Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  But whenever Fru Aashild came over to her, Ulvhild’s face would light up with joy. Eagerly she drank the refreshing and sleep-inducing brews that Fru Aashild prepared for her. She never complained when the woman tended to her, and she would lie still, listening happily, whenever Fru Aashild played Lavrans’s harp and sang—she knew so many ballads that were unfamiliar to the people there in the valley.

  Often she would sing for Kristin when Ulvhild had fallen asleep. And sometimes she spoke of her youth, when she lived in the south of the country and frequented the courts of King Magnus and King Eirik and their queens.

  Once, as they were sitting there and Fru Aashild was telling stories, Kristin blurted out what she had thought about so often.

  “It seems strange to me that you’re always so happy, when you’ve been used to—” she broke off, blushing.

  Fru Aashild looked down at the child, smiling.

  “You mean because now I’m separated from all those things?” She laughed quietly and then she said, “I’ve had my glory days, Kristin, but I’m not foolish enough to complain because I have to be content with sour, watered-down milk now that I’ve drunk up all my wine and ale. Good days can last a long time if one tends to things with care and caution; all sensible people know that. That’s why I think that sensible people have to be satisfied with the good days—for the grandest of days are costly indeed. They call a man a fool who fritters away his father’s inheritance in order to enjoy himself in his youth. Everyone is entitled to his own opinion about that. But I call him a true idiot and fool only if he regrets his actions afterward, and he is twice the fool and the greatest buffoon of all if he expects to see his drinking companions again once the inheritance is gone.

  “Is something wrong with Ulvhild?” Fru Aashild asked gently, turning to Ragnfrid, who had given a start from her place near the child’s bed.

  “No, she’s sleeping quietly,” said the mother as she came over to Fru Aashild and Kristin, who were sitting near the hearth. With her hand on the smoke vent pole, Ragnfrid stood and looked down into the woman’s face.

  “Kristin doesn’t understand all this,” she said.

  “No,” replied Fru Aashild. “But she also learned her prayers before she understood them. At those times when one needs either prayers or advice, one usually has no mind to learn or to understand.”

  Ragnfrid raised her black eyebrows thoughtfully. When she did that, her light, deep-set eyes looked like lakes beneath a black forest meadow. That’s what Kristin used to think when she was small, or perhaps she had heard someone say that. Fru Aashild looked at her with that little half smile of hers. Ragnfrid sat down at the edge of the hearth, picked up a twig, and poked at the embers.

  “But the person who has wasted his inheritance on the most wretched of goods—and then later sees a treasure he would give his life to own—don’t you think that he would deplore his own stupidity?”

  “No bargain is without some loss, Ragnfrid,” said Fru Aashild. “And whoever wishes to give his life must take the risk and see what he can win.”

  Ragnfrid jerked the burning twig from the fire, blew out the flame, and curled her hand around the glowing end so that a blood-red light shone between her fingers.

  “Oh, it’s all nothing but words, words, words, Fru Aashild.”

  “There is very little worth paying for so dearly, Ragnfrid,” said the other woman, “as with one’s own life.”

  “Yes, there is,” said Kristin’s mother fervently. “My husband,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

  “Ragnfrid,” said Fru Aashild quietly, “many a maiden has had the same thought when she was tempted to bind a man to her and gave up her maidenhood to do so. But haven’t you read about men and maidens who gave God all they owned, and entered cloisters or stood naked in the wilderness and then regretted it afterward? They’re called fools in the holy books. And it would certainly be a sin to think that God was the one who had deceived them in their bargain.”

  Ragnfrid sat quite still for a moment. Then Fru Aashild said, “Come along with me, Kristin. It’s time to go out and collect the dew that we’ll use to wash Ulvhild in the morning.”

  Outside, the courtyard was white and black in the moonlight. Ragnfrid accompanied them through the farmyard down to the gate near the cabbage garden. Kristin saw the thin silhouette of her mother leaning against the fence nearby. The child shook dew from the large, ice-cold cabbage leaves and from the folds of the lady’s-mantle into her father’s silver goblet.

  Fru Aashild walked silently at Kristin’s side. She was there only to protect her, for it was not wise to let a child go out alone on such a night. But the dew would have more power if it was collected by an innocent maiden.

  When they came back to the gate, Ragnfrid was gone. Kristin was shaking with cold as she put the icy silver goblet into Fru Aashild’s hands. In her wet shoes she ran over to the loft where she slept with her father. She had her foot on the first step when Ragnfrid emerged from the shadows beneath the gallery of the loft. In her hands she held a bowl of steaming liquid.

  “I’ve warmed up some ale for you, daughter,” said Ragnfrid.

  Kristin thanked her gratefully and put her lips to the rim. Then her mother asked, “Kristin, those prayers and other things that Fru Aashild is teaching you—is there anything sinful or ungodly about them?”

  “I can’t believe that,” replied the child. “They all mention Jesus and the Virgin Mary and the names of the saints.”

  “What has she been teaching you?” asked her mother again.

  “Oh, about herbs, and how to ward off bleeding and warts and strained eyes—and moths in clothing and mice in the storehouse. And which herbs to pick in sunlight and which ones have power in the rain. But I mustn’t tell the prayers to anyone else, or they will lose their power,” she said quickly.

  Her mother took the empty bowl and set it on the steps. Suddenly she threw her arms around her daughter, pulled her close, and kissed her. Kristin noticed that her mother’s cheeks were hot and wet.

  “May God and Our Lady guard and protect you against all evil—we have only you now, your father and I; you’re the only one that misfortune has not touched. My dear, my dear—never forget that you are your father’s dearest joy.”

  Ragnfrid went back to the winter house, undressed, and crawled into bed with Ulvhild. She put her arm around the child and pressed her face close to the little one’s so that she could feel the warmth of Ulvhild’s body and smell the sharp odor of sweat from the child’s damp hair. Ulvhild slept soundly and securely as always after Fru Aashild’s evening potion. There was a soothing scent from the Virgin Mary grass spread under the sheet. And yet Ragnfrid lay there for a long time, unable to sleep, and stared up at the little scrap of light in the roof where the moon shone on the horn pane of the smoke vent.

  Fru Aashild lay in the other bed, but Ragnfrid never knew whether she was asleep or awake. Fru Aashild never mentioned that they had known each other in the past, and that frightened Ragnfrid quite badly. She thought she had never felt so bitterly sad or in such an agony of fear as she did now, even though she knew that Lavrans would regain his full health—and that Ulvhild would survive.

  Fru Aashild seemed to enjoy talking to Kristin, and for each day that passed, the maiden became better friends with her.

  One day when they had gone out to pick herbs, they sat down next to the river in a little grassy clearing at the foot of a scree. They could look down at the courtyard of Formo and see Arne Gyrdsøn’s red shirt. He had ridden over with them and was going to look after their horses while they were up in the mountain meadow gathering herbs.

  As they sat there, Kristin told Fru Aashild about her encounter with the dwarf maiden. She hadn’t thought about the incident for many years, but now it suddenly came back to her. And as she spoke, the strange thought occurred to her that there was some resemblance between Fru Aashild and the dwarf woman—even though she realized full well that they did not look at all alike.


  But when she had finished telling the story, Fru Aashild sat in silence for a moment and gazed out across the valley.

  Finally she said, “It was wise of you to flee, since you were only a child back then. But haven’t you ever heard of people who took the gold the dwarf offered them, and then trapped the troll in a rock afterward?”

  “I’ve heard of such stories,” said Kristin, “but I would never dare do that myself. And I don’t think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “It’s good when you don’t dare do something that doesn’t seem right,” said Fru Aashild with a little laugh. “But it’s not so good if you think something isn’t right because you don’t dare do it.” Then she added abruptly, “You’ve grown up a great deal this summer. I wonder if you realize how lovely you’ve become.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Kristin. “They say I look like my father.”

  Fru Aashild laughed softly.

  “Yes, it would be best if you took after Lavrans, both in temperament and appearance. And yet it would be a shame if they married you to someone up here in the valley. Farming customs and the ways of smallholders should not be disdained, but these gentry up here all think they’re so grand that their equals are not to be found in all of Norway. I’m sure they wonder how I can manage to live and prosper even though they’ve closed their doors to me. But they’re lazy and arrogant and refuse to learn new ways—and then they blame everything on the old enmity with the monarchy in the time of King Sverre.1 It’s all a lie—your ancestor reconciled with King Sverre and accepted gifts from him. But if your mother’s brother wanted to serve the king and join his retinue, then he would have to cleanse himself, both inside and out, which is not something Trond is willing to do. But you, Kristin, you ought to marry a man who is both chivalrous and courtly. . . .”

  Kristin sat staring down at the Formo courtyard, at Arne’s red back. She hadn’t been aware of it herself, but whenever Fru Aashild talked about the world she had frequented in the past, Kristin always pictured the knights and counts in Arne’s image. Before, when she was a child, she had always envisioned them in her father’s image.

  “My nephew, Erlend Nikulaussøn of Husaby—now he would have been a suitable bridegroom for you. He has grown up to be so handsome, that boy. My sister Magnhild came to visit me last year when she was on her way through the valley, and she brought her son along with her. Well, you won’t be able to marry him, of course, but I would have gladly spread the blanket over the two of you in the wedding bed. His hair is as dark as yours is fair, and he has beautiful eyes. But if I know my brother-in-law, he has already set his sights on a better match for Erlend than you would be.”

  “Does that mean I’m not a good match, then?” asked Kristin with surprise. She was never offended by anything Fru Aashild said, but she felt embarrassed and chagrined that Fru Aashild might be somehow better than her own family.

  “Yes, of course you’re a good match,” said Fru Aashild. “And yet you couldn’t expect to become part of my lineage. Your ancestor here in Norway was an outlaw and a foreigner, and the Gjeslings have sat moldering away on their estates for such a long time that almost no one remembers them outside of this valley. But my sister and I married the nephews of Queen Margret Skulesdatter.”

  Kristin didn’t even think to object that it was not her ancestor but his brother who had come to Norway as an outlaw. She sat and gazed out over the dark mountain slopes across the valley, and she remembered that day, many years ago, when she went up onto the ridge and saw how many mountains there were between her own village and the rest of the world. Then Fru Aashild said they ought to head home, and she asked Kristin to call for Arne. Kristin put her hands up to her mouth and shouted and then waved her kerchief until she saw the red speck down in the courtyard turn and wave back.

  Some time later Fru Aashild returned home, but during the fall and the first part of winter she often came to Jørundgaard to spend a few days with Ulvhild. The child was now taken out of bed in the daytime, and they tried to get her to stand on her own, but her legs crumpled beneath her whenever she tried it. She was fretful, pale, and tired, and the laced garment that Fru Aashild had made for her from horsehide and slender willow branches plagued her terribly; all she wanted to do was lie in her mother’s lap. Ragnfrid was constantly holding her injured daughter, so Tordis was now in charge of all the housekeeping. At her mother’s request, Kristin accompanied Tordis, to help and to learn.

  Kristin sometimes longed for Fru Aashild, who occasionally would talk to her a great deal, but at other times Kristin would wait in vain for a word beyond the casual greeting as Fru Aashild came and went.

  Instead, Fru Aashild would sit with the grown-ups and talk. That was always what happened when she brought her husband along with her, for now Bjørn Gunnarsøn also came to Jørund gaard. One day in the fall, Lavrans had ridden over to Haugen to take Fru Aashild payment for her doctoring: the best silver pitcher and matching platter they owned. He had stayed the night and afterward had high praise for their farm. He said it was beautiful and well tended, and not as small as people claimed. Inside the buildings everything looked prosperous, and the customs of the house were as courtly as those of the gentry in the south of the country. What Lavrans thought of Bjørn he didn’t say, but he always received the man courteously when Bjørn accompanied his wife to Jørundgaard. On the other hand, Lavrans was exceedingly fond of Fru Aashild, and he believed that most of what people said about her was a lie. He also said that twenty years earlier she would hardly have required witchcraft to bind a man to her—she was sixty now but still looked young, and she had a most appealing and charming manner.

  Kristin noticed that her mother was not happy about all this. It’s true that Ragnfrid never said much about Fru Aashild, but one time she compared Bjørn to the flattened yellow grass that can be found under large rocks, and Kristin thought this an apt description. Bjørn had an oddly faded appearance—he was quite fat, pale, and sluggish, and slightly bald—even though he was not much older than Lavrans. And yet it was still apparent that he had once been an extremely handsome man. Kristin never exchanged a single word with him. He said little, preferring to stay in one spot, wherever he happened to be seated, from the moment he stepped in the door until it was time for bed. He drank an enormous amount but it seemed to have little effect on him. He ate almost nothing, and occasionally he would stare at someone in the room, stony-faced and pensive, with his strange, pale eyes.

  They had not seen their kinsmen from Sundbu since the accident occurred, but Lavrans had been over to Vaage several times. Sira Eirik, on the other hand, came to Jørundgaard as often as before, and there he frequently met Fru Aashild. They had become good friends. People thought this a generous attitude on the part of the priest, since he himself was a very capable doctor. This was also probably one of the reasons why people on the large estates had not sought Fru Aashild’s advice, at least not openly, because they considered the priest to be competent enough. It was not easy for them to know how to act toward two people who in some ways had been cast out of their own circles. Sira Eirik himself said that they caused no one any harm, and as for Fru Aashild’s witchcraft, he was not her parish priest. It could be that the woman knew more than was good for the health of her soul—and yet one should not forget that ignorant people often spoke of witchcraft as soon as a woman showed herself to be wiser than the councilmen. For her part, Fru Aashild spoke highly of the priest and diligently went to church if she happened to be at Jørundgaard on a holy day.

  Christmas was a sad time that year. Ulvhild was still unable to stand on her own. And they neither saw nor heard from their kinsmen at Sundbu. Kristin noticed that people in the village were talking about the rift and that her father took it to heart. But her mother didn’t care, and Kristin thought this was callous of her.

  One evening toward the end of the holidays, Sira Sigurd, Trond Gjesling’s house priest, arrived in a big sleigh, and his primary mission was to invite them all t
o visit Sundbu.

  Sira Sigurd was not well liked in the surrounding villages, for he was the one who actually managed Trond’s properties for him—or at least he was the one who was blamed whenever Trond acted harshly or unjustly, and Trond tended to plague his tenants somewhat. The priest was exceedingly clever at writing and figuring; he knew the law and was a skilled doctor, although not as skilled as he thought. But judging by his behavior, no one would think him a clever man; he often said foolish things. Ragnfrid and Lavrans had never liked him, but the Sundbu people, as was reasonable, set great store by their priest, and both they and he were greatly disappointed that he had not been called on to tend to Ulvhild.

  On the day that Sira Sigurd came to Jørundgaard—unfortunately for him—Fru Aashild and Herr Bjørn were already there, as were Sira Eirik, Arne’s parents Gyrd and Inga of Finsbrekken, Old Jon from Loptsgaard, and a friar from Hamar, Brother Aasgaut.

  While Ragnfrid had the tables set once more with food for the guests and Lavrans pored over the boxes of sealed letters that the priest had brought, Sira Sigurd asked to see Ulvhild. She had already been put to bed for the night and was sleeping, but Sira Sigurd woke her up, examined her back and limbs, and asked her questions—at first kindly enough, but with increasing impatience as Ulvhild grew frightened. Sigurd was a small man, practically a dwarf, but he had a big, flame-red face. When he tried to lift her onto the floor to test her legs, Ulvhild began to scream. Then Fru Aashild stood up, went over to the bed, and covered her with the blanket, saying that the child was sleepy—she wouldn’t have been able to stand up even if her legs were healthy.

  The priest began to protest vehemently; he was also considered a capable doctor. But Fru Aashild took his hand, led him over to the high seat2 at the table, and started talking about what she had done for Ulvhild as she asked his opinion on everything. Then he grew more amenable, and he ate and drank of Ragnfrid’s good repast.