Kristin Lavransdatter

  “It was good of you to come,” he said, “in this awful weather.”

  “It’s worse for you, who will have to ride such a long way. But why are you leaving so late in the evening?”

  “Jon has invited me to stay at Loptsgaard tonight,” said Arne. “And I thought it would be easier for you to come here at this time of day.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Kristin thought she had never before realized how handsome Arne was. He wore a shiny steel helmet, and under it a brown woolen hood that framed his face and spread out over his shoulders; underneath, his thin face looked so bright and fair. His leather breastplate was old, flecked with rust, and scratched from the coat of mail that had been worn over it—Arne’s father had given it to him—but it fit snugly on his slender, lithe, and strong body. He wore a sword at his side and carried a spear in his hand; his other weapons hung from his saddle. He was a full-grown man and looked imposing.

  Kristin put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Do you remember, Arne, that you once asked me whether I thought you were as splendid a fellow as Simon Andressøn? I want to tell you something now, before we part. You seem to me as much his superior in fair appearance and bearing as he is held above you in birth and wealth by people who value such things most.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” asked Arne breathlessly.

  “Because Brother Edvin impressed on my heart that we should thank God for His good gifts and not be like the woman who wept because she had no bowls when Saint Olav multiplied the meat for her. So you shouldn’t fret over the fact that He hasn’t given you as much wealth as He has physical gifts. . . .”

  “Is that what you meant?” said Arne. And when Kristin didn’t reply he went on, “I was wondering whether you meant that you would rather have been married to me than to that other man.”

  “I probably would, at that,” she said quietly. “For I know you much better.”

  Arne threw his arms around her so tight that he lifted her feet off the ground. He kissed her face many times, but then he set her down.

  “God help us, Kristin. You’re such a child!”

  She stood there with her head bowed, but she kept her hands on his shoulders. He gripped her wrists and held them tight.

  “I see now that you don’t realize, my sweet, how my heart aches because I am going to lose you. Kristin, we’ve grown up together like two apples on a branch. I loved you before I began to realize that one day someone else would come and tear you away from me. As certain as God had to die for us all, I don’t know how I can ever be happy again in this world after today.”

  Kristin wept bitterly and lifted her face so that he could kiss her.

  “Don’t talk like that, my Arne,” she begged, patting his arm.

  “Kristin,” said Arne in a muted voice, taking her in his arms again. “Couldn’t you consider asking your father . . . Lavrans is such a good man, he would never force you against your will. Couldn’t you ask him to wait a few years? No one knows how my fortune may change—we’re both so young.”

  “I must do what those at home want me to do,” she sobbed.

  Then tears overcame Arne too.

  “You have no idea, Kristin, how much I love you.” He hid his face on her shoulder. “If you did, and if you loved me too, then you would go to Lavrans and beg him sweetly—”

  “I can’t do that,” sobbed the maiden. “I don’t think I could ever love a man so dearly that I would go against my parents’ will for his sake.” She slipped her hands under Arne’s hood and heavy steel helmet to find his face. “You mustn’t cry like that, Arne, my dearest friend.”

  “I want you to have this,” he said after a moment, giving her a small brooch. “And think of me now and then, for I will never forget you, or my sorrow.”

  It was almost completely dark by the time Kristin and Arne had said their last farewells. She stood and gazed after him when he finally rode away. A yellow light shone through the clouds, and the light was reflected in their footsteps, where they had walked and stood in the slush of the road; it looked so cold and bleak, she thought. She pulled out the linen cloth covering her bodice and wiped her tear-streaked face; then she turned around and set off for home.

  She was wet and cold and she walked fast. After a while she heard someone approaching on the road behind her. She was a little frightened; it was possible that strangers might be traveling on this main road, even on an evening like this, and she had a lonely stretch ahead of her. Steep black scree rose up on one side, but on the other there was a sharp drop-off, covered with pine woods all the way down to the pale, leaden river at the bottom of the valley. So she was relieved when the person behind her called her name; she stopped and waited.

  The person who approached was a tall, thin man wearing a dark surcoat with lighter colored sleeves. When he came closer, Kristin saw that he was dressed as a priest and carried an empty knapsack on his back. She now recognized Bentein Prestesøn, as they called him—Sira Eirik’s grandson. She noticed at once that he was quite drunk.

  “Well, one departs and the other arrives,” he said and laughed after they had greeted each other. “I met Arne from Brekken just now—and I see that you’re walking along and crying. So how about giving me a little smile because I’ve come back home? The two of us have also been friends since childhood, haven’t we?”

  “It’s a poor bargain to have you come back to the valley in his stead,” said Kristin crossly. She had never liked Bentein. “Quite a few people will say the same, I’m afraid. And your grandfather was so happy that you were getting on so well down south in Oslo.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bentein with a snicker and a sneer. “So you think I was getting on well, do you? Like a pig in a wheat field, that’s how it was for me, Kristin—and the end result was the same. I was chased off with a shout and a long stick. Well, well. He doesn’t have much joy from his offspring, my grandfather. Why are you walking so fast?”

  “I’m freezing,” said Kristin curtly.

  “No more than I am,” said the priest. “The only clothing I have to wear is what you see. I had to sell my cape for food and ale in Lillehammer. But you must still have warmth in your body from saying farewell to Arne. I think you should let me come under your furs with you.” And he seized hold of her cloak, threw it around his shoulders, and wrapped his wet arm around her waist.

  Kristin was so startled by his boldness that it took a moment for her to regain her senses—then she tried to tear herself away, but he was holding on to her cloak and it was fastened with a sturdy silver clasp. Bentein put his arms around her again and tried to kiss her, shoving his mouth close to her chin. She tried to strike him, but he was gripping her upper arms.

  “I think you’ve lost your mind,” she seethed as she struggled against him. “How dare you manhandle me as if I were a . . . You’re going to regret this bitterly tomorrow, you miserable wretch.”

  “Oh, tomorrow you won’t be so stupid,” said Bentein, tripping her with his leg so that she fell to her knees in the mud of the road. Then he pressed his hand over her mouth.

  And yet Kristin still did not think to scream. Now she finally realized what he intended to do to her, but rage overcame her with such fury and violence that she hardly felt any fear. She snarled like an animal in battle and fought against this man who was holding her down so that the ice-cold snow water soaked through her clothing and reached her burning hot flesh.

  “Tomorrow you’ll know enough to keep quiet,” said Bentein. “And if it can’t be concealed, you can always blame Arne; people will sooner believe that. . . .”

  He had put a finger in her mouth, so she bit him with all her might, and Bentein screamed and loosened his grip. As quick as lightning Kristin pulled one hand free and shoved it into his face, pressing her thumb as hard as she could into his eye. He bellowed and got up on one knee. She wriggled free like a cat, pushed the priest so that he fell onto his back, and then ran off down the road as the mud spurted up behind her with
every step.

  She ran and ran without looking back. She heard Bentein coming after her, and she raced off with her heart pounding in her throat, as she moaned softly and peered ahead—would she never reach Laugarbru? At last Kristin came to the part of the road where it passed through the fields. She saw buildings clustered on the hillside, and suddenly realized that she didn’t dare go to her mother—not the way she looked, covered with mud and withered leaves from head to toe, her clothing torn.

  She could feel Bentein coming closer. She bent down and picked up two big rocks, and when he was near enough she threw them; one of them struck him so hard that it knocked him down. Then she started running again and didn’t stop until she stood on the bridge.

  Trembling, she stood there holding on to the railing; everything went black and she was afraid that she would sink into unconsciousness—but then she thought about Bentein. What if he came and found her like that? Shaking with shame and bitterness, she kept on going, but her legs could hardly bear her, and now she felt how her face stung from the scratches of his fingernails, and she had hurt both her back and her arms. Tears came, hot as fire.

  She wished Bentein would be dead from the rock she had thrown; she wished she had gone back and put an end to him, that she had taken out her knife, but she noticed that she must have lost it.

  Then she realized again that she dared not be seen like this at home; it occurred to her that she could go to Romundgaard. She would complain to Sira Eirik.

  But the priest had not yet returned from Jørundgaard. In the cookhouse she found Gunhild, Bentein’s mother. The woman was alone, and then Kristin told her how her son had behaved toward her. But she didn’t mention that she had gone out to meet Arne. When she realized that Gunhild thought she had been at Laugarbru, she didn’t dissuade her.

  Gunhild said very little but cried a great deal as she washed Kristin’s clothing and mended the worst rips. And the young girl was so distressed that she didn’t notice the glances Gunhild cast at her in secret.

  As Kristin was leaving, Gunhild put on her own cloak and followed her out the door, but then headed toward the stable. Kristin asked her where she was going.

  “Surely I should be allowed to ride over and tend to my son,” said the woman, “to see if you’ve killed him with that rock or what’s happened to him.”

  Kristin had nothing to say in reply, so she simply told Gunhild to make sure that Bentein left the village as soon as possible; she never wanted to lay eyes on him again. “Or I’ll speak of this to Lavrans, and then you can well imagine what will happen.”

  Bentein headed south hardly more than a week later; he carried letters to the Bishop of Hamar from Sira Eirik, asking the bishop if he could find some occupation for Bentein or give him some assistance.

  CHAPTER 7

  ONE DAY during the Christmas season, Simon Andressøn arrived at Jørundgaard on horseback, quite unexpected. He apologized for coming in this manner, uninvited and alone, without kinsmen, but Sir Andres was in Sweden on business for the king. He himself had been at home at Dyfrin for some time, but there he had only the company of his younger sisters and his mother, who was ill in bed, and the days had grown so dreary for him; he suddenly felt such an urge to come and see them.

  Ragnfrid and Lavrans thanked him warmly for making the long journey at the height of winter. The more they saw of Simon, the more they liked him. He was well acquainted with everything that had been agreed upon between Andres and Lavrans, and it was now decided that the betrothal ale for the young couple would be celebrated before the beginning of Lent, if Sir Andres returned home before then—otherwise, at Easter.

  Kristin was quiet and shy when she was with her betrothed; she found little to talk about with him. One evening when everyone had been sitting and drinking, Simon asked her to go outside with him to get some fresh air. As they stood on the gallery in front of the loft room, he put his arm around her waist and kissed her. After that, he did it often whenever they were alone. She wasn’t pleased by this, but she allowed him to do it because she knew there was no escape from the betrothal. Now she thought of her marriage as something she had to do, but not something that she looked forward to. And yet she liked Simon well enough, especially when he was talking to the others and did not touch her or speak to her.

  She had been so unhappy the entire autumn. It did no good to tell herself that Bentein had done her no harm; she felt herself defiled just the same.

  Nothing could be as it had been before, now that a man had dared to do such a thing to her. She lay awake at night, burning with shame, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She remembered Bentein’s body against hers when she fought with him, and his hot ale-breath. She was forced to think about what might have happened, and she was reminded, as a shudder rippled through her flesh, of what he had said: that if it could not be concealed, then Arne would be blamed. Images raced through her head of everything that would have followed if she had ended up in such misfortune and then people had found out about her meeting with Arne. And what if her mother and father had believed such a thing of Arne? And Arne himself . . . She saw him as he had looked on that last evening, and she felt as if she were sinking down before him in shame simply because she might have dragged him down along with her into sorrow and disgrace. And her dreams were so vile. She had heard about the desires and temptations of the flesh in church and in the Holy Scriptures, but it had meant nothing to her. Now it had become clear that she herself and everyone else had a sinful, fleshly body encompassing the soul, biting into it with harsh bands.

  Then she imagined how she might have killed Bentein or blinded him. That was the only consolation she could find—to indulge in dreams of revenge against that hideous dark figure who was always haunting her thoughts. But it never helped for long; she would lie next to Ulvhild at night and weep about everything that had been visited upon her by violence. In her mind, Bentein had managed to breach her maidenhood all the same.

  On the first workday after the Christmas season, all the women of Jørundgaard were busy in the cookhouse. Ragnfrid and Kristin had also spent most of the day there. Late in the evening, while some of the women were cleaning up after the baking and others were preparing the evening meal, the milkmaid came rushing in, screaming as she threw up her hands.

  “Jesus, Jesus—has anyone ever heard more dreadful news! They’re carrying Arne Gyrdsøn home in a sleigh—God help Gyrd and Inga in their misery.”

  In came a man who lived in a house a short way down the road, and with him was Halvdan. They were the ones who had met the funeral procession.

  The women crowded around them. On the very outskirts of the circle stood Kristin, pale and trembling. Halvdan, Lavrans’s own servant who had known Arne since he was a boy, sobbed loudly as he spoke.

  It was Bentein Prestesøn who had killed Arne. On New Year’s Eve the bishop’s men were sitting in the men’s house drinking, when Bentein came in. He had become a scribe for a priest, a Corpus Christi prebendary.1 At first the men didn’t want to let Bentein in, but he reminded Arne that they were from the same village. So Arne allowed him to sit with him, and they both began to drink. But then they came to blows, and Arne fought so fiercely that Bentein seized a knife from the table and stabbed Arne in the throat and then several times in the chest. Arne died almost at once.

  The bishop took this misfortune greatly to heart; he personally saw to it that the body was properly tended to, and he had his own men accompany it on the long journey home. He had Bentein thrown in irons and excommunicated from the Church, and if he had not already been hanged, then he soon would be.

  Halvdan had to tell the story several times as more people crowded into the room. Lavrans and Simon also came over to the cookhouse when they noticed all the noise and commotion in the courtyard. Lavrans was much distressed; he ordered his horse to be saddled, for he wanted to ride over to Brekken at once. As he was about to leave, his eyes fell on Kristin’s white face.

  “Perhaps you would l
ike to go with me?” he asked. Kristin hesitated for a moment, shuddering, but then she nodded, for she didn’t dare utter a word.

  “Isn’t it too cold for her?” said Ragnfrid. “Tomorrow they will hold the wake, and then we’ll all go.”

  Lavrans looked at his wife; he also glanced at Simon’s face, and then he went over and put his arm around Kristin’s shoulder.

  “You must remember that she’s his foster sister,” he said. “Perhaps she would like to help Inga attend to the body.”

  And even though Kristin’s heart was gripped with fear and despair, she felt a warm surge of gratitude toward her father for his words.

  Then Ragnfrid wanted them to eat the evening porridge before they left, if Kristin would be going along. She also wanted to send gifts to Inga—a new linen sheet, candles, and freshly baked bread. She asked them to tell Inga that she would come to help them prepare for the burial.

  Little was eaten but much was said in the room while the food stood on the table. One person reminded the other about the trials that God had visited upon Gyrd and Inga. Their farm had been destroyed by a rock slide and flood, and many of their older children had died, so all of Arne’s siblings were still quite young. But fortune had been with them for several years now, ever since the bishop had appointed Gyrd of Finsbrekken as his envoy, and the children they had been blessed to keep were good-looking and full of promise. But Inga had loved Arne more dearly than all the rest.

  People felt sorry for Sira Eirik too. The priest was loved and respected, and the people in the village were proud of him; he was well educated and capable, and in all his years with the Church he had not missed a single holy day or mass or service that he was obliged to observe. In his youth he had been a soldier under Count Alv of Tornberg, but he had brought trouble on himself by killing a man of exceedingly high birth, and so he had turned to the Bishop of Oslo. When the bishop realized how quick Eirik was to acquire book learning, he had accepted him into the priesthood. And if not for the fact that he still had enemies because of that killing in the past, Sira Eirik would probably never have stayed at that little church. It’s true that he was quite avaricious, both for his own purse and for his church. But the church was, after all, quite attractively furnished with vessels and draperies and books, and he did have those children—but he had never had anything but trouble and sorrow from his family. In the countryside people thought it unreasonable to expect priests to live like monks, since they had to have women servants on their farms and might well be in need of a woman to look after things for them when they had to make such long and arduous journeys through the parish in all kinds of weather. People also remembered that it was not so long ago that priests in Norway had been married men. So no one blamed Sira Eirik for having three children by the housekeeper who was with him when he was young. On this evening, however, they said that it looked as if God wanted to punish Eirik for taking a mistress, since his children and grandchildren had caused him so much grief. And some people said that there was good reason for priests not to have wives or children—for enmity and indignation were bound to arise between the priest and the people of Finsbrekken. Until now they had been the best of friends.