“Kristin, in the name of Jesus!”
When he grasped her arms and tried to console her, she threw her full weight against his chest and put her arms around his neck, as she continued to weep and call out her husband’s name.
“Kristin—calm yourself. . . .” He crushed her in his arms but saw that she took no notice; she was crying so hard that she couldn’t stand on her own. Then he lifted her in his arms—held her tight for a moment, and then carried her over to the bed and laid her down.
“Calm yourself,” he again implored, his voice stifled and almost threatening. He placed his hands over her face, and she took hold of his wrists and arms and then clung to him.
“Simon . . . Simon . . . oh, he must be saved. . . .”
“I’ll do what I can, Kristin. But now you must calm yourself!” Abruptly he turned away, walked to the door, and went out. He shouted so loudly that his voice echoed between the buildings; he called for the serving maid Kristin had hired in Oslo. She came running, and Simon told her to go in to her mistress. A moment later the girl came back out—her mistress wanted to be left alone, she fearfully told Simon; he hadn’t moved from the spot where he stood.
He nodded and went over to the stable, staying there until his servant Gunnar and Ulf Haldorssøn came out to give the horses their evening fodder. Simon began talking with them and then went with Ulf back to the main house.
Kristin saw little of her brother-in-law the following day. But after mid-afternoon prayers, as she sat and sewed on a garment she was going to take to her husband, Simon came dashing into the room. He didn’t speak to her or look at her; he merely threw open his traveling chest, filled his silver goblet with wine, and left. Kristin stood up and followed. Outside the main door stood a stranger, still holding the reins of his horse. Simon took a gold ring off his finger, tossed it into the goblet, and drank a toast to the messenger.
Kristin guessed what the news was and shouted joyfully, “You’ve been given a son, Simon!”
“Yes.” He slapped the messenger on the shoulder as the man uttered his thanks and tucked the goblet and ring under his belt. Then Simon put his arm around the waist of his wife’s sister and spun her around. He looked so happy that Kristin had to put her hands on his shoulders; then he kissed her full on the mouth and laughed loudly.
“I see it will be the Darre lineage, after all, that will live on at Formo after you’re gone, Simon,” she said joyously.
“So be it . . . if God wills.”
When Kristin asked him if they should go to evensong together, he replied, “No, tonight I want to go alone.”
That evening he told Kristin he had heard that Erling Vidkuns søn was supposed to be at his manor, Aker, near Tunsberg. Earlier in the day Simon had booked passage on a ship down the fjord; he wanted to talk to Sir Erling about Erlend’s case.
Kristin said very little. They had mentioned this possibility before, but avoided discussing it further—whether Sir Erling had known about Erlend’s endeavor or not. Simon said he would seek Erling Vidkunssøn’s counsel—ask him what he thought of Kristin’s plan that Simon should accompany her to meet with Lavrans’s powerful kinsmen in Sweden, to ask the help of friends and kin.
Then she said, “But you have received such great news, brother-in-law, that it seems to me it would be more reasonable for you to postpone this journey to Aker and first travel to Ringheim, to see Ramborg and your son.”
He had to turn away, he felt so weak. He had been waiting for this—whether Kristin would show some sign that she understood how he longed to see his son. But when he had regained mastery of his feelings, he said with some embarrassment, “I’ve been thinking, Kristin, that God will perhaps grant the boy better health if I can be patient and rein in my longing to see him until I’ve helped Erlend and you a little more in this matter.”
The next day Simon went out and bought rich and splendid gifts for his wife and son, as well as for all the women who had been at Ramborg’s side when she gave birth. Kristin took out a beautiful silver spoon she had inherited from her mother; this was for the infant, Andres Simonssøn. But to her sister she sent the heavy gilded silver chain, which Lavrans had once given her in her childhood along with the reliquary cross. The cross she now moved to the chain Erlend had given her as a betrothal present. The following day, around noon, Simon set sail.
In the evening the ship anchored off an island in the fjord. Simon stayed on board, lying in a sleeping bag made of pelts, with several homespun blankets spread on top; he looked up at the starry skies, where the images seemed to rock and sway as the ship pitched on the sleepily gliding swells. The water sloshed and the ice floes scraped and hammered against the sides of the vessel. It was almost pleasant to feel the cold seeping deeper and deeper into his body. It was soothing. . . .
And yet he was now certain that as bad as things had been, they would never be so again. Now that he had a son. It was not that he thought he would love the boy more than he did his daughters. But this was different. As joyful as the small maidens could make him feel whenever they came to their father with their games and laughter and chatter, and as wonderful as it felt to have them sitting on his lap with their soft hair beneath his chin—a man could not claim the same position in the succession of men among his kin if his estate and property and the memory of his deeds in this world should be transferred on the hand of his daughter to some other lineage. But now that he dared to hope—if only God would allow this infant boy to grow up—that son would follow father at ormo: Andres Gudmundssøn, Simon Andressøn, Andres Simons søn. Then it was clear that he must be for Andres what his own father had been for him: a man of integrity, both in his secret thoughts and in his actions.
Sometimes he felt he didn’t have the strength to continue. If only he had seen a single sign that she understood. But Kristin behaved toward him as if they were actual siblings: considerate of his welfare, kind and loving and gentle. And he didn’t know how long it could last: living together in the same house in this manner. Didn’t she ever think about the fact that he couldn’t forget? Even though he was now married to her sister, he could still never forget that they had once been betrothed to live together as man and wife.
But now he had a son. Whenever he said his prayers, he had always shied away from adding any of his own words, whether wishes or words of gratitude. But Christ and Mary knew full well what he meant when he had said double the number of Pater noster s and Ave Mariaslately. He would continue to do so as long as he was away from home. And he would show his gratitude in an equally fitting and generous manner. Then perhaps he would receive help on this journey, as well.
In truth, he thought it unreasonable to expect to make any gains from this meeting. Relations between Erling and the king were now quite cold. And no matter how powerful and proud the former regent might be, no matter how little he needed to fear the young king—who was in a much more difficult position than Norway’s wealthiest and most highborn man—it was still unlikely that he would want to provoke King Magnus even more by speaking on Erlend Nikulaussøn’s behalf and drawing suspicion upon himself that he might have known about Erlend’s treasonous plans. Even if Erling had taken part in them—yes, even if he was behind the whole undertaking, prepared to intervene and allow himself to be placed in charge of the realm as soon as there was once again an underaged king in the land—he would not feel bound to take any risks to help the man who had ruined the entire plan for the sake of a shameful love affair. This was something Simon almost forgot whenever he was together with Erlend and Kristin, for the two of them seemed hardly to remember it anymore. But it was true that Erlend himself was to blame for the whole endeavor resulting in nothing more than misfortune for him and the good men who had been exposed by his foolish philandering.
He must try every recourse to help her and her husband. And now he began to hope. Perhaps God and the Virgin Mary or some of the saints, whom he had always honored with offerings and alms, would support him in this undertaking
too.
He arrived at Aker quite late the following evening. An overseer on the estate met him and sent servants on ahead, some with the horses and some to escort Simon’s man over to the servants’ hall. The overseer himself went up to the loft where the knight was sitting and drinking. A moment later Sir Erling came out onto the gallery and stood there as Simon climbed the stairs. Then he welcomed his guest courteously enough and led him into the chamber where Stig Haakonssøn of Mandvik was sitting with a very young man who was Erling’s only son, Bjarne Erlingssøn.
Simon was received in a friendly fashion; the servants took his outer garments and brought in food and drink. But he could see that the men had guessed why he had come—or at least Erling and Stig had—and he noticed their reticence. When Stig began to talk about how rare it was to see Simon in that part of the country, and how he wasn’t exactly wearing down the doorstep of his former kinsmen—he hadn’t even been farther south than to Dyfrin since Halfrid died—then Simon replied, “No, not until this winter.” But he had been in Oslo for several months now with his wife’s sister, Kristin Lavransdatter, who was married to Erlend Nikulaussøn.
At that they all fell silent. Then Sir Erling asked politely about Kristin and about Simon’s wife and siblings, and Simon asked about Fru Elin and Erling’s daughters, and Stig’s health, and news from Mandvik and old neighbors there.
Stig Haakonssøn was a stout, dark-haired man a few years older than Simon, the son of Halfrid Erlingsdatter’s half-brother, Sir Haakon Toressøn, and the nephew of Erling Vidkunssøn’s wife, Elin Toresdatter. He had lost his position as sheriff of Skidu and his command of the castle at Tunsberg two winters earlier when he fell out of favor with the king, but otherwise he lived well enough at Mandvik, although he was a widower with no children. Simon knew him quite well and had been on good terms with him, as he was with all the kinsmen of his first wife—although the friendship had never been overly warm. He knew what they had all thought about Halfrid’s second marriage: Sir Andres Gudmundssøn’s younger son might be both well positioned and of good lineage, but he was not an equal marriage match for Halfrid Erlingsdatter, and he was ten years younger than she was. They couldn’t understand why she had set her heart on this young man, but they allowed her to do as she wished, since she had suffered so unbearably with her first husband.
Simon had met Erling Vidkunssøn only a couple of times before, and then he had always been in the company of Fru Elin and uttered hardly a sound; no one needed to say more than “yes,” or “ah,” whenever she was in the room. Sir Erling had aged quite a bit since that time. He had grown stouter, but he still had a handsome and stately figure for he carried himself exceedingly well and it suited him that his pale, reddish-gold hair had now turned a gleaming, silvery gray.
Simon had never met the young Bjarne Erlingssøn before. He had grown up near Bjørgvin in the house of a clergyman who was Erling’s friend—within the family it was said that this was because the father didn’t want his son living out there at Giske amidst all the prattling of the women. Erling himself didn’t spend any more time at home than he had to, but he didn’t dare take the boy along with him on his frequent journeys because Bjarne had suffered poor health in his childhood, and Erling Vidkunssøn had lost two other sons when they were small.
The boy looked exceptionally handsome as he sat with the light behind him and his face turned in profile. Thick, black, curly hair cascaded over his forehead; his big eyes were dark, his nose was large, with a graceful curve, his lips were firm and delicate, his chin well-shaped. He was also tall, broad-shouldered, and slim. But when Simon was about to sit down at the table to eat, the servant moved the candle, and then he saw that the skin of Bjarne’s throat was completely eaten away by scrofulous scars—they spread out to both sides, all the way up to his ears and under his chin: dead, shiny white patches of skin, purplish stripes, and swollen knots. And Bjarne had the habit of suddenly pulling up the hood of the round, fur-trimmed velvet shoulder collar which he wore even inside the house—pulling it up to his ears. After a few minutes it would grow too hot for him, and he would let it fall back, only to pull it up again. He didn’t seem aware that he was doing this. After a while Simon felt his own hands grow restless from watching him, even though he tried to avoid looking in his direction.
Sir Erling hardly took his eyes off his son, although he too seemed unaware that he was sitting with his gaze fixed on the boy. Erling Vidkunssøn’s face showed little emotion, and there was no particular expression in his pale-blue eyes; but behind that somewhat vague and watery glance there seemed to lie endless years of worry and care and love.
Then the three older men conversed, politely but in a desultory fashion, while Simon ate, and the young man sat there fidgeting with his hood. Afterwards all four of them drank for a proper length of time, and then Sir Erling asked Simon if he was weary from his journey, and Stig invited him to share his bed. Simon was glad to postpone talking about the purpose of his visit. This first evening at Aker had left him quite dejected.
The next day, when he finally spoke of it, Sir Erling replied in much the way Simon had expected. He said that King Magnus had never willingly listened to him, but he had noticed that the moment Magnus Eirikssøn became old enough to have an opinion, it had been his view that Erling Vidkunssøn wouldn’t have anything more to say to him after he came of age. And ever since the dispute had been settled between Erling and his friends on one side and the king on the other, he had neither heard from nor spoken to the king or the king’s friends. If he spoke on Erlend’s behalf to King Magnus, it would be of little benefit to the man. And he was aware that many people in the country thought he had been behind Erlend’s undertaking in some way. Simon could believe him or not, but neither he nor his friends had known anything about what was being planned. But if this matter had come to light in a different fashion, or if these adventuresome young daredevils had carried through their plot and failed—then he might have stepped forward and tried to mediate. But because of the way things had gone, he didn’t think anyone could reasonably demand him to stand up and reinforce the people’s suspicions that he had been playing two games.
But he advised Simon to appeal to the Haftorssøns. They were the king’s cousins, and when they weren’t quarreling with him, they managed to maintain a certain friendship. And as far as Erling could see, the men Erlend was protecting were more likely to be found among the Haftorssøns’ circles, as well as among the younger noblemen.
As everyone knew, the king’s wedding was to be celebrated in Norway that summer. It might provide a fitting opportunity for King Magnus to show mercy and leniency toward his enemies. And the king’s mother and Lady Isabel would no doubt attend the festivities. Simon’s mother had been Queen Isabel’s handmaiden when she was young, after all; perhaps Simon should appeal to her, or perhaps Erlend’s wife ought to fall to her knees before the king’s bride and Lady Ingebjørg Haakonsdatter with her prayers for their intercession.
Simon thought it would have to be the last resort, for Kristin to kneel before Lady Ingebjørg. If she had realized what was honorable, Lady Ingebjørg would have long ago stepped forward to gain Erlend’s release from his troubles. But when Simon had once mentioned this to Erlend, he had simply laughed and said that Lady Ingebjørg always had so many troubles and worries of her own, and no doubt she was angry because it now seemed unlikely that her most beloved child would ever win the title of king.
CHAPTER 7
IN EARLY SPRING Simon Andressøn traveled north to Toten to see his wife and infant son and accompany them home to Formo. He stayed there for some time to tend to his own affairs.
Kristin didn’t want to leave Oslo. And she didn’t dare give in to her burning, urgent longing to see her three sons who were back home in Gudbrandsdal. If she was going to continue to endure the life she was now living from day to day, she couldn’t think about her children. And she did manage to endure; she seemed calm and brave. She talked and listened to strangers
and accepted advice and encouragement. But she had to hold on to the thought of Erlend—only Erlend! In those moments when she failed to hold her thoughts tight in the grasp of her will, other images and pictures would race through her mind: Ivar standing in the woodshed at Formo with Simon and waiting expectantly as his uncle searched for a split piece of wood for him, bending down to heft each one in his hand. Gaute’s fair, boyish face, full of manly determination as he struggled through the snowdrifts on that gray wintry day in the mountains last fall. His skis slipped backwards, and he slid some distance down the steep slope, sinking deep into the snow. For a moment his face seemed about to crumple; he was an exhausted, helpless child. Her thoughts would wander to her youngest sons: Munan must be able to walk and even talk a little by now. Was he just as sweet as the others had been at his age? Lavrans had probably forgotten her by now. And the two oldest boys out at the monastery at Tautra. Naakkve, Naakkve . . . her firstborn . . . How much did the two older sons understand? What were they thinking about? And how was Naakkve, still a child, coping with the fact that now nothing in his life would be the way that she and he and everyone else had imagined it would be?
Sira Eiliv had sent her a letter, and she had reported to Erlend what it said about their sons. Otherwise they never spoke of their children. They didn’t talk about the past or the future anymore. Kristin would bring him some piece of clothing or a plate of food; he would ask her how she had fared since they last met, and they would sit on the bed holding hands. Sometimes they would be left alone for a moment in the small, cold and filthy, stench-filled room. Then they would cling to each other with mute, passionate caresses, hearing but paying no attention to Kristin’s maid laughing with the castle guards outside on the stairs.