Kristin Lavransdatter

  No, God had not forsaken her. In His mercy, He had heard her cries for help when she called on Him, as she sank more and more into her misery—even when she called without believing she would be heard. It felt as if the black sea were rushing over her; now the waves lifted her toward a bliss so strange and so sweet that she knew it would carry her out of life.

  “Talk to me, Lavrans,” she implored him quietly. “I’m so tired.”

  Her husband whispered, “Venite ad me, omnes qui laborate et onerati estis. Ego reficiam vos1—the Lord has said.”

  He slipped one arm under her shoulder and pulled her close to his side. They lay there for a moment, cheek to cheek.

  Then she said softly, “Now I have asked the Mother of God to answer my prayer that I need not live long after you, my husband.”

  His lips and his lashes brushed her cheek in the darkness like the wings of a butterfly.

  “My Ragnfrid, my Ragnfrid.”

  CHAPTER 8

  KRISTIN STAYED HOME at Husaby during the autumn and winter with no wish to go anywhere; she blamed this on the fact that she was unwell. But she was simply tired. She had never felt so tired before in all her life. She was tired of merriment and tired of sorrow, and most of all tired of brooding.

  It would be better after she had this new child, she thought; and she felt such a fierce longing for it. It was the child that would save her. If it was a son and her father died before he was born, he would bear her father’s name. And she thought about how dearly she would love this child and nurse him at her own breast. It had been such a long time since she had had an infant, and she wept with longing whenever she thought about holding a tiny child in her arms again.

  She gathered her sons around her as she had in the past and tried to bring a little more discipline and order to their upbringing. She felt that in this way she was acting in accordance with her father’s wishes, and it seemed to give her soul some peace. Sira Eiliv had now begun to teach Naakkve and Bjørgulf reading and Latin, and Kristin often sat in the parsonage when the children went there for lessons. But they weren’t very eager pupils, and all the boys were unruly and wild except for Gaute, and so he continued to be his mother’s lap-child, as Erlend called him.

  Erlend had returned home from Denmark in high spirits around All Saints’ Day. He had been received with the greatest honor by the duke and by his kinswoman, Lady Ingebjørg. They had thanked him heartily for his gifts of furs and silver; he had ridden in a jousting tournament and hunted stag and deer. And when they parted, Sir Knut had given him a coal-black Spanish stallion, while Lady Ingebjørg had sent kind greetings along with two silver grey-hounds for his wife. Kristin thought these foreign dogs looked sly and treacherous, and she was afraid they would harm her children. And people all around were talking about the Castilian horse. Erlend looked good on the back of the long-legged, elegantly built horse, but animals like that were not suited to this country, and only God knew how the stallion would manage in the mountains. In the meantime, wherever he went in his district, Erlend would buy the most splendid of black mares, and he now had a herd that was beautiful in appearance, at any rate. Erlend Nikulaussøn usually gave his horses refined, foreign names, such as Belkolor and Bajard, but he said that this stallion was so magnificent that it didn’t need any further adornment, and he named it simply Soten.1

  Erlend was greatly annoyed that his wife refused to accompany him anywhere. He couldn’t see that she was ill; she neither swooned nor vomited this time, and it was not even visible that she was with child. And by constantly sitting indoors, brooding and worrying over his misdeeds, she had grown weary and pale. It was during the Christmas season that fierce quarrels erupted between them. But this time Erlend didn’t come and apologize for his bad temper, as he had in the past. Until now, whenever they had disagreements, he had always believed that he was to blame. Kristin was good, she was always right; if he felt uncomfortable and bored at home, then it must be because it was his nature to grow weary of what was good and right if he had too much of it. But this summer he had noticed more than once that his father-in-law had sided with him and seemed to think Kristin was lacking in wifely gentleness and tolerance. It occurred to him that she was overly sensitive about petty matters and reluctant to forgive him for minor offenses which he had committed with no ill intent. He would always beg her forgiveness after taking time to reflect, and she would say that she forgave him. But afterwards he could see that it was simply stored away, not forgotten.

  So Erlend spent much time away from home, and now he often took his daughter Margret along with him. The maiden’s upbringing had always been a source of disagreement between him and his wife. Kristin had never said a word about it, but Erlend knew quite well what she, and others, thought. He had treated Margret in all respects as his lawful child, and whenever she accompanied her father and stepmother everyone received her as if she were. At Ramborg’s wedding she had been one of the bridesmaids, wearing a golden wreath on her flowing hair. Many of the women didn’t approve, but Lavrans had persuaded them, and Simon had also said that no one should voice any objection to Erlend or say a word about it to the maiden. The lovely child was not to blame for her unfortunate birth.

  But Kristin knew that Erlend planned to marry Margret to a man of noble lineage. He thought that with his present position, he could succeed in arranging it, even though the maiden had been conceived in adultery and it would be difficult to gain for her a position that was firm and secure. It might have been possible if people had been convinced that Erlend was capable of preserving and increasing his power and wealth. But although he was well-liked and respected in many ways, no one truly believed that the prosperity at Husaby would last. So Kristin was afraid that it would be difficult for him to carry out his plans for Margret. Even though she was not particularly fond of Margret, Kristin felt sorry for the maiden and dreaded the day when the girl’s arrogant spirit might be broken—if she had to settle for a match that was much poorer than what her father had taught her to expect, and for circumstances that were quite different from what she had grown up with.

  Then, around Candlemas, three men came from Formo to Husaby; they had skied over the mountains to bring Erlend troubling news from Simon Andressøn. Simon wrote that their father-in-law was ill, and that he was not expected to live long. Lavrans wanted to ask Erlend to come to Sil, if he could; he wanted to speak to both of his sons-in-law about how everything should be arranged after his death.

  Erlend cast surreptitious glances at his wife. She was heavy with child now; her face was thin and quite pale. And she looked so unhappy, as if she might cry at any moment. Now he regretted his behavior toward her that winter; her father’s illness came as no surprise to her, and if she had been carrying such a secret sorrow, he would have to forgive her for being unreasonable.

  Alone he would be able to travel to Sil quite swiftly, if he skied over the mountains. But if he had to take along his wife, it would be a slow and difficult journey. And then he would have to wait until after the weapons-ting2 during Lent, and call meetings with his deputies first. There were also several meetings and tings that he would have to attend himself. Before they could leave, it would be dangerously close to the time when she would give birth—and Kristin couldn’t stand the sea, even when she was feeling well. But he didn’t dare think about her not being allowed to see her father before he died. That evening, after they had gone to bed, he asked his wife whether she dared make the journey.

  He felt rewarded as she wept in his arms, grateful and full of remorse for her unkindness toward him that winter. Erlend grew gentle and tender, as he always did whenever he had caused a woman sorrow and then was forced to see her struggle with her grief before his eyes. And he gave in to Kristin’s proposal with reasonable patience. He said at once that he wouldn’t take the children along. But Kristin replied that Naakkve was old enough now, and it would be good for him to witness his grandfather’s passing. Erlend said no. Then she thought that Ivar and Sk
ule were too young to be left in the care of the servant women. No, said Erlend. And Lavrans had grown so fond of Gaute. No, said Erlend again. It would be difficult enough, as things now stood with her—for Ragnfrid to have a nursemaid on the estate while she was tending to her husband on his sickbed, and for them to bring the newborn home again. Either Kristin would have to leave the child with foster parents on one of Lavrans’s farms, or she would have to stay at Jørundgaard until summer; but he would have to travel home before then. He went over all the plans, again and again, but he tried to make his voice calm and convincing.

  Then it occurred to him that he ought to bring a few things from Nidaros that his mother-in-law might need for the funeral feast: wine and wax, wheat flour and Paradise grains and the like. But at last they made their departure, reaching Jørundgaard on the day before Saint Gertrud’s Day.

  But this homecoming was much different for Kristin than she had imagined.

  She had to be grateful that she was given the chance to see her father again. When she thought about his joy at her arrival and how he had thanked Erlend for bringing her, then she was happy. But this time she felt shut out from so many things, and it was a painful feeling.

  It was less than a month before she would give birth, and Lavrans forbade her from lifting a hand to tend to him. She wasn’t allowed to keep watch over him at night with the others, and Ragnfrid wouldn’t hear of her offering the slightest help in spite of all the work to be done. She sat with her father during the day, but they were seldom alone together. Almost daily, guests would come to the manor; friends who wanted to see Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn one last time before he died. This pleased her father, although it made him quite weary. He would talk in a merry and hearty voice to everyone—women and men, poor and rich, young and old—thanking them for their friendship and asking for their prayers of intercession for his soul, and hoping that God might allow them to meet on the day of rejoicing. At night, when only his close family was with him, Kristin would lie in bed in the high loft, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep because she was thinking about her father’s passing and about the impetuousness and wickedness of her own heart.

  The end was coming quickly for Lavrans. He had held on to his strength until Ramborg gave birth to her child and Ragnfrid no longer needed to be at Formo so often. He had also had his servants take him over there one day so he could see his daughter and granddaughter. The little maiden had been christened Ulvhild. But then he took to his bed, and it was unlikely he would ever get up again.

  Lavrans lay in the hall of the high loft. They had made up a kind of bed for him on the high-seat bench, for he couldn’t bear to have his head raised; then he would grow dizzy at once and suffer fainting spells and heart spasms. They didn’t dare bleed him anymore; they had done it so often during the fall and winter that he was now quite lacking in blood, and he had little desire for food or drink.

  The handsome features of his face were now sharp, and the tan had faded from his once-fresh complexion; it was sallow like bone, and bloodless and pale around his lips and eyes. The thick blond hair with streaks of white was now untrimmed, lying withered and limp against the blue-patterned expanse of the pillow. But what had changed him most was the rough, gray beard now covering the lower half of his face and growing on his long, broad neck, where the sinews stood out like thick cords. Lavrans had always been meticulous about shaving before every holy day. His body was so gaunt that it was little more than a skeleton. But he said he felt fine as long as he lay flat and didn’t move. And he was always cheerful and happy.

  They slaughtered and brewed and baked for the funeral feast; they took out the bedclothes and mended them. Everything that could be done ahead of time was done now, so that there would be quiet when the last struggle came. It cheered Lavrans considerably to hear about these preparations. His last banquet would be far from the poorest to be held at Jørundgaard; in an honorable and worthy manner he was to take leave of his guardianship of the estate and his household. One day he wanted to have a look at the two cows that would be included in the funeral procession, to be given to Sira Eirik and Sira Solmund, and so they were led into the house. They had been fed extra fodder all winter long and were as splendid and fat as cows in the mountain pastures around Saint Olav’s Day, even though the valley was now in the midst of the spring shortages. He laughed the hardest every time one of the cows relieved itself on the floor.

  But he was afraid his wife was going to wear herself out. Kristin had considered herself a diligent housewife, and that was her reputation back home in Skaun, but she now thought that compared to her mother she was completely incompetent. No one understood how Ragnfrid managed to accomplish everything she did—and yet she never seemed to be absent for very long from her husband’s side; she also helped to keep watch at night.

  “Don’t think of me, husband,” she would say, putting her hand in his. “After you’re gone, you know that I’ll take a rest from all these toils.”

  Many years before, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn had purchased his resting place at the friars’ monastery in Hamar, and Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter would accompany his body there and then stay on. She would live on a corrody in a manor owned by the monks in town. But first the coffin would be carried to the church here at home, with splendid gifts for the church and the priests; Lavrans’s stallion would follow behind with his armor and weapons, and Erlend would then redeem them by paying forty-five marks of silver. One of his sons would be given the armor, preferably the child Kristin now carried, if it was a son. Perhaps there would be another Lavrans at Jørundgaard sometime in the future, said the ill man with a smile. On the journey south through Gudbrandsdal, the coffin would be carried into several more churches and stay there overnight; these would be remembered in Lavrans’s testament with gifts of money and candles.

  One day Simon mentioned that his father-in-law had bedsores, and he helped Ragnfrid to lift the sick man and tend to him.

  Kristin was in despair over her jealous heart. She could hardly bear to see her parents on such familiar terms with Simon An-dressøn. He felt at home at Jørundgaard in a way that Erlend never had. Almost every day his huge, sorrel-colored horse would be tied to the courtyard fence, and Simon would be sitting inside with Lavrans, wearing his hat and cape. He wasn’t intending to stay long. But a short time later he would appear in the doorway and yell to the servants to put his horse in the stable after all. He was acquainted with all of her father’s business affairs; he would get out the letter box and take out deeds and documents. He took care of chores for Ragnfrid, and he talked to the overseer about the management of the farm. Kristin thought to herself that her greatest desire had been for her father to be fond of Erlend, but the first time Lavrans had taken his side against her, she had responded at once in the worst possible manner.

  Simon Andressøn was deeply grieved that he would soon be parted from his wife’s father. But he felt such joy at the birth of his little daughter. Lavrans and Ragnfrid spoke often of little Ulvhild, and Simon could answer all their questions about the child’s welfare and progress. And here too Kristin felt jealousy sting her heart—Erlend had never taken that kind of interest in their children. At the same time, it seemed to her a bit laughable when this man with the heavy, reddish-brown face who was no longer young would sit and talk so knowledgeably about an infant’s stom achaches and appetite.

  One day Simon brought a sleigh to take her south to see her sister and niece.

  He had rebuilt the old, dark hearth house, where the women of Formo had gone for hundreds of years whenever they were going to give birth. The hearth had been thrown out and replaced with a stone fireplace, with a finely carved bed placed snugly against one side. On the opposite wall hung a beautiful carved image of the Mother of God, so that whoever lay in the bed could see it. Flagstones had been laid down, and a glass pane was put in the window; there were lovely, small pieces of furniture and new benches. Simon wanted Ramborg to have this house as her women’s room. Here she coul
d keep her things and invite other women in; and whenever there were banquets at the manor, the women could retire to this house if they grew uneasy when the men became overwhelmed by drink late in the evening.

  Ramborg was lying in bed, in honor of her guest. She had adorned herself with a silk wimple and a red gown trimmed across the breast with white fur. She had silk-covered pillows behind her back and a flowered, velvet coverlet on top of the bedclothes. In front of the bed stood Ulvhild Simonsdatter’s cradle. It was the old Swedish cradle that Ramborg Sunesdatter had brought to Norway, the same one in which Kristin’s father and grandfather, and she herself and all her siblings had slept. According to custom, she, as the eldest daughter, should have had the cradle as part of her dowry, but it had never been mentioned at the time she was married. She thought that her parents had purposely forgotten about the cradle. Didn’t they think the children she and Erlend would have were worthy to sleep in it?

  After that, she refused to go back to Formo, saying that she didn’t have the strength.

  And Kristin did feel ill, but this was from sorrow and her anguished soul. She couldn’t hide from herself that the longer she stayed at home, the more painful it felt. That was just her nature: it hurt her to see that now, as her father approached his death, it was his wife who was closest to him.

  She had always heard people praise her parents’ life together as an exemplary marriage, beautiful and noble, with harmony, loyalty, and good will. But she had felt, without thinking too closely about it, that there was something that kept them apart—some indefinable shadow that made their life at home subdued, even though it was calm and pleasant. Now there was no longer any shadow between her parents. They talked to each other calmly and quietly, mostly about small, everyday matters; but Kristin sensed there was something new in their eyes and in the tone of their voices. She could see that her father missed his wife whenever she was somewhere else. If he managed to convince her to take a rest, he would lie in bed, fidgeting and waiting; when Ragnfrid came back, it was as if she brought peace and joy to the ill man. One day Kristin heard them talking about their dead children, and yet they looked happy. When Sira Eirik came over to read to Lavrans, Ragnfrid would always sit with them. Then he would take his wife’s hand and lie there, playing with her fingers and twisting her rings around.