The Snake Pit (6 page)

Olav had taken to Björn when he came and offered him his service, and he continued to like him. But he saw that the man had an ill report in the neighbourhood. His wife, Gudrid, came down to Hestviken at all times; Björn showed little joy at meeting her, and he seldom went home. Olav soon found out that she was the most arrant gossip, who preferred to roam from house to house mumping with her wallet rather than look to her home. Nor were they so poverty-stricken over at Rundmyr as she pretended; Björn took better care of his own than Gudrid gave him word for, he sent home both meat and fish and a little meal, and they had cow and goat. But now Olav had once called the woman foster-mother, so she never went from him without a gift. Now he was sorry he had put himself in this difficulty—he guessed it must be intolerable for Björn, when the man was to be chief of the serving-men at the manor, and his wife came and accepted alms in this way.

A desire had come upon Olav to associate with older men. Without his knowing it he had felt the want of someone who might have cared to teach him and be a guide as he grew up. He was now very courteous and respectful toward all old men among his equals, and helpful to the aged poor, received old men’s advice patiently, and followed it too, when he saw that it was beneficial. Moreover Olav was himself a man of few words when he came among strangers—but old folk could usually succeed in keeping the talk going, without his having to say much for his part or to listen the whole time. So they thought very well of the young Master of Hestviken.

Nor was he ill liked among those of his own age, though they thought it could scarce be said that Olav Audunsson brought mirth and gladness with him, and some mistook his quiet and silent manner
for pride. But others deemed that the man was only somewhat heavy of disposition and not too keen-witted. That Olav and his wife were uncommonly fair to look upon and knew well how to demean themselves among folk, all were agreed.

One Saturday afternoon, about the time when the work ceased, Olav and Björn with both the house-carls were coming up from the waterside when they saw a company ride out of the little wood in Kverndal and go up the slope toward the manor. There were two men and three young maids whose flaxen hair floated freely down to their saddles; their gowns were red and blue. It was a fair sight on the meadow, which was still fresh and green with the after-grass—and Olav was glad when he recognized the daughters of Arne.

He took them in his arms and kissed them with a merry greeting as he helped them from their horses, and then he led them forward to his wife, who stood at the door and received her guests in her quiet and gentle way.

They had not been to the home-coming feast, and during the holy-days the two younger were to go home to their father; so the priest had sent them hither that they might bring greetings and gifts to the wife of their kinsman. The priest’s house-carl accompanied the maids, and as they rode past Skikkjustad, the son of that house came and offered to join them; he had spoken with Olav the week before about a bargain.

Olav went over to the loft-room, changed his sea-clothes, tidied himself, and put on his Sunday garments. He was glad to have these young kinswomen in the neighbourhood, so Ingunn would be less lonely. He had heard a rumour that Sira Benedikt and Paal of Skikkjustad were thinking of a marriage between Signe and Baard Paalsson, and it looked as though the two young people were not disposed to gainsay the matter either; indeed, it might be a comfort to them at Hestviken too if this bargain were made.

Outside, the weather was still and cold; the pale, clear air was a sure presage of frost at night. It was cold indoors too—much wood was thrown on the hearth, and after the household had been fed, the young people were minded to play in the courtyard awhile, till darkness came on, to warm themselves. But Ingunn would not take part in the game. She sat with her cloak wrapped
about her and looked as though she felt the cold; she was so quiet that something seemed to have depressed her spirits. Seeing it, Olav left the dance and seated himself by his wife—and soon after, it grew so dark that they all came into the house. It then appeared that the three sisters knew many games, riddles, and jests that were fitted for indoors, and they had sweet voices when they sang—in everything they were courtly and well-bred maidens. But Ingunn remained in ill humour, and Olav was not able to enjoy himself fully, for he could not guess what ailed his wife.

Olav put his arm about Torunn and led her to Ingunn. Torunn was not yet thirteen, a fair and merry child. But not even she could thaw the mistress of the house.

In the evening Olav accompanied his guests on the way. It was fine weather; the full moon shone brightly in the clear sky, but the frost fog was beginning to creep in from the fiord, blotting out the shadows. Olav walked, leading Torunn’s horse.

“Your wife likes us not, Olav,” said the little maid.

“Can you think that?” said Olav with a laugh. “Not like you! I know not what it is that has gone against Ingunn tonight.”

Ingunn was in bed when Olav came home, and when he lay down beside her, he found that she was weeping. He stroked her and bade her say why she was so sorrowful. At long last he got her to come out with it—she felt so mortally unwell; it must come from her having eaten some shellfish when she was down by the waterside that morning. Olav told her not to do such things—she could speak to him or to Björn if she had a mind to such food, and they would find her some shellfish that was good to eat. Then he asked if she did not think his kinswomen were pleasant and comely maids.

Ingunn answered yes, “and merry indeed were these daughters of Arne,” she said in a tone of disapproval. “And you sported right wantonly with them, Olav—utterly unlike you. I can guess that
you
like them.”

“Yes,” said Olav, and his voice was filled with gladness at the thought of the mirthful evening. ’Twould be a great comfort to them both that he had these blithe and courtly young kinswomen so near at hand, he said again.

Olav could hear that she was breathing heavily. After a while she whispered:

“Were we not as sisters to you, Tora and I, in your boyhood?—but never do I mind me that you romped and jested so wantonly with us.”

“Oh, maybe ’twas not unknown,” replied Olav. “But I was under another man’s roof,” he added quietly. “Had I grown up among my own kindred and in my own home, I trow I had been less grave and silent as a boy.”

Soon after, he heard that she was weeping again. And now her sobs took such hold that he had to get water for her. On lighting a splinter of wood he saw her face so red and swollen that he feared she had eaten something downright poisonous. He threw on some clothes, dashed out, and fetched fresh milk, which he forced her to drink, and then at last she began to mend and fell asleep.

One day just before Hallowmas Olav was at the manse together with certain other franklins; they had come to have letters drawn up by the priest. Olav had—not exactly fallen out—with another man, named Stein; but yet the two had exchanged words somewhat sharply once or twice.

As they were about to ride home again, some of the men went out to look at Apalhvit, the horse Olav Audunsson was riding. They praised the horse highly and remarked how well groomed he was. And they teased Stein, who also had a white horse, but his was ill kept and rusty yellow, and it was easy to see that he had been roughly handled by his rider.

Stein said: “It has been Olav’s calling to break and tend horses—’tis but meet that a knight’s horse should be well groomed. But wait till you have known a few years of husbandry; then you will have forgotten all your courtly ways. And then you will own the truth of the old saying that white horses and too fair wives are not for country folk, for they have no time to watch them.”

“’Twill surely never go so hard with me that I have not the means to keep two white horses,” said Olav proudly. “Will you sell me the horse, Stein?”

Stein named a price, and at once Olav held out his hand and bade the others witness the bargain. It was settled on the spot how and when Olav should pay over the purchase money. Stein took the saddle off his horse and went into the house to borrow a halter of Sira Benedikt. The other men shook their heads, saying that this time Olav had made a bad bargain.

“Oh well—” Olav shrugged his shoulders and gave a little laugh. “But I care not always to be so thrifty as to split a louse into four.”

He put his saddle on the horse he had bought and let Apalhvit trot behind. The other men stood and watched him; one or two of them gave a little sneering laugh. The first trial of strength between horse and rider came at the bend of the road. It looked as though Olav would be well warmed ere he reached home.

Ingunn sat sewing alone in the hearth-room when she heard the beat of hoofs on the rocky floor of the courtyard. She went to the outer door and looked at her husband in surprise: in the rarefied autumn sunlight he was holding in a strange and restive horse; his face was fiery red and both he and the horse were bespattered with the foam that covered the bridle, while the horse champed and pranced till the stony ground rang again, and would not stand still. Olav greeted her and the house-carl, who came up, with a laugh.

“I will tell you all when I come in,” said Olav; he leaped from the saddle and stayed by the house-carl who was to lead the new horse to the stable.

“What is it?” she asked in wonder when he came in. He stopped just inside the door—looking like a drunken man.

“Is the old man at home?” asked Olav.

“No, he went down to the sea—shall I send Tore for him?”

Olav laughed and closed the door behind him. Then he came forward, lifted his wife as one takes a child in one’s arms, and squeezed her till she gasped.

“Olav—” she cried in terror. “What has come over you?”

“Oh, naught else but that you are too fair a wife,” he muttered with the same drunken laugh, and pressed his heated face against hers till she thought he would break her neck.

Late in the afternoon Olav betook himself to the mill, and Ingunn went into the cook-house; she had a pan of cheese standing by the fire, below the bake-stone.

The lid could not have been fitted on tightly, so much ash had got in. And it smelt ill—had doubtless stood too long, but it would not curdle sooner. Ingunn could never get her cheeses to work in the right way: the cheeses she had made the week before had gone
soft again and run over onto the shelf where she had put them to dry.

Her mouth twitched as she stood kneading the sticky, evil-smelling cheese in the pan, with slow and clumsy hands. She was no skilful housewife—all work was to her heavy and difficult, and accidents were always happening. Each new misfortune made her so utterly despondent—when would it strike Olav that his wife was incapable besides her other faults? At the end of a day like this, when everything she put her hand to had gone wrong, she felt bruised all over, as though from a number of falls.

He had not been drunken after all, Olav. At first she had sought comfort in the thought that he must have partaken more freely than was his wont of that ale of which their priest made such boast. But he had been quite sober. And her heart fluttered fitfully as she pondered—what could have come over Olav to make him so utterly unlike himself? Never had he been aught but kind and affectionate and tender in his love. At times she would fain have had him—not quite so calm and sober-minded.

The thought weighed heavily upon her: true enough, he was calm in his bearing, master of himself—as long as might be. But she had seen occasions when he lost his self-control. But even in that night of madness when the boy came to her and said he had slain Einar, she had felt his love for her as a safeguard. His rage she had seen
once—
when it was turned against herself; once she herself had lain cowering, mortally afraid, face to face with his white-hot anger. It was a thing she could not bear to think of—and she had not thought of it, till now. But now she recalled it, with such stifling vividness—But
now
she could not have done anything to make him angry?

She had felt so easy in these four months they had been married. Unconsciously she reckoned her marriage from the hour when her kinsmen in the presence of witnesses had given her into the hands of Olav Audunsson. He had been so good to her that the memory of all the terrible things that had befallen her on the eve of that event was now but as the shadow of a horrible dream. And she had been obliged to acknowledge the truth of what he said—Hestviken was far away; it had been easier than she could ever have imagined to forget what had happened there in the north. But at the same time she had striven to show him that she was grateful and loved him—unspeakably.—Surely, then,
she
could not
have done anything to cause him to be so—strange—just now, when he came home. But then she was seized with terror at the thought of
what
might have caused it—

And yet that was foolish—for he had shown no sign of wrath; it had all been caresses, in a way, the whole of it. Only wild ones—and then he had played with her, roughly, mad with an ungovernable merriment that had scared her, for she was not used to seeing Olav thus. But perhaps that was no proof that anything out of the common had befallen him—perhaps it was the way with all men, that such a fit came over them now and again. It had been Teit’s way—

Teit—she felt a kind of sagging at the heart—it had been just like Teit. Her memory of him had grown distant and unreal like all the rest that sank below the horizon as she moved farther and farther away from it with Olav. Now it had again come nigh her, alive and threatening, the memory that she had been Teit’s—

She uttered a scream and started, trembling all over, as Olav suddenly appeared just behind her—she had not noticed his coming.

He had stood in the doorway for a while watching her, the tall and slender young wife bending over the board, narrow-shouldered and lithe, working slowly and awkwardly with her long, thin-fingered hands in the mess of cheese. He could not see her face beneath the coif, but he had a feeling that she was in low spirits.