“I wonder when the day will come when you’ll think of Husaby here with me as your home,” he said, bending toward her in the dark.
“Oh, that time is probably no more than a week away,” whispered Kristin, laughing uncertainly. When he lay his face next to hers, she threw her arms around his neck and returned his ardent kisses.
“That’s the first time you’ve ventured to embrace me since I struck you,” said Erlend in a low voice. “You hold a grudge for a long time, my Kristin.”
It occurred to her that this was the first time, since the night when he realized that she was with child, that she dared to caress him without his asking.
But after that day, Erlend was so kind to her that Kristin regretted every hour that she had spent feeling angry toward him.
CHAPTER 4
SAINT GREGOR’S DAY came and went, and Kristin had thought that surely her time would have come by then. But now it would soon be the Feast of the Annunciation, and she was still on her feet.
Erlend had to go to Nidaros for the mid-Lenten ting; he said he would certainly be home on Monday evening, but by Wednesday morning he had still not returned. Kristin sat in the hall and didn’t know what to do with herself—she felt as if she couldn’t bear to start on anything.
Sunlight came flooding down through the smoke vent, and she sensed that outdoors it must be an almost springlike day. Then she stood up and threw a cloak around her shoulders.
One of the maids had mentioned that if a woman carried a child too long, then a good remedy was to let the bridal horse eat grain from her lap. Kristin paused for a moment in the doorway—in the dazzling sunshine the courtyard looked quite brown with glistening rivulets that had washed shiny, icy stripes through the horse manure and dirt. The sky arched bright and silky-blue above the old buildings, and the two dragon figureheads which were carved into the gables of the eastern storehouse glistened against the sky with the remnants of ancient gilding. Water dripped and trickled off the roofs, and smoke whirled and danced in the little, warm gusts of wind.
She walked over to the stable and went inside, filling her skirt with oats from the grain chest. The smell of the stable and the sound of the horses stirring in the dark did her good. But there were people in the stable, so she didn’t have the nerve to do what she had come for.
She went out and threw the grain to the chickens that were strutting around in the courtyard, sunning themselves. Absentmindedly she watched Tore, the stableboy, who was grooming and brushing the gray gelding, which was shedding heavily. Once in a while she would close her eyes and turn her wan, house-pale face up toward the sun.
As Kristin was standing like that, three men rode into the courtyard. The one in front was a young priest she didn’t know. As soon as he saw Kristin, he jumped down from his saddle and came straight over to her with his hand outstretched.
“I doubt you had intended to do me this honor, mistress, of standing outside to receive me,” he said, smiling. “But I thank you for it all the same. For you must certainly be my brother’s wife, Kristin Lavransdatter?”
“Then you must be Master Gunnulf, my brother-in-law,” she replied, blushing crimson. “Well met, sir! And welcome home to Husaby!”
“Thank you for your kind greeting,” said the priest. He bent down to kiss her cheek in the manner which she knew was the custom abroad, when kinsmen meet. “I hope I find you well, Erlend’s wife!”
Ulf Haldorssøn came out and told a servant to take the guests’ horses. Gunnulf greeted Ulf heartily.
“Are you here, kinsman? I had expected to find you now a married and settled man.”
“No, I won’t be marrying until I have to choose between a wife and the gallows,” said Ulf with a laugh, and the priest laughed too. “I’ve made the Devil as firm a promise to live unwed as you have promised the same to God.”
“Well, then you’ll be safe, no matter which way you turn, Ulf,” replied Master Gunnulf, laughing. “Since you’ll do well the day you break the promise that you’ve given. But then it is also said that a man should keep his word, even if it’s to the Devil himself.
“Isn’t Erlend home?” he asked, surprised. He offered Kristin his hand as they turned to go into the main house.
To hide her shyness, Kristin busied herself among the servant women and tended to the setting of the table. She invited Erlend’s learned brother to sit in the high seat, but since she didn’t want to sit there with him, he moved down to the bench next to her.
Now that he was sitting at her side, Kristin saw that Master Gunnulf must be at least half a head shorter than Erlend, but he was much heavier. He was stronger and stockier in build and limbs, and his broad shoulders were perfectly straight. Erlend’s shoulders drooped a bit. Gunnulf wore dark clothing, very proper for a priest, but his ankle-length surcoat, which came almost up to the neckband of his linen shirt, was fastened with enameled buttons; from his woven belt hung his eating utensils in a silver sheath.
She glanced up at the priest’s face. He had a strong, round head and a lean, round face with a broad, low forehead, somewhat prominent cheekbones, and a finely rounded chin. His nose was straight and his ears small and lovely, but his mouth was wide, and his upper lip protruded slightly, overshadowing the little patch of red made by his lower lip. Only his hair looked like Erlend’s—the thick fringe around the priest’s shaved crown was black with the luster of dry soot and it looked as silky-soft as Erlend’s hair. Otherwise he was not unlike his cousin Munan Baardsøn—now Kristin could see that it might be true after all that Munan had been handsome in his youth. No, it was his Aunt Aashild whom he resembled—now she saw that he had the same eyes as Fru Aashild: amber-colored and bright beneath narrow, straight black eyebrows.
At first Kristin was a little shy of this brother-in-law who had been educated in so many fields of knowledge at the great universities of Paris and Italy. But little by little she lost her embarrassment. It was so easy to talk to Gunnulf. It didn’t seem as if he were talking about himself—least of all that he wanted to boast about his learning. But before she knew it, he had told her about so many things that Kristin felt she had never before realized what a vast world there was outside Norway. She forgot about herself and everything around her as she sat and looked up into the priest’s round, strong-boned face with the bright and delicate smile. He had crossed one leg over the other under his surcoat, and he sat there with his white, powerful hands clasped around his ankle.
Later in the afternoon, when Gunnulf came into the room to join her, he asked whether they might play a board game. Kristin had to tell him that she didn’t think there were any board games in the house.
“Aren’t there?” asked the priest in surprise. He went over to Ulf.
“Do you know, Ulf, what Erlend has done with Mother’s gold board game? The amusements that she left behind—surely he hasn’t let anyone have them?”
“They’re in a chest up in the armory,” said Ulf. “It’s more likely that he didn’t want anyone who once lived here on the estate to take them. Shall we go and get the chest, Gunnulf?”
“Yes, Erlend can’t have anything against that,” said the priest.
A little while later the two men came back with a large, carved chest. The key was in the lock, so Gunnulf opened it. On top lay a zither and another stringed instrument, the like of which Kristin had never seen before. Gunnulf called it a psaltery; he ran his fingers over the strings, but it was badly out of tune. There were also twists of silk, embroidered gloves, silken scarves, and three books with metal clasps. Finally, the priest found the board game; it was checked, with white and gilt tiles, and the markers were made of walrus tusk, white and golden.
Not until then did Kristin realize that in all the time she had been at Husaby, she hadn’t seen a single amusement of this type that people might use to pass the time.
Kristin now had to admit to her brother-in-law that she wasn’t very clever at board games, nor was she much good at playing the zither. But she was e
ager to take a look at the books.
“Ah, have you learned to read books, Kristin?” asked the priest, and she could tell him rather proudly that she had already learned to do so as a child. And at the convent she had won praise for her skill in reading and writing.
The priest stood over her, smiling, as she paged through the books. One of them was a courtly tale about Tristan and Isolde,1 and the other was about holy men—she looked up Saint Martin’s story.2 The third book was in Latin and was particularly beautiful, printed with great, colorful initial letters.
“Our ancestor, Bishop Nikulaus, owned this book,” said Gunnulf.
Kristin read half-aloud:
Averte faciem tuam a peccatis meis
et omnes iniquitates meas dele.
Cor mundum crea in me, Deus
et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus meis.
Ne projicias me a facie tua
et Spiritum Sanctum tuum ne auferas a me.3
“Can you understand it?” asked Gunnulf, and Kristin nodded and said that she understood a little. The words were familiar enough that it seemed strange to her that they should appear before her right now. Her face contorted and tears rose up. Then Gunnulf set the stringed instrument on his lap and said he was tempted to try to tune it.
As they sat there they heard horses out in the courtyard, and a moment later Erlend rushed into the hall, beaming with joy. He had heard who had arrived. The brothers stood with their hands on each other’s shoulders; Erlend asking questions and not waiting for the replies. Gunnulf had been in Nidaros for two days, so it was a wonder they hadn’t met there.
“It’s odd,” said Erlend. “I thought the whole clergy of Christ Church would have turned out in procession to meet you when you returned home—so wise and exceedingly learned as you now must be.”
“How do you know they didn’t do just that?” said his brother with a laugh. “I’ve heard that you never venture too close to Christ Church when you’re in town.”
“No, my boy—I don’t get too close to my Lord the Archbishop if I can avoid it. He once singed my hide,” laughed Erlend insolently. “How do you like your brother-in-law, my sweet? I see you’ve already made friends with Kristin, brother. She thinks very little of our other kinsmen. . . .”
Not until they were about to sit down to eat that evening did Erlend realize he was still wearing his cape and fur cap and his sword at his belt.
That was the merriest evening Kristin had spent at Husaby. Erlend cajoled his brother into sitting in the high seat with her, while he himself sliced off food for him and replenished his goblet. The first time he drank a toast to Gunnulf, he got down on one knee and tried to kiss his brother’s hand.
“Health and happiness, sir! We must learn to show the archbishop the proper respect, Kristin—yes, of course, you’ll be the archbishop someday, Gunnulf!”
It was late when the house servants left the hall, but the two brothers and Kristin remained behind, sitting over their drink. Erlend was seated atop the table with his face turned toward his brother.
“Yes, I thought about that during my wedding,” he said, pointing to his mother’s chest, “and that Kristin should have it. And yet I forget things so quickly, while you forget nothing, my brother. But I think Mother’s ring has come to grace a fair hand, don’t you?” He placed Kristin’s hand on his knee and twisted her betrothal ring around.
Gunnulf nodded. He placed the psaltery on Erlend’s lap. “Sing now, brother. You used to sing so beautifully and play so well.”
“That was many years ago,” said Erlend more somberly. Then he ran his fingers over the strings.
Olav the king, Harald’s son,
rode out in the thick woods,
found a tiny footprint there—
and so the news is great.
Then said he, Finn Arnessøn,
riding before the band:
Fair must be so small a foot,
clad in scarlet hose.
Erlend smiled as he sang, and Kristin looked up at the priest a little shyly—to see whether the ballad of Saint Olav and Alvhild might displease him. But Gunnulf sat there smiling too, and yet she suddenly felt certain that it was not because of the ballad but because of Erlend.
“Kristin doesn’t have to sing; you must be short of breath now, my dear,” Erlend said, caressing her cheek. “But you can. . . .” He handed the stringed instrument to his brother.
It could be heard in the priest’s playing and in his voice that he had learned well in school.
North over the mountains rode the king—
He heard the dove lament bitterly:
“The hawk took my sweetheart away from me!”
Then he rode so far and wide
The hawk flew over the countryside.
Into a garden the hawk then flew,
Where it blossoms ever anew.
In that garden there is a hall,
Draped with purple over all.
There lies a knight, seeping blood,
He is our Lord so fine and good.
Beneath the blue scarlet he does lie
And etched atop: Corpus domini.
“Where did you learn that ballad?” asked Erlend.
“Oh. Some fellows were singing it outside the hostel where I was staying in Canterbury,” said Gunnulf. “And I was tempted to turn it into Norwegian. But it doesn’t work so well. . . .” He sat there strumming a few notes on the strings.
“Well, brother, it’s long past midnight. Kristin must need to go to bed. Are you tired, my wife?”
Kristin looked up at the men timidly; she was very pale.
“I don’t know . . . But I don’t think I should sleep in the bed in here.”
“Are you ill?” they both asked, bending toward her.
“I don’t know,” she replied in the same voice. She pressed her hands to her flanks. “It feels so strange in the small of my back.”
Erlend leaped up and headed for the door. Gunnulf followed. “It’s shameful that you haven’t yet brought the women here who will help her,” he said. “Is it long before her time?”
Erlend turned bright red.
“Kristin said she didn’t need anyone but her maids. They’ve borne children themselves, some of them.” He tried to laugh.
“Have you lost your senses?” Gunnulf stared at him. “Even the poorest wench has servant women and neighbors with her when she takes to childbed. Should your wife crawl into a corner to hide and give birth like a cat? No, brother, so much a man you must be that you bring to Kristin the foremost women of the parish.”
Erlend bowed his head, blushing with shame.
“You speak the truth, brother. I will ride down to Raasvold myself, and I’ll send men to the other farms. You must stay with Kristin.”
“Are you going away?” asked his wife, frightened, when she saw Erlend put on his outer garments.
He went over to Kristin and put his arms around her.
“I’m going to bring back the noblest women for you, my Kristin. Gunnulf will stay with you while the maids get ready for you in the little house,” he said, kissing her.
“Couldn’t you send word to Audfinna Audunsdatter?” she pleaded. “But not until morning—I don’t want her to be wakened from her sleep for my sake—she has so much work to do, I know.”
Gunnulf asked his brother who Audfinna was.
“It doesn’t seem to me proper,” said the priest. “The wife of one of your leaseholders—”
“Kristin must have whatever she wants,” said Erlend. And as Gunnulf accompanied him out and Erlend waited for his horse, he told the priest how Kristin had come to meet the farmer’s wife. Gunnulf bit his lip and looked pensive.
Now there was noise and commotion on the estate; men rode off and servant women came running in to ask how their mistress was faring. Kristin said there was nothing to worry about yet, but they were to make everything ready in the little house. She would send word when she wanted to be escorted there.
&nbs
p; Then she sat alone with the priest. She tried to talk calmly and cheerfully with him as she had before.
“You’re not afraid then?” he asked with a little smile.
“Yes, of course, I’m afraid!” She looked up into his eyes—her own were dark and frightened. “Can you tell me, brother-in-law, whether they were born here at Husaby—Erlend’s other children?”
“No,” replied the priest quickly. “The boy was born at Hune hals, and the maiden over at Strind, on an estate that he once owned there.” A moment later he asked, “Is that it? Has the thought of that other woman here with Erlend tormented you?”
“Yes,” said Kristin.
“It would be difficult for you to judge Erlend’s behavior in this dealing with Eline,” said the priest somberly. “It wasn’t easy for Erlend to know what to do. It was never easy for Erlend to know what was right. Ever since we were children, our mother thought whatever Erlend did was right, and our father thought it was wrong. But he has probably told you so much about our mother that you know all about this.”
“I can only recall that he has mentioned her two or three times,” said Kristin. “But I understood that he did love her. . . .”
Gunnulf said softly, “I doubt there has ever been such a love between a mother and her son. Mother was much younger than my father. But then that whole trouble with Aunt Aashild happened. Our uncle Baard died, and it was said . . . well, you know about this, don’t you? Father thought the worst and said to Mother . . . Erlend once flung his knife at Father; he was only a young boy. He rushed at Father more than once in Mother’s defense when he was growing up.
“When Mother fell ill, he parted with Eline Ormsdatter. Mother grew sick with sores and scabs on her skin, and Father said it was leprosy.4 He sent her away—tried to threaten her into taking a corrody 5 with the sisters at the hospice. Then Erlend went to get Mother and took her to Oslo—they stayed with Aashild too; she’s a good healer. And the king’s French doctor also said that she was not leprous. King Haakon received Erlend kindly then, and bade him seek out the grave of the holy King Erik Valdemarssøn—the king’s grandfather. Many people found cures for their skin afflictions there.
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