Kristin Lavransdatter (103 page)

“I’ll gladly do so, Simon Darre. It’s miserable weather,” he said as he buckled on the belt with his sword and threw a thick cape around his shoulders. Simon stood as still as a rock until the other man was ready. Then they went out the door.

Outside, the autumn rain was pouring down, and the fog was drifting in so thick from the sea that they could barely see more than a couple of horse-lengths into the fields and the yellow leafy groves on either side of the path. It was not far to the church. Simon went to get the key from the chaplain at the parsonage nearby; he was relieved to see that new people had come since the days when he lived there, so he could avoid a long chat.

It was a small stone church with only one altar. Distractedly Simon looked at the same pictures and adornments he had seen so many hundreds of times before as he knelt down a short distance from Erling Vidkunssøn near the white marble gravestone; he said his prayers, crossing himself at the proper times, without fully taking notice.

Simon didn’t understand how he’d been able to do it. But now he was in the thick of it all. What he should say, he wasn’t sure—but no matter how sick with fear and shame he felt, he knew he would attempt it all the same.

He remembered the white, ill face of the aging woman lying in the dim light of the bed, and her lovely, gentle voice on that afternoon when he sat at her bedside and she told him. It was a month before the child was due, and she expected that it would take her life—but she was willing and happy to pay so dearly for their son. That poor boy who now lay under the stone in a little coffin at his mother’s shoulder. No, no man could do what he intended. . . .

But he thought of Kristin’s white face. She knew what had happened, when he returned from Akersnes that day. Pale and calm, she spoke of it and asked him questions; but he had looked into her eyes for one brief moment, and he didn’t dare meet them again. Where she was now or what she was doing, he didn’t know. Whether she was at the hostel or with her husband, or whether they had persuaded her to go out to Skogheim . . . he had left it in the hands of Olav Kyrning and Sira Ingolf. He lacked the strength to do more, and he didn’t think he could waste any time.

Simon didn’t realize that he was hiding his face in his hands. Halfrid . . . it’s not a question of sin or shame, my Halfrid. And yet . . . What she had told her husband—about her sorrow and her love, which had made her stay with that old devil. One day he had even killed the child she carried under her heart, but she stayed because she didn’t want to tempt her beloved friend.

Erling Vidkunssøn was kneeling with no expression on his colorless, finely shaped face. He held his hands in front of his chest, with the palms pressed together; from time to time he would cross himself with a quiet, tender, and graceful gesture, and then put his fingertips together as before.

No. It was too terrible for any man to do. Not even for Kristin’s sake could he do
that.
They stood up together, bowed to the altar, and walked back through the church. Simon’s spurs rang faintly with every step he took on the flagstone floor. They had still not said a word to each other since leaving the manor, and Simon had no idea what might happen next.

He locked the church door, and Erling Vidkunssøn walked on ahead across the cemetery. Under the little roof of the churchyard gate, he stopped. Simon joined him, and they stood there for a while before heading back out into the pouring rain.

Erling spoke calmly and evenly, but Simon sensed the stifled, boundless rage that was menacing deep inside the other man; he didn’t dare look up.

“In the name of the Devil, Simon Andressøn! What do you mean by . . . referring to . . . that?”

Simon couldn’t say a word.

“If you think you can threaten me so that I’ll do what you want because you’ve heard some false rumors about events that supposedly occurred, back when you were hardly weaned from your mother’s breast . . .” His fury was snarling closer to the surface now.

Simon shook his head. “I thought, sir, that if you remembered the woman who was better than the purest gold, then you might have pity for Erlend’s wife and children.”

Sir Erling looked at him. He didn’t reply but began to scrape moss and lichen off the stones of the churchyard wall. Simon swallowed and then moistened his lips with his tongue.

“I hardly know what I was thinking, Erling. Perhaps if you remembered the woman who endured all those terrible years, with no solace or help except from God alone, then you might want to help many other people—because you can! Since you couldn’t help her . . . Have you ever regretted riding away from Mandvik on that day and leaving Halfrid behind in the hands of Sir Finn?”

“But I didn’t do that!” Erling’s voice was now scathing. “Because I know that
she
never . . . but I don’t think
you
can understand that! For if you fully understood for a single moment how proud she was, that woman who became
your
wife . . .” He laughed angrily. “Then you would never have done this. I don’t know how much you know—but I’ll gladly tell you this: Haakon was ill at the time, and so they sent
me
to bring her home to her kinsmen. She and Elin had grown up together like sisters; they were almost the same age, although Elin was her father’s sister. We had . . . it so happened that whenever she came home from Mandvik, we were forced to meet quite often. We would sit and talk, sometimes all night long, on the gallery to the Lindorm chamber. Every word that was spoken she and I can both defend before God on Judgment Day. Then maybe
He
can tell us why it had to be so.

“And yet God rewarded her piety in the end. He gave her a good husband as consolation for the one she had had before. Such a young whelp you were . . . lying with her serving maids on her own estate . . . and making her raise your bastard children.” He flung far away the ball of moss he had crushed in his hand.

Simon stood motionless and mute. Erling scraped off another patch of moss and tossed it aside.

“I did what
she
asked me to do. Have you heard enough? There was no other way. Wherever else we might have met in the world, we would have had . . . we would have had . . . Adultery is not a nice word. The shame of blood is much worse.”

Simon gave a stiff little nod. He could see that it would be laughable to say what he was thinking. Erling Vidkunssøn had been in his early twenties, handsome and refined; Halfrid had loved him so much that she would have gladly kissed his footprints in the dewy grass of the courtyard on that spring morning. Her husband was an aging, portly, loathsome farmer. What about Kristin? It would never occur to her now to think there was any danger to anyone’s salvation if she lived together with her brother-in-law on the same estate for twenty years. That was something Simon had learned well enough by now.

Then he said quietly, almost meekly, “Halfrid didn’t want the innocent child her maid had conceived with her husband to suffer in this world.
She
was the one who begged me to do right by her as best I could. Oh, Erling Vidkunssøn—for the sake of Erlend’s poor wife . . . She’s grieving herself to death. I didn’t think I could leave any stone unturned while I searched for help for her and all her children.”

Erling stood leaning against the gatepost. His face was just as calm as always, and his voice was courteous and cool when he spoke again.

“I liked her, Kristin Lavransdatter, the few times I’ve met her. She’s a beautiful and dignified woman. And as I’ve told you many times now, Simon Andressøn, I’m certain you’ll win support if you follow my advice. But I don’t fully understand what you mean by this . . . strange notion. You can’t mean that because I had to let my uncle decide my marriage, underaged as I was back then, and the maiden I loved most was already betrothed when we met . . . And Erlend’s wife is not as innocent as you say. Yes, you’re married to her sister, that’s true; but
you
are the one, not I, who has caused us to have this . . . strange conversation . . . and so you’ll have to tolerate that I mention this. I remember there was plenty of talk about it when Erlend married her; it was against Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn’s will and advice that the marriage was arranged, but the maiden thought more of having her own way than of obeying her father or guarding her honor. Yes, she might well be a good woman all the same—but she
was
allowed to marry Erlend, and no doubt they’ve had their share of joy and pleasure. I don’t think Lavrans ever had much joy from that son-in-law;
he
had chosen another man for his daughter. When she met Erlend she was already betrothed, that much I know.” He suddenly fell silent, glanced at Simon for a moment, and then turned his face away in embarrassment.

Burning red with shame, Simon bowed his head, but he said in a low, firm voice, “Yes, she was betrothed to me.”

For a moment they stood there, not daring to look at each other. Then Erling tossed away the last ball of moss, turned on his heel, and stepped out into the rain. Simon stayed where he was, but when the other man had gone some distance into the fog, he turned and signaled to him impatiently.

Then they walked back, just as silently as they had come. They had almost reached the manor when Sir Erling said, “I’ll do it, Simon Andressøn. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow; then we can travel together, all four of us.”

Simon looked up at the other man. His face was contorted with shame and grief. He wanted to thank him, but he couldn’t. He had to bite his lip hard because his jaw was trembling so violently.

As they entered the hall, Erling Vidkunssøn touched Simon’s shoulder, as if by accident. But both of them knew that they dared not look at each other.

The next day, as they were preparing for the journey, Stig Haakonssøn wanted to lend Simon some clothes—he hadn’t brought any with him. Simon looked down at himself. His servant had brushed and cleaned his garments, but they were still badly soiled from the long ride in the foul weather. But he gave a slap to his thighs.

“I’m too fat, Stig. And I won’t be invited to the banquet anyway.”

Erling Vidkunssøn stood with his foot up on the bench as his son attached his gilded spur; Erling seemed to want to keep his servants away as much as possible that day. The knight gave an oddly cross laugh.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm if it looked as if Simon Darre had spared nothing in the aid of his brother-in-law, coming right in from the road with his bold and pleasing words. He has a finely tailored tongue, this former kinsman of ours, Stig. There’s only one thing I fear—that he won’t know when to stop.”

Simon’s face was dark red, but he didn’t reply. In everything that Erling had said to him since the day before, he had noticed this scornful mocking, as well as a strangely reluctant kindness, and a firm will to see this matter through to the end, now that he had taken it on.

Then they set off north from Mandvik: Sir Erling, his son, and Stig, along with ten handsomely outfitted and well-armed men. Simon, with his one servant, thought that he should have had the sense to arrive better attired and with a more impressive entourage. Simon Darre of Formo shouldn’t have to ride with his former kinsmen like some smallholder who had sought their support in his helpless position. But he was so weary and broken by what he had done the day before that he now felt almost indifferent to whatever outcome this journey might bring.

 

Simon had always claimed that he put no faith in the ugly rumors about King Magnus. He was not so saintly a man that he couldn’t stand some vulgar jesting among grown men. But when people put their heads together, muttering and shuddering over dark and secret sins, Simon would grow uneasy. And he thought it unseemly to listen to or believe such things about the king, when he was a member of his retinue.

Yet he was surprised when he stood before the young sovereign. He hadn’t seen Magnus Eirikssøn since the king was a child, but he had expected there would be something womanish, weak, or unhealthy about him. But the king was one of the most handsome young men Simon had ever set eyes on—and he had a manly and regal bearing, in spite of his youth and slender build.

He wore a surcoat patterned in light blue and green, ankle-length and voluminous, cinched around his slim waist with a gilded belt. He carried his tall, slender body with complete grace beneath the heavy garment. King Magnus had straight, blond hair framing his handsomely shaped head, although the ends of his locks had been artfully curled so they billowed around the staunch, wide column of his neck. The features of his face were delicate and charming, his complexion fresh, with red cheeks and a faint golden tinge from the sun; he had clear eyes and an open expression. He greeted his men with a polite bearing and pleasant courtesy. Then he placed his hand on Erling Vidkunssøn’s sleeve and led him several steps away from the others, as he thanked him for coming.

They talked for a moment, and Sir Erling mentioned that he had a particular request to make of the king’s mercy and good will. Then the royal servants set a chair for the knight before the king’s throne, showed the other three men to seats somewhat farther away in the hall, and left the room.

Without even thinking, Simon had assumed the bearing and demeanor he had learned in his youth. He had relented and agreed to borrow from Stig a brown silk garment so that his attire was no different from what the other men wore. But he sat there feeling as if he were in a dream. He was and yet he was not the same man as that young Simon Darre, the alert and courtly son of a knight who had carried towels and candles for King Haakon in the Oslo castle an endless number of winters ago. He was and was not Simon the owner of Formo who had lived a free and merry life in the valley for all these years—largely without sorrows, although he had always known that within him resided that smoldering ember; but he turned his thoughts away from this. A stifled, ominous sense of revolt rose up inside the man—he had never willfully sinned or caused any trouble that he knew of, but fate had fanned the blaze, and he had to struggle to keep his composure while he was being roasted over a slow fire.