Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  What if she went to her father and told him? It would be better to forgo all this trouble, to marry her to Erlend quietly, without a church wedding and grand feast—now that it was a matter of her acquiring a wife’s name before it became apparent to everyone that she was already carrying Erlend’s child.

  Erlend would be ridiculed too, just as much as she would be, or more. He was not a young boy, after all. But he was the one who wanted this wedding, he wanted to see her as a bride wearing silk and velvet and a high golden crown; he wanted that, but he also wanted to possess her during all those sweet, secret hours. She had acquiesced to everything. She would continue to do as he wanted in this matter too.

  And in the end, no doubt, he would realize that no one could have both. He who had talked of the great Christmas celebration he would hold at Husaby during the first year she was his wife on the manor—then he would show all his kinsmen and friends and the people of the villages far and wide what a beautiful wife he had won. Kristin smiled spitefully. Christmas this year would hardly be a fitting occasion for that.

  It would happen around Saint Gregor’s Day. Her thoughts seemed to swirl in her head whenever she told herself that sometime close to Saint Gregor’s Day she would give birth to a child. She was a little frightened by it too; she remembered her mother’s shrill screams, which had rung out over the farm for two days when Ulvhild had come into the world. Over at Ulvsvold two young women had died, one after the other, in childbirth; and Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first two wives had died too. And her own grandmother, for whom she was named.

  But fear was not what she felt most. These past years, when she realized again that she was still not pregnant, she had thought that perhaps this was to be their punishment, hers and Erlend’s—that she would continue to be barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared before; they would hope so futilely, just as they had feared so needlessly. Until at last they would realize that one day they would be carried out from his ancestral estate and vanish. His brother was a priest, after all, and the children that Erlend already had could never inherit from him. Munan the Stump and his sons would come in and take their place, and Erlend would be erased from the lineage.

  She pressed her hand hard against her womb. It was there—between her and the fence, between her and the vat. Between her and the whole world—Erlend’s legitimate son. She had tried everything she had heard Fru Aashild once speak of, with blood from her right and left arm. She was carrying a son, whatever fate he might bring her. She remembered her brothers who had died and her parents’ sorrowful faces whenever they mentioned them; she remembered all those times when she had seen them in despair over Ulvhild, and the night she died. And she thought about all the sorrow she herself had caused them, and about her father’s careworn face. And yet this was not the end of the grief she would bring to her father and mother.

  And yet, and yet. Kristin rested her head on her arm lying along the fence; the other hand she kept pressed against her womb. Even if this brought her new sorrows, even if it caused her own death, she would still rather die giving Erlend a son than have them both die someday, with the buildings standing empty and with the grain in their fields swaying for strangers.

  Someone came into the front room. The ale! thought Kristin. I should have looked at it long ago. She straightened up—and then Erlend stooped as he came out of the doorway and stepped forward into the sunlight, beaming with joy.

  “So this is where you are,” he said. “And you don’t even take a step to meet me?” he asked. He came over and embraced her.

  “Beloved, have you come to visit?” she asked, astonished.

  He must have just dismounted from his horse; he still had his cape over his shoulders and his sword at his side. He was unshaven, filthy, and covered with dust. He was wearing a red surcoat, which draped from the neckline and was slit up the sides almost to his arms. As they went through the brewhouse and across the courtyard, his clothes fluttered around him so that his thighs were visible clear up to his waist. It was odd; she had never noticed before that he walked slightly crooked. Before she had only seen that he had long, slender legs and narrow ankles and small, well-shaped feet.

  Erlend had brought a full escort along with him: five men and four spare horses. He told Ragnfrid that he had come to get Kristin’s household goods. Wouldn’t it be a comfort for her to find her things at Husaby when she arrived? And since the wedding was to take place so late in the fall, it might be more difficult to transport everything then. And wouldn’t it be more likely to suffer damage from sea water on the ship? The abbot at Nidarholm had offered to send everything now with the Laurentius cloister’s ship; they expected to set sail from Veøy around Assumption Day. That was why he had come to convey her things through Raumsdal to the headland.

  He sat in the doorway to the cookhouse and drank ale and talked while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild ducks that Lavrans had brought home the day before. The mother and daughter were alone at home; the women servants were all out in the meadows, raking. He looked so happy; he was so pleased with himself for coming on such a sensible errand.

  Her mother left, and Kristin tended to the birds on the spit. Through the open door she caught a glimpse of Erlend’s men lying in the shade across the courtyard, passing the basin of ale among them. He sat on the stoop, chatting and laughing. The sun shone brightly on his bare, soot-black hair; she noticed that there were several gray streaks in it. Well, he would soon be thirty-two, after all, but he acted like a brash young man. She knew that she wouldn’t tell him about her trouble; there would be time enough for that when he realized it himself. A good-humored tenderness coursed through her heart, over the hard little anger that lay at the bottom, like a glittering river over stones.

  She loved him more than anything; it filled her heart, even though she always saw and remembered everything else. How out of place this courtier seemed amidst the busy farm work, wearing his elegant red surcoat, silver spurs on his feet, and a belt studded with gold. She also noticed that her father didn’t come up to the farm, even though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river with word of the guest who had arrived.

  Erlend came over to Kristin and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Can you believe it?” he said, his face radiant. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you—that all these preparations are being made for our wedding?”

  Kristin gave him a kiss and pushed him aside. She poured fat over the birds and told him not to get in her way. No, she wouldn’t tell him.

  Lavrans didn’t come up to the farm until the haymakers did, around suppertime. He wasn’t dressed much differently from the workmen, in an undyed, knee-length homespun tunic and ankle-length leggings of the same fabric. He was barefoot and carried his scythe over his shoulder. The only thing that distinguished his attire from that of the servants was a shoulder collar of leather for the hawk that was perched on his left shoulder. He was holding Ramborg’s hand.

  Lavrans greeted his son-in-law heartily enough and asked his forgiveness for not coming earlier. They had to push as hard as they could to get the farm work done because he had to make a journey into town between the haying season and the harvest. But when Erlend presented the reason for his visit at the supper table, Lavrans became quite cross.

  It was impossible for him to do without any of his wagons or horses right now. Erlend replied that he had brought along four extra horses himself. Lavrans thought there would be at least three cartloads. Besides, the maiden would have to keep all her clothing at Jørundgaard. And the bed linen that Kristin would be taking with her would be needed at the farm during the wedding for all the guests they would have to house.

  “Never mind,” said Erlend. Surely they would find a way to transport everything in the fall. But he had been so pleased, and he thought it sounded so sensible, when the abbot had suggested that Kristin’s things might travel with the monastery’s ship. The abbot had reminded him of their kinship. “That’s something they�
��re all remembering now,” said Erlend with a smile. His father-in-law’s disapproval did not seem to affect him in the least.

  And so it was decided that Erlend should borrow a wagon and take a cartload of those things that Kristin would need most when she arrived at her new home.

  The next day they were busy with the packing. Ragnfrid thought that both the large and the small looms could be sent along now; she wouldn’t have time to weave anything else before the wedding. The mother and daughter cut off the weaving that was on the loom. It was an undyed homespun fabric, but of the finest and softest wool, with tufts of black wool woven in to form a pattern. Kristin and her mother rolled up the cloth and placed it in a leather bag. Kristin thought it would be good for swaddling clothes, and it would be pretty with red or blue ribbons around it.

  The sewing chest that Arne had once made for her could also go along. Kristin took from her box all the things that Erlend had given her over time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cape with the red pattern that she was going to wear in the bridal procession. Her mother turned it this way and that, feeling the fabric and the fur lining.

  “This is a most costly cloak,” said Ragnfrid. “When did Erlend give this to you?”

  “He gave it to me while I was at Nonneseter,” her daughter told her.

  Kristin’s bridal chest, which her mother had been adding to ever since she was little, was repacked. It was carved in panels, and on each there was a leaping deer or a bird sitting amidst the foliage. Ragnfrid placed Kristin’s bridal gown in one of her own chests. It was not quite done; they had been sewing on it all winter long. It was made of scarlet silk and cut in such a fashion that it would fit snugly to her body. Kristin thought that now it would be much too tight across her breasts.

  Toward evening the load was all packed and tied under the wagon’s cover. Erlend would leave early the next morning.

  He stood with Kristin, leaning over the farm gate, looking north, where the bluish-black smudge of a storm cloud filled the valley. Thunder rumbled from the mountains, but to the south the meadows and the river lay in dazzling yellow sunlight.

  “Do you remember the storm on that day in the forest near Gerdarud?” he asked softly, playing with her fingers.

  Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and sultry; her head was aching and she was sweating with every breath she took.

  Lavrans came over to them at the gate and talked about the weather. It seldom did any harm down here in the village, but God only knew whether it would bring trouble to the cattle and horses up in the mountains.

  It was as black as night up behind the church on the hill. A flash of lightning revealed a group of horses, crowding together restlessly, on the meadow outside the church gate. Lavrans didn’t think they belonged there in the valley—the horses were more likely from Dovre and had been wandering in the mountains up beneath Jetta. He shouted over the thunder that he had a mind to go up and see to them, to find out whether there were any of his among them.

  A terrible bolt of lightning ripped through the darkness up there. Thunder crashed and roared so they could hear nothing else. The horses raced across the grass beneath the ridge. All three of them crossed themselves.

  Then more lightning flashed; the sky seemed about to split in half, and a tremendous snow-white bolt of lightning hurtled down toward them. All three were thrown against each other; they stood there with their eyes closed, blinded, and noticed a smell like scorched stone—and then the crash of thunder exploded in their ears.

  “Saint Olav, help us,” murmured Lavrans.

  “Look at the birch, look at the birch!” cried Erlend. The huge birch out in the field seemed to wobble, and then a heavy limb broke off and dropped to the ground, leaving a long gash in the trunk.

  “I think it’s burning. Jesus Christus! The church roof is on fire!” shouted Lavrans.

  They stood there and stared. No . . . yes, it was! Red flames were flickering out of the shingles beneath the ridge turret.

  Both men set off running, back across the farmyard. Lavrans tore open all the doors to the buildings, yelling to those inside. Everyone came rushing out.

  “Bring axes, bring axes—the felling axes,” he shouted. “And the pickaxes!” He raced over to the stables. A moment later he reemerged, leading Guldsvein by his mane. He leaped up onto the unsaddled horse and tore off toward the north. He had the big broadaxe in his hand. Erlend rode right behind him, and all the other men followed. Some were on horseback, but others couldn’t control the frightened animals and gave up and set off running. Behind them came Ragnfrid and the women of the farm with basins and buckets.

  No one seemed to notice the storm any longer. In the flash of the lightning they saw people come streaming from the buildings farther down in the village. Sira Eirik was already running up the hill, followed by his servants. Horse hooves thundered across the bridge below, and several farm hands raced past. They all turned their pale, terrified faces toward the burning church.

  A light wind was blowing from the southeast. The fire was firmly entrenched in the north wall; on the west side the entrance was already blocked. But it had not yet seized the south side or the apse.

  Kristin and the women from Jørundgaard entered the churchyard south of the church, at a place where the gate had collapsed.

  The tremendous red blaze lit up the grove north of the church and the area where posts had been erected for tying up the horses. No one could approach the spot because of the heat. Only the cross stood there, bathed in the glow of the flames. It looked as if it were alive and moving.

  Through the roaring and seething of the fire they could hear the crash of axes against the staves of the south wall. There were men on the gallery, slashing and chopping, while others tried to tear down the gallery itself. Someone shouted to the women from Jørundgaard that Lavrans and a few other men had followed Sira Eirik into the church. They had to break an opening in the wall—little tongues of fire were playing here and there among the shingles on the roof. If the wind changed or died down altogether, the flames would engulf the whole church.

  Any thought of extinguishing the blaze was futile; there was no time to form a chain down to the river, but at Ragnfrid’s command, the women took up positions and passed water from the small creek running along the road to the west; at least there was a little water to throw on the south wall and on the men who were toiling there. Many of the women were sobbing as they worked, out of fear and anguish for those who had gone inside the burning building, and out of sorrow for their church.

  Kristin stood at the very front of the line of women, throwing the water from the buckets. She stared breathlessly at the church, where they had both gone inside, her father and Erlend.

  The posts of the gallery had been torn down and lay in a heap of wood amid pieces of shingle from the gallery’s roof. The men were chopping at the stave wall with all their might; a whole group had lifted up a timber and was using it as a battering ram.

  Erlend and one of his men came out of the small south door of the choir; they were carrying between them the large chest from the sacristy, the chest that Eirik usually sat on when he heard confession. Erlend and the servant tipped the chest out into the churchyard.

  Kristin didn’t hear what he shouted; he ran back, up onto the gallery again. He was as lithe as a cat as he dashed along. He had thrown off his outer garments and was dressed only in his shirt, pants, and hose.

  The others took up his cry—the sacristy and choir were burning. No one could go from the nave up to the south door anymore; the fire was now blocking both exits. A couple of staves in the wall had been splintered, and Erlend had picked up a fire axe and was slashing and hacking at the wreckage of the staves. They had smashed a hole in the side of the church, while other people were shouting for them to watch out—the roof might collapse and bury them all inside the church. The shingled roof was now burning briskly on this side too, and the heat was becoming unbearable.

  Erlend
leaped through the hole and helped to bring Sira Eirik out. The priest had his robes full of holy vessels from the altars.

  A young boy followed with his hand over his face and the tall processional cross held out in front of him. Lavrans came next. He had closed his eyes against the smoke, staggering under the heavy crucifix he held in his arms; it was much taller than he was.

  People ran forward and helped them move down to the churchyard. Sira Eirik stumbled, fell to his knees, and the altar vessels rolled across the slope. The silver dove opened, and the Host fell out. The priest picked it up, brushed it off, and kissed it as he sobbed loudly. He kissed the gilded man’s head which had stood above the altar with a scrap of Saint Olav’s hair and nails inside.

  Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn was still standing there, holding the crucifix. His arm lay across the arms of the cross, and he was leaning his head on the shoulder of Christ. It looked as if the Savior were bending his beautiful, sad face toward the man to console him.

  The roof had begun to collapse bit by bit on the north side of the church. A blazing roof beam shot out and struck the great bell in the low tower near the churchyard gate. The bell rang with a deep, mournful tone, which faded into a long moan, drowned out by the roar of the fire.

  No one had paid any attention to the weather during all the tumult. The whole event had not taken much time, but no one was aware of that either. Now the thunder and lightning were far away, to the south of the valley. The rain, which had been falling for a while, was now coming down harder, and the wind had ceased.

  But suddenly it was as if a sail of flames had been hoisted up from the foundation. In a flash, and with a shriek, the fire engulfed the church from one end to the other.

  Everyone dashed away from the consuming heat. Erlend was suddenly at Kristin’s side and urging her down the hill. His body reeked with the stench of the fire; she pulled away a handful of singed hair when she stroked his head and face.