The Bridal Wreath

  Lavrans sat with one hand over his face; the other arm lay in his lap, and Kristin saw that the sleeve was all bloody from the shoulder down, and blood ran down over his fingers. She went to him and touched his arm.

  “Not much is amiss, methinks — there fell somewhat on my shoulder,” he said, looking up. He was white to the lips. “Ulvhild,” he murmured in anguish, gazing into the burning pile.

  Sira Eirik heard the word, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “ ’Twill not wake your child, Lavrans — she will sleep none the less sound for the burning above her bed. She hath not lost her soul’s home, as we others have lost ours this night.”

  Kristin hid her face on Erlend’s breast, and stood there feeling the grasp of his arm round her shoulders. Then she heard her father asking for his wife.

  Some one answered that a woman had fallen in labour from the fright; they had borne her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone with her there.

  Then Kristin called to mind again that she had clean forgotten ever since they saw that the church was afire. She should not have looked on this. There lived a man in the south of the parish who had a red stain over half his face; ’twas said he was thus because his mother had looked at a burning house while she was big with him. “Dear, holy Virgin Mother,” she prayed in her heart, “let not my child have been marred by this!”

  The day after, the whole parish was called to meet on the church-green to take counsel how best to build up the church anew.

  Kristin sought out Sira Eirik at Romundgaard before the time set for the meeting. She asked the priest if he deemed she should take this as a sign. Maybe ’twas God’s will that she should say to her father she was unworthy to wear the bridal crown; that it were more seemly she should be given in marriage to Erlend Nikulaussön without feasting or bridal honours.

  But Sira Eirik flew up at her with eyes glistening with wrath:

  “Think you that God cares so much how you sluts may fly about and cast yourselves away, that He would burn up a fair, venerable church for your sake? Leave you your sinful pride, and bring not on your mother and Lavrans such a sorrow as they would scarce win through for many a day. If you wear not the crown with honour on your honourable day — the worse for you; but the more need have you and Erlend of all the rites of the Church when ye are brought together. Each and all of us have sins to answer for; ’tis therefore, I trow, that this visitation is come upon us all. See you to it that you mend your life, and that you help to build up our church again, both you and Erlend.”

  It was in Kristin’s mind that he knew not all, for that yet she had not told him of this last thing that was come upon her — but she rested content and said no more.

  She went with the men to the meeting. Lavrans came with his arm in a sling, and Erlend had many burns on his face; he was ill to look upon, but he laughed it off. None of the wounds were large, and he said he hoped they would not spoil his face too much when he came to be a bridegroom. He stood up after Lavrans and promised four marks of silver as an offering to the church, and, for his betrothed, with Lavrans’ assent, land* worth sixty cows from her holdings in the parish.

  It was found needful for Erlend to stay a week at Jörundgaard by reason of his burns. Kristin saw that ’twas as though Lavrans had come to like his son-in-law better since the night of the fire: the men seemed now to be good friends enough. She thought, maybe her father might grow to like Erlend Nikulaussön so well that he would not judge them too strictly, and would not take the matter so hardly as she had feared when the time came when he must know that they had transgressed against him.

  8

  THE YEAR proved a rarely good one over all the north part of the Dale. The hay crop was heavy, and it was got in dry; the folk carne home from the sæters in autumn with great store of dairy stuff and full and fat flocks and herds — they had been mercifully spared from wild beasts, too, this year. The corn stood tall and thick as few folks could call to mind having seen it before — it grew full-eared and ripened well, and the weather was fair as heart could wish. Between St. Bartholomew’s and the Virgin’s Birthfeast, the time when night frosts were most to be feared, it rained a little and was mild and cloudy, but thereafter the time of harvest went by with sun and wind and mild, misty nights. The week after Michaelmas most of the corn had been garnered all over the parish.

  At Jörundgaard all folks were toiling and moiling, making ready for the great wedding. The last two months Kristin had been so busy from morning to night that she had but little time to trouble over aught but her work. She saw that her bosom had filled out; the small pink nipples were grown brown, and they were tender as smarting hurts when she had to get out of bed in the cold — but it passed over when she had worked herself warm, and after that she had no thought but of all she must get done before evening. When now and again she was forced to straighten up her back and stand and rest a little, she felt that the burden she bore was growing heavy — but to look on she was still slim and slender as she had ever been. She passed her hands down her long, shapely thighs. No, she would not grieve over it now. Sometimes a faint creeping longing would come over her with the thought: like enough in a month or so she might feel the child quick within her.… By that time she would be at Husaby.… Maybe Erlend would be glad.… She shut her eyes and fixed her teeth on her betrothal ring — then she saw before her Erlend’s face, pale and moved, as he stood in the hall here in the winter and said the words of espousal with a loud clear voice:

  “So be God my witness and these men standing here, that I Erlend Nikulaussön do espouse Kristin Lavransdatter according to the laws of God and men, on such conditions as here have been spoken before these witnesses standing hereby. That I shall have thee to my wife and thou shalt have me to thy husband, so long as we two do live, to dwell together in wedlock, with all such fellowship as God’s law and the law of the land do appoint.”

  As she ran on errands from house to house across the farm-place, she stayed a moment — the rowan trees were so thick with berries this year — ’twould be a snowy winter. The sun shone over the pale stubble-fields where the corn sheaves stood piled on their stakes. If this weather might only hold over the wedding!

  Lavrans stood firmly to it that his daughter should be wedded in church. It was fixed, therefore, that the wedding should be in the chapel at Sundbu. On the Saturday the bridal train was to ride over the hills to Vaage; they were to lie for the night at Sundbu and the neighbouring farms, and ride back on Sunday after the wedding mass. The same evening after vespers, when the holy-day was ended, the wedding feast was to be held, and Lavrans was to give his daughter away to Erlend. And after midnight the bride and bridegroom were to be put to bed.

  On Friday afternoon, Kristin stood in the upper hall balcony, watching the bridal train come riding from the north, past the charred ruins of the church on the hillside. It was Erlend coming with all his groomsmen; she strained her eyes to pick him out among the others. They must not see each other — no man must see her now before she was led forth to-morrow in her bridal dress.

  Where the ways divided, a few women left the throng and took the road to Jörundgaard. The men rode on toward Laugarbru; they were to sleep there that night.

  Kristin went down to meet the comers. She felt wearied after the bath, and the skin of her head was sore from the strong lye her mother had used to wash her hair, that it might shine fair and bright on the morrow.

  Lady Aashild slipped down from her saddle into Lavrans’ arms. How can she keep so light and young? thought Kristin. Her son Sir Munan’s wife, Lady Katrin, might have passed for older than she; a big, plump dame, with dull and hueless skin and eyes. Strange, thought Kristin; she is ill-favoured and he is unfaithful, and yet folks say they live well and kindly together. Then there were two daughters of Sir Baard Peterssön, one married and one unmarried. They were neither comely nor ill-favoured; they looked honest and kind, but held themselves something stiffly in the strange company. Lavrans thanked them c
ourteously that they had been pleased to honour this wedding at the cost of so far a journey so late in the year.

  “Erlend was bred up in our father’s house, when he was a boy,” said the elder, moving forward to greet Kristin.

  But now two youths came riding into the farm-place at a sharp trot — they leaped from their horses and rushed laughing after Kristin, who ran indoors and hid herself. They were Trond Gjesling’s two young sons, fair and likely lads. They had brought the bridal crown with them from Sundbu in a casket. Trond and his wife were not to come till Sunday, when they would join the bridal train after the mass.

  Kristin fled into the hearth-room; and Lady Aashild, coming after, laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders, and drew down her face to hers to kiss it.

  “Glad am I that I live to see this day,” said Lady Aashild.

  She saw how thin they were grown, Kristin’s hands, that she held in hers. She saw that all else about her was grown thin, but that her bosom was high and full. All the features of the face were grown smaller and finer than before; the temples seemed as though sunken in the shadow of the heavy damp hair. The girl’s cheeks were round no longer, and her fresh hue was faded. But her eyes were grown much larger and darker.

  Lady Aashild kissed her again:

  “I see well you have had much to strive against, Kristin,” she said. “To-night will I give you a sleepy drink, that you may be rested and fresh to-morrow.”

  Kristin’s lips began to quiver.

  “Hush,” said Lady Aashild, patting her hand. “I joy already that I shall deck you out to-morrow — none hath seen a fairer bride, I trow, than you shall be to-morrow.”

  Lavrans rode over to Laugarbru to feast with his guests who were housed there.

  The men could not praise the food enough — better Friday food than this a man could scarce find in the richest monastery. There was rye-meal porridge, boiled beans and white bread — for fish they had only trout, salted and fresh, and fat dried halibut.

  As time went on and the men drank deeper, they grew ever more wanton of mood, and the jests broken on the bridegroom’s head ever more gross. All Erlend’s groomsmen were much younger than he — his equals in age and his friends were all long since wedded men. The darling jest among the groomsmen now was that he was so aged a man and yet was to mount the bridal-bed for the first time. Some of Erlend’s older kinsmen, who kept their wits, sat in dread, at each new sally, that the talk would come in upon matters it were best not to touch. Sir Baard of Hestnæs kept an eye on Lavrans. The host drank deep, but it seemed not that the ale made him more joyful — he sat in the high-seat, his face growing more and more strained, even as his eyes grew more fixed. But Erlend, who sat on his father-in-law’s right hand, answered in kind the wanton jest flung at him, and laughed much; his face was flushed red and his eyes sparkled.

  Of a sudden Lavrans flew out:

  “That cart, son-in-law — while I remember — what have you done with the cart you had of me on loan in the summer?”

  “Cart — ?” said Erlend.

  “Have you forgot already that you had a cart on loan from me in the summer.… God knows ’twas so good a cart I look not ever to see a better, for I saw to it myself when ’twas making in my own smithy on the farm. You promised and you swore — I take God to witness, and my house-folk know it besides — you gave your word to bring it back to me — but that word you have not kept —”

  Some of the guests called out that this was no matter to talk of now, but Lavrans smote the board with his fist and swore that he would know what Erlend had done with his cart.

  “Oh, like enough it lies still at the farm at Næs, where we took boat out to Veöy,” said Erlend lightly. “I thought not ’twas meant so nicely. See you, father-in-law, thus it was — ’twas a long and a toilsome journey with a heavy-laden cart over the hills, and when we were come down to the fjord, none of my men had a mind to bring the cart all the way back here, and then journey north again over the hills to Trondheim. So we thought we might let it be there for a time —”

  “Now, may the devil fly off with me from where I sit this very hour, if I have ever heard of your like,” Lavrans burst out. “Is this how things are ordered in your house — doth the word lie with you or with your men, where they are to go or not to go — ?”

  Erlend shrugged his shoulders:

  “True it is, much hath been as it should not have been in my household.… But now will I have the cart sent south to you again, when Kristin and I are come thither.… Dear my father-in-law,” said he, smiling and holding out his hand, “be assured, ’twill be changed times with all things, and with me too, when once I have brought Kristin home to be mistress of my house. ’Twas an ill thing, this of the cart. But I promise you, this shall be the last time you have cause of grief against me.”

  “Dear Lavrans,” said Baard Peterssön, “forgive him in this small matter —”

  “Small matter or great —” began Lavrans, but checked himself, and took Erlend’s hand.

  Soon after he made the sign for the feast to break up, and the guests sought their sleeping-places.

  On the Saturday before noon all the women and girls were busy in the old storehouse loft-room, some making ready the bridal bed, some dressing and adorning the bride.

  Ragnfrid had chosen this house for the bride-house, in part for its having the smallest loft-room — they could make room for many more guests in the new storehouse loft, the one they had used themselves in summer-time to sleep in when Kristin was a little child, before Lavrans had set up the great new dwelling-house, where they lived now both summer and winter. But besides this, there was no fairer house on the farm than the old storehouse, since Lavrans had had it mended and set in order — it had been nigh falling to the ground when they moved in to Jörundgaard. It was adorned with the finest wood-carving both outside and in, and if the loft-room were not great, ’twas the easier to hang it richly with rugs and tapestries and skins.

  The bridal bed stood ready made, with silk-covered pillows; fine hangings made as it were a tent about it; over the skins and rugs on the bed was spread a broidered silken coverlid. Ragnfrid and some other women were busy now hanging tapestries on the timber walls and laying cushions in order on the benches.

  Kristin sat in a great arm-chair that had been brought up thither. She was clad in her scarlet bridal robe. Great silver brooches held it together over her bosom, and fastened the yellow silk shift showing in the neck-opening; golden armlets glittered on the yellow silken sleeves. A silver-gilt belt was passed thrice around her waist, and on her neck and bosom lay neck-chain over neck-chain, the uppermost her father’s old gold chain with the great reliquary cross. Her hands, lying in her lap, were heavy with rings.

  Lady Aashild stood behind her chair, brushing her heavy, gold-brown hair out to all sides.

  “To-morrow shall you spread it loose for the last time,” she said, smiling, as she wound the red and green silk cords that were to hold up the crown, around Kristin’s head. Then the women came thronging round the bride.

  Ragnfrid and Gyrid of Skog took the great bridal crown of the Gjesling kin from the board. It was gilt all over, the points ended in alternate crosses and clover-leaves, and the circlet was set with great rock-crystals.

  They pressed it down on the bride’s head. Ragnfrid was pale, and her hands were shaking, as she did it.

  Kristin rose slowly to her feet. Jesus! how heavy ’twas to bear up all this gold and silver.… Then Lady Aashild took her by the hand and led her forward to a great tub of water — while the bridesmaids flung open the door to the outer sunlight, so that the light in the room should be bright.

  “Look now at yourself in the water, Kristin,” said Lady Aashild, and Kristin bent over the tub. She caught a glimpse of her own face rising up white through the water; it came so near that she saw the golden crown above it. Round about, many shadows, bright and dark, were stirring in the mirror — there was somewhat she was on the brink of remembering —
then ’twas as though she was swooning away — she caught at the rim of the tub before her. At that moment Lady Aashild laid her hand on hers, and drove her nails so hard into the flesh, that Kristin came to herself with the pain.

  Blasts of a great horn were heard from down by the bridge. Folk shouted up from the courtyard that the bridegroom was coming with his train. The women led Kristin out on to the balcony.

  In the courtyard was a tossing mass of horses in state trappings and people in festive apparel, all shining and glittering in the sun. Kristin looked out beyond it all, far out into the Dale. The valley of her home lay bright and still beneath a thin misty-blue haze; up above the haze rose the mountains, grey with screes and black with forest, and the sun poured down its light into the great bowl of the valley from a cloudless sky.

  She had not marked it before, but the trees had shed all their leaves — the groves around shone naked and silver-grey. Only the alder-thickets along the river had a little faded green on their topmost branches, and here and there a birch had a few yellow-white leaves clinging to its outermost twigs. But, for the most, the trees were almost bare — all but the rowans; they were still bright with red-brown leaves around the clusters of their blood-red berries. In the still, warm day a faint mouldering smell of autumn rose from the ashen covering of fallen leaves that strewed the ground all about.

  Had it not been for the rowans, it might have been early spring. And the stillness too — but this was an autumn stillness, deathly still. When the horn-blasts died away, no other sound was heard in all the valley but the tinkling of bells from the stubble fields and fallows where the beasts wandered, grazing.

  The river was shrunken small, its roar sunk to a murmur; it was but a few strands of water running amidst banks of sand and great stretches of white round boulders. No noise of becks from the hillsides — the autumn had been so dry. The fields all around still gleamed wet — but ’twas but the wetness that oozes up from the earth in autumn, howsoever warm the days may be, and however clear the air.