Kristin Lavransdatter (69 page)

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 Sea
⁴
. . .

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.

Night after night he had knelt here with his senses closed off and his limbs numb, until he saw the vision. The hill with the three crosses against the sky. The cross in the middle, which was meant to bear the king of heaven and earth, shook and trembled; it bent like a tree in a storm, in fear of bearing the much too precious burden, the sacrifice for all the sins of the world. The lord of the storm tents forced it, the way a knight forces his defiant stallion; the chieftain of heaven carried it into battle. Then that miracle occurred which was the key to ever deeper miracles. The blood that ran down from the cross in redemption for all sins and penance for all sorrows—that was the visible sign. With this first miracle the eye of the soul could be opened to contemplate those still hidden—God, who came down to earth and became the son of a virgin and brother to the human kin, who lay waste to Hell and who, with the released souls that were his spoils of war, stormed toward the dazzling sea of light from which the world was born and which sustains the earth. It was toward that unfathomable and eternal depth of light that his thoughts were drawn, and there they perished in the light, vanishing like a flock of birds into the radiance of an evening sky.

 

Not until the bells of the church rang for matins did Gunnulf get up. There was not a sound as he walked through the main hall—they were both asleep, Kristin and Orm.

Out in the dark courtyard the priest paused for a moment. But none of the servants appeared to accompany him to church. He didn’t require them to attend more than two services a day. But Ingrid, his foster mother, almost always went with him to matins. This morning she was evidently still asleep too. Well, she had been up late the night before.

 

All that day the three kinsmen spoke little to each other, and then only about unimportant things. Gunnulf looked tired, but he kept up his bantering just the same. “How foolish we were last night. We sat here so mournfully, like three fatherless children,” he said once. Many funny little things went on in Nidaros, with the pilgrims and such, which the priests often jested about among themselves. An old man from Herjedal had come to offer prayers on behalf of his fellow villagers, but he managed to mix them all up—and he later realized that things would have looked bad in his village if Saint Olav had taken him at his word.

 

Late that evening Erlend arrived, soaking wet. He had come to Nidaros by ship, and now the wind was blowing hard again. He was furious and fell upon Orm at once with angry words.

Gunnulf listened for a while and said, “When you speak to Orm in that manner, Erlend, you sound like our father—the way he used to speak to you.”

Erlend abruptly fell silent. Then he shouted, “But I know I never acted so senselessly when I was a boy—running off from the manor in a snowstorm, a woman who is ill and a whelp of a boy! There’s not much else to boast of about Orm’s manhood, but you can see that he’s not afraid of his father!”

“You weren’t afraid of Father either,” replied his brother with a smile.

Orm stood before his father without saying a word and tried to look indifferent.

“Well, you can go now,” said Erlend. “I’m tired of the whole lot at Husaby. But one thing I know—this summer Orm will go north with me, then I’ll make something of this pampered lamb of Kristin’s. He’s no bumbler, either,” he said eagerly to his brother. “He has a sure aim, I can tell you that. And he’s not afraid; but he’s always surly and morose, and it seems as if he has no marrow in his bones.”

“If you often rage at your son the way you did just now, then it’s not so strange that he would be morose,” said the priest.

Erlend’s mood shifted; he laughed and said, “I often had to suffer much worse from Father—and God knows I didn’t grow morose from that. It could very well be . . . but now that I’ve come here, we should celebrate Christmas, since it’s Christmastime, after all. Where’s Kristin? What was it she had to talk to you about again that she would . . .”

“I don’t think there was anything she wanted to talk to me about,” said the priest. “She had a mind to attend mass here during Christmas.”

“It seems to me that she could have made do with what we have at home,” said Erlend. “But it’s hard for her—all her youth is being stripped from her in this way.” He rammed one fist against the other. “I don’t understand why our Lord should think we need a new son every year.”

Gunnulf looked up at his brother.

“Well . . . I have no idea what our Lord thinks you may need. But what Kristin no doubt needs most is for you to be kind to her.”

“Yes, I suppose she does,” murmured Erlend.

 

The next day Erlend went to morning mass with his wife. They set off for Saint Gregor’s Church; Erlend always attended mass there when he was in Nidaros. The two of them went alone, and in the lane where the snow lay piled up in drifts, heavy and wet, Erlend led his wife by the hand, in a refined and courtly fashion. He hadn’t said a word to her about her flight, and he had been kind toward Orm after his first outburst.

Kristin walked along, pale and silent, with her head bowed slightly; the ankle-length, black fur cloak with the silver clasps seemed to weigh heavily on her frail, thin body.

“Would you like me to ride back home with you? Then Orm can travel home by ship,” her husband said. “I suppose you would prefer not to travel across the fjord.”

“No, you know I’m reluctant to journey by ship.”

The weather was calm and mild now—every once in a while mounds of heavy wet snow would slide down off the trees. The sky hung low and dark-gray over the white town. There was a watery, greenish-gray sheen to the snow; the timbered walls of the houses, the fences, and the tree trunks looked black in the damp air. Never, thought Kristin, had she seen the world look so cold and faded and pale.

KRISTIN SAT WITH Gaute on her lap and stared into the distance from the hill north of the manor. It was such a lovely evening. Below, the lake lay glistening and still, reflecting the mountain ridges, the buildings of By, and the golden clouds in the sky. The strong smell of leaves and earth rose up after the rainfall earlier in the day. The grass in the meadows must be knee-deep by now, and the fields were covered with spears of grain.

Sounds traveled a long way on such an evening. Now the pipes and drums and fiddles began playing down on the green near Vinjar; they sounded so splendid up on the hill.

The cuckoo fell silent for long periods, but then it would cry out a few notes, far away in the woods to the south. And birds whistled and warbled in all the groves around the farm—but sporadic and quiet, because the sun was still high.

The livestock were bellowing and their bells were ringing as they returned home from the pasture across from the farmyard gate.

“Now Gaute will soon have his milk,” she cooed to the infant, lifting him up. The boy lay as he usually did, with his heavy head resting on his mother’s shoulder. Now and then he would press closer, and Kristin took this as a sign that he understood her endearing words and chatter.

She walked down toward the buildings. Outside the main hall Naakkve and Bjørgulf were leaping around, trying to entice a cat down from the roof where it had taken refuge. Then the boys took up the broken dagger which belonged to both of them and went back to digging a hole in the earthen floor of the entryway.

Dagrun came into the hall carrying a basin of goat milk, and Kristin let Gaute drink ladle after ladle of the warm liquid. The boy grunted crossly when the servant woman spoke to him; when she tried to take him away, he struck out at her and hid his face on his mother’s breast.

“But it seems to me that he’s getting better,” said the milkmaid.

Kristin cupped the little face in her hand; it was yellowish-white, like tallow, and his eyes were always tired. Gaute had a big, heavy head and thin, frail limbs. He had turned two years old on the eighth day after Saint Lavrans’s Day, but he still couldn’t stand on his own, he had only five teeth, and he couldn’t speak a word.

Sira Eiliv said that it wasn’t rickets; and neither the alb nor the altar books had helped. Everywhere the priest went he would ask advice about this illness that had overtaken Gaute. Kristin knew that he mentioned the child in all his prayers. But to her he could only say that she must patiently submit to God’s will. And she should let him have warm goat milk.

Her poor little boy. Kristin hugged him and kissed him after the woman had left. How handsome, how handsome he was. She thought she could see that he took after her father’s family—his eyes were dark gray and his hair as pale as flax, thick and silky soft.

Now he began to whimper again. Kristin stood up and paced the floor as she held him. Small and weak though he was, he still grew heavy after a while. But Gaute refused to leave his mother’s arms. So she walked back and forth in the dim hall, carrying the boy and lulling him to sleep.

Someone rode into the courtyard. Ulf Haldorssøn’s voice echoed between the buildings. Kristin went over to the entryway door with the child in her arms.

“You’ll have to unsaddle your own horse tonight, Ulf. All the men have gone off to the dance. It’s a shame you should have to be troubled with this, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

Ulf muttered with annoyance, but he unsaddled the horse. Naakkve and Bjørgulf swarmed around him and wanted to ride the horse over in the pasture.

“No, Naakkve, you must stay with Gaute—play with your brother so he doesn’t cry while I’m in the cookhouse,” said Kristin.

The boy frowned unhappily. But then he got down on all fours, roaring and butting at his little brother whom Kristin had put down on a cushion near the entryway door. She bent down and stroked Naakkve’s hair. He was so good to his younger brothers.

 

When Kristin came back to the hall holding the big trencher in her hands, Ulf Haldorssøn was sitting on the bench, playing with the children. Gaute liked to be with Ulf as long as he didn’t see his mother—but now he began crying at once and reached out for her. Kristin put down the trencher and picked Gaute up.

Ulf blew on the foam of the newly tapped ale, took a swallow, and then began taking food from the small bowls on the trencher.

“Are all of your maidservants out tonight?”

Kristin said, “There are fiddles and drums and pipes—a group of musicians arrived from Orkedal after the wedding. And you know that as soon as they heard about them . . . They’re young girls, after all.”

“You let them run around too freely, Kristin. I think you’re most afraid that it’ll be hard to find a wet nurse this autumn.”

Kristin involuntarily smoothed down her gown over her slender waist. She had blushed dark red at the man’s words.

Ulf laughed harshly. “But if you keep carrying around Gaute this way, then things may go as they did last year. Come here to your foster father, my boy, and I’ll give you some food from my plate.”

Kristin didn’t reply. She set her three small sons in a row on the bench along the opposite wall, brought the basin of milk porridge, and pulled over a little stool close by. There she sat, feeding the boys, although Naakkve and Bjørgulf grumbled—they wanted spoons so they could feed themselves. The oldest was now four, and the other would soon be three years old.