Kristin Lavransdatter (106 page)

Once Ulvhild stopped, picked up a stone, and threw it toward the sound of the birds. Her big sister grabbed her arm, and she walked on calmly for a while. But then she tore herself away and ran down the hill until Gaute shouted after her.

They had reached the place where the road headed into the forest; from the thickets came the ringing of a steel bow. Inside the woods snow lay on the ground, and the air smelled cold and fresh. A little farther on, in a small clearing, stood Erlend with Ivar and Skule.

Ivar had taken a shot at a squirrel; the arrow was stuck high up in the trunk of a fir tree, and now he was trying to get it down. He pitched stone after stone at it; the huge mast tree resonated when he struck the trunk.

“Wait a minute. I’ll try to see if I can shoot it down for you,” said his father. He shook his cape back over his shoulders, placed an arrow in his bow, and took aim rather carelessly in the uncertain light among the trees. The string twanged; the arrow whistled through the air and buried itself in the tree trunk right next to the boy’s. Erlend took out another arrow and shot again; one of the two arrows sticking out of the tree clattered down from branch to branch. The shaft of the other one had splintered, but the point was still embedded in the tree.

Skule ran into the snow to pick up the two arrows. Ivar stood and stared up at the treetop.

“It’s mine—the one that’s still up there, Father! It’s buried up to the shaft. That was a powerful shot, Father!” Then he proceeded to explain to Gaute why he hadn’t hit the squirrel.

Erlend laughed softly and straightened his cape. “Are you going to turn back now, Kristin? I’m setting off for home; we’re planning to go after wood grouse early in the morning, Naakkve and I.”

Kristin told him briskly no, that she wanted to accompany the maidens to their manor. She wanted to have a few words with her sister tonight.

“Then Ivar and Skule can go with Mother and escort her home if I can stay with you, Father,” said Gaute.

Erlend lifted Ulvhild Simonsdatter up in his arms in farewell. Because she was so pretty and pink and fresh, with her brown curls under the white fur hood, he kissed her before he set her back down and then turned and headed for home with Gaute.

Now that Erlend had nothing else to occupy him, he was always in the company of a few of his sons. Ulvhild took her aunt’s hand and walked on a bit; then she started running again, rushing in between Ivar and Skule. Yes, she was a beautiful child, but wild and unruly. If they had had a daughter, Erlend would have no doubt taken her along and played with her too.

 

At Formo Simon was alone in the house with his little son when they came in. He was sitting in the high seat
¹
in the middle of the long table, looking at Andres. The child was kneeling on the outer bench and playing with several old wooden pegs, trying to make them stand on their heads on the table. As soon as Ulvhild saw this, she forgot about greeting her father. She climbed right up onto the bench next to her brother, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and pounded his face against the table while she screamed that they were
her
pegs; Father had given them to
her
.

Simon stood up to separate the children; then he happened to knock over a little pottery dish standing near his elbow. It fell to the floor and shattered.

Arngjerd crawled under the table and gathered up the pieces. Simon took them from her and looked at them, greatly dismayed. “Your mother is going to be angry.” It was a pretty little flower-painted dish made of shiny white ceramic that Sir Andres Darre had brought home from France. Simon explained that Helga had inherited it, but she had given it to Ramborg. The women considered it a great treasure. At that moment he heard his wife out in the entryway, and he hid his hands, holding the pottery shards, behind his back.

Ramborg came in and greeted her sister and nephews. She took off Ulvhild’s cloak, and the maiden ran over to her father and clung to him.

“Look how fine you are today, Ulvhild. I see that you’re wearing your silver belt on a workday.” But he couldn’t hug the child because his hands were full.

Ulvhild shouted that she had been visiting her aunt Kristin at Jørundgaard; that was why Mother had dressed her so nicely in the morning.

“Yes, your mother keeps you dressed so splendid and grand; they could set you up on the shrine on the north side of the church, the way you look,” said Simon, smiling. The only work Ramborg ever did was to sew garments for her daughter; Ulvhild was always magnificently clothed.

“Why are you standing there like that?” Ramborg asked her husband.

Simon showed her the pottery pieces. “I don’t know what you’re going to say about this—”

Ramborg took them from him. “You didn’t have to stand there looking like such a fool because of this.”

Kristin felt ill at ease as she sat there. It was true that Simon had looked quite ridiculous as he stood there hiding the broken pieces in such a childish manner, but Ramborg didn’t need to mention it.

“I expected you to be mad because your dish was broken,” said her husband.

“Yes, you always seem to be so afraid that something will make me mad—and something so frivolous,” replied Ramborg. And the others saw that she was close to tears.

“You know quite well, Ramborg, that’s not the only way I act,” said Simon. “And it’s not just frivolous things either . . .”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied his wife in the same tone of voice. “It has never been your habit, Simon, to talk to me about important matters.”

She turned on her heel and walked toward the entryway. Simon stood still for a moment, staring after her. When he sat down, his son Andres came over and wanted to climb onto his father’s lap. Simon picked him up and sat there with his chin resting on the child’s head, but he didn’t seem to be listening to the boy’s chatter.

After a while Kristin ventured, a little hesitantly, “Ramborg isn’t so young anymore, Simon. Your oldest child is already seven winters old.”

“What do you mean?” asked Simon, and it seemed to her that his voice was unnecessarily sharp.

“I mean nothing more than that . . . perhaps my sister thinks you find her too young to . . . maybe if you could try to let her take charge of things more here on the estate, together with you.”

“
My
wife takes charge of as much as she likes,” replied Simon heatedly. “I don’t demand that she do more than she wants to do, but I’ve never refused to allow Ramborg to manage anything here at Formo. If you think otherwise, then it’s because you don’t know—”

“No, no,” said Kristin. “But it has seemed to me, brother-in-law, that now and then you don’t consider Ramborg to be any older than when you married her. You should remember, Simon—”

“
You
should remember—” he set the child down and jumped to his feet—“that Ramborg and I came to an agreement; you and I never could.” His wife came into the room at that moment, carrying a container of ale for the guests. Simon quickly went over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Did you hear that, Ramborg? Your sister is standing here saying that she doesn’t think you’re happy with your lot.” He laughed.

Ramborg looked up; her big dark eyes glittered strangely. “Why is that? I got what I wanted, just as you did, Kristin. If we two sisters can’t be happy, then I don’t know . . .” And she too laughed.

Kristin stood there, flushed and angry. She refused to accept the ale bowl. “No, it’s already late; time for us to head back home now.” And she looked around for her sons.

“Oh no, Kristin!” Simon took the bowl from his wife and drank a toast. “Don’t be angry. You shouldn’t take so much to heart every word that falls between the closest kin. Sit down for a while and rest your feet and be good enough to forget it if I’ve spoken to you in any way that I shouldn’t have.”

Then he said, “I’m tired,” and he stretched and yawned. He asked how far they had gotten with the spring farm work at Jørundgaard. Here at Formo they had plowed up all the fields north of the manor road.

Kristin left as soon as she thought it was seemly. No, Simon didn’t need to accompany her, she said when he picked up his hooded cape and axe; she had her big sons with her. But he insisted and also asked Ramborg to walk along with them, at least up through the fenced fields. She didn’t usually agree to this, but tonight she went with them all the way up to the road.

Outdoors the night was black and clear with glittering stars. The faint, warm and pleasant smell of newly manured fields gave a springtime odor to the night frost. The sound of water was everywhere in the darkness around them.

Simon and Kristin walked north; the three boys ran on ahead. She could sense that the man at her side wanted to say something, but she didn’t feel like making it easier for him because she was still quite furious. Of course she was fond of her brother-in-law, but there had to be a limit to what he could say and then brush aside afterward—as merely something between kinsmen. He had to realize that because he had stood by them so loyally during their troubles, it wasn’t easy for her when he grew quick-tempered or rude. It was difficult for her to take him to task. She thought about the first winter, not long after they had arrived in the village. Ramborg had sent for her because Simon lay in bed with boils in his throat and was terribly ill. He suffered from this ailment now and then. But when Kristin arrived at Formo and went in to see the man, he refused to allow her to touch him or even look at him. He was so irate that Ramborg, greatly distressed, begged her sister’s forgiveness for asking her to come. Simon had not been any kinder toward her, she said, the first time he fell ill after they were married and she tried to nurse him. Whenever he had throat boils, he would retreat to the old building they called the Sæmund house, and he couldn’t stand to have anyone near him except for a horrid, filthy, and lice-ridden old man named Gunstein, who had served at Dyfrin since before Simon was born. Later Simon would no doubt come to see his sister-in-law to make amends. He didn’t want anyone to see him when he was ill like that; he thought it such a pitiful shortcoming for a full-grown man. Kristin had replied, rather crossly, that she didn’t understand—it was neither sinful nor shameful to suffer from throat boils.

Simon accompanied her all the way up to the bridge, and as they walked, they exchanged only a few words about the weather and the farm work, repeating things they had already said back at the house. Simon said good night, but then he asked abruptly, “Do you know, Kristin, how I might have offended Gaute that the boy should be so angry with me?”

“Gaute?” she said in surprise.

“Yes, haven’t you noticed? He avoids me, but if he can’t help meeting me, he barely opens his mouth when I speak to him.”

Kristin shook her head. No, she hadn’t noticed, “unless you said something in jest and he took it wrong, child that he is.”

He heard in her voice that she was smiling; then he laughed a bit and said, “But I can’t remember anything of the sort.”

And with that he again bade her good night and left.

 

It was completely quiet at Jørundgaard. The main house was dark, with the ashes raked over the fire in the hearth. Bjørgulf was awake and said that his father and brothers had left some time ago.

Over in the master’s bed Munan was sleeping alone. Kristin took him in her arms after she lay down.

It was so difficult to talk about it to Erlend when he didn’t seem to realize himself that he shouldn’t take the older boys and run off with them into the woods when there was more than enough work to be done on the estate.

That Erlend himself should walk behind a plow was not something she had ever expected. He probably wouldn’t be able to do a proper job of it either. And Ulf wouldn’t like it much if Erlend interfered in the running of the farm. But her sons could not grow up in the same way as their father had been allowed to do, learning to use weapons, hunting animals, and amusing himself with his horses or poring over a chessboard with a priest who would slyly attempt to cajole the knight’s son into acquiring a little knowledge of Latin and writing, of singing and the playing of stringed instruments. She had so few servants on the estate because she thought that her sons should learn even as children that they would have to become accustomed to farm work. It now looked doubtful that there would be any knighthood for Erlend’s sons.

But Gaute was the only one of the boys who had any inclination for farming. Gaute was a hard worker, but he was thirteen years old, and it could only be expected that he would rather go with his father when Erlend came and invited him to come along.

It was difficult to talk to Erlend about this because it was Kristin’s firm resolve that her husband should never hear from her a single word that he might perceive as a criticism of his behavior or a complaint over the fate that he had brought upon himself and his sons. That meant it wasn’t easy to make the father understand that his sons had to get used to doing the work themselves on their estate. If only Ulf would speak of it, she thought.

 

When they moved the livestock from the spring pastures up to Høvringen, Kristin went along up to the mountains. She didn’t want to take the twins with her. They would soon be eleven years old, and they were the most unruly and willful of her children; it was even harder for her to handle them because the two boys stuck together in everything. If she managed to get Ivar alone, he was good and obedient enough, but Skule was hot-tempered and stubborn. And when the brothers were together, Ivar said and did everything that Skule demanded.

ONE DAY EARLY in the fall Kristin went outside about the time of midafternoon prayers. The herdsman had said that a short distance down the mountainside, if she followed the riverbed, there was supposed to be an abundance of mulleins on a cleared slope.

Kristin found the spot, a steep incline baking in the direct glare of the sun; it was the very best time for picking the flowers. They grew in thick clumps over the heaps of stones and around the gray stubble. Tall, pale yellow stalks, richly adorned with small open stars. Kristin set Munan to picking raspberries in among some brushwood from which he wouldn’t be able to escape without her help; she told the dog to stay with him and keep watch. Then she took out her knife and began cutting mulleins, constantly casting an eye at the little child. Lavrans stayed at her side and cut flowers too.