The farmer 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. In 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 the 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 home 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 Ishould say no word,” said Helga, wounded, and they parted.
But the whole evening Kristin was put to it not to smile when anyone 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 wellnigh 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.
She saw that Helga stood watching them. Then she took from her chest a great silver clasp. It was that she had on her cloak the night Bentein met her on the highway, and she had never cared to wear it since. She went to Helga and said in a low voice:
“I know ’twas your wish to show me goodwill last night; think me not unthankful—,” and with that she gave her the clasp.
Ingebjörg was a fine sight, too, when she stood fully decked in her green gown, with a red silk cloak over her shoulders and her fair, curly hair waving behind her. They had ended by striving to outdress each other, thought Kristin, and she laughed.
The morning was cool and fresh with dew as the procession went forth from Nonneseter and wound its way westward toward Frysja. The hay-making was near at an end here on the lowlands, but along the fences grew blue-bells and yellow crowsfoot in clumps; in the fields the barley was in ear and bent its heads in pale silvery waves just tinged with pink. Here and there, where the path was narrow and led through the fields, the corn all but met about folks’ knees.
Haakon walked at the head, bearing the convent’s banner with the Virgin Mary’s picture upon the blue silken cloth. After him walked the servants and the commoners, and then came the Lady Groa and four old sisters on horseback, while behind these came the young maidens on foot; their many-hued holiday attire flaunted and shone in the sunlight. Some of the commoners’ women-folk and a few armed serving-men closed the train.
They sang as they went over the bright fields, and the folk they met at the by-ways stood aside and gave them reverent greeting. All round, out on the fields, they could see small groups of men coming walking and riding, for folks were drawing toward the church from every house and every farm. Soon they heard behind them the sound of hymns chanted in men’s deep voices, and the banner of the Hovedö monastery rose above a hillock—the red silk shone in the sun, swaying and bending to the step of the bearer.
The mighty, metal voice of the bells rang out above the neighing and screaming of stallions as the procession climbed the last slope to the church. Kristin had never seen so many horses at one time—a heaving, restless sea of horses’ backs round about the green before the church-door. Upon the sward stood and sat and lay folk dressed in all their best—but all rose in reverence as the Virgin’s flag from Nonneseter was borne in amongst them, and all bowed deeply before the Lady Groa.
It seemed as though more folk had come than the church could hold, but for those from the convent room had been kept in front near the altar. Straightway after them the Cistercian monks from Hovedö marched in and went up into the choir—and forthwith song burst from the throats of men and boys and filled the church.
Soon after the mass had begun, when the service brought all to their feet, Kristin caught sight of Erlend Nikulaussön. He was tall, and his head rose above those about him—she saw his face from the side. He had a high, steep and narrow forehead, and a large, straight nose—it jutted, triangle-like, from his face, and was strangely thin about the fine, quivering nostrils—something about it reminded Kristin of a restless, high-strung stallion. His face was not as comely as she had thought it—the long-drawn lines running down to his small, weak, yet well-formed mouth gave it as ’twere a touch of joylessness—aye, but yet, hewascomely.
He turned his head and saw her. She knew not how long they stood thus, looking into each other’s eyes. From that time she thought of naught but the end of the mass; she waited, intent on what would then befall.
There was some pressing and thronging as the folks made their way out from the over-crowded church. Ingebjörg held Kristin back till they were at the rear of the throng; she gained her point—they were quite cut off from the nuns, who went out first—the two girls were amongthe last in coming to the offertory-box and out of the church.
Erlend stood without, just by the door, beside the priest from Gerdarud and a stoutish, red-faced man, splendid in blue velvet. Erlend himself was clad in silk, but of a sober hue—a long coat of brown, figured with black, and a black cloak with a pattern of small yellow hawks inwoven.
They greeted each other and crossed the green together to where the men’s horses stood tethered. While they spoke of the fine weather, the goodly mass and the great crowd of folk that were mustered, the fat, ruddy knight—he bore golden spurs and was named Sir Munan Baardsön—took Ingebjörg by the hand; ’twas plain he was mightily taken with the maid. Erlend and Kristin fell behind—they were silent as they walked.
There was a great to-do upon the church-green as folk began to ride away—horses jostled one another, people shouted—some angry, others laughing. Many sat in pairs upon the horses; men had their wives behind them, or their children in front upon the saddle; youths swung themselves up beside a friend. They could see the church banners, the nuns and the priests far down the hill already.
Sir Munan rode by; Ingebjörg sat in front of him, his arm about her. Both of them called out and waved. Then Erlend said:
“My serving-men are both with me—they could ride one horse and you have Haftor’s—if you would rather have it so?”
Kristin flushed as she replied: “We are so far behind the others already—I see not your serving-men hereabouts, and—” Then she broke into a laugh, and Erlend smiled.
He sprang to the saddle and helped her to a seat behind him. At home Kristin had often sat thus sidewise behind her father, after she had grown too big to ride astride the horse. Still she felt a little bashful and nonetoo safe as she laid a hand upon Erlend’s shoulder; the other she put on the horse’s back to steady herself. They rode slowly down towards the bridge.
In a while Kristin thought she must speak, since he was silent, so she said:
“We looked not, sir, to meet you here to-day.”
“Looked you not to meet me?” asked Erlend, turning his head. “Did not Ingebjörg Filippusdatter bear you my greeting then?”
“No,” said Kristin. “I heard naught of any greeting—she hath not named you once since you came to our help last May—,” said she, guilefully—she was not sorry that Ingebjörg’s falseness should come to light.
Erlend did not look back again, but she could hear by his voice that he was smiling when he asked again:
“But the little dark one—the novice—I mind not her name—her I even feed to bear you my greeting.”
Kristin blushed, but she had to laugh too: “Aye, ’tis but Helga’s due I should say that she earned her fee,” she said.
Erlend moved his head a little—his neck almost touched her hand. Kristin shifted her hand at once further out on his shoulder. Somewhat uneasily she thought, maybe she had been more bold than was fitting, seeing she had come to this feast after a man had, in a manner, made tryst with her there.
Soon after Erlend asked:
“Will you dance with me to-night, Kristin?”
“I know not, sir,” answered the maid.
“You think, mayhap, ’tis not seemly?” he asked, and, as she did not answer, he said again: “It may well be it is not so. But I thought now maybe you might deem you would be none the worse if you took my hand in the dance to-night. But indeed ’tis eight years since I stood up to dance.”
“How may that be, sir?” asked Kristin. “Mayhap youare wedded?” But then it came into her head that had he been a wedded man, to have made tryst with her thus would have been no fair deed of him. On that she tried to mend her speech, saying: “Maybe, you have lost your betrothed maid or your wife?”
Erlend turned quickly and looked on her with strange eyes:
“Hath not Lady Aashild—? Why grew you so red when you heard who I was that evening,” he asked a little after.
Kristin flushed red once more, but did not answer; then Erlend asked again:
“I would fain know what my mother’s sister said to you of me.”
“Naught else,” said Kristin quickly, “but in your praise. She said you were so comely and so great of kin that—she said that beside such as you and her kin we were of no such great account—my folk and I—”
“Doth she still talk thus, living the life she lives,” said Erlend, and laughed bitterly. “Aye, aye—if it comfort her—Said she naught else of me?”
“What should she have said?” asked Kristin—she knew not why she was grown so strangely heavy-hearted.
“Oh, she must have said”—he spoke in a low voice, looking down, “she might have said that I had been under the Church’s ban, and had to pay dear for peace and atonement—”
Kristin was silent a long time. Then she said softly:
“There is many a man who is not master of his own fortunes—so have I heard said. ’Tis little I have seen of the world—but I will never believe of you, Erlend, that ’twas for any—dishonourable—deed.”
“May God reward you for those words, Kristin,” said Erlend, and bent his head and kissed her wrist so vehemently that the horse gave a bound beneath them. When Erlend had it in hand again, he said earnestly: “Dance with me to-night then, Kristin. Afterwards I will tell howthings are with me—will tell you all—but to-night we will be happy together?”
Kristin answered: “Aye,” and they rode a while in silence.
But ere long Erlend began to ask of Lady Aashild, and Kristin told all she knew of her; she praised her much.
“Then all doors are not barred against Björn and Aashild?” asked Erlend.
Kristin said they were thought much of, and that her father and many with him deemed that most of the tales about these two were untrue.
“How liked you my kinsman, Munan Baardsön?” asked Erlend laughing slily.
“I looked not much upon him,” said Kristin, “and methought, too, he was not much to look on.”
“Knew you not,” asked Erlend, “that he is her son?”
“Son to Lady Aashild!” said Kristin, in great wonder.
“Aye, her children could not take their mother’s fair looks, though they took all else,” said Erlend.
“I have never known her first husband’s name,” said Kristin.
“They were two brothers who wedded two sisters,” said Erlend. “Baard and Nikulaus Munansön. My father was the elder, my mother was his second wife, but he had no children by his first. Baard, whom Aashild wedded, was not young either, nor, I trow, did they ever live happily together—aye, I was a little child when all this befell, they hid from me as much as they could—But she fled the land with Sir Björn and married him against the will of her kin—when Baard was dead. Then folk would have had the wedding set aside—they made out that Björn had sought her bed while her first husband was still living and that they had plotted together to put away my father’s brother. ’Tis clear they could not bring this home to them, since they had to leave them together in wedlock. But to make amends, they had to forfeit all their estate—Björnhad killed their sister’s son too—my mother’s and Aashild’s, I mean—”
Kristin’s heart beat hard. At home her father and mother had kept strict watch that no unclean talk should come to the ears of their children or of young folk—but still things had happened in their own parish and Kristin had heard of them—a man had lived in adultery with a wedded woman. That was whoredom, one of the worst of sins; ’twas said they plotted the husband’s death, and that brought with it outlawry and the Church’s ban. Lavrans had said no woman was bound to stay with her husband, if he had had to do with another’s wife; the state of a child gotten in adultery could never be mended, not even though its father and mother were free to wed afterward. A man might bring into his family and make his heir his child by any wanton or strolling beggar woman, but not the child of his adultery—not if its mother came to be a knight’s lady—She thought of the misliking she had ever felt for Sir Björn with his bleached face and fat, yet shrunken body. She could not think how Lady Aashild could be so good and yielding at all times to the man who had led her away into such shame; how such a gracious woman could have let herself be beguiled by him. He was not even good to her; he let her toil and moil with all the farm work; Björn did naught but drink beer. Yet Aashild was ever mild and gentle when she spoke with her husband. Kristin wondered if her father could know all this, since he had asked Sir Björn to their home. Now she came to think, too, it seemed strange Erlend should think fit to tell such tales of his near kin. But like enough he deemed she knew of it already—
“I would like well,” said Erlend in a while, “to visit her, Moster Aashild, some day—when I journey northwards. Is he comely still, Björn, my kinsman?”
“No,” said Kristin. “He looks like hay that has lain the winter through upon the fields.”
“Aye, aye, it tells upon a man, I trow,” said Erlend, with the same bitter smile. “Never have I seen so fair a man—’tis twenty years since, I was but a lad then—but his like have I never seen—”
A little after they came to the hospital. It was an exceeding great and fine place, with many houses both of stone and of wood—houses for the sick, almhouses, hostels for travellers, a chapel and a house for the priest. There was great bustle in the courtyard, for food was being made ready in the kitchen of the hospital for the guild feast, and the poor and sick too, that were dwelling in the place, were to be feasted on the best this day.
The hall of the guild was beyond the garden of the hospital, and folks took their way thither through the herb-garden, for this was of great renown. Lady Groa had had brought hither plants that no one had heard of in Norway before, and moreover all plants that else folks were used to grow in gardens, throve better in her herbaries, both flowers and pot-herbs and healing herbs. She was a most learned woman in all such matters and had herself put into the Norse tongue the herbals of the Salernitan school—Lady Groa had been more than ever kind to Kristin since she had marked that the maid knew somewhat of herb-lore and was fain to know yet more of it.
So Kristin named for Erlend what grew in the beds on either side the grassy path they walked on. In the midday sun there was a warm and spicy scent of dill and celery, garlic and roses, southernwood and wallflower. Beyond the shadeless, baking herb-garden the fruit orchards looked cool and enticing—red cherries gleamed amid the dark leafy tops, and the apple trees drooped their branches heavy with green fruit.
About the garden was a hedge of sweet briar. There were some flowers on it still—they looked the same as other briar-roses, but in the sun the leaves smelt of wine and apples. Folk plucked sprays to deck themselves asthey went past. Kristin, too, took some roses and hung them on her temples, fixed under her golden fillet. One she kept in her hand—After a time Erlend took it, saying no word. A while he bore it in his hand as they walked, then fastened it with the brooch upon his breast—he looked awkward and bashful as he did it, and was so clumsy that he pricked his fingers till they bled.
Broad tables were spread in the loft-room of the guild’s hall—two by the main-walls, for the men and the women; and two smaller boards out on the floor, where children and young folk sat side by side.
At the women’s board Lady Groa was in the high-seat, the nuns and the chief of the married women sat on the inner bench along the wall, and the unwedded women on the outer benches, the maids from Nonneseter at the upper end. Kristin knew that Erlend was watching her, but she durst not turn her head even once, either when they rose or when they sat down. Only when they got up at last to hear the priest read the names of the dead guild-brothers and sisters, she stole a hasty glance at the men’s table—she caught a glimpse of him where he stood by the wall, behind the candles burning on the board. He was looking at her.
The meal lasted long, with all the toasts in honour of God, the Virgin Mary, and St. Margaret and St. Olav and St. Halvard, and prayers and song between.
Kristin saw through the open door that the sun was gone; sounds of fiddling and song came in from the green without, and all the young folks had left the tables already when Lady Groa said to the convent maidens that they might go now and play themselves for a time if they listed.
Three red bonfires were burning upon the green; around them moved the many-coloured chains of dancers. The fiddlers sat aloft on heaped-up chests and scraped theirfiddles—they played and sang a different tune in every ring; there were too many folk foronedance. It was nearly dark already—northward the wooded ridge stood out coal-black against the yellow-green sky.
Under the loft-balcony folk were sitting drinking. Some men sprang forward, as soon as the six maids from Nonneseter came down the steps. Munan Baardsön flew to meet Ingebjörg and went off with her, and Kristin was caught by the wrist—Erlend, she knew his hand already. He pressed her hand in his so that their rings grated on one another and bruised the flesh.
He drew her with him to the outermost bonfire. Many children were dancing there; Kristin gave her other hand to a twelve-year old lad, and Erlend had a little, half-grown maid on his other side.
No one was singing in the ring just then—they were swaying in and out to the tune of the fiddle as they moved round. Then someone shouted that Sivord the Dane should sing them a new dance. A tall, fair-haired man with huge fists stepped out in front of the chain and struck up his ballad:
Fair goes the dance at MunkholmOn silver sand.There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön—Holds the Queen’s own hand.Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
Fair goes the dance at MunkholmOn silver sand.There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön—Holds the Queen’s own hand.Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
Fair goes the dance at MunkholmOn silver sand.There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön—Holds the Queen’s own hand.Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
Fair goes the dance at Munkholm
On silver sand.
There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön—
Holds the Queen’s own hand.
Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
The fiddlers knew not the tune, they thrummed their strings a little, and the Dane sang alone—he had a strong, tuneful voice.
“Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,That summer fair,They led you out of Sweden,To Denmark here?“They led you out of SwedenTo Denmark here,All with a crown of the red goldAnd many a tear.“All with a crown of the red goldAnd tear-filled eyne——Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,You first were mine?”
“Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,That summer fair,They led you out of Sweden,To Denmark here?“They led you out of SwedenTo Denmark here,All with a crown of the red goldAnd many a tear.“All with a crown of the red goldAnd tear-filled eyne——Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,You first were mine?”
“Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,That summer fair,They led you out of Sweden,To Denmark here?
“Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
That summer fair,
They led you out of Sweden,
To Denmark here?
“They led you out of SwedenTo Denmark here,All with a crown of the red goldAnd many a tear.
“They led you out of Sweden
To Denmark here,
All with a crown of the red gold
And many a tear.
“All with a crown of the red goldAnd tear-filled eyne——Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,You first were mine?”
“All with a crown of the red gold
And tear-filled eyne—
—Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
You first were mine?”
The fiddles struck in again, the dancers hummed the new-learned tune and joined in the burden.
“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,Sworn man to me,Then shall you hang to-morrowOn the gallows tree!”But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,All unafraidHe leaped into the gold-barkIn harness clad.“God send to you, oh Dane-Queen,So many a good-night,As in the high heavensAre stars alight.“God send to you, oh Dane-King,So many ill yearsAs be leaves on the linden—Or the hind hath hairs.”Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,Sworn man to me,Then shall you hang to-morrowOn the gallows tree!”But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,All unafraidHe leaped into the gold-barkIn harness clad.“God send to you, oh Dane-Queen,So many a good-night,As in the high heavensAre stars alight.“God send to you, oh Dane-King,So many ill yearsAs be leaves on the linden—Or the hind hath hairs.”Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,Sworn man to me,Then shall you hang to-morrowOn the gallows tree!”
“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,
Sworn man to me,
Then shall you hang to-morrow
On the gallows tree!”
But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,All unafraidHe leaped into the gold-barkIn harness clad.
But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,
All unafraid
He leaped into the gold-bark
In harness clad.
“God send to you, oh Dane-Queen,So many a good-night,As in the high heavensAre stars alight.
“God send to you, oh Dane-Queen,
So many a good-night,
As in the high heavens
Are stars alight.
“God send to you, oh Dane-King,So many ill yearsAs be leaves on the linden—Or the hind hath hairs.”Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
“God send to you, oh Dane-King,
So many ill years
As be leaves on the linden—
Or the hind hath hairs.”
Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
It was far on in the night, and the fires were but heaps of embers growing more and more black. Kristin and Erlend stood hand in hand under the trees by the garden fence. Behind them the noise of the revellers was hushed—afew young lads were hopping round the glowing mounds singing softly, but the fiddlers had sought their resting-places and most of the people were gone. One or two wives went round seeking their husbands, who were lying somewhere out of doors overcome by the beer.
“Where think you I can have laid my cloak?” whispered Kristin. Erlend put his arm about her waist and drew his mantle round them both. Close pressed to one another they went into the herb-garden.
A lingering breath of the day’s warm spicy scents, deadened and damp with the chill of the dew, met them in there. The night was very dark, the sky overcast, with murky grey clouds close down upon the tree-tops. But they could tell that there were other folks in the garden. Once Erlend pressed the maiden close to him and asked in a whisper:
“Are you not afraid, Kristin?”
In her mind she caught a faint glimpse of the world outside this night—and knew that this was madness. But a blessed strengthlessness was upon her. She leaned closer to the man and whispered softly—she herself knew not what.
They came to the end of the path; a stone wall divided them from the woods. Erlend helped her up. As she jumped down on the other side, he caught her and held her lifted in his arms a moment before he set her on the grass.
She stood with upturned face to take his kiss. He held her head between his hands—it was so sweet to her to feel his fingers sink into her hair—she felt she must repay him, and so she clasped his head and sought to kiss him, as he had kissed her.
When he put his hands upon her breast, she felt as though he drew her heart from out her bosom; he parted the folds of silk ever so little and laid a kiss betwixt them—it sent a glow into her inmost soul.
“You I could never harm,” whispered Erlend. “You should never shed a tear through fault of mine. Never had I dreamed a maid might be so good as you, my Kristin—”
He drew her down into the grass beneath the bushes; they sat with their backs against the wall. Kristin said naught, but when he ceased from caressing her, she put up her hand and touched his face.
In a while Erlend asked: “Are you not weary, my dear one?” And when Kristin nestled in to his breast, he folded his arms around her and whispered: “Sleep, sleep, Kristin, here in my arms—”
She slipped deeper and deeper into darkness and warmth and happiness upon his breast.
When she came to herself again, she was lying outstretched in the grass with her cheek upon the soft brown silk above his knees. Erlend was sitting as before with his back to the stone wall, his face looked grey in the grey twilight, but his wide opened eyes were marvellously clear and fair. She saw he had wrapped his cloak all about her—her feet were so warm and snug with the fur lining around them.
“Now have you slept in my lap,” said he smiling faintly. “May God bless you, Kristin—you slept as safe as a child in its mother’s arms—”
“Haveyounot slept, Sir Erlend?” asked Kristin, and he smiled down into her fresh-opened eyes:
“Maybe the night will come when you and I may lie down to sleep together—I know not what you will think when you have weighed all things.—I have watched by you to-night—there is still so much betwixt us two that ’tis more than if there had lain a naked sword between you and me—Tell me if you will hold me dear, when this night is past?”
“I will hold you dear, Sir Erlend.” said Kristin, “Iwill hold you dear, so long as you will—and thereafter I will love none other—”
“Then,” said Erlend slowly, “may God forsake me if any, maid or woman, come to my arms ere I may make you mine in law and honour—Say you this too,” he prayed. Kristin said:
“May God forsake me if I take any other man to my arms so long as I live on earth.”
“We must go now,” said Erlend a little after, “—before folk waken—”
They passed along without the wall among the bushes.
“Have you bethought you,” asked Erlend, “what further must be done in this?”
“’Tis for you to say what we must do, Erlend,” answered Kristin.
“Your father,” he asked in a little, “they say at Gerdarud he is a mild and a righteous man. Think you he will be so exceeding loth to go back from what he hath agreed with Andres Darre?”
“Father has said so often, he would never force us, his daughters,” said Kristin. “The chief thing is that our lands and Simon’s lie so fitly together. But I trow father would not that I should miss all my gladness in this world for the sake of that.” A fear stirred within her that so simple as this perhaps it might not prove to be—but she fought it down.
“Then maybe ’twill be less hard than I deemed in the night,” said Erlend. “God help me, Kristin—methinks Icannotlose you now—unless I win you now, never can I be glad again.”
They parted among the trees, and in the dawning light Kristin found her way to the guest-chamber where the women from Nonneseter were to lie. All the beds were full, but she threw a cloak upon some straw on the floor and laid her down in all her clothes.
When she awoke, it was far on in the day. Ingebjörg Filippusdatter was sitting on a bench near by stitching down an edge of fur, that had been torn loose on her cloak. She was full of talk as ever.
“Were you with Erlend Nikulaussön the whole night?” she asked. “’Twere well you went warily with that lad, Kristin—how think you Simon Andressön would like it if you came to be dear friends with him?”
Kristin found a hand-basin and began to wash herself.
“And your betrothed—think you he would like that you danced with Dumpy Munan last night? Surely we must dance with him who chooses us out on such a night of merry-making—and Lady Groa had given us leave—”
Ingebjörg pshawed:
“Einar Einarssön and Sir Munan are friends—and besides he is wedded and old. Ugly he is to boot for that matter—but likable and hath becoming ways—see what he gave me for a remembrance of last night,” and she held forth a gold clasp which Kristin had seen in Sir Munan’s hat the day before. “But this Erlend—’tis true he was freed of the ban at Easter last year, but they say Eline Ormsdatter has been with him at Husaby since—Sir Munan says Erlend hath fled to Sira Jon at Gerdarud, and he deems ’tis because he cannot trust himself not to fall back into sin, if he meet her again—”
Kristin crossed over to the other—her face was white.
“Knew you not this?” said Ingebjörg. “That he lured a woman from her husband somewhere in Haalogaland in the North—and held her with him at his manor in despite of the King’s command and the Archbishop’s ban—they had two children together—and he was driven to fly to Sweden and hath been forced to pay in forfeit so much of his lands and goods Sir Munan says he will be a poor man in the end unless he mend his ways the sooner—”
“Think not but that I know all this,” said Kristin with a set face. “But ’tis known the matter is ended now—”
“Aye, but as to that Sir Munan said, there had been an end between them so many times before,” said Ingebjörg pensively. “But all these things can be nothing to you—you that are to wed Simon Darre. But a comely man is Erlend Nikulaussön, sure enough—”
The company from Nonneseter was to set out for home that same day after nones. Kristin had promised Erlend to meet him by the wall where they had sat the night before, if she could but find a way to come.
He was lying face downwards in the grass with his head upon his hands. As soon as he saw her, he sprang to his feet and held out both his hands, as she was about jumping from the wall.
Kristin took them, and the two stood a little, hand in hand. Then said Kristin:
“Why did you tell me that of Sir Björn and Lady Aashild yesterday?”
“I can see you know it all,” said Erlend and let go her hands suddenly. “What think you of me now, Kristin—?
“I was eighteen then,” he went on vehemently, “’tis ten years since that the King, my kinsman, sent me with the mission to Vargöyhus—and we stayed the winter at Steigen—she was wife to the Lagmand, Sigurd Saksulvsön—I thought pity of her, for he was old and ugly beyond belief—I know not how it came to pass—aye; but I loved her too. I bade Sigurd crave what amends he would; I would fain have done right by him—he is a good and doughty man in many ways—but he would have it that all must go by law; he took the matter to the King—I was to be branded for whoredom with the wife of him whose guest I had been, you understand—
“Then it came to my father’s ears and then to King Haakon’s—he—he drove me from his court. And if you must know the whole—there is naught more now betwixt Eline and me save the children, and she cares not much for them. They are in Österdal, upon a farm I ownedthere; I have given it to Orm, the boy—but she will not stay with them—Doubtless she reckons that Sigurd cannot live for ever—but I know not what she would be at.
“Sigurd took her back again—but she says she fared like a dog and a bondwoman in his house—so she set a tryst with me at Nidaros. ’Twas little better for me at Husaby with my father—I sold all I could lay hands on, and fled with her to Halland—Count Jacob stood my friend—Could I do aught else—she was great with my child. I knew many a man had lived even so with another’s wife and had got off cheap enough—if he were rich that is—But so it is with King Haakon, he is hardest upon his own kin. We were away from one another for a year, but then my father died and then she came back. Then there were other troubles. My tenants denied me rent and would have no speech with my bailiffs because I lay under ban—I on my side dealt harshly with them, and so they brought suit against me for robbery; but I had not the money to pay my house-folk withal; and you can see I was too young to meet these troubles wisely, and my kinsfolk would not help me—save Munan—he did all his wife would let him—
“Aye, now you know it, Kristin: I have lost much both of lands and goods and of honour. True it is; you would be better served if you held fast to Simon Andressön.”
Kristin put her arms about his neck:
“We will abide by what we swore to each other yester-night, Erlend—if so be you think as I do.”
Erlend drew her close to him, kissed her and said:
“You will see too, trust me, that all things will be changed with me now—for none in the world has power on me now but you. Oh, my thoughts were many last night, as you slept upon my lap, my fairest one. So much power the devil cannot have over a man, that I should ever work you care and woe—you, my dearest life—”
4
At the time he dwelt at Skog Lavrans Björgulfsön had made gifts of land to Gerdarud church that masses for the souls of his father and mother might be said on their death-days. Björgulf Ketilsön’s day was the thirteenth of August, and Lavrans had settled with his brother that this year Aasmund should bring Kristin out to Skog that she might be at the mass.
She went in fear that something should come in the way, so that her uncle would not keep his promise—she thought she had marked that Aasmund did not care over much about her. But the day before the mass was to be, Aasmund Björgulfsön came to the convent to fetch his brother’s daughter. Kristin was told to clothe herself in lay garb, but simply and in dark garments. There had been some carping at the Sisters of Nonneseter for going about too much without the convent walls; therefore the bishop had given order that the maidens who were not to take the veil must wear naught like to the habit of the order when they went visiting their kinsfolk—so that laymen could not mistake them for novices or nuns.
Kristin’s heart was full of gladness as she rode along the highway with her uncle, and Aasmund grew more friendly and merry with her when he saw the maid was not so tongue-tied after all, with folk. Otherwise Aasmund was somewhat moody and downcast; he said it looked as though there would be a call to arms in the autumn and that the King would lead an army into Sweden to avenge the slaying of his son-in-law and the husband of his niece. Kristin had heard of the murder of the Swedish Dukes, and thought it a most foul deed—yet all these questions of state seemed far away from her. No one spoke much of such things at home in the Dale; she remembered, too, that her fatherhad been to the war against Duke Eirik at Ragnhildarholm and Konungahella. Then Aasmund told her of all that had come and gone between the King and the Dukes. Kristin understood but little of this, but she gave careful heed to all her uncle told of the making and breaking of the betrothals of the King’s daughters. It gave her comfort to think ’twas not everywhere as it was at home in her countryside, that a betrothal once fixed by word of mouth was held to bind nigh as fast as a wedding. Then she took courage to tell of her adventure on the evening before Halvard-wake, and asked her uncle if he knew Erlend of Husaby. Aasmund spoke well of Erlend—said, he had guided his affairs unwisely, but his father and the King were most to blame; they had borne themselves as though the young lad were a very limb of the devil only because he had fallen into this misfortune. The King was over pious in such matters, and Sir Nikulaus was angry because Erlend had lost much good land, so they had thundered about whoredom and hell fire—“and there must be a bit of the dare-devil in every likely lad,” said Aasmund Björgulfsön. “And the woman was most fair. But you have no call now to look Erlend’s way, so trouble yourself no more about his doings.”
Erlend came not to the mass, as he had promised Kristin he would, and she thought about this more than of God’s word. She felt no sorrow that this was so—she had only that strange new feeling that she was cut off from all the ties that she had felt binding on her before.
She tried to take comfort—like enough Erlend deemed it wisest that no one in whose charge she was should come to know of their friendship at this time. She could understand herself that ’twas wise. But her heart had longed so for him, and she wept when she had gone to rest in the loft-room where she was to sleep with Aasmund’s little daughters.
The day after, she went up into the wood with the youngest of her uncle’s children, a little maid of six years. When they were come to the pastures among the woods a little way off, Erlend came running after them. Kristin knew it was he before she had seen who was coming.
“I have sat up here on the hill spying down into the courtyard the whole day,” said he. “I thought surely you would find a chance to come out—”
“Think you I came out to meet you then?” said Kristin, laughing. “And are you not afraid to beat about my uncle’s woods with dogs and bow?”
“Your uncle gave me leave to take my pastime hunting here,” said Erlend. “And the dogs are Aasmund’s—they found me out this morning.” He patted them and lifted the little girl up in his arms.
“Youknow me, Ragndid? But say not you have spoken with me, and you can have this”—and he took out a bunch of raisins and gave them to the child. “I had brought them for you,” he said to Kristin. “Think you this child can hold her tongue?”
They talked fast and laughed together. Erlend was dressed in a short close-fitting brown jacket and had a small red silk cap pulled down over his black hair—he looked so young; he laughed and played with the child; but sometimes he would take Kristin’s hand, and press it till it hurt her.
He spoke of the rumours of war and was glad: “’Twill be easier for me to win back the King’s friendship,” said he, “and then will all things be easy,” he said vehemently.
At last they sat down in a meadow up among the woods. Erlend had the child on his lap; Kristin sat by his side; under cover of the grass he played with her fingers. He pressed into her hand three gold rings bound together by a cord:
“By and by,” he whispered, “you shall have as many as will go on your fingers—”
“I shall wait for you here on this field each day about this time, as long as you are at Skog,” he said as they parted. “And you must come if you can.”
The next day Aasmund Björgulfsön set out with his wife and children to the manor of Gyrid’s kin in Hadeland. They had been scared by the talk of war; the folk about Galo still went in terror since Duke Eirik’s harrying of that countryside some years before. Aasmund’s old mother was so fearful, she was minded to seek shelter in Nonneseter—besides she was too weak to travel with the others. So Kristin was to stay at Skog with the old woman—she called her grandmother—till Aasmund came back from Hadeland.
About the midday hour, when the folk on the farm were resting, Kristin went to the loft-room where she slept. She had brought some clothes with her in a sheepskin bag, and now she changed her garments, humming to herself the while.
Her father had given her a dress of thick cotton stuff from the East, skyblue with a close pattern of red flowers; this she put on. She brushed and combed out her hair and bound it back from her face with a red silk ribbon, wound a red silk belt tightly about her waist and put Erlend’s rings upon her fingers; all the time she wondered if he would think her fair.
The two dogs that had been with Erlend in the forest had slept in the loft-room over night—she called them to go with her now. She stole out round the houses and took the same path as the day before up through the hill-pastures.
The field amid the forest lay lonely and silent in the burning midday sun; the pine woods that shut it in on all sides gave out a hot strong scent. The sun stung, andthe blue sky seemed strangely near and close down upon the tree-tops.
Kristin sat down in the shade in the borders of the wood. She was not vexed that Erlend was not there; she was sure he would come, and it gave her an odd gladness to sit there alone a little and to be the first.
She listened to the low hum of tiny life above the yellow, scorched grass, pulled a few dry, spicy-scented flowers that she could reach without moving more than her hand, and rolled them between her fingers and smelt them—she sat with wide open eyes sunk in a kind of drowse.
She did not move when she heard a horse in the woods. The dogs growled and the hair on their necks bristled—then they bounded up over the meadow, barking and wagging their tails. Erlend sprang from his horse at the edge of the forest, let it go with a clap on its flank and ran down towards her with the dogs jumping about him. He caught their muzzles in his hands and came to her leading the two elk-grey, wolflike beasts. Kristin smiled and held out her hand without getting up.
Once, while she was looking at the dark head that lay in her lap, between her hands, something bygone flashed on her mind. It stood out, clear yet distant, as a homestead far away on a mountain slope may start to sight of a sudden from out dark clouds, when a sunbeam strikes it on a stormy day. And it was as though there welled up in her heart all the tenderness Arne Gyrdsön had once begged for while as yet she did not understand his words. With timid passion, she drew the man up to her and laid his head upon her breast, kissing him as if afraid he should be taken from her. And when she saw his head upon her arm, she felt as though she clasped a child—she hid his eyes with one of her hands and showered little kisses upon his mouth and cheek.
The sunshine had gone from the meadow—the leaden colour above the tree-tops had thickened to dark-blue and spread over the whole sky; little, coppery flashes like fire-tinged smoke flickered within the clouds. Bayard came down to them, neighed loudly once and then stood stock still, staring before him. Soon after came the first flash of lightning, and the thunder followed close, not far away.
Erlend got up and took hold of the horse. An old barn stood at the lowest end of the meadow; they went thither, and he tied Bayard to some woodwork just inside the door. At the back of the barn lay some hay; Erlend spread his cloak out, and they seated themselves with the dogs at their feet.
And now the rain came down like a sheet before the doorway. It hissed in the trees and lashed the ground—soon they had to move further in, away from the drips from the roof. Each time it lightened and thundered, Erlend whispered:
“Are you not afraid, Kristin—?”
“A little—” she whispered back and drew closer to him.
They knew not how long they had sat—the storm had soon passed over—it thundered far away, but the sun shone on the wet grass outside the door, and the sparkling drops fell more and more rarely from the roof. The sweet smell of the hay in the barn grew stronger.
“Now must I go,” said Kristin, and Erlend answered: “Aye, ’tis like you must.” He took her foot in his hand: “You will be wet—you must ride and I must walk—out of the woods—” and he looked at her so strangely.
Kristin shook—it must be because her heart beat so, she thought—her hands were cold and clammy. As he kissed her vehemently she weakly tried to push him from her. Erlend lifted his face a moment—she thought of aman who had been given food at the convent one day—he had kissed the bread they gave him. She sank back upon the hay....
She sat upright when Erlend lifted his head from her arms. He raised himself suddenly upon his elbow:
“Look not so—Kristin!”
His voice sent a new, wild pang into Kristin’s soul—he was not glad—hewas unhappy too—!
“Kristin, Kristin—
“—Think you I lured you out here to me in the woods meaning this—to make you mine by force—” he asked in a little.
She stroked his hair and did not look at him:
“’Twas not force, I trow—you had let me go as I came, had I begged you—” said she in a low voice.
“I know not,” he answered and hid his face in her lap—
“Think you that I would betray you?” asked he, vehemently. “Kristin—I swear to you by my Christian faith—may God forsake me in my last hour, if I keep not faith with you till the day of my death—”
She could say naught, she only stroked his hair again and again.
“’Tis time I went home, is it not?” she asked at length, and she seemed to wait in deadly terror for his answer.
“May be so,” he answered dully. He got up quickly, went to the horse, and began to loosen the reins.
Then she too got up. Slowly, wearily and with crushing pain it came home to her—she knew not what she had hoped he might do—set her upon his horse, maybe, and carry her off with him so she might be spared from going back amongst other people. It was as though her whole body ached with wonder—that this ill thing was what was sung in all the songs. And since Erlend had wrought her this, she felt herself grown so wholly his, she knew not how she should live away from him any more.She was to go from him now, but she could not understand that it should be so—
Down through the woods he went on foot, leading the horse. He held her hand in his, but they found no words to say.
When they had come so far that they could see the houses at Skog, he bade her farewell.
“Kristin—be not so sorrowful—the day will come or ever you know it, when you will be my wedded wife—”
But her heart sank as he spoke:
“Must you go away, then—?” she asked, dismayed.
“As soon as you are gone from Skog,” said he, and his voice already rang more bright. “If there be no war, I will speak to Munan—he has long urged me that I should wed—he will go with me and speak for me to your father.”
Kristin bent her head—at each word he said, she felt the time that lay before grow longer and more hard to think of—the convent, Jörundgaard—she seemed to float upon a stream which bore her far from it all.
“Sleep you alone in the loft-room, now your kinsfolk are gone?” asked Erlend. “Then will I come and speak with you to-night—will you let me in?”
“Aye,” said Kristin low. And so they parted.
The rest of the day she sat with her father’s mother, and after supper she took the old lady to her bed. Then she went up to the loft-room, where she was to lie. There was a little window in the room; Kristin sat herself down on the chest that stood below it—she had no mind to go to bed.
She had long to wait. It was quite dark without when she heard the soft steps upon the balcony. He knocked upon the door with his cloak about his knuckles, and Kristin got up, drew the bolt and let Erlend in.
She marked how glad he was, when she flung her arms about his neck and clung to him.
“I have been fearing you would be angry with me,” he said.
“You must not grieve for our sin,” he said sometime after. “’Tis not a deadly sin. God’s law is not like to the law of the land in this—Gunnulv, my brother, once made this matter plain to me—if two vow to have and hold each other fast for all time, and thereafter lie together, then they are wedded before God and may not break their troths without great sin. I can give you the words in Latin when they come to my mind—I knew them once....”
Kristin wondered a little why Erlend’s brother should have said this—but she thrust from her the hateful fear that it might have been said of Erlend and another—and sought to find comfort in his words.
They sat together on the chest, he with his arm about her, and now Kristin felt that ’twas well with her once more and she was safe—beside him was the only spot now where she could feel safe and sheltered.
At times Erlend spoke much and cheerfully—then he would be silent for long while he sat caressing her. Without knowing it Kristin gathered up out of all he said each little thing that could make him fairer and dearer to her, and lessen his blame in all she knew of him that was not good.
Erlend’s father, Sir Nikulaus, had been so old before he had children, he had not patience enough nor strength enough left to rear them up himself; both the sons had grown up in the house of Sir Baard Petersön at Hestnæs. Erlend had no sisters and no brother save Gunnulv; he was one year younger and was a priest at Christ’s Church in Nidaros. “He is dearest to me of all mankind save only you.”
Kristin asked if Gunnulv were like him, but Erlend laughed and said they were much unlike both in mind andbody. Now Gunnulv was in foreign lands studying—he had been away these three years, but had sent letters home twice, the last a year ago, when he thought to go from St. Geneviève’s in Paris and make his way to Rome. “He will be glad, Gunnulv, when he comes home and finds me wed,” said Erlend.
Then he spoke of the great heritage he had had from his father and mother—Kristin saw he scarce knew himself how things stood with him now. She knew somewhat of her father’s dealings in land—Erlend had dealt in his the other way about, sold and scattered and wasted and pawned, worst of all in the last years when he had been striving to free him of his paramour, thinking that, this done, his sinful life might in time be forgotten and his kin stand by him once more; he had thought he might some day come to be Warden of half the Orkdöla county, as his father had been before him.
“But now do I scarce know what the end will be,” said he. “Maybe I shall sit at last on a mountain croft like Björn Gunnarsön, and bear out the dung on my back as did the thralls of old, because I have no horse.”
“God help you,” said Kristin, laughing. “Then I must come to you for sure—I trow I know more of farm work and country ways than you.”
“I can scarce think you have borne out the dung-basket,” said he, laughing too.
“No; but I have seen how they spread the dung out—and sown corn have I, well nigh every year at home. ’Twas my father’s wont to plough himself the fields nearest the farm, and he let me sow the first piece that I might bring good fortune—” the thought sent a pang through her heart, so she said quickly: “—and a woman you must have to bake, and brew the small beer, and wash your one shirt, and milk—and you must hire a cow or two from the rich farmer near by—”
“Oh, God be thanked that I hear you laugh a little once more!” said Erlend and caught her up so that she lay on his arms like a child.
Each of the six nights which passed ere Aasmund Björgulfsön came home, Erlend was in the loft-room with Kristin.
The last night he seemed as unhappy as she; he said many times they must not be parted from one another a day longer than needful. At last he said very low:
“Now should things go so ill that I cannot come back hither to Oslo before winter—and if it so falls out you need help of friends—fear not to turn to Sira Jon here at Gerdarud, we are friends from childhood up, and Munan Baardsön, too, you may safely trust.”
Kristin could only nod. She knew he spoke of what she had thought on each single day; but Erlend said no more of it. So she too said naught, and would not show how heavy of heart she was.
On the other nights he had gone from her when the night grew late, but this last evening he begged hard that he might lie and sleep by her an hour. Kristin was fearful, but Erlend said haughtily: “Be sure that were I found here in your bower, I am well able to answer for myself—” She herself, too, was fain to keep him by her yet a little while, and she had not strength enough to deny him aught.
But she feared that they might sleep too long. So most of the night she sat leaning against the head of the bed, dozing a little at times, and scarce knowing herself when he caressed her and when she only dreamed it. Her one hand she held upon his breast, where she could feel the beating of his heart beneath, and her face was turned to the window that she might see the dawn without.
At length she had to wake him. She threw on some clothes and went out with him upon the balcony—he clamberedover the railing on the side that faced on to another house near by. Now he was gone from her sight—the corner hid him. Kristin went in again and crept into her bed; and now she quite gave way and fell to weeping for the first time since Erlend had made her all his own.