Kristin Lavransdatter Page 80

  “That is so, Your Majesty,” added Erling Vidkunssøn. “No man in this country would think of refusing you allegiance over something which you lawfully command.”

  “No? Then you think that Erlend may not have incited betrayal and high treason—if we look closer at the case?”

  For a moment Sir Erling seemed at a loss for a reply, when Simon spoke.

  “You, my Lord, are our king—and every man expects that you will counter lawlessness with law. But if you pursue the path that Erlend Nikulaussøn has embarked upon, then men might step forward to state their names, which you are now pressing so hard to discover, or other men might begin to wonder about the true nature of this case—for it will be much discussed if Your Grace proceeds as you have warned, against a man as well-known and highborn as Erlend Nikulaussøn.”

  “What do you mean by that, Simon Andressøn?” said the king sharply, and his face turned crimson.

  “Simon means,” interjected Bjarne Erlingssøn, “that Your Grace might be poorly served if people began to ask why Erlend was not allowed the privilege of personal security, which is the right of every man except thieves and villains. They might even begin to think about King Haakon’s other grandsons. . . .”

  Erling Vidkunssøn swiftly turned to face his son with a furious expression.

  But the king asked dryly, “Don’t you consider traitors to be villains?”

  “No one will call him that, if he wins support for his plans,” replied Bjarne.

  For a moment they all fell silent. Then Erling Vidkunssøn said, “Whatever Erlend is called, my Lord, it would not be proper for you to disregard the law for his sake.”

  “Then the law needs to be changed in this case,” said the king vehemently, “if it is true that I have no power to obtain information about how the people intend to show their loyalty to me.”

  “And yet you cannot proceed with a change in the law before it has been enacted without exerting excessive force against the people—and from ancient times the people have had difficulty in accepting excessive force from their kings,” said Sir Erling stubbornly.

  “I have my knights and my royal retainers to support me,” replied Magnus Eirikssøn with a boyish laugh. “What do you say to this, Simon?”

  “I think, my Lord . . . it may turn out that this support cannot be counted on, judging by the way the knights and nobles in Denmark and Sweden have dealt with their kings when the people had no power to support the Crown against the nobles. But if Your Grace is considering such a plan, then I would ask you to release me from your service—for then I would rather take my place among the peasants.”

  Simon spoke in such a calm and composed manner that the king at first seemed not to understand what he had said. Then he laughed.

  “Are you threatening me, Simon Andressøn? Do you want to cast down your gauntlet before me?”

  “As you wish, my Lord,” said Simon just as calmly as before, but he took his gloves from his belt and held them in his hand. Then the young Bjarne leaned over and took them.

  “These are not proper wedding gloves for Your Grace to buy!” He held up the thick, worn riding gloves and laughed. “If word gets out, my Lord, that you have demanded such gloves, you might receive far too many of them—and for a good price!”

  Erling Vidkunssøn gave a shout. With an abrupt movement he seemed to sweep the young king to one side and the three men to the other; he urged them toward the door. “I must speak to the king alone.”

  “No, no, I want to talk to Bjarne,” called the king, running after them.

  But Sir Erling shoved his son outside along with the others.

  For some time they roamed around the castle courtyard and out on the slope—no one said a word. Stig Haakonssøn looked pensive, but held his tongue, as he had all along. Bjarne Erlingssøn walked around with a little, secretive smile on his lips the whole time. After a while Sir Erling’s armsbearer came out and said that his master requested they wait for him at the hostel—their horses stood ready in the courtyard.

  And so they waited at the hostel. They avoided discussing what had happened. Finally they fell to talking about their horses and dogs and falcons. By late that evening, Stig and Simon ended up recounting amorous adventures. Stig Haakonssøn had always had a good supply of such tales, but Simon discovered that whenever he began to tell some remembered story, Stig would take over, saying that either the event had happened to him or it had recently occurred somewhere near Mandvik—even though Simon recalled hearing the tale in his childhood, told by servants back home at Dyfrin.

  But he laughed and roared along with Stig. Once in a while he felt as if the bench were swaying under him—he was afraid of something but didn’t dare think about what it might be. Bjarne Er lingssøn laughed quietly as he drank wine, gnawed on apples, and fidgeted with his hood; now and then he would tell some little anecdote—and they were always the worst of the lot, but so wily that Stig could not understand them. Bjarne said that he had heard them from the priest at Bjørgvin.

  Finally Sir Erling arrived. His son went to meet him, to take his outer garments. Erling turned angrily to the youth.

  “You!” He threw his cape into Bjarne’s arms. Then a trace of a smile, which he refused to acknowledge, flitted across the father’s face. He turned to Simon and said, “Well, now you must be content, Simon Andressøn! You can rest assured that the day is not far off when you will be sitting together in peace and comfort on your neighboring estates—you and Erlend—along with his wife and all their sons.”

  Simon’s face had turned a shade more pale as he stood up to thank Sir Erling. He realized what the fear was that he hadn’t dared face. But now there was nothing to be done about it.

  About fourteen days later Erlend Nikulaussøn was released. Simon, along with two men and Ulf Haldorssøn, rode out to Akersnes to bring him home.

  The trees were already nearly bare, for there had been a strong wind the week before. Frost had set in—the earth rang hard beneath the horses’ hooves, and the fields were pale with rime as the men rode in toward town. It looked like snow; the sky was overcast and the daylight was dreary and a chilly gray.

  Simon noticed that Erlend dragged one leg a bit as he came out to the castle courtyard, and his body seemed stiff and clumsy as he mounted his horse. He was also very pale. He had shaved off the beard, and his hair was trimmed and neat; the upper part of his face was now a sallow color, while the lower part was white with bluish stubble. There were deep hollows under his eyes. But he was a handsome figure in the long, dark-blue surcoat and cap, and as he bade farewell to Olav Kyrning and handed out gifts of money to the men who had guarded him and brought him food in prison, he looked like a chieftain who was parting with the servants at a wedding feast.

  As they rode off, he seemed at first to be freezing; he shivered several times. Then a little color crept into his cheeks, and his face brightened—as if sap and vitality were welling up inside him. Simon thought it was no easier to break Erlend than a willow branch.

  They reached the hostel, and Kristin came out to meet her husband in the courtyard. Simon tried to avert his eyes, but he could not.

  They took each other’s hands and exchanged a few words, their voices quiet and clear. They handled this meeting under the eyes of the servants in a manner that was graceful and seemly enough. Except that they flushed bright red as they gazed at each other for a moment, and then they both lowered their eyes. Erlend once again offered his wife his hand, and together they walked toward the loft room, where they would stay while they were in Oslo.

  Simon turned toward the room which he and Kristin had shared up until now. Then she turned around on the lowest step to the loft room and called to him with a strange resonance in her voice.

  “Aren’t you coming, brother-in-law? Have some food first—and you too, Ulf!”

  Her body seemed so young and soft as she stood there with her hip turned slightly, looking back over her shoulder. As soon as she arrived in Oslo, she had
begun fastening her wimple in a different manner than before. Here in the south only the wives of smallholders wore the wimple in the old-fashioned way she had worn it ever since she was married: tightly framing her face like a nun’s wimple, with the ends crossed in front so her neck was completely hidden, and the folds draped along the sides and over her hair, which was knotted at the nape of her neck. In Trøndelag it was considered a sign of piety to wear the wimple in this manner, which Archbishop Eiliv had always praised as the most seemly and chaste style for married women. But in order to fit in, Kristin had adopted the fashion of the south, with the linen cloth placed smoothly on her head and hanging straight back, so that her hair in front was visible, and her neck and shoulders were free. And another part of the style was to have the braids simply pinned up so they couldn’t be seen under the edge of the wimple, with the cloth fitted softly to the shape of her head. Simon had seen this before and thought it suited her—but he had never noticed how young it made her look. And her eyes were shining like stars.

  Later in the day a great many people arrived to bring greetings to Erlend: Ketil of Skog, Markus Torgeirssøn, and later that evening Olav Kyrning himself, along with Sira Ingolf and Herr Guttorm, a priest from Saint Halvard’s Church. By the time the two priests arrived, it had begun to snow, a fine, dry powder, and they had lost their way in a field and wandered into some burdock bushes—their clothing was full of burrs. Everyone busily fell to picking the burdocks from the priests and their servants. Erlend and Kristin were helping Herr Guttorm; every now and then they would blush as they jested with the priest, their voices strangely unsteady and quavering when they laughed.

  Simon drank a good deal early in the evening, but it didn’t make him merry—only a little more sluggish. He heard every word that was said, his hearing unbearably sharp. The others soon began speaking openly—none of them supported the king.

  After a while he felt so strangely weary of it all. They sat there spouting foolish chatter, in loud and heated voices. Ketil Aas mundssøn was quite a simpleton, and his brother-in-law Markus was not much more clever himself; Olav Kyrning was a right-minded and sensible man, but short-sighted. And to Simon the two priests didn’t seem any more intelligent. Now they were all sitting there listening to Erlend and agreeing with him—and he grew more and more like the man he had always been: brash and impetuous. Now he had taken Kristin’s hand and placed it on his knee; he was sitting there playing with her fingers—and they sat close together, so their shoulders touched. Now she blushed bright red; she couldn’t take her eyes off him. When he put his arm around her waist, her lips trembled and she had trouble pressing them closed.

  Then the door flew open, and Munan Baardsøn stepped in.

  “At last the mighty ox himself arrives,” shouted Erlend, jumping up and going to greet him.

  “May God and the Virgin Mary help us—I don’t think you’re troubled in the least, Erlend,” said Munan, annoyed.

  “And do you think it would do any good to whine and weep now, kinsman?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it—you’ve squandered all your wealth. . . .”

  “Well, I was never the kind of man who would go to Hell with a bare backside merely to save my breeches from being burned,” said Erlend, and Kristin laughed softly, looking flustered.

  Simon leaned over the table and rested his head on his arms. If only they would think he was so drunk that he’d fallen asleep—he just wanted to be left alone.

  Nothing was any different than he’d expected—or at least ought to have expected. She wasn’t either. Here she sat, the only woman among all these men, as gentle and modest, comfortable and confident as ever. That’s how she had been back then—when she betrayed him—shameless or innocent, he wasn’t sure. Oh, no, that wasn’t true either . . . she hadn’t been confident at all, she hadn’t been shameless—she hadn’t been calm behind that calm demeanor. But the man had bewitched her; for Erlend’s sake she would gladly walk on searing stones—and she had trampled on Simon as if she thought he was nothing more than a cold stone.

  And here he lay, thinking foolishness. She had wanted to have her way and thought of nothing else. Let them have their joy—it made no difference to him. He didn’t care if they produced seven more sons; then there would be fourteen to divide up the inheritance from Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn’s estate. It didn’t look as if he would have to worry about his own children; Ramborg wasn’t as quick to give birth as her sister. And one day his descendants would be left with power and wealth after his death. But it made no difference to him—not this evening. He wanted to keep on drinking, but he knew that tonight God’s gifts would have no hold on him. And then he would have to lift his head and perhaps be pulled into the conversation.

  “Well, you probably think you would have made a good regent, don’t you?” said Munan scornfully.

  “No, you should know that we intended that position for you,” laughed Erlend.

  “In God’s name, watch your tongue, man.”

  The others laughed.

  Erlend came over and touched Simon’s shoulder.

  “Are you sleeping, brother-in-law?” Simon looked up. Erlend was standing before him with a goblet in his hand. “Drink with me, Simon. To you I owe the most gratitude for saving my life—which is dear to me, even such as it is, my man! You stood by me like a brother. If you hadn’t been my brother-in-law, I would have surely lost my head. Then you could have had my widow. . . .”

  Simon leaped to his feet. For a moment they stood there staring at each other. Erlend grew sober and pale; his lips parted in a gasp.

  Simon knocked the goblet out of the other man’s hand with his fist; the mead spilled out. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Erlend stayed where he was. He wiped his hand and wrist on the fabric of his surcoat without realizing that he was doing so, then looked around—the others hadn’t noticed. With his foot he pushed the goblet under the bench, then stood there a moment before following after his brother-in-law.

  Simon Darre was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Jon Daalk was leading his horses from the stable. He didn’t move when Erlend came down to stand beside him.

  “Simon! Simon . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was saying!”

  “Now you do.”

  Simon’s voice was toneless. He stood stock-still, without looking at the other man.

  Erlend glanced around him helplessly. A pale sliver of the moon shone through the veil of clouds; small, hard bits of snow were falling. Erlend shivered in the cold.

  “Where . . . where are you going?” he asked uncertainly, looking at the servant and horses.

  “To find myself another inn,” said Simon curtly. “You know full well that I can’t stay here.”

  “Simon!” Erlend exclaimed. “Oh, I don’t know what I would give to have those words unsaid!”

  “As would I,” replied the other man in the same voice.

  The door to the loft opened. Kristin stepped out onto the gallery with a lantern in her hand; she leaned over and shone the light on them.

  “Is that where you are?” she asked in her clear voice. “What are you doing outdoors?”

  “I thought I should see to my horses—as it’s the custom for polite people to say,” replied Simon, laughing up at her.

  “But . . . you’ve taken your horses out!” she said merrily.

  “Yes, a man can do strange things when he’s been drinking,” said Simon in the same manner as before.

  “Well, come back up here now!” she called, her voice bright and joyful.

  “Yes. At once.” She went inside, and Simon shouted to Jon to put the horses back in the stable. Then he turned to Erlend, who was standing there, his expression and demeanor oddly numb. “I’ll come inside in a few minutes. We must try to pretend it was never said, Erlend—for the sake of our wives. But this much you might realize: that you were the last man on earth I wanted . . . to know about . . . this. And don’t forget that I’m not
as forgetful as you are!”

  The door above them opened again; the guests came swarming out, and Kristin was with them; her maid carried the lantern.

  “Well, it’s getting late,” teased Munan Baardsøn, “and I think these two must be longing for bed. . . .”

  “Erlend. Erlend. Erlend.” Kristin had flung herself into his arms as soon as they were alone inside the loft. She clung tightly to him. “Erlend, you look sad,” she whispered fearfully, with her half-parted lips against his mouth. “Erlend?” She pressed both of her hands to his temples.

  He stood there for a moment with his arms limply clasped around her. Then, with a soft moaning sound in his throat, he crushed her to him.

  Simon walked over to the stable; he was going to tell Jon something, but halfway there he forgot what it was. For a moment he stood in front of the stable door and looked up at the hazy moonlight and the snow drifting down—now bigger flakes were beginning to fall. Jon and Ulf came out and closed the door behind them, and then the three men walked together over to the building where they would sleep.

  III: THE CROSS

  PART I

  HONOR AMONG KIN

  CHAPTER 1

  DURING THE SECOND year that Erlend Nikulaussøn and Kristin Lavransdatter lived at Jørundgaard, Kristin decided to spend the summer up in the mountain pastures.

  She had been thinking about this ever since winter. At Skjenne it had long been the custom for the mistress herself to stay in the mountain pastures; in the past a daughter from the manor had once been lured into the hills, and afterward her mother insisted on living in the mountains each summer. But in many ways they had their own customs at Skjenne; people in the region were used to it and expected as much.