She saw that Helga stood watching them. Then she took from her chest a great silver clasp. It was that she had on her cloak the night Bentein met her on the highway, and she had never cared to wear it since. She went to Helga, and said in a low voice:
“I know ’twas your wish to show me goodwill last night; think me not unthankful —” and with that she gave her the clasp.
Ingebjörg was a fine sight, too, when she stood fully decked in her green gown, with a red silk cloak over her shoulders and her fair, curly hair waving behind her. They had ended by striving to outdress each other, thought Kristin, and she laughed.
The morning was cool and fresh with dew as the procession went forth from Nonneseter and wound its way westward toward Frysja. The hay-making was near at an end here on the lowlands, but along the fences grew blue-bells and yellow crowsfoot in clumps; in the fields the barley was in ear, and bent its heads in pale silvery waves just tinged with pink. Here and there, where the path was narrow and led through the fields, the corn all but met about folks’ knees.
Haakon walked at the head, bearing the convent’s banner with the Virgin Mary’s picture upon the blue silken cloth. After him walked the servants and the commoners, and then came the Lady Groa and four old Sisters on horseback, while behind these came the young maidens on foot; their many-hued holiday attire flaunted and shone in the sunlight. Some of the commoners’ women-folk and a few armed serving-men closed the train.
They sang as they went over the bright fields, and the folk they met at the byways stood aside and gave them reverent greeting. All round, out on the fields, they could see small groups of men coming walking and riding, for folks were drawing toward the church from every house and every farm. Soon they heard behind them the sound of hymns chanted in men’s deep voices, and the banner of the Hovedö monastery rose above a hillock — the red silk shone in the sun, swaying and bending to the step of the bearer.
The mighty, metal voice of the bells rang out above the neighing and screaming of stallions as the procession climbed the last slope to the church. Kristin had never seen so many horses at one time — a heaving, restless sea of horses’ backs round about the green before the church door. Upon the sward stood and sat lay folk dressed in all their best — but all rose in reverence as the Virgin’s flag from Nonneseter was borne in amongst them, and all bowed deeply before the Lady Groa.
It seemed as though more folk had come than the church could hold, but for those from the convent room had been kept in front near the altar. Straightway after them the Cistercian monks from Hovedö marched in and went up into the choir — and forthwith song burst from the throats of men and boys and filled the church.
Soon after the mass had begun, when the service brought all to their feet, Kristin caught sight of Erlend Nikulaussön. He was tall, and his head rose above those about him — she saw his face from the side. He had a high, steep, and narrow forehead, and a large, straight nose — it jutted, triangle-like, from his face, and was strangely thin about the fine, quivering nostrils — something about it reminded Kristin of a restless, high-strung stallion. His face was not as comely as she had thought it — the long-drawn lines running down to his small, weak, yet well-formed mouth gave it as ’twere a touch of joylessness — ay, but yet he was comely.
He turned his head and saw her. She knew not how long they stood thus, looking into each other’s eyes. From that time she thought of naught but the end of the mass; she waited, intent on what would then befall.
There was some pressing and thronging as the folks made their way out from the overcrowded church. Ingebjörg held Kristin back till they were at the rear of the throng; she gained her point — they were quite cut off from the nuns, who went out first — the two girls were among the last in coming to the offertory-box and out of the church.
Erlend stood without, just by the door, beside the priest from Gerdarud and a stoutish, red-faced man, splendid in blue velvet. Erlend himself was clad in silk, but of a sober hue — a long coat of brown, figured with black, and a black cloak with a pattern of small yellow hawks inwoven.
They greeted each other and crossed the green together to where the men’s horses stood tethered. While they spoke of the fine weather, the goodly mass and the great crowd of folk that were mustered, the fat, ruddy knight — he bore golden spurs and was named Sir Munan Baardsön — took Ingebjörg by the hand; ’twas plain he was mightily taken with the maid. Erlend and Kristin fell behind — they were silent as they walked.
There was a great to-do upon the church-green as folk began to ride away — horses jostled one another, people shouted — some angry, others laughing. Many sat in pairs upon the horses; men had their wives behind them, or their children in front upon the saddle; youths swung themselves up beside a friend. They could see the church banners, the nuns and the priests far down the hill already.
Sir Munan rode by; Ingebjörg sat in front of him, his arm about her. Both of them called out and waved. Then Erlend said:
“My serving-men are both with me — they could ride one horse and you have Haftor’s — if you would rather have it so?”
Kristin flushed as she replied: “We are so far behind the others already — I see not your serving-men hereabouts, and —” Then she broke into a laugh, and Erlend smiled.
He sprang to the saddle and helped her to a seat behind him. At home Kristin had often sat thus sidewise behind her father, after she had grown too big to ride astride the horse. Still, she felt a little bashful and none too safe as she laid a hand upon Erlend’s shoulder; the other she put on the horse’s back to steady herself. They rode slowly down towards the bridge.
In a while Kristin thought she must speak, since he was silent, so she said:
“We looked not, sir, to meet you here to-day.”
“Looked you not to meet me?” asked Erlend, turning his head. “Did not Ingebjörg Filippusdatter bear you my greeting, then?”
“No,” said Kristin. “I heard naught of any greeting — she hath not named you once since you came to our help last May,” said she guilefully. She was not sorry that Ingebjörg’s falseness should come to light.
Erlend did not look back again, but she could hear by his voice that he was smiling when he asked again:
“But the little dark one — the novice — I mind not her name — her I even fee’d to bear you my greeting.”
Kristin blushed, but she had to laugh too: “Ay, ’tis but Helga’s due I should say that she earned her fee,” she said.
Erlend moved his head a little — his neck almost touched her hand. Kristin shifted her hand at once farther out on his shoulder. Somewhat uneasily she thought, maybe she had been more bold than was fitting, seeing she had come to this feast after a man had, in a manner, made tryst with her there.
Soon after Erlend asked:
“Will you dance with me to-night, Kristin?”
“I know not, sir,” answered the maid.
“You think, mayhap, ’tis not seemly?” he asked, and, as she did not answer, he said again: “It may well be it is not so. But I thought now maybe you might deem you would be none the worse if you took my hand in the dance to-night. But, indeed, ’tis eight years since I stood up to dance.”
“How may that be, sir?” asked Kristin. “Mayhap you are wedded?” But then it came into her head that had he been a wedded man, to have made tryst with her thus would have been no fair deed of him. On that she tried to mend her speech, saying: “ ‘Maybe you have lost your betrothed maid or your wife?”
Erlend turned quickly and looked on her with strange eyes.
“Hath not Lady Aashild …? Why grew you so red when you heard who I was that evening?” he asked a little after.
Kristin flushed red once more, but did not answer; then Erlend asked again:
“I would fain know what my mother’s sister said to you of me.”
“Naught else,” said Kristin quickly, “but in your praise. She said you were so comely and so great of kin that — she said
that beside such as you and her kin we were of no such great account — my folk and I —”
“Doth she still talk thus, living the life she lives,” said Erlend, and laughed bitterly. “Ay, ay — if it comfort her.… Said she naught else of me?”
“What should she have said?” asked Kristin; she knew not why she was grown so strangely heavy-hearted.
“Oh, she might have said —” he spoke in a low tone, looking down, “she might have said that I had been under the Church’s ban, and had to pay dear for peace and atonement —”
Kristin was silent a long time. Then she said softly:
“There is many a man who is not master of his own fortunes — so have I heard said. ’Tis little I have seen of the world — but I will never believe of you, Erlend, that ’twas for any — dishonourable — deed.”
“May God reward you for those words, Kristin,” said Erlend, and bent his head and kissed her wrist so vehemently that the horse gave a bound beneath them. When Erlend had it in hand again, he said earnestly: “Dance with me to-night then, Kristin. Afterward I will tell how things are with me — will tell you all — but to-night we will be happy together?”
Kristin answered: “Ay,” and they rode a while in silence.
But ere long Erlend began to ask of Lady Aashild, and Kristin told all she knew of her; she praised her much.
“Then all doors are not barred against Björn and Aashild?” asked Erlend.
Kristin said they were thought much of, and that her father and many with him deemed that most of the tales about these two were untrue.
“How liked you my kinsman, Munan Baardsön?” asked Erlend, laughing slily.
“I looked not much upon him,” said Kristin, “and methought, too, he was not much to look on.”
“Knew you not,” asked Erlend, “that he is her son?”
“Son to Lady Aashild!” said Kristin, in great wonder.
“Ay, her children could not take their mother’s fair looks, though they took all else,” said Erlend.
“I have never known her first husband’s name,” said Kristin.
“They were two brothers who wedded two sisters,” said Erlend. “Baard and Nikulaus Munansön. My father was the elder, my mother was his second wife, but he had no children by his first. Baard, whom Aashild wedded, was not young either, nor, I trow, did they ever live happily together — ay, I was a little child when all this befell, they hid from me as much as they could.… But she fled the land with Sir Björn and married him against the will of her kin — when Baard was dead. Then folk would have had the wedding set aside — they made out that Björn had sought her bed while her first husband was still living, and that they had plotted together to put away my father’s brother. ’Tis clear they could not bring this home to them, since they had to leave them together in wedlock. But to make amends, they had to forfeit all their estate— Björn had killed their sister’s son, too — my mother’s and Aashild’s, I mean —”
Kristin’s heart beat hard. At home her father and mother had kept strict watch that no unclean talk should come to the ears of their children or of young folk — but still, things had happened in their own parish and Kristin had heard of them — a man had lived in adultery with a wedded woman. That was whoredom, one of the worst of sins; ’twas said they plotted the husband’s death, and that brought with it outlawry and the Church’s ban. Lavrans had said no woman was bound to stay with her husband, if he had had to do with another’s wife; the state of a child gotten in adultery could never be mended, not even though its father and mother were free to wed afterward. A man might bring into his family and make his heir his child by any wanton or strolling beggar-woman, but not the child of his adultery — not if its mother came to be a knight’s lady. She though of the misliking she had ever felt for Sir Björn, with his bleached face and fat, yet shrunken body. She could not think how Lady Aashild could be so good and yielding at all times to the man who had led her away into such shame; how such a gracious woman could have let herself be beguiled by him. He was not even good to her; he let her toil and moil with all the farm-work; Björn did naught but drink beer. Yet Aashild was ever mild and gentle when she spoke with her husband. Kristin wondered if her father could know all this, since he had asked Sir Björn to their home. Now she came to think, too, it seemed strange Erlend should think fit to tell such tales of his near kin. But like enough he deemed she knew of it already.
“I would like well,” said Erlend in a while, “to visit her, Moster* Aashild, some day — when I journey northwards. Is he comely still, Björn, my kinsman?”
“No,” said Kristin. “He looks like hay that has lain the winter through upon the fields.”
“Ay, ay, it tells upon a man, I trow,” said Erlend, with the same bitter smile. “Never have I seen so fair a man — ’tis twenty years since, I was but a lad then — but his like have I never seen —”
A little after they came to the hospital. It was an exceeding great and fine place, with many houses both of stone and of wood — houses for the sick, almshouses, hostels for travellers, a chapel and a house for the priest. There was great bustle in the courtyard, for food was being made ready in the kitchen of the hospital for the guild feast, and the poor and sick too, that were dwelling in the place, were to be feasted on the best this day.
The hall of the guild was beyond the garden of the hospital, and folks took their way thither through the herb-garden, for this was of great renown. Lady Groa had had brought hither plants that no one had heard of in Norway before, and, moreover, all plants that else folks were used to grow in gardens, throve better in her herbaries, both flowers and pot-herbs and healing herbs. She was a most learned woman in all such matters, and had herself put into the Norse tongue the herbals of the Salernitan school.… Lady Groa had been more than ever kind to Kristin since she had marked that the maid knew somewhat of herb-lore, and was fain to know yet more of it.
So Kristin named for Erlend what grew in the beds on either side the grassy path they walked on. In the midday sun there was a warm and spicy scent of dill and celery, garlic and roses, southernwood and wallflower. Beyond the shadeless, baking herb-garden, the fruit orchards looked cool and enticing — red cherries gleamed amid the dark leafy tops, and the apple trees drooped their branches heavy with green fruit.
About the garden was a hedge of sweet briar. There were some flowers on it still — they looked the same as other briar roses, but in the sun the leaves smelt of wine and apples. Folk plucked sprays to deck themselves as they went past. Kristin, too, took some roses and hung them on her temples, fixed under her golden fillet. One she kept in her hand.… After a time Erlend took it, saying no word. A while he bore it in his hand as they walked, then fastened it with the brooch upon his breast — he looked awkward and bashful as he did it, and was so clumsy that he pricked his fingers till they bled.
Broad tables were spread in the loft-room of the guild’s hall — two by the main walls, for the men and the women; and two smaller boards out on the floor, where children and young folk sat side by side.
At the women’s board Lady Groa was in the high-seat, the nuns and the chief of the married women sat on the inner bench along the wall, and the unwedded women on the outer benches, the maids from Nonneseter at the upper end. Kristin knew that Erlend was watching her, but she durst not turn her head even once, either when they rose or when they sat down. Only when they got up at last to hear the priest read the names of the dead guild-brothers and sisters, she stole a hasty glance at the men’s table — she caught a glimpse of him where he stood by the wall, behind the candles burning on the board. He was looking at her.
The meal lasted long, with all the toasts in honour of God, the Virgin Mary, and St. Margaret and St. Olav and St. Halvard, and prayers and song between.
Kristin saw through the open door that the sun was gone; sounds of fiddling and song came in from the green without, and all the young folks had left the tables already when Lady Groa said to the convent ma
idens that they might go now and play themselves for a time if they listed.
Three red bonfires were burning upon the green; around them moved the many-coloured chains of dancers. The fiddlers sat aloft on heaped-up chests and scraped their fiddles — they played and sang a different tune in every ring; there were too many folk for one dance. It was nearly dark already — northward the wooded ridge stood out coal-black against the yellow-green sky.
Under the loft-balcony folk were sitting drinking. Some men sprang forward, as soon as the six maids from Nonneseter came down the steps. Munan Baardsön flew to meet Ingebjörg and went off with her, and Kristin was caught by the wrist — Erlend, she knew his hand already. He pressed her hand in his so that their rings grated on one another and bruised the flesh.
He drew her with him to the outermost bonfire. Many children were dancing there; Kristin gave her other hand to a twelve-year-old lad, and Erlend had a little, half-grown maid on his other side.
No one was singing in the ring just then — they were swaying in and out to the tune of the fiddle as they moved round. Then some one shouted that Sivord the Dane should sing them a new dance. A tall, fair-haired man with huge fists stepped out in front of the chain and struck up his ballad:
Fair goes the dance at Munkolm
On silver sand.
There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön —
Holds the Queen’s own hand.
Know ye not Ivor Sir Alfsön?
The fiddlers knew not the tune, they thrummed their strings a little, and the Dane sang alone — he had a strong, tuneful voice:
“ Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
That summer fair,
They led you out of Sweden,
To Denmark here?
They led you out of Sweden,