In the Wilderness

  “You will not get me back with you to Hestviken, Father,” he said as soon as Olav let go his hand.

  “I had not thought to do so either,” replied Olav. “If you have taken service with a lord, you must know that I would not have you run from it before your time.” To the hostess, who came up and asked whether she should bring drink for him and his guest, he replied yes, the best German beer.

  “Nay,” said Olav as they seated themselves on his bed; “I would have liked it better if you had spoken to me before you made off—but it is useless to talk of that now.”

  Eirik blushed slightly and asked with embarrassment: “You have business that brings you here, then?”

  “My business is to give you what you need—you shall be provided as befits my son when you go out into the world.” Olav pulled out of the bed a bag of clothes, a good battle-axe, and the blade of a thrusting-spear. Then he handed his son a purse: “Here are four marks of silver in good, old money. It is my will that you get yourself a horse as soon as you can—that you may be held of more account. It ill befits a man-at-arms to ride his master’s horses like a serving-man of villein birth. More than that you shall not have of me, Eirik, so long as you stay abroad. You have chosen to be master of your own conduct—so be it then, and let it be such that you win honour thereby.”

  Eirik rose and thanked his father with a kiss of the hand. It gave him a warm thrill that his father spoke to him as a grown man; it was not often his father had addressed so long a speech to him. And yet there was a shade of disappointment—that this meeting did not turn out as he had pictured it to himself ever since Tomas Tabor brought him Olav’s message: he had expected his father to be greatly angered, to threaten and command him to return; and then he would have made answer—But it seemed his father had taken his flight very calmly and had no thought at all of bringing him home again.

  “Thanks, I am not hungry—” but, for all that, Eirik helped himself from his father’s box of victuals and took a good draught as often as Olav offered him the tankard. At heart he very soon felt quite proud—it was an uncommon and almost a solemn occasion to be sitting here eating and drinking with his father at an inn and asking for the news from home—two grown-up men together.

  “But how did you find out that I was here in Oslo, with Sir Ragnvald?”

  Olav smiled his little pinched smile. “Oh—I find out most of what I will know, Eirik. When you have come to my age, perhaps you will have got so much wisdom as not to let men see all that you know.”

  Eirik turned red as flame—memories of all kinds of secret misdeeds, great and small, in the whole of his young life hovered through his mind and gave him a moment’s insecurity. His father noticed it and smiled as before. But he went on talking calmly, gave his son good advice as to how he should conduct himself, now he was in a knight’s service, spoke a little of his own youth.

  The last of the guests came into the inn. The curfew rang from the church towers, and Eirik said he must go.

  “I think to go home again tomorrow about midday—maybe I shall not see you again before that?” asked his father.

  Eirik did not think he could come.

  “Nay, nay.” Olav went to the door with him. “Keep yourself well and in honour, Eirik. May God Himself and His blessed Mother be your protection.” He kissed the young man on both cheeks and gave a little nod, as Eirik seemed to pause at the door—the lad had such a strange feeling at this solemn farewell, with the kisses of his father’s hard, thin lips on his face.

  Olav had business with Claus Wiephart next day, and the German accompanied him down across the common. Due south the sun’s disk shone through the light frost-fog, gilding the surface of the ice. “Fine weather, Olav.”

  They turned into a narrow street between warehouses, which led to a strip of beach among the quays; from there the ice could be reached. From the common behind them came the noise of a band of horsemen, clanking of arms and harness. Olav and Claus had to cling to the walls as the troop thundered into the lane and rode past. At its head rode a short, thickset knight—Olav knew Sir Ragnvald Torvaldsson by sight. His men followed, one by one, for the lane was narrow. One of the horses was near being squeezed between two others, there was some confusion in the rank, and one or two horses reared. Olav saw Eirik among the rest; he sat erect and easy in the saddle—but he did not see his father, he had enough to do to manage his horse, which seemed very fresh. He laughed and called to the man ahead of him in the crowd of steaming animals.

  “But—was not that your son?” asked Claus Wiephart.

  “It was.”

  “Ay, time flies. Ere one is aware of it, one is an old man. How old are you now, Master Olav?”

  “Forty winters.”

  “Then you are younger than you look, after all. Is it not four winters since Ingunn died? You are yet too young to let your beard grow—and to sleep wifeless on a winter’s night.”

  “You will see, I will shave off my beard yet, Claus—and a wife I will get me too, if so be that such is my lot.” Olav gave a little laugh.

  Claus bade him farewell and went back to his warehouse. Olav walked out on the ice, where a path was marked on the gleaming, coppery surface. He saw the band of horsemen far ahead—they were making across the creek toward Akersnes, where the massive walls of King Haakon’s new castle rose in the fine frosty mist.

  Again he felt the thought of Eirik like a cord that drew his heart together—but now it was like envy, of the other’s youth.

  5

  THE NEXT three years passed much more rapidly—time whirled away like smoke with Olav.

  He had settled down. This was a life that Olav Audunsson had never before experienced. In his heart he felt its quietude as emptiness or as a loss. But if he had been asked what he thought of his life now, he must have answered that he was well content.

  His affairs prospered in these years, and he bought some shares in farms in the neighbouring parishes—Olav never changed in this respect, that he put more faith in the land than in the sea. And he had better luck with his farming than ever before. When he first came to Hestviken, full of zest and courage, he lacked experience—and since then he had always been tied.

  Nevertheless it must be said that there had always been prosperity at Hestviken. But now, under Mærta Birgersdatter’s control, it was more noticeable. There was no longer any trouble with the serving-folk. The old ones stayed on—the foreman, old Tore, went about his work, quiet and cool-headed; Svein, the herdsman, Jon and Bodvar, the house-carls, remained unmarried all three; Ragna lived in Torhild’s house with her children and was dairywoman, Aasta had put aside all wantonness and still enjoyed her honour and good name. Besides these there was a young lad and a half-grown maid. They went somewhat short of merriment and jollity at the manor, but these folk lived well; the mistress was just and fairly open-handed. Pauper couples who were maintained in the homesteads of the parish were glad when their turn came to Hestviken.

  The master of the house said little, and there was no denying he depressed the folk around him; but this was only until they got to know him, his servants said—one grew accustomed to him. Olav was not badly liked by his household. He left Lady Mærta a free hand and was glad to take her advice in those matters which came under himself. The footing between them was almost as if she had been his mother—a very masterful mother, and he a compliant son.

  Even at the hovel, Rundmyr, things were quiet. Mærta Birgersdatter had reduced Arnketil and Liv to order. He had become rather hunchbacked, wrinkled, and dried up; she was ever yeasty and exuberant—a child appeared in the cot every year toward spring. Some trifles were always missed—food, wool, or tow—when Liv had been about at Hestviken; but it had become a sort of right that she might take without asking leave, so long as she kept within bounds. Elsewhere she never pilfered now, except from Una at Rynjul. Arnketil had given up stealing since Mærta surprised him one evening; he was in one of the storehouses struggling to strike a light. “No need for a li
ght here, Anki—I think you know the way.”

  The two little maids were growing; their beauty was noised abroad. They were now old enough to be present at feasts and gatherings—which were but few, for Olav held intercourse with none but the circle of nearest neighbours, who visited each other year after year. But the people of the parish saw the Hestvik maids at church. Olav Audunsson rode up first, and Bothild Asgersdatter sat behind on his horse with her arms round his waist—for Cecilia rode with old Tore; that was his right, and if they took that from him, he would not stay at the manor another day, he threatened jokingly. The two children were always richly and handsomely dressed when they came to mass—Lady Mærta gave them kirtles of dyed cloth, with gaily embroidered edges, and she bound their flowing hair with silken ribbons worked with gold.

  In everyday life Olav did not see much of his daughters. He had built a women’s house by the side of the old hearth-room house—Mærta thought that the women ought to have a house of their own, where they could work with their looms, their sewing, and the like: Cecilia and Bothild must now learn to use their hands.

  The new house was a fine one: Bodvar was a skilful wood-carver, and he decorated it with much handsome ornament. It was not every month that Olav set foot inside the door of it.

  But although he saw so little of the children, a pale, wintry sunshine fell upon his spirit from the two fair young lives that were growing up so near to his own frozen life.

  It looked as if Lady Mærta had succeeded in taming Cecilia’s hot temper—or she had grown out of it as she got more sense. Headstrong she was still, but she had acquired a calmer, rather sulky way. The house-folk laughed when the child gave a short, sharp answer—she was so like her father, they said, but they thought it became her well. She was so fair to look upon that, whatever she said or did, folk thought it suited her.

  She liked Lady Mærta, that was easily seen, though Cecilia gave little sign of it in words or loving behaviour. In the same way she showed her affection for old Tore, for Ragna and her children—a tacit, steady loyalty through thick and thin. Only toward her foster-sister, Bothild, did she show a different, gentler and softer way; so far as could be judged by the manner of this calm, reticent little girl, she loved Bothild better than anyone in the world. But all at Hestviken took pains to be gentle and kind to Bothild—she still seemed a little forlorn; there was something about her that seemed to ask them to deal tenderly and cautiously with her. Even Olav showed his fondness for his foster-daughter more than his affection for his own daughter. If some chance prompting led him to fondle the children, it was Bothild whose hair he stroked or whose cheek he patted—as though it came easier with her, as she brightened up with joy at the slightest caress. If the children came down to the waterside to meet him or accompanied him out into the fields, it was Bothild he took by the hand and led, for he saw she liked it. She looked up at him at every word they exchanged, and her blue eyes were so demure beneath her thick auburn hair. Cecilia’s bright, pale eyes looked the world straight in the face, wide awake; there was an air about her whole compact little figure which said she could quite well walk alone. She was his own child, Olav bore his love for his daughter within him as a safely locked treasure that he had no need to look to. His kindness for his foster-daughter he could much more easily pay out in small coin, as occasion arose.

  There was not a thing about Cecilia Olavsdatter to recall her mother. The last shadow of a memory of Ingunn Steinfinnsdatter’s vain and hapless life seemed to have vanished from her home. Sira Hallbjörn remarked this one day when he had come to ask for a passage in Olav’s boat:

  “I wonder if there be any in the countryside who remembers your wife but you.”

  He caught sight of Olav’s face as soon as he had said it. Instinctively he turned his own away, as when he was hearing a confession.

  “But you remember her,” said Olav after a pause, almost in-audibly.

  “You know, ’tis not many days since I last said a mass for her—it came into my mind just now—I remember all the years I saw her lying in the bed there—I had thought to see you, though, at the mass for the dead,” said the priest.

  “I had forgot it was that day—until the evening. Oh no,” Olav added after a moment; “there cannot be many who remember her now.”

  One evening early in the spring some men had come into the house at Hestviken—they were folk from within the parish who had their landing-place on Olav’s shore. They had come by water from a feast higher up the fiord, and the drink was still in them.

  Olav and old Tore were sitting together, mending some gear; the other men had not yet come in, and the women were in the outhouses. Only the little girls were playing on the bench. Then Olav sent Tore to fetch ale for the guests, and for a while the talk went peaceably, about the wedding and such matters.

  In the course of it one of the men said to Olav: “That Torhild you had a child by when she was here, she was at the feast too. She bade us bring greetings to Hestviken.”

  Olav thanked them and asked how things were with her.

  Well, said the men; she enjoyed great respect in the neighbourhood and she was prospering. She had done so well with Auken that folk now called the place Torhildrud.

  Old Tore asked eagerly for more news of Torhild Björnsdatter; he had always liked her so well. Then they talked for a time of her way of keeping house.

  Olav listened, but took no part in the conversation, except to ask: “Had she the boy with her at the feast?”

  The men said yes, he was a handsome boy, fair and strong—“no need to ask who is his father.”

  But as the men stirred up the remnant of drink that was in them, they grew first fuddled, and soon after two of them began to quarrel and threaten each other. At last Olav had to ask them to keep the peace or go out.

  At that moment the two men came to grips. The little girls jumped onto Olav’s clothes-chest and stood there. Then one of the men caught sight of them, turned that way, and tried to make game of them.

  Olav got up, upsetting all he had on his lap onto the floor—he was going to part the two who were fighting. At the same moment the third man caught hold of the girls. Olav saw Bothild shrink away, with a little helpless whine of terror. Something flashed in Cecilia’s hand—the child had drawn her little knife and struck at the man. Olav took him by the shoulders, put his knee to the small of his back, and forced him to the floor. Tore now came to his master’s aid and opened the door. Olav took the stranger by the shoulders and middle and heaved him out through the anteroom into the yard. Then he ran back to deal with the others.

  With many a crash against walls and doorposts, with roars and oaths, but no very hard struggle, Olaf and Tore got the room cleared of the strangers and the door bolted. They raged and bellowed out in the yard, kicked at the outer door and banged on the walls. Olav and Tore listened, laughing and panting as they put their clothes straight; they too had got some knocks, either from the drunken men’s fists and heels or from striking against the walls of the dark anteroom.

  Smiling, Olav turned to the children. Cecilia’s round, milk-white face was still contorted with fury; there was a pale-green flash in her eyes. But Bothild was clinging to the wall, trembling so that her teeth chattered. When Olav touched her, she burst into a fit of weeping so terrible that her foster-father was quite alarmed. He drew her toward him, had to sit down and hold her in his arms while he tried to comfort her like a little child—though she was no longer a little girl, he felt, she was growing up now, thin and long of limb—twelve winters she must be. He stroked her head with its long plaits, telling her not to be afraid—though he knew of old it was of little use; she was always taken thus when folk came to blows and she was by, even though no one thought of doing anything to her. Whenever the bawling and battering outside grew louder, a twitching went through the girl’s delicate frame.

  Then Olav gently pushed her away, got up, and went out. At the same moment the house-carls entered the yard, and the strangers took
flight.

  Later, as they sat at table, and Cecilia was about to cut herself a slice of cheese, one of the house-carls cried with a laugh: “Your knife is bloody, Cecilia!”

  Bothild set up a screech, but now Olav and the men could not help laughing at her timidity. They were enlivened by the little tussle earlier in the evening, and now they sat at their ease over the table with good ale and food and a brisk fire on the hearth.

  Cecilia spat on her knife and wiped it on the inside of her kirtle, then she cut herself a good piece of cheese and laid it between two slices of bread—not a word did she utter.

  Olav laughed.

  “May I see that knife of yours—’twas a feeble defence that, my daughter!”

  “Then give me a better knife, Father!” said the maid.

  “That I will,” replied her father, gaily as before.

  After supper Olav fetched in the little iron-bound coffer in which he kept his treasures. The girls hung over his shoulders as he searched in it—not many times had the children been allowed to see what their father kept therein. They uttered a cry and asked a question as each thing was brought to light, and Olav, who was in a good humour this evening, let them handle the jewels and try them on. At the bottom lay four handsome daggers—Olav never wore them.

  Cecilia snatched the longest. “Will you give me this one, Father?” She drew it out of its sheath.