Kristin Lavransdatter (57 page)

 

To the south the sky arched pale yellow over the blue-tinged snowdrifts of the mountains on the evening when Erlend came racing down past the churchyard, making the snow crust creak and shriek. High overhead hovered the crescent moon, shining white and dewy in the twilight.

At Jørundgaard dark smoke was swirling up from the smoke vents against the pale, clear sky. The sound of an axe rang out cold and rhythmic in the stillness.

At the entrance to the courtyard a pack of dogs started barking loudly at the approaching man. Inside the courtyard a group of shaggy goats ambled around, dark silhouettes in the clear dusk. They were nibbling at a heap of fir boughs in the middle of the courtyard. Three winter-clad youngsters were running among them.

The peace of the place made an oddly deep impression on Erlend. He stood there, irresolute, and waited for Lavrans, who was coming forward to greet the stranger. His father-in-law had been over by the woodshed, talking to a man splitting rails for a fence. Lavrans stopped abruptly when he recognized his son-in-law; he thrust the spear he was holding hard into the snow.

“Is that
you?
” he asked in a low voice. “Alone? Is there . . . is something . . . ?” And a moment later he said, “How is it that you’ve come here like this?”

“Here’s the reason.” Erlend pulled himself together and looked his father-in-law in the eye. “I thought I could do no less than to come here myself to bring you the news. Kristin gave birth to a son on the morning of the Feast of the Annunciation.

“And yes, she is doing well now,” he added quickly.

Lavrans stood in silence for a moment. He was biting down hard on his lip—his jaw trembled and quivered faintly.

“That was news indeed!” he said then.

Little Ramborg had come over to stand at her father’s side. She looked up, her face flaming red.

“Be quiet,” said Lavrans harshly, even though the maiden hadn’t uttered a word but had merely blushed. “Don’t stand here—go away.”

He didn’t say anything more. Erlend stood leaning forward, with his left hand gripping his staff. His eyes were fixed on the snow. He had stuck his right hand inside his tunic.

Lavrans pointed. “Have you injured yourself?”

“A little,” said Erlend. “I slipped down a slope yesterday in the dark.”

Lavrans touched his wrist and pressed it cautiously. “I don’t think there are any bones broken,” he said. “You can tell her mother yourself.” He started for the house as Ragnfrid came out into the courtyard. She looked in amazement at her husband; then she recognized Erlend and quickly walked over to him.

She listened without speaking as Erlend, for the second time, presented his message. But her eyes filled with tears when Erlend said at the end, “I thought you might have noticed something before she left here in the fall—and that you might be worried about her now.”

“It was kind of you, Erlend,” she said uncertainly. “For you to think of that. I think I’ve been worried every day since you took her away from us.”

Lavrans came back.

“Here is some fox fat—I see that you’ve frozen your cheek, son-in-law. You must stay for a while in the entryway, so Ragnfrid can attend to it and thaw you out. How are your feet? You must take off your boots so we can see.”

 

When the servants came in for the evening meal, Lavrans told them the news and ordered special foreign ale to be brought in so they could celebrate. But there was no real merriment about the occasion—the master himself sat at the table with a cup of water. He asked Erlend to forgive him, but this was a promise he had made during his youth, to drink water during Lent. And so the servants sat there quietly, and the conversation lagged over the good ale. Once in a while the children would go over to Lavrans; he put his arm around them when they stood at his knee, but he gave absentminded answers to their questions. Ramborg replied curtly and sharply when Erlend tried to tease her; she would show that she didn’t like this brother-in-law of hers. She was now eight winters old, lively and lovely, but she bore little resemblance to her sisters.

Erlend asked who the other children were. Lavrans told him the boy was Haavard Trondssøn, the youngest child at Sundbu. It was so tedious for him over there among his grown-up siblings; at Christmastime he had decided to go home with his aunt. The maiden was Helga Rolvsdatter. Her kinsmen had been forced to take the children from Blakarsarv home with them after the funeral; it wasn’t good for them to see their father the way he was now. And it was nice for Ramborg that she had these foster siblings. “We’re getting old now, Ragnfrid and I,” said Lavrans. “And she’s more wild and playful, this one here, than Kristin was.” He stroked his daughter’s curly hair.

Erlend sat down next to his mother-in-law, and she asked him about Kristin’s childbirth. The son-in-law noticed that Lavrans was listening to them, but then he stood up, went over, and picked up his hat and cape. He would go over to the parsonage, he said, to ask Sira Eirik to come and join them for a drink.

Lavrans walked along the well-trodden path through the fields toward Romundgaard. The moon was about to sink behind the mountains now, but thousands of stars still sparkled above the white slopes. He hoped the priest would be at home—he could no longer stand to sit there with the others.

But when he turned down the lane between the fences near the courtyard, he saw a small candle coming toward him. Old Audun was carrying it, and when he sensed there was someone in the road, he rang his tiny silver bell. Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn threw himself down on his knees in the snowdrift at the side of the road.

Audun walked past with his candle and bell, which rang faintly and gently. Behind him rode Sira Eirik. With his hands he lifted the Host vessel high as he came upon the kneeling man, but he did not turn his head; he rode silently past as Lavrans bowed down and raised his hands in greeting to his Savior.

That was the son of Einar Hnufa with the priest—it must be nearing the end for the old man now. Ah well. Lavrans said his prayers for the dying man before he stood up and walked back home. The meeting with God in the night had nevertheless strengthened and consoled him a great deal.

 

When they had gone to bed, Lavrans asked his wife, “Did you know anything about this—that things were such with Kristin?”

“Didn’t you?” said Ragnfrid.

“No,” replied her husband so curtly that she could tell he must have been thinking of it all the same.

“I was indeed fearful for a time this past summer,” said the mother hesitantly. “I could see that she took no pleasure in her food. But as the days passed, I thought I must have been mistaken. She seemed so happy during all the time we were preparing for her wedding.”

“Well, she certainly had good reason for
that,
” said the father with some disdain. “But that she said nothing to you. . . . You, her own mother . . .”

“Yes, you think of that now when she’s gone astray,” said Ragnfrid bitterly. “But you know quite well that Kristin has never confided in me.”

Lavrans said no more. A little later he bade his wife sleep well and then lay down quietly. He realized that sleep would not come to him for some time.

Kristin, Kristin—his poor little maiden.

Not with a single word had he ever referred to what Ragnfrid had confessed to him on the night of Kristin’s wedding. And in all fairness she couldn’t say he had made her feel it was on his mind. He had been no different in his demeanor toward her—rather, he had striven to show her even more kindness and love. But it was not the first time this winter he had noticed the bitterness in Ragnfrid or seen her searching for some hidden offense in the innocent words he had spoken. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t know what to do about it—he would simply have to accept it.

“Our Father who art in Heaven . . .” He prayed for Kristin and her child. Then he prayed for his wife and for himself. Finally, he prayed for the strength to tolerate Erlend Nikulaussøn with a patient spirit for as long as he was forced to have his son-in-law there on his estate.

 

Lavrans would not allow his daughter’s husband to set off for home until they saw how his wrist was healing. And he refused to let Erlend go back alone.

“Kristin would be pleased if you came with me,” said Erlend one day.

Lavrans was silent for a moment. Then he voiced many objections. Ragnfrid would undoubtedly not like to be left alone on the farm. And once he had journeyed so far north, it would be difficult to return in time for spring planting. But in the end he set off with Erlend. He took no servant along—he would travel home by ship to Raumsdal. There he could hire horses to carry him south through the valley; he knew people everywhere along the way.

 

They talked little as they skied, but they got along well together. It was a struggle for Lavrans to keep up with his companion; he didn’t want to admit that his son-in-law went too fast for him. But Erlend took note of this and at once adapted his pace to his father-in-law’s. He went to great lengths to charm his wife’s father—and he had that quiet, gentle manner whenever he wished to win someone’s friendship.

On the third evening they sought shelter in a stone hut. They had had bad weather and fog, but Erlend seemed to be able to find his way just as confidently. Lavrans noticed that Erlend had an astoundingly accurate knowledge of all signs and tracks, in the air and on the ground, and of the ways of animals and their habits—and he always seemed to know where he was. Everything that Lavrans, experienced in the mountains as he was, had learned by observing and paying attention and remembering, the other man seemed to intuit quite blindly. Erlend laughed at this, but it was simply something he knew.

They found the stone hut in the dark, exactly at the moment Erlend had predicted. Lavrans recalled one such night when he had dug himself a shelter in the snow only an arrow’s shot away from his own horse shed. Here the snow had drifted up over the hut and they had to break their way in through the smoke vent. Erlend covered the opening with a horsehide that was lying in the hut, fastening it with sticks of firewood, which he stuck in among the roof beams. With a ski he cleared away the snow that had blown inside and managed to build a fire in the hearth from the frozen wood lying about. He pulled out three or four grouse from under the bench—he had put them there on his way south. He packed them in earth from the floor where it had thawed out around the hearth and then threw the bundles into the embers.

Lavrans stretched out on the earthen bench, which Erlend had prepared for him as best he could, spreading out their knapsacks and capes.

“That’s what soldiers do with stolen chickens, Erlend,” he said with a laugh.

“Yes, I learned a few things when I was in the Earl’s service,” said Erlend, laughing too.

Now he was alert and lively, not silent and rather sluggish the way his father-in-law had most often seen him. As he sat on the floor in front of Lavrans, he started telling stories about the years when he served Earl Jacob in Halland.
¹
He had been head of the castle guard, and he had patrolled the coast with three small ships. Erlend’s eyes shone like a child’s—he wasn’t boasting, he merely let the words spill out. Lavrans lay there looking down at him.

He had prayed to God to grant him patience with this man, his daughter’s husband. Now he was almost angry with himself because he was more fond of Erlend than he wanted to be. He thought about that night when their church burned down and he had taken a liking to his son-in-law. It was not that Erlend lacked manhood in his lanky body. Lavrans felt a stab of pain in his heart. It was a pity about Erlend; he could have been fit for better things than seducing women. But nothing much had come of that except boyish pranks. If only times had been such that a chieftain could have taken this man in hand and put him to use . . . but as the world was now, when every man had to depend on his own judgment about so many things . . . and a man in Erlend’s circumstances was supposed to make decisions for himself and for the welfare of many other people. And this was Kristin’s husband.

Erlend looked up at his father-in-law. He grew somber too. Then he said, “I want to ask one thing, Lavrans. Before we reach my home, I’d like you to tell me what is in your heart.”

Lavrans was silent.

“You must know,” said Erlend in the same tone of voice, “that I would gladly fall at your feet in whatever manner you wish and make amends in whatever way you deem a fitting punishment for me.”

Lavrans looked down into the younger man’s face; then he smiled oddly.

“That might be difficult, Erlend—for me to decide and for you to do. But now you must make a proper gift to the church at Sundbu and to the priests, whom you have also deceived,” he said adamantly. “I will speak no more of this! And you cannot blame it on your youth. It would have been much more honorable, Erlend, if you had fallen at my feet
before
you held your wedding.”