Kristin Lavransdatter Read online

  Master Gunnulf paused for a moment.

  “Perhaps this land seems so inexpressibly desolate because the city is nearby—the one that was the queen of the entire heathen world and then became Christ’s betrothed. The guards have abandoned the city, which in the teeming din of the feasting seems like an abandoned woman. The revelers have settled into the castle where the husband is absent, and they have lured the mistress into joining their carousing, with their merriment and spilling of blood and strife.

  “But underground there are splendors that are more precious than all the splendors on which the sun shines. That’s where the graves of the holy martyrs are, dug into the very rock, and there are so many that the thought of them can make you dizzy. When you remember how numerous they are—the tortured witnesses who have suffered death for the sake of Christ—then it seems as if every speck of dust that is whirled up by the hooves of the revelers’ horses must be holy and worthy of worship.”

  The priest pulled out a thin chain from under his robe and opened the little silver cross hanging from it. Inside was something black that looked like tinder-moss, and a tiny green bone.

  “One day we were down in those catacombs all day long, and we said our prayers in caves and oratories where the first disciples of Saint Peter and Saint Paul once gathered for mass. Then the monks who owned the church into which we had descended gave us these sacred relics. This is a piece of the sponge which the pious maidens used to wipe up the martyr blood so that it would not be lost, and this is a knuckle from the finger of a holy man—but only God knows his name. Then all four of us vowed that every day we would invoke this holy man, whose honor is unknown to any human. And we chose this nameless martyr as a witness so that we might never forget how completely unworthy we are of God’s reward or the honors of men, and always remember that nothing in this world is worthy of desire except His mercy.”

  Kristin kissed the cross with deference and handed it to Orm, who did the same.

  Then Gunnulf said suddenly, “I want to give you this relic, kinsman.”

  Orm sank down on one knee and kissed his uncle’s hand. Gunnulf hung the cross around the boy’s neck.

  “Wouldn’t you have a mind to see these places, Orm?”

  The boy’s face lit up with a smile. “Yes, I now know that someday I will go there.”

  “Have you ever had a mind to become a priest?” asked his uncle.

  “Yes,” replied the boy. “Whenever Father curses these weak arms of mine. But I don’t know whether he would like me to be a priest. And then there’s that other matter, as you know,” he murmured.

  “Dispensation can be sought for your birth,” said the priest calmly. “Perhaps we might journey south together sometime, Orm, you and I.”

  “Tell me more, Uncle,” Orm implored.

  “That I will.” Gunnulf put his hands on the armrests of his chair and stared into the fire.

  As I wandered there, seeing nothing but reminders of the tortured witnesses and thinking of the intolerable torments they had borne in the name of Jesus, a terrible temptation came over me. I thought about the way the Savior had hung nailed to the cross all those hours. But his disciples had suffered inexpressible torments for many days. Women watched their children tortured to death before their very eyes; delicate young maidens had their flesh raked from their bones with iron combs; young boys were forced to confront beasts of prey and enraged oxen. Then it occurred to me that many of these people had suffered more than Christ himself.

  “I pondered this until I felt that my heart and mind would burst. But finally I received the light that I had prayed and begged for. And I realized that just as they had suffered, so should we all have the courage to suffer. Who would be so foolish not to accept pain and torment if this was the way to a faithful and steadfast bridegroom who waits with open arms, his breast bloody and burning with love.

  “But he loved humankind. And that’s why he died as the bridegroom who has gone off to rescue his bride from the robbers’ hands. And they bind him and torture him to death, but he sees his sweetest friend sitting at the table with his executioners, bantering with them and mocking his pain and his loyal love.”

  Gunnulf Nikulaussøn hid his face in his hands.

  “Then I realized that this mighty love sustains everything in the world—even the fire in Hell. For if God wanted to, He could take our souls by force; then we would be completely powerless in His grasp. But since He loves us the way the bridegroom loves the bride, He will not force her; if she won’t embrace Him willingly, then He must allow her to flee and to shun Him. I have also thought that perhaps no soul is lost for all eternity. For I think every soul must desire this love, but it seems too dearly bought to let go of every other precious possession for the sake of this love alone. When the fire has consumed all other will that is rebellious and hostile to God, then at last the will toward God, even if it was no bigger in a person than one nail in a whole house, shall remain inside the soul, just as the iron remains in a burned-out ruin.”

  “Gunnulf—” Kristin rose halfway to her feet. “I’m afraid.”

  Gunnulf looked up, pale, with blazing eyes.

  “I was also afraid. For I understood that the torment of God’s love will never end as long as men and maidens are born on this earth, and that He must be afraid of losing their souls—as long as He daily and hourly surrenders his body and his blood on thousands of altars and there are those who reject the sacrifice.

  “And I was afraid of myself because I, an impure man, had served at his altar, said mass with impure lips, and held up the Host with impure hands. And I felt that I was like the man who led his beloved to a place of shame and betrayed her.”

  He caught Kristin in his arms when she fainted, and he and Orm carried the unconscious woman over to the bed.

  After a while she opened her eyes; she sat up and covered her face with her hands. She burst into tears and uttered a wild and plaintive cry, “I can’t, Gunnulf, I can’t—when you talk like that, then I realize that I can never . . .”

  Gunnulf took her hand. But she turned away from the man’s pale and agitated face.

  “Kristin. You cannot settle for anything less than the love that is between God and the soul.

  “Kristin, look around at what the world is like. You who have given birth to two children—have you never thought about the fact that every child who is born is baptized in blood, and the first thing a person breathes on this earth is the smell of blood? Don’t you think that as their mother you should put all your effort into one thing? To ensure that your sons do not fall back on that first baptismal pact with the world but instead hold on to the other pact, which they affirmed with God at the baptismal font.”

  She sobbed and sobbed.

  “I’m afraid of you,” she said again. “Gunnulf, when you talk like that, then I realize I’ll never be able to find my way to peace.”

  “God will find you,” said the priest quietly. “Stay calm and do not flee from Him who has been seeking you before you even existed in your mother’s womb.”

  He sat in silence for a moment near the edge of the bed. Then he asked calmly and evenly whether he should wake Ingrid and ask the woman to come and help her undress. Kristin shook her head.

  He made the sign of the cross over her three times. He bade Orm good night and went into the alcove where he slept.

  Orm and Kristin undressed. The boy seemed deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. After Kristin was in bed, he came over to her. He looked at her tear-stained face and asked whether he should sit with her until she fell asleep.

  “Oh, yes . . . oh, no, Orm, you must be tired, you who are so young. It must be very late.”

  Orm stood there a little longer.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange,” he said suddenly. “Father and Uncle Gunnulf—they’re so unlike each other—and yet they’re alike in a certain way.”

  Kristin lay there, thinking to herself, Yes, perhaps. They’re unlike any other men.
>
  A moment later she was asleep, and Orm went over to the other bed. He took off the rest of his clothes and crept under the covers. There was a linen sheet underneath and linen cases on the pillows. With pleasure the boy stretched out on the smooth, cool bed. His heart was pounding with excitement at these new adventures which his uncle’s words had pointed out to him. Prayers, fasts, everything he had practiced because he had been taught to do so, suddenly seemed new to him—weapons in a glorious war for which he longed. Perhaps he would become a monk—or a priest—if he could obtain dispensation because he had been born of adultery.

  Gunnulf’s bed was a wooden bench with a sheet made from a hide spread over a little straw and a single, small pillow; he had to stretch himself out full length to sleep. The priest took off his surcoat, lay down wearing his undergarments, and pulled the thin homespun blanket over himself.

  He left the little candlewick burning that was twined around an iron stake.

  His own words had oppressed him with fear and uneasiness.

  He felt faint with longing for that time—would he ever again find that nuptial joy in his heart that had filled him all spring long in Rome? Together with his three brothers he had wandered in the sunshine across the green, flower-starred meadows. He grew weak and trembled when he saw how beautiful the world was—and then to know that all of this was nothing compared to the riches of that other life. And yet this world greeted them with a thousand small joys and sweet reminders of the bridegroom. The lilies in the field and the birds in the sky reminded them of his words; he had spoken of donkeys like the ones they saw and of wells like the stone-lined cisterns they passed. They received food from the monks at the churches they visited, and when they drank the blood-red wine and broke off the golden crust from the bread made of wheat, all four priests from the barley lands understood why Christ had honored wine and wheat, which were purer than all other foodstuffs that God had given humankind, by manifesting himself in their likeness during the holy communion.

  During that spring he had not felt any uneasiness or fear. He had felt himself released from the temptations of the world to such an extent that when he sensed the warm sun on his skin, then everything he had pondered before with such anguish seemed so easy to comprehend. How this body of his could be cleansed by fire to become the transfigured form . . . Feeling light and released from the demands of the earth, he needed no more sleep than the cuckoo, dozing in the spring nights. His heart sang in his breast; his soul felt like a bride in the arms of the bridegroom.

  He realized full well that this would not last. No man could live on earth in this manner for long. And he had received each hour of that bright springtime like a pledge—a merciful promise that would strengthen his endurance when the skies darkened over him and the road led down into a dark ravine, through roaring rivers and cold snowdrifts.

  But it wasn’t until he returned to Norway that the uneasiness seized hold of his mind.

  There were so many things. There was his wealth. The great inheritance from his father—and the richly endowed benefice.2 There was the path he envisioned before him. His place in the cathedral chapter; he knew it was intended for him—provided he didn’t renounce everything he owned, enter the friars’ order, take the vows of a monk, and submit to their rules. That was the life he desired—with half his heart.

  And then when he grew old enough and hardened enough in the battle . . . In the kingdom of Norway there were people who lived like utter heathens or were led astray by the false teachings which the Russians put forward in the name of Christianity—the Finns and the other half-wild peoples,3 who were constantly on his mind. Wasn’t it God who had awakened in him this desire to journey to their villages, bringing the Word and the Light?

  But he pushed aside these thoughts with the excuse that he had to obey the archbishop. And Lord Eiliv counseled him against it. Lord Eiliv had talked to him and listened to him and shown him clearly that he was speaking to the son of his old friend, Sir Nikulaus of Husaby. “But you are not capable of moderation, you who are descended from the daughters of Skogheims-Gaute, whether it be good or bad, whatever you have set your mind to.” The salvation of the Finns weighed heavily on the archbishop’s heart as well—but they had no need of a spiritual teacher who wrote and spoke Latin as well as his own language, who was no less knowledgeable about the law than about Aritmetica and Algorismus. Gunnulf had acquired his learning in order to use it, hadn’t he? “But it is unclear to me whether you have the gift to talk with the poor and simple people up there in the north.”

  Oh, that sweet spring when his learning seemed to him no more venerable than the learning that every little maiden acquires from her mother—how to spin and brew and bake and milk—the training that every child needs to tend to his place in the world.

  He had complained to the archbishop about the uneasiness and fear that came over him whenever he thought about his riches and how much he enjoyed being wealthy. For the needs of his own body he required little; he himself lived like a poor monk. But he liked to see many people sitting at his table; he liked to forestall the needs of the poor with his gifts. And he loved his horses and his books.

  Lord Eiliv spoke somberly about the honors of the Church. Some were called to honor it with a stately and dignified demeanor, while others were called to show the world a voluntary poverty; wealth was nothing in itself. He reminded Gunnulf of those archbishops and prelates and priests who had been forced to suffer attacks, banishment, and offenses by kings in the past because they asserted the right of the Church. Time after time they had shown that if it was required of Norwegian clergymen, they would renounce everything to follow God. And God Himself would give the sign if it should be required—if only they all kept this firmly in sight, then they need not be afraid that wealth might become an enemy of the soul.

  All this time Gunnulf noticed that the archbishop was not pleased that he thought and pondered so much on his own. It seemed to Gunnulf that Lord Eiliv Kortin and his priests were like men who were adding more and more bricks to their house. The honor of the Church and the power of the Church and the right of the Church. God knew that Gunnulf could be just as zealous as any other priest about matters of the Church; he was not one to avoid the work of hauling stones or carrying mortar for the building. But they seemed to be afraid of entering the house and resting inside. They seemed to be afraid of going astray if they thought too much.

  That was not what he feared. It was impossible for a man to succumb to heresy if he kept his eye steadfastly fixed on the cross and unceasingly surrendered himself to the protection of the Holy Virgin. That was not the danger for him.

  The danger was the unquenchable longing in his soul to win the favor and friendship of others.

  He who had felt in the depths of his being that God loved him; to God his soul was as dear and precious as all other souls on earth.

  But here at home it rose up in him again: the memory of everything that had tormented him during his childhood and youth. That his mother had not been as fond of him as she was of Erlend. That his father hadn’t wanted to pay any attention to him, the way he had constantly paid attention to Erlend. Later, when they lived with Baard at Hestnes, it was Erlend who was praised and Erlend who did wrong—Gunnulf was merely the brother. Erlend, Erlend was the chieftain for all the young boys, Erlend was the one the serving maids cursed at and then laughed at just the same. And Erlend was the one he himself loved above all others on earth. If only Erlend would be fond of him; but he could never be satisfied with the love Erlend gave him. Erlend was the only one who cared for him—but Erlend cared for so many.

  And now he saw the way his brother handled everything that had fallen to his lot. God alone must know how it would end with the riches of Husaby; there was gossip enough in Nidaros about Erlend’s imprudent management. To think he took so little notice, when God had given him four handsome children; and they were handsome, even the children he had begotten in his dissolute days. Erlend perceived this not
as a gift of grace but as something that was simply as it should be.

  And finally he had won the love of a pure, delicate young maiden of good family. Gunnulf thought about the way Erlend had dealt with her; he could no longer respect his brother after he found that out. He grew impatient with himself when he noticed traits he had in common with his brother. Erlend, as old as he was, would turn pale or blush crimson as easily as a half-grown maiden, and Gunnulf would rage because he felt the blood coming and going just as easily in his own face. They had inherited this from their mother; a single word could make her change color.

  Now Erlend assumed it was no more than reasonable that his wife was a good woman, a mirror for all wives—in spite of the fact that year after year he had tried to corrupt this young child and lead her astray. But Erlend didn’t even seem to imagine that things might be otherwise; he was now married to the woman whom he had trained in sensual pleasures, betrayal, and dishonesty. He didn’t seem to think it was something he should honor his wife for—that in spite of her fall, she was still truthful and faithful, modest and good.

  And yet, when the news arrived this past summer and autumn about Erlend’s actions in the north . . . Then he had yearned for only one thing: to be with his brother. Erlend, the king’s military protector in Haalogaland; and he, the preacher of God’s words in the desolate, half-heathen districts near the Gandvik Sea4 . . .

  Gunnulf stood up. On one wall of the alcove hung a large crucifix, and in front of it, on the floor, lay a big slab of stone.

  He knelt down on the stone and stretched out his arms to either side. He had hardened his body to tolerate this position, and he could remain like this for hours, as motionless as stone. With his eyes fastened on the crucifix, he waited for the solace that would come when he was able to focus all his attention on his contemplation of the cross.

  But the first thought that now came to him was this: Should he part with this image? Saint Francis and his friars had crosses which they carved themselves from a couple of tree branches. He ought to give away this beautiful rood—he could give it to the church at Husaby. Peasants, children, and women who went there for mass might gain strength from such a visible display of the Savior’s loving gentleness during his suffering. Simple souls like Kristin. For him it shouldn’t be necessary.