Previously inhabited by Vikings during the 8th and 9th century, Iceland was a popular place to plunder; the land at that time was free to whomever could lay claim to it (the law dictated that a man could claim the area of land he could light spot fires around in one day whereas a woman could lay claim to the area of land she could lead a stubborn heifer around in one day). During the Viking settlement, it was also thought to provide solitude to monks seeking the kind of ascetic existence that monastic life applauded. The 13th and 14th centuries saw Iceland fall to Danish rule and their conversion to Christianity meant that they were as tame as any other European nation; suddenly laws and jurisdictions of the Danish court were implemented and law officers were appointed to each district to keep the peace. Midway through the 13th century, the Black Plague (also known as the Black Death) decimated Europe’s population. Despite its isolation, Iceland was not immune to this devastating pandemic. The crisis continued when one hundred years later, small pox reduced the dwindling population further still.

It wasn’t until the latter half of the 17th century that Iceland became a nation unto itself, but still governed by Danish rule. Although sporadic volcano eruptions over the last 500 years (the largest being the Laki Volcano in 1783) induced widespread famine, a fortunate by-product had made the land rich and incredibly fertile. Over-cultivation, however, meant that the land never recovered fully and it became a tundra climate, reduced to dense shrubbery, lichen, stagnant moss and hostile woody vegetation. As such, the wool and fish industry expanded and many Icelandic families raised livestock on their lands for profit and to feed their own families. At a result of this, the workforce was tied to the land and itinerant workers moved from one farm to another for work. As such, Agnes had visited the farm of Kornsa before her arrest when it was in the hands of another renting family.

The nation’s independence from Danish rule occurred in the first half of the 1900s and today, effectively under its own rule as a Republic, Iceland has opened itself up to the world trade market. It is notable for its innovation in green energy and its popular educational reforms.

It was and still is the most sparsely populated country in Europe; due to the harsh climate and glacial plateaus, two-thirds of the small population exist in and around the capital city of Reykjavik. Still considered volcanic and geologically active, it is home to inner plateaus made of sand and lava fields, steep mountain ranges, vast glaciers and fjords (the gathering of sea water that forms when a glacier retreats, usually resulting in a U-shaped valley that is filled with sea water).

Icelanders are a proud people who treasure their nation’s history and draw on its traditions and beliefs. Much of their recorded literature, including a valuable set of recorded ‘sagas’, come from Iceland’s ‘Golden Age’, the 13th and 14th centuries when Iceland was independent. The authors of these sagas are mostly unknown; most were never written down but were performed as oral traditions and as such have been absorbed into Icelandic culture, being organically altered a little with each new generation. Kent’s novel directly references the most famous of these, the ‘Laxdaela’ saga, which is thought to have been written by a woman and involves the story of a romantic tryst, not unlike that of Natan, Agnes and Sigga. The tradition of the oral storytelling is something that Kent capitalises on in her novel and one that she is able to promote with the inclusion of the round turf huts that provided shelter to the inhabitants, and which were built to preserve the heat in the chilling winter months, and with the badstofa, a communal living and sleeping room where the family and the servants would work, dine, sleep and talk. Given the turf huts (often round in shape, a residual design from the Viking days) were connected by long hallways to isolate the heat created by an open hearth, the badstofa afforded very little privacy and it is a pivotal aspect of Kent’s story and by extension, that of Agnes. The houses were very rudimentary, made to nestle into the ground for anchorage against the strong winds and to harness the warmth from the soil underneath the foundations. The roofs were patched with compacted dirt and dried weed from the sea and as glass was a rare luxury for the working class. The resourceful Icelanders would dry out animal organ casings and stretch them out over frames to provide a pane of sorts. Although this existence may seem quaint to some, it is the nature of the peasant housing with ‘cramped rooms constructed of turf that issued clouds of dust in the summer’ (p11) and the relentless chill on the air that causes Margret to be ill with a chronic lung condition.