Kristin Lavransdatter (92 page)

Erlend stayed where he was, looking at her aghast.

“Do you remember that first winter of our marriage? I was carrying Naakkve, and as things stood, it seemed likely that it would be difficult for me to demand obedience and respect from my household. Do you remember how you supported me? Do you remember when your foster father visited us with women guests we didn’t know, and his maids and serving men, and our own servants, sat across the table from us? Do you remember how Munan pulled from me every shred of dignity I might use to hide behind, and you sat there meekly and dared not stop his speech?”

“Jesus! Have you been brooding about this for fifteen years?” Then he looked up at her—his eyes seemed such a strange pale blue, and his voice was faltering and helpless. “And yet, my Kristin—it doesn’t seem to me that the two of us say unkind or harsh words to each other. . . .”

“No,” said Kristin, “and that’s why it cut even deeper into my heart that time during the Christmas celebration when you railed at me because I had spread my cape over Margret, while women from three counties stood around and listened.”

Erlend did not reply.

“And yet you blame me for the way things went with Margret, but every time I tried to reprimand her with even a single word, she would run to you, and you would tell me sternly to leave the maiden in peace—she was yours and not mine.”

“Blame you? No, I don’t,” Erlend said with difficulty, struggling hard to speak calmly. “If one of our children had been a daughter, then you might have better understood how this matter of my daughter . . . it stabs a father to the very marrow.”

“I thought I showed you this spring that I understood,” said his wife softly. “I only had to think of my own father. . . .”

“All the same, this was much worse,” said Erlend, his voice still calm. “I was an unmarried man. This man . . . was married. I was not bound. At least,” he corrected himself, “I wasn’t bound in such a way that I couldn’t free myself.”

“And yet you didn’t free yourself,” said Kristin. “Don’t you remember how it came about that you were freed?”

Erlend leaped to his feet and slapped her face. Then he stood staring at her in horror. A red patch appeared on her white cheek, but she sat rigid and motionless, her eyes hard. The child began to cry in fright; she rocked him gently in her arms, hushing him.

“That . . . was a vile thing to say, Kristin,” said her husband uncertainly.

“The last time you struck me,” she answered in a low voice, “I was carrying your child under my heart. Now you hit me as I hold your son on my lap.”

“Yes, we keep having all these children,” he shouted impatiently.

They both fell silent. Erlend began swiftly pacing back and forth. She carried the child over to the alcove and put him on the bed; when she reappeared in the alcove doorway, he stopped in front of her.

“I . . . I shouldn’t have struck you, my Kristin. I wish I hadn’t done it. I’ll probably regret it for as long as I regretted it the first time. But you . . . you’ve told me before that you think I forget things too quickly. But you never forget—not a single injustice I might have done you. I’ve tried . . . tried to be a good husband to you, but you don’t seem to think that worth remembering. You . . . you’re so beautiful, Kristin . . .” He gazed after her as she walked past him.

Oh, his wife’s quiet and dignified bearing was as lovely as the willowy grace of the young maiden had been; she was wider in the bosom and hips, but she was also taller. She held herself erect, and her neck bore the small, round head as proudly and beautifully as ever. Her pale, remote face with the dark-gray eyes stirred and excited him as much as her round, rosy child’s face had stirred and excited his restless soul with its wondrous calm. He went over and took her hand.

“For me, Kristin, you will always be the most beautiful of women, and the most dear.”

She allowed him to hold her hand but didn’t squeeze his in return. Then he flung it aside; rage overcame him once again.

“You say I’ve forgotten. That may not always be the worst of sins. I’ve never pretended to be a pious man, but I remember what I learned from Sira Jon when I was a child, and God’s servants have reminded me of it since. It’s a sin to brood over and dwell on the sins we have confessed to the priest and repented before God, receiving His forgiveness through the hand and the words of the priest. And it’s not out of piety, Kristin, that you’re constantly tearing open these old sins of ours—you want to hold the knife to my throat every time I oppose you in some way.”

He walked away and then came back.

“Domineering . . . God knows that I love you, Kristin, even though I can see how domineering you are, and you’ve never forgiven me for the injustice I did to you or for luring you astray. I’ve tolerated a great deal from you, Kristin, but I will no longer tolerate the fact that I can never have peace from these old misfortunes, nor that you speak to me as if I were your thrall.”

Kristin was trembling with fury when she spoke.

“I’ve never spoken to you as if you were my thrall. Have you
ever
heard me speak harshly or in anger to anyone who might be considered lesser than me, even if it was the most incompetent or worthless of our household servants? I know that before God I am free of the sin of offending His poor in either word or deed. But you’re supposed to be my
lord;
I’m supposed to obey and honor you, bow to you and lean on you, next to God, in accordance with God’s laws, Erlend! And if I’ve lost patience and talked to you in a manner unbefitting a wife speaking to her husband—then it’s because many times you’ve made it difficult for me to surrender my ignorance to your better understanding, to honor and obey my husband and lord as much as I would have liked. And perhaps I had expected that you . . . perhaps I thought I could provoke you into showing me that you were a man and I was only a poor woman. . . .

“But you needn’t worry, Erlend. I will not offend you again with my words, and from this day forward, I will never forget to speak to you as gently as if you were descended from thralls.”

Erlend’s face had flushed dark red. He raised his fist at her, then turned swiftly on his heel, grabbed his cape and sword from the bench near the door, and rushed out.

It was sunny outside, with a piercing wind. The air was cold, but glistening particles of thawing ice sprayed over him from the building eaves and from the swaying tree branches. The snow on the rooftops gleamed like silver, and beyond the black-green, forested slopes surrounding the town, the mountain peaks sparkled icy blue and shiny white in the sharp, dazzling light of the wintry spring day.

Erlend raced through the streets and alleyways—fast but aimless. He was boiling inside. She was wrong, it was clear that
she
had been wrong from the very beginning, and he was right. He had allowed himself to be provoked and struck her, undercutting his position, but she was the one who was wrong. Now he had no idea what to do with himself. He had no wish to visit any acquaintances, and he refused to go back home.

There was a great tumult in town. A large trading ship from Iceland—the first of the spring season—had put in at the docks that morning. Erlend wandered west through the lanes and emerged near Saint Martin’s Church; he headed down toward the wharves. There were already shrieks and clamor coming from the inns and alehouses, even though it was early afternoon. In his youth Erlend could have gone into such places himself, along with friends and companions. But now people would stare, wide-eyed, and afterwards they would wear out their gums gossiping if the sheriff of Orkdøla county, who had a residence in town and ale, mead, and wine in abundance in his own home, should go into an inn and ask for a taste of their paltry ale. But that was truly what he wished for most—to sit and drink with the smallholders who had come to town and with the servants and seamen. No one would make a fuss if these fellows gave their women a slap in the face; it would do them good. How in fiery Hell was a man to rule his wife if he couldn’t beat her because of her high birth and his own sense of honor. The Devil himself couldn’t compete with a woman through words. She was a witch—but so beautiful. If only he could beat her until she gave in.

 

The bells began to ring from all the churches in town, calling the people to vespers. The sounds tumbled in the spring wind, hovering over him in the turbulent air. No doubt she was on her way to Christ Church now, that holy witch. She would complain to God and the Virgin Mary and Saint Olav that she had been struck in the face by her husband. Erlend sent his wife’s guardian saints a greeting of sinful thoughts as the bells resounded and tolled and clanged. He headed toward Saint Gregor’s Church.

The graves of his parents lay in front of Saint Anna’s altar in the north aisle of the nave. As Erlend said his prayers, he noticed that Fru Sunniva Olavsdatter and her maid had entered the church portal. When he finished praying, he went over to greet her.

In all the years he had known Fru Sunniva, things had always been such between them that they could banter and jest quite freely whenever they met. On this evening, as they sat on the bench and waited for evensong to begin, he grew so bold that several times she had to remind him that they were in church, with people constantly coming in.

“Yes, yes,” said Erlend, “but you’re so lovely tonight, Sunniva! It’s wonderful to banter with a woman who has such gentle eyes.”

“You’re not worthy enough, Erlend Nikulaussøn, for me to look at you with gentle eyes,” she said, laughing.

“Then I’ll come and banter with you after it grows dark,” replied Erlend in the same tone of voice. “When the mass is over, I’ll escort you home.”

At that moment the priests entered the choir, and Erlend went over to the south nave to join the other men.

When the service came to an end, he left the church through the main door. He saw Fru Sunniva and her maid a short distance down the street. He thought it best he didn’t accompany her and go right home instead. Just then a group of Icelanders from the trading ship appeared in the street, staggering and clinging to each other, and seemed intent on blocking the way of the two women. Erlend ran after them. As soon as the seamen saw a gentleman with a sword on his belt approaching, they stepped aside and made room for the women to pass.

“I think it would be best if I escorted you home, after all,” said Erlend. “There’s too much unrest in town tonight.”

“What do you think, Erlend? As old as I am . . . And yet perhaps it doesn’t displease me if a few men still find me pretty enough to try to block my passage. . . .”

There was only one answer that a courteous man could give.

 

He returned to his own residence at dawn the next morning, pausing for a moment outside the bolted door to the main building, frozen, dead tired, heartsick, and dejected. Should he pound on the door to wake the servants and then slip inside to crawl into bed next to Kristin, who lay there with the child at her breast? No. He had with him the key to the eastern storehouse loft; that’s where he kept some possessions that were in his charge. Erlend unlocked the door, pulled off his boots, and spread some homespun fabric and empty sacks on top of the straw in the bed. He wrapped his cape around him, crept under the sacks, and was fortunate enough to fall asleep and forget everything, exhausted and confused as he was.

Kristin was pale and weary from a sleepless night as she sat down to breakfast with her servants. One of the men said he had asked the master to come to the table—he was sleeping in the east loft—but Erlend told him to go to the Devil.

 

Erlend was supposed to go to Elgeseter after the morning service to be a witness to the sale of several estates. Afterwards he managed to excuse himself from the meal in the refectory, and to slip away from Arne Gjavvaldssøn, who had also declined to stay and drink with the brothers but wanted Erlend to come home to Ranheim with him.

Later he regretted that he had parted company with the others, and he was filled with dread as he walked home alone through town—now he would have to think about what he had done. For a moment he was tempted to go straight down to Saint Gregor’s Church; he had promised to make confession to one of the priests whenever he was in Nidaros. But if he did it again, after he had confessed, it would be an even greater sin. He had better wait for a while.

Sunniva must think he was little better than a chicken she had caught with her bare hands. But no, the Devil take him if he’d ever thought a woman would be able to teach him so many new things—here he was walking around and gasping with astonishment at what he had encountered. He had imagined himself to be rather experienced in
ars amoris,
or whatever the learned men called it. If he had been young and green, he would probably have felt quite cocky and thought it splendid. But he didn’t like that woman—that wild woman. He was sick of her. He was sick of
all
women except his own wife—and he was sick of her as well! By the Holy Cross, he had been so married to her that he had grown pious himself, because he had believed in her piety. But what a handsome reward he had been given by his pious wife for his faithfulness and love—witch that she was! He remembered the sting of her spiteful words from the evening before. So she thought he acted as if he were descended from thralls. . . . And that other woman, Sunniva, no doubt thought he was inexperienced and clumsy because he had been caught off guard and showed some surprise at her skills in love. Now he would show her that he was no more a saint than she was. He had promised her to come to Baardsgaard that night, and he might as well go. He had committed the sin—he might as well enjoy the pleasure that it offered.

He had already broken his vows to Kristin, and she herself was to blame, with her spiteful and unreasonable behavior toward him. . . .

He went home and wandered through the stables and outbuildings, looking for something to complain about; he quarreled with the priest’s servant from the hospital because she had brought malt into the drying room, even though he knew that his own servants had no use for the grain-drying house while they were in Nidaros. He wished that his sons were with him; they would have been good company. He wished he could go back home to Husaby at once. But he had to stay in Nidaros and wait for letters to arrive from the south; it was too risky to receive such letters at his own home in the village.