Kristin Lavransdatter (149 page)

Bjørgulf was lying in bed. As soon as she came in and sat down on the edge of his bed, she could tell by his face that he knew she had spoken to Naakkve.

“Mother. You mustn’t cry, Mother,” he begged fearfully.

What she most wanted to do was to fling herself at her son, gather him into her arms, and weep over him, grieving over his harsh fate. But she merely slipped her hand into his under the coverlet.

“God is sorely testing your manhood, my son,” she said hoarsely.

Bjørgulf’s expression changed, becoming firm and resolute. But it took a moment before he could speak.

“I’ve known for a long time, Mother, that this was what I was destined to endure. Even back when we were at Tautra . . . Brother Aslak spoke to me about it and said that if things should go in such a way . . .

“The way our Lord Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, he said. He told me that the true wilderness for a Christian man’s soul was when his sight and senses were blocked—then he would follow the footsteps of the Lord out of the wilderness, even if his body was still with his brothers or kinsmen. He read to me from the books of Saint Bernard about such things. And when a soul realizes that God has chosen him for such a difficult test of his manhood, then he shouldn’t be afraid that he won’t have the strength. God knows my soul better than the soul knows itself.”

He continued to talk to his mother in this manner, consoling her with a wisdom and strength of spirit that seemed far beyond his years.

That evening Naakkve came to Kristin and asked to speak with her alone. Then he told her that he and Bjørgulf intended to enter the holy brotherhood and to take the vows of monks at Tautra.

Kristin was dismayed, but Naakkve kept on talking, quite calmly. They would wait until Gaute had come of age and could lawfully act on behalf of his mother and younger siblings. They wanted to enter the monastery with as much property as was befitting the sons of Erlend Nikulaussøn of Husaby, but they also wanted to ensure the welfare of their brothers. From their father the sons of Erlend had inherited nothing of value that was worth mentioning, but the three who were born before Gunnulf Niku laussøn had entered the cloister owned several shares of estates in the north. He had made these gifts to his nephews when he dispersed his wealth, although most of what he hadn’t given to the Church or for ecclesiastical use he had left to his brother. And since Naakkve and Bjørgulf would not demand their full share of the inheritance, it would be a great relief to Gaute, who would then become the head of the family and carry on the lineage, if the two of them were dead to the world, as Naakkve put it.

Kristin felt close to fainting. Never had she dreamed that Naakkve would consider a monk’s life. But she did not protest; she was too overwhelmed. And she didn’t dare try to dissuade her sons from such a noble and meaningful enterprise.

“Back when we were boys and were staying with the monks up there in the north, we promised each other that we would never be parted,” said Naakkve.

His mother nodded; she knew that. But she had thought their intention was for Bjørgulf to continue to live with Naakkve, even after the older boy was married.

 

It seemed to Kristin almost miraculous that Bjørgulf, as young as he was, could bear his misfortune in such a manly fashion. Whenever she spoke to him of it, during that spring, she heard nothing but god-fearing and courageous words from his lips. It seemed to her incomprehensible, but it must be because he had realized for many years that this would be the outcome of his failing eyesight, and he must have been preparing his soul ever since the time he had stayed with the monks.

But then she had to consider what a terrible burden this unfortunate child of hers had endured—while she had paid so little heed as she went about absorbed with her own concerns. Now, whenever she had a moment to herself, Kristin Lavransdatter would slip away and kneel down before the picture of the Virgin Mary up in the loft or before her altar in the north end of the church when it was open. Lamenting with all her heart, she would pray with humble tears for the Savior’s gentle Mother to serve as Bjørgulf’s mother in her stead and to offer him all that his earthly mother had left undone.

 

One summer night Kristin lay awake in bed. Naakkve and Bjørg ulf had moved back into the high loft room, but Gaute was sleeping downstairs with Lavrans because Naakkve had said that the older brothers wanted to practice keeping vigil and praying. She was just about to fall asleep at last when she was awakened by someone walking quietly along the gallery of the loft. She heard a stumbling on the stairs and recognized the blind man’s gait.

He must be going out on some errand, she thought, but all the same she got up and began looking for her clothes. Then she heard a door flung open upstairs, and someone raced down the steps, taking them two or three at a time.

Kristin ran to the entryway and out the door. The fog was so thick outside that only the buildings directly across the courtyard could be glimpsed. Up by the manor gate Bjørgulf was furiously struggling to free himself from his brother’s grasp.

“Do you lose anything,” cried the blind man, “if you’re rid of me? Then you’ll be released from all your oaths . . . and you won’t have to be dead to this world.”

Kristin couldn’t hear what Naakkve said in reply. She ran barefoot through the soaking wet grass. By this time Bjørgulf had pulled free; suddenly, as if struck down, he fell upon the boulder by the gate and began beating it with his fists.

Naakkve saw his mother and took a few swift steps in her direction. “Go inside, Mother. I can handle this best alone. You
must
go inside, I tell you,” he whispered urgently, and then he turned around and went back to lean over his brother.

Their mother remained standing some distance away. The grass was drenched with moisture, water was dripping from all the eaves, and drops were trickling from every leaf; it had rained all day, but now the clouds had descended as a thick white fog. When her sons headed back after a while—Naakkve had taken Bjørgulf by the arm and was leading him—Kristin retreated to the entryway door.

She saw that Bjørgulf’s face was bleeding; he must have hit himself on the rock. Involuntarily Kristin pressed her hand to her lips and bit her own flesh.

On the stairs Bjørgulf tried once more to pull away from Naakkve. He threw himself against the wall and shouted, “I curse, I curse the day I was born!”

When she heard Naakkve shut the loft door behind them, Kristin crept upstairs and stood outside on the gallery. For a long time she could hear Bjørgulf’s voice inside. He raged and shouted and swore; a few of his vehement words she could understand. Every once in a while she would hear Naakkve talking to him, but his voice was only a subdued murmur. Finally Bjørgulf began sobbing, loudly and as if his heart would break.

Kristin stood trembling with cold and anguish. She was wearing only a cloak over her shift; she stood there so long that her loose, flowing hair became wet with the raw night air. At last there was silence in the loft.

Entering the main room downstairs, she went over to the bed where Gaute and Lavrans were sleeping. They hadn’t heard anything. With tears streaming down her face, she reached out a hand in the dark and touched the two warm faces, listening to the boys’ measured, healthy breathing. She now felt as if these two were all that she had left of her riches.

Shivering with cold, she climbed into her own bed. One of the dogs lying next to Gaute’s bed came padding across the room and jumped up, circling around and then leaning against her feet. The dog was in the habit of doing this at night, and she didn’t have the heart to chase him away, even though he was heavy and pressed on her legs so they would turn numb. But the dog had belonged to Erlend and was his favorite—a shaggy coal-black old bearhound. Tonight, thought Kristin, it was good to have him lying there, warming her frozen feet.

She didn’t see Naakkve the next morning until at the breakfast table. Then he came in and sat down in the high seat, which had been his place since his father’s death.

He didn’t say a word during the meal, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His mother followed him when he went back outside.

“How is Bjørgulf now?” she asked in a low voice.

Naakkve continued to evade her eyes, but he replied in an equally low voice that Bjørgulf was asleep.

“Has . . . has he been this way before?” she whispered fearfully.

Naakkve nodded, turned away from her, and went back upstairs to his brother.

Naakkve watched over Bjørgulf night and day, and kept his mother away from him as much as possible. But Kristin saw that the two young men spent many hours struggling with each other.

It was Nikulaus Erlendssøn who was supposed to be the master of Jørundgaard now, but he had no time to tend to the managing of the estate. He also seemed to have as little interest and ability as his father had had. And so Kristin and Gaute saw to everything, for that summer Ulf Haldorssøn had left her too.

After the unfortunate events that ended with the killing of Erlend Nikulaussøn, Ulf’s wife had gone home with her brothers. Ulf stayed on at Jørundgaard; he said he wanted to show everyone that he couldn’t be driven away by gossip and lies. But he hinted that he had lived long enough at Jørundgaard; he thought he might head north to his own estate in Skaun as soon as enough time had passed so that no one could say he was fleeing from the rumors.

But then the bishop’s plenipotentiary began making inquiries into the matter, to determine whether Ulf Haldorssøn had unlawfully spurned his wife. And so Ulf made preparations to leave; he went to get Jardtrud, and they were now setting off together for the north, before the autumn weather made the road through the mountains impassable. He told Gaute that he wanted to join forces with his half sister’s husband, who was a swordsmith in Nidaros, and live there, but he would settle Jardtrud at Skjoldvirkstad, which his nephew would continue to manage for him.

On his last evening Kristin drank a toast to him with the gold-chased silver goblet her father had inherited from his paternal grandfather, Sir Ketil the Swede. She asked him to accept the goblet as a keepsake to remember her by. Then she slipped onto his finger a gold ring that had belonged to Erlend; he was to have it in his memory.

Ulf gave her a kiss to thank her. “It’s customary among kinsmen,” he said with a laugh. “You probably never imagined, Kristin, when we first met, and I was the servant who came to get you to escort you to my master, that we would part in this way.”

Kristin turned bright red, for he was smiling at her with that old, mocking smile, but she thought she could see in his eyes that he was sad. Then she said, “All the same, Ulf, aren’t you longing for Trøndelag—you who were born and raised in the north? Many a time I too have longed for the fjord, and I lived there only a few years.” Ulf laughed again, and then she added quietly, “If I ever offended you in my youth, with my overbearing manner or . . . I didn’t know that you were close kin, you and Erlend. But now you must forgive me!”

“No . . . but Erlend was not the one who refused to acknowledge our kinship. I was so insolent in my youth; since my father had ousted me from his lineage, I refused to beg—” He stood up abruptly and went over to where Bjørgulf was sitting on the bench. “You see, Bjørgulf, my foster son . . . your father . . . and Gunnulf, they treated me as a kinsman even back when we were boys—just the opposite of how my brothers and sisters at Hestnes behaved. Afterward . . . to others I never presented myself as Erlend’s kinsman because I saw that in that way I could serve him better . . . as well as his wife and all of you, my foster sons. Do you understand?” he asked earnestly, placing his hand on Bjørgulf’s face, hiding the extinguished eyes.

“I understand.” Bjørgulf’s reply was almost stifled behind the other man’s fingers; he nodded under Ulf’s hand.

“We understand, foster father.” Nikulaus laid his hand heavily on Ulf’s shoulder, and Gaute moved closer to the group.

Kristin felt strangely ill at ease. They seemed to be speaking of things that she could not comprehend. Then she too stepped over to the men as she said, “Be assured, Ulf, my kinsman, that all of us understand. Never have Erlend and I had a more loyal friend than you. May God bless you!”

The next day Ulf Haldorssøn set off for the north.

 

Over the course of the winter Bjørgulf seemed to settle down, as far as Kristin could tell. Once again he came to the table for meals with the servants of the house, he went with them to mass, and he willingly and gladly accepted the help and services that his mother so dearly wanted to offer him.

As time passed and Kristin never heard her sons make any mention of the monastery, she realized how unspeakably reluctant she was to give up her eldest son to the life of a monk.

She couldn’t help admitting that a cloister would be the best place for Bjørgulf. But she didn’t see how she could bear to lose Naakkve in that way. It must be true, after all, that her firstborn was somehow bound closer to her heart than her other sons.

Nor could she see that Naakkve was suited to be a monk. He did have a talent for learned games and a fondness for devotional practices; nevertheless, his mother didn’t think he was particularly disposed toward spiritual matters. He didn’t attend the parish church with any special zeal. He often missed the services, giving some meager excuse, and she knew that neither he nor Bjørgulf confessed to their parish priest anything but the most ordinary of sins. The new priest, Sira Dag Rolfssøn, was the son of Rolf of Blakarsarv, who had been married to Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter’s cousin; for this reason he often visited his kinswoman’s estate. He was a young man about thirty years old, well educated and a good cleric, but the two oldest sons never warmed to him. With Gaute, on the other hand, he soon became good friends.