The Bridal Wreath

by Sigrid Undset

  But fear was not uppermost in her mind. She had often thought, when after that first time she saw no sign that she was with child — maybe this was to be their punishment — hers and Erlend’s. She would always be barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared before, would hope as vainly as of old they had feared needlessly — till at last they would know that one day they should be borne forth from the home of his fathers, and be as though they had never been — for his brother was a priest, and the children he had could inherit naught from him. Dumpy Munan and his sons would come in and sit in their seats, and Erlend would be blotted out from the line of his kindred.

  She pressed her hand hard to her body. It was there — between the fence and her — between the vat and her. ’Twas between her and all the world — Erlend’s own son. She had made the trial already that she had once heard Lady Aashild speak of; with blood from her right arm and her left. ’Twas a son that was coming to her — whatever fate he was to bring.… She remembered her dead little brothers, her parents’ sorrowful faces when they spoke of them; she remembered all the times she had seen them both in despair for Ulvhild’s sake — and the night when Ulvhild died. And she thought of all the sorrow she herself had brought them, of her father’s grief-worn face — and the end was not yet of the sorrows she was to bring on her father and mother.

  And yet — and yet, Kristin laid her head on the arm that rested on the fence; the other hand she still held to her body. Even if it brought her new sorrows, even if it led her feet down to death — she would rather die in bearing Erlend a son than that they should both die one day, and leave their houses standing empty, and the corn on their lands should wave for strangers.…

  She heard a footstep in the room behind her. The ale! thought Kristin — I should have seen to it long ago. She stood up and turned — and Erlend came stooping through the doorway and stepped out into the sunlight — his face shining with gladness.

  “Is this where you are?” he asked. “And not a step will you come to meet me, even?” he said; and came and threw his arms about her.

  “Dearest; are you come hither?” she said in wonder.

  It was plain he was just alighted from his horse — his cloak still hung from his shoulder, and his sword at his side — he was unshaven, travel-soiled and covered with dust. He was clad in a red surcoat that hung in folds from its collar and was open up the sides almost to the arm-pits. As they passed through the brew-house and across the courtyard, the coat swung and flapped about him so that his thighs showed right up to the waist. His legs bent a little outwards when he walked — it was strange she had never marked it before — she had only seen that he had long slender legs, with fine ankles and small well-shaped feet.

  Erlend had come well attended — with five men and four led horses. He told Ragnfrid that he was come to fetch Kristin’s goods — ’twould be more homely for her, he thought, to find the things awaiting her at Husaby when she came thither. And so late in the autumn as the wedding was to be, it might be harder then to have the goods brought across the hills — besides they might easily be spoiled by the sea-water on shipboard. Now the Abbot of Nidarholm had proffered to give him leave to send them by the Laurentius galleass — ’twas meant she should sail from Veöy about Assumption Day. So he was come to have the goods carted over to Romsdal and down to Næs.

  He sat in the doorway of the kitchen-house, drinking ale and talking while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild-duck Lavrans had brought home the day before. Mother and daughter were alone on the place; all the women were busy raking in the meadows. He looked so glad and happy — he was pleased with himself for coming on such a wise and prudent errand.

  Ragnfrid went out, and Kristin stayed minding the spit with the roasting birds. Through the open door she could catch a glimpse of Erlend’s men lying in the shadow on the other side of the courtyard, with the ale-bowl circling among them. Erlend himself sat on the threshold, chatting and laughing — the sun shone right down on his uncovered coal-black hair; she spied some white threads in it. Ay, he must be near thirty-two years old — but he bore himself like a mischievous boy. She knew she would not be able to tell him of her trouble — time enough when he saw it for himself. Laughing tenderness streamed through her heart, over the hard little spot of anger at its core, like a glittering river flowing over stones.

  She loved him above all on earth — her soul was filled with her love, though all the time she saw and remembered all those other things. How ill this gallant in the fine red surcoat, with silver spurs on heel and belt adorned with gold, suited with the busy harvest-time at Jörundgaard.… She marked well, too, that her father came not up to the farm, though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river to bear him word of the guest that was come.

  Erlend stood beside her and passed his arm around her shoulders:

  “Can you believe it!” he said joyfully. “Seems it not marvellous to you — that ’tis for our wedding, all this toil and bustle?”

  Kristin gave him a kiss and thrust him aside — then turned to basting the birds and bade him stand out of the way. No, she would not say it.…

  It was not till supper-time that Lavrans came back to the farm — along with the other harvesters. He was clad much like his workmen in an undyed wadmal coat cut off at the knees and loose breeches reaching to the ankles; he walked barefoot, with his scythe over his shoulder. There was naught in his dress to mark him off from the serving-men, save the leathern shoulder-piece that made a perch for the hawk he bore on his left shoulder. He led Ramborg by the hand.

  He greeted his son-in-law heartily enough, begging him to forgive that he had not come before — ’twas that they must push on with the farmwork as hard as they could, for he himself had a journey to make to the market-town between the hay and the corn harvests. But when Erlend told the errand he had come on, as they sat at the supper-board, Lavrans grew something out of humour.

  ’Twas impossible he should spare carts and horses for such work at this time. Erlend answered: he had brought four pack-horses with him. But Lavrans said there would be three cartloads at the least. Besides, the maid must have her wearing apparel with her here. And the bed-furniture that Kristin was to have with her they would need here too for the wedding, so many guests as they would have in the house.

  Well, well, said Erlend. Doubtless some way could be found to have the goods sent through in the autumn. But he had been glad, and had thought it seemed a wise counsel, when the Abbot had proffered to have the goods brought in the church galleass. The Abbot had reminded him of their kinship. “They are all ready now to remember that,” said Erlend, smiling. His father-in-law’s displeasure seemed not to trouble him in the least.

  But in the end it was agreed that Erlend should be given the loan of a cart, and should take away a cartload of the things Kristin would need most when first she came to her new home.

  The day after they were busy with the packing. The big and the little loom the mother thought might go at once — Kristin would scarce have time for weaving much more before the wedding. Ragnfrid and her daughter cut off the web that was on the loom. It was undyed wadmal, but of the finest, softest wool, with inwoven tufts of black sheep’s wool that made a pattern of spots. Kristin and her mother rolled up the stuff and laid it in the leather sack. Kristin thought: ’twould make good warm swaddling cloths — and right fair ones, too, with blue or red bands wrapped round them.

  The sewing-chair, too, that Arne had once made her, was to be sent. Kristin took out of the box-seat all the things Erlend had given her from time to time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cloak patterned in red that she was to wear at the bridal, on the ride to church. The mother turned it about and about, and felt the stuff and the fur lining.

  “A costly cloak, indeed,” said Ragnfrid. “When was it Erlend gave you this?”

  “He gave it me when I was at Nonneseter,” said her daughter.

  Kristin’s bride-chest, that held all the goods her mother
had gathered together and saved up for her since she was a little child, was emptied and packed anew. Its sides and cover were all carved in squares, with a leaping beast or a bird amidst leaves in each square. The wedding-dress Ragnfrid laid away in one of her own chests. It was not quite ready yet, though they had sewed on it all winter. It was of scarlet silk, cut to sit very close to the body. Kristin thought, ’twould be all too tight across the breast now.

  Toward evening the whole load stood ready, firmly bound under the wagon-tilt. Erlend was to set forth early the next morning.

  He stood with Kristin leaning over the courtyard gate, looking northward to where a blue-black storm-cloud filled the Dale. Thunder was rolling far off in the mountains — but southward the green fields and the river lay in yellow, burning sunshine.

  “Mind you the storm that day in the woods at Gerdarud?” he asked softly, playing with her fingers.

  Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and close — her head ached, and at every breath she took her skin grew damp with sweat.

  Lavrans came across to the two as they stood by the gate, and spoke of the storm. ’Twas but rarely it did much harm down here in the parish — but God knew if they should not hear of cattle and horses killed up in the mountains.

  It was black as night above the church up on the hillside. A lightning-flash showed them a troop of horses standing uneasily huddled together on the green-sward outside the church gate. Lavrans thought they could scarce belong here in the parish — rather must they be horses from Dovre that had been running loose up on the hills below Jetta; but yet he had a mind to go up and look at them, he shouted through a peal of thunder — there might be some of his among them.…

  A fearful lightning-flash tore the darkness above the church — the thunder crashed and bellowed so as to deafen them to all other sounds. The cluster of horses burst asunder, scattering over the hill-slopes beneath the mountain-ridge. All three of them crossed themselves.…

  Then came another flash; it was as though the heavens split asunder right above them, a mighty snow-white flame swooped down upon them — the three were thrown against each other, and stood with shut, blinded eyes, and a smell in their nostrils as of burning stone — while the crashing thunder rent their ears.

  “Saint Olav, help us!” said Lavrans, in a low voice.

  “Look! the birch — the birch!” shouted Erlend; the great birch-tree in the field near by seemed to totter, and a huge bough parted from the tree and sank to the ground, leaving a great gash in the trunk.

  “Think you ’twill catch fire — Jesus Kristus! The church-roof is alight!” shouted Lavrans.

  They stood and gazed — no — yes! Red flames were darting out among the shingles beneath the ridge-turret.

  Both men rushed back across the courtyard. Lavrans tore open the doors of all the houses he came to, and shouted to those inside; the house-folk came swarming out.

  “Bring axes, bring axes — timber axes,” he cried, “and billhooks.” He ran on to the stables. In a moment he came out leading Guldsveinen by the mane; he sprang on the horse’s bare back and dashed off up the hill, with the great broad-axe in his hand. Erlend rode close behind him — all the men followed; some were a-horseback, but some could not master the terrified beasts, and, giving up, ran off afoot. Last came Ragnfrid and all the women on the place with pails and buckets.

  None seemed to heed the storm any longer. By the light of the flashes they could see folk streaming out of the houses farther down the valley. Sira Eirik was far up the hill already, running with his house-folk behind him. There was a thunder of horses’ hoofs on the bridge below — some men galloped past, turning white, appalled faces toward their burning church.*

  It was blowing a little from the south-east. The fire had a strong hold on the north wall; on the west the entrance door was blocked already. But it had not caught yet on the south side nor on the apse.

  Kristin and the women from Jörundgaard came into the graveyard south of the church at a place where the fence was broken.

  The huge red glare lighted up the grove of trees north of the church, and the green by it where there were bars to tie the horses to. None could come thither for the glowing heat — the great cross stood alone out there, bathed in the light of the flames. It looked as though it lived and moved.

  Through the hissing and roar of the flames sounded the thudding of axes against the staves of the south wall. There were men in the cloister-way hewing and hammering at the wall, while others tried to tear down the cloister itself. Some one called out to the Jörundgaard women that Lavrans and a few other men had followed Sira Eirik into the church, and now ’twas high time to cut a passage through the south wall — small tongues of flame were peeping out among the shingles here too; and should the wind go round or die down, the fire would take hold on the whole church.

  To think of putting out the fire was vain; there was no time to make a chain down to the river; but at Ragnfrid’s bidding the women made a line and passed water along from the little beck that ran by the roadside — it was but little to throw on the south wall and over the men working there. Many of the women sobbed and wept the while, in terror for the men who had made their way into the burning building, and in sorrow for their church.

  Kristin stood foremost in the line of women handing along the pails. She gazed breathless at the burning church; they were both there, inside — her father, and surely Erlend too.

  The torn-down pillars of the cloister-way lay in a tangled mass of timber and shingles from its roof. The men were attacking the inner wall of staves now with all their might — a group of them had lifted up a great log and were battering the wall with it.

  Erlend and one of his men came out of the little door in the south wall of the choir, carrying between them the great chest from the sacristy — the chest Eirik was used to sit on when he heard confession. Erlend and the man flung the chest out into the churchyard.

  He shouted out something, but Kristin could not hear; he dashed on at once into the cloister-way. Nimble as a cat he seemed as he ran — he had thrown off his outer garments and had naught on him but shirt, breeches and hose.

  The others took up his shout — the choir and the sacristy were burning; none could pass from the nave to the south door any longer — the fire had blocked both ways of escape. Some of the staves in the wall had been splintered by the ram. Erlend had seized a fire-hook, and with it he tugged and wrenched at the wreckage of the staves; he and those with him tore a hole in the side of the church, while other folks cried to take care, for the roof might fall and shut in the men inside; the shingle roof on this side too was burning hard now, and the heat had grown till ’twas scarce to be borne.

  Erlend burst through the hole and helped out Sira Eirik. The priest came bearing the holy vessels from the altars in the skirt of his gown.

  A young boy followed, with one hand over his face and the other holding the tall processional cross lance-wise in front of him. Lavrans came next. He kept his eyes shut against the smoke — he staggered under the weight of the great crucifix, which he bore in his arms; it was much taller than the man himself.

  Folk ran forward and helped them out and into the churchyard. Sira Eirik stumbled and fell on his knees, and the altar vessels rolled out down the slope. The silver dove flew open and the Host fell out; the priest took it up, brushed the soil off it and kissed it, sobbing aloud; he kissed the gilded head, too, that had stood on the altar with shreds of the nails and hair of St. Olav in it.

  Lavrans Björgulfsön still stood holding up the Holy Rood. His arm lay along the arms of the cross; his head was bowed against the shoulder of the Christ-figure; it seemed as though the Redeemer bent His fair, sorrowful face over the man to pity and to comfort.

  The roof on the north side of the church had begun to fall in by bits — a burning piece from a falling beam was hurled outwards and struck the great bell in the belfry by the churchyard gate. The bell gave out a deep sobbing note, which d
ied in a long wail that was drowned in the roaring of the flames.

  None had paid heed to the weather all this time — the whole had lasted indeed no long time, but whether short or long scarce any could have told. The thunder and lightning had passed now far down the Dale; the rain, that had begun some time back, fell ever the more heavily, and the wind had died down.

  But of a sudden it was as though a sheet of flame shot up from the groundsill of the building — a moment, and with a mounting roar the fire had swallowed up the church from end to end.

  The people scattered, rushing away to escape the devouring heat. Erlend was at Kristin’s side on the instant, dragging her away down the hill. The whole man smelt of burning — when she stroked his head and face her hand came away full of burnt hair.

  They could not hear each other’s voices for the roaring of the fire. But she saw that his eyebrows were burnt off to the roots; he had burns on his face, and great holes were burnt in his shirt. He laughed as he dragged her along with him after the others.

  All the folk followed the old priest as he went weeping, with Lavrans Björgulfsön bearing the crucifix.

  At the foot of the churchyard Lavrans set the Rood from him up against a tree, and sank down to a seat on the wreckage of the fence. Sira Eirik was sitting there already; he stretched out his arms toward the burning church:

  “Farewell, farewell, thou Olav’s Church; God bless thee, thou my Olav’s Church; God bless thee for every hour I have chanted in thee and said mass in thee — thou Olav’s Church, good-night, good-night —”

  The church-folk wept aloud with their priest. The rain streamed down on the groups of people, but none thought of seeking shelter. Nor did it seem to check the fierce burning of the tarred woodwork — brands and glowing shingles were tossed out on every side. Then, suddenly, the ridge-turret crashed down into the fiery furnace, sending a great shower of sparks high into the air.