Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  Night after night he had knelt here with his senses closed off and his limbs numb, until he saw the vision. The hill with the three crosses against the sky. The cross in the middle, which was meant to bear the king of heaven and earth, shook and trembled; it bent like a tree in a storm, in fear of bearing the much too precious burden, the sacrifice for all the sins of the world. The lord of the storm tents forced it, the way a knight forces his defiant stallion; the chieftain of heaven carried it into battle. Then that miracle occurred which was the key to ever deeper miracles. The blood that ran down from the cross in redemption for all sins and penance for all sorrows—that was the visible sign. With this first miracle the eye of the soul could be opened to contemplate those still hidden—God, who came down to earth and became the son of a virgin and brother to the human kin, who lay waste to Hell and who, with the released souls that were his spoils of war, stormed toward the dazzling sea of light from which the world was born and which sustains the earth. It was toward that unfathomable and eternal depth of light that his thoughts were drawn, and there they perished in the light, vanishing like a flock of birds into the radiance of an evening sky.

  Not until the bells of the church rang for matins did Gunnulf get up. There was not a sound as he walked through the main hall—they were both asleep, Kristin and Orm.

  Out in the dark courtyard the priest paused for a moment. But none of the servants appeared to accompany him to church. He didn’t require them to attend more than two services a day. But Ingrid, his foster mother, almost always went with him to matins. This morning she was evidently still asleep too. Well, she had been up late the night before.

  All that day the three kinsmen spoke little to each other, and then only about unimportant things. Gunnulf looked tired, but he kept up his bantering just the same. “How foolish we were last night. We sat here so mournfully, like three fatherless children,” he said once. Many funny little things went on in Nidaros, with the pilgrims and such, which the priests often jested about among themselves. An old man from Herjedal had come to offer prayers on behalf of his fellow villagers, but he managed to mix them all up—and he later realized that things would have looked bad in his village if Saint Olav had taken him at his word.

  Late that evening Erlend arrived, soaking wet. He had come to Nidaros by ship, and now the wind was blowing hard again. He was furious and fell upon Orm at once with angry words.

  Gunnulf listened for a while and said, “When you speak to Orm in that manner, Erlend, you sound like our father—the way he used to speak to you.”

  Erlend abruptly fell silent. Then he shouted, “But I know I never acted so senselessly when I was a boy—running off from the manor in a snowstorm, a woman who is ill and a whelp of a boy! There’s not much else to boast of about Orm’s manhood, but you can see that he’s not afraid of his father!”

  “You weren’t afraid of Father either,” replied his brother with a smile.

  Orm stood before his father without saying a word and tried to look indifferent.

  “Well, you can go now,” said Erlend. “I’m tired of the whole lot at Husaby. But one thing I know—this summer Orm will go north with me, then I’ll make something of this pampered lamb of Kristin’s. He’s no bumbler, either,” he said eagerly to his brother. “He has a sure aim, I can tell you that. And he’s not afraid; but he’s always surly and morose, and it seems as if he has no marrow in his bones.”

  “If you often rage at your son the way you did just now, then it’s not so strange that he would be morose,” said the priest.

  Erlend’s mood shifted; he laughed and said, “I often had to suffer much worse from Father—and God knows I didn’t grow morose from that. It could very well be . . . but now that I’ve come here, we should celebrate Christmas, since it’s Christmastime, after all. Where’s Kristin? What was it she had to talk to you about again that she would . . .”

  “I don’t think there was anything she wanted to talk to me about,” said the priest. “She had a mind to attend mass here during Christmas.”

  “It seems to me that she could have made do with what we have at home,” said Erlend. “But it’s hard for her—all her youth is being stripped from her in this way.” He rammed one fist against the other. “I don’t understand why our Lord should think we need a new son every year.”

  Gunnulf looked up at his brother.

  “Well . . . I have no idea what our Lord thinks you may need. But what Kristin no doubt needs most is for you to be kind to her.”

  “Yes, I suppose she does,” murmured Erlend.

  The next day Erlend went to morning mass with his wife. They set off for Saint Gregor’s Church; Erlend always attended mass there when he was in Nidaros. The two of them went alone, and in the lane where the snow lay piled up in drifts, heavy and wet, Erlend led his wife by the hand, in a refined and courtly fashion. He hadn’t said a word to her about her flight, and he had been kind toward Orm after his first outburst.

  Kristin walked along, pale and silent, with her head bowed slightly; the ankle-length, black fur cloak with the silver clasps seemed to weigh heavily on her frail, thin body.

  “Would you like me to ride back home with you? Then Orm can travel home by ship,” her husband said. “I suppose you would prefer not to travel across the fjord.”

  “No, you know I’m reluctant to journey by ship.”

  The weather was calm and mild now—every once in a while mounds of heavy wet snow would slide down off the trees. The sky hung low and dark-gray over the white town. There was a watery, greenish-gray sheen to the snow; the timbered walls of the houses, the fences, and the tree trunks looked black in the damp air. Never, thought Kristin, had she seen the world look so cold and faded and pale.

  CHAPTER 3

  KRISTIN SAT WITH Gaute on her lap and stared into the distance from the hill north of the manor. It was such a lovely evening. Below, the lake lay glistening and still, reflecting the mountain ridges, the buildings of By, and the golden clouds in the sky. The strong smell of leaves and earth rose up after the rainfall earlier in the day. The grass in the meadows must be knee-deep by now, and the fields were covered with spears of grain.

  Sounds traveled a long way on such an evening. Now the pipes and drums and fiddles began playing down on the green near Vinjar; they sounded so splendid up on the hill.

  The cuckoo fell silent for long periods, but then it would cry out a few notes, far away in the woods to the south. And birds whistled and warbled in all the groves around the farm—but sporadic and quiet, because the sun was still high.

  The livestock were bellowing and their bells were ringing as they returned home from the pasture across from the farmyard gate.

  “Now Gaute will soon have his milk,” she cooed to the infant, lifting him up. The boy lay as he usually did, with his heavy head resting on his mother’s shoulder. Now and then he would press closer, and Kristin took this as a sign that he understood her endearing words and chatter.

  She walked down toward the buildings. Outside the main hall Naakkve and Bjørgulf were leaping around, trying to entice a cat down from the roof where it had taken refuge. Then the boys took up the broken dagger which belonged to both of them and went back to digging a hole in the earthen floor of the entryway.

  Dagrun came into the hall carrying a basin of goat milk, and Kristin let Gaute drink ladle after ladle of the warm liquid. The boy grunted crossly when the servant woman spoke to him; when she tried to take him away, he struck out at her and hid his face on his mother’s breast.

  “But it seems to me that he’s getting better,” said the milkmaid.

  Kristin cupped the little face in her hand; it was yellowish-white, like tallow, and his eyes were always tired. Gaute had a big, heavy head and thin, frail limbs. He had turned two years old on the eighth day after Saint Lavrans’s Day, but he still couldn’t stand on his own, he had only five teeth, and he couldn’t speak a word.

  Sira Eiliv said that it wasn’t rickets; and neither the
alb nor the altar books had helped. Everywhere the priest went he would ask advice about this illness that had overtaken Gaute. Kristin knew that he mentioned the child in all his prayers. But to her he could only say that she must patiently submit to God’s will. And she should let him have warm goat milk.

  Her poor little boy. Kristin hugged him and kissed him after the woman had left. How handsome, how handsome he was. She thought she could see that he took after her father’s family—his eyes were dark gray and his hair as pale as flax, thick and silky soft.

  Now he began to whimper again. Kristin stood up and paced the floor as she held him. Small and weak though he was, he still grew heavy after a while. But Gaute refused to leave his mother’s arms. So she walked back and forth in the dim hall, carrying the boy and lulling him to sleep.

  Someone rode into the courtyard. Ulf Haldorssøn’s voice echoed between the buildings. Kristin went over to the entryway door with the child in her arms.

  “You’ll have to unsaddle your own horse tonight, Ulf. All the men have gone off to the dance. It’s a shame you should have to be troubled with this, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

  Ulf muttered with annoyance, but he unsaddled the horse. Naakkve and Bjørgulf swarmed around him and wanted to ride the horse over in the pasture.

  “No, Naakkve, you must stay with Gaute—play with your brother so he doesn’t cry while I’m in the cookhouse,” said Kristin.

  The boy frowned unhappily. But then he got down on all fours, roaring and butting at his little brother whom Kristin had put down on a cushion near the entryway door. She bent down and stroked Naakkve’s hair. He was so good to his younger brothers.

  When Kristin came back to the hall holding the big trencher in her hands, Ulf Haldorssøn was sitting on the bench, playing with the children. Gaute liked to be with Ulf as long as he didn’t see his mother—but now he began crying at once and reached out for her. Kristin put down the trencher and picked Gaute up.

  Ulf blew on the foam of the newly tapped ale, took a swallow, and then began taking food from the small bowls on the trencher.

  “Are all of your maidservants out tonight?”

  Kristin said, “There are fiddles and drums and pipes—a group of musicians arrived from Orkedal after the wedding. And you know that as soon as they heard about them . . . They’re young girls, after all.”

  “You let them run around too freely, Kristin. I think you’re most afraid that it’ll be hard to find a wet nurse this autumn.”

  Kristin involuntarily smoothed down her gown over her slender waist. She had blushed dark red at the man’s words.

  Ulf laughed harshly. “But if you keep carrying around Gaute this way, then things may go as they did last year. Come here to your foster father, my boy, and I’ll give you some food from my plate.”

  Kristin didn’t reply. She set her three small sons in a row on the bench along the opposite wall, brought the basin of milk porridge, and pulled over a little stool close by. There she sat, feeding the boys, although Naakkve and Bjørgulf grumbled—they wanted spoons so they could feed themselves. The oldest was now four, and the other would soon be three years old.

  “Where’s Erlend?” asked Ulf.

  “Margret wanted to go to the dance, and so he went with her.”

  “It’s good he understands he should keep a watchful eye on that maiden of his,” said Ulf.

  Again Kristin did not reply. She undressed the children and put them to bed—Gaute in the cradle and the other two in her own bed. Erlend had resigned himself to having them there after she recovered from her long illness the year before.

  When Ulf had eaten his fill, he stretched out on the bench. Kristin pushed the chair carved from a tree stump over to the cradle, got her basket of wool, and began to wind up balls of yarn for her loom as she gently and quietly rocked the cradle.

  “Shouldn’t you go to bed?” she asked once without turning her head. “Aren’t you tired, Ulf?”

  The man got up, poked at the fire a bit, and came over to Kristin. He sat down on the bench across from her. Kristin saw that he was not as spent from carousing as he usually was whenever he had been in Nidaros for a few days.

  “You don’t even ask about news from town, Kristin,” he said, looking at her as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

  Her heart began pounding with fear. She could see from the man’s expression and manner that again there was news that wasn’t good. But she said with a gentle and calm smile, “You must tell me, Ulf—have you heard anything?”

  “Yes, well . . .” But first he took out his traveling bag and unpacked the things he had brought from town for her. Kristin thanked him.

  “I understand that you’ve heard some news in Nidaros,” she said after a while.

  Ulf looked at the young mistress; then he turned his gaze to the pale, sleeping child in the cradle.

  “Does he always sweat like this?” he asked softly, gently pushing back the boy’s damp, dark hair. “Kristin—when you were betrothed to Erlend . . . the document that was drawn up regarding the ownership of both your possessions—didn’t it state that you should manage with full authority those properties which he gave you as betrothal and wedding gifts?”

  Kristin’s heart pounded harder, but she said calmly, “It’s also true, Ulf, that Erlend has always asked my advice and sought my consent in all dealings with those properties. Is this about the sections of the estate in Verdal that he has sold to Vigleik of Lyng?”

  “Yes,” said Ulf. “He has bought a ship called Hugrekken from Vigleik. So now he’s going to maintain two ships. And what do you gain in return, Kristin?”

  Erlend’s share of Skjervastad and two plots of land in Ulfkel stad—each taxed by one month’s worth of food—and what he owns of Aarhammar,” she said. “Surely you didn’t think Erlend would sell that estate without my permission or without repaying me?”

  “Hmm . . .” Ulf sat in silence for a moment. “And yet your income will be reduced, Kristin. Skjervastad—that was where Erlend obtained hay this past winter and in return he released the farmer from the land tax for the next three years.”

  “Erlend was not to blame because we had no dry hay last year. I know, Ulf, you did everything you could, but with all the misery we had here last summer—”

  “He sold more than half of Aarhammar to the sisters at Rein back when he was preparing to flee the country with you.” Ulf laughed. “Or pledged it as security, which amounts to the same thing, in Erlend’s case. Free of war levies—the entire burden rests on Audun, who oversees the farm which you will now call your own.”

  “Can’t he lease the land from the convent?” asked Kristin.

  “The nuns’ tenant farmer on the neighboring estate has leased it,” said Ulf. “It’s difficult and risky for leaseholders to manage when lands are split up the way Erlend is bent on doing.”

  Kristin was silent. She knew he was right.

  “Erlend is working quickly,” said Ulf, “to increase his lineage and to destroy his property.”

  When she didn’t reply, Ulf went on, “You will soon have many children, Kristin Lavransdatter.”

  “But none I would give up,” she said, with a slight quaver in her voice.

  “Don’t be so fearful for Gaute—I’m sure he’ll grow strong over time,” said Ulf softly.

  “It must be as God wills, but it’s difficult to wait.”

  He could hear the concealed suffering in the mother’s voice; a strange sense of helplessness came over the ponderous, gloomy man.

  “It’s of such little avail, Kristin. You have accomplished much here at Husaby, but if Erlend is now going to set off with two ships . . . I have no faith that there will be peace in the north, and your husband has so little cunning; he doesn’t know how to turn to his advantage what he has gained in the past two years. Bad years they have been, and you have been constantly ill. If things should continue in this way, you’ll be brought to your knees in the end, and as such a you
ng woman. I’ve helped you as best I could here on the estate, but this other matter, Erlend’s lack of prudence—”

  “Yes, God knows you have,” she interrupted him. “You’ve been the best of kinsmen toward us, Ulf my friend, and I can never fully thank you or repay you.”

  Ulf stood up, lit a candle at the hearth, and set it in the candlestick on the table; he stood there with his back turned to Kristin. She had let her hands sink into her lap as they talked, but now she began winding up the yarn and rocking the cradle with her foot again.

  “Can’t you send word to your parents back home?” he asked. “So that Lavrans might journey north in the fall along with your mother when she comes to help you?”

  “I hadn’t thought of troubling my mother this fall. She’s getting older, and it happens much too often now that I must lie down in the straw to give birth. I can’t ask her to come every time.” Her smile looked a bit strained.

  “Do it this time,” said Ulf. “And ask your father to come along, so you can seek his advice on these matters.”

  “I will not ask my father’s advice about this,” she said quietly but firmly.

  “What about Gunnulf then?” asked Ulf after a moment. “Can’t you speak to him?”

  “It’s not proper to disturb him with such things now,” said Kristin in the same tone of voice.

  “Do you mean because he has entered a monastery?” Ulf laughed scornfully. “I’ve never noticed that monks had less understanding about managing estates than other people.”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “But if you won’t seek advice from anyone, Kristin, then you must speak to Erlend. Think of your sons, Kristin!”