Kristin Lavransdatter (155 page)

 

One day during Lent Kristin and Jofrid were preparing sacks of provisions for the woodcutters. They pounded dried fish thin and flat, pressed butter into containers, and filled wooden casks with ale and milk. Kristin saw that Jofrid now found it terribly difficult to stand or walk for very long, but she merely grew annoyed if Kristin told her to sit down and rest. To appease her a little, Kristin happened to mention the story about the stallion that Gaute had supposedly tamed with a maiden’s hair ribbon. “Surely it must have been yours?”

“No,” said Jofrid crossly, turning crimson. But then she added, “The ribbon belonged to Aasa, my sister.” She laughed and said, “Gaute courted her first, but when I came home, he couldn’t decide which of us he liked best. But Aasa was the one he had expected to find visiting Dagrun last summer when he went to Sogn. And he was angry when I teased him about her; he swore by God and man that he was not the sort to come too close to the daughters of worthy men. He said there had been nothing between him and Aasa that would prevent him from sleeping without sin in my arms that night. I took him at his word.” She laughed again. When she saw Kristin’s expression, she nodded stubbornly.

“Yes, I want Gaute to be my husband, and he will be, you can count on that, Mother. I most often get what I want.”

 

Kristin woke up to pitch-darkness. The cold bit at her cheeks and chin; when she pulled the blanket more snugly around her, she noticed there was frost on it from her breath. It had to be nearly morning, but she dreaded getting up and seeing the stars. She curled up under the covers to warm herself a little more. At that moment she remembered her dream.

She seemed to be lying in bed in the little house at Husaby, and she had just given birth to a child. She was holding him in her arms, wrapped in a lambskin, which had rolled up and fallen away from the infant’s little dark red body. He was holding his tiny clenched hands over his face, with his knees tucked up to his belly and his feet crossed; now and then he would stir a bit. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why the boy wasn’t swaddled properly and why there were no other women with them in the room. Her heat was still enveloping the child as he lay close to her; through her arm she could feel a tug at the roots of her heart every time he stirred. Weariness and pain were still shrouding her like a darkness that was starting to fade as she lay there and gazed at her son, feeling her joy and love for him ceaselessly growing the way the rim of daylight grows brighter along the mountain crest.

But at the same time as she lay there in bed, she was also standing outside the house. Below her stretched the countryside, lit by the morning sun. It was an early spring day. She drank in the sharp, fresh air; the wind was icy cold, but it tasted of the faraway sea and of thawing snow. The ridges were bathed with morning sunlight on the opposite side of the valley, with snowless patches around the farms. Pale crusted snow shone like silver in all the clearings amid the dark green forests. The sky was swept clean, a bright yellow and pale blue with only a few dark, windblown clusters of clouds hovering high above. But it was cold. Where she was standing the snowdrift was still frozen hard after the night frost, and between the buildings lay cold shadows, for the sun was directly above the eastern ridge, behind the manor. And right in front of her, where the shadows ended, the morning wind was rippling through the pale year-old grass; it moved and shimmered, with clumps of ice shiny as steel still among the roots.

Oh . . . Oh . . . Against her will, a sigh of lament rose up from her breast. She still had Lavrans; she could hear the boy’s even breathing from the other bed. And Gaute. He was asleep up in the loft with his paramour. Kristin sighed again, moved restlessly, and Erlend’s old dog settled against her legs, which were tucked up underneath the bedclothes.

Now she could hear that Jofrid was up and walking across the floor. Kristin quickly got out of bed and stuck her feet into her fur-lined boots, putting on her homespun dress and fur jacket. In the dark she fumbled her way over to the hearth, crouched down to stir the ashes and blow on them, but there was not the slightest spark; the fire had died out in the night.

She pulled her flint out of the pouch on her belt, but the tinder must have gotten wet and then froze. Finally she gave up trying, picked up the ember pan, and went upstairs to borrow some coals from Jofrid.

A good fire was burning in the little fireplace, lighting up the room. In the glow of the flames Jofrid sat stitching the copper clasp more securely to Gaute’s reindeer coat. Over in the dim light of the bed, Kristin caught a glimpse of the man’s naked torso. Gaute slept without covers even in the most biting cold. He was sitting up and having something to eat in bed.

Jofrid got to her feet heavily, with a proprietary air. Wouldn’t Mother like a drop of ale? She had heated up the morning drink for Gaute. And Mother should take along this pitcher for Lavrans; he was going out with Gaute to cut wood that day. It would be cold for the men.

Kristin involuntarily grimaced when she was back downstairs and lit the fire. Seeing Jofrid busy with domestic chores and Gaute sitting there, openly allowing his wife to serve him . . . and his paramour’s concern for her unlawful husband—all this seemed to Kristin so loathsome and immodest.

 

Lavrans stayed out in the forest, but Gaute came home that night, worn out and hungry. The women sat at the table after the servants had left, keeping the master company while he drank.

Kristin saw that Jofrid was not feeling well that evening. She kept letting her sewing sink to her lap as spasms of pain flickered across her face.

“Are you in pain, Jofrid?” asked Kristin softly.

“Yes, a little. In my feet and legs,” replied the girl. She had toiled all day long, as usual, refusing to spare herself. Now pain had overtaken her, and her legs had swollen up.

Suddenly little tears spilled out from her lowered eyes. Kristin had never seen a woman cry in such a strange fashion; without a sound, her teeth clenched tight, she sat there weeping clear, round tears. Kristin thought they looked as hard as pearls, trickling down the haggard brown-flecked face. Jofrid looked angry that she was forced to surrender; reluctantly she allowed Kristin to help her over to the bed.

Gaute followed. “Are you in pain, my Jofrid?” he asked awkwardly. His face was fiery red from the cold, and he looked genuinely unhappy as he watched his mother helping Jofrid get settled, taking off her shoes and socks and tending to her swollen feet and legs. “Are you in pain, my Jofrid?” he kept asking.

“Yes,” said Jofrid, in a low voice, biting back her rage. “Do you think I’d behave this way if I wasn’t?”

“Are you in pain, my Jofrid?” he repeated.

“Surely you can see for yourself. Don’t stand there moping like a foolish boy!” Kristin turned to face her son, her eyes blazing. The dull knot of fear about how things would turn out, of impatience because she had to tolerate the disorderly life of these two on her estate, of gnawing doubt about her son’s manliness—all these things erupted in a ferocious rage: “Are you such a simpleton that you think she might be feeling
good
? She can see that you’re not man enough to venture over the mountains because it’s windy and snowing. You know full well that soon she’ll have to crawl on her knees, this poor woman, and writhe in the greatest of torments—and her child will be called a bastard, because you don’t dare go to her father. You sit here in the house warming the bench, not daring to lift a finger to protect the wife you have or your child soon to be born.
Your
father was not so afraid of my father that he didn’t dare seek him out, or so fainthearted that he refused to ski through the mountains in the wintertime. Shame on you, Gaute, and pity me who must live to see the day when I call my son a timid man, one of the sons that Erlend gave me!”

Gaute picked up the heavy carved chair with both hands and slammed it against the floor; he ran over to the table and swept everything off. Then he rushed to the door, giving one last kick to the chair. They heard him cursing as he climbed the stairs to the loft.

“Oh no, Mother. You were much too hard on Gaute.” Jofrid propped herself up on her elbow. “You can’t reasonably expect him to risk his life going into the mountains in the winter in order to seek out my father and find out whether he’ll be allowed to marry his seduced bride, with no dowry other than the shift I wore when he took me away, or else be driven from the land as an outlaw.”

Waves of anger were still washing through Kristin’s heart. She replied proudly, “And yet I don’t believe
my
son would think that way!”

“No,” said Jofrid. “If he didn’t have me to think for him . . .” When she saw Kristin’s expression, laughter crept into her voice. “Dear Mother, I’ve had trouble enough trying to restrain Gaute. I refuse to let him commit any more follies for my sake and cause our children to lose the riches that I can expect to inherit from my kinsmen if Gaute can come to an agreement that will be the best and most honorable one for all of us.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Kristin.

“I mean that when my kinsmen seek out Gaute, Sir Sigurd will meet them, so they will see that Gaute is not without kin. He will have to bear paying full restitution, but then Father will allow him to marry me, and I will regain my right to an inheritance along with my sisters.”

“So you are partially to blame,” said Kristin, “for the child coming into the world before you are married?”

“If I could run away with Gaute, then . . . Surely no one would believe that he has placed a sword blade in bed between us all these nights.”

“Didn’t he ever seek out your kinsmen to ask for your hand in marriage?” asked Kristin.

“No, we knew it would have been futile, even if Gaute had been a much richer man than he is.” Jofrid burst out laughing again. “Don’t you see, Mother? Father thinks he knows better than any man how to trade horses. But a person would have to be more alert than my father is if he wanted to fool Gaute Erlendssøn in an exchange of horses.”

Kristin couldn’t help smiling, in spite of her ill temper.

“I don’t know the law very well in such cases,” she said somberly. “But I’m not certain, Jofrid, that it will be easy for Gaute to obtain what you would consider a good reconciliation. If Gaute is sentenced as an outlaw, and your father takes you back home and lets you suffer his wrath, or if he demands that you enter a convent to atone for your sins . . .”

“He can’t send me to a convent without sending splendid gifts along with me, and it will be less costly and more honorable if he reconciles with Gaute and demands restitution. You see, then he won’t have to give up any cattle when he marries me off. And because of his dislike for Olav, my sister’s husband, I think I will share in the inheritance with my sisters. If not, then my kinsmen will have to see to this child’s welfare too. And I know Father would think twice before he tried to take me back home to Hovland with a bastard child, to let me suffer his wrath—knowing
me
as he does.

“I don’t know much about the law either, but I know Father, and I know Gaute. And now enough time has already passed that this proposal cannot be presented until I myself am delivered and healthy again. Then, Mother, you will not see me weeping! Oh no, I have no doubt that Gaute will have his reconciliation on such terms as—

“No, Mother . . . Gaute, who is a descendant of highborn men and kings . . . And you, who come from the best of lineages in Norway . . . If you have had to endure seeing your sons sink below the rank that was their birthright, then you will see prosperity regained for your descendants in the children that Gaute and I shall have.”

Kristin sat in silence. It was indeed conceivable that things might happen as Jofrid wished; she realized that she hadn’t needed to worry so much on her behalf. The girl’s face was now quite gaunt; the rounded softness of her cheeks had wasted away, and it was easier to see what a large, strong jaw she had.

Jofrid yawned, pushed herself up into a sitting position, and looked around for her shoes. Kristin helped her to put them on. Jofrid thanked her and said, “Don’t trouble Gaute anymore, Mother. He finds it hard to bear that we won’t be married beforehand, but I refuse to make my child poor even before he’s born.”

 

Two weeks later Jofrid gave birth to a big, fair son, and Gaute sent word to Sundbu the very same day. Sir Sigurd came at once to Jørundgaard, and he held Erlend Gautessøn when the boy was baptized. But as happy as Kristin Lavransdatter was with her grandson, it still angered her that Erlend’s name should be given for the first time to a paramour’s child.

“Your father risked more to give his son his birthright,” she told Gaute one evening as he sat in the weaving room and watched her get the boy ready for the night. Jofrid was already sleeping sweetly in her bed. “His love for old Sir Nikulaus was somewhat strained, but even so, he would never have shown his father such disrespect as to name his son after him if he were not lawfully born.”

“And Orm . . . he was named for his maternal grandfather, wasn’t he?” said Gaute. “Yes, I know, Mother, those may not be the words most becoming a good son. But you should realize that my brothers and I all noticed that while our father was alive, you didn’t think he was the proper example for us in many matters. And yet now you talk about him constantly, as if he had been a holy man, or close to it. You should know that we realize he wasn’t. All of us would be proud if we ever attained Father’s stature—or even reached to his shoulders. We remember that he was noble and courageous, foremost among men in terms of those qualities that suit a man best. But you can’t make us believe he was the most submissive or seemly of men in a woman’s chamber or the most capable of farmers.

“And yet no one need wish anything better for you, my Erlend, than that you should take after him!” He picked up his child, now properly swaddled, and touched his chin to the tiny red face framed by the light-colored wool cloth. “This gifted and promising boy, Erlend Gautessøn of Jørundgaard—you should tell your grandmother that
you
aren’t afraid your father will fail you.” He made the sign of the cross over the child and put him back in Kristin’s arms, then went over to the bed and looked down at the slumbering young mother.