Kristin Lavransdatter (70 page)

“Where’s Erlend?” asked Ulf.

“Margret wanted to go to the dance, and so he went with her.”

“It’s good he understands he should keep a watchful eye on that maiden of his,” said Ulf.

Again Kristin did not reply. She undressed the children and put them to bed—Gaute in the cradle and the other two in her own bed. Erlend had resigned himself to having them there after she recovered from her long illness the year before.

When Ulf had eaten his fill, he stretched out on the bench. Kristin pushed the chair carved from a tree stump over to the cradle, got her basket of wool, and began to wind up balls of yarn for her loom as she gently and quietly rocked the cradle.

“Shouldn’t you go to bed?” she asked once without turning her head. “Aren’t you tired, Ulf?”

The man got up, poked at the fire a bit, and came over to Kristin. He sat down on the bench across from her. Kristin saw that he was not as spent from carousing as he usually was whenever he had been in Nidaros for a few days.

“You don’t even ask about news from town, Kristin,” he said, looking at her as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

Her heart began pounding with fear. She could see from the man’s expression and manner that again there was news that wasn’t good. But she said with a gentle and calm smile, “You must tell me, Ulf—have you heard anything?”

“Yes, well . . .” But first he took out his traveling bag and unpacked the things he had brought from town for her. Kristin thanked him.

“I understand that you’ve heard some news in Nidaros,” she said after a while.

Ulf looked at the young mistress; then he turned his gaze to the pale, sleeping child in the cradle.

“Does he always sweat like this?” he asked softly, gently pushing back the boy’s damp, dark hair. “Kristin—when you were betrothed to Erlend . . . the document that was drawn up regarding the ownership of both your possessions—didn’t it state that you should manage with full authority those properties which he gave you as betrothal and wedding gifts?”

Kristin’s heart pounded harder, but she said calmly, “It’s also true, Ulf, that Erlend has always asked my advice and sought my consent in all dealings with those properties. Is this about the sections of the estate in Verdal that he has sold to Vigleik of Lyng?”

“Yes,” said Ulf. “He has bought a ship called
Hugrekken
from Vigleik. So now he’s going to maintain two ships. And what do you gain in return, Kristin?”

Erlend’s share of Skjervastad and two plots of land in Ulfkel stad—each taxed by one month’s worth of food—and what he owns of Aarhammar,” she said. “Surely you didn’t think Erlend would sell that estate without my permission or without repaying me?”

“Hmm . . .” Ulf sat in silence for a moment. “And yet your income will be reduced, Kristin. Skjervastad—that was where Erlend obtained hay this past winter and in return he released the farmer from the land tax for the next three years.”

“Erlend was not to blame because we had no dry hay last year. I know, Ulf, you did everything you could, but with all the misery we had here last summer—”

“He sold more than half of Aarhammar to the sisters at Rein back when he was preparing to flee the country with you.” Ulf laughed. “Or pledged it as security, which amounts to the same thing, in Erlend’s case. Free of war levies—the entire burden rests on Audun, who oversees the farm which you will now call your own.”

“Can’t he lease the land from the convent?” asked Kristin.

“The nuns’ tenant farmer on the neighboring estate has leased it,” said Ulf. “It’s difficult and risky for leaseholders to manage when lands are split up the way Erlend is bent on doing.”

Kristin was silent. She knew he was right.

“Erlend is working quickly,” said Ulf, “to increase his lineage and to destroy his property.”

When she didn’t reply, Ulf went on, “You will soon have
many
children, Kristin Lavransdatter.”

“But none I would give up,” she said, with a slight quaver in her voice.

“Don’t be so fearful for Gaute—I’m sure he’ll grow strong over time,” said Ulf softly.

“It must be as God wills, but it’s difficult to wait.”

He could hear the concealed suffering in the mother’s voice; a strange sense of helplessness came over the ponderous, gloomy man.

“It’s of such little avail, Kristin. You have accomplished much here at Husaby, but if Erlend is now going to set off with two ships . . . I have no faith that there will be peace in the north, and your husband has so little cunning; he doesn’t know how to turn to his advantage what he has gained in the past two years. Bad years they have been, and you have been constantly ill. If things should continue in this way, you’ll be brought to your knees in the end, and as such a young woman. I’ve helped you as best I could here on the estate, but this other matter, Erlend’s lack of prudence—”

“Yes, God knows you have,” she interrupted him. “You’ve been the best of kinsmen toward us, Ulf my friend, and I can never fully thank you or repay you.”

Ulf stood up, lit a candle at the hearth, and set it in the candlestick on the table; he stood there with his back turned to Kristin. She had let her hands sink into her lap as they talked, but now she began winding up the yarn and rocking the cradle with her foot again.

“Can’t you send word to your parents back home?” he asked. “So that Lavrans might journey north in the fall along with your mother when she comes to help you?”

“I hadn’t thought of troubling my mother this fall. She’s getting older, and it happens much too often now that I must lie down in the straw to give birth. I can’t ask her to come every time.” Her smile looked a bit strained.

“Do it this time,” said Ulf. “And ask your father to come along, so you can seek his advice on these matters.”

“I will not ask my father’s advice about this,” she said quietly but firmly.

“What about Gunnulf then?” asked Ulf after a moment. “Can’t you speak to him?”

“It’s not proper to disturb him with such things now,” said Kristin in the same tone of voice.

“Do you mean because he has entered a monastery?” Ulf laughed scornfully. “I’ve never noticed that monks had less understanding about managing estates than other people.”

When she didn’t answer, he said, “But if you won’t seek advice from anyone, Kristin, then you must speak to Erlend. Think of your sons, Kristin!”

She sat in silence for a long time.

“You who are so good toward our children, Ulf,” she said at last. “It would seem to me more reasonable if you married and had your own worries to tend to—than that you should stay here, tormenting yourself . . . with Erlend’s and my troubles.”

Ulf turned to face her. He stood with his hands gripping the edge of the table behind him and looked at Kristin Lavransdatter. She was still straight-backed and slender and beautiful as she sat there. Her gown was made of dark, hand-dyed woolen cloth, but she wore a fine, soft linen wimple around her calm, pale face. The belt from which her ring of keys hung was adorned with small silver roses. On her breast glittered two chains with crosses, the larger one on gilded links which hung almost to her waist; that one had been given to her by her father. On top lay the thin silver chain with the little cross which Orm had given to his stepmother, asking her to wear it always.

So far she had recovered from each childbirth looking just as lovely as ever—only a little quieter, with heavier responsibilities on her young shoulders. Her cheeks were thinner, her eyes a little darker and more somber beneath the wide, white forehead, and her lips were a little less red and full. But her beauty would soon be worn away before many more years had passed if things continued in this fashion.

“Don’t you think, Ulf, that you would be happier if you settled down on your own farm?” she continued. “Erlend told me that you’ve bought three more plots of land at Skjoldvirkstad—you will soon own half the estate. And Isak has only the one child—Aase is both beautiful and kind, a capable woman, and she seems to like you—”

“And yet I don’t want her if I have to marry her,” sneered the man crudely and laughed. “Besides, Aase Isaksdatter is too good for . . .” His voice changed. “I’ve never known any other father but my foster father, Kristin, and I think it’s my fate not to have any other children but foster children.”

“I’ll pray to the Virgin Mary that you’ll have better fortune, kinsman.”

“I’m not so young, either. Thirty-five winters, Kristin,” he laughed. “It wouldn’t take many more than that and I could be your father.”

“Then you must have begun your sinful ways early,” replied Kristin. She tried to make her voice sound merry and light-hearted.

“Shouldn’t you go to sleep now?” Ulf asked.

“Yes, soon—but you must be tired too, Ulf. You should go to bed.”

The man quietly bade her good night and left the room.

 

Kristin took the candlestick from the table and shone the light on the two sleeping boys in the enclosed bed. Bjørgulf’s eyelashes were not festering—thank God for that. The weather would stay fine for a while yet. As soon as the wind blew hard or the weather forced the children to stay inside near the hearth, his eyes would grow inflamed. She stood there a long time, gazing at the two boys. Then she went over and bent down to look at Gaute in his cradle.

They had been as healthy as little fledglings, all three of her sons—until the sickness had come to the region last summer. A fever had carried off children in homes all around the fjord; it was a terrible thing to see and to hear about. She had been allowed to keep hers—all her own children.

For five days she had sat near the bed on the south wall where they lay, all three of them, with red spots covering their faces and with feverish eyes that shunned the light. Their small bodies were burning hot. She sat with her hand under the coverlet and patted the soles of Bjørgulf’s feet while she sang and sang until her poor voice was no more than a whisper.

Bjørgulf was less sick than the others, and more restless. If she stopped singing for even a minute, he would throw off the coverlets at once. Gaute was then only ten months old; he was so ill that she didn’t think he would survive. He lay at her breast, wrapped in blankets and furs, and had no strength to nurse. She held him with one arm as she patted the soles of Bjørgulf’s feet with her other hand.

Now and then, if all three of them happened to fall asleep for a while, she would stretch out on the bed beside them, fully dressed. Erlend came and went, looking helplessly at his three small sons. He tried to sing to them, but they didn’t care for their father’s fine voice—they wanted their mother to sing, even though she didn’t have the voice for it.

The servant women would come in, wanting their mistress to rest; the men would come in to inquire about the boys; and Orm tried to play with his young brothers. At Kristin’s advice, Erlend had sent Margret over to Østerdal, but Orm wanted to stay—he was grown up now, after all. Sira Eiliv sat at the children’s bedside whenever he wasn’t out tending to the sick. Through work and worry the priest had shed all the corpulence he had acquired at Husaby; it grieved him greatly to see so many fair young children perish. And some grownups had died too.

By the evening of the sixth day, all the children were so much better that Kristin promised her husband to undress and go to bed that night. Erlend offered to keep watch along with the maids and to call Kristin if need be. But at the supper table she noticed that Orm’s face was bright red and his eyes were shiny with fever. He said it was nothing, but he jumped up abruptly and rushed out. When Erlend and Kristin went out to him, they found him vomiting in the courtyard.

Erlend threw his arms around the youth.

“Orm, my son. Are you ill?”

“My head aches,” complained the boy, and he let his head sink heavily onto his father’s shoulder.

That night they kept vigil over Orm. Most of the time he lay there muttering in delirium—then screaming loudly and flailing his long arms about, seeming to see hideous things. What he said they could not understand.

In the morning Kristin collapsed. It turned out that she must have been with child again; now it went very badly for her, and afterwards she lay as if immersed in a deathlike sleep; later she was seized by a terrible fever. Orm had been in the grave for more than two weeks before she learned of her stepson’s death.

At the time she was so weak that she couldn’t properly grieve. She felt so bloodless and faint that nothing seemed to reach her—she was content to lie in bed, only half-alive. There had been a dreadful time when the women hardly dared touch her or tend to her cleanliness, but that had all merged with the confusion of the fever. Now it felt good to submit to the care of others. Around her bed hung many fragrant wreaths of mountain flowers which were meant to keep the flies away—the people from the mountain pastures had sent them, and they smelled especially sweet whenever there was rain in the air. One day Erlend brought the children to her. She saw that they were haggard from their illness, and that Gaute didn’t recognize her, but even that didn’t trouble her. She merely sensed that Erlend seemed always to be at her side.

He went to mass every day, and he knelt at Orm’s grave to pray. The cemetery was next to the parish church at Vinjar, but some of the infants in the family had been given a resting place inside the manor church at Husaby—Erlend’s two brothers and one of Munan Biskopssøn’s little daughters. Kristin had often felt sorry for these little ones who lay so alone under the flagstones. Now Orm Erlendssøn had his final resting place among these children.