BOOK TWO
THE GARLAND
1
AASMUND BJÖRGULFSÖN’S church-boat stood in round the point of Hovedö early one Sunday at the end of April, while the bells were ringing in the cloister-church and were answered from across the bay by the chimes of bells from the town, now louder and now fainter as the breeze rose or fell.
Light, fluted clouds were floating over the high, pale-blue heavens, and the sun was glittering on the dancing ripples of the water. It was quite spring-like along the shores; the fields lay almost bare of snow, and over the leaf-tree thickets the light had a yellow shimmer and the shadows were blue. But in the pine-forests up on the high ridges, which framed in the settled lands of Akersbygd, there were glimpses of snow, and on the far blue fells to the westward, beyond the fjord, there still showed many flashes of white.
Kristin was standing in the bow of the boat with her father, and Gyrid, Aasmund’s wife. She gazed at the town, with all the light-hued churches and stone buildings that rose above the swarm of grey-brown wooden houses and bare tree-tops. The wind ruffled the skirts of her cloak and snatched at her hair beneath her hood.
They had left the cattle out at Skog the day before, and a great longing had come on her to be at Jörundgaard. It would be a long time still before they could let the cattle out there—she longed with tender pity for the lean, winter-worn cows in the dark byres; they would have to wait and suffer a long while yet. Her mother, Ulvhild, who had slept in her arms each night all these years, little Ramborg—sheyearned so much for them; she longed for all the folk at home, and the horses and the dogs, for Kortelin, whom Ulvhild was to have while she was gone, and for her father’s hawks as they sat there on their perches with their hoods over their heads. She saw the horse-hide gloves that hung beside them to wear when you took them on to your wrist, and the ivory staves to scratch them with.
It was as if all the woe of the last winter had gone far away from her and she only saw her home as it used to be. They had told her, too, that none thought ill of her in the parish—Sira Eirik did not believe that story; he was angry and grieved at what Bentein had done. Bentein had fled from Hamar; ’twas said he had gone to Sweden. So things were not so bad between them and their neighbour as she had feared.
On the journey down to Oslo they had stayed as guests at Simon’s home, and she had come to know his mother and sisters—Sir Andres was in Sweden still. She had not felt at ease there, and her dislike of the Dyfrin folk was all the stronger that she could think of no good ground for it. All the way thither, she had said to herself that they had no cause to be proud or to think themselves better than her kin—no man knew aught of Reidar Darre, the Birch-leg, before King Sverre got him the widow of the Dyfrin Baron to wife. But lo! they were not proud at all; and when Simon himself spoke one night of his forefather: “I have found out now for sure—he was a comb-maker—so ’tis as though you were to come into a kingly stock—almost, Kristin,” said he. “Take heed to your tongue, boy,” said his mother but they all laughed together. It vexed her strangely when she thought of her father; he laughed much, if Simon gave him the least cause—a thought came to her dimly that maybe her father would gladly have had more laughter in his life—But ’twas not to her mind that he should like Simon so much.
They had all been at Skog over Easter. She had found that her uncle was a hard master to his farmers and serving-folk—she had met one and another who asked after her mother and spoke lovingly of Lavrans: they had better times when he lived here. Aasmund’s mother, Lavrans’ step-mother, lived on the manor in a house by herself; she was not so very old, but sickly and failing. Lavrans had but seldom spoken of her at home. Once when Kristin asked him if he had had a hard step-mother, her father answered: “She never did much to me of either good or ill.”
Kristin felt for her father’s hand, and he pressed hers:
“You will be happy soon enough, my daughter, with the good Sisters—you will have other things to think of besides longing to be home with us—”
They sailed so near by the town that the smell of tar and salt fish was borne out to them from the wharves. Gyrid named all the churches, the traders’ quarters and the open places which ran up from the water’s edge—Kristin remembered nothing from the time she was here before but the great heavy towers of St. Halvard’s church. They sailed westward past the whole town and laid to at the convent pier.
Kristin walked between her father and her uncle through a cluster of warehouses, and came out upon a road which led up through the fields. Simon came after, leading Gyrid by the hand. The serving-folk stayed behind to help some men from the convent load the baggage upon a cart.
Nonneseter and the whole Leiran quarter lay within the boundaries of the town grazing-grounds, but there were but a few clusters of houses here and there along the roadside. The larks were trilling over their heads in the pale-blue sky, and the small yellow flowers of the coltsfoot werethickly sprinkled over the wan clay slopes, but along by the fences the roots of the grass were green.
When they were through the gate and were come into the cloister, all the nuns came marching two by two towards them from the church, while song and music streamed out after them through the open door.
Ill at ease, Kristin watched the many black-robed women with white linen wimples about their faces. She curtsied low, and the men bowed with their hats held close to their breasts. After the nuns came a flock of young maidens—some of them but children—in gowns of undyed wadmal, their waists bound with belts of twined black and white, and their hair braided tightly back from their faces with cords of the same black and white. Without thinking, Kristin put on a bold and forward look as the young maids passed, for she felt bashful, and was afraid they must think she looked countrified and foolish.
The convent was so glorious that she was quite overcome. All the buildings round the inner court were of grey stone; on the north side the main-wall of the church stood up high above the other houses; it had two tiers of roofs and towers at the west end. The court itself was laid with stone flags, and round the whole there ran a covered way whose roof was borne on pillars fairly wrought. In the midst of the court stood a stone statue of the Mater Misericordiæ, spreading her cloak over some kneeling figures.
Then a lay-sister came and prayed them to go with her to the Abbess’ parlour. The Lady Groa Guttormsdatter was a tall and stoutly-made old woman—she would have been comely had she not had so many hairs about her mouth. Her voice was deep like a man’s. But her bearing was gentle and kindly—she called to mind that she had known Lavrans’ father and mother, and asked after his wifeand his other children. Last she spoke to Kristin in friendly wise:
“I have heard good report of you, and you look to be wise and well nurtured—sure I am you will give us no cause for miscontent. I have heard that you are plighted to this good and well-born man, Simon Andressön, whom I see here—it seems to us that ’twas wise counsel of your father and your husband to be, to grant you leave to live here awhile in the Virgin Mary’s house, that you may learn to obey and serve before you are called to rule and to command. Now would I have you lay to heart this counsel: that you learn to find joy in prayer and the worship of God, that you may use yourself in all your doings to remember your Creator, God’s gentle Mother, and all the Saints who have given us the best patterns of strength, uprightness, faithfulness and all the virtues you must show forth in guiding your people and your goods and nurturing your children. And you will learn in this house, too, to take good heed of time, for here every hour has its use and its task also. Many young maids and women love all too well to lie abed late of a morning, and sit long at table of an evening in idle talk—yet look not you as you were one of these. Yet may you learn much in the year you are here that may profit you both here on earth and in our heavenly home.”
Kristin curtsied and kissed her hand. After that Lady Groa bade Kristin go with a monstrously fat old nun, whom she called Sister Potentia, over to the nuns’ refectory. The men and Gyrid she asked to dine with her in another house.
The refectory was a great and fair room with a stone floor and pointed windows with glass panes. There was a doorway into another room, where, Kristin could see, there must be glass windows too, for the sun shone in.
The Sisters were already seated at the table waiting for their food—the elder nuns upon a cushioned stone-benchalong the wall under the windows; the younger Sisters and the bareheaded maidens in light-hued wadmal dresses sat upon a wooden bench on the outer side of the board. In the next room a board was laid too; this was for the commoners and the lay-servants; there were a few old men amongst them. These folk did not wear the convent habit, but were none the less clad soberly in dark raiment.
Sister Potentia showed Kristin to a seat on the outer bench, but went and placed herself near to the Abbess’ high-seat at the end of the board—the high-seat was empty to-day.
All rose, both in this room and in the side room, while the Sisters said grace. After that a fair, young nun went and stood at a lectern placed in the doorway between the two chambers. And while the lay-sisters in the greater room, and two of the youngest nuns in the side room, bore in food and drink, the nun read in a high and sweet voice, and without stopping or tripping at a single word, the story of St. Theodora and St. Didymus.
At first Kristin was thinking most of minding her table-manners, for she saw all the Sisters and the young maids bore them as seemly and ate as nicely as though they had been sitting at the finest feast. There was abundance of the best food and drink, but all helped themselves modestly, and dipped but the very tips of their fingers into the dishes; no one spilled the broth either upon the cloths or upon their garments, and all cut up the meat so small that they did not soil their mouths, and ate with so much care that not a sound was to be heard.
Kristin grew hot with fear that she might not seem as well-behaved as the others; she was feeling ill at ease, too, in her bright dress in the midst of all these women in black and white—she fancied that they were all looking at her. So when she had to eat a fat piece of breast of mutton, and was holding it by the bone with two fingers,while cutting morsels off with her right hand, and taking care to handle the knife lightly and neatly—suddenly the whole slipped from her fingers; her slice of bread and the meat flew on to the cloth, and the knife fell clattering on the stone flags.
The noise sounded fearfully in the quiet room. Kristin flushed red as fire and would have bent to pick up the knife, but a lay-sister came noiselessly in her sandals and gathered up the things.
But Kristin could eat no more. She found, too, that she had cut one of her fingers, and she was afraid of bleeding upon the cloth; so she sat with her hand wrapped in a corner of her skirt, and thought of how she was staining the goodly light-blue dress she had gotten for the journey to Oslo—and she did not dare to raise her eyes from her lap.
Howbeit, in a little she began to listen more to what the nun was reading. When the ruler found he could not shake the steadfastness of the maid, Theodora—she would neither make offerings to the false gods nor let herself be given in marriage—he bade them lead her to a brothel. Yet while on the way thither he exhorted her to think of her free born kindred and her honoured father and mother, upon whom everlasting shame must now be brought, and gave his word she should be let live in peace and stay a maid, if she would but join the service of a heathen goddess, whom they called Diana.
Theodora answered fearlessly: “Chastity is like a lamp, but love of God is the flame; were I to serve the devilwoman whom you call Diana, my chastity were no more worth than a rusty lamp without flame or oil. Thou callest me freeborn, but we are all born bondsmen, since our first parents sold us to the devil; Christ has bought me free, and I am bound to serve him, so that I cannot wed me with his foes. He will guard his dove; but should he even suffer you to break my body, that is the temple ofhis Holy Spirit, it shall not be counted to me for shame if so be that I consent not to betray what is His into the hands of his enemies.”
Kristin’s heart began to throb, for this in some way reminded her of her meeting with Bentein—she was smitten by the thought that this perhaps was her sin—she had not for a moment thought of God nor prayed for His help. And now Sister Cecilia read further of St. Didymus. He was a Christian knight, but heretofore he had kept his faith hidden from all save a few friends. He went now to the house where the maid was; he gave money to the woman who owned the house, and thus was the first to be let in to Theodora. She fled into a corner like a frightened hare, but Didymus hailed her as his sister and as his Lord’s bride and said he was come to save her. Then he spake with her a while, saying: was it not meet that a brother should wage his life for his sister’s honour? And at last she did as he bade her, changed clothes with him, and let herself be clad in Didymus’ coat of mail; he pulled the hat down over her eyes and drew the cape up about her chin, and bade her go out with her face hidden, like a youth who is abashed at having been in such a place.
Kristin thought of Arne, and was scarce able to hold back her tears. She gazed straight before her with wet eyes while the nun was reading to the end—how Didymus was led to the place of execution, and how Theodora came hastening down from the mountains, cast herself at the headsman’s feet and begged that she might die in his stead. And now the holy man and maid strove together who should first win the crown; and both were beheaded on the one day. This was the eight and twentieth day of April in the year 304 after the birth of Christ, in Antioch, as was written by St. Ambrosius.
When they rose from the table, Sister Potentia came and patted Kristin kindly on the cheek: “Aye, you are longingfor your mother, I can well believe.” And on that Kristin’s tears began to fall. But the nun made as though she did not see them, and led Kristin to the hostel where she was to dwell.
It was in one of the stone houses by the cloisters; a goodly room with glass windows and a big fireplace in the short wall at the far end. Along one main-wall stood six bedsteads, and along the other all the maidens’ chests.
Kristin wished they would let her sleep with one of the little girls, but Sister Potentia called a fat, fair-haired, grown maiden: “Here is Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who is to be your bed-fellow—you must see now and learn to know each other.” And with that she went out.
Ingebjörg took Kristin at once by the hand and began to talk. She was not very tall, and was much too fat, above all in her face—her cheeks were so plump that her eyes looked quite small. But her skin was clear, red and white, and her hair was yellow as gold, and so curly that her thick plaits twisted and twined together like strands of rope, and small locks kept ever slipping from under her snood.
She began straightway to question Kristin about many things, but never waited for an answer; instead she talked about herself, reckoned out the whole of her kindred in all its branches—they were naught but fine and exceeding rich folk. She was betrothed, too, to a rich and mighty man, Einar Einarssön of Aganæs—but he was far too old, and twice widowed; this was her greatest sorrow, she said. Yet could Kristin not mark that she took it much to heart. Then she talked a little of Simon Darre—’twas a marvel how closely she had looked him over in the short moment when they were passing in the cloisters. After that she had a mind to look into Kristin’s chest—but first she opened her own and brought forth all her clothes. While theywere ransacking their chests, Sister Cecilia came in—she rebuked them and said that this was no seemly Sunday pastime. This made Kristin unhappy again—she had never been taken to task by any but her mother, and that was not the same as being chid by a stranger.
Ingebjörg was not abashed.—After they were come to bed in the evening, she lay chattering until Kristin fell asleep. Two elder lay-sisters slept in a corner of the room; they were to see that the maidens did not take their shifts off at night—for it was against the rules for the girls to undress entirely—and to see that they were up in time for matins in the church. But else they did not trouble themselves to keep order in the hostel, and made as though they marked it not when the maids were lying talking, or eating the dainties which they had hidden in their chests.
When Kristin was awakened next morning, Ingebjörg was in the midst of a long tale already, so that Kristin almost wondered whether the other had been talking the whole night through.
The foreign merchants who lay in Oslo during the summer and trafficked there, came to the town in the spring about Holy Rood Day, which is ten days before the Halvards-wake Fair. To this folks streamed in from all the parishes between Mjösen and the Swedish marches, so that the town swarmed with people in the first weeks of May. This was the best time to buy from the strangers, before they had sold too many of their wares.
Sister Potentia had the care of the marketing for Nonneseter, and she had promised Ingebjörg and Kristin that they should go with her down to the town the day beforethe Halvards-wake. But about midday some of Sister Potentia’s kin came to the convent to see her; and so she could not go that day. Then Ingebjörg begged and prayed till at last she let them go alone—though it was against the rules. An old peasant who was a commoner of the convent was sent with them as escort—Haakon was his name.
Kristin had been three weeks now at Nonneseter, and in all that time she had not set foot outside the convent grounds and gardens. She wondered to see how spring-like it was outside. The little woods out in the fields were pale-green; the wood anemones grew thick as a carpet round the light-coloured tree stems; white fair-weather clouds came sailing up over the islands in the fjord, and the water lay fresh and blue, slightly ruffled here and there by the light flaws of wind.
Ingebjörg skipped about, plucked bunches of leaves from the trees and smelt them, and peeped round after the folk they met; till Haakon chid her—were these seemly goings-on for a well-born maid, and in the convent habit too? The maidens were made to walk just behind him, hand in hand, quietly and seemly; but Ingebjörg used her eyes and her tongue all the same—Haakon was somewhat deaf. Kristin, too, was wearing the novices’ garb now—an undyed, light-grey wadmal dress, woollen belt and head-band, and a plain, dark-blue cloak over all, with a hood turned up so that the plaited hair was quite hid. Haakon strode in front with a stout brass-knobbed staff in his hand. He was dressed in a long black gown, had a leaden Agnus Dei hanging on his breast and an image of St. Christopher in his hat—his white hair and beard were so well brushed that they shone like silver in the sunshine.
The upper part of the town between the Nunsbeck and the bishop’s palace was a quiet neighbourhood; there were here neither shops nor taverns; most of the dwelling-places belonged to great folk from the parishes around, and thehouses turned dark, windowless, timber gables to the street. But on this day whole crowds of people were roaming about the roads even up here, and the serving-folk stood loitering about the courtyard gates gossiping with the passers-by.
When they were come out near the bishop’s palace, there was a great crush upon the place in front of Halvard’s Church and the Olav-cloister—booths had been set up on the grassy slopes, and there were showmen making trained dogs jump through barrel-hoops. But Haakon would not have the maids stand and look at these things, and he would not let Kristin go into the church—he said ’twould be better worth her seeing on the great Feast-day itself.
As they came down over the open space by St. Clement’s Church Haakon took them by the hands, for here was the greatest press of folk coming from the wharves or out from the alleys between the traders Yards. The maidens were bound for the Mickle Yard, where the shoemakers plied their trade. For Ingebjörg had found the clothes Kristin had brought from home very good and sightly, but she said the shoes she had with her from the Dale were not fit to wear for best. And when Kristin had seen the shoes from the outland Ingebjörg had in her chest—more pairs than one—she felt she could not rest until she too had bought some like them.
The Mickle Yard was one of the largest in Oslo; it stretched from the wharves up to the Souters’ Alley, with more than forty houses round two great courts. And now they had set up booths with wadmal roofs in the courts as well. Above the roofs of these tents there rose a statue of St. Crispinus. Within the courts was a great throng of folk buying and selling, women running between the kitchens with pots and pails, children getting in the way of folks’ feet, horses being led in and out of the stables, and serving-men carrying packages to and from the warehouses. From the balconies of the lofts above, where thefinest wares were sold, shoemakers and their apprentices shouted to the two maids and dangled small gaily-coloured or gold-embroidered shoes before them.
But Ingebjörg made her way toward the loft where Didrek the shoemaker sat; he was a German, but had a Norse wife and owned a house in the Mickle Yard.
The old man was standing bargaining with an esquire wearing a traveller’s cloak, and a sword at his belt; but Ingebjörg went forward unabashed, bowed and said:
“Good sir, will you not suffer us of your courtesy to have speech with Didrek first; we must be home in our convent by vespers; you, perchance, have no such great haste?”
The esquire bowed and stepped aside. Didrek nudged Ingebjörg with his elbow and asked laughing whether they danced so much in the convent that she had worn out already all the shoon she had of him the year before. Ingebjörg nudged him again and said they were still unworn, thank heaven, but here was this other maid—and she pulled Kristin forward. Then Didrek and his lad bore forth a box into the balcony; and out of it he brought forth shoes, each pair finer than the last. They had Kristin sit down upon a chest that he might try them on her—there were white shoes and brown and red and green and blue, shoes with painted wooden heels and shoes without heels, shoes with buckles and shoes with silken laces in them, shoes in leather of two or three hues. Kristin felt she would fain have had them all. But they cost so dear she was quite dismayed—not one pair cost less than a cow at home. Her father had given her a purse with a mark of silver in counted money when he left—that was for pocket money, and Kristin had deemed it great riches. But she soon saw that Ingebjörg thought it no great store to go a marketing with.
Ingebjörg, too, must try on some shoes for the jest of it; that cost no money, said Didrek laughing. She did buyone pair of leaf-green shoes with red heels—she said she must have them on trust, but then Didrek knew her and her folks.
Kristin thought, indeed, that Didrek liked this none too well, and that he was vexed too, that the tall esquire in the travelling coat had left the loft—much time had been taken up with the trying-on. So she chose for herself a pair of heel-less shoes of thin purple-blue leather, broidered with silver and with rose-red stones. But she liked not the green silk laces in them. Didrek said he could change these, and took the maids with him into a room at the back of the loft. Here he had coffers full of silk ribbons and small silver buckles—’twas against the law, strictly, for shoemakers to trade in these things—and the ribbons, too, were many of them too broad and the buckles too big for foot-gear.
They felt they had to buy one or two of the smaller things, and when they had drunk a cup of sweet wine with Didrek and he had packed the things they had bought into a wadmal cloth, the hour was grown somewhat late, and Kristin’s purse much lighter.
When they had come to the Östre Stræte again the sunlight was turned golden and, by reason of the traffic in the town, the dust hung over the street in a bright haze. The evening was warm and fair, and folk were coming down from Eikaberg with great armfuls of green branches wherewith to deck their houses for the holy day. And now the whim took Ingebjörg that they should go out to the Gjeita bridge—at fair-times there was wont to be so much merry-making in the fields on the further side of the river, both jugglers and fiddlers—nay, Ingebjörg had heard there was come a whole shipful of outlandish beasts that were being shown in booths down by the waterside.
Haakon had had a pot or two of German beer at the Mickle Yard, and was now easy and mild of mood; sowhen the maidens took him by the arm and begged him sweetly, he gave way at last, and the three went out towards Eikaberg.
Beyond the stream there were but a few small dwelling-places scattered about the green slopes between the river and the steep hillside. They went past the Minorite monastery, and Kristin’s heart sank with shame as she bethought her how she had meant to give most of her silver for the good of Arne’s soul. But she had had no mind to speak of it to the priest at Nonneseter; she feared to be asked questions—she had thought that she could maybe come out to the barefoot friars and find if by chance Brother Edwin were in the cloister now. She was fain to meet him again—but she knew not, either, what would be the most seemly way to get speech with one of the monks and tell him her desire. And now she had so little money she knew not whether she could buy a mass—maybe she must be content to offer a thick wax-candle.
Of a sudden they heard a fearful yell from countless throats down by the shore—a storm seemed to sweep over the press of human-beings down there—and now the whole mass rushed towards them shrieking and shouting. All seemed wild with terror, and some of the runners-by cried out to Haakon and the maids that the pards were loose—
They set out running back to the bridge, and heard folk shout to one another that a booth had fallen down and two pards had broken loose—some spoke of a serpent, too—
The nearer they came to the bridge, the worse became the crush. Just in front of them a woman dropped a little child out of her arms—Haakon stood astride the little one to shield it—soon after they caught sight of him far away with the child in his arms, and then they lost him.
At the narrow bridge the press of people was so great that the maids were pushed right out into a field. They saw folks run down to the river bank; young men jumpedin and swam, but elder folk sprang into the boats that lay there, and these were overladen in a trice.
Kristin tried to make Ingebjörg hear—she cried out to her that they should run up to the Minorite cloister—they could see the Grey Friars come running out from it, striving to gather in the terrified people. Kristin was not so frightened as the other girl—they saw nothing, either, of the wild beasts,—but Ingebjörg had quite lost her wits. And now, when there was a fresh uproar in the throng, and it was driven back by a whole troop of men from the nearest dwellings who had armed themselves and forced their way back over the bridge, some riding and some running, and Ingebjörg nigh coming under the feet of a horse—she gave a scream and set off running for the woods. Kristin had never thought the girl could have run so fast—it made her think of a hunted pig— She ran after her, so that they two, at least, should not be parted.
They were deep in the woods before Kristin could get Ingebjörg to stop—they were on a little path which seemed to lead down toward the road to Trælaborg. They stood still for a little to get their breath again; Ingebjörg was snivelling and weeping, and said she dared not go back alone through the town and all the way out to the convent.
Nor did Kristin deem that this would be well, with the streets in such commotion; she thought they must try to find a house where they might hire a lad to take them home. Ingebjörg thought there was a bridle-path to Trælaborg further down by the shore, and along it there lay some houses, she knew. So they followed the path downward, away from the town.
Fearful and uneasy as they both were, it seemed to them they had gone far ere at last they came to a farmstead lying off in a field. In the courtyard there they found aband of men sitting drinking at a board under some ash trees, while a woman came and went, bearing out tankards to them. She looked wonderingly and sourly at the two maids in convent habit, and none of the men seemed to have a mind to go with them when Kristin told their need. At last, though, two young men stood up and said they would bring the girls to Nonneseter, if Kristin would give them a silver ducat.
She heard by their speech that they were not Norse, but she thought they seemed honest folk enough. ’Twas a shameless sum they asked, she thought, but Ingebjörg was beside herself with fright and she saw not how they could go home alone so late; and so she struck the bargain.
No sooner were they come to the forest path than the men drew closer to them and began to talk. Kristin liked this but ill, but she would not show she was afraid; so she answered them quietly, told of the pards and asked the men where they were from. She spied about her, too, and made as though she looked each moment to meet the serving-men they had had with them—she talked as though there had been a whole band. As they went on the men spoke less and less—nor did she understand much of their speech.
After a while she became aware that they were not going the same way she had come with Ingebjörg—the course their path took was not the same; ’twas more northerly—and she deemed they had already gone much too far.
Deep within her there smouldered a fear she dared not let herself think upon—but it strengthened her strangely to have Ingebjörg with her, for the girl was so foolish that Kristin knew she must trust in herself alone to find a way out for them both. Under her cloak, she managed by stealth to pull out the cross with the holy relic she had had of her father; she clasped it in her hand,praying fervently in her heart that they might soon meet someone, and in all ways sought to gather all her courage and to make no sign.
Just after this she saw that the path came out on to a road and there was a clearing in the forest. The town and the bay lay far below. The men had led them astray, whether wilfully or because they knew not the paths—they were high up on the mountain-side and far north of Gjeita bridge, which she could see below; the road they had now met seemed to lead thither.
Thereupon she stopped, drew forth her purse and made to count out ten silver pennies into her hand.
“Now, good fellows,” said she, “we need you not any more to guide us; for we know the way from here. We thank you for your pains, and here is the wage we bargained for. God be with you, good friends.”
The men looked at one another so foolishly, that Kristin was near smiling. Then one said with an ugly grin that the road down to the bridge was exceeding lonely; ’twas not wise for them to go alone.
“None, surely, are such nithings or such fools that they would seek to stop two maids, and they in the convent habit,” answered Kristin. “We would fain go our own way alone now—” and she held out the money.
The man caught her by the wrist, thrust his face close up to hers, and said somewhat of “kuss” and “beutel”—Kristin made out he was saying they might go in peace if she but gave him a kiss and her purse.
She remembered Bentein’s face close to hers like this, and such a fear came on her for a moment that she grew faint and sick. But she pressed her lips together, and called in her heart upon God and the Virgin Mary—and in the same instant she thought she heard hoof-falls on the path from the north.
She struck the man in the face with her purse so thathe staggered—and then she pushed him in the breast with all her strength so that he tumbled off the path and down into the wood. The other German gripped her from behind, tore the purse from her hand and her chain from her neck so that it broke—she was near falling, but clutched the man and tried to get her cross from him again. He struggled to get free—the robbers, too, had now heard folk coming—Ingebjörg screamed with all her might, and the riders on the path came galloping forward at full speed. They burst out of the thicket—three of them—and Ingebjörg ran shrieking to meet them as they sprang from their horses. Kristin knew one for the esquire of Didrek’s loft; he drew his sword, seized the German she was struggling with by the back of the neck, and threshed him with the flat of his blade. His men ran after the other, caught him and beat him to their hearts’ content.
Kristin leaned against the face of the rock; she was trembling now that all was over, but what she felt most was marvel that her prayer had brought such speedy help. Then she caught sight of Ingebjörg, who had thrown back her hood, hung her cape loosely over her shoulders and was in the act of bringing her heavy, shining plaits of hair forward into sight upon her breast. At this sight Kristin burst out a-laughing—her strength left her and she had to hold on to a tree to keep her feet, for ’twas as though the marrow of her bones was turned to water, she felt so weak; and so she trembled and laughed and cried.
The esquire came forward and laid a hand warily upon her shoulder:
“You were more frightened, I see, than you would show,” said he, and his voice was kindly and gentle. “But now you must take a hold on yourself—you bore you so bravely while yet there was peril—”
Kristin could only look up at him and nod. He had fine, bright eyes set in a narrow, pale-brown face, and coal-blackhair clipped somewhat short over the forehead and behind the ears.
Ingebjörg had her hair in order now; she came and thanked the stranger with many fair words. He stood there still with a hand on Kristin’s shoulder while he answered her comrade.
“We must take these birds along,” said he to his men, who stood holding the two Germans—they were from a Rostock ship, they said—“we must have them along with us to the town that they may be sent to the black hole. But first must we take these two maids home to the convent. You can find some thongs, I trow, to bind them with—”
“Mean you the maids, Erlend?” asked one of the men. They were young, stout, well-appointed yeomen, and were in high feather from the tussle.
Their master frowned and seemed about to answer sharply, but Kristin laid her hand upon his sleeve:
“Let them go, dear sir!” She shuddered a little. “Loth would we be, in truth, both my sister and I, this matter should be talked of.”
The stranger looked down at her—he bit his lip and nodded, as though he understood her. Then he gave each of the captives a blow on the nape with the flat of his sword which sent them sprawling forwards. “Run for it then,” he said, kicking them, and both scrambled up and took to their heels as fast as they could. Then he turned again to the maidens and asked if they would please to ride.
Ingebjörg let herself be lifted into Erlend’s saddle, but it was soon plain that she could not keep her seat,—she slid down again at once. He looked at Kristin doubtfully, and she said that she was used to ride on a man’s saddle.
He took hold of her below the knees and lifted her up. A sweet and happy thrill ran through her to feel howcarefully he held her from him, as though afraid to come near her—at home no one ever minded how tight they held her when they helped her on to a horse. She felt marvellously honoured and uplifted—
The knight—as Ingebjörg called him, though he had but silver spurs—now offered that maiden his hand, and his men sprang to their saddles. Ingebjörg would have it that they should ride round the town to the northcard, below the Ryenberg and Martestokke, and not through the streets. First she gave as a reason that Sir Erlend and his men were fully armed—were they not? The knight answered gravely that the ban on carrying arms was not over strict at any time—for travellers at least—and now everyone in the town was out on a wild beast hunt—Then she said she was fearful of the pards. Kristin saw full well that Ingebjörg was fain to go by the longest and loneliest road, that she might have the more talk with Erlend.
“This is the second time this evening that we hinder you, good sir,” said she, and Erlend answered soberly:
“’Tis no matter, I am bound no further than to Gerdarud to-night—and ’tis light the whole night long.”
It liked Kristin well that he jested not, nor bantered them, but talked to her as though she were his like or even more than his like. She thought of Simon; she had not met other young men of courtly breeding. But ’twas true, this man seemed older than Simon—
They rode down into the valley below the Ryenberg hills and up along the back. The path was narrow, and the young bushes swung wet, heavily-scented branches against her—it was a little darker down here, and the air was cool and the leaves all dewy along the beck-path.
They went slowly, and the horses’ hoofs sounded muffled on the damp, grass-grown path. She rocked gently in the saddle; behind her she heard Ingebjörg’s chatter and thestranger’s deep, quiet voice. He said little and answered as if his mind wandered—it sounded almost as if his mood were like her own, she thought—she felt strangely drowsy, yet safe and content now that all the day’s chances were safely over.
It was like waking to come out of the woods, on to the green slopes under the Martestokke hills. The sun was gone down and the town and the bay lay below them in a clear, pale light—above the Aker ridges there was a light-yellow strip edging the pale-blue sky. In the evening hush, sounds were borne to them from far off as they came out of the cool depths of the wood—a cart-wheel creaked somewhere upon a road, dogs on the farms bayed at each other across the valley. And from the woods behind them birds trilled and sang full-throated, now the sun was down.
Smoke was in the air from the fires on lands under clearance, and out in a field there was the red flare of a bonfire; against the great ruddy flame the clearness of the night seemed a kind of darkness.
They were riding between the fences of the convent-fields when the stranger spoke to her again. He asked her what she thought best; should he go with her to the gate and ask for speech of the Lady Groa, so that he might tell her how this thing had come about. But Ingebjörg would have it that they should steal in through the church; then maybe they might slip into the convent without anyone knowing they had been away so much too long—it might be her kinsfolks’ visit had made Sister Potentia forget them.
The open place before the west door of the church was empty and still, and it came not into Kristin’s thoughts to wonder at this, though there was wont to be much life there of an evening with folks from the neighbourhood who came to the nuns’ church, and round about were houses wherein lay-servants and commoners dwelt. Theysaid farewell to Erlend here. Kristin stood and stroked his horse; it was black and had a comely head and soft eyes—she thought it like Morvin, whom she had been wont to ride at home when she was a child.
“What is your horse’s name, sir?” she asked, as it turned its head from her and snuffed at its master’s breast.
“Bayard,” said he, looking at her over the horse’s neck. “You ask my horse’s name, but not mine?”
“I would be fain to know your name, sir,” she replied, and bent her head a little.
“I am called Erlend Nikulaussön,” said he.
“Then, Erlend Nikulaussön, have thanks for your good service this night,” said Kristin and proffered him her hand.
Of a sudden she flushed red, and half withdrew her hand from his.
“Lady Aashild Gautesdatter of Dovre, is she your kinswoman?” she asked.
To her wonder she saw that he too blushed—he dropped her hand suddenly and answered:
“She is my mother’s sister. And I am Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby.” He looked at her so strangely that she became still more abashed, but she mastered herself and said:
“’Tis true I should have thanked you with better words, Erlend Nikulaussön; but I know not what I can say to you—”
He bowed before her, and she felt that now she must bid him good-bye, though she would fain have spoken more with him. In the church-door she turned, and as she saw that Erlend still stood beside his horse, she waved her hand to him in farewell.
The convent was in a hubbub, and all within in great dismay. Haakon had sent word home by a horseman,while he himself went seeking the maids in the town; and folks had been sent from the convent to help him. The nuns had heard the wild beasts had killed and eaten up two children down in the town. This, to be sure, was a lie, and the pard—there was only one—had been caught before vespers by some men from the King’s palace.
Kristin stood with bent head and kept silence while the Abbess and Sister Potentia poured out their wrath upon the two maidens. She felt as though something were asleep within her. Ingebjörg wept and began to make excuse—they had gone out with Sister Potentia’s leave, with fitting attendance, and, sure, they were not to blame for what had happened after—
But Lady Groa said they might now stay in the church till the hour of midnight struck, that they might strive to turn their thoughts to the things of the spirit and might thank God who had saved their lives and honour. “God hath now manifested clearly to you the truth about the world,” said she; “wild beasts and the servants of the devil threaten his children there at every footstep, and there is no salvation except ye hold fast to him with prayer and supplication.”
She gave them each a lighted candle and bade them go with Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter, who was often alone in the church praying the whole night long.
Kristin put her candle upon St. Lawrence’s altar and knelt on the praying-stool. She fixed her gaze on the flame while she said over the Paternoster and the Ave Maria softly. The sheen of the candle seemed little by little to enfold her and to shut out all that was outside her and the light. She felt her heart open and overflow with thankfulness and praise and love of God and His gentle Mother—they came so near to her. She had always known They saw her, but to-night shefeltthat itwas so. She saw the world as in a vision; a great dark room whereinto fell a sunbeam; the motes were dancing in and out between the darkness and the light, and she felt that now she had at last slipped into the sunbeam—
She felt she would gladly have stayed for ever in this dark still church—with the few small spots of light like golden stars in the night, the sweet stale scent of incense and the warm smell of the burning wax. And she at rest within her own star—
It was as if some great joy were at an end, when Sister Cecilia came gliding to her and touched her shoulder. Bending before the altars, the three women went out of the little south-door into the convent close.
Ingebjörg was so sleepy that she went to bed without a word. Kristin was glad—she had been loth to have her good thoughts broken in on. And she was glad, too, that they must keep on their shifts at night—Ingebjörg was so fat and had been so over-hot.
She lay awake long, but the deep flood of sweetness that she had left lifting her up as she knelt in the church would not come again. Yet she felt the warmth of it within her still, she thanked God with all her heart, and thought she felt her spirit strengthened while she prayed for her father and mother and sisters and for Arne Gyrdson’s soul.
Father, she thought—she longed so much for him, for all they had been to one another before Simon Darre came into their lives. There welled up in her a new tenderness for him—there was as it were a foretaste of mother’s love and care in her love for her father this night; dimly she felt that there was so much in life that he had missed. She called to mind the old, black wooden church at Gerdarud—she had seen there this last Easter the graves of her three little brothers and of her grandmother, her father’s own mother, Kristin Sigurdsdatter, who died when she brought him into the world—
What could Erlend Nikulaussön have to do at Gerdarud—she could not think.
She had no knowledge that she had thought much of him that evening, but the whole time the thought of his dark, narrow face and his quiet voice had hung somewhere in the dusk outside the glow of light that enfolded her spirit.
When she awoke the next morning, the sun was shining into the dormitory, and Ingebjörg told her how Lady Groa herself had bidden the lay-sisters not to wake them for matins. She had said that when they woke they might go over to the kitchen-house and get some food. Kristin grew warm with gladness at the Abbess’ kindness—it seemed as if the whole world had been good to her.