Kristin Lavransdatter (14 page)

“It’s not easy for Ragnfrid and me to be content with that,” said Lavrans gloomily. “Especially since she’s so pretty and so good.”

“Have you seen the child they have over in Lidstad, in the south of the valley?” asked the monk. “Would you rather your daughter were like that?”

Lavrans shuddered and pressed the child close.

“Don’t you think,” Brother Edvin went on, “that in God’s eyes we are all like children for whom He has reason to grieve, crippled as we are by sin? And yet we don’t think that things are the worst in the world for us.”

He walked over to the painting of the Virgin Mary on the wall, and everyone knelt down as he said the evening prayer. They felt that Brother Edvin had offered them great comfort.

But after he had left the house to find his sleeping place, Astrid, who was in charge of all the maids, vigorously swept the floor everywhere the monk had stood and hastily threw the sweepings into the fire.

 

The next morning Kristin got up early, put some milk porridge and wheat cakes into a lovely red-flecked bowl made from birch roots—for she knew that the monk never touched meat—and took the food out to him. No one else in the house was awake yet.

Brother Edvin was standing on the ramp to the cowshed, ready to leave, with his staff and bag in hand. With a smile he thanked Kristin for her trouble and sat down in the grass and ate, while Kristin sat at his feet.

Her little white dog came running over to them, making the tiny bells on his collar ring. Kristin pulled the dog onto her lap, and Brother Edvin snapped his fingers, tossing little bits of wheat cake into the dog’s mouth, as he praised the animal.

“It’s the same breed that Queen Eufemia brought over to Norway,” he said. “Everything is so splendid here at Jørundgaard now.”

Kristin blushed with pleasure. She knew the dog was particularly fine, and she was proud to own him. No one else in the village had a pet dog. But she hadn’t known that he was of the same type as the queen’s pet dogs.

“Simon Andressøn sent him to me,” she said, hugging the dog as he licked her face. “His name is Kortelin.”

She had planned to speak to the monk about her uneasiness and ask for his advice. But now she had no wish to spend any more time on her thoughts of the night before. Brother Edvin believed that God would do what was best for Ulvhild. And it was generous of Simon to send her such a gift even before their betrothal had been formally acknowledged. She refused to think about Arne—he had behaved badly toward her, she thought.

Brother Edvin picked up his staff and bag and asked Kristin to give his greetings to the others; he wouldn’t wait for everyone to wake up, but would set off while the day was cool. She walked with him up past the church and a short way into the grove.

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

“Give me a few words, as you did for Ulvhild, dear Father,” begged Kristin as she stood with her hand in his.

The monk poked his bare foot, knotty with rheumatism, in the wet grass.

“Then I would impress upon your heart, my daughter, that you should pay close attention to the way God tends to the welfare of the people here in the valley. Little rain falls, but He has given you water from the mountains, and the dew refreshes the meadows and fields each night. Thank God for the good gifts He has given you, and don’t complain if you think you are lacking something else that you think would be beneficial. You have beautiful golden hair, so do not fret because it isn’t curly. Haven’t you heard about the woman who sat and wept because she had only a little scrap of pork to give to her seven hungry children for Christmas dinner? Saint Olav came riding past at that very moment. Then he stretched out his hand over the meat and prayed to God to feed the poor urchins. But when the woman saw that a slaughtered pig lay on the table, she began to cry because she didn’t have enough bowls and pots.”

Kristin ran off toward home, and Kortelin danced around at her feet as he nipped at her clothing and barked, making all his tiny silver bells ring.

ARNE WAS HOME at Finsbrekken for the last time before he left for Hamar. His mother and sisters were outfitting him with clothes.

The day before he was supposed to ride south he went to Jørundgaard to say farewell. There he asked Kristin in a whisper whether she would meet him on the road south of Laugarbru on the following evening.

“I would like us to be alone, just the two of us, the last time we meet,” he said. “Do you think that’s too much to ask? We who have grown up together as brother and sister?” he added when Kristin hesitated a moment before replying.

Then she promised to come if she could slip away from home.

The next morning it snowed, but later in the day it began to rain and soon the roads and fields were nothing but gray mud. Wisps of fog hovered and drifted along the mountain ridges, occasionally dropping down and twining into white mist at the foot of the mountains, but then the weather closed in again.

Sira Eirik came over to help Lavrans put together several boxes of letters. They went into the hearth house because it was more comfortable there in that kind of weather than in the larger house where the fireplace filled the room with smoke. Ragnfrid was at Laugarbru, where Ramborg was recuperating from an illness and fever she had suffered earlier that fall.

So it was not difficult for Kristin to slip away from the farm unnoticed; she didn’t dare take a horse, so she went on foot. The road was a morass of slushy snow and withered leaves; the air smelled mournfully raw and dead and moldy, and now and then a gust of wind would blow the rain right into her face. Kristin pulled her hood up over her head and held her cloak closed with both hands as she walked briskly onward. She was a little apprehensive—the clamor of the river sounded so muffled in the oppressive air, and the clouds were black and ragged, drifting above the mountain crests. Occasionally she would stop and listen behind her, thinking that she might hear Arne.

After a while she became aware of a horse’s hooves on the sodden road, and then she stopped, for she had reached a rather desolate spot and thought it would be a suitable place for them to say goodbye to each other undisturbed. A moment later she saw the rider appear behind her, and Arne jumped down from his horse, leading it forward as he walked toward her.

“It was good of you to come,” he said, “in this awful weather.”

“It’s worse for you, who will have to ride such a long way. But why are you leaving so late in the evening?”

“Jon has invited me to stay at Loptsgaard tonight,” said Arne. “And I thought it would be easier for you to come here at this time of day.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Kristin thought she had never before realized how handsome Arne was. He wore a shiny steel helmet, and under it a brown woolen hood that framed his face and spread out over his shoulders; underneath, his thin face looked so bright and fair. His leather breastplate was old, flecked with rust, and scratched from the coat of mail that had been worn over it—Arne’s father had given it to him—but it fit snugly on his slender, lithe, and strong body. He wore a sword at his side and carried a spear in his hand; his other weapons hung from his saddle. He was a full-grown man and looked imposing.

Kristin put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Do you remember, Arne, that you once asked me whether I thought you were as splendid a fellow as Simon Andressøn? I want to tell you something now, before we part. You seem to me as much his superior in fair appearance and bearing as he is held above you in birth and wealth by people who value such things most.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Arne breathlessly.

“Because Brother Edvin impressed on my heart that we should thank God for His good gifts and not be like the woman who wept because she had no bowls when Saint Olav multiplied the meat for her. So you shouldn’t fret over the fact that He hasn’t given you as much wealth as He has physical gifts. . . .”

“Is that what you meant?” said Arne. And when Kristin didn’t reply he went on, “I was wondering whether you meant that you would rather have been married to me than to that other man.”

“I probably would, at that,” she said quietly. “For I know you much better.”

Arne threw his arms around her so tight that he lifted her feet off the ground. He kissed her face many times, but then he set her down.

“God help us, Kristin. You’re such a child!”

She stood there with her head bowed, but she kept her hands on his shoulders. He gripped her wrists and held them tight.

“I see now that you don’t realize, my sweet, how my heart aches because I am going to lose you. Kristin, we’ve grown up together like two apples on a branch. I loved you before I began to realize that one day someone else would come and tear you away from me. As certain as God had to die for us all, I don’t know how I can ever be happy again in this world after today.”

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

“Don’t talk like that, my Arne,” she begged, patting his arm.

“Kristin,” said Arne in a muted voice, taking her in his arms again. “Couldn’t you consider asking your father . . . Lavrans is such a good man, he would never force you against your will. Couldn’t you ask him to wait a few years? No one knows how my fortune may change—we’re both so young.”

“I must do what those at home want me to do,” she sobbed.

Then tears overcame Arne too.

“You have no idea, Kristin, how much I love you.” He hid his face on her shoulder. “If you did, and if you loved me too, then you would go to Lavrans and beg him sweetly—”

“I can’t do that,” sobbed the maiden. “I don’t think I could ever love a man so dearly that I would go against my parents’ will for his sake.” She slipped her hands under Arne’s hood and heavy steel helmet to find his face. “You mustn’t cry like that, Arne, my dearest friend.”

“I want you to have this,” he said after a moment, giving her a small brooch. “And think of me now and then, for I will never forget you, or my sorrow.”

 

It was almost completely dark by the time Kristin and Arne had said their last farewells. She stood and gazed after him when he finally rode away. A yellow light shone through the clouds, and the light was reflected in their footsteps, where they had walked and stood in the slush of the road; it looked so cold and bleak, she thought. She pulled out the linen cloth covering her bodice and wiped her tear-streaked face; then she turned around and set off for home.

She was wet and cold and she walked fast. After a while she heard someone approaching on the road behind her. She was a little frightened; it was possible that strangers might be traveling on this main road, even on an evening like this, and she had a lonely stretch ahead of her. Steep black scree rose up on one side, but on the other there was a sharp drop-off, covered with pine woods all the way down to the pale, leaden river at the bottom of the valley. So she was relieved when the person behind her called her name; she stopped and waited.

The person who approached was a tall, thin man wearing a dark surcoat with lighter colored sleeves. When he came closer, Kristin saw that he was dressed as a priest and carried an empty knapsack on his back. She now recognized Bentein Prestesøn, as they called him—Sira Eirik’s grandson. She noticed at once that he was quite drunk.

“Well, one departs and the other arrives,” he said and laughed after they had greeted each other. “I met Arne from Brekken just now—and I see that you’re walking along and crying. So how about giving me a little smile because I’ve come back home? The two of us have also been friends since childhood, haven’t we?”

“It’s a poor bargain to have you come back to the valley in his stead,” said Kristin crossly. She had never liked Bentein. “Quite a few people will say the same, I’m afraid. And your grandfather was so happy that you were getting on so well down south in Oslo.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bentein with a snicker and a sneer. “So you think I was getting on well, do you? Like a pig in a wheat field, that’s how it was for me, Kristin—and the end result was the same. I was chased off with a shout and a long stick. Well, well. He doesn’t have much joy from his offspring, my grandfather. Why are you walking so fast?”

“I’m freezing,” said Kristin curtly.

“No more than I am,” said the priest. “The only clothing I have to wear is what you see. I had to sell my cape for food and ale in Lillehammer. But you must still have warmth in your body from saying farewell to Arne. I think you should let me come under your furs with you.” And he seized hold of her cloak, threw it around his shoulders, and wrapped his wet arm around her waist.

Kristin was so startled by his boldness that it took a moment for her to regain her senses—then she tried to tear herself away, but he was holding on to her cloak and it was fastened with a sturdy silver clasp. Bentein put his arms around her again and tried to kiss her, shoving his mouth close to her chin. She tried to strike him, but he was gripping her upper arms.

“I think you’ve lost your mind,” she seethed as she struggled against him. “How dare you manhandle me as if I were a . . . You’re going to regret this bitterly tomorrow, you miserable wretch.”

“Oh, tomorrow you won’t be so stupid,” said Bentein, tripping her with his leg so that she fell to her knees in the mud of the road. Then he pressed his hand over her mouth.

And yet Kristin still did not think to scream. Now she finally realized what he intended to do to her, but rage overcame her with such fury and violence that she hardly felt any fear. She snarled like an animal in battle and fought against this man who was holding her down so that the ice-cold snow water soaked through her clothing and reached her burning hot flesh.

“Tomorrow you’ll know enough to keep quiet,” said Bentein. “And if it can’t be concealed, you can always blame Arne; people will sooner believe that. . . .”