“Now, good fellows,” said she, “we need you not any more to guide us; for we know the way from here. We thank you for your pains, and here is the wage we bargained for. God be with you, good friends.”
The men looked at one another so foolishly, that Kristin was near smiling. Then one said with an ugly grin that the road down to the bridge was exceeding lonely; ’twas not wise for them to go alone.
“None, surely, are such nithings or such fools that they would seek to stop two maids, and they in the convent habit,” answered Kristin. “We would fain go our own way alone now —” and she held out the money.
The man caught her by the wrist, thrust his face close up to hers, and said somewhat of “kuss” and “beutel” — Kristin made out he was saying they might go in peace if she but gave him a kiss and her purse.
She remembered Bentein’s face close to hers like this, and such a fear came on her for a moment that she grew faint and sick. But she pressed her lips together, and called in her heart upon God and the Virgin Mary — and in the same instant she thought she heard hoof-falls on the path from the north.
She struck the man in the face with her purse so that he staggered— and then she pushed him in the breast with all her strength so that he tumbled off the path and down into the wood. The other German gripped her from behind, tore the purse from her hand and her chain from her neck so that it broke — she was near falling, but clutched the man and tried to get her cross from him again. He struggled to get free — the robbers, too, had now heard folk coming — Ingebjörg screamed with all her might, and the riders on the path came galloping forward at full speed. They burst out of the thicket — three of them — and Ingebjörg ran shrieking to meet them as they sprang from their horses. Kristin knew one for the esquire of Didrek’s loft; he drew his sword, seized the German she was struggling with by the back of the neck, and thrashed him with the flat of his blade. His men ran after the other, caught him and beat him to their heart’s content.
Kristin leaned against the face of the rock; she was trembling now that all was over, but what she felt most was marvel that her prayer had brought such speedy help. Then she caught sight of Ingebjörg, who had thrown back her hood hung her cape loosely over her shoulders and was in the act of bringing her heavy, shining plaits of hair forward into sight upon her breast. At this sight Kristin burst out a-laughing — her strength left her and she had to hold on to a tree to keep her feet, for ’twas as though the marrow of her bones was turned to water, she felt so weak; and so she trembled and laughed and cried.
The esquire came forward and laid a hand warily upon her shoulder:
“You were more frightened, I see, than you would show,” said he, and his voice was kindly and gentle. “But now you must take a hold on yourself — you bore you so bravely while yet there was peril —”
Kristin could only look up at him and nod. He had fine, bright eyes set in a narrow, pale-brown face, and coal-black hair clipped somewhat short over the forehead and behind the ears.
Ingebjörg had her hair in order now; she came and thanked the stranger with many fair words. He stood there still with a hand on Kristin’s shoulder while he answered her comrade.
“We must take these birds along,” said he to his men, who stood holding the two Germans — they were from a Rostock ship, they said — “we must have them along with us to the town that they may be sent to the black hole. But first must we take these two maids home to the convent. You can find some thongs, I trow, to bind them with —”
“Mean you the maids, Erlend?” asked one of the men. They were young, stout, well-appointed yeomen, and were in high feather from the tussle.
Their master frowned and seemed about to answer sharply, but Kristin laid her hand upon his sleeve:
“Let them go, dear sir!” She shuddered a little. “Loth would we be, in truth, both my sister and I, this matter should be talked of.”
The stranger looked down at her — he bit his lip and nodded, as though he understood her. Then he gave each of the captives a blow on the nape with the flat of his sword which sent them sprawling forwards. “Run for it, then,” he said, kicking them, and both scrambled up and took to their heels as fast as they could. Then he turned again to the maidens and asked if they would please to ride.
Ingebjörg let herself be lifted into Erlend’s saddle, but it was soon plain that she could not keep her seat — she slid down again at once. He looked at Kristin doubtfully, and she said that she was used to ride on a man’s saddle.
He took hold of her below the knees and lifted her up. A sweet and happy thrill ran through her to feel how carefully he held her from him, as though afraid to come near her — at home, no one ever minded how tight they held her when they helped her on to a horse. She felt marvellously honoured and uplifted.
The knight — as Ingebjörg called him, though he had but silver spurs — now offered that maiden his hand, and his men sprang to their saddles. Ingebjörg would have it that they should ride round the town to the northward below the Ryenberg and Martestokke, and not through the streets. First, she gave as a reason that Sir Erlend and his men were fully armed — were they not? The knight answered gravely that the ban on carrying arms was not over strict at any time — for travellers at least — and now every one in the town was out on a wild beast hunt. Then she said she was fearful of the pards. Kristin saw full well that Ingebjörg was fain to go by the longest and loneliest road, that she might have the more talk with Erlend.
“This is the second time this evening that we hinder you, good sir,” said she, and Erlend answered soberly:
“ ’Tis no matter, I am bound no farther than to Gerdarud tonight — and ’tis light the whole night long.”
It liked Kristin well that he jested not, nor bantered them, but talked to her as though she were his like or even more than his like. She thought of Simon; she had not met other young men of courtly breeding. But ’twas true, this man seemed older than Simon.
They rode down into the valley below the Ryenberg hills and up along the beck. The path was narrow, and the young bushes swung wet, heavily scented branches against her — it was a little darker down here, and the air was cool and the leaves all dewy along the beck-path.
They went slowly, and the horses’ hoofs sounded muffled on the damp, grass-grown path. She rocked gently in the saddle; behind her she heard Ingebjörg’s chatter, and the stranger’s deep, quiet voice. He said little, and answered as if his mind wandered — it sounded almost as if his mood were like her own, she thought — she felt strangely drowsy, yet safe and content now that all the day’s chances were safely over.
It was like waking to come out of the woods on to the green slopes under the Martestokke hills. The sun was gone down, and the town and the bay lay below them in a clear, pale light — above the Aker ridges there was a light-yellow strip edging the pale-blue sky. In the evening hush, sounds were borne to them from far off, as they came out of the cool depths of the wood — a cart-wheel creaked somewhere upon a road, dogs on the farms bayed at each other across the valley. And from the woods behind them birds trilled and sang full-throated, now the sun was down.
Smoke was in the air from the fires on lands under clearance, and out in a field there was the red flare of a bonfire; against the great ruddy flame the clearness of the night seemed a kind of darkness.
They were riding between the fences of the convent-fields when the stranger spoke to her again. He asked her what she thought best; should he go with her to the gate and ask for speech of the Lady Groa, so that he might tell her how this thing had come about. But Ingebjörg would have it that they should steal in through the church; then maybe they might slip into the convent without any one knowing they had been away so much too long — it might be her kinsfolks’ visit had made Sister Potentia forget them.
The open place before the west door of the church was empty and still, and it came not into Kristin’s thoughts to wonder at this, though there was wont to be much life there
of an evening, with folks from the neighbourhood who came to the nuns’ church, and from the houses round about wherein lay-servants and commoners dwelt. They said farewell to Erlend here. Kristin stood and stroked his horse; it was black, and had a comely head and soft eyes — she thought it like Morvin, whom she had been wont to ride at home when she was a child.
“What is your horse’s name, sir?” she asked, as it turned its head from her and snuffed at its master’s breast.
“Bayard,” said he, looking at her over the horse’s neck. “You ask my horse’s name, but not mine?”
“I would be fain to know your name, sir,” she replied, and bent her head a little.
“I am called Erlend Nikulaussön,” said he.
“Then, Erlend Nikulaussön, have thanks for your good service this night,” said Kristin, and proffered him her hand.
Of a sudden she flushed red, and half withdrew her hand from his.
“Lady Aashild Gautesdatter of Dovre, is she your kinswoman?” she asked.
To her wonder she saw that he, too, blushed — he dropped her hand suddenly, and answered:
“She is my mother’s sister. And I am Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby.” He looked at her so strangely that she became still more abashed, but she mastered herself, and said:
“ ’Tis true I should have thanked you with better words, Erlend Nikulaussön; but I know not what I can say to you.”
He bowed before her, and she felt that now she must bid him good-bye, though she would fain have spoken more with him. In the church door she turned, and as she saw that Erlend still stood beside his horse, she waved her hand to him in farewell.
The convent was in a hubbub, and all within in great dismay. Haakon had sent word home by a horseman, while he, himself, went seeking the maids in the town; and folks had been sent from the convent to help him. The nuns had heard the wild beasts had killed and eaten up two children down in the town. This, to be sure, was a lie, and the pard — there was only one — had been caught before vespers by some men from the King’s palace.
Kristin stood with bent head and kept silence, while the Abbess and Sister Potentia poured out their wrath upon the two maidens. She felt as though something were asleep within her. Ingebjörg wept and began to make excuse — they had gone out with Sister Potentia’s leave, with fitting attendance, and, sure, they were not to blame for what had happened after.
But Lady Groa said they might now stay in the church till the hour of midnight struck, that they might strive to turn their thoughts to the things of the spirit, and might thank God who had saved their lives and honour. “God hath now manifested clearly to you the truth about the world,” said she; “wild beasts and the servants of the devil threaten his children there at every footstep, and there is no salvation except ye hold fast to Him with prayer and supplication.”
She gave them each a lighted candle and bade them go with Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter, who was often alone in the church praying the whole night long.
Kristin put her candle upon St. Lawrence’s altar and knelt on the praying-stool. She fixed her gaze on the flame while she said over the Paternoster and the Ave Maria softly. The sheen of the candle seemed little by little to enfold her and to shut out all that was outside her and the light. She felt her heart open and overflow with thankfulness and praise and love of God and His gentle Mother — they came so near to her. She had always known they saw her, but to-night she felt that it was so. She saw the world as in a vision; a great dark room whereinto fell a sunbeam; the motes were dancing in and out between the darkness and the light, and she felt that now she had at last slipped into the sunbeam.
She felt she would gladly have stayed for ever in this dark, still church — with the few small spots of light like golden stars in the night, the sweet stale scent of incense, and the warm smell of the burning wax. And she at rest within her own star.
It was as if some great joy were at an end, when Sister Cecilia came gliding to her and touched her shoulder. Bending before the altars, the three women went out of the little south door into the convent close.
Ingebjörg was so sleepy that she went to bed without a word. Kristin was glad — she had been loth to have her good thoughts broken in on. And she was glad, too, that they must keep on their shifts at night — Ingebjörg was so fat and had been so over-hot.
She lay awake long, but the deep flood of sweetness that she had felt lifting her up as she knelt in the church would not come again. Yet she felt the warmth of it within her still; she thanked God with all her heart, and thought she felt her spirit strengthened while she prayed for her father and mother and sisters, and for Arne Gyrdsön’s soul.
Father, she thought — she longed so much for him, for all they had been to one another before Simon Darre came into their lives. There welled up in her a new tenderness for him — there was, as it were, a foretaste of mother’s love and care in her love for her father this night; dimly she felt that there was so much in life that he had missed. She called to mind the old, black wooden church at Gerdarud — she had seen there this last Easter the graves of her three little brothers and of her grandmother, her father’s own mother, Kristin Sigurdsdatter, who died when she brought him into the world.
What could Erlend Nikulaussön have to do at Gerdarud — she could not think.
She had no knowledge that she had thought much of him that evening, but the whole time the thought of his dark, narrow face and his quiet voice had hung somewhere in the dusk outside the glow of light that enfolded her spirit.
When she awoke the next morning, the sun was shining into the dormitory, and Ingebjörg told her how Lady Groa herself had bidden the lay-sisters not to wake them for matins. She had said that when they woke, they might go over to the kitchen-house and get some food. Kristin grew warm with gladness at the Abbess’ kindness — it seemed as if the whole world had been good to her.
3
THE FARMERS’ guild* of Aker had St. Margaret for their patroness, and they began their festival each year on the twentieth of July, the day of St. Margaret’s Mass. On that day the guild brothers and sisters, with their children, their guests and their serving-folk, gathered at Aker’s church and heard mass at St. Margaret’s altar there; after that they wended their way to the hall of the guild, which lay near the Hofvin Hospital — there they were wont to hold a drinking-feast lasting five days.
But since both Aker’s church and the Hofvin spital belonged to Nonneseter, and as, besides, many of the Aker farmers were tenants of the convent, it had come to be the custom that the Abbess and some of the elder Sisters should honour the guild by coming to the feasting on the first day. And those of the young maids who were at the convent only to learn, and were not to take the veil, had leave to go with them and to dance in the evening; therefore at this feast they wore their own clothes and not the convent habit.
And so there was great stir and bustle in the novices’ sleeping rooms on the eve of St. Margaret’s Mass; the maids who were to go to the guild feast ransacking their chests and making ready their finery, while the others, less fortunate, went about something moodily and looked on. Some had set small pots in the fireplace and were boiling water to make their skin white and soft; others were making a brew to be smeared on their hair — then they parted the hair into strands and twisted them tightly round strips of leather, and this gave them curling, wavy tresses.
Ingebjörg brought out all the finery she had, but could not think what she should wear — come what might, not her best, leaf-green velvet dress; that was too good and too costly for such a peasant rout. But a little, thin sister who was not to go with them — Helga was her name; she had been vowed to the convent by her father and mother while still a child — took Kristin aside and whispered: she was sure Ingebjörg would wear the green dress and her pink silk shift too.
“You have ever been kind to me, Kristin,” said Helga. “It beseems me little to meddle in such doings — but I will tell you none the less. The knight who brought you hom
e that evening in the spring — I have seen and heard Ingebjörg talking with him since — they spoke together in the church, and he has tarried for her up in the hollow when she hath gone to Ingunn at the commoners’ house. But ’tis you he asks for, and Ingebjörg has promised him to bring you there along with her. But I wager you have not heard aught of this before!”
“True it is that Ingebjörg has said naught of this,” said Kristin. She pursed up her mouth that the other might not see the smile that would come out. So this was Ingebjörg’s way. “ ’Tis like she knows I am not of such as run to trysts with strange men round house-corners and behind fences,” said she proudly.
“Then I might have spared myself the pains of bringing you tidings whereof ’twould have been but seemly I should say no word,” said Helga, wounded, and they parted.
But the whole evening Kristin was put to it not to smile when any one was looking at her.
Next morning, Ingebjörg went dallying about in her shift, till Kristin saw she meant not to dress before she herself was ready.
Kristin said naught, but laughed as she went to her chest and took out her golden-yellow silken shift. She had never worn it before, and it felt so soft and cool as it slipped down over her body. It was broidered with goodly work, in silver and blue and brown silk, about the neck and down upon the breast, as much as should be seen above the low-cut gown. There were sleeves to match, too. She drew on her linen hose, and laced up the small, purple-blue shoes which Haakon, by good luck, had saved that day of commotion. Ingebjörg gazed at her — then Kristin said laughing:
“My father ever taught me never to show disdain of those beneath us — but ’tis like you are too grand to deck yourself in your best for poor tenants and peasant-folk —”
Red as a berry, Ingebjörg slipped her woollen smock down over her white hips and hurried on the pink silk shift. Kristin threw over her own head her best velvet gown — it was violet-blue, deeply cut out at the bosom, with long slashed sleeves flowing well-nigh to the ground. She fastened the gilt belt about her waist, and hung her grey squirrel cape over her shoulders. Then she spread her masses of yellow hair out over her shoulders and back, and fitted the golden fillet, chased with small roses, upon her brow.
The Bridal Wreath Page 13