Lavrans put his arm about her shoulder and laid his hand against her cheek.
“Come, come, be still now, child,” he said gently.
“Are you angry with me, father?” she asked low.
“Surely you must know that I am,” he answered — but he went on stroking her cheek. “Yet so much, too, you sure must know, that you have no need to be afraid of me,” said he sadly. “Nay, now must you be still, Kristin; are you not ashamed to bear you in such childish wise.” For she was weeping so that she had to seat herself upon the bench. “We will not speak of these things here, where folk go out and in,” said he, and he sat himself down by her side and took her hand. “Will you not ask after your mother then — and your sisters …?”
“What does my mother say of this?” asked his daughter.
“Oh, that you can have no need to ask — but we will not talk of it now,” he said again. “Else she is well —” and he set to telling this and that of the happenings at home on the farm, till Kristin grew quieter little by little.
But it seemed to her that the strain did but grow worse because her father said naught of her breach of troth. He gave her money to deal out among the poor of the convent and to make gifts to her fellow-pupils. He himself gave rich gifts to the cloister and the Sisters; and no one in Nonneseter knew aught else than that Kristin was now to go home for her betrothal and her wedding. They both ate the last meal at Lady Groa’s board in the Abbess’s room, and the Lady spoke of Kristin with high praise.
But all this came to an end at last. She had said her last farewell to the Sisters and her friends at the convent gate; Lavrans led her to her horse and lifted her into the saddle. ’Twas so strange to ride with her father and the men from Jörundgaard down to the bridge, along this road, down which she had stolen in the dark; wonderful, too, it seemed to ride through the streets of Oslo freely and in honour. She thought of their splendid wedding train, that Erlend had talked of so often — her heart grew heavy; ’twould have been easier had he carried her away with him. There was yet such a long time before her in which she must live one life in secret and another openly before folks. But then her eye fell on her father’s grave, ageing face, and she tried to think that, after all, Erlend was right.
There were a few other travellers in the inn. At eventide they all supped together in a little hearth-room, where there were two beds only; Lavrans and Kristin were to sleep there, for they were the first in rank among the guests. Therefore, when the night drew on a little, the others bade them a friendly good-night as they broke up and went to seek their sleeping-places. Kristin thought how it was she who had stolen to Brynhild Fluga’s loft-room to Erlend’s arms — sick with sorrow and with fear that she might never more be his, she thought, no, there was no place for her any more amongst these others.
Her father was sitting on the farther bench looking at her.
“We are not to go to Skog this time?” asked Kristin, to break the silence.
“No,” answered Lavrans. “I have had enough for some time with what your mother’s brother made me listen to — because I would not constrain you,” he added, as she looked up at him questioningly.
“And, truly, I would have made you keep your word,” said he a little after, “had it not been that Simon said he would not have an unwilling wife.”
“I have never given my word to Simon,” said Kristin quickly. “You have ever said before, that you would never force me into wedlock —”
“ ’Twould not have been force if I had held you to a bargain that had been published long since and was known to all men,” answered Lavrans. “These two winters past you two have borne the name of handfasted folk, and you have said naught against it, nor shown yourself unwilling, till now your wedding-day was fixed. If you would plead that the business was put off last year, so that you have not yet given Simon your troth, then that I call not upright dealing.”
Kristin stood gazing down into the fire.
“I know not which will seem the worse,” went on her father, “that it be said that you have cast off Simon, or that he has cast off you. Sir Andres sent me a word,” Lavrans flushed red as he said it, “he was wroth with the lad, and bade me crave such amends as I should think fit. I had to say what was true — I know not if aught else had been better — that, should there be amends to make, ’twas rather for us to make them. We are shamed either way.”
“I cannot think there is such great shame,” said Kristin low. “Since Simon and I are of one mind.”
“Of one mind?” repeated Lavrans. “He did not hide from me that he was unhappy, but he said, after you had spoken together, he deemed naught but misfortune could come of it if he held you to the pact.… But now must you tell me how this has come over you.”
“Has Simon said naught?” asked Kristin.
“It seemed as though he thought,” said her father, “that you have given your love to another man. Now must you tell me how this is, Kristin.”
Kristin thought for a little.
“God knows,” said she, in a low voice, “I see well, Simon might be good enough for me, and maybe too good. But ’tis true that I came to know another man; and then I knew I would never have one happy hour more in all my life were I to live it out with Simon — not if all the gold in England were his to give — I would rather have the other if he owned no more than a single cow.”
“You look not that I should give you to a serving-man, I trow?” said her father.
“He is as well born as I, and better,” answered Kristin. “I meant but this — he has enough both of lands and goods, but I would rather sleep with him on the bare straw than with another man in a silken bed —”
Her father was silent a while.
“ ’Tis one thing, Kristin, that I will not force you to take a man that likes you not — though God and St. Olav alone know what you can have against the man I had promised you to. But ’tis another thing whether the man you have set your heart upon is such as I can wed you to. You are young yet, and not over-wise — and to cast his eyes upon a maid who is promised to another — ’tis not the wont of an upright man —”
“No man can rule himself in that matter,” broke in Kristin.
“Ay, but he can. But so much you can understand, I trow: I will not do such offence to the Dyfrin folk as to betroth you to another the moment you have turned your back on Simon — and least of all to a man who might be more high in rank or richer. — You must say who this man is,” he said after a little.
Kristin pressed her hands together and breathed deeply. Then she said very slowly:
“I cannot, father. Thus it stands, that should I not get this man, then you can take me back to the convent and never take me from it again.… I shall not live long there, I trow. But ’twould not be seemly that I should name his name, ere yet I know he bears as good a will toward me as I have to him. You — you must not force me to say who he is, before — before ’tis seen whether — whether he is minded to make suit for me through his kin.”
Lavrans was a long time silent. He could not but be pleased that his daughter took the matter thus; he said at length:
“So be it, then. ’Tis but reason that you would fain keep back his name, if you know not more of his purposes.”
“Now must you to bed, Kristin,” he said a little after. He came and kissed her.
“You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours, my daughter — but this you know, that your good lies next my heart.… God help me, ’twould be so, I fear me, whatever you might do — He and His gentle Mother will surely help us, so that this may be turned to the best.… Go now, and see that you sleep well.”
After he had lain down, Lavrans thought he heard a little sound of weeping from the bed by the other wall, where his daughter lay. But he made as though he slept. He had not the heart to say to her that he feared the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein would be brought up again now, but it weighed heavily upon him that ’twas but little he could do t
o save the child’s good name from being besmirched behind his back. And the worst was that he must deem much of the mischief had been wrought by her own thoughtlessness.
* Hovedö, see Note 11.
* Baron, see Note 12.
* Commoners, see Note 13.
* Saints’ Days and Festivals, see Note 14.
* Town Yards, see Note 15.
* Currency, see Note 16.
* Farmers’ Guilds, see Note 17.
* Moster — mother’s sister.
* Mission to Vargöyhus, see Note 18.
* Wardens, see Note 19.
* Town dwelling-places, see Note 15.
PART THREE
LAVRANS BJÖRGULFSÖN
LAVRANS BJÖRGULFSÖN
1
KRISTIN came home when the spring was at fairest. The Laagen rushed headlong round its bend, past the farmstead and the fields; through the tender leaves of the alder-thickets its current glittered and sparkled with flashes of silver. ’Twas as though the gleams of light had a voice of their own, and joined in the river’s song, for when the evening twilight fell, the waters seemed to go by with a duller roar. But day and night the air above Jörundgaard was filled with the rushing sound, till Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the houses quivering like the sound-box of a cithern.
Small threads of water shone high up on the fell-sides, that stood wrapped in blue haze day after day. The heat brooded and quivered over the fields; the brown earth of the plough-lands was nigh hidden by the spears of corn; the meadows grew deep with grass, and shimmered like silk where the breaths of wind passed over. Groves and hillsward smelt sweet; and as soon as the sun was down, there streamed out all around the strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things — it was as though the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh. Kristin thought, trembling, of the moment when Erlend’s arms released her. Each evening she lay down, sick with longing, and in the mornings she awoke, damp with sweat and tired out with her dreams.
’Twas more than she could understand how the folks at home could forbear to speak ever a word of the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week went by after week, and naught was said of Simon and her broken faith, and none asked what was in her heart. Her father lay much out in the woods, now he had the spring ploughing and sowing off his hands — he went to see to his tarburners’ work, and he took hawks and hounds with him, and was away many days together. When he was at home, he spoke to his daughter kindly as ever — but it was as though he had little to say to her, and never did he ask her to go with him when he rode out.
Kristin had dreaded to go home to her mother’s chidings; but Ragnfrid said never a word — and this seemed even worse.
Every year when he feasted his friends at St. John’s Mass, it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to give out among the poor folks of the parish the meat and all sorts of food that had been saved in his household in the last week of the Fast. Those who lived nighest to Jörundgaard would come themselves to fetch away the alms; these poor folks were ever welcomed and feasted, and Lavrans and his guests, and all the house-servants, would gather round them; for some of them were old men who had by heart many sagas and lays. They sat in the hearth-room and whiled the time away with the ale-cup and friendly talk; and in the evening they danced in the courtyard.
This year the Eve of St. John was cloudy and cold; but none was sorry that it was so, for by now the farmers of the Dale had begun to fear a drought. No rain had fallen since St. Halvard’s Wake, and there had been little snow in the mountains; not for thirteen years could folk remember to have seen the river so low at midsummer.
So Lavrans and his guests were of good cheer when they went down to greet the almsmen in the hearth-room. The poor folks sat round the board eating milk-porridge and washing it down with strong ale; and Kristin stood by the table, and waited on the old folk and the sick.
Lavrans greeted his poor guests, and asked if they were content with their fare. Then he went about the board to bid welcome to an old bedesman, who had been brought thither that day for his term at Jörundgaard. The man’s name was Haakon; he had fought under King Haakon the Old, and had been with the King when he took the field for the last time in Scotland. He was the poorest of the poor now, and was all but blind; the farmers of the Dale had offered to set him up in a cottage of his own, but he chose rather to be handed on as bedesman from farm to farm, for everywhere folk welcomed him more like an honoured guest, since he had seen much of the world, and had laid up great store of knowledge.
Lavrans stood by with a hand on his brother’s shoulder; for Aasmund Björgulfsön had come to Jörundgaard on a visit. He asked Haakon, too, how the food liked him.
“The ale is good, Lavrans Björgulfsön,” said Haakon. “But me-thinks a jade has cooked our porridge for us to-day. ‘While the cook cuddles, the porridge burns,’ says the byword; and this porridge is singed.”
“An ill thing indeed,” said Lavrans, “that I should give you singed porridge. But I wot well the old byword doth not always say true, for ’tis my daughter, herself, who cooked the porridge for you.” He laughed, and bade Kristin and Tordis make haste to bring in the trenchers of meat.
Kristin slipped quickly out and made across to the kitchen. Her heart was beating hard — she had caught a glimpse of Aasmund’s face when Haakon was speaking.
That evening she saw her father and his brother walking and talking together in the courtyard, long and late. She was dizzy with fear; and it was no better with her the next day, when she marked that her father was silent and joyless. But he said no word.
Nor did he say aught after his brother was gone. But Kristin marked well that he spoke less with Haakon than was his wont, and, when their turn for harbouring the old warrior was over, Lavrans made no sign towards keeping him a while longer, but let him move on to the next farm.
For the rest, Lavrans Björgulfsön had reason enough this summer to be moody and downcast, for now all tokens showed that the year would be an exceeding bad one in all the country round; and the farmers were coming together time and again to take counsel how they should meet the coming winter. As the late summer drew on, it was plain to most, that they must slaughter great part of their cattle or drive them south for sale, and buy corn to feed their people through the winter. The year before had been no good corn year, so that the stocks of old corn were but scanty.
One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all her three daughters to see to some linen she had lying out on the bleachfield. Kristin praised much her mother’s weaving. Then the mother stroked little Ramborg’s hair, and said:
“We must save this for your bride-chest, little one.”
“Then, mother,” said Ulvhild, “shall I not have any bride-chest when I go to the nunnery?”
“You know well,” said Ragnfrid, “your dowry will be nowise less than your sisters’. But ’twill not be such things as they need that you will need. And then you know full well, too, that you are to bide with your father and me as long as we live — if so be you will.”
“And when you come to the nunnery,” said Kristin unsteadily, “it may be, Ulvhild, that I shall have been a nun there for many years.”
She looked across at her mother, but Ragnfrid held her peace.
“Had I been such an one that I could marry,” said Ulvhild, “never would I have turned away from Simon — he was so kind, and he was so sorrowful when he said farewell to us all.”
“You know your father bade us not speak of this,” said Ragnfrid; but Kristin broke in defiantly:
“Ay; well I know that ’twas far more sorrow for him parting from you than from me.”
Her mother spoke in anger:
“And little must his pride have been, I wot, had he shown his sorrow before you — you dealt not well and fairly by Simon Andressön, my daughter. Yet did he beg us to use neither threats nor curses with you —”
“Nay,” said Kristin as before, “he thought, maybe, he had cursed me himself so much
, there was no need for any other to tell me how vile I was. But I marked not ever that Simon had much care for me, till he saw that I loved another more than him.”
“Go home, children,” said Ragnfrid to the two little ones. She sat herself down on a log that lay by the green, and drew Kristin down beside her.
“You know, surely,” said she then, “that it has ever been held seemly and honourable, that a man should not talk overmuch of love to his betrothed maiden — nor sit with her much alone, nor woo too hotly —”
“Oh!” said Kristin, “much I wonder whether young folk that love one another bear ever in mind what old folk count for seemly, and forget not one time or another all such things.”
“Be you ware, Kristin,” said her mother, “that you forget them not.” She sat a little while in silence: “What I see but too well now is that your father goes in fear that you have set your heart on a man he can never gladly give you to.”
“What did my uncle say?” asked Kristin in a little while.