It was Nikulaus Erlendssøn who was supposed to be the master of Jørundgaard now, but he had no time to tend to the managing of the estate. He also seemed to have as little interest and ability as his father had had. And so Kristin and Gaute saw to everything, for that summer Ulf Haldorssøn had left her too.
After the unfortunate events that ended with the killing of Erlend Nikulaussøn, Ulf’s wife had gone home with her brothers. Ulf stayed on at Jørundgaard; he said he wanted to show everyone that he couldn’t be driven away by gossip and lies. But he hinted that he had lived long enough at Jørundgaard; he thought he might head north to his own estate in Skaun as soon as enough time had passed so that no one could say he was fleeing from the rumors.
But then the bishop’s plenipotentiary began making inquiries into the matter, to determine whether Ulf Haldorssøn had unlawfully spurned his wife. And so Ulf made preparations to leave; he went to get Jardtrud, and they were now setting off together for the north, before the autumn weather made the road through the mountains impassable. He told Gaute that he wanted to join forces with his half sister’s husband, who was a swordsmith in Nidaros, and live there, but he would settle Jardtrud at Skjoldvirkstad, which his nephew would continue to manage for him.
On his last evening Kristin drank a toast to him with the gold-chased silver goblet her father had inherited from his paternal grandfather, Sir Ketil the Swede. She asked him to accept the goblet as a keepsake to remember her by. Then she slipped onto his finger a gold ring that had belonged to Erlend; he was to have it in his memory.
Ulf gave her a kiss to thank her. “It’s customary among kinsmen,” he said with a laugh. “You probably never imagined, Kristin, when we first met, and I was the servant who came to get you to escort you to my master, that we would part in this way.”
Kristin turned bright red, for he was smiling at her with that old, mocking smile, but she thought she could see in his eyes that he was sad. Then she said, “All the same, Ulf, aren’t you longing for Trøndelag—you who were born and raised in the north? Many a time I too have longed for the fjord, and I lived there only a few years.” Ulf laughed again, and then she added quietly, “If I ever offended you in my youth, with my overbearing manner or . . . I didn’t know that you were close kin, you and Erlend. But now you must forgive me!”
“No . . . but Erlend was not the one who refused to acknowledge our kinship. I was so insolent in my youth; since my father had ousted me from his lineage, I refused to beg—” He stood up abruptly and went over to where Bjørgulf was sitting on the bench. “You see, Bjørgulf, my foster son . . . your father . . . and Gunnulf, they treated me as a kinsman even back when we were boys—just the opposite of how my brothers and sisters at Hestnes behaved. Afterward . . . to others I never presented myself as Erlend’s kinsman because I saw that in that way I could serve him better . . . as well as his wife and all of you, my foster sons. Do you understand?” he asked earnestly, placing his hand on Bjørgulf’s face, hiding the extinguished eyes.
“I understand.” Bjørgulf’s reply was almost stifled behind the other man’s fingers; he nodded under Ulf’s hand.
“We understand, foster father.” Nikulaus laid his hand heavily on Ulf’s shoulder, and Gaute moved closer to the group.
Kristin felt strangely ill at ease. They seemed to be speaking of things that she could not comprehend. Then she too stepped over to the men as she said, “Be assured, Ulf, my kinsman, that all of us understand. Never have Erlend and I had a more loyal friend than you. May God bless you!”
The next day Ulf Haldorssøn set off for the north.
Over the course of the winter Bjørgulf seemed to settle down, as far as Kristin could tell. Once again he came to the table for meals with the servants of the house, he went with them to mass, and he willingly and gladly accepted the help and services that his mother so dearly wanted to offer him.
As time passed and Kristin never heard her sons make any mention of the monastery, she realized how unspeakably reluctant she was to give up her eldest son to the life of a monk.
She couldn’t help admitting that a cloister would be the best place for Bjørgulf. But she didn’t see how she could bear to lose Naakkve in that way. It must be true, after all, that her firstborn was somehow bound closer to her heart than her other sons.
Nor could she see that Naakkve was suited to be a monk. He did have a talent for learned games and a fondness for devotional practices; nevertheless, his mother didn’t think he was particularly disposed toward spiritual matters. He didn’t attend the parish church with any special zeal. He often missed the services, giving some meager excuse, and she knew that neither he nor Bjørgulf confessed to their parish priest anything but the most ordinary of sins. The new priest, Sira Dag Rolfssøn, was the son of Rolf of Blakarsarv, who had been married to Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter’s cousin; for this reason he often visited his kinswoman’s estate. He was a young man about thirty years old, well educated and a good cleric, but the two oldest sons never warmed to him. With Gaute, on the other hand, he soon became good friends.
Gaute was the only one of Erlend’s sons who had made friends among the people of Sil. But none of the others had continued to be as much an outsider as Nikulaus was. He never had anything to do with the other youths. If he went to the places where young people gathered to dance or meet, he usually stood on the outskirts of the green to watch, asserting by his demeanor that he was too good to take part. But if he was so inclined, he might join in the games unasked, and then everyone saw that he was doing it to show off. He was vigorous, strong, and agile, and it was easy to provoke him to fight. But after he had defeated two or three of the most renowned opponents in the parish, people had to tolerate his presence. And if he wished to dance with a maiden, he paid no heed to her brothers or kinsmen but simply danced with the girl and walked and sat with her alone. No woman ever said no when Nikulaus Erlendssøn requested her company, which did not make people like him any better.
After his brother had gone blind, Naakkve seldom left his side, but if he went out in the evening, he acted no differently from before. For the most part he also gave up his long hunting expeditions, but that fall he had bought himself an exceedingly costly white falcon from the sheriff, and he was as eager as ever to practice his bowmanship and prowess in sports. Bjørgulf had taught himself to play chess blind, and the brothers would often spend an entire day at the chessboard; they were both the most zealous of players.
Then Kristin heard people talking about Naakkve and a young maiden, Tordis Gunnarsdatter from Skjenne. The following summer she was staying up in the mountain pastures. Many times Naakkve was away from home at night. Kristin found out that he had been with Tordis.
The mother’s heart trembled and twisted and turned like an aspen leaf on its stem. Tordis belonged to an old and respected family; she herself was a good and innocent child. Naakkve couldn’t possibly mean to dishonor her. If the two young people forgot themselves, then he would have to make the girl his wife. Sick with anguish and shame, Kristin realized nevertheless that she would not be overly aggrieved if this should happen. Only two years ago she would never have stood for it if Tordis Gunnarsdatter were to succeed her as the mistress of Jørundgaard. The maiden’s grandfather was still alive and lived on his estate with four married sons; she herself had many siblings. She would not be a wealthy bride. And every woman of that lineage had given birth to at least one witless child. The children were either exchanged at birth or possessed by the mountain spirits; no matter how they strove to protect the women in childbed, neither baptism nor sacred incantations seemed to help. There were now two old men at Skjenne whom Sira Eirik had judged to be changelings, as well as two children who were deaf and mute. And the wood nymph had bewitched Tordis’s oldest brother when he was seventeen. Otherwise those belonging to the Skjenne lineage were a handsome lot, their livestock flourished, and good fortune followed them, but they were too numerous for their family to have any wealth.
God only
knew whether Naakkve could have abandoned his resolve without sinning if he had already promised himself to the service of the Virgin Mary. But a man always had to spend one year as a young brother in the monastery before he was ordained; he could withdraw voluntarily if he realized that he was not meant to serve God in that way. And she had heard that the French countess who was the mother of the great doctor of theology, the friar Sir Thomas Aquinas, had locked her son in with a beautiful, wanton woman in order to shake his resolve when he wanted to retreat from the world. Kristin thought this was the vilest thing she had ever heard, and yet when the woman died, she had reconciled with God. So it must not be such a terrible sin if Kristin now imagined that she would open her arms to embrace Tordis of Skjenne as the wife of her son.
In the autumn Jammaelt Halvardssøn came to Formo, and he confirmed the rumors of great news that had also reached the valley. In consultation with the highest leaders of the Church and Norway’s Council of knights and noblemen, King Magnus Eirikssøn had decided to divide his realms between the two sons he had fathered with his queen, Lady Blanche. At the meeting of nobles in Vardberg, he had given the younger son, Prince Haakon, the title of king of Norway. Both learned priests and laymen of the gentry had sworn sacred oaths to defend the land under his hand. He was supposed to be a handsome and promising three-year-old child, and he was to be brought up in Norway with four foster mothers, all the most highborn wives of knights, and with two spiritual and two worldly chieftains as his foster fathers when King Magnus and Queen Blanche were in Sweden. It was said that Sir Erling Vidkuns søn and the bishops of Bjørgvin and Oslo were behind this selection of a sovereign, and Bjarne Erlingssøn had presented the matter to the king; Lord Magnus loved Bjarne above all his other Norwegian men. Everyone expected the greatest benefits for the realm of Norway now that they would once again have a king who was reared and lived among them, who would protect the laws and rights and interests of the country instead of squandering his time, energies, and the wealth of the kingdom on incursions in other lands.
Kristin had heard about the selection of a king, just as she had heard about the discord with the German merchants in Bjørgvin and about the king’s wars in Sweden and Denmark. But these events had touched her so little—like the echo of thunder from the mountains after a storm had passed over the countryside and was far away. No doubt her sons had discussed these matters with each other. Jammaelt’s account threw the sons of Erlend into a state of violent agitation. Bjørgulf sat with his forehead resting in his hand so he could hide his blind eyes. Gaute listened with his lips parted as his fingers tightly clenched the hilt of his dagger. Lavrans’s breathing was swift and audible, and all of a sudden he turned away from his uncle and looked at Naakkve, sitting in the high seat. The oldest son’s face was pale, and his eyes blazed.
“It has been the fate of many a man,” said Naakkve, “that those who were his fiercest opponents in life found success on the road he had pointed out to them—but only after they had made him into fodder for the worms. After his mouth was stuffed with earth, the lesser men no longer shrank from affirming the truth of his words.”
“That may well be, kinsman,” said Jammaelt in a placating tone. “You may be right about that. Your father was the first of all men to think of this way out of the foreign lands—with two brothers on the thrones, here and in Sweden. Erlend Nikulaussøn was a deep-thinking, wise, and magnanimous man. I see that. But take care what you now say, Nikulaus. Surely you wouldn’t want your words to be spread as gossip that might harm Skule.”
“Skule didn’t ask my permission to do what he did,” said Naakkve sharply.
“No, he probably didn’t remember that you had come of age by now,” replied Jammaelt in the same tone as before. “And I didn’t think about it either, so it was with my consent and blessing that he placed his hand on Bjarne’s sword and swore allegiance.”
“I think he did remember it, but the whelp knew I would never give my consent. And no doubt the Giske men needed this salve for their guilty consciences.”
Skule Erlendssøn had joined Bjarne Erlingssøn as one of his loyal men. He had met the great chieftain when he was visiting his aunt at AElin during Christmas, and Bjarne had explained to the boy that it was largely due to the intercession of Sir Erling and himself that Erlend had been granted his life. Without their support Simon Andressøn would never have been able to accomplish his mission with King Magnus. Ivar was still with Inge Fluga.
Kristin knew that what Bjarne Erlingssøn had said was not entirely untrue—it was in accordance with Simon’s own account of his journey to Tunsberg—and yet during all these years she had always thought of Erling Vidkunssøn with great bitterness; it seemed to her that he should have been able to help her husband attain better terms if he had wished to do so. Bjarne hadn’t been capable of much back then, as young as he was. But she wasn’t pleased that Skule had joined up with this man, and in an odd way it took her breath away that the twins had acted on their own and had set off into the world. They were no more than children, she thought.
After Jammaelt’s visit the uneasiness of her mind grew so great that she hardly dared think at all. If it was true what the men said—that the prosperity and security of the people of the realm would increase beyond words if this small boy in Tunsberg Castle were now called Norway’s king—then they could have been enjoying this turn of events for almost ten years if Erlend hadn’t . . . No! She refused to think about that when she thought about the dead. But she couldn’t help it because she knew that in her sons’ eyes their father was magnificent and perfect, the most splendid warrior and chieftain, without faults or flaws. And she herself had thought, during all these years, that Erlend had been betrayed by his peers and wealthy kinsmen; her husband had suffered great injustice. But Naakkve went too far when he said that they had made him into fodder for the worms. She too bore her own heavy share of the blame, but it was mostly Erlend’s folly and his desperate obstinacy that had brought about his wretched death.
But no . . . all the same, she wasn’t pleased that Skule was now in the service of Bjarne Erlingssøn.
Would she ever live to see the day when she was released from the ceaseless torment of anguish and unrest? Oh Jesus, remember the anguish and grief that your own mother bore for your sake; have mercy on me, a mother, and give me comfort!
She felt uneasy even about Gaute. The boy had the makings of the most capable of farmers, but he was so impetuous in his eagerness to restore prosperity to his lineage. Naakkve gave him free rein, and Gaute had his hands in so many enterprises. With several other men of the parish he had now started up the old iron-smelting sites in the mountains. And he sold off far too much; he sold not only the goods from the land leases but also part of the yield from his own estate. All her days Kristin had been used to seeing full storerooms and stalls on her farm, and she grew a little cross with Gaute when he frowned in disapproval at the rancid butter and made fun of the ten-year-old bacon she had hung up. But she wanted to know that on her manor there would never be a shortage of food; she would never have to turn a poor man away unaided if years of drought should strike the countryside. And there would be nothing lacking when the time came for weddings and christening feasts and banquets to be held once again on the old estate.
Her ambitious hopes for her sons had been diminished. She would be content if they would settle down here in her parish. She could combine and exchange her properties in such a fashion that three of them could live on their own estates. And Jørundgaard, along with the portion of Laugarbru that lay on this side of the river, could feed three leaseholders. They might not be circumstances fit for noblemen, but they wouldn’t be poor folk either. Peace reigned in the valley; here little was heard about all the unrest among chieftains of the land. If this should be perceived as a decline in the power and prestige of their lineage . . . well, God would be able to further the interests of their descendants if He saw that it would be to their benefit. But surely it would be vain of her
to hope that she might see them all gathered around her in this manner. It was unlikely they would settle down so easily, these sons of hers who had Erlend Nikulaussøn as their father.
During this time her soul found peace and solace whenever she let her thoughts dwell on the two children she had laid to rest up in the cemetery.
Every day, over the ensuing years, she had thought of them; as she watched children of the same age grow and thrive, she would wonder how her own would have looked by now.
As she went about her daily chores, just as diligent and hardworking as ever, but reticent and preoccupied, her dead children were always with her. In her dreams they grew older and flourished, and they turned out, in every way, to be exactly as she had wished. Munan was as loyal to his kinsmen as Naakkve, but he was as cheerful and talkative with his mother as Gaute was, and he never worried her with unwise impulses. He was as gentle and thoughtful as Lavrans, but Munan would tell his mother all the strange things he was pondering. He was as clever as Bjørgulf, but no misfortune clouded his way through life, so his wisdom held no bitterness. He was as self-reliant, strong, and bold as the twins, but not as unruly or stubborn.
And she recalled once more all the sweet, merry memories of the loving charm of her children when they were small every time she thought about little Erlend. He stood on her lap, waiting to be dressed. She put her hands around his chubby, naked body, and he reached up with his small hands and face and his whole precious body toward her face and her caresses. She taught him to walk. She had placed a folded cloth across his chest and up under his arms; he hung in this harness, as heavy as a sack, vigorously fumbling backward with his feet. Then he laughed until he was wriggling like a worm from laughter. She carried him in her arms out to the farmyard to see the calves and lambs, and he shrieked with joy at the sow with all her piglets. He leaned his head back and gaped at the doves perched in the stable hayloft. He ran to her in the tall grass around the heaps of stones, crying out at each berry he saw and eating them out of her hand so avidly that her palm was wet from his greedy little mouth.
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