THE BRIDAL
                                 WREATH

                    TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF

                             SIGRID UNDSET

                      BY C. ARCHER AND J. S. SCOTT











                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                               PUBLISHERS
                 _by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf_


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               COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.


            =_MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_=




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                                CONTENTS


                                 BOOK I

                       JÖRUNDGAARD              3


                                BOOK II

                       THE GARLAND            109


                                BOOK III

                       LAVRANS BJÖRGULFSÖN    219


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                                BOOK ONE






                                                             JÖRUNDGAARD




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                                   1

WHEN the lands and goods of Ivar Gjesling the younger, of Sundbu, were
divided after his death in 1306, his lands in Sil of Gudbrandsdal fell
to his daughter Ragnfrid and her husband Lavrans Björgulfsön. Up to then
they had lived on Lavrans’ manor of Skog at Follo near Oslo; but now
they moved up to Jörundgaard at the top of the open lands of Sil.

Lavrans was of the stock that was known in this country as the
Lagmandssons. It had come here from Sweden with that Laurentius, Lagmand
of East Gotland, who took the Belbo Jarl’s sister, the Lady Bengta, out
of Vreta convent, and carried her off to Norway. Sir Laurentius lived at
the Court of King Haakon the Old, and won great favour with the King,
who gave him the Skog manor. But when he had been in the country about
eight years he died in his bed, and his widow, who belonged to the
Folkunga kindred, and had the name of a King’s daughter among the
Norwegians, went home and made matters up with her relations. Afterwards
she made a rich marriage in another land. She and Sir Laurentius had no
children, so the heritage of Skog fell to Laurentius’ brother, Ketil. He
was father’s father to Lavrans Björgulfsön.

Lavrans was married very young; he was three years younger than his
wife, and was only twenty-eight when he came to Sil. As a youth he had
been in the King’s bodyguard and had enjoyed a good upbringing; but
after his marriage he lived a quiet life on his estate, for Ragnfrid was
something strange and heavy of mood, and seemed not at home among the
people of the south. After she had had the ill-hap to lose three little
sons, one after the other, in the cradle, she grew yet more shy of
people. Thus it was in part to bring his wife nearer to her kinsfolk and
old acquaintance that Lavrans moved to Gudbrandsdalen. When they came
there, they brought with them the one child that was left, a little maid
called Kristin.

But when they had settled at Jörundgaard they lived for the most part
just as quietly there, keeping very much to themselves; it seemed as
though Ragnfrid did not care much for her kindred, for she saw them no
oftener than seemly use and wont required. This was in part because
Lavrans and Ragnfrid were more than commonly pious and God-fearing folk,
diligent in church-going, and always pleased to give harbour to God’s
servants, to messengers sent on the Church’s errands, or to pilgrims on
their way up the valley to Nidaros; and showing the greatest honour to
their parish-priest—who was also their nearest neighbour, living at
Romundgaard. Other folk in the valley were rather given to think that
the Church cost them quite dear enough in tithes and in goods and money;
and that there was no need to fast and pray so hard besides, or to bring
priests and monks into their houses, unless at times when they were
really needed.

Otherwise the Jörundgaard folk were much looked up to, and well-liked
too; most of all Lavrans, for he was known as a strong man and a bold,
but peace-loving, quiet and upright, plain in his living but courteous
and seemly in his ways, a rarely good husbandman and a mighty
hunter—’twas wolves and bears and all kinds of harmful beasts he hunted
most keenly. In a few years he had gotten much land into his hands; but
he was a good and helpful landlord to his tenants.

Folk saw so little of Ragnfrid that they soon gave up talking much about
her. In the first time after she came back to the valley many people had
wondered, for they remembered her as she had been at her home at Sundbu
in her youth. Beautiful she had never been, but she had looked kind and
happy; now she had fallen off so that you might well believe she was ten
years older than her husband, and not only three. Most folk deemed she
took the loss of her children harder than was reason, for but for this
she was better off in every way than most wives—she lived in great
plenty and in high esteem, and things were well between her and her
husband, so far as people could see; Lavrans did not go after other
women, he took counsel with her in all affairs, and, sober or drunk, he
never said a harsh word to her. Besides she was not so old but she might
yet bear many children, if it were God’s pleasure.

It was somewhat hard for them to get young folks to take service at
Jörundgaard, the mistress being thus heavy of mood and all the fasts so
strictly kept. Otherwise it was a good house to serve in; hard words and
punishments were little in use; and both Lavrans and Ragnfrid took the
lead in all the work. The master, indeed, was glad of mood in his own
way, and would join in a dance or lead the singing when the young folk
held their games on the Church-green on vigil nights. But still it was
mostly older folks who came and took service at Jörundgaard; these liked
the place well and stayed there long.

When the child Kristin was seven years old, it so fell out one time that
she got leave to go with her father up to their mountain sæter.

It was a fine morning, a little way on in the summer, Kristin was in the
loft-room, where they were sleeping now summer had come; she saw the sun
shining outside and heard her father and his men talking in the
courtyard below—and she was so joyful that she could not stand still
while her mother put on her clothes, but hopped and jumped about as each
piece of clothing was put on her. She had never been up in the mountains
before; only across the pass to Vaage, when she was taken to visit her
mother’s kinsfolk at Sundbu, and sometimes to the woods near by the
manor with her mother and the house-folk, when they went out to pluck
berries for Ragnfrid to mix with the small beer, or to make into sour
paste of cranberries and cowberries that she ate on her bread in Lent
instead of butter.

The mother twisted up Kristin’s long yellow hair and tied it into her
old blue cap, then kissed her daughter on the cheek, and Kristin sprang
away and down to her father. Lavrans was in the saddle already; he
lifted her up behind him and seated her on his cloak, which he had
folded up and placed on the horse’s loins for a pillion. Kristin had to
sit there astride and hold on to his belt. They called out “Goodbye” to
Ragnfrid; but she came running down from the balcony with Kristin’s
hooded cape—she handed it to Lavrans and bade him look well to the
child.

The sun shone, but it had rained much in the night, so that everywhere
the becks came rushing and singing down the grassy slopes, and wreaths
of mist clung and drifted under the mountain sides. But over the
hill-crest white fair-weather clouds were swelling up in the blue air,
and Lavrans and his men said among themselves that it was like to be hot
as the day went on. Lavrans had four men with him, and they were all
well-armed; for at this time there were many kinds of outlandish people
lying up among the mountains—though a strong party like this, going but
a short way in, was not like to see or hear aught of such folk. Kristin
was fond of all the men; three of them were men past youth, but the
fourth, Arne Gyrdsön, from Finsbrekken, was a half-grown boy, and he was
Kristin’s best friend; he rode next after Lavrans and her, for it was he
that was to tell her about all they saw on their road.

They passed between the Romundgaard houses and changed greetings with
Eirik priest. He was standing outside chiding with his daughter—she kept
house for him—about a web of new-dyed cloth that she had hung out and
forgotten the day before; it was all spoilt now with the night’s rain.

On the hill behind the parsonage lay the church; it was not large, but
fair and pleasant, well-kept and newly tarred. By the cross outside the
churchyard gate Lavrans and his men took off their hats and bowed their
heads; then the father turned in the saddle, and he and Kristin waved to
Ragnfrid, whom they could see down below at home standing out on the
sward by the houses; she waved back to them with the full of her linen
head-dress.

Up here on the church-green and in the church yard Kristin was used to
come and play near every day but to-day, when she was setting out to go
so far, the sight she knew so well—home and all the parish round
it—seemed new and strange to the child. The clusters of houses at
Jörundgaard looked, as it were, smaller and greyer, lying there down on
the flats, courtyard and farmyard. The river wound shining on its way,
the valley spread far with broad green meadows and marshes in its bottom
and farms with ploughland and pasture stretched up the hillsides under
the grey and headlong mountain walls.

Far below, where the mountains came together and closed the valley,
Kristin knew that Loptsgaard lay. There lived Sigurd and Jon, two old
men with white beards; they were always for playing and making merry
with her when they came to Jörundgaard. She was fond of Jon, for he
would carve out the fairest beasts in wood for her, and once she had had
a gold finger-ring of him; nay, the last time he came to them, at
Whitsuntide, he had brought her a knight so sweetly carved and coloured
so fairly that Kristin thought she had never had so fine a gift. She
must needs take the knight to bed with her every single night; but when
she woke in the morning he was always standing on the step in front of
the bed she lay in with her father and mother. Her father said the
knight jumped up at the first cockcrow; but Kristin knew well enough
that, after she had fallen asleep, her mother took him away, for she
heard her say that he was so hard, and hurt so if he got underneath them
in the night.—Sigurd of Loptsgaard Kristin was afraid of, and she did
not like him to take her on his knees; for he used to say that when she
grew up he meant to sleep in her arms. He had outlived two wives, and he
said himself he was sure to outlive the third; and then Kristin could be
the fourth. But when she began to cry at this, Lavrans laughed and said
he had no fear that Morgit would give up the ghost so speedily; but if
the worst came to pass and Sigurd should come a-wooing, let Kristin have
no fear—he should have No for his answer.

A bowshot or so north of the church there lay by the roadside a great
block of stone, and around it a thick small grove of birch and aspen.
Here the children were wont to play at church, and Tomas, the youngest
son of Eirik priest’s daughter, stood up in the person of his
grandfather and said mass, sprinkled holy-water, and even baptized, when
there was rain-water in the hollows of the rock. But once, the autumn
before, this game had fallen out but sadly for them. For first Tomas had
married Kristin and Arne—Arne was not so old but he would go off and
play with the children when he saw a chance. Then Arne caught a baby pig
that was going by, and they brought it into church to be baptized. Tomas
anointed it with mud, dipped it into a pool of water, and, copying his
grandfather, said mass in Latin and chid them for the smallness of their
offerings—and at this the children laughed, for they had heard their
elders talk of Eirik’s exceeding greed of money. But the more they
laughed the worse Tomas got in the things he hit on: for next he said
that this child had been gotten in Lent, and they must pay penalty for
their sin to the priest and the church. The great boys shouted with
laughter at this; but Kristin was so ashamed that she was all but
weeping, as she stood there with the little pig in her arms. And just as
this was going on who must chance to come that way but Eirik himself
riding home from a sick-visit. When he understood what the young folks
were about, he sprang from his horse, and handed the holy vessels to
Bentein, his eldest grandson, who was with him, so suddenly that Bentein
nearly dropped the silver dove with God’s body in it on the hillside,
while the priest rushed in among the children belabouring all he could
reach. Kristin let slip the little pig, and it rushed shrieking down the
road with the christening robe trailing after it, while Eirik’s horses
reared and plunged with terror; the priest pushed her too so that she
fell down, and he knocked against her with his foot so hard that she
felt the pain in her hip for many days after. Lavrans had thought when
he heard of this, that Eirik had been too hard with Kristin, seeing she
was but a little child. He said he would speak to the priest of it, but
Ragnfrid begged him not to do so, for the child had gotten but what she
deserved, for joining in such a blasphemous game. So Lavrans said no
more of the matter; but he gave Arne the worst beating the boy had ever
had.

So now, as they rode by the stone, Arne plucked Kristin by the sleeve.
He dared not say aught for fear of Lavrans, but he made a face, then
smiled and clapped his hand to his back. But Kristin bowed her head
shamefacedly.

Their way led on into thick woods. They rode along under Hammerhill; the
valley grew narrow and dark here and the roar of the river sounded
louder and more harsh—when they caught a glimpse of the Laagen it ran
ice-green and white with foam between walls of rock. The mountains on
either side of the valley were black with forest; it was dark and narrow
and ugly in the gorge, and there came cold gusts of wind. They rode
across the Rostaa stream by the log-bridge, and soon could see the
bridge over the great river down the valley. A little below the bridge
was a pool where a kelpy lived. Arne began to tell Kristin about it, but
Lavrans sternly told the boy to hold his peace in the woods about such
things. And when they came to the bridge he leaped off his horse and led
it across by the bridle, while he held the child round the waist with
his other arm.

On the other side of the river was a bridle-path leading steeply up the
hillside, so the men got off their horses and went on foot; but her
father lifted Kristin forward into the saddle, so that she could hold on
to the saddle-bow; and let her ride Guldsveinen all alone.

Now grey-stone peaks and blue domes flecked with snow rose above the
mountain ridges as they climbed higher up; and now Kristin saw through
the trees glimpses of the parish north of the gorge, and Arne pointed,
and told her the names of the farms that they could make out down there.

High up the mountain-side they came to a little croft. They stopped by
the stick fence; Lavrans shouted, and his voice came back again and
again from the mountains round. Two men came running down, between the
small tilled patches. These were both sons of the house; they were good
men at the tar-burning and Lavrans was for hiring them to burn some tar
for him. Their mother came after them with a great bowl of cooled milk;
for the day was now grown hot, as the men had foretold.

“I saw you had your daughter with you,” she said when she had greeted
them, “and methought I must needs have a sight of her. But you must take
the cap from her head; they say she hath such bonny hair.”

Lavrans did as the woman asked him, and Kristin’s hair fell over her
shoulders and hung down right to the saddle. It was thick and yellow
like ripe wheat. The woman, Isrid, took some of it in her hand and said:

“Aye, now I see the word that has gone about concerning this little maid
of yours was nowise too great—a lilyrose she is, and looks as should the
child of a knightly man. Mild eyes hath she too—she favours you and not
the Gjeslings. God grant you joy of her, Lavrans Björgulfsön! And you’re
riding on Guldsveinen, as stiff and straight as a courtier,” she said,
laughingly, as she held the bowl for Kristin to drink.

The child grew red with pleasure, for she knew well that her father was
held to be the comeliest man far around; he looked like a knight,
standing there among his men, though his dress was much of the farmer
fashion, such as he wore at home for daily use. He wore a coat of
green-dyed wadmal, somewhat wide and short, open at the throat, so that
the shirt showed beneath. For the rest, his hose and shoes were of
undyed leather, and on his head he had a broad-brimmed woollen hat of
the ancient fashion. For ornaments he had only a smooth silver buckle to
his belt, and a little silver brooch in his shirt-band; but some links
of a golden neck-chain showed against his neck. Lavrans always wore this
chain, and on it there hung a golden cross set with great rock-crystals;
it was made to open, and inside there were shreds of the hair and the
shroud of the holy Lady Elin of Skövde, for the Lagmandssons counted
their descent from one of that blessed lady’s daughters. But when
Lavrans was in the woods or out at his work he was used to thrust the
cross in next his bare breast, so that he might not lose it.

Yet did he look in his coarse homely clothing more high-born than many a
knight of the King’s household in his finest banqueting attire. He was
stalwart of growth, tall, broad-shouldered, and small-waisted; his head
was small and sat fairly on his neck, and he had comely features,
somewhat long—cheeks of a seemly fullness, chin fairly rounded and mouth
well shaped. His skin was light and his face fresh of hue, he had grey
eyes and thick smooth silky-yellow hair.

He stood there and talked with Isrid of her affairs; and asked about
Tordis too, a kinswoman of Isrid’s that was tending the Jörundgaard
sæter this summer. Tordis had just had a child; Isrid was only waiting
for the chance of a safe escort through the woods before taking the boy
down to have him christened. Lavrans said that she had best come with
them up to the sæter; he was coming down again the next evening, and
’twould be safer and better for her to have many men to go along with
her and the heathen child.

Isrid thanked him: “To say truth, ’twas even this I was waiting for. We
know well, we poor folk under the uplands here, that you will ever do us
a kind turn if you can, when you come hither.” She ran up to the hut to
fetch a bundle and a cloak.

It was indeed so that Lavrans liked well to come among these small folk
who lived on clearings and lease-holdings high up on the outskirts of
the parish; amongst them he was always glad and merry. He talked with
them of the ways of the forest beasts and the reindeer of the upland
wastes; and of all the uncanny things that are stirring in such places.
And he stood by them and helped them with word and deed; saw to their
sick cattle; helped them with their errands to the smith or to the
carpenter; nay, would sometimes take hold himself and bend his great
strength to the work, when the worst stones or roots were to be broken
out of the earth. Therefore were these people ever glad to greet Lavrans
Björgulfsön and Guldsveinen, the great red stallion that he rode upon.
’Twas a comely beast with a shining skin, white mane and tail and light
eyes—strong and fiery, so that his fame was spread through all the
country round; but with his master he was gentle as a lamb, and Lavrans
used to say that the horse was dear to him as a younger brother.

Lavrans’ first errand was to see to the beacon on Heimhaugen. For in the
hard and troubled times a hundred years or more gone by, the yeoman of
the dales had built beacons here and there high up on the fells above
them, like the seamarks in the roadsteads upon the coast. But these
beacons in the uplands were not in the ward of the King’s levies, but
were cared for by the yeomen-guilds, and the guild-brothers took turns
at their tending.

When they were come to the first sæter, Lavrans turned out all but the
pack-horse to graze there; and now they took a steep foot-path upwards.
Before long the trees grew thin and scattered. Great firs stood dead and
white as bones upon the marshy grounds—and now Kristin saw bare,
grey-stone peaks rising to the sky on all hands. They climbed long
stretches amid loose stones, and at times the becks ran in the track, so
that her father must carry her. The wind blew strong and fresh up here
and the ground was black with berries amidst the heather, but Lavrans
said they could not stop now to gather them. Arne sprang now in front
and now behind, plucked berries for her, and told her whose the sæters
were that they saw below them in the forest—for there was forest over
the whole of Hövringsvangen in those days.

And now they were close below the highest round bare top and saw the
great pile of timber against the sky, with the watch-house under the lee
of a crag.

As they came up over the brow the wind rushed against them and buffeted
their clothing—it seemed to Kristin as though something living, that
dwelt up here, met and greeted them. It blew gustily around her and Arne
as they went forward over the mosses, till they sate them down far out
on a jutting point, and Kristin gazed with great eyes—never before had
she dreamed that the world was so big and wide.

Forest-shagged ranges lay below her on all sides; the valley was but a
cleft betwixt the huge fells, and the side-glens still lesser clefts;
there were many such, yet was there little of dale and much of fell. All
around grey peaks, flaming with golden lichen, rose above the sea of
forest, and far off, on the very brink of heaven, stood blue crests
flashing here and there with snow, and melting, before their eyes, into
the grey-blue and pure white summer-clouds. But northeastwards, nearer
by—just beyond the sæter woods—lay a cluster of mighty slate-coloured
domes with streaks of new-fallen snow down their slopes. These Kristin
guessed to be the Boar Fells she had heard tell of, for they were indeed
like naught but a herd of heavy boar wending inland that had just turned
their backs upon the parish. Yet Arne told her ’twas a half-day’s ride
to get even so far.

Kristin had ever thought that could she but win over the top of the
home-fells she would look down upon another parish like their own, with
tilled farms and dwellings, and ’twas great wonder to her now to see how
far it was betwixt the places where folks dwelt. She saw the small
yellow and green flecks down below in the dale-bottom, and the tiny
clearings with their grey dots of houses amid the hill forests; she
began to take tale of them, but when she had reckoned three times
twelve, she could keep count of them no longer. Yet the human
dwelling-places were as nothing in that waste.

She knew that in the wild woods wolves and bears lorded it, and that
under every stone there dwelt trolls and goblins and elfinfolk, and she
was afraid, for no one knew the number of them, but there must be many
times more of them than of Christian men and women. Then she called
aloud on her father, but he could not hear, for the blowing of the
wind—he and his men were busy rolling heavy stones up the bare mountain
top to pile round the timbers of the beacon.

But Isrid came to the children and showed Kristin where the fell west of
Vaage lay. And Arne pointed out the Grayfell, where folk from the parish
took reindeer in pits, and where the King’s falcon-catchers lay in stone
huts. That was a trade Arne thought to take to some day—but if he did he
would learn as well to train the birds for the chase—and he held his
arms aloft as though to cast a hawk.

Isrid shook her head.

“’Tis a hard and evil life, that, Arne Gyrdsön—’twould be a heavy sorrow
for your mother, boy, should you ever come to be a falcon-catcher. None
may earn his bread in those wild hills except he join in fellowship with
the worst of men—aye, and with them that are worse still.”

Lavrans had come toward them and had heard this last word: “Aye,” says
he, “there’s more than one hide of land in there that pays neither tax
nor tithe—”

“Yes, many a thing must you have seen,” said Isrid coaxingly, “you who
fare so far afield—”

“Aye, aye,” said Lavrans slowly. “Maybe—but methinks ’tis well not to
speak of such things overmuch. One should not, I say, grudge folks who
have lost their peace in the parish, whatever peace they can find among
the fells. Yet have I seen yellow fields and brave meadows where few
folk know that such things be, and herds have I seen of cattle and small
stock, but of these I know not whether they belonged to mankind or to
other folk—”

“Oh! aye,” says Isrid. “Bears and wolves get the blame for the beasts
that are missed from the sæters here, but there are worse thieves among
the fells than they.”

“Do you call them worse?” asked Lavrans thoughtfully, stroking his
daughter’s cap. “In the hills to the south under the Boar Fells I once
saw three little lads, and the greatest was even as Kristin here—yellow
hair they had, and coats of skin. They gnashed their teeth at me like
wolf-cubs before they ran to hide. ’Twere little wonder if the poor man
who owned them were fain to lift a cow or two—”

“Oh! both wolves and bears have young,” says Isrid testily. “And you
spare not them, Lavrans, neither them nor their young. Yet they have no
lore of law nor of Christendom, as have these evil-doers you wish so
well to—”

“Think you I wish them too well, because I wish them a little better
than the worst?” said Lavrans, smiling a little. “But come now, let us
see what cheer Ragnfrid has sent with us to-day.” He took Kristin by the
hand and led her with him. And as they went he bent and said softly: “I
thought of your three small brothers, little Kristin.”

They peeped into the watch-house, but it was close in there and smelt of
mould. Kristin took a look around, but there were only some earthen
benches about the walls, a hearth-stone in the middle of the floor, and
some barrels of tar and faggots of pine-roots and birch-bark. Lavrans
thought ’twould be best they should eat without doors, and a little way
down among the birches they found a fine piece of green-sward.

The pack-horse was unloaded, and they stretched themselves upon the
grass. In the wallets Ragnfrid had given them was plenty food of the
best—soft bread and bannocks, butter and cheese, pork and wind-dried
reindeer meat, lard, boiled brisket of beef, two kegs with German beer,
and of mead a little jar. The carving of the meat and portioning it
round went quickly, while Halvdan, the oldest of the men, struck fire
and made a blaze—it was safer to have a good fire out here in the woods.

Isrid and Arne gathered heather and dwarf-birch and cast it on the
blaze. It crackled as the fire tore the fresh green from the twigs, and
small white flakes flew high upon the wisps of red flame; the smoke
whirled thick and black toward the clear sky. Kristin sat and watched;
it seemed to her the fire was glad that it was out there, and free, and
could play and frisk. ’Twas otherwise than when, at home, it sat upon
the hearth and must work at cooking food and giving light to the folks
in the room.

She sat nestled by her father with one arm upon his knee; he gave her
all she would have of the best, and bade her drink her fill of the beer
and taste well of the mead.

“She will be so tipsy she’ll never get down to the sæter on her feet,”
said Halvdan, laughing, but Lavrans stroked her round cheeks:

“Then here are folk enough who can bear her—it will do her good—drink
you too, Arne—God’s gifts do good, not harm, to you that are yet
growing—make sweet, red blood, and give deep sleep, and rouse not
madness and folly—”

The men too drank often and deep; neither was Isrid backward. And soon
their voices and the roar and crackle of the fire were but a far off
hubbub in Kristin’s ears, and she began to grow heavy of head. She was
still aware how they questioned Lavrans and would have him tell of the
strange things he had met with when out a-hunting. But much he would not
say; and this seemed to her so good and so safe—and then she had eaten
so well.

Her father had a slice of soft barley-bread in his hands; he pinched
small bits of it between his fingers into shapes of horses, and cutting
shreds of meat, he set these astride the steeds and made them ride over
his thigh and into Kristin’s mouth. But soon she was so weary she could
neither open her mouth nor chew—and so she sank back upon the ground and
slept.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When she came to herself again, she was lying in a warm darkness within
her father’s arm—he had wrapped his cloak about them both. Kristin sat
up, wiped the moisture from her face, and unloosed her cap that the air
might dry her damp locks.

The day was surely far spent, for the sunlight was golden, and the
shadows had lengthened and fell now toward the southeast. No breath of
wind was stirring, and gnats and flies buzzed and swarmed about the
group of sleeping men. Kristin sat stock still, scratched her
gnat-bitten hands and gazed about her—the mountain-top above them shone
white with moss and golden with lichen in the sunshine, and the pile of
weather-beaten timber stood against the sky like the skeleton of some
wondrous beast.

She grew ill at ease—it was so strange to see them all sleeping there in
the naked daylight. At home if by hap she woke at night, she lay snug in
the dark with her mother on the one side and on the other the tapestry
stretched upon the wall. And then she knew that the chamber with its
smoke-vent was shut and barred against the night and the weather
without, and sounds of slumber came from the folk who lay soft and safe
on the pillows twixt the skins. But all these bodies, lying twisted and
bent on the hillside, about the little heap of black and white ashes,
might well be dead—some lay upon their faces, some upon their backs with
knees updrawn, and the noises that came from them scared her. Her father
snored deeply, but when Halvdan drew a breath, it piped and whistled in
his nose. And Arne lay upon his side, his face hidden on his arm, and
his glossy, light-brown hair spread out amongst the heather; he lay so
still Kristin grew afraid lest he be dead. She had to bend forward and
touch him—and on this he turned a little in his sleep.

Kristin suddenly bethought her, maybe they had slept through the night
and this was the next day—and this frightened her so that she shook her
father; but he only grunted and slept on. Kristin herself was still
heavy of head, but she dared not lie down to sleep again. And so she
crept forward to the fire and raked in it with a stick—there were still
some embers aglow beneath. She threw upon it heather and small twigs
which she broke off round about her—she dared not pass the ring of
sleepers to find bigger branches.

There came a rattling and crashing in the woods near by, and Kristin’s
heart sank and she went cold with fear. But then she spied a red shape
amidst the trees, and Guldsveinen broke out of the thicket. He stood
there and gazed upon her with his clear, bright eyes. She was so glad to
see him, she leapt to her feet and ran to the stallion. And there, too,
was the brown horse Arne had ridden, and the pack-horse as well. Now she
felt safe and happy again; she went and patted them all three upon their
flanks, but Guldsveinen bent his head so that she could reach up to
fondle his cheeks, and pull his yellow-white forelock, while he nosed
round her hands with his soft muzzle.

The horses wandered, feeding, down the birch-grown slope, and Kristin
went with them—she felt there was naught to fear so long as she kept
close to Guldsveinen—he had driven off a bear before now, she knew. And
the bilberries grew so thick in here, and the child was thirsty now,
with a bad taste in her mouth; the beer was not to her liking any more,
but the sweet, juicy berries were good as wine. Away, on a scree, she
saw raspberries growing too—so she grasped Guldsveinen by the mane, and
sweetly bade him go there with her, and the stallion followed willingly
with the little maid. Thus, as she wandered further and further down the
hillside, he followed her when she called, and the other two horses
followed Guldsveinen.

Somewhere near at hand she heard the gurgling and trickling of a beck;
she followed the sound till she found it, and then lay out upon a great
slab and washed her hot, gnat-bitten face and hands. Below the slab the
water stood, a still, black pool, for over against it there rose a wall
of rock behind some small birches and willows—it made the finest of
mirrors, and Kristin leaned over and looked at herself in the water, for
she wished to see whether ’twas true, as Isrid said, that she bore a
likeness to her father.

She smiled and nodded and bent forward till her hair met the bright hair
about the round, great-eyed child-face she saw in the beck.

Round about grew a great plenty of those gay, pink flower-clusters they
name valerian—redder far and finer here by the fell-beck than at home by
the river. Of these Kristin plucked and bound them about with grass,
till she had woven herself the finest, thickest wreath of rose-pink. The
child pressed it down on her head and ran to the pool to see how she
looked now she was decked out like a grown maid who goes a dancing.

She stooped over the water and saw her own dark image rise from the
bottom and grow clearer as it came to meet her—and then in the mirror of
the pool she saw another figure standing among the birches opposite and
bending toward her. In haste she got upon her knees and gazed across. At
first she thought it was but the rock and the bushes clinging round its
foot. But all at once she was aware of a face amid the leaves—there
stood a lady, pale, with waving, flaxen hair—the great, light-grey eyes
and wide, pink nostrils were like Guldsveinen’s. She was clad in
something light, leaf-green, and branches and twigs hid her up to the
broad breasts which were covered over with brooches and sparkling
chains.

The little girl gazed upon the figure; and as she gazed the lady raised
a hand and showed her a wreath of golden flowers;—she beckoned with it.

Behind her Kristin heard Guldsveinen neigh loud in fear—she turned her
head—the stallion reared, screaming till the echoes rang, then flung
around and fled up the hill with a thunder of hoofs. The other horses
followed—straight up the scree, while stones came rumbling down and
boughs and roots broke and rattled.

Then Kristin screamed aloud. “Father,” she shrieked, “father!” She
gained her feet, tore after the horses and dared not look behind. She
clambered up the scree, trod on the hem of her dress and slipped back
downwards; climbed again, catching at the stones with bleeding hands,
creeping on sore bruised knees, and crying now to Guldsveinen, now to
her father—sweat started from every pore of her body and ran like water
into her eyes, and her heart beat as though ’twould break against her
ribs; while sobs of terror choked her throat:

“Oh father, oh father!”

Then his voice sounded somewhere above: she saw him come with great
bounds down the scree—the bright, sunlit scree; birch and aspen stood
along it and blinked from their small silvered leaves—the hillside was
so quiet, so bright, while her father came leaping, calling her by name;
and Kristin sank down and knew that now she was saved.

“Sancta Maria!” Lavrans knelt and clasped his daughter—he was pale and
strange about the mouth, so that Kristin grew yet more afraid; ’twas as
though only now in his face she read how great had been her peril.

“Child, child,—” he lifted her bleeding hands, looked at them, saw the
wreath upon her bare head, and touched it. “What is it—how came you
hither, my little Kristin—?”

“I went with Guldsveinen,” she sobbed upon his breast. “I got so afraid
seeing you all asleep, but then Guldsveinen came—and then there was
someone by the beck down yonder that beckoned me—”

“Who beckoned—was it a man?”

“No, ’twas a lady—she beckoned with a wreath of gold—I think ’twas the
dwarf-maiden, father—”

“Jesus Kristus,” said Lavrans softly, and crossed himself and the child.

He helped her up the scree till they came to a grassy slope; then he
lifted and bore her. She clung about his neck and sobbed—could not stop
for all his soothing.

Soon they met the men and Isrid. The woman smote her hands together,
when she heard what had befallen:

“Aye, ’twas the Elf-maiden sure enough—she would have lured the fair
child into the mountain, trust you me.”

“Hold your peace,” bade Lavrans sternly. “Never should we have talked of
such things here in the woods as we did—one knows not what may lie
beneath the rocks and hearken to each word.”

He drew the golden chain from out his shirt and hung it and the
relic-holding cross about Kristin’s neck and thrust them in upon her
bare body.

“But see to it, all of you,” he said, “that you watch well your mouths,
so Ragnfrid may never know the child has been in such peril.”

Then they caught the three horses, which had made off into the woods,
and went quickly down to the pasture where the other horses were
grazing. There they all mounted and rode to the Jörundgaard sæter; it
was no great way.

The sun was near setting when they came thither; the cattle were in the
pens, and Tordis and the herds were busy at the milking. Within the hut,
porridge stood cooked awaiting them, for the sæter-folk had spied them
by the beacon earlier in the day, and they were looked for.

Now, at length, was Kristin’s weeping stilled. She sat upon her father’s
knee and ate porridge and cream from out the same spoon as he.

Lavrans was to go next day to a lake farther in the mountains, where lay
some of his herdsmen with the bulls. Kristin was to have gone with him,
but now he said she must stay in the hut while he was gone—“and you must
take heed, both Tordis and Isrid, to keep the door barred and the
smokehole closed till we come back, both for Kristin’s sake, and for the
poor unchristened babe’s here in the cradle.”

Tordis was so frighted now that she dared no longer stay with the little
one up here, for she was still unchurched since her lying in—rather
would she go down at once and bide in the parish. Lavrans said this
seemed to him but wise; she could go down with them the next evening; he
thought he could get an older widow woman, serving at Jörundgaard, up
hither in her stead.

Tordis had spread sweet, fresh mountain grass under the skins on the
benches; it smelt so strong and good, and Kristin was near asleep while
her father said Our Father and Ave Maria over her.

“Aye, ’twill be a long day before I take you with me to the fells
again,” said Lavrans, patting her cheek.

Kristin woke up with a start:

“Father—mayn’t I go with you either when you go southwards at harvest,
as you promised—”

“We must see about that,” said Lavrans, and straightway Kristin fell
asleep between the sheepskins.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   2

Each summer it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to ride southward and see
to his manor in Follo. These journeys of her father were landmarks of
each year in Kristin’s life—the long weeks while he was gone, and the
joy of his homecoming with brave gifts: fine outlandish stuffs for her
bride-chest, figs, raisins and honey-bread from Oslo—and many strange
things to tell her.

But this year Kristin marked that there was something more than common
afoot toward the time of her father’s going. ’Twas put off and off; the
old men from Loptsgaard rode over at odd times and sat about the board
with her father and mother; spoke of heritage, and freehold and
redemption rights, and hindrances to working the estate from so far off,
and the bishop’s seat and the King’s palace in Oslo, which took so much
labour from the farms round about the town. They scarce ever had time to
play with her, and she was sent out to the kitchen-house to the maids.
Her mother’s brother, Trond Ivarsön of Sundbu, came over to them more
often than was his wont—but _he_ had never been used to play with
Kristin or pet her.

Little by little she came to have some inkling of what it was all about.
Ever since he was come to Sil, Lavrans had sought to gather to himself
land here in the parish, and now had Sir Andres Gudmundsön tendered him
Formo in Sil, which was Sir Andres’ heritage from his mother, in change
for Skog, which lay more fittingly for him, since he was with the King’s
bodyguard and rarely came hither to the Dale. Lavrans was loth to part
with Skog, which was his freehold heritage, and had come to his
forebears by royal gift; and yet the bargain would be for his gain in
many ways. But Lavran’s brother, Aasmund Björgulfsön, too, would gladly
have Skog—he dwelt now in Hadeland, where he had wedded an estate—and
’twas not sure that Aasmund would waive the right his kinship gave him.

But one day Lavrans told Ragnfrid that this year he would have Kristin
with him to Skog—she should see the manor where she was born, and which
was his fathers’ home, now that it was like to pass from their hands.
Ragnfrid deemed this but right, though she feared not a little to send
so young a child on such a long journey, where she herself could not be
by.

For a time after Kristin had seen the Elf-maid she was so fearful that
she kept much within doors by her mother—she was afraid even when she
saw the folk who had been with them on the fells and knew what had
befallen her, and she was glad her father had forbidden all talk of that
sight of hers.

But when some little time was gone by she began to think she would like
to speak of it. In her thoughts she told the story to someone—she knew
not whom—and, ’twas strange, the more time went by, the better it seemed
she remembered it, and the clearer and clearer grew the memory of the
fair lady.

But, strangest of all, each time she thought of the Elf-maid there came
upon her such a longing for the journey to Skog, and more and more fear
that her father would not take her with him.

At last she woke one morning in the loft-room and saw her mother and old
Gunhild sitting on the threshold looking over a heap of Lavrans’
squirrel-skins. Gunhild was a widow who went the round of the farms and
sewed fur lining into cloaks and the like. And Kristin guessed from
their talk that now it was she should have a new cloak, lined with
squirrel-skin and edged with marten. And then she knew she was to go
with her father, and she sprang up in bed and shrieked with gladness.

Her mother came over to her and stroked her cheek:

“Are you so glad then, my daughter, you are going so far from me?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Ragnfrid said the same that morning they were to set out. They were up
at cock-crow; it was dark without, with thick mist between the houses,
as Kristin peeped out of the door at the weather. The mist billowed like
grey smoke round the lanterns, and out by the open house-doors. Folk ran
twixt stables and outhouses, and women came from the kitchen with
steaming porridge-pots and trenchers of meat and pork—they were to have
a plenty of good, strong food before they rode out into the morning
cold.

Indoors, saddlebags were shut and opened, and forgotten things packed
inside. Ragnfrid called to her husband’s mind all the errands he must do
for her, and spoke of kin and friends upon the way—he must greet this
one and not forget to ask for that one.

Kristin ran out and in; she said farewell many times to all in the
house, and could not hold still a moment in any place.

“Are you so glad then, Kristin, you are going from me so far and for so
long?” asked her mother. Kristin was abashed and uneasy, and wished her
mother had not said this. But she answered as best she could:

“No, dear my mother, but I am glad that I am to go with father.”

“Aye, that you are indeed,” said Ragnfrid, sighing. Then she kissed the
child and put the last touches to her dress.

At last they were in the saddle, the whole train—Kristin rode on Morvin,
who ere now had been her father’s saddle-horse—he was old, wise and
steady. Ragnfrid held up the silver stoup with the stirrup-cup to her
husband, and laid a hand upon her daughter’s knee and bade her bear in
mind all her mother had taught her.

And so they rode out of the courtyard in the grey light. The fog lay
white as milk upon the parish. But in a while it began to grow thinner
and the sunlight sifted through. And dripping with dew there shone
through the white haze hillsides, green with the aftermath, and pale
stubble fields, and yellow trees, and rowans bright with red berries.
Glimpses of blue mountain-sides seemed rising through the steamy
haze—then the mist broke and drove in wreaths across the slopes, and
they rode down the Dale in the most glorious sunshine, Kristin in front
of the troop at her father’s side.

                  *       *       *       *       *

They came to Hamar one dark and rainy evening, with Kristin sitting in
front on her father’s saddle-bow, for she was so weary that all things
swam before her eyes—the lake that gleamed wanly on their right, the
gloomy trees which dripped wet upon them as they rode beneath, and the
dark, leaden clusters of houses on the hueless, sodden fields by the
wayside.

She had stopped counting the days—it seemed as though she had been an
endless time on the journey. They had visited kindred and friends all
down the Dale; she had made acquaintance with children on the great
manors and had played in strange houses and barns and courtyards, and
had worn many times her red dress with the silk sleeves. They had rested
by the roadside by day when the weather was fair; Arne had gathered nuts
for her and she had slept after meals upon the saddlebags wherein were
their clothes. At one great house they had silk-covered pillows in their
beds, but one night they lay at an inn, and in one of the other beds was
a woman who lay and wept softly and bitterly each time Kristin was
awake. But every night she had slumbered safely behind her father’s
broad, warm back.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kristin awoke with a start—she knew not where she was, but the wondrous
ringing and booming sound she had heard in her dream went on. She was
lying alone in a bed, and on the hearth of the room a fire was burning.

She called upon her father, and he rose from the hearth where he had
been sitting, and came to her along with a stout woman.

“Where are we?” she asked, and Lavrans laughed and said:

“We’re in Hamar now, and here is Margret, the wife of Fartein the
shoemaker—you must greet her prettily now, for you slept when we came
hither. But now Margret will help you to your clothes.”

“Is it morning then?” said Kristin. “I thought you were even now coming
to bed.—Oh! do _you_ help me,” she begged; but Lavrans said, something
sternly, that she should rather be thankful to kind Margret for helping
her.

“And see what she has for you for a gift!”

’Twas a pair of red shoes with silken latchets. The woman smiled at
Kristin’s glad face, and drew on her shift and hose up on the bed, that
she should not need to tread barefoot upon the clay floor.

“What is it makes such a noise,” asked Kristin, “like a church bell, but
many bells?”

“Aye, those are our bells,” laughed Margret. “Have you heard not of the
great minster here in the town—’tis there you are going now. There goes
the great bell! And now ’tis ringing in the cloister and in the Church
of Holy Cross as well.”

Margret spread the butter thick upon Kristin’s bread and gave her honey
in her milk, that the food she took might stand in more stead—she had
scant time to eat.

Out of doors it was still dark and the weather had fallen frosty. The
fog was biting cold. The footprints of folk and of cattle and horses
were hard as though cast in iron, so that Kristin bruised her feet in
the thin, new shoes, and once she trod through the ice on the gutter in
the middle of the street and her legs got wet and cold. Then Lavrans
took her on his back and carried her.

She strained her eyes in the gloom, but there was not much she could see
of the town—she caught a glimpse of black house-gables and trees through
the grey air. Then they came out upon a little meadow that shone with
rime, and upon the further side of the meadow she dimly saw a pale-grey
building, big as a fell. Great stone houses stood about, and at points
lights glimmered from window-holes in the walls. The bells, which had
been silent for a time, took to ringing again, and now it was with a
sound so strong that a cold shiver ran down his back.

’Twas like going into the mountain-side, thought Kristin, when they
mounted into the church forehall; it struck chill and dark in there.
They went through a door, and were met by the stale, cold smell of
incense and candles. Now Kristin was in a dark and vastly lofty place.
She could not see where it ended, neither above nor to the sides, but
lights burned upon an altar far in front. There stood a priest, and the
echoes of his voice stole strangely round the great place, like
breathings and whisperings. Her father signed the cross with holy-water
upon himself and the child, and so they went forward; though he stepped
warily, his spurs rang loudly on the stone floor. They passed by giant
pillars, and betwixt the pillars it was like looking into coal-black
holes.

Forward, nigh to the altar, the father bent his knee, and Kristin knelt
beside him. She began to be able to make things out in the gloom—gold
and silver glittered on altars in between the pillars, but upon that
before them shone tapers which stood and burned on gilt candlesticks,
while the light streamed back from the holy vessels and the big,
beautiful picture-panel behind. Kristin was brought again to think of
the mountain-folk’s hall—even so had she dreamed it must be, splendid
like this, but maybe with yet more lights. And the dwarf-maid’s face
came up before her—but then she raised her eyes and spied upon the wall
above the altar, Christ himself, great and stern, lifted high upon the
cross. Fear came upon her—he did not look mild and sorrowful as at home
in their own snug timber-brown church, where he hung heavily, with
pierced feet and hands, and bowed his blood-besprinkled head beneath the
crown of thorns.

Here, he stood upon a footboard with stiff, outstretched arms and
upright head; his gilded hair glittered; he was crowned with a crown of
gold, and his face was upturned and harsh.

Then she tried to follow the priest’s words as he read and chanted, but
his speech was too hurried and unclear. At home she was wont to
understand each word, for Sira Eirik had the clearest speech, and had
taught her what the holy words betokened in Norse, that she might the
better keep her thoughts with God while she was in church.

But she could not do that here, for every moment she grew aware of
something new in the darkness. There were windows high up in the walls,
and these began to shimmer with the day. And near by where they knelt
there was raised a wondrous scaffolding of timber, but beyond lay blocks
of light-coloured stone; and there stood mortar-troughs and tools—and
she heard folks coming tiptoeing about in there. But then again her eyes
fell upon the stern Lord Christ upon the wall, and she strove to keep
her thoughts fixed upon the service. The icy cold from the stone floor
stiffened her legs right up to the thighs, and her knees gave her pain.
At length everything began to sway about her, so weary was she.

Then her father rose; the mass was at an end. The priest came forward
and greeted her father. While they spoke, Kristin sate herself down upon
a step, for she saw the choirboy had done the like. He yawned—and so she
too fell a yawning. When he marked that she looked at him, he set his
tongue in his cheek and twisted his eyes at her. Thereupon he dug up a
pouch from under his clothing and emptied upon the flags all that was in
it—fish-hooks, lumps of lead, leather thongs and a pair of dice, and all
the while he made signs to her. Kristin wondered mightily.

But now the priest and her father looked at the children. The priest
laughed, and bade the boy be gone back to school, but Lavrans frowned
and took Kristin by the hand.

It began to grow lighter in the church now. Kristin clung sleepily to
Lavrans’ hand, while he and the priest walked beneath the pile of timber
and talked of Bishop Ingjald’s building-work.

They wandered all about the church, and in the end went out into the
forehall. Thence a stone stairway led to the western tower. Kristin
tumbled wearily up the steps. The priest opened a door to a fair chapel,
and her father said that Kristin should set herself without upon the
steps and wait while he went to shrift; and thereafter she could come in
and kiss St. Thomas’s shrine.

At that there came an old monk in an ash-brown frock from out the
chapel. He stopped a moment, smiled at the child, and drew forth some
sacks and wadmal cloths which had been stuck into a hole in the wall.
These he spread upon the landing:

“Sit you here, and you will not be so cold,” said he, and passed down
the steps upon his naked feet.

Kristin was sleeping when Canon Martein, as the priest was called, came
out and waked her with a touch. Up from the church sounded the sweetest
of song, and in the chapel candles burned upon the altar. The priest
made sign that she should kneel by her father’s side, and then he took
down a little golden shrine which stood above the communion-table. He
whispered to her that in it was a piece of St. Thomas of Canterbury’s
bloody garments, and he pointed at the saint’s figure on the shrine that
Kristin might press her lips to his feet.

The lovely tones still streamed from the church as they came down the
steps; Canon Martein said ’twas the organist practising his art and the
school-boys singing; but they had not the time to stay and listen, for
her father was hungry—he had come fasting for confession—and they were
now bound for the guest-room of the canons’ close to take their food.

The morning sun without was gilding the steep shores on the further side
of the great lake, and all the groves of yellowing leaf-trees shone like
gold-dust amid the dark-blue pinewoods. The lake ran in waves with small
dancing white caps of foam to their heads. The wind blew cold and fresh
and the many-hued leaves drifted down upon the rimy hillsides.

A band of riders came forth from between the bishop’s palace and the
house of the Brothers of Holy Cross. Lavrans stepped aside and bowed
with a hand upon his breast, while he all but swept the sward with his
hat, so Kristin could guess the nobleman in the fur cloak must be the
bishop himself, and she curtsied to the ground.

The bishop reined in his horse and gave back the greeting; he beckoned
Lavrans to him and spoke with him a while. In a short space Lavrans came
back to the priest and child and said:

“Now am I bidden to eat at the bishop’s palace—think you Canon Martein,
that one of the serving-men of the canonry could go with this little
maid of mine home to Fartein the shoemaker’s and bid my men send Halvdan
to meet me here with Guldsveinen at the hour of nones.”

The priest answered, doubtless what he asked could be done. But on this
the bare-footed monk who had spoken to Kristin on the tower stairs came
forward and saluted them:

“There is a man here in our guest-house who has an errand of his own to
the shoemaker’s; he can bear your bidding thither, Lavrans Björgulfsön,
and your daughter can go with him or bide at the cloister with me till
you yourself are for home. I shall see to it that she has her food
there.”

Lavrans thanked him but said, “’Twere shame you should be troubled with
the child, brother Edwin—”

“Brother Edwin draws to himself all the children he can lay hands upon,”
said Canon Martein and laughed. “’Tis in this wise he gets someone to
preach to—”

“Aye, before you learnéd lords here in Hamar I dare not proffer my poor
discourses,” said the monk without anger, and smiling. “All I am fit for
is to talk to children and peasants, but even so, ’tis not well, we
know, to muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.”

Kristin looked up at her father beseechingly; she thought there was
nothing she would like more than to go with brother Edwin. So Lavrans
gave thanks again, and while her father and the priest went after the
bishop’s train, Kristin laid her hand in the monk’s, and they went down
towards the cloister, a cluster of wooden houses and a light-hued stone
church far down by the lake-side.

Brother Edwin gave her hand a little squeeze, and as they looked at one
another they had both to laugh. The monk was thin and tall, but very
stoop-backed; the child thought him like an old crane in the head, for
’twas little, with a small, shining, bald pate above a shaggy, white rim
of hair, and set upon a long, thin, wrinkled neck. His nose was large
too, and pointed like a beak. But ’twas something which made her light
of heart and glad, only to look up into the long, narrow, deep-lined
face. The old, sea-blue eyes were red-rimmed and the lids brown and thin
as flakes. A thousand wrinkles spread out from them; the wizened cheeks
with the reddish network of veins were scored with furrows which ran
down towards the thin-lipped mouth, but ’twas as though Brother Edwin
had grown thus wrinkled only through smiling at mankind.—Kristin thought
she had never seen anyone so blithe and gentle; it seemed he bore some
bright and privy gladness within which she would get to know of when he
began to speak.

They followed the fence of an apple-orchard where there still hung upon
the trees a few red and golden fruit. Two Preaching Brothers in black
and white gowns were raking together withered beanshaws in the garden.

The cloister was not much unlike any other farm steading, and the
guest-house whither the monk led Kristin was most like a poor peasant’s
house, though there were many bedsteads in it. In one of the beds lay an
old man, and by the hearth sat a woman swathing a little child; two
bigger children, boy and girl, stood beside her.

They murmured, both the man and the woman, that they had not been given
their breakfast yet: “None will be at the pains to bear in food to us
twice in the day, so we must e’en starve while you run about the town,
Brother Edwin!”

“Nay, be not peevish, Steinulv,” said the monk, “—Come hither and make
your greetings, Kristin—see this bonny, sweet little maid who is to stay
and eat with us to-day.”

He told how Steinulv had fallen sick on the way home from a fair, and
had got leave to lie here in the cloister guest-house, for he had a
kinswoman dwelling in the spital and she was so curst he could not
endure to be there with her.

“But I see well enough, they will soon be weary of having me here,” said
the peasant. “When you set forth again, Brother Edwin, there will be
none here that has time to tend me, and they will surely have me to the
spital again.”

“Oh! you will be well and strong long before I am done with my work in
the church,” said Brother Edwin. “Then your son will come and fetch
you—” He took up a kettle of hot water from the hearth and let Kristin
hold it while he tended Steinulv. Thereupon the old man grew somewhat
easier, and soon after there came in a monk with food and drink for
them.

Brother Edwin said grace over the meat, and set himself on the edge of
the bed by Steinulv that he might help him to take his food. Kristin
went and sat by the woman and gave the boy to eat, for he was so little
he could not well reach up to the porridge-dish, and he spilled upon
himself when he tried to dip into the beer-bowl. The woman was from
Hadeland, and she was come hither with her man and her children to see
her brother who was a monk here in the cloister. But he was away
wandering among the country parishes, and she grumbled much that they
must lie here and waste their time.

Brother Edwin spoke the woman fair: she must not say she wasted time
when she was here in Bishopshamar. Here were all the brave churches, and
the monks and canons held masses and sang the livelong day and night—and
the city was fine, finer than Oslo even, though ’twas somewhat less; but
here were gardens to almost every dwelling-place: “You should have seen
it when I came hither in the spring—’twas white with blossom over all
the town. And after, when the sweet-brier burst forth—”

“Aye, and much good is that to me now,” said the woman sourly. “And here
are more of holy places than of holiness, methinks—”

The monk laughed a little and shook his head. Then he routed amidst the
straw of his bed and brought forth a great handful of apples and pears
which he shared amongst the children. Kristin had never tasted such good
fruit. The juice ran out from the corners of her mouth every bite she
took.

But now Brother Edwin must go to the church, he said, and Kristin should
go with him. Their path went slantwise across the close, and, by a
little side wicket, they passed into the choir.

They were still building at this church as well, so that here too there
stood a tall scaffolding in the cross where nave and transepts met.
Bishop Ingjald was bettering and adorning the choir, said Brother
Edwin—the bishop had great wealth, and all his riches he used for the
adornment of the churches here in the town; he was a noble bishop and a
good man. The Preaching Friars in the Olav’s cloister were good men too,
clean-living, learned and humble; ’twas a poor cloister, but they had
made him most welcome—Brother Edwin had his home in the Minorite
cloister at Oslo, but he had leave to spend a term here in Hamar
diocese.

“But now come hither,” said he, and led Kristin forward to the foot of
the scaffolding. First he climbed up a ladder and laid some boards
straight up there, and then he came down again and helped the child up
with him.

Upon the grey-stone wall above her Kristin saw wondrous fluttering
flecks of light; red as blood and yellow as beer, blue and brown and
green. She would have turned to look behind her, but the monk whispered:
“Turn not about.” But when they stood together high upon the planking,
he turned her gently round, and Kristin saw a sight so fair she almost
lost her breath.

Right over against her on the nave’s south wall stood a picture and
shone as if it were made of naught but gleaming precious stones. The
many-hued flecks of light upon the wall came from rays which stood out
from that picture; she herself and the monk stood in the midst of the
glory; her hands were red as though dipped in wine; the monk’s visage
seemed all golden, and his dark frock threw the picture’s colours softly
back. She looked up at him questioningly, but he only nodded and smiled.

’Twas like standing far off and looking into the heavenly kingdom.
Behind a network of black streaks, she made out little by little the
Lord Christ himself in the most precious of red robes, the Virgin Mary
in raiment blue as heaven, holy men and maidens in shining yellow and
green and violet array. They stood below arches and pillars of
glimmering houses, wound about with branches and twigs of strange bright
leafage—

The monk drew her a little further out upon the staging:

“Stand here,” he whispered, “and ’twill shine right upon you from
Christ’s own robe.”

From the church beneath there rose to them a faint odour of incense and
the smell of cold stone. It was dim below, but the sun’s rays slanted in
through a row of window-bays in the nave’s south wall. Kristin began to
understand that the heavenly picture must be a sort of windowpane, for
it filled just such an opening. The others were empty or filled with
panes of horn set in wooden frames. A bird came, set itself upon a
windowsill, twittered a little and flew away, and outside the wall of
the choir they heard the clank of metal on stone. All else was still;
only the wind came in small puffs, sighed a little round about the
church walls and died away.

“Aye, aye,” said Brother Edwin and sighed. “No one here in the land can
make the like—they paint on glass, ’tis true, in Nidaros, but not like
this—But away in the lands of the south, Kristin, in the great minsters,
there they have such picture-panes, big as the doors of the church
here—”

Kristin thought of the pictures in the church at home. There was St.
Olav’s altar and St. Thomas of Canterbury’s altar with pictures on their
front panels and on the tabernacles behind—but those pictures seemed to
her dull and lustreless as she thought of them now.

They went down the ladder and up into the choir. There stood the altar
table, naked and bare, and on the stone slab were set many small boxes
and cups of metal and wood and earthenware; strange little knives and
irons, pens and brushes lay about. Brother Edwin said these were his
gear; he plied the crafts of painting pictures and carving
altar-tabernacles, and the fine panels which stood yonder by the
choir-stalls were his work. They were for the altarpieces here in the
Preaching Friars’ church.

Kristin watched how he mixed up coloured powders and stirred them into
little cups of stoneware, and he let her help him bear the things away
to a bench by the wall. While the monk went from one panel to another
and painted fine red lines in the bright hair of the holy men and women
so that one could see it curl and crinkle, Kristin kept close at his
heels and gazed and questioned, and he explained to her what it was that
he had limned.

On the one panel sat Christ in a chair of gold, and St. Nicholas and St.
Clement stood beneath a roof by his side. And at the sides was painted
St. Nicholas’ life and works. In one place he sat as a suckling child
upon his mother’s knee; he turned away from the breast she reached him,
for he was so holy that from the very cradle he would not suck more than
once on Fridays. Alongside of that was a picture of him as he laid the
money-purses before the door of the house where dwelt the three maids
who were so poor they could not find husbands. She saw how he healed the
Roman knight’s child, and saw the knight sailing in a boat with the
false chalice in his hands. He had vowed the holy bishop a chalice of
gold which had been in his house a thousand years, as guerdon for
bringing his son back to health again. But he was minded to trick St.
Nicholas and give him a false chalice instead; therefore the boy fell
into the sea with the true beaker in his hands. But St. Nicholas led the
child unhurt underneath the water and up on to the shore just as his
father stood in St. Nicholas’ church and offered the false vessel. It
all stood painted upon the panels in gold and the fairest colours.

On another panel sat the Virgin Mary with the Christ-child on her knee;
he pressed his mother’s chin with the one hand and held an apple in the
other. Beside them stood St. Sunniva and St. Christina. They bowed in
lovely wise from their waists, their faces were the fairest red and
white and they had golden hair and golden crowns.

Brother Edwin steadied himself with the left hand on the right wrist,
and painted leaves and roses on the crowns.

“The dragon is all too small, methinks,” said Kristin, looking at her
holy namesake’s picture. “It looks not as though it could swallow up the
maiden.”

“And that it could not either,” said Brother Edwin. “It was not bigger.
Dragons and all such-like that serve the devil, seem great only so long
as fear is in ourselves. But if a man seek God fervently and with all
his soul so that his longing wins into his strength, then does the
devil’s power suffer at once such great downfall that his tools become
small and powerless—dragons and evil spirits sink down and become no
bigger than sprites and cats and crows. You see that the whole mountain
St. Sunniva was in is no larger than that she can wrap it within the
skirt of her gown.”

“But were they not in the caves then,” asked Kristin, “St. Sunniva and
the Selje-men? Is not that true?”

The monk twinkled at her and smiled again:

“’Tis both true and untrue. It seemed so to the folk who found the holy
bodies. And true it is that it seemed so to Sunniva and the Selje-men,
for they were humble and thought only that the world is stronger than
all sinful mankind, and they thought not that they themselves were
stronger than the world, because they loved it not. But had they but
known it, they could have taken all the hills and slung them forth into
the sea like so many pebbles. No one, nor anything, can harm us child,
save what we fear or love.”

“But if a body doth not fear nor love God?” asked Kristin, affrighted.

The monk took her yellow hair in his hand, bent Kristin’s head back
gently and looked down into her face; his eyes were wide open and blue.

“There is no man nor woman, Kristin, who does not love and fear God, but
’tis because our hearts are divided twixt love of God and fear of the
devil and fondness for the world and the flesh, that we are unhappy in
life and death. For if a man had not any yearning after God and God’s
being, then should he thrive in hell, and ’twould be we alone who would
not understand that there he had gotten what his heart desired. For
there the fire would not burn him if he did not long for coolness, nor
would he feel the torment of the serpents’ bite, if he knew not the
yearning after peace.”

Kristin looked up in his face; she understood none of all this. Brother
Edwin went on:

“’Twas God’s loving-kindness towards us that, seeing how our hearts are
drawn asunder, He came down and dwelt among us, that He might taste in
the flesh the lures of the devil when he decoys us with power and
splendour, as well as the menace of the world when it offers us blows
and scorn and sharp nails in hands and feet. In such wise did He show us
the way and make manifest His love—”

He looked down upon the child’s grave, set face—then he laughed a little
and said with quite another voice:

“Do you know who ’twas that first knew our Lord had caused himself to be
born? ’Twas the cock; he saw the star and so he said—all the beasts
could talk Latin in those days; he cried: ‘Christus natus est!’”

He crowed these last words so like a cock that Kristin fell to laughing
heartily. And it did her good to laugh, for all the strange things
Brother Edwin had just been saying had laid a burden of awe on her
heart.

The monk laughed himself:

“Aye, and when the ox heard that, he began to low: ‘Ubi, ubi, ubi.’

“But the goat bleated and said: ‘Betlem, Betlem, Betlem!’

“And the sheep longed so to see Our Lady and her Son that she baa-ed out
at once: ‘Eamus, eamus!’

“And the new-born calf that lay in the straw, raised itself and stood
upon its feet. ‘Volo, volo, volo!’ it said.

“You never heard that before? No, I can believe it; I know that he is a
worthy priest, that Sira Eirik that you have up in your parts, and
learned; but he knows not this, I warrant; for a man does not learn it
except he journey to Paris—”

“Have _you_ been to Paris then?” asked the child.

“God bless you, little Kristin, I have been in Paris and have travelled
round elsewhere in the world as well; and you must not believe aught
else than that I am afraid of the devil, and love and covet like any
other fool. But I hold fast to the Cross with all my might—one must
cling to it like a kitten to a lath when it has fallen in the sea—

“And you, Kristin—how would you like to offer up this bonny hair and
serve Our Lady like these brides I have figured here?”

“We have no child at home but me,” answered Kristin. “So ’tis like that
I must marry. And I trow mother has chests and lockers with my bridal
gear standing ready even now.”

“Aye, aye,” said Brother Edwin, and stroked her forehead. “’Tis thus
that folk deal with their children now. To God they give the daughters
who are lame or purblind or ugly or blemished, or they let Him have back
the children when they deem Him to have given them more than they need.
And then they wonder that all who dwell in the cloisters are not holy
men and maids—”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Brother Edwin took her into the sacristy and showed her the cloister
books which stood there in a book-case; there were the fairest pictures
in them. But when one of the monks came in, Brother Edwin made as though
he were but seeking an ass’s head to copy. Afterward he shook his head
at himself:

“Aye, there you see what fear does, Kristin—but they’re so fearful about
their books in the house here. Had I the true faith and love, I would
not stand here as I do and lie to Brother Aasulv—But then I could take
these old fur mittens here and hang them upon yonder sunbeam—”

She was with the monk to dinner over in the guest-house, but for the
rest she sat in the church the whole day and watched his work and
chatted with him. And first when Lavrans came to fetch her, did either
she or the monk remember the message that should have been sent to the
shoemaker.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Afterwards Kristin remembered these days in Hamar better than all else
that befell her on the long journey. Oslo, indeed, was a greater town
than Hamar, but now that she had seen a market town, it did not seem to
her so notable. Nor did she deem it as fair at Skog as at Jörundgaard,
though the houses were grander—but she was glad she was not to dwell
there. The manor lay upon a hillside; below was the Botnfjord, grey, and
sad with dark forest, and on the further shore and behind the houses the
forest stood with the sky right down upon the tree-tops. There were no
high, steep fells as at home, to hold the heavens high above one and to
keep the sight sheltered and in bounds so that the world might seem
neither too big nor too little.

The journey home was cold; it was nigh upon Advent; but, when they were
come a little way up the Dale, snow was lying, and so they borrowed
sleighs and drove most of the way.

With the affair of the estates it fell out so that Lavrans made Skog
over to his brother Aasmund, keeping the right of redemption for himself
and his heirs.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   3

THE spring after Kristin’s long journey, Ragnfrid bore her husband
another daughter. Both father and mother had wished indeed that it might
be a son, but they soon took comfort, and were filled with the tenderest
love for little Ulvhild. She was a most fair child, healthy, good, happy
and quiet. Ragnfrid doted so on this new baby that she went on suckling
it during the second year of its life; wherefore, on Sira Eirik’s
counsel, she left off somewhat her strict fasts and religious exercises
while she had the child at the breast. On this account and by reason of
her joy in Ulvhild, her bloom came back to her, and Lavrans thought he
had never seen his wife so happy or so fair and kindly in all the years
he had been wed.

Kristin, too, felt that great happiness had come to them with this
tender little sister. That her mother’s heavy mood made a stillness
about her home, had never come into her thought; she had deemed it was
but as it should be that her mother should correct and chide her, while
her father played and jested with her. But Ragnfrid was much gentler
with her now and gave her more freedom; petted her more too; and so
Kristin little heeded that her mother had much less time to tend her.
She loved Ulvhild as much as the others, and was joyful when they let
her carry or rock her sister, and in time there was still more sport
with the little one when she began to creep and walk and talk and
Kristin could play with her.

Thus there went by three good years for the Jörundgaard folk. They had
fortune with them in many ways, and Lavrans built and bettered round
about on the manor, for the buildings and cattlesheds were old and small
when he came thither—the Gjeslings had had the place leased out for more
lifetimes than one.

Now it fell out at Whitsuntide in the third year that Trond Ivarsön from
Sundbu, with his wife Gudrid and his three small sons, were come to
Jörundgaard to visit them. One morning the older folk were sitting
talking in the balcony of the loft-room while the children played about
in the courtyard below. In the yard Lavrans had begun a new
dwelling-house, and the children were climbing and creeping about on the
timber brought together for the building. One of the Gjesling boys had
struck at Ulvhild and made her weep; and at that Trond came down and
gave his son a buffet, and took Ulvhild up into his arms. She was the
fairest and sweetest child a man’s eyes could see, and her uncle had
much love for her, though else he cared not for children.

Just then there came a man across the court from the cattleyard,
dragging at a great, black bull; but the bull was savage and
unmanageable and broke away from the man. Trond sprang up upon the pile
of timber, driving the bigger children up before him, but he had Ulvhild
in his arms and his youngest son by the hand. Then a beam turned under
his feet and Ulvhild slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. The
beam slipped after, rolled over on the child and lay across her back.

Lavrans was down from the balcony in the same instant; he ran up and was
in act to lift the beam when the bull rushed at him. He tried to seize
it by the horns, but was flung down and gored. But getting then a grip
of its nostrils, he half raised himself from the ground and managed to
hold the brute till Trond came to himself from his bewilderment and the
farm servants, running from the houses, cast thongs about the beast and
held it fast.

Ragnfrid was on her knees trying to lift the beam; and now Lavrans was
able to ease it so far that she could draw the child from under and into
her lap. The little one wailed piteously when they touched her, but her
mother sobbed aloud:

“She lives, thank God, she lives!—”

It was great wonder the child had not been quite crushed; but the log
had chanced to fall so that it rested with one end upon a stone in the
grass. When Lavrans stood up again, blood was running from the corners
of his mouth, and his clothes were all torn at the breast by the bull’s
horns.

Tordis came running with a skin coverlet; warily she and Ragnfrid moved
the child on to it, but it seemed as though she suffered unbearable pain
at the lightest touch. Her mother and Tordis bore her into the
winter-room.

Kristin stood upon the timber pile white and stock still, while the
little boys clung round her weeping. All the house and farm folk were
now huddled together in the courtyard, the women weeping and wailing.
Lavrans bade them saddle Guldsveinen and another horse as well; but when
Arne came with the horses, Lavrans fell to the ground when he tried to
climb to the saddle. So he bade Arne ride for the priest, while Halvdan
went southward for a leech-woman who dwelt by the meeting of the rivers.

Kristin saw that her father was ashy white in the face, and that he had
bled till his light-blue garments were covered all over with red-brown
stains. All at once he stood upright, snatched an axe from one of the
men and went forward where some of the folk stood holding on to the
bull. He smote the beast between the horns with the back of the axe—it
dropped forward on its knees; but Lavrans ceased not striking till its
blood and brains were scattered all about. Then a fit of coughing took
him and he sank backwards on the ground. Trond and another man came to
him and bore him within the house.

At that, Kristin thought her father was surely dead; she screamed loudly
and ran after, calling to him as if her heart were breaking.

In the winter-room Ulvhild had been laid on the great bed—all the
pillows were thrown out upon the floor, so that the child lay flat.
’Twas as though already she lay stretched on the dead-straw. But she
wailed loudly and without cease, and her mother lay bent over her,
soothing and patting the child, wild with grief that she could do naught
to help her.

Lavrans lay upon the other bed: he rose and staggered across the floor
that he might comfort his wife. At that she started up and shrieked:

“Touch me not, touch me not! Jesus, Jesus,—’twere liker you should
strike me dead—never will it end, the ill-fortune I bring upon you—”

“You?—Dear my wife, ’tis not you that have brought this on us,” said
Lavrans, and laid a hand upon her shoulder. She shuddered at that, and
her light-grey eyes shone in her lean, sallow face.

“Doubtless she means that ’twas my doing,” said Trond Ivarsön roughly.
His sister looked at him with hate in her eyes, and answered:

“Trond knows what I mean.”

Kristin ran forward to her parents, but both thrust her away from them,
and Tordis, coming in with a kettle of hot water, took her gently by the
shoulder and said, “Go—go over to our house, Kristin; you are in the way
here.”

Tordis was for seeing to Lavrans’ hurt—he had set himself down on the
step before the bed—but he said there was little amiss with him:

“But is there naught you can do to ease Ulvhild’s pain a little—God help
us! her crying would move the very stones in the mountain-side!”

“Nay; we dare not touch her ere the priest or Ingegjerd the leech-wife
comes,” said Tordis.

Arne came just then with word that Sira Eirik was not at home. Ragnfrid
stood a while wringing her hands. Then she said:

“Send to Lady Aashild of Haugen! Naught matters now, if only Ulvhild may
be saved—”

No one gave heed to Kristin. She crept on to the bench behind the bed’s
head, crouched down and laid her head upon her knees.

It seemed to her now as if stony hands were pressing on her heart. Lady
Aashild was to be fetched! Her mother would not have them send for Lady
Aashild, even when she herself was near death’s door at Ulvhild’s birth,
nor yet when Kristin was so sick of the fever. She was a witch-wife,
folk said—the bishop of Oslo and the chapter had held session on her;
and she must have been put to death or even burned, had it not been that
she was of such high birth and had been like a sister to Queen
Ingebjörg—but folk said she had given her first husband poison, and him
she now had, Sir Björn, she had drawn to her by witchcraft; he was young
enough to be her son. She had children too, but they came never to see
their mother, and these two highborn folk, Björn and Aashild, lived upon
a petty farm in Dovre, and had lost all their wealth. None of the great
folk in the Dale would have to do with them, but, privily, folk sought
her counsel—nay, poor folk went openly to her with their troubles and
hurts; they said she was kind, but they feared her too.

Kristin thought her mother, who else was wont to pray so much, should
rather have called on God and the Virgin now. She tried to pray
herself—to St. Olav most of all, for she knew he was so good and helped
so many who suffered from sickness and wounds or broken bones. But she
could not keep her thoughts together.

Her father and mother were alone in the room now. Lavrans had laid
himself upon his bed again, and Ragnfrid sat bent over the sick child,
passing, from time to time, a damp cloth over her forehead and hands,
and wetting her lips with wine.

A long time went by. Tordis looked in between whiles, and would fain
have helped, but Ragnfrid sent her out each time. Kristin wept silently
and prayed to herself, but all the while she thought of the witch-wife
and waited eagerly to see her come in.

Suddenly Ragnfrid asked in the silence:

“Are you sleeping, Lavrans?”

“No,” answered her husband. “I am listening to Ulvhild. God will surely
help His innocent lamb, wife—we dare not doubt it. But ’tis weary lying
here waiting—”

“God,” said Ragnfrid, hopelessly, “hates me for my sins. ’Tis well with
my children, where they are, I doubt not that, and now ’tis like
Ulvhild’s hour has come, too—but me he has cast off, for my heart is a
viper’s nest, full of sin and sorrow—”

Then someone lifted the latch—Sira Eirik stepped in, straightened his
huge frame where he stood and said in his clear, deep voice: “God help
all in this house!”

The priest put the box with his medicines on the step before the bed and
went to the open hearth and poured warm water over his hands. Then he
took a cross from his bosom, struck out with it to all four corners of
the room and mumbled something in Latin. Thereupon he opened the
smoke-vent so that the light might stream into the room, and went and
looked at Ulvhild.

Kristin grew afraid he might find her and send her out—not often did
Sira Eirik’s eyes let much escape them. But the priest did not look
round. He took a flask from the box, poured somewhat upon a wad of
finely carded wool and laid it over Ulvhild’s mouth and nose.

“Now she will soon suffer less,” said the priest. He went to Lavrans and
tended his wounds, while they told him how the mishap had come to pass.
Lavrans had two ribs broken and had a wound in the lungs; but the priest
thought that for him there was no great fear.

“And Ulvhild?” asked the father fearfully.

“I will tell you when I have looked at her more nearly,” answered the
priest; “but you must lie in the loft-room, so that there may be more
quiet and room here for those who must tend her.” He laid Lavrans’ arm
about his own shoulder, took firm hold under the man, and bore him out.
Kristin would fain have gone with her father now, but she dared not show
herself.

When Sira Eirik came back, he did not speak to Ragnfrid, but first cut
the clothes off Ulvhild, who now moaned less and seemed half asleep.
Then carefully he felt with his hands over the child’s body and limbs.

“Is it so ill with my child, Eirik, that you know not how to save her,
since you say naught,” asked Ragnfrid under her breath.

The priest answered low:

“It seems as though her back were badly hurt, Ragnfrid; I see no better
way than to leave all in God’s hands and St. Olav’s—much there is not
that I can do.”

“Then must we pray,” cried the mother passionately: “—you know well that
Lavrans and I will give you all you ask, and spare nothing if so be your
prayers can win God to grant that Ulvhild may live.”

“’Twould seem to me a miracle,” said the priest, “were she to live and
have her health again.”

“And is’t not of miracles that you preach late and early—believe you not
that a miracle can happen with my child,” she said, as wildly as before.

“’Tis true,” replied the priest, “that miracles happen; but God does not
grant the prayers of all—we know not His secret counsel. And think you
not, it would be worst of all should this fair little maid grow up
marred or crippled?”

Ragnfrid shook her head. She wailed softly:

“I have lost so many, priest: I cannot lose her too!”

“I will do all that I may,” answered the priest, “and pray with all my
power. But you must strive, Ragnfrid, to bear the cross God lays upon
you.”

The mother moaned low:

“None of my children have I loved like this little one—if she too be
taken from me, full sure I am my heart will break.”

“God help you, Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter,” said Sira Eirik, and shook his
head. “In all your praying and fasting, you have thought only to force
your will upon God. Can you wonder that it has helped but little?”

Ragnfrid looked defiantly at the priest, and spoke:

“I have sent for the Lady Aashild even now.”

“Aye, you know her; I know her not,” replied the priest.

“I cannot live without Ulvhild,” said Ragnfrid as before. “If so be God
will not help her, I will seek counsel of Lady Aashild, or e’en give
myself to the devil if he will help!”

The priest looked as though he would answer sharply, but checked himself
again. He bent and felt the limbs of the little sick girl once more:

“Her hands and feet are cold,” he said. “We must lay jars of hot water
about her—and then you must touch her no more till Lady Aashild comes.”

Kristin let herself sink back noiselessly on the bench and lay as if
asleep. Her heart beat hard with fear—she had understood but little of
the talk between Sira Eirik and her mother, but it had frightened her
terribly, and the child knew well that it had not been for her ears.

Her mother rose up to go for the hot water jars; and suddenly she burst
out sobbing: “But yet pray for us, Sira Eirik.”

Soon after she came back with Tordis. Then the priest and the women
busied themselves with Ulvhild, and soon Kristin was found and sent
away.

The light dazzled the child as she stood without in the courtyard. She
had thought that most of the day must have gone by while she sat in the
dark winter-room, and yet the houses stood there light-grey, and the
grass was shining like silk in the white midday sunshine. The river
gleamed behind the dun and golden trellis-work of the alder-brakes—it
filled the air with its gladsome rushing sound, for here by Jörundgaard
it ran swiftly over a flat bed strewn with boulders. The mountain-walls
rose into the thin blue haze, and the becks sprang down their sides
through the melting snows. The sweet, strong springtide out of doors
brought tears to her eyes, for sorrow at the helplessness she felt all
about her.

There was no one in the courtyard, but she heard voices in the
housecarls’ cottage. Fresh earth had been strewn over the spot where her
father had killed the bull. She knew not what to do with herself—so she
crept behind the wall of the new house—two log-courses had already been
laid. Inside lay Ulvhild’s playthings and her own; she put them all
together and laid them in a hole between the lowest log and the
foundation wall. Of late Ulvhild had wanted all her toys; this had vexed
her sometimes. Now she thought, if her sister got well, she would give
her all she had. And this thought comforted her a little.

She thought of the monk in Hamar—_he_ was sure that miracles could
happen for every one. But Sira Eirik was not so sure about it, nor her
parents either—and she was used to think as they did. A heavy weight
fell upon her as it came to her for the first time that folk could think
so unlike about so many things—not only bad, ungodly men and good men,
but such men as Brother Edwin and Sira Eirik,—even her mother and her
father: she felt all at once that they too thought not alike about many
things—

Tordis found her there in the corner, asleep, late in the day, and took
her to her own house; the child had eaten nothing since the morning.
Tordis watched with Ragnfrid over Ulvhild through the night, and Kristin
lay in Tordis’ bed with Jon, Tordis’ husband, and Eivind and Orm, their
little boys. The smell of their bodies, the man’s snoring and the
children’s even breathing made Kristin weep silently. It was no longer
ago than last evening that she had lain down, as each night of her life
before, by her own father and mother and little Ulvhild—it was as though
a nest had been riven asunder and scattered and she herself lay cast out
from the shelter of the wings which had always kept her warm. At last
she cried herself to sleep, alone and unhappy among these strange folk.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Next morning as soon as she was up, she heard that her mother’s brother
and all his party had left the place—in anger; Trond had called his
sister a foolish, crazy woman, and his brother-in-law a soft simpleton
who had never known how to rule his wife. Kristin grew hot with wrath,
but she was ashamed too—she understood well enough that a most unseemly
thing had befallen in that her mother had driven her nearest kin from
the house. And for the first time she dimly felt that there was
something about her mother that was not as it should be—that she was not
the same as other women.

While she stood brooding on this, a serving-maid came and said she was
to go up to the loft-room to her father.

But when she was come into the room Kristin forgot to look at him, for
right opposite the open door, with the light full upon her face, sat a
little woman who she guessed must be the witch-wife. And yet Kristin had
never thought that she would look like this.

She seemed small as a child and slightly made, as she sat in the great
high-backed arm-chair which had been brought up thither. A table had
been set before her too, covered with Ragnfrid’s finest, fringed, linen
tablecloth. Bacon and fowl were set out upon the silver platter; there
was wine in a mazer bowl, and she had Lavrans’ own silver goblet to
drink from. She had finished eating and was busy drying her small and
slender hands on one of Ragnfrid’s best hand-towels. Ragnfrid herself
stood in front of her and held for her a brass basin with water.

Lady Aashild let the hand-towel sink into her lap; she smiled to the
child, and said in a clear and lovely voice:

“Come hither to me, child!” Then to the mother: “Fair children are these
you have, Ragnfrid.”

Her face was greatly wrinkled, but as clear white and pink as a child’s,
and it looked as though her skin must be just as soft and fine to the
touch. Her mouth was as red and fresh as a young woman’s, and her large,
hazel eyes shone bright. A fine, white, linen headdress lay close about
her face and was fastened under her chin with a golden clasp; over it
she had a veil of soft, dark-blue wool; it fell over her shoulders and
far down upon her dark, well-fitting dress. She was upright as a wand,
and Kristin felt more than thought that she had never seen a woman so
fair and so mannerly as was this old witch-wife, with whom the great
folk of the valley would have naught to do.

Lady Aashild held Kristin’s hand in her old, soft one; and spoke to her
with kindly jesting; but Kristin could not answer a word. Then said Lady
Aashild with a little laugh:

“Is she afraid of me, think you?”

“Nay, nay,” Kristin all but shouted. And then Lady Aashild laughed still
more, and said to the mother:

“She has wise eyes, this daughter of yours, and good strong hands, nor
is she used to be idle, I can see. You will need one by-and-by to help
you tend Ulvhild, when I am gone. ’Twere well, therefore, you let
Kristin be by me and help while yet I am here—she is old enough for
that; eleven years is she not?”

Thereupon the Lady Aashild went out, and Kristin would have followed
her, but Lavrans called to her from his bed. He lay flat upon his back
with the pillows stuffed beneath his updrawn knees; Lady Aashild had
bidden that he should lie so, that the hurt in his breast might the
sooner heal.

“Now surely you will soon be well, sir father, will you not?” asked
Kristin.

Lavrans looked up at her—the child had never said “sir” to him before.
Then he said gravely:

“For me there is naught to fear;—’tis worse with your sister.”

“Aye,” said Kristin, and sighed.

She stood yet a little while by his bed. Her father said no more, and
Kristin found naught to say. And when Lavrans after a while said she
should go down to her mother and Lady Aashild, Kristin hastened out and
ran across the courtyard down into the winter-room.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   4

Lady Aashild stayed on at Jörundgaard most of the summer. Thus it fell
out that folk came thither seeking her counsel.—Kristin heard Sira Eirik
fling at this now and then, and it came into her mind that her father
and mother, too, were not pleased. But she put all thoughts of such
things from her, nor did she ponder over what she thought of Lady
Aashild, but was with her ever, and tired not of listening to the lady
and of watching her.

Ulvhild still lay stretched upon her back in the great bed. Her little
face was white to the lips, and dark rings had come about her eyes. Her
lovely yellow hair had a stale smell, it had been unwashed for so long,
and it had grown dark and lost all gloss and curl, so that it looked
like old, burnt-up hay. She looked tired and suffering and patient; but
she smiled faintly and wanly at her sister when Kristin sat down on the
bed-side by her and chattered and showed the child all the fine gifts
there were for her from her father and mother and from their friends and
kinsfolk from far around. There were dolls and wooden birds and beasts,
and a little draught-board, trinkets and velvet caps and coloured
ribbons; Kristin kept them all together in a box for her—and Ulvhild
looked at them all with her grave eyes, and, sighing, dropped the
treasures from her weary hands.

But when Lady Aashild came nigh, Ulvhild’s face lit up with gladness.
Eagerly she drank the quenching and sleepy drinks Lady Aashild brewed
for her; when Lady Aashild tended her hurts she made no plaint, and lay
happy listening when the Lady played on Lavrans’ harp and sang—she had
great store of ballads strange to the folk of the Dale.

Often she sang to Kristin when Ulvhild lay asleep. And then at times she
would tell of her youth, when she dwelt in the South at the courts of
King Magnus and King Eirik and their Queens.

Once as they sat thus and Lady Aashild told of these things, there
slipped from Kristin’s lips a thought she had often had in mind:

“Methinks it is strange you can be so glad at all times, you who have
been used to—” she broke off and grew red.

Lady Aashild looked down at the child with a smile:

“Mean you because I am parted from all that now?” She laughed quietly,
and said: “I have had my happy time, Kristin, and I am not so foolish as
to murmur, if now, since I have drunk up my wine and beer, I have to put
up with skimmed milk and sour. Good days may last long if one lives
wisely and deals warily with what one has; all wise folk know that, and
’tis therefore, I trow, that wise folk must rest content with good
days—for the best days of all cost very dear. In this world they call
him a fool who wastes his heritage that he may make merry in the days of
his youth. As to that each man may deem as he lists. But that man only
do I call a fool and a very dolt who rues his bargain after it is made;
and twice a simpleton and a fool of fools is he who thinks to see more
of his boon-companions after his heritage is gone—”

“—Is there aught amiss with Ulvhild?” she called gently across to
Ragnfrid, who had made a sharp movement where she sat by the child’s
bed.

“Nay, she sleeps well,” said the child’s mother and came over to Lady
Aashild and Kristin at the hearth. Her hands on the pole of the
smoke-vent, she stood and looked down into Lady Aashild’s face.

“Kristin doth not understand such things,” she said.

“No,” answered the Lady. “But she learned her prayers, too, I doubt not,
before she understood them. The times when we need prayers or counsel,
we are little like to be in a mood to learn, nor yet to understand.”

Ragnfrid drew her dark eyebrows together thoughtfully. At such times her
bright, deep-set eyes looked like barns below a dark-wooded hillside, so
Kristin had often thought when she was little—or so she had heard others
say. Lady Aashild looked at Ragnfrid with her little half-smile, and the
mother seated herself upon the edge of the hearth, and taking a twig,
stuck it into the embers.

“But he who has wasted his heritage upon the sorriest goods—and
thereafter beholds a treasure he would gladly give his life to own—think
you not he must rue bitterly his own folly?”

“No doing without some rueing, Ragnfrid,” said Lady Aashild. “And he who
is willing to give his life, should make the venture and see what he can
win—”

Ragnfrid plucked the burning twig from the fire, blew out the flame and
bent her hand about the glowing end, so that it shone out blood-red from
between her fingers.

“Oh! these are words, words, and only words, Lady Aashild.”

“Well,” said the other, “truly, Ragnfrid, there is not much that’s worth
buying so dear as with one’s life.”

“Nay, but there is,” said Ragnfrid passionately, and she whispered so it
could scarce be heard: “My husband.”

“Ragnfrid,” said Lady Aashild in a low voice: “So hath many a maid
thought when she strove to bind a man to her and gave her maidenhood to
do it. But have you not read of men and maids who gave to God all they
owned, went into a cloister or naked into the wilds, and repented after.
Aye, they are called fools in the godly books. And ’twould sure be
sinful to think God cheated _them_ over their bargain.”

Ragnfrid sat quite still a while. Then Lady Aashild said:

“You must come now, Kristin; ’tis time we went and gathered dew for
Ulvhild’s morning wash.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Outside the courtyard lay all black and white in the moonlight. Ragnfrid
went with them, through the farm-yard, down to the gate of the cabbage
garden. Kristin saw her mother’s thin, dark figure leaning there, while
she was shaking the dew from the big, icy-cold cabbage leaves, and the
folds of the lady’s-mantles, into her father’s silver goblet.

Lady Aashild walked silent at Kristin’s side. She was there only to
watch over her, for it was not well to let a child go out alone on such
a night. But the dew had more virtue if gathered by an innocent maid.

When they came back to the gate Ragnfrid was gone. Kristin was shaking
with the cold as she gave the icy silver cup into Lady Aashild’s hands.
She ran in her wet shoes over toward the loft-room, where she slept now
with her father. She had her foot upon the first step when Ragnfrid
stepped out of the shadow of the balcony. In her hands she bore a
steaming bowl.

“Here, I have warmed some beer for you, daughter,” said the mother.

Kristin thanked her mother gladly, and put the bowl to her lips. Then
Ragnfrid asked:

“Kristin—the prayers and all the other things that Lady Aashild teaches
you—you are sure there is naught sinful or ungodly in them?”

“That I can never believe,” answered the child. “There is Jesus’ name
and the Virgin Mary’s, and the names of the Saints in them all—”

“What is it she teaches you,” asked her mother again.

“Oh!—about herbs—and charms to stop running blood and cure warts and
sore eyes—and moth in clothes and mice in the store-room. And what herbs
one should pluck in sunshine, and which have virtue in the rain—But the
prayers I must not tell to anyone, for then they lose their power,” said
she quickly.

Her mother took the empty bowl and put it upon the step. Then suddenly
she threw her arms around her daughter, and pressed her tightly to her
and kissed her.—Kristin felt that her mother’s cheeks were wet and hot:

“May God and Our Lady guard and shield you from all evil—we have naught
else but you, your father and I, that has not been touched by our
ill-fortune. Darling, darling—never forget that you are your father’s
dearest joy—”

Ragnfrid went back to the winter-room, undressed and crept into bed
beside Ulvhild. She put an arm about the child and laid her cheek close
to the little one’s so that she felt the warmth of Ulvhild’s body and
smelt the keen odour of her damp hair. Ulvhild slept heavily and
soundly, as she ever did after Lady Aashild’s evening draught. The
lady’s bedstraw, spread beneath the bedding, gave out a drowsy scent.
None the less did Ragnfrid lie long sleepless, gazing at the little spot
of light in the roof where the moon shone upon the smoke-hole’s pane of
horn.

Over in the other bed lay Lady Aashild, but Ragnfrid never knew whether
she slept or waked. The Lady never spoke of their having known each
other in former days—this frightened Ragnfrid. And it seemed to her she
had never known such bitter sorrow and such haunting dread as now—even
though she knew that Lavrans would have his full health again—and that
Ulvhild would live.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It seemed as though Lady Aashild took pleasure in talking to Kristin,
and with each day that passed the maid became better friends with her.
One day, when they had gone to gather herbs, they sat together high up
the hillside on a little green, close under the tree. They could look
down into the farm-place at Formo and see Arne Gyrdson’s red jerkin: he
had ridden down the valley with them and was to look after their horses
while they were up the hillside seeking herbs.

As they sat, Kristin told Lady Aashild of her meeting with the
dwarf-maiden. She had not thought of it for many years, but now it rose
before her. And while she spoke, the thought came to her strangely that
there was some likeness betwixt Lady Aashild and the dwarf-lady—though
she knew well all the time they were not really like. But when she had
told all, Lady Aashild sat still a while and looked out down the Dale;
at length she said:

“You were wise to fly, since you were only a child then. But have you
never heard of folk who took the gold the dwarfs offered, and after
bound the troll in stone?”

“I have heard such tales,” said Kristin, “but I would never dare to do
it. And methinks it is not a fair deed.”

“’Tis well when one dares not do what one doth not think a fair deed,”
said Lady Aashild, laughing a little. “But it is not so well when one
thinks a thing to be no fair deed because one dares not do it.—You have
grown much this summer,” the Lady said of a sudden. “Do you know
yourself, I wonder, that you are like to be fair?”

“Aye,” said Kristin. “They say I am like my father.”

Lady Aashild laughed quietly.

“Aye ’twould be best for you if you took after Lavrans both in mind and
body, too. Yet ’twould be pity were they to wed you up here in the Dale.
Plainness and country ways let no man scorn, but they think, themselves,
these big folk up here, they are so fine that their like is not to be
found in Norway’s land. They wonder much, belike, that I can live and
thrive though they bar their doors against me. But they are lazy and
proud and will not learn new ways—and they put the blame on the old
strife with the King in Sverre’s days. ’Tis all lies; your mother’s
forefather made friends with King Sverre and received gifts from him;
but were your mother’s brother to become one of our King’s men and wait
upon his Court, he would have to trim himself up both without and
within, and that Trond would not be at pains to do. But you,
Kristin,—you should be wedded to a man bred in knightly ways and
_courteisie_—”

Kristin sat looking down into the Formo yard, at Arne’s red back. She
scarce knew it herself, but when Lady Aashild talked of the world she
had once moved in, Kristin ever thought of the knights and earls in
Arne’s likeness. Before, when she was little, she had always seen them
in her father’s shape.

“My sister’s son, Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby, _he_ might have been a
fitting bridegroom for you—he has grown comely, has the boy. My sister
Magnhild looked in on me last year as she passed through the Dale, and
he with her. Aye ’tis not like you could get him, but I had gladly
spread the coverlid over you two in the bridal bed—he is as dark-haired
as you are fair, and he has goodly eyes.—But if I know my brother-in-law
aright, he has bethought him already for sure of a better match for
Erlend than you.”

“Am I not a good match then?” asked Kristin wondering. She had never
thought of being hurt by anything Lady Aashild said, but she felt
humbled and sad that the Lady should be in some way better than her own
folks.

“Aye, you are a good match,” said the other. “Yet you could scarce look
to come into my kindred. Your forefather in this land was an outlaw and
a stranger, and the Gjeslings have sat and grown moulded on their farms
so long that soon they’ll be forgotten outside the Dale. But I and my
sister had for husbands the nephews of Queen Margret Skulesdatter.”

Kristin could not even pluck up heart to say it was not her forefather,
but his brother, who had come to the land an outlaw. She sat and gazed
at the dark hillsides across the dale, and she thought of the day many
years gone by, when she had been up on the upland wastes and seen how
many fells there were twixt her own valley and the outer world. Then
Lady Aashild said they must go home now, and bade her call on Arne. So
Kristin put her hands to her mouth, and hallooed and waved her kerchief,
till she saw the red spot in the farm-place move and wave back.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Not long after this Lady Aashild went home, but through the autumn and
the first part of the winter, she came often to Jörundgaard to spend
some days with Ulvhild. The child was taken out of bed in the daytime
now, and they tried to get her to stand, but her legs gave way beneath
her when she put her feet to the ground. She was fretful, white and
weary, and the laced jacket of horsehide and thin withes, which Lady
Aashild had made for her, plagued her sorely, so that she would rather
lie still in her mother’s lap. Ragnfrid had her sick daughter for ever
in her arms, so that Tordis had the whole care of the house now, and at
her mother’s bidding, Kristin went with Tordis to learn and to help.

Kristin longed for Lady Aashild between whiles, and sometimes the Lady
would chat much with her, but at other times the child would wait in
vain for a word beyond the other’s greeting when she came and when she
went—Lady Aashild sat and talked with the grown-up folk only. That was
always the way when she had her husband with her, for it happened now at
times that Björn Gunnarsön came with his wife. Lavrans had ridden to
Haugen one day in the autumn to take the Lady her leech’s fee—it was the
very best silver tankard they had in the house, with a plate to match.
He had slept there the night, and ever since he praised the farm
mightily; it was fair and well ordered, and not so small as folks would
have it, he said. And within the house all spoke of well-being and the
customs of the house were seemly, following the ways of great folks’
houses in the South. What he thought of Björn, Lavrans said not, but he
welcomed him fairly at all times when he came with his wife to
Jörundgaard. But the Lady Aashild, Lavrans liked exceeding well, and he
said he deemed most of the tales that had been told of her were lies. He
said, too, ’twas most sure that twenty years since she could have had
small need of witchcraft to bind a man to her—she was near the sixties
now, yet she still looked young and had a most fair and winning bearing.

Kristin saw well that her mother liked all this but little. Of Lady
Aashild, it is true, Ragnfrid said naught, but once she likened Björn to
the yellow, flattened grass one sometimes finds growing under big
stones, and Kristin thought this fitted him well. Björn looked strangely
faded; he was somewhat fat, pale and sluggish, and a little bald,
although he was not much older than Lavrans. Yet one saw he had once
been a very comely man. Kristin never came to speech with him—he spoke
little, and was wont to sit in the same place where he first settled
down, from the time he stepped into the room till he went to bed. He
drank hugely, but one marked it but little on him; he ate scarce any
food, but gazed now and again at one or another in the room with a
fixed, brooding look in his strange, pale eyes.

They had seen naught of their kinsfolk at Sundbu since the mishap
befell, though Lavrans had been over at Vaage more times than one. But
Sira Eirik came to Jörundgaard as before; and there he often met Lady
Aashild, and they were good friends. Folk thought this was good of the
priest, for he was himself a very skilful leech. That, too, was
doubtless one cause why the folk of the great estates had not sought
Lady Aashild’s counsel, at least not openly, as they held the priest to
be skilful enough, nor was it easy for them to know how they should bear
themselves toward two folks who had been cast off, in a manner, by their
own kin and fellows. Sira Eirik said himself, they did not graze on one
another’s meadows; and as to her witchcraft, he was not her parish
priest—it might well be the lady knew more than was good for her soul’s
health—yet one must not forget ignorant folk were all too ready to talk
of witchcraft as soon as a woman was a bit wiser than her neighbours.
Lady Aashild, on her side, praised the priest much and was diligent at
church if it chanced she was at Jörundgaard on a holy day.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Yule-tide was sorrowful that year; Ulvhild could not yet put her feet to
the ground, and they neither heard nor saw aught of the Sundbu folk.
Kristin knew that it was talked of in the parish and that her father
took it to heart. But her mother seemed to care naught; and Kristin
thought this wrong of her.

But one evening, toward the end of Yule-tide, came Sira Sigurd, Trond
Gjesling’s house-priest, driving in a great sledge, and his chief errand
was to bid them all to a feast at Sundbu.

Sira Sigurd was ill-liked in the parishes about, for it was he who
really managed Trond’s estates—or at the least, he got the blame for
Trond’s hard and unjust dealings, and there was no denying Trond was
something of a plague to his tenants. His priest was most learned in
writing and reckoning, versed in the law, and a skilful leech—if not
quite so skilful as he deemed himself. But from his ways, no one would
have thought him over-wise; he often said foolish things. Ragnfrid and
Lavrans had never liked him, but the Sundbu folk, as was but reason, set
great store by their priest, and both they and he felt very bitter that
he had not been called in to Ulvhild.

Now by ill-fortune it fell out that when Sira Sigurd came to
Jörundgaard, Lady Aashild and Sir Björn were there already, besides Sira
Eirik, Gyrd and Inga of Finsbrekken, Arne’s parents, old Jon from
Loptsgaard, and a Preaching Friar from Hamar, Brother Aasgaut.

While Ragnfrid had the tables spread anew with Christmas fare, and
Lavrans looked into the letters brought by Sira Sigurd, the priest
wished to look at Ulvhild. She was already abed for the night and
sleeping, but Sira Sigurd woke her, felt her back and limbs, and asked
her many questions, at first gently enough, but then roughly and
impatiently as the child grew frightened—Sigurd was a little man, all
but a dwarf, with a great, flaming, red face. As he made to lift her out
upon the floor to test her feet, she began screaming loudly. On this
Lady Aashild rose, went to the bed, and covered Ulvhild with the skins,
saying the child was so sleepy she could not have stood upon the floor
even had her legs been strong.

The priest began then to speak loudly; he too was reckoned to know
somewhat of leech-craft. But Lady Aashild took him by the hand, brought
him forward to the high-seat and fell to telling him what she had done
for Ulvhild, and asking his judgment on each and every matter. On this
he grew somewhat milder of mood, and ate and drank of Ragnfrid’s good
cheer.

But as the beer and wine began to mount to his head, Sira Sigurd’s
humour changed again and he grew quarrelsome and hotheaded—he knew well
enough there was no one in the room who liked him. First he turned on
Gyrd—he was the bishop of Hamar’s bailiff in Vaage and Sil, and there
had been many quarrels twixt the bishop’s see and Trond Ivarsön. Gyrd
said not much, but Inga was a fiery woman, and then Brother Aasgaut
joined in and spoke:

“You should not forget, Sira Sigurd, our reverend Father Ingjald is your
overlord, too—we know enough of you in Hamar. You wallow in all good
things at Sundbu, never thinking that you are vowed to other work than
to do Trond eyeservice, helping him in all wrong and injustice, to the
peril of his soul and the minishing of the rights of Holy Church. Have
you never heard how it fares with the false and unruly priests who hatch
out devices against their spiritual fathers and those in authority? Wot
you not of that time when the angels took St. Thomas of Canterbury to
the door of Hell and let him peep in? He wondered much that he saw none
of the priests who had set themselves up against him, as you have set
yourself against your bishop. He was about to praise God’s mercy, for
the holy man begrudged not salvation to all sinners—but at that the
angel bade the devil lift his tail a little, and out there came, with a
great bang and a foul smell of sulphur, all the priests and learned men
who had wrought against the good of the church. Thus did he come to know
whither _they_ had gone.”

“_There_ you lie, monk,” said the priest. “I have heard that tale too;
only they were not priests, but beggar-monks, who came from the rear of
the devil like wasps out of a wasp-nest.”

Old Jon laughed louder than all the serving-folk, and roared:

“There were both sorts, I’ll be bound—”

“Then the devil must have a fine broad tail,” said Björn Gunnarsön, and
Lady Aashild smiled and said:

“Aye, have you not heard that all evil drags a long tail behind it?”

“Be still, Lady Aashild,” cried Sira Sigurd, “do not you talk of the
long tail evil drags after it. You sit here as though _you_ were
mistress in the house, and not Ragnfrid. But ’tis strange you could not
help her child—have you no more of that strong water you dealt in once,
which could make whole the sheep already boiling in the pot, and turn
women to maids in the bridal bed? Think you I know not of the wedding in
this very parish where you made a bath for the bride that was no maid—”

Sira Eirik sprang up, gripped the other priest by the shoulder and
thigh, and flung him right over the table, so that the jugs and tankards
were overturned and food and drink ran upon the cloths and floor, while
Sira Sigurd lay his length upon the ground with torn garments. Eirik
leaped over the board, and would have struck him again, roaring above
the tumult:

“Hold your filthy mouth, priest of Hell that you are—” Lavrans strove to
part them, but Ragnfrid stood, white as death, by the board, and wrung
her hands. Then Lady Aashild ran and helped Sira Sigurd to his feet, and
wiped the blood from his face. She poured a beaker of mead down his
throat, saying:

“You must not be so strict, Sira Eirik, that you cannot bear to listen
to jesting so far on in a drinking bout. Seat yourselves now and you
shall hear of that wedding. ’Twas not here in the Dale at all, nor had I
the good fortune to be the one that knew of that water—could I have
brewed it I trow we would not be sitting now on a hill-croft in the
wilds. I might have been a rich woman and had lands in the great, rich
parishes—nigh to town and cloisters and bishop and chapter,” and she
smiled at the three churchmen. “But ’tis said sure enough, that the art
was known in the olden days.”

And the Lady told a merry tale of a misadventure that befell in King
Inga’s time when the magic wash was used by mistake by the wrong woman
and of what followed thereon.

Great was the laughter in the room, and both Gyrd and Jon shouted for
more such tales from Lady Aashild. But the Lady said no: “Here sit two
priests and Brother Aasgaut and young lads and serving maids; ’tis best
we cease before the talk grows unseemly and gross; let us bear in mind
’tis a holy day.”

The men made an outcry, but the women held with Lady Aashild. No one saw
that Ragnfrid had left the room. Soon after it was time that Kristin,
who sat lowest on the women’s bench among the serving maids, should go
to bed—she was sleeping in Tordis’ house, there were so many guests at
the manor.

It was biting cold, and the northern-lights flamed and flickered over
the brows of the fells to the north. The snow crackled under Kristin’s
feet as she ran over the courtyard shivering, her arms crossed on her
breast.

Then she was aware of a woman in the shadow of the old loft walking
hurriedly to and fro in the snow, throwing her arms about, wringing her
hands, and wailing aloud. Kristin saw it was her mother, and ran to her
affrighted, asking if she were ill.

“No, no,” burst out Ragnfrid. “But I could not stay within—go you to
bed, child.”

As Kristin turned away her mother called her softly:

“Go back to the room and lie beside your father and Ulvhild—take her in
your arms so that he may not roll upon her by mischance; he sleeps so
heavily when he has drunk deep. I am going up to sleep in the old
loft-room to-night.”

“Jesus, mother,” said Kristin, “you will freeze to death if you lie
there—alone, too. And what think you father will say if you come not to
bed to-night?”

“He will not mark it,” answered her mother, “he was all but asleep when
I left, and to-morrow he will waken late. Go and do as I have said.”

“’Twill be so cold for you,” said Kristin, whimpering, but her mother
sent her away, a little more kindly, and shut herself into the
loft-room.

Within it was as cold as without, and it was pitch-dark. Ragnfrid groped
her way to the bed, pulled off her headdress, undid her shoes, and crept
in among the skins. They chilled her to the bone; it was like sinking
into a snowdrift. She pulled the skins over her head, and drew her knees
up to her chin, and thrust her hands into her bosom—so she lay and wept;
now quite low, with flowing tears; now crying aloud and grinding her
teeth. But in time she had warmed the bed around her so much that she
grew drowsy, and at last wept herself to sleep.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   5

The year that Kristin was fifteen in the spring, Lavrans Björgulfsön and
Sir Andres Gudmundsön of Dyfrin made tryst at the Holledis Thing. There
’twas agreed between them that Andres’ second son, Simon, should wed
Kristin Lavransdatter and should have Formo, Sir Andres’ mother’s udal
estate. This the two men shook hands upon; yet it was not put in
writing, for Sir Andres had first to settle with his other children
about their heritage. And for this reason no betrothal feast was held;
but Sir Andres and Simon came to Jörundgaard to see the bride, and
Lavrans gave them a great banquet.

By this time Lavrans had ready his new dwelling-house of two storeys,
with corner fire-places of masonry both in the living room and the
loft-room above richly furnished and adorned with fair wood-carvings. He
had rebuilt the old loft-room too, and bettered the other houses in many
ways, so that he was now housed as befitted an esquire bearing arms. He
was very wealthy now, for he had had good fortune in his undertakings
and was a shrewd and careful husband of his goods; above all was he
known as a breeder of the finest horses and the goodliest cattle of all
kinds. And now he had been able so to order things that his daughter was
to wed into the Dyfrin kindred and the Formo estate, all folks deemed he
had brought to a happy end his purpose to be the foremost man in the
country-side. He, and Ragnfrid too, were well pleased with the
betrothal, as were Sir Andres and Simon.

Kristin was a little cast down when she first saw Simon Andressön; for
she had heard great talk of his good looks and seemly bearing, so that
she had outrun all measure in her hopes of what her bridegroom would be.

Truly Simon was well-favoured, but he was something fat to be only
twenty years of age; he was short of neck and had a face as round and
shining as the moon. He had goodly hair, brown and curly, and his eyes
were grey and clear, but lay deep and as it were shut in, the lids were
so fat; his nose was over small and his mouth was small too, and
pouting, but not unsightly. In spite of his stoutness, he was light, and
quick, and nimble in all his ways, and was skilled in all sports. He was
something too brisk and forward in his speech, but Lavrans held he
showed both good wit and learning when he talked with older men.

Ragnfrid soon came to like him, and Ulvhild was taken at once with the
greatest love for him—he was more gentle and kind with the little sick
maid than with any other. And when Kristin had grown used a little to
his round face and his way of speech, she grew to be well content with
her betrothed, and happy in the way her father had ordered things for
her.

Lady Aashild was at the feast. Since Jörundgaard had opened its doors to
her, the great folk in the parishes round about had begun to call to
mind her high birth and to think less of her doubtful fame, so that the
Lady came much out among people. She said when she had seen Simon:

“’Tis a good match, Kristin; this Simon will go forward in the world—you
will be spared many cares, and he will be good to live with. But to my
mind he seems something too fat and too cheerful—Were it now in Norway
as it was in days gone by, and as it is still in other lands—that folk
were not more hard to sinners than is God himself, I would say you
should find yourself a friend who is lean and sorrowful—one you could
have to sit and hold converse with. Then would I say, you could not fare
better than you would with Simon.”

Kristin grew red, though she understood not well what the Lady’s words
might mean. But as time went on and her bridal chests filled and she
evermore heard talk of her wedding and of what she was to take in to the
new household, she began to long that the betrothal-knot should be tied
once for all, and that Simon should come north; thus she thought much
about him in the end and was glad at the thought of meeting him again.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kristin was full-grown now and very fair to look upon. She was most like
her father and had grown tall; she was small waisted, with slender, fine
limbs and joints, yet round and plump withal. Her face was somewhat
short and round, her forehead low and broad and white as milk; her eyes
large, grey and soft, under fairly drawn eyebrows. Her mouth was
something large, but it had full bright, red lips, and her chin was
round as an apple and well shaped. She had goodly long, thick hair; but
’twas something dark in hue, almost as much brown as yellow, and quite
straight. Lavrans liked nothing better than to hear Sira Eirik boast of
Kristin—the priest had seen the maid grow up, had taught her her books
and writing, and loved her much. But the father was not so pleased when
the priest sometimes likened his daughter to an unblemished,
silken-coated filly.

Yet all men said that had not that sorrowful mishap befallen, Ulvhild
had been many times more comely than her sister. She had the fairest and
sweetest face, white and red as lilies and roses; and light-yellow hair,
soft as silk, which waved and clung about her slender throat and small
shoulders. Her eyes were like those of her Gjesling kin; they were deep
set, under straight, dark brows, and were clear as water and grey-blue;
but her glance was mild, not sharp like theirs. Then too, the child’s
voice was so clear and lovely that it was a joy to hearken to her,
whether she spoke or sang. She was most apt at book-learning and all
kinds of string-instruments and draughts, but had little mind to work
with her hands, for her back soon grew weary.

There seemed little hope, indeed, this fair child should ever have full
use of her limbs. It is true she had mended a little after her father
and mother had been to Nidaros with her to St. Olav’s shrine. Lavrans
and Ragnfrid had gone thither on foot, without man or serving-maid to
attend them; they bore the child between them on a litter the whole way.
After the journey Ulvhild grew so far well that she could walk a little
with a crutch. But they could not hope that she should grow well enough
to be wedded, and so it was like that, when the time came, she must be
given to a cloister with all the wealth that should fall to her.

They never spoke of this, and Ulvhild herself scarce knew how much
unlike she was to other children. She was very fond of finery and pretty
clothes, and her father and mother had not the heart to deny her
anything; so Ragnfrid stitched and sewed for her and decked her out like
any king’s child. Once some pedlars passing through the parish lay
overnight at Laugarbru; and Ulvhild got a sight of their wares there.
They had some amber coloured silk-stuff, and she set her heart on having
a shift of it. Lavrans was not wont to deal with such folk, who went
around against the law, selling wares from the market-towns in the
country parishes; but now he bought the whole bale at once. He gave
Kristin some of the stuff, too, for a bridal shift, and she was sewing
on it this summer. Until now all the shifts she owned had been of wool,
or of linen for best wear. But now Ulvhild had a shift of silk for feast
days and a Sunday shift of linen with silk let in above.

Lavrans Björgulfsön owned Laugarbru too now, and Tordis and Jon were in
charge there. With them was Lavrans’ and Ragnfrid’s youngest daughter,
Ramborg, whom Tordis had nursed. Ragnfrid would scarce look at the child
for some time after it was born, for she said she brought her children
ill-fortune. Yet she loved the little maid much and was ever sending
gifts to her and Tordis; and later she went often over to Laugarbru and
saw Ramborg, but she liked best to come after the child was asleep, and
sit by her. Lavrans and the two older daughters were often at Laugarbru
to play with the little one; she was a strong and healthy child, but not
so fair as her sisters.

                  *       *       *       *       *

This was the last summer Arne Gyrdsön was on Jörundgaard. The bishop had
promised Gyrd to help the youth on in the world, and in the autumn Arne
was to set out for Hamar.

Kristin knew well enough that she was dear to Arne, but she was in many
ways still a child in mind and she thought little about it, but bore
herself to him as she had always done from the time they were children;
was with him as often as she could, and always stood up with him when
there was dancing at home or upon the church-green. That her mother did
not like this, seemed to her something of a jest. But she never spoke to
Arne of Simon or of her wedding, for she marked that he grew
heavy-hearted when there was talk of it.

Arne was a very handy man and was now making Kristin a sewing-chair as a
keepsake. He had covered both the box and the frame of the chair with
fair, rich carving, and was now busy in the smithy on iron bands and
lock for it. On a fine evening well on in summer Kristin had gone down
to him. She had taken with her a jacket of her father’s she had to mend,
and sat upon the stone threshold sewing while she chatted with the youth
in the smithy. Ulvhild was with her; she hopped about upon her crutch,
eating the raspberries which grew among the heaps of stone around the
field.

After a while Arne came to the smithy door to cool himself. He made as
though to seat himself beside Kristin, but she moved a little away and
bade him have a care not to dirty the sewing she had upon her knee.

“Is it come to this between us,” said Arne, “that you dare not let me
sit by you for fear the peasant boy should soil you?”

Kristin looked at him in wonder, and answered:

“You know well enough what I meant. But take your apron off, wash the
charcoal from your hands and sit down a little and rest you here by me—”
and she made room for him.

But Arne laid himself in the grass in front of her; then she said again:

“Nay, be not angry, my Arne. Can you think I could be unthankful for the
brave gift you are making me, or ever forget you have been my best
friend at home here all my days?”

“Have I been that?” he asked.

“You know it well,” said Kristin. “And never will I forget you. But you,
who are to go out into the world—maybe you will gain wealth and honor or
ever you think—you will like enough forget me, long before I forget
you—”

“You will never forget me?” said Arne, smiling. “And I will forget you
ere you forget me?—you are naught but a child, Kristin.”

“_You_ are not so old either,” she replied.

“I am as old as Simon Darre,” said he again. “And we bear helm and
shield as well as the Dyfrin folk, but my folks have not had fortune
with them—”

He had dried his hands on the grass tufts; and now he took Kristin’s
ankle and pressed his cheek to the foot which showed from under her
dress. She would have drawn away her foot, but Arne said:

“Your mother is at Laugarbru, and Lavrans has ridden forth—from the
houses none can see us where we sit. Surely you can let me speak this
once of what is in my heart.”

Kristin answered:

“We have known all our days, both you and I, that ’twas bootless for us
to set our hearts on each other.”

“May I lay my head in your lap,” said Arne, and as she did not answer,
he laid his head down and twined an arm about her waist. With his other
hand he pulled at the plaits of her hair.

“How will you like it,” he asked in a little, “when Simon lies in your
lap thus, and plays with your hair?”

Kristin did not answer. It seemed as though a heaviness fell upon her of
a sudden—Arne’s words and Arne’s head on her knee—it seemed to her as
though a door opened into a room, where many dark passages led into a
greater darkness; sad, and heavy at heart, she faltered and would not
look inside.

“Wedded folk do not use to do so,” said she of a sudden, quickly, as if
eased of a weight. She tried to see Simon’s fat round face looking up
into hers as Arne was looking now; she heard his voice—and she could not
keep from laughing:

“I trow Simon will never lie on the ground to play with my shoes—not
he!”

“No, for he can play with you in his bed,” said Arne. His voice made her
feel sick and powerless all at once. She tried to push his head from off
her lap, but he pressed it against her knee and said softly:

“But _I_ would play with your shoes and your hair and your fingers, and
follow you out and in the livelong day, Kristin, were you ever so much
my wife and slept in my arms each single night.”

He half sat up, put his arm round her shoulder and gazed into her eyes.

“’Tis not well done of you to talk thus to me,” said Kristin bashfully,
in a low voice.

“No,” said Arne. He rose and stood before her. “But tell me one
thing—would you not rather it were I—?”

“Oh! I would rather—,” she sat still a while. “I would rather not have
any man—not yet—”

Arne did not move, but said:

“Would you rather be given to the cloister then, as ’tis to be with
Ulvhild, and be a maid all your days?”

Kristin pressed her folded hands down into her lap. A strange, sweet
trembling seized her—and with a sudden shudder she seemed to understand
how much her little sister was to be pitied—her eyes filled with tears
of sorrow for Ulvhild’s sake.

“Kristin,” said Arne in a low voice.

At that moment a loud scream came from Ulvhild. Her crutch had caught
between the stones, and she had fallen. Arne and Kristin ran to her, and
Arne lifted her up into her sister’s arms. She had cut her mouth and
much blood was flowing from the hurt.

Kristin sat down with her in the smithy door, and Arne fetched water in
a wooden bowl. Together they set to washing and wiping her face. She had
rubbed the skin off her knees, too. Kristin bent tenderly over the
small, thin legs.

Ulvhild’s wailing soon grew less, but she wept silently and bitterly as
children do who are used to suffering pain. Kristin held her head to her
bosom and rocked her gently.

Then the bell began to ring for Vespers up at Olav’s-Church.

Arne spoke to Kristin, but she sat bent over her sister as though she
neither heard nor marked him, so that at last he grew afraid and asked
if she thought there was danger in the hurt. Kristin shook her head, but
looked not at him.

Soon after she got up and went towards the farmstead, bearing Ulvhild in
her arms. Arne followed, silent and troubled—Kristin seemed so deep in
thought, and her face was set and hard. As she walked, the bell went on
ringing out over the meadows and the dale; it was still ringing as she
went into the house.

She laid Ulvhild in the bed which the sisters had shared ever since
Kristin had grown too big to sleep by her father and mother. She slipped
her shoes off and lay down beside the little one,—lay and listened for
the ringing of the bell long after it was hushed and the child slept.

It had come to her as the bell began to ring, while she sat with
Ulvhild’s little bleeding face in her hands, that maybe it was a sign to
her. If she should go to convent in her sister’s stead—if she should vow
herself to the service of God and the Virgin Mary—might not God give the
child health and strength again?

She thought of Brother Edwin’s word: that nowadays ’twas only marred and
crippled children and those for whom good husbands could not be found
that their fathers and mothers gave to God. She knew her father and
mother were godly folks—yet had she never heard aught else but that she
should wed—but when they understood that Ulvhild would be sickly all her
days they planned for her straightway that she should go to the
cloister—

And she had no mind to go herself—she strove against the thought that
God would do a miracle for Ulvhild if she herself turned nun. She hung
on Sira Eirik’s word that in these days not many miracles come to pass.
And yet she felt this evening it was as Brother Edwin said; had a man
but faith enough, his faith might work miracles. But she had no mind to
have that faith herself, she did not love God and his Mother and the
Saints _so_ much, did not even wish to love them so—she loved the world
and longed for the world—

Kristin pressed her lips down into Ulvhild’s soft, silken hair. The
child slept soundly, and the elder sister sat up restlessly, but lay
down again. Her heart bled with sorrow and shame, but she knew she did
not wish to believe in signs and wonders, for she would not give up her
heritage of health and beauty and love.

So she tried to comfort herself with the thought, that her father and
mother would not be willing she should do such a thing. Nor would they
think it could avail. Then, too, she was promised already, and she was
sure they would not give up Simon of whom they were so fond. She felt it
a betrayal of herself that they were so proud of this son-in-law; of a
sudden she thought with dislike of Simon’s round, red face and small
laughing eyes—of his jaunty gait—he bounced like a ball, it came to her
all at once—; of his bantering talk, that made her feel awkward and
foolish. ’Twas no such glory either to get him, and move with him just
down to Formo—Still she would rather have him than be sent to
convent—But, ah! the world beyond the hills, the King’s palace and the
earls and knights Lady Aashild talked of—and a comely man with sorrowful
eyes who would follow her in and out and never grow weary. She thought
of Arne that summer day when he lay on his side and slept with his
brown, glossy hair outspread among the heather—she had loved him then as
though he were her brother. It was not well done of him to have spoken
to her so, when he knew they could never belong to one another—

                  *       *       *       *       *

Word came from Laugarbru that her mother would stay there overnight.
Kristin got up to undress and go to rest. She began to unlace her
dress—then she put her shoes on again, threw her cloak about her and
went out.

The night sky stretched clear and green above the hillcrests. It was
near time for the moon to rise, and where it was yet hid behind the
fell, sailed some small clouds, their lower edges shining like silver;
the sky grew brighter and brighter, like metal under gathering drops of
dew.

She ran up between the fences, over the road, and up the slope toward
the church. It stood there, as though asleep, dark and shut, but she
went up to the cross which stood near by to mark the place where St.
Olav once rested as he fled before his enemies.

Kristin knelt down upon the stone and laid her folded hands upon the
base of the cross: “Holy Cross, strongest of masts, fairest of trees,
bridge for the sick to the fair shores of health—”

At the words of the prayer, it was as if her longing widened out and
faded little by little like rings on a pool. The single thoughts that
troubled her smoothed themselves out one after the other, her mind grew
calmer, more tender, and there came upon her a gentle, vague sadness in
place of her distress.

She lay kneeling there and drank in all the sounds of the night. The
wind sighed strangely, the rushing sound of the river came from beyond
the wood by the church, the beck ran near by right across the road—and
all about, far and near, in the dark, she half saw and heard small rills
of running and dripping water. The river gleamed white down below in the
valley. The moon crept up in a little nick in the hills—the dewy leaves
and stones sparkled faintly, and the newly tarred timber of the belfry
shone dull and dark by the churchyard gate. Then the moon was hid once
more where the mountain ridge rose higher, and now many more white and
shining clouds floated in the sky.

She heard a horse coming at a slow pace from higher up the road, and the
sound of men’s voices speaking low and even. She had no fear of folk
here close at home where she knew everyone—so she felt quite safe.

Her father’s dogs rushed at her, turned and dashed back into the wood,
then turned back and leaped upon her again. Her father shouted a
greeting as he came out from among the birches. He was leading
Guldsveinen by the bridle; a brace or two of birds hung dangling from
the saddle, and Lavrans bore a hooded hawk upon his left wrist. He had
with him a tall, bent man in a monk’s frock, and even before Kristin had
seen his face she knew it was Brother Edwin. She went to meet them,
wondering no more than if it had been a dream—she only smiled when
Lavrans asked whether she knew their guest again.

Lavrans had chanced upon him up by the Rost bridge, and had coaxed him
home with him to spend the night. But Brother Edwin would have it they
must let him lie in an outhouse: “For I’m grown so lousy,” said he, “you
cannot put me in the good beds.”

And for all Lavrans talked and begged, the monk held out; nay, at first
he would have it they should give him his food out in the courtyard. But
at last they got him into the hall with them, and Kristin made up the
fire in the fireplace in the corner and set candles on the board, while
a serving-maid brought in meat and drink.

The monk seated himself on the beggars’ bench by the door, and would
have naught but cold porridge and water for his supper. Neither would he
have aught of Lavrans’ proffer to have a bath made ready for him and
have his clothes well washed.

Brother Edwin fidgeted and scratched himself, and laughed all over his
lean, old face.

“Nay, nay,” said he, “these things bite into my proud hide better than
either whips or the Gardian’s words. I have been sitting under a rock up
here among the fells all summer—they gave me leave to go out into the
wilderness to fast and pray, and there I sat and thought: now was I like
a holy hermit indeed; and the poor folk away in Setnadal came up with
food for me, and thought here they saw, in very truth, a godly and
clean-living monk. Brother Edwin, they said, were there many such monks
as you, we would be better men fast enough; but when we see priests and
bishops and monks biting and fighting like young swine in a trough—Aye,
I told them it was unchristian-like to talk so—but I liked to hear it
well enough, and I sang and I prayed till the mountain rang again. Now
will it be wholesome for me to feel the lice biting and fighting upon my
skin, and to hear the good housewives, who would have all clean and
seemly in their houses, cry out: that dirty pig of a monk can lie out in
the barn well enough now ’tis summer. I am for northwards now to Nidaros
for St. Olav’s Vigil, and ’twill be well for me to mark that folk are
none too fain to come nigh me—”

Ulvhild woke, and Lavrans went and lifted her up and wrapped her in his
cloak:

“Here is the child I spoke of, dear Father. Lay your hands upon her and
pray to God for her as you prayed for the boy away north in Meldal, who
we heard got his health again—”

The monk lifted Ulvhild’s chin gently and looked into her face. And then
he raised one of her hands and kissed it.

“Pray rather, you and your wife, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you be not
tempted to try and bend God’s will concerning this child. Our Lord Jesus
himself has set these small feet upon the path which will lead her most
surely to the home of peace—I see it by your eyes, you blessed Ulvhild,
you have your intercessors in our second home.”

“The boy in Meldal got well, I have heard,” said Lavrans, in a low
voice.

“He was a poor widow’s only child, and there was none but the parish to
feed or clothe him when his mother should be gone. And yet the woman
prayed only that God might give her a fearless heart so that she might
have faith. He would bring that to pass which would be best for the lad.
Naught else did I do but join in that prayer of hers.”

“’Tis hard for her mother and for me to rest content with this,”
answered Lavrans heavily. “The more that she is so fair and so good.”

“Have you seen the child at Lidstad, south in the Dale,” asked the monk.
“Would you rather your daughter had been like that?”

Lavrans shuddered and pressed the child close to him.

“Think you not,” said Brother Edwin again, “that in God’s eyes we are
all children he has cause to grieve for, crippled as we are with sin?
And yet we deem not we are so badly off in this world.”

He went to the picture of the Virgin Mary upon the wall, and all knelt
down while he said the evening prayer. It seemed to them that Brother
Edwin had given them good comfort.

But, none the less, after he had gone from the room to seek his place of
rest, Astrid, the head serving-wench, swept with care all parts of the
floor where the monk had stood, and cast the sweepings at once into the
fire.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Next morning Kristin rose early, took milk-porridge and wheat-cakes in a
goodly dish of flame-grained birchwood—for she knew that the monk never
touched meat—and herself bore the food out to him. But few of the folk
were yet about in the houses.

Brother Edwin stood upon the bridge of the cow-house, ready for the road
with staff and scrip; with a smile he thanked Kristin for her pains, and
sat himself down on the grass and ate, while Kristin sat at his feet.

Her little white dog came running up, the little bells on his collar
tinkling. She took him into her lap, and Brother Edwin snapped his
fingers at him, threw small bits of wheat-cake into his mouth, and
praised him mightily the while.

“’Tis a breed Queen Euphemia brought to the country,” said he. “You are
passing fine here on Jörundgaard now; both in great things and small.”

Kristin flushed with pleasure. She knew already the dog was of a fine
breed, and she was proud of having it; no one else in the parish had a
lapdog. But she had not known it was of the same kind as the Queen’s pet
dogs.

“Simon Andressön sent him to me,” said she, and pressed it to her, while
it licked her face. “His name is Kortelin.”

She had thought to speak to the monk about her trouble and to pray for
his counsel. But she had no longer any wish to let her mind dwell on the
thoughts of the past evening. Brother Edwin was sure God would turn all
things to the best for Ulvhild. And it was good of Simon to send her
such a gift before even their betrothal was fixed. Arne she would not
think of—he had not borne himself as he should towards her, she thought.

Brother Edwin took his staff and scrip, and bade Kristin greet those
within the house—he would not stay till folk were up, but go while the
day was yet cool. She went with him up past the church and a little way
into the wood.

When they parted he wished her God’s peace, and blessed her.

“Give me a word, like the word you gave to Ulvhild, dear Father,” begged
Kristin, as she stood with his hand in hers. The monk rubbed his naked
foot, knotted with gout, in the wet grass:

“Then would I bid you, daughter, that you lay to heart how God cares for
folks’ good here in the Dale. Little rain falls here, but he has given
you water from the fells, and the dew freshens meadow and field each
night. Thank God for the good gifts he has given you, and murmur not if
you seem to miss aught you think might well be added to you. You have
bonny yellow hair; see you fret not because it does not curl. Have you
not heard of the old wife who sat and wept for that she had only a small
bite of swine’s flesh to give to her seven little ones for Christmas
cheer. Pat at the moment St. Olav came riding by, and he stretched out
his hand over the meat and prayed that God might give the poor little
ravens their fill. But when the woman saw a whole pig’s carcase lying
upon the board, she wept that she had not pots and platters enow!”

Kristin ran homewards with Kortelin dancing at her heels, snapping at
the hem of her dress, and barking and ringing all his little silver
bells.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   6

ARNE stayed at home at Finsbrekken the last days before he was to set
out for Hamar; his mother and sisters were making ready his clothes.

The day before he was to ride southward, he came to Jörundgaard to bid
farewell. And he made a chance to whisper to Kristin, would she meet him
on the road south of Laugarbru next evening?

“I would so fain we two should be alone the last time we are together,”
said he. “Does it seem such a great thing that I ask—after all, we were
brought up together like brother and sister,” he said when Kristin hung
doubtful a little before making reply.

So she promised to come, if she could slip away from home.

It snowed next morning, but through the day it turned to rain, and soon
roads and fields were a sea of grey mud. Wreaths of mist hung and
drifted along the lower hillsides; now and then they sank yet lower and
gathered into white rollers along the roots of the hills; and then the
thick rain-clouds closed in again.

Sira Eirik came over to help Lavrans draw up some deeds. They went down
to the hearth-room, for in such weather it was pleasanter there than in
the great hall, where the fireplace filled the room with smoke. Ragnfrid
was at Laugarbru, where Ramborg was now getting better of a fever she
had caught early in the autumn.

Thus it was not hard for Kristin to slip away unseen, but she dared not
take a horse, so she went on foot. The road was a quagmire of snow-slush
and withered leaves; there was a saddening breath of death and decay in
the raw, chill air, and now and again there came a gust of wind driving
the rain into her face. She drew her hood well down over her head and,
holding her cloak about her with both hands, went quickly forward. She
was a little afraid—the roar of the river sounded so hollow in the heavy
air, and the clouds drove dark and ragged over the hill-crests. Now and
again she halted and listened for Arne’s coming.

After a time she heard the splashing of hoofs upon the slushy road
behind her, and she stopped then where she was, for this was a somewhat
lonely spot and she thought ’twas a good place for them to say their
farewells, in quiet. Almost at once she saw the horseman coming, and
Arne sprang from his horse and led it as he came to meet her.

“’Twas kindly done of you to come,” said he, “in this ugly weather.”

“’Tis worse for you who have so far to ride—and how is it you set out so
late?” she asked.

“Jon has bidden me to lie the night at Loptsgaard,” answered Arne. “I
thought ’twas easier for you to meet me at this time of day.”

They stood silent for a time. Kristin thought she had never seen before
how fair a youth Arne was. He had on a smooth, steel cap, and under that
a brown woollen hood that sat tight about his face and spread out over
his shoulders; under it his narrow face showed bright and comely. His
leather jerkin was old, spotted with rust, and rubbed by the coat of
mail which had been worn above it—Arne had taken it over from his
father—but it fitted closely to his slim, lithe, and powerful body, and
he had a sword at his side and in his hand a spear—his other weapons
hung from his saddle. He was full-grown now and bore himself manfully.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder and said:

“Mind you, Arne you asked me once if I thought you as good a man as
Simon Andressön? Now will I tell you one thing, before we part; ’tis
that you seem to me as much above him in looks and bearing as he is
reckoned above you in birth and riches by those who look most to such
things.”

“Why do you tell me this?” asked Arne breathlessly.

“Because Brother Edwin told me to lay to heart, that we should thank God
for his good gifts, and not be like the woman when St. Olav added to her
meat, and she wept because she had not trenchers to put it in—so you
should not grieve that He has not given you as much of riches as of
bodily gifts—”

“Was it _that_ you meant?” said Arne. And then, as she was silent, he
said:

“I wondered if you meant that you would rather be wedded to me than to
the other—”

“That I would, truly,” said she in a low voice. “—I know you better—”

Arne threw his arms around her so that her feet were lifted from the
ground. He kissed her face many times, and then set her down again:

“God help us, Kristin, what a child you are!”

She stood and hung her head, but left her hands upon his shoulders. He
caught her wrists and held them tight:

“I see how ’tis with you, my sweeting; you little know how sore I am at
heart to lose you. Kristin, you know we have grown up together like two
apples on one branch; I loved you long before I began to understand that
one day another would come and break you from me. As sure as God
suffered death for us all—I know not how I can ever be happy in this
world after to-day—”

Kristin wept bitterly and lifted her face, so that he might kiss her.

“Do not talk so, my Arne,” she begged, and patted him on the shoulder.

“Kristin,” said Arne in a low voice and took her into his arms again,
“think you not that if you begged your father—Lavrans is so good a man,
he would not force you against your will—if you begged them but to let
you wait a few years—no one knows how fortune may turn for me—we are
both of us so young.”

“Oh, I fear I must do as they wish at home,” she wept. And now weeping
came upon Arne too.

“You know not, Kristin, how dear you are to me.” He hid his face upon
her shoulder. “If you did, and if you cared for me, for sure you would
go to Lavrans and beg hard—”

“I cannot do it,” she sobbed. “I could never come to love any man so
much as to go against my father and mother for his sake.” She groped
with her hands for his face under the hood and the heavy steel cap. “Do
not cry so, Arne, my dearest friend—”

“You must take this at least,” said he after a time, giving her a little
brooch; “and think of me sometimes, for I shall never forget you nor my
grief—”

It was all dark when Kristin and Arne had said their last farewell. She
stood and looked after him when at length he rode away. A streak of
yellow light shone through a rift in the clouds, and was reflected in
the footprints, where they had walked and stood in the slush on the
road—it all looked so cold and sorrowful, she thought. She drew up her
linen neckerchief and dried her tear-stained face, then turned and went
homeward.

She was wet and cold and walked quickly. After a time she heard someone
coming along the road behind her. She was a little frightened; even on
such a night as this there might be strange folk journeying on the
highway, and she had a lonely stretch before her. A great black scree
rose right up on one side, and on the other the ground fell steeply and
there was fir-forest all the way down to the leaden-hued river in the
bottom of the dale. So she was glad when the man behind her called to
her by name; and she stood still and waited.

The newcomer was a tall, thin man in a dark surcoat with lighter
sleeves—as he came nearer she saw he was dressed as a priest and carried
an empty wallet on his back. And now she knew him to be Bentein
Priestson, as they called him—Sira Eirik’s daughter’s son. She saw at
once that he was far gone in drink.

“Aye, one goes and another comes,” said he, laughing, when they had
greeted one another. “I met Arne of Brekken even now—I see you are
weeping. You might as well smile a little now I am come home—we have
been friends too ever since we were children, have we not?”

“’Tis an ill exchange, methinks, getting you into the parish in his
stead,” said Kristin, bluntly. She had never liked Bentein. “And so, I
fear, will many think. Your grandfather here has been so glad you were
in Oslo making such a fair beginning.”

“Oh, aye,” said Bentein, with a nickering laugh. “So ’twas a fair
beginning I was making, you think? I was even like a pig in a
wheat-field, Kristin—and the end was the same, I was hunted out with
cudgels and the hue and cry. Aye, aye; aye, aye. ’Tis no great thing,
the gladness my grandfather gets from his offspring. But what a mighty
hurry you are in!”

“I am cold,” said Kristin, curtly.

“Not colder than I,” said the priest. “I have no more clothes on me than
you see here—my cloak I had to sell for food and beer in little Hamar.
Now, you should still have some heat in your body from making your
farewells with Arne—methinks you should let me get under your fur with
you—,” and he caught her cloak, pulled it over his shoulders and gripped
her round the waist with his wet arm.

Kristin was so amazed with his boldness it was a moment before she could
gather her wits—then she strove to tear herself away, but he had a hold
of her cloak and it was fastened together by a strong silver clasp.
Bentein got his arms about her again, and made to kiss her, his mouth
nearly touching her chin. She tried to strike, but he held her fast by
the upper arm.

“I trow you have lost your wits,” she hissed, as she struggled, “dare
you to lay hands on me as I were a—dearly shall you rue this to-morrow,
dastard that you are—”

“Nay, to-morrow you will not be so foolish,” says Bentein, putting his
leg in front of her so that she half fell into the mud, and pressing one
hand over her mouth.

Yet she had no thought of crying out. Now for the first time it flashed
on her mind what he dared to want with her, but rage came upon her so
wild and furious she had scarce a thought of fear: she snarled like an
animal at grips with another, and fought furiously with the man as he
tried to hold her down, while the ice-cold snow-water soaked through her
clothes on to her burning skin.

“To-morrow you will have wit enough to hold your tongue,” said Bentein,
“—and if it can not be hidden, you can put the blame on Arne—’twill be
believed the sooner—”

Just then one of his fingers got into her mouth and at once she bit it
with all her might, so that Bentein shrieked and let go his hold. Quick
as lightning Kristin got one hand free, seized his face with it and
pressed her thumb with all her might against the ball of one of his
eyes; he roared out and rose to his knees; like a cat she slipped from
his grasp, threw herself upon him so that he fell upon his back, and,
turning, rushed along the road with the mud splashing over her at every
bound.

She ran and ran without looking back. She heard Bentein coming after,
and she ran till her heart thumped in her throat, while she moaned
softly and strained her eyes forward—should she never reach Laugarbru?
At last she was out on the road where it passed through the fields; she
saw the group of houses down on the hill-slope, and at the same moment
she bethought her that she durst not run in there, where her mother
was,—in the state she was now in, plastered with clay and withered
leaves from head to foot, and with her clothing torn to rags.

She marked that Bentein was gaining upon her; and on that she bent down
and took up two great stones. She threw them when he came near enough;
one struck him with such force it felled him to the ground. Then she ran
on again and stayed not before she stood upon the bridge.

All trembling, she stood and clutched the railing of the bridge; a
darkness came before her eyes, and she feared she would drop down in a
swoon—but then she thought of Bentein; what if he should come and find
her. Shaken with rage and shame she went onwards, though her legs would
scarce bear her, and now she felt her face smart where fingernails had
scarred it, and felt too she had hurts upon both back and arms. Her
tears came hot as fire.

She wished Bentein might have been killed by the stone she had
thrown—she wished she had gone back and made an end of him—she felt for
her knife, but found that she must have lost it.

Then again came the thought, she must not be seen at home as she was;
and so it came into her mind that she would go to Romundgaard. She would
complain to Sira Eirik.

But the priest had not come back yet from Jörundgaard. In the
kitchen-house she found Gunhild, Bentein’s mother; the woman was alone,
and Kristin told her how her son had dealt with her. But that she had
gone out to meet Arne she did not tell her. When she saw that Gunhild
thought she had been at Laugarbru, she left her to think so.

Gunhild said little, but wept a great deal while she washed the mud off
Kristin’s clothes and sewed up the worst rents. And the girl was so
shaken she paid no heed to the covert glances Gunhild cast on her now
and then.

When Kristin went, Gunhild took her cloak and went out with her, but
took the way to the stables. Kristin asked her whither she was going.

“Surely I may have leave to ride down and look after my son,” answered
the woman. “See whether you have killed him with that stone of yours, or
how it fares with him.”

There seemed to be naught Kristin could answer to this, so she said only
that Gunhild should see to it Bentein got out of the parish as soon as
might be, and kept out of her sight, “—or I will speak of this to
Lavrans, and you can guess, I trow, what would happen then.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

And indeed, Bentein went southward not more than a week later; he
carried letters from Sira Eirik to the Bishop of Hamar begging the
Bishop to find work for him or otherwise to help him.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   7

One day at Yule-tide Simon Andressön came riding to Jörundgaard, a quite
unlooked for guest. He craved pardon for coming thus, unbidden and
alone, without his kinsfolk. But Sir Andres was in Sweden on the King’s
business; he himself had been home at Dyfrin for a time, but only his
young sisters and his mother, who lay ill abed, were there; so time had
hung on his hands, and a great longing had taken him to look in upon
them up here.

Ragnfrid and Lavrans thanked him much for having made this long journey
in the depth of winter. The more they saw of Simon the more they liked
him. He knew of all that had passed between Andres and Lavrans, and it
was now fixed that his and Kristin’s betrothal ale should be drunk
before the beginning of Lent if Sir Andres would be home by that time,
but, if not, then as soon as Easter was past.

Kristin was quiet and downcast when with her betrothed; she found not
much to talk of with him. One evening when they had all been sitting
drinking, he asked her to go out with him a little into the cool. Then,
as they stood on the balcony in front of the upper hall, he put his arm
round her waist and kissed her. After that he did the same often when
they were alone. It gave her no gladness, but she suffered him to do it,
since she knew the betrothal was a thing that must come. She thought of
her wedding now only as something which she must go through with, not as
something she wished for. None the less she liked Simon well
enough—most, though, when he talked with others and did not touch or
talk to her.

                  *       *       *       *       *

She had been so unhappy through this whole autumn. It was of no use,
however often she told herself Bentein had been able to do her no harm;
none the less she felt herself soiled and shamed.

Nothing could be the same as it had been before, since a man had dared
try to wreak such a will on her. She lay awake of nights and burned with
shame and could not stop thinking of it. She felt Bentein’s body close
against hers as when they fought, his hot, beery breath—she could not
help thinking of what might have happened—and she thought, with a
shudder through all her body, of what he had said: how Arne would get
the blame if it could not be hidden. There rushed through her mind all
that would have followed if such a calamity had befallen and then folk
had heard of her meeting with Arne—what if her father and mother had
believed such a thing of Arne—and Arne himself—She saw him as she had
seen him that last evening, and she felt as though she sank crushed
before him at the very thought that she _might_ have dragged him down
with her into sorrow and disgrace. And then she had such ugly dreams.
She had heard tell in church and in holy stories of fleshly lusts and
the temptations of the body, but they had meant naught to her. Now it
was become real to her that she herself and all mankind had a sinful,
carnal body which enmeshed the soul and ate into it with hard bonds.

Then she would think out for herself how she might have killed or
blinded Bentein. It was the only solace she could find—to sate herself
with dreams of revenge upon the dark, hateful man who stood always in
the way of her thoughts. But this did not help for long; she lay by
Ulvhild’s side of nights and wept bitter tears at the thought of all
this that had been brought upon her by brute force. Bentein had not
failed altogether—he had wrought scathe to the maidenhood of her spirit.

The first work-day after Christmas all the women on Jörundgaard were
busy in the kitchen-house; Ragnfrid and Kristin had been there, too, for
most of the day. Late in the evening, while some of the women were
clearing up after the baking, and others making ready for supper, the
dairy-maid came rushing in, shrieking and wringing her hands:

“Jesus, Jesus—did ever any hear such a dreadful thing—they are bringing
Arne Gyrdson home dead on a sleigh—God help Gyrd and Inga in this
misery—”

A man who dwelt in a cottage a little way down the road came in with
Halvdan. It was these two who had met the bier.

The women crowded round them. Outside the circle stood Kristin, white
and shaking. Halvdan, Lavrans’ own body-servant, who had known Arne from
his boyhood, wept aloud as he told the story:

It was Bentein Priestson who had killed Arne. On New Year’s Eve the men
of the Bishop’s household were sitting and drinking in the men’s hall,
and Bentein had come in—he had been given a clerkship now with the
Corpus Christi prebendary. The men did not want him amongst them at
first, but he had put Arne in mind that they were both from the same
parish, and Arne had let him sit by him, and they had drunk together.
But presently they had quarrelled and fought, and Arne had fallen on so
fiercely that Bentein had snatched a knife from they table and stabbed
him in the throat and then more than once in the breast. Arne had died
almost at once.

The Bishop had taken this mischance much to heart; he himself had cared
for the laying-out of the corpse, and had it brought all the long way
home by his own folk. Bentein he had thrown into irons, cast him out
from the church, and if he were not already hanged, he was going to be.

Halvdan had to tell all this over again many times as fresh people
streamed in. Lavrans and Simon came over to the kitchen too, when they
marked all the stir and commotion about the place. Lavrans was much
moved; he bade them saddle his horse, he would ride over to Brekken at
once. As he was about to go, his eyes fell on Kristin’s white face.

“May be _you_ would like to go with me?” he asked. Kristin faltered a
little; she shuddered—but then she nodded, for she could not utter one
word.

“Is’t not too cold for her?” said Ragnfrid. “Doubtless they will have
the wake to-morrow, and then ’tis like we shall all go together—”

Lavrans looked at his wife; he marked Simon’s face too; and then he went
and laid his arm round Kristin’s shoulders:

“She is his foster-sister, you must bear in mind,” said he. “Maybe she
would like to help Inga with the laying-out the body.”

And though Kristin’s heart was benumbed with despair and fear, she felt
a glow of thankfulness to her father for his words.

Ragnfrid said then, that if Kristin was to go, they must eat their
evening porridge before they started. She wished, too, to send gifts to
Inga by them—a new linen sheet, wax-candles and fresh-baked bread; and
she bade them say she would come up herself and help to prepare for the
burial.

There was little eating, but much talking in the room while the food was
on the table. One reminded the other of the trials that God had laid
upon Gyrd and Inga. Their farm had been laid waste by stone-slips and
floods: more than one of their elder children were dead, so that all
Arne’s brothers and sisters were still but little ones. They had had
fortune with them now for some years, since the Bishop placed Gyrd at
Finsbrekken as his bailiff; and the children who were left to them were
fair and full of promise. But his mother loved Arne more than all the
rest—

They pitied Sira Eirik too. The priest was beloved and well respected
and the folk of the parish were proud of him; he was learned and skilled
in his office and in all the years he had had their church he had never
let a holy day or mass or a service pass that he was in duty bound to
hold. In his youth he had been man-at-arms under Count Alv of Tornberg
but he had had the misfortune to kill a man of very high birth, and so
had taken refuge with the Bishop of Oslo; when the Bishop saw what a
turn Eirik had for book-learning, he had him trained for a priest. And
had it not been that he still had enemies by reason of that slaying of
long ago, it was like Sira Eirik would not have stayed here in this
little charge. True enough, he was very greedy of pence, both for his
own purse and for the church, but then, was not his church richly fitted
out with plate and vestments and books? and he himself had these
children—and he had had naught but sorrow and trouble with his family.
In these far away country parishes folk held it was not reason that
priests should live like monks, for they must at the least have women to
help on their farms, and they might well need a woman to look after
things for them, seeing what long and toilsome journeys they must make
round the parishes, and that too in all kinds of weather; besides folk
had not forgotten that it was not so very long since priests in Norway
had been wedded men. Thus no one had blamed Sira Eirik over much that he
had had three children by the woman who tended his house, while he was
yet young. But this evening they said, it looked, indeed, as though
’twas God’s will to punish Eirik for his loose living, so much evil had
his children and his children’s children brought upon him. And some
thought there was good reason, too, that a priest should have neither
wife nor children—for after this it was much to be feared that
bitterness and enmity would arise between the priest and the folk on
Finsbrekken, who until now had been the best of friends.

Simon Andressön knew much of Bentein’s doings in Oslo; and he told of
them. Bentein had been clerk to the Dean of the Church of the Holy
Virgin, and he had the name of being a quick-witted youth. There were
many women, too, who liked him well—he had roving eyes, and a glib
tongue. Some held him a comely man—these were for the most part such
women as thought they had a bad bargain in their husbands, and then
young maids, the sort that liked well that men should be somewhat free
with them. Simon laughed—aye, they understood? Well, Bentein was so sly,
he never went too far with that kind of woman; he was all talk with
them, and so he got a name for clean-living. But the thing was that King
Haakon, as they knew, was a good and pious man himself, and fain would
keep order among his men and hold them to a seemly walk and
conversation—the young ones at least; the others were apt to be too much
for him. And it came about that whatever pranks the youngsters managed
to slip out and take part in—drinking bouts, gambling and beer-drinking
and such like—the priest of the King’s household always got to hear of,
and the mad-caps had to confess and pay scot and suffer hard reproof;
aye, two or three of the wildest youths of all were hunted away. But at
last it came out it was this fox, Bentein secretarius—unknown to anyone
he had been made free of all the beer-houses and worse places still; he
confessed the serving-wenches and gave them absolution—

Kristin sat at her mother’s side; she tried to eat so that no one should
mark how it was with her, though her hand shook so that she spilled the
milk porridge at each spoonful, and her tongue felt so thick and dry in
her mouth that she could not swallow the morsels of bread. But when
Simon began to tell of Bentein, she had to give up making believe to
eat; she held on to the bench beneath her—terror and loathing seized
her, so that she felt dizzy and sick. It was he who had wanted
to—Bentein and Arne, Bentein and Arne—Beside herself with impatience,
she waited for them to be finished. She longed to see Arne, Arne’s
comely face, to throw herself down beside him and mourn and forget all
else.

As her mother helped her with her outer wrappings, she kissed her
daughter on the cheek. Kristin was so little used to endearments from
her mother now, it comforted her much—she laid her head upon Ragnfrid’s
shoulder a moment, but she could not weep.

When they came out of the courtyard, she saw that others were going with
them—Halvdan, Jon from Laugarbru, and Simon and his man. It gave her a
pang, she knew not why, that the two strangers should be coming with
them.

It was a bitter cold evening, and the snow crackled under foot; in the
black sky the stars crowded thick, glittering like rime. When they had
ridden a little way, they heard yells and howls and furious hoof-beats
from the flats to the south—a little further up the road a whole troop
of horsemen came tearing up behind and swept past them with a ringing of
metal, leaving behind a vapour of reeking, rime-covered horseflesh,
which reached them even where they stood aside in the deep snow. Halvdan
hailed the wild crew—they were youths from the farms in the south of the
parish; they were still keeping Yule-tide and were out trying their
horses. Some, who were too drunk to understand, thundered on at a
gallop, roaring at the top of their voices and hammering on their
shields. But a few grasped the tidings which Halvdan shouted to them;
they fell out of the troop, grew silent, joined Lavrans’ company and
talked in whispers to those in the rear.

At last they came in sight of Finsbrekken, on the hillside beyond the
Sil river. There were lights about the houses—in the middle of the
courtyard pine-root torches had been planted in a heap of snow, and
their glare lay red over the white slopes, but the black houses looked
as though smeared with clotted blood. One of Arne’s little sisters stood
outside and stamped her feet; she hugged her hands beneath her cloak.
Kristin kissed the tear-stained, half-frozen child. Her heart was heavy
as stone, and it seemed as though she had lead in her limbs, as she
climbed the stairs to the loft-room where they had laid him.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The sound of singing and the glitter of many lighted candles met them in
the doorway. In the middle of the room stood the coffin he had been
brought home in, covered with a sheet; boards had been laid on trestles
and the coffin placed upon them. At the head of the bier a young priest
stood with a book in his hands, chanting; round about knelt the mourners
with their faces hidden in their heavy cloaks.

Lavrans lit his candle at one of those already burning, set it firmly
upon one of the boards of the bier and knelt down. Kristin tried to do
the like, but could not get her candle to stand; so Simon took it and
helped her. As long as the priest went on chanting, all stayed upon
their knees and repeated his words in whispers, their breath hanging
like steam about their mouths, in the bitter cold air of the room.

When the priest shut his book and the folk rose—there were many gathered
in the death-chamber already—Lavrans went forward to Inga. She stared at
Kristin, and seemed scarce to hear what Lavrans said; she stood holding
the gifts he had handed to her as though she knew not she had aught in
her hand.

“Are _you_ come, too, Kristin,” she said in a strange, laboured voice.
“Maybe you would see my son, so as he is come back to me?”

She pushed some of the candles aside, seized Kristin’s arm with a
shaking hand, and with the other swept the napkin from the face of the
dead.

It was greyish-yellow like clay, and the lips had the hue of lead; they
had parted a little, so that the small, even, bone-white teeth showed
through as in a mocking smile. Under the long eyelashes there was a
gleam of the glassy eyes, and there were some livid stains below the
temples, either marks of blows or the death-spots.

“Maybe you would kiss him?” asked Inga, as before; and Kristin bent
forward at her bidding and pressed her lips upon the dead man’s cheek.
It was clammy as with dew, and she thought she could feel the least
breath of decay; the body had begun to thaw perhaps with the heat from
all the tapers round.

Kristin stayed still, lying with her hands on the bier, for she could
not rise. Inga drew the shroud further aside, so that the great gash
above the collarbone came to sight. Then she turned towards the people
and said with a shaking voice:

“They lie, I see, who say a dead man’s wounds will bleed when he is
touched by him who wrought his death. He is colder now, my boy, and less
comely, than when you met him last down there on the road. You care not
much to kiss him now, I see—but I have heard you scorned not his lips
then.”

“Inga,” said Lavrans, coming forward, “have you lost your wits—are you
raving—”

“Oh, aye, you are all so fine, down at Jörundgaard—you were far too rich
a man, you Lavrans Björgulfsön, for my son to dare think of courting
your daughter with honour—and Kristin, too, she thought herself too
good. But she was not too good to run after him on the highway at night
and play with him in the thickets the night he left—ask her yourself and
we will see if she dare deny it here, with Arne lying dead—and all
through her lightness—”

Lavrans did not ask, he turned to Gyrd:

“Curb your wife, man—you see she has clean lost her wits—”

But Kristin lifted her white face and looked desperately about her:

“I went and met Arne the last evening because he begged me to. But
naught of wrong passed between us.” And then, as she seemed to come to
herself and to understand all, she cried out: “I know not what you mean,
Inga—would you slander Arne, and he lying here—never did he tempt me nor
lure me astray—”

But Inga laughed aloud:

“Nay, not Arne! but Bentein Priest—_he_ did not let you play with him
so—ask Gunhild, Lavrans, that washed the dirt off your daughter’s back;
and ask each man who was in the Bishop’s henchmen’s hall on New Year’s
Eve, when Bentein flouted Arne for that he had let her go, and leave him
standing like a fool. She let Bentein walk homeward with her under her
cloak and would have played the same game with him—”

Lavrans took her by the shoulder and laid his hand over her mouth:

“Take her away, Gyrd. Shameful it is that you should speak such words by
this good youth’s body—but if all your children lay here dead, I would
not stand and hear you lie about mine—you, Gyrd, must answer for what
this madwoman says—”

Gyrd took hold of his wife and tried to lead her away, but he said to
Lavrans:

“’Tis true, though, ’twas of Kristin they talked, Arne and Bentein, when
my son lost his life. Like enough you have not heard it, but there hath
been talk in the parish here too this autumn—”

Simon struck a blow with his sword upon the clothes-chest beside him:

“Nay, good folk, now must you find somewhat else to talk of in this
death-chamber than my betrothed—Priest, can you not rule these folk and
keep seemly order here—?”

The priest—Kristin saw now he was the youngest son from Ulvsvolden, who
had been at home for Yule—opened his book and stood up beside the bier.
But Lavrans shouted that those who had talked about his daughter, let
them be who they might, should be made to swallow their words, and Inga
shrieked:

“Aye, take my life then, Lavrans, since she has taken all my comfort and
joy—and make her wedding with this knight’s son; but yet do all folk
know that she was wed with Bentein upon the highway—Here—,” and she cast
the sheet Lavrans had given her right across the bier to Kristin, “I
need not Ragnfrid’s linen to lay my Arne in the grave—make head-cloths
of it, you, or keep it to swaddle your roadside brat—and go down and
help Gunhild to moan for the man that’s hanged—”

Lavrans, Gyrd and the priest took hold of Inga. Simon tried to lift
Kristin, who was lying over the bier. But she thrust his arm fiercely
aside, drew herself up straight upon her knees and cried aloud:

“So God my Saviour help me, it is false!” and, stretching out one hand,
she held it over the nearest candle on the bier.

It seemed as if the flame bent and waved aside—Kristin felt all eyes
fixed upon her—what seemed to her a long time went by. And then all at
once she grew aware of a burning pain in her palm, and with a piercing
cry she fell back upon the floor.

She thought, herself, she swooned—but she was aware that Simon and the
priest raised her. Inga shrieked out something; she saw her father’s
horror-stricken face, and heard the priest shout that no one must take
account of this ordeal—not thus might one call God to witness,—and then
Simon bore her from the room and down the stairs. Simon’s man ran to the
stable, and soon after Kristin was sitting, still half senseless, in
front of Simon on his saddle, wrapped in his coat, and he was riding
toward Jörundgaard as fast as his horse could gallop.

They were nigh to Jörundgaard when Lavrans came up with them. The rest
of their company came thundering along the road far behind.

“Say naught to your mother,” said Simon, as he set her down at the door
of the house. “We have heard all too much wild talk to-night; ’tis no
wonder you lost your wits yourself at the last.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Ragnfrid was lying awake when they came in, and she asked how things had
been in the wake chamber. Simon took it upon himself to answer for all.
Aye, there had been many candles and many folk; aye, there had been a
priest—Tormod from Ulvsvolden—Sira Eirik he heard had ridden off to
Hamar this very evening, so there would be no trouble about the burial.

“We must have a mass said over the lad,” said Ragnfrid; “God strengthen
Inga; the good worthy woman is sorely tried.”

Lavrans sang the same tune as Simon and in a little Simon said that now
they must all go to rest; “for Kristin is both weary and sorrowful.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

After a time, when Ragnfrid slept, Lavrans threw on a few clothes, and
went and seated himself on the edge of his daughters’ bed. He found
Kristin’s hand in the dark and said very gently:

“Now must you tell me, child, what is true and what is false in all this
talk Inga is spreading?”

Sobbing, Kristin told him all that had befallen the evening Arne set out
for Hamar. Lavrans said but little. Kristin crept toward him in her bed,
threw her arms around his neck and wailed softly:

“It _is_ my fault that Arne is dead—’tis but too true, what Inga said—”

“’Twas Arne himself that begged you to go and meet him,” said Lavrans,
pulling the coverlid up over his daughter’s bare shoulders. “I trow it
was heedless in me to let you two go about together, but I thought the
lad would have known better—I will not blame you two—I know these things
are heavy for you to bear. Yet did I never think that daughter of mine
would fall into ill-fame in this parish of ours—and ’twill go hard with
your mother when she hears these tidings—But that you went to Gunhild
with this and not to me, ’twas so witless a thing—I understand not how
you could behave so foolishly—”

“I cannot bear to stay here in the Dale any more,” sobbed Kristin, “—not
a soul would I dare look in the face—and all I have brought upon
them—the folks at Romundgaard and at Finsbrekken—”

“Aye, they will have to see to it, both Gyrd and Sira Eirik,” said
Lavrans, “that these lies about you are buried with Arne. For the rest,
’tis Simon Andressön can best defend you in this business,” said he, and
patted her in the dark. “Think you not he took the matter well and
wisely—”

“Father”—and Kristin clung close to him and begged piteously and
fervently, “send me to the convent, father. Aye, listen to me—I have
thought of this for long; may be Ulvhild will grow well if I go in her
stead. You know the shoes with beads upon them that I sewed for her in
the autumn—I pricked my fingers sorely, and my hands bled from the sharp
gold-thread—yet I sat and sewed on them, for I thought it was wicked of
me not to love my sister so that I would be a nun to help her—Arne once
asked if I would not. Had I but said ‘Aye’ then, all this would not have
befallen—”

Lavrans shook his head:

“Lie down now,” he bade. “You know not yourself what you say, poor
child. Now you must try if you can sleep—”

But Kristin lay and felt the smart in her burnt hand, and despair and
bitterness over her fate raged in her heart. No worse could have
befallen her had she been the most sinful of women; everyone would
believe—no, she could not, could not bear to stay on here in the Dale.
Horror after horror rose before her—when her mother came to know of
this—and now there was blood between them and their parish priest,
ill-will betwixt all who had been friends around her the whole of her
life. But the worst, the most crushing fear of all fell upon her when
she thought of Simon and of how he had taken her and carried her away
and stood forth for her at home, and borne himself as though she were
his own possession—her father and mother had fallen aside before him as
though she belonged already more to him than to them—

Then she thought of Arne’s face in the coffin, cold and cruel. She
remembered the last time she was at church, she had seen, as she left,
an open grave that stood waiting for a dead man. The upthrown clods of
earth lay upon the snow hard and cold and grey like iron—to this had she
brought Arne—

All at once the thought came to her of a summer evening many years
before. She was standing on the balcony of the loft-room at Finsbrekken,
the same room where she had been struck down that night. Arne was
playing ball with some boys in the courtyard below, and the ball was hit
up to her in the balcony. She had held it behind her back, and would not
give it up when Arne came after it; then he had tried to wrest it from
her by strength—and they had fought for it, in the balcony, in the room
amid the chests, with the leather sacks, which hung there full of
clothes, bumping their heads as they knocked against them in their
frolic; they had laughed and struggled over that ball—

And then, at last, the truth seemed to come home to her: he was dead and
gone, and she should never again see his comely, fearless face nor feel
the touch of his warm, living hands. And she had been so childish and so
heartless as never to give a thought to what it must be for him to lose
her—She wept bitter tears, and felt she had earned all her unhappiness.
But then the thought came back of all that still awaited her, and she
wept anew, for, after all, it seemed to her too hard a punishment—

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was Simon who told Ragnfrid of what happened in the corpse chamber at
Brekken the night before. He did not make more of it than he needs must.
But Kristin was so amazed with sorrow and night waking that she felt a
senseless anger against him because he talked as if it were not so
dreadful a thing after all. Besides it vexed her sorely that her father
and mother let Simon behave as though he were master of the house.

“And you Simon—surely you believe not aught of this?” asked Ragnfrid,
fearfully.

“No,” replied Simon. “Nor do I deem there is anyone who believes it—they
know you and her and this Bentein; but so little befalls for folk to
talk of in these outparishes—’tis but reason they should fall to on such
a fat titbit. ’Tis for us to teach them Kristin’s good name is too fine
fare for such clowns as they. But pity it was she let herself be so
frighted by his grossness that she went not forthwith to you or to Sira
Eirik with the tale—methinks this bordel-priest would but too gladly
have avowed he meant naught worse than harmless jesting, had you,
Lavrans, got a word with him.”

Both Kristin’s parents said that Simon was right in this. But she cried
out, stamping her foot:

“But he threw me down on the ground, I say—I scarce know myself what he
did or did not do—I was beside myself; I can remember naught—for all I
know it may be as Inga says—I have not been well nor happy a single day
since—”

Ragnfrid shrieked and clasped her hands together; Lavrans started
up—even Simon’s face fell; he looked at her sharply, then went up to her
and took her by the chin.

Then he laughed:

“God bless you, Kristin—you had remembered but too well if he had done
you any harm. No marvel if she has been sad and ill since that unhappy
evening she had such an ugly fright—she who had never known aught but
kindness and goodwill before,” said he to the others. “Any but the evil
minded, who would fain think ill rather than good, can see by her eyes
that she is a maid, and no woman.”

Kristin looked up into her betrothed’s small, steady eyes. She half
lifted her hands—as if to throw them round his neck—when he went on:

“You must not think, Kristin, that you will not forget this. ’Tis not in
my mind that we should settle down at Formo as soon as we are wed, so
that you would never leave the Dale. No one has the same hue of hair or
mind in both rain and sunshine, said old King Sverre, when they blamed
his Birch-legs for being overbearing in good fortune—”

Lavrans and Ragnfrid smiled—it was pleasant enough to hear the young man
discourse with the air of a wise old bishop. Simon went on:

“’Twould ill beseem me to seek to teach you, who are to be my
father-in-law; but so much, maybe, I may make bold to say, that we, my
brothers and sisters and I, were brought up more strictly; we were not
let run about so freely with the house-folk as I have seen that Kristin
is used to. My mother often said that if one played with the cottar
carls’ brats, ’twas like one would get a louse or two in one’s hair in
the end—and there’s somewhat in that saying.”

Lavrans and Ragnfrid held their peace, but Kristin turned away, and the
wish she had felt but a moment before to clasp Simon round the neck, had
quite left her.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Towards noon, Lavrans and Simon took their ski and went out to see to
some snares up on the mountain ridges. The weather was fine
outside—sunshine, and the cold not so great. Both men were glad to slip
away from all the sadness and weeping at home, and so they went
far—right up among the bare hilltops.

They lay in the sun under a crag and drank and ate; Lavrans spoke a
little of Arne—he had loved the boy well, Simon chimed in, praised the
dead lad, and said he thought it not strange that Kristin grieved for
her foster brother. Then Lavrans said: maybe they should not press her
much, but should give her a little time to get back her peace of mind
before they drank the betrothal ale. She had said somewhat of wishing to
go into a convent for a time.

Simon sat bolt upright, and gave a long whistle.

“You like not the thought?” asked Lavrans.

“Nay, but I do, I do,” said the other hastily. “Methinks it is the best
way, dear father-in-law. Send her to the Sisters in Oslo for a
year—there will she learn how folk talk one of the other out in the
world. I know a little of some of the maidens who are there,” he said
laughing. “_They_ would not throw themselves down and die of grief if
two mad younkers tore each other to pieces for their sakes. Not that I
would have such an one for wife—but methinks Kristin will be none the
worse for meeting new folks.”

Lavrans put the rest of the food into the wallet and said, without
looking at the youth:

“Methinks you love Kristin—?”

Simon laughed a little and did not look at Lavrans:

“Be sure, I know her worth—and yours too,” he said quickly and
shamefacedly, as he got up and took his ski. “None that I have ever met
would I sooner wed with—”

                  *       *       *       *       *

A little before Easter, when there was still snow enough for sleighing
down the Dale and the ice still bore on Mjösen, Kristin journeyed
southward for the second time. Simon came up to bear her company—so now
she journeyed driving in a sleigh, well wrapped in furs and with father
and betrothed beside her; and after them followed her father’s men and
sledges with her clothes, and gifts of food and furs for the Abbess and
the Sisters of Nonneseter.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                BOOK TWO






                                                             THE GARLAND




------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   1

AASMUND BJÖRGULFSÖN’S church-boat stood in round the point of Hovedö
early one Sunday at the end of April, while the bells were ringing in
the cloister-church and were answered from across the bay by the chimes
of bells from the town, now louder and now fainter as the breeze rose or
fell.

Light, fluted clouds were floating over the high, pale-blue heavens, and
the sun was glittering on the dancing ripples of the water. It was quite
spring-like along the shores; the fields lay almost bare of snow, and
over the leaf-tree thickets the light had a yellow shimmer and the
shadows were blue. But in the pine-forests up on the high ridges, which
framed in the settled lands of Akersbygd, there were glimpses of snow,
and on the far blue fells to the westward, beyond the fjord, there still
showed many flashes of white.

Kristin was standing in the bow of the boat with her father, and Gyrid,
Aasmund’s wife. She gazed at the town, with all the light-hued churches
and stone buildings that rose above the swarm of grey-brown wooden
houses and bare tree-tops. The wind ruffled the skirts of her cloak and
snatched at her hair beneath her hood.

They had left the cattle out at Skog the day before, and a great longing
had come on her to be at Jörundgaard. It would be a long time still
before they could let the cattle out there—she longed with tender pity
for the lean, winter-worn cows in the dark byres; they would have to
wait and suffer a long while yet. Her mother, Ulvhild, who had slept in
her arms each night all these years, little Ramborg—she yearned so much
for them; she longed for all the folk at home, and the horses and the
dogs, for Kortelin, whom Ulvhild was to have while she was gone, and for
her father’s hawks as they sat there on their perches with their hoods
over their heads. She saw the horse-hide gloves that hung beside them to
wear when you took them on to your wrist, and the ivory staves to
scratch them with.

It was as if all the woe of the last winter had gone far away from her
and she only saw her home as it used to be. They had told her, too, that
none thought ill of her in the parish—Sira Eirik did not believe that
story; he was angry and grieved at what Bentein had done. Bentein had
fled from Hamar; ’twas said he had gone to Sweden. So things were not so
bad between them and their neighbour as she had feared.

On the journey down to Oslo they had stayed as guests at Simon’s home,
and she had come to know his mother and sisters—Sir Andres was in Sweden
still. She had not felt at ease there, and her dislike of the Dyfrin
folk was all the stronger that she could think of no good ground for it.
All the way thither, she had said to herself that they had no cause to
be proud or to think themselves better than her kin—no man knew aught of
Reidar Darre, the Birch-leg, before King Sverre got him the widow of the
Dyfrin Baron to wife. But lo! they were not proud at all; and when Simon
himself spoke one night of his forefather: “I have found out now for
sure—he was a comb-maker—so ’tis as though you were to come into a
kingly stock—almost, Kristin,” said he. “Take heed to your tongue, boy,”
said his mother but they all laughed together. It vexed her strangely
when she thought of her father; he laughed much, if Simon gave him the
least cause—a thought came to her dimly that maybe her father would
gladly have had more laughter in his life—But ’twas not to her mind that
he should like Simon so much.

They had all been at Skog over Easter. She had found that her uncle was
a hard master to his farmers and serving-folk—she had met one and
another who asked after her mother and spoke lovingly of Lavrans: they
had better times when he lived here. Aasmund’s mother, Lavrans’
step-mother, lived on the manor in a house by herself; she was not so
very old, but sickly and failing. Lavrans had but seldom spoken of her
at home. Once when Kristin asked him if he had had a hard step-mother,
her father answered: “She never did much to me of either good or ill.”

Kristin felt for her father’s hand, and he pressed hers:

“You will be happy soon enough, my daughter, with the good Sisters—you
will have other things to think of besides longing to be home with us—”

                  *       *       *       *       *

They sailed so near by the town that the smell of tar and salt fish was
borne out to them from the wharves. Gyrid named all the churches, the
traders’ quarters and the open places which ran up from the water’s
edge—Kristin remembered nothing from the time she was here before but
the great heavy towers of St. Halvard’s church. They sailed westward
past the whole town and laid to at the convent pier.

Kristin walked between her father and her uncle through a cluster of
warehouses, and came out upon a road which led up through the fields.
Simon came after, leading Gyrid by the hand. The serving-folk stayed
behind to help some men from the convent load the baggage upon a cart.

Nonneseter and the whole Leiran quarter lay within the boundaries of the
town grazing-grounds, but there were but a few clusters of houses here
and there along the roadside. The larks were trilling over their heads
in the pale-blue sky, and the small yellow flowers of the coltsfoot were
thickly sprinkled over the wan clay slopes, but along by the fences the
roots of the grass were green.

When they were through the gate and were come into the cloister, all the
nuns came marching two by two towards them from the church, while song
and music streamed out after them through the open door.

Ill at ease, Kristin watched the many black-robed women with white linen
wimples about their faces. She curtsied low, and the men bowed with
their hats held close to their breasts. After the nuns came a flock of
young maidens—some of them but children—in gowns of undyed wadmal, their
waists bound with belts of twined black and white, and their hair
braided tightly back from their faces with cords of the same black and
white. Without thinking, Kristin put on a bold and forward look as the
young maids passed, for she felt bashful, and was afraid they must think
she looked countrified and foolish.

The convent was so glorious that she was quite overcome. All the
buildings round the inner court were of grey stone; on the north side
the main-wall of the church stood up high above the other houses; it had
two tiers of roofs and towers at the west end. The court itself was laid
with stone flags, and round the whole there ran a covered way whose roof
was borne on pillars fairly wrought. In the midst of the court stood a
stone statue of the Mater Misericordiæ, spreading her cloak over some
kneeling figures.

Then a lay-sister came and prayed them to go with her to the Abbess’
parlour. The Lady Groa Guttormsdatter was a tall and stoutly-made old
woman—she would have been comely had she not had so many hairs about her
mouth. Her voice was deep like a man’s. But her bearing was gentle and
kindly—she called to mind that she had known Lavrans’ father and mother,
and asked after his wife and his other children. Last she spoke to
Kristin in friendly wise:

“I have heard good report of you, and you look to be wise and well
nurtured—sure I am you will give us no cause for miscontent. I have
heard that you are plighted to this good and well-born man, Simon
Andressön, whom I see here—it seems to us that ’twas wise counsel of
your father and your husband to be, to grant you leave to live here
awhile in the Virgin Mary’s house, that you may learn to obey and serve
before you are called to rule and to command. Now would I have you lay
to heart this counsel: that you learn to find joy in prayer and the
worship of God, that you may use yourself in all your doings to remember
your Creator, God’s gentle Mother, and all the Saints who have given us
the best patterns of strength, uprightness, faithfulness and all the
virtues you must show forth in guiding your people and your goods and
nurturing your children. And you will learn in this house, too, to take
good heed of time, for here every hour has its use and its task also.
Many young maids and women love all too well to lie abed late of a
morning, and sit long at table of an evening in idle talk—yet look not
you as you were one of these. Yet may you learn much in the year you are
here that may profit you both here on earth and in our heavenly home.”

Kristin curtsied and kissed her hand. After that Lady Groa bade Kristin
go with a monstrously fat old nun, whom she called Sister Potentia, over
to the nuns’ refectory. The men and Gyrid she asked to dine with her in
another house.

The refectory was a great and fair room with a stone floor and pointed
windows with glass panes. There was a doorway into another room, where,
Kristin could see, there must be glass windows too, for the sun shone
in.

The Sisters were already seated at the table waiting for their food—the
elder nuns upon a cushioned stone-bench along the wall under the
windows; the younger Sisters and the bareheaded maidens in light-hued
wadmal dresses sat upon a wooden bench on the outer side of the board.
In the next room a board was laid too; this was for the commoners and
the lay-servants; there were a few old men amongst them. These folk did
not wear the convent habit, but were none the less clad soberly in dark
raiment.

Sister Potentia showed Kristin to a seat on the outer bench, but went
and placed herself near to the Abbess’ high-seat at the end of the
board—the high-seat was empty to-day.

All rose, both in this room and in the side room, while the Sisters said
grace. After that a fair, young nun went and stood at a lectern placed
in the doorway between the two chambers. And while the lay-sisters in
the greater room, and two of the youngest nuns in the side room, bore in
food and drink, the nun read in a high and sweet voice, and without
stopping or tripping at a single word, the story of St. Theodora and St.
Didymus.

At first Kristin was thinking most of minding her table-manners, for she
saw all the Sisters and the young maids bore them as seemly and ate as
nicely as though they had been sitting at the finest feast. There was
abundance of the best food and drink, but all helped themselves
modestly, and dipped but the very tips of their fingers into the dishes;
no one spilled the broth either upon the cloths or upon their garments,
and all cut up the meat so small that they did not soil their mouths,
and ate with so much care that not a sound was to be heard.

Kristin grew hot with fear that she might not seem as well-behaved as
the others; she was feeling ill at ease, too, in her bright dress in the
midst of all these women in black and white—she fancied that they were
all looking at her. So when she had to eat a fat piece of breast of
mutton, and was holding it by the bone with two fingers, while cutting
morsels off with her right hand, and taking care to handle the knife
lightly and neatly—suddenly the whole slipped from her fingers; her
slice of bread and the meat flew on to the cloth, and the knife fell
clattering on the stone flags.

The noise sounded fearfully in the quiet room. Kristin flushed red as
fire and would have bent to pick up the knife, but a lay-sister came
noiselessly in her sandals and gathered up the things.

But Kristin could eat no more. She found, too, that she had cut one of
her fingers, and she was afraid of bleeding upon the cloth; so she sat
with her hand wrapped in a corner of her skirt, and thought of how she
was staining the goodly light-blue dress she had gotten for the journey
to Oslo—and she did not dare to raise her eyes from her lap.

Howbeit, in a little she began to listen more to what the nun was
reading. When the ruler found he could not shake the steadfastness of
the maid, Theodora—she would neither make offerings to the false gods
nor let herself be given in marriage—he bade them lead her to a brothel.
Yet while on the way thither he exhorted her to think of her free born
kindred and her honoured father and mother, upon whom everlasting shame
must now be brought, and gave his word she should be let live in peace
and stay a maid, if she would but join the service of a heathen goddess,
whom they called Diana.

Theodora answered fearlessly: “Chastity is like a lamp, but love of God
is the flame; were I to serve the devilwoman whom you call Diana, my
chastity were no more worth than a rusty lamp without flame or oil. Thou
callest me freeborn, but we are all born bondsmen, since our first
parents sold us to the devil; Christ has bought me free, and I am bound
to serve him, so that I cannot wed me with his foes. He will guard his
dove; but should he even suffer you to break my body, that is the temple
of his Holy Spirit, it shall not be counted to me for shame if so be
that I consent not to betray what is His into the hands of his enemies.”

Kristin’s heart began to throb, for this in some way reminded her of her
meeting with Bentein—she was smitten by the thought that this perhaps
was her sin—she had not for a moment thought of God nor prayed for His
help. And now Sister Cecilia read further of St. Didymus. He was a
Christian knight, but heretofore he had kept his faith hidden from all
save a few friends. He went now to the house where the maid was; he gave
money to the woman who owned the house, and thus was the first to be let
in to Theodora. She fled into a corner like a frightened hare, but
Didymus hailed her as his sister and as his Lord’s bride and said he was
come to save her. Then he spake with her a while, saying: was it not
meet that a brother should wage his life for his sister’s honour? And at
last she did as he bade her, changed clothes with him, and let herself
be clad in Didymus’ coat of mail; he pulled the hat down over her eyes
and drew the cape up about her chin, and bade her go out with her face
hidden, like a youth who is abashed at having been in such a place.

Kristin thought of Arne, and was scarce able to hold back her tears. She
gazed straight before her with wet eyes while the nun was reading to the
end—how Didymus was led to the place of execution, and how Theodora came
hastening down from the mountains, cast herself at the headsman’s feet
and begged that she might die in his stead. And now the holy man and
maid strove together who should first win the crown; and both were
beheaded on the one day. This was the eight and twentieth day of April
in the year 304 after the birth of Christ, in Antioch, as was written by
St. Ambrosius.

When they rose from the table, Sister Potentia came and patted Kristin
kindly on the cheek: “Aye, you are longing for your mother, I can well
believe.” And on that Kristin’s tears began to fall. But the nun made as
though she did not see them, and led Kristin to the hostel where she was
to dwell.

It was in one of the stone houses by the cloisters; a goodly room with
glass windows and a big fireplace in the short wall at the far end.
Along one main-wall stood six bedsteads, and along the other all the
maidens’ chests.

Kristin wished they would let her sleep with one of the little girls,
but Sister Potentia called a fat, fair-haired, grown maiden: “Here is
Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who is to be your bed-fellow—you must see now
and learn to know each other.” And with that she went out.

Ingebjörg took Kristin at once by the hand and began to talk. She was
not very tall, and was much too fat, above all in her face—her cheeks
were so plump that her eyes looked quite small. But her skin was clear,
red and white, and her hair was yellow as gold, and so curly that her
thick plaits twisted and twined together like strands of rope, and small
locks kept ever slipping from under her snood.

She began straightway to question Kristin about many things, but never
waited for an answer; instead she talked about herself, reckoned out the
whole of her kindred in all its branches—they were naught but fine and
exceeding rich folk. She was betrothed, too, to a rich and mighty man,
Einar Einarssön of Aganæs—but he was far too old, and twice widowed;
this was her greatest sorrow, she said. Yet could Kristin not mark that
she took it much to heart. Then she talked a little of Simon Darre—’twas
a marvel how closely she had looked him over in the short moment when
they were passing in the cloisters. After that she had a mind to look
into Kristin’s chest—but first she opened her own and brought forth all
her clothes. While they were ransacking their chests, Sister Cecilia
came in—she rebuked them and said that this was no seemly Sunday
pastime. This made Kristin unhappy again—she had never been taken to
task by any but her mother, and that was not the same as being chid by a
stranger.

Ingebjörg was not abashed.—After they were come to bed in the evening,
she lay chattering until Kristin fell asleep. Two elder lay-sisters
slept in a corner of the room; they were to see that the maidens did not
take their shifts off at night—for it was against the rules for the
girls to undress entirely—and to see that they were up in time for
matins in the church. But else they did not trouble themselves to keep
order in the hostel, and made as though they marked it not when the
maids were lying talking, or eating the dainties which they had hidden
in their chests.

When Kristin was awakened next morning, Ingebjörg was in the midst of a
long tale already, so that Kristin almost wondered whether the other had
been talking the whole night through.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   2

The foreign merchants who lay in Oslo during the summer and trafficked
there, came to the town in the spring about Holy Rood Day, which is ten
days before the Halvards-wake Fair. To this folks streamed in from all
the parishes between Mjösen and the Swedish marches, so that the town
swarmed with people in the first weeks of May. This was the best time to
buy from the strangers, before they had sold too many of their wares.

Sister Potentia had the care of the marketing for Nonneseter, and she
had promised Ingebjörg and Kristin that they should go with her down to
the town the day before the Halvards-wake. But about midday some of
Sister Potentia’s kin came to the convent to see her; and so she could
not go that day. Then Ingebjörg begged and prayed till at last she let
them go alone—though it was against the rules. An old peasant who was a
commoner of the convent was sent with them as escort—Haakon was his
name.

Kristin had been three weeks now at Nonneseter, and in all that time she
had not set foot outside the convent grounds and gardens. She wondered
to see how spring-like it was outside. The little woods out in the
fields were pale-green; the wood anemones grew thick as a carpet round
the light-coloured tree stems; white fair-weather clouds came sailing up
over the islands in the fjord, and the water lay fresh and blue,
slightly ruffled here and there by the light flaws of wind.

Ingebjörg skipped about, plucked bunches of leaves from the trees and
smelt them, and peeped round after the folk they met; till Haakon chid
her—were these seemly goings-on for a well-born maid, and in the convent
habit too? The maidens were made to walk just behind him, hand in hand,
quietly and seemly; but Ingebjörg used her eyes and her tongue all the
same—Haakon was somewhat deaf. Kristin, too, was wearing the novices’
garb now—an undyed, light-grey wadmal dress, woollen belt and head-band,
and a plain, dark-blue cloak over all, with a hood turned up so that the
plaited hair was quite hid. Haakon strode in front with a stout
brass-knobbed staff in his hand. He was dressed in a long black gown,
had a leaden Agnus Dei hanging on his breast and an image of St.
Christopher in his hat—his white hair and beard were so well brushed
that they shone like silver in the sunshine.

The upper part of the town between the Nunsbeck and the bishop’s palace
was a quiet neighbourhood; there were here neither shops nor taverns;
most of the dwelling-places belonged to great folk from the parishes
around, and the houses turned dark, windowless, timber gables to the
street. But on this day whole crowds of people were roaming about the
roads even up here, and the serving-folk stood loitering about the
courtyard gates gossiping with the passers-by.

When they were come out near the bishop’s palace, there was a great
crush upon the place in front of Halvard’s Church and the
Olav-cloister—booths had been set up on the grassy slopes, and there
were showmen making trained dogs jump through barrel-hoops. But Haakon
would not have the maids stand and look at these things, and he would
not let Kristin go into the church—he said ’twould be better worth her
seeing on the great Feast-day itself.

As they came down over the open space by St. Clement’s Church Haakon
took them by the hands, for here was the greatest press of folk coming
from the wharves or out from the alleys between the traders Yards. The
maidens were bound for the Mickle Yard, where the shoemakers plied their
trade. For Ingebjörg had found the clothes Kristin had brought from home
very good and sightly, but she said the shoes she had with her from the
Dale were not fit to wear for best. And when Kristin had seen the shoes
from the outland Ingebjörg had in her chest—more pairs than one—she felt
she could not rest until she too had bought some like them.

The Mickle Yard was one of the largest in Oslo; it stretched from the
wharves up to the Souters’ Alley, with more than forty houses round two
great courts. And now they had set up booths with wadmal roofs in the
courts as well. Above the roofs of these tents there rose a statue of
St. Crispinus. Within the courts was a great throng of folk buying and
selling, women running between the kitchens with pots and pails,
children getting in the way of folks’ feet, horses being led in and out
of the stables, and serving-men carrying packages to and from the
warehouses. From the balconies of the lofts above, where the finest
wares were sold, shoemakers and their apprentices shouted to the two
maids and dangled small gaily-coloured or gold-embroidered shoes before
them.

But Ingebjörg made her way toward the loft where Didrek the shoemaker
sat; he was a German, but had a Norse wife and owned a house in the
Mickle Yard.

The old man was standing bargaining with an esquire wearing a
traveller’s cloak, and a sword at his belt; but Ingebjörg went forward
unabashed, bowed and said:

“Good sir, will you not suffer us of your courtesy to have speech with
Didrek first; we must be home in our convent by vespers; you, perchance,
have no such great haste?”

The esquire bowed and stepped aside. Didrek nudged Ingebjörg with his
elbow and asked laughing whether they danced so much in the convent that
she had worn out already all the shoon she had of him the year before.
Ingebjörg nudged him again and said they were still unworn, thank
heaven, but here was this other maid—and she pulled Kristin forward.
Then Didrek and his lad bore forth a box into the balcony; and out of it
he brought forth shoes, each pair finer than the last. They had Kristin
sit down upon a chest that he might try them on her—there were white
shoes and brown and red and green and blue, shoes with painted wooden
heels and shoes without heels, shoes with buckles and shoes with silken
laces in them, shoes in leather of two or three hues. Kristin felt she
would fain have had them all. But they cost so dear she was quite
dismayed—not one pair cost less than a cow at home. Her father had given
her a purse with a mark of silver in counted money when he left—that was
for pocket money, and Kristin had deemed it great riches. But she soon
saw that Ingebjörg thought it no great store to go a marketing with.

Ingebjörg, too, must try on some shoes for the jest of it; that cost no
money, said Didrek laughing. She did buy one pair of leaf-green shoes
with red heels—she said she must have them on trust, but then Didrek
knew her and her folks.

Kristin thought, indeed, that Didrek liked this none too well, and that
he was vexed too, that the tall esquire in the travelling coat had left
the loft—much time had been taken up with the trying-on. So she chose
for herself a pair of heel-less shoes of thin purple-blue leather,
broidered with silver and with rose-red stones. But she liked not the
green silk laces in them. Didrek said he could change these, and took
the maids with him into a room at the back of the loft. Here he had
coffers full of silk ribbons and small silver buckles—’twas against the
law, strictly, for shoemakers to trade in these things—and the ribbons,
too, were many of them too broad and the buckles too big for foot-gear.

They felt they had to buy one or two of the smaller things, and when
they had drunk a cup of sweet wine with Didrek and he had packed the
things they had bought into a wadmal cloth, the hour was grown somewhat
late, and Kristin’s purse much lighter.

When they had come to the Östre Stræte again the sunlight was turned
golden and, by reason of the traffic in the town, the dust hung over the
street in a bright haze. The evening was warm and fair, and folk were
coming down from Eikaberg with great armfuls of green branches wherewith
to deck their houses for the holy day. And now the whim took Ingebjörg
that they should go out to the Gjeita bridge—at fair-times there was
wont to be so much merry-making in the fields on the further side of the
river, both jugglers and fiddlers—nay, Ingebjörg had heard there was
come a whole shipful of outlandish beasts that were being shown in
booths down by the waterside.

Haakon had had a pot or two of German beer at the Mickle Yard, and was
now easy and mild of mood; so when the maidens took him by the arm and
begged him sweetly, he gave way at last, and the three went out towards
Eikaberg.

Beyond the stream there were but a few small dwelling-places scattered
about the green slopes between the river and the steep hillside. They
went past the Minorite monastery, and Kristin’s heart sank with shame as
she bethought her how she had meant to give most of her silver for the
good of Arne’s soul. But she had had no mind to speak of it to the
priest at Nonneseter; she feared to be asked questions—she had thought
that she could maybe come out to the barefoot friars and find if by
chance Brother Edwin were in the cloister now. She was fain to meet him
again—but she knew not, either, what would be the most seemly way to get
speech with one of the monks and tell him her desire. And now she had so
little money she knew not whether she could buy a mass—maybe she must be
content to offer a thick wax-candle.

Of a sudden they heard a fearful yell from countless throats down by the
shore—a storm seemed to sweep over the press of human-beings down
there—and now the whole mass rushed towards them shrieking and shouting.
All seemed wild with terror, and some of the runners-by cried out to
Haakon and the maids that the pards were loose—

They set out running back to the bridge, and heard folk shout to one
another that a booth had fallen down and two pards had broken loose—some
spoke of a serpent, too—

The nearer they came to the bridge, the worse became the crush. Just in
front of them a woman dropped a little child out of her arms—Haakon
stood astride the little one to shield it—soon after they caught sight
of him far away with the child in his arms, and then they lost him.

At the narrow bridge the press of people was so great that the maids
were pushed right out into a field. They saw folks run down to the river
bank; young men jumped in and swam, but elder folk sprang into the boats
that lay there, and these were overladen in a trice.

Kristin tried to make Ingebjörg hear—she cried out to her that they
should run up to the Minorite cloister—they could see the Grey Friars
come running out from it, striving to gather in the terrified people.
Kristin was not so frightened as the other girl—they saw nothing,
either, of the wild beasts,—but Ingebjörg had quite lost her wits. And
now, when there was a fresh uproar in the throng, and it was driven back
by a whole troop of men from the nearest dwellings who had armed
themselves and forced their way back over the bridge, some riding and
some running, and Ingebjörg nigh coming under the feet of a horse—she
gave a scream and set off running for the woods. Kristin had never
thought the girl could have run so fast—it made her think of a hunted
pig— She ran after her, so that they two, at least, should not be
parted.

They were deep in the woods before Kristin could get Ingebjörg to
stop—they were on a little path which seemed to lead down toward the
road to Trælaborg. They stood still for a little to get their breath
again; Ingebjörg was snivelling and weeping, and said she dared not go
back alone through the town and all the way out to the convent.

Nor did Kristin deem that this would be well, with the streets in such
commotion; she thought they must try to find a house where they might
hire a lad to take them home. Ingebjörg thought there was a bridle-path
to Trælaborg further down by the shore, and along it there lay some
houses, she knew. So they followed the path downward, away from the
town.

Fearful and uneasy as they both were, it seemed to them they had gone
far ere at last they came to a farmstead lying off in a field. In the
courtyard there they found a band of men sitting drinking at a board
under some ash trees, while a woman came and went, bearing out tankards
to them. She looked wonderingly and sourly at the two maids in convent
habit, and none of the men seemed to have a mind to go with them when
Kristin told their need. At last, though, two young men stood up and
said they would bring the girls to Nonneseter, if Kristin would give
them a silver ducat.

She heard by their speech that they were not Norse, but she thought they
seemed honest folk enough. ’Twas a shameless sum they asked, she
thought, but Ingebjörg was beside herself with fright and she saw not
how they could go home alone so late; and so she struck the bargain.

No sooner were they come to the forest path than the men drew closer to
them and began to talk. Kristin liked this but ill, but she would not
show she was afraid; so she answered them quietly, told of the pards and
asked the men where they were from. She spied about her, too, and made
as though she looked each moment to meet the serving-men they had had
with them—she talked as though there had been a whole band. As they went
on the men spoke less and less—nor did she understand much of their
speech.

After a while she became aware that they were not going the same way she
had come with Ingebjörg—the course their path took was not the same;
’twas more northerly—and she deemed they had already gone much too far.

Deep within her there smouldered a fear she dared not let herself think
upon—but it strengthened her strangely to have Ingebjörg with her, for
the girl was so foolish that Kristin knew she must trust in herself
alone to find a way out for them both. Under her cloak, she managed by
stealth to pull out the cross with the holy relic she had had of her
father; she clasped it in her hand, praying fervently in her heart that
they might soon meet someone, and in all ways sought to gather all her
courage and to make no sign.

Just after this she saw that the path came out on to a road and there
was a clearing in the forest. The town and the bay lay far below. The
men had led them astray, whether wilfully or because they knew not the
paths—they were high up on the mountain-side and far north of Gjeita
bridge, which she could see below; the road they had now met seemed to
lead thither.

Thereupon she stopped, drew forth her purse and made to count out ten
silver pennies into her hand.

“Now, good fellows,” said she, “we need you not any more to guide us;
for we know the way from here. We thank you for your pains, and here is
the wage we bargained for. God be with you, good friends.”

The men looked at one another so foolishly, that Kristin was near
smiling. Then one said with an ugly grin that the road down to the
bridge was exceeding lonely; ’twas not wise for them to go alone.

“None, surely, are such nithings or such fools that they would seek to
stop two maids, and they in the convent habit,” answered Kristin. “We
would fain go our own way alone now—” and she held out the money.

The man caught her by the wrist, thrust his face close up to hers, and
said somewhat of “kuss” and “beutel”—Kristin made out he was saying they
might go in peace if she but gave him a kiss and her purse.

She remembered Bentein’s face close to hers like this, and such a fear
came on her for a moment that she grew faint and sick. But she pressed
her lips together, and called in her heart upon God and the Virgin
Mary—and in the same instant she thought she heard hoof-falls on the
path from the north.

She struck the man in the face with her purse so that he staggered—and
then she pushed him in the breast with all her strength so that he
tumbled off the path and down into the wood. The other German gripped
her from behind, tore the purse from her hand and her chain from her
neck so that it broke—she was near falling, but clutched the man and
tried to get her cross from him again. He struggled to get free—the
robbers, too, had now heard folk coming—Ingebjörg screamed with all her
might, and the riders on the path came galloping forward at full speed.
They burst out of the thicket—three of them—and Ingebjörg ran shrieking
to meet them as they sprang from their horses. Kristin knew one for the
esquire of Didrek’s loft; he drew his sword, seized the German she was
struggling with by the back of the neck, and threshed him with the flat
of his blade. His men ran after the other, caught him and beat him to
their hearts’ content.

Kristin leaned against the face of the rock; she was trembling now that
all was over, but what she felt most was marvel that her prayer had
brought such speedy help. Then she caught sight of Ingebjörg, who had
thrown back her hood, hung her cape loosely over her shoulders and was
in the act of bringing her heavy, shining plaits of hair forward into
sight upon her breast. At this sight Kristin burst out a-laughing—her
strength left her and she had to hold on to a tree to keep her feet, for
’twas as though the marrow of her bones was turned to water, she felt so
weak; and so she trembled and laughed and cried.

The esquire came forward and laid a hand warily upon her shoulder:

“You were more frightened, I see, than you would show,” said he, and his
voice was kindly and gentle. “But now you must take a hold on
yourself—you bore you so bravely while yet there was peril—”

Kristin could only look up at him and nod. He had fine, bright eyes set
in a narrow, pale-brown face, and coal-black hair clipped somewhat short
over the forehead and behind the ears.

Ingebjörg had her hair in order now; she came and thanked the stranger
with many fair words. He stood there still with a hand on Kristin’s
shoulder while he answered her comrade.

“We must take these birds along,” said he to his men, who stood holding
the two Germans—they were from a Rostock ship, they said—“we must have
them along with us to the town that they may be sent to the black hole.
But first must we take these two maids home to the convent. You can find
some thongs, I trow, to bind them with—”

“Mean you the maids, Erlend?” asked one of the men. They were young,
stout, well-appointed yeomen, and were in high feather from the tussle.

Their master frowned and seemed about to answer sharply, but Kristin
laid her hand upon his sleeve:

“Let them go, dear sir!” She shuddered a little. “Loth would we be, in
truth, both my sister and I, this matter should be talked of.”

The stranger looked down at her—he bit his lip and nodded, as though he
understood her. Then he gave each of the captives a blow on the nape
with the flat of his sword which sent them sprawling forwards. “Run for
it then,” he said, kicking them, and both scrambled up and took to their
heels as fast as they could. Then he turned again to the maidens and
asked if they would please to ride.

Ingebjörg let herself be lifted into Erlend’s saddle, but it was soon
plain that she could not keep her seat,—she slid down again at once. He
looked at Kristin doubtfully, and she said that she was used to ride on
a man’s saddle.

He took hold of her below the knees and lifted her up. A sweet and happy
thrill ran through her to feel how carefully he held her from him, as
though afraid to come near her—at home no one ever minded how tight they
held her when they helped her on to a horse. She felt marvellously
honoured and uplifted—

The knight—as Ingebjörg called him, though he had but silver spurs—now
offered that maiden his hand, and his men sprang to their saddles.
Ingebjörg would have it that they should ride round the town to the
northcard, below the Ryenberg and Martestokke, and not through the
streets. First she gave as a reason that Sir Erlend and his men were
fully armed—were they not? The knight answered gravely that the ban on
carrying arms was not over strict at any time—for travellers at
least—and now everyone in the town was out on a wild beast hunt—Then she
said she was fearful of the pards. Kristin saw full well that Ingebjörg
was fain to go by the longest and loneliest road, that she might have
the more talk with Erlend.

“This is the second time this evening that we hinder you, good sir,”
said she, and Erlend answered soberly:

“’Tis no matter, I am bound no further than to Gerdarud to-night—and
’tis light the whole night long.”

It liked Kristin well that he jested not, nor bantered them, but talked
to her as though she were his like or even more than his like. She
thought of Simon; she had not met other young men of courtly breeding.
But ’twas true, this man seemed older than Simon—

They rode down into the valley below the Ryenberg hills and up along the
back. The path was narrow, and the young bushes swung wet,
heavily-scented branches against her—it was a little darker down here,
and the air was cool and the leaves all dewy along the beck-path.

They went slowly, and the horses’ hoofs sounded muffled on the damp,
grass-grown path. She rocked gently in the saddle; behind her she heard
Ingebjörg’s chatter and the stranger’s deep, quiet voice. He said little
and answered as if his mind wandered—it sounded almost as if his mood
were like her own, she thought—she felt strangely drowsy, yet safe and
content now that all the day’s chances were safely over.

It was like waking to come out of the woods, on to the green slopes
under the Martestokke hills. The sun was gone down and the town and the
bay lay below them in a clear, pale light—above the Aker ridges there
was a light-yellow strip edging the pale-blue sky. In the evening hush,
sounds were borne to them from far off as they came out of the cool
depths of the wood—a cart-wheel creaked somewhere upon a road, dogs on
the farms bayed at each other across the valley. And from the woods
behind them birds trilled and sang full-throated, now the sun was down.

Smoke was in the air from the fires on lands under clearance, and out in
a field there was the red flare of a bonfire; against the great ruddy
flame the clearness of the night seemed a kind of darkness.

They were riding between the fences of the convent-fields when the
stranger spoke to her again. He asked her what she thought best; should
he go with her to the gate and ask for speech of the Lady Groa, so that
he might tell her how this thing had come about. But Ingebjörg would
have it that they should steal in through the church; then maybe they
might slip into the convent without anyone knowing they had been away so
much too long—it might be her kinsfolks’ visit had made Sister Potentia
forget them.

The open place before the west door of the church was empty and still,
and it came not into Kristin’s thoughts to wonder at this, though there
was wont to be much life there of an evening with folks from the
neighbourhood who came to the nuns’ church, and round about were houses
wherein lay-servants and commoners dwelt. They said farewell to Erlend
here. Kristin stood and stroked his horse; it was black and had a comely
head and soft eyes—she thought it like Morvin, whom she had been wont to
ride at home when she was a child.

“What is your horse’s name, sir?” she asked, as it turned its head from
her and snuffed at its master’s breast.

“Bayard,” said he, looking at her over the horse’s neck. “You ask my
horse’s name, but not mine?”

“I would be fain to know your name, sir,” she replied, and bent her head
a little.

“I am called Erlend Nikulaussön,” said he.

“Then, Erlend Nikulaussön, have thanks for your good service this
night,” said Kristin and proffered him her hand.

Of a sudden she flushed red, and half withdrew her hand from his.

“Lady Aashild Gautesdatter of Dovre, is she your kinswoman?” she asked.

To her wonder she saw that he too blushed—he dropped her hand suddenly
and answered:

“She is my mother’s sister. And I am Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby.” He
looked at her so strangely that she became still more abashed, but she
mastered herself and said:

“’Tis true I should have thanked you with better words, Erlend
Nikulaussön; but I know not what I can say to you—”

He bowed before her, and she felt that now she must bid him good-bye,
though she would fain have spoken more with him. In the church-door she
turned, and as she saw that Erlend still stood beside his horse, she
waved her hand to him in farewell.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The convent was in a hubbub, and all within in great dismay. Haakon had
sent word home by a horseman, while he himself went seeking the maids in
the town; and folks had been sent from the convent to help him. The nuns
had heard the wild beasts had killed and eaten up two children down in
the town. This, to be sure, was a lie, and the pard—there was only
one—had been caught before vespers by some men from the King’s palace.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kristin stood with bent head and kept silence while the Abbess and
Sister Potentia poured out their wrath upon the two maidens. She felt as
though something were asleep within her. Ingebjörg wept and began to
make excuse—they had gone out with Sister Potentia’s leave, with fitting
attendance, and, sure, they were not to blame for what had happened
after—

But Lady Groa said they might now stay in the church till the hour of
midnight struck, that they might strive to turn their thoughts to the
things of the spirit and might thank God who had saved their lives and
honour. “God hath now manifested clearly to you the truth about the
world,” said she; “wild beasts and the servants of the devil threaten
his children there at every footstep, and there is no salvation except
ye hold fast to him with prayer and supplication.”

She gave them each a lighted candle and bade them go with Sister Cecilia
Baardsdatter, who was often alone in the church praying the whole night
long.

Kristin put her candle upon St. Lawrence’s altar and knelt on the
praying-stool. She fixed her gaze on the flame while she said over the
Paternoster and the Ave Maria softly. The sheen of the candle seemed
little by little to enfold her and to shut out all that was outside her
and the light. She felt her heart open and overflow with thankfulness
and praise and love of God and His gentle Mother—they came so near to
her. She had always known They saw her, but to-night she _felt_ that it
was so. She saw the world as in a vision; a great dark room whereinto
fell a sunbeam; the motes were dancing in and out between the darkness
and the light, and she felt that now she had at last slipped into the
sunbeam—

She felt she would gladly have stayed for ever in this dark still
church—with the few small spots of light like golden stars in the night,
the sweet stale scent of incense and the warm smell of the burning wax.
And she at rest within her own star—

It was as if some great joy were at an end, when Sister Cecilia came
gliding to her and touched her shoulder. Bending before the altars, the
three women went out of the little south-door into the convent close.

Ingebjörg was so sleepy that she went to bed without a word. Kristin was
glad—she had been loth to have her good thoughts broken in on. And she
was glad, too, that they must keep on their shifts at night—Ingebjörg
was so fat and had been so over-hot.

She lay awake long, but the deep flood of sweetness that she had left
lifting her up as she knelt in the church would not come again. Yet she
felt the warmth of it within her still, she thanked God with all her
heart, and thought she felt her spirit strengthened while she prayed for
her father and mother and sisters and for Arne Gyrdson’s soul.

Father, she thought—she longed so much for him, for all they had been to
one another before Simon Darre came into their lives. There welled up in
her a new tenderness for him—there was as it were a foretaste of
mother’s love and care in her love for her father this night; dimly she
felt that there was so much in life that he had missed. She called to
mind the old, black wooden church at Gerdarud—she had seen there this
last Easter the graves of her three little brothers and of her
grandmother, her father’s own mother, Kristin Sigurdsdatter, who died
when she brought him into the world—

What could Erlend Nikulaussön have to do at Gerdarud—she could not
think.

She had no knowledge that she had thought much of him that evening, but
the whole time the thought of his dark, narrow face and his quiet voice
had hung somewhere in the dusk outside the glow of light that enfolded
her spirit.

When she awoke the next morning, the sun was shining into the dormitory,
and Ingebjörg told her how Lady Groa herself had bidden the lay-sisters
not to wake them for matins. She had said that when they woke they might
go over to the kitchen-house and get some food. Kristin grew warm with
gladness at the Abbess’ kindness—it seemed as if the whole world had
been good to her.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   3

The farmer guild of Aker had St. Margaret for their patroness, and they
began their festival, each year on the twentieth of July, the day of St.
Margaret’s Mass. In that day the guild-brothers and sisters, with their
children, their guests and their serving-folk, gathered at Aker’s church
and heard mass at St. Margaret’s Altar there; after that they wended
their way to the hall of the guild which lay near the Hofvin
hospital—there they were wont to hold a drinking-feast lasting five
days.

But since both Aker’s church and the Hofvin spital belonged to
Nonneseter, and as, besides, many of the Aker farmers were tenants of
the convent, it had come to be the custom that the Abbess and some of
the elder Sisters should honour the guild by coming to the feasting on
the first day. And those of the young maids who were at the convent only
to learn, and were not to take the veil, had leave to go with them and
to dance in the evening; therefore at this feast they wore their own
clothes and not the convent habit.

And so there was great stir and bustle in the novices’ sleeping rooms on
the eve of St. Margaret’s Mass; the maids who were to go to the guild
feast ransacking their chests and making ready their finery, while the
others, less fortunate, went about something moodily and looked on. Some
had set small pots in the fireplace and were boiling water to make their
skin white and soft; others were making a brew to be smeared on the
hair—then they parted the hair into strands and twisted them tightly
round strips of leather, and this gave them curling, wavy tresses.

Ingebjörg brought out all the finery she had, but could not think what
she should wear—come what might, not her best leaf-green velvet dress;
that was too good and too costly for such a peasant rout. But a little,
thin sister who was not to go with them—Helga was her name; she had been
vowed to the convent by her father and mother while still a child—took
Kristin aside and whispered: she was sure Ingebjörg would wear the green
dress and her pink silk shift too.

“You have ever been kind to me, Kristin,” said Helga. “It beseems me
little to meddle in such doings—but I will tell you none the less. The
knight who brought you home that evening in the spring—I have seen and
heard Ingebjörg talking with him since—they spoke together in the
church, and he has tarried for her up in the hollow when she hath gone
to Ingunn at the commoners’ house. But ’tis you he asks for, and
Ingebjörg has promised him to bring you there along with her. But I
wager you have not heard aught of this before!”

“True it is that Ingebjörg has said naught of this,” said Kristin. She
pursed up her mouth that the other might not see the smile that would
come out. So this was Ingebjörg’s way—“’Tis like she knows I am not of
such as run to trysts with strange men round house-corners and behind
fences,” said she proudly.

“Then I might have spared myself the pains of bringing you tidings
whereof ’twould have been but seemly I should say no word,” said Helga,
wounded, and they parted.

But the whole evening Kristin was put to it not to smile when anyone was
looking at her.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Next morning Ingebjörg went dallying about in her shift, till Kristin
saw she meant not to dress before she herself was ready.

Kristin said naught, but laughed as she went to her chest and took out
her golden-yellow silken shift. She had never worn it before, and it
felt so soft and cool as it slipped down over her body. It was broidered
with goodly work, in silver and blue and brown silk, about the neck and
down upon the breast, as much as should be seen above the low-cut gown.
There were sleeves to match, too. She drew on her linen hose, and laced
up the small, purple-blue shoes which Haakon, by good luck, had saved
that day of commotion. Ingebjörg gazed at her—then Kristin said
laughing:

“My father ever taught me never to show disdain of those beneath us—but
’tis like you are too grand to deck yourself in your best for poor
tenants and peasant-folk—”

Red as a berry, Ingebjörg slipped her woollen smock down over her white
hips and hurried on the pink silk shift.—Kristin threw over her own head
her best velvet gown—it was violet-blue, deeply cut-out at the bosom,
with long slashed sleeves flowing wellnigh to the ground. She fastened
the gilt belt about her waist, and hung her grey squirrel cape over her
shoulders. Then she spread her masses of yellow hair out over her
shoulders and back and fitted the golden fillet, chased with small
roses, upon her brow.

She saw that Helga stood watching them. Then she took from her chest a
great silver clasp. It was that she had on her cloak the night Bentein
met her on the highway, and she had never cared to wear it since. She
went to Helga and said in a low voice:

“I know ’twas your wish to show me goodwill last night; think me not
unthankful—,” and with that she gave her the clasp.

Ingebjörg was a fine sight, too, when she stood fully decked in her
green gown, with a red silk cloak over her shoulders and her fair, curly
hair waving behind her. They had ended by striving to outdress each
other, thought Kristin, and she laughed.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The morning was cool and fresh with dew as the procession went forth
from Nonneseter and wound its way westward toward Frysja. The hay-making
was near at an end here on the lowlands, but along the fences grew
blue-bells and yellow crowsfoot in clumps; in the fields the barley was
in ear and bent its heads in pale silvery waves just tinged with pink.
Here and there, where the path was narrow and led through the fields,
the corn all but met about folks’ knees.

Haakon walked at the head, bearing the convent’s banner with the Virgin
Mary’s picture upon the blue silken cloth. After him walked the servants
and the commoners, and then came the Lady Groa and four old sisters on
horseback, while behind these came the young maidens on foot; their
many-hued holiday attire flaunted and shone in the sunlight. Some of the
commoners’ women-folk and a few armed serving-men closed the train.

They sang as they went over the bright fields, and the folk they met at
the by-ways stood aside and gave them reverent greeting. All round, out
on the fields, they could see small groups of men coming walking and
riding, for folks were drawing toward the church from every house and
every farm. Soon they heard behind them the sound of hymns chanted in
men’s deep voices, and the banner of the Hovedö monastery rose above a
hillock—the red silk shone in the sun, swaying and bending to the step
of the bearer.

The mighty, metal voice of the bells rang out above the neighing and
screaming of stallions as the procession climbed the last slope to the
church. Kristin had never seen so many horses at one time—a heaving,
restless sea of horses’ backs round about the green before the
church-door. Upon the sward stood and sat and lay folk dressed in all
their best—but all rose in reverence as the Virgin’s flag from
Nonneseter was borne in amongst them, and all bowed deeply before the
Lady Groa.

It seemed as though more folk had come than the church could hold, but
for those from the convent room had been kept in front near the altar.
Straightway after them the Cistercian monks from Hovedö marched in and
went up into the choir—and forthwith song burst from the throats of men
and boys and filled the church.

Soon after the mass had begun, when the service brought all to their
feet, Kristin caught sight of Erlend Nikulaussön. He was tall, and his
head rose above those about him—she saw his face from the side. He had a
high, steep and narrow forehead, and a large, straight nose—it jutted,
triangle-like, from his face, and was strangely thin about the fine,
quivering nostrils—something about it reminded Kristin of a restless,
high-strung stallion. His face was not as comely as she had thought
it—the long-drawn lines running down to his small, weak, yet well-formed
mouth gave it as ’twere a touch of joylessness—aye, but yet, he _was_
comely.

He turned his head and saw her. She knew not how long they stood thus,
looking into each other’s eyes. From that time she thought of naught but
the end of the mass; she waited, intent on what would then befall.

There was some pressing and thronging as the folks made their way out
from the over-crowded church. Ingebjörg held Kristin back till they were
at the rear of the throng; she gained her point—they were quite cut off
from the nuns, who went out first—the two girls were among the last in
coming to the offertory-box and out of the church.

Erlend stood without, just by the door, beside the priest from Gerdarud
and a stoutish, red-faced man, splendid in blue velvet. Erlend himself
was clad in silk, but of a sober hue—a long coat of brown, figured with
black, and a black cloak with a pattern of small yellow hawks inwoven.

They greeted each other and crossed the green together to where the
men’s horses stood tethered. While they spoke of the fine weather, the
goodly mass and the great crowd of folk that were mustered, the fat,
ruddy knight—he bore golden spurs and was named Sir Munan Baardsön—took
Ingebjörg by the hand; ’twas plain he was mightily taken with the maid.
Erlend and Kristin fell behind—they were silent as they walked.

There was a great to-do upon the church-green as folk began to ride
away—horses jostled one another, people shouted—some angry, others
laughing. Many sat in pairs upon the horses; men had their wives behind
them, or their children in front upon the saddle; youths swung
themselves up beside a friend. They could see the church banners, the
nuns and the priests far down the hill already.

Sir Munan rode by; Ingebjörg sat in front of him, his arm about her.
Both of them called out and waved. Then Erlend said:

“My serving-men are both with me—they could ride one horse and you have
Haftor’s—if you would rather have it so?”

Kristin flushed as she replied: “We are so far behind the others
already—I see not your serving-men hereabouts, and—” Then she broke into
a laugh, and Erlend smiled.

He sprang to the saddle and helped her to a seat behind him. At home
Kristin had often sat thus sidewise behind her father, after she had
grown too big to ride astride the horse. Still she felt a little bashful
and none too safe as she laid a hand upon Erlend’s shoulder; the other
she put on the horse’s back to steady herself. They rode slowly down
towards the bridge.

In a while Kristin thought she must speak, since he was silent, so she
said:

“We looked not, sir, to meet you here to-day.”

“Looked you not to meet me?” asked Erlend, turning his head. “Did not
Ingebjörg Filippusdatter bear you my greeting then?”

“No,” said Kristin. “I heard naught of any greeting—she hath not named
you once since you came to our help last May—,” said she, guilefully—she
was not sorry that Ingebjörg’s falseness should come to light.

Erlend did not look back again, but she could hear by his voice that he
was smiling when he asked again:

“But the little dark one—the novice—I mind not her name—her I even feed
to bear you my greeting.”

Kristin blushed, but she had to laugh too: “Aye, ’tis but Helga’s due I
should say that she earned her fee,” she said.

Erlend moved his head a little—his neck almost touched her hand. Kristin
shifted her hand at once further out on his shoulder. Somewhat uneasily
she thought, maybe she had been more bold than was fitting, seeing she
had come to this feast after a man had, in a manner, made tryst with her
there.

Soon after Erlend asked:

“Will you dance with me to-night, Kristin?”

“I know not, sir,” answered the maid.

“You think, mayhap, ’tis not seemly?” he asked, and, as she did not
answer, he said again: “It may well be it is not so. But I thought now
maybe you might deem you would be none the worse if you took my hand in
the dance to-night. But indeed ’tis eight years since I stood up to
dance.”

“How may that be, sir?” asked Kristin. “Mayhap you are wedded?” But then
it came into her head that had he been a wedded man, to have made tryst
with her thus would have been no fair deed of him. On that she tried to
mend her speech, saying: “Maybe, you have lost your betrothed maid or
your wife?”

Erlend turned quickly and looked on her with strange eyes:

“Hath not Lady Aashild—? Why grew you so red when you heard who I was
that evening,” he asked a little after.

Kristin flushed red once more, but did not answer; then Erlend asked
again:

“I would fain know what my mother’s sister said to you of me.”

“Naught else,” said Kristin quickly, “but in your praise. She said you
were so comely and so great of kin that—she said that beside such as you
and her kin we were of no such great account—my folk and I—”

“Doth she still talk thus, living the life she lives,” said Erlend, and
laughed bitterly. “Aye, aye—if it comfort her—Said she naught else of
me?”

“What should she have said?” asked Kristin—she knew not why she was
grown so strangely heavy-hearted.

“Oh, she must have said”—he spoke in a low voice, looking down, “she
might have said that I had been under the Church’s ban, and had to pay
dear for peace and atonement—”

Kristin was silent a long time. Then she said softly:

“There is many a man who is not master of his own fortunes—so have I
heard said. ’Tis little I have seen of the world—but I will never
believe of you, Erlend, that ’twas for any—dishonourable—deed.”

“May God reward you for those words, Kristin,” said Erlend, and bent his
head and kissed her wrist so vehemently that the horse gave a bound
beneath them. When Erlend had it in hand again, he said earnestly:
“Dance with me to-night then, Kristin. Afterwards I will tell how things
are with me—will tell you all—but to-night we will be happy together?”

Kristin answered: “Aye,” and they rode a while in silence.

But ere long Erlend began to ask of Lady Aashild, and Kristin told all
she knew of her; she praised her much.

“Then all doors are not barred against Björn and Aashild?” asked Erlend.

Kristin said they were thought much of, and that her father and many
with him deemed that most of the tales about these two were untrue.

“How liked you my kinsman, Munan Baardsön?” asked Erlend laughing slily.

“I looked not much upon him,” said Kristin, “and methought, too, he was
not much to look on.”

“Knew you not,” asked Erlend, “that he is her son?”

“Son to Lady Aashild!” said Kristin, in great wonder.

“Aye, her children could not take their mother’s fair looks, though they
took all else,” said Erlend.

“I have never known her first husband’s name,” said Kristin.

“They were two brothers who wedded two sisters,” said Erlend. “Baard and
Nikulaus Munansön. My father was the elder, my mother was his second
wife, but he had no children by his first. Baard, whom Aashild wedded,
was not young either, nor, I trow, did they ever live happily
together—aye, I was a little child when all this befell, they hid from
me as much as they could—But she fled the land with Sir Björn and
married him against the will of her kin—when Baard was dead. Then folk
would have had the wedding set aside—they made out that Björn had sought
her bed while her first husband was still living and that they had
plotted together to put away my father’s brother. ’Tis clear they could
not bring this home to them, since they had to leave them together in
wedlock. But to make amends, they had to forfeit all their estate—Björn
had killed their sister’s son too—my mother’s and Aashild’s, I mean—”

Kristin’s heart beat hard. At home her father and mother had kept strict
watch that no unclean talk should come to the ears of their children or
of young folk—but still things had happened in their own parish and
Kristin had heard of them—a man had lived in adultery with a wedded
woman. That was whoredom, one of the worst of sins; ’twas said they
plotted the husband’s death, and that brought with it outlawry and the
Church’s ban. Lavrans had said no woman was bound to stay with her
husband, if he had had to do with another’s wife; the state of a child
gotten in adultery could never be mended, not even though its father and
mother were free to wed afterward. A man might bring into his family and
make his heir his child by any wanton or strolling beggar woman, but not
the child of his adultery—not if its mother came to be a knight’s
lady—She thought of the misliking she had ever felt for Sir Björn with
his bleached face and fat, yet shrunken body. She could not think how
Lady Aashild could be so good and yielding at all times to the man who
had led her away into such shame; how such a gracious woman could have
let herself be beguiled by him. He was not even good to her; he let her
toil and moil with all the farm work; Björn did naught but drink beer.
Yet Aashild was ever mild and gentle when she spoke with her husband.
Kristin wondered if her father could know all this, since he had asked
Sir Björn to their home. Now she came to think, too, it seemed strange
Erlend should think fit to tell such tales of his near kin. But like
enough he deemed she knew of it already—

“I would like well,” said Erlend in a while, “to visit her, Moster
Aashild, some day—when I journey northwards. Is he comely still, Björn,
my kinsman?”

“No,” said Kristin. “He looks like hay that has lain the winter through
upon the fields.”

“Aye, aye, it tells upon a man, I trow,” said Erlend, with the same
bitter smile. “Never have I seen so fair a man—’tis twenty years since,
I was but a lad then—but his like have I never seen—”

A little after they came to the hospital. It was an exceeding great and
fine place, with many houses both of stone and of wood—houses for the
sick, almhouses, hostels for travellers, a chapel and a house for the
priest. There was great bustle in the courtyard, for food was being made
ready in the kitchen of the hospital for the guild feast, and the poor
and sick too, that were dwelling in the place, were to be feasted on the
best this day.

The hall of the guild was beyond the garden of the hospital, and folks
took their way thither through the herb-garden, for this was of great
renown. Lady Groa had had brought hither plants that no one had heard of
in Norway before, and moreover all plants that else folks were used to
grow in gardens, throve better in her herbaries, both flowers and
pot-herbs and healing herbs. She was a most learned woman in all such
matters and had herself put into the Norse tongue the herbals of the
Salernitan school—Lady Groa had been more than ever kind to Kristin
since she had marked that the maid knew somewhat of herb-lore and was
fain to know yet more of it.

So Kristin named for Erlend what grew in the beds on either side the
grassy path they walked on. In the midday sun there was a warm and spicy
scent of dill and celery, garlic and roses, southernwood and wallflower.
Beyond the shadeless, baking herb-garden the fruit orchards looked cool
and enticing—red cherries gleamed amid the dark leafy tops, and the
apple trees drooped their branches heavy with green fruit.

About the garden was a hedge of sweet briar. There were some flowers on
it still—they looked the same as other briar-roses, but in the sun the
leaves smelt of wine and apples. Folk plucked sprays to deck themselves
as they went past. Kristin, too, took some roses and hung them on her
temples, fixed under her golden fillet. One she kept in her hand—After a
time Erlend took it, saying no word. A while he bore it in his hand as
they walked, then fastened it with the brooch upon his breast—he looked
awkward and bashful as he did it, and was so clumsy that he pricked his
fingers till they bled.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Broad tables were spread in the loft-room of the guild’s hall—two by the
main-walls, for the men and the women; and two smaller boards out on the
floor, where children and young folk sat side by side.

At the women’s board Lady Groa was in the high-seat, the nuns and the
chief of the married women sat on the inner bench along the wall, and
the unwedded women on the outer benches, the maids from Nonneseter at
the upper end. Kristin knew that Erlend was watching her, but she durst
not turn her head even once, either when they rose or when they sat
down. Only when they got up at last to hear the priest read the names of
the dead guild-brothers and sisters, she stole a hasty glance at the
men’s table—she caught a glimpse of him where he stood by the wall,
behind the candles burning on the board. He was looking at her.

The meal lasted long, with all the toasts in honour of God, the Virgin
Mary, and St. Margaret and St. Olav and St. Halvard, and prayers and
song between.

Kristin saw through the open door that the sun was gone; sounds of
fiddling and song came in from the green without, and all the young
folks had left the tables already when Lady Groa said to the convent
maidens that they might go now and play themselves for a time if they
listed.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Three red bonfires were burning upon the green; around them moved the
many-coloured chains of dancers. The fiddlers sat aloft on heaped-up
chests and scraped their fiddles—they played and sang a different tune
in every ring; there were too many folk for _one_ dance. It was nearly
dark already—northward the wooded ridge stood out coal-black against the
yellow-green sky.

Under the loft-balcony folk were sitting drinking. Some men sprang
forward, as soon as the six maids from Nonneseter came down the steps.
Munan Baardsön flew to meet Ingebjörg and went off with her, and Kristin
was caught by the wrist—Erlend, she knew his hand already. He pressed
her hand in his so that their rings grated on one another and bruised
the flesh.

He drew her with him to the outermost bonfire. Many children were
dancing there; Kristin gave her other hand to a twelve-year old lad, and
Erlend had a little, half-grown maid on his other side.

No one was singing in the ring just then—they were swaying in and out to
the tune of the fiddle as they moved round. Then someone shouted that
Sivord the Dane should sing them a new dance. A tall, fair-haired man
with huge fists stepped out in front of the chain and struck up his
ballad:

                 Fair goes the dance at Munkholm
                     On silver sand.
                 There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön—
                     Holds the Queen’s own hand.
                         _Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?_

The fiddlers knew not the tune, they thrummed their strings a little,
and the Dane sang alone—he had a strong, tuneful voice.

                    “Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
                        That summer fair,
                    They led you out of Sweden,
                        To Denmark here?

                    “They led you out of Sweden
                        To Denmark here,
                    All with a crown of the red gold
                        And many a tear.

                    “All with a crown of the red gold
                        And tear-filled eyne—
                    —Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
                        You first were mine?”

The fiddles struck in again, the dancers hummed the new-learned tune and
joined in the burden.

                 “And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,
                     Sworn man to me,
                 Then shall you hang to-morrow
                     On the gallows tree!”

                 But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,
                     All unafraid
                 He leaped into the gold-bark
                     In harness clad.

                 “God send to you, oh Dane-Queen,
                     So many a good-night,
                 As in the high heavens
                     Are stars alight.

                 “God send to you, oh Dane-King,
                     So many ill years
                 As be leaves on the linden—
                     Or the hind hath hairs.”
                         _Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?_

It was far on in the night, and the fires were but heaps of embers
growing more and more black. Kristin and Erlend stood hand in hand under
the trees by the garden fence. Behind them the noise of the revellers
was hushed—a few young lads were hopping round the glowing mounds
singing softly, but the fiddlers had sought their resting-places and
most of the people were gone. One or two wives went round seeking their
husbands, who were lying somewhere out of doors overcome by the beer.

“Where think you I can have laid my cloak?” whispered Kristin. Erlend
put his arm about her waist and drew his mantle round them both. Close
pressed to one another they went into the herb-garden.

A lingering breath of the day’s warm spicy scents, deadened and damp
with the chill of the dew, met them in there. The night was very dark,
the sky overcast, with murky grey clouds close down upon the tree-tops.
But they could tell that there were other folks in the garden. Once
Erlend pressed the maiden close to him and asked in a whisper:

“Are you not afraid, Kristin?”

In her mind she caught a faint glimpse of the world outside this
night—and knew that this was madness. But a blessed strengthlessness was
upon her. She leaned closer to the man and whispered softly—she herself
knew not what.

They came to the end of the path; a stone wall divided them from the
woods. Erlend helped her up. As she jumped down on the other side, he
caught her and held her lifted in his arms a moment before he set her on
the grass.

She stood with upturned face to take his kiss. He held her head between
his hands—it was so sweet to her to feel his fingers sink into her
hair—she felt she must repay him, and so she clasped his head and sought
to kiss him, as he had kissed her.

When he put his hands upon her breast, she felt as though he drew her
heart from out her bosom; he parted the folds of silk ever so little and
laid a kiss betwixt them—it sent a glow into her inmost soul.

“You I could never harm,” whispered Erlend. “You should never shed a
tear through fault of mine. Never had I dreamed a maid might be so good
as you, my Kristin—”

He drew her down into the grass beneath the bushes; they sat with their
backs against the wall. Kristin said naught, but when he ceased from
caressing her, she put up her hand and touched his face.

In a while Erlend asked: “Are you not weary, my dear one?” And when
Kristin nestled in to his breast, he folded his arms around her and
whispered: “Sleep, sleep, Kristin, here in my arms—”

She slipped deeper and deeper into darkness and warmth and happiness
upon his breast.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When she came to herself again, she was lying outstretched in the grass
with her cheek upon the soft brown silk above his knees. Erlend was
sitting as before with his back to the stone wall, his face looked grey
in the grey twilight, but his wide opened eyes were marvellously clear
and fair. She saw he had wrapped his cloak all about her—her feet were
so warm and snug with the fur lining around them.

“Now have you slept in my lap,” said he smiling faintly. “May God bless
you, Kristin—you slept as safe as a child in its mother’s arms—”

“Have _you_ not slept, Sir Erlend?” asked Kristin, and he smiled down
into her fresh-opened eyes:

“Maybe the night will come when you and I may lie down to sleep
together—I know not what you will think when you have weighed all
things.—I have watched by you to-night—there is still so much betwixt us
two that ’tis more than if there had lain a naked sword between you and
me—Tell me if you will hold me dear, when this night is past?”

“I will hold you dear, Sir Erlend.” said Kristin, “I will hold you dear,
so long as you will—and thereafter I will love none other—”

“Then,” said Erlend slowly, “may God forsake me if any, maid or woman,
come to my arms ere I may make you mine in law and honour—Say you this
too,” he prayed. Kristin said:

“May God forsake me if I take any other man to my arms so long as I live
on earth.”

“We must go now,” said Erlend a little after, “—before folk waken—”

They passed along without the wall among the bushes.

“Have you bethought you,” asked Erlend, “what further must be done in
this?”

“’Tis for you to say what we must do, Erlend,” answered Kristin.

“Your father,” he asked in a little, “they say at Gerdarud he is a mild
and a righteous man. Think you he will be so exceeding loth to go back
from what he hath agreed with Andres Darre?”

“Father has said so often, he would never force us, his daughters,” said
Kristin. “The chief thing is that our lands and Simon’s lie so fitly
together. But I trow father would not that I should miss all my gladness
in this world for the sake of that.” A fear stirred within her that so
simple as this perhaps it might not prove to be—but she fought it down.

“Then maybe ’twill be less hard than I deemed in the night,” said
Erlend. “God help me, Kristin—methinks I _cannot_ lose you now—unless I
win you now, never can I be glad again.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

They parted among the trees, and in the dawning light Kristin found her
way to the guest-chamber where the women from Nonneseter were to lie.
All the beds were full, but she threw a cloak upon some straw on the
floor and laid her down in all her clothes.

When she awoke, it was far on in the day. Ingebjörg Filippusdatter was
sitting on a bench near by stitching down an edge of fur, that had been
torn loose on her cloak. She was full of talk as ever.

“Were you with Erlend Nikulaussön the whole night?” she asked. “’Twere
well you went warily with that lad, Kristin—how think you Simon
Andressön would like it if you came to be dear friends with him?”

Kristin found a hand-basin and began to wash herself.

“And your betrothed—think you he would like that you danced with Dumpy
Munan last night? Surely we must dance with him who chooses us out on
such a night of merry-making—and Lady Groa had given us leave—”

Ingebjörg pshawed:

“Einar Einarssön and Sir Munan are friends—and besides he is wedded and
old. Ugly he is to boot for that matter—but likable and hath becoming
ways—see what he gave me for a remembrance of last night,” and she held
forth a gold clasp which Kristin had seen in Sir Munan’s hat the day
before. “But this Erlend—’tis true he was freed of the ban at Easter
last year, but they say Eline Ormsdatter has been with him at Husaby
since—Sir Munan says Erlend hath fled to Sira Jon at Gerdarud, and he
deems ’tis because he cannot trust himself not to fall back into sin, if
he meet her again—”

Kristin crossed over to the other—her face was white.

“Knew you not this?” said Ingebjörg. “That he lured a woman from her
husband somewhere in Haalogaland in the North—and held her with him at
his manor in despite of the King’s command and the Archbishop’s ban—they
had two children together—and he was driven to fly to Sweden and hath
been forced to pay in forfeit so much of his lands and goods Sir Munan
says he will be a poor man in the end unless he mend his ways the
sooner—”

“Think not but that I know all this,” said Kristin with a set face. “But
’tis known the matter is ended now—”

“Aye, but as to that Sir Munan said, there had been an end between them
so many times before,” said Ingebjörg pensively. “But all these things
can be nothing to you—you that are to wed Simon Darre. But a comely man
is Erlend Nikulaussön, sure enough—”

The company from Nonneseter was to set out for home that same day after
nones. Kristin had promised Erlend to meet him by the wall where they
had sat the night before, if she could but find a way to come.

He was lying face downwards in the grass with his head upon his hands.
As soon as he saw her, he sprang to his feet and held out both his
hands, as she was about jumping from the wall.

Kristin took them, and the two stood a little, hand in hand. Then said
Kristin:

“Why did you tell me that of Sir Björn and Lady Aashild yesterday?”

“I can see you know it all,” said Erlend and let go her hands suddenly.
“What think you of me now, Kristin—?

“I was eighteen then,” he went on vehemently, “’tis ten years since that
the King, my kinsman, sent me with the mission to Vargöyhus—and we
stayed the winter at Steigen—she was wife to the Lagmand, Sigurd
Saksulvsön—I thought pity of her, for he was old and ugly beyond
belief—I know not how it came to pass—aye; but I loved her too. I bade
Sigurd crave what amends he would; I would fain have done right by
him—he is a good and doughty man in many ways—but he would have it that
all must go by law; he took the matter to the King—I was to be branded
for whoredom with the wife of him whose guest I had been, you
understand—

“Then it came to my father’s ears and then to King Haakon’s—he—he drove
me from his court. And if you must know the whole—there is naught more
now betwixt Eline and me save the children, and she cares not much for
them. They are in Österdal, upon a farm I owned there; I have given it
to Orm, the boy—but she will not stay with them—Doubtless she reckons
that Sigurd cannot live for ever—but I know not what she would be at.

“Sigurd took her back again—but she says she fared like a dog and a
bondwoman in his house—so she set a tryst with me at Nidaros. ’Twas
little better for me at Husaby with my father—I sold all I could lay
hands on, and fled with her to Halland—Count Jacob stood my friend—Could
I do aught else—she was great with my child. I knew many a man had lived
even so with another’s wife and had got off cheap enough—if he were rich
that is—But so it is with King Haakon, he is hardest upon his own kin.
We were away from one another for a year, but then my father died and
then she came back. Then there were other troubles. My tenants denied me
rent and would have no speech with my bailiffs because I lay under ban—I
on my side dealt harshly with them, and so they brought suit against me
for robbery; but I had not the money to pay my house-folk withal; and
you can see I was too young to meet these troubles wisely, and my
kinsfolk would not help me—save Munan—he did all his wife would let him—

“Aye, now you know it, Kristin: I have lost much both of lands and goods
and of honour. True it is; you would be better served if you held fast
to Simon Andressön.”

Kristin put her arms about his neck:

“We will abide by what we swore to each other yester-night, Erlend—if so
be you think as I do.”

Erlend drew her close to him, kissed her and said:

“You will see too, trust me, that all things will be changed with me
now—for none in the world has power on me now but you. Oh, my thoughts
were many last night, as you slept upon my lap, my fairest one. So much
power the devil cannot have over a man, that I should ever work you care
and woe—you, my dearest life—”


                                   4

At the time he dwelt at Skog Lavrans Björgulfsön had made gifts of land
to Gerdarud church that masses for the souls of his father and mother
might be said on their death-days. Björgulf Ketilsön’s day was the
thirteenth of August, and Lavrans had settled with his brother that this
year Aasmund should bring Kristin out to Skog that she might be at the
mass.

She went in fear that something should come in the way, so that her
uncle would not keep his promise—she thought she had marked that Aasmund
did not care over much about her. But the day before the mass was to be,
Aasmund Björgulfsön came to the convent to fetch his brother’s daughter.
Kristin was told to clothe herself in lay garb, but simply and in dark
garments. There had been some carping at the Sisters of Nonneseter for
going about too much without the convent walls; therefore the bishop had
given order that the maidens who were not to take the veil must wear
naught like to the habit of the order when they went visiting their
kinsfolk—so that laymen could not mistake them for novices or nuns.

Kristin’s heart was full of gladness as she rode along the highway with
her uncle, and Aasmund grew more friendly and merry with her when he saw
the maid was not so tongue-tied after all, with folk. Otherwise Aasmund
was somewhat moody and downcast; he said it looked as though there would
be a call to arms in the autumn and that the King would lead an army
into Sweden to avenge the slaying of his son-in-law and the husband of
his niece. Kristin had heard of the murder of the Swedish Dukes, and
thought it a most foul deed—yet all these questions of state seemed far
away from her. No one spoke much of such things at home in the Dale; she
remembered, too, that her father had been to the war against Duke Eirik
at Ragnhildarholm and Konungahella. Then Aasmund told her of all that
had come and gone between the King and the Dukes. Kristin understood but
little of this, but she gave careful heed to all her uncle told of the
making and breaking of the betrothals of the King’s daughters. It gave
her comfort to think ’twas not everywhere as it was at home in her
countryside, that a betrothal once fixed by word of mouth was held to
bind nigh as fast as a wedding. Then she took courage to tell of her
adventure on the evening before Halvard-wake, and asked her uncle if he
knew Erlend of Husaby. Aasmund spoke well of Erlend—said, he had guided
his affairs unwisely, but his father and the King were most to blame;
they had borne themselves as though the young lad were a very limb of
the devil only because he had fallen into this misfortune. The King was
over pious in such matters, and Sir Nikulaus was angry because Erlend
had lost much good land, so they had thundered about whoredom and hell
fire—“and there must be a bit of the dare-devil in every likely lad,”
said Aasmund Björgulfsön. “And the woman was most fair. But you have no
call now to look Erlend’s way, so trouble yourself no more about his
doings.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Erlend came not to the mass, as he had promised Kristin he would, and
she thought about this more than of God’s word. She felt no sorrow that
this was so—she had only that strange new feeling that she was cut off
from all the ties that she had felt binding on her before.

She tried to take comfort—like enough Erlend deemed it wisest that no
one in whose charge she was should come to know of their friendship at
this time. She could understand herself that ’twas wise. But her heart
had longed so for him, and she wept when she had gone to rest in the
loft-room where she was to sleep with Aasmund’s little daughters.

The day after, she went up into the wood with the youngest of her
uncle’s children, a little maid of six years. When they were come to the
pastures among the woods a little way off, Erlend came running after
them. Kristin knew it was he before she had seen who was coming.

“I have sat up here on the hill spying down into the courtyard the whole
day,” said he. “I thought surely you would find a chance to come out—”

“Think you I came out to meet you then?” said Kristin, laughing. “And
are you not afraid to beat about my uncle’s woods with dogs and bow?”

“Your uncle gave me leave to take my pastime hunting here,” said Erlend.
“And the dogs are Aasmund’s—they found me out this morning.” He patted
them and lifted the little girl up in his arms.

“_You_ know me, Ragndid? But say not you have spoken with me, and you
can have this”—and he took out a bunch of raisins and gave them to the
child. “I had brought them for you,” he said to Kristin. “Think you this
child can hold her tongue?”

They talked fast and laughed together. Erlend was dressed in a short
close-fitting brown jacket and had a small red silk cap pulled down over
his black hair—he looked so young; he laughed and played with the child;
but sometimes he would take Kristin’s hand, and press it till it hurt
her.

He spoke of the rumours of war and was glad: “’Twill be easier for me to
win back the King’s friendship,” said he, “and then will all things be
easy,” he said vehemently.

At last they sat down in a meadow up among the woods. Erlend had the
child on his lap; Kristin sat by his side; under cover of the grass he
played with her fingers. He pressed into her hand three gold rings bound
together by a cord:

“By and by,” he whispered, “you shall have as many as will go on your
fingers—”

“I shall wait for you here on this field each day about this time, as
long as you are at Skog,” he said as they parted. “And you must come if
you can.”

The next day Aasmund Björgulfsön set out with his wife and children to
the manor of Gyrid’s kin in Hadeland. They had been scared by the talk
of war; the folk about Galo still went in terror since Duke Eirik’s
harrying of that countryside some years before. Aasmund’s old mother was
so fearful, she was minded to seek shelter in Nonneseter—besides she was
too weak to travel with the others. So Kristin was to stay at Skog with
the old woman—she called her grandmother—till Aasmund came back from
Hadeland.

About the midday hour, when the folk on the farm were resting, Kristin
went to the loft-room where she slept. She had brought some clothes with
her in a sheepskin bag, and now she changed her garments, humming to
herself the while.

Her father had given her a dress of thick cotton stuff from the East,
skyblue with a close pattern of red flowers; this she put on. She
brushed and combed out her hair and bound it back from her face with a
red silk ribbon, wound a red silk belt tightly about her waist and put
Erlend’s rings upon her fingers; all the time she wondered if he would
think her fair.

The two dogs that had been with Erlend in the forest had slept in the
loft-room over night—she called them to go with her now. She stole out
round the houses and took the same path as the day before up through the
hill-pastures.

The field amid the forest lay lonely and silent in the burning midday
sun; the pine woods that shut it in on all sides gave out a hot strong
scent. The sun stung, and the blue sky seemed strangely near and close
down upon the tree-tops.

Kristin sat down in the shade in the borders of the wood. She was not
vexed that Erlend was not there; she was sure he would come, and it gave
her an odd gladness to sit there alone a little and to be the first.

She listened to the low hum of tiny life above the yellow, scorched
grass, pulled a few dry, spicy-scented flowers that she could reach
without moving more than her hand, and rolled them between her fingers
and smelt them—she sat with wide open eyes sunk in a kind of drowse.

She did not move when she heard a horse in the woods. The dogs growled
and the hair on their necks bristled—then they bounded up over the
meadow, barking and wagging their tails. Erlend sprang from his horse at
the edge of the forest, let it go with a clap on its flank and ran down
towards her with the dogs jumping about him. He caught their muzzles in
his hands and came to her leading the two elk-grey, wolflike beasts.
Kristin smiled and held out her hand without getting up.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Once, while she was looking at the dark head that lay in her lap,
between her hands, something bygone flashed on her mind. It stood out,
clear yet distant, as a homestead far away on a mountain slope may start
to sight of a sudden from out dark clouds, when a sunbeam strikes it on
a stormy day. And it was as though there welled up in her heart all the
tenderness Arne Gyrdsön had once begged for while as yet she did not
understand his words. With timid passion, she drew the man up to her and
laid his head upon her breast, kissing him as if afraid he should be
taken from her. And when she saw his head upon her arm, she felt as
though she clasped a child—she hid his eyes with one of her hands and
showered little kisses upon his mouth and cheek.

The sunshine had gone from the meadow—the leaden colour above the
tree-tops had thickened to dark-blue and spread over the whole sky;
little, coppery flashes like fire-tinged smoke flickered within the
clouds. Bayard came down to them, neighed loudly once and then stood
stock still, staring before him. Soon after came the first flash of
lightning, and the thunder followed close, not far away.

Erlend got up and took hold of the horse. An old barn stood at the
lowest end of the meadow; they went thither, and he tied Bayard to some
woodwork just inside the door. At the back of the barn lay some hay;
Erlend spread his cloak out, and they seated themselves with the dogs at
their feet.

And now the rain came down like a sheet before the doorway. It hissed in
the trees and lashed the ground—soon they had to move further in, away
from the drips from the roof. Each time it lightened and thundered,
Erlend whispered:

“Are you not afraid, Kristin—?”

“A little—” she whispered back and drew closer to him.

                  *       *       *       *       *

They knew not how long they had sat—the storm had soon passed over—it
thundered far away, but the sun shone on the wet grass outside the door,
and the sparkling drops fell more and more rarely from the roof. The
sweet smell of the hay in the barn grew stronger.

“Now must I go,” said Kristin, and Erlend answered: “Aye, ’tis like you
must.” He took her foot in his hand: “You will be wet—you must ride and
I must walk—out of the woods—” and he looked at her so strangely.

Kristin shook—it must be because her heart beat so, she thought—her
hands were cold and clammy. As he kissed her vehemently she weakly tried
to push him from her. Erlend lifted his face a moment—she thought of a
man who had been given food at the convent one day—he had kissed the
bread they gave him. She sank back upon the hay....

                  *       *       *       *       *

She sat upright when Erlend lifted his head from her arms. He raised
himself suddenly upon his elbow:

“Look not so—Kristin!”

His voice sent a new, wild pang into Kristin’s soul—he was not glad—_he_
was unhappy too—!

“Kristin, Kristin—

“—Think you I lured you out here to me in the woods meaning this—to make
you mine by force—” he asked in a little.

She stroked his hair and did not look at him:

“’Twas not force, I trow—you had let me go as I came, had I begged you—”
said she in a low voice.

“I know not,” he answered and hid his face in her lap—

“Think you that I would betray you?” asked he, vehemently. “Kristin—I
swear to you by my Christian faith—may God forsake me in my last hour,
if I keep not faith with you till the day of my death—”

She could say naught, she only stroked his hair again and again.

“’Tis time I went home, is it not?” she asked at length, and she seemed
to wait in deadly terror for his answer.

“May be so,” he answered dully. He got up quickly, went to the horse,
and began to loosen the reins.

Then she too got up. Slowly, wearily and with crushing pain it came home
to her—she knew not what she had hoped he might do—set her upon his
horse, maybe, and carry her off with him so she might be spared from
going back amongst other people. It was as though her whole body ached
with wonder—that this ill thing was what was sung in all the songs. And
since Erlend had wrought her this, she felt herself grown so wholly his,
she knew not how she should live away from him any more. She was to go
from him now, but she could not understand that it should be so—

Down through the woods he went on foot, leading the horse. He held her
hand in his, but they found no words to say.

When they had come so far that they could see the houses at Skog, he
bade her farewell.

“Kristin—be not so sorrowful—the day will come or ever you know it, when
you will be my wedded wife—”

But her heart sank as he spoke:

“Must you go away, then—?” she asked, dismayed.

“As soon as you are gone from Skog,” said he, and his voice already rang
more bright. “If there be no war, I will speak to Munan—he has long
urged me that I should wed—he will go with me and speak for me to your
father.”

Kristin bent her head—at each word he said, she felt the time that lay
before grow longer and more hard to think of—the convent,
Jörundgaard—she seemed to float upon a stream which bore her far from it
all.

“Sleep you alone in the loft-room, now your kinsfolk are gone?” asked
Erlend. “Then will I come and speak with you to-night—will you let me
in?”

“Aye,” said Kristin low. And so they parted.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The rest of the day she sat with her father’s mother, and after supper
she took the old lady to her bed. Then she went up to the loft-room,
where she was to lie. There was a little window in the room; Kristin sat
herself down on the chest that stood below it—she had no mind to go to
bed.

She had long to wait. It was quite dark without when she heard the soft
steps upon the balcony. He knocked upon the door with his cloak about
his knuckles, and Kristin got up, drew the bolt and let Erlend in.

She marked how glad he was, when she flung her arms about his neck and
clung to him.

“I have been fearing you would be angry with me,” he said.

“You must not grieve for our sin,” he said sometime after. “’Tis not a
deadly sin. God’s law is not like to the law of the land in
this—Gunnulv, my brother, once made this matter plain to me—if two vow
to have and hold each other fast for all time, and thereafter lie
together, then they are wedded before God and may not break their troths
without great sin. I can give you the words in Latin when they come to
my mind—I knew them once....”

Kristin wondered a little why Erlend’s brother should have said this—but
she thrust from her the hateful fear that it might have been said of
Erlend and another—and sought to find comfort in his words.

They sat together on the chest, he with his arm about her, and now
Kristin felt that ’twas well with her once more and she was safe—beside
him was the only spot now where she could feel safe and sheltered.

At times Erlend spoke much and cheerfully—then he would be silent for
long while he sat caressing her. Without knowing it Kristin gathered up
out of all he said each little thing that could make him fairer and
dearer to her, and lessen his blame in all she knew of him that was not
good.

Erlend’s father, Sir Nikulaus, had been so old before he had children,
he had not patience enough nor strength enough left to rear them up
himself; both the sons had grown up in the house of Sir Baard Petersön
at Hestnæs. Erlend had no sisters and no brother save Gunnulv; he was
one year younger and was a priest at Christ’s Church in Nidaros. “He is
dearest to me of all mankind save only you.”

Kristin asked if Gunnulv were like him, but Erlend laughed and said they
were much unlike both in mind and body. Now Gunnulv was in foreign lands
studying—he had been away these three years, but had sent letters home
twice, the last a year ago, when he thought to go from St. Geneviève’s
in Paris and make his way to Rome. “He will be glad, Gunnulv, when he
comes home and finds me wed,” said Erlend.

Then he spoke of the great heritage he had had from his father and
mother—Kristin saw he scarce knew himself how things stood with him now.
She knew somewhat of her father’s dealings in land—Erlend had dealt in
his the other way about, sold and scattered and wasted and pawned, worst
of all in the last years when he had been striving to free him of his
paramour, thinking that, this done, his sinful life might in time be
forgotten and his kin stand by him once more; he had thought he might
some day come to be Warden of half the Orkdöla county, as his father had
been before him.

“But now do I scarce know what the end will be,” said he. “Maybe I shall
sit at last on a mountain croft like Björn Gunnarsön, and bear out the
dung on my back as did the thralls of old, because I have no horse.”

“God help you,” said Kristin, laughing. “Then I must come to you for
sure—I trow I know more of farm work and country ways than you.”

“I can scarce think you have borne out the dung-basket,” said he,
laughing too.

“No; but I have seen how they spread the dung out—and sown corn have I,
well nigh every year at home. ’Twas my father’s wont to plough himself
the fields nearest the farm, and he let me sow the first piece that I
might bring good fortune—” the thought sent a pang through her heart, so
she said quickly: “—and a woman you must have to bake, and brew the
small beer, and wash your one shirt, and milk—and you must hire a cow or
two from the rich farmer near by—”

“Oh, God be thanked that I hear you laugh a little once more!” said
Erlend and caught her up so that she lay on his arms like a child.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Each of the six nights which passed ere Aasmund Björgulfsön came home,
Erlend was in the loft-room with Kristin.

The last night he seemed as unhappy as she; he said many times they must
not be parted from one another a day longer than needful. At last he
said very low:

“Now should things go so ill that I cannot come back hither to Oslo
before winter—and if it so falls out you need help of friends—fear not
to turn to Sira Jon here at Gerdarud, we are friends from childhood up,
and Munan Baardsön, too, you may safely trust.”

Kristin could only nod. She knew he spoke of what she had thought on
each single day; but Erlend said no more of it. So she too said naught,
and would not show how heavy of heart she was.

On the other nights he had gone from her when the night grew late, but
this last evening he begged hard that he might lie and sleep by her an
hour. Kristin was fearful, but Erlend said haughtily: “Be sure that were
I found here in your bower, I am well able to answer for myself—” She
herself, too, was fain to keep him by her yet a little while, and she
had not strength enough to deny him aught.

But she feared that they might sleep too long. So most of the night she
sat leaning against the head of the bed, dozing a little at times, and
scarce knowing herself when he caressed her and when she only dreamed
it. Her one hand she held upon his breast, where she could feel the
beating of his heart beneath, and her face was turned to the window that
she might see the dawn without.

At length she had to wake him. She threw on some clothes and went out
with him upon the balcony—he clambered over the railing on the side that
faced on to another house near by. Now he was gone from her sight—the
corner hid him. Kristin went in again and crept into her bed; and now
she quite gave way and fell to weeping for the first time since Erlend
had made her all his own.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   5

AT Nonneseter the days went by as before. Kristin’s time was passed
between the dormitory and the church, the weaving-room, the book-hall
and the refectory. The nuns and the convent folk gathered in the
pot-herbs and the fruits from the herb-garden and the orchard; Holy
Cross Day came in the autumn with the procession, then there was the
fast before Michaelmas—Kristin wondered—none seemed to mark any change
in her. But she had ever been quiet when amongst strangers, and
Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who was by her night and day, was well able to
chatter for them both.

Thus no one marked that her thoughts were far away from all around her.
Erlend’s paramour—she said to herself, she was Erlend’s paramour now. It
seemed now as though she had dreamed it all—the eve of St. Margaret’s
Mass, that hour in the barn, the nights in her bower at Skog—either she
had dreamed it, or else all about her now was a dream. But one day she
must waken, one day it must all come out. Not for a moment did she think
aught else than that she bore Erlend’s child within her—

But what would happen to her when this came to light she could not well
think. Would she be put into the black hole, or be sent home—She saw dim
pictures of her father and mother far away—Then she shut her eyes, dizzy
and sick, bowed in fancy beneath the coming storm and tried to harden
herself to bear it since she thought it must end by sweeping her for
ever into Erlend’s arms—the only place where now she felt she had a
home.

Thus was there in this strained waiting as much of hope as terror, as
much of sweetness as of torment. She was unhappy—but she felt her love
for Erlend as it were a flower planted within her—and, spite of her
unhappiness, it put forth fresher and richer blooms each day. That last
night when he had slept by her side she had felt, as a faint and
fleeting bliss, that there awaited her a joy and happiness in his arms
such as she had not yet known—she thrilled now at the thought of it; it
came to her like warm, spicy breaths from sun-heated gardens. Wayside
brat—Inga had flung the word at her—she opened her arms to it and
pressed it to her bosom. Wayside brat, was the name they gave to the
child begotten in secret in woods or fields. She felt the sunshine and
the smell of the pines in the forest pasture. Each new, creeping tremor,
each sudden pulse-beat in her body she took as a reminder from the
unborn babe that now she was come out into new paths—and were they never
so hard to follow to the end, she was sure they must lead to Erlend at
the last.

She sat betwixt Ingebjörg and Sister Astrid and sewed at the great
tapestry of knights and birds amidst leafy tendrils. And as she sewed
she thought of how she should fly when the time was come and it could no
longer be hidden. She saw herself walking along the highways, clothed
like a poor woman; all she owned of gold and silver she bore within a
bundle in her hand. She bought herself shelter on a farm somewhere in a
far away countryside—she went as a serving-wench, bore the
water-carrier’s yoke upon her neck, worked in the byres, baked and
washed and was cursed because she would not tell who was the child’s
father. Then Erlend came and found her—

Sometimes she dreamed that he came too late. She lay snow-white and fair
in the poor peasant’s bed. Erlend stooped as he came in at the door; he
had on the long black cloak he had used to wear when he came to her by
night at Skog. The woman led him forward to where she lay, he sank down
and took her cold hands, his eyes were sad as death—dost thou lie here,
my one delight—? Bent with sorrow he went out with his tender son
clasped to his breast, in the folds of his cloak—nay, she thought not in
good sooth that it would so fall out; she had no mind to die, Erlend
should have no such sorrow—But her heart was so heavy, it did her good
to dream these dreams—

Then for a moment it stood out cold and clear as ice before her—the
child, that was no dream, that must be faced; she must answer one day
for what she had done—and it seemed as if her heart stood still with
terror.

But after a little time had gone by, she came to think ’twas not so sure
after all she was with child. She understood not herself why she was not
glad—it was as though she had lain and wept beneath a warm covering and
now must get up in the cold. A month went by—then two; now she was sure
that she had been spared this ill-hap—and, empty and chill of soul, she
felt yet unhappier than before. In her heart there dawned a little
bitterness toward Erlend. Advent drew near, and she had heard neither
from or of him; she knew not where he was.

And now she felt she could not bear this fear and doubt—it was as though
a bond betwixt them had snapped; now she was afraid indeed—might it not
so befall that she should never see him more? All she had been safely
linked to once, she was parted from now—and the new tie that bound her
to her lover was such a frail one. She never thought that he would mean
to play her false—but there was so much that might happen—She knew not
how she could go on any longer day after day, suffering the tormenting
doubt of this time of waiting.

Now and then she thought of her father and mother and sisters—she longed
for them, but as for something she had lost for ever.

And sometimes in church, and elsewhere too, she would feel a great
yearning to take part in all that this meant, the communion of mankind
with God. It had ever been a part of her life; now she stood outside
with her unconfessed sin.

She told herself that this cutting adrift from home and kin and church
was but for a time. Erlend must take her by the hand and lead her back
into it all. When her father had given consent to their love, she could
go to him as of yore; when she and Erlend were wed, they could confess
and do penance for their transgression.

She began to seek for tokens that other folk were not without sin any
more than they. She hearkened more to tale-bearing, and marked all the
little things about her which showed that not even the Sisters in the
convent here were altogether godly and unworldly. These were only little
things—under Lady Groa’s rule Nonneseter to the world was a pattern of
what a godly sisterhood should be. Zealous in their devotions, diligent,
full of care for the poor and sick, were the nuns. Their aloofness from
the world was not so strict but that the Sisters both had visits from
their friends and kin in the parlour, and themselves were given leave to
visit these in the town when aught was afoot; but no nun had brought
shame upon the house by her life all the years of Lady Groa’s rule.

But Kristin had now an ear alive to all the little jars within the
convent walls—little wranglings and spites and vanities. Save in the
nursing of the sick, none of the Sisters would help with the rough
housework—all were minded to be women of learning or skilled in some
craft; the one strove to outdo the other, and the Sisters who had no
turn for learning or the nobler crafts, lost heart and mooned through
the hours as though but half awake.

Lady Groa herself was wise as well as learned; she kept a wakeful eye on
her spiritual daughters’ way of life and their diligence, but she
troubled herself little about their souls’ health. She had been kind and
friendly to Kristin at all times—she seemed to like her better than the
other young girls, but that was because Kristin was apt at books and
needlework, diligent and sparing of words. Lady Groa never looked for an
answer from any of the Sisters; but on the other hand she was ever glad
to speak with men. They came and went in her parlour—tenant farmers and
bailiffs of the convent, Preaching Friars from the Bishop, stewards of
estates on Hovedö with whom she was at law. She had her hands full with
the oversight of the convent’s great estates, with the keeping of
accounts, sending out church vestments and taking in books to be copied
and sending them away again. Not the most evil-minded of men could find
aught unseemly in Lady Groa’s way of life. But she liked only to talk of
such things as women seldom know about.

The prior, who dwelt in a house by himself northward of the church,
seemed to have no more will of his own than the Abbess’ writing reed or
her scourge. Sister Potentia looked after most things within the house;
and she thought most of keeping such order as she had seen in the
far-famed German convent where she had passed her noviciate. She had
been called Sigrid Ragnvaldsdatter before, but had taken a new name when
she took the habit of the order, for this was much the use in other
lands; it was she too who had thought of making the maidens, who were at
Nonneseter as pupils and for a time only, wear novice’s dress.

Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter was not as the other nuns. She went about
quietly, with downcast eyes, answered always gently and humbly, was
serving maid to all, did for choice all the roughest work, fasted much
more than she need—as much as Lady Groa would let her—and knelt by the
hour in the church after evensong or went thither before matins.

But one evening, after she had been all day at the beck with two lay
sisters washing clothes, she suddenly burst into a loud sobbing at the
supper table. She cast herself upon the stone floor, crept among the
Sisters on hands and knees, beat her breast, and with burning cheeks and
streaming tears begged them all to forgive her. She was the worst sinner
of them all—she had been hard as stone with pride all her days; pride,
and not meekness or thankfulness for Jesus’ redeeming death, had held
her up, when she had been tempted in the world; she had fled thither not
because she loved a man’s soul, but because she loved her own vain
glory. She had served her sisters out of pride, vanity had she drunken
from her water cup, self-righteousness had she spread thick upon her dry
bread, while the other Sisters were drinking their beer and eating their
bread-slices with butter.

Of all this Kristin understood no more than that not even Cecilia
Baardsdatter was truly godly at heart. An unlit tallow candle that has
hung from the roof and grown foul with soot and cobweb—to this she
herself likened her unloving chastity.

Lady Groa went herself and lifted up the sobbing woman. Sternly she
said, that for this disorder Cecilia should as a punishment move from
the Sisters’ dormitory into the Abbess’s own bed, and lie there till she
was free of this fever.

“And thereafter, Sister Cecilia, shall you sit in my seat for the space
of a week; we will seek counsel of you in spiritual things and give you
such honour for your godly life, that you may have your fill of the
homage of sinful mankind. Thus may you judge if it be worth so much
striving, and thereafter choose whether you will live by the rules, as
do we others, or keep on in exercises that no one demands of you. Then
can you ponder whether you will do for love of God, that he may look
down upon you in His mercy, all those things which you say you have done
that we should look up to you.”

And so was it done. Sister Cecilia lay in the Abbess’s room for fourteen
days; she had a high fever, and Lady Groa herself tended her. When she
got up again, she had to sit for a week at the side of the Abbess in the
high seat both in the church and in the convent, and all waited on
her—she wept all the time as though she were being beaten with whips.
But afterward she was much calmer and happier. She lived much as before,
but she blushed like a bride if anyone looked at her, whether she was
sweeping the floor or going alone to the church.

                  *       *       *       *       *

None the less did this matter of Sister Cecilia awake in Kristin a great
longing for peace and atonement with all wherefrom she had come to feel
herself cast out. She thought of Brother Edwin, and one day she took
courage and begged leave of Lady Groa to go out to the barefoot friars
and visit a friend she knew there.

She marked that Lady Groa misliked this—there was scant friendship
between the Minorites and the other cloisters in the bishopric. And the
Abbess was no better pleased when she heard who was Kristin’s friend.
She said this Brother Edwin was an unstable man of God—he was ever
wandering about the country and seeking leave to pay begging visits to
strange bishoprics. The common folk in many places held him to be a holy
man, but he did not seem to understand that a Franciscan’s first duty
was obedience to those set over him. He had shriven freebooters and
outlaws, baptised their children, chanted them to their graves without
asking leave—yet, doubtless, he had sinned as much through ignorance as
in despite, and he had borne meekly the penances laid upon him on
account of these things. He was borne with too because he was skilled in
his handicraft—but even in working at this, he had fallen out with his
craft-fellows; the master-limners of the Bishop of Bergen would not
suffer him to come and work in the bishopric there.

Kristin made bold to ask where he had come from, this monk with the
un-Norse name. Lady Groa was in the mood for talking; she told how he
had been born here in Oslo, but his father was an Englishman, Rikard
Platemaster, who had wedded a farmer’s daughter from the Skogheim
Hundred, and had taken up his abode in the town—two of Edwin’s brothers
were armourers of good repute in Oslo. But this eldest of the
Platemaster’s sons had been a restless spirit all his days. ’Twas true
he had felt a call to the life of the cloister from childhood up; he had
joined the Cistercians at Hovedö as soon as he was old enough. They sent
him to a monastery in France to be trained—for his gifts were good;
while still there he had managed to get leave to pass from the
Cistercian into the Minorite order. And at the time the unruly friars
began building their church eastward in the fields in despite of the
Bishop’s command, Brother Edwin had been one of the worst and most
stiff-necked of them all—nay, he had half killed with his hammer one of
the men the Bishop sent to stop the work.

—It was a long time now since anyone had spoken so much with Kristin at
one time, so when Lady Groa said that now she might go, the young girl
bent and kissed the Abbess’s hand, fervently and reverently; and as she
did so, tears came into her eyes. And Lady Groa, who saw she was
weeping, thought it was from sorrow—and so she said maybe she might
after all let her go out one day to see Brother Edwin.

And a few days later she was told some of the convent folk had an errand
to the King’s palace, and they could take her out along with them to the
Brothers in the fields.

Brother Edwin was at home. Kristin had not thought she could have been
so glad to see anyone, except it had been Erlend. The old man sat and
stroked her hand while they talked together—in thanks for her coming.
No, he had not been in her part of the country since the night he lay at
Jörundgaard, but he had heard she was to wed and he wished her all good
fortune. Then Kristin begged that he would go over to the church with
her.

They had to go out of the monastery and round to the main door; Brother
Edwin durst not take her through the courtyard. He seemed altogether
exceeding downcast, and fearful of doing aught that might offend. He had
grown very old, thought Kristin.

And when she had laid upon the altar her offering for the officiant monk
who was in the church, and afterward asked Edwin if he would confess
her, he grew very frightened. He dared not, he said, he had been
strictly forbidden to hear confession.

“Aye, maybe you have heard of it,” said he. “So it was that I felt I
could not deny to those poor unfortunates the gifts which God had given
me of his free grace. But, ’tis true, I should have enjoined on them to
seek forgiveness in the right place—aye, aye—And you, Kristin,—you are
in duty bound to confess to your own prior.”

“Nay, but this is a thing I cannot confess to the prior of the convent,”
said Kristin.

“Think you it can profit you aught to confess to me what you would hide
from your true father confessor,” said the monk more severely.

“If so be you cannot confess me,” said Kristin, “at least you can let me
speak with you and ask your counsel about what lies upon my soul.”

The monk looked about him. The church was empty at the moment. Then he
sat himself down on a chest which stood in a corner: “You must remember
that I cannot absolve you, but I will counsel you, and keep silence as
though you had told me in confession.”

Kristin stood up before him and said:

“It is this: I cannot be Simon Darre’s wife.”

“Therein you know well that I can counsel no otherwise than would your
own prior,” said Brother Edwin. “To undutiful children God gives no
happiness, and your father had looked only to your welfare—that you know
full well.”

“I know not what your counsel will be, when you have heard me to the
end,” answered Kristin. “Thus stands it now with us: Simon is too good
to gnaw the bare branch from which another man has broken the blossom.”

She looked the monk straight in the face. But when she met his eyes and
marked how the dry, wrinkled, old face changed, grew full of sorrow and
dismay—something seemed to snap within her, tears, started to her eyes,
and she would have cast herself upon her knees. But Edwin stopped her
hurriedly:

“Nay, nay, sit here upon the chest by me—confess you I cannot—” He drew
aside and made room for her.

She went on weeping; he stroked her hand, and said gently:

“Mind you that morning, Kristin, I first saw you there on the stairway
in the Hamar church—? I heard a tale once, when I was in foreign lands,
of a monk, who could not believe that God loved all us wretched
sinners—Then came an angel and touched his eyes, and he beheld a stone
in the bottom of the sea, and under the stone there lived a blind,
white, naked creature; and he gazed at it until he came to love it, for
it was so frail and weak. When I saw you sitting there, so little and so
frail, within the great stone house, methought it was but reason that
God should love such as you. Fair and pure you were, and, yet did you
need a helper and a protector. Methought I saw the whole church, with
you in it, lying in the hollow of God’s hand.”

Kristin said low:

“We have bound ourselves one to the other with the dearest oaths—and I
have heard that in the eyes of God such a pact hallows our coming
together as much as if our fathers and mothers had given us one to the
other.”

The monk answered sadly:

“I see well, Kristin, someone who knew it not to the full has spoken to
you of the canonical law. You could not bind yourself by oath to this
man without sinning against your father and mother; them had God set
over you before you met him. And is it not sorrow and a shame for his
kin too, if they learn that he has lured astray the daughter of a man
who has borne his shield with honour at all seasons—betrothed, too, to
another? I hear by your words, you deem you have not sinned so
greatly—yet dare you not confess this thing to your appointed priest.
And if so be you think you are as good as wed to this man, wherefore set
you not on your head the linen coif of wedlock, but go still with
flowing hair amidst the young maids with whom you can have no great
fellowship any more—for now must the chief of your thoughts be with
other things than they have in mind?”

“I know not what they have in their minds,” said Kristin, wearily. “True
it is that all my thoughts are with the man I long for. Were it not for
my father and mother, I would full gladly bind up my hair this
day—little would I care if I were called wanton, if only I might be
called his.”

“Know you if this man means so to deal toward you, that you may be
called his with honour some day,” asked Brother Edwin.

Then Kristin told of all that had passed between Erlend Nikulaussön and
herself. And while she spoke she seemed not even to call to mind that
she had ever doubted the outcome of it all.

“See you not, Brother Edwin,” she began again, “we could not help
ourselves. God help me, if I were to meet him without here, when I go
from you, and should he pray me to go with him, I would go—I wot well,
too, I have seen now there be other folk who have sinned as well as
we—When I was a girl at home ’twas past my understanding how aught could
win such power over the souls of men that they could forget the fear of
sin; but so much have I learnt now: if the wrongs men do through lust
and anger cannot be atoned for, then must heaven be an empty place—They
tell of you, even, that you, too, once struck a man in wrath—”

“’Tis true,” said the monk, “God’s mercy alone have I to thank that I am
not called manslayer. ’Tis many years agone—I was a young man then, and
methought I could not endure the wrong the Bishop would have put upon us
poor friars. King Haakon—he was Duke then—had given us the ground for
our house, but we were so poor we had to work upon our church
ourselves—with some few workmen who gave their help more for Heavenly
reward than for what we could pay them. Maybe ’twas sinful pride in us
beggar monks to wish to build our church so fair and goodly—but we were
happy as children in the fields, and sang songs of praise while we hewed
and built and toiled. Brother Ranulv—God rest his soul—was
masterbuilder—he was a right skilful stonecutter; nay, I trow the man
had been granted skill in all knowledge and all arts by God himself. I
was a carver of stone panels in those days; I had but just finished one
of St. Clara, whom the angels were bearing to the church of St. Francis
in the dawn of Christmas day—a most fair panel it had proved, and all of
us joyed in it greatly—then the hellish miscreants tore down the walls,
and a stone fell and crushed my panels—I struck at a man with my hammer,
I could not contain me—

“Aye, now you smile, my Kristin. But see you not, that ’tis not well
with you now, since you would rather hear such tales of other folks’
frailties than of the life and deeds of good men, who might serve you as
a pattern—?

“’Tis no easy matter to give you counsel,” he said, when it was time for
her to go. “For were you to do what were most right, you would bring
sorrow to your father and mother and shame to all your kin. But you must
see to it that you free yourself from the troth you plighted to Simon
Andressön—and then must you wait in patience for the lot God may send
you, make in your heart what amends you can—and let not this Erlend
tempt you to sin again, but pray him lovingly to seek atonement with
your kin and with God—

“From your sin I cannot free you,” said Brother Edwin, as they parted,
“but pray for you, I will with all my might....”

He laid his thin, old hands upon her head and prayed, in farewell, that
God might bless her and give her peace.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   6

AFTERWARDS, there was much in what Brother Edwin had said to her that
Kristin could not call to mind. But she left him with a mind strangely
clear and peaceful.

Hitherto she had striven with a dull, secret fear and tried to brave it
out; telling herself she had not sinned so deeply. Now she felt Edwin
had shown her plainly and clearly, that she had sinned indeed; such and
such was her sin, and she must take it upon her and try to bear it
meekly and well. She strove to think of Erlend without impatience—either
because he did not send word of himself or because she must want his
caresses. She would only be faithful and full of love for him.

She thought of her father and mother, and vowed to herself that she
would requite them for all their love, once they had got over the sorrow
she must bring upon them by breaking with the Dyfrin folk. And wellnigh
most of all, she thought of Brother Edwin’s words of how she must not
seek comfort in looking on others’ faults; she felt she grew humble and
kind, and now she saw at once how easy it was for her to win folks’
friendship. Then was she comforted by the thought that after all ’twas
not so hard to come to a good understanding with people—and so it seemed
to her it surely could not be so hard for her and Erlend either.

Until the day she gave her word to Erlend, she had always striven
earnestly to do what was right and good—but she had done all at the
bidding of others. Now she felt she had grown from maid to woman. ’Twas
not only by reason of the fervent secret caresses she had taken and
given, not only that she had passed from her father’s ward and was now
under Erlend’s will. For Edwin had laid upon her the burden of answering
for her own life, aye and for Erlend’s too. And she was willing to bear
it well and bravely. Thus she went about among the nuns at Yule-tide;
and, throughout the goodly rites and the joy and peace of the holy time,
though she felt herself unworthy, yet she took comfort in thinking that
the time would soon come when she could set herself right again.

                  *       *       *       *       *

But the second day of the new year, Sir Andres Darre with his wife and
all five children came, all unlooked for, to the convent. They were come
to keep the last days of Yule-tide with their friends and kindred in the
town, and they asked that Kristin might have leave to be with them in
their lodging for a short space.

“For methought, my daughter,” said Lady Angerd, “you would scarce be
loth to see a few new faces for a time.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Dyfrin folk dwelt in a goodly house that stood in a dwelling place
near the bishop’s palace—Sir Andres’ cousin owned it. There was a great
hall where the serving-folk slept, and a fine loft-room with a fireplace
of masonry and three good beds; in the one Sir Andres and Lady Angerd
slept with their youngest son, Gudmund, who was yet a child; in another
slept Kristin and their two daughters, Astrid and Sigrid, and in the
third Simon and his eldest brother Gyrd Andressön.

All Sir Andres’ children were comely; Simon the least so, yet he too was
reckoned to be well-favoured. And Kristin marked still more than when
she was at Dyfrin the year before, that both his father and mother and
his four brothers and sisters hearkened most to Simon and did all he
would have them. They all loved each other dearly, but all agreed,
without grudging or envy, in setting Simon foremost amongst them.

Here these good folk lived a merry, carefree life. They visited the
churches and made their offerings every day, came together with their
friends and drank in their company each evening, while the young folk
had full leave to play and dance. All showed Kristin the greatest
kindness, and none seemed to mark how little glad she was.

Of an evening, when the light had been put out in the loft-room, and all
had sought their beds, Simon was wont to get up and go to where the
maidens lay. He would sit a while on the edge of the bed; his talk was
mostly to his sisters, but in the dark he would let his hand rest on
Kristin’s bosom—while she lay there hot with wrath.

Now that her sense of such things was keener, she understood well that
there were many things Simon was both too proud and too shy to say to
her, since he saw she had no mind to such talk from him. And she felt
strangely bitter and angry with him, for it seemed to her as though he
would fain be a better man than he who had made her his own—even though
Simon knew not there was such a one.

But one night when they had been dancing at another house, Astrid and
Sigrid were left behind there to sleep with a playmate. When, late at
night, the Dyfrin folk had gone to rest in their loft-room, Simon came
to Kristin’s bed and climbed up into it; he laid himself down above the
fur cover.

Kristin pulled the coverlid up to her chin and crossed her arms firmly
upon her breast. In a little Simon tried to put his hand upon her bosom.
She felt the silken broidery on his wristband, and knew he had not taken
off any of his clothes.

“You are just as bashful in the dark as in the light, Kristin,” said
Simon, laughing a little. “Surely you can at least let me have one hand
to hold,” he said, and Kristin gave him the tips of her fingers.

“Think you not we should have somewhat to talk of, when it so falls out
that we can be alone a little while?” said he; and Kristin thought, now
was the time for her to speak. So she answered: yes. But after that she
could not utter a word.

“May I come under the fur,” he begged again. “’Tis cold in the room
now—” And he slipped in between the fur coverlid and the woollen blanket
she had next her. He bent one arm round the bed head, but so that he did
not touch her. Thus they lay a while.

“You are not over-easy to woo, i’ faith,” said Simon soon after, with a
resigned laugh. “Now I pledge you my word, I will not so much as kiss
you, if you would not I should. But surely you can speak to me at
least?”

Kristin wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, but still she was
silent.

“Nay, if you are not lying there trembling!” went on Simon. “Surely it
cannot be that you have aught against me, Kristin?”

She felt she could not lie to Simon, so she said “No,”—but nothing more.

Simon lay a while longer; he tried to get her into talk with him. But at
last he laughed again and said:

“I see well you think I should be content with hearing that you have
naught against me—for to-night—and be glad to boot. ’Tis a parlous
thing, so proud as you are—yet one kiss must you give me; then will I go
my way and not plague you any more—”

He took the kiss, then sat up and put his feet to the floor. Kristin
thought, now must she say to him what she had to say—but he was away
already by his own bed, and she heard him undress.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The day after Lady Angerd was not so friendly to Kristin as was her
wont. The girl saw that the Lady must have heard somewhat the night
before, and that she deemed her son’s betrothed had not borne her toward
him as she held was fitting.

Late that afternoon Simon spoke of a friend’s horse he was minded to
take in barter for one of his own. He asked Kristin if she would go with
him to look at it. She was nothing loth; and they went out into the town
together.

The weather was fresh and fair. It had snowed a little overnight, but
now the sun was shining, and it was freezing so that the snow crackled
under their feet. Kristin felt ’twas good to be out and walk in the cold
air, and when Simon brought out the horse to show her, she talked of it
with him gaily enough; she knew something of horses, she had been so
much with her father. And this was a comely beast—a mouse-grey stallion
with a black stripe down the back and a clipped mane, well-shapen and
lively, but something small and slightly built.

“He would scarce hold out under a full-armed man for long,” said
Kristin.

“Indeed, no; nor did I mean him for such a rider,” said Simon.

He led the horse out into the home field behind the house, made it trot
and walk, mounted to try its paces and would have Kristin ride it too.
Thus they stayed together a good while out on the snowy field.

At last, as Kristin stood giving the horse bread out of her hand, while
Simon leant with his arm over its back, he said all at once:

“Methinks, Kristin, you and my mother are none too loving one with
another.”

“I have not meant to be unloving to your mother,” said she, “but I find
not much to say to Lady Angerd.”

“Nor seems it you find much to say to me either,” said Simon. “I would
not force myself upon you, Kristin, before the time comes—but things
cannot go on as now, when I can never come to speech with you.”

“I have never been one for much speaking”; said Kristin, “I know it
myself; and I look not you should think it so great a loss, if what is
betwixt us two should come to naught.”

“You know well, what my thoughts are in that matter,” said Simon,
looking at her.

Kristin flushed red as blood. And it gave her a pang that she could not
mislike the fashion of Simon Darre’s wooing. After a while he said:

“Is it Arne Gyrdsön, Kristin, you feel you cannot forget?” Kristin but
gazed at him; Simon went on, and his voice was gentle and kind: “Never
would I blame you for that—you had grown up like brother and sister, and
scarce a year is gone by. But be well assured, for your comfort, that I
have your good at heart—”

Kristin’s face had grown deathly white. Neither of them spoke again as
they went back through the town in the twilight. At the end of the
street, in the blue-green sky, rode the new moon’s sickle with a bright
star within its horn.

A year, thought Kristin; and she could not think when she had last given
a thought to Arne. She grew afraid—maybe she was a wanton, wicked
woman—but one year since she had seen him on his bier in the wake room,
and had thought she should never be glad again in this life—she moaned
within herself for terror of her own heart’s inconstancy and of the
fleeting changefulness of all things. Erlend, Erlend—could he forget
her—and yet it seemed to her ’twould be worse, if at any time she should
forget him.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Sir Andres went with his children to the great Yule-tide feast at the
King’s palace. Kristin saw all the pomp and show of the festival—they
came, too, into the hall where sat King Haakon and the Lady Isabel
Bruce, King Eirik’s widow. Sir Andres went forward and did homage to the
King, while his children and Kristin stood somewhat behind. She thought
of all Lady Aashild had told her; she called to mind that the King was
near of kin to Erlend, their fathers’ mothers were sisters—and she was
Erlend’s light o’ love, she had no right to stand here, least of all
amid these good and worthy folk, Sir Andres’ children.

Then all at once she saw Erlend Nikulaussön—he had stepped forward in
front of Queen Isabel, and stood with bowed head and with his hand upon
his breast, while she spoke a few words to him; he had on the brown silk
clothes that he had worn at the guild feast. Kristin stepped behind Sir
Andres’ daughters.

When, some time after, Lady Angerd led her daughters up before the
Queen, Kristin could not see him anywhere, but indeed she dared not lift
her eyes from the floor. She wondered whether he was standing somewhere
in the hall, she thought she could feel his eyes upon her—but she
thought, too, that all folks looked at her as though they must know she
was a liar, standing there with the golden garland on her outspread
hair.

                  *       *       *       *       *

He was not in the hall where the young folk were feasted and where they
danced when the tables had been taken away; this evening it was Simon
with whom Kristin must dance.

Along one of the longer walls stood a fixed table, and thither the
King’s men bore ale and mead and wine the whole night long. Once when
Simon drew her thither and drank to her, she saw Erlend standing near,
behind Simon’s back. He looked at her, and Kristin’s hand shook when she
took the beaker from Simon’s hand and set it to her lips. Erlend
whispered vehemently to the man who was with him—a tall comely man, well
on in years and somewhat stout, who shook his head impatiently and
looked as he were vexed. Soon after Simon led her back to the dance.

She knew not how long this dancing lasted—the music seemed as though
’twould never end, and each moment was long and evil to her with longing
and unrest. At last it was over, and Simon drew her to the drinking
board again.

A friend came forward to speak to him, and led him away a few steps, to
a group of young men. And Erlend stood before her.

“I have so much I would fain say to you,” he whispered, “I know not what
to say first—in Jesus’ name, Kristin, what ails you?” he asked quickly,
for he saw her face grow white as chalk.

She could not see him clearly; it seemed as though there were running
water between their two faces. He took a goblet from the table, drank
from it and handed it to her. Kristin felt as though ’twas all too heavy
for her, or as though her arm had been cut off at the shoulder; do as
she would, she could not lift the cup to her mouth.

“Is it so, then, that you will drink with your betrothed, but not with
me?” asked Erlend softly—but Kristin dropped the goblet from her hand
and sank forward into his arms.

When she awoke she was lying on a bench with her head in a strange
maiden’s lap—someone was standing by her side, striking the palms of her
hands, and she had water on her face.

She sat up. Somewhere in the ring about her she saw Erlend’s face, white
and drawn. Her own body felt weak, as though all her bones had melted
away, and her head seemed as it were large and hollow—but somewhere
within it shone one clear, desperate thought—she must speak with Erlend.

She said to Simon Darre—he stood near by:

“’Twas too hot for me, I trow,—so many tapers are burning here—and I am
little used to drink so much wine—”

“Are you well again now,” asked Simon. “You frightened folks—Mayhap you
would have me take you home now?”

“We must wait, surely, till your father and mother go,” said Kristin
calmly. “But sit down here—I can dance no more.” She touched the cushion
at her side—then she held out her other hand to Erlend:

“Sit you here, Erlend Nikulaussön; I had no time to speak my greetings
to an end. ’Twas but of late Ingebjörg said she deemed you had clean
forgotten her.”

She saw it was far harder for him to keep calm than for her—and it was
all she could do to keep back the little tender smile, which would
gather round her lips.

“You must bear the maid my thanks for thinking of me still,” he
stammered. “Almost I was afraid she had forgotten me.”

Kristin paused a little. She knew not what she should say, which might
seem to come from the flighty Ingebjörg and yet might tell Erlend her
meaning. Then there welled up in her the bitterness of all these months
of helpless waiting, and she said:

“Dear Erlend, can you think that we maidens could forget the man who
defended our honour so gallantly.”

She saw his face change as though she had struck him—and at once she was
sorry; then Simon asked what this was they spoke of. Kristin told him of
Ingebjörg’s and her adventure in the Eikaberg woods. She marked that
Simon liked the tale but little. Then she begged him to go and ask of
Lady Angerd, whether they should not soon go home; ’twas true that she
was weary. When he was gone, she looked at Erlend.

“’Tis strange,” said he in a low voice, “you are so quick-witted—I had
scarce believed it of you.”

“Think you not I have had to learn to hide and be secret?” said she
gloomily.

Erlend’s breath came heavily; he was still very pale.

“’Tis so then?” he whispered. “Yet did you promise me to turn to my
friends if this should come to pass. God knows, I have thought of you
each day, in dread that the worst might have befallen—”

“I know well what you mean by the worst,” said Kristin shortly. “_That_
you have no need to fear. To me what seemed the worst was that you would
not send me one word of greeting—can you not understand that I am living
there amongst the nuns—like a stranger bird—?” She stopped—for she felt
that the tears were coming.

“Is it therefore you are with the Dyfrin folk now?” he asked. Then such
grief came upon her that she could make no answer.

She saw Lady Angerd and Simon come through the doorway. Erlend’s hand
lay upon his knee, near her, and she could not take it—

“I must have speech with you,” said he eagerly, “we have not said a word
to one another we should have said—”

“Come to mass in the Maria Church at Epiphany,” said Kristin quickly, as
she rose and went to meet the others.

Lady Angerd showed herself most loving and careful of Kristin on the way
home, and herself helped her to bed. With Simon she had no talk until
the day after.

Then he said:

“How comes it that you bear messages betwixt this Erlend and Ingebjörg
Filippusdatter? ’Tis not fit that you should meddle in the matter, if
there be hidden dealings between them.”

“Most like there is naught in it,” said Kristin. “She is but a
chatterer.”

“Methinks too,” said Simon, “you should have taken warning by what’s
past and not trusted yourself out in the wild-wood paths alone with that
magpie.” But Kristin reminded him hotly that it was not their fault they
had strayed and lost themselves. Simon said no more.

The next day the Dyfrin folks took her back to the convent, before they
themselves left for home.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Erlend came to evensong in the convent church every evening for a week
without Kristin getting a chance to change a word with him. She felt as
she thought a hawk must feel sitting chained to its perch with its hood
over its eyes. Every word that had passed between them at their last
meeting made her unhappy too—it should never have been like that. It was
of no use to say to herself: it had come upon them so suddenly, they had
hardly known what they said.

But one afternoon in the twilight there came to the parlour a comely
woman, who looked like a townsman’s wife. She asked for Kristin
Lavransdatter, and said she was the wife of a mercer and her husband had
come from Denmark of late with some fine cloaks; Aasmund Björgulfsön had
a mind to give one to his brother’s daughter, and the maid was to go
with her and choose for herself.

Kristin was given leave to go with the woman. She thought it was unlike
her uncle to wish to give her a costly gift, and strange that he should
send an unknown woman to fetch her. The woman was sparing of her words
at first, and said little in answer to Kristin’s questions, but when
they were come down to the town, she said of a sudden:

“I will not play you false, fair child that you are—I will tell you all
this thing as it is, and you must do as you deem best. ’Twas not your
uncle who sent me, but a man—maybe you can guess his name, and if you
cannot, then you shall not come with me. I have no husband—I make a
living for myself and mine by keeping a house of call and selling beer;
for such a one it boots not to be too much afraid either of sin or of
the watchmen—but I will not lend my house for you to be betrayed inside
my doors.”

Kristin stood still, flushing red. She was strangely sore and ashamed
for Erlend’s sake. The woman said:

“I will go back with you to the convent, Kristin—but you must give me
somewhat for my trouble—the knight promised me a great reward—but I too
was fair once, and I too was betrayed. And ’twould not be amiss if you
should name me in your prayers to-night—they call me Brynhild Fluga.”

Kristin drew a ring off her finger and gave it to the woman:

“’Tis fairly done of you, Brynhild—but if the man be my kinsman Erlend
Nikulaussön, then have I naught to fear; he would have me to make peace
betwixt him and my uncle. You may set your mind at ease—but I thank you
none the less that you would have warned me.”

Brynhild Fluga turned away to hide a smile.

She led Kristin by the alleys behind St. Clement’s Church northward
towards the river. Here a few small dwelling-places stood by themselves
along the river-bank. They went towards one of them along a path between
fences, and here Erlend came to meet them. He looked about him, on all
sides, then took off his cloak, wrapped it about Kristin and pulled the
hood over her face.

“What think you of this device,” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you
’tis a great wrong I do?—yet needs must I speak with you.”

“It boots but little now, I trow, to think what is right and what is
wrong,” said Kristin.

“Speak not so,” begged Erlend. “I bear the blame—Kristin, every day and
every night have I longed for you,” he whispered close to her.

A shudder passed through her as she met his eyes for a moment. She felt
it as guilt in her, when he looked so at her, that she had thought of
anything but her love for him.

Brynhild Fluga had gone on before. Erlend asked, when they were come
into the courtyard:

“Would you that we should go into the living-room, or shall we talk up
in the loft-room?”

“As you will,” answered Kristin; and they mounted to the loft-room.

The moment he had barred the door behind them she was in his arms—

                  *       *       *       *       *

She knew not how long she had lain folded thus in his arms, when Erlend
said:

“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin—I scarce dare let you
stay here longer.”

“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” she
whispered.

Erlend pressed his cheek to hers:

“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall
not lose your good name for my sake.”

Kristin did not answer—but a soreness stirred within her; how could he
speak thus—he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house—she knew
not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all
should go as it had gone, of that she was sure.

“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other
way, I must bear you off by force—into Sweden—Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me
kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer
for my sins—I have fled the land before, as you know—and I would not
they should name you as the like of that other.”

“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to
be parted from you, and to live on among the maids at the convent. Both
your kin and mine would surely hearken to reason and let us come
together and be reconciled with them—”

Erlend clasped her to him and groaned:

“I cannot bring you to Husaby, Kristin.”

“Why can you not?” she asked softly.

“Eline came thither in the autumn,” said he after a moment. “I cannot
move her to leave the place,” he went on hotly, “not unless I bear her
to the sledge by force and drive away with her. And that methought I
could not do—she has brought both our children home with her—”

Kristin felt herself sinking, sinking. In a voice breaking with fear,
she said:

“I deemed you were parted from her—”

“So deemed I too,” answered Erlend shortly. “But she must have heard in
Österdal, where she was, that I had thoughts of marriage. You saw the
man with me at the Yule-tide feast—’twas my foster-father, Baard
Petersön of Hestnæs. I went to him when I came from Sweden, I went to my
kinsman Heming Alvsön in Saltviken, too; I talked with both about my
wish to wed, and begged their help. Eline must have come to hear of it—

“I bade her ask what she would for herself and the children—but Sigurd,
her husband—they look not that he should live the winter out—and then
none could deny us if we would live together—

“—I lay in the stable with Haftor and Ulv, and Eline lay in the hall in
my bed. I trow my men had a rare jest to laugh at behind my back—”

Kristin could not say a word. A little after, Erlend spoke again:

“See you, the day we pledge each other at our espousals, she must
understand that all is over between her and me—she has no power over me
any more—

“But ’tis hard for the children. I had not seen them for a year—they are
fair children—and little can I do to give them a happy lot. ’Twould not
have helped them greatly had I been able to wed their mother.”

Tears began to roll down over Kristin’s cheeks. Then Erlend said:

“Heard you what I said but now, that I had talked with my kinsfolk? Aye,
they were glad enough that I was minded to wed. Then I said ’twas you I
would have and none other—”

“And they liked not that?” asked Kristin at length, forlornly.

“See you not?” said Erlend gloomily, “they could say but one thing—they
cannot and they will not ride with me to your father, until this bargain
twixt you and Simon Andressön is undone again. It has made it none the
easier for us, Kristin, that you have spent your Yule-tide with the
Dyfrin folk.”

Kristin gave way altogether and wept noiselessly. She had felt ever that
there was something of wrong and dishonour in her love, and now she knew
the fault was hers.

She shook with the cold when she got up soon after, and Erlend wrapped
her in both the cloaks. It was quite dark now without, and Erlend went
with her as far as St. Clement’s Church; then Brynhild brought her the
rest of the way to Nonneseter.


                                   7

A week later Brynhild Fluga came with the word that the cloak was ready,
and Kristin went with her and met Erlend in the loft-room as before.

When they parted, he gave her a cloak: “So that you may have something
to show in the convent,” said he. It was of blue velvet with red silk
inwoven, and Erlend bade her mark that ’twas of the same hues as the
dress she had worn that day in the woods. Kristin wondered it should
make her so glad that he said this—she thought he had never given her
greater happiness than when he had said these words.

But now they could no longer make use of this way of meeting, and it was
not easy to find a new one. But Erlend came often to the vespers at the
convent church, and sometimes Kristin would make herself an errand after
the service up to the commoners’ houses; and then they would snatch a
few words together by stealth up by the fences in the murk of the winter
evening.

Then Kristin thought of asking leave of Sister Potentia to visit some
old, crippled women, alms-folk of the convent, who dwelt in a cottage
standing in one of the fields. Behind the cottage was an outhouse where
the women kept a cow; Kristin offered to tend it for them; and while she
was there Erlend would join her and she would let him in.

She wondered a little to mark that, glad as Erlend was to be with her,
it seemed to rankle in his mind that she could devise such a plan.

“’Twas no good day for you when you came to know me,” said he one
evening. “Now have you learnt to follow the ways of deceit.”

“_You_ ought not to blame me,” answered Kristin sadly.

“’Tis not you I blame,” said Erlend quickly with a shamed look.

“I had not thought myself,” went on Kristin, “that ’twould come so easy
to me to lie. But one _can_ do what one _must_ do.”

“Nay, ’tis not so at all times,” said Erlend as before. “Mind you not
last winter, when you could not bring yourself to tell your betrothed
that you would not have him?”

To this Kristin answered naught, but only stroked his face.

She never felt so strongly how dear Erlend was to her, as when he said
things like this that made her grieve or wonder. She was glad when she
could take upon herself the blame for all that was shameful and wrong in
their love. Had she found courage to speak to Simon as she should have
done, they might have been a long way now on the road to have all put in
order. Erlend had done all he could when he had spoken of their wedding
to his kinsmen. She said this to herself when the days in the convent
grew long and evil—Erlend had wished to make all things right and good
again. With little tender smiles she thought of him as he drew a picture
of their wedding for her,—she should ride to church in silks and velvet,
she should be led to the bridal bed with the high golden crown on her
flowing hair—“your lovely, lovely hair,” he said, drawing her plaits
through his hand.

“Yet can it not be the same to you as though I had never been yours,”
said Kristin musingly, once when he talked thus.

Then he clasped her to him wildly:

“Can I call to mind the first time I drank in Yule-tide think you, or
the first time I saw the hills at home turn green when winter was gone?
Aye, well do I mind the first time you were mine, and each time
since—but to have you for my own is like keeping Yule and hunting birds
on green hillsides for ever—”

Happily she nestled to him. Not that she ever thought for a moment it
would turn out as Erlend was so sure it would—Kristin felt that before
long a day of judgment must come upon them. It could not be that things
should go well for them in the end.... But she was not so much
afraid—she was much more afraid Erlend might have to go northward before
it all came to light, and she be left behind, parted from him. He was
over at the castle at Akersnes now; Munan Baardsön was posted there
while the bodyguard was at Tunsberg, where the King lay grievously sick.
But sometime Erlend must go home and see to his possessions. That she
was afraid of his going home to Husaby because Eline sat there awaiting
for him, she would not own even to herself; and neither would she own
that she was less afraid to be taken in sin along with Erlend than of
standing forth alone and telling Simon and her father what was in her
heart.

Almost she could have wished for punishment to come upon her, and that
soon. For now she had no other thought than of Erlend; she longed for
him in the day and dreamed of him at night; she could not feel remorse,
but she took comfort in thinking the day would come when she would have
to pay dear for all they had snatched by stealth. And in the short
evening hours she could be with Erlend in the almswomen’s cow-shed, she
threw herself into his arms with as much passion as if she knew she had
paid with her soul already that she might be his.

                  *       *       *       *       *

But time went on, and it seemed as though Erlend might have the good
fortune he had counted on. Kristin never marked that any in the convent
mistrusted her. Ingebjörg, indeed, had found out that she met Erlend,
but Kristin saw the other never dreamed ’twas aught else than a little
passing sport. That a maid of good kindred, promised in marriage, should
dare wish to break the bargain her kinsfolk had made, such a thought
would never come to Ingebjörg, Kristin saw. And once more a pang of
terror shot through her—it might be ’twas a quite unheard of thing, this
she had taken in hand. And at this thought she wished again that
discovery might come, and all be at an end.

Easter came. Kristin knew not how the winter had gone; every day she had
not seen Erlend had been long as an evil year, and the long evil days
had linked themselves together into weeks without end—but now it was
spring and Easter was come, she felt ’twas no time since the Yule-tide
feast. She begged Erlend not to seek her till the Holy Week was gone by;
and he yielded to her in this, as he did to all her wishes, thought
Kristin. It was as much her own blame as his that they had sinned
together in not keeping the Lenten fast. But Easter she resolved they
should keep. Yet it was misery not to see him. Maybe he would have to go
soon—he had said naught of it, but she knew that now the King lay dying,
and mayhap this might bring some turn in Erlend’s fortunes, she thought.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Thus things stood with her, when one of the first days after Easter word
was brought her to go down to the parlour to her betrothed.

As soon as he came toward her and held out his hand, she felt there was
somewhat amiss—his face was not as it was wont to be; his small, grey
eyes did not laugh, they did not smile when he smiled. And Kristin could
not help seeing it became him well to be a little less merry. He looked
well, too, in a kind of travelling dress—a long blue, close-fitting
outer garment men called _kothardi_, and a brown shoulder-cape with a
hood, which was thrown back now; the cold air had given his light-brown
hair a yet stronger curl.

They sat and talked for a while. Simon had been at Formo through Lent,
and had gone over to Jörundgaard almost daily. They were well there;
Ulvhild as well as they dared look that she should be; Ramborg was at
home now, she was a fair child and lively.

“’Twill be over one of these days—the year you were to be here at
Nonneseter,” said Simon. “By this the folks at your home will have begun
to make ready for our betrothal feast—yours and mine.”

Kristin said naught, and Simon went on:

“I said to Lavrans, I would ride hither to Oslo and speak to you of
this.”

Kristin looked down and said low:

“I, too, would fain speak with you of that matter, Simon—alone.”

“I saw well myself that we must speak of it alone,” answered Simon, “and
I was about to ask even now that you would pray Lady Groa to let us go
together into the garden for a little.”

Kristin rose quickly and slipped from the room without a sound. Soon
after she came back followed by one of the nuns with a key.

There was a door leading from the parlour out into an herb-garden that
lay behind the most westerly of the convent buildings. The nun unlocked
the door and they stepped out into a mist so thick they could see but a
few paces in among the trees. The nearest stems were coal-black; the
moisture stood in beads on every twig and bough. A little fresh snow lay
melting upon the wet mould, but under the bushes some white and yellow
lily plants were blooming already, and a fresh, cool smell rose from the
violet leaves.

Simon led her to the nearest bench. He sat a little bent forward with
his elbows resting upon his knees. Then he looked up at her with a
strange little smile:

“Almost I think I know what you would say to me,” said he. “There is
another man, who is more to you than I—”

“It is so,” answered Kristin faintly.

“Methinks I know his name too,” said Simon, in a harder tone. “It is
Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby?”

After a while Kristin asked in a low voice:

“It has come to your ears then?”

Simon was a little slow in answering.

“You can scarce think I could be so dull as not to see somewhat when we
were together at Yule? I could say naught then, for my father and mother
were with us. But this it is that has brought me hither alone this time.
I know not whether it be wise of me to touch upon it—but methought we
must talk of these things before we are given to one another.

“But so it is now, that when I came hither yesterday—I met my kinsman
Master Öistein. And he spoke of you. He said you two had passed across
the churchyard of St. Clement’s one evening, and with you was a woman
they call Brynhild Fluga. I swore a great oath that he must have seen
amiss! And if you say it is untrue, I shall believe your word.”

“The priest saw aright,” answered Kristin defiantly. “You foreswore
yourself, Simon.”

He sat a little ere he asked:

“Know you who this Brynhild Fluga is, Kristin?” As she shook her head,
he said: “Munan Baardsön set her up in a house here in the town, when he
wedded—she carries on unlawful dealings in wine—and other things—”

“You know her?” asked Kristin mockingly.

“I was never meant to be a monk or a priest,” said Simon reddening. “But
I can say at least that I have wronged no maid and no man’s wedded wife.
See you not yourself that ’tis no honourable man’s deed to bring you out
to go about at night in such company—”

“Erlend did not draw me on,” said Kristin, red with anger, “nor has he
promised me aught. I set my heart on him without his doing aught to
tempt me—from the first time I saw him, he was dearer to me than all
other men.”

Simon sat playing with his dagger, throwing it from one hand to the
other.

“These are strange words to hear from a man’s betrothed maiden,” said
he. “Things promise well for us two now, Kristin.”

Kristin drew a deep breath:

“You would be ill served should you take me for your wife now, Simon.”

“Aye, God Almighty knows that so it seems indeed,” said Simon Andressön.

“Then I dare hope,” said Kristin meekly and timidly, “that you will
uphold me, so that Sir Andres and my father may let this bargain about
us be undone?”

“Do you so?” said Simon. He was silent for a little. “God knows whether
you rightly understand what you say.”

“That do I,” said Kristin. “I know the law is such that none may force a
maid to marriage against her will; else can she take her plea before the
Thing—”

“I trow ’tis before the bishop,” said Simon, with something of a grim
smile. “True it is, I have had no cause to search out how the law stands
in such things. And I wot well you believe not either that ’twill come
to that pass. You know well enough that I will not hold you to your
word, if your heart is too much set against it. But can you not
understand—’tis two years now since our marriage was agreed, and you
have said no word against it till now, when all is ready for the
betrothal and the wedding. Have you thought what it will mean, if you
come forth now an seek to break the bond, Kristin?”

“But you want me not either,” said Kristin.

“Aye, but I do,” answered Simon curtly. “If you think otherwise, you
must even think better of it—”

“Erlend Nikulaussön and I have vowed to each other by our Christian
faith,” said she, trembling, “that if we cannot come together in
wedlock, then neither of us will have wife or husband all our days—”

Simon was silent a good while. Then he said with effort:

“Then I know not, Kristin, what you meant when you said Erlend had
neither drawn you on nor promised you aught—he has lured you to set
yourself against the counsel of all your kin.—Have you thought what kind
of husband you will get, if you wed a man who took another’s wife to be
his paramour—and now would take for wife another man’s betrothed
maiden—?”

Kristin gulped down her tears; she whispered thickly:

“This you say but to hurt me.”

“Think you I would wish to hurt you?” asked Simon in a low voice.

“’Tis not as it would have been, had you—” said Kristin falteringly.
“You were not asked either, Simon—’twas your father and my father who
made the pact. It had been otherwise had you chosen me yourself—”

Simon stuck his dagger into the bench so that it stood upright. A little
after he drew it out again, and tried to slip it back into its sheath,
but it would not go down, the point was bent. Then he sat passing it
from hand to hand as before.

“You know yourself,” said he in a low tone, and with a shaking voice,
“you know that you lie, if you would have it that I did not—You know
well enough, what I would have spoken of with you—many times—when you
met me so that I had not been a man, had I been able to say it—after
that—not if they had tried to drag it out of me with redhot pincers....

“—First I thought ’twas yonder dead lad. I thought I must leave you in
peace awhile—you knew me not—I deemed ’twould have been a wrong to
trouble you so soon after. Now I see you did not need so long a time to
forget—now—now—now—”

“No,” said Kristin quietly. “I know it, Simon. Now I cannot look that
you should be my friend any longer.”

“_Friend—!_” Simon gave a short, strange laugh. “Do you need my
friendship now, then?”

Kristin grew red.

“You are a man,” said she softly. “And old enough now—you can choose
yourself whom you will wed—”

Simon looked at her sharply. Then he laughed as before:

“I understand. You would have me say ’tis I who—I am to take the blame
for the breaking of our bond?

“If so be that your mind is fixed—if you have the will and the boldness
to try to carry through your purpose—then I will do it,” he said low.
“At home with all my own folks and before all your kin—save one. To your
father you must tell the truth, even as it is. If you would have it so,
I will bear your message to him, and spare you, in giving it, in so far
as I can—but Lavrans Björgulfsön shall know that never, with my will,
would I go back from one word that I have spoken to him.”

Kristin clutched the edge of the bench with both hands: this was harder
for her to bear than all else that Simon Darre had said. Pale and
fearful, she stole a glance at him.

Simon rose:

“Now must we go in,” said he. “Methinks we are nigh frozen, both of us,
and the sister is sitting waiting with the key.—I will give you a week
to think upon the matter—I have business in the town here. I shall come
hither and speak with you when I am ready to go, but you will scarce
care to see aught of me meanwhile.”


                                   8

Kristin said to herself: now that at least is over. But she felt broken
with weariness and sick for Erlend’s arms.

She lay awake most of the night, and she resolved to do what she never
dared think of before—send word to Erlend. It was not easy to find
anyone who could go such an errand for her. The lay-sisters never went
out alone, nor did she know of any of them she thought would be willing;
the men who did the farm work were elder folk and but seldom came near
the dwellings of the nuns save to speak with the Abbess herself. There
was only Olav—He was a half-grown lad, who worked in the gardens; he had
been Lady Groa’s foster-son from the time when he was found, a new-born
babe, upon the church steps one morning. Folk said one of the
lay-sisters was his mother; she was to have been a nun; but after she
had been kept in the dark cell for six months—for grave disobedience, as
’twas said—and it was about that time the child was found—she had been
given the lay-sisters’ habit and had worked in the farmyard ever since.
Kristin had often thought of Sister Ingrid’s fate throughout these
months, but she had had few chances to speak with her. It was
venturesome to trust to Olav—he was but a child, and Lady Groa and all
the nuns were wont to chat and jest with him, when they saw the boy. But
Kristin deemed it mattered little what risks she took now. And a day or
two later, when Olav was for the town one morning Kristin sent word by
him to Akersnes, that Erlend must find some way whereby they might meet
alone.

That same afternoon Erlend’s own man, Ulv, came to the grille. He said
he was Aasmund Björgulfsön’s man, and was to pray, on his master’s
behalf, that his brother’s daughter might go down to the town for a
little, for Aasmund had not time to come to Nonneseter. Kristin thought
this device must surely fail—but when Sister Potentia asked if she knew
the bearer of the message, she said: “Yes.” So she went with Ulv to
Brynhild Fluga’s house.

Erlend awaited her in the loft-room—he was uneasy and anxious, and she
knew at once, ’twas that he was afraid again of what he seemed to fear
the most.

Always it cut her to the soul he should feel such a haunting dread that
she might be with child—when yet they could not keep apart. Harassed as
she was this evening, she said this to him—hotly enough. Erlend’s face
flushed darkly, and he laid his head down upon her shoulder:

“You are right,” said he. “I must try to let you be, Kristin,—not to put
your happiness in such jeopardy. If you will—”

She threw her arms around him and laughed, but he caught her round the
waist, forced her down upon a bench and seated himself on the further
side of the board. When she stretched her hand over to him, he covered
the palm with vehement kisses:

“I have tried more than you,” said he with passion. “You know not, how
much I deem it means for both of us, that we should be wed with all
honour—”

“Then you should not have made me yours—” said Kristin.

Erlend hid his face in his hands.

“Aye, would to God I had not done you that wrong,” he said.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Neither you nor I wish that,” said Kristin, laughing boldly. “And if I
may but be forgiven and make my peace at last with my kindred and with
God, then shall I not sorrow overmuch though I must wear the woman’s
hood when I am wed. Aye, and often it seems to me, I could do without
peace even, if only I may be with you.”

“You shall bring honour with you into my house once more,” said Erlend,
“not I drag _you_ down into dishonour.”

Kristin shook her head. Then she said:

“’Tis like you will be glad then, when you hear that I have talked with
Simon Andressön—and he will not hold me to the pact that was made for us
by our fathers before I met you.”

At once Erlend was wild with joy, and Kristin was made to tell him all.
Yet she told not of the scornful words Simon had spoken of Erlend,
though she said that before Lavrans he would not take the blame upon
himself.

“’Tis but reason,” said Erlend shortly. “They like each other well, your
father and he? Aye, me he will like less, I trow—Lavrans.”

Kristin took these words as a sign that Erlend felt with her she had
still a hard road to travel ere yet they reached their journey’s end;
and she was thankful to him for it. But he did not come back to this
matter; he was glad above measure, saying he had feared so that she
would not have courage to speak with Simon.

“You like him after a fashion, I mark well,” said he.

“Can it be aught to you,” asked Kristin,“—after all that has come and
gone between you and me, that I can see that Simon is an honest man and
a stout.”

“Had you never met me,” said Erlend, “you might well have had good days
with him, Kristin. Why laugh you?”

“Oh, I did but call to mind somewhat Lady Aashild said once,” answered
Kristin. “I was but a child then—but ’twas somewhat about good days
falling to wise folk, but the best days of all to those who dare be
unwise.”

“God bless my kinswoman, if she taught you that,” said Erlend and took
her upon his knee. “’Tis strange, Kristin, never have I marked that you
were afraid.”

“Have you never marked it?” she asked as she nestled close to him.

He seated her on the bed-side and drew off her shoes, but then drew her
back again to the table.

“Oh, my Kristin—now at last it looks as if bright days might come for us
two. Methinks I had never dealt with you as I have done,” he said
stroking and stroking her hair, “had it not been that each time I saw
you, I thought ever ’twas not reason that they should give so fine and
fair a wife to _me_.—Sit you down here and drink to me,” he begged.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A moment after came a knock on the door—it sounded like the stroke of a
sword hilt.

“Open, Erlend Nikulaussön, if you are within.”

“’Tis Simon Darre,” said Kristin in a low voice.

“Open, man, in the devil’s name—if you be a man!” shouted Simon and beat
on the door again.

Erlend went to the bed and took his sword down from the peg in the wall.
He looked round, at a loss what to do: “There is nowhere here you can
hide—”

“’Twould scarce make things better if I hid,” said Kristin. She had
risen to her feet; she spoke very quietly, but Erlend saw that she was
trembling. “You must open,” she said in the same tone. Simon hammered on
the door again.

Erlend went and drew the bolt. Simon stepped in; he had a drawn sword in
his hand, but he thrust it back into its sheath at once.

For a while the three stood in silence. Kristin trembled; but yet, in
this first moment, she felt a strange, sweet thrill—from deep within her
something rose, scenting the combat between two men—she drew a deep
breath; here was an end to these endless months of dumb waiting and
longing and dread. She looked from one to the other, pale and with
shining eyes—then the strain within her broke in a chill, unfathomable
despair. There was more of cold scorn than of rage or jealousy in Simon
Darre’s eyes and she saw that Erlend, behind his defiant bearing, burned
with shame. It dawned upon her, how other men would think of him, who
had let her come to him in such a place, and she saw ’twas as though he
had had to suffer a blow in the face; she knew he burned to draw his
sword and fall upon Simon.

“Why have you come hither, Simon?” she cried aloud in dread.

Both men turned toward her.

“To fetch you home,” said Simon. “Here you cannot be—”

“’Tis not for you, any more, to lay commands on Kristin Lavransdatter,”
said Erlend fiercely, “she is mine now—”

“I doubt not she is,” said Simon savagely, “and a fair bridal bower have
you brought her to—” He stood a little, panting; then he mastered his
voice and spoke quietly: “But so it is that I am her betrothed
still—till her father can come for her. And for so long I mean to guard
with edge and point so much of her honour as can be saved—in others’
eyes—”

“What need of _you_ to guard her; I can—” he flushed red as blood under
Simon’s eyes. Then, flying out: “Think you I will suffer threats from a
boy like you,” he cried, laying his hand on his sword-hilt.

Simon clapped both hands behind him.

“I am not such a coward as to be afraid you should deem me afraid,” said
he as before. “I will fight you, Erlend Nikulaussön, you may stake your
soul upon that, if within due time, you have not made suit for Kristin
to her father—”

“That will I never do at your bidding, Simon Andressön,” said Erlend
angrily; the blood rushed into his face again.

“Nay—do you it to set right the wrong you have done so young a maid,”
answered Simon, unmoved, “’twill be better so for Kristin.”

Kristin gave a loud cry, in pain at Erlend’s pain. She stamped upon the
floor:

“Go, then, Simon, go—what have you to do with our affairs?”

“I told you but now,” said Simon. “You must bear with me till your
father has loosed you and me from each other.”

Kristin broke down utterly:

“Go, go, I will follow straightway—. Jesus! why do you torture me so,
Simon—you know you deem not yourself I am worthy that you should trouble
about me—”

“’Tis not for your sake I do it,” answered Simon. “Erlend—will you not
tell her to go with me?”

Erlend’s face quivered. He touched her on the shoulder:

“You must go, Kristin. Simon Darre and I will speak of this at another
time—”

Kristin got up obediently and fastened her cloak about her. Her shoes
stood by the bed-side—She remembered them, but she could not put them on
under Simon’s eyes.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Outside, the fog had come down again. Kristin flew along, with head bent
and hands clutched tight in the folds of her cloak. Her throat was
bursting with tears—wildly she longed for some place where she could be
alone, and sob and sob. The worst, the worst was still before her; but
she had proved a new thing this evening, and she writhed under it—she
had proved how it felt to see the man to whom she had given herself
humbled.

Simon was at her elbow as she hurried through the lanes, over the common
lands and across the open places, where the houses had vanished and
there was naught but fog to be seen. Once when she stumbled over
something, he caught her arm and kept her from falling:

“No need to run so fast,” said he. “Folk are staring after us.—How you
are trembling!” he said more gently. Kristin held her peace and walked
on.

She slipped in the mud of the street, her feet were wet through and icy
cold—the hose she had on were leather, but they were thin; she felt they
were giving way, and the mud was oozing through to her naked feet.

They came to the bridge over the convent beck, and went more slowly up
the slopes on the other side.

“Kristin,” said Simon of a sudden, “your father must never come to know
of this.”

“How knew you that I was—there?” asked Kristin.

“I came to speak with you,” answered Simon shortly. “Then they told me
of this man of your uncle’s coming. I knew Aasmund was in Hadeland. You
two are not over cunning at making up tales—Heard you what I said but
now?”

“Aye,” said Kristin.—“It was I who sent word to Erlend that we should
meet at Fluga’s house; I knew the woman—”

“Then shame upon you! But, oh, you could not know what she is—and he—Do
you hear,” said Simon harshly, “if so be it _can_ be hidden, you must
hide from Lavrans what you have thrown away. And if you cannot hide it,
then you must strive to spare him the worst of the shame.”

“You are ever so marvellous careful for my father,” said Kristin,
trembling. She strove to speak defiantly, but her voice was ready to
break with sobs.

Simon walked on a little. Then he stopped—she caught a glimpse of his
face, as they stood there alone together in the midst of the fog. He had
never looked like this before.

“I have seen it well, each time I was at your home,” said he, “how
little you understood, you his women-folk, what a man Lavrans is. Knows
not how to rule you, says yonder Trond Gjesling—and ’twere like he
should trouble himself with such work—he who was born to rule over
_men_. He was made for a leader, aye, and one whom men would have
followed—gladly. These are no times for such men as he—my father knew
him at Baagahus—But, as things are, he has lived his life up there in
the Dale, as he were little else but a farmer—He was married off all too
young—and your mother, with her heavy mood, was not the one to make it
lighter for him to live that life. So it is that he has many friends—but
think you there is _one_ who is his fellow—His sons were taken from
him—’twas you, his daughters, who were to build up his race after
him—must he live now to see the day when one is without health and the
other without honour—”

Kristin pressed her hands tightly over her heart—she felt she must hold
it in to make herself as hard as she had need to be.

“Why say you this?” she whispered after a time. “It cannot be that you
would ever wish to wed me now—”

“That—would I—not,” said Simon unsteadily. “God help me, Kristin—I think
of you that evening in the loft-room at Finsbrekken.—But may the foul
fiend fly away with me living the day I trust a maiden’s eyes again!

“—Promise me, that you will not see Erlend before your father comes,”
said he when they stood at the gate.

“That will I not promise,” answered Kristin.

“Then _he_ shall promise,” said Simon.

“I will not see him,” said Kristin quickly.

“The little dog I sent you once,” said Simon before they parted, “him
you can let your sisters have—they are grown so fond of him—if you
mislike not too much to see him in the house.

“—I ride north to-morrow early,” said he, and then he took her hand in
farewell, while the sister who kept the door looked on.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Simon Darre walked downwards towards the town. He flung out a clenched
fist as he strode along, talked half aloud, and swore out into the fog.
He swore to himself that he grieved not over _her_. Kristin—’twas as
though he had deemed a thing pure gold—and when he saw it close at hand,
it was naught but brass and tin. White as a snow flake had she knelt and
thrust her hand into the flame—that was last year; this year she was
drinking wine with an outcast ribald in Fluga’s loft-room—The devil, no!
’Twas for Lavrans Björgulfsön he grieved, sitting up there on
Jörundgaard believing—full surely never had it come into Lavran’s mind
that he could be so betrayed by his own. And now he himself was to bear
the tidings, and help to lie to _that_ man—it was for this that his
heart burned with sorrow and wrath.

Kristin had not meant to keep her promise to Simon Darre, but, as it
befell, she spoke but a few words with Erlend—one evening up on the
road.

She stood and held his hand, strangely meek, while he spoke of what had
befallen in Brynhild’s loft-room at their last meeting. With Simon
Andressön he would talk another time. “Had we fought there, ’twould have
been all over the town,” said Erlend hotly. “And that he too knew full
well—this Simon.”

Kristin saw how this thing had galled him. She too, had thought of it
unceasingly ever since—there was no hiding the truth, Erlend came out of
this business with even less honour than she herself. And she felt that
now indeed they were one flesh—that she must answer for all he did, even
though she might mislike his deeds, and that she would feel it in her
own flesh when so much as Erlend’s skin was scratched.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Three weeks later Lavrans Björgulfsön came to Oslo to fetch his
daughter.

Kristin was afraid, and she was sore of heart as she went to the parlour
to meet her father. What first struck her, when she saw him standing
there speaking to Sister Potentia, was that he did not look as she
remembered him. Maybe he was but little changed since they parted a year
ago—but she had seen him all her years at home as the young lusty,
comely man she had been so proud to have for father when she was little.
Each winter and each summer that passed over their heads up there at
home, had doubtless marked him with the marks of growing age, as they
had unfolded her into a full-grown young woman—but she had not seen it.
She had not seen that his hair was fading here and there and had taken
on a tinge of rusty red near the temples—as yellow hair does when ’tis
turning grey. His cheeks had shrunken and grown longer so that the
muscles ran in harder lines down to the mouth; his youthful white and
red had faded to one weather-beaten shade. His back was not bowed—but
yet his shoulder-blades had an unaccustomed curve beneath his cloak. His
step was light and firm, as he came toward her with outstretched hand,
but yet ’twas not the old brisk and supple motion. Doubtless all these
things had been there last year, only she had not seen them. Perhaps
there had been added a little touch—of sadness—which made her see them
now. She burst into weeping.

Lavrans put his arm about her shoulder and laid his hand against her
cheek.

“Come, come, be still now, child,” he said gently.

“Are you angry with me, father?” she asked low.

“Surely you must know that I am,” he answered—but he went on stroking
her cheek. “Yet so much, too, you sure must know, that you have no need
to be afraid of me,” said he sadly. “Nay, now you must be still,
Kristin: are you not ashamed to bear you in such childish wise.”—For she
was weeping so that she had to seat herself upon the bench. “We will not
speak of these things here, where folk go out and in,” said he, and he
sat himself down by her side and took her hand. “Will you not ask after
your mother then—and your sisters—?”

“What does my mother say of this?” asked his daughter.

“Oh, that you can have no need to ask—but we will not talk of it now,”
he said again. “Else she is well—” and he set to telling this and that
of the happenings at home on the farm, till Kristin grew quieter little
by little.

But it seemed to her that the strain did but grow worse because her
father said naught of her breach of troth. He gave her money to deal out
among the poor of the convent and to make gifts to her fellow-pupils, he
himself gave rich gifts to the cloister and the Sisters; and no one in
Nonneseter knew aught else than that Kristin was now to go home for her
betrothal and her wedding. They both ate the last meal at Lady Groa’s
board in the Abbess’s room, and the Lady spoke of Kristin with high
praise.

But all this came to an end at last. She had said her last farewell to
the Sisters and her friends at the convent gate; Lavrans led her to her
horse and lifted her into the saddle. ’Twas so strange to ride with her
father and the men from Jörundgaard down to the bridge, along this road,
down which she had stolen in the dark; wonderful, too, it seemed to ride
through the streets of Oslo freely and in honour. She thought of their
splendid wedding train, that Erlend had talked of so often—her heart
grew heavy; ’twould have been easier had he carried her away with him.
There was yet such a long time before her in which she must live one
life in secret and another openly before folks. But then her eye fell on
her father’s grave, ageing face, and she tried to think, that after all
Erlend was right.

                  *       *       *       *       *

There were a few other travellers in the inn. At eventide they all
supped together in a little hearth-room, where there were two beds only;
Lavrans and Kristin were to sleep there, for they were the first in rank
among the guests. Therefore, when the night drew on a little, the others
bade them a friendly good-night as they broke up and went to seek their
sleeping places. Kristin thought how it was she who had stolen to
Brynhild Fluga’s loft-room to Erlend’s arms—sick with sorrow and with
fear that she might never more be his, she thought: no, there was no
place for her any more amongst these others.

Her father was sitting on the further bench, looking at her.

“We are not to go to Skog this time?” asked Kristin, to break the
silence.

“No,” answered Lavrans. “I have had enough for some time with what your
mother’s brother made me listen to—because I would not constrain you,”
he added, as she looked up at him questioningly.

“And, truly, I would have made you keep your word,” said he a little
after, “had it not been that Simon said, he would not have an unwilling
wife.”

“I have never given my word to Simon,” said Kristin quickly. “You have
ever said before, that you would never force me into wedlock—”

“’Twould not have been force if I had held you to a bargain that had
been published long since and was known to all men,” answered Lavrans.
“These two winters past you two have borne the name of handfasted folk,
and you have said naught against it, nor shown yourself unwilling, till
now your wedding-day was fixed. If you would plead that the business was
put off last year, so that you have not yet given Simon your troth; then
that I call not upright dealing.”

Kristin stood gazing down into the fire.

“I know not which will seem the worse,” went on her father, “that it be
said that you have cast off Simon, or that he has cast you off. Sir
Andres sent me word—” Lavrans flushed red as he said it, “—he was wroth
with the lad, and bade me crave such amends as I should think fit. I had
to say what was true—I know not if aught else had been better—that,
should there be amends to make, ’twas rather for us to make them. We are
shamed either way.”

“I cannot think there is such great shame,” said Kristin low. “Since
Simon and I are of one mind.”

“Of one mind?” repeated Lavrans. “He did not hide from me that he was
unhappy, but he said, after you had spoken together, he deemed naught
but misfortune could come of it if he held you to the pact.—But now must
you tell me how this has come over you.”

“Has Simon said naught?” asked Kristin.

“It seemed as though he thought,” said her father, “that you have given
your love to another man—Now must you tell me how this is, Kristin.”

Kristin thought for a little.

“God knows,” said she in a low voice, “I see well, Simon might be good
enough for me, and maybe too good. But ’tis true that I came to know
another man; and then I knew I would never have one happy hour more in
all my life, were I to live it out with Simon—not if all the gold in
England were his to give—I would rather have the other if he owned no
more than a single cow—”

“You look not that I should give you to a serving-man, I trow?” said her
father.

“He is as well born as I, and better,” answered Kristin. “I meant but
this—he has enough both of lands and goods, but I would rather sleep
with him on the bare straw than with another man in a silken bed—”

Her father was silent for a while.

“’Tis one thing, Kristin, that I will not force you to take a man that
likes you not—though God and St. Olav alone know what you can have
against the man I had promised you to. But ’tis another thing whether
the man you have set your heart upon is such as I can wed you to. You’re
young yet, and not over wise—and to cast his eyes upon a maid who is
promised to another—’tis not the wont of an upright man—”

“No man can rule himself in that matter,” broke in Kristin.

“Aye, but he can. But so much you can understand, I trow: I will not do
such offence to the Dyfrin folk as to betroth you to another the moment
you have turned your back on Simon—and least of all to a man who might
be more high in rank or richer—You must say who this man is,” he said
after a little.

Kristin pressed her hands together and breathed deeply. Then she said
very slowly:

“I cannot, father. Thus it stands, that should I not get this man, then
you can take me back to the convent and never take me from it again—I
shall not live long there, I trow. But it would not be seemly that I
should name his name, ere yet I know he bears as good a will toward me
as I have to him. You—you must not force me to say who he is,
before—before ’tis seen whether—whether he is minded to make suit for me
through his kin.”

Lavrans was a long time silent. He could not but be pleased that his
daughter took the matter thus; he said at length:

“So be it then. ’Tis but reason that you would fain keep back his name,
if you know not more of his purposes.”

“Now must you to bed, Kristin,” he said a little after. He came and
kissed her:

“You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours,
my daughter—but this you know, that your good lies next my heart—God
help me, ’twould be so, I fear me, whatever you might do—He and His
gentle Mother will surely help us, so that this may be turned to the
best—Go now, and see that you sleep well.”

After he had lain down, Lavrans thought he heard a little sound of
weeping from the bed by the other wall, where his daughter lay. But he
made as though he slept. He had not the heart to say to her that he
feared the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein would be brought up
again now, but it weighed heavily upon him that ’twas but little he
could do to save the child’s good name from being besmirched behind his
back. And the worst was that he must deem much of the mischief had been
wrought by her own thoughtlessness.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               BOOK THREE






                                                     LAVRANS BJÖRGULFSÖN




------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   1

KRISTIN came home when the spring was at fairest. The Laagen rushed
headlong round its bend past the farmstead and the fields; through the
tender leaves of the alder thickets its current glittered and sparkled
with flashes of silver. ’Twas as though the gleams of light had a voice
of their own and joined in the river’s song, for when the evening
twilight fell, the waters seemed to go by with a duller roar. But day
and night the air above Jörundgaard was filled with the rushing sound,
till Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the houses
quivering like the sound box of a cithern.

Small threads of water shone high up on the fell-sides, that stood
wrapped in blue haze day after day. The heat brooded and quivered over
the fields; the brown earth of the plough-lands was nigh hidden by the
spears of corn; the meadows grew deep with grass, and shimmered like
silk where the breaths of wind passed over. Groves and hill sward smelt
sweet; and as soon as the sun was down there streamed out all around the
strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things—it was as though
the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh. Kristin thought, trembling,
of the moment when Erlend’s arms released her. Each evening she lay
down, sick with longing, and in the mornings she awoke, damp with sweat
and tired out with her dreams.

’Twas more than she could understand how the folks at home could forbear
to speak ever a word of the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week
went by after week, and naught was said of Simon and her broken faith,
and none asked what was in her heart. Her father lay much out in the
woods, now he had the spring ploughing and sowing off his hands—he went
to see his tar burners’ work, and he took hawks and hounds with him and
was away many days together. When he was at home, he spoke to his
daughter kindly as ever—but it was as though he had little to say to
her, and never did he ask her to go with him when he rode out.

Kristin had dreaded to go home to her mother’s chidings; but Ragnfrid
said never a word—and this seemed even worse.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Every year when he feasted his friends at St. John’s Mass, it was
Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to give out among the poor folks of the
parish the meat and all sorts of food that had been saved in his
household in the last week of the Fast. Those who lived nighest to
Jörundgaard would come themselves to fetch away the alms; these poor
folks were ever welcomed and feasted, and Lavrans and his guests and all
the house servants would gather round them: for some of them were old
men who had by heart many sagas and lays. They sat in the hearth-room
and whiled the time away with the ale-cup and friendly talk; and in the
evening they danced in the courtyard.

This year the Eve of St. John was cloudy and cold; but none was sorry
that it was so, for by now the farmers of the Dale had begun to fear a
drought. No rain had fallen since St. Halvard’s Wake, and there had been
little snow in the mountains; not for thirteen years could folk remember
to have seen the river so low at mid-summer.

So Lavrans and his guests were of good cheer when they went down to
greet the almsmen in the hearth-room. The poor folks sat round the board
eating milk porridge and washing it down with strong ale; and Kristin
stood by the table, and waited on the old folk and the sick.

Lavrans greeted his poor guests, and asked if they were content with
their fare. Then he went about the board to bid welcome to an old
bedesman, who had been brought thither that day for his term at
Jörundgaard. The man’s name was Haakon; he had fought under King Haakon
the Old, and had been with the King when he took the field for the last
time in Scotland. He was the poorest of the poor now, and was all but
blind; the farmers of the Dale had offered to set him up in a cottage of
his own, but he chose rather to be handed on as bedesman from farm to
farm, for everywhere folk welcomed him more like an honoured guest,
since he had seen so much of the world and had laid up great store of
knowledge.

Lavrans stood by with a hand on his brother’s shoulder; for Aasmund
Björgulfsön had come to Jörundgaard on a visit.

He asked Haakon, too, how the food liked him.

“The ale is good, Lavrans Björgulfsön,” said Haakon, “But methinks a
jade has cooked our porridge for us to-day. While the cook cuddles, the
porridge burns, says the byword; and this porridge is singed.”

“An ill thing indeed,” said Lavrans, “that I should give you singed
porridge. But I wot well the old byword doth not always say true, for
’tis my daughter, herself, who cooked the porridge for you.” He laughed,
and bade Kristin and Tordis make haste to bring in the trenchers of
meat.

Kristin slipped quickly out and made across to the kitchen. Her heart
was beating hard—she had caught a glimpse of Aasmund’s face when Haakon
was speaking.

That evening she saw her father and his brother walking and talking
together in the courtyard long and late. She was dizzy with fear; and it
was no better with her the next day when she marked that her father was
silent and joyless. But he said no word.

Nor did he say aught after his brother was gone. But Kristin marked well
that he spoke less with Haakon than was his wont, and, when their turn
for harbouring the old warrior was over, Lavrans made no sign towards
keeping him a while longer, but let him move on to the next farm.

                  *       *       *       *       *

For the rest, Lavrans Björgulfsön had reason enough this summer to be
moody and downcast, for now all tokens showed that the year would be an
exceedingly bad one in all the country round; and the farmers were
coming together time and again to take counsel how they should meet the
coming winter. As the late summer drew on, it was plain to most, that
they must slaughter great part of their cattle or drive them south for
sale, and buy corn to feed their people through the winter. The year
before had been no good corn year, so that the stocks of old corn were
but scanty.

One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all her three
daughters to see to some linen she had lying out on the bleach field.
Kristin praised much her mother’s weaving. Then the mother stroked
little Ramborg’s hair and said:

“We must save this for your bride-chest, little one.”

“Then, mother,” said Ulvhild, “shall I not have any bride-chest when I
go to the nunnery?”

“You know well,” said Ragnfrid, “your dowry will be nowise less than
your sisters. But ’twill not be such things as they need that you will
need. And then you know full well, too, that you are to bide with your
father and me as long as we live—if so be you will.”

“And when you come to the nunnery,” said Kristin, unsteadily, “it may
be, Ulvhild, that I shall have been a nun there for many years.”

She looked across at her mother, but Ragnfrid held her peace.

“Had I been such an one that I could marry,” said Ulvhild, “never would
I have turned away from Simon—he was so kind, and he was so sorrowful
when he said farewell to us all.”

“You know your father bade us not speak of this,” said Ragnfrid—but
Kristin broke in defiantly:

“Aye; well I know that ’twas far more sorrow for him parting from you
than from me.”

Her mother spoke in anger:

“And little must his pride have been, I wot, had he shown his sorrow
before you—you dealt not well and fairly by Simon Andressön, my
daughter. Yet did he beg us to use neither threats nor curses with you—”

“Nay,” said Kristin as before, “he thought, maybe, he had cursed me
himself so much, there was no need for any other to tell me how vile I
was. But I marked not ever that Simon had much care for me, till he saw
that I loved another more than him.”

“Go home, children,” said Ragnfrid to the two little ones. She sat
herself down on a log that lay by the green, and drew Kristin down
beside her.

“You know, surely,” said she then, “that it has ever been held seemly
and honourable, that a man should not talk overmuch of love to his
betrothed maiden—nor sit with her much alone, nor woo too hotly—”

“Oh!” said Kristin, “much I wonder whether young folk that love one
another bear ever in mind what old folk count for seemly, and forget not
one time or another all such things.”

“Be you ware, Kristin,” said her mother, “that you forget them not.” She
sat a little while in silence: “What I see but too well now is that your
father goes in fear that you have set your heart on a man he can never
gladly give you to.”

“What did my uncle say?” asked Kristin in a little while.

“Naught said he,” answered her mother, “but that Erlend of Husaby is
better of name than of fame. Aye, for he spoke to Aasmund, it seems, to
say a good word for him to Lavrans. Small joy was it to your father when
he heard this.”

But Kristin sat beaming with gladness. Erlend had spoken to her father’s
brother. And she had been vexing her heart because he made no sign!

Then her mother spoke again:

“Yet another thing is: that Aasmund said somewhat of a waif word that
went about in Oslo, that folk had seen this Erlend hang about in the
by-ways near by the convent, and that you had gone out and spoken with
him by the fences there.”

“What then?” asked Kristin.

“Aasmund counselled us, you understand, to take this proffer,” said
Ragnfrid. “But at that Lavrans grew more wroth than I can call to mind I
saw him ever before. He said that a wooer who tried to come to his
daughter by that road should find him in his path, sword in hand. ’Twas
little honour enough to us to have dealt as we had with the Dyfrin folk;
but were it so that Erlend had lured you out to gad about the ways in
the darkness with him, and that while you were dwelling in a cloister of
holy nuns, ’twas a full good token you would be better served by far by
missing such a husband.”

Kristin crushed her hands together in her lap—the colour came and went
in her face. Her mother put an arm about her waist—but the girl shrank
away from her, beside herself with the passion of her mood, and cried:

“Let me be, mother! Would you feel, maybe, if my waist hath grown—”

The next moment she was standing up, holding her hand to her cheek—she
looked down bewildered at her mother’s flashing eyes. None had ever
struck her before since she was a little child.

“Sit down,” said Ragnfrid. “Sit down,” she said again, and the girl was
fain to obey. The mother sat a while silent; when she spoke, her voice
was shaking:

“I have seen it full well, Kristin—much have you never loved me. I told
myself, maybe ’twas that you thought I loved not you so much—not as your
father loves you. I bided my time—I thought when the time came that you
had borne a child yourself, you would surely understand—

“While yet I was suckling you, even then was it so, that when Lavrans
came near us two, you would let go my breast and stretch out towards
him, and laugh so that my milk ran over your lips. Lavrans thought ’twas
good sport—and God knows I was well content for his sake. I was well
content, too, for your sake, that your father laughed and was merry each
time he laid eyes on you. I thought my own self ’twas pity of you, you
little being, that I could not have done with all that much weeping. I
was ever thinking more whether I was to lose you too, than joying that I
had you. But God and His Holy Mother know that I loved you no whit less
than Lavrans loved.”

The tears were running down over Ragnfrid’s cheeks, but her face was
quite calm now, and so too was her voice:

“God knows I never bore him or you a grudge for the love that was
between you. Methought ’twas little enough joy I had brought him in the
years we had lived together; I was glad that he had joy in you. I
thought, too, that had my father, Ivar, been such a father to me—

“There are many things, Kristin, that a mother should have taught her
daughter to beware of. But methought there was little need of this with
you, who have followed about with your father all these years—you should
know, if any know, what right and honour are. That word you spoke but
now—think you I could believe you would have the heart to bring on
Lavrans such a sorrow—?

“I would say but this to you—my wish is that you may win for husband a
man you can love well. But that this may be, you must bear you
wisely—let not Lavrans have cause to think that he you have chosen is a
breeder of trouble, and one that regards not the peace of women, nor
their honour. For to such an one he will never give you—not if it were
to save you from open shame. Rather would Lavrans let the steel do
judgment between him and the man who had marred your life—”

And with this the mother rose and went from her.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   2

At the Haugathing field on the day of Bartholomew’s Mass, the 24th of
August, the daughter’s son of King Haakon of happy memory was hailed as
King. Among the men sent thither from Northern Gudbrandsdal was Lavrans
Björgulfsön. He had had the name of kingsman since his youth, but in all
these years he had seldom gone nigh the Household, and the good name he
had won in the war against Duke Eirik he had never sought to turn to
account. Nor had he now much mind to this journey to the homaging, but
he could not deny himself to the call. Besides, he and the other
Thing-men from the upper valley were charged to try and buy corn in the
South and send it round by ship to Romsdal.

The folk of the parishes round about were heartless now, and went in
dread of the winter that was at hand. An ill thing, too, the farmers
deemed it that once again a child would be King in Norway. Old folks
called to mind the time when King Magnus was dead and his sons were
little children, and Sira Eirik said:

“_Vae terræ, ubi puer rex est._ Which in the Norse tongue is: No resting
o’ nights for rats in the house where the cat’s a kitten.”

Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter managed all things on the manor while her husband
was gone, and it was good both for Kristin and for her that they had
their heads and hands full of household cares and work. All over the
parish the folks were busy gathering in moss from the hills and
stripping bark from the trees, for the hay-crop had been but light, and
of straw there was next to none; and even the leaves gathered after St.
John’s Eve were yellow and sapless. On Holy Cross day, when Sira Eirik
bore the crucifix about the fields, there were many in the procession
who wept and prayed aloud to God to have mercy on the people and the
dumb beasts.

A week after Holy Cross Lavrans Björgulfsön came home from the Thing.

It was long past the house-folks’ bedtime, but Ragnfrid still sat in the
weaving-house. She had so much to see to in the day-time now, that she
often worked on late into the night at weaving and sewing. Ragnfrid
liked the house well too. It had the name of being the oldest on the
farm; it was called the Mound-house, and folk said it had stood there
ever since the old heathen ages. Kristin and the girl called Astrid were
with Ragnfrid; they were sitting spinning by the hearth.

They had been sitting for a while sleepy and silent, when they heard the
hoof-beats of a single horse—a man came riding at a gallop into the wet
farm-place. Astrid went to the outer room to look out—in a moment she
came in again, followed by Lavrans Björgulfsön.

Both his wife and his daughter saw at once that he had been drinking
more than a little. He reeled in his walk, and held to the pole of the
smoke-vent while Ragnfrid took from him his dripping wet cloak and hat
and unbuckled his sword-belt.

“What have you done with Halvdan and Kolbein?” she said, in some fear;
“have you left them behind on the road?”

“No, I left them behind at Loptsgaard,” he said with a little laugh. “I
had such a mind to come home again—there was no rest for me till I
did—the men went to bed down at Loptsgaard, but I took Guldsveinen and
galloped home—”

“You must find me a little food, Astrid,” he said to the servant. “Bring
it in here, girl; then you need not go so far in the rain. But be quick,
for I have eaten no food since early morning—”

“Had you no food at Loptsgaard, then?” asked his wife in wonder.

Lavrans sat rocking from side to side on the bench, laughing a little:

“Food there was, be sure—but I had no stomach for it when I was there. I
drank a while with Sigurd—but—methought then ’twas as well I should come
home at once as wait till to-morrow—”

Astrid came back bearing food and ale; she brought with her, too, a pair
of dry shoes for her master.

Lavrans fumbled with his spur-buckles to unloosen them; but came near to
falling on his face.

“Come hither, Kristin, my girl,” he said, “and help your father. I know
you will do it from a loving heart—aye, a loving heart—to-day.”

Kristin kneeled down to obey. Then he took her head between his two
hands and turned her face up:

“One thing I trow you know, my daughter—I wish for naught but your good.
Never would I give you sorrow, except I see that thereby I save you from
many sorrows to come. You are full young yet, Kristin—’twas but
seventeen years old you were this year—three days after Halvard’s
Mass—but seventeen years old—”

Kristin had done with her service now. She was a little pale as she rose
from her knees and sat down again on her stool by the hearth.

Lavran’s head seemed to grow somewhat clearer as he ate and was filled.
He answered his wife’s questions and the servant maid’s about the
Haugathing—Aye, ’twas a fair gathering. They had managed to buy corn,
and some flour and malt, part at Oslo and part at Tunsberg; the wares
were from abroad—they might have been better, but they might have been
worse too. Aye, he had met many, both kinsfolk and friends, and they had
sent their greetings home with him—But the answers dropped from him, one
by one, as he sat there.

“I spoke with Sir Andres Gudmundsön,” he said, when Astrid was gone out.
“Simon marries the young widow at Manvik; he has held his betrothal
feast. The wedding will be at Dyfrin at St. Andrew’s Mass. He has chosen
for himself this time, has the boy. I held aloof from Sir Andres at
Tunsberg, but he sought me out—’twas to tell me he knew for sure that
Simon saw Lady Halfrid for the first time this mid-summer. He feared
that I should think Simon had this rich marriage in mind when he broke
with us.” Lavrans paused a little and laughed joylessly. “You
understand—that good and worthy man feared much that we should believe
such a thing of his son.”

Kristin breathed more freely. She thought it must be this that had
troubled her father so sorely. Maybe he had been hoping all this time
that it might come to pass after all, her marriage with Simon Andressön.
At first she had been in dread lest he had heard some tidings of her
doings in the south at Oslo.

She rose up and said good-night; but her father bade her stay yet a
little.

“I have one more thing to tell,” said Lavrans. “I might have held my
peace about it before you—but ’tis better you should know it. This it
is, Kristin—the man you have set your heart on, him must you strive to
forget.”

Kristin had been standing with arms hanging down and bent head. She
looked up now into her father’s face. She moved her lips, but no sound
came forth that could be heard.

Lavrans looked away from his daughter’s eyes; he struck out sideways
with his hand:

“I wot well you know that never would I set myself against it, could I
anyways believe ’twould be for your good.”

“What are the tidings that have been told you on this journey, father?”
said Kristin in a clear voice.

“Erlend Nikulaussön and his kinsman, Sir Munan Baardsön, came to me at
Tunsberg,” answered Lavrans. “Sir Munan asked for you for Erlend, and I
answered him: no.”

Kristin stood a while, breathing heavily.

“Why will you not give me to Erlend Nikulaussön?” she asked.

“I know not how much you know of the man you would have for husband,”
said Lavrans. “If you cannot guess the reason for yourself, ’twill be no
pleasing thing for you to hear from my lips.”

“Is it because he has been outlawed, and banned by the Church?” asked
Kristin as before.

“Know you what was the cause that King Haakon banished his near kinsman
from his Court—and how at last he fell under the Church’s ban for
defying the Archbishop’s bidding—and that when he fled the land ’twas
not alone?”

“Aye,” said Kristin. Her voice grew unsteady: “I know, too, that he was
but eighteen years old when he first knew her—his paramour.”

“No older was I when I was wed,” answered Lavrans. “We reckoned, when I
was young, that at eighteen years a man was of age to answer for
himself, and care for others’ welfare and his own.”

Kristin stood silent.

“You called her his paramour, the woman he has lived with for ten years,
and who has borne him children,” said Lavrans after a while. “Little joy
would be mine the day I sent my daughter from her home with a husband
who had lived openly with a paramour year out year in before ever he was
wed. But you know that ’twas not loose life only, ’twas life in
adultery.”

Kristin spoke low:

“You judged not so hardly of Lady Aashild and Sir Björn.”

“Yet can I not say I would be fain we should wed into their kindred,”
answered Lavrans.

“Father,” said Kristin, “have you been so free from sin all your life,
that you can judge Erlend so hardly—?”

“God knows,” said Lavrans sternly, “I judge no man to be a greater
sinner before Him than I am myself. But ’tis no just reckoning that I
should give away my daughter to any man that pleases to ask for her,
only because we all need God’s forgiveness.”

“You know I meant it not so,” said Kristin hotly. “Father—mother—you
have been young yourselves—have you not your youth so much in mind that
you know ’tis hard to keep oneself from the sin that comes of love—?”

Lavrans grew red as blood:

“No,” he said curtly.

“Then you know not what you do,” cried Kristin wildly, “if you part
Erlend Nikulaussön and me.”

Lavrans sat himself down again on the bench.

“You are but seventeen, Kristin,” he began again. “It may be so that you
and he—that you have come to be more dear to each other than I thought
could be. But he is not so young a man but he should have known—had he
been a good man, he had never come near a young, unripe child like you
with words of love—That you were promised to another, seemed to him,
mayhap, but a small thing.

“But I wed not my daughter to a man who has two children by another’s
wedded wife. You know that he has children?”

“You are too young to understand that such a wrong breeds enmity in a
kindred—and hatred without end. The man cannot desert his own offspring,
and he cannot do them right—hardly will he find a way to bring his son
forth among good folk, or to get his daughter married with any but a
serving-man or a cottar. They were not flesh and blood, those children,
if they hated not you and your children with a deadly hate—

“See you not, Kristin—such sins as these—it may be that God may forgive
such sins more easily than many others—but they lay waste a kindred in
such wise that it can never be made whole again. I thought of Björn and
Aashild too—there stood this Munan, her son; he was blazing with gold;
he sits in the Council of the King’s Counsellors; they hold their
mother’s heritage, he and his brothers; and he hath not come once to
greet his mother in her poverty in all these years. Aye, and ’twas this
man your lover had chosen to be his spokesman.

“No, I say—no. Into that kindred you shall never come, while my head is
above the ground.”

Kristin buried her face in her hands and broke into weeping:

“Then will I pray God night and day, night and day, that if you change
not your will, He may take me away from this earth.”

“It boots not to speak more of this to-night,” said her father, with
anguish in his voice. “You believe it not now, maybe; but I must needs
guide your life so as I may hope to answer it hereafter. Go now, child,
and rest.”

He held out his hand toward her; but she would not see it and went
sobbing from the room.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The father and mother sat on a while. Then Lavrans said to his wife:

“Would you fetch me in a draught of ale?—no, bring in a little wine,” he
asked. “I am weary—”

Ragnfrid did as he asked. When she came back with the tall wine stoup,
her husband was sitting with his face hidden in his hands. He looked up,
and passed his hand over her head-dress and her sleeves:

“Poor wife, now you are wet—Come, drink to me, Ragnfrid.”

She barely touched the cup with her lips.

“Nay now, drink with me,” said Lavrans vehemently, and tried to draw her
down on his knee. Unwillingly the woman did as he bade. Lavrans said:
“You will stand by me in this thing, wife of mine, will you not? Surely
’twill be best for Kristin herself that she understand from the very
outset she must drive this man from her thoughts.”

“’Twill be hard for the child,” said the mother.

“Aye; well do I see it will,” said Lavrans.

They sat silent awhile, then Ragnfrid asked:

“How looks he, this Erlend of Husaby?”

“Oh,” said Lavrans slowly, “a proper fellow enough—after a fashion. But
he looks not a man that is fit for much but to beguile women.”

They were silent again for a while then Lavrans said:

“The great heritage that came to him from Sir Nikulaus—with that I trow
he has dealt so that it is much dwindled. ’Tis not for such a son-in-law
that I have toiled and striven to make my children’s lives sure.”

The mother wandered restlessly up and down the room. Lavrans went on:

“Least of all did it like me that he sought to tempt Kolbein with
silver—to bear a secret letter to Kristin.”

“Looked you what was in the letter?” asked Ragnfrid.

“No, I did not choose,” said Lavrans curtly. “I handed it back to Sir
Munan, and told him what I thought of such doings. Erlend had hung his
seal to it too—I know not what a man should say of such child’s tricks.
Sir Munan would have me see the device of the seal; that ’twas King
Skule’s privy seal, come to Erlend through his father. His thought was,
I trow, that I might bethink me how great an honour they did me to sue
for my daughter. But ’tis in my mind that Sir Munan had scarce pressed
on this matter for Erlend so warmly, were it not that in this man’s
hands ’tis downhill with the might and honour of the Husaby kindred,
that it won in Sir Nikulaus’ and Sir Baard’s days—No longer can Erlend
look to make such a match as befitted his birth.”

Ragnfrid stopped before her husband:

“Now I know not, husband, if you are right in this matter. First must it
be said that, as times are now many men round about us on the great
estates have had to be content with less of power and honour than their
fathers had before them. And you yourself best know that ’tis less easy
now for a man to win riches either from land or from merchantry than it
was in the old world—”

“I know, I know,” broke in Lavrans impatiently. “All the more does it
behoove a man to guide warily the goods that have come down to him—”

But his wife went on:

“And this, too, is to be said: I see not that Kristin can be an uneven
match for Erlend. In Sweden your kin sit among the best, and your
father, and his father before him bore the name of knights in this land
of Norway. My forefathers were Barons of shires, son after father, many
hundred years, down to Ivar the Old; my father and my father’s father
were Wardens. True it is, neither you nor Trond have held titles or
lands under the Crown. But, as for that, methinks it may be said that
’tis no otherwise with Erlend Nikulaussön than with you.”

“’Tis not the same,” said Lavrans hotly. “Power and the knightly name
lay ready to Erlend’s hand, and he turned his back on them to go
a-whoring. But now I see you are against me too. Maybe you think, like
Aasmund and Trond, ’tis an honour for me that these great folks would
have my daughter for one of their kinsmen—”

Ragnfrid spoke in some heat: “I have told you, I see not that you need
be so overnice as to fear that Erlend’s kinsmen should think they stoop
in these dealings. But see you not what all things betoken—a gentle and
a biddable child to find courage to set herself up against us and turn
away Simon Darre—have you not seen that Kristin is nowise herself since
she came back from Oslo—see you not she goes around like one
bewitched—Will you not understand, she loves this man so sorely, that,
if you yield not, a great misfortune may befall?”

“What mean you by that?” asked the father, looking up sharply.

“Many a man greets his son-in-law and knows not of it,” said Ragnfrid.

The man seemed to stiffen where he sat; his face grew slowly white:

“You that are her mother!” he said hoarsely. “Have you—have you
seen—such sure tokens—that you dare charge your own daughter—”

“No, no,” said Ragnfrid quickly. “I meant it not as you think. But when
things are thus, who can tell what has befallen, or what may befall? I
have seen her heart; not one thought hath she left but her love for this
man—’twere no marvel if one day she showed us that he is dearer to her
than her honour—or her life.”

Lavrans sprang up:

“Oh, you are mad! Can you think such things of our fair, good child? No
harm, surely, can have come to her where she was—with the holy nuns. I
wot well she is no byre-wench to go clipping behind walls and fences.
Think but of it: ’tis not possible she can have seen this man or talked
with him so many times—be sure it will pass away; it cannot be aught but
a young maid’s fancy. God knows ’tis a heavy sight enough for me to see
her sorrow so; but be sure it must pass by in time.

“Life, you say, and honour—. At home here by my own hearthstone ’twill
go hard if I cannot guard my own maiden. Nor do I deem that any maid
come of good people and bred up Christianly in shamefastness will be so
quick to throw away her honour—nor yet her life. Aye, such things are
told of in songs and ballads, sure enough—but methinks ’tis so that when
a man or a maid is tempted to do such a deed, they make up a song about
it, and ease their hearts thereby—but the deed itself they forbear to
do—

“You yourself,” he said, stopping before his wife: “There was another
man you would fain have wed, in those days when we were brought
together. How think you it would have gone with you, had your father let
you have your will on that score?”

It was Ragnfrid now that was grown deadly pale:

“Jesus, Maria! who hath told—”

“Sigurd of Loptsgaard said somewhat—’twas when we were just come hither
to the Dale,” said Lavrans. “But answer me what I asked—Think you your
life had been gladder had Ivar given you to that man?”

His wife stood with head bowed low:

“That man,” she said—he could scarce hear the words: “’Twas _he_ would
not have _me_.” A throb seemed to pass through her body—she struck out
before her with her clenched hand.

The husband laid his hands softly on her shoulders:

“Is it _that_,” he asked as if overcome, and a deep and sorrowful wonder
sounded in his voice; “—is it _that_—through all these years—have you
been sorrowing for _him_—Ragnfrid?”

She trembled much, but she said nothing.

“Ragnfrid?” he asked again. “Aye, but afterward—when Björgulf was
dead—and afterward—when you—when you would have had me be to you as—as I
could not be. Were you thinking then of that other?” he spoke low, in
fear and bewilderment and pain.

“How can you have such thoughts?” she whispered, on the verge of
weeping.

Lavrans pressed his forehead against hers and moved his head gently from
side to side.

“I know not. You are so strange—and all you have said to-night. I was
afraid, Ragnfrid. Like enough I understand not the hearts of women—”

Ragnfrid smiled palely and laid her arms about his neck.

“God knows, Lavrans—I was a beggar to you because I loved you more than
’tis good that a human soul should love.—And I hated that other so that
I felt the devil joyed in my hate.”

“I have held you dear, my wife,” said Lavrans, kissing her, “aye, with
all my heart have I held you dear. You know that, surely? Methought
always that we two were happy together—Ragnfrid?”

“You were the best husband to me,” said she with a little sob, and clung
close to him.

He pressed her to him strongly:

“To-night I would fain sleep with you, Ragnfrid. And if you would be to
me as you were in the old days, I should not be—such a fool—”

The woman seemed to stiffen in his arms—she drew away a little:

“’Tis Fast-time.” She spoke low,—in a strange, hard voice.

“It is so.” He laughed a little. “You and I, Ragnfrid—we have kept all
the fasts, and striven to do God’s bidding in all things. And now almost
I could think—maybe we had been happier had we more to repent—”

“Oh, speak not so—_you_,” she begged wildly, pressing her thin hands to
his temples. “You know well I would not you should do aught but what you
feel yourself is the right.”

He drew her to him closely once more—and groaned aloud: “God help her.
God help us all, my Ragnfrid—”

Then: “I am weary,” he said, and let her go. “And ’tis time, too, for
you to go to rest.”

He stood by the door waiting, while she quenched the embers on the
hearth, blew out the little iron lamp by the loom, and pinched out the
glowing wick. Together they went across through the rain to the hall.

Lavrans had set foot already on the loft-room stair, when he turned to
his wife, who was still standing in the entry-door.

He crushed her in his arms again, for the last time, and kissed her in
the dark. Then he made the sign of the cross over his wife’s face, and
went up the stair.

Ragnfrid flung off her clothes and crept into bed. A while she lay and
listened to her husband’s steps in the loft-room above; then she heard
the bed creak, and all was still. Ragnfrid crossed her thin arms over
her withered breasts:

Aye, God help her. What kind of a woman was she, what kind of mother?
She would soon be old now. Yet was she the same; though she no longer
begged stormily for love, as when they were young and her passion had
made this man shrink and grow cold when she would have had him be lover
and not only husband. So had it been—and so, time after time, when she
was with child, had she been humbled, beside herself with shame, that
she had not been content with his lukewarm husband-love. And then, when
things were so with her, and she needed goodness and tenderness—then he
had so much to give; the man’s tireless, gentle thought for her, when
she was sick and tormented, had fallen on her soul like dew. Gladly did
he take up all she laid on him and bear it—but there was ever something
of his own he would not give. She had loved her children, so that each
time she lost one, ’twas as though the heart was torn from her—God, God!
what woman was she then, that even then, in the midst of her torments,
she could feel it as a drop of sweetness that he took her sorrow in to
his heart and laid it close beside his own.

Kristin—gladly would she have passed through the fire for her
daughter—they believed it not, neither Lavrans nor the child—but ’twas
so. Yet did she feel toward her now an anger that was near to hate—’twas
to forget his sorrow for the child’s sorrow that he had wished to-night
that he could give himself up to his wife—

Ragnfrid dared not rise, for she knew not but that Kristin might be
lying awake in the other bed. But she raised herself noiselessly to her
knees, and with forehead bent against the footboard of the bed she
strove to pray. For her daughter, for her husband and for herself. While
her body, little by little, grew stiff with the cold, she set out once
more on one of the night-wanderings she knew so well, striving to break
her way through to a home of peace for her heart.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   3

Haugen lay high up in the hills on the west side of the valley. This
moonlight night the whole world was white. Billow after billow, the
white fells lay domed under the pale-blue heavens with their thin-strewn
stars. Even the shadows that peaks and domes stretched forth over the
snow-slopes seemed strangely thin and light, the moon was sailing so
high.

Downward, toward the valley, the woods stood fleecy-white with snow and
rime, round the white fields of crofts scrolled over with tiny huts and
fences. But far down in the valley-bottom the shadows thickened into
darkness.

Lady Aashild came out of the byre, shut the door after her, and stood a
while in the snow. White—the whole world; yet it was more than three
weeks still to Advent. Clementsmass cold—’twas like winter had come in
earnest already. Aye, aye; in bad years it was often so.

The old woman sighed heavily in the desolate air. Winter again, and cold
and loneliness—Then she took up the milkpail and went towards the
dwelling-house. She looked once again down over the valley.

Four black dots came out of the woods half-way up the hillside. Four men
on horseback—and the moonlight glanced from a spear-head. They were
ploughing heavily upward—none had come that way since the snowfall. Were
they coming hither?

Four armed men—’Twas not like that any who had a lawful errand here
would come so many in company. She thought of the chest with her goods
and Björn’s in it. Should she hide in the outhouse?

She looked out again over the wintry waste about her. Then she went into
the living-house. The two old hounds that lay before the smoky fireplace
smote the floor-boards with their tails. The young dogs Björn had with
him in the hills.

Aashild blew the embers of the fire into flame, and laid more wood on
them; filled the iron pot with snow and set it on the fire; then poured
the milk into a wooden bowl and bore it to the closet beside the outer
room.

Then she doffed her dirty, undyed, wadmal gown, that smelt of the byre
and of sweat, put on a dark-blue garment, and changed her tow-linen hood
for a coif of fine white linen, which she smoothed down fairly round her
head and neck. Her shaggy boots of skin she drew off, and put on
silver-buckled shoes. Then she fell to setting her room in
order—smoothed the pillows and the skins in the bed where Björn had lain
that day, wiped the long-board clean, and laid the bench-cushions
straight.

When the dogs set up their warning barking, she was standing by the
fireplace, stirring the supper-porridge. She heard horses in the yard,
and the tread of men in the outer room; some one knocked on the door
with a spear-butt. Lady Aashild lifted the pot from the fire, settled
her dress about her, and, with the dogs at her side, went forward to the
door and opened.

Out in the moonlit yard were three young men holding four horses white
with rime. A man that stood before her in the porch cried out joyfully:

“Moster Aashild! come you yourself to open to us? Nay, then must I say
_Ben trouvè_!”

“Sister’s son, is it you indeed! Then the same say I to you! Go into the
room, while I show your men the stable.”

“Are you all alone on the farm?” asked Erlend. He followed her while she
showed the men where to go.

“Aye; Sir Björn and our man are gone into the hills with the sleigh—they
are to see and bring home some fodder we have stacked up there,” said
Lady Aashild. “And serving-woman I have none,” she said, laughing.

A little while after, the four young men were sitting on the outer bench
with their backs to the board, looking at the old lady, as, busily but
quietly, she went about making ready their supper. She laid a cloth on
the board, and set on it a lighted candle; then brought forth butter,
cheese, a bear-ham and a high pile of thin slices of fine bread. She
fetched ale and mead up from the cellar below the room, and then poured
out the porridge into a dish of fine wood, and bade them sit in to the
board and fall to.

“’Tis but little for you young folk,” she said laughing. “I must boil
another pot of porridge. To-morrow you shall fare better—but I shut up
the kitchen-house, in the winter save when I bake or brew. We are few
folks on the farm, and I begin to grow old, kinsman.”

Erlend laughed and shook his head. He had marked that his men behaved
before the old woman seemly and modestly as he had scarce ever seen them
bear themselves before.

“You are a strange woman, Moster. Mother was ten years younger than you,
and she looked older when last we were in your house than you look
to-day.”

“Aye, Magnhild’s youth left her full early,” said Lady Aashild softly.
“Where are you come from, now?” she asked after a while.

“I have been for a season at a farmstead up north in Lesja,” said
Erlend, “I had hired me lodging there. I know not if you can guess what
errand has brought me to this countryside?”

“You would ask: know I that you have had suit made to Lavrans
Björgulfsön of Jörundgaard for his daughter?”

“Aye,” said Erlend. “I made suit for her in seemly and honourable wise,
and Lavrans Björgulfsön answered with a churlish: no. Now see I no
better way, since Kristin and I will not be forced apart, than that I
bear her off by the strong hand. I have—I have had a spy in this
country-side, and I know that her mother was to be at Sundbu at
Clementsmass and for a while after, and Lavrans is gone to Romsdal with
the other men to fetch across the winter stores to Sil.”

Lady Aashild sat silent a while:

“That counsel, Erlend, you had best let be,” said she. “I deem not
either that the maid will go with you willingly; and I trow you would
not use force?”

“Aye, but she will. We have spoken of it many times—she has prayed me
herself many times to bear her away.”

“Kristin has—?” said Lady Aashild. Then she laughed: “None the less I
would not have you make too sure that the maid will follow when you come
to take her at her word.”

“Aye, but she will,” said Erlend. “And, Moster, my thought was this:
that you send word to Jörundgaard and bid Kristin come and be your
guest—a week or so, while her father and mother are from home. Then
could we be at Hamar before any knew she was gone,” he added.

Lady Aashild answered, still smiling:

“And had you thought as well what we should answer, Sir Björn and I,
when Lavrans comes and calls us to account for his daughter.”

“Aye,” said Erlend. “We were four well-armed men and the maid was
willing.”

“I will not help you in this,” said the lady hotly. “Lavrans has been a
trusty man to us for many a year—he and his wife are honourable folk,
and I will not be art or part in deceiving them or beshaming their
child. Leave the maid in peace, Erlend. ’Twill soon be high time, too,
that your kin should hear of other deeds of yours than running in and
out of the land with stolen women.”

“I must speak with you alone, lady,” said Erlend, shortly.

Lady Aashild took a candle, led him to the closet, and shut the door
behind them. She sat herself down on a corn-bin: Erlend stood with his
hands thrust into his belt, looking down at her.

“You may say this, too, to Lavrans Björgulfsön: that Sira Jon of
Gerdarud joined us in wedlock ere we went on our way to Lady Ingebjörg
Haakonsdatter in Sweden.”

“Say you so?” said Lady Aashild. “Are you well assured that Lady
Ingebjörg will welcome you, when you come thither?”

“I spoke with her at Tunsberg,” said Erlend. “She greeted me as her dear
kinsman, and thanked me when I proffered her my service either here or
in Sweden. And Munan hath promised me letters to her.”

“And know you not,” said Aashild, “that even should you find a priest
that will wed you, yet will Kristin have cast away all right to the
heritage of her father’s lands and goods? Nor can her children be your
lawful heirs. Much I doubt if she will be counted as your lawfully
wedded wife.”

“Not in this land, maybe. ’Tis therefore we fly to Sweden. Her
forefather, Laurentius Lagmand, was never wed to the Lady Bengta in any
other sort—they could never win her brother’s consent. Yet was she
counted as a wedded lady—”

“There were no children,” said Aashild. “Think you my sons will hold
their hands from your heritage, if Kristin be left a widow with
children, and their lawful birth can be cast in dispute?”

“You do Munan wrong,” said Erlend. “I know but little of your other
children—I know indeed that you have little cause to judge them kindly.
But Munan has ever been my trusty kinsman. He is fain to have me wed;
’twas he went to Lavrans with my wooing—Besides, afterwards, by course
of law, I can assure our children their heritage and rights.”

“Aye, and thereby mark their mother as your concubine,” said Lady
Aashild. “But ’tis past my understanding how that meek and holy man, Jon
Helgesön, will dare to brave his Bishop by wedding you against the law.”

“I confessed—_all_—to him last summer,” said Erlend in a low voice. “He
promised then to wed us, if all other ways should fail.”

“Is it even so?” said Lady Aashild, slowly—“A heavy sin have you laid
upon your soul, Erlend Nikulaussön. ’Twas well with Kristin at home with
her father and mother—a good marriage was agreed for her with a comely
and honourable man of good kindred—”

“Kristin hath told me herself how you said once that she and I would
match well together. And that Simon Andressön was no husband for her—”

“Oh—I have said, and I have said!” Aashild broke in. “I have said so
many things in my time—Neither can I understand at all that you can have
gained your will with Kristin so lightly. So many times you cannot have
met together. And never could I have thought that maid had been so light
to win—”

“We met at Oslo,” said Erlend. “Afterward she was dwelling out at
Gerdarud with her father’s brother. She came out and met me in the
woods.” He looked down and spoke very low: “I had her alone to myself
out there—”

Lady Aashild started up. Erlend bent his head yet lower.

“And after that—she still was friends with you?” she asked,
unbelievingly.

“Aye,” Erlend smiled a weak, wavering smile. “We were friends still. And
’twas not so bitterly against her—but no blame lies on her. ’Twas then
she would have had me take her away—she was loth to go back to her kin—”

“But you would not?”

“No. I was minded to try to win her for my wife with her father’s will.”

“Is it long since?” asked Lady Aashild.

“’Twas a year last Lawrencemass,” answered Erlend.

“You have not hasted overmuch with your wooing,” said the other.

“She was not free before from her first betrothal.”

“And since then you have not come nigh her?” asked Aashild.

“We managed so that we met once and again.” Once more the wavering smile
flitted over the man’s face. “In a house in the town.”

“In God’s name!” said Lady Aashild.—“I will help you and her as best I
may. I can see it well: not long could Kristin bear to live there with
her father and mother, hiding such a thing as this.—Is there yet more?”
she asked of a sudden.

“Not that I have heard,” said Erlend shortly.

“Have you bethought you,” asked the lady in a while, “that Kristin has
friends and kinsmen dwelling all down the Dale?”

“We must journey as secretly as we can,” said Erlend. “And therefore it
behooves us to make no delay in setting out, that we may be well on the
way before her father comes home. You must lend us your sleigh, Moster.”

Aashild shrugged her shoulders:

“Then is there her uncle at Skog—what if he hear that you are holding
your wedding with his brother’s daughter at Gerdarud?”

“Aasmund has spoken for me to Lavrans,” said Erlend. “He would not be
privy to our counsels, but ’tis like he will wink an eye—we must come to
the priest by night, and journey onward by night. And afterward, I trow
well Aasmund will put it to Lavrans that it befits not a God-fearing man
like him to part them that a priest has wedded—and that ’twill be best
for him to give his consent, that we may be lawful wedded man and wife.
And you must say the like to the man, Moster. He may set what terms he
will for atonement between us, and ask all such amends as he deems
just.”

“I trow Lavrans Björgulfsön will be no easy man to guide in this
matter,” said Lady Aashild. “And God and St. Olav know, sister’s son, I
like this business but ill. But I see well ’tis the last way left you to
make good the harm you have wrought Kristin. To-morrow will I ride
myself to Jörundgaard, if so be you will lend me one of your men, and I
must get Ingrid of the croft above us here to see to my cattle.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Lady Aashild came to Jörundgaard next evening just as the moonlight was
struggling with the last gleams of day. She saw how pale and
hollow-cheeked Kristin was, when the girl came out into the courtyard to
meet her guest.

The Lady sat by the fireplace playing with the two children. Now and
then she stole keen glances at Kristin, as she went about and set the
supper-board. Thin she was truly, and still in her bearing. She had ever
been still, but it was a stillness of another kind that was on the girl
now. Lady Aashild guessed at all the straining and the stubborn defiance
that lay behind.

“’Tis like you have heard,” said Kristin, coming over to her, “what
befell here this last autumn.”

“Aye—that my sister’s son has made suit for you.”

“Mind you,” asked Kristin, “how you said once he and I would match well
together? Only that he was too rich and great of kin for me?”

“I hear that Lavrans is of another mind,” said the lady drily.

There was a gleam in Kristin’s eyes, and she smiled a little. She will
do, no question, thought Lady Aashild. Little as she liked it, she must
hearken to Erlend, and give the helping hand he had asked.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kristin made ready her parents’ bed for the guest, and Lady Aashild
asked that the girl should sleep with her. After they had lain down and
the house was silent, Lady Aashild brought forth her errand.

She grew strangely heavy at heart as she saw that this child seemed to
think not at all on the sorrow she would bring on her father and mother.
Yet _I_ lived with Baard for more than twenty years in sorrow and
torment, she thought. Well, maybe ’tis so with all of us. It seemed
Kristin had not even seen how Ulvhild had fallen away this autumn—’tis
little like, thought Aashild, that she will see her little sister any
more. But she said naught of this—the longer Kristin could hold to this
mood of wild and reckless gladness, the better would it be, no doubt.

Kristin rose up in the dark, and gathered together her ornaments in a
little box which she took with her into the bed. Then Lady Aashild could
not keep herself from saying:

“Yet methinks, Kristin, the best way of all would be that Erlend ride
hither, when your father comes home—that he confess openly he hath done
you a great wrong—and put himself in Lavrans’ hands.”

“I trow that, then, father would kill Erlend,” said Kristin.

“That would not Lavrans, if Erlend refuse to draw steel against his
love’s father.”

“I have no mind that Erlend should be humbled in such wise,” said
Kristin. “And I would not father should know that Erlend had touched me,
before he asked for me in seemliness and honour.”

“Think you Lavrans will be less wroth,” asked Aashild, “when he hears
that you have fled from his house with Erlend; and think you ’twill be a
lighter sorrow for him to bear? So long as you live with Erlend, and
your father has not given you to him, you can be naught but his paramour
before the law.”

“’Tis another thing,” said Kristin, “if I be Erlend’s paramour after he
has tried in vain to win me for his lawful wife.”

Lady Aashild was silent. She thought of her meeting with Lavrans
Björgulfsön when he came home and learnt that his daughter had been
stolen away.

Then Kristin said:

“I see well, Lady Aashild, I seem to you an evil, thankless child. But
so has it been in this house ever since father came from the Haugathing,
that every day has been a torment to him and to me. ’Tis best for all
that there be an end of this matter.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

They rode from Jörundgaard betimes the next day, and came to Haugen a
little after nones. Erlend met them in the courtyard, and Kristin threw
herself into his arms, paying no heed to the man who was with her and
Lady Aashild.

In the house she greeted Björn Gunnarsön; and then greeted Erlend’s two
men, as though she knew them well already. Lady Aashild could see no
sign in her of bashfulness or fear. And after, when they sat at the
board, and Erlend set forth his plan, Kristin put her word in with the
others and gave counsel about the journey: that they should ride forth
from Haugen next evening so late that they should come to the gorge when
the moon was setting, and should pass in the dark through Sil to beyond
Loptsgaard, thence up along the Otta stream to the bridge, and from
thence along the west side of the Otta and the Laagen over bypaths
through the waste as far as the horses could bear them. They must lie
resting through the day at one of the empty spring sæters on the
hillside there; “for till we are out of the Holledis country there is
ever fear that we may come upon folk that know me.”

“Have you thought of fodder for the horses?” said Aashild. “You cannot
rob folks’ sæter in a year like this—even if so be there is fodder
there—and you know none in all the Dale has fodder to sell this year.”

“I have thought of that,” answered Kristin. “You must lend us three
days’ food and fodder. ’Tis a reason the more why we must not journey in
so strong a troop.—Erlend must send Jon back to Husaby. The year has
been better on the Trondheim side, and surely some loads can be got
across the hills before the Yule-tide snows. There are some poor folk
dwelling southward in the parish, Lady Aashild, that I would fain you
should help with a gift of fodder for Erlend and me.”

Björn set up an uncanny, mirthless horse-laugh. Lady Aashild shook her
head. But Erlend’s man Ulv lifted his keen, swarthy visage and looked at
Kristin with his bold smile:

“At Husaby there is never abundance, Kristin Lavransdatter, neither in
good years nor in bad. But maybe things will be changed when you come to
be mistress there. By your speech a man would deem you are the housewife
that Erlend needs.”

Kristin nodded to the man calmly, and went on. They must keep clear of
the high-road as far as might be. And she deemed it not wise to take the
way that led through Hamar. But, Erlend put in, Munan was there—and the
letter to the Duchess they must have.

“Then Ulv must part from us at Fagaberg and ride to Sir Munan, while we
hold on west of Mjösen and make our way by Land and the by-roads through
Hadeland down to Hakedal. Thence there goes a waste way south to
Magretadal, I have heard my uncle say. ’Twere not wise for us to pass
through Raumarike in these days, when a great wedding-feast is toward at
Dyfrin,” she said with a smile.

Erlend went round and laid his arm about her shoulders, and she leaned
back to him, paying no heed to the others who sat by looking on. Lady
Aashild said angrily:

“None would believe aught else than that you are well-used to running
away”; and Sir Björn broke again into his horse-laugh.

In a little while Lady Aashild stood up to go to the kitchen-house and
see to the food. She had made up the kitchen fire so that Erlend’s men
could sleep there at night. She bade Kristin go with her: “for I must be
able to swear to Lavrans Björgulfsön that you were never a moment alone
together in my house,” she said wrathfully.

Kristin laughed and went with the Lady. Soon after, Erlend came
strolling in after them, drew a stool forward to the hearth, and sat
there hindering the women in their work. He caught hold of Kristin every
time she came nigh him, as she hurried about her work. At last he drew
her down on his knee:

“’Tis even as Ulv said, I trow; you are the housewife I need.”

“Aye, aye,” said Aashild, with a vexed laugh. “She will serve your turn
well enough. ’Tis she that stakes all in this adventure—you hazard not
much.”

“You speak truth,” said Erlend. “But I wot well I have shown I had the
will to come to her by the right road. Be not so angry, Moster Aashild.”

“I do well to be angry,” said the lady. “Scarce have you set your house
in order, but you must needs guide things so that you have to run from
it all again with a woman.”

“You must bear in mind, kinswoman—so hath it ever been, that ’twas not
the worst men who fell into trouble for a woman’s sake—all sagas tell us
that.”

“Oh, God help us all!” said Aashild. Her face grew young and soft. “That
tale have I heard before, Erlend,” she laid her hand on his head and
gave his hair a little tug.

At that moment Ulv Haldorson tore open the door, and shut it quickly
behind him:

“Here is come yet another guest, Erlend—the one you are least fain to
see, I trow.”

“Is it Lavrans Björgulfsön?” said Erlend starting up.

“Well if it were,” said the man. “’Tis Eline Ormsdatter.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The door was opened from without; the woman who came in thrust Ulv aside
and came forward into the light. Kristin looked at Erlend; at first he
seemed to shrivel and shrink together; then he drew himself up, with a
dark flush on his face:

“In the devil’s name, where come you from—what would you here?”

Lady Aashild stepped forward and spoke:

“You must come with us to the hall, Eline Ormsdatter. So much manners at
least we have in this house, that we welcome not our guests in the
kitchen.”

“I look not, Lady Aashild,” said the other, “to be welcomed as a guest
by Erlend’s kinsfolk—Asked you from whence I came?—I come from Husaby,
as you might know, I bear you greetings from Orm and Margret; they are
well.”

Erlend made no answer.

“When I heard that you had had Gissur Arnfinsön raise money for you, and
that you were for the south again,” she went on, “I thought ’twas like
you would bide a while this time with your kinsfolk in Gudbrandsdal. I
knew that you had made suit for the daughter of a neighbour of theirs.”

She looked across at Kristin for the first time, and met the girl’s
eyes. Kristin was very pale, but she looked calmly and keenly at the
other.

She was stony-calm. She had known it from the moment she heard who was
come—this was the thought she had been fleeing from always; this thought
it was she had tried to smother under impatience, restlessness and
defiance; the whole time she had been striving not to think whether
Erlend had freed himself wholly and fully from his former paramour. Now
she was overtaken—useless to struggle any more. But she begged not nor
beseeched for herself.

She saw that Eline Ormsdatter was fair. She was young no longer; but she
was fair—once she must have been exceeding fair. She had thrown back her
hood; her head was round as a ball, and hard; the cheekbones stood
out—but none the less it was plain to see—once she had been very fair.
Her coif covered but the back part of her head; while she was speaking,
her hands kept smoothing the waving, bright-gold front-hair beneath the
linen. Kristin had never seen a woman with such great eyes; they were
dark brown, round and hard; but under the narrow coal-black eyebrows and
the long lashes they were strangely beautiful against her golden hair.
The skin of her cheeks and lips was chafed and raw from her ride in the
cold, but it could not spoil her much; she was too fair for that. The
heavy riding-dress covered up her form, but she bore herself in it as
does only a woman most proud and secure in the glory of a fair body. She
was scarce as tall as Kristin; but she held herself so well that she
seemed yet taller than the slender, spare-limbed girl.

“Hath she been with you at Husaby the whole time?” asked Kristin in a
low voice.

“I have not been at Husaby,” said Erlend curtly, flushing red again. “I
have dwelt at Hestnæs the most of the summer.”

“Here now are the tidings I came to bring you, Erlend,” said Eline. “You
need not any longer take shelter with your kinsfolk and try their
hospitality for that I am keeping your house. Since this autumn I have
been a widow.” Erlend stood motionless.

“It was not I that bade you come to Husaby last year, to keep my house,”
said he with effort.

“I heard that all things were going to waste there,” said Eline. “I had
so much kindness left for you from old days Erlend, that methought I
should lend a hand to help you—although God knows you have not dealt
well with our children or with me.”

“For the children I have done what I could,” said Erlend. “And well you
know, ’twas for their sake I suffered you to live on at Husaby. That you
profited them or me by it you scarce can think yourself, I trow,” he
added, smiling scornfully. “Gissur could guide things well enough
without your help.”

“Aye, you have ever had such mighty trust in Gissur,” said Eline,
laughing softly. “But now the thing is this, Erlend now I am free. And
if so be you will, you can keep the promise now you made me once.”

Erlend stood silent.

“Mind you,” asked Eline, “the night I bore your son? You promised then
that you would wed me when Sigurd died.”

Erlend passed his hand up under his hair, that hung damp with sweat.

“Aye,—I remember,” he said.

“Will you keep that promise now?” asked Eline.

“No,” said Erlend.

Eline Ormsdatter looked across at Kristin—then smiled a little and
nodded. Then she looked again at Erlend.

“It is ten years since, Eline,” said the man. “And since that time you
and I have lived together year in year out like two damned souls in
Hell.”

“But not only so, I trow!” said she with the same smile.

“It is years and years since aught else has been,” said Erlend dully.
“The children would be none the better off. And you know—you know I can
scarce bear to be in a room with you any more!” he almost screamed.

“I marked naught of that when you were at home in the summer,” said
Eline with a meaning smile. “Then we were not unfriends—always.”

“If you deem that we were friends, have it as you will, for me,” said
Erlend wearily.

“Will you stand here without end?” broke in Lady Aashild. She poured the
porridge from the pot into two great wooden dishes and gave one to
Kristin. The girl took it. “Bear it to the hall—and you, Ulv, take the
other—and set them on the board; supper we must have, whether it be so,
or so.”

Kristin and the man went out with the dishes. Lady Aashild said to the
two others:

“Come now, you too; what boots it that you stand here barking at each
other.”

“’Tis best that Eline and I have our talk out together now,” said
Erlend.

Lady Aashild said no more, but went out and left them.

                  *       *       *       *       *

In the hall Kristin had laid the table and fetched ale from the cellar.
She sat on the outer bench, straight as a wand and calm of face, but she
ate nothing. Nor had the others much stomach to their food, neither
Björn nor Erlend’s men. Only the man that had come with Eline and
Björn’s hired man ate greedily. Lady Aashild sat herself down and ate a
little of the porridge. No one spoke a word.

At length Eline Ormsdatter came in alone. Lady Aashild bade her sit
between Kristin and herself; Eline sat down and ate a little. Now and
again a gleam as of a hidden smile flitted across her face, and she
stole a glance at Kristin.

A while after Lady Aashild went out to the kitchen-house.

The fire on the hearth was almost burnt out. Erlend sat by it on his
stool, crouched together, his head down between his arms.

Lady Aashild went to him and laid her hand on his shoulder:

“God forgive you, Erlend, that you have brought things to this pass—”

Erlend turned up to her a face besmeared with wretchedness:

“She is with child,” he said, and shut his eyes.

Lady Aashild’s face flamed up, she gripped his shoulder hard:

“Which of them?” she asked, roughly and scornfully.

“My child it is not,” said Erlend, in the same dead voice. “But like
enough you will not believe me—none will believe me—” he sank together
again.

Lady Aashild sat down in front of him on the edge of the hearth:

“Now must you try to play the man, Erlend. ’Tis not so easy to believe
you in this matter. Do you swear it is not yours?”

Erlend lifted his ravaged face:

“As surely as I needed God’s mercy—as surely as I hope—that God in
Heaven has comforted mother for all she suffered here—I have not touched
Eline since first I saw Kristin!” He cried out the words, so that Lady
Aashild had to hush him.

“Then I see not that this is so great a misfortune. You must find out
who the father is, and make it worth his while to wed her.”

“’Tis in my mind that it is Gissur Arnfinsön—my steward at Husaby,” said
Erlend wearily. “We talked together last year—and since then
too—Sigurd’s death has been looked for this long time past. He was
willing to wed her, when she was a widow, if I would give her a fitting
portion—”

“Well?” said Lady Aashild. Erlend went on:

“She swears with great oaths she will have none of him. She will name me
as the father. And if I swear I am not—think you any will believe aught
but that I am forsworn—?”

“You must sure be able to turn her purpose,” said Lady Aashild. “There
is no other way now but that you go home with her to Husaby no later
than to-morrow. And there must you harden your heart and stand firm till
you have this marriage fixed between your steward and Eline.”

“Aye,” said Erlend. Then he threw himself forward again and groaned
aloud:

“Can you not see—Moster—what think you Kristin will believe—?”

At night Erlend lay in the kitchen-house with the men. In the hall
Kristin slept with Lady Aashild in the Lady’s bed, and Eline Ormsdatter
in the other bed that was there. Björn went out and lay in the stable.

The next morning Kristin went out with Lady Aashild to the byre. While
the lady went to the kitchen to make ready the breakfast, Kristin bore
the milk up to the hall.

A candle stood burning on the table. Eline was sitting dressed on the
edge of her bed. Kristin greeted her silently, then fetched a milk-pan
and poured the milk into it.

“Will you give me a drink of milk?” asked Eline. Kristin took a wooden
ladle, filled it and handed it to the other; she drank eagerly, looking
at Kristin over the rim of the cup.

“So you are that Kristin Lavransdatter, that hath stolen from me
Erlend’s love,” she said as she gave back the ladle.

“You should know best if there was any love to steal,” said the girl.

Eline bit her lip.

“What will _you_ do,” she said, “if Erlend one day grow weary of you,
and offer to wed you to his serving-man? Will you do his will in that as
well?”

Kristin made no answer. Then the other laughed, and said:

“You do his will in all things now, I well believe. What think you,
Kristin—shall we throw dice for our man, we two paramours of Erlend
Nikulaussön?” When no answer came, she laughed again and said: “Are you
so simple, that you deny not you are his paramour?”

“To you I care not to lie,” said Kristin.

“’Twould profit you but little if you did,” answered Eline, still
laughing. “I know the boy too well. He flew at you like a black-cock, I
trow, the second time you were together. ’Tis pity of you too, fair
child that you are.”

Kristin’s cheeks grew white. Sick with loathing, she said low:

“I will not speak with you—”

“Think you he is like to deal with you better than with me,” went on
Eline. Then Kristin answered sharply:

“No blame will I ever cast on Erlend, whatever he may do. I went astray
of my own will—I shall not whimper or wail if the path lead out on to
the rocks—”

Eline was silent for a while. Then she said unsteadily, flushing red:

“_I_ was a maid too, when he came to me Kristin—even though I had been
wife in name to the old man for seven years. But like enough you could
never understand what the misery of that life was.”

Kristin began to tremble violently. Eline looked at her. Then from her
travelling-case that stood by her on the step of the bed, she took a
little horn. She broke the seal that was on its mouth and said softly:

“You are young and I am old, Kristin. I know well it boots not for me to
strive against you—your time is now. Will you drink with me, Kristin?”

Kristin did not move. Then the other raised the horn to her own lips;
but Kristin marked that she did not drink. Eline said:

“So much honour you sure can do me, to drink to me—and promise you will
not be a hard step-mother to my children?”

Kristin took the horn. At that moment Erlend opened the door. He stood a
moment, looking from one to the other of the women.

“What is this?” he asked.

Kristin answered, and her voice was wild and piercing:

“We are drinking to each other—we—your paramours—”

He gripped her wrist and took the horn from her.

“Be still,” he said, harshly. “You shall not drink with her.”

“Why not?” cried Kristin as before. “She was pure as I was, when you
tempted her—”

“That hath she said so often, that I trow she is come to believe it
herself,” said Erlend. “Mind you, Eline, when you made me go to Sigurd
with that tale, and he brought forth witness that he had caught you
before with another man?”

White with loathing, Kristin turned away. Eline had flushed darkly—now
she said, defiantly:

“Yet will it scarce bring leprosy on the girl, if she drink with me!”

Erlend turned on Eline in wrath—then of a sudden his face seemed to grow
long and hard as stone, and he gasped with horror:

“Jesus!” he said below his breath. He gripped Eline by the arm:

“Drink to _her_ then,” he said in a harsh and quivering voice. “Drink
you first; then she shall drink to you.”

Eline wrenched herself away with a groan. She fled backwards through the
room, the man after her. “Drink,” he said. He snatched the dagger from
his belt and held it as he followed. “Drink out the drink you have
brewed for Kristin!” He seized Eline’s arm again and dragged her to the
table, then forced her head forward toward the horn.

Eline shrieked once and buried her face on her arm. Erlend released her
and stood trembling.

“A hell was mine with Sigurd,” shrieked Eline. “You—you promised—but you
have been worst to me of all, Erlend!”

Then came Kristin forward and grasped the horn:

“One of us two must drink—both of us you cannot keep—”

Erlend wrenched the horn from her and flung her from him so that she
reeled and fell near by Lady Aashild’s bed. Again he pushed the horn
against Eline Ormsdatter’s mouth—with one knee on the bench he stood by
her side, and with a hand round her head tried to force the drink
between her teeth.

She reached out under his arm, snatched his dagger from the table, and
struck hard at the man. The blow did but scratch his flesh through the
clothes. Then she turned the point against her own breast, and the
instant after sank sidelong down into his arms.

Kristin rose and came to them. Erlend was holding Eline, her head
hanging back over his arm. The rattle came in her throat almost at
once—blood welled up and ran out of her mouth. She spat some of it out
and said:

“’Twas for you I meant—that drink—for all the times—you deceived me—”

“Bring Lady Aashild hither,” said Erlend in a low voice. Kristin stood
immovable.

“She is dying,” said Erlend as before.

“Then is she better served than we,” said Kristen. Erlend looked at
her—the despair in his eyes softened her. She left the room.

“What is it?” asked Lady Aashild, when Kristin called her out from the
kitchen.

“We have killed Eline Ormsdatter,” said Kristin. “She is dying—”

Lady Aashild set off running to the hall. But Eline breathed her last as
the Lady crossed the threshold.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Lady Aashild had laid out the dead woman on the bench, wiped the blood
from her face and covered it with the linen of her coif. Erlend stood
leaning against the wall, behind the body.

“Know you,” said Aashild, “that this was the worst thing that could
befall?”

She had filled the fireplace with twigs and firewood; now she thrust the
horn into the midst of them and blew them into a blaze.

“Can you trust your men?” asked the Lady again.

“Ulv and Haftor are trusty, methinks—of Jon and the man with Eline I
know but little.”

“You know, belike,” said the lady, “should it come out that Kristin and
you were together here, and that you two were alone with her when she
died, ’twere as well for Kristin you had let her drink of Eline’s
brew—And should there be talk of poison, all men will call to mind what
once was laid to _my_ charge.—Had she any kindred or friends?”

“No,” said Erlend in a low voice. “She had none but me.”

“Yet,” said Lady Aashild again, “it may well be a hard matter to cover
up this thing and hide the body away, without the ugliest of misthought
falling on you.”

“She shall rest in hallowed ground,” said Erlend, “if it cost me Husaby.
What say you Kristin?”

Kristin nodded.

Lady Aashild sat silent. The more she thought, the more hopeless it
seemed to her to find any way out. In the kitchen-house were four
men—even if Erlend could bribe them all to keep silence, even if some of
them, if Eline’s man, could be bribed to leave the country—still, sure
they could never be. And ’twas known at Jörundgaard that Kristin had
been here—if Lavrans heard of this, she feared to think what he would
do. And how to bear the dead woman hence. The mountain path to the west
was not to be thought of now—there was the road to Romsdal, or over the
hills to Trondheim, or south down the Dale. And should the truth come
out, it would never be believed—even if folk let it pass for true.

“I must take counsel with Björn in this matter,” she said, and rose and
went out to call him.

Björn Gunnarsön listened to his wife’s story without moving a muscle and
without withdrawing his eyes from Erlend’s face.

“Björn,” said Aashild desperately. “There is naught for it but that one
must swear he saw her lay hands upon herself.”

Björn’s dead eyes grew slowly dark, as life came into them; he looked at
his wife, and his mouth drew aside into a crooked smile:

“And you mean that I should be the one?”

Lady Aashild crushed her hands together and lifted them towards him:

“Björn, you know well what it means for these two—”

“And you think that, whether or no, ’tis all over with me?” he said
slowly. “Or think you there is so much left of the man I once was that I
dare be forsworn to save that boy there from going down to ruin? I that
was dragged down myself—all those years ago. Dragged down, I say,” he
repeated.

“You say it because I am old now,” whispered Aashild.

Kristin burst out into such weeping that the piercing sound filled the
room. She had sat in the corner by Aashild’s bed, stark and silent. Now
she began weeping wildly and loud. It was as though Lady Aashild’s voice
had torn her heart open. The voice had been heavy with the memories of
the sweetness of love; it was as though its sound had made her
understand for the first time what her love and Erlend’s had been. The
memory of hot and passionate happiness swept over all else—swept away
the hard despair and hatred of last night. All she knew of now was her
love and her will to hold out.

They looked at her—all three. Then Sir Björn went across and lifted her
chin with his hand and looked at her:

“Say _you_, Kristin, she did it herself?”

“Every word you have heard is true,” said Kristin firmly. “We threatened
her till she did it.”

“She had meant Kristin should suffer a worst fate,” said Aashild.

Sir Björn let go the girl. He went over to the body, lifted it up into
the bed where Eline had lain the night before, and laid it close to the
wall, drawing up the coverings well over it:

“Jon and the man you do not know you must send home to Husaby, with word
that Eline is journeying south with you. Let them ride at midday. Say
that the women are asleep in the hall; they must take their food in the
kitchen. Afterward you must speak with Ulv and Haftor. Hath she
threatened before to do this? So that you can bring witness to it, if
such question should be asked?”

“Every soul that was at Husaby the last years we lived together there,”
said Erlend wearily, “can witness that she threatened to take her own
life—and mine too sometimes—when I spoke of parting from her.”

Björn laughed harshly:

“I thought as much. To-night we must clothe her in her riding-coats and
set her in the sleigh. You must sit beside her—”

Erlend swayed on his feet where he stood:

“I cannot!”

“God knows how much manhood will be left in _you_ when you have gone
your own gait twenty years more,” said Björn. “Think you, then, you can
drive the sleigh? For then will I sit beside her. We must travel by
night and by lonely paths, till we are come down to Fron. In this cold
none can know how long she has been dead. We will drive in to the monk’s
Hospice at Roaldstad. There will you and I bear witness that you two
were together in the sleigh, and it came to bitter words betwixt you.
There is witness enough that you would not live with her since the ban
was taken off you, and that you have made suit for a maiden of birth
that fits your own. Ulv and Haftor must hold themselves aloof the whole
way, so they can swear, if need be, she was alive when last they saw
her. You can bring them to do so much, I trow? At the monastery you can
have the monks lay her in her coffin—and afterward you must bargain with
the priests for grave-peace for her and soul’s peace for yourself.—Aye,
a fair deed it is not? But so as you have guided things, no fairer can
it be. Stand not there like a breeding woman ready to swoon away. God
help you, boy, a man can see _you_ have not proved before what ’tis to
feel the knife-edge at your throat.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

A biting blast came rushing down from the mountains, driving a fine
silvery smoke from the snow-wreaths up into the moon-blue air, as the
men made ready to drive away.

Two horses were harnessed, one in front of the other. Erlend sat in the
front of the sleigh. Kristin went up to him:

“This time, Erlend, you must try to send me word how this journey goes,
and what becomes of you after.”

He crushed her hand till she thought the blood must be driven out from
under the nails.

“Dare you still hold fast to me, Kristin?”

“Aye, still,” she said; and after a moment—: “Of this deed we are both
guilty—I egged you on—for I willed her death.”

Lady Aashild and Kristin stood and looked after the sleigh, as it rose
and dipped over the snow-drifts. It went down from sight into a
hollow—then came forth again farther down on a snow-slope. And then the
men passed into the shadow of a fell, and were gone from sight for good.

The two women sat by the fireplace, their backs to the empty bed, from
which Aashild had borne away all the bedding and straw. Both could feel
it standing there empty and gaping behind them.

“Would you rather that we should sleep in the kitchen-house to-night,”
asked Lady Aashild at length.

“’Tis like it will be the same wherever we lie,” said Kristin.

Lady Aashild went out to look at the weather.

“Aye, should the wind get up or a thaw come on, they will not journey
far before it comes out,” said Kristin.

“Here at Haugen it blows ever,” answered Lady Aashild. “’Tis no sign of
a change of weather.”

They sat on as before.

“You should not forget,” said the Lady at last, “what fate she had meant
for you two.”

Kristin answered low:

“I was thinking, maybe in her place I had willed the same.”

“Never would you have willed another should be a leper,” said Aashild,
vehemently.

“Mind you, Moster, you said to me once that ’tis well when we dare not
do a thing we think is not good and fair; but not so well when we think
a thing not good and fair because we dare not do it?”

“You had not dared to do it, because ’twas sin,” said Lady Aashild.

“No, I believe not so,” said Kristin. “Much have I done already that I
deemed once I dared not to do because ’twas sin. But I saw not till now
what sin brings with it—that we must tread others underfoot.”

“Erlend would fain have made an end of his ill life long before he met
you,” said Aashild eagerly. “All was over between those two.”

“I know it,” said Kristin. “But I trow she had never cause to deem
Erlend’s purposes so firm that she could not shake them.”

“Kristin,” begged the lady fearfully, “surely you would not give up
Erlend now? You cannot be saved now except you save each other.”

“So would a priest scorn counsel,” said Kristin, smiling coldly. “But
well I know that never can I give up Erlend now—not if I should tread my
own father underfoot.”

Lady Aashild rose:

“We had as well put our hands to some work as sit here thus,” she said.
“Like enough ’twould be vain for us to try to sleep.”

She fetched the butter-churn from the closet, then bore in some pans of
milk, filled the churn and made ready to begin churning.

“Let me do it,” Kristin asked. “My back is younger.”

They worked without speaking; Kristin stood by the closet-door churning,
while Aashild carded wool by the hearth. At last, when Kristin had
emptied the churn and was kneading the butter, the girl asked of a
sudden:

“Moster Aashild—are you never afraid of the day when you must stand
before God’s judgment?”

Lady Aashild rose, and came and stood before Kristin in the light:

“It may be I shall find courage to ask Him that hath made me as I am, if
He will have mercy on me in His own good time. For I have never begged
for His mercy when I broke His commands. And never have I begged God or
man to forgive me a farthing of the price I have paid here in this
mountain hut.”

A little while after she said softly:

“Munan, my eldest son, was twenty years old. He was not such an one
then, as I know he is now. They were not such ones then, my children—”

Kristin answered low:

“But yet have you had Sir Björn by your side each day and each night in
all these years.”

“Aye—that too have I had,” said Aashild.

                  *       *       *       *       *

In a little while after, Kristin was done with the butter-making. Lady
Aashild said then that they must lie down and try to sleep a little.

Inside, in the dark bed, she laid her arm round Kristin’s shoulders, and
drew the young head in to her breast. And it was not long before she
heard by her even gentle breathing that Kristin was fallen asleep.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   4

The frost held on. In every byre in the parish the half-starved beasts
bellowed dolefully with hunger and cold. Already the farmers were
skimping and saving on their fodder, every straw they could.

There was little visiting round at Yule this year; folks stayed quiet in
their own homes.

During Yule-tide the cold grew greater—it was as though each day was
colder than the last. Scarce anyone could call to mind so hard a
winter—there came no more snow, not even up in the mountains; but the
snow that had fallen at Clementsmass froze hard as a stone. The sun
shone from a clear sky, now the days began to grow lighter. At night the
northern lights flickered and flamed above the range to the north—they
flamed over half the heaven, but they brought no change of weather; now
and again would come a cloudy day, and a little dry snow would sprinkle
down—and then came clear weather again and biting cold. The Laagen
muttered and gurgled sluggishly under its ice-bridges.

Kristin thought each morning that she could bear no more, that she could
never hold out to the day’s end. For each day she felt was as a duel
between her and her father. And _could_ they be against each other so,
when every living being in the parish, man and beast, was suffering
under one common trial?—But still, when the evening came, she had held
out one day more.

It was not that her father was unfriendly. They spoke no word of what
was between them, but she felt, behind all that he did not say, his firm
unbending will to hold fast to his denial.

And her heart ached within her for the lack of his friendship. The ache
was so dreadful in its keenness, because she knew how much else her
father had on his shoulders—and had things been as before, he would have
talked with her of it all—It was indeed so, that at Jörundgaard they
were in better case than most other places; but here, too, they felt the
pinch of the year each day and each hour. Other years it had been
Lavrans’ wont in the winters to handle and break in his young colts; but
this year he had sent them all south in the autumn and sold them. And
his daughter missed the sound of his voice out in the courtyard, and the
sight of him struggling with the slender, ragged two-year-olds in the
game he loved so well. Storehouses and barns and bins at Jörundgaard
were not bare yet—there was store left from the harvest of the year
before—but many folk came to ask for help—to buy, or to beg for
gifts—and none ever asked in vain.

Late one evening came a huge old skin-clad man on ski. Lavrans talked
with him out in the courtyard, and Halvdan bore food across to the
hearth-room for him. None on the place who had seen him knew who he
was—he might well be one of those wild folk who lived far in among the
fells; like enough Lavrans had come upon him in there. But Lavrans said
naught of the visitor, nor Halvdan either.

But one evening came a man whom Lavrans Björgulfsön had been at odds
with for many years. Lavrans went to the storeroom with him. When he
came back to the hall again he said:

“They come to me for help, every man of them. But here in my own house
you are all against me. You, too, wife,” he said hotly.

The mother flamed up at Kristin:

“Hear you what your father says to me! No, I am not against you,
Lavrans. I know—and I wot well you know it too, Kristin—what befell away
south at Roaldstad late in the autumn, when he journeyed down the Dale
with that other adulterer, his kinsman of Hauges—she took her own life,
the unhappy woman he had lured away from all her kin.”

Kristin stood with a hard, frozen face:

“I see that ’tis all one—you blame him as much for the years he has
striven to free himself from sin, as for the years he lived in it.”

“Jesus, Maria!” cried Ragnfrid, clasping her hands together: “What is
come to you! Has even this not availed to change your heart?”

“No,” said Kristin. “I have not changed.”

Then Lavrans looked up from the bench where he sat by Ulvhild:

“Neither have I changed, Kristin,” he said in a low voice.

                  *       *       *       *       *

But Kristin felt within her that in a manner she was changed, in
thoughts if not in heart. She had had tidings of how it had fared with
them on that dreadful journey. As things fell out it had gone off more
easily than they looked it should. Whether the cold had got into the
hurt or whatever the cause might be, the knife-wound in Erlend’s breast
had festered, and constrained him to lie sick some while in the hospice
at Roaldstad, Sir Björn tending him. But that Erlend was wounded made it
easier to win belief for their tale of how that other thing had
befallen.

When he was fit to journey on, he had taken the dead woman with him in a
coffin all the way to Oslo. There, by Sira Jon’s help, he had won for
her Christian burial in the churchyard of the old Church of St. Nikolaus
that had been pulled down. Then had he made confession to the Bishop of
Oslo himself, and the Bishop had laid on him as penance to go on
pilgrimage to the Holy Blood at Schwerin. Now was he gone out of the
land.

_She_ could not make pilgrimage to any place on earth, and find
absolution. For her there was naught but to sit here and wait and think,
and strive to hold out in the struggle with her father and mother. A
strange wintery-cold light fell on all her memories of meetings with
Erlend. She thought of his vehemency—in love and in grief—and it was
borne in on her that had she been able, like him, to take up all things
of a sudden, and straightway rush forward with them, headlong,
afterwards maybe they might have seemed less fearful and heavy to bear.
At times, too, she would think: maybe Erlend will give me up. It seemed
to her she must always have had a little, lurking fear that if things
grew too hard for them he would fail her. But she would never give _him_
up, unless he himself loosed her from all vows.

                  *       *       *       *       *

So the winter dragged on toward its end. And Kristin could not cheat
herself any more; she had to see that the hardest trial of all lay
before them—that Ulvhild had not long to live. And in the midst of her
bitter sorrow for her sister she saw with horror that truly her own soul
was wildered and eaten away with sin. For, with the dying child and the
parents’ unspeakable sorrow before her eyes, she was still brooding on
this one thing—if Ulvhild dies, how can I bear to look at my father and
not throw myself at his feet and confess all and beseech him to forgive
me—and command me—.

                  *       *       *       *       *

They were come far on in the long fast. Folks had begun slaughtering the
small stock they had hoped to save alive, for fear they should die of
themselves. And the people themselves sickened and pined from living on
fish, with naught besides but a little wretched meal and flour. Sira
Eirik gave leave to the whole parish to eat milk food if they would. But
few of the folk could come by a drop of milk.

Ulvhild lay in bed. She lay alone in the sisters’ bed, and someone
watched by her each night. It chanced sometimes that both Kristin and
her father would be sitting by her. On such a night Lavrans said to his
daughter:

“Mind you what Brother Edwin said that time about Ulvhild’s lot? Even
then the thought came to me that maybe he meant this. But I thrust it
from me then.”

Sometimes in these nights he would speak of this thing and that from the
time when the children were small. Kristin sat there, white and
desperate—she knew that behind the words her father was beseeching her.

One day Lavrans had gone with Kolbein to hunt out a bear’s winter lair
in the wooded hills to the north. They came home with a she-bear on a
sledge, and Lavrans brought with him a living bear-cub in the bosom of
his coat. Ulvhild brightened a little when he showed it to her. But
Ragnfrid said that was surely no time to rear up such a beast—what would
he do with it at a time like this?

“I will rear it up and bind it before my daughters’ bower,” said
Lavrans, laughing harshly.

But they could not get for the cub the rich milk it needed, and Lavrans
had to kill it a few days after.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The sun had gained so much strength now that sometimes, at midday, the
roofs would drip a little. The titmice clambered about, clinging on the
sunny side of the timber walls, and pecked till the wood rang, digging
for the flies sleeping in the cracks. Over the rolling fields around,
the snow shone hard and bright as silver.

At last one evening clouds began to draw together over the moon. And the
next morning the folks at Jörundgaard woke in the midst of a whirling
world of snow that shut in their sight on every hand.

                  *       *       *       *       *

That day they knew that Ulvhild was dying.

All the house-folk were indoors, and Sira Eirik came over to them. Many
candles were burning in the hall. Early in the evening Ulvhild passed
away, quietly and peacefully, in her mother’s arms.

Ragnfrid bore it better than any had thought possible. The father and
mother sat together; both were weeping very quietly. All in the room
were weeping. When Kristin went across to her father, he laid his arm
round her shoulders. He felt how she shook and trembled, and he drew her
close in to him. But to her it seemed that he must feel as if she were
further from him far than the dead child in the bed.

She understood not how it was that she still held out. She scarce
remembered herself what it was she held out for; but, lulled and dumb
with grief as she was, she held herself up and did not yield—

—A few planks were torn up from the church floor in front of St.
Thomas’s shrine, and a grave was hewn in the stone-hard ground beneath
for Ulvhild Lavransdatter.

It was snowing thick and silently all through those days, while the
child lay in the dead-straw; it was snowing still when she was borne to
the grave; and it went on snowing, almost without cease, till a whole
month was out.

                  *       *       *       *       *

To the folk of the Dale, waiting and waiting for the spring to deliver
them, it seemed as though it would never come. The days grew long and
light, and the steam-cloud from the melting snow lay on all the valley
as long as the sun shone. But the cold still held the air, and there was
no strength in the heat to overcome it. By night it froze hard—there was
loud cracking from the ice, there were booming sounds from the distant
fells; and the wolves howled and the fox barked down among the farms as
at midwinter. Men stripped the bark from the trees for their cattle, but
they dropped down dead in their stalls by scores. None could tell how
all this was to end.

Kristin went out on such a day, when water was trickling in the ruts and
the snow on the fields around glistened like silver. The snow-wreaths
had been eaten away hollow on the side toward the sun, so that the fine
ice-trellis of the snow-crust edges broke with a silver tinkle when her
foot touched them. But everywhere, where the smallest shadow fell, the
sharp cold held the air and the snow was hard.

She went upward towards the church—she knew not herself what she went to
do, but something drew her there. Her father was there—some of the
free-holders, guild-brothers, were to meet in the cloister-way, she
knew.

Half-way up the hill she met the troop of farmers, coming down. Sira
Eirik was with them. The men were all on foot; they walked stoopingly in
a dark, shaggy knot, and spoke no word together. They gave back her
greeting sullenly, as she went by them.

Kristin thought how far away the time was when every soul in the parish
had been her friend. Like enough all men knew now that she was a bad
daughter. Perhaps they knew yet more about her. It might well be that
all believed now there had been some truth in the old talk about her and
Arne and Bentein. It might be that she had fallen into the worst
ill-fame. She held her head high and passed on toward the church.

The door stood ajar. It was cold in the church, yet was it as though a
mild warmth streamed into her heart from the brown dusky hall with the
high, upspringing pillars holding up the darkness under the roof-beams.
There was no light on the altars, but a ray of sun shone in through a
chink of the door and gleamed faintly back from the pictures and the
holy vessels.

Far in before the altar of St. Thomas she saw her father kneeling with
head bent forward on his folded hands, which held his cap crushed to his
breast.

Shrinking back in fear and sadness, Kristin stole out and stood in the
cloister-way, with her hands about two of its small pillars. Framed in
the arch between them she saw Jörundgaard lying below, and behind her
home the pale-blue haze that filled the valley. Where the river lay
stretched through the country-side its ice and water sent out white
sparkles in the sunshine. But the alder thickets along its bed were
yellow-brown with blossom, even the pine-wood up by the church was
tinged with spring green, and there was a piping and twittering and
whistling of little birds in the grove near by. Aye, there had been
bird-song like this each evening after the sun was down.

And she felt that the longing she thought must have been racked out of
her long since, the longing in her body and her blood, was stirring now
again, faintly and feebly, as about to waken from a winter sleep.

Lavrans Björgulfsön came out and locked the church-door behind him. He
came and stood by his daughter, looking out through the arch next to
her. She saw how the winter gone by had harrowed her father’s face. She
understood not herself how she could touch now on what was between them,
but the words seemed to rush out of themselves:

“Is it true, what mother told me the other day—that you said to her: had
it been Arne Gyrdsön you would have given me my will?”

“Aye,” said Lavrans, not looking at her.

“You said not so while yet Arne lived,” said Kristin.

“It never came in question. I saw well enough that the boy held you
dear—but he said nothing—and he was young—and I marked not ever that you
had such thoughts towards him. You could scarce think I would _proffer_
my daughter to a man of no estate?” he smiled slightly. “But I loved the
boy,” he said in a low voice; “and had I seen you pining for love of
him—”

They stood still, gazing. Kristin felt that her father was looking at
her—she strove hard to be calm of face, but she felt herself grow deadly
white. Then her father came towards her, put both his arms around her
and pressed her strongly to him. He bent her head backwards, looked down
into his daughter’s face, and then hid it again on his shoulder.

“Jesus Kristus, little Kristin, are you _so_ unhappy—?”

“I think I shall die of it, father,” she said, her face pressed to him.

She burst into weeping. But she wept because she had felt in his caress
and seen in his eyes that now he was so worn out with pain that he could
not hold out against her any more. She had overcome him.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Far on in the night she was wakened in the dark by her father’s touch on
her shoulder.

“Get up,” he said softly. “Do you hear—?”

She heard the singing of the wind round the house-corners—the deep, full
note of the south-wind, heavy with wetness. Streams were pouring from
the roof; there was the whisper of rain falling on soft melting snow.

Kristin flung her dress on her back and went after her father to the
outer door. They stood together looking out into the twilight of the May
night—warm wind and rain smote against them—the heavens were a welter of
tangled drifting rain-clouds, the woods roared, the wind whistled
between the houses, and from far up in the fells they heard the dull
boom of snow-masses falling.

Kristin felt for her father’s hand and held it. He had called her that
he might show her this. So had it been between them before, that he
would have done this; and so it was now again.

When they went in to bed again, Lavrans said:

“The stranger serving-man that came last week brought me letters from
Sir Munan Baardsön. He is minded to come up the Dale to our parts next
summer to see his mother; and he asked if he might meet me and have
speech with me.”

“What will you answer him, my father?” she whispered.

“That can I not tell you now,” said Lavrans. “But I will speak with him;
and then must I order this matter so as I may deem I can answer it to
God, my daughter.”

Kristin crept in again beside Ramborg, and Lavrans went and lay down by
the side of his sleeping wife. He lay thinking that if the flood came
over-sudden and strong there were few places in the parish that lay so
much in its path as Jörundgaard. Folk said there was a prophecy that
some day the river would carry it away.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   5

Spring came at a single bound. Only a few days after the sudden thaw the
whole parish lay dark brown under the flooding rain. The waters rushed
foaming down the hillsides, the river swelled up and lay in the
valley-bottom, like a great leaden-grey lake, with lines of tree-tops
floating on its waters and a treacherous bubbling furrow where the
current ran. At Jörundgaard the water stood far up over the fields. But
everywhere the mischief done was less than folk had feared.

Of necessity the spring work was thrown late, and the people sowed their
scanty corn with prayers to God that He would save it from the
night-frosts in autumn. And it looked as though He would hearken to them
and a little ease their burdens. June came in with mild, growing
weather, the summer was good, and folk set their faces forward in hope
that the marks of the evil year might be wiped out in time.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The hay harvest had been got in, when one evening four men rode up to
Jörundgaard. First came two knights, and behind them their serving-men;
and the knights were Sir Munan Baardsön and Sir Baard Petersön of
Hestnæs.

Ragnfrid and Lavrans had the board spread in the upper hall, and beds
made ready in the guest-room over the store-house. But Lavrans begged
the knights to tarry with their errand till the next day, when they
should be rested from their journey.

Sir Munan led the talk throughout the meal; he turned much to Kristin in
talking, and spoke as if he and she were well-acquainted. She saw that
this was not to her father’s liking. Sir Munan was square-built,
red-faced, ugly, talkative, and something of a buffoon in his bearing.
People called him Dumpy Munan or Dance Munan. But for all his flighty
bearing Lady Aashild’s son was a man of understanding and parts, who had
been used by the Crown more than once in matters of trust, and was known
to have a word in the counsels of them that guided the affairs of the
kingdom. He held his mother’s heritage in the Skogheim Hundred; was
exceeding rich, and had made a rich marriage. Lady Katrin, his wife, was
hard-featured beyond the common, and seldom opened her mouth; but her
husband ever spoke of her as if she were the wisest of dames, so that
she was known in jest as Lady Katrin the Ready-witted, or the
Silver-tongued. They seemed to live with each other well and lovingly,
though Sir Munan was known all too well for the looseness of his life
both before and after his marriage.

Sir Baard Petersön was a comely and a stately old man, even though now
somewhat ample of girth and heavy-limbed. His hair and beard were faded
now, but their hue was still as much yellow as ’twas white. Since King
Magnus Haakonsön’s death he had lived retired, managing his great
possessions in Nordmöre. He was a widower for the second time, and had
many children, who, it was said, were all comely, well-nurtured and
well-to-do.

The next day Lavrans and his guests went up to the upper hall for their
parley. Lavrans would have had his wife be present with them, but she
would not:

“This matter must be in your hands wholly. You know well ’twill be the
heaviest of sorrows for our daughter if it should come to naught; but I
see well that there are but too many things that may make against this
marriage.”

Sir Munan brought forth a letter from Erlend Nikulaussön. Erlend’s
proffer was that Lavrans should fix, himself, each and all of the
conditions, if he would betroth his daughter Kristin to him. Erlend was
willing to have all his possessions valued and his incomings appraised
by impartial men, and to grant to Kristin such extra-gift and
morning-gift, that she would possess a third of all his estate besides
her own dowry and all such heritage as might come to her from her kin,
should she be left a widow without living children. Further his proffer
was to grant Kristin full power to deal at her pleasure with her share
of the common estate, both what she had of her own kindred and what came
to her from her husband. But if Lavrans wished for other terms of
settlement, Erlend was most willing to hear his wishes and to follow
them in all things. To one thing only he asked that Kristin’s kindred,
on their side, should bind themselves: that, should the guardianship of
his children and Kristin’s ever come to them, they would never try to
set aside the gifts he had made to his children by Eline Ormsdatter, but
would let all such gifts hold good, as having passed from his estate
before his entry into wedlock with Kristin Lavransdatter. At the end of
all Erlend made proffer to hold the wedding in all seemly state at
Husaby.

Lavrans spoke in reply:

“This is a fair proffer. I see by it that your kinsman has it much at
heart to come to terms with me. All the more is this plain to me by
reason that he has moved you, Sir Munan, to come for the second time on
such an errand to a man like me, who am of little weight beyond my own
country-side; and that a knight like you, Sir Baard, hath been at the
pains of making such a journey to further his cause. But concerning
Erlend’s proffer I would say this: my daughter has not been bred up to
deal herself with the ordering of goods and gear, but I have ever hoped
to give her to such a man as that I could lay the maid’s welfare in his
hands with an easy mind. I know not, indeed, whether Kristin be fit to
be set in such authority, but I can scarce believe that ’twould be for
her good. She is mild of mood and biddable—and ’twas one of the reasons
I have had in mind in setting myself against this marriage, that ’tis
known Erlend has shown want of understanding in more matters than one.
Had she been a power-loving, bold and head-strong woman, then indeed the
matter had taken on another face.”

Sir Munan burst out laughing:

“Dear Lavrans, lament you that the maid is not head-strong enough—?” and
Sir Baard said with a little smile:

“Methinks your daughter has shown that she lacks not a will of her
own—for two years now she has held to Erlend clean against your will.”

Lavrans said:

“I have not forgotten it; yet do I know well what I say. She has
suffered sorely herself all this time she has stood against me; nor will
she long be glad with a husband who cannot rule her.”

“Nay then the devil’s in it!” said Sir Munan. “Then must your daughter
be far unlike all the women I have known; for I have never seen _one_
that was not fain to rule herself—and her man to boot!”

Lavrans shrugged his shoulders and made no answer.

Then said Baard Petersön:

“I can well believe, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you have found this
marriage between your daughter and my foster-son no more to your liking,
since the woman who had lived with him came to the end we know of last
year. But you must know it has come out now that the unhappy woman had
let herself be led astray by another man, Erlend’s steward at Husaby.
Erlend knew of this when he went with her down the Dale; he had
proffered to portion her fittingly, if the man would wed her.”

“Are you well assured that this is so?” asked Lavrans. “And yet I know
not,” he said again, “if the thing is anyway bettered thereby. Hard must
it be for a woman come of good kindred to go into a house hand and hand
with the master, and be led out by the serving-man.”

Munan Baardsön took the word:

“’Tis plain to me, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that what goes against my cousin
most with you, is that he has had these hapless dealings with Sigurd
Saksulvsön’s wife. And true it is that ’twas not well done of him. But
in God’s name, man, you must remember this—here was this young boy
dwelling in one house with a young and fair woman, and she had an old,
cold, strengthless husband—and the night is a half-year long up there:
methinks a man could scarce look for aught else to happen, unless Erlend
had been a very saint. There is no denying it: Erlend had made at all
times but a sorry monk; but methinks your young, fair daughter would
give you little thanks, should you give her a monkish husband.—True it
is that Erlend bore himself like a fool then, and a yet greater fool
since—But the thing should not stand against him for ever—we his kinsmen
have striven to help the boy to his feet again; the woman is dead; and
Erlend has done all in his power to care for her body and her soul; the
Bishop of Oslo himself hath absolved him of his sin, and now is he come
home again made clean by the Holy Blood at Schwerin—would you be
stricter than the Bishop of Oslo, and the Archbishop at Schwerin—or
whoever it may be that hath charge of that precious blood—?

“Dear Lavrans, true it is that chastity is a fair thing indeed; but ’tis
verily hard for a grown man to attain to it without a special gift of
grace from God. By St. Olav—Aye, and you should remember too that the
Holy King himself was not granted that gift till his life here below was
drawing to an end—very like ’twas God’s will that he should first beget
that doughty youth King Magnus, who smote down the heathen when they
raged against the Nordlands. I wot well King Olav had that son by
another than his Queen—yet doth he sit amidst the highest saints in the
host of heaven. Aye, I can see in your face that you deem this unseemly
talk—”

Sir Baard broke in:

“Lavrans Björgulfsön, I liked this matter no better than you, when first
Erlend came to me and said he had set his heart on a maid that was
handfast to another. But since then I have come to know that there is so
great kindness between these two young folk, that ’twould be great pity
to part their loves. Erlend was with me at the last Yule-tide feasting
King Haakon held for his men—they met together there, and scarce had
they seen each other when your daughter swooned away and lay a long
while as one dead—and I saw in my foster-son’s face that he would rather
lose his life than lose her.”

Lavrans sat still awhile before answering:

“Aye; all such things sound fair and fine when a man hears them told in
a knightly saga of the Southlands. But we are not in Bretland here, and
’tis like you too would ask more in the man you would choose for
son-in-law than that he had brought your daughter to swoon away for love
in all folk’s sight—”

The two others were silent, and Lavrans went on:

“’Tis in my mind, good Sirs, that had Erlend Nikulaussön not made great
waste both of his goods and of his fame, you would scarce be sitting
here pleading so strongly with a man of my estate that I should give my
daughter to him. But I would be loth it should be said of Kristin that
’twas an honour for her to wed a great estate and a man from amongst the
highest in the land—after the man had so beshamed himself, that he could
not look to make a better match, or keep undiminished the honour of his
house.”

He rose in heat, and began walking to and fro.

But Sir Munan started up:

“Now, before God, Lavrans, if the talk is of shame, I would have you
know you are over-proud in—”

Sir Baard broke in quickly, going up to Lavrans:

“Proud you are, Lavrans—you are like those udal farmers we have heard of
in olden times, who would have naught to do with the titles the Kings
would have given them, because their pride could not brook that folk
should say they owed thanks to any but themselves. I tell you, that were
Erlend still master of all the honour and riches the boy was born to,
yet would I never deem that I demeaned him or myself in asking a
well-born and wealthy man to give his daughter to my foster-son, if I
knew that the two young creatures might break their hearts if they
parted. And the rather,” he said in a low voice, laying his hand on
Lavrans’ shoulder, “if so it were that ’twould be best for the souls of
both they should wed each other.”

Lavrans drew away from the other’s hand; his face grew set and cold:

“I scarce believe I understand your meaning, Sir Knight?”

The two men looked at each other for a space; then Sir Baard said:

“I mean that Erlend has told me, they two have sworn troth to each other
with the dearest oaths. Maybe you would say that you have power to loose
your child from her oath, since she swore without your will. But Erlend
you cannot loose.—And for aught I can see what most stands in the road
is your pride—and the hate you bear to sin. But in that ’tis to me as
though you were minded to be stricter than God himself, Lavrans
Björgulfsön.”

Lavrans answered somewhat uncertainly:

“It may be there is truth in this that you say to me, Sir Baard. But
what most has set me against this match is that I have deemed Erlend to
be so unsure a man that I could not trust my daughter to his hands.”

“Methinks I can answer for my foster-son now,” said Baard quietly.
“Kristin is so dear to him that I know, if you will give her to him, he
will prove in the event such a son-in-law that you shall have no cause
of grief.”

Lavrans did not answer at once. Then Sir Baard said earnestly, holding
out his hand:

“In God’s name, Lavrans Björgulfsön, give your consent!”

Lavrans laid his hand in Sir Baard’s:

“In God’s name!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Ragnfrid and Kristin were called to the upper hall, and Lavrans told
them his will. Sir Baard greeted the two women in fair and courtly
fashion; Sir Munan took Ragnfrid by the hand and spoke to her in seemly
wise, but Kristin he greeted in the foreign fashion with a kiss, and he
took time over his greeting. Kristin felt that her father looked at her
while this was doing.

“How like you your new kinsman, Sir Munan?” he asked jestingly when he
was alone with her for a moment late that evening.

Kristin looked beseechingly at him. Then he stroked her face a little
and said no more.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When Sir Baard and Sir Munan went to their room, Munan broke out:

“Not a little would I give to see this Lavrans Björgulfsön’s face,
should he come to know the truth about this precious daughter of his.
Here have you and I had to beg on our knees to win for Erlend a woman he
has had with him in Brynhild’s house many times—”

“Hold your peace—no word of that,” answered Sir Baard in wrath. “’Twas
the worst deed Erlend ever did, to lure that child to such places—and
see that Lavrans never hear aught of it; the best that can happen now
for all is that those two should be friends.”

The feast for the drinking of the betrothal ale was appointed to be held
that same autumn. Lavrans said he could not make the feast very great,
the year before had been such a bad one in the Dale; but to make up he
would bear the cost of the wedding himself, and hold it at Jörundgaard
in all seemly state. He named the bad year again as the cause why he
required that the time of betrothal should last a year.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   6

For more reasons than one the betrothal feast was put off; it was not
held till the New Year; but Lavrans agreed that the bridal need not
therefore be delayed; it was to be just after Michaelmas, as was fixed
at first.

So Kristin sat now at Jörundgaard as Erlend’s betrothed in all men’s
sight. Along with her mother she looked over all the goods and gear that
had been gathered and saved up for her portion, and strove to add still
more to the great piles of bedding and clothes; for when once Lavrans
had given his daughter to the master of Husaby, it was his will that
naught should be spared.

Kristin wondered herself at times that she did not feel more glad. But,
spite of all the busyness, there was no true gladness at Jörundgaard.

Her father and mother missed Ulvhild sorely, that she saw. But she
understood too that ’twas not that alone which made them so silent and
so joyless. They were kind to her, but when they talked with her of her
betrothed, she saw that they did but force themselves to it to please
her and show her kindness; ’twas not that they themselves had a mind to
speak of Erlend. They had not learned to take more joy in the marriage
she was making, now they had come to know the man. Erlend, too, had kept
himself quiet and withdrawn the short time he had been at Jörundgaard
for the betrothal—and like enough this could not have been otherwise,
thought Kristin; for he knew it was with no good will her father had
given his consent.

She herself and Erlend had scarce had the chance to speak ten words
alone together. And it had brought a strange unwonted feeling, to sit
together thus in all folk’s sight; at such times they had little to say,
by reason of the many things between them that could not be said. There
arose in her a doubtful fear, vague and dim, but always present—perhaps
’twould make it hard for them in some way after they were wedded, that
they had come all too near to each other at the first, and after had
lived so long quite parted.

But she tried to thrust the fear away. It was meant that Erlend should
visit them at Whitsuntide; he had asked Lavrans and Ragnfrid if they had
aught against his coming, and Lavrans had laughed a little, and answered
that Erlend might be sure his daughter’s bridegroom would be welcome.

At Whitsuntide they would be able to go out together; they would have a
chance to speak together as in the old days, and then surely it would
fade away, the shadow that had come between them in this long time
apart, when each had gone about alone bearing a burden the other could
not share.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At Easter Simon Andressön and his wife came to Formo. Kristin saw them
in the church. Simon’s wife was standing not far off from her.

She must be much older than he, thought Kristin—nigh thirty years old.
Lady Halfrid was little and slender and thin, but she had an exceeding
gracious visage. The very hue of her pale-brown hair as it flowed in
waves from under her linen coif, seemed, as it were, so gentle, and her
eyes too were full of gentleness; they were great grey eyes flecked with
tiny golden specks. Every feature of her face was fine and pure—but her
skin was something dull and grey, and when she opened her mouth one saw
that her teeth were not good. She looked not as though she were strong,
and folks said indeed that she was sickly—she had miscarried more than
once already, Kristin had heard. She wondered how it would fare with
Simon with this wife.

The Jörundgaard folk and they of Formo had greeted each other across the
church-green more than once, but had not spoken. But on Easter-day Simon
was in the church without his wife. He went across to Lavrans, and they
spoke together a while. Kristin heard Ulvhild’s name spoken. Afterwards
he spoke with Ragnfrid. Ramborg, who was standing by her mother, called
out aloud: “I mind you quite well—_I_ know who you are.” Simon lifted
the child up a little and twirled her round: “’Tis well done of you,
Ramborg, not to have forgotten me.” Kristin he only greeted from some
way off; and her father and mother said no word afterward of the
meeting.

But Kristin pondered much upon it. For all that had come and gone, it
had been strange to see Simon Darre again as a wedded man. So much that
was past came to life again at the sight; she remembered her own blind
and all-yielding love for Erlend in those days. Now, she felt, there was
some change in it. The thought came to her: how if Simon had told his
wife how they had come to part, he and she—but she knew he had kept
silence—“for my father’s sake,” she thought scoffingly. ’Twas a poor
showing, and strange, that she should be still living here unwed, in her
parents’ house. But at least they were betrothed; Simon could see that
they had had their way in spite of all. Whatever else Erlend might have
done, to _her_ he had held faithfully, and she had not been loose or
wanton.

                  *       *       *       *       *

One evening in early spring Ragnfrid had to send down the valley to old
Gunhild, the widow who sewed furs. The evening was so fair that Kristin
asked if she might not go; at last they gave her leave, since all the
men were busy.

It was after sunset, and a fine white frost-haze was rising toward the
gold-green sky. Kristin heard at each hoof-stroke the brittle sound of
the evening’s ice as it broke and flew outwards in tinkling splinters.
But from all the roadside brakes there was a happy noise of birds
singing, softly but full-throated with spring, into the twilight.

Kristin rode sharply downwards; she thought not much of anything, but
felt only it was good to be abroad alone once more. She rode with her
eyes fixed on the new moon sinking down toward the mountain ridge on the
far side of the Dale; and she had near fallen from her horse when he
suddenly swerved aside and reared.

She saw a dark body lying huddled together at the roadside—and at first
she was afraid. The hateful fear that had passed into her blood—the fear
of meeting people alone by the way—she could never quite be rid of. But
she thought ’twas maybe a wayfaring man who had fallen sick; so when she
had mastered her horse again, she turned and rode back, calling out to
know who it was.

The bundle stirred a little, and a voice said:

“Methinks ’tis you yourself, Kristin Lavransdatter—?”

“Brother Edwin?” she asked softly. She came near to thinking this was
some phantom or some deviltry sent to trick her. But she went nigh to
him; it was the old monk himself, and he could not raise himself from
the ground without help.

“My dear Father—are you wandering at this time of the year?” she said in
wonder.

“Praise be to God, who sent you this way to-night,” said the monk.
Kristin saw that his whole body was shaking. “I was coming north to you
folks, but my legs would carry me no further this night. Almost I deemed
’twas God’s will that I should lie down and die on the roads I have been
wandering about on all my life. But I was fain to see you once again, my
daughter—”

Kristin helped the monk up on her horse; then led it homeward by the
bridle, holding him on. And, all the time he was lamenting that now she
would get her feet wet in the icy slush, she could hear him moaning
softly with pain.

He told her that he had been at Eyabu since Yule. Some rich farmers of
the parish had vowed in the bad year to beautify their church with new
adornments. But the work had gone slowly; he had been sick the last of
the winter—the evil was in his stomach—it could bear no food, and he
vomited blood. He believed himself he had not long to live, and he
longed now to be home in his cloister, for he was fain to die there
among his own brethren. But he had a mind first to come north up the
Dale one last time, and so he had set out, along with the monk who came
from Hamar to be the new prior of the pilgrim hospice at Roaldstad. From
Fron he had come on alone.

“I heard that you were betrothed,” he said, “to that man—and then such a
longing came on me to see you. It seemed to me a sore thing that that
should be our last meeting, that time in our church at Oslo. It has been
a heavy burden on my heart, Kristin, that you had strayed away into the
path where is no peace—”

Kristin kissed the monk’s hand:

“Truly I know not, Father, what I have done, or how deserved, that you
show me such great love.”

The monk answered in a low voice:

“I have thought many a time, Kristin, that had it so befallen we had met
more often, then might you have come to be as my daughter in the
spirit.”

“Mean you that you would have brought me to turn my heart to the holy
life of the cloister?” asked Kristin. Then, a little after, she said:
“Sira Eirik laid a command on me that, should I not win my father’s
consent and be wed with Erlend, then must I join with a godly sisterhood
and make atonement for my sins—”

“I have prayed many a time that the longing for the holy life might come
to you,” said Brother Edwin. “But not since you told me that you wot
of—I would have had you come to God, wearing your garland, Kristin—”

                  *       *       *       *       *

When they came to Jörundgaard Brother Edwin had to be lifted down and
borne in to his bed. They laid him in the old winter house, in the
hearth-room, and cared for him most tenderly. He was very sick, and Sira
Eirik came and tended him with medicines for the body and the soul. But
the priest said the old man’s sickness was cancer, and it could not be
that he had long to live. Brother Edwin himself said that when he had
gained a little strength he would journey south again and try to come
home to his own cloister. But Sira Eirik told the others he could not
believe this was to be thought of.

It seemed to all at Jörundgaard that a great peace and gladness had come
to them with the monk. Folks came and went in the hearth room all day
long, and there was never any lack of watchers to sit at nights by the
sick man. As many as had time flocked in to listen, when Sira Eirik came
over and read to the dying man from godly books, and they talked much
with Brother Edwin of spiritual things. And though much of what he said
was dark and veiled, even as his speech was wont to be, it seemed to
these folks that he strengthened and comforted their souls, because each
and all could see that Brother Edwin was wholly filled with the love of
God.

But the monk was fain to hear, too, of all kind of other things—asked
the news of the parishes round, and had Lavrans tell him all the story
of the evil year of drought. There were some folk who had betaken them
to evil courses in that tribulation, turning to such helpers as
Christian men should most abhor. Some way in over the ridges west of the
Dale was a place in the mountains where were certain great white stones,
of obscene shapes, and some men had fallen so low as to sacrifice boars
and gib-cats before these abominations. So Sira Eirik moved some of the
boldest, most God-fearing farmers to come with him one night and break
the stones in pieces. Lavrans had been with them, and could bear witness
that the stones were all besmeared with blood, and there lay bones and
other refuse all around them—’Twas said that up in Heidal the people had
had an old crone sit out on a great earth-fast rock three Thursday
nights, chanting ancient spells.

                  *       *       *       *       *

One night Kristin sat alone by Brother Edwin. At midnight he woke up,
and seemed to be suffering great pain. Then he bade Kristin take the
book of Miracles of the Virgin Mary, which Sira Eirik had lent to
Brother Edwin, and read to him.

Kristin was little used to read aloud, but she set herself down on the
step of the bed and placed the candle by her side; she laid the book on
her lap and read as well as she could.

In a little while she saw that the sick man was lying with teeth set
tight, clenching his wasted hands as the fits of agony took him.

“You are suffering much, dear Father,” said Kristin sorrowfully.

“It seems so to me, now. But I know ’tis but that God has made me a
little child again and is tossing me about, up and down—

“I mind me one time when I was little—four winters old I was then—I had
run away from home into the woods. I lost myself, and wandered about
many days and nights—My mother was with the folks that found me, and
when she caught me up in her arms, I mind me well, she bit me in my
neck. I thought it was that she was angry with me—but afterward I knew
better—

“I long, myself, now, to be home out of this forest. It is written:
forsake ye all things and follow me—but there has been all too much in
this world that I had no mind to forsake—”

“_You_, Father?” said Kristin. “Ever have I heard all men say that you
have been a pattern for pure life and poverty and humbleness—”

The monk laughed slily.

“Aye, a young child like you thinks, maybe, there are no other lures in
the world than pleasure and riches and power. But I say to you, these
are small things men find by the wayside; and I—I have loved the ways
themselves—not the small things of the world did I love, but the _whole_
world. God gave me grace to love Lady Poverty and Lady Chastity from my
youth up, and thus methought with these playfellows it was safe to
wander, and so I have roved and wandered, and would have been fain to
roam over all the ways of the earth. And my heart and my thoughts have
roamed and wandered too—I fear me I have often gone astray in my
thoughts on the most hidden things. But now ’tis all over, little
Kristin; I will home now to my house and lay aside all my own thoughts,
and hearken to the clear words of the Gardian telling what I should
believe and think concerning my sin and the mercy of God—”

A little while after he dropped asleep. Kristin went and sat by the
hearth tending the fire. But well on in the morning, when she was nigh
dozing off herself, of a sudden Brother Edwin spoke from the bed:

“Glad am I, Kristin, that this matter of you and Erlend Nikulaussön is
brought to a good end.”

Kristin burst out weeping:

“We have done so much wrong before we came so far. And what gnaws at my
heart most is that I have brought my father so much sorrow. He has no
joy in this wedding either. And even so he knows not—did he know all—I
trow he would take his kindness quite from me.”

“Kristin,” said Brother Edwin gently, “see you not, child, that ’tis
therefore you must keep it from him, and ’tis therefore you must give
him no more cause of sorrow—because he never will call on you to pay the
penalty. Nothing you could do could turn your father’s heart from you.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

A few days later Brother Edwin was grown so much better that he would
fain set out on his journey southward. Since his heart was set on this,
Lavrans had a kind of litter made, to be slung between two horses, and
on this he brought the sick man as far south as to Lidstad; there they
gave him fresh horses and men to tend him on his way, and in this wise
was he brought as far as Hamar. There he died in the cloister of the
Preaching Friars, and was buried in their church. Afterward the Barefoot
Friars claimed that his body should be delivered to them; for that many
folks all about in the parishes held him to be a holy man, and spoke of
him by the name of Saint Evan. The peasants of the Uplands and the
Dales, all the way north to Trondheim, prayed to him as a saint. So it
came about that there was a long dispute between the two Orders about
his body.

Kristin heard naught of this till long after. But she grieved sorely at
parting from the monk. It seemed to her that he alone knew all her
life—he had known the innocent child as she was in her father’s keeping,
and he had known her secret life with Erlend; so that he was, as it
were, a link, binding together all that had first been dear to her with
all that now filled her heart and mind. Now was she quite cut off from
herself as she had been in the time when she was yet a maid.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Aye,” said Ragnfrid, feeling with her hand the lukewarm brew in the
vats, “methinks ’tis cool enough now to mix in the barm.”

Kristin had been sitting in the brew-house doorway spinning, while she
waited for the brew to cool. She laid down the spindle on the threshold,
unwrapped the rug from the pail of risen yeast, and began measuring out.

“Shut the door first,” bade her mother, “so the draught may not come
in—you seem walking in your sleep, Kristin,” she said testily.

Kristin poured the yeast in to the vats, while Ragnfrid stirred.

—Geirhild Drivsdatter called on Hatt, but he was Odin. So he came and
helped her with the brewing; and he craved for his wage that which was
between the vat and her—’Twas a saga that Lavrans had once told when she
was little. That which was between the vat and her—

Kristin felt dizzy and sick with the heat and the sweet spicy-smelling
steam that filled the dark close-shut brew-house.

Out in the farm-place Ramborg and a band of children were dancing in a
ring, singing:

                “The eagle sits on the topmost hill-crag
                    Crooking his golden claws....”

Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay
empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to
a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence
round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and
squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them.

Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother
looked at the pigs and said:

“With less than eighteen reindeer we shall never win through.”

“Think you we shall need so many?” said her daughter, absently.

“Aye, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,”
answered Ragnfrid. “And of wild-fowl and hare we shall scarce have more
than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be
well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place—counting
serving-folk and children—and the poor that have to be fed. And even
should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I
trow, will stay out the week—at the least.”

“You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “’Tis
time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kristin fetched her spinning gear and sat herself down there in the back
doorway. She put the distaff with the bunch of wool up under her
arm-pit, but her hands, with the spindle in them, sank into her lap.

Beyond the fence the ears of barley gleamed silvery and silken in the
sunshine. Above the song of the river she heard now and again from the
meadows on the river-island the ring of a scythe—sometimes the iron
would strike upon a stone. Her father and the house-folk were hard at
work on the hay-making, to get it off their hands. For there was much to
get through and to make ready against her wedding.

The scent of the lukewarm grains, and the rank smell of the swine—she
grew qualmish again. And the midday heat made her so dizzy and faint.
White and stiffly upright she sat and waited for it to pass over—she
_would_ not to be sick again—

Never before had she felt what now she felt. ’Twas of no avail to try to
tell herself for comfort: it was not certain yet—she might be
wrong——That which was between the vat and her—

Eighteen reindeer. Well on toward two hundred wedding-guests—Folk would
have a rare jest to laugh at when ’twas known that all this hubbub had
but been about a breeding woman they had to see and get married before—

Oh no. She threw her spinning from her and started up as the sickness
overcame her again—Oh no, it was sure enough!—

They were to be wedded the second Sunday after Michaelmas, and the
bridal was to last for five days. There were more than two months still
to wait; they would be sure to see it on her—her mother and the other
housewives of the parish. They were ever wise in such things—knew them
months before Kristin could understand how they saw them. “Poor thing,
she grows so pale”—Impatiently Kristin rubbed her hands against her
cheeks; she felt that they were white and bloodless.

Before, she had so often thought: this must happen soon or late. And she
had not feared it so terribly. But ’twould not have been the same then,
when they could not—were forbidden to come together in lawful wise. It
was counted—aye, a shame in a manner, and a sin too—but if ’twere two
young things who _would not_ let themselves be forced apart, folk
remembered that ’twas so, and spoke of them with forbearance. _She_
would not have been ashamed. But when such things happened between a
betrothed pair—there was naught for them but laughter and gross jesting.
She saw it herself—one could not but laugh: here was brewing and mixing
of wine, slaughtering and baking and cooking for a wedding that should
be noised far abroad in the land—and she, the bride, grew qualmish if
she but smelt food, and crept in a cold sweat behind the out-houses to
be sick.

Erlend. She set her teeth hard in anger. He should have spared her this.
For she had not been willing. He should have remembered that before,
when all had been so unsure for her, when she had had naught to trust to
but his love, she had ever, ever gladly been his. He should have let her
be now, when she tried to deny him because she thought ’twas not well of
them to take aught by stealth, after her father had joined their hands
together in the sight of Erlend’s kinsmen and hers. But he had taken her
to him, half by force, with laughter and caresses; so that she had not
had strength enough to show him she was in earnest in her denial.

She went in and saw to the beer in the vats, then came back again and
stood leaning on the fence. The standing grain moved gently in shining
ripples before a breath of wind. She could not remember any year when
she had seen the corn-fields bear such thick and abundant growth.—The
river glittered far off, and she heard her father’s voice shouting—she
could not catch the words, but she could hear the reapers on the island
laughing.

Should she go to her father and tell him: ’Twould be best to let be all
this weary bustle and let Erlend and her come together quietly without
church-wedding or splendid feasts—now that the one thing needful was
that she should bear the name of wife before ’twas plain to all men that
she bore Erlend’s child under her heart already?

_He_ would be a laughing-stock, Erlend too, as much as she—or even more,
for he was no green boy any longer. But it was he who would have this
wedding; he had set his heart on seeing her stand as his bride in silk
and velvets and tall golden crown—_that_ was his will, and it had been
his will, too, to possess her in those sweet secret hours of last
spring. She had yielded to him in that. And she must do his will too in
this other thing.

But in the end ’twas like he would be forced to see—no one could have it
both ways in such things. He had talked so much of the great Yule-tide
feast he would hold at Husaby the first year she sat there as mistress
of his house—how he would show forth to all his kinsmen and friends and
all the folks from far around the fair wife he had won. Kristin smiled
scornfully. A seemly thing ’twould be this Yule-tide, such a home-coming
feast!

Her time would be at St. Gregory’s Mass or thereabout. Thoughts seemed
to swarm and jostle in her mind when she said to herself that at
Gregory’s Mass she was to bear a child. There was some fear among the
thoughts—she remembered how her mother’s cries had rung all round the
farm-place for two whole days, the time that Ulvhild was born. At
Ulvsvold two young wives had died in childbirth, one after the other—and
Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first wives too. And her own father’s mother,
whose name she bore—

But fear was not uppermost in her mind. She had often thought, when
after that first time she saw no sign that she was with child—maybe this
was to be their punishment—hers and Erlend’s. She would always be
barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared
before, would hope as vainly as of old they had feared needlessly—till
at last they would know that one day they should be borne forth from the
home of his fathers and be as though they had never been—for his brother
was a priest, and the children he had could inherit naught from him.
Dumpy Munan and his sons would come in and sit in their seats, and
Erlend would be blotted out from the line of his kindred.

She pressed her hand hard to her body. It was there—between the fence
and her—between the vat and her. ’Twas between her and all the
world—Erlend’s own son. She had made the trial already that she had once
heard Lady Aashild speak of; with blood from her right arm and her left.
’Twas a son that was coming to her—whatever fate he was to bring—She
remembered her dead little brothers, her parents’ sorrowful faces when
they spoke of them; she remembered all the times she had seen them both
in despair for Ulvhild’s sake—and the night when Ulvhild died. And she
thought of all the sorrow she herself had brought them, of her father’s
grief-worn face—and the end was not yet of the sorrows she was to bring
on her father and mother.

And yet—and yet. Kristin laid her head on the arm that rested on the
fence; the other hand she still held to her body. Even if it brought her
new sorrows, even if it led her feet down to death—she would rather die
in bearing Erlend a son than that they should both die one day, and
leave their houses standing empty, and the corn on their lands should
wave for strangers—

She heard a footstep in the room behind her. The ale! thought Kristin—I
should have seen to it long ago. She stood up and turned—and Erlend came
stooping through the doorway and stepped out into the sunlight—his face
shining with gladness.

“Is this where you are?” he asked. “And not a step will you come to meet
me, even?” he said; and came and threw his arms about her.

“Dearest; are you come hither?” she said in wonder.

It was plain he was just alighted from his horse—his cloak still hung
from his shoulder, and his sword at his side—he was unshaven,
travel-soiled and covered with dust. He was clad in a red surcoat that
hung in folds from its collar and was open up the sides almost to the
armpits. As they passed through the brew-house and across the courtyard,
the coat swung and flapped about him so that his thighs showed right up
to the waist. His legs bent a little outwards when he walked—it was
strange she had never marked it before—she had only seen that he had
long slender legs, with fine ankles and small well-shaped feet.

Erlend had come well-attended—with five men and four led-horses. He told
Ragnfrid that he was come to fetch Kristin’s goods—’twould be more
homely for her, he thought, to find the things awaiting her at Husaby
when she came thither. And so late in the autumn as the wedding was to
be, it might be harder then to have the goods brought across the
hills—besides they might easily be spoiled by the sea-water on
ship-board. Now the Abbot of Nidarholm had proffered to give him leave
to send them by the Laurentius galleass—’twas meant she should sail from
Veöy about Assumption Day. So he was come to have the goods carted over
to Romsdal and down to Næs.

He sat in the doorway of the kitchen-house, drinking ale and talking
while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild-duck Lavrans had brought
home the day before. Mother and daughter were alone on the place; all
the women were busy raking in the meadows. He looked so glad and
happy—he was pleased with himself for coming on such a wise and prudent
errand.

Ragnfrid went out, and Kristin stayed minding the spit with the roasting
birds. Through the open door she could catch a glimpse of Erlend’s men
lying in the shadow on the other side of the courtyard, with the
ale-bowl circling among them. Erlend himself sat on the threshold,
chatting and laughing—the sun shone right down on his uncovered
coal-black hair; she spied some white threads in it. Aye, he must be
near thirty-two years old—but he bore himself like a mischievous boy.
She knew she would not be able to tell him of her trouble—time enough
when he saw it for himself. Laughing tenderness streamed through her
heart, over the hard little spot of anger at its core, like a glittering
river flowing over stones.

She loved him above all on earth—her soul was filled with her love,
though all the time she saw and remembered all those other things. How
ill this gallant in the fine red surcoat, with silver spurs on heel and
belt adorned with gold, suited with the busy harvest-time of
Jörundgaard.—She marked well, too, that her father came not up to the
farm, though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river to bear him
word of the guest that was come.

Erlend stood beside her and passed his arm around her shoulders:

“Can you believe it!” he said joyfully, “Seems it not marvellous to
you—that ’tis for our wedding, all this toil and bustle?”

Kristin gave him a kiss and thrust him aside—then turned to basting the
birds and bade him stand out of the way. No, she would not say it—

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was not till supper-time that Lavrans came back to the farm—along
with the other harvesters. He was clad much like his workmen, in an
undyed wadmal coat cut off at the knees and loose breeches reaching to
the ankles; he walked barefoot, with his scythe over his shoulder. There
was naught in his dress to mark him off from the serving-men, save the
leathern shoulder-piece that made a perch for the hawk he bore on his
left shoulder. He led Ramborg by the hand.

He greeted his son-in-law heartily enough, begging him to forgive that
he had not come before—’twas that they must push on with the farm work
as hard as they could, for he himself had a journey to make to the
market town between the hay and the corn harvests. But when Erlend told
the errand he had come on, as they sat at the supper-board, Lavrans grew
something out of humour.

’Twas impossible he should spare carts and horses for such work at this
time. Erlend answered: he had brought four pack-horses with him. But
Lavrans said there would be three cartloads at the least. Besides, the
maid must have her wearing apparel with her here. And the bed-furniture
that Kristin was to have with her, they would need here too for the
wedding, so many guests as they would have in the house.

Well, well, said Erlend. Doubtless some way could be found to have the
goods sent through in the autumn. But he had been glad, and had thought
it seemed a wise counsel, when the Abbot had proffered to have the goods
brought in the Church galleass. The Abbot had reminded him of their
kinship. “They are all ready now to remember that,” said Erlend,
smiling. His father-in-law’s displeasure seemed not to trouble him in
the least.

But in the end it was agreed that Erlend should be given the loan of a
cart and should take away a cartload of the things Kristin would need
most when first she came to her new home.

The day after they were busy with the packing. The big and the little
loom the mother thought might go at once—Kristin would scarce have time
for weaving much more before the wedding. Ragnfrid and her daughter cut
off the web that was on the loom. It was undyed wadmal, but of the
finest, softest wool, with unwoven tufts of black sheep’s wool that made
a pattern of spots. Kristin and her mother rolled up the stuff and laid
it in the leather sack. Kristin thought: ’twould make good warm
swaddling-cloths—and right fair ones, too, with blue or red bands
wrapped round them.

The sewing-chair, too, that Arne had once made her, was to be sent.
Kristin took out of the box-seat all the things Erlend had given her
from time to time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cloak patterned
in red that she was to wear at the bridal, on the ride to church. The
mother turned it about and about, and felt the stuff and the fur lining.

“A costly cloak, indeed,” said Ragnfrid. “When was it Erlend gave you
this?”

“He gave it me when I was at Nonneseter,” said her daughter.

Kristin’s bride-chest, that held all the goods her mother had gathered
together and saved up for her since she was a little child, was emptied
and packed anew. Its sides and cover were all carved in squares, with a
leaping beast or a bird amidst leaves in each square. The wedding-dress
Ragnfrid laid away in one of her own chests. It was not quite ready yet,
though they had sewed on it all winter. It was of scarlet silk, cut to
sit very close to the body. Kristin thought: ’twould be all too tight
across the breast now.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Toward evening the whole load stood ready, firmly bound under the
wagon-tilt. Erlend was to set forth early the next morning.

He stood with Kristin leaning over the courtyard gate, looking northward
to where a blue-black storm-cloud filled the Dale. Thunder was rolling
far off in the mountains—but southward the green fields and the river
lay in yellow, burning sunshine.

“Mind you the storm that day in the woods at Gerdarud?” he asked softly,
playing with her fingers.

Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and close—her
head ached, and at every breath she took her skin grew damp with sweat.

Lavrans came across to the two as they stood by the gate, and spoke of
the storm. ’Twas but rarely it did much harm down here in the parish—but
God knew if they should not hear of cattle and horses killed up in the
mountains.

It was black as night above the church up on the hillside. A lightning
flash showed them a troop of horses standing uneasily huddled together
on the green-sward outside the church gate. Lavrans thought they could
scarce belong here in the parish—rather must they be horses from Dovre
that had been running loose up on the hills below Jetta; but yet he had
a mind to go up and look at them, he shouted through a peal of
thunder—there might be some of his among them—

A fearful lightning-flash tore the darkness above the church—the thunder
crashed and bellowed so as to deafen them to all other sounds. The
cluster of horses burst asunder, scattering over the hill-slopes beneath
the mountain ridge. All three of them crossed themselves—

Then came another flash; it was as though the heavens split asunder
right above them, a mighty snow-white flame swooped down upon them—the
three were thrown against each other, and stood with shut, blinded eyes,
and a smell in their nostrils as of burning stone—while the crashing
thunder rent their ears.

“Saint Olav, help us!” said Lavrans in a low voice.

“Look! the birch—the birch,” shouted Erlend; the great birch-tree in the
field near by seemed to totter—and a huge bough parted from the tree and
sank to the ground, leaving a great gash in the trunk.

“Think you ’twill catch fire—Jesus Kristus! The churchroof is alight!”
shouted Lavrans.

They stood and gazed—no—yes! Red flames were darting out among the
shingles beneath the ridge-turret.

Both men rushed back across the courtyard. Lavrans tore open the doors
of all the houses he came to and shouted to those inside; the house-folk
came swarming out.

“Bring axes, bring axes—timber axes,” he cried, “and bill-hooks”—he ran
on to the stables. In a moment he came out leading Guldsveinen by the
mane; he sprang on the horse’s bare back and dashed off up the hill,
with the great broad-axe in his hand. Erlend rode close behind him—all
the men followed; some were a-horseback, but some could not master the
terrified beasts, and giving up, ran on afoot. Last came Ragnfrid and
all the women on the place with pails and buckets.

None seemed to heed the storm any longer. By the light of the flashes
they could see folk streaming out of the houses further down the valley.
Sira Eirik was far up the hill already, running with his house-folk
behind him. There was a thunder of horses’ hoofs on the ridge below—some
men galloped past, turning white, appalled faces toward their burning
church.

It was blowing a little from the southeast. The fire had a strong hold
on the north wall; on the west the entrance door was blocked already.
But it had not caught yet on the south side nor on the apse.

Kristin and the women from Jörundgaard came into the graveyard south of
the church at a place where the fence was broken.

The huge red glare lighted up the grove of trees north of the church and
the green by it where there were bars to tie the horses to. None could
come thither for the glowing heat—the great cross stood alone out there,
bathed in the light of the flames. It looked as though it lived and
moved.

Through the hissing and roar of the flames sounded the thudding of axes
against the staves of the south wall. There were men in the cloister-way
hewing and hammering at the wall, while others tried to tear down the
cloister itself. Someone called out to the Jörundgaard women that
Lavrans and a few other men had followed Sira Eirik into the church, and
now ’twas high time to cut a passage through the south wall—small
tongues of flame were peeping out among the shingles here too; and
should the wind go round or die down, the fire would take hold on the
whole church.

To think of putting out the fire was vain; there was no time to make a
chain down to the river; but at Ragnfrid’s bidding the women made a line
and passed water along from the little beck that ran by the roadside—it
was but little to throw on the south wall and over the men working
there. Many of the women sobbed and wept the while, in terror for the
men who had made their way into the burning building, and in sorrow for
their church.

Kristin stood foremost in the line of women handing along the pails—she
gazed breathless at the burning church—they were both there, inside—her
father—and surely Erlend too.

The torn-down pillars of the cloister-way lay in a tangled mass of
timber and shingles from its roof. The men were attacking the inner wall
of staves now with all their might—a group of them had lifted up a great
log and were battering the wall with it.

Erlend and one of his men came out of the little door in the south wall
of the choir, carrying between them the great chest from the
sacristy—the chest Eirik was used to sit on when he heard confession.
Erlend and the man flung the chest out into the churchyard.

He shouted out something, but Kristin could not hear; he dashed on at
once into the cloister-way. Nimble as a cat he seemed as he ran—he had
thrown off his outer garments and had naught on him but shirt, breeches
and hose.

The others took up his shout—the choir and the sacristy were burning;
none could pass from the nave to the south-door any longer—the fire had
blocked both ways of escape. Some of the staves in the wall had been
splintered by the ram—Erlend had seized a fire-hook and with it he
tugged and wrenched at the wreckage of the staves—he and those with him
tore a hole in the side of the church, while other folks cried to take
care, for the roof might fall and shut in the men inside; the shingle
roof on this side too was burning hard now, and the heat had grown till
’twas scarce to be borne.

Erlend burst through the hole and helped out Sira Eirik. The priest came
bearing the holy vessels from the altars in the skirt of his gown.

A young boy followed, with one hand over his face and the other holding
the tall processional cross lance-wise in front of him. Lavrans came
next. He kept his eyes shut against the smoke—he staggered under the
weight of the great crucifix, which he bore in his arms; it was much
taller than the man himself.

Folk ran forward and helped them out and into the churchyard. Sira Eirik
stumbled and fell on his knees, and the altar vessels rolled out down
the slope. The silver dove flew open and the Host fell out—the priest
took it up, brushed the soil off it and kissed it, sobbing aloud; he
kissed the gilded head, too, that had stood on the altar with shreds of
the nails and hair of Saint Olav in it.

Lavrans Björgulfsön still stood holding up the Holy Rood. His arm lay
along the arms of the cross; his head was bowed against the shoulder of
the Christ-figure; it seemed as though the Redeemer bent his fair,
sorrowful face over the man to pity and to comfort.

The roof on the north side of the church had begun to fall in by bits—a
burning piece from a falling beam was hurled outwards and struck the
great bell in the belfry by the churchyard gate. The bell gave out a
deep sobbing note, which died in a long wail that was drowned in the
roaring of the flames.

None had paid heed to the weather all this time—the whole had lasted
indeed no long time, but whether short or long scarce any could have
told. The thunder and lightning had passed now far down the Dale; the
rain, that had begun some time back, fell ever the more heavily, and the
wind had died down.

But of a sudden it was as though a sheet of flame shot up from the
groundsill of the building—a moment, and with a mounting roar the fire
had swallowed up the church from end to end.

The people scattered, rushing away to escape the devouring heat. Erlend
was at Kristin’s side on the instant, dragging her away down the hill.
The whole man smelt of burning—when she stroked his head and face her
hand came away full of burnt hair.

They could not hear each other’s voices for the roaring of the fire. But
she saw that his eyebrows were burnt off to the roots; he had burns on
his face, and great holes were burnt in his shirt. He laughed as he
dragged her along with him after the others.

All the folk followed the old priest as he went weeping, with Lavrans
Björgulfsön bearing the crucifix.

At the foot of the churchyard Lavrans set the Rood from him up against a
tree, and sank down to a seat on the wreckage of the fence. Sira Eirik
was sitting there already—he stretched out his arms toward the burning
church:

“Farewell, farewell, thou Olav’s-Church; God bless thee, thou my
Olav’s-Church; God bless thee for every hour I have chanted in thee and
said Mass in thee—thou Olav’s-Church, good-night, good-night—”

The church-folk wept aloud with their priest. The rain streamed down on
the groups of people, but none thought of seeking shelter. Nor did it
seem to check the fierce burning of the tarred woodwork—brands and
glowing shingles were tossed out on every side. Then, suddenly, the
ridge-turret crashed down into the fiery furnace, sending a great shower
of sparks high into the air.

Lavrans sat with one hand over his face; the other arm lay in his lap,
and Kristin saw that the sleeve was all bloody from the shoulder down,
and blood ran down over his fingers. She went to him and touched his
arm.

“Not much is amiss, methinks—there fell somewhat on my shoulder,” he
said, looking up. He was white to the lips. “Ulvhild,” he murmured in
anguish, gazing into the burning pile.

Sira Eirik heard the word and laid a hand on his shoulder:

“’Twill not wake your child, Lavrans—she will sleep none the less sound
for the burning above her bed. _She_ hath not lost her soul’s home, as
we others have lost ours this night.”

Kristin hid her face on Erlend’s breast, and stood there feeling the
grasp of his arm round her shoulders. Then she heard her father asking
for his wife.

Someone answered that a woman had fallen in labour from the fright; they
had borne her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone with her
there.

Then Kristin called to mind again what she had clean forgotten ever
since they saw that the church was afire. She should not have looked on
this. There lived a man in the south of the parish who had a red stain
over half his face; ’twas said he was thus because his mother had looked
at a burning house while she was big with him. Dear, Holy Virgin Mother,
she prayed in her heart, let not my child have been marred by this—

                  *       *       *       *       *

The day after, the whole parish was called to meet on the church-green
to take counsel how best to build up the church anew.

Kristin sought out Sira Eirik at Romundgaard before the time set for the
meeting. She asked the priest if he deemed she should take this as a
sign. Maybe ’twas God’s will that she should say to her father she was
unworthy to wear the bridal crown; that it were more seemly she should
be given in marriage to Erlend Nikulaussön without feasting, or bridal
honours.

But Sira Eirik flew up at her with eyes glistening with wrath:

“Think you that God cares so much how you sluts may fly about and cast
yourselves away, that He would burn up a fair, venerable church for your
sake? Leave you your sinful pride, and bring not on your mother and
Lavrans such a sorrow as they would scarce win through for many a day.
If you wear not the crown with honour on your honourable day—the worse
for you; but the more need have you and Erlend of all the rites of the
Church when ye are brought together. Each and all of us have sins to
answer for; ’tis therefore, I trow, that this visitation is come upon us
all. See you to it that you mend your life, and that you help to build
up our church again, both you and Erlend.”

It was in Kristin’s mind that he knew not all, for that yet she had not
told him of this last thing that was come upon her—but she rested
content and said no more.

She went with the men to the meeting. Lavrans came with his arm in a
sling, and Erlend had many burns on his face; he was ill to look upon,
but he laughed it off. None of the wounds were large, and he said he
hoped they would not spoil his face too much when he came to be a
bridegroom. He stood up after Lavrans and promised four marks of silver
as an offering to the church, and for his betrothed, with Lavrans’
assent, land worth sixty cows from her holdings in the parish.

It was found needful for Erlend to stay a week at Jörundgaard by reason
of his burns. Kristin saw that ’twas as though Lavrans had come to like
his son-in-law better since the night of the fire; the men seemed now to
be good friends enough. She thought: maybe her father might grow to like
Erlend Nikulaussön so well that he would not judge them too strictly,
and would not take the matter so hardly as she had feared when the time
came when he must know that they had transgressed against him.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   8

The year proved a rarely good one over all the north part of the Dale.
The hay crop was heavy, and it was got in dry; the folk came home from
the sæters in autumn with great store of dairy-stuff and full and fat
flocks and herds—they had been mercifully spared from wild beasts, too,
this year. The corn stood tall and thick as few folks could call to mind
having seen it before—it grew full-eared and ripened well, and the
weather was fair as heart could wish. Between St. Bartholomew’s and the
Virgin’s Birthfeast, the time when night-frosts were most to be feared,
it rained a little and was mild and cloudy, but thereafter the time of
harvest went by with sun and wind and mild, misty nights. The week after
Michaelmas most of the corn had been garnered all over the parish.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At Jörundgaard all folks were toiling and moiling, making ready for the
great wedding. The last two months Kristin had been so busy from morning
to night that she had but little time to trouble over aught but her
work. She saw that her bosom had filled out; the small pink nipples were
grown brown, and they were tender as smarting hurts when she had to get
out of bed in the cold—but it passed over when she had worked herself
warm, and after that she had no thought but of all she must get done
before evening. When now and again she was forced to straighten up her
back and stand and rest a little, she felt that the burden she bore was
growing heavy—but to look on she was still slim and slender as she had
ever been. She passed her hands down her long shapely thighs. No, she
would not grieve over it now. Sometimes a faint creeping longing would
come over her with the thought: like enough in a month or so she might
feel the child quick within her—By that time she would be at
Husaby.—Maybe Erlend would be glad—She shut her eyes and fixed her teeth
on her betrothal ring—then she saw before her Erlend’s face, pale and
moved, as he stood in the hall here in the winter and said the words of
espousal with a loud clear voice:

“So be God my witness and these men standing here, that I Erlend
Nikulaussön do espouse Kristin Lavransdatter according to the laws of
God and men, on such conditions as here have been spoken before these
witnesses standing hereby. That I shall have thee to my wife and thou
shalt have me to thy husband, so long as we two do live, to dwell
together in wedlock, with all such fellowship as God’s law and the law
of the land do appoint.”

As she ran on errands from house to house across the farm-place, she
stayed a moment—the rowan trees were so thick with berries this
year—’twould be a snowy winter. The sun shone over the pale stubble
fields where the corn sheaves stood piled on their stakes. If this
weather might only hold over the wedding!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Lavrans stood firmly to it that his daughter should be wedded in church.
It was fixed, therefore, that the wedding should be in the chapel at
Sundbu. On the Saturday the bridal train was to ride over the hills to
Vaage; they were to lie for the night at Sundbu and the neighbouring
farms, and ride back on Sunday after the wedding-mass. The same evening
after Vespers, when the holy day was ended, the wedding feast was to be
held, and Lavrans was to give his daughter away to Erlend. And after
midnight the bride and bridegroom were to be put to bed.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On Friday, after noon, Kristin stood in the upper hall balcony, watching
the bridal train come riding from the north, past the charred ruins of
the church on the hillside. It was Erlend coming with all his groomsmen;
she strained her eyes to pick him out among the others. They must not
see each other—no man must see her now before she was led forth
to-morrow in her bridal dress.

Where the ways divided, a few women left the throng and took the road to
Jörundgaard. The men rode on toward Laugarbru; they were to sleep there
that night.

Kristin went down to meet the comers. She felt wearied after the bath,
and the skin of her head was sore from the strong lye her mother had
used to wash her hair, that it might shine fair and bright on the
morrow.

Lady Aashild slipped down from her saddle into Lavrans’ arms. How can
she keep so light and young, thought Kristin. Her son Sir Munan’s wife,
Lady Katrin, might have passed for older than she; a big plump dame,
with dull and hueless skin and eyes. Strange, thought Kristin; she is
ill-favoured and he is unfaithful, and yet folks say they live well and
kindly together. Then there were two daughters of Sir Baard Petersön,
one married and one unmarried. They were neither comely nor
ill-favoured; they looked honest and kind, but held themselves something
stiffly in the strange company. Lavrans thanked them courteously that
they had been pleased to honour this wedding at the cost of so far a
journey so late in the year.

“Erlend was bred in our father’s house, when he was a boy,” said the
elder, moving forward to greet Kristin.

But now two youths came riding into the farm-place at a sharp trot—they
leaped from their horses and rushed laughing after Kristin, who ran
indoors and hid herself. They were Trond Gjesling’s two young sons, fair
and likely lads. They had brought the bridal crown with them from Sundbu
in a casket. Trond and his wife were not to come till Sunday, when they
would join the bridal train after the mass.

Kristin fled into the hearth-room; and Lady Aashild, coming after, laid
her hands on the girl’s shoulders, and drew down her face to hers to
kiss it.

“Glad am I that I live to see this day,” said Lady Aashild.

She saw how thin they were grown, Kristin’s hands, that she held in
hers. She saw that all else about her was grown thin, but that her bosom
was high and full. All the features of the face were grown smaller and
finer than before; the temples seemed as though sunken in the shadow of
the heavy, damp hair. The girl’s cheeks were round no longer, and her
fresh hue was faded. But her eyes were grown much larger and darker.

Lady Aashild kissed her again:

“I see well you have had much to strive against, Kristin,” she said.
“To-night will I give you a sleepy drink, that you may be rested and
fresh to-morrow.”

Kristin’s lips began to quiver.

“Hush,” said Lady Aashild, patting her hand. “I joy already that I shall
deck you out to-morrow—none hath seen a fairer bride, I trow, than you
shall be to-morrow.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Lavrans rode over to Laugarbru to feast with his guests who were housed
there.

The men could not praise the food enough—better Friday food than this a
man could scarce find in the richest monastery. There was rye-meal
porridge, boiled beans and white bread—for fish they had only trout,
salted and fresh, and fat dried halibut.

As time went on and the men drank deeper, they grew ever more wanton of
mood, and the jests broken on the bridegroom’s head ever more gross. All
Erlend’s groomsmen were much younger than he—his equals in age and his
friends were all long since wedded men. The darling jest among the
groomsmen now was that he was so aged a man and yet was to mount the
bridal bed for the first time. Some of Erlend’s older kinsmen, who yet
kept their wits, sat in dread, at each new sally, that the talk would
come in upon matters it were best not to touch. Sir Baard of Hestnæs
kept an eye on Lavrans. The host drank deep, but it seemed not that the
ale made him more joyful—he sat in the high-seat, his face growing more
and more strained, even as his eyes grew more fixed. But Erlend, who sat
on his father-in-law’s right hand, answered in kind the wanton jests
flung at him, and laughed much; his face was flushed red and his eyes
sparkled.

Of a sudden Lavrans flew out:

“That cart, son-in-law—while I remember—what have you done with the cart
you had of me on loan in the summer?”

“Cart—?” said Erlend.

“Have you forgot already that you had a cart on loan from me in the
summer—God knows ’twas so good a cart I look not ever to see a better,
for I saw to it myself when ’twas making in my own smithy on the farm.
You promised and you swore—I take God to witness, and my house-folk know
it besides—you gave your word to bring it back to me—but that word you
have not kept—”

Some of the guests called out that this was no matter to talk of now,
but Lavrans smote the board with his fist and swore that he would know
what Erlend had done with his cart.

“Oh like enough it lies still at the farm at Næs, where we took boat out
to Veöy,” said Erlend lightly. “I thought not ’twas meant so nicely. See
you, father-in-law, thus it was—’twas a long and toilsome journey with a
heavy-laden cart over the hills, and when we were come down to the
fjord, none of my men had a mind to bring the cart all the way back
here, and then journey north again over the hills to Trondheim. So we
thought we might let it be there for a time—”

“Now, may the devil fly off with me from where I sit this very hour, if
I have ever heard of your like,” Lavrans burst out. “Is this how things
are ordered in your house—doth the word lie with you or with your men,
where they are to go or not to go—?”

Erlend shrugged his shoulders:

“True it is, much hath been as it should not have been in my
household—But now will I have the cart sent south to you again, when
Kristin and I are come thither—Dear my father-in-law,” said he, smiling
and holding out his hand, “be assured, ’twill be changed times with all
things, and with me too, when once I have brought Kristin home to be
mistress of my house. ’Twas an ill thing, this of the cart. But I
promise you, this shall be the last time you have cause of grief against
me.”

“Dear Lavrans,” said Baard Petersön, “forgive him in this small matter—”

“Small matter or great—” began Lavrans—but checked himself, and took
Erlend’s hand.

Soon after he made the sign for the feast to break up, and the guests
sought their sleeping-places.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the Saturday before noon all the women and girls were busy in the old
store-house loft-room, some making ready the bridal bed, some dressing
and adorning the bride.

Ragnfrid had chosen this house for the bride-house, in part for its
having the smallest loft-room—they could make room for many more guests
in the new store-house loft, the one they had used themselves in summer
time to sleep in when Kristin was a little child, before Lavrans had set
up the great new dwelling-house, where they lived now both summer and
winter. But besides this, there was no fairer house on the farm than the
old store-house, since Lavrans had had it mended and set in order—it had
been nigh falling to the ground when they moved in to Jörundgaard. It
was adorned with the finest woodcarving both outside and in, and if the
loft-room were not great, ’twas the easier to hang it richly with rugs
and tapestries and skins.

The bridal bed stood ready made, with silk-covered pillows; fine
hangings made as it were a tent about it; over the skins and rugs on the
bed was spread a broidered silken coverlid. Ragnfrid and some other
women were busy now hanging tapestries on the timber walls and laying
cushions in order on the benches.

Kristin sat in a great arm-chair that had been brought up thither. She
was clad in her scarlet bridal robe. Great silver brooches held it
together over her bosom, and fastened the yellow silk shift showing in
the neck-opening; golden armlets glittered on the yellow silken sleeves.
A silver-gilt belt was passed thrice around her waist, and on her neck
and bosom lay neck-chain over neck-chain, the uppermost her father’s old
gold chain with the great reliquary cross. Her hands, lying in her lap,
were heavy with rings.

Lady Aashild stood behind her chair, brushing her heavy, gold-brown hair
out to all sides.

“To-morrow shall you spread it loose for the last time,” she said
smiling, as she wound the red and green silk cords that were to hold up
the crown, around Kristin’s head—Then the women came thronging round the
bride.

Ragnfrid and Gyrid of Skog took the great bridal crown of the Gjesling
kin from the board. It was gilt all over, the points ended in alternate
crosses and clover-leaves, and the circlet was set with great
rock-crystals.

They pressed it down on the bride’s head. Ragnfrid was pale, and her
hands were shaking, as she did it.

Kristin rose slowly to her feet. Jesus! how heavy ’twas to bear up all
this gold and silver—Then Lady Aashild took her by the hand and led her
forward to a great tub of water—while the bridesmaids flung open the
door to the outer sunlight, so that the light in the room should be
bright.

“Look now at yourself in the water, Kristin,” said Lady Aashild, and
Kristin bent over the tub. She caught a glimpse of her own face rising
up white through the water; it came so near that she saw the golden
crown above it. Round about, many shadows, bright and dark, were
stirring in the mirror—there was somewhat she was on the brink of
remembering—then ’twas as though she was swooning away—she caught at the
rim of the tub before her. At that moment Lady Aashild laid her hand on
hers, and drove her nails so hard into the flesh, that Kristin came to
herself with the pain.

Blasts of a great horn were heard from down by the bridge. Folk shouted
up from the courtyard that the bridegroom was coming with his train. The
women led Kristin out onto the balcony.

In the courtyard was a tossing mass of horses in state trappings and
people in festival apparel, all shining and glittering in the sun.
Kristin looked out beyond it all, far out into the Dale. The valley of
her home lay bright and still beneath a thin misty-blue haze; up above
the haze rose the mountains, grey with screes and black with forest, and
the sun poured down its light into the great bowl of the valley from a
cloudless sky.

She had not marked it before, but the trees had shed all their
leaves—the groves around shone naked and silver-grey. Only the alder
thickets along the river had a little faded green on their topmost
branches, and here and there a birch had a few yellow-white leaves
clinging to its outermost twigs. But, for the most the trees were almost
bare—all but the rowans; they were still bright, with red-brown leaves
around the clusters of their blood-red berries. In the still, warm day a
faint mouldering smell of autumn rose from the ashen covering of fallen
leaves that strewed the ground all about.

Had it not been for the rowans, it might have been early spring. And the
stillness too—but this was an autumn stillness, deathly still. When the
horn-blasts died away, no other sound was heard in all the valley but
the tinkling of bells from the stubble fields and fallows where the
beasts wandered, grazing.

The river was shrunken small, its roar sunk to a murmur; it was but a
few strands of water running amidst banks of sand and great stretches of
white round boulders. No noise of becks from the hillsides—the autumn
had been so dry. The fields all around still gleamed wet—but ’twas but
the wetness that oozes up from the earth in autumn, howsoever warm the
days may be, and however clear the air.

The crowd that filled the farm-place fell apart to make way for the
bridegroom’s train. Straightway the young groomsmen came riding
forward—there went a stir among the women in the balcony.

Lady Aashild was standing by the bride:

“Bear you well now, Kristin,” said she, “’twill not be long now till you
are safe under the linen coif.”

Kristin nodded helplessly. She felt how deathly white her face must be.

“Methinks I am all too pale a bride,” she said in a low voice.

“You are the fairest bride,” said Lady Aashild; “and there comes Erlend,
riding—fairer pair than you twain would be far to seek.”

Now Erlend himself rode forward under the balcony. He sprang lightly
from his horse, unhindered by his heavy, flowing garments. He seemed to
Kristin so fair that ’twas pain to look on him.

He was in dark raiment, clad in a slashed silken coat falling to the
feet, leaf-brown of hue and inwoven with black and white. About his
waist he had a gold-bossed belt, and at his left thigh hung a sword with
gold on hilt and sheath. Back over his shoulders fell a heavy dark-blue
velvet cloak, and pressed down on his coal-black hair he wore a black
French cap of silk that stood out at both sides in puckered wings, and
ended in two long streamers, whereof one was thrown from his left
shoulder right across his breast and out behind over the other arm.

Erlend bowed low before his bride as she stood above; then went up to
her horse and stood by it with his hand on the saddle-bow, while Lavrans
went up the stairs. A strange dizzy feeling came over Kristin at the
sight of all this splendour—in this solemn garment of green velvet,
falling to his feet, her father might have been some stranger. And her
mother’s face, under the linen coif, showed ashen-grey against the red
of her silken dress. Ragnfrid came forward and laid the cloak about her
daughter’s shoulders.

Then Lavrans took the bride’s hand and led her down to Erlend. The
bridegroom lifted her to the saddle, and himself mounted. They stayed
their horses, side by side, these two, beneath the bridal balcony, while
the train began to form and ride out through the courtyard gate. First
the priests: Sira Eirik, Sira Tormod from Ulvsvolden, and a Brother of
the Holy Cross from Hamar, a friend of Lavrans. Then came the groomsmen
and the bridesmaids, pair by pair. And now ’twas for Erlend and her to
ride forth. After them came the bride’s parents, the kinsmen, friends
and guests, in a long line down betwixt the fences to the highway. Their
road for a long way onward was strewn with clusters of rowan-berries,
branches of pine, and the last white dogfennel of autumn, and folk stood
thick along the waysides where the train passed by, greeting them with a
great shouting.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the Sunday, just after sunset, the bridal train rode back to
Jörundgaard. Through the first falling folds of darkness the bonfires
shone out red from the courtyard of the bridal-house. Minstrels and
fiddlers were singing and making drums and fiddles speak as the crowd of
riders drew near to the warm red glare of the fires.

Kristin came near to falling her length on the ground when Erlend lifted
her from her horse beneath the balcony of the upper hall.

“Twas so cold upon the hills,” she whispered—“I am so weary—” She stood
for a moment—and when she climbed the stairs to the loft-room she swayed
and tottered at each step.

Up in the hall the half-frozen wedding-guests were soon warmed up again.
The many candles burning in the room gave out heat; smoking hot dishes
of food were borne around, and wine, mead and strong ale circled about.
The loud hum of voices, and the noise of many eating sounded like a far
off roaring in Kristin’s ears.

It seemed as she sat there she would never be warm through again. In a
while her cheeks began to burn, but her feet were still unthawed, and
shudders of cold ran down her back. All the heavy gold that was on her
head and body forced her to lean forward as she sat in the high-seat by
Erlend’s side.

Every time her bridegroom drank to her, she could not keep her eyes from
the red stains and patches that stood out on his face so sharply as he
began to grow warm after his ride in the cold. They were the marks left
by the burns of last summer.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The horror had come upon her last evening, when they sat over the
supper-board at Sundbu, and she met Björn Gunnarsön’s lightless eyes
fixed on her and Erlend—unwinking, unwavering eyes. They had dressed up
Sir Björn in knightly raiment—he looked like a dead man brought to life
by an evil spell.

At night she had lain with Lady Aashild—the bridegroom’s nearest
kinswoman in the wedding company.

“What is amiss with you, Kristin?” said Lady Aashild, a little sharply.
“Now is the time for you to bear up stiffly to the end—not give way
thus.”

“I am thinking,” said Kristin, cold with dread, “on all them we have
brought to sorrow, that we might see this day.”

“’Tis not joy alone, I trow, that you two have had,” said Lady Aashild.
“Not Erlend at the least. And methinks it has been worse still for you.”

“I am thinking on his helpless children,” said the bride again. “I am
wondering if they know their father is drinking to-day at his wedding
feast.—”

“Think on your own child,” said the Lady. “Be glad that you are drinking
at your wedding with him who is its father.”

Kristin lay awhile, weak and giddy. ’Twas so strange to hear that name,
that had filled her heart and mind each day for three months and more,
and whereof yet she had not dared speak a word to a living soul. It was
but for a little though, that this helped her.

“I am thinking of her who had to pay with her life, because she held
Erlend dear,” she whispered, shivering.

“Well if you come not to pay with your life yourself, ere you are half a
year older,” said Lady Aashild harshly. “Be glad while you may—

“What shall I say to you, Kristin?” said the old woman in a while,
despairingly. “Have you clean lost courage this day of all days? Soon
enough will it be required of you twain that you shall pay for all you
have done amiss—have no fear that it will not be so.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

But Kristin felt as though all things in her soul were slipping,
slipping—as though all were toppling down that she had built up since
that day of horror at Haugen, in that first time when, wild and blind
with fear, she had thought but of holding out one day more, and one day
more. And she had held out till her load grew lighter—and at last grew
even light, when she had thrown off all thought but this one thought:
that now their wedding-day was coming at last, Erlend’s wedding-day at
last.

But, when she and Erlend knelt together in the wedding-mass, all around
her seemed but some trickery of the sight—the tapers, the pictures, the
glittering vessels, the priests in their copes and white gowns. All
those who had known her where she had lived before—they seemed like
visions of a dream, standing there, close-packed in the church in their
unwonted garments. But Sir Björn stood against a pillar, looking at
those two with his dead eyes, and it seemed to her that that other who
was dead must needs have come back with him, on his arm.

She tried to look up at Saint Olav’s picture—he stood there red and
white and comely, leaning on his axe, treading his own sinful human
nature underfoot—but her glance would ever go back to Sir Björn; and
nigh to him she saw Eline Ormsdatter’s dead face, looking unmoved upon
her and Erlend. They had trampled her underfoot that they might come
hither—and she grudged it not to them.

The dead woman had arisen and flung off her all the great stones that
Kristin had striven to heap up above her. Erlend’s wasted youth, his
honour and his welfare, his friends’ good graces, his soul’s health. The
dead woman had shaken herself free from them all. “He would have me and
I would have him; you would have him and he would have you,” said Eline.
“I have paid—and he must pay and you must pay when your time comes. When
the time of sin is fulfilled, it brings forth death—”

It seemed to her she was kneeling with Erlend on a cold stone. He knelt
there with the red, burnt patches on his pale face; she knelt under the
heavy bridal crown, and felt the dull, crushing weight within her—the
burden of sin that she bore. She had played and wantoned with her sin,
had measured it as in a childish game. Holy Virgin—now the time was nigh
when it should lie full-born before her, look at her with living eyes;
show her on itself the brands of sin, the hideous deformity of sin;
strike in hate with misshapen hands at its mother’s breast. When she had
borne her child, when she saw the marks of her sin upon it and yet loved
it as she had loved her sin, then would the game be played to an end.

Kristin thought what if she shrieked aloud now, a shriek that would cut
through the song and the deep voices intoning the mass, and echo out
over the people’s heads? Would she be rid then of Eline’s face—would
there come life into the dead man’s eyes? But she clenched her teeth
together.

“—Holy King Olav, I cry upon thee. Above all in Heaven I pray for help
to thee, for I know thou didst love God’s justice above all things. I
call upon thee, that thou hold thy hand over the innocent that is in my
womb. Turn away God’s wrath from the innocent; turn it upon me; Amen, in
the precious name of the Lord—”

“My children,” said Eline’s voice, “are _they_ not guiltless? Yet is
there no place for them in the lands where Christians dwell. Your child
is begotten outside the law, even as were my children. No rights can you
claim for it in the land you have strayed away from, any more than I for
mine—”

“Holy Olav! Yet do I pray for grace. Pray thou for mercy for my son;
take him beneath thy guard; so shall I bear him to thy church on my
naked feet, so shall I bear my golden garland of maidenhood in to thee
and lay it down upon thy altar, if thou wilt but help me—amen.”

Her face was set hard as stone in her struggle to be still and calm; but
her whole body throbbed and quivered as she knelt there through the holy
mass that wedded her to Erlend.

                  *       *       *       *       *

And now, as she sat beside him in the high-seat at home, all things
around her were but as shadows in a fevered dream.

There were minstrels playing on harps and fiddles in the loft-room; and
the sound of music and song rose from the hall below and the courtyard
outside. There was a red glare of fire from without, when the door was
opened for the dishes and tankards to be borne in and out.

Those around the board were standing now; she was standing up between
her father and Erlend. Her father made known with a loud voice that he
had given Erlend Nikulaussön his daughter Kristin to wife. Erlend
thanked his father-in-law, and he thanked all good folk who had come
together there to honour him and his wife.

She was to sit down, they said—and now Erlend laid his bridal gifts in
her lap. Sira Eirik and Sir Munan Baardsön unrolled deeds and read aloud
from them concerning the jointures and settlements of the wedded pair;
while the groomsmen stood around, with spears in their hands, and now
and again during the reading, or when gifts and bags of money were laid
on the table, smote with the butts upon the floor.

The tables were cleared away; Erlend led her forth upon the floor, and
they danced together. Kristin thought: our groomsmen and our
bridesmaids—they are all too young for us—all they that were young with
us are gone from these places; how is it we are come back hither?

“You are so strange, Kristin,” whispered Erlend, as they danced. “I am
afraid of you, Kristin—are you not happy—?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

They went from house to house and greeted their guests. There were many
lights in all the rooms, and everywhere crowds of people drinking and
singing and dancing. It seemed to Kristin she scarce knew her home
again—and she had lost all knowledge of time—hours and the pictures of
her brain seemed strangely to float about loosely, mingled with each
other.

The autumn night was mild; there were minstrels in the courtyard too,
and people dancing round the bonfire. They cried out that the bride and
bridegroom must honour them, too—and then she was dancing with Erlend on
the cold, dewy sward. She seemed to wake a little then, and her head
grew more clear.

Far out in the darkness a band of white mist floated above the murmur of
the river. The mountains stood around coal-black against the
star-sprinkled sky.

Erlend led her out of the ring of dancers—and crushed her to him in the
darkness under the balcony.

“Not once have I had the chance to tell you—you are so fair—so fair and
so sweet. Your cheeks are red as flames—” he pressed his cheek to hers
as he spoke. “Kristin, what is it ails you—?”

“I am so weary, so weary,” she whispered back.

“Soon will we go and sleep,” answered her bridegroom, looking up at the
sky. The Milky Way had wheeled, and now lay all but north and south.
“Mind you that we have not once slept together since that one only night
I was with you in your bower at Skog?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Soon after, Sira Eirik shouted with a loud voice out over the farmstead
that now it was Monday. The women came to lead the bride to bed. Kristin
was so weary that she was scarce able to struggle and hold back as ’twas
fit and seemly she should do. She let herself be seized and led out of
the loft-room by Lady Aashild and Gyrid of Skog. The groomsmen stood at
the foot of the stair with burning torches and naked swords; they formed
a ring round the troop of women and attended Kristin across the
farm-place, and up into the old loft-room.

The women took off her bridal finery, piece by piece, and laid it away.
Kristin saw that over the bed-foot hung the violet velvet robe she was
to wear on the morrow, and upon it lay a long, snow-white,
finely-pleated linen cloth. It was the wife’s linen coif. Erlend had
brought it for her; to-morrow she was to bind up her hair in a knot and
fasten the head-linen over it. It looked to her so fresh and cool and
restful.

At last she was standing before the bridal bed, on her naked feet,
bare-armed, clad only in the long golden-yellow silken shift. They had
set the crown on her head again—the bridegroom was to take it off, when
they two were left alone.

Ragnfrid laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, and kissed her on
the cheek—the mother’s face and hands were strangely cold, but it was as
though sobs were struggling, deep in her breast. Then she threw back the
coverings of the bed, and bade the bride seat herself in it. Kristin
obeyed, and leaned back on the pillows heaped up against the
bed-head—she had to bend her head a little forward to keep on the crown.
Lady Aashild drew the coverings up to the bride’s waist, and laid her
hands before her on the silken coverlid; then took her shining hair and
drew it forward over her bosom and the slender bare upper arms.

Next the men led the bridegroom into the loft-room. Munan Baardsön
unclasped the golden belt and sword from Erlend’s waist—when he leaned
over to hang it on the wall above the bed, he whispered something to the
bride—Kristin knew not what he said, but she did her best to smile.

The groomsmen unlaced Erlend’s silken robe and lifted off the long heavy
garment over his head. He sat him down in the great chair and they
helped him off with his spurs and boots—

Once and once only the bride found courage to look up and meet his eyes—

Then began the good-nights. Before long all the wedding-guests were gone
from the loft. Last of all, Lavrans Björgulfsön went out and shut the
door of the bride-house.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Erlend stood up, stripped off his under-clothing, and flung it on the
benches. He stood by the bed, took the crown and the silken cords from
off her hair, and laid them away on the table. Then he came back and
mounted into the bed. Kneeling by her side he clasped her round the
head, and pressed it in against his hot naked breast, while he kissed
her forehead all along the red-streak the crown had left on it.

She threw her arms about his shoulders and sobbed aloud—she had a sweet,
wild feeling that now the horror, the phantom visions were fading into
air—now, now once again naught was left but he and she. He lifted up her
face a moment, looked down into it, and drew his hand down over her face
and body, with a strange haste and roughness, as though he tore away a
covering:

“Forget,” he begged, in a fiery whisper, “forget all, my Kristin—all but
this, that you are my own wife, and I am your own husband—”

With his hand he quenched the flame of the last candle, then threw
himself down beside her in the dark—he too was sobbing now:

“Never have I believed it, never in all these years, that we should see
this day—”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Without, in the courtyard, the noise died down little by little. Wearied
with the long day’s ride, and dizzy with much strong drink, the guests
made a decent show of merry-making a little while yet—but more and ever
more of them stole away and sought out the places where they were to
sleep.

Ragnfrid showed all the guests of honour to their places, and bade them
good-night. Her husband, who should have helped her in this, was nowhere
to be seen.

The dark courtyard was empty, save for a few small groups of young
folks—servants most of them—when at last she stole out to find her
husband and bring him with her to his bed. She had seen as the night
wore on that he had grown very drunken.

She stumbled over him at last, as she crept along in her search outside
the cattle-yard—he was lying in the grass behind the bath-house, on his
face.

Groping in the darkness, she touched him with her hand—aye, it was he.
She thought he was asleep, and took him by the shoulder—she must get him
up off the icy-cold ground. But he was not asleep, at least, not wholly.

“What would you?” he asked, in a thick voice.

“You cannot lie here,” said his wife. She held him up, as he stood
swaying. With one hand she brushed the soil off his velvet robe. “’Tis
time we too went to rest, husband.” She took him by the arm, and drew
him, reeling, up towards the farm-yard buildings.

“_You_ looked not up, Ragnfrid, when you sat in the bridal bed beneath
the crown,” he said in the same voice. “Our daughter—_she_ was not so
shamefast—her eyes were not shamefast when she looked upon her
bridegroom.”

“She has waited for him seven half-years,” said the mother in a low
voice. “No marvel if she found courage to look up—”

“Nay, devil damn me if they have waited!” screamed the man—as his wife
strove fearfully to hush him.

They were in the narrow passage between the back of the privy and a
fence. Lavrans smote with his clenched fist on the beam across the
cess-pit:

“I set thee here for a scorn and for a mockery, thou beam. I set thee
here that filth might eat thee up. I set thee here in punishment for
striking down that tender little maid of mine.—I should have set thee
high above my hall-room door; and honoured thee and thanked thee with
fairest carven ornament; because thou didst save her from shame and from
sorrow,—because ’twas thy work that my Ulvhild died a sinless child—”

He turned about, reeled toward the fence and fell forward upon it, and
with his head between his arms fell into an unquenchable passion of
weeping, broken by long, deep groans.

His wife took him by the shoulder.

“Lavrans, Lavrans!” But she could not stay his weeping. “Husband.”

“Oh, never, never, never should I have given her to that man! God help
me—I must have known it all the time—he had broken down her youth and
her fairest honour. I believed it not—nay, could I believe the like of
Kristin?—but still I knew it. And yet is she too good for this weakling
boy, that hath made waste of himself and her—had he lured her astray ten
times over, I should never have given her to him, that he may spill yet
more of her life and her happiness—”

“But what other way was there?” said the mother despairingly. “You know
now, as well as I—she was his already—”

“Aye, small need was there for me to make such a mighty to-do in giving
Erlend what he had taken for himself already,” said Lavrans. “’Tis a
gallant husband she has won—my Kristin—” He tore at the fence; then fell
again a-weeping. He had seemed to Ragnfrid as though sobered a little,
but now the fit overcame him again.

She deemed she could not bring him, drunken and beside himself with
despair as he was, to the bed in the hearth-room where they should have
slept—for the room was full of guests. She looked about her—close by
stood a little barn where they kept the best hay to feed to the horses
at the spring ploughing. She went and peered in—no one was there; she
took her husband’s hand, led him inside the barn, and shut the door
behind them.

She piled up hay over herself and him and laid their cloaks above it to
keep them warm. Lavrans fell a-weeping now and again, and said
somewhat—but his speech was so broken, she could find no meaning in it.
In a little while she lifted up his head on to her lap.

“Dear my husband—since now so great a love is between them, maybe ’twill
all go better than we think—”

Lavrans spoke by fits and starts—his mind seemed growing clearer:

“See you not—he has her wholly in his power—he that has never been man
enough to rule himself.—’Twill go hard with her before she finds courage
to set herself against aught her husband wills—and should she one day be
forced to it, ’twill be bitter grief to her—my own gentle child—

—“Now am I come so far I scarce can understand why God hath laid so many
and such heavy sorrows upon me—for I have striven faithfully to do His
will. Why hath He taken our children from us, Ragnfrid, one by one—first
our sons—then little Ulvhild—and now I have given her that I loved
dearest, honourless, to an untrusty and a witless man. Now is there none
left to us but the little one—and unwise must I deem it to take joy in
her, before I see how it will go with her—with Ramborg.”

Ragnfrid shook like a leaf. Then the man laid his arm about her
shoulders:

“Lie down,” he said, “and let us sleep—” He lay for a while with his
head against his wife’s arm, sighing now and then, but at last he fell
asleep.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was still pitch-dark in the barn when Ragnfrid stirred—she wondered
to find that she had slept. She felt about with her hands; Lavrans was
sitting up with knees updrawn and his arms around them.

“Are _you_ awake already?” she asked in wonder. “Are you cold?”

“No,” said he in a hoarse voice, “but I cannot go to sleep again.”

“Is it Kristin you are thinking on?” asked the mother. “Like enough
’twill go better than we think, Lavrans,” she said again.

“Aye, ’tis of that I was thinking,” said the man. “Aye, aye—maid or
woman, at least she is come to the bride-bed with the man she loves. And
’twas not so with either you or me, my poor Ragnfrid.”

His wife gave a deep, dull moan, and threw herself down on her side
amongst the hay. Lavrans put out a hand and laid it on her shoulder.

“But ’twas that I _could_ not,” said he, with passion and pain. “No, I
_could_ not—be as you would have had me—when we were young. I am not
such a one—”

In a while Ragnfrid said softly through her weeping:

“Yet ’twas well with us in our life together—Lavrans—was it not?—all
these years?”

“So thought I myself,” answered he gloomily.

Thoughts crowded and tossed to and fro within him. That single unveiled
glance in which the hearts of bridegroom and bride had leapt
together—the two young faces flushing up redly—to him it seemed a very
shamelessness. It had been agony, a scorching pain to him, that this was
his daughter. But the sight of those eyes would not leave him—and wildly
and blindly he strove against the tearing away of the veil from
something in his own heart, something that he had never owned was there,
that he had guarded against his own wife when she sought for it.

’Twas that he _could_ not, he said again stubbornly to himself. In the
devil’s name—he had been married off as a boy; he had not chosen for
himself; she was older than he—he had not desired her; he had had no
will to learn this of her—to love. He grew hot with shame even now when
he thought of it—that she would have had him love her, when he had no
will to have such love from her. That she had proffered him all this
that he had never prayed for.

He had been a good husband to her—so he had ever thought. He had shown
her all the honour he could, given her full power in her own affairs,
and asked her counsel in all things; he had been true to her—and they
had had six children together. All he had asked had been that he might
live with her, without her for ever grasping at this thing in his heart
that he would not lay bare—

To none had he ever borne love—Ingunn, Karl Steinsön’s wife, at Bru?
Lavrans flushed red in the pitch darkness. He had been their guest ever,
as often as he journeyed down the Dale. He could not call to mind that
he had spoken with the housewife _once_ alone. But when he saw her—if he
but thought of her, a sense came over him as of the first breath of the
plough-lands in the spring, when the snows are but now melted and gone.
He knew it now—it might have befallen him too—he, too, could have loved.

But he had been wedded so young, and he had grown shy of love. And so
had it come about that he throve best in the wild woods—or out on the
waste uplands—where all things that live must have wide spaces around
them—room to flee through—fearfully they look on any stranger that would
steal upon them—

One time in the year there was, when all the beasts in the woods and on
the mountains forgot their shyness—when they rushed to their mates. But
his had been given him unsought. And she had proffered him all he had
not wooed her for.

But the young ones in the nest—they had been the little warm green spot
in the wilderness—the inmost, sweetest joy of his life. Those little
girl-heads under his hand—

Marriage—they had wedded him, almost unasked. Friends—he had many, and
he had none. War—it had brought him gladness, but there had been no more
war—his armour hung there in the loft-room, little used. He had turned
farmer—But he had had his daughters—all his living and striving had
grown dear to him, because by it he cherished them and made them safe,
those soft, tender little beings he had held in his hands. He remembered
Kristin’s little two-year-old body on his shoulder, her flaxen, silky
hair against his cheek; her small hands holding to his belt, while she
butted her round, hard child’s forehead against his shoulder-blades,
when he rode out with her behind him on his horse.

And now had she that same glow in her eyes—and she had won what was
hers. She sat there in the half-shadow against the silken pillows of the
bed. In the candle-light she was all golden—golden crown and golden
shift and golden hair spread over the naked golden arms. Her eyes were
shy no longer—

Her father winced with shame.

And yet it was as though his heart was bleeding within him, for what he
himself had never won; and for his wife, there by his side, whom he had
never given what should have been hers.

Weak with pity, he felt in the darkness for Ragnfrid’s hand:

“Aye, methought it was well with us in our life together,” he said.
“Methought ’twas but that you sorrowed for our children—aye, and that
you were born heavy of mood. Never did it come to my mind, it might be
that I was no good husband to you—”

Ragnfrid trembled fitfully:

“You were ever a good husband, Lavrans.”

“Hm,” Lavrans sat with his chin resting on his knees. “Yet had it mayhap
been better with you, if you had been wedded even as our daughter was
to-day—”

Ragnfrid started up with a low, piercing cry:

“You know! How did you know it—how long have you known—?”

“I know not what ’tis you speak of,” said Lavrans after a while in a
strange deadened voice.

“This do I speak of—that I was no maid, when I came to be your wife,”
said Ragnfrid, and her voice rang clear in her despair.

In a little while Lavrans answered, as before:

“That have I never known, till now.”

Ragnfrid laid her down among the hay, shaken with weeping. When the fit
was over she lifted her head a little. A faint grey light was beginning
to creep in through the window-hole in the wall. She could dimly see her
husband sitting with his arms thrown round his knees, motionless as
stone.

“Lavrans—speak to me—” she wailed.

“What would you I should say?” asked he without stirring.

“Oh—I know not—curse me—strike me—”

“’Twould be something late now,” answered the man; there seemed to be
the shade of a scornful smile in his voice.

Ragnfrid wept again: “Aye—I heeded not then that I was betraying you. So
betrayed and so dishonoured, methought, had I been myself. There was
none had spared me. They came and brought you—you know yourself, I saw
you but three times before we were wed—Methought you were but a boy,
white and red—so young and childish—”

“I was so,” said Lavrans, and a faint ring of life came to his voice.
“And therefore a man might deem that you, who were a woman—you might
have been more afraid to—to deceive one who was so young that he knew
naught—”

“So did _I_ think after,” said Ragnfrid, weeping. “When I had come to
know you. Soon came the time, when I would have given my soul twenty
times over, to be guiltless of sin against you.”

Lavrans sat silent and motionless; then said his wife:

“You ask not anything?”

“What use to ask? It was he that—we met his burial-train at
Feginsbrekka, as we bore Ulvhild in to Nidaros—”

“Aye,” said Ragnfrid. “We had to leave the way—go aside into a meadow. I
saw them bear him on his bier—with priests and monks and armed yeomen. I
heard he had made a good end—had made his peace with God. I prayed as we
stood there with Ulvhild’s litter between us—I prayed that my sin and my
sorrow might be laid at his feet on the Last Day—”

“Aye, like enough you did,” said Lavrans, and there was the same shade
of scorn in his quiet voice.

“You know not all,” said Ragnfrid, cold with despair. “Mind you that he
came out to us at Skog the first winter we were wedded—?”

“Aye,” answered the man.

“When Björgulf was born—oh, I thought he was dearer spared me—He was
drunk when he did it—afterward he said he had never cared for me, he
would not have me—bade me forget it. My father knew it not; _he_ did not
betray you—never think that. But Trond—we were the dearest of friends to
each other then—I made my moan to him. He tried to force the man to wed
me; but he was but a boy; he was beaten—Afterwards he counselled me to
hold my peace, and to take you—”

She sat a while in silence.

“Then _he_ came out to Skog—a year was gone by; I thought not on it so
much any more. But he came out thither—he said that he repented, he
would have had me now, had I been unwedded—he loved me. He said so. God
knows if he said true. When he was gone—I dared not go out on the fjord,
dared not for my sin, not with the child. And I had begun—I had begun to
love you so!” She cried out, a single cry of the wildest pain. The man
turned his head quickly towards her.

“When Björgulf was dying—Oh, no one, no one had to me than my life. When
he lay in the death-throes—I thought, if he died, I must die too. But I
prayed _not_ God to spare my boy’s life—”

Lavrans sat a long time silent—then he asked in a dead, heavy voice:

“Was it because I was not his father?”

“I knew not if you were,” said Ragnfrid, growing stiff and stark where
she sat.

Long they sat there in a deathly stillness. Then the man asked
vehemently of a sudden:

“In Jesus name, Ragnfrid—why tell you me all this—now?”

“Oh, I know not!” She wrung her hands till the joints cracked. “That you
may avenge you on me—drive me from your house—”

“Think you that would help me—” His voice shook with scorn. “Then there
are our daughters,” he said quietly. “Kristin—and the little one.”

Ragnfrid sat still a while.

“I mind me how you judged of Erlend Nikulaussön,” she said softly. “How
judge you of me, then—?”

A long shudder of cold passed over the man’s body—yet a little of the
stiffness seemed to leave him.

“You have—we have lived together now for seven and twenty years—almost.
’Tis not the same as with a stranger. I see this too—worse than misery
has it been for you.”

Ragnfrid sank together sobbing at the words. She plucked up heart to put
her hand on one of his. He moved not at all—sat as still as a dead man.
Her weeping grew louder and louder—but her husband still sat motionless,
looking at the faint grey light creeping in around the door. At last she
lay as if all her tears were spent. Then he stroked her arm lightly
downward—and she fell to weeping again.

“Mind you,” she said through her tears, “that man who came to us one
time, when we dwelt at Skog? He that knew all the ancient lays? Mind you
the lay of a dead man that was come back from the world of torment, and
told his son the story of all that he had seen? There was heard a
groaning from Hell’s deepest ground, the querns of untrue women grinding
mould for their husbands’ meat. Bloody were the stones they dragged
at—bloody hung the hearts from out their breasts—”

Lavrans was silent.

“All these years have I thought upon those words,” said Ragnfrid. “Every
day ’twas as though my heart was bleeding, for every day methought I
ground you mould for meat—”

Lavrans know not himself why he answered as he did. It seemed to him his
breast was empty and hollow, like the breast of a man that has had the
blood-eagle carven through his back. But he laid his hand heavily and
wearily on his wife’s head, and spoke:

“Mayhap mould must needs be ground, my Ragnfrid, before the meat can
grow.”

When she tried to take his hand and kiss it, he snatched it away. But
then he looked down at his wife, took one of her hands and laid it on
his knee, and bowed his cold, stiffened face down upon it. And so they
sat on, motionless, speaking no word more.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ There is no section number 7 in Book III.
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that:
      was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
      was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).