The Bridal Wreath

  It was Simon who told Ragnfrid of what had happened in the corpse-chamber at Brekken the night before. He did not make more of it than he needs must. But Kristin was so mazed with sorrow and night-waking that she felt a senseless anger against him because he talked as if it were not so dreadful a thing after all. Besides it vexed her sorely that her father and mother let Simon behave as though he were master in the house.

  “And you, Simon — surely you believe not aught of this?” asked Ragnfrid fearfully.

  “No,” replied Simon. “Nor do I deem there is any one who believes it — they know you and her and this Bentein; but so little befalls for folk to talk of in these outparishes, ’tis but reason they should fall to on such a fat tidbit. ’Tis for us to teach them Kristin’s good name is too fine fare for such clowns as they. But pity it was she let herself be so frighted by his grossness that she went not forthwith to you or to Sira Eirik with the tale — methinks this bordel-priest would but too gladly have avowed he meant naught worse than harmless jesting, had you, Lavrans, got a word with him.”

  Both Kristin’s parents said that Simon was right in this. But she cried out, stamping her foot:

  “But he threw me down on the ground, I say — I scarce know myself what he did or did not do — I was beside myself; I can remember naught — for all I know it may be as Inga says — I have not been well nor happy a single day since —”

  Ragnfrid shrieked and clasped her hands together; Lavrans started up — even Simon’s face fell. He looked at her sharply, then went up to her and took her by the chin. Then he laughed:

  “God bless you, Kristin — you had remembered but too well if he had done you any harm. No marvel if she has been sad and ill since that unhappy evening she had such an ugly fright — she who had never known aught but kindness and goodwill before,” said he to the others. “Any but the evil-minded, who would fain think ill rather than good, can see by her eyes that she is a maid, and no woman.”

  Kristin looked up into her betrothed’s small, steady eyes. She half lifted her hands — as if to throw them round his neck — when he went on:

  “You must not think, Kristin, that you will not forget this. ’Tis not in my mind that we should settle down at Formo as soon as we are wed, so that you would never leave the Dale. No one has the same hue of hair or mind in both rain and sunshine, said old King Sverre, when they blamed his Birch-legs* for being overbearing in good-fortune —”

  Lavrans and Ragnfrid smiled — it was pleasant enough to hear the young man discourse with the air of a wise old bishop. Simon went on:

  “ ’Twould ill beseem me to seek to teach you, who are to be my father-in-law; but so much, maybe, I may make bold to say, that we, my brothers and sisters and I, were brought up more strictly; we were not let run about so freely with the house folk as I have seen that Kristin is used to. My mother often said that if one played with the cottar-carls’ brats, ’twas like one would get a louse or two in one’s hair in the end — and there’s somewhat in that saying.”

  Lavrans and Ragnfrid held their peace; but Kristin turned away, and the wish she had felt but a moment before, to clasp Simon round the neck, had quite left her.

  Towards noon, Lavrans and Simon took their ski and went out to see to some snares up on the mountain ridges. The weather was fine outside — sunshine, and the cold not so great. Both men were glad to slip away from all the sadness and weeping at home, and so they went far — right up among the bare hilltops.

  They lay in the sun under a crag and drank and ate; Lavrans spoke a little of Arne — he had loved the boy well. Simon chimed in, praised the dead lad, and said he thought it not strange that Kristin grieved for her foster-brother. Then Lavrans said: maybe they should not press her much, but should give her a little time to get back her peace of mind before they drank the betrothal ale. She had said somewhat of wishing to go into a convent for a time.

  Simon sat bolt upright and gave a long whistle.

  “You like not the thought?” asked Lavrans.

  “Nay, but I do, I do,” said the other hastily. “Methinks it is the best way, dear father-in-law. Send her to the Sisters in Oslo for a year — there will she learn how folk talk one of the other out in the world. I know a little of some of the maidens who are there,” he said, laughing. “They would not throw themselves down and die of grief if two mad yonkers tore each other to pieces for their sakes. Not that I would have such an one for wife — but methinks Kristin will be none the worse for meeting new folks.”

  Lavrans put the rest of the food into the wallet, and said, without looking at the youth:

  “Methinks you love Kristin — ?”

  Simon laughed a little and did not look at Lavrans.

  “Be sure, I know her worth — and yours, too,” he said quickly and shamefacedly, as he got up and took his ski. “None that I have ever met would I sooner wed with —”

  A little before Easter, when there was still snow enough for sleighing down the Dale and the ice still bore on Mjösen, Kristin journeyed southward for the second time. Simon came up to bear her company — so now she journeyed driving in a sleigh, well wrapped in furs and with father and betrothed beside her; and after them followed her father’s men, and sledges with her clothes and gifts of food and furs for the Abbess and the Sisters of Nonneseter.

  * Jörundgaard, see Note 2.

  † Lagmand, see Note 3.

  ‡ King Haakon, see Note 4.

  * Priests, see Note 5.

  * Peasant Guilds, see Note 6.

  * Elf or dwarf-maiden, see Note 7.

  * St. Sunniva, see Note 8.

  * Sewing-chair, see Note 9.

  * Birch-legs, see Note 10.

  PART TWO

  THE GARLAND

  THE GARLAND

  1

  HASMUND BJÖRGULFSÖN’S church-boat stood in round the point of Hovedö* early one Sunday at the end of April, while the bells were ringing in the cloister-church and were answered from across the bay by the chime of bells from the town, now louder and now fainter as the breeze rose or fell.

  Light, fluted clouds were floating over the high, pale-blue heavens, and the sun was glittering on the dancing ripples of the water. It was quite spring-like along the shores; the fields lay almost bare of snow, and over the leaf-tree thickets the light had a yellow shimmer and the shadows were blue. But in the pine-forests up on the high ridges, which framed in the settled lands of Akersbygd, there were glimpses of snow, and on the far blue fells to the westward, beyond the fjord, there still showed many flashes of white.

  Kristin was standing in the bow of the boat with her father, and Gyrid, Aasmund’s wife. She gazed at the town, with all the light-hued churches and stone buildings that rose above the swarm of grey-brown wooden houses and bare tree-tops. The wind ruffled the skirts of her cloak and snatched at her hair beneath her hood.

  They had let the cattle out at Skog the day before, and a great longing had come on her to be at Jörundgaard. It would be a long time still before they could let the cattle out there — she longed with tender pity for the lean, winter-worn cows in the dark byres; they would have to wait and suffer a long while yet. Her mother, Ulvhild, who had slept in her arms each night all these years, little Ramborg — she yearned so much for them; she longed for all the folk at home, and the horses and the dogs, for Kortelin, whom Ulvhild was to have while she was gone, and for her father’s hawks as they sat there on their perches with their hoods over their heads. She saw the horse-hide gloves that hung beside them to wear when you took them on to your wrist, and the ivory staves to scratch them with.

  It was as if all the woe of the last winter had gone far away from her, and she only saw her home as it used to be. They had told her, too, that none thought ill of her in the parish — Sira Eirik did not believe that story; he was angry and grieved at what Bentein had done. Bentein had fled from Hamar; ’twas said he had gone to Sweden. So things were not so bad between them and their neighbour as she had feared.

 
On the journey down to Oslo they had stayed as guests at Simon’s home, and she had come to know his mother and sisters — Sir Andres was in Sweden still. She had not felt at ease there, and her dislike of the Dyfrin folk was all the stronger that she could think of no good ground for it. All the way thither, she had said to herself that they had no cause to be proud or to think themselves better than her kin — no man knew aught of Reidar Darre, the Birch-leg, before King Sverre got him the widow of the Dyfrin Baron* to wife. But lo! they were not proud at all; and when Simon himself spoke one night of his forefather: “I have found out now for sure — he was a comb-maker — so ’tis as though you were to come into a kingly stock — almost, Kristin,” said he. “Take heed to your tongue, boy,” said his mother, but they all laughed together. It vexed her strangely when she thought of her father; he laughed much, if Simon gave him the least cause — a thought came to her dimly that maybe her father would gladly have had more laughter in his life. But ’twas not to her mind that he should like Simon so much.

  They had all been at Skog over Easter. She had found that her uncle was a hard master to his farmers and serving-folk — she had met one and another who asked after her mother and spoke lovingly of Lavrans; they had better times when he lived here. Aasmund’s mother, Lavrans’ stepmother, lived on the manor in a house by herself; she was not so very old, but sickly and failing. Lavrans had but seldom spoken of her at home. Once when Kristin asked him if he had had a hard stepmother, her father answered: “She never did much to me of either good or ill.”

  Kristin felt for her father’s hand, and he pressed hers:

  “You will be happy soon enough, my daughter, with the good Sisters — you will have other things to think of besides longing to be home with us —”

  They sailed so near by the town that the smell of tar and salt fish was borne out to them from the wharves. Gyrid named all the churches, the traders’ quarters, and the open places which run up from the water’s edge — Kristin remembered nothing from the time she was here before but the great heavy towers of St. Halvard’s Church. They sailed westward past the whole town and laid to at the convent pier.

  Kristin walked between her father and her uncle through a cluster of warehouses, and came out upon a road which led up through the fields. Simon came after, leading Gyrid by the hand. The serving-folk stayed behind to help some men from the convent load the baggage upon a cart.

  Nonneseter and the whole Leiran quarter lay within the boundaries of the town grazing-grounds, but there were but a few clusters of houses here and there along the roadside. The larks were trilling over their heads in the pale-blue sky, and the small yellow flowers of the coltsfoot were thickly sprinkled over the wan clay slopes, but along by the fences the roots of the grass were green.

  When they were through the gate and were come into the cloister, all the nuns came marching two by two towards them from the church, while song and music streamed out after them through the open door.

  Ill at ease, Kristin watched the many black-robed women with white linen wimples about their faces. She curtsied low, and the men bowed with their hats held close to their breasts. After the nuns came a flock of young maidens — some of them but children — in gowns of undyed wadmal, their waists bound with belts of twined black and white, and their hair braided tightly back from their faces with cords of the same black and white. Without thinking, Kristin put on a bold and forward look as the young maids passed, for she felt bashful, and was afraid they must think she looked countrified and foolish.

  The convent was so glorious that she was quite overcome. All the buildings round the inner court were of grey stone; on the north side the main wall of the church stood up high above the other houses; it had two tiers of roofs and towers at the west end. The court itself was laid with stone flags, and round the whole there ran a covered way, whose roof was borne on pillars fairly wrought. In the midst of the court stood a stone statue of the Mater Misericordiæ, spreading her cloak over some kneeling figures.

  Then a lay-sister came and prayed them to go with her to the Abbess’ parlour. The Lady Groa Guttormsdatter was a tall and stoutly made old woman — she would have been comely had she not had so many hairs about her mouth. Her voice was deep like a man’s. But her bearing was gentle and kindly — she called to mind that she had known Lavrans’ father and mother, and asked after his wife and his other children. Last she spoke to Kristin in friendly wise:

  “I have heard good report of you, and you look to be wise and well nurtured — sure I am you will give us no cause for miscontent. I have heard that you are plighted to this good and well-born man, Simon Andressön, whom I see here — it seems to us that ’twas wise counsel of your father and your husband to be, to grant you leave to live here awhile in the Virgin Mary’s house, that you may learn to obey and serve before you are called to rule and to command. Now would I have you lay to heart this counsel: that you learn to find joy in prayer and the worship of God, that you may use yourself in all your doings to remember your Creator, God’s gentle Mother, and all the Saints who have given us the best patterns of strength, uprightness, faithfulness and all the virtues you must show forth in guiding your people and your goods and nurturing your children. And you will learn in this house, too, to take good heed of time, for here every hour has its use and its task also. Many young maids and women love all too well to lie abed late of a morning, and sit long at table of an evening in idle talk — yet look not you as you were one of these. Yet may you learn much in the year you are here that may profit you both here on earth and in our heavenly home.”

  Kristin curtsied and kissed her hand. After that Lady Groa bade Kristin go with a monstrously fat old nun, whom she called Sister Potentia, over to the nuns’ refectory. The men and Gyrid she asked to dine with her in another house.

  The refectory was a great and fair room with a stone floor and pointed windows with glass panes. There was a doorway into another room, where, Kristin could see, there must be glass windows too, for the sun shone in.

  The Sisters were already seated at the table waiting for their food — the elder nuns upon a cushioned stone-bench along the wall under the windows; the younger Sisters and the bareheaded maidens in light-hued wadmal dresses sat upon a wooden bench on the outer side of the board. In the next room a board was laid too; this was for the commoners* and the lay-servants; there were a few old men among them. These folk did not wear the convent habit, but were none the less clad soberly in dark raiment.

  Sister Potentia showed Kristin to a seat on the outer bench, but went and placed herself near to the Abbess’ high-seat at the end of the board — the high-seat was empty to-day.

  All rose, both in this room and in the side-room, while the Sisters said grace. After that a fair, young nun went and stood at a lectern placed in the doorway between the two chambers. And while the lay-sisters in the greater room, and two of the youngest nuns in the side-room, bore in food and drink, the nun read in a high and sweet voice, and without stopping or tripping at a single word, the story of St. Theodora and St. Didymus.

  At first Kristin was thinking most of minding her table-manners, for she saw all the Sisters and the young maids bore them as seemly and ate as nicely as though they had been sitting at the finest feast. There was abundance of the best food and drink, but all helped themselves modestly, and dipped but the very tips of their fingers into the dishes; no one spilled the broth either upon the cloths or upon their garments, and all cut up the meat so small that they did not soil their mouths, and ate with so much care that not a sound was to be heard.

  Kristin grew hot with fear that she might not seem as well behaved as the others; she was feeling ill at ease, too, in her bright dress in the midst of all these women in black and white — she fancied they were all looking at her. So when she had to eat a fat piece of breast of mutton, and was holding it by the bone with two fingers, while cutting morsels off with her right hand, and taking care to handle the knife lightly and neatly — suddenly the whole
slipped from her fingers; her slice of bread and the meat flew on to the cloth, and the knife fell clattering on the stone flags.

  The noise sounded fearfully in the quiet room. Kristin flushed red as fire and would have bent to pick up the knife, but a lay-sister came noiselessly in her sandals and gathered up the things.

  But Kristin could eat no more. She found, too, that she had cut one of her fingers, and she was afraid of bleeding upon the cloth; so she sat with her hand wrapped in a corner of her skirt, and thought of how she was staining the goodly light blue dress she had gotten for the journey to Oslo, and she did not dare to raise her eyes from her lap.

  Howbeit, in a little she began to listen more to what the nun was reading. When the ruler found he could not shake the steadfastness of the maid, Theodora — she would neither make offerings to the false gods nor let herself be given in marriage — he bade them lead her to a brothel. Yet while on the way thither he exhorted her to think of her freeborn kindred and her honoured father and mother, upon whom everlasting shame must now be brought, and gave his word she should be let live in peace and stay a maid, if she would but join the service of a heathen goddess, whom they called Diana.

  Theodora answered fearlessly: “Chastity is like a lamp, but love of God is the flame; were I to serve the devil-woman whom you call Diana, my chastity were no more worth than a rusty lamp without flame or oil. Thou callest me freeborn, but we are all born bondsmen, since our first parents sold us to the devil; Christ has bought me free, and I am bound to serve Him, so that I cannot wed me with His foes. He will guard His dove; but should He even suffer you to break my body, that is the temple of His Holy Spirit, it shall not be counted to me for shame, if so be that I consent not to betray what is His into the hands of His enemies.”