Kristin Lavransdatter (138 page)

“No!”

Erlend stopped, standing there slender and straight-backed and young in the red glow from the dying embers in the fireplace.

“I don’t dare sleep alone in this room. I don’t dare.”

“Do you dare sleep in my arms then?” She caught a glimpse of his smile in the darkness, and she grew faint. “Aren’t you afraid that I might crush you to death, Kristin?”

“If only you would.” She fell into his arms.

 

When she woke up, she could see from the windowpane that it was daylight outdoors. Something was weighing down her breast; Erlend was sleeping with his head on her shoulder. He had placed his arm across her body and was gripping her left arm with his hand.

She looked at her husband’s iron-gray hair. She looked at her own small, withered breasts. Above and below them she could see the high, curved arch of her ribs under the thin covering of skin. A kind of terror seized hold of her as one memory after another from the night before rose up. In this room . . . the two of them, at their age . . . Horror and shame overwhelmed her as she saw the patches of red on her worn mother arms, on her shriveled bosom. Abruptly she grabbed the blanket to cover herself.

Erlend awoke, raised himself up on one elbow, and stared down at her face. His eyes were coal-black after his slumber.

“I thought . . .” He threw himself down beside her again; a deep, wild tremor rushed through her at the sound of joy and anguish in his voice. “I thought I was dreaming again.”

She opened her lips to his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. Never, never had it felt so blessed.

 

Later that afternoon, when the sunshine was already golden and the shadows lay stretched out across the green courtyard, they set off to get water from the creek. Erlend was carrying the two large buckets. Kristin walked at his side, lithe, straight-backed, and slender. Her wimple had slipped back and lay around her shoulders; her uncovered hair was a gleaming brown in the sun. She could feel it herself as she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the light. Her cheeks had turned red; the features of her face had softened. Each time she glanced over at him she would lower her gaze, overwhelmed, when she saw in Erlend’s face how young she was.

Erlend decided that he wanted to bathe. As he walked farther down, Kristin sat on the thick carpet of grass, leaning her back against a rock. The murmuring and gurgling of the mountain stream lulled her into a doze; now and then, when mosquitoes or flies touched her skin, she would open her eyes briefly and swat them away with her hand. Down among the willow thickets, near the deep pool, she caught sight of Erlend’s white body. He was standing with one foot up on a rock, scrubbing himself with tufts of grass. Then she closed her eyes again and smiled, weary but happy. She was just as powerless against him as ever.

Her husband came back and threw himself down on the grass in front of her, his hair wet, his red lips cold from the water as he pressed them to her hand. He had shaved and put on a better shirt, although it was not particularly grand either. Laughing, he pointed to his armpit, where the fabric was torn.

“You could have brought me a shirt when you finally decided to come north.”

“I’ll start sewing a shirt for you as soon as I get home, Erlend,” she replied with a smile, caressing his forehead with her hand.

He grabbed hold of it. “Never will you leave here again, my Kristin.”

She merely smiled without replying. Erlend pushed himself away so that he could lie down on his stomach. Under the bushes, in a damp, shady spot, grew a cluster of small, white, star-shaped flowers. Their petals had blue veins like a woman’s breast, and in the center of each blossom sat a tiny brownish-blue bud. Erlend picked every one of them.

“You who are so clever about such things, Kristin—surely you must know what these flowers are called.”

“They’re called Friggja grass. No, Erlend . . .” She blushed and pushed away his hand as he tried to slip the flowers into her bodice.

Erlend laughed and gently bit the white petals, one after the other. Then he put all the flowers into her open hands and closed her fingers around them.

“Do you remember when we walked in the garden at Hofvin Hospice, and you gave me a rose?”

Kristin slowly shook her head as she gave him a little smile. “No. But you took a rose from my hand.”

“And you let me take it. Just as you let me take you, Kristin. As gentle and pious as a rose. Later on you sometimes scratched me bloody, my sweet.” He flung himself into her lap and put his arms around her waist. “Last night, Kristin . . . it did no good. You weren’t allowed to sit there demurely and wait.”

Kristin bent her head and hid her face against his shoulder.

 

On the fourth day they had taken refuge up in the birch woods among the foothills across from the farm, for on that day the tenant was bringing in the hay. Without discussing it, Kristin and Erlend had agreed that no one needed to know that she was visiting him. He went down to the buildings a few times to get food and drink, but she stayed among the alpine birches, sitting in the heather. From where they sat, they could see the man and woman toiling to carry home the hay bundles on their backs.

“Do you remember,” asked Erlend, “the time you promised me that if I ended up on a smallholder’s farm in the mountains, you would come and keep house for me? You wanted to have two cows and some sheep.”

Kristin laughed a little and tugged at his hair. “What do you think our boys would think about that, Erlend? If their mother ran away and left them behind in that manner?”

“I think they would be happy to manage Jørundgaard on their own,” said Erlend, laughing. “They’re old enough now. Gaute is a capable farmer, even as young as he is. And Naakkve is almost a man.”

“Oh no . . .” Kristin laughed softly. “It’s probably true that he thinks so himself. Well, no doubt all five of them do. But he’s still lacking a man’s wisdom, that boy.”

“If he takes after his father, it’s possible that he might acquire it late, or perhaps never at all,” replied Erlend. He gave a sly smile. “You think you can hide your children under the hem of your cloak, Kristin. Naakkve fathered a son this summer—you didn’t know about that, did you?”

“No!” Kristin sat there, red-faced and horror-stricken.

“Yes, it was stillborn, and the boy is apparently careful not to go over there anymore. It was the widow of Paal’s son, here at Haugsbrekken. She said it was his, and I suppose he wasn’t without blame, no matter how things stood. Yes, we’re getting to be so old, you and I—”

“How can you talk that way after your son has brought upon himself such dishonor and trouble!” It pierced her heart that her husband could speak so nonchalantly and that it seemed to amuse him that she hadn’t known anything about it.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” asked Erlend in the same tone of voice. “The boy is eighteen winters old. You can see for yourself that it does little good for you to treat your sons as if they were children. When you move up here with me, we’ll have to see about finding him a wife.”

“Do you think it will be easy for us to find a suitable match for Naakkve? No, husband, after this I think you must realize that you need to come back home with me and lend a hand with the boys.”

Vehemently Erlend propped himself up on his elbow. “I won’t do that, Kristin. I’m a stranger here and will always be one in your parish. No one remembers anything about me except that I was condemned as a traitor and betrayer of the king. Didn’t you ever think, during the years I’ve lived here at Jørundgaard, that my presence was an uneasy one? Back home in Skaun I was accustomed to a position of some importance among the people. Even during those days in my youth, when gossip flew about my evil ways and I was banned from the Church, I was still Erlend Niku laussøn of Husaby! Then came the time, Kristin, when I had the joy of showing the people of the northern regions that I was not entirely debased from the honor of my ancestors. No, I tell you! Here on this little farm I’m a free man; no one glares at my footprints or talks behind my back. Do you hear me, Kristin, my only love? Stay with me! You will never have cause to regret it. Life here is better than it ever was at Husaby. I don’t know why it is, Kristin, but I’ve never been so happy or lighthearted—not as a child or ever since. It was hell while Eline lived with me at Husaby, and you and I were never truly happy together there either. And yet the Almighty God knows that I have loved you every hour and every day that I’ve known you. I think that manor was cursed; Mother was tormented to death there, and my father was always an unhappy man. But here life is good, Kristin—if only you would stay with me. Kristin . . . As truly as God died on the cross for us, I love you as much today as on that evening when you slept under my cape, the night of Saint Margareta’s Day. I sat and looked at you, such a pure and fresh and young and untouched flower you were!”

Kristin said quietly, “Do you remember, Erlend, that you prayed on that night that I would never weep a single tear for your sake?”

“Yes, and God and all the saints in Heaven know that I meant it! It’s true that things turned out differently—as surely they must. That’s what always happens while we live in this world. But I loved you, both when I treated you badly and when I treated you well. Stay here, Kristin!”

“Haven’t you ever thought that it would be difficult for our sons?” she asked in the same quiet voice. “To have people talk about their father, as you admit? All seven of them can’t very well run off to the mountains to escape the parish gossip.”

Erlend lowered his eyes. “They’re young,” he said. “Handsome and intrepid boys. They’ll figure out how to make their own way. But the two of us, Kristin . . . We don’t have many years left before we’ll be old. Do you want to squander the time you have remaining when you are beautiful and healthy and meant to rejoice in life? Kristin?”

She looked down to avoid the wild glint in his eyes. After a moment she said, “Have you forgotten, Erlend, that two of our sons are still children? What would you think of me if I left Lavrans and Munan behind?”

“Then you can bring them up here, unless Lavrans would rather stay with his brothers. He’s not a little boy anymore. Is Munan still so handsome?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” said Kristin, “he’s a lovely child.”

Then they sat in silence for a long time. When they spoke again, it was of other matters.

 

She woke up in the gray light of dawn the next day, as she had every morning up there. She lay in bed listening to the horses plodding around outside the house. She had her arms wrapped around Erlend’s head. The other mornings, when she woke up in the early gray hour, she had been seized by the same anguish and shame as the first time; she had fought to subdue those feelings. The two of them were a married couple who had quarreled and now reconciled; nothing could benefit the children more than that their father and mother became friends once again.

But on this morning she lay there, struggling to remember her sons. For she felt as if she had been bewitched; Erlend had spirited her away and brought her up here, straight from the woods of Gerdarud, where he had taken her into his arms the first time. They were so young; it couldn’t be true that she had already borne this man seven sons. She was the mother of tall, grown-up men. But she felt as if she had been lying here in his arms and merely dreamed about those long years they had spent together as husband and wife at Husaby. All his impetuous words resounded and enticed her; dizzy with fear, she felt as if Erlend had swept away her sevenfold burden of responsibility. This is the way it must feel when the young mare is unsaddled up in the mountain pasture. The packs and saddle and bridle are removed, and the wind and air of the mountain plateau stream against her; she is free to graze the fine grass on the heights, free to run as far as she likes across all the slopes.

But at the same time she was already yearning, with a sweet and willing sense of longing, to bear a new burden. She was yearning with a faint, tender giddiness for the one who would now live nearest her heart for nine long months. She had been certain of it, from the first morning she woke up here in Erlend’s arms. Her barrenness had left her, along with the harsh, dry, gasping heat in her heart. She was hiding Erlend’s child in her womb, and with a strangely gentle feeling of impatience, her soul was reaching out toward the hour when the infant would be brought into the light.

My big sons no longer need me, she thought. They think I’m unreasonable, that I nag them. We’ll just be in their way, the little child and I. No, I can’t leave here; we must stay here with Erlend. I can’t leave.

But when they sat down together to eat breakfast, she mentioned nevertheless that she would have to return home to her children.

It was Lavrans and Munan she was thinking of. They were old enough now that she was embarrassed to imagine them living up here with Erlend and herself, perhaps looking with astonishment at their parents who had become so youthful. But those two couldn’t be without her.

Erlend sat and stared at her as she talked about going home. At last he gave her a fleeting smile. “Well . . . if that’s what you want, then you must go.”

 

He wanted to accompany her for part of the journey. He rode all the way through Rost Gorge and up to Sil, until they could see a little of the church roof above the tops of the spruce trees. Then he said goodbye. He smiled to the very end, slyly confident.

“You know now, Kristin, that whether you come at night or by day, whether I have to wait for you a short time or a long time, I will welcome you as if you were the Queen of Heaven come down from the clouds to my farm.”

She laughed. “I don’t dare speak as grandly as that. But you must now realize, my love, that there will be great joy at your manor on the day the master returns to his own home.”