The Son Avenger (10 page)

Eirik knew no peace. He could not bear Hestviken; he had forgotten what his father was like in daily life—silent, with a far-off look in his eyes; if one spoke to him it was often like calling over hill and dale. And then it might happen that Eirik felt his father staring at him, and Eirik could never be sure whether his father
was looking at him or whether he glared like this without knowing it. Eirik could not stand him. And his sister was always so quiet and distant.

So Eirik went about among their neighbours, and when he came home he had usually been drinking. Olav knew that the men whose company the lad sought were fit for nothing but drinking and gaming; immoral in other ways they were too. Most of them were younger sons on the great manors, such as stayed at home and refused to do what might be held the work of a servant. But Olav said nothing to Eirik about the company he kept—he ignored him.

It was Ragnvald Jonsson, the Sheriff’s brother, who had now become Eirik’s best friend. At first Eirik had associated with Ragnvald because in a vague way he hoped or expected that the other would tell him more, since it was from his lips that he had first heard of Bothild’s death. Even if Ragnvald had not known his sisters very well, he had nevertheless seen more of them than most other young men thereabout.

Later, as the torment gnawed and gnawed at Eirik’s soul, there arose within him a morbid desire to question his friend: had rumours ever been abroad concerning Bothild? By degrees he had been ground down to such a depth of misery that he believed it would be easier to live if he could hear that she had had a name for being light or wanton. For it was more than he could bear, if he had shed innocent blood.

But no one ever spoke of Bothild Asgersdatter. And at last he swallowed his shame, one night when he slept at Galaby and shared a bed with Ragnvald.

Eirik then asked his friend: “What meant you by what you said, that day you were out at Hestviken last autumn? Of Bothild?”

“I cannot recall that I said anything—”

“Oh, yes. You spoke of her, so lightly—”

“Are you out of your wits—I spoke lightly of your sister?”

“She was only my foster-sister. Your words made me think that maybe Bothild was no more steadfast than that folk deemed she might let herself be tempted by a man—”

“He would have to turn himself into a bird, like the knight in the ballad, the man who would tempt one of Olav’s daughters, so well are they herded! I think you are out of your wits, Eirik!

Maybe I said à word or two in jest—now you speak of it, I believe I remember. To tell the truth, I myself liked Bothild so well that I got Reidulf to make inquiry of Olav one time. But the answer he was given was such that we could only suppose Olav had chosen her to be your bride” Ragnvald gave a little laugh—“unless he meant to take her himself, old as he is.”

Some days later, when Olav and Eirik were alone in the great room, Eirik asked suddenly: “Father—is it true what folk say in the parish—that you were to marry Bothild?”

Olav looked up sharply from the thongs he was plaiting into a rope. He
looked
at his son for a moment, then went on with his work, said nothing.

Eirik insisted, almost pleading: “I have been told it for sure—”

“I wonder,” said Olav quietly, “
what
thing you could be told that was too foolish for you to believe it!”

Eirik whispered: “You—or I. They say that, from the way you spoke of her, they could only deem you to have chosen her to be mistress here at Hestviken one day.”

Again Olav looked up. Still he made no answer, but Eirik saw the changing expression in the elder man’s ravaged face—surprise, or pain, or both.

“Father—is it true—was it your purpose that Bothild and I should possess this house in common?”

“It may be,” Olav said in a low voice, “I had purposed something of the sort. That it would be for the good of the manor-after my time—that you took a wife whom I knew to be well fitted and not idle, when the time came for you to be master—”

“Had we but known that!” Eirik smote his hands together, clasped them. “Had we but known that! But we both thought you would never hear of such a thing—since she was a poor orphan, without kinsfolk, without a foot of land—’twas vain to think of it—”

Olav leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands hang down.

“Then you spoke of this?” he asked at last, quietly, without looking up.

“We spoke of it that last evening, on the way home from Rundmyr.”

“Ah, well,” sighed Olav after a long pause. “But she had been
sick ere that. So God alone knows how it would have turned out.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“’Tis not easy either, for a woman,” said Olav in a low and earnest voice, “if she be weak in health—to have the charge of a great house like this, to take part in her husband’s cares and counsels, to bear maybe one child after another, though she be weary and sick. I saw that with your mother, Eirik—her lot was a hard one here—”

Eirik rose and stood before his father. “That may be, Father. But now I have lost all desire to deal with the things of this world. So now I mean to betake myself to a convent.”

Olav raised his head—stared at the young man in astonishment.

Eirik said: “I feel, Father, this is a heavy blow to you. You have but one son to be your heir, and he is to be a monk. But you must not oppose me in this!”

“Oppose you—But it comes unlooked for.”

At that moment Eirik was aware that it had come unlooked for upon himself. He had not thought of it until the instant he uttered the words. But then God Himself must have put them in his mouth.

“After the holy days I had purposed to go in to Oslo, to speak with the guardian.”

“Is it to
them
you will go—to the begging friars?”

Eirik nodded.

“Do others know of this—do they await you at the convent?”

Eirik shook his head.

“Then you must give me time—to think the matter over,” said Olav.

Eirik nodded. They said no more to each other, and soon after Cecilia came in with the maids.

No sooner had Olav gone into the closet than Eirik threw himself down before the crucifix. His state of mind was that of a man who has lost his way in bogs and wastes and suddenly comes upon a firm path—and he prayed as a man astray hurries toward the haunts of men. It seemed to him almost a miracle—never before in all his days had he thought for a single instant of entering a convent—and the longer he prayed, the more clearly he seemed to see the path before him and the lighter it grew about him.

He did not think even now of what the words meant, any more
than he did when he repeated them morning and evening and every time he entered a church. But they bore his soul up like a stream, and he floated upon it on and on toward new scenes.

Little had he learned of the Christian religion, and of that little he no longer remembered much. But as he now tried to call forth what he had once known—of our Lord’s life and death, the story of Mary, the words of the Prophets and the songs of David, the prayers of the mass—he felt as though he had come into a noble gallery where massive, fairly carven chests and coffers stood in every corner. He himself was now the young heir, who had entered for the first time with the keys in his hand. Full of impatient zeal, he was scarce able to await the hour when he might unlock and possess and handle all the hidden treasures of the faith.

Perhaps it would be his lot to be made a priest—he was no slower at learning than other men, so he must be able to achieve this. Eirik had a vision of a man standing before an altar; garbed in fine linen and gold embroidery he lifted up his hands to receive heaven’s deepest mystery, incomprehensibly united with Christ Himself in the miracle of the mass. It was as though the angel of the Lord had seized him by the hair, raised him out of his wonted world, placed him there—as he remembered to have heard of one of the wise men of the Jews: he went out into the fields with his porridge-bowl to bring food to his mowers, when the angel of the Lord came, seized him by the hair, and carried him away to Babylon.

They would be astonished, the brethren of Konungahella, when they heard that Eirik Olavsson had entered their order—little had either they or he dreamed that one day he would be a barefoot friar! Now he recalled that this had also come to him as an inspiration, without his having to think or choose—to the Minorites of Oslo he was to go. And in this too he was satisfied with God’s choice. He had always made his confession to the Minorites, both in Oslo and in Konungahella—folk said they prayed far more for their penitents than did the secular priests. Though he had seldom made up his mind to be shriven more than once a year, before Easter—he had dealt unwarily with his soul, he saw that now. But he had always liked these brethren, and looked forward to seeing their joy when he came and asked to be admitted to their company.

Olav lay awake. And as he strove to see clearly in the welter of thoughts to which his son’s words had given rise, he heard the hurried whispering stream of words—Pater, Ave, Credo, Laudate Dominum. The young voice rose and fell, the words ran faster or slower, as the stream ebbed and flowed in Eirik’s mind.

The lad had lighted a candle when he went to his prayers. It was so placed that Olav could not see it from where he lay, but beyond the open door the room swam in a soft golden light.

Olav’s heart was oppressed. Yet he said to himself that it was a great godsend if Eirik so utterly unexpectedly and of his own accord had now found a call for the monastic life. A godsend for the lad himself, a godsend for Cecilia. And he would be freed from the rankling thought of the bastard heir whom he had falsely brought into his kindred.

Great as was the injustice he had committed in giving out another man’s child for his own, had he
not
done so, but let the boy stay where his mother had hidden him away in the wilds—then indeed Eirik’s lot would never have been other than that of a poor man’s child. That too would have been an injustice—on
her
part. Now he would be a servant of God—and he might bring the convent a rich dower; if he wished to bestow on it the whole of his mother’s inheritance, Olav would not oppose it. Then
that
sin would be undone. And this child of her misfortune would be made a life dedicated to the glory of God and many men’s profit; for in times such as these, when so many seemed indifferent, uncharitable, and froward in their attitude to God, it was good and salutary to see a young man of Eirik’s condition give up all for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. And now he might be an aid to his mother, maybe. Perhaps to him too—

Nevertheless his father’s heart was heavy.

He could not rid himself of the thought of what Eirik had said of a marriage with Bothild. An unwise match it would have been—Olav was not sure whether he would have consented to it. But he could not help thinking of the grief of the two young people—of all the nights he had watched beside his foster-daughter. Had the child had this sorrow upon her as she lay there? It almost made him wish they had spoken to him. And yet the sickness must have had a good hold on her—’twould only have been the misery of Ingunn over again. And Eirik had been vouchsafed a better lot. It was better as it was.
But, but, but—Often as he had thought it would be better if Eirik never returned to Hestviken—intensely as the lad’s ways had often irritated him, rousing him a thousand times to wrath, contempt, perplexity in his dealings with this strange bird he had taken into his nest—there had been so much else blended with these feelings while he had under his protection the offspring of that disaster which had wrecked his own and Ingunn’s lives. He had taken charge of Eirik since the lad was a child, had cared for him as he grew up into a man. And now that he was to relinquish his charge, it was as though the young man had been his own son.

The voice within was hushed, but the candle was still burning—and now and again he heard a sound of snoring. Olav got up and looked into the room. Eirik was still on his knees, sunk forward on a chest with his head buried in his arms. The lighted candle stood just by his elbow. It might easily have been overturned into the straw.

His father took hold of Eirik and aroused him as gently as he could. Barely half-awake, his dreamy eyes heavy with sleep, Eirik undressed without a sound, lay down on his bed, and fell asleep at once. Like a child he had been, as in a deep torpor he obediently did as his father told him.

Olav blew out the light, pinched the wick between wet fingers, and stole quietly back to the closet. Lying awake in the dark, he resumed the contest with his unreasoning heart.

O
NE
evening in the following week, as Eirik was at his prayers—and now it seemed to him an immemorial custom that when the rest of the household had gone to rest he abandoned himself every night to hours of praying—he was aroused by a sharp whisper:

“Eirik—?”

He turned. Halfway down the ladder that led to the room above the closet and anteroom the white form of his sister appeared.

Eirik broke off abruptly with
“In nomine—”
and crossed himself,
as though throwing a cloak about him. Then he sprang up and went to her.

“Do I keep you awake, Cecilia?”

“Yes—I am afraid you will fall asleep and forget the candle. You have done so many times—and yesternight I had to come down and put it out, for Father was asleep too.”

The girl was shivering with cold in her thin nightdress. Eirik stood before her, looking up at her bright form: he thought she was like an angel, and he bowed his head forward, breathing affectionately on the bare toes, red with cold, that protruded below the long ample garment, clinging to the step of the ladder.

“Go up now, Cecilia, and lie down,” he said gaily. And there came upon him a desire to speak with his sister of all the new thoughts that filled him. “Then I will come up to you anon.”

He slipped in under her coverlet, crooked an arm around the head of the bed, and began, in an eager voice:

“Now you shall hear news that will surprise you, Cecilia—I am to go into a monastery.”