After the Frosta ting, Erlend went home to Husaby with his wife, children, and Simon Darre, who now had his sister’s son, Gjavvald Gjavvaldssøn, with him. He was afraid that the reunion, which Sigrid had been yearning for with inexpressible joy, would not turn out well. Sigrid now lived at Kruke in good circumstances; she had three handsome children with her husband, and Geirmund was as good a man as could be found on this earth. He was the one who had spoken to his brother-in-law about bringing Gjavvald south so that Sigrid might see him, for the child was always on her mind. But Gjavvald had grown accustomed to living with his grandpar ents, and the old couple loved the child beyond measure, giving him everything he wanted and humoring his every whim; and things were not the same at Kruke as at Ranheim. Nor was it to be expected that Geirmund would be pleased to have his wife’s bastard son come visiting and then behave like a royal child, even bringing along his own servant—an elderly man whom the boy ruled and tyrannized. The man didn’t dare say a word against any of Gjavvald’s unreasonable demands. But for Erlend’s sons, it was cause for celebration when Gjavvald came to Husaby. Erlend didn’t think his sons should have any less than the grandson of Arne Gjavvaldssøn did, and so Naakkve and Bjørgulf were given all the things they told him the boy possessed.
Now that Erlend’s oldest sons were big enough to accompany him and go out riding with him, he paid more attention to the boys. Simon noticed that Kristin wasn’t entirely pleased by this; she thought that what they learned among his men was not all good. And it was usually about the children that unkind words most often erupted between the couple. Even though they might not have an outright quarrel, they were much closer to it than Simon thought was proper. And it seemed to him that Kristin was most to blame. Erlend could be quick-tempered, but she often spoke as if she harbored a deep, hidden rancor toward him. That was the case one day when Kristin brought up several complaints about Naakkve. Erlend replied that he would have a serious talk with the boy. But after another remark from his wife, he exclaimed angrily that he wasn’t about to give the boy a beating in front of the servants.
“No, it’s too late for that now. If you had done it when he was younger, he would listen to you now. But back then you never paid the slightest attention to him.”
“Oh yes, I did. But surely it was reasonable that I left him in your keeping when he was small—and besides, it’s no job for a man to hand out beatings to little boys who aren’t even in breeches yet.”
“That’s not what you thought last week,” said Kristin, her voice scornful and bitter.
Erlend didn’t reply but stood up and left the room. And Simon thought it was unkind of his wife to speak to him in this manner. Kristin was referring to something that had happened the week before. Erlend and Simon had come riding into the courtyard when little Lavrans ran toward them with a wooden sword in his hand. As he raced past his father’s horse, he rashly struck the animal across the leg with his sword. The horse reared up, and the boy was suddenly lying under its feet. Erlend backed away, yanked the horse to the side, and threw his reins to Simon. His face was white with dread as he lifted the child up in his arms. But when he saw that the boy was unharmed, he put him over his arm, took the wooden sword, and gave Lavrans a beating on his bare bottom—the boy was not yet wearing breeches. In those first heated moments, he didn’t realize how hard he was striking, and Lavrans was still walking around with black and blue marks. But afterwards Erlend tried all day to make amends with the boy, who sulked and clung to his mother, hitting and threatening his father. Later that evening, when Lavrans was settled in his parents’ bed where he usually slept because his mother still nursed him during the night, Erlend sat next to him for hours. Every once in a while he would stroke the sleeping child a bit as he gazed down at him. He told Simon that this was the boy he loved most of all his sons.
When Erlend set off for the summer tings, Simon headed home. He raced south along Gauldal, making the sparks fly from his horse’s hooves. Once, as they rode more slowly up several steep slopes, his men laughingly asked him whether he was trying to cover three days’ journey in two. Simon laughed in reply and said that was indeed his intention, “because I’m longing to reach Formo.”
That was how he always felt whenever he had been away from his estate for long; he loved his home and always felt great joy when he could turn his horse homeward. But this time it seemed he had never longed so much to return to his valley and manor and his young daughters—yes, he even yearned for Ramborg. To be truthful, he thought it unreasonable to feel this way, but up there at Husaby he had been so uneasy that now he thought he knew firsthand how cattle could sense in their bodies that a storm was brewing.
CHAPTER 2
ALL SUMMER LONG Kristin thought of little else but what Simon had told her about her mother’s death.
Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter had died alone; no one had been near as she drew her last breath except a servant woman, who was asleep. And it helped very little that Simon had said she was well prepared for her death. It was like the providence of God that several days earlier Ragnfrid had felt such a longing for the body of the Savior that she made her confession and was given communion by the priest of the cloister, who was her confessor. It was true that she had been granted a good death. Simon saw her body and said he thought it a wondrous sight—she had grown so beautiful in death. She was a woman of nearly sixty, and for many years her face had been greatly lined and wrinkled, and yet now it was completely changed; her face was youthful and smooth, and she looked just like a young woman asleep. She had been laid to rest at her husband’s side; there they had also brought Ulvhild Lavransdatter’s remains shortly after her father’s death. On top of the graves a large slab of stone had been placed, divided in two by a beautifully carved cross. On a winding banner a long Latin verse had been written, composed by the prior of the cloister, but Simon couldn’t remember it properly, for he understood little of that language.
Ragnfrid had lived in her own house on the estate in town where the corrodians of the cloister resided; she had a small room with a lovely loft room above. There she lived alone with a poor peasant woman who had taken lodgings with the brothers in return for a small payment, provided she would lend a hand to one of the wealthier women lodgers. But during the past half year, it had been Ragnfrid who had served the other woman, because the widow, whose name was Torgunna, had been unwell. Ragnfrid tended to her with great love and kindness.
On the last evening of her life, she had attended evensong in the cloister church, and afterwards she went into the cookhouse of the estate. She made a hearty soup with several restorative herbs and told the other women there that she was going to give the soup to Torgunna. She hoped the woman would feel well enough the next day so that they could both attend matins. That was the last time anyone saw the widow of Jørundgaard alive. Neither she nor the peasant woman came to matins or to the next service. When some of the monks in the choir noticed that Ragnfrid didn’t come to the morning mass either, they were greatly surprised—she had never before missed three services in a day. They sent word to town, asking whether the widow of Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn was ill. When the servants went up to the loft, they found the soup bowl standing untouched on the table. In the bed, Torgunna was sleeping sweetly against the wall. But Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter lay on the edge with her hands crossed over her breast—dead and already nearly cold. Simon and Ramborg went to her funeral, which was very beautiful.
Now that there were so many people in the Husaby household and Kristin had six sons, she could no longer manage to take part in all the individual chores that had to be done. She had to have a housekeeper to assist her. The mistress of the manor would usually sit in the hall with her sewing. There was always someone who needed clothing—Erlend, Margret, or one of the boys.
The last time she had seen her mother, Ragnfrid was riding behind her husband’s bier, on that bright spring day while she herself stood in the meadow outside Jørundgaard and watched her father’s funeral processio
n setting off across the green carpet of winter rye beneath the hillside scree.
Kristin’s needle flew in and out as she thought about her parents and their home at Jørundgaard. Now that everything had become memories, she seemed to see so much that she hadn’t noticed when she was in the midst of it all—when she took for granted her father’s tenderness and protection, as well as the steady, quiet care and toil of her silent, melancholy mother. She thought about her own children; she loved them more than the blood of her own heart, and there was not a waking hour when she wasn’t thinking about them. And yet there was much in her soul that she brooded over more—her children she could love without brooding. While she lived at Jørundgaard, she had never thought otherwise than that her parents’ whole life and everything they did was for the sake of her and her sisters. Now she seemed to realize that great currents of both sorrow and joy had flowed between these two people, who had been given to each other in their youth by their fathers, without being asked. And she knew nothing of this except that they had departed from her life together. Now she understood that the lives of these two people had contained much more than love for their children. And yet that love had been strong and wide and unfathomably deep; while the love she gave them in return was weak and thoughtless and selfish, even back in her childhood when her parents were her whole world. She seemed to see herself standing far, far away—so small at that distance of time and place. She was standing in the flood of sunlight streaming in through the smoke vent in the old hearth house back home, the winter house of her childhood. Her parents were standing back in the shadows, and they seemed to tower over her, as tall as they had been when she was small. They were smiling at her, in the way she now knew one smiles at a little child who comes and pushes aside dark and burdensome thoughts.
“I thought, Kristin, that once you had children of your own, then you would better understand. . . .”
She remembered when her mother said those words. Sorrowfully, the daughter thought that she still didn’t understand her mother. But now she was beginning to realize how much she didn’t understand.
That fall Archbishop Eiliv died. At about the same time, King Magnus had the terms changed for many of the sheriffs in the land, but not for Erlend Nikulaussøn. When he was in Bjørgvin during the last summer before the king came of age, Erlend had received a letter stating that he should be granted one fourth of the income collected from bail paid by criminals, from fines for the crime of letter-breaching,1 and from forfeitures of property. There had been much talk about his acquisition of such rights toward the end of a regency. Erlend had a vast income because he now owned a great deal of land in the county and usually stayed on his own estates when he traveled around his district, but he permitted his leaseholders to buy their way out of their obligation to house and feed him. It’s true that he took in little in land taxes, and the upkeep of his manor was costly; in addition to his household servants, he never had fewer than twelve armed men with him at Husaby. They rode the best horses and were splendidly outfitted, and whenever Erlend traveled around his district, his men lived like noblemen.
This matter was mentioned one day when Judge Harald and the sheriff of Gauldøla county were visiting Husaby. Erlend replied that many of these men had been with him when he lived up north. “Back then we shared whatever conditions we found there, eating dried fish and drinking bitter ale. Now these men whom I clothe and feed know that I won’t begrudge them white bread and foreign ale. And if I tell them to go to Hell when I get angry, they know that I don’t mean for them to set off on the journey without me in the lead.”
Ulf Haldorssøn, who was now the head of Erlend’s men, later told Kristin that this was true. Erlend’s men loved him, and he had complete command of them.
“You know yourself, Kristin, that no one should rely too heavily on what Erlend says; he must be judged by what he does.”
It was also rumored that in addition to his household servants, Erlend had men throughout the countryside—even outside Orkdøla county—who had sworn allegiance to him on the hilt of his sword. Finally a letter from the Crown arrived regarding this matter, but Erlend replied that these men had been part of his ship’s crew and they had been bound to him by oath ever since that first spring when he sailed north. He was then commanded to release the men at the next ting he held to announce the verdicts and decisions of the Law ting; and he was to summon to the meeting those men who lived outside the county and pay for their journey himself. He did summon some of his old crew members from outside Møre to the ting at Orkedal—but no one heard that he released them or any other men who had served him in his position as chieftain. For the time being the matter was allowed to languish, and as the autumn wore on, people stopped talking about it altogether.
Late that fall Erlend journeyed south and spent Christmas at the court of King Magnus, who was residing in Oslo that year. Erlend was annoyed that he couldn’t persuade his wife to come with him, but Kristin had no courage for the difficult winter journey, and she stayed at Husaby.
Erlend returned home three weeks after Christmas, bringing splendid gifts for his wife and all his children. He gave Kristin a silver bell so she could ring for her maids; to Margret he gave a clasp of solid gold, which was something she didn’t yet own, although she had all sorts of silver and gilded jewelry. But when the women were putting away these costly gifts in their jewelry chests, something got caught on Margret’s sleeve.
The girl quickly removed it and hid it in her hand as she said to her stepmother, “This belonged to my mother—that’s why Father doesn’t want me to show it to you.”
But Kristin’s face had turned even more crimson than the maiden’s. Her heart pounded with fear, but she knew that she had to speak to the young girl and warn her.
After a moment she said in a quiet and uncertain voice, “That looks like the gold clasp that Fru Helga of Gimsar used to wear to banquets.”
“Well, many gold things look much the same,” replied the maiden curtly.
Kristin locked her chest and stood with her hands resting on top so that Margret wouldn’t see how they were shaking.
“Dear Margret,” she said softly and gently, but then she had to stop while she gathered all her strength.
“Dear Margret, I have often bitterly regretted . . . My happiness has never been complete, even though my father forgave me with all his heart for the sorrows I caused him. You know that I sinned greatly against my parents for the sake of your father. But the longer I live and the more I come to understand, the harder it is for me to remember that I rewarded their kindness by causing them sorrow. Dear Margret, your father has been good to you all your days . . .”
“You don’t have to worry, Mother,” replied the girl. “I’m not your lawful daughter; you don’t have to worry that I might put on your filthy shift or step into your shoes . . .”
Her eyes flashing with anger, Kristin turned to face her stepdaughter. But then she gripped the cross she wore around her neck tightly in her hand and bit back the words she was about to speak.
She took this matter to Sira Eiliv that very evening after vespers, and she looked in vain for some sign in the priest’s face. Had a misfortune already occurred, and did he know about it? She thought about her own misguided youth; she remembered Sira Eirik’s face, which gave nothing away as he lived side by side with her and her trusting parents, with her sinful secret locked inside his heart—while she remained mute and callous to his stern entreaties and admonitions. And she remembered when she showed her own mother gifts that Erlend had given her in Oslo; that was after she had been lawfully betrothed to him. Her mother’s expression was steady and calm as she picked up the items, one by one, looked at them, praised them, and then laid them aside.
Kristin was deathly afraid and anguished, and she kept a vigilant eye on Margret. Erlend noticed that something was troubling his wife, and one evening after they had gone to bed, he asked whether she might be with child again.
Kristin lay
in silence for a moment before she replied that she thought she was. And when her husband lovingly took her in his arms without another word, she didn’t have the heart to tell him that something else was causing her sorrow. But when Erlend whispered to her that this time she must try and give him a daughter, she couldn’t manage a reply but lay there, rigid with fear, thinking that Erlend would find out soon enough what kind of joy a man had from his daughters.
Several nights later everyone at Husaby had gone to bed slightly drunk and with their stomachs quite full because it was the last few days before Lent began; for this reason, they all slept heavily. Late that night little Lavrans woke up in his parents’ bed, crying and demanding sleepily to nurse at his mother’s breast. But they were trying to wean him. Erlend woke up, grunting crossly. He picked up the boy, gave him some milk from a cup that stood on the step of the bed, and then lay the child back down on the other side of him.
Kristin had fallen into a deep slumber again when she suddenly realized that Erlend was sitting up in bed. Only half awake, she asked what was wrong. He hushed her in a voice that she didn’t recognize. Soundlessly he slipped out of bed, and she saw that he was pulling on a few clothes. When she propped herself up on one elbow, he pressed her back against the pillows with one hand as he bent over her and took down his sword, which hung over the headboard.
He moved as quietly as a lynx, but she saw that he was going over to the ladder which led up to Margret’s chamber above the entry hall.
For a moment Kristin lay in bed completely paralyzed with fear. Then she sat up, found her shift and gown, and began hunting for her shoes on the floor beside the bed.
Suddenly a woman’s scream rang out from the loft—loud enough to be heard all over the estate. Erlend’s voice shouted a word or two, and then Kristin heard the clang of swords striking each other and the stomp of feet overhead—then the sound of a weapon falling to the floor and Margret screaming in terror.
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