They sat down and talked for a while, but it seemed as if Gunnulf had also forgotten how to speak. He mentioned this himself before they left.
“But you, Erlend, you are just the same—you don’t seem to have aged at all,” he said with a little smile.
Kristin knew that she looked miserable at the moment, while Erlend was so handsome as he stood there, tall and slender and dark and well-dressed. And yet Kristin knew in her heart that he too had been greatly changed. It was odd that Gunnulf couldn’t see it; he had always been so sharp-sighted in the past.
One day late in the summer Kristin was up in the clothing loft, and Fru Gunna of Raasvold was with her. She had come to Husaby to help Kristin when she once again gave birth. They could hear Naakkve and Bjørgulf singing down in the courtyard as they sharpened their knives—a lewd and vulgar ballad which they sang at the top of their lungs.
Their mother was beside herself with rage as she went downstairs to speak to her sons in the harshest words. She wanted to know who had taught the boys the song—it must have been in the servants’ hall, but who among the men would teach children such a song? The boys refused to answer. Then Skule appeared beneath the loft steps; he told his mother she might as well stop asking, because they had learned the ballad from listening to their father sing it.
Fru Gunna joined in: Had they no fear of God that they would sing such a song? Especially now that they couldn’t be sure, when they went to bed at night, whether they might be motherless before the roosters crowed? Kristin didn’t reply but went quietly back into the house.
Later, after she had taken to her bed to rest, Naakkve came into the room to see her. He took his mother’s hand but did not speak, and then he began to weep softly. She talked to him gently, jesting and begging him not to grieve or cry. She had made it through six times before; surely she would make it through the seventh. But the boy wept harder and harder. Finally she allowed him to crawl into the bed between her and the wall, and there he lay, sobbing, with his arms around her neck and his head pressed to his mother’s breast. But she couldn’t get him to tell her what he was crying about, even though he stayed with her until the servants began carrying in the evening meal.
Naakkve was now twelve years old. He was big for his age and tried to affect a manly and grown-up bearing, but he had a gentle soul, and his mother could sometimes see that he was very childish. But he was old enough to understand the misfortune that had befallen his half-sister; Kristin wondered whether he could also see that his father was different afterwards.
Erlend had always been the kind of man who could say the worst things when his temper was aroused, but in the past he had never said an unkind word to anyone except in anger, and he had been quick to make amends when his own good humor was restored. Nowadays he could say harsh and ugly things with a cold expression on his face. Before, he used to curse and swear fiercely, but to some extent he had put aside this bad habit when he saw that it bothered his wife and offended Sira Eiliv, for whom he had gradually developed great respect. But he had never been rude or spoken in a vulgar manner, and he had never approved when other men talked that way. In that sense, he was much more modest than many a man who had lived a purer life. As much as it offended Kristin to hear such a song on the lips of her innocent sons, especially in her present condition, and then to hear they had learned it from their father, there was something else that gave her an even more bitter taste in her mouth. She realized that Erlend was still childish enough to think that he could counter cruelty with cruelty since, after suffering the shame of his daughter, he had now begun to use foul words and speak in an offensive manner.
Fru Gunna had told her that Margret had given birth to a stillborn son shortly before Saint Olav’s Day. She also knew that Margret already seemed to have found ample consolation; she got on well with Gerlak, and he was kind to her. Erlend went to see his daughter whenever he was in Nidaros, and Gerlak always made a great fuss over his father-in-law, although Erlend was not particularly willing to accept this man as his kinsman. But Erlend had not once mentioned his daughter at Husaby since she had left the manor.
Kristin gave birth to another son; he was baptized Munan, after Erlend’s grandfather. During the time she lay in the little house, Naakkve came to see his mother daily, bringing her berries and nuts he had picked in the woods, or wreaths he had woven from medicinal herbs. Erlend returned home when the new child was three weeks old. He often sat with his wife and tried to be gentle and loving—and this time he didn’t complain that the infant was not a maiden or that the boy was weak and frail. But Kristin said very little in response to his warm words; she was silent and pensive and despondent, and this time she was slow to recover her health.
All winter long Kristin was ailing, and it seemed unlikely that the child would survive. The mother had little thought for anything but the poor infant. For this reason she listened with only half an ear to all the talk of the great news that was heard that winter. King Magnus had fallen into the worst financial straits through his attempts to win sovereignty over Skaane, and he had demanded assistance and taxes from Norway. Some of the noblemen of the Council seemed willing enough to support him in this matter. But when the king’s envoys came to Tunsberg, the royal treasurer was away, and Stig Haakonssøn, who was the chieftain of Tunsberg Fortress, barred the king’s men from entering and made ready to defend the stronghold with force. He had few men of his own, but Erling Vidkunssøn, who was his uncle through marriage and was at home on his estate at Aker, sent forty armed men to the fortress while he himself sailed west. At about the same time the king’s cousins, Jon and Sigurd Haftorssøn, threatened to oppose the king because of a court ruling that had gone against some of their men.
Erlend laughed at all this and said the Haftorssøns had shown their youth and stupidity in this matter. Discontent with King Magnus was not rampant in Norway. The noblemen were demanding that a regent be placed in charge of the kingdom and that the royal seal be given to a Norwegian man for safekeeping, since the king, because of his dealings in Skaane, seemed to want to spend most of his time in Sweden. The townsmen and the clergy of the towns had become frightened by rumors of the king’s loans from the German city-states. The insolence of the Germans and their disregard for Norwegian laws and customs were already more than could be tolerated. And now it was said that the king had promised them even greater rights and freedoms in Norwegian towns, and this would make it impossible to bear for the Norwegian traders, who already had difficult conditions. Among the peasantry the rumor of King Magnus’s secret sin still held sway, and many of the parish priests in the countryside and the wandering monks were agreed about at least one thing: They believed this was the reason that Saint Olav’s Church in Nidaros had burned. The farmers also blamed this sin for the many misfortunes that had befallen one village after another over the past few years: sickness in the livestock, blight in the crops, which brought illness and disease to both people and beasts, and poor harvests of grain and hay. Erlend said that if the Haftorssøns had been wise enough to hold their peace a little longer and acquire a reputation for amenable and chieftainlike conduct, then people might have remembered that they too were grandsons of King Haakon.
Eventually this unrest died down, but the result was that the king appointed Ivar Ogmundssøn as lord chancellor in Norway. Erling Vidkunssøn, Stig Haakonssøn, the Haftorssøns, and all their supporters were threatened with charges of treason. Then they yielded and came to make peace with the king. There was a powerful man from the Uplands whose name was Ulf Saksesøn; he had taken part in the Haftorssøns’ opposition, and he did not make peace with the king but came instead to Nidaros after Christmas. He spent a good deal of time with Erlend in town, and from him the people of the north heard about the matters, as Ulf perceived them. Kristin had a great dislike for this man; she didn’t know him, but she knew his sister Helga Saksesdatter, who was married to Gyrd Darre of Dyfrin. She was beautiful but exceedingly arrogant, and Simon didn’t care for h
er either, although Ramborg got along well with her. Soon after the beginning of Lent, letters arrived for the sheriffs stating that Ulf Saksesøn was to be declared an outlaw at the tings, but by that time he had already sailed away from Norway in midwinter.
That spring Erlend and Kristin were staying at their town estate during Easter, and they had brought their youngest son, Munan, with them because there was a sister at the Bakke convent who was so skilled in healing that every sick child she touched regained health, as long it was not God’s wish for the child to die.
One day shortly after Easter, Kristin came home from the convent with the infant. The manservant and maid who had accompanied her came with her into the house. Erlend was alone, lying on one of the benches. After the manservant left, and the women had taken off their cloaks, Kristin sat near the hearth with the child while the maid heated some oil which the nun had given them. Then Erlend asked from his place on the bench what Sister Ragnhild had said about the boy. Kristin replied brusquely to his questions as she unwrapped the swaddling clothes; finally she stopped talking altogether.
“Are things so bad with the boy, Kristin, that you don’t want to tell me?” he asked with some impatience.
“You’ve asked the same things before, Erlend,” replied his wife in a cold voice. “And I’ve answered you many times. But since you care so little about the boy that you can’t remember from one day to the next . . .”
“It has also happened to me, Kristin,” said Erlend as he stood up and went over to her, “that I’ve had to give you the same answer two or three times to some question you’ve asked me because you didn’t bother to remember what I’d said.”
“It was probably not about such important matters as the children’s health,” she said in the same cold voice.
“But it wasn’t about petty things, either, this past winter. They were matters that weighed heavily on my mind.”
“That’s not true, Erlend. It’s been a long time since you talked to me about those things that were most on your mind.”
“Leave us now, Signe,” said Erlend to the maid. His brow was flushed red as he turned to his wife. “I know what you’re referring to. But I won’t speak to you about that as long as your maid might hear me—even though you’re such good friends with her that you think it a small matter for her to be present when you start a quarrel with your husband and say I’m not speaking the truth.”
“One learns least from the people one lives with,” said Kristin curtly.
“It’s not easy to understand what you mean by that. I’ve never spoken unkindly to you in the presence of strangers or forgotten to show you honor and respect in front of our servants.”
Kristin burst into an oddly desolate and quavering laugh.
“You forget so well, Erlend! Ulf Haldorssøn has lived with us all these years. Don’t you remember when you had him and Haftor bring me to you in the bedchamber of Brynhild’s house in Oslo?”
Erlend sank down onto the bench, staring at his wife with his mouth agape.
But she continued, “You never thought it necessary to conceal from your servants all that was improper or disrespectful here at Husaby, or anywhere else—whether it was something shameful for yourself or for your wife.”
Erlend stayed where he was, looking at her aghast.
“Do you remember that first winter of our marriage? I was carrying Naakkve, and as things stood, it seemed likely that it would be difficult for me to demand obedience and respect from my household. Do you remember how you supported me? Do you remember when your foster father visited us with women guests we didn’t know, and his maids and serving men, and our own servants, sat across the table from us? Do you remember how Munan pulled from me every shred of dignity I might use to hide behind, and you sat there meekly and dared not stop his speech?”
“Jesus! Have you been brooding about this for fifteen years?” Then he looked up at her—his eyes seemed such a strange pale blue, and his voice was faltering and helpless. “And yet, my Kristin—it doesn’t seem to me that the two of us say unkind or harsh words to each other. . . .”
“No,” said Kristin, “and that’s why it cut even deeper into my heart that time during the Christmas celebration when you railed at me because I had spread my cape over Margret, while women from three counties stood around and listened.”
Erlend did not reply.
“And yet you blame me for the way things went with Margret, but every time I tried to reprimand her with even a single word, she would run to you, and you would tell me sternly to leave the maiden in peace—she was yours and not mine.”
“Blame you? No, I don’t,” Erlend said with difficulty, struggling hard to speak calmly. “If one of our children had been a daughter, then you might have better understood how this matter of my daughter . . . it stabs a father to the very marrow.”
“I thought I showed you this spring that I understood,” said his wife softly. “I only had to think of my own father. . . .”
“All the same, this was much worse,” said Erlend, his voice still calm. “I was an unmarried man. This man . . . was married. I was not bound. At least,” he corrected himself, “I wasn’t bound in such a way that I couldn’t free myself.”
“And yet you didn’t free yourself,” said Kristin. “Don’t you remember how it came about that you were freed?”
Erlend leaped to his feet and slapped her face. Then he stood staring at her in horror. A red patch appeared on her white cheek, but she sat rigid and motionless, her eyes hard. The child began to cry in fright; she rocked him gently in her arms, hushing him.
“That . . . was a vile thing to say, Kristin,” said her husband uncertainly.
“The last time you struck me,” she answered in a low voice, “I was carrying your child under my heart. Now you hit me as I hold your son on my lap.”
“Yes, we keep having all these children,” he shouted impatiently.
They both fell silent. Erlend began swiftly pacing back and forth. She carried the child over to the alcove and put him on the bed; when she reappeared in the alcove doorway, he stopped in front of her.
“I . . . I shouldn’t have struck you, my Kristin. I wish I hadn’t done it. I’ll probably regret it for as long as I regretted it the first time. But you . . . you’ve told me before that you think I forget things too quickly. But you never forget—not a single injustice I might have done you. I’ve tried . . . tried to be a good husband to you, but you don’t seem to think that worth remembering. You . . . you’re so beautiful, Kristin . . .” He gazed after her as she walked past him.
Oh, his wife’s quiet and dignified bearing was as lovely as the willowy grace of the young maiden had been; she was wider in the bosom and hips, but she was also taller. She held herself erect, and her neck bore the small, round head as proudly and beautifully as ever. Her pale, remote face with the dark-gray eyes stirred and excited him as much as her round, rosy child’s face had stirred and excited his restless soul with its wondrous calm. He went over and took her hand.
“For me, Kristin, you will always be the most beautiful of women, and the most dear.”
She allowed him to hold her hand but didn’t squeeze his in return. Then he flung it aside; rage overcame him once again.
“You say I’ve forgotten. That may not always be the worst of sins. I’ve never pretended to be a pious man, but I remember what I learned from Sira Jon when I was a child, and God’s servants have reminded me of it since. It’s a sin to brood over and dwell on the sins we have confessed to the priest and repented before God, receiving His forgiveness through the hand and the words of the priest. And it’s not out of piety, Kristin, that you’re constantly tearing open these old sins of ours—you want to hold the knife to my throat every time I oppose you in some way.”
He walked away and then came back.
“Domineering . . . God knows that I love you, Kristin, even though I can see how domineering you are, and you’ve never forgiven me for the injustice I did to you
or for luring you astray. I’ve tolerated a great deal from you, Kristin, but I will no longer tolerate the fact that I can never have peace from these old misfortunes, nor that you speak to me as if I were your thrall.”
Kristin was trembling with fury when she spoke.
“I’ve never spoken to you as if you were my thrall. Have you ever heard me speak harshly or in anger to anyone who might be considered lesser than me, even if it was the most incompetent or worthless of our household servants? I know that before God I am free of the sin of offending His poor in either word or deed. But you’re supposed to be my lord; I’m supposed to obey and honor you, bow to you and lean on you, next to God, in accordance with God’s laws, Erlend! And if I’ve lost patience and talked to you in a manner unbefitting a wife speaking to her husband—then it’s because many times you’ve made it difficult for me to surrender my ignorance to your better understanding, to honor and obey my husband and lord as much as I would have liked. And perhaps I had expected that you . . . perhaps I thought I could provoke you into showing me that you were a man and I was only a poor woman. . . .
“But you needn’t worry, Erlend. I will not offend you again with my words, and from this day forward, I will never forget to speak to you as gently as if you were descended from thralls.”
Erlend’s face had flushed dark red. He raised his fist at her, then turned swiftly on his heel, grabbed his cape and sword from the bench near the door, and rushed out.
It was sunny outside, with a piercing wind. The air was cold, but glistening particles of thawing ice sprayed over him from the building eaves and from the swaying tree branches. The snow on the rooftops gleamed like silver, and beyond the black-green, forested slopes surrounding the town, the mountain peaks sparkled icy blue and shiny white in the sharp, dazzling light of the wintry spring day.