Kristin Lavransdatter Part 58

Kristin asked about news from the manor, and Erlend chatted as they climbed upward. Ulf was in the midst of the grain harvesting. He seemed pleased enough, but the hay was stunted, and the grain in the rest of the fields had ripened too early in the drought; it was falling off the stalks. And the oats would soon be ready to harvest; Ulf said they would have to work fast. Kristin walked along, nodding, without saying a word.

She went to the cowshed herself to do the milking. She usually enjoyed the time she sat in the dark next to the bulging flank of the cow, smelling the sweet breath of the milk as it reached her nose. A spurting sound echoed from the darkness where the milkmaid and herdsman were milking. It created such a calm feeling: the strong, warm smell of the shed, the creaking sounds of the osier door hasps, horns b.u.t.ting against wood, a cow s.h.i.+fting her hooves in the soft muck of the floor and swatting her tail at the flies. The wagtails that had made their nests inside during the summer were gone now.

The cows were restless tonight. Bluesides set her foot down in the milk pail. Kristin gave her a slap and scolded her. The next cow began acting refractory as soon as Kristin moved over to her side. She had sores on her udder. Kristin took off her wedding ring and milked the first spurts through the ring.

She heard Ivar and Skule down by the gate. They were shouting and throwing stones at the strange bull that always followed her cows in the evening. They had offered to help Finn milk the goats in the pen, but they had soon grown bored.

A little later, when Kristin walked up the hill, they were teasing the pretty white calf that she had given to Lavrans, who was standing nearby and whimpering. She put down her pails, seized the two boys by the shoulder and flung them aside. They should leave the calf alone if their brother, who was its owner, told them to do so.

Erlend and Naakkve were sitting on the doorstep. They had a fresh cheese between them, and they were eating sliver after sliver as they fed some to Munan, who was standing between Naakkve's knees. He had put her horsehair sieve on the little boy's head, saying that now Munan would be invisible, because it wasn't really a sieve but a wood nymph's hat. All three of them laughed, but as soon as Naakkve saw his mother, he handed her the sieve, stood up, and took the milk pails from her.

Kristin lingered in the dairy shed. The upper half of the door stood open to the outer room of the hut; they had put plenty of wood on the hearth. In the warm flickering glow, they sat around the fire and ate: Erlend, the children, her maid, and the three herdsmen.

By the time she came in they had finished eating. She saw that the two youngest had been put to bed on the bench along the wall; they were already asleep. Erlend had crawled up into the bed. She stumbled over his outer garments and boots and picked them up as she walked past and then went outside.

The sky was still light, with a red stripe above the mountains to the west. Several dark wisps of clouds hovered in the clear air. It looked as if they would have fair weather the next day too, since it was so calm and biting cold now that night had begun to fall. No wind, but an icy gust from the north, a steady breath from the bare gray slopes. Above the hills to the southeast the moon was rising, nearly full, huge, and still a pale crimson in the slight haze that always lingered over the marshes in that direction.

Somewhere up on the plateau the strange ox was bellowing and carrying on. Otherwise it was so quiet that it hurt-only the roar of the river from below their pasture, the little trickling creek on the slope, and a languid murmuring in the woods-a rustling through the boughs as they moved, paused for a moment, and then moved again.

She busied herself with some milk pans and trenchers that stood next to the wall of the hut. Naakkve and the twins came out, and their mother asked them where they were going.

They were going to sleep in the barn; there was such a foul smell in the dairy shed from all the cheeses and b.u.t.ter and from the goats that slept inside.

Naakkve didn't go to the barn at once. His mother could still see his pale gray figure against the green darkness of the hayfield down at the edge of the woods. A little later the maid appeared in the doorway; she gave a start when she saw her mistress standing near the wall.

"Shouldn't you go to bed now, Astrid? It's getting late."

The maid muttered that she just had to go behind the cowshed. Kristin waited until she saw the girl go back inside. Naakkve was now in his sixteenth year. It was some time ago that his mother had begun keeping an eye on the serving maids on the manor whenever they flirted with the handsome and lively young boy.

Kristin walked down to the river and knelt on a rock protruding out over the water. Before her the river flowed almost black into a wide pool with only a few rings betraying the current, but a short distance above, it gushed white in the darkness with a great roar and cold gusts of air. By now the moon had risen so high that it shone brightly; it glittered here and there on a dewy leaf. Its rays caught on a ripple in the stream.

Erlend called her name from right behind her. She hadn't heard him come down the slope. Kristin dipped her arm in the icy water and fished up a couple of milk pans weighted with stones that were being rinsed by the river. She got to her feet and followed her husband back, with both her hands full. They didn't speak as they clambered upward.

Inside the hut Erlend undressed completely and climbed into bed. "Aren't you coming to bed soon, Kristin?"

"I'm just going to have a little food first." She sat down on her stool next to the hearth with some bread and a slice of cheese in her lap. She ate slowly, staring at the embers, which gradually grew dark in the stone-rimmed hollow in the floor.

"Are you asleep, Erlend?" she whispered as she stood up and shook out her skirt.

"No."

Kristin went over and drank a ladleful of curdled milk from the basin in the corner. Then she went back to the hearth, lifted a stone, and laid it down flat, sprinkling the mullein blossoms on top to dry.

But then she could find no more tasks to do. She undressed in the dark and lay down in the bed next to Erlend. When he put his arms around her, she felt weariness wash over her whole body like a cold wave; her head felt empty and heavy, as if everything inside it had sunk down and settled like a knot of pain in the back of her neck. But when he whispered to her, she dutifully put her arms around his neck.

She woke up and didn't know what time of night it was. But through the transparent hide2 stretched over the smoke vent she could see that the moon must still be high. stretched over the smoke vent she could see that the moon must still be high.

The bed was short and cramped so they had to lie close to each other. Erlend was asleep, breathing quietly and evenly, his chest moving faintly as he slept. In the past she used to move closer to his warm, healthy body when she woke up in the night and grew frightened that he was breathing so silently. Back then she thought it so blissfully sweet to feel his breast rise and fall as he slept at her side.

After a while she slipped out of bed, got dressed in the dark, and crept out the door.

The moon was sailing high over the world. The moss glistened with water, and the rocky cliffs gleamed where streams had trickled during the day-now they had turned to ice. Up on the plateaus frost glittered. It was bitterly cold. Kristin crossed her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stood still for a moment.

Then she set off along the creek. It murmured and gurgled with the tiny sounds of ice crystals breaking apart.

At the top of the meadow a huge boulder rose up out of the earth. No one ever went near it unless they had to, and then they would be certain to cross themselves. People poured cream under it whenever they went past. Otherwise she had never heard that anyone had ever witnessed anything there, but such had been the custom in that pasture ever since ancient times.

She didn't know what had come over her that she would leave the house this way, in the middle of the night. She stopped at the boulder and set her foot in a crevice. Her stomach clenched tight, her womb felt cold and empty with fear, but she refused to make the sign of the cross. Then she climbed up and sat on top of the rock.

From up there she could see a long, long way. Far into the ugly bare mountains in the moonlight. The great dome near Dovre rose up, enormous and pale against the pale sky. Snowdrifts gleamed white in the pa.s.s on the Gray Peaks. The Boar Range glistened with new snow and blue clefts. The mountains in the moonlight were more hideous than she could have imagined; only a few stars shone here and there in the vast, icy sky. She was frozen to the very marrow and bone; terror and cold pressed in on her from all sides. But defiantly she stayed where she was.

She refused to get down and lie in the pitch dark next to the warm, slumbering body of her husband. She could tell that for her there would be no more sleep that night.

As sure as she was her father's daughter, her husband would never hear his wife reproach his actions. For she remembered what she had promised when she beseeched the Almighty G.o.d and all the saints in heaven to spare Erlend's life.

That was why she had come out into this troll night to breathe when she felt about to suffocate.

She sat there and let the old, bitter thoughts rise up like good friends, countering them with other old and familiar thoughts-in feigned justification of Erlend.

He had certainly never demanded this of her. He had not asked her to bear any of the things she had taken upon her own shoulders. He had merely conceived seven sons with her. "I will provide for my my seven sons, Arne." G.o.d only knew what Erlend had meant by those words. Maybe he meant nothing; it was simply something he had said. seven sons, Arne." G.o.d only knew what Erlend had meant by those words. Maybe he meant nothing; it was simply something he had said.

Erlend hadn't asked her to restore order to Husaby and his other estates. He hadn't asked her to fight with her life to save him. He had borne it like a chieftain that his property would be dispersed, that his life was at stake, and that he would lose everything he owned. Stripped and empty-handed, with chieftainlike dignity and calm he had accepted the misfortune; with chieftainlike calm and dignity he lived on her father's manor like a guest.

And yet everything that was in her possession lawfully belonged to her sons. They lawfully owned her sweat and blood and all her strength. But then surely she and the estate had the right to make claims on them.

She hadn't needed to flee to the mountain pastures like some kind of poor leaseholder's wife. But the situation was such at home that she felt pressed and hemmed in from all sides-until she felt as if she couldn't breathe. Then she had felt the need to prove to herself that she could could do the work of a peasant woman. She had toiled and labored every hour and every day since she had arrived at the estate of Erlend Nikulaussn as his bride-and realized that do the work of a peasant woman. She had toiled and labored every hour and every day since she had arrived at the estate of Erlend Nikulaussn as his bride-and realized that someone someone there would have to fight to protect the inheritance of the one she carried under her heart. If the father couldn't do it, then there would have to fight to protect the inheritance of the one she carried under her heart. If the father couldn't do it, then she she must. But now she needed to be certain. For that matter, she had demonstrated before to her nursemaids and servant women that there wasn't any kind of work she wasn't capable of doing with her own hands. It was a good day up here if she didn't feel an ache in her flanks from standing and churning. It felt good in the morning when she would go along to let out the cattle; the animals had grown fat and glossy in the summer. The tight grip on her heart eased when she stood in the sunset and called to the cows coming home. She liked to see food growing under her own hands; it felt as if she were reaching down into the very foundation from which the future of her sons would be rebuilt. must. But now she needed to be certain. For that matter, she had demonstrated before to her nursemaids and servant women that there wasn't any kind of work she wasn't capable of doing with her own hands. It was a good day up here if she didn't feel an ache in her flanks from standing and churning. It felt good in the morning when she would go along to let out the cattle; the animals had grown fat and glossy in the summer. The tight grip on her heart eased when she stood in the sunset and called to the cows coming home. She liked to see food growing under her own hands; it felt as if she were reaching down into the very foundation from which the future of her sons would be rebuilt.

Jrundgaard was a good estate, but it was not as good as she had thought. And Ulf was a stranger here in the valley; he made mistakes, and he grew impatient. As people saw it in the region, they always had plenty of hay at Jrundgaard. They had the hay meadows along the river and out on the islands, but it wasn't good good hay, not the kind that Ulf was used to in Trndelag. He wasn't used to having to gather so much moss and foliage, heath and brushwood as they did here. hay, not the kind that Ulf was used to in Trndelag. He wasn't used to having to gather so much moss and foliage, heath and brushwood as they did here.

Her father had known every patch of his land; he had possessed all the farmer's knowledge about the whims of the seasons and the way each particular strip of field handled rain or drought, windy summers or hot summers; about livestock that he himself had bred, raised, foddered, and sold from, generation after generation-the very sort of knowledge that was needed here. She did not have that kind of knowledge of her estate. But she would acquire it, and her sons would too.

And yet Erlend had never demanded this of her. He hadn't married her in order to lead her into toil and travail. He had married her so she could sleep in his arms. Then, when her time came, the child lay at her side, demanding a place on her arm, at her breast, in her care.

Kristin moaned through clenched teeth. She was s.h.i.+vering with cold and anger.

"Pactum serva-in Norwegian it means 'keep thy faith.' "

That was back when Arne Gjavvaldssn and his brother Leif of Holm had come to Husaby to take her possessions and the children's belongings to Nidaros. This too Erlend had left for her to handle; he had taken lodgings at the monastery at Holm. She was staying at their residence in town-now owned by the monks-and Arne Gjavvaldssn was with her, helping her in word and deed. Simon had sent him letters about it.

Arne could not have been more zealous if he had been trying to salvage the goods for himself. On the evening he arrived in town with everything, he wanted both Kristin and Fru Gunna of Raasvold, who had come to Nidaros with the two small boys, to come out to the stable. Seven splendid horses-people wanted to be fair with Erlend Nikulaussn, and they agreed to Arne's claim that the five oldest boys each owned a horse and that one belonged to the mistress herself and one to her personal servant. He could testify that Erlend had given the Castilian, his Spanish stallion, to his son Nikulaus, even though this had been done mostly in jest. Not that Arne thought much of the long-legged animal, but he knew that Erlend was fond of the stallion.

Arne thought it a shame to lose the magnificent armor with the great helmet and gold-chased sword; it was true that these things were of real use only in a tournament, but they were worth a great deal of money. But he had managed to keep Erlend's coat of mail made of black silk with the embroidered red lion. And he had demanded his English armor for Nikulaus; it was so splendid that Arne didn't think its equal could be found in all of Norway-at least to those who knew how to see see-although it was in disrepair. Erlend had used his weapons far more than most sons of n.o.blemen at the time. Arne caressed each piece: the helmet, shoulder collar, the leather arm and leg coverings, the steel gloves made of the finest plates, the corselet and skirt made of rings, so light and comfortable and yet so strong. And the sword . . . It had only a plain steel hilt, and the leather of the handle was worn, but the likes of such a blade were rarely seen.

Kristin sat and held the sword across her lap. She knew that Erlend would embrace it like a much-loved betrothed; it was the only one he had used of all the swords he owned. He had inherited it in his early youth from Sigmund Torolfssn, who had been his bedmate when he first joined the king's retainers. Only once had Erlend ever mentioned this friend of his to Kristin. "If G.o.d had not been so hasty to take Sigmund away from this world, many things would have doubtless been different for me. After his death I was so unhappy at the royal palace that I managed to beg permission from King Haakon to go north with Gissur Galle that time. But then I might never have won you, my dear; then I probably would have been a married man for many years before you were a grown maiden."

From Munan Baardsn she had heard that Erlend nursed his friend day and night, the way a mother cares for her child, getting no more sleep than short naps at the bedside of the ailing man during that last winter when Sigmund Torolfssn lay vomiting up bits of his heart's blood and lungs. And after Sigmund was buried at Halvard Church, Erlend had constantly visited his grave, lying prostrate on the gravestone to grieve. But to Kristin he had mentioned the man only once. She and Erlend had arranged to meet several times in Halvard Church during that sinful winter in Oslo. But he had never told her that his dearest friend from his youth lay buried there. She knew he had mourned his mother in the same way, and he had been quite frantic with grief when Orm died. But he never spoke of them. Kristin knew that he had gone into town to see Margret, but he never mentioned his daughter.

Up near the hilt she noticed that some words had been etched into the blade. Most of them were runes, which she couldn't read; nor could Arne. But the monk picked up the sword and studied it for a moment. "Pactum serva," he said finally. "In Norwegian it means 'keep thy faith.' "

Arne and his brother Leif talked about the fact that a large part of Kristin's properties in the north, Erlend's wedding gifts to her, had been mortgaged and dispersed. They wondered whether there was any way to salvage part of them. But Kristin refused. Honor was the most important thing to salvage; she didn't want to hear of any disputes over whether her husband's dealings had been lawful. And she was deadly tired of Arne's chatter, no matter how well intentioned it was. That evening, when he and the monk bade her good night and went to their sleeping chambers, Kristin had thrown herself to her knees before Fru Gunna and buried her head in her lap.

After a moment the old woman lifted her face. Kristin looked up. Fru Gunna's face was heavy, yellowish, and stout, with three deep creases across her forehead, as if shaped out of wax; she had pale freckles, sharp and kind blue eyes, and a sunken, toothless mouth shadowed by long gray whiskers. Kristin had had that face above her so many times. Fru Gunna had been at her side each time she gave birth, except when Lavrans was born and she was at home to attend her father's deathbed.

"Yes, yes, my daughter," said the woman, putting her hands at Kristin's temples. "I've given you help a few times when you had to sink to your knees, yes, I have. But in this trouble, my Kristin, you must kneel down before the Mother of G.o.d and ask her to help you through."

Oh, she had already done that too, thought Kristin. She had said her prayers and read some of the Gospels every Sat.u.r.day; she had observed the fast days as Archbishop Eiliv had enjoined her to do when he granted her absolution; she gave alms and personally served every wanderer who asked for shelter, no matter how he might look. But now she no longer felt any light inside her when she did so. She knew that the light outside did exist, but it felt as if shutters had closed her off inside. That must be what Gunnulf had spoken of: spiritual drought. Sira Eiliv said that was why no soul should lose courage; remain faithful to your prayers and good deeds, the way the farmer plows and spreads manure and sows. G.o.d would send the good weather for growing when it was time. But Sira Eiliv had never managed a farm himself.

She had not seen Gunnulf during that time. He was living north in Helgeland, preaching and collecting gifts for the monastery. Well, yes, that was one of the knight's sons from Husaby, while the other . . .

But Margret Erlendsdatter came to visit Kristin several times at the town residence. Two maids accompanied the merchant's wife. She was beautifully dressed and glittering with jewelry. Her father-in-law was a goldsmith, so they had plenty of jewelry at home. She seemed happy and content, although she had no children. She had received her inheritance from her father just in time. G.o.d only knew if she ever gave any thought to that poor cripple Haakon, out at Gimsar. He could barely manage to drag himself around the courtyard on two crutches, Kristin had heard.

And yet she thought that even back then she had not had bitter feelings toward Erlend. She seemed to realize that for Erlend, the worst was still ahead when he became a free man. Then he had taken refuge with Abbot Olav. Tend to the moving or show himself in Nidaros now-that was more than Erlend Nikulaussn could bear.

Then came the day when they sailed across Trondheim Fjord, on the Laurentius boat, the same s.h.i.+p on which Erlend had transported all the belongings she had wanted to bring north with her after they had won permission to marry.

A still day in late autumn; a pale, leaden gleam on the fjord; the whole world cold, restless, white-ribbed. The first snow blown into streaks along the frozen acres, the chill blue mountains white-striped with snow. Even the clouds high overhead, where the sky was blue, seemed to be scattered thin like flour by a wind high up in the heavens. Heavy and sluggish, the s.h.i.+p pulled away from the land, the town promontory. Kristin stood and watched the white spray beneath the cliffs, wondering if she was going to be seasick when they were farther out in the fjord.

Erlend stood at the railing close to the bow with his two eldest sons beside him. The wind fluttered their hair and capes.

Then they looked across Kors Fjord, toward Gaularos and the skerries of Birgsi. A ray of sunlight lit up the brown and white slope along the sh.o.r.e.

Erlend said something to the boys. Then Bjrgulf abruptly turned on his heel, left the railing, and walked toward the stern of the s.h.i.+p. He fumbled along, using the spear that he always carried and used as a staff, as he made his way between the empty rowing benches and past his mother. His dark, curly head was bent low over his breast, his eyes squinting so hard they were nearly closed, his lips pressed tight. He walked under the afterdeck.

Kristin glanced forward at the other two, Erlend and his eldest son. Then Nikulaus knelt, the way a page does to greet his lord; he took his father's hand and kissed it.

Erlend tore his hand away. Kristin caught a glimpse of his face, pale as death and trembling, as he turned his back to the boy and walked away, disappearing behind the sail.

They put in at a port down by Mre for the night. The sea swells were more turbulent; the s.h.i.+p tugged at its ropes, rising and pitching. Kristin was below in the cabin where she was to sleep with Erlend and the two youngest children. She felt sick to her stomach and couldn't find a proper foothold on the deck, which rose and fell beneath her feet. The skin-covered lantern swung above her head, its tiny light flickering. And she stood there struggling with Munan, trying to get him to pee in between the planks. Whenever he woke up, groggy with sleep, he would both pee and soil their bed, raging and screaming and refusing to allow this strange woman, his mother, to help him by holding him over the floor. Then Erlend came below.

She couldn't see his face when he asked in a low voice, "Did you see Naakkve? His eyes were just like yours, Kristin." Erlend drew in a breath, quick and harsh. "That's the way your eyes looked on that morning out by the fence in the nuns' garden-after you had heard the worst about me-and you pledged me your trust."

That was the moment when she felt the first drop of bitterness rise up in her heart. G.o.d protect the boy. May he never see the day when he realizes that he has placed his trust in a hand that lets everything run through its fingers like cold water and dry sand.

A few moments ago she thought she heard distant hoofbeats somewhere on the mountain heights to the south. Now she heard them again, closer. Not horses running free, but a single horse and rider; he rode sharply over the rocky slopes beneath the hillside.

Fear seized her, icy cold. Who could be traveling about so late? Dead men rode north under a waning moon; didn't she hear the other hors.e.m.e.n accompanying the first one, riding far behind? And yet she stayed sitting where she was; she didn't know if this was because she was suddenly bewitched or because her heart was so stubborn that night.

The rider was coming toward her; now he was fording the river beneath the slope. She saw the glint of a spearpoint above the willow thickets. Then she scrambled down from the boulder and was about to run back to the hut. The rider leaped from his horse, tied it to the gatepost, and threw his cape over its back. He came walking up the slope; he was a tall, broad man. Now she recognized him: it was Simon.

When he saw her coming to meet him in the moonlight, he seemed to be just as frightened as she had been before.

"Jesus, Kristin, is that you? Or . . . How is it that you're out at this time of night? Were you waiting for me?" he asked abruptly, as if in great dread. "Did you have a premonition of my journey?"

Kristin shook her head. "I couldn't sleep. Brother-in-law, what is it?"

"Andres is so ill, Kristin. We fear for his life. So we thought . . . We know you are the most practiced woman in such matters. You must remember that he's the son of your own sister. Will you agree to come home with me to tend to him? You know that I wouldn't come to you in this manner if I didn't think the boy's life was in peril," he implored her.

He repeated these words inside the hut to Erlend, who sat up in bed, groggy with sleep and quietly surprised. He tried to comfort Simon, speaking from experience. Such young children grew easily feverish and jabbered deliriously if they caught the least cold; perhaps it was not as dangerous as it looked.

"You know full well, Erlend, that I would not have come to get Kristin at such an hour of the night if I hadn't clearly seen that the child is lying there, struggling with death."

Kristin had blown on the embers and put on more wood. Simon sat and stared into the fire, greedily drinking the milk she offered him but refusing to eat any food. He wanted to head back down as soon as the others arrived. "If you are willing, Kristin." One of his men was following behind with a widow who was a servant at Formo, an able woman who could take over the work up here while she was away. Aasbjrg was most capable, he said again.

After Simon had lifted Kristin up into the saddle, he said, "I'd prefer to take the shortcut to the south if you're not averse to it."

Kristin had never been on that part of the mountain, but she knew there was supposed to be a path down to the valley, cutting steeply across the slope opposite Formo. She agreed, but then his servant would have to take the other road and ride past Jrundgaard to get her chest and the pouches of herbs and bulbs. He should wake up Gaute; the boy knew best about these things.

At the edge of a large marsh they were able to ride side by side, and Kristin asked Simon to tell her again about the boy's illness. The children of Formo had had sore throats around Saint Olav's Day, but they had quickly recovered. The illness had come over Andres suddenly, while he seemed in the best of health-in the middle of the day, three days before. Simon had taken him along, and he was going to ride on the grain sledge down to the fields. But then Andres complained that he was cold, and when Simon looked at the boy, he was s.h.i.+vering so hard that his teeth were rattling in his mouth. Then came the burning fever and the coughing; he vomited up such quant.i.ties of loathsome brown matter and had such pain in his chest. But he couldn't tell them much about where it hurt most, the poor little boy.

Kristin tried to rea.s.sure Simon as best she could, and then she had to ride behind him for a while. Once he turned around to ask whether she was cold; he wanted her to take his cape over her cloak.

Then he spoke again of his son. He had noticed that the boy wasn't strong. But Andres had grown much more robust during the summer and fall; his foster mother thought so too. The last few days before he fell ill he had acted a little strange and skittish. "Scared," he had said when the dogs leaped at him, wanting to play. On the day when the fever seized him, Simon had come home in the first rays of dawn with several wild ducks. Usually the boy liked to borrow the birds his father brought home and play with them, but this time Andres screamed loudly when his father swung the bundle toward him. Later he crept over to touch the birds, but when he got blood on his hands, he grew quite wild with terror. And now, this evening, he lay whimpering so terribly, unable to sleep or rest, and then he screamed something about a hawk that was after him.

"Do you remember that day in Oslo when the messenger arrived? You said, 'It will be your descendant who will live on at Formo after you're gone.' "

"Don't talk like that, Simon. As if you think you will die without a son. Surely G.o.d and His gentle Mother will help. It's unlike you to be so disheartened, brother-in-law."

"Halfrid, my first wife, said the same thing to me after she gave birth to our son. Did you know that I had a son with her, Kristin?"

"Yes. But Andres is already in his third year. It's during the first two years that it's the most difficult to protect a child's life." But even to her these words seemed to offer little help. They rode and rode; the horses plodded up a slope, nodding and casting their heads about so the harnesses jangled. Not a sound in the frosty night except the sound of their own pa.s.sage and occasionally the rush of water as they crossed a stream, and the moon s.h.i.+ning on everything. The scree and the rocky slopes glistened as hideously as death as they rode along beneath the cliffs.

Finally they reached a place where they could look down into the countryside. The moonlight filled the whole valley; the river and marshes and lake farther south gleamed like silver; the fields and meadows were pale.

"Tonight there's frost in the valley too," said Simon.

He dismounted and walked along, leading Kristin's horse down the hillside. The path was so steep in many places that she hardly dared look ahead. Simon supported her by keeping his back against her knee, and she held on by putting one hand behind on the horse's flank. A stone would sometimes roll from under the horse's hooves, tumbling downward, pausing for a moment, and then continuing to roll, loosening more on the way and carrying them along.

Finally they reached the bottom. They rode across the barley fields north of the manor, between the rime-covered shocks of grain. There was an eerie rustling and clattering in the aspen trees above them in the silent, bright night.

"Is it true," asked Simon, wiping his face with his sleeve, "that you had no premonition?"

Kristin told him it was true.