Kristin Lavransdatter Part 67

"No misfortune has come of it," said Erlend. "Rather, it seems to me the boy has paid a small price to learn that a man shouldn't trust a woman."

"Is that so?" said his wife. Her voice quivered with stifled indignation.

"Yes," said Erlend, smiling. "Now you, when I first met you, I thought you were such a gentle maiden that you would hardly even take a bite out of a slice of cheese. As pliable as a silk ribbon and as mild as a dove. But you certainly fooled me, Kristin."

"How do you think things would have gone for all of us if I had been that soft and gentle?" she asked.

"No . . ." Erlend took her hands, and she had to stop working. He looked up at her with a radiant smile. Then he laid his head in her lap. "No, I didn't know, my sweet, what good fortune G.o.d was granting me when He set you in my path, Kristin."

But because she constantly had to restrain herself in order to hide her despair at Erlend's perpetual nonchalance, her anger would sometimes overwhelm her when she had to reprimand her sons. Her fists would turn harsh, and her words fierce. Ivar and Skule felt the brunt of it.

They were at the worst age, their thirteenth year, and so wild and willful that Kristin often wondered in utter despair whether any mother in Norway had ever given birth to such rogues. They were handsome, as all her children were, with black, silky soft, and curly hair, blue eyes beneath black brows, and lean, finely shaped faces. They were quite tall for their age, but still narrow-shouldered, with long, spare limbs. Their joints stood out like knots on a sprig of grain. They looked so much alike that no one outside their home could tell them apart, and in the countryside people called them the Jrundgaard swords-but it wasn't meant as a t.i.tle of honor. Simon had first given them this name in jest because Erlend had presented each of them with a sword, and they never let these small swords out of their grasp except when they were in church. Kristin wasn't pleased with this gift, or with the fact that they were always rus.h.i.+ng around with axes, spears, and bows. She feared it would land these hot-tempered boys in some kind of trouble. But Erlend said curtly that they were old enough now to become accustomed to carrying weapons.

She lived in constant fear for these twin sons of hers. When she didn't know where they were, she would secretly wring her hands and implore the Virgin Mary and Saint Olav to lead them back home, alive and unharmed. They went through mountain pa.s.ses and up steep cliffs where no one had ever traveled before. They plundered eagles' nests and came home with hideous yellow-eyed fledglings hissing inside their tunics. They climbed among the boulders along the Laag and north in the gorge where the river plunged from one waterfall to the next. Once Ivar was nearly dragged to his death by his stirrups; he was trying to ride a half-tame young stallion, and G.o.d only knew how the boys had managed to put a saddle on the animal. And by chance, out of simple curiosity, they had ventured into the Finn's hut in Toldstad Forest. They had learned a few words of the Sami language from their father, and when they used them to greet the Finnish witch, she welcomed them with food and drink. They had eaten until they were bursting, even though it was a fast day. Kristin had always strictly enjoined that when the grown-ups were fasting, the children should make do with a small portion of food they didn't care for; it was what her own parents had accustomed her to when she was a child. For once Erlend also took his sons sternly to task. He burned all the tidbits that the Finnish woman had given the boys as provisions, and he strictly forbade them ever to approach even the outskirts of the woods where the Finns lived. And yet it amused him to hear about the boys' adventure. Later he would often tell Ivar and Skule about his travels up north and what he had observed of the ways of those people. And he would talk to the boys in that ugly and heathen language of theirs.

Otherwise Erlend almost never chastised his children, and whenever Kristin complained about the wild behavior of the twins, Erlend would dismiss it with a jest. At home on the estate they got into a great deal of mischief, although they could make themselves useful if they had to; they weren't clumsy-handed like Naakkve. But occasionally, when their mother had given them some ch.o.r.e to do and she went out to see how it was going, she would find the tools lying on the ground and the boys would be watching their father, who might be showing them how seafaring men tied knots.

When Lavrans Bjrgulfsn painted tar crosses over the door to the livestock stalls or in other such places, he used to add a few flourishes with the brush: drawing a circle around the cross or painting a stroke through each of its arms. One day the twins decided to use one of these old crosses as a target. Kristin was beside herself with fury and despair at such unchristian behavior, but Erlend came to the children's defense. They were so young; they shouldn't be expected to think about the holiness of the cross every time they saw it painted above the door of a shed or on the back of a cow. The boys would be told to go up to the cross on the church hill, kneel down, and kiss it as they said five Pater nosters Pater nosters and fifteen and fifteen Ave Marias Ave Marias. It wasn't necessary to call in Sira Solmund for such a reason. But this time Kristin had the support of Bjrgulf and Naakkve. The priest was summoned, and he sprinkled holy water on the wall and reprimanded the two young sinners with great severity.

They fed oxen and goats the heads of snakes to make them more vicious. They teased Munan because he was still clinging to his mother's skirts, and Gaute because he was the one they fought with most often. Otherwise the sons of Erlend stuck together with the greatest brotherly affection. But sometimes Gaute would give them a thras.h.i.+ng if they were too rough. Trying to talk some sense into them was like talking to a wall. And if their mother grew angry, they would stand there stiffly, their fists clenched, as they scowled at her with flas.h.i.+ng eyes beneath frowning brows, their faces fiery red with rage. Kristin thought about what Gunnulf had said about Erlend: He had flung his knife at their father and raised his hand against him many times when he was a child. Then she would strike the twins, and strike them hard, because she was frightened. How would things end up for these children of hers if they weren't tamed in time?

Simon Darre was the only one who had ever had any power over the two wild boys. They loved their uncle, and they always complied whenever he chided them, in a friendly and calm manner. But now that they didn't see him anymore, Kristin hadn't noticed that they missed him. Dejected, she thought how faithless a child's heart could be.

But secretly, in her own heart, she knew that she was actually proudest of these two. If only she could break their terrible defiant and wild behavior, she thought that none of their brothers would make more promising men than they would. They were healthy, with good physical abilities; they were fearless, honest, generous, and kind toward all the poor. And more than once they had shown an alacrity and resourcefulness that seemed to her far beyond what might be expected of such young boys.

One evening during the hay harvesting Kristin was up late in the cookhouse when Munan came rus.h.i.+ng in, screaming that the old goat shed was on fire. There were no men at home on the manor. Some were in the smithy, sharpening their scythes; some had gone north to the bridge where the young people usually gathered on summer evenings. Kristin grabbed a couple of buckets and set off running, calling to her maids to follow her.

The goat shed was a little old building with a roof that reached all the way down to the ground. It stood in the narrow pa.s.sageway between the farmyard and the courtyard of the estate, right across from the stable and with other houses built close on either side. Kristin ran onto the gallery of the hearth house and found a broadaxe and a fire hook, but as she rounded the corner of the stable, she didn't see any fire, just a cloud of smoke billowing out of a hole in the roof of the goat shed. Ivar was sitting up on the ridge, hacking at the roof; Skule and Lavrans were inside, pulling down patches of the thatching and then stomping and trampling out the fire. Now they were joined by Erlend, Ulf, and the men who had been in the smithy. Munan had run over to warn them; so the fire was put out in short order. And yet the most terrible of misfortunes might easily have occurred. It was a sultry, still evening, but with occasional gusts of wind from the south, and if the fire had engulfed the goat shed, all the buildings at the north end of the courtyard-the stable, storerooms, and living quarters-would certainly have burned with it.

Ivar and Skule had been up on the stable roof. They had snared a hawk and were going to hang it from the gable when they caught a whiff of fire and saw smoke coming from the roof below them. They leaped to the ground at once, and with the small axes they were carrying they began chopping at the smoldering sod while they sent off Lavrans and Munan, who were playing nearby-one to find hooks and the other to get their mother. Fortunately the rafters and beams in the roof were quite rotten, but it was clear that this time the twins had saved their mother's estate by instantly setting about tearing down the burning roof and not wasting time by first running to get help from the grown-ups.

It was hard to understand how the fire had started, except that Gaute had pa.s.sed that way an hour before, carrying embers to the smithy, and he admitted that the container had not been covered. A spark had probably flown up onto the tinder-dry sod roof.

But less was said about this than about the quick-wittedness of the twins and Lavrans when Ulf later imposed a fire watch and all the servants kept him company during the night while Kristin had strong ale and mead carried out to them. All three boys had been singed on their hands and feet; their shoes were so burned that they split into pieces. Young Lavrans was only nine years old, so it was hard for him to bear the pain patiently for very long, but from the start he was the proudest of the lot, walking around with his hands wrapped up and taking in the praise of the manor servants.

That night Erlend took his wife in his arms. "My Kristin, my Kristin . . . Don't complain so much about your children. Can't you see, my dear, what good breeding there is in our sons? You always treat these two hearty boys as if you thought their path would lead between the gallows and the execution block. Now it seems to me that you should enjoy some pleasure after all the pain and suffering and toil you've borne through all the years when you constantly carried a child under your belt, with another child at your breast and one on your arm. Back then you would talk of nothing else but those little imps, and now that they've grown up to be both sensible and manly, you walk among them as if you were deaf and dumb, hardly even answering when they speak to you. G.o.d help me, but it's as if you love them less now that you no longer have to worry for their sake and these big, handsome sons of ours can give you both help and joy."

Kristin didn't trust herself to answer with a single word.

But she lay in bed, unable to sleep. And toward morning she carefully stepped over her slumbering husband and walked barefoot over to the shuttered peephole, which she opened.

The sky was a hazy gray, and the air was cool. Far off to the south, where the mountains merged and closed off the valley, rain was sweeping over the plateaus. Kristin stood there for a moment, looking out. It was always so hot and stuffy in this loft above the new storeroom where they slept in the summertime. The trace of moisture in the air brought the strong, sweet scent of hay to her. Outside a bird or two chittered faintly in their sleep in the summer night.

Kristin rummaged around for her flint and lit a candle stump. She crept over to where Ivar and Skule were sleeping on a bench. She shone the light on them and touched their cheeks with the back of her hand. They both had a slight fever. Softly she said an Ave Maria Ave Maria and made the sign of the cross over them. The gallows and the execution block . . . to think that Erlend could jest about such things . . . he who had come so close. . . . and made the sign of the cross over them. The gallows and the execution block . . . to think that Erlend could jest about such things . . . he who had come so close. . . .

Lavrans whimpered and murmured in his sleep. Kristin stood bending over her two youngest sons, who were bedded down on a small bench at the foot of their parents' bed. Lavrans was hot and flushed and tossed back and forth but did not wake up when she touched him.

Gaute lay with his milk-white arms behind his head, under his long flaxen hair. He had thrown off all the bedclothes. He was so hot-blooded that he always slept naked, and his skin was such a dazzling white. The tan color of his face, neck, and hands stood out in sharp contrast. Kristin pulled the blanket up around his waist.

It was difficult for her to be angry with Gaute; he looked so much like her father. She hadn't said much to him about the calamity he had nearly brought upon them. As clever and levelheaded as the boy was, she thought that doubtless he would learn from the incident and not forget it.

Naakkve and Bjrgulf slept in the other bed up in the loft. Kristin stood there longer, s.h.i.+ning the light on the two sleeping young men. Black down already shadowed their childish, soft pink lips. Naakkve's foot was sticking out from the covers, slender, with a high instep, a deep arch over the sole, and not very clean. And yet, she thought, it wasn't long ago that the foot of this man was so small that she could wrap her fingers around it, and she had crushed it to her breast and raised it to her lips, nibbling on each tiny toe, for they were as rosy and sweet as the blossoms on a bilberry twig.

It was probably true that she didn't pay enough heed to what G.o.d had granted her as her lot. The memory of those days when she was carrying Naakkve and the visions of terror she had wrestled with . . . it could pa.s.s with fiery heat through her soul. She had been delivered the way a person wakes up to the blessed light of day after terrifying dreams with the oppressive weight of the mare2 on her breast. But other women had awakened to see that the unhappiness of the day was worse than the very worst they had dreamed. And yet, whenever she saw a cripple or someone who was deformed, Kristin would feel heartsick at the reminder of her own fear for her unborn child. Then she would humble herself before G.o.d and Holy Olav with a burning fervor; she would hasten to do good, striving to force tears of true remorse from her eyes as she prayed. But each time she would feel that unthawed discontent in her heart, the fresh surge would cool, and the sobs would seep out of her soul like water in sand. Then she consoled herself that she didn't have the gift of piety she had once hoped would be her inheritance from her father. She was hard and sinful, but surely she was no worse than most people, and like most people, she would have to bear the fiery blaze of that other world before her heart could be melted and cleansed. on her breast. But other women had awakened to see that the unhappiness of the day was worse than the very worst they had dreamed. And yet, whenever she saw a cripple or someone who was deformed, Kristin would feel heartsick at the reminder of her own fear for her unborn child. Then she would humble herself before G.o.d and Holy Olav with a burning fervor; she would hasten to do good, striving to force tears of true remorse from her eyes as she prayed. But each time she would feel that unthawed discontent in her heart, the fresh surge would cool, and the sobs would seep out of her soul like water in sand. Then she consoled herself that she didn't have the gift of piety she had once hoped would be her inheritance from her father. She was hard and sinful, but surely she was no worse than most people, and like most people, she would have to bear the fiery blaze of that other world before her heart could be melted and cleansed.

And yet sometimes she longed to be different. When she looked at the seven handsome sons sitting at her table or when she made her way up to church on Sabbath mornings as the bells tolled, calling so agreeably to joy and G.o.d's peace, and she saw the flock of straight-backed, well-dressed young boys, her sons, climbing the hillside ahead of her . . . She didn't know of any other woman who had given birth to so many children and had never experienced what it was like to lose one. All of them were handsome and healthy, without a flaw in their physical or mental capacities, although Bjrgulf's sight was poor. She wished she could forget her sorrows and be gentle and grateful, fearing and loving G.o.d as her father had done. She remembered her father had said that the person who recalls his sins with a humble spirit and bows before the cross of the Lord need never bow his head beneath any earthly unhappiness or injustice.

Kristin blew out the candle, pinched the wick, and returned the stump to its place between the uppermost logs in the wall. She went back over to the peephole. It was already daylight outside, but gray and dead. On the lower rooftops, upon which she gazed, the dirty, sun-bleached gra.s.s stirred faintly from a gust of wind; a little, rustling sound pa.s.sed through the leaves of the birches across from the roof of the high loft building.

She looked down at her hands, holding on to the sill of the peephole. They were rough and worn; her arms were tanned all the way up to her elbows, and her muscles were swollen and as hard as wood. In her youth the children had sucked the blood and milk from her until every trace of maidenly smoothness and fresh plumpness had been sapped from her body. Now each day of toil stripped away a little more of the remnants of beauty that had distinguished her as the daughter, wife, and mother of men with n.o.ble blood. The slender white hands, the pale, soft arms, the fair complexion, which she had carefully s.h.i.+elded from sunburn with linen kerchiefs and protected with specially brewed cleansing concoctions . . . She had long ago grown indifferent to whether the sun shone directly on her face, sweaty from work, and turned it as brown as that of a poor peasant woman.

Her hair was the only thing she had left of her girlish beauty. It was just as luxuriant and brown, even though she seldom found time to wash or tend to it. The heavy, tangled braid that hung down her back hadn't been undone in three days.

Kristin pulled it forward over her shoulder, undid the plait, and shook out her hair, which still enveloped her like a cloak and reached below her knees. She took a comb from her chest, and s.h.i.+vering now and then, she sat in her s.h.i.+ft beneath the peephole, open to the coolness of the morning, and gently combed out her tangled tresses.

When she was done with her hair and had rebraided it in a tight, heavy rope, she felt a little better. Then she cautiously lifted the sleeping Munan into her arms, placed him next to the wall in her husband's bed, and then crawled in between them. She held her youngest child in her arms, rested his head against her shoulder, and fell asleep.

She slept late the next morning. Erlend and the boys were already up when she awakened. "I think you've been suckling at your mother's breast when n.o.body's looking," said Erlend when he saw Munan lying next to his mother. The boy grew cross, ran outside, and crept across the gallery, out onto a carved beam atop the posts holding up the gallery. He would prove he was a man. "Run!" shouted Naakkve from down in the courtyard. He caught his little brother in his arms, turned him upside down, and tossed him to Bjrgulf. The two older boys wrestled with him until he was laughing and shrieking at the same time.

But the following day when Munan cried because his fingers had been stung by the recoil of the bowstring, the twins rolled him up in a coverlet and carried him over to their mother's bed; in his mouth they stuffed a piece of bread so big that the boy nearly choked.

CHAPTER 2.

ERLEND'S HOUSE PRIEST at Husaby had taught his three oldest sons their lessons. They were not very diligent pupils, but all three learned quickly, and their mother, who had been raised with this kind of book learning, kept an eye on them so that the knowledge they gained was not altogether paltry.

During the year that Bjrgulf and Naakkve spent with Sira Eiliv at the monastery on Tautra, they had eagerly suckled at the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of Lady Wisdom, as the priest expressed it. Their teacher was an exceedingly old monk who had devoted his life with the zeal of a bee to gleaning knowledge from all the books he came across, both in Latin and in Old Norse. Sira Eiliv was himself a lover of wisdom, but during his years at Husaby he had had little opportunity to follow his inclination for bookish pursuits. For him the time spent with Aslak, the teacher, was like pasture grazing for starved cattle. And the two young boys, who kept close to their own priest while staying with the monks, followed the learned conversations of the men with their mouths agape. Then Brother Aslak and Sira Eiliv found joy in feeding these two young minds with the most delectable honey from the monastery's book treasures, which Brother Aslak had supplemented with many copied versions and excerpts of the most magnificent books. Soon the boys grew so clever that the monk seldom had to speak to them in Norwegian, and when their parents came to get them, both could answer the priest in Latin, fluently and correctly.

Afterward the brothers kept up what they had learned. There were many books at Jrundgaard. Lavrans had owned five. Two of them had been inherited by Ramborg when his estate was settled, but she had never wanted to learn to read, and Simon was not so practiced with written words that he had any desire to read for his own amus.e.m.e.nt, although he could decipher a letter and compose one himself. So he asked Kristin to keep the books until his children were older. After they were married, Erlend gave Kristin three books that had belonged to his parents. She had received another book as a gift from Gunnulf Nikulaussn. He had had it copied for his brother's wife from a book about Holy Olav and his miracles, several other saint legends, and the missive the Franciscan monks of Oslo had sent to the pope about Brother Edvin Rikardssn, seeking to have him recognized as a saint. And finally, Naakkve had been given a prayer book by Sira Eiliv when they parted. Naakkve often read to his brother. He read fluently and well, with a slight lilt to his voice, the way Brother Aslak had taught him; he was most fond of the books in Latin-his own prayer book and one that had belonged to Lavrans Bjrgulfsn. But his greatest treasure was a big, exceptionally splendid book that had been part of the family inheritance ever since the days of the ancestor who was his namesake, Bishop Nikulaus Arnessn.

Kristin wanted her younger sons also to acquire learning that would be fitting for men of their birth. But it was difficult to know how this might be done. Sira Eirik was much too old, and Sira Solmund could read only from those books that he used for the church service. Much of what he read he didn't fully understand. On some evenings Lavrans found it amusing to sit with Naakkve and let his brother show him how to form the letters on his wax tablet, but the other three had absolutely no desire to learn such skills. One day Kristin took out a Norwegian book and asked Gaute to see if he could remember anything of what he had learned in his childhood from Sira Eiliv. But Gaute couldn't even manage to spell his way through three words, and when he came across the first symbol that stood for several letters, he closed the book with a laugh and said he didn't feel like playing that game anymore.

This was the reason that Sira Solmund came over to Jrundgaard one evening late in the summer and asked Nikulaus to accompany him home. A foreign knight had come from the Feast of Saint Olav in Nidaros and taken lodgings at Romundgaard, but he spoke no Norwegian. Nor did his soldiers or servants, while the guide who was escorting them spoke only a few words of their language. Sira Eirik was ill in bed. Could Naakkve come over and speak to the man in Latin?

Naakkve was not at all displeased to be asked to act as interpreter, but he feigned nonchalance and went with the priest. He returned home very late, in high spirits and quite drunk. He had been given wine, which the foreign knight had brought along and liberally poured for the priest and the deacon and Naakkve. His name was something like Sir Alland or Allart of Bekelar; he was from Flanders and was making a pilgrimage to various holy shrines in the northern countries. He was exceedingly friendly, and it had been no trouble to talk to him. Then Naakkve mentioned his request. From there the knight was headed for Oslo and then on to pilgrim sites in Denmark and Germany, and now he wanted Naakkve to come with him to be his interpreter, at least while he was in Norway. But he had also hinted that if the youth should accompany him out into the world, then Sir Allart was the man who could make his fortune. Where he came from, it seemed as if golden spurs and necklaces, heavy money pouches, and splendid weapons were simply waiting for a man like young Nikulaus Er lendssn to come along and take them. Naakkve had replied that he was not yet of age and would need permission from his father. But Sir Allart had still pressed a gift upon him-he had expressly stated that it would in no way bind him-a knee-length, plum-blue silk tunic with silver bells on the points of the sleeves.

Erlend listened to him, saying hardly a word, with an oddly tense expression on his face. When Naakkve was finished, he sent Gaute to get the chest with his writing implements and at once set about composing a letter in Latin. Bjrgulf had to help him because Naakkve was in no condition to do much of anything and his father had sent him off to bed. In the letter Erlend invited the knight to his home on the following day, after prime1 so they might discuss Sir Allart's offer to take the n.o.ble-born young man, Nikulaus Erlendssn, into his service as his esquire. He asked the knight's forgiveness for returning his gift with the plea that Sir Allart might keep it until Nikulaus, with his father's consent, had been sworn into the man's service in accordance with such customs as prevailed among knights in all the lands. so they might discuss Sir Allart's offer to take the n.o.ble-born young man, Nikulaus Erlendssn, into his service as his esquire. He asked the knight's forgiveness for returning his gift with the plea that Sir Allart might keep it until Nikulaus, with his father's consent, had been sworn into the man's service in accordance with such customs as prevailed among knights in all the lands.

Erlend dripped a little wax on the bottom of the letter and lightly pressed his small seal, the one on his ring, into it. Then he sent a servant boy off to Romundgaard at once with the letter and the silk tunic.

"Husband, surely you can't be thinking of sending your young son off to distant lands with an unknown foreigner," said Kristin, s.h.i.+vering.

"We shall see. . . ." Erlend smiled quite strangely. "But I don't think it's likely," he added when he noticed her distress. He smiled again and caressed her cheek.

At Erlend's request, Kristin had strewn the floor in the high loft with juniper and flowers, placed the best cus.h.i.+ons on the benches, and set the table with a linen cloth and good food and drink in fine dishes and the precious silver-chased animal horns they had inherited from Lavrans. Erlend had shaved carefully, curled his hair, and dressed in a black, richly embroidered ankle-length robe made of foreign cloth. He went to meet his guest at the manor gate, and as they crossed the courtyard together, Kristin couldn't help thinking that her husband looked more like the French knights mentioned in the sagas than did the fat, fair-haired stranger in the colorful and resplendent garments made from velvet and sarcenet. She stood on the gallery of the high loft, beautifully attired and wearing a silk wimple. The Flemish man kissed her hand as she bade him bienvenu bienvenu. She didn't exchange another word with him during all the hours he spent with them. She understood nothing of the men's conversation; nor did Sira Solmund, who had come with his guest. But the priest told the mistress that now he had a.s.suredly made Naakkve's fortune. She neither agreed nor disagreed with him.

Erlend spoke a little French and could fluently speak the kind of German that mercenaries spoke; the discussion between him and the foreign knight flowed easily and courteously. But Kristin noticed that the Flemish man did not seem pleased as things progressed, although he strove to conceal his displeasure. Erlend had told his sons to wait over in the loft of the new storehouse until he sent word for them to join them, but they were not sent for.

Erlend and his wife escorted the knight and the priest to the gate. When their guests disappeared among the fields, Erlend turned to Kristin and said with that smile she found so distasteful, "I wouldn't let Naakkve leave the estate with that fellow even to go south to Breidin."

Ulf Haldorssn came over to them. He and Erlend spoke a few words that Kristin couldn't hear, but Ulf swore fiercely and spat.

Erlend laughed and slapped the man on the shoulder. "Yes, if I'd been such a country dolt as the good farmers around here . . . But I've seen enough that I wouldn't let my fair young falcons out of my hands by selling them to the Devil. Sira Solmund had no idea, that blessed fool."

Kristin stood with her arms hanging at her sides, the color ebbing and rising in her face. Horror and shame overcame her, making her feel sick; her legs seemed to lose all strength. She had known about such things-as something endlessly remote-but that this unmentionable might venture as close as her own doorstep . . . It was like the last wave, threatening to overturn her storm-tossed, overloaded boat. Holy Mary, did she also need to fear that that for her sons? for her sons?

Erlend said with the same loathsome smile, "I already had my doubts last night. Sir Allart seemed to me a little too chivalrous from Naakkve's account. I know that it's not the custom among knights anywhere in the world to welcome a man who is to be taken into service by kissing him on the lips or by giving him costly presents before seeing proof of his abilities."

Shaking from head to toe, Kristin said, "Why did you ask me to strew the floor with roses and cover my table with linen cloths for such a-" And she uttered the worst of words.

Erlend frowned. He had picked up a stone and was keeping an eye on Munan's red cat, which was slithering on its stomach through the tall gra.s.s along the wall of the house, heading for the chickens near the stable door. Whoos.h.!.+ He threw the stone. The cat streaked around the corner, and the flock of hens scattered. He turned to face his wife.

"I thought I could at least have a look look at the man. If he had been a trustworthy fellow, then . . . But in that case I had to show the proper courtesy. I'm not Sir Allart's confessor. And you heard that he's planning to go to Oslo." Erlend laughed again. "Now it's possible that some of my true friends and dear kinsmen from the past may hear that we're not sitting up here at Jrundgaard shaking the lice from our rags or eating herring and oat at the man. If he had been a trustworthy fellow, then . . . But in that case I had to show the proper courtesy. I'm not Sir Allart's confessor. And you heard that he's planning to go to Oslo." Erlend laughed again. "Now it's possible that some of my true friends and dear kinsmen from the past may hear that we're not sitting up here at Jrundgaard shaking the lice from our rags or eating herring and oat lefse lefse."

Bjrgulf had a headache and was lying in bed when Kristin came up to the loft at suppertime, and Naakkve said he didn't want to go over to the main house for the evening meal.

"You seem to me morose tonight, son," said his mother.

"How can you think that, Mother?" said Naakkve with a scornful smile. "The fact that I'm a worse fool than other men and it's easier to throw sand in my eyes . . . surely that's nothing to be morose about."

"Console yourself," said his father as they sat down at the table and Naakkve was still too quiet. "No doubt you'll go out into the world and have a chance to try your luck."

"That depends, Father," replied Naakkve in a low voice, as if he intended only Erlend to hear him, "whether Bjrgulf can go with me." Then he laughed softly. "But talk to Ivar and Skule about what you just said. They're merely waiting to reach the proper age before they set off."

Kristin stood up and put on her hooded cloak. She was going to go north to tend to the beggar at Ingebjrg's hut, she told them when they asked. The twins offered to go along and carry her sack, but she wanted to go alone.

The evenings were already quite dark, and north of the church the path pa.s.sed through the woods and beneath the shadow of Hammer Ridge. There gusts of cold wind always issued from Rost Gorge, and the din of the river brought a trace of moisture to the air. Swarms of big white moths hovered and flitted under the trees, sometimes flying straight at her. The pale glow of the linen around her face and on her breast seemed to draw them in the dark. She swatted them away with her hand as she rushed upward, sliding on the slippery carpet of needles and stumbling over the writhing roots that sprawled across the path she was following.

A certain dream had haunted Kristin for many years. The first time she had it was on the night before Gaute was born, but occasionally she would still wake up, soaked with sweat, her heart hammering as if it would shatter in her chest, and she had dreamed the same thing.

She saw a meadow with flowers, a steep hill deep inside a pine forest that bordered the mound on three sides, dark and dense. At the foot of the slope a small lake mirrored the dim forest and the dappled green of the clearing. The sun was behind the trees; at the top of the hill the last long golden rays of evening light filtered through the boughs, and at the bottom of the lake sun-touched, gleaming clouds swam among the leaves of water lilies.

Halfway up the slope, standing deep in the avalanche of alpine catchflies and globeflowers and the pale green clouds of angelica, she saw her child. It must have been Naakkve the first time she had the dream; back then she had only two, and Bjrgulf was still in the cradle. Later she was never certain which of her children it might be. The little round, sunburned face under the fringe of yellow-brown hair seemed to her to resemble first one and then another of her sons, but the child was always between two and three years old and dressed in the kind of small dark yellow tunic that she usually sewed for her little boys as everyday attire, from homespun wool, dyed with lichen, and trimmed with red ribbon.

Sometimes she seemed to be on the other side of the lake. Or she might not be present at all when it happened, and yet she saw everything.

She saw her little son moving about, here and there, turning his face as he tugged at the flowers. And even though her heart felt the clutch of a dull anguish-a premonition of the evil about to occur-the dream always brought with it first a powerful, aching sweetness as she gazed at the lovely child there in the meadow.

Then she sees emerging from the darkness at the edge of the woods a furry bulk that is alive. It moves soundlessly, its tiny, vicious eyes smoldering. The bear reaches the top of the meadow and stands there, its head and shoulders swaying, as it considers the slope. Then it leaps. Kristin had never seen a bear alive, but she knew bears didn't leap that way. This is not a real bear. It runs like a cat; at the same moment it turns gray, and like a giant light-colored cat it flies with long, soft strides down the hill.

The mother is deathly frightened, but she can't reach the child to protect him; she can't make a sound of warning. Then the boy notices that something something is there; he turns halfway and looks over his shoulder. With a horrifying, low-pitched cry of terror he tries to run downhill, lifting his legs high in the tall gra.s.s the way children do. And his mother hears the tiny crack of sap-filled stalks breaking as he runs through the profusion of blossoms. Now he stumbles over something in the gra.s.s, falls headlong, and in the next instant the beast is upon him with its back arched and its head lowered between its front paws. Then she wakes up. is there; he turns halfway and looks over his shoulder. With a horrifying, low-pitched cry of terror he tries to run downhill, lifting his legs high in the tall gra.s.s the way children do. And his mother hears the tiny crack of sap-filled stalks breaking as he runs through the profusion of blossoms. Now he stumbles over something in the gra.s.s, falls headlong, and in the next instant the beast is upon him with its back arched and its head lowered between its front paws. Then she wakes up.

And each time she would lie awake for hours before her attempts to rea.s.sure herself did any good. It was only a dream after all! She would draw into her arms her smallest child, who lay between herself and the wall, thinking that if it had been real, she could have done such and such: scared off the animal with a shriek or with a pole. And there was always the long, sharp knife that hung from her belt.

But just as she had convinced herself in this manner to calm down, it would sieze hold of her once again: the unbearable anguish of her dream as she stood powerless and watched her little son's pitiful, hopeless flight from the strong, ruthlessly swift, and hideous beast. Her blood felt as if it were boiling inside her, foaming so that it made her body swell, and her heart was about to burst, for it couldn't contain such a violent surge of blood.

Ingebjrg's hut lay up on Hammer Ridge, a short distance below the main road that led up to the heights. It had stood empty for many years, and the land had been leased to a man who had been allowed to clear s.p.a.ce for a house nearby. An ill beggar who had been left behind by a procession of mendicants had now taken refuge inside. Kristin had sent food and clothing and medicine up to him when she heard of this, but she hadn't had time to visit him until now.

She saw that the poor man's life would soon be over. Kristin gave her sack to the beggar woman who was staying with him and then tended to the ill man, doing what little she could. When she heard that they had sent for the priest, she washed his face, hands, and feet so they would be clean to receive the last anointment.

The air was thick with smoke, and a terribly oppressive, foul smell filled the tiny room. When two women from the neighboring household came in, Kristin asked them to send word to Jrundgaard for anything they might need; then she bade them farewell and left. She suddenly had a strange, sick fear of meeting the priest with the Corpus Domini Corpus Domini, so she took the first side path she encountered.

It was merely a cattle track, she soon realized. And it led her right into the wilderness. The fallen trees with their tangle of roots sticking up frightened her; she had to crawl over them in those places where she couldn't make her way around. Layers of moss slid out from under her feet when she clambered down over large rocks. Spiderwebs clung to her face, and branches swung at her and caught on her clothes. When she had to cross a small creek or she came to a marshy clearing in the woods, it was almost impossible to find a place where she could slip though the dense, wet thickets of leafy shrubs. And the loathsome white moths were everywhere, teeming beneath the trees in the darkness, swarming up in great clouds from the heath-covered mounds when she trod on them.

But at last she reached the flat rocks down by the Laag River. Here the pine forest thinned out because the trees had to twine their roots over barren rocks, and the forest floor was almost nothing but dry grayish-white reindeer moss, which crackled under her feet. Here and there a black, heath-covered mound was visible. The fragrance of pine needles was hotter and drier and sharper than higher up. Here all the branches of the trees always looked yellow-scorched from early spring on. The white moths continued to plague her.

The roar of the river drew her. She walked all the way over to the edge and looked down. Far below, the water s.h.i.+mmered white as it seethed and thundered over the rocks from one pool to the next.

The monotonous drone of the waterfalls resonated through her overwrought body and soul. It kept reminding her of something, of a time that was an eternity ago; even back then she realized that she would not have the strength to bear the fate she had chosen for herself. She had laid bare her protected, gentle girl's life to a ravaging, fleshly love; she had lived in anguish, anguish, anguish ever since-an unfree woman from the first moment she became a mother. She had given herself up to the world in her youth, and the more she squirmed and struggled against the bonds of the world, the more fiercely she felt herself imprisoned and fettered by them. She struggled to protect her sons with wings that were bound by the constraints of earthly care. She had striven to conceal her anguish and her inexpressible weakness from everyone, walking forward with her back erect and her face calm, holding her tongue, and fighting to ensure the welfare of her children in any way she could.

But always with that secret, breathless anguish: If things go badly for them, I won't be able to bear it. And deep in her heart she wailed at the memory of her father and mother. They had borne anguish and sorrow over their children, day after day, until their deaths; they had been able to carry this burden, and it was not because they loved their children any less but because they loved with a better kind of love.

Was this how she would see her struggle end? Had she conceived in her womb a flock of restless fledgling hawks that simply lay in her nest, waiting impatiently for the hour when their wings were strong enough to carry them beyond the most distant blue peaks? And their father would clap his hands and laugh: Fly, fly, my young birds.

They would take with them b.l.o.o.d.y threads from the roots of her heart when they flew off, and they wouldn't even know it. She would be left behind alone, and all the heartstrings, which had once bound her to this old home of hers, she had already sundered. That was how it would end, and she would be neither alive nor dead.

She turned on her heel, stumbling hastily across the pale, parched carpet of reindeer moss, with her cloak pulled tight around her because it was so unpleasant when it caught on the branches. At last she emerged onto the spa.r.s.e meadow plains that lay slightly north of the farmers' banquet hall and the church. As she cut across the field, she caught sight of someone in the road. He called out: "Is that you, Kristin?" and she recognized her husband.

"You were gone a long time," said Erlend. "It's almost night, Kristin. I was starting to grow frightened."