The Bridal Wreath

by Sigrid Undset

  He drew the golden chain from out his shirt and hung it and the relic-holding cross about Kristin’s neck and thrust them in upon her bare body.

  “But see to it, all of you,” he said, “that you watch well your mouths, so Ragnfrid may never know the child has been in such peril.”

  Then they caught the three horses, which had made off into the woods, and went quickly down to the pasture where the other horses were grazing. There they all mounted and rode to the Jörundgaard sæter; it was no great way.

  The sun was near setting when they came thither; the cattle were in the pens, and Tordis and the herds were busy at the milking. Within the hut porridge stood cooked awaiting them, for the sæter-folk had spied them by the beacon earlier in the day, and they were looked for.

  Now, at length, was Kristin’s weeping stilled. She sat upon her father’s knee and ate porridge and cream from out the same spoon as he.

  Lavrans was to go next day to a lake farther in the mountains, where lay some of his herdsmen with the bulls. Kristin was to have gone with him, but now he said she must stay in the hut while he was gone. “And you must take heed, both Tordis and Isrid, to keep the door barred and the smokehole closed till we come back, both for Kristin’s sake and for the poor unchristened babe’s here in the cradle.”

  Tordis was so frighted now that she dared no longer stay with the little one up here, for she was still unchurched since her lying-in — rather would she go down at once and bide in the parish. Lavrans said this seemed to him but wise; she could go down with them the next evening; he thought he could get an older widow woman, serving at Jörundgaard, up hither in her stead.

  Tordis had spread sweet, fresh mountain grass under the skins on the benches; it smelt so strong and good, and Kristin was near asleep while her father said Our Father and Ave Maria over her.

  “Ay, ’twill be a long day before I take you with me to the fells again,” said Lavrans, patting her cheek.

  Kristin woke up with a start:

  “Father, mayn’t I go with you either when you go southwards at harvest, as you promised —”

  “We must see about that,” said Lavrans, and straightway Kristin fell asleep between the sheepskins.

  2

  EACH summer it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to ride southward and see to his manor in Follo. These journeys of her father were landmarks of each year in Kristin’s life — the long weeks while he was gone, and the joy of his homecoming with brave gifts: fine outlandish stuffs for her bride-chest, figs, raisins and honey-bread from Oslo — and many strange things to tell her.

  But this year Kristin marked that there was something more than common afoot toward the time of her father’s going. ’Twas put off and off; the old men from Loptsgaard rode over at odd times and sat about the board with her father and mother; spoke of heritage, and freehold and redemption rights, and hindrances to working the estate from so far off, and the Bishop’s seat and the King’s palace in Oslo, which took so much labour from the farms round about the town. They scarce ever had time to play with her, and she was sent out to the kitchen-house to the maids. Her mother’s brother, Trond Ivarsön, of Sundbu, came over to them more often than was his wont — but he had never been used to play with Kristin or pet her.

  Little by little she came to have some inkling of what it was all about. Ever since he was come to Sil, Lavrans had sought to gather to himself land here in the parish, and now had Sir Andres Gudmundsön tendered him Formo in Sil, which was Sir Andres’ heritage from his mother, in change for Skog, which lay more fittingly for him, since he was with the King’s bodyguard and rarely came hither to the Dale. Lavrans was loth to part with Skog, which was his freehold heritage, and had come to his forbears by royal gift; and yet the bargain would be for his gain in many ways. But Lavrans’ brother, Aasmund Björgulfsön, too, would gladly have Skog — he dwelt now in Hadeland, where he had wedded an estate — and ’twas not sure that Aasmund would waive the right his kinship gave him.

  But one day Lavrans told Ragnfrid that this year he would have Kristin with him to Skog. She should see the manor where she was born, and which was his fathers’ home, now that it was like to pass from their hands. Ragnfrid deemed this but right, though she feared not a little to send so young a child on such a long journey, where she herself could not be by.

  For a time after Kristin had seen the elf-maid she was so fearful that she kept much within doors by her mother — she was afraid even when she saw the folk who had been with them on the fells and knew what had befallen her, and she was glad her father had forbidden all talk of that sight of hers.

  But when some little time was gone by, she began to think she would like to speak of it. In her thoughts she told the story to some one — she knew not whom — and, ’twas strange, the more time went by, the better it seemed she remembered it, and the clearer and clearer grew the memory of the fair lady.

  But, strangest of all, each time she thought of the elf-maid there came upon her such a longing for the journey to Skog, and more and more fear that her father would not take her with him.

  At last she woke one morning in the loft-room and saw her mother and old Gunhild sitting on the threshold looking over a heap of Lavrans’ squirrel-skins. Gunhild was a widow who went the round of the farms and sewed fur-lining into cloaks and the like. And Kristin guessed from their talk that now it was she should have a new cloak, lined with squirrel-skin and edged with marten. And then she knew she was to go with her father, and she sprang up in bed and shrieked with gladness.

  Her mother came over to her and stroked her cheek:

  “Are you so glad, then, my daughter, you are going so far from me?”

  Ragnfrid said the same that morning they were to set out. They were up at cock-crow; it was dark without, with thick mist between the houses, as Kristin peeped out of the door-at the weather. The mist billowed like grey smoke round the lanterns, and out by the open house-doors. Folk ran ’twixt stables and outhouses, and women came from the kitchen with steaming porridge-pots and trenchers of meat and pork — they were to have a plenty of good, strong food before they rode out into the morning cold.

  Indoors, saddle-bags were shut and opened, and forgotten things packed inside. Ragnfrid called to her husband’s mind all the errands he must do for her, and spoke of kin and friends upon the way — he must greet this one and not forget to ask for that one.

  Kristin ran out and in; she said farewell many times to all in the house, and could not hold still a moment in any place.

  “Are you so glad, then, Kristin, you are going from me so far and for so long?” asked her mother. Kristin was abashed and uneasy, and wished her mother had not said this. But she answered as best she could:

  “No, dear my mother, but I am glad that I am to go with father.”

  “Ay, that you are indeed,” said Ragnfrid, sighing. Then she kissed the child and put the last touches to her dress.

  At last they were in the saddle, the whole train — Kristin rode on Morvin, who ere now had been her father’s saddle-horse — he was old, wise and steady. Ragnfrid held up the silver stoup with the stirrup-cup to her husband, and laid a hand upon her daughter’s knee and bade her bear in mind all her mother had taught her.

  And so they rode out of the courtyard in the grey light. The fog lay white as milk upon the parish. But in a while it began to grow thinner and the sunlight sifted through. And, dripping with dew, there shone through the white haze hillsides green with the aftermath, and pale stubble fields, and yellow trees, and rowans bright with red berries. Glimpses of blue mountain-sides seemed rising through the steamy haze — then the mist broke and drove in wreaths across the slopes, and they rode down the Dale in the most glorious sunshine, Kristin in front of the troop at her father’s side.

  They came to Hamar one dark and rainy evening, with Kristin sitting in front on her father’s saddle-bow, for she was so weary that all things swam before her eyes — the lake that gleamed wanly on their right, the gloomy trees
which dripped wet upon them as they rode beneath, and the dark, leaden clusters of houses on the hueless, sodden fields by the wayside.

  She had stopped counting the days — it seemed as though she had been an endless time on the journey. They had visited kindred and friends all down the Dale; she had made acquaintance with children on the great manors and had played in strange houses and barns and courtyards, and had worn many times her red dress with the silk sleeves. They had rested by the roadside by day when the weather was fair; Arne had gathered nuts for her and she had slept after meals upon the saddle-bags wherein were their clothes. At one great house they had silk-covered pillows in their beds; but one night they lay at an inn, and in one of the other beds was a woman who lay and wept softly and bitterly each time Kristin was awake. But every night she had slumbered safely behind her father’s broad, warm back.

  Kristin awoke with a start — she knew not where she was, but the wondrous ringing and booming sound she had heard in her dream went on. She was lying alone in a bed, and on the hearth of the room a fire was burning.

  She called upon her father, and he rose from the hearth where he had been sitting, and came to her along with a stout woman.

  “Where are we?” she asked; and Lavrans laughed, and said:

  “We’re in Hamar now, and here is Margret, the wife of Fartein the shoemaker. You must greet her prettily now, for you slept when we came hither. But now Margret will help you to your clothes.”

  “Is it morning, then?” said Kristin. “I thought you were even now coming to bed. Oh! do you help me,” she begged; but Lavrans said, something sternly, that she should rather be thankful to kind Margret for helping her.

  “And see what she has for you for a gift!”

  ’Twas a pair of red shoes with silken latchets. The woman smiled at Kristin’s glad face, and drew on her shift and hose up on the bed, that she should not need to tread barefoot upon the clay floor.

  “What is it makes such a noise,” asked Kristin, “like a church bell, but many bells?”

  “Ay, those are our bells,” laughed Margret. “Have you not heard of the great minister here in the town? — ’tis there you are going now. There goes the great bell! And now ’tis ringing in the cloister and in the church of Holy Cross as well.”

  Margret spread the butter thick upon Kristin’s bread and gave her honey in her milk, that the food she took might stand in more stead — she had scant time to eat.

  Out of doors it was still dark and the weather had fallen frosty. The fog was biting cold. The footprints of folk and of cattle and horses were hard as though cast in iron, so that Kristin bruised her feet in the thin, new shoes, and once she trod through the ice on the gutter in the middle of the street and her legs got wet and cold. Then Lavrans took her on his back and carried her.

  She strained her eyes in the gloom, but there was not much she could see of the town — she caught a glimpse of black house-gables and trees through the grey air. Then they came out upon a little meadow that shone with rime, and upon the farther side of the meadow she dimly saw a pale grey building, big as a fell. Great stone houses stood about, and at points lights glimmered from window-holes in the walls. The bells, which had been silent for a time, took to ringing again, and now it was with a sound so strong that a cold shiver ran down her back.

  ’Twas like going into the mountain-side, thought Kristin, when they mounted into the church forehall; it struck chill and dark in there. They went through a door, and were met by the stale, cold smell of incense and candles. Now Kristin was in a dark and vastly lofty place. She could not see where it ended, neither above nor to the sides, but lights burned upon an altar far in front. There stood a priest, and the echoes of his voice stole strangely round the great place, like breathings and whisperings. Her father signed the cross with holy water upon himself and the child, and so they went forward; though he stepped warily, his spurs rang loudly on the stone floor. They passed by giant pillars, and betwixt the pillars it was like looking into coal-black holes.

  Forward, nigh to the altar, the father bent his knee, and Kristin knelt beside him. She began to be able to make things out in the gloom — gold and silver glittered on altars in between the pillars, but upon that before them shone tapers which stood and burned on gilt candlesticks, while the light streamed back from the holy vessels and the big beautiful picture-panel behind. Kristin was brought again to think of the mountain-folk’s hall — even so had she dreamed it must be, splendid like this, but maybe with yet more lights. And the dwarf-maid’s face came up before her — but then she raised her eyes and spied upon the wall above the altar Christ Himself, great and stern, lifted high upon the Cross. Fear came upon her — He did not look mild and sorrowful as at home in their own snug timber-brown church, where He hung heavily, with pierced feet and hands, and bowed His blood-besprinkled head beneath the crown of thorns. Here He stood upon a footboard with stiff, outstretched arms and upright head; His gilded hair glittered; He was crowned with a crown of gold, and His face was upturned and harsh.

  Then she tried to follow the priest’s words as he read and chanted, but his speech was too hurried and unclear. At home she was wont to understand each word, for Sira Eirik had the clearest speech, and had taught her what the holy words betokened in Norse, that she might the better keep her thoughts with God while she was in church.

  But she could not do that here, for every moment she grew ware of something new in the darkness. There were windows high up in the walls, and these began to shimmer with the day And near by where they knelt there was raised a wondrous scaffolding of timber, but beyond lay blocks of light-coloured stone; and there stood mortar-troughs and tools — and she heard folks coming tiptoeing about in there. But then again her eyes fell upon the stern Lord Christ upon the wall, and she strove to keep her thoughts fixed upon the service. The icy cold from the stone floor stiffened her legs right up to the thighs, and her knees gave her pain. At length everything began to sway about her, so weary was she.

  Then her father rose; the mass was at an end. The priest came forward and greeted her father. While they spoke, Kristin sate herself down upon a step, for she saw the choir-boy had done the like. He yawned — and so she too fell a-yawning. When he marked that she looked at him, he set his tongue in his cheek and twisted his eyes at her. Thereupon he dug up a pouch from under his clothing and emptied upon the flags all that was in it — fish-hooks, lumps of lead, leather thongs and a pair of dice, and all the while he made signs to her. Kristin wondered mightily.

  But now the priest and her father looked at the children. The priest laughed, and bade the boy be gone back to school, but Lavrans frowned and took Kristin by the hand.

  It began to grow lighter in the church now. Kristin clung sleepily to Lavrans’ hand, while he and the priest walked beneath the pile of timber and talked of Bishop Ingjaid’s building-work.

  They wandered all about the church, and in the end went out into the forehall. Thence a stone stairway led to the western tower. Kristin tumbled wearily up the steps. The priest opened a door to a fair chapel, and her father said that Kristin should set herself without upon the steps and wait while he went to shrift; and thereafter she could come in and kiss St. Thomas’s shrine.

  At that there came an old monk in an ash-brown frock from out the chapel. He stopped a moment, smiled at the child, and drew forth some sacks and wadmal cloths which had been stuck into a hole in the wall. These he spread upon the landing.

  “Sit you here, and you will not be so cold,” said he, and passed down the steps upon his naked feet.

  Kristin was sleeping when Canon Martein, as the priest was called, came out and wakened her with a touch. Up from the church sounded the sweetest of song, and in the chapel candles burned upon the altar. The priest made sign that she should kneel by her father’s side, and then he took down a little golden shrine which stood above the communion-table. He whispered to her that in it was a piece of St. Thomas of Canterbury’s bloody garments, and he pointed
at the saint’s figure on the shrine that Kristin might press her lips to his feet.

  The lovely tones still streamed from the church as they came down the steps; Canon Martein said ’twas the organist practising his art and the schoolboys singing; but they had not the time to stay and listen, for her father was hungry — he had come fasting for confession — and they were now bound for the guest-room of the canons’ close to take their food.

  The morning sun without was gilding the steep shores on the farther side of the great lake, and all the groves of yellowing leaf-trees shone like gold-dust amid the dark-blue pine-woods. The lake ran in waves with small dancing white caps of foam to their heads. The wind blew cold and fresh, and the many-hued leaves drifted down upon the rimy hillsides.

  A band of riders came forth from between the Bishop’s palace and the house of the Brothers of Holy Cross. Lavrans stepped aside and bowed with a hand upon his breast, while he all but swept the sward with his hat, so Kristin could guess the nobleman in the fur cloak must be the Bishop himself, and she curtsied to the ground.

  The Bishop reined in his horse, and gave back the greeting; he beckoned Lavrans to him and spoke with him a while. In a short space Lavrans came back to the priest and child, and said:

  “Now am I bidden to eat at the Bishop’s palace — think you, Canon Martein, that one of the serving-men of the canonry could go with this little maid of mine home to Fartein the shoemaker’s, and bid my men send Halvdan to meet me here with Guldsveinen at the hour of nones.”

  The priest answered, doubtless what he asked could be done. But on this the bare-footed monk who had spoken to Kristin on the tower stairs came forward and saluted them:

  “There is a man here in our guest-house who has an errand of his own to the shoemaker’s; he can bear your bidding thither, Lavrans Björgulfsön, and your daughter can go with him or bide at the cloister with me till you yourself are for home. I shall see to it that she has her food there.”