He wanted to give them a good head start. But he too would soon have to see about setting off for home.
As soon as Simon entered the main house at Formo and took off his outer garments, Andres would seize hold of his leather cap and try it on. While the boy straddled the bench and rode off to see his uncle at Dyfrin, the big cap would slip down, first over his small nose and then back over his lovely blond curls. But it did little good for Simon to try to remember such things now. God only knew when the boy would be visiting his uncle at Dyfrin again.
Instead the memory of his other son rose up: Halfrid’s child. The tiny, pale blue body of an infant. He had seen little of the boy during the few days he lived; he had to sit at the bedside of the dying mother. If the child had survived, or if he had lived longer than his mother, then Simon would have kept Mandvik. Then he probably would have looked for a new wife there in the south. Occasionally he might have come north to the valley to see to his estate up here. Then surely he would have . . . not forgotten Kristin; she had led him into much too strange a dance for him to do that. By the Devil, a man should be allowed to remember it as a peculiar dventure: that he had been forced to rescue his betrothed, a high born young maiden, reared in Christian and seemly behavior, from a house of ill repute and another man’s bed. But then he wouldn’t have been able to think of her in such a way that it troubled him and robbed the taste from everything good that life had to offer.
His son Erling . . . He would have been fourteen winters old by now. When Andres one day reached so near the age of a man, he himself would be old and feeble.
Oh, yes, Halfrid . . . You weren’t very happy with me, were you? I’m not entirely without blame that things have gone as they have for me.
Erlend Nikulaussøn might well have had to pay with his life for his impetuousness. And Kristin would now be living as a widow at Jørundgaard.
And he himself might have then regretted that he was a married man. Nothing seemed so foolish anymore that he didn’t think himself capable of it.
The wind had died down, but great wet flakes of springtime snow were still falling when Simon rode out of the alehouse courtyard. And now, toward evening, birds began whistling and warbling in the grove of trees, defying the snowfall.
Just as a gash in the skin can reopen from too sudden a movement, a fleeting memory caused him pain. Not long ago, at his Easter banquet, several guests were standing outside, basking in the midday sun. High above them in the birch tree sat a robin, whistling into the warm blue air. Geirmund came limping around the corner of the house, dragging himself along with his cane, his other hand resting on the shoulder of his oldest son. He looked up, stopped, and imitated the bird. The boy also pursed his lips and whistled. They could mimic nearly all the birdsongs. Kristin was standing a short distance away, with several other women. Her smile had been so charming as she listened.
Now, toward sunset the clouds began to disperse in the west, tumbling golden over the white mountain slopes, filling the passes and small valleys like gray mist. The river gleamed dully like brass; the dark currents, free of ice, rushed around the rocks in the riverbed, and on each rock lay a little white pillow of new snow.
They made slow progress on the weary horses through the heavy snow. It was a milky white night with a full moon, which peeked out from the drifting haze and clouds as Simon rode down the slopes to the Ula River. When he had crossed the bridge and reached the flat expanses of pine forest, through which the winter road passed, the horses began moving faster. They knew they were approaching the stable. Simon patted Digerbein’s steaming wet neck. He was glad this journey would soon be over. Ramborg had probably gone to bed long ago.
At the place where the road turned sharply and emerged from the woods, there stood a small house. He was nearly upon it when he noticed that men on horseback were stopped in front of the door. He heard Erlend’s voice shout, “Then it’s agreed that you’ll come to visit the day after Sunday? Can I tell my wife as much?”
Simon called out a greeting. It would seem much too strange not to stop and continue on in their company, but he told Sigurd to ride on ahead. Then he rode over to join them; it was Naakkve and Gaute. Erlend was just stepping out of the entryway.
They greeted each other again, the three others in a somewhat strained fashion. Simon could see their faces, although not very clearly in the fading light. He thought their expressions seemed uncertain—both tense and begrudging at the same time. So he said at once, “I’ve come from Dyfrin, my brother-in-law.”
“Yes, I heard that you had traveled south.” Erlend stood with his hand on the saddlebow, his eyes downcast. “You’ve made good time,” he added, as if the silence were uncomfortable.
“No, wait a bit,” said Simon to the young boys who were about to ride off. “You should hear this too. It was my brother’s seal that you saw on the letter, Gaute. And I know you must think they showed poor loyalty to your father, both he and the other gentlemen who had affixed their seals on the letter to Prince Haakon, which your father was to carry to Denmark.”
The boy looked down in silence.
Erlend said, “There was one thing you probably didn’t think about, Simon, when you went to see your brother. I paid dearly for the safety of Gyrd and the others who joined me; it cost me all I owned except for my reputation as a loyal man who keeps his word. Now Gyrd Darre must think that I couldn’t save even my reputation.”
Shamefully Simon bowed his head. He hadn’t thought about that.
“You might have told me this, Erlend, when I said that I was going to Dyfrin.”
“You must have seen for yourself that I was so desperate and furious that I was beyond thinking or reasoning when I rode away from your manor.”
“I wasn’t particularly levelheaded myself, Erlend.”
“No, but I thought you might have had time to come to your senses during the long ride. And I couldn’t very well ask you not to talk to your brother without revealing things I had sworn a sacred oath to conceal.”
Simon fell silent for a moment. At first he thought that Erlend was right. But then it occurred to him: No, Erlend was being quite unreasonable. Was he supposed to submit to having Kristin and the boys think so ill of him? He mentioned this rather vehemently.
“I have never uttered a word about this, kinsman—not to my mother or to my brothers,” said Gaute, turning his handsome, fair face toward his uncle.
“But in the end they found out about it just the same,” replied Simon obstinately. “I thought, after everything that happened on that day at my estate, we needed to clear up the matter. And I don’t understand why it should take your father so unawares. You’re still not much older than a child, my Gaute, and you were so young when you were mixed up in this . . . secret plot.”
“Surely I should be able to trust my own son,” replied Erlend angrily. “And I had no other choice when I needed to save the letter. I either had to give it to Gaute or let the sheriff find it.”
Simon thought it pointless to discuss the matter any further. But he couldn’t resist saying, “I wasn’t happy when I heard what the boy has been thinking of me these past four years. I’ve always been fond of you, Gaute.”
The boy urged his horse forward a few paces and stretched out his hand; Simon saw that his face had darkened, as if he were blushing.
“You must forgive me, Simon!”
Simon clasped the boy’s hand. At times Gaute looked so much like his grandfather that Simon felt strangely moved. He was rather bowlegged and slight in build, but he was an excellent rider, and on the back of a horse he was as handsome a youth as any father could want.
All four of them began riding north; the boys were in front, and when they were beyond earshot, Simon continued.
“You must understand, Erlend . . . I don’t think you can rightfully blame me for seeking out my brother and asking him to tell me the truth about this matter. But I know that you had reason to be angry with me, both you and Kristin. Because as soon as
this strange news came out . . .” He fumbled for words. “What Gaute said about my seal . . . I can’t deny that I thought . . . I know both of you believed that I thought . . . what I should have had sense enough to realize was unthinkable. So I can’t deny that you have reason to be angry,” he repeated.
The horses splashed through the slushy snow. It took a moment before Erlend replied, and then his voice sounded gentle and subdued. “I don’t know what else you could have thought. It was almost inevitable that you should believe—”
“Oh, no. I should have known it wasn’t possible,” Simon interrupted, sounding aggrieved. After a moment he asked, “Did you think that I knew about my brothers? That I tried to help you for their sake?”
“No!” said Erlend in surprise. “I realized you couldn’t possibly know. I knew that I hadn’t said anything. And I thought I could safely rely on your brothers not to talk.” He laughed softly. Then he grew somber and said gently, “I knew you did it for the sake of our father-in-law and because you’re a good man.”
Simon rode on in silence for a while.
“I imagine you must have been bitterly angry,” he then said.
“Well . . . when I had time to think about it . . . I didn’t see that there was any other way you could interpret things.”
“What about Kristin?” asked Simon, his voice even lower.
“Kristin!” Erlend laughed again. “You know she won’t stand for anyone censuring me—except for herself. She seems to think she can handle that well enough all alone. It’s the same with our children. God save me if I should chastise them with a single word! But you can rest assured that I’ve brought her around.”
“You have?”
“Yes, well . . . with time I’ll manage to convince her. You know that once Kristin gives it some thought, she’s the sort of person who will remember you’ve shown us such loyal friendship that . . .”
Simon, agitated and distraught, felt his heart trembling. He found it unbearable. The other man seemed to think that they could now dismiss this matter from their minds. In the pale moonlight Erlend’s face looked so genuinely peaceful. Simon’s voice quavered with emotion as he spoke again. “Forgive me, Erlend, but I don’t see how I could have believed—”
“I told you I understand it.” The other broke in rather impatiently. “It seems to me that you couldn’t have thought anything else.”
“If only those two foolish children had never spoken,” said Simon heatedly.
“Yes. Gaute has never received such a beating before in his life. And the whole thing started because they were quarreling about their ancestors: Reidar Birkebein and King Skule and Bishop Niko las.” Erlend shook his head. “But let’s not think about this anymore, kinsman. It’s best if we forget about it as soon as we can.”
“I can’t do that!”
“But, Simon!” This was spoken in reproach, with mild astonishment. “It’s not worth it to take this so seriously.”
“I can’t—don’t you understand? I’m not as good a man as you are.”
Erlend gave him a bewildered look. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not as good a man as you are. I can’t so easily forgive those I have wronged.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” repeated Erlend in the same tone of voice.
“I mean . . .” Simon’s face was contorted with pain and desperation. His voice was low, as if he were stifling an urge to scream out the words. “I mean that I’ve heard you speaking kindly of Judge Sigurd of Steigen, the old man whose wife you stole. I’ve seen how you loved Lavrans with all the love of a son. And I’ve never noticed that you bore any grudge toward me because you . . . enticed my betrothed away from me. I’m not as noble-minded as you think, Erlend. I’m not as noble-minded as you are. I . . . I do bear a grudge toward the man whom I have wronged.”
His cheeks flecked with white from the strain, Simon stared into the eyes of his companion. Erlend had listened to him with his mouth agape.
“I’ve never realized this until now! Do you hate me, Simon?” he whispered, overwhelmed.
“Don’t you think I have reason to do so?”
Unawares, both men had reined in their horses. They sat and stared at each other. Simon’s small eyes glittered like steel. In the hazy white light of the night, he saw that Erlend’s lean features were twitching as if something had broken inside him: an awakening. He looked up from beneath half-closed lids, biting his quivering lower lip.
“I can’t bear to see you anymore,” said Simon.
“But that was twenty years ago, man!” exclaimed Erlend, overcome and confused.
“Yes. But don’t you think she’s . . . worth thinking about for twenty years?”
Erlend pulled himself erect in the saddle. He met Simon’s eyes with a steady, open gaze. The moonlight lit a blue-green spark in his big, pale blue eyes.
“Yes, yes, I do. May God bless her!”
For a moment he sat motionless. Then he spurred his horse and galloped off through the puddles so the water sprayed up behind him. Simon held Digerbein back; he was almost thrown to the ground because he reined in the horse so sharply. He waited there at the edge of the woods, struggling with the restless animal, for as long as he could hear hoofbeats in the slush.
Remorse had overwhelmed him as soon as he said it. He felt regret and shame, as if in senseless anger he had struck the most defenseless of creatures—a child or a delicate, gentle, and witless beast. His hatred felt like a shattered lance; he was shattered himself from the confrontation with the man’s foolish innocence. That bird of misfortune, Erlend Nikulaussøn, understood so little that he seemed both helpless and without guile.
Simon swore and cursed to himself as he rode. Without guile . . . The man was well past forty; it was about time that he could handle a conversation man to man. If Simon had wounded himself, then by the Devil it should be considered worth the price if for once he had managed to strike Erlend a blow.
Now he was riding home to her. May God bless her, Simon thought ruefully. And so it was over: the plodding around in that sibling love. The two of them over there, and he and his family. He would never have to meet Kristin Lavransdatter again.
The thought took his breath away. Just as well, by the Devil. If your eye offends you, then pluck it out, said the priests. He told himself that the main reason he had done this was to escape the sister-brother love with Kristin. He couldn’t bear it anymore.
He had only one wish now: that Ramborg would not be awake when he came home.
But when he rode in among the fences, he saw someone wearing a dark cloak standing beneath the aspen trees. The white of her wimple gleamed.
She said that she had been waiting for him ever since Sigurd returned home. The maids had gone to bed, so Ramborg herself ladled up the porridge that stood on the edge of the hearth, keeping warm. She placed bacon and bread on the table and brought in newly tapped ale.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed now, Ramborg?” asked her husband as he ate.
Ramborg did not reply. She went over to her loom and began threading the colorful little balls of wool in and out of the warp. She had set up the loom for a tapestry before Christmas, but she hadn’t made much progress yet.
“Erlend rode past, heading north, some time ago,” she said, with her back turned. “From what Sigurd said, I thought you would be riding together.”
“No, it didn’t turn out that way.”
“Erlend had a greater longing for his bed than you did?” She laughed a little. When she received no answer, she said again, “I suppose he always longs to be home with Kristin when he has been away.”
Simon was silent for a good while before he replied, “Erlend and I did not part as friends.”
Ramborg turned around abruptly. Then he told her what he had learned at Dyfrin and about the first part of the conversation with Erlend and his sons.
“It seems to me rather unreasonable that you should quarrel over such a matter when you’ve been ab
le to remain friends until now.”
“Perhaps, but that’s how things went. And it will take too long to discuss the whole matter tonight.”
Ramborg turned back to her loom and busied herself with her work.
“Simon,” she said suddenly, “do you remember a story that Sira Eirik once told us . . . from the Bible? About a maiden named Abishag the Shunammite?”3
“No.”
“Back when King David was old and his vigor and manhood were beginning to fade—” Ramborg began, but Simon interrupted her.
“My Ramborg, it’s much too late at night; this is no time to start telling sagas. And now I do remember the story about the woman you mentioned.”
Ramborg pushed up the reed of the loom and fell silent for a while. Then she spoke again. “Do you remember the saga my father knew—about the handsome Tristan and fair Isolde and dark Isolde?”
“Yes, I remember.” Simon pushed his plate aside, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and got up. He went over to stand in front of the fireplace. With one foot resting on the edge, his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand, he stared into the fire, which was about to die out inside the stone-lined hollow. From the loom over in the corner came Ramborg’s voice, fragile-sounding and close to tears.
“When I listened to those stories, I always thought that men like King David and Sir Tristan . . . It seemed to me so foolish, and cruel, that they didn’t love the young brides who offered them their maidenhood and the love of their hearts with gentleness and seemly graciousness but preferred instead such women as Fru Bathsheba or fair Isolde, who had squandered themselves in other men’s arms. I thought that if I had been a man, I wouldn’t have been so lacking in pride . . . or so heartless.” Overcome, she fell silent. “It seems to me the most terrible fate: what happened to Abishag and poor Isolde of Bretland.” Abruptly she turned around, walked quickly across the room, and stood before her husband.
“What is it, Ramborg?” Simon reluctantly asked in a low voice. “I don’t know what you mean by all this.”