“Erlend. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit . . .”
A shudder seemed to pass through the entire assembled congregation. And Kristin felt a wild, vindictive joy.
The child had looked quite strong when he was born. But from the very first week Kristin thought she could tell that he was not going to thrive. She herself had felt, at the moment she gave birth, that her heart was collapsing like an extinguished ember. When Isrid showed her the newborn son, she imagined that the spark of life had only an uncertain hold on this child. But she pushed this thought aside; an unspeakable number of times she had already felt as if her heart would break. And the child was plenty big and did not look weak.
But her uneasiness over the boy grew from day to day. He whimpered constantly and had a poor appetite. She often had to struggle for a long time before she could get him to take her breast. When she had finally enticed him to suckle, he would fall asleep almost at once. She couldn’t see that he was getting any bigger.
With inexpressible anguish and heartache she thought she saw that from the day he was baptized and received his father’s name, little Erlend began to weaken more quickly.
None of her children, no, none of them had she loved as she did this little unfortunate boy. None of them had she conceived in such sweet and wild joy; none had she carried with such happy anticipation. She thought back on the past nine months; in the end she had fought with all her life to hold on to hope and belief. She couldn’t bear to lose this child, but neither could she bear to save him.
Almighty God, merciful Queen, Holy Olav. She could feel that this time it would do her no good to fling herself down and beg for her child’s life.
Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who have sinned against us.
She went to church every Sabbath, as was her custom. She kissed the doorpost, sprinkled herself with holy water, sank to her knees before the ancient crucifix above the choir. The Savior gazed down, sorrowful and gentle in his death throes. Christ died to save his murderers. Holy Olav stands before him, perpetually praying for intercession for those who drove him into exile and killed him.
As we forgive those who have sinned against us.
Blessed Mary, my child is dying!
Don’t you know, Kristin, that I would rather have carried his cross and suffered his death myself than stand under my son’s cross and watch him die? But since I knew that this had to happen to save the sinners, I consented in my heart. I consented when my son prayed: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
As we forgive those who have sinned against us . . .
What you scream in your heart does not become a prayer until you have said your Pater noster without deceit.
Forgive us our sins . . . Do you remember how many times your sins were forgiven? Look at your sons over there on the men’s side. Look at him standing in front, like the chieftain of that handsome group of youths. The fruit of your sin . . . For nearly twenty years you have seen God grant him greater looks, wisdom, and manliness. See His mercy. Where is your own mercy toward your youngest son back home?
Do you remember your father? Do you remember Simon Darre?
But deep in her heart Kristin felt that she had not forgiven Erlend. She could not, because she would not. She held on to her bowl of love, refusing to let it go, even though it now contained only these last, bitter dregs. The moment when she left Erlend behind, no longer thinking of him even with this corrosive bitterness, then everything that had been between them would be over.
So she stood there during mass and knew that it would be of no benefit to her. She tried to pray: Holy Olav, help me. Work a miracle on my heart so that I might say my prayer without deceit and think of Erlend with God-fearing peace in my soul. But she knew that she did not want this prayer to be heard. Then she felt that it was useless for her to pray to be allowed to keep the child. Young Erlend was on loan from God. Only on one condition could she keep him, and she refused to accept that condition. And it was useless to lie to Saint Olav. . . .
So she kept watch over the ill child. Her tears spilled out; she wept without a sound and without moving. Her face was as gray and stony as ever, although gradually the whites of her eyes and her eyelids turned blood red. If anyone came near her, she would quickly wipe her face and simply sit there, stiff and mute.
And yet it took so little to thaw her heart. If one of her big sons came in, cast a glance at the tiny child, and spoke a few kind and sympathetic words to him, then Kristin could hardly keep from bursting into loud sobs. If she could have talked to her grown-up sons about her anguish over the infant, she knew her heart would have melted. But they had grown shy around her now. Ever since that day when they came home and learned what name she had given their youngest brother, the boys seemed to have drawn closer together and stood so far away from her.
But one day, when Naakkve was looking at the child, he said, “Mother, give me permission . . . to seek out Father and tell him how things stand with the boy.”
“It will no longer do any good,” replied his mother in despair.
Munan didn’t understand. He brought his playthings to the little brother, rejoiced when he was allowed to hold him, and thought he had made the child smile. Munan talked about when his father would come home and wondered what he would think of the new son. Kristin sat in silence, her face gray, and let her soul be torn apart by the boy’s chatter.
The infant was now thin and wrinkled like an old man; his eyes were unnaturally big and clear. And yet he had begun to smile at his mother; she would moan softly whenever she saw this. Kristin caressed his small, thin limbs, held his feet in her hands. Never would this child lie there and reach with surprise for the sweet, strange, pale pink shapes that flailed in the air above him, which he didn’t recognize as his own legs. Never would these tiny feet walk on the earth.
After she had sat through all the arduous days of the week and kept watch over the dying child, then she would think as she dressed for church that surely she was humble enough now. She had forgiven Erlend; she no longer cared about him. If only she might keep her sweetest, her most precious possession, then she would gladly forgive the man.
But when she stood before the cross, whispering her Pater noster , and she came to the words sicut et nos dimittibus debitoribus nostris, then she would feel her heart harden, the way a hand clenches into a fist to strike. No!
Without hope, her soul aching, she would weep, for she could not make herself do it.
And so Erlend Erlendssøn died on the day before the Feast of Mary Magdalena, a little less than three months old.
CHAPTER 7
THAT AUTUMN BISHOP Halvard came north through the valley on an official church visit. He arrived in Sil on the day before Saint Matthew’s Day. It had been more than two years since the bishop had come that far north, so there were many children who were to be confirmed this time. Munan Erlendssøn was among them; he was now eight years old.
Kristin asked Ulf Haldorssøn to present the child to the bishop; she didn’t have a single friend in her home parish whom she could ask to do this. Ulf seemed pleased by her request. And so, when the church bells rang, the three of them walked up the hill: Kristin, Ulf, and the boy. Her other sons had been to the earlier mass—all of them except for Lavrans, who was in bed with a fever. They didn’t want to attend this mass because it would be so crowded in the church.
As they walked past the foreman’s house, Kristin noticed that many strange horses were tied to the fence outside. Farther along the road they were overtaken by Jardtrud, who was riding with a large entourage and raced past them. Ulf pretended not to see his wife and her kinsmen.
Kristin knew that Ulf had not set foot inside his own house since just after New Year’s. Things had apparently gotten worse than usual between him and his wife, and afterward he had moved his clothes chest and his weapons up to the high loft, where he now lived with the boys. Once, in early spring, Kristin had mentioned that it was wrong fo
r there to be such discord between him and his wife. Then he had looked at her and laughed, and she said no more.
The weather was sunny and beautiful. High over the valley the sky was blue between the peaks. The yellow foliage of the birch-covered slopes was beginning to thin out, and in the countryside most of the grain had been cut, although a few acres of pale barley still swayed near the farms, and the second crop of hay stood green and wet with dew in the meadows. There were throngs of people at the church, and a great neighing and whinneying of stallions, because the church stables were full and many had been forced to tie up their horses outside.
A muted, rancorous uneasiness passed through the crowd as Kristin and her escort moved forward. A young man slapped his thigh and laughed but was fiercely hushed by his elders. Kristin walked with measured steps and erect bearing across the green and then entered the cemetery. She paused for a moment at her child’s grave and at that of Simon Andressøn. A flat gray stone had been placed on top of it, and on the stone was etched the likeness of a man wearing a helmet and coat of mail, leaning his hands on a big, triangular shield with his coat of arms. Around the edge of the stone were chiseled the words:
In pace. Simon Armiger. Proles Dom. Andreae Filii Gudmundi Militis Pater Noster.
Ulf was standing outside the south door; he had left his sword in the gallery.
At that moment Jardtrud entered the cemetery in the company of four men: her two brothers and two old farmers. One of them was Kolbein Jonssøn, who had been Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn’s arms bearer for many years. They walked toward the priest’s entrance south of the choir.
Ulf Haldorssøn raced over to block their way. Kristin heard them speaking rapidly and vehemently; Ulf was trying to prevent his wife and her escorts from going any farther. People in the churchyard drew nearer; Kristin too moved closer. Then Ulf jumped up onto the stone foundation on which the gallery rested, leaned in, and pulled out the first axe he could reach. When one of Jardtrud’s brothers tried to pull it out of his hand, Ulf leaped forward and swung the axe in the air. The blow fell on the man’s shoulder, and then people came running and seized hold of Ulf. He struggled to free himself. Kristin saw that his face was dark red, contorted, and desperate.
Then Sira Solmund and a cleric from the bishop’s party appeared in the priest’s doorway. They exchanged a few words with the farmers. Three men who bore the white shields of the bishop took Ulf away at once, leading him out of the cemetery, while his wife and her escorts followed the two priests into the church.
Kristin approached the group of farmers. “What is it?” she asked sharply. “Why did they take Ulf away?”
“Surely you saw that he struck a man in the cemetery,” replied one of them, his voice equally sharp. Everyone moved away from her so that she was left standing alone with her son at the church door.
Kristin thought she understood. Ulf’s wife wanted to present a complaint against him to the bishop. By losing mastery of his feelings and breaching the sanctity of the cemetery, he had placed himself in a difficult position. When an unfamiliar deacon came to the door and peered outside, she went over to him, told him her name, and asked whether she might be taken to the bishop.
Inside the church all the sacred objects had been set out, but the candles on the altars were not yet lit. A little sunshine fell through the round windows high overhead and streamed between the dark brown pillars. Many of the congregation had already entered the nave and were sitting on the benches along the wall. In front of the bishop’s seat in the choir stood a small group of people: Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter and her two brothers—Geirulv with his arm bandaged—Kolbein Jonssøn, Sigurd Geitung, and Tore Borghildssøn. Behind and on either side of the bishop’s carved chair stood two young priests from Hamar, several other men from the bishop’s party, and Sira Solmund.
All of them stared as the mistress of Jørundgaard stepped forward and courtsied deeply before the bishop.
Lord Halvard was a tall, stout man with an exceedingly venerable appearance. Beneath the red silk cap his hair gleamed snow-white at his temples, and his full, oval face was a blazing red. He had a strong, crooked nose and heavy jowls, and his mouth was as narrow as a slit, almost without lips, as it cut through his closely trimmed, grayish-white beard. But his bushy eyebrows were still dark above his glittering, coal-black eyes.
“May God be with you, Kristin Lavransdatter,” said Lord Halvard. He gave the woman a penetrating look from under his heavy eyebrows. With one of his large, pale old man’s hands he grasped the gold cross hanging on his chest; in the other hand, which rested on the lap of his dark violet robes, he held a wax tablet.
“What brings you to seek me out here, Mistress Kristin?” the bishop asked. “Don’t you think it would be more fitting if you waited until the afternoon and came to see me at Romundgaard to tell me what is in your heart?”
“Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter has sought you out here, Reverend Father,” replied Kristin. “Ulf Haldorssøn has now been in the service of my husband for thirty-five years; he has always been our loyal friend and helper and a good kinsman. I thought I might be able to help him in some way.”
Jardtrud uttered a low cry of scorn or indignation. Everyone else stared at Kristin: the parishioners with bitterness, the bishop’s party with intent curiosity. Lord Halvard cast a sharp glance around before he said to Kristin, “Are things such that you would venture to defend Ulf Haldorssøn? Surely you must know—” As she attempted to answer, he quickly added, raising one hand, “No one has the right to demand testimony from you in this matter—other than your husband—unless your conscience forces you to speak. Consider it carefully, before you—”
“I was mostly thinking, Lord Bishop, that Ulf let his temper get the better of him, and he took up arms at church; I thought I might aid him in this matter by offering to pay a guarantee. Or,” she said with great effort, “my husband will certainly do all he can to help his friend and kinsman in this case.”
The bishop turned impatiently to those standing nearby, who all seemed to be seized by strong emotions. “That woman doesn’t need to be here. Her spokesman can wait over in the nave. Go over there, all of you, while I speak to the mistress. And send the parishioners outside for the time being, and Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter along with them.”
One of the young priests had been busy laying out the bishop’s vestments. Now he carefully set the miter with the gold cross on top of the spread-out folds of the cope and went over to speak to the people in the nave. The others followed him. The congregation, along with Jardtrud, left the church, and the verger closed the doors.
“You mentioned your husband,” said the bishop, looking at Kristin with the same expression as before. “Is it true that last summer you sought to be reconciled with him?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“But you were not reconciled?”
“My Lord, forgive me for saying this, but . . . I have no complaints about my husband. I sought you out to speak of this matter regarding Ulf Haldorssøn.”
“Did your husband know you were carrying a child?” asked Lord Halvard. He seemed angered by her objection.
“Yes, my Lord,” she replied in a low voice.
“How did Erlend Nikulaussøn receive the news?” asked the bishop.
Kristin stood twisting a corner of her wimple between her fingers, her eyes on the floor.
“Did he refuse to be reconciled with you when he heard about this?”
“My Lord, forgive me . . .” Kristin had turned bright red. “Whether my husband Erlend acted one way or another toward me . . . if it would help Ulf’s case for him to come here, then I know that Erlend would hasten to his side.”
The bishop frowned as he looked at her. “Do you mean out of friendship for this man, Ulf? Or, now that the matter has come to light, will Erlend after all agree to acknowledge the child you gave birth to this spring?”
Kristin lifted her head and stared at the bishop with wide eyes and parted lips. For the first time she be
gan to understand what his words signified.
Lord Halvard gave her a somber look. “It’s true, mistress, that no one other than your husband has the right to bring charges against you for this. But surely you must realize that he will bring upon both you and himself a great sin if he takes on the paternity of another man’s child in order to protect Ulf. It would be better for all of you, if you have sinned, to confess and repent of this sin.”
The color came and went in Kristin’s face. “Has someone said that my husband wouldn’t . . . that it was not his child?”
The bishop reluctantly replied, “Would you have me believe, Kristin, that you had no idea what people have been saying about you and your overseer?”
“No, I didn’t.” She straightened up, standing with her head tilted back slightly, her face white under the folds of her wimple. “I pray you, my Reverend Lord and Father—if people have been whispering rumors about me behind my back, then ask them to repeat them to my face!”
“No names have been mentioned,” replied the bishop. “That is against the law. But Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter has asked permission to leave her husband and go home with her kinsmen because she accuses him of keeping company with another woman, a married woman, and conceiving a child with her.”
For a moment both of them fell silent. Then Kristin repeated, “My Lord, I beg you to show me such mercy that you would demand these men to speak so that I might hear them, to say that I am supposed to be this woman.”
Bishop Halvard gave her a sharp and piercing look. Then he waved his hand, and the men in the nave approached and stood around his chair. Lord Halvard spoke: “You good men of Sil have come to me today at an inconvenient time, bringing a complaint which by rights should have been presented first to my plenipotentiary. I have acceded to this because I know that you cannot be fully knowledgeable of the law. But now this woman, Mistress Kristin Lavransdatter of Jørundgaard, has come to me with an odd request. She begs me to ask you if you dare say to her face what people have been saying in the parish: that her husband, Erlend Nikulaussøn, is not the father of the child she gave birth to this spring.”
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