Kristin Lavransdatter (102 page)

But Simon snarled through clenched teeth, “Next time . . . will never come! What do you say, Olav?”

Olav shook his head, but Erlend said with a trace of the old impudent boldness in his voice, “If only I could believe that . . . as firmly as you do! But these men will hardly . . . be satisfied with this . . .” He noticed the twitching of Simon’s muscular, heavy face. “No, Simon . . . brother-in-law!” Erlend tried to raise himself up on one elbow; in pain he uttered a stifled moan and then sank back in a faint.

Olav and Simon tended to him. When the fainting spell had passed, Erlend lay still with his eyes open wide; he spoke more somberly.

“Don’t you see . . . how much is at stake . . . for King Magnus? To find out . . . which men he shouldn’t trust . . . farther than he can see them. So much unrest . . . and discontent . . . as we’ve had here . . .”

“Well, if he thinks this will quell the discontent, then—” said Olav Kyrning angrily.

But Erlend said in a soft, clear voice, “I’ve handled this matter in such a way . . . that few will consider it important how I’m treated. I know that myself.”

The two men blushed. Simon hadn’t thought that Erlend understood this—and neither of them had ever referred to Fru Sunniva. Now he exclaimed in despair, “How could you be so foolish and reckless!”

“I can’t understand it either . . . now,” said Erlend honestly. “But—how in hell was I to know that she could read! She seemed so uneducated.”

His eyes closed again; he was about to faint once more. Olav Kyrning murmured that he would get something and left the room. Simon bent over Erlend, who was again lying there with half-open eyes.

“Brother-in-law . . . did . . . did Erling Vidkunssøn support you in this matter?”

Erlend shook his head and smiled. “No, by Jesus. We thought either he wouldn’t have the courage to join us . . . or else he would want to control the whole thing. But don’t ask me, Simon . . . I don’t want to tell . . . anyone. Then I know that I won’t talk . . .”

Suddenly Erlend whispered his wife’s name. Simon bent over him; he expected Erlend to ask him to bring Kristin to him. But he said hastily, as if in a feverish breath, “She mustn’t find out about this, Simon. Tell her the king has sent word that no one is to be allowed to see me. Take her out to Munan—at Skogheim. Do you hear me? These Frenchmen . . . or Moors . . . new friends of our king . . . they won’t stop yet. Get her out of Oslo before the news spreads through town! Simon?”

“Yes,” he replied, although he had no idea how he would manage it.

Erlend lay still for a moment with his eyes closed. Then he said with a sort of smile, “I was thinking last night . . . about the time she gave birth to our eldest son. She was no better off than I am now—judging by how she wailed. And if she could bear it seven times . . . for the sake of our pleasure . . . then surely I can too.”

Simon was silent. The involuntary qualms he felt about life revealing to him its last secrets of suffering and desire seemed not to trouble Erlend in the least. He wrestled with the worst and with the sweetest, as innocently as a naive young boy whose friends have taken him to a house of sin, drunken and full of curiosity.

Erlend rolled his head back and forth impatiently.

“These flies are the worst . . . I think they’re the Devil himself.”

Simon took off his cap and swatted vigorously at the swarms of blue-black flies so that they rose up in great clouds, buzzing noisily. And all those that were knocked senseless to the floor, he furiously trampled in the dirt. It wouldn’t help much because the window hole in the wall stood wide open. The previous winter there had been a wooden shutter with a skin-covered opening. But it had made the room very dark.

He was still busily flailing at the flies when Olav Kyrning came back with a priest who was carrying a drinking goblet. The priest put his hand under Erlend’s head to support him as he drank. Much of the liquid ran down into his beard and along his neck, but he lay as calm and unconcerned as a child when the priest wiped him off with a rag.

Simon felt as if his whole body was in ferment—his blood was pulsing hard in his neck beneath his ears, and his heart was pounding in an odd and restless fashion. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the tall body stretched out under the cape. A feverish flush was now passing in waves over Erlend’s face. He lay there with his eyes half-open and glittering, but he gave his brother-in-law a smile, a shadow of his peculiar, boyish smile.

 

The following day, as Stig Haakonssøn of Mandvik was sitting at the breakfast table with his guests, Sir Erling Vidkunssøn and his son Bjarne, they heard the hoofbeats of a lone horse out in the courtyard. A moment later the door of the building was flung open and Simon Andressøn stepped swiftly toward them. He wiped his face on his sleeve; he was spattered with mud all the way up to his neck after the ride.

The three men sitting at the table rose to their feet to greet the new arrival with small exclamations that were part welcome and part surprise. Simon didn’t greet them but stood there leaning on the hilt of his sword with both hands. He said, “I bring you strange news—they have taken Erlend Nikulaussøn and stretched him on the rack—some foreigners that the king has sent to interrogate him. . . .”

The men shouted and then crowded around Simon Andressøn. Stig pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand. “What did he tell them?”

At the same time both he and Bjarne Erlingssøn involuntarily turned to face Sir Erling. Simon burst into laughter; he roared and roared.

Then he sank down onto the chair that Bjarne Erlingssøn pulled out for him, accepted the ale bowl the young man offered him, and drank greedily.

“Why are you laughing?” asked Sir Erling sternly.

“I was laughing at Stig.” Simon was leaning slightly forward, with his hands resting on the thighs of his mud-covered breeches. He gave a few more bursts of laughter. “I had thought . . . All of us here are the sons of great chieftains . . . I expected you to be so angry that such a thing could be done to one of our peers that your first response would be to ask how this could possibly happen.

“I can’t say that I know exactly what the law is about such matters. Ever since my lord King Haakon died, I’ve been content with the idea that I owed his successor my service if he should ask for it, both in war and in peace; otherwise I’ve lived quietly on my manor. But now I can only think that this case against Erlend Nikulaussøn has been unlawfully handled. His fellow noblemen have passed judgment on him, but I don’t know by what right they condemned him to death. Then a reprieve and safe conduct were granted to him until he could meet with his kinsman, King Magnus, to see whether the king might allow Erlend to be reconciled with him. But since then the man has been imprisoned in the tower at Akers Castle for nearly a year, and the king has been abroad almost all that time. Letters have been dispatched, but nothing has come of it. And now he sends over these louts, who are neither Norwegian nor the king’s retainers, and who attempt to interrogate Erlend with conduct that is unheard of toward any Norwegian man with the rights of a royal retainer—while peace reigns in the land, and Erlend’s kinsmen and peers are gathering in Tunsberg to celebrate the royal wedding. . . .

“What do you think of all this, Sir Erling?”

“I think . . .” Erling sat down on the bench across from him. “I think you have told us clearly and bluntly how this matter now stands, Simon Darre. As I see it, the king can only do one of three things: He can allow Erlend to appeal the sentence that was handed down in Nidaros. Or he can appoint a new court of royal retainers and have the case against Erlend brought by a man who does not bear the title of knight, and then they will sentence Erlend to exile, with the proper time allowed for him to leave the realms of King Magnus. Or he will have to permit Erlend to be reconciled with him. And that would be the wisest solution of all.

“It seems to me that this case is now so clear, that whoever you present it to in Tunsberg will assist you and support you. Jon Haftorssøn and his brother are there. Erlend is their kinsman, just as he is the king’s. The Ogmundssøns will realize that injustice in this matter would be folly. You should seek out the commander of the royal retinue first; ask him and Sir Paal Eirikssøn to call a meeting of the retainers who are now in town and who seem most suited to handle this case.”

“Won’t you and your kinsmen go with me, sir?” asked Simon.

“We don’t intend to join the festivities,” said Erling curtly.

“The Haftorssøns are young, Sir Paal is old and feeble, and the others . . . You know yourself, sir, that they have some power, being in the king’s favor and such, but . . . what importance do they have compared to you, Erling Vidkunssøn? You, sir, have held more power in this country than any other chieftain since . . . I don’t know when. Behind you, sir, stand the ancient families that the people of this country have known, man after man, for as far back as the legends tell us of bad times and good times in our villages. In your father’s lineage—what is Magnus Eirikssøn or the sons of Haftor of Sudrheim compared to you? Is their wealth worth mentioning compared to yours? This advice you have given me—it will take time, and the Frenchmen are already in Oslo, and you can bet that they will not yield. It’s clear that the king is attempting to rule Norway according to foreign customs. I know that abroad there’s a tradition for the king to ignore the law when he so chooses, if he can find amenable men among the knighthood to support him. Olav Kyrning has sent letters to those noblemen he could find to join him, and the bishop has promised to write as well. But you could end this dispute and unrest at once, Erling Vid kunssøn, by seeking out King Magnus. You are the foremost descendant of all the old noblemen here in Norway; the king knows that all the others would stand behind you.”

“I can’t say that I’ve noticed that in the past,” said Erling bitterly. “You speak with great fervor on behalf of your brother-in-law, Simon. But don’t you understand that I can’t do it
now?
If I do, people would say . . . that I step forward the minute pressure is put on Erlend and it’s feared he might not be able to hold his tongue.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Stig asked again, “Has Erlend . . . talked?”

“No,” replied Simon impatiently. “He has kept silent. And I think he’ll continue to do so. Erling Vidkunssøn,” he implored, “he’s your kinsman—you were friends.”

Erling took a few deep, heavy breaths.

“Yes. Simon Andressøn, do you fully understand exactly
what
Erlend Nikulaussøn has brought upon himself? He wanted to dissolve the royal union with the Swedes—this form of rule that has never been tested before—which seems to bring more and more hardship and difficulty to Norway for each year that passes. He wanted to go back to the old, familiar rule, which we know brings good fortune and prosperity. Don’t you see that this was the plan of a wise and bold man? And don’t you see that now it would be difficult for anyone else to take up this plan after him? He has ruined the chances of the sons of Knut Porse—and there are no other men of royal lineage the people can rally around. You might argue that if Erlend had carried out his intentions and brought Prince Haakon here to Norway, then he would have played right into my hands. Other than deliver the boy into the country, these . . . young fellows . . . wouldn’t have been able to do much without the intervention of sober-minded men who could handle all the rest that needed to be done. That’s how it is—I can vouch for it. God knows I’ve reaped few rewards; rather, I’ve had to set aside the care of my own estates for the ten years I’ve endured unrest and toil, strife and torment without end—a few men in this country have understood as much, and I’ve had to be satisfied with that!” He pounded his hand hard against the table. “Don’t you understand, Simon, that the man who took such great plans onto his shoulders—and no one knows how important they might have been to the welfare of all of us here in Norway, and to our descendants for many years to come—he set them all aside, along with his breeches, on the bed of a wanton woman. God’s blood! It could be he deserves to pay the same penance Audun Hestakorn did!”

He grew calmer.

“Otherwise I have no reason to begrudge Erlend his release, and you mustn’t think I’m not angry about what you have told us. I think if you follow my advice, you’ll find plenty of men who will support you in this matter. But I don’t think I can help you enough by joining you that I would approach the king uninvited for the sake of this cause.”

Simon got to his feet stiffly and arduously. His face was gray-streaked with fatigue. Stig Haakonssøn came over and put his arm around his shoulders. Now he would have food; he hadn’t wanted any servants in the room before they finished talking. But now he ought to regain his strength with food and drink, and then rest. Simon thanked him, but he wanted to continue on his way shortly, if Stig would lend him a fresh horse, and if he would give his servant, Jon Daalk, lodging for the night. Simon had been forced to ride on ahead of his man the night before because his horse couldn’t keep up with Digerbein. Yes, he had been traveling almost all night; he thought he knew the road to Mandvik so well, but he had lost his way a couple of times.

Stig asked him to stay until the next day; then he would go with him at least part of the way. Well, he might even accompany him as far as Tunsberg.

“There’s no reason for me to stay here any longer. I just want to go over to the church. Since I’m here on the estate, I want to say a prayer at Halfrid’s grave, at least.”

The blood rushed and roared through his exhausted body; the pounding of his heart was deafening. He felt as if he might collapse; he was only half awake. But he heard his own voice saying evenly and calmly, “Won’t you go over there with me, Sir Erling? Of all her kinsmen, I know she was most fond of you.”

He didn’t look at the other man, but he could sense him stiffen. After a moment he heard through the rushing and ringing sound of his own blood the clear and courteous voice of Erling Vidkunssøn.