The Bridal Wreath

by Sigrid Undset

  One evening in early spring Ragnfrid had to send down the valley to old Gunhild, the widow who sewed furs. The evening was so fair that Kristin asked if she might not go; at last they gave her leave, since all the men were busy.

  It was after sunset, and a fine white frost-haze was rising toward the gold-green sky. Kristin heard at each hoof-stroke the brittle sound of the evening’s ice as it broke and flew outwards in tinkling splinters. But from all the roadside brakes there was a happy noise of birds singing, softly but full-throated with spring, into the twilight.

  Kristin rode sharply downwards; she thought not much of anything, but felt only it was good to be abroad alone once more. She rode with her eyes fixed on the new moon sinking down toward the mountain ridge on the far side of the Dale; and she had near fallen from her horse when he suddenly swerved aside and reared.

  She saw a dark body lying huddled together at the roadside — and at first she was afraid. The hateful fear that had passed into her blood — the fear of meeting people alone by the way — she could never quite be rid of. But she thought ’twas maybe a wayfaring man who had fallen sick; so when she had mastered her horse again, she turned and rode back, calling out to know who it was.

  The bundle stirred a little, and a voice said:

  “Methinks ’tis you yourself, Kristin Lavransdatter —”

  “Brother Edvin?” she asked softly. She came near to thinking this was some phantom or some deviltry sent to trick her. But she went nigh to him; it was the old monk himself, and he could not raise himself from the ground without help.

  “Dear my Father — are you out wandering at this time of the year?” she said in wonder.

  “Praise be to God, who sent you this way to-night,” said the monk. Kristin saw that his whole body was shaking. “I was coming north to you folks, but my legs would carry me no farther this night. Almost I deemed ’twas God’s will that I should lie down and die on the roads I have been wandering about on all my life. But I was fain to see you once again, my daughter —”

  Kristin helped the monk up on her horse; then led it homeward by the bridle, holding him on. And all the time he was lamenting that now she would get her feet wet in the icy slush, she could hear him moaning softly with pain.

  He told her that he had been at Eyabu since Yule. Some rich farmers of the parish had vowed in the bad year to beautify their church with new adornments. But the work had gone slowly; he had been sick the last of the winter — the evil was in his stomach — it could bear no food, and he vomited blood. He believed himself he had not long to live, and he longed now to be home in his cloister, for he was fain to die there among his own brethren. But he had a mind first to come north up the Dale one last time, and so he had set out, along with the monk who came from Hamar to be the new prior of the pilgrim hospice at Roaldstad. From Fron he had come on alone.

  “I heard that you were betrothed,” he said, “to that man — and then such a longing came on me to see you. It seemed to me a sore thing that that should be our last meeting, that time in our church at Oslo. It has been a heavy burden on my heart, Kristin, that you had strayed away into the path where is no peace —”

  Kristin kissed the monk’s hand.

  “Truly I know not, Father, what I have done, or how deserved, that you show me such great love.” The monk answered in a low voice:

  “I have thought many a time, Kristin, that had it so befallen we had met more often, then might you have come to be as my daughter in the spirit.”

  “Mean you that you would have brought me to turn my heart to the holy life of the cloister?” asked Kristin. Then, a little after, she said: “Sira Eirik laid a command on me that, should I not win my father’s consent and be wed with Erlend, then must I join with a godly sisterhood and make atonement for my sins —”

  “I have prayed many a time that the longing for the holy life might come to you,” said Brother Edvin. “But not since you told me that you wot of — I would have had you come to God, wearing your garland, Kristin —”

  When they came to Jörundgaard Brother Edvin had to be lifted down and borne in to his bed. They laid him in the old winter-house, in the hearth-room, and cared for him most tenderly. He was very sick, and Sira Eirik came and tended him with medicines for the body and the soul. But the priest said the old man’s sickness was cancer, and it could not be that he had long to live. Brother Edvin himself said that when he had gained a little strength he would journey south again and try to come home to his own cloister. But Sira Eirik told the others he could not believe this was to be thought of.

  It seemed to all at Jörundgaard that a great peace and gladness had come to them with the monk. Folks came and went in the hearth-room all day long, and there was never any lack of watchers to sit at nights by the sick man. As many as had time flocked in to listen, when Sira Eirik came over and read to the dying man from godly books, and they talked much with Brother Edvin of spiritual things. And though much of what he said was dark and veiled, even as his speech was wont to be, it seemed to these folks that he strengthened and comforted their souls, because each and all could see that Brother Edvin was wholly filled with the love of God.

  But the monk was fain to hear, too, of all kind of other things — asked the news of the parishes round, and had Lavrans tell him all the story of the evil year of drought. There were some folk who had betaken them to evil courses in that tribulation, turning to such helpers as Christian men should most abhor. Some way in over the ridges west of the Dale was a place in the mountains where were certain great white stones, of obscene shapes, and some men had fallen so low as to sacrifice boars and gib-cats before these abominations. So Sira Eirik moved some of the boldest, most God-fearing farmers to come with him one night and break the stones in pieces. Lavrans had been with them, and could bear witness that the stones were all besmeared with blood, and there lay bones and other refuse all around them. ’Twas said that up in Heidal the people had had an old crone sit out on a great earthfest rock three Thursday nights, chanting ancient spells.

  One night Kristin sat alone by Brother Edvin. At midnight he woke up, and seemed to be suffering great pain. Then he bade Kristin take the book of the Miracles of the Virgin Mary, which Sira Eirik had lent to Brother Edvin, and read to him.

  Kristin was little used to read aloud, but she set herself down on the step of the bed and placed the candle by her side; she laid the book on her lap and read as well as she could.

  In a little while she saw that the sick man was lying with teeth set tight, clenching his wasted hands as the fits of agony took him.

  “You are suffering much, dear Father,” said Kristin sorrowfully.

  “It seems so to me now. But I know ’tis but that God has made me a little child again, and is tossing me about, up and down.…

  “I mind me one time when I was little — four winters old I was then — I had run away from home into the woods. I lost myself, and wandered about many days and nights. My mother was with the folks that found me, and when she caught me up in her arms, I mind me well, she bit me in my neck. I thought it was that she was angry with me — but afterward I knew better.…

  “I long, myself, now, to be home out of this forest. It is written: ‘Forsake ye all things and follow Me’ — but there has been all too much in this world that I had no mind to forsake —”

  “You, Father?” said Kristin. “Ever have I heard all men say that you have been a pattern for pure life and poverty and humbleness —”

  The monk laughed slily.

  “Ay, a young child like you thinks, maybe, there are no other lures in the world than pleasure and riches and power. But I say to you, these are small things men find by the wayside; and I — I have loved the ways themselves — not the small things of the world did I love, but the whole world. God gave me grace to love Lady Poverty and Lady Chastity from my youth up, and thus methought with these playfellows it was safe to wander, and so I have roved and wandered, and would have been fain to roam over all th
e ways of the earth. And my heart and my thoughts have roamed and wandered too — I fear me I have often gone astray in my thoughts on the most hidden things. But now ’tis all over, little Kristin; I will home now to my house and lay aside all my own thoughts, and hearken to the clear words of the Gardian telling what I should believe and think concerning my sin and the mercy of God —”

  A little while after, he dropped asleep. Kristin went and sat by the hearth, tending the fire. But well on in the morning, when she was nigh dozing off herself, of a sudden Brother Edvin spoke from the bed:

  “Glad am I, Kristin, that this matter of you and Erlend Nikulaussön is brought to a good end.”

  Kristin burst out weeping:

  “We have done so much wrong before we came so far. And what gnaws at my heart most is that I have brought my father so much sorrow. He has no joy in this wedding either. And even so he knows not; did he know all, I trow he would take his kindness quite from me.”

  “Kristin,” said Brother Edvin gently, “see you not, child, that ’tis therefore you must keep it from him, and ’tis therefore you must give him no more cause of sorrow — because he never will call on you to pay the penalty. Nothing you could do could turn your father’s heart from you.”

  A few days later Brother Edvin was grown so much better that he would fain set out on his journey southward. Since his heart was set on this, Lavrans had a kind of litter made, to be slung between two horses, and on this he brought the sick man as far south as to Lidstad; there they gave him fresh horses and men to tend him on his way, and in this wise was he brought as far as Hamar. There he died in the cloister of the Preaching Friars, and was buried in their church. Afterward the Barefoot Friars claimed that his body should be delivered to them; for that many folks all about in the parishes held him to be a holy man, and spoke of him by the name of Saint Evan. The peasants of the Uplands and the Dales, all the way north to Trondheim, prayed to him as a saint. So it came about that there was a long dispute between the two Orders about his body.

  Kristin heard naught of this till long after. But she grieved sorely at parting from the monk. It seemed to her that he alone knew all her life — he had known the innocent child as she was in her father’s keeping, and he had known her secret life with Erlend; so that he was, as it were, a link binding together all that had first been dear to her with all that now filled her heart and mind. Now was she quite cut off from herself as she had been in the time when she was yet a maid.

  7

  “AY,” said Ragnfrid, feeling with her hand the lukewarm brew in the vats, “methinks ’tis cool enough now to mix in the barm.”

  Kristin had been sitting in the brew-house doorway spinning, while she waited for the brew to cool. She laid down the spindle on the threshold, unwrapped the rug from the pail of risen yeast, and began measuring out.

  “Shut the door first,” bade her mother, “so the draught may not come in — you seem walking in your sleep, Kristin,” she said testily.

  Kristin poured the yeast into the vats, while Ragnfrid stirred.

  … Geirhild Drivsdatter called on Hatt,* but he was Odin. So he came and helped her with the brewing; and he craved for his wage that which was between the vat and her.…’Twas a saga that Lavrans had once told when she was little.

  … That which was between the vat and her.…

  Kristin felt dizzy and sick with the heat and the sweet, spicy-smelling steam that filled the dark close-shut brew-house.

  Out in the farm-place Ramborg and a band of children were dancing in a ring, singing:

  “The eagle sits on the topmost hill-crag

  Crooking his golden claws —”

  Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them.

  Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother looked at the pigs, and said:

  “With less than eighteen reindeer we shall never win through.”

  “Think you we shall need so many?” said her daughter absently.

  “Ay, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,” answered Ragnfrid. “And of wild-fowl and hare we shall scarce have more than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place — counting serving-folk and children — and the poor that have to be fed. And even should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I trow, will stay out the week — at least.”

  “You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “ ’Tis time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.”

  Kristin fetched her spinning gear and sat herself down there in the back doorway. She put the distaff with the bunch of wool up under her arm-pit, but her hands, with the spindle in them, sank into her lap.

  Beyond the fence the ears of barley gleamed silvery and silken in the sunshine. Above the song of the river she heard now and again from the meadows on the river-island the ring of a scythe — sometimes the iron would strike upon a stone. Her father and the house-folk were hard at work on the hay-making, to get it off their hands. For there was much to get through and to make ready against her wedding.

  The scent of the lukewarm grains, and the rank smell of the swine — she grew qualmish again. And the midday heat made her so dizzy and faint. White and stiffly upright she sat and waited for it to pass over — she would not be sick again.…

  Never before had she felt what now she felt. ’Twas of no avail to try to tell herself for comfort; it was not certain yet — she might be wrong.… That which was between the vat and her.…

  Eighteen reindeer. Well on toward two hundred wedding guests.… Folk would have a rare jest to laugh at when ’twas known that all this hubbub had but been about a breeding woman they had to see and get married before …

  Oh no! She threw her spinning from her and started up as the sickness overcame her again.… Oh no! it was sure enough!…

  They were to be wedded the second Sunday after Michaelmas, and the bridal was to last for five days. There were more than two months still to wait; they would be sure to see it on her — her mother and the other housewives of the parish. They were ever so wise in such things — knew them months before Kristin could understand how they saw them. “Poor thing, she grows so pale.…” Impatiently Kristin rubbed her hands against her cheeks; she felt that they were white and bloodless.

  Before, she had so often thought: this must happen soon or late. And she had not feared it so terribly. But ’twould not have been the same then, when they could not — were forbidden to come together in lawful wise. It was counted — ay, a shame in a manner, and a sin too — but if ’twere two young things who would not let themselves be forced apart, folk remembered that ’twas so, and spoke of them with forbearance. She would not have been ashamed. But when such things happened between a betrothed pair — there was naught for them but laughter and gross jesting. She saw it herself — one could not but laugh: here was brewing and mixing of wine, slaughtering and baking and cooking for a wedding that should be noised far abroad in the land — and she. the bride, grew qualmish if she but smelt food, and crept in a cold sweat behind the outhouses to be sick.

  Erlend! She set her teeth hard in anger. He should have spared her this. For she had not been willing. He should have remembered that before, when all had been so unsure for her, when she had had naught to trust to but his love, she had ever, ever gladly been his. He should have let her be now, when she tried to deny him because she thought ’twas not well of them to take aught by stealth, after her father had joined their hands together in the sight of Erlend’s kinsmen and hers. But he had taken her to him, half by force, with laughter and caresses; so that she had not had strength enough to show him she was
in earnest in her denial.

  She went in and saw to the beer in the vats, then came back again and stood leaning on the fence. The standing grain moved gently in shining ripples before a breath of wind. She could not remember any year when she had seen the corn-fields bear such thick and abundant growth.… The river glittered far off, and she heard her father’s voice shouting — she could not catch the words, but she could hear the reapers on the island laughing.

  … Should she go to her father and tell him: ’Twould be best to let be all this weary bustle and let Erlend and her come together quietly without church-wedding or splendid feasts — now that the one thing needful was that she should bear the name of wife before ’twas plain to all men that she bore Erlend’s child under her heart already?

  He would be a laughing-stock, Erlend too, as much as she — or even more, for he was no green boy any longer. But it was he who would have this wedding; he had set his heart on seeing her stand as his bride in silk and velvets and tall golden crown — that was his will, and it had been his will, too, to possess her in those sweet secret hours of last spring. She had yielded to him in that. And she must do his will too in this other thing.

  But in the end ’twas like he would be forced to see — no one could have it both ways in such things. He had talked so much of the great Yuletide feast he would hold at Husaby the first year she sat there as mistress of his house — how he would show forth to all his kinsmen and friends and all the folks from far around the fair wife he had won. Kristin smiled scornfully. A seemly thing ’twould be this Yuletide, such a home-coming feast!

  Her time would be at St. Gregory’s Mass or thereabout. Thoughts seemed to swarm and jostle in her mind when she said to herself that at Gregory’s Mass she was to bear a child. There was some fear among the thoughts — she remembered how her mother’s cries had rung all round the farm-place for two whole days, the time that Ulvhild was born. At Ulvsvold two young wives had died in childbirth, one after the other — and Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first wives too. And her own father’s mother, whose name she bore.…