Kristin could see it in their own children. They would grow flustered with delight whenever their father occasionally took notice of them. Naakkve and Bjørgulf now spent all their time with such things as bows and spears and axes. Every once in a while their father would stop on his way across the courtyard, glance at them, and then correct whatever they were doing. “Not like that, my son—you should hold it like this.” And then he would shift the grip of the boy’s small fist and place his fingers in the proper position. Then they would be filled with zeal.
The two eldest sons were inseparable. Bjørgulf was the biggest and strongest of the children, as tall as Naakkve, who was a year and a half older, but stouter. Bjørgulf had tightly curled, raven black hair; his small face was broad but handsome, his eyes dark blue. One day Erlend asked Kristin anxiously whether she knew that Bjørgulf saw poorly out of one eye—he also had a slight squint. Kristin said she didn’t think there was anything wrong and that he’d probably grow out of it. As things had turned out, this child was the one she had given the least attention; he had been born when she was worn out from caring for Naakkve, and Gaute had followed soon afterwards. He was the hardiest of the children, no doubt also the smartest, but taciturn. Erlend was more fond of this son than the others.
Although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, Erlend bore some ill will toward Naakkve because the boy had arrived so inopportunely and because he was named for his grandfather. And Gaute was not as he’d expected. The boy had a large head, which was understandable, since for two years it seemed as if only his head had grown—and now his limbs had to catch up. His wits were good enough, but he spoke very slowly because if he talked fast he would slur his words or stutter, and then Margret would make fun of him. Kristin had a great weakness for the boy, even though Erlend could see that in some ways the eldest son was her favorite child. But Gaute had been so frail, and he looked a bit like Kristin’s father, with his flaxen hair and dark gray eyes. And he was always clinging to his mother. He was a rather solitary child, between the two oldest ones, who always stuck together, and the twins, who were still so little that they kept close to their foster mothers.
Kristin had less time for her children now, and she had to do as the other women did and let the serving maids look after them; but the two oldest sons preferred to follow the men around on the farm. She no longer brooded over them with that old, sickly tenderness, but she played and laughed with them more, whenever she had time to gather them around her.
At the beginning of the New Year, they received a letter at Husaby under the seal of Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn. It had been written in his own hand and sent with the priest of Orkedal, who had been traveling in the south, so it was two months old. The biggest news in the letter was that Lavrans had betrothed Ramborg to Simon Andressøn of Formo. The wedding would take place on Holy Cross Day in the spring.
Kristin was surprised beyond words. But Erlend said he had thought this might happen—ever since he had heard that Simon Darre had become a widower and had settled on his estate at Sil after old Sir Andres Gudmundssøn had died.
CHAPTER 5
SIMON DARRE HAD accepted it as only proper when his father had arranged the marriage with Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn’s daughter for him. It had always been the custom in his family for the parents to make these decisions. He was pleased when he saw that his betrothed was so beautiful and charming. And he had always thought that he would be good friends with the woman his father had chosen for him. He and Kristin were well-suited in age and wealth and birth. Lavrans may have come from a somewhat better lineage, but Simon’s father was a knight and had been close to King Haakon, while Lavrans had always lived quietly on his estates. And Simon had never seen married couples not get on well together, as long as they were equals.
Then came that evening in the loft at Finsbrekken, when the people tried to torment the innocent young child. From that moment he knew that he felt greater affection for his betrothed than was merely expected of him. He didn’t dwell on this—he was happy. He could see that the maiden was modest and shy, but he didn’t give this much thought either. Then came that time in Oslo, when he was forced to think about these things—and then the night in Fluga’s loft.
He had been faced with something he had never imagined could happen in this world—not between honorable people of good family, and not in these times. Blinded and confused, he had staggered his way out of the betrothal, although his demeanor had been cool and calm and steady as he talked over these matters with his father and hers.
Then he had found himself outside the traditions of his family, and so he did what was also unheard of in his lineage: Without even consulting his father, he had courted the rich young widow of Mandvik. It dazzled him when he realized that Fru Halfrid was fond of him. She was much wealthier and more highborn than Kristin; she was the niece of Baron Tore Haakonssøn of Tunsberg and the widow of Sir Finn Aslakssøn. And she was beautiful, with such a gracious and noble bearing that compared to her, the women in his circle were little more than peasant women, he thought. The Devil take him if he wouldn’t show everyone that he could win the noblest wife; she was even more resplendent with wealth and other possessions than that man from Trønder who had lured Kristin into shame. And a widow—that was good and proper; then he knew where he stood. By Satan, he would never trust a maiden again.
He had learned that it was not as simple to live in this world as he had thought back home at Dyfrin. There his father ruled over everything, and his views were always right. Simon had been one of the king’s retainers, and he had served as a page for a while; he had also been taught by his father’s resident priest at home. At times he would find what his father said a bit old-fashioned. Occasionally he would voice his opposition, but it was only meant in jest, and it was taken as such. “What a quick wit Simon has,” laughed his father and mother and siblings, who never spoke against Sir Andres. But everything was done as his father commanded, and Simon himself thought this reasonable.
During the years he was married to Halfrid Erlingsdatter and lived at Mandvik, he learned a little more each day that life could be more complicated and difficult than Sir Andres Gudmundssøn had ever dreamed.
Simon could never have imagined that he would not be happy with such a wife as he had now won. Deep in his soul he felt a painful sense of amazement whenever he looked at his wife, as she moved about the house all day long, so lovely, with her gentle eyes, and her mouth so sweet as long as it was closed. He had never seen any other woman wear gowns and jewelry with such grace. But in the dark gloom of the night his aversion to her stripped him of all youth and vigor. She was sickly, her breath was tainted, and her caresses plagued him. And yet she was so kind that he felt a desperate sense of shame, but he still could not overcome his dislike of her.
They hadn’t been married long before he realized that she would never give him a healthy, living child. He could see that she herself grieved over this even more than he did. The pain he felt was like knives in his heart whenever he thought of her fate in this matter. One way or another he had heard that she was this way because Sir Finn had kicked and struck her so badly that she had miscarried many times while she was married to him. He had been insanely jealous of his beautiful young wife. Her kinsmen wanted to take her away from him, but Halfrid felt that it was a Christian wife’s duty to stay with her lawful husband, no matter how he behaved.
But as long as Simon had no children with her, he would feel all his days that it was her land they lived on and her riches that he managed. He managed sensibly and carefully, but during those years there rose up in his soul a longing for Formo, his grandmother’s ancestral estate, which he had always been destined to inherit after his father. He began to feel that he belonged north in Gudbrandsdal even more than at Romerike.
People continued to call Halfrid “the knight’s wife,” as they had during the time of her first husband. And this made Simon feel even more as if he were merely her advisor at Mandvik.
Then one day, Simon and his wife were sitting alone in the hall. One of the maids had just come in on some errand. Halfrid stared after her as she left.
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but I’m afraid that Jorunn is with child this summer.”
Simon was holding a crossbow on his lap, adjusting the locking device. He adjusted the crank, sighted down the spring assembly, and said without looking up, “Yes, and it’s mine.”
His wife didn’t reply. When he finally looked up at her, she was sitting there sewing, going about her work just as steadily as he had been doing his.
Simon was truly sorry. Sorry he had offended his wife in this manner, and sorry he had taken up with this girl, regretting that he had now assumed the burden of fatherhood. He was far from certain that it was actually his—Jorunn had loose ways. And he had never really liked her; she was ugly, but she was quick-witted and amusing to talk to. And she was the one who had always sat up to wait for him whenever he came home late the winter before. He had spoken rashly because he expected his wife to berate and denounce him. That was foolish of him; he should have known that Halfrid would consider herself above such conduct. But now it was done, and he wouldn’t retreat from his own words. He would have to put up with being called father of his maid’s child, whether he was or not.
Halfrid didn’t mention the matter until a year later; then she asked Simon one day whether he knew that Jorunn was to be married over at Borg. Simon knew this quite well, since he himself had given her a dowry. Where was the child to live? his wife wanted to know. With the mother’s parents, where she now was, replied Simon.
Then Halfrid said, “It seems to me that it would be more proper for your daughter to grow up here on your manor.”
“On your manor, you mean?” asked Simon.
A slight tremor flickered across his wife’s face.
“You know full well, dear husband, that as long as we both live, you are the one who rules here at Mandvik,” she said.
Simon went over and placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders.
“If it’s true, Halfrid, that you think you can stand to see that child here with us, then I owe you great thanks for your generosity.”
But he didn’t like it. Simon had seen the girl several times—she was a rather unattractive child, and he couldn’t see that she looked like him or anyone else in his family. He was even less inclined to believe that he was the father. And he had resented it deeply when he heard that Jorunn had the child baptized Arngjerd, after his mother, without asking his permission. But he would have to let Halfrid do as she wished. She brought the child to Mandvik, found a foster mother for her, and saw to it that the girl lacked for nothing. If she caught sight of the child, she would often take her onto her lap and chat with her, kindly and lovingly. And gradually, as Simon saw more of the child, he grew fond of the little maiden—he had great affection for children. Now he also thought he could see some resemblance between Arngjerd and his father. It was possible that Jorunn had been wise enough to restrain herself after the master had come too close to her. If so, then Arngjerd was indeed his daughter, and what Halfrid had persuaded him to do was honorable and right.
After they had been married for five years, Halfrid bore her husband a fully formed son. She was radiant with joy, but soon after the birth she fell ill, and it quickly became clear to everyone that she would die. And yet she was without fear, the last time that she had her full wits about her for a moment. “Now you will sit here, Simon, master of Mandvik, and rule over the estate for your lineage and mine,” she told her husband.
After that her fever rose so sharply that she was no longer aware of anything, and so she did not have to suffer the grief, while she was still in this world, of hearing that the boy had died one day before his mother. And no doubt in that other home she would not feel sorrow over such things, but would be glad that she had their Erling with her, thought Simon.
Later, Simon remembered that on the night when the two bodies were laid out in the loft, he had stood leaning over the fence next to a field down by the sea. It was just before Midsummer, and the night was so bright that the glow of the full moon was barely visible. The water was gleaming and pale, rippling and lapping along the shore. Simon had slept no more than an hour at a time, off and on, since the night the boy was born. That seemed to him very long ago now, and he was so tired that he scarcely felt able to grieve.
He was then twenty-seven years old.
In the middle of the summer, after the inheritance had been settled, 1 Simon turned over Mandvik to Stig Haakonssøn, Halfrid’s cousin. He left for Dyfrin and stayed there all winter.
Old Sir Andres lay in bed, suffering from dropsy and numerous ailments and pains; he was approaching the end now, and he complained a great deal. Life had not been so easy for him in the long run, either. Things had not gone as he had wished and expected for his handsome and promising children. Simon sat with his father and tried hard to adopt the calm and lighthearted tone from the past, but the old man moaned incessantly. Helga Saksesdatter, whom Gyrd had married, was so refined that there was no end to the unreasonable demands she could dream up—Gyrd didn’t even dare belch in his own manor without asking his wife for permission. And then there was Torgrim, who was always whining about his stomach. Sir Andres would never have given his daughter to Torgrim if he had known the man was so loathsome that he was incapable of either living or dying. Astrid would have no joy from her youth or her wealth as long as her husband was alive. Sigrid wandered around the estate, broken and grieving—all smiles and merriment had deserted her, that good daughter of his. And she had borne that child, while Simon had none. Sir Andres wept, miserable and old and ill. Gudmund had refused all of the marriages suggested by his father, who had grown so old and frail that he had let the boy wear him down.
But the misfortunes had begun when Simon and that foolish maiden had defied their parents. And Lavrans was to blame—as bold a man as he was among men, his knees buckled before his womenfolk. No doubt the girl had sobbed and screamed, and he at once relented and sent word to that gilded whoremaster from Trøndelag who couldn’t even wait until he and his bride were married. But if Lavrans had been master of his house, then he, Andres Darre, would have shown that he could teach a beardless whelp sensible behavior. Kristin Lavransdatter—she certainly had children enough. A healthy, squirming son every eleventh month, he had heard.
“It’s going to be costly, Father,” said Simon, laughing. “Their inheritance will be divided up many times.” He picked up Arngjerd and set her on his lap. She had just come toddling into the room.
“Well, that one there won’t cause your inheritance to be divided up into too many parts after you—whoever does inherit it,” said Sir Andres crossly. He was fond of his son’s daughter in his own way, but it infuriated him that Simon had a bastard child. “Have you thought of marrying anew, Simon?”
“You must let Halfrid grow cold in her grave first, Father,” said Simon, stroking the child’s pale hair. “I’ll probably marry again, but there’s no reason to make haste.”
Then he picked up his crossbow and skis and set off for the forest to find some respite. With his dogs at his side he tracked elk through the mountain pass and shot wood grouse in the treetops. At night he slept in the forest hut belonging to Dyfrin, thinking that it felt good to be alone.
There was the sound of skis scraping outside in the pass; the dogs leaped up, and other dogs responded from outdoors. Simon threw open the door to the moon-blue night, and Gyrd came in, slender and tall, handsome and silent. He now looked younger than Simon, who had always been rather stout and had grown a good deal heavier during those years at Mandvik.
The brothers sat with the sack of provisions between them, eating and drinking and staring into the hearth.
“I suppose you know,” said Gyrd, “that Torgrim will make a great deal of noise and ruckus when Father is gone. And he has won Gudmund’s support. And Helga’s. They will not grant Sigrid the full rights of a
sister with us.”
“I realize that. But she must be given her share as a sister; you and I should be able to force them to agree, brother.”
“It would be best if Father himself saw to this matter before he dies,” said Gyrd.
“No, let Father die in peace,” replied Simon. “You and I will manage to protect our sister, so they don’t rob her because she has suffered such misfortune.”
So the heirs of Sir Andres Darre parted in bitter enmity after his death. Gyrd was the only one Simon said farewell to when he left home, and now he knew that Gyrd wouldn’t have many pleasant days with that wife of his. Sigrid moved to Formo with Simon; she would keep house for him, and he in turn would manage her properties.
He rode into his own estate on a grayish-blue day as the snow was melting, when the alder trees along the Laag River were brown with buds. As he was about to cross the threshold of the main house with Arngjerd in his arms, Sigrid Andresdatter asked, “Why are you smiling like that, Simon?”
“Was I smiling?”
He had been thinking that this was a different kind of homecoming than what he had once dreamed of—when he would one day settle down here on his grandmother’s estate. A seduced sister and a paramour’s child—these were now his companions.
During that first summer he saw little of the people at Jørundgaard; he diligently avoided them.
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