Kristin Lavransdatter (95 page)

Back then she would have done everything she knew was wrong and sinful rather than lose him. To bind Erlend to her, she had given him all that she possessed: her love and her body, her honor and her share of God’s salvation. And she had given him anything else she could find to give: her father’s honor and his faith in his child, everything that grown and clever men had built up to protect an innocent little maiden if she should fall. She had set her love against their plans for the welfare and progress of her lineage, against their hopes for the fruit of their labors after they themselves lay buried. She had put at risk much more than her own life n this game, in which the only prize was the love of Erlend Niku laussøn.

And she had won. She had known from the first time he kissed her in the garden of Hofvin until he kissed her today in the little house, before he was escorted from his home as a prisoner—Erlend loved her as dearly as his own life. And if he had not counseled her well, she had known from the first moment she met him how he had counseled himself. If he had not always treated her well, he had nonetheless treated her better than he did himself.

Jesus, how she had won him! She admitted it to herself tonight; she had driven him to break their marriage vows with her own coldness and poisonous words. She now admitted to herself that even during those years when she had looked on his unseemly flirting with that woman Sunniva with resentment, she had also felt, in the midst of her rancor, an arrogant and spiteful joy. No one knew of any obvious stain on Sunniva Olavsdatter’s reputation, and yet Erlend talked and jested with her like a hired man with an alehouse maid. About Kristin he knew that she could lie and betray those who trusted her most, that she could be willingly lured to the worst of places—and yet he had trusted her, he had honored her as best he could. As easily as he forgot his fear of sin, as easily as he had finally broken his promise to God before the church door—he had still grieved over his sins against her, he had struggled for years to keep his promises to her.

She had chosen him herself. She had chosen him in an ecstasy of passion, and she had chosen him again each day during those difficult years back home at Jørundgaard—his impetuous passion in place of her father’s love, which would not allow even the wind to touch her harshly. She had refused the destiny that her father had wished for her when he wanted to put her into the arms of a man who would have safely led her onto the most secure paths, even bending down to remove every little pebble that she might tread upon. She had chosen to follow the other man, whom she knew traveled on dangerous paths. Monks and priests had pointed out remorse and repentance as the road home to peace, but she had chosen strife rather than give up her precious sin.

So there was only one thing left for her; she could not lament or complain over whatever might now befall her at this man’s side. It made her dizzy to think how long ago she had left her father. But she saw his beloved face and remembered his words on that day in the smithy when she stabbed the last knife into his heart; she remembered how they talked together up on the mountain that time when she realized that death’s door stood open behind her father. It was shameful to complain about the fate she had chosen herself. Holy Olav, help me, so that I do not now prove myself unworthy of my father’s love.

Erlend, Erlend . . . When she met him in her youth, life became for her like a roiling river, rushing over cliffs and rocks. During these years at Husaby, life had expanded outward, becoming wide and spacious like a lake, mirroring everything around her. She remembered back home when the Laag overflowed in the spring, stretching wide and gray and mighty along the valley floor, carrying with it drifting logs; and the crowns of the trees that stood rooted to the bottom would rock in the water. In the middle appeared small, dark, menacing eddies, where the current ran rough and wild and dangerous beneath the smooth surface. Now she knew that her love for Erlend had rushed like a turbulent and dangerous current through her life for all these years. Now it was carrying her outward—she didn’t know where.

Erlend, dear friend!

Once again Kristin spoke the words of a prayer to the Virgin into the red of the evening. Hail Mary, full of grace! I dare not ask you for more than one thing—I see that now. Save Erlend, save my husband’s life!

She looked down at Husaby and thought about her sons. Now, as the manor lay swathed in the evening light like a dream vision that might be whirled away, as her fear for the uncertain fate of her children shook her heart, she remembered this: She had never fully thanked God for the rich fruits her toils had borne over the years, she had never fully thanked Him for giving her a son seven times.

From the vault of the evening sky, from the countryside beneath her gaze came the murmur of the mass intoned as she had heard it thousands of times before, in the voice of her father, who had explained the words to her when she was a child and stood at his knee: Then Sira Eirik sings the
Præfatio
when he turns toward the altar, and in Norwegian it means:

When she lifted her face from her hands, she saw Gaute coming up the hillside. Kristin sat quietly and waited until the boy stood before her; then she reached out to take his hand. There was grassy meadow all around and not a single place to hide anywhere near the rock where she sat.

“How have you carried out your father’s errand, my son?” she asked him softly.

“As he asked me to, Mother. I made my way to the farm without being seen. Ulf wasn’t home, so I burned what Father had given me in the hearth. I took it out of the wrapping.” He hesitated for a moment. “Mother—there were nine seals on it.”

“My Gaute.” His mother put her hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked into his face. “Your father has had to place important matters in your hands. If you don’t know what else to do, but you feel you need to speak of this to someone, then tell your mother what’s troubling you. But it would please me most if you could keep silent about this altogether, son!”

The fair complexion beneath the straight, flaxen hair, the big eyes, the full, firm red lips—he looked so much like her father now. Gaute nodded. Then he placed his arm around his mother’s shoulders. With painful sweetness Kristin noticed that she could lean her head against the boy’s frail chest; he was so tall now that as he stood there and she sat beside him, her head reached to just above his heart. It was the first time she had leaned for support against this child.

Gaute said, “Isak was home alone. I didn’t show him what I was carrying, just told him I had something that needed to be burned. Then he made a big fire in the hearth before he went out and saddled his horse.”

Kristin nodded. Then he released her, turned to face her, and asked in a childish voice full of fear and awe, “Mother, do you know what they’re saying? They’re saying that Father . . . wants to be
king.
”

“That sounds most unlikely, child,” she replied with a smile.

“But he comes from the proper lineage, Mother,” said the boy, somber and proud. “And it seems to me that Father might be better at it than most other men.”

“Hush.” She took his hand again. “My Gaute . . . you should realize, after Father has shown such trust in you . . . You and all the rest of us must neither think nor speak, but guard our tongues well until we learn more and can judge whether we ought to speak, and in what way. I’m going to ride to Nidaros tomorrow, and if I can talk to your father alone for a moment, I’ll tell him that you have carried out his errand well.”

“Take me with you, Mother!” begged the boy earnestly.

“We must not let anyone think you’re anything but a thoughtless child, Gaute. You will have to try, little son, to play and be as happy as you can at home—in that way you will serve him best.”

 

Naakkve and Bjørgulf walked slowly up the hill. They came over to their mother and stood there, looking so young and strained and distraught. Kristin saw that they were still children enough to turn to their mother at this anxious time—and yet they were so close to being men that they wanted to console or reassure her, if they could find some way to do so. She reached out a hand to each of the boys. But neither of them said very much.

After a while they headed back home; Kristin walked with one hand on the shoulder of each of her eldest sons.

“Why are you looking at me that way, Naakkve?” she said. But the boy blushed, turned his head away, and did not reply.

He had never before thought about how his mother looked. It had been years ago that he began comparing his father to other men—his father was the most handsome of men, with the bearing most like a chieftain. His mother was the mother who had more and more children; they grew up and left the hands of women to join the life and companionship and fighting and friendship of the group of brothers. His mother had open hands through which everything they needed flowed; his mother had a remedy for almost every ill; his mother’s presence at the manor was like the fire in the hearth. She created life at home the way the fields around Husaby created the year’s crops; life and warmth issued from her as they did from the beasts in the cowshed and the horses in the stable. The boy had never thought to compare her to other women.

Tonight he suddenly saw it: She was a proud and beautiful woman. With her broad, pale forehead beneath the linen wimple, the even gaze of her steel-gray eyes under the calm arch of her brows, with her heavy bosom and her long, slender limbs. She held her tall figure as erect as a sword. But he could not speak of this; blushing and silent, he walked beside her, with her hand on the nape of his neck.

Gaute followed along behind. Bjørgulf was also gripping the back of his mother’s belt, and the older boy began grumbling because his brother was treading on his heels. They started shoving and pushing at each other. Their mother told them to hush and put an end to their quarreling—but her somber expression softened into a smile. They were still just children, her sons.

 

She lay awake that night; she had Munan sleeping at her breast and Lavrans lay between her and the wall.

Kristin tried to take stock of her husband’s case.

She couldn’t believe that it was truly dangerous. Erling Vidkuns søn and the king’s cousins at Sudrheim had been charged with treason against their king and country—but they were still here in Norway, as secure and rich as ever, although they might not stand as high in the king’s favor as before.

No doubt Erlend had become involved in some unlawful activities in the service of Lady Ingebjørg. Over all these years he had maintained his friendship with his highborn kinswoman. Kristin knew that five years back, when he visited her in Denmark, he had done her some unlawful service that had to be kept secret. Now that Erling Vidkunssøn had taken up Lady Ingebjørg’s cause and was trying to acquire for her control of the property she owned in Norway—it was conceivable that Erling had sent her to Erlend, or that she herself had turned to the son of her father’s cousin after the friendship had cooled between Erling and the king. And then Erlend had handled the matter recklessly.

Yet if that was true, it was hard to understand how her kinsmen at Sundbu could have been involved in this.

It could only end with Erlend coming to a full reconciliation with the king, if he had done nothing more than act overzealously in service of the king’s mother.

High treason. She had heard about the downfall of Audun Hugleikssøn; it had happened during her father’s youth. But they were terrifying misdeeds that Audun had been charged with. Her father said it was all a lie. The maiden Margret Eiriksdatter had died in the arms of the bishop of Bjørgvin, but Audun took no part in the crusade, so he could not have sold her to the heathens. Maiden Isabel was thirteen years old, but Audun was more than fifty when he brought her home to be King Eirik’s bride. It was shameful for a Christian to pay any heed at all to such rumors as there were about that bridal procession. Her father refused to allow the ballads about Audun to be sung at home on his manor. And yet there were unheard-of things said about Audun Hestakorn. He had supposedly sold all of King Haakon’s military power to the French king and promised to sail to his aid with twelve hundred warships—and for that he had received seven barrels of gold in payment. But it had never been fully explained to the peasants of the country why Audun Hugleikssøn had to die on the gallows at Nordnes.

His son fled the country; people said he had taken service in the army of the French king. The granddaughters of the Aalhus knight, Gyrid and Signe, had left their grandfather’s execution site with his stable boy. They were to live like poor peasant wives somewhere in a mountain village in Haddingjadal.

It was a good thing, after all, that she and Erlend did not have daughters. No, she was not going to think about such matters. It was so unlikely that Erlend’s case should have a worse outcome than . . . than that of Erling Vidkunssøn and the Haftorssøns.

Nikulaus Erlendssøn of Husaby. Oh, now she too felt that Husaby was the most beautiful manor in all of Norway.

She would go to Sir Baard and find out all she could. The royal treasurer had always been her friend. Judge Olav, as well—in the past. But Erlend had gone too far, that time when the judge decided against him in the case of his estate in town. And Olav had taken to heart the misfortune with his goddaughter’s husband.

They had no close kinsmen, neither she nor Erlend—no matter how extensive their lineage might be. Munan Baardsøn no longer had great influence. He had been charged with unlawful deeds when he was sheriff of Ringerike; he was too eager in his attempts to further the position of his many children in the world—he had four from his marriage and five outside of it. And he had apparently declined greatly since Fru Katrin had died. Inge of Ry county, Julitta and her husband, Ragnrid who was married to a Swede—Erlend knew little of them. They were the remaining children of Herr Baard and Fru Aashild. There had never been friendship between Erlend and the Hestnes people since the death of Sir Baard Petersøn; Tormod of Raasvold had grown senile; and his children with Fru Gunna were all dead and his grandchildren underage.