Kristin Lavransdatter Read online

  Simon Andressøn was quite familiar with Bentein’s conduct in Oslo, and he told the others about it. Bentein had become a scribe for the provost of the Maria Church and was considered a clever fellow. And there were plenty of women who were quite fond of him; he had those eyes and a quick tongue. Some thought him a handsome man—mostly women who felt they had been cheated by their husbands, or young maidens who enjoyed having men act freely toward them. Simon laughed; they knew what he meant, didn’t they? Well, Bentein was so shrewd that he didn’t get too close to those kinds of women; with them he exchanged only words, and he won a reputation for leading a pure life.

  It so happened that King Haakon, who was a pious and decent man himself, wanted his men to maintain disciplined and proper behavior—at least the younger men. The others he had little control over. But the king’s priest always heard about whatever pranks the young men managed to sneak out and take part in—drunken feasts, gambling, ale-drinking, and the like. And then the rascals had to confess and repent, and they received harsh punishment; yes, two or three of the wildest boys were even sent away. But at last it came to light that it was that fox, Bentein secretarius, who had been secretly frequenting all of the ale houses and establishments that were even worse; he had actually listened to the confessions of whores and had given them absolution.

  Kristin was sitting next to her mother. She tried to eat so that no one would notice how things stood with her, but her hand shook so badly that she spilled some of the porridge with every spoonful, and her tongue felt so thick and dry in her mouth that she could hardly swallow the bread. But when Simon began to talk about Bentein she had to give up all pretense of eating. She gripped the edge of the bench with her hands; terror and loathing took such a hold on her that she felt dizzy and filled with nausea. He was the one who had tried to . . . Bentein and Arne, Bentein and Arne . . . Sick with impatience she waited for the others to finish. She longed to see Arne, Arne’s handsome face, to fall to her knees and grieve, forgetting everything else.

  When Ragnfrid helped Kristin into her outer garments, she kissed her daughter on the cheek. Kristin was unaccustomed to receiving any kind of caress from her mother, and it felt so good. She rested her head on Ragnfrid’s shoulder for a moment, but she could not cry.

  When she came out to the courtyard, she saw that there were more people coming with them—Halvdan, Jon of Laugarbru, and Simon and his servant. She felt unreasonably anguished that the two strangers would be going along.

  It was a biting cold night; the snow creaked underfoot, and the stars glittered, as dense as frost, in the black sky. After they had gone a short distance, they heard howls and shouts and furious hoofbeats south of the meadows. A little farther along the road the whole pack of riders came storming up behind them and then raced on past. The sound of ringing metal and vapor from the steaming, frost-covered bodies of the horses rose up before Lavrans and his party as they moved out of the way into the snow. Halvdan shouted at the wild throng—it was the youths from the farms south of the village. They were still celebrating Christmas and were out trying their horses. Those who were too drunk to take notice raced on ahead, thundering and bellowing as they hammered on their shields. But a few of them understood the news that Halvdan had yelled after them; they dropped away from the group, fell silent, and joined Lavrans’s party as they whispered to the men in the back of the procession.

  They continued on until they could see Finsbrekken on the slope alongside the Sil River. There was a light between the buildings; in the middle of the courtyard the servants had set pine torches in a mound of snow, and the firelight gleamed red across the white hillock, but the dark houses looked as if they were streaked with clotted blood. One of Arne’s little sisters was standing outside, stamping her feet, with her arms crossed under her cloak. Kristin kissed the tear-stained face of the freezing child. Her heart was as heavy as stone, and she felt as if there was lead in her limbs as she climbed the stairs to the loft where they had laid him out.

  The sound of hymns and the radiance of many lighted candles filled the doorway. In the center of the loft stood the coffin Arne had been brought home in, covered with a sheet. Boards had been placed over trestles and the coffin had been lifted on top. At its head stood a young priest with a book in his hands, singing. All around him people were kneeling with their faces hidden in their thick capes.

  Lavrans lit his candle from one of the candles in the room, set it firmly on the board of the bier, and knelt down. Kristin was about to do the same, but she couldn’t get her candle to stand; then Simon stepped over to help her. As long as the priest prayed, everyone remained on their knees, repeating his words in a whisper, so that the steam hovered around their mouths. It was ice-cold in the loft.

  When the priest closed his book, the people rose; many had already gathered in the death chamber. Lavrans went over to Inga. She was staring at Kristin and seemed not to hear Lavrans’s words; she stood there with the gifts he had given her, holding them as if unaware that she had anything in her hands.

  “So you have come too, Kristin,” she said in an odd, strained tone of voice. “Perhaps you would like to see my son, the way he has come back to me?”

  She moved a few candles aside, grabbed Kristin’s arm with a trembling hand, and with the other she tore the cloth from the dead man’s face.

  It was grayish-yellow like mud, and his lips were the color of lead; they were slightly parted so that the even, narrow, bone-white teeth seemed to offer a mocking smile. Beneath the long eyelashes could be seen a glimpse of his glazed eyes, and there were several bluish-black spots high on his cheeks that were either bruises from the fight or the marks of a corpse.

  “Perhaps you would like to kiss him?” asked Inga in the same tone of voice, and Kristin obediently leaned forward and pressed her lips to the dead man’s cheek. It was clammy, as if from dew, and she thought she could faintly smell the stench of the corpse; he had no doubt begun to thaw out in the heat from all the candles.

  Kristin remained leaning there, with her hands on the bier, for she did not have the strength to stand up. Inga pulled aside more of the shroud so the gash from the knife wound across his collar-bone was visible.

  Then she turned to the people and said in a quavering voice, “I see that it’s a lie, what people say, that a dead man’s wounds will bleed if he’s touched by the one who caused his death. He’s colder now, my boy, and not as handsome as when you last met him down on the road. You don’t care to kiss him now, I see—but I’ve heard that you didn’t refuse his lips back then.”

  “Inga,” said Lavrans, stepping forward, “have you lost your senses? What are you saying?”

  “Oh, you’re all so grand over there at Jørundgaard—you were much too rich a man, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn, for my son to dare court your daughter with honor. And no doubt Kristin thought she was too good for him too. But she wasn’t too good to run after him on the road at night and dally with him in the thickets on the evening he left. Ask her yourself and we’ll see if she dares to deny it, as Arne lies here dead—she who has brought this upon us with her loose ways. . . .”

  Lavrans did not ask the question; instead he turned to Gyrd.

  “You must rein in your wife—she has taken leave of her senses.”

  But Kristin raised her pale face and looked around in despair.

  “I did go out to meet Arne on that last evening, because he asked me to do so. But nothing happened between us that was not proper.” And as she seemed to pull herself together and fully realize what was implied, she shouted loudly, “I don’t know what you mean, Inga. Are you defaming Arne as he lies here? Never did he try to entice or seduce me.”

  But Inga laughed loudly.

  “Arne? No, not Arne. But Bentein didn’t let you play with him that way. Ask Gunhild, Lavrans, who washed the filth off your daughter’s back, and ask any man who was in the men’s quarters at the bishop’s citadel on New Year’s Eve when Bentein ridiculed Arne for having let her go and then
was made her fool. She let Bentein come under her fur as she walked home, and she tried to play the same game with him—”

  Lavrans gripped Inga by the shoulder and pressed his hand against her mouth.

  “Get her out of here, Gyrd. It’s shameful that you should talk this way before the body of this good boy. But even if all of your children lay here dead, I would not stand and listen to your lies about mine. And you, Gyrd, will have to answer for what this demented woman is saying.”

  Gyrd took hold of his wife to lead her away, but he said to Lavrans, “It’s true that Arne and Bentein were talking about Kristin when my son lost his life. It’s understandable that you may not have heard it, but there has been talk here in the village this fall. . . .”

  Simon slammed his sword into the nearest clothes chest.

  “No, good folks, now you will have to find something other than my betrothed to talk about in this death chamber. Priest, can’t you harness these people so that everything proceeds according to custom?”

  The priest—Kristin now saw that he was the youngest son from Ulvsvold who had been home for Christmas—opened his book and took up his position next to the bier. But Lavrans shouted that those who had spoken of his daughter, whoever they might be, would have to eat their words.

  And then Inga screamed, “Go ahead and take my life, Lavrans, just as she has taken all my solace and joy—and celebrate her marriage to this son of a knight, and yet everyone will know that she was married to Bentein on the road. Here—” And she threw the sheet that Lavrans had given her across the bier to Kristin. “I don’t need Ragnfrid’s linen to wrap around Arne for burial. Make yourself a kerchief out of it, or keep it to swaddle your wayside bastard—and go over to help Gunhild mourn for the hanged man.”

  Lavrans, Gyrd, and the priest all seized hold of Inga. Simon tried to lift up Kristin, who was lying across the bier. But she vehemently shook off his hand, and then, still on her knees, she straightened up and shouted loudly, “May God my Savior help me, that is a lie!”

  She put out her hand and held it over the nearest candle on the bier.

  It looked as if the flame wavered and moved aside. Kristin felt everyone’s eyes upon her—for a very long time, it seemed. Then she suddenly noticed a searing pain in her palm, and with a piercing shriek she collapsed onto the floor.

  She thought she had fainted, but she could feel Simon and the priest lifting her up. Inga screamed something. She saw her father’s horrified face and heard the priest shout that no one should consider it a true trial—this was not the way to ask God to bear witness—and then Simon carried Kristin out of the loft and down the stairs. Simon’s servant ran to the stable and a moment later Kristin, still only half conscious, was sitting on the front of Simon’s saddle, wrapped in his cape, as he rode down toward the village as fast as his horse could carry them.

  They had almost reached Jørundgaard when Lavrans overtook them. The rest of their entourage came thundering along the road far behind.

  “Say nothing to your mother,” said Simon as he set Kristin down next to the door. “We’ve heard far too much senseless talk tonight; it’s no wonder that you fainted in the end.”

  Ragnfrid was lying awake when they came in and she asked how things had gone at the vigil. Simon spoke for all of them. Yes, there were many candles and many people. Yes, a priest was there—Tormod of Ulvsvold. Of Sira Eirik, he heard that he had ridden south to Hamar that very evening, so they would avoid any difficulty at the burial.

  “We must have a mass said for the boy,” said Ragnfrid. “May God give Inga strength. She has been sorely tried, that good, capable woman.”

  Lavrans fell in with the tone that Simon had set, and in a little while Simon said that now they must all go to bed—”For Kristin is both tired and sad.”

  Some time later, when Ragnfrid had fallen asleep, Lavrans threw on some clothes and went over to sit on the edge of the bed where his daughters were sleeping. In the dark he found Kristin’s hand, and then he said gently, “Now you must tell me, child, what is true and what is a lie in all this talk that Inga is spouting.”

  Sobbing, Kristin told him of everything that had happened on the evening that Arne left for Hamar. Lavrans said little. Then Kristin crawled forward on the bed and threw her arms around his neck, whimpering softly.

  “I am to blame for Arne’s death—it’s true what Inga said. . . .”

  “Arne himself asked you to come and meet him,” said Lavrans, pulling the covers up around his daughter’s bare shoulders. “It was thoughtless of me to allow the two of you to spend so much time together, but I thought the boy had better sense. I won’t blame the two of you; I can see that these things are heavy for you to bear. And yet I never imagined that any of my daughters would fall into ill repute here in our village. It will be painful for your mother when she hears this news. But you went to Gunhild instead of coming to me—that was so unwise that I can’t understand how you could act so foolishly.”

  “I don’t want to stay here in the village any longer,” wept Kristin. “I don’t dare look a single person in the eye. And all the sorrow I have caused those at Romundgaard and at Finsbrekken . . .”

  “Yes,” said Lavrans, “they will have to make sure, both Gyrd and Sira Eirik, that these lies about you are put in the ground along with Arne. Otherwise it is Simon Andressøn who can best defend you in this matter.” And he patted her in the dark. “Don’t you think he handled things well and with good sense?”

  “Father,” Kristin begged, fearful and fervent, as she clung to him, “send me to the cloister, Father. Yes, listen to me—I’ve thought about this for a long time. Maybe Ulvhild will get well if I go in her place. Do you remember the shoes that I sewed for her this autumn, the ones with pearls on them? I pricked my fingers so badly, I bled from the sharp gold thread. I sat and sewed those shoes because I thought it was wrong that I didn’t love my sister enough to become a nun and help her. Arne asked me about that once. If I had said yes back then, none of this would have happened.”

  Lavrans shook his head.

  “Lie down now,” he told her. “You don’t know what you’re saying, my poor child. Now you must try to sleep.”

  But Kristin lay there, feeling the pain in her burned hand; bitterness and despair over her fate raged in her heart. Things could not have gone worse for her if she had been the most sinful of women; everyone would believe . . . No, she couldn’t, she couldn’t stand to stay here in the village. Horror after horror appeared before her. When her mother found out about this . . . And now there was blood between them and their parish priest, hostility among all those around her who had been friends her whole life. But the most extreme and oppressive fears seized her whenever she thought of Simon—the way he had picked her up and carried her off and spoken for her at home and acted as if she were his property. Her father and mother had yielded to him as if she already belonged more to him than to them.

  Then she remembered Arne’s face, cold and hideous. She remembered that she had seen an open grave waiting for a body the last time she came out of church. The chopped-up lumps of earth lay on the snow, hard and cold and gray as iron—that was where she had brought Arne.

  Suddenly she thought about a summer night many years before. She was standing on the loft gallery at Finsbrekken, the same loft where she had been struck down this evening. Arne was playing ball with some boys down in the courtyard, and the ball came sailing up to her on the gallery. She held it behind her back and refused to give it up when Arne came to retrieve it. Then he tried to take it from her by force, and they had fought over it on the gallery, then inside the loft among the chests. The leather sacks full of clothes that were hanging there knocked them on the head when they ran into them during the chase. They had fought and tumbled over that ball.

  And now she finally seemed to realize that he was dead and gone, and that she would never see his brave, handsome face or feel his warm hands again. She had been so childish and heartless that it had never
occurred to her how he would feel about losing her. She wept in despair and thought she deserved her own unhappiness. But then she started thinking again about everything that still awaited her, and she wept because she thought the punishment that would befall her was too severe.

  Simon was the one who told Ragnfrid about what had happened at the vigil at Brekken the night before. He made no more of the matter than was necessary. But Kristin was so dazed from grief and a sleepless night that she felt a purely unreasonable bitterness toward him, because he could speak of it as if it were not so terrible after all. She also felt a great displeasure at the way her parents let Simon act as if he were the master of the house.