Kristin Lavransdatter (145 page)

“You must come home at once, Father, and save her. Now they’re accusing her of the worst of things. They’ve taken Ulf and her and my brothers captive, Father!”

Erlend touched the boy’s hot face and hands; his fever had flared up again. “What are you saying?” But Lavrans sat up and gave a fairly coherent account of everything that had taken place back home the day before. His father listened in silence, but halfway through the boy’s story he began to finish getting dressed. He pulled on his boots and fastened his spurs. Then he went to get some milk and food and brought them over to the child.

“But you can’t stay here alone in this house, my son. I will take you over to Aslaug, north of here in Brekken, before I ride home.”

“Father.” Lavrans grabbed his arm. “No, I want to go home with you.”

“You’re ill, little son,” said Erlend, and the boy couldn’t recall ever hearing such a tender tone in his father’s voice.

“No, Father . . . I want to go home with you—to Mother. I want to go home to my mother. . . .” Now he was weeping like a small child.

“But Raud is limping, my boy.” Erlend took his son on his lap, but he could not console the child. “And you’re so tired. . . .” Finally he said, “Well, well . . . Soten can surely carry both of us.”

After he had led out the stallion, put Raud inside, and tended to the animal, he said, “You must make sure to remember that someone comes north to take care of your horse . . . and my things.”

“Are you going to stay home now, Father?” asked Lavrans joyfully.

Erlend gazed straight ahead. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling I won’t be back here again.”

“Shouldn’t you be better armed, Father?” the boy asked, for aside from his sword Erlend had picked up only a small, lightweight axe and was now about to leave the house. “Aren’t you even going to take your shield?”

Erlend looked at his shield. The oxhide was so scratched and torn that the red lion against the white field had almost disappeared. He put it back down and spread the covers over it again.

“I’m armed well enough to drive a horde of farmers from my manor,” he said. He went outside, closed the door to the house, mounted his horse, and helped the boy climb up behind him.

The sky was growing more and more overcast. By the time they had come partway down the slope, where the forest was quite dense, they were riding in darkness. Erlend noticed that his son was so tired that he could hardly hold on. Then he let Lavrans sit in front of him, and he held the boy in his arms. The young, fair-haired head rested against his chest; of all the children, Lavrans was most like his mother. Erlend kissed the top of his head as he straightened the hood on the boy’s cape.

“Did your mother grieve greatly when the infant died this summer?” he asked once, quite softly.

Young Lavrans replied, “She didn’t cry after he died. But she has gone up to the cemetery gate every night since. Gaute and Naakkve usually follow her when she leaves, but they haven’t dared speak to her, and they don’t dare let Mother see that they’ve been keeping watch over her.”

A little later Erlend said, “She didn’t cry? I remember back when your mother was young, and she wept as readily as the dew drips from goat willow reeds along the creek. She was so gentle and tender, Kristin, whenever she was with people whom she knew wished her well. Later on she had to learn to be harder, and most often I was the one to blame.”

“Gunhild and Frida say that in all the days our youngest brother lived,” continued Lavrans, “she cried every minute when she thought no one would see her.”

“May God help me,” said Erlend in a low voice. “I’ve been a foolish man.”

They rode through the valley floor, with the curve of the river at their backs. Erlend wrapped his cape around the boy as best he could. Lavrans dozed and kept threatening to fall asleep. He sensed that his father’s body smelled like that of a poor man. He had a vague memory from his early childhood, while they were living at Husaby, when his father would come from the bathhouse on Saturdays and he would have several little balls in his hands. They smelled so good, and the delicate, sweet scent would cling to his palms and to his clothing during the whole Sabbath.

Erlend rode steadily and briskly. Down on the moors it was pitch-dark. Without thinking about it, he knew at every moment where he was; he recognized the changing sound of the river’s clamor, as the Laag rushed through rapids and plunged over falls. Their path took them across flat stretches, where the sparks flew from the horse’s hooves. Soten ran with confidence and ease among the writhing roots of pine trees, where the road passed through thick forest; there was a soft gurgling and rushing sound as he raced across small green plains where a meandering rivulet from the mountains streamed across. By daybreak he would be home, and that would be a fitting hour.

The whole time Erlend was doubtless thinking about that moon-blue wintry night long ago when he drove a sleigh down through this very valley. Bjørn Gunnarssøn sat in back, holding a dead woman in his arms. But the memory was pale and distant, just as everything the child had told him seemed distant and unreal: all that had happened down in the village and those mad rumors about Kristin. Somehow his mind refused to grasp it. After he arrived, there would surely be time enough to think about what he should do. Nothing seemed real except the feeling of strain and fear—now that he would soon see Kristin.

He had waited and waited for her. He had never doubted that one day she would come to him—up until he heard what name she had given the child.

 

Stepping out of the church into the gray light were those people who had been to early mass to hear one of the priests from Hamar preach. The ones who emerged first saw Erlend Nikulaussøn ride past toward home, and they told the others. Some uneasiness and a great deal of talk arose; people headed down the slope and stood in groups at the place where the lane to Jørundgaard diverged from the main road.

 

Erlend rode into the courtyard as the waning moon sank behind the rim of clouds and the mountain ridge, pale in the dawn light.

Outside the foreman’s house stood a group of people: Jardtrud’s kinsmen and her friends who had stayed with her overnight. At the sound of horse hooves in the courtyard the men who had been keeping guard in the room under the high loft came outside.

Erlend reined in his horse. He gazed down at the farmers and said in a loud, mocking voice, “Is there a feast being held on my estate and I know nothing about it? Or why are you good folks gathered here at this early hour?”

Angry, dark looks met him from all sides. Erlend sat tall and slender astride the long-legged foreign stallion. Before, Soten’s mane had been clipped short, but now it was thick and uncut. The horse was ungroomed and had gray hairs on his head, but his eyes glittered dangerously, and he stomped and shifted uneasily, laying his ears back and tossing his small, elegant head so that flecks of lather sprinkled his neck and shoulders and the rider. The harnesswork had once been red and the saddle inlaid with gold; now they were worn and broken and mended. And the man was dressed almost like a beggar. His hair, which billowed from under a simple black woolen hat, was grayish white; a gray stubble grew on his pale, furrowed face with the big nose. But he sat erect, and he was smiling arrogantly down at the crowd of farmers. He looked young, in spite of everything, and like a chieftain. Fierce hatred surged toward this outsider, who sat there, holding his head high and uncowed—after all the grief and shame and misery he had brought upon those whom these people considered their own chieftains.

And yet the farmer who was the first to answer Erlend spoke with restraint. “I see you have found your son, Erlend, so I think you must know that we have not gathered here for any feast. And it seems strange you would jest about such a matter.”

Erlend looked down at the child, who was still asleep. His voice grew more gentle.

“The boy is ill; surely you must see that. The news he brought me from here in the parish seemed so unbelievable that I thought he must be speaking in a feverish daze.

“And some of it is nonsense, after all, I see.” Erlend frowned as he glanced at the stable door. Ulf Haldorssøn and two other men—one of them his brother-in-law—were at that moment leading out several horses.

Ulf let go of his horse and strode swiftly toward his master.

“Have you finally come, Erlend? And there’s the boy—praise be to Christ and the Virgin Mary! His mother doesn’t know he was missing. We were about to go out to look for him. The bishop released me on my sworn oath when he heard the child had set off alone for Vaagaa. How is Lavrans?” he asked anxiously.

“Thank God you’ve found the boy,” said Jardtrud, weeping. She had come out into the courtyard.

“Are you here, Jardtrud?” said Erlend. “That will be the first thing I see to: that you leave my estate, you and your cohorts. First we’ll drive off this gossiping woman, and then anyone else who has spread lies about my wife will be fined.”

“That cannot be done, Erlend,” said Ulf Haldorssøn. “Jardtrud is my lawful wife. I don’t think either she or I has any desire to stay together, but she will not leave my house until I have placed in the hands of my brothers-in-law her livestock, dowry, betrothal gifts, and wedding gifts.”

“Am I not the master of this estate?” asked Erlend, furious.

“You will have to ask Kristin Lavransdatter about that,” said Ulf. “Here she comes.”

The mistress was standing on the gallery of the new storeroom. Now she slowly came down the stairs. Without thinking, she pulled her wimple forward—it had slipped back off her head—and she smoothed her church gown, which she had worn since the day before. But her face was as motionless as stone.

Erlend rode forward to meet her, at a walking pace. Bending down a bit, he stared with fearful confusion at his wife’s gray, dead face.

“Kristin,” he implored. “My Kristin. I’ve come home to you.”

She didn’t seem to hear or see him. Then Lavrans, who was sitting in his father’s arms and had gradually woken up, slid down to the ground. The moment his feet touched the grass, the boy collapsed and he lay in a heap.

A tremor passed over his mother’s face. She leaned down and lifted the big boy in her arms, pressing his head against her throat, as if he were a little child. But his long legs hung down limply in front of her.

“Kristin, my dearest love,” begged Erlend in despair. “Oh, Kristin, I know I’ve come to you much too late . . .”

Again a tremor passed over his wife’s face.

“It’s not too late,” she said, her voice low and harsh. She stared down at her son, who lay in a swoon in her arms. “Our last child is already in the ground, and now it’s Lavrans’s turn. Gaute has been banished by the Church, and our other sons . . . But the two of us still own much that can be ruined, Erlend!”

She turned away from him and began walking across the courtyard with the child. Erlend rode after her, keeping his horse at her side.

“Kristin—Jesus, what can I do for you? Kristin, don’t you want me to stay with you now?”

“I don’t need you to do anything more for me,” said his wife in the same tone of voice. “You cannot help me, whether you stay here or you throw yourself into the Laag.”

Erlend’s sons had come out onto the gallery of the high loft. Now Gaute ran down and raced toward his mother, trying to stop her.

“Mother,” he begged. Then she gave him a look, and he halted in bewilderment.

Several farmers were standing at the bottom of the loft stairs.

“Move aside, men,” said the mistress, trying to pass them with her burden.

Soten tossed his head and danced uneasily; Erlend turned the horse halfway around, and Kolbein Jonssøn grabbed the bridle. Kristin hadn’t seen what was happening; now she turned to look over her shoulder.

“Let go of the horse, Kolbein. If he wants to ride off, then let him.”

Kolbein took a firmer grip and replied, “Don’t you see, Kristin, that it’s time for the master to stay home on his estate? You at least should realize it,” he said to Erlend.

But Erlend struck the man over the hand and urged the stallion forward, so the old man fell. A couple of other men leaped forward.

Erlend shouted, “Get away from here! You have nothing to do with matters concerning me or my wife—and I’m not the master. I refuse to bind myself to a manor like a calf to the stall. I may not own this estate, but neither does this estate own me!”

Kristin turned to face her husband and screamed, “Go ahead and ride off! Ride, ride like the Devil to Hell. That’s where you’ve driven me and cast off everything you’ve ever owned or been given—”

What occurred next happened so fast that no one properly foresaw it or could prevent it. Tore Borghildssøn and another man grabbed her by the arms. “Kristin, you mustn’t speak that way to your husband.”

Erlend rode up close to them.

“Do you dare to lay hands on my wife?” He swung his axe and struck at Tore Borghildssøn. The blow fell between his shoulder blades, and the man sank to the ground. Erlend lifted his axe again, but as he raised up in the stirrups, a man ran a spear through him, and it pierced his groin. It was the son of Tore Borghildssøn who did this.

Soten reared up and kicked with his front hooves. Erlend pressed his knees against the animal’s sides and leaned forward as he pulled on the reins with his left hand and again raised his axe. But almost at once he lost one of his stirrups, and the blood gushed down over his left thigh. Several arrows and spears whistled across the courtyard. Ulf and Erlend’s sons rushed into the throng with axes raised and swords drawn. Then a man stabbed the stallion Erlend was riding, and the animal fell to his knees, whinnying so wildly and shrilly that the horses in the stable replied.

Erlend stood up, his legs straddling the animal. He put his hand on Bjørgulf’s shoulder and stepped off. Gaute came up and grabbed his father under the other arm.