Kristin Lavransdatter Page 78

  There would be plenty of time, either after he was taken from her or after he came back to her, for thinking about all the children and their changed circumstances—and about everything else in her life besides her husband. She didn’t want to lose a single hour of the time they had together, and she didn’t dare think about her reunion with the four sons she had left behind up north. For this reason she accepted Simon Andressøn’s offer to travel alone to Nidaros; along with Arne Gjavvaldssøn, he would see to her interests in the settling of the estate. King Magnus would not be made richer by acquiring Erlend’s property; his debts were much greater than he himself had thought, and he had raised money that was sent to Denmark and Scotland and England. Erlend shrugged his shoulders and said with a faint smile that he didn’t expect to be compensated for that.

  So Erlend’s situation was largely unchanged when Simon An-dressøn returned to Oslo around Holy Cross Day in the fall. But he was horrified to see how exhausted they both looked, Kristin and his brother-in-law; and he felt strangely weak and sick at heart when they both still had enough composure to thank him for coming at that time of year, when he could least be spared from his own estates. But now people were gathering in Tunsberg, where King Magnus had come to wait for his bride.

  A little later in the month Simon managed to book himself passage on a ship with several merchants who were planning to sail there in a week’s time. One morning a stranger arrived with the request that Simon Andressøn should trouble himself to come to Saint Halvard’s Church at once. Olav Kyrning was waiting for him there.

  The deputy royal treasurer was in a terribly agitated state. He was in charge of the castle while the treasurer was in Tunsberg. The previous evening a group of gentlemen had arrived and shown him a letter with King Magnus’s seal on it, saying that they were to investigate Erlend Nikulaussøn’s case. He had ordered the prisoner to be brought to them. The three men were foreigners, apparently Frenchmen; Olav didn’t understand their language, but this morning the royal priest had spoken to them in Latin. They were supposedly kinsmen of the maiden who was to be Norway’s queen—what a promising start this was! They had interrogated Erlend in the harshest manner . . . had brought along some kind of rack and several men who knew how to use such things. Today Olav had refused to allow Erlend to be taken out of his chamber and had put him under heavy guard. He would take responsibility for it, because this was not lawful—such conduct had never been heard of before in Norway!

  Simon borrowed a horse from one of the priests at the church and rode at once back to Akersnes with Olav.

  Olav Kyrning glanced a little anxiously at the other man’s grim face, which was flooded with furious waves of crimson. Now and then Simon would make a wild and violent gesture, not even aware of it himself—but the borrowed horse would start, rear up, and rebel beneath the rider.

  “I can see you’re angry, Simon,” said Olav Kyrning.

  Simon hardly knew what was foremost in his mind. He was so furious that he felt spells of nausea overtake him. The blind and desperate feeling that surged up inside him, driving him to the utmost rage, was a form of shame—a man who was defenseless, without weapon or protection, who had to tolerate the hands of strangers in his clothes, strangers searching his body . . . It was like hearing about the rape of women. He grew dizzy with the desire for revenge and the need to spill blood to retaliate. No, such had never been the custom in Norway. Did they want Norwegian noblemen to grow used to tolerating such things? That would never happen!

  He was sick with horror at what he would now see. Fear of the shame he would bring upon the other man by seeing him in such a state overwhelmed all other feelings as Olav Kyrning unlocked the door to Erlend’s prison cell.

  Erlend was lying flat on the floor, his body placed diagonally from one corner of the room to the other; he was so tall that this was the only way he could find enough room to stretch out full length. Some straw and pieces of clothing had been placed underneath him, on top of the floor’s thick layer of filth. His body was covered all the way up to his chin with his dark-blue, fur-lined cape so that the soft, grayish-brown marten fur of the collar seemed to blend with the curly black tangle of the beard that Erlend had grown while in prison.

  His lips were pale next to his beard; his face was snowy white. The large, straight triangle of his nose seemed to protrude much too far from his hollowed cheeks; his gray-flecked hair lay in lank, sweaty strings, swept back from his high, narrow forehead. At each temple was a large purple mark, as if something had clamped or held him there.

  Slowly, with great difficulty, Erlend opened his big pale-blue eyes and attempted to smile when he recognized the men. His voice was odd-sounding and husky. “Sit down, brother-in-law . . .” He turned his head toward the empty bed. “I’ve learned a few new things since we last met. . . .”

  Olav Kyrning bent over Erlend and asked him if he wanted anything. When he received no answer—probably because Erlend had no strength to reply—he pulled the cape aside. Erlend was wearing only linen pants and a ragged shirt. The sight of the swollen and discolored limbs shocked and enraged Simon like some indecent horror. He wondered whether Erlend felt the same way—a shadow of a blush passed over his face as Olav gently rubbed his arms and legs with a cloth he had dipped in a basin of water. And when he replaced the cape, Erlend straightened it out with a few small movements of his limbs and by drawing it all the way up to his chin, so that he was completely covered.

  “Well,” said Erlend. Now he sounded a bit more like himself, and the smile was stronger on his pale lips. “Next time it will be worse. But I’m not afraid. No one needs to be afraid . . . they won’t get anything out of me . . . not that way.”

  Simon could tell that he was speaking the truth. Torture was not going to force a word out of Erlend Nikulaussøn. He could do and say anything in anger and on impulse, but he would never let himself be budged even a hand’s breadth by violence. Simon realized that the shame and indignation he felt on the other man’s behalf was not something Erlend felt himself—instead, he was filled with a stubborn joy at defying his tormenter and a confident faith in his ability to resist. He who had always yielded so pitifully when confronted by a strong will, who might have shown cruelty himself in a moment of fear, now displayed his valor when he, in this cruel situation, sensed an opponent who was weaker than he was.

  But Simon snarled through clenched teeth, “Next time . . . will never come! What do you say, Olav?”

  Olav shook his head, but Erlend said with a trace of the old impudent boldness in his voice, “If only I could believe that . . . as firmly as you do! But these men will hardly . . . be satisfied with this . . .” He noticed the twitching of Simon’s muscular, heavy face. “No, Simon . . . brother-in-law!” Erlend tried to raise himself up on one elbow; in pain he uttered a stifled moan and then sank back in a faint.

  Olav and Simon tended to him. When the fainting spell had passed, Erlend lay still with his eyes open wide; he spoke more somberly.

  “Don’t you see . . . how much is at stake . . . for King Magnus? To find out . . . which men he shouldn’t trust . . . farther than he can see them. So much unrest . . . and discontent . . . as we’ve had here . . .”

  “Well, if he thinks this will quell the discontent, then—” said Olav Kyrning angrily.

  But Erlend said in a soft, clear voice, “I’ve handled this matter in such a way . . . that few will consider it important how I’m treated. I know that myself.”

  The two men blushed. Simon hadn’t thought that Erlend understood this—and neither of them had ever referred to Fru Sunniva. Now he exclaimed in despair, “How could you be so foolish and reckless!”

  “I can’t understand it either . . . now,” said Erlend honestly. “But—how in hell was I to know that she could read! She seemed so uneducated.”

  His eyes closed again; he was about to faint once more. Olav Kyrning murmured that he would get something and left the room. Simon bent over Erlend, who was again lying there
with half-open eyes.

  “Brother-in-law . . . did . . . did Erling Vidkunssøn support you in this matter?”

  Erlend shook his head and smiled. “No, by Jesus. We thought either he wouldn’t have the courage to join us . . . or else he would want to control the whole thing. But don’t ask me, Simon . . . I don’t want to tell . . . anyone. Then I know that I won’t talk . . .”

  Suddenly Erlend whispered his wife’s name. Simon bent over him; he expected Erlend to ask him to bring Kristin to him. But he said hastily, as if in a feverish breath, “She mustn’t find out about this, Simon. Tell her the king has sent word that no one is to be allowed to see me. Take her out to Munan—at Skogheim. Do you hear me? These Frenchmen . . . or Moors . . . new friends of our king . . . they won’t stop yet. Get her out of Oslo before the news spreads through town! Simon?”

  “Yes,” he replied, although he had no idea how he would manage it.

  Erlend lay still for a moment with his eyes closed. Then he said with a sort of smile, “I was thinking last night . . . about the time she gave birth to our eldest son. She was no better off than I am now—judging by how she wailed. And if she could bear it seven times . . . for the sake of our pleasure . . . then surely I can too.”

  Simon was silent. The involuntary qualms he felt about life revealing to him its last secrets of suffering and desire seemed not to trouble Erlend in the least. He wrestled with the worst and with the sweetest, as innocently as a naive young boy whose friends have taken him to a house of sin, drunken and full of curiosity.

  Erlend rolled his head back and forth impatiently.

  “These flies are the worst . . . I think they’re the Devil himself.”

  Simon took off his cap and swatted vigorously at the swarms of blue-black flies so that they rose up in great clouds, buzzing noisily. And all those that were knocked senseless to the floor, he furiously trampled in the dirt. It wouldn’t help much because the window hole in the wall stood wide open. The previous winter there had been a wooden shutter with a skin-covered opening. But it had made the room very dark.

  He was still busily flailing at the flies when Olav Kyrning came back with a priest who was carrying a drinking goblet. The priest put his hand under Erlend’s head to support him as he drank. Much of the liquid ran down into his beard and along his neck, but he lay as calm and unconcerned as a child when the priest wiped him off with a rag.

  Simon felt as if his whole body was in ferment—his blood was pulsing hard in his neck beneath his ears, and his heart was pounding in an odd and restless fashion. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the tall body stretched out under the cape. A feverish flush was now passing in waves over Erlend’s face. He lay there with his eyes half-open and glittering, but he gave his brother-in-law a smile, a shadow of his peculiar, boyish smile.

  The following day, as Stig Haakonssøn of Mandvik was sitting at the breakfast table with his guests, Sir Erling Vidkunssøn and his son Bjarne, they heard the hoofbeats of a lone horse out in the courtyard. A moment later the door of the building was flung open and Simon Andressøn stepped swiftly toward them. He wiped his face on his sleeve; he was spattered with mud all the way up to his neck after the ride.

  The three men sitting at the table rose to their feet to greet the new arrival with small exclamations that were part welcome and part surprise. Simon didn’t greet them but stood there leaning on the hilt of his sword with both hands. He said, “I bring you strange news—they have taken Erlend Nikulaussøn and stretched him on the rack—some foreigners that the king has sent to interrogate him. . . .”

  The men shouted and then crowded around Simon Andressøn. Stig pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand. “What did he tell them?”

  At the same time both he and Bjarne Erlingssøn involuntarily turned to face Sir Erling. Simon burst into laughter; he roared and roared.

  Then he sank down onto the chair that Bjarne Erlingssøn pulled out for him, accepted the ale bowl the young man offered him, and drank greedily.

  “Why are you laughing?” asked Sir Erling sternly.

  “I was laughing at Stig.” Simon was leaning slightly forward, with his hands resting on the thighs of his mud-covered breeches. He gave a few more bursts of laughter. “I had thought . . . All of us here are the sons of great chieftains . . . I expected you to be so angry that such a thing could be done to one of our peers that your first response would be to ask how this could possibly happen.

  “I can’t say that I know exactly what the law is about such matters. Ever since my lord King Haakon died, I’ve been content with the idea that I owed his successor my service if he should ask for it, both in war and in peace; otherwise I’ve lived quietly on my manor. But now I can only think that this case against Erlend Nikulaussøn has been unlawfully handled. His fellow noblemen have passed judgment on him, but I don’t know by what right they condemned him to death. Then a reprieve and safe conduct were granted to him until he could meet with his kinsman, King Magnus, to see whether the king might allow Erlend to be reconciled with him. But since then the man has been imprisoned in the tower at Akers Castle for nearly a year, and the king has been abroad almost all that time. Letters have been dispatched, but nothing has come of it. And now he sends over these louts, who are neither Norwegian nor the king’s retainers, and who attempt to interrogate Erlend with conduct that is unheard of toward any Norwegian man with the rights of a royal retainer—while peace reigns in the land, and Erlend’s kinsmen and peers are gathering in Tunsberg to celebrate the royal wedding. . . .

  “What do you think of all this, Sir Erling?”

  “I think . . .” Erling sat down on the bench across from him. “I think you have told us clearly and bluntly how this matter now stands, Simon Darre. As I see it, the king can only do one of three things: He can allow Erlend to appeal the sentence that was handed down in Nidaros. Or he can appoint a new court of royal retainers and have the case against Erlend brought by a man who does not bear the title of knight, and then they will sentence Erlend to exile, with the proper time allowed for him to leave the realms of King Magnus. Or he will have to permit Erlend to be reconciled with him. And that would be the wisest solution of all.

  “It seems to me that this case is now so clear, that whoever you present it to in Tunsberg will assist you and support you. Jon Haftorssøn and his brother are there. Erlend is their kinsman, just as he is the king’s. The Ogmundssøns will realize that injustice in this matter would be folly. You should seek out the commander of the royal retinue first; ask him and Sir Paal Eirikssøn to call a meeting of the retainers who are now in town and who seem most suited to handle this case.”

  “Won’t you and your kinsmen go with me, sir?” asked Simon.

  “We don’t intend to join the festivities,” said Erling curtly.

  “The Haftorssøns are young, Sir Paal is old and feeble, and the others . . . You know yourself, sir, that they have some power, being in the king’s favor and such, but . . . what importance do they have compared to you, Erling Vidkunssøn? You, sir, have held more power in this country than any other chieftain since . . . I don’t know when. Behind you, sir, stand the ancient families that the people of this country have known, man after man, for as far back as the legends tell us of bad times and good times in our villages. In your father’s lineage—what is Magnus Eirikssøn or the sons of Haftor of Sudrheim compared to you? Is their wealth worth mentioning compared to yours? This advice you have given me—it will take time, and the Frenchmen are already in Oslo, and you can bet that they will not yield. It’s clear that the king is attempting to rule Norway according to foreign customs. I know that abroad there’s a tradition for the king to ignore the law when he so chooses, if he can find amenable men among the knighthood to support him. Olav Kyrning has sent letters to those noblemen he could find to join him, and the bishop has promised to write as well. But you could end this dispute and unrest at once, Erling Vid kunssøn, by seeking out King Magnus. You are the foremost de
scendant of all the old noblemen here in Norway; the king knows that all the others would stand behind you.”

  “I can’t say that I’ve noticed that in the past,” said Erling bitterly. “You speak with great fervor on behalf of your brother-in-law, Simon. But don’t you understand that I can’t do it now? If I do, people would say . . . that I step forward the minute pressure is put on Erlend and it’s feared he might not be able to hold his tongue.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Stig asked again, “Has Erlend . . . talked?”

  “No,” replied Simon impatiently. “He has kept silent. And I think he’ll continue to do so. Erling Vidkunssøn,” he implored, “he’s your kinsman—you were friends.”

  Erling took a few deep, heavy breaths.

  “Yes. Simon Andressøn, do you fully understand exactly what Erlend Nikulaussøn has brought upon himself? He wanted to dissolve the royal union with the Swedes—this form of rule that has never been tested before—which seems to bring more and more hardship and difficulty to Norway for each year that passes. He wanted to go back to the old, familiar rule, which we know brings good fortune and prosperity. Don’t you see that this was the plan of a wise and bold man? And don’t you see that now it would be difficult for anyone else to take up this plan after him? He has ruined the chances of the sons of Knut Porse—and there are no other men of royal lineage the people can rally around. You might argue that if Erlend had carried out his intentions and brought Prince Haakon here to Norway, then he would have played right into my hands. Other than deliver the boy into the country, these . . . young fellows . . . wouldn’t have been able to do much without the intervention of sober-minded men who could handle all the rest that needed to be done. That’s how it is—I can vouch for it. God knows I’ve reaped few rewards; rather, I’ve had to set aside the care of my own estates for the ten years I’ve endured unrest and toil, strife and torment without end—a few men in this country have understood as much, and I’ve had to be satisfied with that!” He pounded his hand hard against the table. “Don’t you understand, Simon, that the man who took such great plans onto his shoulders—and no one knows how important they might have been to the welfare of all of us here in Norway, and to our descendants for many years to come—he set them all aside, along with his breeches, on the bed of a wanton woman. God’s blood! It could be he deserves to pay the same penance Audun Hestakorn did!”