Eirik sat for a while by his bedside, but Jörund slept on. So he stole out, with a mind uneasy and oppressed.
An hour before nones Eirik came out, dressed for a journey. He looked into the women’s house—Jörund filled the room with his snoring. Then he went to the stable, led out the bay, and saddled him.
The sun was so low that its rays tinged the fields and the snow-covered woods behind the manor with red and gold when Eirik came in view of Eiken. He asked leave to put up his horse at a little farm by the highroad. He must venture it, even if it came to Berse’s ears.
He went on foot across the fields up to the manor, past the road that led to the houses. The sun had now set and the white ground had turned to a greyish blue, but the sky was orange, with a few golden clouds floating down in the south, and up in the vault some stars peeped out already.
The road he had taken when he was last here, up to the ridge, had been lately used—there were sledge-tracks and wisps of hay along it. For some distance it followed the fence that divided the farm from the forest. He waded up to the fence and stood there scanning the houses. It struck him as an evil omen: he had never been received here.
He waited, uncertain whether to go down and ask if he might speak with Gunhild. Then a door opened—a woman and a man and a dog came out.
In a low voice Eirik gave the call—the same they had used last autumn. She started, the dog set up a bark and darted up to him, the man after.
“Is it you, Kaare?” cried Eirik.
Kaare Bersesson came up to him. “Are you here?”
“Yes. Will you ask your sister if I may speak with her? I will wait in the road here.”
It had already grown much darker—the sunset had faded to yellow and pale green and there were many more stars. She came up, wrapped in a long, hooded cloak; her brother and the dog were with her.
“You must let Gunhild and me be alone awhile, Kaare,” said Eirik. His sister said something to the boy, who turned back again, followed by his dog.
Then he came forward and took her in his arms. She burst into tears. “What is this, Eirik? I know not what to make of it.”
He held her close and felt miserable—he was so little used to women’s tears. But after a while he released the girl and began, quite calmly, to tell the whole story, of which she had heard something from her brothers.
Gunhild had checked her tears. “Nay, that I knew—what they said could not be true, my brothers do not believe it either. But what does he aim at, Jörund Rypa?”
Eirik told her something of Jörund’s strange fancies and how he thought they were plotting against him at Hestviken—“but this is what I wanted to say to you, Gunhild. I had thought—I make bold to think you will not oppose my wish—that the compact between us be carried out?”
“I think I have let you see that—perhaps more than I ought.” She withdrew herself when he tried to take her in his arms again, but let him hold her hand.
“There will be nothing of it at Agnes’s mass. We must wait, that is sure. But I cannot but think that when your father has well considered it, he must see that this marriage is so desirable in every other way that—”
Gunhild squeezed his hand. “I hope we may not have to wait too long,” she said in a timid little voice, which sent a thrill of joy through the man. “’Tis not good to live with a stepmother when one is a grown maid. And I have had this trust in you ever since we first met—you will be good to her who is to live with you!”
Then she could not prevent his clasping her in his arms once more.
“There is one thing besides that I would say to you,” he went on after a moment. “You know there was a time when I desired to be a monk—I was over a year in the convent. So I know something of church law and such matters. Should it go so hard with us that Berse brings forward another suitor, then know that a marriage is no marriage after God’s ordinance and the law of the Church unless you yourself have consented thereto. If you dare to hold fast and refuse to say yes, they cannot force you—and it is the bishop’s duty to take you under his protection, if you make complaint to him.”
“Nay, force me to take one I will not have!” said Gunhild impulsively. “Rather will I fly from home—rather will I seek refuge with Eldrid, my sister—”
It flashed upon Eirik: no, not that in any case. His Gunhild, pure and proud, in company with that old—In seven parishes there was not a woman who bore an uglier name than Eldrid Bersesdatter. That must never be.—But all he said was:
“’Twill not be so ill as that—I only thought, if it should drag on so long that there should be talk of another marriage. God bless you, Gunhild—it cannot be that your steadfastness will be put to so hard a proof.”
“I am cold,” she said after a pause; she was shivering and treading the ground.
“Come—I will wrap my cloak about you.” He drew her to a pile of logs that lay by the wayside, seated himself, and took her on his knees. “Are you still cold?” he whispered.
“My feet are like ice—”
He took hold of her under the knees, lifted her so that she lay huddled in his embrace, wrapped his cloak about her feet. He felt the whole weight of her young, healthy body against his, she filled his arms so well, and his face sought her soft, cold cheek inside the fur-bordered hood. And he felt his own youth and vitality, and that they two were warmed with the warmth of their blood in the chilly freshness of the winter night.
A little frightened by his firm grasp and the heat of his kisses, she struggled to reach the ground. “Eirik—I dare not stay out longer—”
So he had to let her down at last—trembling and panting a little from the violence of his last embrace. He went with her as far as the entrance to the manor.
“It may be long ere we meet again—?”
Gunhild gave him her hand. “Be not afraid, Eirik—they shall not bear me down!”
“May Christ and Mary Virgin bless you—if only I am sure of that, we shall find a way!”
It was already dark and a thousand stars were shining as he hurried down toward the highroad. Piercingly cold, so that the snow cried under his feet—the Milky Way spread so brightly across the black, starry vault. But the cold was good—it gave him a feeling of his own strength and warmth.
They were about to go to rest at the little homestead when he came and took out his horse. And the night was far spent when he reached Hestviken. He looked in upon Jörund—it was icy cold in the women’s house, the fire had died on the hearth. Eirik listened to the sleeper’s breathing—went to his own house, lighted a lantern, came back and looked at his brother-in-law. Jörund looked as if he had not moved, but his sleep seemed healthier now.
Eirik spread the coverlet over him, collected some skins and blankets, and made a bed for himself on the bench. He pulled the boots from his feet, stiffened with cold, took off his belt, wrapped himself in his frozen cloak, and soon fell asleep.
He did not wake till Jörund shook him. “Will you not come and eat?”
Eirik sat bolt-upright. Jörund was quite different today—quiet and shy, and his voice was very gentle. When they had broken their fast, Jörund asked, avoiding the other’s eyes:
“Tell me—Eirik—is it true that—did I try to come at you—did we come to blows yesterday?”
“Can you not recall what we spoke of yesterday?” asked Eirik seriously.
“I know not rightly—whether I was dreaming or not. Sometimes my head aches so intolerably that I remember nothing afterwards—”
“Are you better today?”
“My head still pains me—but not in the same way.”
And as soon as they had finished their meal he went back to bed and fell asleep again. Eirik went in several times to look at him.
About midday Olav and Cecilia returned. Eirik went out and met them. He searched his father’s face—Olav seemed not to see him, gave him no greeting, but dismounted and went straight into his own house without looking to one side or the other.
 
; Eirik accompanied Cecilia to Ragna’s house. When she had laid Audun to her swelling breast she gave a little sigh of relief. Eirik picked up her cloak, which had fallen on the floor.
“You are waiting to hear how we have sped?” She looked down at the infant’s head. “We might have fared better—but we might also have fared worse. Berse promised to hold his peace. But I will not conceal from you he said things to us—Ay, Father-Father curbed himself in a way. But I wish—I wish he had been spared this—now that he is an old man too. You had better not go near him.”
“I must—” Eirik stroked his sister’s cheek. “You seem to think I have less courage than you have, Cecilia,” he said mournfully.
“I know not.” She moved the babe to her other breast. “There may be some things that a man can do better than a woman. And others that a man cannot do so well—”
But when he came into the great room, Olav still sat there in his travelling-clothes, with his hands on the hilt of his sword and his chin resting on them. He threw a fleeting glance at Eirik, but said nothing; and so Eirik did not venture to speak.
9 January 20.
1 “I am the mother of fair love, and fear, and knowledge, and holy hope.” Ecclesiasticus, xxiv, 18.
16
SO it went by, another winter—one day after another. Not a word had Olav ever uttered about his meeting with Berse at Draumtorp, and Erik took good heed not to ask him questions. Indeed, they seldom spoke to each other; their footing was the same as it had been when he was a boy: his father sat and stared, and Eirik did not know whether the man was looking at him or through him at something else; if he had to speak to Olav about anything, it seemed as if his father only listened to him with half an ear, and a breath of ill will and unfriendliness smote him in the presence of the old man. Eirik remembered that in former days his father’s manner had nearly driven him frantic. Now he thought: God knows, perhaps even then he had had a secret burden on his soul. And he felt that his affection for his father had grown firmer of late years, like all else within him—had, as it were, solidified into pith.
It was bad for Cecilia and Jörund that he should be so unsociable, but there was no helping it.
As far as he could, Eirik associated with the young married couple in the women’s house. He had given up pondering over his brother-in-law’s behaviour—was inclined to think the man must have been unsettled in his mind during the autumn and winter, and now he seemed to be rid of his venom for this time. All through the latter part of the winter Jörund Rypa was in good humour, chatty and cheerful, like his old self. He played with his children, showed affection for his wife—sometimes in a way that made Eirik blush; nor could he help thinking that Cecilia disliked it too, but she did not betray herself. She discharged her share of the household duties with the greatest diligence, and Eirik saw that the house-folk would have been ready to go through fire for their young mistress. Cecilia could even force her father to rouse himself, when she wished to consult him.
Never did Eirik see a sign that Jörund gave a thought to what had happened at Yuletide, or troubled himself about what rumours it had given rise to. There was talk among the neighbours, Erik could tell that, but no one hinted anything to him. This too he knew: had it been two poor men who had been involved in a case of receiving stolen goods, they would not have escaped without being branded for life, at the very least. But they were the sons of Gunnarsby and Hestviken, and their kinsmen were Baard of Skikkjustad, who was one of the mightiest men of the countryside, especially since he had married off all his four daughters so wisely, and Torgrim of Rynjul, who could say and do as he pleased—most men liked him, for all that, and bore with his rough tongue; even he who was the victim of it could console himself that tomorrow another would be made to feel it.
Eirik acknowledged the truth of all that had been said by the holy fathers—the judgment of men, worldly prosperity, and all such things now seemed so small in his eyes that he could only wonder how anyone cared to strive so hard for them as they did—with pain and grief, with cunning, treachery, and violence. Had it not been for Gunhild and the love that was between them, had it not been that Cecilia and Jörund needed his support, he would gladly have let all else go, and today rather than tomorrow. But he was now beginning to see the meaning of being in the world and not of the world—he felt there was nothing more that could subdue his innermost freedom and peace of mind.
One day early in spring Eirik accompanied his sister up to Rynjul; she wished to see her child that was being brought up there. He sat with Una in her weaving-room, watching Cecilia as she led her son across the floor—Torgils Jörundsson had learned to walk since his mother saw him last. Then Torgrim came in.
After a while the master of the house said: “You may have heard, Eirik, that Gunhild has a new suitor?” He mentioned a man whom Eirik did not know even by name, one from Agder. “Berse will not learn wisdom by experience. He had his way with Eldrid’s marriage, and it turned out as it did. In spite of that he means to sell Gunhild into the hands of another old troll.”
Brother and sister rode homeward in the twilight; beyond the thick tangle of the alders’ foliage the first great stars were shining in the clear sky. It was a mild evening—the raw scent of earth rose from the bare brown surface, and the birds sang in every grove. They had ridden a long while in silence when the sister said:
“Eirik—that news that Torgrim brought you of Gunhild. It is our fault that you are to lose her.”
“Gunhild will not submit to be forced,” said Eirik.
“Forced—there are so many ways,” answered Cecilia.
After a pause Eirik said: “Since we have begun to speak of such things—and do not answer if you are unwilling—has Jörund ever troubled you with his suspicions that everyone is against him?”
“How have you found that out?” she asked with warmth.
“That time last winter—when he seemed beside himself, accused everyone—you did not escape either—”
“Oh, I am partly to blame for it myself,” said Cecilia. “I was so young then. I knew no better than to provoke him by my silence and provoke him by what I said.”
Young, thought Eirik—“she is not so old as Gunhild.”
Cecilia said after a while: “I acted wrongly, too, I doubt not. The others were going to a feast; I refused to go with them. Chiefly because I was so far gone with Kolbein at that time-but I knew too that they had a guest in that house, one whom I was not minded to meet. But in the evening he came to Gunnarsby, and I went out nevertheless and spoke to him by the gate. Nay, we said not a word that Jörund himself might not have heard—that is not his way. But Jörund came to hear of it, and he knew the man had known me at Hestviken—You know him not.—Then I was stubborn—and Jörund lost his temper. He has never done such a thing since—it gave him a fright when Father came. Indeed Jörund is a reasonable man between these fits of his.”
“But it can never be a sin,” thought Eirik, “if I urge Gunhild to resist—”
Some days later Eirik went down to Saltviken. All through the winter he had looked forward to doing the spring work on his farm. Now he set about it, but at the same time his thoughts wandered to other things. He could not get over what he had guessed from his sister’s words—even that insult had been offered Cecilia, who had certainly never let any man touch her even when she was a child. And then there was the thought of Gunhild.
It was the finest of weather every day. Now the manure was spread and dug in on his new dark-soiled cornfields, blending its good warm smell with the acrid scent of growing grass in the meadows. Where the soil was thin over the rocks, the pansies already showed blue. The first shoots on the trees shone bright as pale-green flames against the sunlight—little green leaves had appeared already. The boughs of his cherry trees were pearly with buds; here and there a branch beside the sun-warmed rock had burst into white blossom. In the midday rest Eirik went down to the bay, undressed, and swam out. The water was still cold, but otherwise it wa
s like summer down here on the beach.
The day he had finished sowing he stopped work at nones and changed his clothes—he kept a blue kirtle here, so that he might go to church without passing round by Hestviken. Then he rode inland toward Eiken.
There had been a flock of children at the homestead where he had put up his horse when he was last in these parts. He now made his way thither, found a half-grown girl who was washing clothes in the brook. He took out some small silver coins and asked if she would go an errand for him.
“Then run away to Eiken, see if you can speak with Gunhild alone. You are to ask her if she has any message for the owner of this token.”
He took out of his bosom an embroidered shirt-sleeve; Gunhild had given it him at Yule when they were togther at Rynjul, and promised him its fellow for Easter.
He lay on the grass above the little farm. The woman came up and began to talk to him; from her he learned that Berse and his wife were not at home; they had gone southward down the fiord a week before, but the place was being made ready to receive guests on the return of the master and mistress. So it was a good thing after all that he had made his way hither, he thought.
At sunset the little girl came running down the road. Eirik went to meet her; she handed him back the token:
“Gunhild bade me bring greetings and say you are to ask the owner of this token to ride to the Ness with all speed and wait there; he shall there be given all he is to receive according to the covenant.”
Eirik stared at the child—this took his breath away. Never could he have imagined it.
Eirik rode southward as the shades of evening gradually deepened to a pale-grey spring night and the birds sang jubilantly all through the forest. It was cool and good to ride at this late hour, and he had never been afraid to travel by night.