Kristin Lavransdatter (58 page)

“Yes,” said Erlend. “But at the time I didn’t know how things stood, or that it would come to light that I had offended you.”

Lavrans sat up.

“Didn’t you know, when you were wed, that Kristin . . .”

“No,” said Erlend, looking crestfallen. “We were married for almost two months before I realized it.”

Lavrans gave him a look of surprise but said nothing.

Then Erlend spoke again, his voice low and unsteady, “I’m glad that you came with me, Father-in-law. Kristin has been so melancholy all winter—she has hardly said a word to me. Many times it seemed to me that she was unhappy, both with Husaby and with me.”

Lavrans replied somewhat coldly and harshly, “That’s no doubt the way things are with most young wives. Now that she’s well again, you two will probably be just as good friends as you were before.” And he smiled a little mockingly.

But Erlend sat and stared into the glowing embers. He suddenly understood with certainty—but he had realized it from the moment he first saw the tiny red infant face pressed against Kristin’s white shoulder. It would never be the same between them, the way it had been before.

 

When Kristin’s father stepped inside the little house, she sat up in bed and held out her hands toward him. She threw her arms around his shoulders and wept and wept, until Lavrans grew quite alarmed.

She had been out of bed for some time, but then she learned that Erlend had set off for Gudbrandsdal alone, and when he failed to return home for days on end, she grew so anxious that she developed a fever. And she had to go back to bed.

It was apparent that she was still weak—she wept at everything. The new manor priest,
²
Sira Eiliv Serkssøn, had arrived while Erlend was away. He had taken it upon himself to visit the mistress now and then to read to her, but she wept over such unreasonable things that soon he didn’t know what he dared let her hear.

 

One day when her father was sitting with her, Kristin wanted to change the child herself so that he could see how handsome and well-formed the boy was. He lay naked on the swaddling clothes, kicking on the wool coverlet in front of his mother.

“What kind of a mark is that on his chest?” asked Lavrans.

Right over his heart the child had several little blood-red flecks; it looked as if a bloody hand had touched the boy there. Kristin had been distressed by it too, the first time she saw this mark. But she had tried to console herself, and she said now, “It’s probably just a fire mark—I put my hand to my breast when I saw the church was burning.”

Her father gave a start. Well. He hadn’t known how long—or how much—she had kept to herself. And he couldn’t understand that she had had the strength—his own child, and from him . . .

* * *

“I don’t think you’re truly fond of my son,” Kristin said to her father many times, and Lavrans would laugh a bit and say of course he was. He had also placed an abundance of gifts both in the cradle and in the mother’s bed. But Kristin didn’t think anyone cared enough for her son—least of all Erlend. “Look at him, Father,” she would beg. “Did you see he was laughing? Have you ever seen a more beautiful child than Naakkve, Father?”

She asked this same thing over and over. Once Lavrans said, as if in thought, “Haavard, your brother—our second son—was a very handsome child.”

After a moment Kristin asked in a timid voice, “Was he the one who lived the longest of my brothers?”

“Yes. He was two winters old. Now you mustn’t cry again, my Kristin,” he said gently.

 

Neither Lavrans nor Gunnulf Nikulaussøn liked the fact that the boy was called Naakkve; he had been baptized Nikulaus. Erlend maintained that it was the same name, but Gunnulf disagreed; there were men in the sagas who had been called Naakkve since heathen times. But Erlend still refused to use the name that his father had borne. And Kristin always called the boy by the name Erlend had spoken when he first greeted their son.

 

In Kristin’s view there was only one person at Husaby, aside from herself, who fully realized what a splendid and promising child Naakkve was. That was the new priest, Sira Eiliv. In that way, he was nearly as sensible as she was.

Sira Eiliv was a short, slight man with a little round belly, which gave him a somewhat comical appearance. He was exceedingly nondescript; people who had spoken to him many times had trouble recognizing the priest, so ordinary was his face. His hair and complexion were the same color—like reddish-yellow sand—and his round, watery blue eyes were quite dull. In manner he was subdued and diffident, but Master Gunnulf said that Sira Eiliv was so learned that he could have attained high standing if only he had not been so unassuming. But he was far less marked by his learning than by pure living, humility, and a deep love for Christ and his Church.

He was of low birth, and although he was not much older than Gunnulf Nikulaussøn, he seemed almost like an old man. Gunnulf had known him ever since they went to school together in Nidaros, and he always spoke of Eiliv Serkssøn with great affection. Erlend didn’t think it was much of a priest they had been given at Husaby, but Kristin immediately felt great trust and affection for him.

Kristin continued to live in the little house with her child, even after she had made her first visit back to church. That was a bleak day for Kristin. Sira Eiliv escorted her through the church door, but he didn’t dare give her the body of Christ. She had confessed to him, but for the sin that she had committed when she became implicated in another person’s ill-fated death, she would have to seek absolution from the archbishop. That morning when Gunnulf had sat with Kristin, her spirit in anguish, he had impressed upon her heart that as soon as she was out of any physical danger, she must rush to seek redemption for her soul. As soon as she had regained her health, she must keep her promise to Saint Olav. Now that he, through his intercession, had brought her son, healthy and alive, into the light and to the baptismal font, she must walk barefoot to his grave and place there her golden crown, the honored adornment of maidens, which she had guarded so poorly and unjustly worn. And Gunnulf had advised her to prepare for the journey with solitude, prayers, reading, meditation, and even fasting, although with moderation for the sake of the nursing child.

That evening as she sat in sorrow after going to church, Gunnulf had come to her and given her a
Pater noster
rosary. He told her that in countries abroad, cloister folk and priests were not the only ones who used these kinds of beads to help them with their devotions. This rosary was extremely beautiful; the beads were made of a type of yellow wood from India that smelled so sweet and wondrous they might almost serve as a reminder of what a good prayer ought to be—a sacrifice of the heart and a yearning for help in order to live a righteous life before God. In between there were beads of amber and gold, and the cross was painted with a lovely enamel.

 

Erlend would give his young wife a look full of longing whenever he met her out in the courtyard. She had never been as beautiful as she was now—tall and slender in her simple, earth-brown dress of undyed homespun. The coarse linen wimple covering her hair, neck, and shoulders merely showed even more how glowing and pure her complexion had become. When the spring sun fell on her face, it was as if the light were seeping deep into her flesh, so radiant she was—her eyes and lips were almost transparent. When he went into the little house to see the child, she would lower her great pale eyelids if he glanced at her. She seemed so modest and pure that he hardly dared touch her hand with his fingers. If she had Naakkve at her breast, she would pull a corner of her wimple over the tiny glimpse of her white body. It seemed as if they were trying to send his wife away from him to heaven.

Then he would joke, half-angrily, with his brother and father-in-law as they sat in the hall in the evening—just men. Husaby had practically become a collegial church. Here sat Gunnulf and Sira Eiliv; his father-in-law could be considered a half-priest, and now they wanted to turn him into one too. There would be three priests on the estate. But the others laughed at him.

During the spring Erlend Nikulaussøn supervised much of the farming on his manor. That year all the fences were mended and the gates were put up in good time; the plowing and spring farm work were done early and properly, and Erlend purchased excellent livestock. At the new year he had been forced to slaughter a great many animals, but this was not a bad loss, as old and wretched as they were. He set the servants to burning tar and stripping off birch bark, and the farm’s buildings were put in order and the roofs repaired. Such things had not been done at Husaby since old Sir Nikulaus had had his full strength. And he also sought advice and support from his wife’s father—people knew that. Amidst all this work Erlend would visit friends and kinsmen in the villages along with Lavrans and his brother, the priest. But now he traveled in a suitable manner, with a couple of fit and proper servants. In the past, Erlend had been in the habit of riding around with an entire entourage of undisciplined and rowdy men. The gossip, which had for so long seethed with indignation at Erlend Nikulaussøn’s shameless living and the disarray and decline at Husaby, now died down to a good-natured teasing. People smiled and said that Erlend’s young wife had achieved a great deal in six months.

Shortly before Saint Botolv’s Day, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn left for Nidaros, accompanied by Master Gunnulf. Lavrans was to be the priest’s guest for several days while he visited Saint Olav’s shrine and the other churches in town before starting his journey south to return home. He parted from his daughter and her husband with love and kindness.

KRISTIN WAS TO go to Nidaros three days after the Selje Men’s Feast Day. Later in the month the frenzy and tumult in town would have already started as Saint Olav’s Day neared, and before that time the archbishop was not in residence.

The evening before, Master Gunnulf came to Husaby, and very early the next morning he went with Sira Eiliv to the church for matins. The dew, gray as a pelt, covered the grass as Kristin walked to church, but the sun was gilding the forest at the top of the ridge, and the cuckoo was singing on the grassy mountainside. It looked as if she would have beautiful weather for her journey.

There was no one in the church except Erlend and his wife and the priests in the illuminated choir. Erlend looked at Kristin’s bare feet. It must be ice cold for her to be standing on the stone floor. She would have to walk twenty miles with no escort but her prayers. He tried to lift his heart toward God, which he had not done in many years.

Kristin was wearing an ash-gray robe with a rope around her waist. Underneath he knew that she wore a shift of rough sack-cloth. A homespun cloth, tightly bound, hid her hair.

As they came out of the church into the morning sunshine, they were met by a maidservant carrying the child. Kristin sat down on a pile of logs. With her back to her husband she let the boy nurse until he had had his fill before she started off. Erlend stood motionless a short distance away; his cheeks were pale and cold with strain.

The priests came out a little while later; they had taken off their albs in the sacristy. They stopped in front of Kristin. A few minutes later Sira Eiliv headed down toward the manor, but Gunnulf helped her tie the child securely onto her back. Around her neck hung a bag holding the golden crown, some money, and a little bread and salt. She picked up her staff, curtseyed deeply before the priest, and then began walking silently north along the path leading up into the forest.

 

Erlend stayed behind, his face deathly white. Suddenly he started running. North of the church there were several small hills with scraggly grass slopes and shrubs of juniper and alpine birch that had been grazed over; goats usually roamed there. Erlend raced to the top. From there he would be able to see her for a little while longer, until she disappeared into the woods.

Gunnulf slowly followed his brother. The priest looked so tall and dark in the bright morning light. He too was very pale.

Erlend was standing with his mouth half-open and tears streaming down his white cheeks. Abruptly he bent forward and dropped to his knees; then he threw himself down full length on the scruffy grass. He lay there sobbing and sobbing, tugging at the heather with his long tan fingers.

Gunnulf stood quite still. He stared down at the weeping man and then gazed out toward the forest where the woman had disappeared.

Erlend raised his head off the ground. “Gunnulf—was it necessary for you to compel her to do this? Was it necessary?” he asked again. “Couldn’t
you
have offered her absolution?”

The other man did not reply.

Then Erlend spoke again. “I made my confession and offered penance.” He sat up. “I bought for
her
thirty masses and an annual mass for her soul and burial in consecrated ground; I confessed my sin to Bishop Helge and I traveled to the Shrine of the Holy Blood in Schwerin. Couldn’t that have helped Kristin a little?”

“Even though you have done that,” said the priest quietly, “even though you have offered God a contrite heart and been granted full reconciliation with Him, you must realize that year after year you will still have to strive to erase the traces of your sin here on earth. The harm you did to the woman who is now your wife when you dragged her down, first into impure living and then into blood guilt—you cannot absolve her of that, only God can do so. Pray that He holds His hand over her during this journey when you can neither follow her nor protect her. And do not forget, brother, for as long as you both shall live, that you watched your wife leave your estate in this manner—for the sake of your sins more than for her own.”

A little later Erlend said, “I swore by God and my Christian faith before I stole her virtue that I would never take any other wife, and she promised that she would never take any other husband for as long as we both should live. You said yourself, Gunnulf, that this was then a binding marriage before God; whoever later wed another would be living in sin in His eyes. So it could not have been impure living that Kristin was my . . .”