The Son Avenger

  That winter Einar and Valgard, the sons of Björn, Torhild’s brothers, were away north in Haugsvik. Olav had often wished he could hear something of his son, the young Björn, and of the boy’s mother. Now he sent off Tore, for he knew Einar and his brother well from of old.

  Tore came back and was able to tell him that Björn had left home last spring: he wished to go out into the world and try his fortune. His uncles said he had gone away to learn the trade of a blacksmith—from childhood he had been more cunning with his hands than most lads—he had talked of going to a man in the Dovre Fell of whom folk said that his mother was a giant’s daughter—but maybe that was not true; he was accounted a most excellent smith. With him Björn Olavsson would take service.

  Torhild and Ketil prospered; there were three children born to them: a daughter and then a son and daughter who were twins. Nay, Björn had parted from his parents in all kindness, and his mother had bestowed on him saddle and horse and all he needed for the journey, in such noble sort for their condition that folk had called her overweening.

  Olav had little to say to Tore’s report, for over this son he had never had any rights.

  11

  NEXT year, in the early summer, Olav put up a new barn and had it roofed by the time of bearing in the hay. He and his house-folk were busy haymaking in the meadows down by the mouth of the river—it was an afternoon a few days before Margaretmass9—when a strange man came up to him among the hay-cocks, gave him greeting, and said:

  “I have a message for you, Olav, which is such that I may not tarry in the telling. Will you go with me a little apart, so that we may speak—alone?”

  Olav did so, and when they came a little way from the others, the man said:

  “I come from Gunnarsby. Your daughter is in travail of childbirth and in great jeopardy; it were well if you could come to her and that as swiftly as your swiftest horse can bring you.”

  “Is it so,” asked Olav, “that they deem her life to be at stake?”

  “There is peril of it,” replied the other.

  Olav ran back to the field, found Ragna and Tore, and told them how matters stood. He bade Tore bring Brunsvein from the paddock and Ragna fetch food; then he went down to the stranger and asked him to go with him to the house. As they went, Olav asked, of a sudden:

  “But where have you your horse, man?”

  “Nay, I have walked from Gunnarsby.”

  “Have you walked?” Olav looked at his guest suspiciously. He was a man in the thirties, looked like any other serving-man—Olav could not call to mind having seen him before, but that was nothing to go by, since they had so many folk about them at Gunnarsby; he had a trustworthy look. “Did Jörund send you hither with such a message and gave you no horse?”

  “To tell the truth, Olav, ’twas not the Rypungs that sent me. But Cecilia helped me once when I was in bad straits, and then I vowed to God and Saint Halvard I would repay her if it were ever in my power. I thought I had a chance to do so now—if it be given her to see you and speak with you, before she may die—”

  Olav was somewhat easier in his mind as he thought that perhaps his daughter was not in such a bad way after all, since it was neither her husband nor his brothers’ wives who had dispatched the messenger. There seemed to be something strange about the whole affair, but however it might be, he was glad to have been told of his daughter’s sickness, and he would ride to Gunnarsby at once. He asked no more questions of the stranger—Finn was his name—but on arriving at the manor gave orders that he should be well housed and cared for, and when he had taken his rest, they were to lend him a horse for his homeward journey.

  An hour later Olav was in the saddle and stretched Brunsvein to the utmost—this was the swiftest colt in his stable, but he did not usually ride him himself, as he was not so handsome to look at as Bay Roland, his own saddle-horse. On reaching Skeidis parish he stayed for a few hours with his kinsfolk at Hestbæk and gave Brunsvein a rest, but Olav mounted again long before sunrise, and late in the day he came to Gunnarsby.

  But there he was told at once that Cecilia was doing well; she had given birth to a fine and healthy son; this was already a day and a half ago. No, Mistress Lucia replied to his questions, Cecilia had not had so hard a travail, she had been in no more peril of her life than any other young wife. Olav saw plainly that they were greatly surprised at his coming, and he was no more than moderately welcome at Gunnarsby this time. There was something behind this—he could not guess what—but so as not to betray this Finn he replied, when Lucia asked him where he had heard of Cecilia’s illness, that he had met some folk at church who had kindred in these parts; they had told him that his daughter who was married at Gunnarsby last summer might expect a child about the time of Margaretmass.

  “Ay, but ’twas not expected before Marymass1—” Mistress Lucia broke off in confusion, as though she had said too much, and there was an odd look on the faces of the others. Brynhild said the young wife had been sore afraid all the time she had been with child; maybe she had talked of it, saying she was afraid of this too, that it might come before its time-It was strangely unlike Cecilia to be afraid, thought her father. But with women one can never know, and after all a man was no judge of these things. He could only be glad that Cecilia was doing well, and since he was here, he was glad too that he would see his daughter again.

  It was fairly dark in the upper chamber where Cecilia lay, when Lucia took Olav up to see her in the evening. It rejoiced Olav to see that his daughter was glad he had come; she said that all was well with her now, and she was doing well in every way. The room in which they had laid her was spacious and richly bedight, and there was no lack of neighbours’ wives and serving-maids to attend to her and her child.

  Jörund spoke very lovingly to his wife and seemed exceedingly proud that he too had a son. And the women loudly praised the child. Olav took it in his arms when they handed it to him, looked at it—this was the little lad who would one day take his place at Hestviken, if God should suffer him to grow into a man—but he had always thought that new-born babes were ugly little monsters to look at, all except Cecilia; she had been fair from the first day of her life.

  Next morning Olav sat with his daughter again; they talked for the most part of those they knew at home. It was very little Cecilia had to say of how she liked her new home—only that there was far more bustle here than at Hestviken, and the folk of Gunnarsby were much abroad to feastings and the like—this had been a burden to her of late; but now, to be sure, she would stay more at home, as she had a child at the breast.

  “Ay,” said her father, “but a little lad like this will grow quickly, and soon you will be free again.”

  “’Twas not of that I thought,” replied the young wife hastily. “I must take after you, Father—I like best to live where there is no such crowd.”

  Her last word struck her father as strangely scornful; he was about to correct the child, bid her enjoy her youth while she had it.

  At that moment one of the neighbours’ wives came with the babe, to lay it to its mother’s breast. Cecilia wore only a little vest covering her bosom and arms; as the woman raised her on the pillows, her father had a glimpse of her naked body about the waist, and he saw that her side was all black and blue. At the same time the sun shone in on the bed—there were snatches of brightness between the clouds—and he noticed that her face also bore marks, as of blows.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” her father asked after the strange woman had gone.

  “Yes, I fell and bruised myself,” said Cecilia. “That is what made him come before his time.”

  Olav thought it so far well that a mishap of this sort had caused it—he had been afraid she might have inherited her mother’s infirmity; and no doubt it was this fall that had made her uneasy.

  “So then it was you thought of sending this Finn for me?”

  Cecilia was silent for moment, as though reflecting:

  “I did not ask him to go either—but p
erhaps he thought he owed me gratitude. And then maybe he took it into his head to repay me thus—when he heard I had fallen and hurt myself—”

  “I wonder, though,” said Olav, “whether he be yet returned—have you heard? He was to borrow a horse of ours, so I could take it back with me.”

  “Finn will take good care that you have the horse back. But to tell the truth, Father, I do not think we shall see him at Gunnarsby. They are stricter with their servants here than we are wont to be, and as Finn ran off from here without asking leave—”

  “Did he so?”

  Cecilia nodded. “I wish I knew,” she said, “what he will do with himself now. He has been a trusty man to me.”

  “Perhaps you wish me to take him into my service at Hestviken?” Olav asked.

  Cecilia was silent for a moment, looking down at the child at her breast.

  “Nay, that I wish not at all,” she then said in her curt little voice.

  Next day the boy was baptized, and Olav intended to return home on the day after. But in the evening, as he was about to bid his daughter good-night, he chanced to be alone with her for a moment. Then he made up his mind to ask her.

  “Tell me now, Cecilia, while we are alone—have you aught on your mind that you would fain tell me?”

  “No, I have not,” said the young wife firmly. Seeing that her father looked disappointed, she gave him her hand. “But, for all that, I am glad you came, Father!”

  On the morrow Olav set out for home. He had left the parish itself behind him and was now riding uphill by the bank of a little stream, on both sides of which were small farmsteads in the midst of green meadows. He was deep in thought when his horse gave a sudden start—a man had risen abruptly from beneath some bushes at the edge of the bridle-path. It was that Finn.

  They exchanged greetings. But as the man said nothing, Olav thought he must.

  “It turned out not so ill as you foretold, my friend,” he said kindly. “My daughter is now in good case, and yesterday we christened Kolbein Jörundsson.”

  “Ay, so I have heard.”

  “Are you on your way down to Gunnarsby?” asked Olav.

  “Nay, I am bound southward,” said the man. He had slept at one of the little farms yonder, where he was known.

  Olav reflected that it was this Finn who had brought him the news of his grandson’s birth, so to speak. He said so and thanked him for it. He had brought with him ten English florins2 that he had had by him since his voyage to England—to make a suitable altar-offering if there should be need of such. He now took out the two he had left and gave them to Finn.

  The man accepted them, hesitating a little. Then he stood looking at Olav, and Olav sat looking down at him. Neither of them spoke. At last Olav said he must be getting on. “Maybe we are going the same way?”

  They were, said the man. So Olav made Brunsvein go at a foot’s pace, and Finn walked at his side, and not a sound was heard but the gurgling of the brook in its turf banks and the horse’s hoofs when they struck a stone, and the faint summery murmur in the tree-tops; and the sun beat down, gleaming upon the foliage—and both men kept silence.

  Once Olav asked if the other had had the loan of a horse from Hestviken, and Finn answered no, he had preferred to walk. After a while Olav asked whether Finn was from these parts, and Finn answered no, he came from Ness in Raumarike. With that their talk came to an end.

  When they had journeyed together for an hour or more Finn said he must turn aside here—he pointed along a little path that led up a hill. So Olav thanked him for his company, and Finn thanked in return and was gone into the wood.

  Afterwards Olav regretted that he had not tried to find out something. But he had shrunk from cross-questioning his daughter’s serving-man.—So he rode on at a brisker pace.

  Olav had had to promise that he would look in again at Hestbæk on his way home. And this time they did not let him go so soon—it was six years since he had last been to see his kinsfolk here, said Arne, “and ’twill surely be six years ere you come again—and then I shall be under the sod.”

  Arne Torgilsson was now over eighty winters old, but his age sat none too heavily on him. He was like his father, Torgils Foul-beard, as he might have been had he not lost his wits; Arne was rather a small man, but handsome and well built; his hair and beard were white as bog-cotton, and his florid cheeks and sea-blue eyes showed brightly in the midst of all this whiteness. Torgunn, his youngest daughter, carried on the farm together with her sons; she had been widowed many years already.

  Arne gave a grunt when Olav told him that Cecilia had borne a son.

  “Then ’twill be the same as here—none but a daughter’s son to succeed you at Hestviken! To me God would not grant a son, in spite of my prayers and vows—you had one, and he has turned barefoot friar. You, Olav, who are so rich and have always stood so well with the priests, could you not have sent to Rome and been given dispensation? Then you might have married Torgunn and carried on the Fivil race3 in our old home.”

  “Could you not have thought of that before, kinsman,” said Olav with a laugh, “ere Torgunn and I were old folk?”

  Olav had to stay at Hestbæk till the third day. It was near sunset when he came riding out to Hestviken. The sky was full of clouds, which shone and blazed and cast red and yellow reflections in the waters of the fiord. The rays of the sinking sun shot out aslant, and the long shadows fell fitfully across the meadows, so that Olav could not distinguish plainly who it was that came toward him through the fields; but there was something both familiar and strange in the tall, broad-shouldered figure, and the cut of his dress had a courtly air ill suited to the place. By the man’s side walked a gigantic he-goat, black as coal, with a huge pair of horns.

  Then Olav saw that it was Eirik—Eirik who came to meet him in a particoloured jerkin, half red and half yellow, so short and tight that Olav thought it unseemly; he had a leather belt about his waist, with a long dagger, a knife, and a pouch hanging from it. The dark, curly hair had not yet grown so long as to hide the tonsure. Olav could not quite rid himself of his first impression, something devilish in the vision that presented itself, even when he had recognized the goat as their own old he-goat.

  Olav reined in his horse. Eirik ran forward the last few steps, laid his hand on his father’s saddle-bow, and asked, looking up at him:

  “Father-is she dead?”

  “Cecilia? Nay, she is well.” In silence they continued to look at each other, Eirik growing ever redder and more distressed. But there was no help for it, he had to speak out himself:

  “I have come home, Father,” he said in a tone of supplication. “As you see.”

  “I do see,” Olav jerked at the reins, so that Eirik had to stand aside, but he walked beside his father’s horse up to the houses.

  Olav dismounted in the yard, replying to Tore’s and Ragna’s questions concerning Cecilia. Then he turned to the house door, where Eirik stood outside, waiting. The son followed his father in. Olav flung off his cloak, laid aside his arms; not till then did he turn to Eirik.

  “Where have you come from?”

  “You know that well,” said Eirik in a low voice. “I left home—the convent, I mean—yestermorn—had the loan of a boat from Galfrid—”

  “Have you lost heart for the cloistered life?” Or—have the friars sent you away? Have you done amiss, so that they will not have you?” asked Olav harshly.

  Eirik was crimson in the face; a quiver as of pain passed over his features. But he answered very meekly: “The brethren thought I was not intended for the life. For you know, Father—’tis for that one has the year of probation—and my year was up two months ago. I was loath to part from my brethren; they let me stay awhile longer. But then they told me they believed I was not meant for a monk—I could better serve God if I lived in the world.”

  “You were to live in the world and serve God?” There was icy scorn in his father’s voice. “Little must those brethren know you!”


  He saw that his son shrank a little. But then Eirik answered as meekly as before: “Nay, Father—my brethren know me best of all—my father, Brother Einar, and the guardian. I shall not forget what they have taught me. Think not I am come home to take up that—iniquitous—life I led before. I—I—they have adopted me as their brother—as a brother ab extra. And you yourself know best that a man may live in the world and yet be mindful of his Redeemer and serve Him.”

  Olav stood looking at the young man in silence.

  “What is this for—what garb is this?”

  Eirik blushed again, all cramped and pinched in the ridiculous finery that was too tight and skimpy in every way.

  “They gave it me in the convent,” he said humbly. “They had received it as a gift, and they all agreed to give it to me—that I might avoid falling into debt in the town for clothes to go home in.”

  “Ah.”

  Then Ragna came in with the food, and the household followed her to take their meal. Olav talked with his folk, but said no more to Eirik—scarce looked at him.

  When the meal was ended Olav had ale and mead brought in—bade his house-folk drink to the welfare of Kolbein Jörundsson. Eirik accepted the horn, drank to his nephew’s honour, and let it go further. But next time it came round to him, he let it pass, and soon after he stole quietly out of doors.

  He must be gone to say his hours, said Ragna with feeling—he kept his hours and wore a great rosary round his neck underneath his jerkin.

  It only stirred Olav to deeper scorn and anger when he heard it.

  9 June 10.

  1 Assumption, B.V.M.—August 15.

  2 A gold coin worth six shillings and eightpence.

  3 Fivil means bog-cotton, alluding to the fair hair and complexion of the Hestviken family. See The Snake Pit, p. 338.