Kristin Lavransdatter Part 64

"Later, when I saw that you took up their affairs with such zeal, and you were away from home almost a whole year . . . and didn't even feel that you could come north to be with me at Ringheim when I was staying on a stranger's estate, about to give birth to your child . . . I thought perhaps you knew that it concerned others than Erlend."

"Ha! Knights and barons!" Simon gave an angry laugh.

"Then was it merely for Kristin's sake that you did it?"

He saw that her face was pale, as if from frostbite; it was impossible to pretend that he didn't understand what she meant. Out of spite and despair, he exclaimed, "Yes."

Then he thought that she must have gone mad, and he was mad too. Erlend was mad; they had all lost their wits that day. But now there had to be an end to it.

"I did it for your sister's sake, yes," he said soberly. "And for the sake of the children who had no other man closer in family or kins.h.i.+p to protect them. And for Erlend's sake, since we should be as loyal to each other as brothers. So don't start behaving foolishly, for I've seen more than enough of that here on the estate to day," he bellowed, and flung the shoe he had just taken off against the wall.

Ramborg went over and picked it up; she looked at the timber it had struck.

"It's shameful that Torbjrg didn't think of it herself, to wash off the soot in here before the feast. I forgot to mention it to her." She wiped off the shoe. It was Simon's best, with a long toe and red heel. She picked up its mate and put both of them into his clothes chest. But Simon noticed that her hands were shaking badly as she did so.

Then he went over and took her in his arms. She twined her thin arms around her husband as she trembled with stifled sobs and whispered to him that she was so tired.

Seven days later Simon and his servant rode through Kvam, heading north. They fought their way through a blizzard of great wet snowflakes. At midday they arrived at the small farm on the public road where there was an alehouse.

The proprietress came out and invited Simon to come into their home; only commoners were shown into the tavern. She shook out his outer garment and hung it up to dry on the wall peg near the hearth as she talked. Such awful weather . . . hard on the horses . . . and he must have had to ride the whole way around . . . it wasn't possible to go across Lake Mjsa now, was it?

"Oh yes, if a man was sick enough of his life . . ."

The woman and her children standing nearby all laughed agreeably. The older ones went about their ch.o.r.es, bringing in wood and ale, while the younger ones huddled together near the door. They usually received a few penninger penninger from Simon, the master of Formo, whenever he stayed there, and if he was bringing home treats for his own children from Hamar, he would often give them a tidbit too. But today he didn't seem to notice them. from Simon, the master of Formo, whenever he stayed there, and if he was bringing home treats for his own children from Hamar, he would often give them a tidbit too. But today he didn't seem to notice them.

He sat on the bench, leaning forward, with his hands hanging over his knees, staring into the hearth fire, and replied with a word or two to the woman's incessant chatter. Then she mentioned that Erlend Nikulaussn happened to be at Granheim. It was the day on which the ancestral owners were to place the first payment in the hands of the former owners. Should she send one of the children over to his brother-in-law with a message so that they could ride home together?

No, said Simon. She could give him a little food, and then he would lie down and sleep for a while.

He would see Erlend in good time. What he had to say he wanted to say in front of Gaute. But he would prefer not to speak of the matter more than once.

His servant, Sigurd, had sought refuge in the cookhouse while the woman prepared the food. Yes, it had been a wearisome journey, and his master had been like an angry bull almost the whole way. Normally Simon Andressn liked to hear whatever news from his home district his servants could glean while they were at Dyfrin. He usually had one or more people from Raumerike in his service. Folks would come to him to ask for work whenever he was home, for he was known as a well-liked and generous man who was merry and not high-handed with his servants. But on this journey about the only answer that he, Sigurd, had received from his master was "Keep silent!"

He had apparently had a great quarrel with his brothers; he hadn't even stayed the night at Dyfrin. They had taken lodgings on a tenant farm farther out in the countryside. Sir Gyrd-yes, for he could tell her that the king had made his master's brother a knight at Christmastime-well, Sir Gyrd had come out to the courtyard and warmly entreated Simon to stay, but Simon had given his brother a curt reply. And they had roared and bellowed and shouted, all those gentlemen up in the high loft-Sir Ulf Saksesn and Gudmund Andressn had been on the estate as well-so that everyone was terribly frightened. G.o.d only knew what it was that had made them foes.

Simon came past the cookhouse, paused for a moment, and peered inside. Sigurd announced quickly that he would get an awl and a strap to make proper repairs to the harness that had been torn in the morning.

"Do they have those kinds of things in the cookhouse on this farm?" Simon flung over his shoulder as he left. Sigurd shook his head and nodded to the woman when Simon had disappeared from sight.

Simon pushed his plate aside but stayed seated. He was so tired that he could hardly even get up. At last he got to his feet and threw himself onto the bed, still wearing his boots and spurs, but then thought better of it. It was a good, clean bed for the house of a commoner. He sat up and pulled off his boots. Stiff and worn out as he was, surely he would be able to sleep now. He was soaked through and freezing, but his face burned after the long ride in the storm.

He crawled under the coverlet, twisting and turning the pillows; they smelled so strangely of fish. Then he stretched out, half reclining, propped up on one elbow.

His thoughts began circling again. He had been thinking and thinking these past few days, the way an animal plods around a tether.

Even if Erling Vidkunssn had known that the welfare of Gyrd and Gudmund Darre might also be at stake if Erlend Nikulaussn had been broken and talked . . . well, that didn't make it any worse that Simon had seized upon all means to win the help of the Bjark knight. Quite the opposite. Surely a man was obligated to stand by his own brothers, even to the death if need be. But he still wished that he knew whether Erling had known about it. Simon weighed the matter for and against. Erling couldn't possibly have been entirely ignorant that a rebellion was brewing. But what exactly had he known? Gyrd and Ulf, at any rate, didn't seem to know whether the man was aware of their complicity. But Simon remembered that Erling had mentioned the Haftorssns and had advised him to seek their help, for it was most likely their friends who would need to be afraid. The Haftorssns were cousins of Ulf Saksesn and Helga. The nose is right next to the eyes!

But even if Erling Vidkunssn believed that he was also thinking of his own brothers, surely that didn't make what he had done any worse. And Erling might have realized that he knew nothing about his brothers' peril. Besides, he had said himself that . . . He remembered he had told Stig that he didn't think they could torture Erlend into talking.

They might still have reason to fear Erlend's tongue. He had kept silent through the torture and imprisonment, but he was the kind of man who might let it slip out afterward through some chance remark. It would be just like him.

And yet . . . Simon thought this was the one thing he could be certain that Erlend would never do. He was as silent as a rock every time the conversation touched on the matter, precisely because he was afraid of being lured into some slip of the tongue. Simon understood that Erlend had a fierce, almost childish terror of breaching a promise. Childish because the fact that he had given away the whole plan to his lover clearly did not seem to Erlend to have tarnished his honor in any significant way. He apparently thought that such could happen to the best of men. As long as he himself held his tongue, he considered his s.h.i.+eld unblemished and his promise unbroken. And Simon had noticed that Erlend was sensitive about his honor, as far as his own understanding of honor and reputation went. He had nearly lost his wits from desperation and anger at the mere thought that any of his fellow conspirators might be exposed-even now, so much later and in such a manner that it couldn't possibly make any difference to the men whom he had protected with his life, as well as with his honor and his property. All because of a child talking to the closest kinsman of these men.

Erlend wanted to handle it in such a way that if things went wrong, he would be the one to pay the price for all of them. That's what he had vowed on the crucifix to every man who had joined him in the plot. But to think that grown-up, sensible men would put their faith in such an oath, when it was not entirely within Erlend's control . . . Now that Simon had learned everything about the plan, he thought it was the greatest foolishness he had ever heard. Erlend had been willing to let his body be torn apart, limb from limb, in order to keep his sworn oath. All the while the secret lay in the hands of a ten-year-old boy; Erlend himself had seen to that. And it was evidently no thanks to him that Sunniva Olavsdatter didn't know more than she did. Could anyone ever make sense of such a man?

If, for a moment, he had believed . . . well, what Erlend and his wife thought he had believed. . . . G.o.d only knew how close to the truth such a thought was when Gaute started talking about seeing his seal on the treasonous letter. The two of them might remember that he knew a few things about Erlend Nikulaussn so that he, more than most other men, had little reason to believe the best of that gentleman. But they had probably forgotten long ago how he had once come upon them and witnessed the depths of their shamelessness.

So there was little reason for him to lie here, berating himself like a dog because he had wrongly accused Erlend in his mind. G.o.d knew it was not because he wanted to think ill of his brother-in-law; it only made him unhappy to have such thoughts. He was fully aware that it was a wildly foolish notion; he would have realized at once, even without Kristin's words, that things couldn't couldn't have happened that way. As quickly as the suspicion occurred to him-that Erlend might have misused his seal-he had dismissed it. No, Erlend couldn't possibly have done that. Erlend had never in his life committed a dishonorable act that had been thought out in advance or with some specific purpose in mind. have happened that way. As quickly as the suspicion occurred to him-that Erlend might have misused his seal-he had dismissed it. No, Erlend couldn't possibly have done that. Erlend had never in his life committed a dishonorable act that had been thought out in advance or with some specific purpose in mind.

Simon tossed and turned in bed, moaning. They had made him half mad with all this madness. He felt so tormented when he thought about how Gaute had gone around for years, believing this of him. But it was unreasonable for him to take it so hard. Even though he was fond of the boy, fond of all of Kristin's sons, they were still hardly more than children. Did he need to be so concerned about how they might judge him?

To think he could be so furious with rage when he thought about the men who had placed their hands on the hilt of Erlend's sword and sworn to follow their chieftain. If they were such sheep to allow themselves to be dazzled by Erlend's persuasive and bold manner and to believe that he was a suitable chieftain, then it was only to be expected that they would behave like frightened sheep when the whole venture went awry. And yet he felt dazed when he thought about what he had learned at Dyfrin: that so many many men had dared entrust the peace of the land and their own welfare into Erlend's hands. Even Haftor Olavssn and Borgar Trondssn! But not men had dared entrust the peace of the land and their own welfare into Erlend's hands. Even Haftor Olavssn and Borgar Trondssn! But not one one of them had the courage to step forward and demand of the king that Erlend should be granted an honorable reconciliation and a reprieve for his ancestral estates. There were so many of them that if they had joined forces, it could easily have been accomplished. Apparently there was less wisdom and courage among the n.o.blemen of Norway than he had thought. of them had the courage to step forward and demand of the king that Erlend should be granted an honorable reconciliation and a reprieve for his ancestral estates. There were so many of them that if they had joined forces, it could easily have been accomplished. Apparently there was less wisdom and courage among the n.o.blemen of Norway than he had thought.

Simon was also angry because he had been entirely kept out of these plans. Not that they would have been able to enlist him him in such a foolhardy enterprise. But that both Erlend and Gyrd had gone behind his back and concealed everything . . . Surely he was just as good a n.o.bleman as any of the others, and not without some influence in the regions where people knew him. in such a foolhardy enterprise. But that both Erlend and Gyrd had gone behind his back and concealed everything . . . Surely he was just as good a n.o.bleman as any of the others, and not without some influence in the regions where people knew him.

In some ways he agreed with Gyrd. Considering the manner in which Erlend had squandered his position as chieftain, the man couldn't reasonably demand that his fellow conspirators should step forward and declare their allegiance with him. Simon knew that if he had found Gyrd alone, he would not have ended up parting with his brothers in such a fas.h.i.+on. But there sat that knight, Sir Ulf, stretching out his long legs in front of him and talking about Erlend's lack of sense-after it was all over! And then Gudmund spoke up. In the past neither Gyrd nor Simon had let their younger brother take a position against them. But ever since he had married the priest's paramour, who then became his own paramour, the boy had grown so swaggering and c.o.c.ky and independent. Simon had sat there glaring fiercely at Gudmund. He spoke so arrogantly and his round, red face looked so much like a child's backside that Simon's hands itched to give it a swat. In the end he hardly knew what he was saying to the three men.

And now he had broken with his brothers. He felt as if he would bleed to death when he thought about it, as if bonds of flesh and blood had been severed. He was the poorer for it. Bare is the brotherless back.

But however things now stood, in the midst of the heated exchange of words he had suddenly realized-he didn't know exactly why-that Gyrd's closed and stony demeanor wasn't solely due to the fact that he was hard pressed to find any peace at home. In a flash Simon saw that Gyrd still loved Helga; that was what made him so strangely fettered and powerless. And in some secretive, incomprehensible way, this aroused his fury over . . . well, over life itself.

Simon hid his face in his hands. Yes, in that sense they had been good, obedient sons. It had been easy for Gyrd and him to feel love for the brides whom his father announced he had chosen for them. The old man had made a long, splendid speech to them one evening, and afterward they had both sat there feeling abashed. About marriage and friends.h.i.+p and faithfulness between honorable, n.o.ble spouses; in the end their father even mentioned prayers of intercession and ma.s.ses. It was too bad their father hadn't given them advice on how to forget as well-when the friends.h.i.+p was broken and the honor dead and the faithfulness a sin and a secret, disgraceful torment, and there was nothing left of the bond but the bleeding wound that would never heal.

After Erlend was released, an odd feeling of calm came over Simon-if only because a man can't continue to endure the kind of pain he had suffered during that time in Oslo. Either something happens, or it gets better of its own accord.

Simon had not been pleased when Kristin moved to Jrund gaard with her husband and all their children so that he had to see them more often and keep up their friends.h.i.+p and kins.h.i.+p. But he consoled himself that it would have been much worse if he had been forced to live with her in a fas.h.i.+on that is unbearable for a man: to live with a woman he loves when she is not his wife or his kinswoman by blood. He chose to ignore what had occurred between his brother-in-law and himself on that evening when they celebrated Erlend's release from the tower. Erlend had probably understood only half of it and surely hadn't given it much thought. Erlend had such a rare talent for forgetting. And Simon had his own estate, a wife whom he loved, and his children.

He had found some semblance of peace with himself. It was not his fault that he loved his wife's sister. She had once been his betrothed, and he was not the one who had broken his promise. Back when he had set his heart on Kristin Lavransdatter, it had simply been his duty to do so, because he thought she was intended to be his wife. The fact that he married her sister . . . that was Ramborg's doing, and her father's. Lavrans, as wise a man as he was, hadn't thought to ask whether Simon had forgotten. But he knew that he couldn't have stood to be asked that question by Lavrans.

Simon wasn't good at forgetting. He was not to blame for that. And he had never spoken a single word that he ought to have withheld. But he couldn't help it if the Devil plagued him with impulses and dreams that violated the bonds of blood; he had never willingly indulged in sinful thoughts of love. And he had always behaved like a loyal brother toward her and her kin. Of that he was certain.

At last he had managed to be tolerably content with his lot.

But only as long as he knew that he was the one who had served those two: Kristin and the man she had chosen in his stead. They had always been in need of his support.

Now this had changed. Kristin had risked her life and soul to save the life of his son. It felt as if all the old wounds had opened up ever since he allowed that to happen.

Later he became indebted to Erlend for his own life.

And then, in return, he had affronted the man-not intentionally, and only in his thoughts, but still . . .

"Et dimitte n.o.bis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittibus debitoribus nostris." It was strange that the Lord hadn't also taught them to pray: It was strange that the Lord hadn't also taught them to pray: "sicut et nos dimittibus creditoribus nostris." "sicut et nos dimittibus creditoribus nostris." He didn't know whether this was proper Latin; he had never been particularly good at the language. But he knew that in some way he had always been able to forgive his debtors. It seemed much harder to forgive anyone who had bound a debt around He didn't know whether this was proper Latin; he had never been particularly good at the language. But he knew that in some way he had always been able to forgive his debtors. It seemed much harder to forgive anyone who had bound a debt around his his neck. neck.

But now they were even: he and those two. He felt all the old resentments, which he had trampled underfoot for years, rip open and come to life.

He could no longer shove Erlend aside in his thoughts as a foolish chatterer who couldn't see or learn or remember or ponder anything at all. Now the other man weighed on his mind precisely because no one knew what what Erlend saw or thought or remembered; he was completely unfathomable. Erlend saw or thought or remembered; he was completely unfathomable.

Many a man is given what was intended for another, but no one is given another man's fate.

How truly spoken.

Simon had loved his young betrothed. If he had won her, he would certainly have been a contented man; surely they would have lived well together. And she would have continued to be as she was when they first met: gentle and seemly, intelligent enough that a man would gladly seek her counsel even on important matters, a bit headstrong about petty things, but otherwise amenable, accustomed as she was to accepting from her father's hands guidance and support and protection. But then that man had seized hold of her: a man incapable of restraining himself, who had never offered protection to anything. He had ravaged her sweet innocence, broken her proud calm, destroyed her womanly soul, and forced her to stretch and strain to the utmost every faculty she possessed. She had to defend her lover, the way a tiny bird protects its nest with a trembling body and shrill voice when anyone comes too close. It had seemed to Simon that her lovely, slender body was created to be lifted up and fervently s.h.i.+elded by a man's arms. He had seen it tense with wild stubbornness, as her heart pounded with courage and fear and the will to fight, and she battled for her husband and children, the way even a dove can turn fierce and fearless if she has young ones.

If he had been her husband, if she had lived with his honorable goodwill for fifteen winters, he was certain that she would have stood up to defend him too if he had landed in misfortune. With shrewdness and courage she would have stood by his side. But he would never have seen that stony face she turned toward him on the evening in Oslo when she told him that she had been over to take a look around in that house. He would never have heard her scream his own name in such desperate need and distress. And it was not the honorable and just love of his youth that had answered in his heart. The ardor that rose up and cried out toward her wild spirit . . . he would never have known that such feeling could reside in his own heart if things had happened between them as their fathers had intended.

Her expression, as she walked past him and went out into the night to find help for his child . . . She would not have dared to take those measures if she had not been Erlend's wife and had grown accustomed to acting fearlessly, even when her heart trembled with anguish. Her tear-streaked smile when she woke him up and said the boy was calling for his father . . . A smile of such heartbreaking sweetness was possible only for someone who knew what it meant both to lose a battle and to win.

It was Erlend's wife whom he loved-the way he loved her now. But that meant his love was sinful, and that was why things stood as they did and why he was unhappy. He was so unhappy that sometimes he felt only a great astonishment that he was the one this had befallen, and he could see no way out of his distress.

When he trampled on his own honor and n.o.ble decorum and reminded Erling Vidkunssn of things that no honorable man would have imagined that he knew, he had done it not for his brothers or kinsmen but for her alone. It was for her sake that he had dared plead with the other man, just like the lepers who begged at the church doors in town, displaying their hideous sores.

He had thought that someday he would tell her about it. Not everything, not how deeply he had humbled himself. But after they had both grown old, he thought that he would say to Kristin: I helped you as best I could because I remembered how sincerely I loved you, back when I was your betrothed.

But there was one thing he didn't dare touch on with his thoughts. Had Erlend said anything to Kristin? Yes, he had thought that one day she should hear it from his own lips: I never forgot that I loved you when we were young. But if she already knew, and if she had learned it from her husband . . . No, then he didn't think he could go on.

He had intended to tell only her . . . someday, a long time from now. Then he thought about that moment when he had revealed it himself, when Erlend unwittingly happened to see what he thought he had hidden in the most secret part of his soul. And Ramborg knew-although he didn't understand how she had found out.

His own wife . . . and her husband-they both knew.

Simon gave a wild, stifled scream and abruptly flung himself onto the other side of the bed.

May G.o.d help him! Now he was the one who lay here, flayed naked, violated, bleeding with torment and trembling with shame.

The proprietress peeked around the door and met Simon's feverish, dry, and sharply glittering eyes from the bed. "Didn't you sleep? Erlend Nikulaussn was just riding past with two men; no doubt two of his sons were traveling with him." Simon mumbled something in reply, angry and incomprehensible.

He wanted to give them a good head start. But he too would soon have to see about setting off for home.

As soon as Simon entered the main house at Formo and took off his outer garments, Andres would seize hold of his leather cap and try it on. While the boy straddled the bench and rode off to see his uncle at Dyfrin, the big cap would slip down, first over his small nose and then back over his lovely blond curls. But it did little good for Simon to try to remember such things now. G.o.d only knew when the boy would be visiting his uncle at Dyfrin again.

Instead the memory of his other son rose up: Halfrid's child. The tiny, pale blue body of an infant. He had seen little of the boy during the few days he lived; he had to sit at the bedside of the dying mother. If the child had survived, or if he had lived longer than his mother, then Simon would have kept Mandvik. Then he probably would have looked for a new wife there in the south. Occasionally he might have come north to the valley to see to his estate up here. Then surely he would have . . . not forgotten forgotten Kristin; she had led him into much too strange a dance for him to do that. By the Devil, a man should be allowed to remember it as a peculiar dventure: that he had been forced to rescue his betrothed, a high born young maiden, reared in Christian and seemly behavior, from a house of ill repute and another man's bed. But then he wouldn't have been able to think of her in such a way that it troubled him and robbed the taste from everything good that life had to offer. Kristin; she had led him into much too strange a dance for him to do that. By the Devil, a man should be allowed to remember it as a peculiar dventure: that he had been forced to rescue his betrothed, a high born young maiden, reared in Christian and seemly behavior, from a house of ill repute and another man's bed. But then he wouldn't have been able to think of her in such a way that it troubled him and robbed the taste from everything good that life had to offer.

His son Erling . . . He would have been fourteen winters old by now. When Andres one day reached so near the age of a man, he himself would be old and feeble.

Oh, yes, Halfrid . . . You weren't very happy with me, were you? I'm not entirely without blame that things have gone as they have for me.

Erlend Nikulaussn might well have had to pay with his life for his impetuousness. And Kristin would now be living as a widow at Jrundgaard.

And he himself might have then regretted that he was a married man. Nothing seemed so foolish anymore that he didn't think himself capable of it.

The wind had died down, but great wet flakes of springtime snow were still falling when Simon rode out of the alehouse courtyard. And now, toward evening, birds began whistling and warbling in the grove of trees, defying the snowfall.

Just as a gash in the skin can reopen from too sudden a movement, a fleeting memory caused him pain. Not long ago, at his Easter banquet, several guests were standing outside, basking in the midday sun. High above them in the birch tree sat a robin, whistling into the warm blue air. Geirmund came limping around the corner of the house, dragging himself along with his cane, his other hand resting on the shoulder of his oldest son. He looked up, stopped, and imitated the bird. The boy also pursed his lips and whistled. They could mimic nearly all the birdsongs. Kristin was standing a short distance away, with several other women. Her smile had been so charming as she listened.

Now, toward sunset the clouds began to disperse in the west, tumbling golden over the white mountain slopes, filling the pa.s.ses and small valleys like gray mist. The river gleamed dully like bra.s.s; the dark currents, free of ice, rushed around the rocks in the riverbed, and on each rock lay a little white pillow of new snow.

They made slow progress on the weary horses through the heavy snow. It was a milky white night with a full moon, which peeked out from the drifting haze and clouds as Simon rode down the slopes to the Ula River. When he had crossed the bridge and reached the flat expanses of pine forest, through which the winter road pa.s.sed, the horses began moving faster. They knew they were approaching the stable. Simon patted Digerbein's steaming wet neck. He was glad this journey would soon be over. Ramborg had probably gone to bed long ago.

At the place where the road turned sharply and emerged from the woods, there stood a small house. He was nearly upon it when he noticed that men on horseback were stopped in front of the door. He heard Erlend's voice shout, "Then it's agreed that you'll come to visit the day after Sunday? Can I tell my wife as much?"

Simon called out a greeting. It would seem much too strange not to stop and continue on in their company, but he told Sigurd to ride on ahead. Then he rode over to join them; it was Naakkve and Gaute. Erlend was just stepping out of the entryway.

They greeted each other again, the three others in a somewhat strained fas.h.i.+on. Simon could see their faces, although not very clearly in the fading light. He thought their expressions seemed uncertain-both tense and begrudging at the same time. So he said at once, "I've come from Dyfrin, my brother-in-law."

"Yes, I heard that you had traveled south." Erlend stood with his hand on the saddlebow, his eyes downcast. "You've made good time," he added, as if the silence were uncomfortable.

"No, wait a bit," said Simon to the young boys who were about to ride off. "You should hear this too. It was my brother's seal that you saw on the letter, Gaute. And I know you must think they showed poor loyalty to your father, both he and the other gentlemen who had affixed their seals on the letter to Prince Haakon, which your father was to carry to Denmark."

The boy looked down in silence.

Erlend said, "There was one thing you probably didn't think about, Simon, when you went to see your brother. I paid dearly for the safety of Gyrd and the others who joined me; it cost me all I owned except for my reputation as a loyal man who keeps his word. Now Gyrd Darre must think that I couldn't save even my reputation."

Shamefully Simon bowed his head. He hadn't thought about that.

"You might have told me this, Erlend, when I said that I was going to Dyfrin."

"You must have seen for yourself that I was so desperate and furious that I was beyond thinking or reasoning when I rode away from your manor."

"I wasn't particularly levelheaded myself, Erlend."

"No, but I thought you might have had time to come to your senses during the long ride. And I couldn't very well ask you not to talk to your brother without revealing things I had sworn a sacred oath to conceal."

Simon fell silent for a moment. At first he thought that Erlend was right. But then it occurred to him: No, Erlend was being quite unreasonable. Was he supposed to submit to having Kristin and the boys think so ill of him? He mentioned this rather vehemently.

"I have never uttered a word about this, kinsman-not to my mother or to my brothers," said Gaute, turning his handsome, fair face toward his uncle.