if he is formed from the same shifting, volcanic rock as the land.

  The third man, light-skinned and red-haired, like a Celt, nods. ‘Until the spring. More light, the ice will thaw.’

  He scratches his beard, then shakes his head. ‘We must get it out now . . . I must get it out.’

  The taller of the men scowls, his dark eyes blackening further. ‘Go back,’ he says. ‘Don’t risk yourselves.’

  But now the other men shake their heads too.

  ‘We stay,’ says the taller man, quietly.

  The crowd on the shore still watches: ten people, but their excitement and whispering make them seem more. They are muttering in huddles, mouths hidden behind mittened hands. Their words make grey clouds of sound in the cold air – poison circling like a miasma.

  They are near the water now; the ice crackles under their boots. He holds up a hand. They stop.

  He lies down on his stomach and eases forward. Less than a hand-span beneath him, he can see the gulping black sea. In front of him, the white-shrouded shape bobs in the water. The frozen fingers beckon him invitingly.

  The ice grinds its teeth.

  He jabs with the scythe and, with a rush of exultation, feels it catch on the cloth. He heaves. The body floats closer, pale hand flapping towards his face. He flinches. Then the material rips and the scythe tears free. The body bobs away.

  ‘Leave it,’ growls the dark-haired man.

  He stretches out with the scythe again. His cold muscles shriek in protest, and his arm judders with the effort. He jabs hard, and the metal point stabs through the sheet. He winces, as though the cold metal has punctured his own flesh, then closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and stabs again. The blade sinks into the meat.

  The other two men hold him as he starts to heave the body from the water. Slowly, a dark shape emerges and flops out onto the ice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he rasps.

  They carry the heavy parcel over the sea-ice, back to land.

  He tries not to look down at where that dead hand trails across the slush and ice, like the fingers of a child, balling snow ready to hurl. Smoke from the fires in the nearby crofts sends a black scrawl into the icy air – dark runic scribbles against the villagers’ excited white breath.

  As the men near the shore, the people surge forward, fluttering like eager carrion birds, jostling to be the first to gorge on this unexpected feast.

  Part One

  Long shall a man be tried.

  Icelandic proverb from The Saga of Grettir the Strong

  Rósa

  Skálholt, August 1686

  Rósa sits in the baðstofa of the croft that newly belongs to her and her mamma. A biting plume of wind shafts through the gaps between the turf wall and the tiny window, which is made of pale sheepskin, shorn of wool and stretched, until it is thinner and more translucent than the expensive paper imported from Denmark.

  She shivers as the wind plucks at her tunic, but still she huddles closer to the opening to catch the fading light, tugging her shawl about her shoulders.

  She dips the quill into the precious pot of ink.

  My dear Jón Eiríksson,

  I write to beg your mercy and understanding, my husband. Your apprentice, Pétur, arrived today, with your kind gift of three woollen dresses and bade me to join you in Stykkishólmur. I wish to be a dutiful wife in this, our new marriage, but I regret I cannot join you

  Rósa stops, bites her lip and pulls the shawl more closely around
her. Then she scores out cannot and writes will not. Her hand wobbles and she presses down so hard that the quill snaps, spattering ink over her words.

  Her eyes sting. She growls, balls up the paper and hurls it to the floor.

  ‘Pick that up, girl,’ her mother wheezes, from the opposite bed. ‘Are we richer than Niord to waste good paper and ink?’ A rattling cough bubbles from her chest.

  ‘Sorry, Mamma.’ Rósa smiles, teeth gritted, then picks up the paper, smoothing it over her knee. ‘I cannot think . . .’ She feels her mouth crumpling, and bites the inside of her cheek.

  Her mother smiles. ‘You are nervous, of course. Your husband will know that, no matter what you write. I remember when I wed your father . . .’

  Rósa nods mutely, a sudden stone in her throat.

  Sigridúr’s smile fades. She pats the bed next to her. ‘This is not like you. Sit. Good. Now, what troubles you?’

  Rósa opens her mouth to answer, but can find no words for the crushing panic she feels at the thought of leaving her village to live with this stranger, whom she must suddenly call ‘husband’. When she thinks of him, she cannot picture his face, but only his hands: strong and sun-darkened. She imagines them pulling on oars, or wringing a chicken’s neck.

  Suddenly Sigridúr clasps Rósa’s hands. ‘No more of that!’ For a moment, Rósa wonders how her thoughts were so plain to see. Then she looks down at her hands and realizes that, without thinking, she had begun to trace the vegvísir on her hand.

  ‘No runes!’ Sigridúr hisses.

  Rósa nods and clenches her hands into fists. ‘I know.’

  ‘You cannot know. You must remember. Your husband is not like your pabbi was. He will not blink and pretend not to see what is under his nose. You must quote nothing but Bible verses and hymns to him. No runes. No Sagas. You understand?’

  ‘I am not a fool, Mamma,’ Rósa whispers.

  Sigridúr’s expression softens and she strokes Rósa’s cheek. ‘Do not fret. If his prayers become tiresome, you must wait until he’s asleep, then beat him over the head with his Bible and lock him outside in the snow.’

  Despite herself, Rósa smiles.

  Sigridúr snorts and adds, ‘For the huldufólk to feast upon.’

  Rósa rolls her eyes. ‘Mamma, please. Not even in jest – you’ve said so.’

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ Sigridúr says. ‘There is no one to overhear us.’ She pauses and her eyes flash. ‘Besides, the huldufólk prefer to eat children.’

  ‘Mamma!’

  Sigridúr holds up her hands. ‘I must laugh while I can, my love. Marriage.’ Her mouth twists. ‘And to a man from so far away.’

  Rósa feels her panic rising again and crushes it. ‘Remember, Mamma, the new turf on the roof, the big stove. Peat to burn – it lights much better than manure. And Jón will trade with Copenhagen for wood for you when the ships arrive. Imagine wood to line the walls, Mamma. Furs instead of homespun. You will be warm all winter. In time, you will fight off this infection.’

  ‘Your pabbi taught you to argue, that is certain. And to be a fisherman’s wife. Such a waste.’

  ‘He is not simply a fisherman.’

  ‘Yes, goði is not a title to snivel at. I know he grows barley on his home farm and does good trade with the Danes. I heard his speech, just as you did. A pretty picture he painted. But people say –’

  ‘Rumours, Mamma, and we will pay them no mind.’

  ‘They say Jón’s first wife –’

  ‘Overblown stories.’ Rósa’s voice sounds harsh, even to her own ears, but it distracts her from the prickling sensation in her hands and feet whenever she imagines being alone with this man. Three nights ago, she had dreamed that her new husband was lying on top of her, but he had the head and shoulders of an Arctic bear. He leaned forward to kiss her, but opened his jaws wide and roared. The meaty stench of his breath had made her gag and she had woken retching. She worries that the dream is an omen and she has tried time and again to write to Jón, delaying the time when she must travel to Stykkishólmur. But then, when she listens to her mother’s wheezing, she knows her decision is right. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she sees not Jón’s face but another man’s – a face more familiar than her own. A hand reaching out to brush the hair back from her forehead. But she quashes that thought too, and says, ‘We won’t talk of Jón’s first wife. It’s jealous gossip, aimed at frightening me. You said so yourself.’

  Sigridúr nods slowly, looking down at her hands, which are blue-laced with cold. ‘But, still, Stykkishólmur is four days’ hard ride away. The land is cruel, especially after the hard winter we had last year . . . They say there are ice floes in the sea that have not melted for twelve months. And why does he want you?’

  ‘Such a compliment, Mamma. You must stop, or my head will grow too big for the croft.’

  ‘Hush!’ Sigridúr grins. ‘I think the world of you, but . . . Why not a girl from his own village?’

  Rósa has worried at the same question herself, but now she reaches across and clasps her mother’s cold fingers. ‘I must be irresistible.’

  Sigridúr smiles sadly. ‘Your pabbi would have known what to do.’

  ‘I miss him too.’ Rósa embraces her, closing her eyes and inhaling the sour smell of wool and sweat that reminds her of her childhood.

  Rósa’s father, Magnús, the Bishop of Skálholt, had died nearly two months earlier. It had started with stomach pains, but within a month his belly had swollen as if he were heavy with child.

  The village had whispered, of course, that it was the work of some witch with a grudge, peeved perhaps that he had banned all runes and the casting of spells, where previous bishops had openly read from the Sagas and the Bible alike. Magnús had treated the rumours with contempt: he had denounced them from the pulpit and had threatened to have the gossips thrown from the church. It smothered the hissed rumours, but didn’t stop the illness raging through his body. He was dead before the Solstice, leaving little in the way of money or goods for his wife and daughter. Magnús had sold the lavish croft with its glass windows and wood-lined walls, giving the money to the upkeep of the church. He had chosen to live instead in a small, cramped, turf-roofed building, like his flock.

  Riches feed the body but devour the soul. Better to live humbly, like Christ.

  During his lifetime the villagers had been generous: in addition to the weekly tithe, they had given ale and mutton enough to keep the family well fed and create the illusion of prosperity. But it had taken Rósa very little time after her pabbi’s death to see that their situation was desperate.

  Soon, her mamma had developed a cough that bubbled like a sulphurous marsh with every breath. Rósa lay in the baðstofa at night, listening to the fluid filling Sigridúr’s chest. She remembered Pabbi’s lessons about the four humours: too much water in the lungs could leave a person drowning in their own body.

  She watched her mother shrink and wheeze, curling into herself like an old woman: grey-skinned, with eye-sockets like caves. Rósa’s desires for herself withered and her life sharpened to a single purpose: help Mamma to survive.

  On the first Sunday of July, a month after Magnús’s death, Rósa had gone to church with the intention of praying for guidance. She and Mamma had eaten the last of their skyr that morning and were too proud to beg.

  On the way to the church, she had passed Margrét, who was using a stick to scratch lines in the ground outside her croft. She turned at Rósa’s footsteps, then quickly scuffed out the lines with her shoe. ‘Just a Bible verse.’ She grimaced, her chin jutting aggressively, and tucked her grey hair into the threadbare cap where it had come loose.

  ‘Which one?’ Rósa couldn’t help asking. It was no secret that Margrét couldn’t read or write a word and was envious of Rósa’s knowledge. She had been scratching out a rune, no doubt.

  ‘Ten Commandments,’ Margrét snapped. ‘In pictures. Enough of your smirking, Rósa. I saw that young man of yours.’

  ‘Youn
g man of mine?’ Rósa thought she could feel heat rising to her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me. He’s off digging turf on a Sunday instead of going to church. You’ll have to keep Páll in line if you want him to make a good husband.’

  ‘Then you must look for the girl he means to marry and tell her so. Perhaps you will find her when you go to church, Margrét, instead of making patterns outside your croft.’

  Rósa didn’t wait for her to respond, but quickly walked on. She scanned the fields for Páll, but couldn’t see him. Neither was his one of the dozens of faces that turned to hers, then away, whispering, when she walked into the church.

  The building was hot with bodies as the villagers crowded to welcome the newly appointed bishop, Olaf Gunnarsson. They fidgeted as he spoke.

  Suddenly, Bishop Olaf was speaking Rósa’s name, the daughter of the great Bishop Magnús. He beckoned her up to the wooden pulpit as everyone stared; she could imagine them judging how thin she had grown. As soon as he let her go, she darted back to her bench, taking a deep breath only once the eyes of a hundred villagers were no longer upon her.

  But as she looked up once more, she had the feeling that someone was still watching. She glanced to her left and there he was: a stranger in the village where she knew everybody’s name.

  He was a huge man: the muscles in his arms stretched the material of his tunic. He was dark-skinned, as if he spent much of his time outside. His heavy beard hid too much of his mouth for her to read his expression.

  She dropped her gaze. When she looked up again, he was still staring.

  After the service, the stranger left quickly. Rósa didn’t have to ask to find out who he was because everyone was full of talk: Jón Eiríksson was a rich fisherman, farmer and merchant from Stykkishólmur. A self-made, powerful man. Since the death of the chieftain in the area, he also acted as goði, dealing with many legal and church matters from his own croft – there was no church building in his tiny settlement. He had been travelling south to buy a new cow and had stopped at Rósa’s village. The Skálholt church buzzed with talk.

  Old Snorri Skúmsson’s white beard quivered with excitement. He leaned in close to Rósa – she could see the red veins that spidered over his nose. ‘He’s given out that he is here to welcome Bishop Olaf and pay his respects, but of course he’s not fooling anyone.’ Snorri sniggered. ‘His wife died and now he’s after a new one – everyone has been talking of it. We all saw him staring at you, Rósa. And you won’t be staying in the church now, with your pabbi gone – a good thing. Women reading – pah!’