When this nephew of Ivar Gjesling eventually died, the estate would pass out of the hands of his lineage; he was childless, and the Haftorssøns were his closest descendants. Sir Sigurd was already quite an old man, and he had endured a terrible fate when his young wife lost her wits during her first childbirth. For nearly forty years now he had been married to this madwoman, but he still went in almost daily to see how she was doing. She lived in one of the best houses at Sundbu and had many maids to look after her. “Do you know me today, Gyrid?” her husband would ask. Sometimes she didn’t answer, but other times she said, “I know you well. You’re the prophet Isaiah who lives north at Brotveit, beneath Brotveit Peak.” She always had a spindle at her side. When she was feeling good, she would spin a fine, even yarn, but when things were bad, she would unravel her own work and strew all over the room the wool that her maids had carded. After Gaute had told Kristin about this, she always welcomed her cousin with the most heartfelt kindness when he came to visit. But she declined to go to Sundbu; she hadn’t been there since the day of her wedding.
Gaute Erlendssøn was much smaller in stature than Kristin’s other sons. Between his tall mother and lanky brothers he looked almost short, but he was actually of average height. In general Gaute seemed to have grown larger in all respects now that his two older brothers and the twins, who were born after him, had left. Beside them he had always been a quiet figure. People in the region called him an exceedingly handsome man, and he did have a lovely face. With his flaxen yellow hair and big gray eyes so finely set beneath his brow, with his narrow, suitably full countenance, fresh complexion, and beautiful mouth, he looked much like his grandfather Lavrans. His head was handsomely set on his shoulders, and his hands, which were well shaped and rather large, were unusually strong. But the lower half of his body was a little too short, and he was quite bowlegged. For this reason he always wore his clothing long unless, for the sake of his work, he had to put on a short tunic—although at the time it was more and more thought to be elegant and courtly for men to have their banquet attire cut shorter than in the past. The farmers learned of this fashion from traveling noblemen who passed through the valley. But whenever Gaute Erlendssøn arrived at church or at a feast wearing his ankle-length embroidered green Sabbath surcoat, the silver belt around his waist and the great cape with the squirrel-skin lining thrown back over his shoulders, the people of the parish would turn pleased and gentle eyes on the young master of Jørundgaard. Gaute always carried a magnificent silver-chased axe Lavrans Bjørg ulfsøn had inherited from his father-in-law, Ivar Gjesling. And everyone thought it splendid to see Gaute Erlendssøn following in the footsteps of his forefathers, even as young as he was, and keeping up the good farming traditions of the past, in his attire, demeanor, and the way he lived.
On horseback Gaute was the handsomest man anyone had ever seen. He was the boldest of riders, and people in the countryside boasted there wasn’t a horse in all of Norway that Gaute couldn’t manage to tame and ride. When he was in Bjørgvin the year before, he had purportedly mastered a young stallion that no man had ever been able to handle or ride; under Gaute’s hands he was so submissive that he could be ridden without a saddle and with a maiden’s ribbons as reins. But when Kristin asked her son about this story, he merely laughed and refused to talk about it.
Kristin knew that Gaute was reckless in his dealings with women, and this did not please her, but she thought it was mostly because the women treated the handsome young man much too kindly, and Gaute had an open and charming manner. Surely it was largely banter and foolishness; he didn’t take such matters seriously or go about concealing things the way Naakkve had. He came and told his mother himself when he had conceived a child with a young girl over at Sundbu; that had happened two years ago. Kristin heard from Sir Sigurd that Gaute had generously provided the mother with a good dowry, befitting her position, and he wanted to bring the child to Jørundgaard after she had been weaned from her mother’s breast. He seemed to be quite fond of his little daughter; he always went to see her whenever he was at Vaagaa. She was the loveliest child, Gaute proudly reported, and he had had her baptized Magnhild. Kristin agreed that since the boy had sinned, it was best if he brought the child home and became her loyal father. She looked forward with joy to having little Magnhild live with them. But then she died, only a year old. Gaute was greatly distressed when he heard the news, and Kristin thought it sad that she had never seen her little granddaughter.
Kristin had always had a difficult time reprimanding Gaute. He had been so miserable when he was little, and later he had continued to cling to his mother more than the other children had. Then there was the fact that he resembled her father. And he had been so steadfast and trustworthy as a child; with his somber and grown-up manner he had walked at her side and often lent her a well-intentioned helping hand that he, in his childish innocence, thought would be of the greatest benefit to his mother. No, she had never been able to be stern with Gaute; when he did something wrong out of thoughtlessness or the natural ignorance of his years, he never needed more than a few gentle, admonishing words, so sensible and wise the boy was.
When Gaute was two years old, their house priest at Husaby, who had a particularly good understanding of childhood illnesses, advised that the boy be given mother’s milk again, since no other measures had helped. The twins were newborns, and Frida, who was nursing Skule, had much more milk than the infant could consume. But the maid found the poor boy loathsome. Gaute looked terrible, with his big head and thin, wizened body; he could neither speak nor stand on his own. She was afraid he might be a changeling, even though the child had been healthy and fair-looking up until he fell ill at the age of ten months. All the same, Frida refused to put Gaute to her breast, and so Kristin had to nurse him herself, and he was allowed to suckle until he was four winters old.
Since then Frida had never liked Gaute; she was always scolding him, as much as she dared for fear of his mother. Frida now sat next to her mistress on the women’s bench and carried her keys whenever Kristin was away from home. She said whatever she liked to the mistress and her family; Kristin showed her great forbearance and found the woman amusing, even though she was often annoyed with her too. Nevertheless, she always tried to make amends and smooth things over whenever Frida had done something wrong or spoken too coarsely. Now the maid had a hard time accepting that Gaute sat in the high seat and was to be master of the estate. She seemed to consider him no more than a foolish boy; she boasted about his brothers, especially Bjørgulf and Skule, whom she had nursed, while she mocked Gaute’s short stature and crooked legs. Gaute took it with good humor.
“Well, you know, Frida, if I had nursed at your breast, I would have become a giant just like my brothers. But I had to be content with my mother’s breast.” And he smiled at Kristin.
Mother and son often went out walking in the evening. In many places the path across the fields was so narrow that Kristin had to walk behind Gaute. He would stroll along carrying the long-hafted axe, so manly that his mother had to smile behind his back. She had an impetuous, youthful desire to rush at him from behind and pull him to her, laughing and chattering with Gaute the way she had done occasionally when he was a child.
Sometimes they would go all the way down to the place on the riverbank where the washing was done and sit down to listen to the roar of the water rushing past, bright and roiling in the dusk. Usually they said very little to each other. But once in a while Gaute would ask his mother about the old days in the region and about her own lineage. Kristin would tell him what she had heard and seen in her childhood. His father and the years at Husaby were never mentioned on those nights.
“Mother, you’re sitting here shivering,” Gaute said one evening. “It’s cold tonight.”
“Yes, and I’ve grown stiff from sitting on this stone.” Kristin stood up. “I’m getting to be an old woman, my Gaute!”
Walking back, she placed her hand on his shoulder for support.
&
nbsp; Lavrans was sleeping like a rock in his bed. Kristin lit the little oil lamp; she felt like sitting up for a while to enjoy the sea calm in her own soul. And there was always some task to occupy her hands. Upstairs Gaute was clattering around with something; then she heard him climb into bed. Kristin straightened her back for a moment, smiling a bit at the tiny flame in the lamp. She moved her lips faintly, making the sign of the cross over her face and breast and in the air in front of her. Then she picked up her sewing again.
Bjørn, the old dog, stood up and shook himself, stretching out his front paws full length as he yawned. He padded across the floor to his mistress. As soon as she started petting him, he placed his front paws on her lap. When she spoke to him gently, the dog eagerly licked her face and hands as he wagged his tail. Then Bjørn slunk off again, turning his head to peer at Kristin. Guilt shone in his tiny eyes and was evident in his whole bulky, wiry-haired body, right down to the tip of his tail. Kristin smiled quietly and pretended not to notice; then the dog jumped up onto her bed and curled up at the foot.
After a while she blew out the lamp, pinched the spark off the wick, and tossed it into the oil. The light of the summer night was rising outside the little windowpane. Kristin said her last prayers of the day, silently undressed, and slipped into bed. She tucked the pillows comfortably under her breast and shoulders, and the old dog settled against her back. A moment later she fell asleep.
Bishop Halvard had assigned Sira Dag to the cleric’s position in the parish, and from him Gaute had purchased the bishop’s tithes for three years hence. He had also traded for hides and food in the region, sending the goods over the winter roads to Raumsdal and from there by ship to Bjørgvin in the spring. Kristin wasn’t pleased with these ventures of her son; she herself had always sold her goods in Hamar, because both her father and Simon Andressøn had done so. But Gaute had formed some sort of trade partnership with his kinsman Gerlak Paus. And Gerlak was a clever merchant, with close ties to many of the richest German merchants in Bjørgvin.
Erlend’s daughter Margret and her husband had come to Jørundgaard during the summer after Erlend’s death. They presented great gifts to the church for his soul. When Margret was a young maiden back home at Husaby, there had been scant friendship between her and her stepmother, and she had cared little for her small half brothers. Now she was thirty years old, with no children from her marriage; now she showed her handsome, grown-up brothers the most loving sisterly affection. And she was the one who arranged the agreement between Gaute and her husband.
Margret was still beautiful, but she had grown so big and fat that Kristin didn’t think she had ever seen such a stout woman. But there was all the more room for silver links on her belt, while a silver brooch as large as a small shield fit nicely between her enormous breasts. Her heavy body was always adorned like an altar with the costliest of fabrics and gilded metals. Gerlak Tiede kenssøn seemed to have the greatest love for his wife.
A year earlier Gaute had visited his sister and brother-in-law in Bjørgvin during the spring meetings, and in the fall he traveled over the mountains with a herd of horses, which he sold in town. The journey turned out to be so profitable that Gaute swore he would do it again this autumn. Kristin thought he should be allowed to do as he wished. No doubt he had some of his father’s lust for travel in his blood; surely he would settle down as he grew older. When his mother saw that he was aching to get away, she urged him to go. Last year he had been forced to come home through the mountains at the height of winter.
He set off on a beautiful sunny morning right after Saint Bartholomew’s Day. It was the time for slaughtering the goats, and the whole manor smelled of cooked goat meat. Everyone had eaten his fill and was feeling content. All summer long they had tasted no fresh meat except on high holy days, but now they had their share of the pungent meat and the strong, fatty broth at both breakfast and supper for many days. Kristin was exhausted and elated after helping with the first big slaughtering of the year and making sausages. She stood on the main road and waved with a corner of her wimple at Gaute’s entourage. It was a lovely sight: splendid horses and fresh young men riding along with glittering weapons and jangling harnesses. There was a great thundering as they rode across the high bridge. Gaute turned in his saddle and waved his hat, and Kristin waved back, giving a giddy little cry of joy and pride.
Just after Winter Day1 rain and sleet swept in over the countryside, with storms and snow in the mountains. Kristin was a little uneasy, for Gaute had still not returned. But she was never as fearful for him as she had been for the others; she believed in the good fortune of this son.
A week later Kristin was coming out of the cowshed late one evening when she caught sight of several horsemen up by the manor gate. The fog was billowing like white smoke around the lantern she carried; she began walking through the rain to meet the group of dark, fur-clad men. Could it be Gaute? It was unlikely that strangers would be arriving so late.
Then she saw that the rider in front was Sigurd of Sundbu. With the slight stiffness of an old man, he dismounted from his horse.
“Yes, I bring you news from Gaute, Kristin,” he said after they had greeted each other. “He arrived at Sundbu yesterday.”
It was so dark she couldn’t make out his expression. But his voice sounded so strange. And when he walked toward the door of the main house, he told his men to go with Kristin’s stableboy to the servants’ quarters. She grew frightened when he said nothing more, but when they were alone in the room, she asked quite calmly, “What news do you bring, kinsman? Is he ill, since he hasn’t come home with you?”
“No, Gaute is so well that I’ve never seen him look better. But his men were tired . . .”
He blew at the foam on the ale bowl that Kristin handed to him, then took a swallow and praised the brew.
“Good ale should be given to the one who brings good news,” said the mistress with a smile.
“Well, I wonder what you’ll say when you’ve heard all of my news,” he remarked rather diffidently. “He did not return alone this time, your son . . .”
Kristin stood there waiting.
“He has brought along . . . well, she’s the daughter of Helge of Hovland. He has apparently taken this—this maiden . . . taken her by force from her father.”
Kristin still said nothing. But she sat down on the bench across from him. Her lips were narrow and pressed tight.
“Gaute asked me to come here; I suppose he was afraid you wouldn’t be pleased. He asked me to tell you the news, and now I’ve done so,” concluded Sir Sigurd faintly.
“You must tell me everything you know about this matter, Sigurd,” said Kristin calmly.
Sir Sigurd did as she asked, in a vague and disjointed way, with a great deal of roundabout talk. He himself seemed to be quite horrified by Gaute’s action. But from his account Kristin discerned that Gaute had met the maiden in Bjørgvin the year before. Her name was Jofrid, and no, she had not been abducted. But Gaute had probably realized that it would do no good to speak to the maiden’s kinsmen about marriage. Helge of Hovland was a very wealthy man and belonged to the lineage known as Duk, with estates all over Voss. And then the Devil had tempted the two young people. . . . Sir Sigurd tugged at his clothing and scratched his head, as if he were swarming with lice.
Then, this past summer—when Kristin thought that Gaute was at Sundbu and was going to accompany Sir Sigurd into the mountain pastures to hunt for two vicious bears—he had actually journeyed over the heights and down to Sogn; Jofrid was staying there with a married sister. Helge had three daughters and no sons. Sigurd groaned in distress; yes, he had promised Gaute to keep silent about this. He knew the boy must be going to see a maiden, but he had never dreamed that Gaute was thinking of doing anything so foolish.
“Yes, my son is going to have to pay dearly for this,” replied Kristin. Her face was impassive and calm.
Sigurd said that winter had now set in for good, and the roads were nearly impassable.
After the men of Hovland had had time to think things over, perhaps they would see . . . It was best if Gaute won Jofrid with the consent of her kinsmen—now that she was already his.
“But what if they don’t see things that way? And demand revenge for abducting a woman?”
Sir Sigurd squirmed and scratched even more.
“I suppose it’s an unredeemable offense,”2 he said quietly. “I’m not quite certain . . .”
Kristin did not reply.
Then Sir Sigurd continued, his voice imploring, “Gaute said . . . He expected that you would welcome them kindly. He said that surely you are not so old that you’ve forgotten . . . Well, he said that you won the husband you insisted on having—do you understand?”
Kristin nodded.
“She’s the fairest child I have ever seen in my life, Kristin,” said Sigurd fervently. Tears welled up in his eyes. “It’s terrible that the Devil has lured Gaute into this misdeed, but surely you will receive these two poor children with kindness, won’t you?”
Kristin nodded again.
The countryside was sodden the next day, pallid and black under torrents of rain when Gaute rode into the courtyard around mid afternoon prayers.
Kristin felt a cold sweat on her brow as she leaned against the doorway. There stood Gaute, lifting down from her horse a woman dressed in a hooded black cloak. She was small in build, barely reaching up to his shoulders. Gaute tried to take her hand to lead her forward, but she pushed him away and came to meet Kristin alone. Gaute busied himself talking to the servants and giving orders to the men who had accompanied him. Then he cast another glance at the two women standing in front of the door; Kristin was holding both hands of the newly arrived girl. Gaute rushed over to them with a joyful greeting on his lips. In the entryway Sir Sigurd put his arm around his shoulder and gave him a fatherly pat, huffing and puffing after the strain.
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