Kristin Lavransdatter Read online

  Erlend had hidden himself in a corner near the bed; he couldn’t bear to have anyone see his face.

  Master Gunnulf had lit a small oil lamp and set it on the arm of the high seat. He sat on the bench with a book in his hands, his lips moving gently, soundless and unceasing.

  At one point Ulf Haldorssøn stood up, walked forward to the hearth, and picked up a piece of soft bread; he rummaged around among the pieces of firewood and selected one. Then he went over to the corner near the doorway where old man Aan was sitting. The two of them fiddled with the bread, hidden behind Ulf’s cape. Aan whittled and cut the piece of wood. The men cast a glance in their direction now and then. In a little while Ulf and Aan got up and left the hall.

  Gunnulf watched them go, but said nothing. He took up his prayers once more.

  Once a young boy toppled off the bench, falling to the floor in his sleep. He got up and looked around in bewilderment. Then he sighed softly and sat down again.

  Ulf Haldorssøn and Aan quietly came back in and returned to the places where they had sat before. The men looked at them, but no one said a word.

  Suddenly Erlend jumped up. He strode across the floor toward his servants. He was hollow-eyed, and his face was as gray as clay.

  “Doesn’t anyone know what to do?” he asked. “You, Aan,” he whispered.

  “It didn’t help,” replied Ulf, his voice equally quiet.

  “It could be that she’s not meant to keep this child,” said Aan, wiping his nose. “Then neither sacrifices nor runes can help. It’s a shame for you, Erlend, that you should lose this good wife so soon.”

  “Oh, don’t talk as if she were already dead,” implored Erlend, broken and in despair. He went back to his corner and threw himself down on the enclosed bed with his head near the footboard.

  Later a man went outside and then came back in.

  “The moon is up,” he said. “It will soon be morning.”

  A few minutes later Fru Gunna came into the hall. She sank down onto the beggar’s bench near the door. Her gray hair was disheveled, her wimple had slid back onto her shoulders.

  The men stood up and slowly moved over to her.

  “One of you must come and hold her,” she said, weeping. “We have no more strength. You must go to her, Gunnulf. There’s no telling how this will end.”

  Gunnulf stood up and tucked his prayer book inside his belt pouch.

  “You must come too, Erlend,” said the woman.

  A raw and broken howl met him in the doorway. Erlend stopped and shivered. He caught a glimpse of Kristin’s contorted, unrecognizable face among the sobbing women. She was on her knees, and they were supporting her.

  Over by the door several servant women were kneeling at the benches; they were praying loudly and steadily. He threw himself down next to them and hid his head in his arms. She screamed and screamed, and each time he felt himself freeze with incredulous horror. It couldn’t possibly be like this.

  He ventured a glance in her direction. Now Gunnulf was sitting on a stool in front of her and holding her under the arms. Fru Gunna was kneeling at her side, with her arms around Kristin’s waist, but Kristin was fighting her, frightened to death, and trying to push the other woman away.

  “Oh no, oh no, let me go—I can’t do it—God, God, help me . . .”

  “God will help you soon, Kristin,” said the priest each time. A woman held a basin of water, and after each wave of pain he would take a wet cloth and wipe the sick woman’s face—along the roots of her hair and in between her lips, from which saliva was dripping.

  Then she would rest her head in Gunnulf’s arms and doze off for a moment, but the torment would instantly tear her out of her sleep again. And the priest continued to say, “Now, Kristin, you will have help soon.”

  No one had any idea what time of night it was anymore. The dawn was already a gray glare in the smoke vent.

  Then, after a long, mad howl of terror, everything fell silent. Erlend heard the women rushing around; he didn’t want to look up. Then he heard someone weeping loudly and he cringed again, not wanting to know.

  Then Kristin shrieked once more—a piercing, wild cry of lament that didn’t sound like the insane, inhuman animal cries of before. Erlend leaped up.

  Gunnulf was bending down and holding on to Kristin, who was still on her knees. She was staring with deathly horror at something that Fru Gunna was holding in a sheepskin. The raw and dark red shape looked like nothing more than the entrails from a slaughtered beast.

  The priest pulled her close.

  “Dear Kristin—you have given birth to as fine and handsome a son as any mother should thank God for—and he’s breathing!” said Gunnulf fiercely to the weeping women. “He’s breathing—God would not be so harsh as not to hear us.”

  And as the priest spoke, it happened. Through the exhausted, confused mind of the mother tumbled, hazily recalled, the sight of a bud she had seen in the cloister garden—something from which red, crinkled wisps of silk emerged and spread out to become a flower.

  The shapeless lump moved—it whimpered. It stretched out and became a very tiny, wine-red infant in human form. It had arms and legs and hands and feet with fully formed fingers and toes. It flailed and hissed a bit.

  “So tiny, so tiny, so tiny he is,” she cried in a thin, broken voice and then burst into laughing sobs. The women around her began to laugh and wipe their tears, and Gunnulf gave Kristin into their arms.

  “Roll him in a trencher so he can scream better,” said the priest as he followed the women carrying the newborn son over to the hearth.

  When Kristin awoke from a long faint, she was lying in bed. Someone had removed the dreadful, sweat-soaked garments, and a feeling of warmth and healing was blessedly streaming through her body. They had placed small pouches of warm nettle porridge on her and wrapped her in hot blankets and furs.

  Someone hushed her when she tried to speak. It was quite still in the room. But through the silence came a voice that she couldn’t quite recognize.

  “Nikulaus, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost . . .”

  There was the sound of water trickling.

  Kristin propped herself up on her elbow to take a look. Over by the hearth stood a priest in white garb, and Ulf Haldorssøn was lifting a kicking, red, naked child out of the large brass basin; he handed him to the godmother, and then took the lit taper.

  She had given birth to a child, and he was screaming so loudly that the priest’s words were almost drowned out. But she was so tired. She felt numb and wanted to sleep.

  Then she heard Erlend’s voice; he spoke quickly and with alarm.

  “His head—he has such a strange head.”

  “He’s swollen up,” said the woman calmly. “And it’s no wonder—he had to fight hard for his life, this boy.”

  Kristin shouted something. She felt as if she were suddenly awake, to the very depths of her heart. This was her son, and he had fought for his life, just as she had.

  Gunnulf turned around at once and laughed; he seized the tiny white bundle from Fru Gunna’s lap and carried it over to the bed. He placed the boy in his mother’s arms. Weak with tenderness and joy she rubbed her face against the little bit of red, silky-soft face visible among the linen wrappings.

  She glanced up at Erlend. Once before she had seen his face look this haggard and gray—she couldn’t remember when, her head felt so dizzy and strange, but she knew that it was good she had no memory of it. And it was good to see him standing there with his brother; the priest had his hand on Erlend’s shoulder. An immeasurable sense of peace and well-being came over her as she looked at the tall man wearing alb and stole; the round, lean face beneath the black fringe of hair was strong, but his smile was pleasant and kind.

  Erlend drove his dagger deep into the wall timber behind the mother and child.

  “That’s not necessary now,” said the priest with a laugh. “The boy has been baptized, after all.”

  Kristin s
uddenly remembered something that Brother Edvin once said. A newly baptized child was just as holy as the holy angels in heaven. The sins of the parents were washed from the child, and he had not yet committed any sins of his own. Fearful and cautious, she kissed the little face.

  Fru Gunna came over to them. She was worn out and exhausted and angry at the father, who had not had the sense to offer a single word of thanks to all the women who had helped. And the priest had taken the child from her and carried him over to his mother. She should have done that, both because she had delivered the woman and because she was the godmother of the boy.

  “You haven’t yet greeted your son, Erlend, or held him in your arms,” she said crossly.

  Erlend lifted the swaddled infant from the mother’s arms—for a moment he lay his face close.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be properly fond of you, Naakkve, until I forget what terrible suffering you caused your mother,” he said, and then gave the boy back to Kristin.

  “By all means give him the blame for that,” said the old woman, annoyed. Master Gunnulf laughed, and then Fru Gunna laughed with him. She wanted to take the child and put him in his cradle, but Kristin begged to keep him with her for a while. A moment later she fell asleep with her son beside her—vaguely noticing that Erlend touched her, cautiously, as if he were afraid to hurt her, and then she was sound asleep again.

  CHAPTER 5

  IN THE MORNING of the tenth day after the child’s birth, Master Gunnulf said to his brother when they were alone in the hall, “It’s about time now, Erlend, for you to send word to your wife’s kinsmen about how things are with her.”

  “I don’t think there’s any haste with that,” replied Erlend. “I doubt they will be overly glad at Jørundgaard when they hear that there’s already a son here on the manor.”

  “Don’t you think Kristin’s mother would have realized last fall that her daughter was unwell?” Gunnulf asked. “She must be worried by now.”

  Erlend didn’t say a word in reply.

  But later in the day, as Gunnulf was sitting in the little house and talking to Kristin, Erlend came in. He was wearing a fur cap on his head, a short, thick homespun coat, long pants, and furry boots. He bent down to his wife and patted her cheek.

  “So, dear Kristin—do you have any greetings you wish to send to Jørundgaard? I’m heading there now to bring word of our son.”

  Kristin blushed bright red. She looked both frightened and happy.

  “It’s no more than your father would demand of me,” said Erlend somberly, “that I bring the news myself.”

  Kristin lay in silence for a moment.

  “Tell them at home,” she said softly, “that I have yearned every day since I left home to fall at Father’s and Mother’s feet to beg their forgiveness.”

  A few minutes later, Erlend left. Kristin didn’t think to ask how he would travel. But Gunnulf went out to the courtyard with his brother. Next to the doorway of the main house stood Erlend’s skis and a staff with a spear point.

  “You’re going to ski there?” asked Gunnulf. “Who’s going with you?”

  “Nobody,” replied Erlend, laughing. “You should know best of all, Gunnulf, that it’s not easy for anyone to keep up with me on skis.”

  “This seems reckless to me,” said the priest. “There are many wolves in the mountain forests this year, they say.”

  Erlend merely laughed and began to strap on his skis. “I was thinking of heading up through the Gjeitskar pastures before it gets dark. It will be light for a long time yet. I can make it to Jørundgaard on the evening of the third day.”

  “The path from Gjeitskar to the road is uncertain, and there are bad patches of fog there too. You know it’s unsafe up in the mountain pastures in the wintertime.”

  “You can lend me your flint,” said Erlend in the same tone of voice, “in case I should need to throw mine away—at some elf woman if she demands such courtesies of me as would be unseemly for a married man. Listen, brother, I’m doing now what you said I should do—going to Kristin’s father to ask him to demand whatever penances from me that he finds reasonable. Surely you can allow me to decide this much, that I myself choose how I will travel.”

  And with that Master Gunnulf had to be content. But he sternly commanded the servants to conceal from Kristin that Erlend had set off alone.

  To the south the sky arched pale yellow over the blue-tinged snowdrifts of the mountains on the evening when Erlend came racing down past the churchyard, making the snow crust creak and shriek. High overhead hovered the crescent moon, shining white and dewy in the twilight.

  At Jørundgaard dark smoke was swirling up from the smoke vents against the pale, clear sky. The sound of an axe rang out cold and rhythmic in the stillness.

  At the entrance to the courtyard a pack of dogs started barking loudly at the approaching man. Inside the courtyard a group of shaggy goats ambled around, dark silhouettes in the clear dusk. They were nibbling at a heap of fir boughs in the middle of the courtyard. Three winter-clad youngsters were running among them.

  The peace of the place made an oddly deep impression on Erlend. He stood there, irresolute, and waited for Lavrans, who was coming forward to greet the stranger. His father-in-law had been over by the woodshed, talking to a man splitting rails for a fence. Lavrans stopped abruptly when he recognized his son-in-law; he thrust the spear he was holding hard into the snow.

  “Is that you?” he asked in a low voice. “Alone? Is there . . . is something . . . ?” And a moment later he said, “How is it that you’ve come here like this?”

  “Here’s the reason.” Erlend pulled himself together and looked his father-in-law in the eye. “I thought I could do no less than to come here myself to bring you the news. Kristin gave birth to a son on the morning of the Feast of the Annunciation.

  “And yes, she is doing well now,” he added quickly.

  Lavrans stood in silence for a moment. He was biting down hard on his lip—his jaw trembled and quivered faintly.

  “That was news indeed!” he said then.

  Little Ramborg had come over to stand at her father’s side. She looked up, her face flaming red.

  “Be quiet,” said Lavrans harshly, even though the maiden hadn’t uttered a word but had merely blushed. “Don’t stand here—go away.”

  He didn’t say anything more. Erlend stood leaning forward, with his left hand gripping his staff. His eyes were fixed on the snow. He had stuck his right hand inside his tunic.

  Lavrans pointed. “Have you injured yourself?”

  “A little,” said Erlend. “I slipped down a slope yesterday in the dark.”

  Lavrans touched his wrist and pressed it cautiously. “I don’t think there are any bones broken,” he said. “You can tell her mother yourself.” He started for the house as Ragnfrid came out into the courtyard. She looked in amazement at her husband; then she recognized Erlend and quickly walked over to him.

  She listened without speaking as Erlend, for the second time, presented his message. But her eyes filled with tears when Erlend said at the end, “I thought you might have noticed something before she left here in the fall—and that you might be worried about her now.”

  “It was kind of you, Erlend,” she said uncertainly. “For you to think of that. I think I’ve been worried every day since you took her away from us.”

  Lavrans came back.

  “Here is some fox fat—I see that you’ve frozen your cheek, son-in-law. You must stay for a while in the entryway, so Ragnfrid can attend to it and thaw you out. How are your feet? You must take off your boots so we can see.”

  When the servants came in for the evening meal, Lavrans told them the news and ordered special foreign ale to be brought in so they could celebrate. But there was no real merriment about the occasion—the master himself sat at the table with a cup of water. He asked Erlend to forgive him, but this was a promise he had made during his youth, to drink water during Lent. And so the servants sat
there quietly, and the conversation lagged over the good ale. Once in a while the children would go over to Lavrans; he put his arm around them when they stood at his knee, but he gave absentminded answers to their questions. Ramborg replied curtly and sharply when Erlend tried to tease her; she would show that she didn’t like this brother-in-law of hers. She was now eight winters old, lively and lovely, but she bore little resemblance to her sisters.

  Erlend asked who the other children were. Lavrans told him the boy was Haavard Trondssøn, the youngest child at Sundbu. It was so tedious for him over there among his grown-up siblings; at Christmastime he had decided to go home with his aunt. The maiden was Helga Rolvsdatter. Her kinsmen had been forced to take the children from Blakarsarv home with them after the funeral; it wasn’t good for them to see their father the way he was now. And it was nice for Ramborg that she had these foster siblings. “We’re getting old now, Ragnfrid and I,” said Lavrans. “And she’s more wild and playful, this one here, than Kristin was.” He stroked his daughter’s curly hair.

  Erlend sat down next to his mother-in-law, and she asked him about Kristin’s childbirth. The son-in-law noticed that Lavrans was listening to them, but then he stood up, went over, and picked up his hat and cape. He would go over to the parsonage, he said, to ask Sira Eirik to come and join them for a drink.

  Lavrans walked along the well-trodden path through the fields toward Romundgaard. The moon was about to sink behind the mountains now, but thousands of stars still sparkled above the white slopes. He hoped the priest would be at home—he could no longer stand to sit there with the others.

  But when he turned down the lane between the fences near the courtyard, he saw a small candle coming toward him. Old Audun was carrying it, and when he sensed there was someone in the road, he rang his tiny silver bell. Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn threw himself down on his knees in the snowdrift at the side of the road.