The Son Avenger (2 page)

There was Eirik. But it was as though the figure of Eirik had faded into unreality in Olav’s mind; he seldom gave him a thought. He had not seen him since that day at Oslo. Olav had been away from home the only time Eirik had visited Hestviken since—it would be four years ago this summer, and then his father had gone with Ivar Jonsson on the campaign in Sweden, where that brave young leader fell. And it had grown almost to a certainty in Olav’s mind that Eirik would never possess Hestviken after him—
that
sin God had taken from him; the false heir was not to take over the old manor. God Himself would defend Cecilia’s rights.

Then there came a morning in early summer. Olav and one of his men were down on the beach by the pier, busy hanging up some nets. The weather was as fine as could be. The sunlight lay in great white flakes on the sea; around the bay, fields and meadows
shone with a wealth of green, and the leaves of the alders were dark already with their summer hue, while the firs had long, fresh shoots.

Cecilia knelt on the sun-baked rock by the pier with a heap of bright, floundering fish beside her. In the morning sun the girl’s old rusty-brown everyday frock was quite resplendent; her thick, fair plaits hung over her shoulders—they were not very long, and her hair was so curly that the plaits escaped from the red ribbons that bound them. Her knife flashed as she raised it and tried the edge against her finger.

It gave a sound of summer and mild weather in the morning stillness as Aslak loaded his boat. The water splashed and gurgled as he moved about and arranged the goods he was to take with him—Olav had sent him on an errand south to Saltviken.

“Jon!” called Cecilia softly. The man looked up—Olav saw his healthy young face light up in a quiet smile. As the girl beckoned to him with her knife, he drew the boat up to her along the edge of the pier; she was now standing on the rock.

She wanted him to sharpen the knife for her. She sat down as he did so, looking out across the water, with her hands resting in her lap. They were not talking together, that Olav could see—but when he had finished and took his place in the boat again, the same quiet, warm smile played across Aslak’s face. And as Cecilia went back to her work, a reflection as it were of the same smile lay upon her fair features.

She began to clean the fish. As Aslak rowed past the rock, he dropped the oars for a stroke and waved his hand to the maid. And Cecilia raised a hand slightly in reply. Then she bent over her work again with a furtive little smile.

Olav stared—it had given him a shock: something was passing before his eyes of which he had had no suspicion.

Cecilia threw the cleaned fish into the bucket and straightened herself a moment. She turned her lovely white face up toward the sun and sat with closed eyes. And the smile that spread over the child’s stubborn little face was like nothing her father had ever seen before; it beamed with a sweet and secret joy—no fairer sight had Olav seen in his life.

Afterwards he tried to shake it off. Go and take a fancy to a man who lived here at Hestviken as a servant; nay, his daughter
could never do that. She could not even have known who this Jon Toresson was.

Nevertheless Olav determined to be rid of Aslak as soon as might be. The lad was now free to remain in the country; during the past winter he had received news through the monks of Tunsberg that the ban of outlawry had been removed. So now there was no reason for Olav’s keeping him longer than he had use for his services.

But a week went by ere Olav found occasion to broach the matter to Aslak. Covertly he kept an eye on the two young people; but he could see no sign that they were closer friends with each other than with the rest of the household. He comforted himself with the thought that he had been mistaken that morning by the pier.

—Until the Saturday evening, when Olav and the men were to go to the bath-house, but the women would wash themselves in the cook-house; they had been preparing juniper water. Olav and the men were crossing the yard when Cecilia called to Aslak from the cook-house door.

It struck her father that she knew their guest’s real name.

Aslak went over to the maid, took from her two pails, and dashed past Olav. In the golden afternoon sunshine he ran light-footed down the meadow to the spring. He was a big man, slight and loose of limb, handsome and cheerful; his curly, reddish hair shone gaily in the evening sun.

Olav stood still. Now Cecilia appeared again at the cook-house door. She had put off her kirtle and stood in her blue undergarment, which fell about her in rich folds down to her little bare feet as she stood warming one with the other, for the stone was cold in the shadow. While waiting for the water she let down her plaits, shook out her hair, and combed it, so that it waved about her face and arms.

Aslak came up with the pails of water. The two young people exchanged a few words, which Olav could not hear, but again Cecilia’s face beamed with that new and lovely light. And Aslak was smiling as he left her.

On Monday evening Olav went out to the smithy and spoke to Aslak:

“Your mind will be set toward home, Aslak, now that your atonement is made. And I think perchance you would do well to profit by the fine weather while it lasts—you reckon it a four days’ journey, do you not?”

Aslak laid down what he had in his hands and looked at the older man. “I have thought the same myself, Olav, that I would go home ere long. If I shall not be leaving you in the lurch—will you then let me go before the haymaking?”

“You may be sure I will. ’Tis not my wish that you stay here as my serving-man, now that you no longer need my harbouring.”

“No, no,” said Aslak; “I am not that sort of man either. You know well that I will stay as long as you have use for me.”

Olav shook his head. Aslak removed some scythe-blades he had been sharpening; he seemed somewhat agitated. Then he turned and faced Olav. He had a serious look: the fellow w
as
handsome, his bold-featured, ruddy face was frank and honest; it was remarkable how little it was spoiled by the prominent eyes.

“If I were to come back, Olav, so soon as my father or my eldest brother can make ready to accompany me south—you can guess what it is I would have my kinsmen ask of you?”

Olav made no reply.

Aslak went on: “You can guess what our business would be with you? How would you receive us, and what answer might my father expect of you?”

“If your meaning is what I believe it to be,” said Olav very low and indistinctly, “then I will tell you that you shall not trouble your kinsmen to make the long journey for naught.”

Aslak gave a little start.

“Can you say that so surely, Olav—before you have heard what conditions we could offer you? ’Tis true, you might find a richer son-in-law, but you might also find a poorer. And the richest men are seldom those of best birth or repute—as times are now—unless you should look for them among those knights and nobles with whom you yourself have not cared to associate in all the time you have dwelt here at Hestviken. I come of such good kin, so old in all its branches, that I may claim on that score to be a match for your daughter, and there are not many men in Heidmark who enjoy such honour as my father.”

Olav shrugged his shoulders slightly. He could not find an answer to this, offhand; it was not quite clear to his mind w
hy
he
would not at any price marry Cecilia to a man from the Upplands.

“There is this too,” said Aslak again; “it may be a good enough thing to marry one’s child to wealth, but this avails little if the son-in-law be such a one as knows not how to husband his estate and improve his position. I think I may promise you this: in my hands it shall not decrease, if God do grant me health and save us from great misfortunes. Ay, now I have been with you more than half a year, and you know me.”

“I say naught else but that I like you, Aslak—but that is not reason enough for giving away one’s only daughter to the first man who asks for her. I know little more of you than that you have many brothers and sisters, and you yourself have said that Gunnar’s lot is not an easy one—though indeed I have never heard aught but good of your house, the little I have heard of it. But ’tis another matter that, young as you are, you have already been the death of a man—and it was as an outlaw you came hither to me”—Olav felt a strange relief in every reason he found for refusing the lad. “Moreover it seems to me you are far too young to think of marriage without having asked the advice of your kinsfolk.”

“I have repented and atoned for my sin,” said Aslak; “and as to my having slain a man so early in life—that surely is the more reason for thinking I have learned to command myself better, so that I shall not fall into the like another time, unless I be strongly provoked. But you should be the last man to blame me for that, Olav Audunsson; nor can
you
rightly deem me too young to seek a bride. For I am full nineteen winters old—you were fifteen or sixteen, I have heard, when you took a wife by force and cut down her cousin who sought to deny her to you.”

“The one case is not like the other, Aslak.” Olav succeeded in speaking quite coolly. “The maid whom I took to myself was affianced to me and I to her; there was a legally binding act between her father and my father while we were yet of tender age, and afterwards her kinsmen tried to set at naught the rights of us two fatherless children.
You
will lose neither honour nor rights if you fail to win the first young maid you have cast your eyes upon, without your kinsmen so much as knowing what you have in mind.

“No, no,” said Olav hotly; “your father shall never have leave to say of me that I received you when you came hither, a friendless
outlaw, and then treated with you, a young lad under age, for the hand of my daughter, without even knowing whether your kinsfolk were minded to ally themselves with my house.”

“You know yourself,” replied Aslak coolly, “’tis not likely my father woud be loath to see me wed the daughter of Olav Audunsson of Hestviken. I know not what you mean! Is it on account of those rumours that were abroad concerning you at the time when your marriage with Ingunn Steinfinnsdatter was at issue? So much water has flowed into the fiord since then that no man cares any more what you did or left undone in your young days—for since that time you have lived peaceably for more than twenty years and have won renown for honourable conduct in both peace and war.”

Olav felt his heart beating with terrible force. But he broke off, cold as ice: “That is well and good, Aslak—but ’tis vain for you to say more on this subject. For Cecilia I have other designs.”

“Of that she knows nothing!” exclaimed Aslak hotly.

“Is it so” —Olav felt relieved at being given just cause for breaking out in anger—“that you have made bold to woo my daughter behind my back?”

“You surely do not believe that of me. Not one word have I spoken to Cecilia with which you could have found fault. But that I like her she has seen; and I have seen that she likes me—neither of us can help that, such things cannot be hid. If you would listen to us, Olav, Cecilia would give her consent without sorrow—so much I have guessed.”

Olav said: “Nor will it bring so much sorrow upon either of you if I refuse to listen to your suit. The maid is but a child—and you are not so old either.”

“Say you so! You yourself and her mother held fast to each other for ten years or more and would not suffer her kinsmen to part the love that was between you—I have heard you spoken of it at home, Olav, as patterns of loyalty in love!”

Olav was silent a moment. The boy’s words went strangely to his heart—while at the same time he was yet more unshakably determined that he would never have Cecilia married to a man from that part of the country. Then he replied in a low and faltering voice:

“That was different, Aslak—I had a
right
to her. And we had grown up together like two berries on a twig—loved each other
as brother and sister from early childhood. You two, Cecilia and you, have known each other for one winter, and there is no compact between you. So it cannot be so great a grief to either of you if you now must part.”

Aslak flushed deeply. He stood for a moment with bowed head, his hand on his breast, his fingers plucking at his brooch.

“For your daughter I cannot answer,” he then said shortly. “I—” He shrugged his shoulders, then turned on his heel and went out.

Next day he was already prepared for the road. He took it with a good grace, thanked Olav in well-chosen words for the help and friendship he had shown, and bade him farewell. He went round and took leave of all his fellows. Privily Olav kept an anxious watch on the two young people when they said farewell to each other. But they took it well: they did not look at each other, and their hands dropped with a strange slackness after they had joined them; otherwise there was no sign, for one who did not know.

Then Aslak rode away from Hestviken.

Olav continually watched his daughter in secret. But Cecilia was like her usual self, and her father tried to make himself believe that she did not regret Aslak—not much, anyway. And she was only fifteen.—Fifteen had been Ingunn’s age. But that was different altogether.

He had nothing to regret. The youngest son from Yttre Dal—Cecilia Olavsdatter of Hestviken might well look for a better match than that. It was natural that she should like Aslak; she had seen so few young men, and the boy had winning ways; but she would forget him sure enough when she met others.

It had made a stir in Olav’s mind, an insufferable welter of conflicting emotions, to find that there were still folk in the north who remembered his and Ingunn’s love and talked about it. As a pattern.—And rumours—he knew not what sort of rumours they might be. He had believed them both forgotten in those parts, both himself and her. Here none remembered Ingunn save himself alone, and he no longer remembered her so well that he thought of her often; it was only that he knew of all that had been, that he was aware of the origin of all that had befallen him.

Sin and sorrow and shame, and, beneath it all, the memories of a sweetness which might well up as water wells up over the ice
and flood his whole soul whenever a break was made in the crust of his peace of mind.—And there in the north all this lived among folk as a legend, true or false. Not for anything in the world would he resume fellowship with men who perhaps talked behind his back of his youth’s adventures.