The Son Avenger (25 page)

He took the rosary from his neck and held it in his hands. But in all these years he had never been wont to pray
for
anything—he had only prayed in order to feel that God was there and that he could speak to Him, but he had been content with all that fell
to him from God’s hand. Ah, yes, he had prayed for Cecilia. But now he knew not what he might do—if what he had done were wrong, then he could not well pray God to help him conceal the truth, if it were meant to come to light.

He stood down by the castle quay, caught in the press of people, so that he could scarce see anything of the procession-listening to folks’ talk around him. It seemed impossible they could speak of aught but the robbers.

The church was full of folk, so there was no room to kneel down, and he could not follow the mass, for his heart was in too great a tumult. But he stayed behind when the church began to empty. Then he saw that he had been standing close to a side altar, and on the wall beside it was painted Mary with her attendant virgins: Margaret, Lucy, Cecilia, Barbara, Agatha; last of the band stood Agnes with her lamb. She was to have been the witness of his plighting his troth to Gunhild; he had been glad of that, for he had had a special affection for this young and childlike martyr ever since he had heard her legend. So he approached her with a prayer: “Pray for me for what is best.” He grew calmer on the instant; it was as though he had taken counsel with a little sister.

Someone touched him on the shoulder, and he rose at once—it was Guttorm of Draumtorp. Eirik had expected this, it seemed to him. They went out of the church together, but as they stood outside the porch looking up the street, Guttorm said suddenly:

“We may just as well talk inside. Something has come up of which I thought I would fain speak with you in private, Eirik Olavsson. Maybe you guess what it is?”

Eirik looked at the other, but made no reply.

“I wish to hear,” said Guttorm, “if aught else had come to light about my silver, the rest of it. So we went out to the castle this morning between matins and mass—Berse was bound thither in any case, and so I went with him. Sir Tore then had the prisoners brought up into the hall, so that we might question them.”

Eirik pressed his hat between his hands, but answered nothing. Now they were standing by the same side altar—and on the wall above him he saw the painting of the holy virgins; lithe and slender in their bright kirtles they stood in a ring about their Queen, smiling upon the King’s Son in her lap. Eirik was reminded of
the verse:
Ego mater pulchr æ dilectionis, et timoris, et agnitionis, et sanctæ spei
,
¹
and of the response:
Deo gratias.

Guttorm scratched his head.

“Sooth to say, Eirik—it mislikes me to have to speak of these things—And I am thinking—could you not say it yourself?”

“I—?”

“You can guess I questioned them closely of that hiding-place of theirs out in the Hestvik woods.” He looked searchingly at the young man who stood with a calm, white face looking down at the floor. “For, to be brief, it would seem that as you found my silver, you knew where to look?”

Eirik nodded slightly.

“I have got you back your silver, Guttorm,” he said quietly. “Can you not be content with that?”

“Is it true that you had bought it?”

“Yes. But you will hardly think I bought it of any unknown,” he went on, in a more lively tone. “The place where—where I got wind of this affair—is the dwelling of poor and ignorant folk—the man was like a foster-father to me when I was a boy. They have little wit—and all kinds of beggars and the like frequent their cot, some of our own beadsmen among them, good folk, such as have served in our boats, all kinds of vagabonds besides. Guttorm—could you not forbear to look more closely into this matter, be content that I have borne the cost of getting back your goods—and leave me to sit in judgment at home over my own folk?”

“No, Eirik—’tis useless that you try to give out that it was one of your folk—”

Eirik broke in: “In God’s name, if you know more, then you must know that I have special grounds for dealing with the matter as I have done—secretly.”

“That may be so.” Guttorm paused awhile, turning over something in his mind. “You know not if there be more of my silver to be found up there?”

“No.—I have given no thought to that. I cannot believe it either—but if you will, you could come out to us when the snow is gone, I will gladly help you to make search.”

Guttorm looked at the young man sharply—he himself reddened
as he spoke. “Better we make an end of it,” he then said. “Jörund Rypa says there were four cups—the great tankard and four small ones—”

Eirik looked at Guttorm, bewildered. The lump of silver, he thought; then it was Jörund himself who had melted down some of the booty—this grew worse and worse. He shook his head.

“I have seen it in no other shape than as it was when I gave it to you. So I know not who has melted down your silver cups.”

“There should be four cups and the lump of silver, says he,” Guttorm rejoined in a low voice.

Eirik stared—slowly a blush crept over his pale face.

“Then Jörund’s memory is at fault.”

“That horse you gave him in exchange,” asked Guttorm warily—“that was worth more than the silver you brought me—’twas the one he rode yesterday?”

“Since you know
who
it was,” said Eirik hotly, “can you suppose I was minded to haggle over the price?”

Guttorm was silent for a few moments. Then he asked slowly: “Then you know of no more than the silver that I received back from you? You give me your answer here, where we stand, and I take your word for it.”

Involuntarily Eirik looked up at the wall—it flashed through his mind that he had heard of pictures that found a voice: Mary herself and her Son had witnessed from painted lips and mouths of stone that the truth might be made manifest. But no change came over the gentle faces under the golden crowns, and the holy virgins stood motionless, showing forth the wheels and the swords that had once torn their bodies asunder.

“No. I know naught of more,” he said simply.

Guttorm held out his hand. As Eirik made no move to take it, he seized the young man’s, pressed it hard.

“I believe you, I say. But that I had to get this affair straightened out—you cannot bear me ill will for that?”

“No. You had to do it—”

“’Tis cold standing here,” said Guttorm. “Come, let us go out.”

Outside, the smoke whirled up from all the white roofs—it was mild, the sun shone, and the sky was blue. The thin coat of fresh snow that had fallen during the night had been trodden down, so that the street was slippery. “I shall have to take your arm,” said Guttorm.

Eirik could utter nothing in reply. He saw what the elder man meant, but it was bitter to have to swallow such amends when he had been forced to put up with so immense and undeserved an insult. Arm in arm the two walked up West Street. In the square outside St. Halvard’s Church Guttorm met some men he knew; he leaned heavily on Eirik’s arm while he spoke to them. Eirik stood dumb as a post. But when they reached the house by Holy Cross Church, where they were lodged, he said to Guttorm:

“Ere we go in—I would fain ask you of one or two matters.”

“That is fair enough.”

They had passed behind the yards, where the river ran between clay banks. Eirik bade Guttorm tell him what had passed in the hall of the castle that morning, and who had been present.

Guttorm said Berse had been there with both his sons, Torgrim from Rynjul and Jörund Rypa, himself and his son-in-law Karl. Of the castle folk none had been present but Sir Tore and the men-at-arms who brought in the prisoners.

None of these had taken part in the attack on Guttorm and his company—the robbers either had been killed or had left the band before this winter. But the woman had been ready to make known what had become of the Draumtorp silver; she had sold it to that man who stood there, Jörund Rypa. The two had known each other of old. Then Jörund had straightway confirmed her words, but said that Aasa had declared to him it was her heritage, which she had just fetched from home, and he had believed her, for he knew that she came of good family. He bought the silver of her because she said she would then see about leaving her man-married they were not—and she would amend her life.

To this the woman had replied that nothing had been said of where the silver came from, nor had she seen any sign that night of Jörund’s zeal for the improvement of her morals.

Then Jörund said that she was lying, and he had never a thought but that she had inherited the silver from Aasmund of Haugseter. So much was true, that she was this man’s daughter, but she had fallen into evil courses and had run from home. It was only when Jörund had shown Eirik his purchase that his brother-in-law had hinted it might be stolen goods. Thereupon Jörund would keep it no longer, but Eirik offered to buy it of him for the black gelding he was now riding—and there was a great tankard, four smaller cups, and a lump of melted silver. But afterwards, when winter
was come, Eirik had said he dared not keep it any longer—since he was now to marry Guttorm’s niece, he thought it safest to restore it to the master of Draumtorp ere the betrothal took place.

Eirik stood inertly leaning his back against the fence. The snow-covered fields across the river sparkled so that it hurt his eyes with the glare of blue and white—and if he looked down, where the river ran dark between its snow-clad banks of clay, he turned giddy. A raging headache had come upon him all at once.

“What said Berse?” asked Eirik.

“Berse—oh, you may well guess. But tell me, Eirik, what manner of man is this brother-in-law of yours, Jörund Rypa?”

“You must have heard of the Rypungs of Gunnarsby. He and I were friends for many years—”

“Are you no longer so? It struck me, when he spoke of how you had no thought of giving me back the silver until there was talk of coming affinity between us—you know, he need not have said that; ’twould have been more natural if he had
not
said that of his wife’s brother. Unless he purposed thereby to
prevent
your marriage with Gunhild—?”

Eirik looked at the other a moment.

“It is hard to believe such a thing—” he whispered feebly. Then he straightened his shoulders, shook himself slightly, and flung his cloak about him. “But now I will go and find Berse,” he said briskly.

Guttorm put out a hand as though to detain him. “One thing you cannot fail to see, Eirik—that which we had in mind for you and Gunhild, there can be naught of that now?”

“But you will speak on my behalf, Guttorm,” asked the young man eagerly—“tell Berse you believe I am an honourable man?”

“That I will do, be sure of that. But there is—the other, Eirik. So surely as we believe you to be true men, you and your father and all your kinsmen beside, even so must we fear all the more to be linked in affinity with that one—”

Eirik stared at Guttorm—he had turned white about the mouth like a sick man.

“I will find Berse, for all that,” he said, and began to walk rapidly back toward the street.

But when they came back to their lodging they were told that Berse had ridden away with all his company. And Jörund had left immediately after. It was Torgrim of Rynjul who had taken Eirik’s part, said Karl, Guttorm’s son-in-law; but when Berse utterly refused to believe that Eirik was as innocent as the babe unborn, Torgrim had flown into a rage, saying ’twas an ill thing Berse had been given no wits, for now he had great need of some—and so the old man had swept out of the house in great wrath. Torgrim’s parley with Jörund had ended in the franklin’s seizing a cowhide whip that lay there and striking Jörund across the face with it—

“And would God and Saint Olav had guided my hand so that I had found a spear instead and run him through,” Torgrim bewailed when they spoke of it.

Then he turned his wrath upon Eirik, who had made no answer to this outburst. “You sit there moping like a big-bellied bride-or like an archangel that has had his wings stripped of feathers by the devils! Better be off at once to the friars and beg them to give you back your frock! Then Jörund will have got what he sought!”

Karl whistled—Guttorm looked up sharply.

But Eirik replied calmly: “Whatever may befall—’twill not be in
that
way that I go back to the convent—if I go.”

It was Torgrim who said they ought to ride away at once—acquaint Olav with the turn of events. “You are an upright man, Guttorm, so you will come with us.” Guttorm promised.

“It had been better if you had asked counsel of your father,” said Guttorm to Eirik as they rode across the ice of the Botnfiord, “or ever you came to this!”

“You who know him,” replied Eirik hotly, “how think you Father would have taken it? ’Twould have been unbearable for us all to live together at Hestviken thereafter. God help my sister and her children now—”

A little way from Draumtorp one of Guttorm’s house-carls met them; he announced that Berse had arrived and demanded speech with the master ere he rode farther on the way to Eiken.