Audun walked past with his candle and bell, which rang faintly and gently. Behind him rode Sira Eirik. With his hands he lifted the Host vessel high as he came upon the kneeling man, but he did not turn his head; he rode silently past as Lavrans bowed down and raised his hands in greeting to his Savior.
That was the son of Einar Hnufa with the priest—it must be nearing the end for the old man now. Ah well. Lavrans said his prayers for the dying man before he stood up and walked back home. The meeting with God in the night had nevertheless strengthened and consoled him a great deal.
When they had gone to bed, Lavrans asked his wife, “Did you know anything about this—that things were such with Kristin?”
“Didn’t you?” said Ragnfrid.
“No,” replied her husband so curtly that she could tell he must have been thinking of it all the same.
“I was indeed fearful for a time this past summer,” said the mother hesitantly. “I could see that she took no pleasure in her food. But as the days passed, I thought I must have been mistaken. She seemed so happy during all the time we were preparing for her wedding.”
“Well, she certainly had good reason for that,” said the father with some disdain. “But that she said nothing to you. . . . You, her own mother . . .”
“Yes, you think of that now when she’s gone astray,” said Ragnfrid bitterly. “But you know quite well that Kristin has never confided in me.”
Lavrans said no more. A little later he bade his wife sleep well and then lay down quietly. He realized that sleep would not come to him for some time.
Kristin, Kristin—his poor little maiden.
Not with a single word had he ever referred to what Ragnfrid had confessed to him on the night of Kristin’s wedding. And in all fairness she couldn’t say he had made her feel it was on his mind. He had been no different in his demeanor toward her—rather, he had striven to show her even more kindness and love. But it was not the first time this winter he had noticed the bitterness in Ragnfrid or seen her searching for some hidden offense in the innocent words he had spoken. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t know what to do about it—he would simply have to accept it.
“Our Father who art in Heaven . . .” He prayed for Kristin and her child. Then he prayed for his wife and for himself. Finally, he prayed for the strength to tolerate Erlend Nikulaussøn with a patient spirit for as long as he was forced to have his son-in-law there on his estate.
Lavrans would not allow his daughter’s husband to set off for home until they saw how his wrist was healing. And he refused to let Erlend go back alone.
“Kristin would be pleased if you came with me,” said Erlend one day.
Lavrans was silent for a moment. Then he voiced many objections. Ragnfrid would undoubtedly not like to be left alone on the farm. And once he had journeyed so far north, it would be difficult to return in time for spring planting. But in the end he set off with Erlend. He took no servant along—he would travel home by ship to Raumsdal. There he could hire horses to carry him south through the valley; he knew people everywhere along the way.
They talked little as they skied, but they got along well together. It was a struggle for Lavrans to keep up with his companion; he didn’t want to admit that his son-in-law went too fast for him. But Erlend took note of this and at once adapted his pace to his father-in-law’s. He went to great lengths to charm his wife’s father—and he had that quiet, gentle manner whenever he wished to win someone’s friendship.
On the third evening they sought shelter in a stone hut. They had had bad weather and fog, but Erlend seemed to be able to find his way just as confidently. Lavrans noticed that Erlend had an astoundingly accurate knowledge of all signs and tracks, in the air and on the ground, and of the ways of animals and their habits—and he always seemed to know where he was. Everything that Lavrans, experienced in the mountains as he was, had learned by observing and paying attention and remembering, the other man seemed to intuit quite blindly. Erlend laughed at this, but it was simply something he knew.
They found the stone hut in the dark, exactly at the moment Erlend had predicted. Lavrans recalled one such night when he had dug himself a shelter in the snow only an arrow’s shot away from his own horse shed. Here the snow had drifted up over the hut and they had to break their way in through the smoke vent. Erlend covered the opening with a horsehide that was lying in the hut, fastening it with sticks of firewood, which he stuck in among the roof beams. With a ski he cleared away the snow that had blown inside and managed to build a fire in the hearth from the frozen wood lying about. He pulled out three or four grouse from under the bench—he had put them there on his way south. He packed them in earth from the floor where it had thawed out around the hearth and then threw the bundles into the embers.
Lavrans stretched out on the earthen bench, which Erlend had prepared for him as best he could, spreading out their knapsacks and capes.
“That’s what soldiers do with stolen chickens, Erlend,” he said with a laugh.
“Yes, I learned a few things when I was in the Earl’s service,” said Erlend, laughing too.
Now he was alert and lively, not silent and rather sluggish the way his father-in-law had most often seen him. As he sat on the floor in front of Lavrans, he started telling stories about the years when he served Earl Jacob in Halland.1 He had been head of the castle guard, and he had patrolled the coast with three small ships. Erlend’s eyes shone like a child’s—he wasn’t boasting, he merely let the words spill out. Lavrans lay there looking down at him.
He had prayed to God to grant him patience with this man, his daughter’s husband. Now he was almost angry with himself because he was more fond of Erlend than he wanted to be. He thought about that night when their church burned down and he had taken a liking to his son-in-law. It was not that Erlend lacked manhood in his lanky body. Lavrans felt a stab of pain in his heart. It was a pity about Erlend; he could have been fit for better things than seducing women. But nothing much had come of that except boyish pranks. If only times had been such that a chieftain could have taken this man in hand and put him to use . . . but as the world was now, when every man had to depend on his own judgment about so many things . . . and a man in Erlend’s circumstances was supposed to make decisions for himself and for the welfare of many other people. And this was Kristin’s husband.
Erlend looked up at his father-in-law. He grew somber too. Then he said, “I want to ask one thing, Lavrans. Before we reach my home, I’d like you to tell me what is in your heart.”
Lavrans was silent.
“You must know,” said Erlend in the same tone of voice, “that I would gladly fall at your feet in whatever manner you wish and make amends in whatever way you deem a fitting punishment for me.”
Lavrans looked down into the younger man’s face; then he smiled oddly.
“That might be difficult, Erlend—for me to decide and for you to do. But now you must make a proper gift to the church at Sundbu and to the priests, whom you have also deceived,” he said adamantly. “I will speak no more of this! And you cannot blame it on your youth. It would have been much more honorable, Erlend, if you had fallen at my feet before you held your wedding.”
“Yes,” said Erlend. “But at the time I didn’t know how things stood, or that it would come to light that I had offended you.”
Lavrans sat up.
“Didn’t you know, when you were wed, that Kristin . . .”
“No,” said Erlend, looking crestfallen. “We were married for almost two months before I realized it.”
Lavrans gave him a look of surprise but said nothing.
Then Erlend spoke again, his voice low and unsteady, “I’m glad that you came with me, Father-in-law. Kristin has been so melancholy all winter—she has hardly said a word to me. Many times it seemed to me that she was unhappy, both with Husaby and with me.”
Lavrans replied somewhat coldly and harshly, “That’s no doubt the way things are with most young wives
. Now that she’s well again, you two will probably be just as good friends as you were before.” And he smiled a little mockingly.
But Erlend sat and stared into the glowing embers. He suddenly understood with certainty—but he had realized it from the moment he first saw the tiny red infant face pressed against Kristin’s white shoulder. It would never be the same between them, the way it had been before.
When Kristin’s father stepped inside the little house, she sat up in bed and held out her hands toward him. She threw her arms around his shoulders and wept and wept, until Lavrans grew quite alarmed.
She had been out of bed for some time, but then she learned that Erlend had set off for Gudbrandsdal alone, and when he failed to return home for days on end, she grew so anxious that she developed a fever. And she had to go back to bed.
It was apparent that she was still weak—she wept at everything. The new manor priest,2 Sira Eiliv Serkssøn, had arrived while Erlend was away. He had taken it upon himself to visit the mistress now and then to read to her, but she wept over such unreasonable things that soon he didn’t know what he dared let her hear.
One day when her father was sitting with her, Kristin wanted to change the child herself so that he could see how handsome and well-formed the boy was. He lay naked on the swaddling clothes, kicking on the wool coverlet in front of his mother.
“What kind of a mark is that on his chest?” asked Lavrans.
Right over his heart the child had several little blood-red flecks; it looked as if a bloody hand had touched the boy there. Kristin had been distressed by it too, the first time she saw this mark. But she had tried to console herself, and she said now, “It’s probably just a fire mark—I put my hand to my breast when I saw the church was burning.”
Her father gave a start. Well. He hadn’t known how long—or how much—she had kept to herself. And he couldn’t understand that she had had the strength—his own child, and from him . . .
* * *
“I don’t think you’re truly fond of my son,” Kristin said to her father many times, and Lavrans would laugh a bit and say of course he was. He had also placed an abundance of gifts both in the cradle and in the mother’s bed. But Kristin didn’t think anyone cared enough for her son—least of all Erlend. “Look at him, Father,” she would beg. “Did you see he was laughing? Have you ever seen a more beautiful child than Naakkve, Father?”
She asked this same thing over and over. Once Lavrans said, as if in thought, “Haavard, your brother—our second son—was a very handsome child.”
After a moment Kristin asked in a timid voice, “Was he the one who lived the longest of my brothers?”
“Yes. He was two winters old. Now you mustn’t cry again, my Kristin,” he said gently.
Neither Lavrans nor Gunnulf Nikulaussøn liked the fact that the boy was called Naakkve; he had been baptized Nikulaus. Erlend maintained that it was the same name, but Gunnulf disagreed; there were men in the sagas who had been called Naakkve since heathen times. But Erlend still refused to use the name that his father had borne. And Kristin always called the boy by the name Erlend had spoken when he first greeted their son.
In Kristin’s view there was only one person at Husaby, aside from herself, who fully realized what a splendid and promising child Naakkve was. That was the new priest, Sira Eiliv. In that way, he was nearly as sensible as she was.
Sira Eiliv was a short, slight man with a little round belly, which gave him a somewhat comical appearance. He was exceedingly nondescript; people who had spoken to him many times had trouble recognizing the priest, so ordinary was his face. His hair and complexion were the same color—like reddish-yellow sand—and his round, watery blue eyes were quite dull. In manner he was subdued and diffident, but Master Gunnulf said that Sira Eiliv was so learned that he could have attained high standing if only he had not been so unassuming. But he was far less marked by his learning than by pure living, humility, and a deep love for Christ and his Church.
He was of low birth, and although he was not much older than Gunnulf Nikulaussøn, he seemed almost like an old man. Gunnulf had known him ever since they went to school together in Nidaros, and he always spoke of Eiliv Serkssøn with great affection. Erlend didn’t think it was much of a priest they had been given at Husaby, but Kristin immediately felt great trust and affection for him.
Kristin continued to live in the little house with her child, even after she had made her first visit back to church. That was a bleak day for Kristin. Sira Eiliv escorted her through the church door, but he didn’t dare give her the body of Christ. She had confessed to him, but for the sin that she had committed when she became implicated in another person’s ill-fated death, she would have to seek absolution from the archbishop. That morning when Gunnulf had sat with Kristin, her spirit in anguish, he had impressed upon her heart that as soon as she was out of any physical danger, she must rush to seek redemption for her soul. As soon as she had regained her health, she must keep her promise to Saint Olav. Now that he, through his intercession, had brought her son, healthy and alive, into the light and to the baptismal font, she must walk barefoot to his grave and place there her golden crown, the honored adornment of maidens, which she had guarded so poorly and unjustly worn. And Gunnulf had advised her to prepare for the journey with solitude, prayers, reading, meditation, and even fasting, although with moderation for the sake of the nursing child.
That evening as she sat in sorrow after going to church, Gunnulf had come to her and given her a Pater noster rosary. He told her that in countries abroad, cloister folk and priests were not the only ones who used these kinds of beads to help them with their devotions. This rosary was extremely beautiful; the beads were made of a type of yellow wood from India that smelled so sweet and wondrous they might almost serve as a reminder of what a good prayer ought to be—a sacrifice of the heart and a yearning for help in order to live a righteous life before God. In between there were beads of amber and gold, and the cross was painted with a lovely enamel.
Erlend would give his young wife a look full of longing whenever he met her out in the courtyard. She had never been as beautiful as she was now—tall and slender in her simple, earth-brown dress of undyed homespun. The coarse linen wimple covering her hair, neck, and shoulders merely showed even more how glowing and pure her complexion had become. When the spring sun fell on her face, it was as if the light were seeping deep into her flesh, so radiant she was—her eyes and lips were almost transparent. When he went into the little house to see the child, she would lower her great pale eyelids if he glanced at her. She seemed so modest and pure that he hardly dared touch her hand with his fingers. If she had Naakkve at her breast, she would pull a corner of her wimple over the tiny glimpse of her white body. It seemed as if they were trying to send his wife away from him to heaven.
Then he would joke, half-angrily, with his brother and father-in-law as they sat in the hall in the evening—just men. Husaby had practically become a collegial church. Here sat Gunnulf and Sira Eiliv; his father-in-law could be considered a half-priest, and now they wanted to turn him into one too. There would be three priests on the estate. But the others laughed at him.
During the spring Erlend Nikulaussøn supervised much of the farming on his manor. That year all the fences were mended and the gates were put up in good time; the plowing and spring farm work were done early and properly, and Erlend purchased excellent livestock. At the new year he had been forced to slaughter a great many animals, but this was not a bad loss, as old and wretched as they were. He set the servants to burning tar and stripping off birch bark, and the farm’s buildings were put in order and the roofs repaired. Such things had not been done at Husaby since old Sir Nikulaus had had his full strength. And he also sought advice and support from his wife’s father—people knew that. Amidst all this work Erlend would visit friends and kinsmen in the villages along with Lavrans and his brother, the priest. But now he traveled in a suitable manner, with a couple of fit and proper serv
ants. In the past, Erlend had been in the habit of riding around with an entire entourage of undisciplined and rowdy men. The gossip, which had for so long seethed with indignation at Erlend Nikulaussøn’s shameless living and the disarray and decline at Husaby, now died down to a good-natured teasing. People smiled and said that Erlend’s young wife had achieved a great deal in six months.
Shortly before Saint Botolv’s Day, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn left for Nidaros, accompanied by Master Gunnulf. Lavrans was to be the priest’s guest for several days while he visited Saint Olav’s shrine and the other churches in town before starting his journey south to return home. He parted from his daughter and her husband with love and kindness.
CHAPTER 6
KRISTIN WAS TO go to Nidaros three days after the Selje Men’s Feast Day. Later in the month the frenzy and tumult in town would have already started as Saint Olav’s Day neared, and before that time the archbishop was not in residence.
The evening before, Master Gunnulf came to Husaby, and very early the next morning he went with Sira Eiliv to the church for matins. The dew, gray as a pelt, covered the grass as Kristin walked to church, but the sun was gilding the forest at the top of the ridge, and the cuckoo was singing on the grassy mountainside. It looked as if she would have beautiful weather for her journey.
There was no one in the church except Erlend and his wife and the priests in the illuminated choir. Erlend looked at Kristin’s bare feet. It must be ice cold for her to be standing on the stone floor. She would have to walk twenty miles with no escort but her prayers. He tried to lift his heart toward God, which he had not done in many years.
Kristin was wearing an ash-gray robe with a rope around her waist. Underneath he knew that she wore a shift of rough sack-cloth. A homespun cloth, tightly bound, hid her hair.