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 you are 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 how things

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—Björn

had 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

as they 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 their fiddles—they played and sang a different tune

in every ring; there were too many folk for _one_ dance. 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 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 Sweden

To Denmark here,

All with a crown of the red gold

And many a tear.

“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-morrow

On the gallows tree!”

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 heavens

Are stars alight.

“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—a few 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—”

“Have _you_ not 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, “I will 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 I _cannot_ lose 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 owned there; 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 father had 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.

“_You_ know 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, and the 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 a

man 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—_he_

was 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 and body. 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 clambered over 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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

5

AT Nonneseter the days went by as before. Kristin’s time was passed

between the dormitory and the church, the weaving-room, the book-hall

and the refectory. The nuns and the convent folk gathered in the

pot-herbs and the fruits from the herb-garden and the orchard; Holy

Cross Day came in the autumn with the procession, then there was the

fast before Michaelmas—Kristin wondered—none seemed to mark any change

in her. But she had ever been quiet when amongst strangers, and

Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who was by her night and day, was well able to

chatter for them both.

Thus no one marked that her thoughts were far away from all around her.

Erlend’s paramour—she said to herself, she was Erlend’s paramour now. It

seemed now as though she had dreamed it all—the eve of St. Margaret’s

Mass, that hour in the barn, the nights in her bower at Skog—either she

had dreamed it, or else all about her now was a dream. But one day she

must waken, one day it must all come out. Not for a moment did she think

aught else than that she bore Erlend’s child within her—

But what would happen to her when this came to light she could not well

think. Would she be put into the black hole, or be sent home—She saw dim

pictures of her father and mother far away—Then she shut her eyes, dizzy

and sick, bowed in fancy beneath the coming storm and tried to harden

herself to bear it since she thought it must end by sweeping her for

ever into Erlend’s arms—the only place where now she felt she had a

home.

Thus was there in this strained waiting as much of hope as terror, as

much of sweetness as of torment. She was unhappy—but she felt her love

for Erlend as it were a flower planted within her—and, spite of her

unhappiness, it put forth fresher and richer blooms each day. That last

night when he had slept by her side she had felt, as a faint and

fleeting bliss, that there awaited her a joy and happiness in his arms

such as she had not yet known—she thrilled now at the thought of it; it

came to her like warm, spicy breaths from sun-heated gardens. Wayside

brat—Inga had flung the word at her—she opened her arms to it and

pressed it to her bosom. Wayside brat, was the name they gave to the

child begotten in secret in woods or fields. She felt the sunshine and

the smell of the pines in the forest pasture. Each new, creeping tremor,

each sudden pulse-beat in her body she took as a reminder from the

unborn babe that now she was come out into new paths—and were they never

so hard to follow to the end, she was sure they must lead to Erlend at

the last.

She sat betwixt Ingebjörg and Sister Astrid and sewed at the great

tapestry of knights and birds amidst leafy tendrils. And as she sewed

she thought of how she should fly when the time was come and it could no

longer be hidden. She saw herself walking along the highways, clothed

like a poor woman; all she owned of gold and silver she bore within a

bundle in her hand. She bought herself shelter on a farm somewhere in a

far away countryside—she went as a serving-wench, bore the

water-carrier’s yoke upon her neck, worked in the byres, baked and

washed and was cursed because she would not tell who was the child’s

father. Then Erlend came and found her—

Sometimes she dreamed that he came too late. She lay snow-white and fair

in the poor peasant’s bed. Erlend stooped as he came in at the door; he

had on the long black cloak he had used to wear when he came to her by

night at Skog. The woman led him forward to where she lay, he sank down

and took her cold hands, his eyes were sad as death—dost thou lie here,

my one delight—? Bent with sorrow he went out with his tender son

clasped to his breast, in the folds of his cloak—nay, she thought not in

good sooth that it would so fall out; she had no mind to die, Erlend

should have no such sorrow—But her heart was so heavy, it did her good

to dream these dreams—

Then for a moment it stood out cold and clear as ice before her—the

child, that was no dream, that must be faced; she must answer one day

for what she had done—and it seemed as if her heart stood still with

terror.

But after a little time had gone by, she came to think ’twas not so sure

after all she was with child. She understood not herself why she was not

glad—it was as though she had lain and wept beneath a warm covering and

now must get up in the cold. A month went by—then two; now she was sure

that she had been spared this ill-hap—and, empty and chill of soul, she

felt yet unhappier than before. In her heart there dawned a little

bitterness toward Erlend. Advent drew near, and she had heard neither

from or of him; she knew not where he was.

And now she felt she could not bear this fear and doubt—it was as though

a bond betwixt them had snapped; now she was afraid indeed—might it not

so befall that she should never see him more? All she had been safely

linked to once, she was parted from now—and the new tie that bound her

to her lover was such a frail one. She never thought that he would mean

to play her false—but there was so much that might happen—She knew not

how she could go on any longer day after day, suffering the tormenting

doubt of this time of waiting.

Now and then she thought of her father and mother and sisters—she longed

for them, but as for something she had lost for ever.

And sometimes in church, and elsewhere too, she would feel a great

yearning to take part in all that this meant, the communion of mankind

with God. It had ever been a part of her life; now she stood outside

with her unconfessed sin.

She told herself that this cutting adrift from home and kin and church

was but for a time. Erlend must take her by the hand and lead her back

into it all. When her father had given consent to their love, she could

go to him as of yore; when she and Erlend were wed, they could confess

and do penance for their transgression.

She began to seek for tokens that other folk were not without sin any

more than they. She hearkened more to tale-bearing, and marked all the

little things about her which showed that not even the Sisters in the

convent here were altogether godly and unworldly. These were only little

things—under Lady Groa’s rule Nonneseter to the world was a pattern of

what a godly sisterhood should be. Zealous in their devotions, diligent,

full of care for the poor and sick, were the nuns. Their aloofness from

the world was not so strict but that the Sisters both had visits from

their friends and kin in the parlour, and themselves were given leave to

visit these in the town when aught was afoot; but no nun had brought

shame upon the house by her life all the years of Lady Groa’s rule.

But Kristin had now an ear alive to all the little jars within the

convent walls—little wranglings and spites and vanities. Save in the

nursing of the sick, none of the Sisters would help with the rough

housework—all were minded to be women of learning or skilled in some

craft; the one strove to outdo the other, and the Sisters who had no

turn for learning or the nobler crafts, lost heart and mooned through

the hours as though but half awake.

Lady Groa herself was wise as well as learned; she kept a wakeful eye on

her spiritual daughters’ way of life and their diligence, but she

troubled herself little about their souls’ health. She had been kind and

friendly to Kristin at all times—she seemed to like her better than the

other young girls, but that was because Kristin was apt at books and

needlework, diligent and sparing of words. Lady Groa never looked for an

answer from any of the Sisters; but on the other hand she was ever glad

to speak with men. They came and went in her parlour—tenant farmers and

bailiffs of the convent, Preaching Friars from the Bishop, stewards of

estates on Hovedö with whom she was at law. She had her hands full with

the oversight of the convent’s great estates, with the keeping of

accounts, sending out church vestments and taking in books to be copied

and sending them away again. Not the most evil-minded of men could find

aught unseemly in Lady Groa’s way of life. But she liked only to talk of

such things as women seldom know about.

The prior, who dwelt in a house by himself northward of the church,

seemed to have no more will of his own than the Abbess’ writing reed or

her scourge. Sister Potentia looked after most things within the house;

and she thought most of keeping such order as she had seen in the

far-famed German convent where she had passed her noviciate. She had

been called Sigrid Ragnvaldsdatter before, but had taken a new name when

she took the habit of the order, for this was much the use in other

lands; it was she too who had thought of making the maidens, who were at

Nonneseter as pupils and for a time only, wear novice’s dress.

Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter was not as the other nuns. She went about

quietly, with downcast eyes, answered always gently and humbly, was

serving maid to all, did for choice all the roughest work, fasted much

more than she need—as much as Lady Groa would let her—and knelt by the

hour in the church after evensong or went thither before matins.

But one evening, after she had been all day at the beck with two lay

sisters washing clothes, she suddenly burst into a loud sobbing at the

supper table. She cast herself upon the stone floor, crept among the

Sisters on hands and knees, beat her breast, and with burning cheeks and

streaming tears begged them all to forgive her. She was the worst sinner

of them all—she had been hard as stone with pride all her days; pride,

and not meekness or thankfulness for Jesus’ redeeming death, had held

her up, when she had been tempted in the world; she had fled thither not

because she loved a man’s soul, but because she loved her own vain

glory. She had served her sisters out of pride, vanity had she drunken

from her water cup, self-righteousness had she spread thick upon her dry

bread, while the other Sisters were drinking their beer and eating their

bread-slices with butter.

Of all this Kristin understood no more than that not even Cecilia

Baardsdatter was truly godly at heart. An unlit tallow candle that has

hung from the roof and grown foul with soot and cobweb—to this she

herself likened her unloving chastity.

Lady Groa went herself and lifted up the sobbing woman. Sternly she

said, that for this disorder Cecilia should as a punishment move from

the Sisters’ dormitory into the Abbess’s own bed, and lie there till she

was free of this fever.

“And thereafter, Sister Cecilia, shall you sit in my seat for the space

of a week; we will seek counsel of you in spiritual things and give you

such honour for your godly life, that you may have your fill of the

homage of sinful mankind. Thus may you judge if it be worth so much

striving, and thereafter choose whether you will live by the rules, as

do we others, or keep on in exercises that no one demands of you. Then

can you ponder whether you will do for love of God, that he may look

down upon you in His mercy, all those things which you say you have done

that we should look up to you.”

And so was it done. Sister Cecilia lay in the Abbess’s room for fourteen

days; she had a high fever, and Lady Groa herself tended her. When she

got up again, she had to sit for a week at the side of the Abbess in the

high seat both in the church and in the convent, and all waited on

her—she wept all the time as though she were being beaten with whips.

But afterward she was much calmer and happier. She lived much as before,

but she blushed like a bride if anyone looked at her, whether she was

sweeping the floor or going alone to the church.

* * * * *

None the less did this matter of Sister Cecilia awake in Kristin a great

longing for peace and atonement with all wherefrom she had come to feel

herself cast out. She thought of Brother Edwin, and one day she took

courage and begged leave of Lady Groa to go out to the barefoot friars

and visit a friend she knew there.

She marked that Lady Groa misliked this—there was scant friendship

between the Minorites and the other cloisters in the bishopric. And the

Abbess was no better pleased when she heard who was Kristin’s friend.

She said this Brother Edwin was an unstable man of God—he was ever

wandering about the country and seeking leave to pay begging visits to

strange bishoprics. The common folk in many places held him to be a holy

man, but he did not seem to understand that a Franciscan’s first duty

was obedience to those set over him. He had shriven freebooters and

outlaws, baptised their children, chanted them to their graves without

asking leave—yet, doubtless, he had sinned as much through ignorance as

in despite, and he had borne meekly the penances laid upon him on

account of these things. He was borne with too because he was skilled in

his handicraft—but even in working at this, he had fallen out with his

craft-fellows; the master-limners of the Bishop of Bergen would not

suffer him to come and work in the bishopric there.

Kristin made bold to ask where he had come from, this monk with the

un-Norse name. Lady Groa was in the mood for talking; she told how he

had been born here in Oslo, but his father was an Englishman, Rikard

Platemaster, who had wedded a farmer’s daughter from the Skogheim

Hundred, and had taken up his abode in the town—two of Edwin’s brothers

were armourers of good repute in Oslo. But this eldest of the

Platemaster’s sons had been a restless spirit all his days. ’Twas true

he had felt a call to the life of the cloister from childhood up; he had

joined the Cistercians at Hovedö as soon as he was old enough. They sent

him to a monastery in France to be trained—for his gifts were good;

while still there he had managed to get leave to pass from the

Cistercian into the Minorite order. And at the time the unruly friars

began building their church eastward in the fields in despite of the

Bishop’s command, Brother Edwin had been one of the worst and most

stiff-necked of them all—nay, he had half killed with his hammer one of

the men the Bishop sent to stop the work.

—It was a long time now since anyone had spoken so much with Kristin at

one time, so when Lady Groa said that now she might go, the young girl

bent and kissed the Abbess’s hand, fervently and reverently; and as she

did so, tears came into her eyes. And Lady Groa, who saw she was

weeping, thought it was from sorrow—and so she said maybe she might

after all let her go out one day to see Brother Edwin.

And a few days later she was told some of the convent folk had an errand

to the King’s palace, and they could take her out along with them to the

Brothers in the fields.

Brother Edwin was at home. Kristin had not thought she could have been

so glad to see anyone, except it had been Erlend. The old man sat and

stroked her hand while they talked together—in thanks for her coming.

No, he had not been in her part of the country since the night he lay at

Jörundgaard, but he had heard she was to wed and he wished her all good

fortune. Then Kristin begged that he would go over to the church with

her.

They had to go out of the monastery and round to the main door; Brother

Edwin durst not take her through the courtyard. He seemed altogether

exceeding downcast, and fearful of doing aught that might offend. He had

grown very old, thought Kristin.

And when she had laid upon the altar her offering for the officiant monk

who was in the church, and afterward asked Edwin if he would confess

her, he grew very frightened. He dared not, he said, he had been

strictly forbidden to hear confession.

“Aye, maybe you have heard of it,” said he. “So it was that I felt I

could not deny to those poor unfortunates the gifts which God had given

me of his free grace. But, ’tis true, I should have enjoined on them to

seek forgiveness in the right place—aye, aye—And you, Kristin,—you are

in duty bound to confess to your own prior.”

“Nay, but this is a thing I cannot confess to the prior of the convent,”

said Kristin.

“Think you it can profit you aught to confess to me what you would hide

from your true father confessor,” said the monk more severely.

“If so be you cannot confess me,” said Kristin, “at least you can let me

speak with you and ask your counsel about what lies upon my soul.”

The monk looked about him. The church was empty at the moment. Then he

sat himself down on a chest which stood in a corner: “You must remember

that I cannot absolve you, but I will counsel you, and keep silence as

though you had told me in confession.”

Kristin stood up before him and said:

“It is this: I cannot be Simon Darre’s wife.”

“Therein you know well that I can counsel no otherwise than would your

own prior,” said Brother Edwin. “To undutiful children God gives no

happiness, and your father had looked only to your welfare—that you know

full well.”

“I know not what your counsel will be, when you have heard me to the

end,” answered Kristin. “Thus stands it now with us: Simon is too good

to gnaw the bare branch from which another man has broken the blossom.”

She looked the monk straight in the face. But when she met his eyes and

marked how the dry, wrinkled, old face changed, grew full of sorrow and

dismay—something seemed to snap within her, tears, started to her eyes,

and she would have cast herself upon her knees. But Edwin stopped her

hurriedly:

“Nay, nay, sit here upon the chest by me—confess you I cannot—” He drew

aside and made room for her.

She went on weeping; he stroked her hand, and said gently:

“Mind you that morning, Kristin, I first saw you there on the stairway

in the Hamar church—? I heard a tale once, when I was in foreign lands,

of a monk, who could not believe that God loved all us wretched

sinners—Then came an angel and touched his eyes, and he beheld a stone

in the bottom of the sea, and under the stone there lived a blind,

white, naked creature; and he gazed at it until he came to love it, for

it was so frail and weak. When I saw you sitting there, so little and so

frail, within the great stone house, methought it was but reason that

God should love such as you. Fair and pure you were, and, yet did you

need a helper and a protector. Methought I saw the whole church, with

you in it, lying in the hollow of God’s hand.”

Kristin said low:

“We have bound ourselves one to the other with the dearest oaths—and I

have heard that in the eyes of God such a pact hallows our coming

together as much as if our fathers and mothers had given us one to the

other.”

The monk answered sadly:

“I see well, Kristin, someone who knew it not to the full has spoken to

you of the canonical law. You could not bind yourself by oath to this

man without sinning against your father and mother; them had God set

over you before you met him. And is it not sorrow and a shame for his

kin too, if they learn that he has lured astray the daughter of a man

who has borne his shield with honour at all seasons—betrothed, too, to

another? I hear by your words, you deem you have not sinned so

greatly—yet dare you not confess this thing to your appointed priest.

And if so be you think you are as good as wed to this man, wherefore set

you not on your head the linen coif of wedlock, but go still with

flowing hair amidst the young maids with whom you can have no great

fellowship any more—for now must the chief of your thoughts be with

other things than they have in mind?”

“I know not what they have in their minds,” said Kristin, wearily. “True

it is that all my thoughts are with the man I long for. Were it not for

my father and mother, I would full gladly bind up my hair this

day—little would I care if I were called wanton, if only I might be

called his.”

“Know you if this man means so to deal toward you, that you may be

called his with honour some day,” asked Brother Edwin.

Then Kristin told of all that had passed between Erlend Nikulaussön and

herself. And while she spoke she seemed not even to call to mind that

she had ever doubted the outcome of it all.

“See you not, Brother Edwin,” she began again, “we could not help

ourselves. God help me, if I were to meet him without here, when I go

from you, and should he pray me to go with him, I would go—I wot well,

too, I have seen now there be other folk who have sinned as well as

we—When I was a girl at home ’twas past my understanding how aught could

win such power over the souls of men that they could forget the fear of

sin; but so much have I learnt now: if the wrongs men do through lust

and anger cannot be atoned for, then must heaven be an empty place—They

tell of you, even, that you, too, once struck a man in wrath—”

“’Tis true,” said the monk, “God’s mercy alone have I to thank that I am

not called manslayer. ’Tis many years agone—I was a young man then, and

methought I could not endure the wrong the Bishop would have put upon us

poor friars. King Haakon—he was Duke then—had given us the ground for

our house, but we were so poor we had to work upon our church

ourselves—with some few workmen who gave their help more for Heavenly

reward than for what we could pay them. Maybe ’twas sinful pride in us

beggar monks to wish to build our church so fair and goodly—but we were

happy as children in the fields, and sang songs of praise while we hewed

and built and toiled. Brother Ranulv—God rest his soul—was

masterbuilder—he was a right skilful stonecutter; nay, I trow the man

had been granted skill in all knowledge and all arts by God himself. I

was a carver of stone panels in those days; I had but just finished one

of St. Clara, whom the angels were bearing to the church of St. Francis

in the dawn of Christmas day—a most fair panel it had proved, and all of

us joyed in it greatly—then the hellish miscreants tore down the walls,

and a stone fell and crushed my panels—I struck at a man with my hammer,

I could not contain me—

“Aye, now you smile, my Kristin. But see you not, that ’tis not well

with you now, since you would rather hear such tales of other folks’

frailties than of the life and deeds of good men, who might serve you as

a pattern—?

“’Tis no easy matter to give you counsel,” he said, when it was time for

her to go. “For were you to do what were most right, you would bring

sorrow to your father and mother and shame to all your kin. But you must

see to it that you free yourself from the troth you plighted to Simon

Andressön—and then must you wait in patience for the lot God may send

you, make in your heart what amends you can—and let not this Erlend

tempt you to sin again, but pray him lovingly to seek atonement with

your kin and with God—

“From your sin I cannot free you,” said Brother Edwin, as they parted,

“but pray for you, I will with all my might....”

He laid his thin, old hands upon her head and prayed, in farewell, that

God might bless her and give her peace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

6

AFTERWARDS, there was much in what Brother Edwin had said to her that

Kristin could not call to mind. But she left him with a mind strangely

clear and peaceful.

Hitherto she had striven with a dull, secret fear and tried to brave it

out; telling herself she had not sinned so deeply. Now she felt Edwin

had shown her plainly and clearly, that she had sinned indeed; such and

such was her sin, and she must take it upon her and try to bear it

meekly and well. She strove to think of Erlend without impatience—either

because he did not send word of himself or because she must want his

caresses. She would only be faithful and full of love for him.

She thought of her father and mother, and vowed to herself that she

would requite them for all their love, once they had got over the sorrow

she must bring upon them by breaking with the Dyfrin folk. And wellnigh

most of all, she thought of Brother Edwin’s words of how she must not

seek comfort in looking on others’ faults; she felt she grew humble and

kind, and now she saw at once how easy it was for her to win folks’

friendship. Then was she comforted by the thought that after all ’twas

not so hard to come to a good understanding with people—and so it seemed

to her it surely could not be so hard for her and Erlend either.

Until the day she gave her word to Erlend, she had always striven

earnestly to do what was right and good—but she had done all at the

bidding of others. Now she felt she had grown from maid to woman. ’Twas

not only by reason of the fervent secret caresses she had taken and

given, not only that she had passed from her father’s ward and was now

under Erlend’s will. For Edwin had laid upon her the burden of answering

for her own life, aye and for Erlend’s too. And she was willing to bear

it well and bravely. Thus she went about among the nuns at Yule-tide;

and, throughout the goodly rites and the joy and peace of the holy time,

though she felt herself unworthy, yet she took comfort in thinking that

the time would soon come when she could set herself right again.

* * * * *

But the second day of the new year, Sir Andres Darre with his wife and

all five children came, all unlooked for, to the convent. They were come

to keep the last days of Yule-tide with their friends and kindred in the

town, and they asked that Kristin might have leave to be with them in

their lodging for a short space.

“For methought, my daughter,” said Lady Angerd, “you would scarce be

loth to see a few new faces for a time.”

* * * * *

The Dyfrin folk dwelt in a goodly house that stood in a dwelling place

near the bishop’s palace—Sir Andres’ cousin owned it. There was a great

hall where the serving-folk slept, and a fine loft-room with a fireplace

of masonry and three good beds; in the one Sir Andres and Lady Angerd

slept with their youngest son, Gudmund, who was yet a child; in another

slept Kristin and their two daughters, Astrid and Sigrid, and in the

third Simon and his eldest brother Gyrd Andressön.

All Sir Andres’ children were comely; Simon the least so, yet he too was

reckoned to be well-favoured. And Kristin marked still more than when

she was at Dyfrin the year before, that both his father and mother and

his four brothers and sisters hearkened most to Simon and did all he

would have them. They all loved each other dearly, but all agreed,

without grudging or envy, in setting Simon foremost amongst them.

Here these good folk lived a merry, carefree life. They visited the

churches and made their offerings every day, came together with their

friends and drank in their company each evening, while the young folk

had full leave to play and dance. All showed Kristin the greatest

kindness, and none seemed to mark how little glad she was.

Of an evening, when the light had been put out in the loft-room, and all

had sought their beds, Simon was wont to get up and go to where the

maidens lay. He would sit a while on the edge of the bed; his talk was

mostly to his sisters, but in the dark he would let his hand rest on

Kristin’s bosom—while she lay there hot with wrath.

Now that her sense of such things was keener, she understood well that

there were many things Simon was both too proud and too shy to say to

her, since he saw she had no mind to such talk from him. And she felt

strangely bitter and angry with him, for it seemed to her as though he

would fain be a better man than he who had made her his own—even though

Simon knew not there was such a one.

But one night when they had been dancing at another house, Astrid and

Sigrid were left behind there to sleep with a playmate. When, late at

night, the Dyfrin folk had gone to rest in their loft-room, Simon came

to Kristin’s bed and climbed up into it; he laid himself down above the

fur cover.

Kristin pulled the coverlid up to her chin and crossed her arms firmly

upon her breast. In a little Simon tried to put his hand upon her bosom.

She felt the silken broidery on his wristband, and knew he had not taken

off any of his clothes.

“You are just as bashful in the dark as in the light, Kristin,” said

Simon, laughing a little. “Surely you can at least let me have one hand

to hold,” he said, and Kristin gave him the tips of her fingers.

“Think you not we should have somewhat to talk of, when it so falls out

that we can be alone a little while?” said he; and Kristin thought, now

was the time for her to speak. So she answered: yes. But after that she

could not utter a word.

“May I come under the fur,” he begged again. “’Tis cold in the room

now—” And he slipped in between the fur coverlid and the woollen blanket

she had next her. He bent one arm round the bed head, but so that he did

not touch her. Thus they lay a while.

“You are not over-easy to woo, i’ faith,” said Simon soon after, with a

resigned laugh. “Now I pledge you my word, I will not so much as kiss

you, if you would not I should. But surely you can speak to me at

least?”

Kristin wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, but still she was

silent.

“Nay, if you are not lying there trembling!” went on Simon. “Surely it

cannot be that you have aught against me, Kristin?”

She felt she could not lie to Simon, so she said “No,”—but nothing more.

Simon lay a while longer; he tried to get her into talk with him. But at

last he laughed again and said:

“I see well you think I should be content with hearing that you have

naught against me—for to-night—and be glad to boot. ’Tis a parlous

thing, so proud as you are—yet one kiss must you give me; then will I go

my way and not plague you any more—”

He took the kiss, then sat up and put his feet to the floor. Kristin

thought, now must she say to him what she had to say—but he was away

already by his own bed, and she heard him undress.

* * * * *

The day after Lady Angerd was not so friendly to Kristin as was her

wont. The girl saw that the Lady must have heard somewhat the night

before, and that she deemed her son’s betrothed had not borne her toward

him as she held was fitting.

Late that afternoon Simon spoke of a friend’s horse he was minded to

take in barter for one of his own. He asked Kristin if she would go with

him to look at it. She was nothing loth; and they went out into the town

together.

The weather was fresh and fair. It had snowed a little overnight, but

now the sun was shining, and it was freezing so that the snow crackled

under their feet. Kristin felt ’twas good to be out and walk in the cold

air, and when Simon brought out the horse to show her, she talked of it

with him gaily enough; she knew something of horses, she had been so

much with her father. And this was a comely beast—a mouse-grey stallion

with a black stripe down the back and a clipped mane, well-shapen and

lively, but something small and slightly built.

“He would scarce hold out under a full-armed man for long,” said

Kristin.

“Indeed, no; nor did I mean him for such a rider,” said Simon.

He led the horse out into the home field behind the house, made it trot

and walk, mounted to try its paces and would have Kristin ride it too.

Thus they stayed together a good while out on the snowy field.

At last, as Kristin stood giving the horse bread out of her hand, while

Simon leant with his arm over its back, he said all at once:

“Methinks, Kristin, you and my mother are none too loving one with

another.”

“I have not meant to be unloving to your mother,” said she, “but I find

not much to say to Lady Angerd.”

“Nor seems it you find much to say to me either,” said Simon. “I would

not force myself upon you, Kristin, before the time comes—but things

cannot go on as now, when I can never come to speech with you.”

“I have never been one for much speaking”; said Kristin, “I know it

myself; and I look not you should think it so great a loss, if what is

betwixt us two should come to naught.”

“You know well, what my thoughts are in that matter,” said Simon,

looking at her.

Kristin flushed red as blood. And it gave her a pang that she could not

mislike the fashion of Simon Darre’s wooing. After a while he said:

“Is it Arne Gyrdsön, Kristin, you feel you cannot forget?” Kristin but

gazed at him; Simon went on, and his voice was gentle and kind: “Never

would I blame you for that—you had grown up like brother and sister, and

scarce a year is gone by. But be well assured, for your comfort, that I

have your good at heart—”

Kristin’s face had grown deathly white. Neither of them spoke again as

they went back through the town in the twilight. At the end of the

street, in the blue-green sky, rode the new moon’s sickle with a bright

star within its horn.

A year, thought Kristin; and she could not think when she had last given

a thought to Arne. She grew afraid—maybe she was a wanton, wicked

woman—but one year since she had seen him on his bier in the wake room,

and had thought she should never be glad again in this life—she moaned

within herself for terror of her own heart’s inconstancy and of the

fleeting changefulness of all things. Erlend, Erlend—could he forget

her—and yet it seemed to her ’twould be worse, if at any time she should

forget him.

* * * * *

Sir Andres went with his children to the great Yule-tide feast at the

King’s palace. Kristin saw all the pomp and show of the festival—they

came, too, into the hall where sat King Haakon and the Lady Isabel

Bruce, King Eirik’s widow. Sir Andres went forward and did homage to the

King, while his children and Kristin stood somewhat behind. She thought

of all Lady Aashild had told her; she called to mind that the King was

near of kin to Erlend, their fathers’ mothers were sisters—and she was

Erlend’s light o’ love, she had no right to stand here, least of all

amid these good and worthy folk, Sir Andres’ children.

Then all at once she saw Erlend Nikulaussön—he had stepped forward in

front of Queen Isabel, and stood with bowed head and with his hand upon

his breast, while she spoke a few words to him; he had on the brown silk

clothes that he had worn at the guild feast. Kristin stepped behind Sir

Andres’ daughters.

When, some time after, Lady Angerd led her daughters up before the

Queen, Kristin could not see him anywhere, but indeed she dared not lift

her eyes from the floor. She wondered whether he was standing somewhere

in the hall, she thought she could feel his eyes upon her—but she

thought, too, that all folks looked at her as though they must know she

was a liar, standing there with the golden garland on her outspread

hair.

* * * * *

He was not in the hall where the young folk were feasted and where they

danced when the tables had been taken away; this evening it was Simon

with whom Kristin must dance.

Along one of the longer walls stood a fixed table, and thither the

King’s men bore ale and mead and wine the whole night long. Once when

Simon drew her thither and drank to her, she saw Erlend standing near,

behind Simon’s back. He looked at her, and Kristin’s hand shook when she

took the beaker from Simon’s hand and set it to her lips. Erlend

whispered vehemently to the man who was with him—a tall comely man, well

on in years and somewhat stout, who shook his head impatiently and

looked as he were vexed. Soon after Simon led her back to the dance.

She knew not how long this dancing lasted—the music seemed as though

’twould never end, and each moment was long and evil to her with longing

and unrest. At last it was over, and Simon drew her to the drinking

board again.

A friend came forward to speak to him, and led him away a few steps, to

a group of young men. And Erlend stood before her.

“I have so much I would fain say to you,” he whispered, “I know not what

to say first—in Jesus’ name, Kristin, what ails you?” he asked quickly,

for he saw her face grow white as chalk.

She could not see him clearly; it seemed as though there were running

water between their two faces. He took a goblet from the table, drank

from it and handed it to her. Kristin felt as though ’twas all too heavy

for her, or as though her arm had been cut off at the shoulder; do as

she would, she could not lift the cup to her mouth.

“Is it so, then, that you will drink with your betrothed, but not with

me?” asked Erlend softly—but Kristin dropped the goblet from her hand

and sank forward into his arms.

When she awoke she was lying on a bench with her head in a strange

maiden’s lap—someone was standing by her side, striking the palms of her

hands, and she had water on her face.

She sat up. Somewhere in the ring about her she saw Erlend’s face, white

and drawn. Her own body felt weak, as though all her bones had melted

away, and her head seemed as it were large and hollow—but somewhere

within it shone one clear, desperate thought—she must speak with Erlend.

She said to Simon Darre—he stood near by:

“’Twas too hot for me, I trow,—so many tapers are burning here—and I am

little used to drink so much wine—”

“Are you well again now,” asked Simon. “You frightened folks—Mayhap you

would have me take you home now?”

“We must wait, surely, till your father and mother go,” said Kristin

calmly. “But sit down here—I can dance no more.” She touched the cushion

at her side—then she held out her other hand to Erlend:

“Sit you here, Erlend Nikulaussön; I had no time to speak my greetings

to an end. ’Twas but of late Ingebjörg said she deemed you had clean

forgotten her.”

She saw it was far harder for him to keep calm than for her—and it was

all she could do to keep back the little tender smile, which would

gather round her lips.

“You must bear the maid my thanks for thinking of me still,” he

stammered. “Almost I was afraid she had forgotten me.”

Kristin paused a little. She knew not what she should say, which might

seem to come from the flighty Ingebjörg and yet might tell Erlend her

meaning. Then there welled up in her the bitterness of all these months

of helpless waiting, and she said:

“Dear Erlend, can you think that we maidens could forget the man who

defended our honour so gallantly.”

She saw his face change as though she had struck him—and at once she was

sorry; then Simon asked what this was they spoke of. Kristin told him of

Ingebjörg’s and her adventure in the Eikaberg woods. She marked that

Simon liked the tale but little. Then she begged him to go and ask of

Lady Angerd, whether they should not soon go home; ’twas true that she

was weary. When he was gone, she looked at Erlend.

“’Tis strange,” said he in a low voice, “you are so quick-witted—I had

scarce believed it of you.”

“Think you not I have had to learn to hide and be secret?” said she

gloomily.

Erlend’s breath came heavily; he was still very pale.

“’Tis so then?” he whispered. “Yet did you promise me to turn to my

friends if this should come to pass. God knows, I have thought of you

each day, in dread that the worst might have befallen—”

“I know well what you mean by the worst,” said Kristin shortly. “_That_

you have no need to fear. To me what seemed the worst was that you would

not send me one word of greeting—can you not understand that I am living

there amongst the nuns—like a stranger bird—?” She stopped—for she felt

that the tears were coming.

“Is it therefore you are with the Dyfrin folk now?” he asked. Then such

grief came upon her that she could make no answer.

She saw Lady Angerd and Simon come through the doorway. Erlend’s hand

lay upon his knee, near her, and she could not take it—

“I must have speech with you,” said he eagerly, “we have not said a word

to one another we should have said—”

“Come to mass in the Maria Church at Epiphany,” said Kristin quickly, as

she rose and went to meet the others.

Lady Angerd showed herself most loving and careful of Kristin on the way

home, and herself helped her to bed. With Simon she had no talk until

the day after.

Then he said:

“How comes it that you bear messages betwixt this Erlend and Ingebjörg

Filippusdatter? ’Tis not fit that you should meddle in the matter, if

there be hidden dealings between them.”

“Most like there is naught in it,” said Kristin. “She is but a

chatterer.”

“Methinks too,” said Simon, “you should have taken warning by what’s

past and not trusted yourself out in the wild-wood paths alone with that

magpie.” But Kristin reminded him hotly that it was not their fault they

had strayed and lost themselves. Simon said no more.

The next day the Dyfrin folks took her back to the convent, before they

themselves left for home.

* * * * *

Erlend came to evensong in the convent church every evening for a week

without Kristin getting a chance to change a word with him. She felt as

she thought a hawk must feel sitting chained to its perch with its hood

over its eyes. Every word that had passed between them at their last

meeting made her unhappy too—it should never have been like that. It was

of no use to say to herself: it had come upon them so suddenly, they had

hardly known what they said.

But one afternoon in the twilight there came to the parlour a comely

woman, who looked like a townsman’s wife. She asked for Kristin

Lavransdatter, and said she was the wife of a mercer and her husband had

come from Denmark of late with some fine cloaks; Aasmund Björgulfsön had

a mind to give one to his brother’s daughter, and the maid was to go

with her and choose for herself.

Kristin was given leave to go with the woman. She thought it was unlike

her uncle to wish to give her a costly gift, and strange that he should

send an unknown woman to fetch her. The woman was sparing of her words

at first, and said little in answer to Kristin’s questions, but when

they were come down to the town, she said of a sudden:

“I will not play you false, fair child that you are—I will tell you all

this thing as it is, and you must do as you deem best. ’Twas not your

uncle who sent me, but a man—maybe you can guess his name, and if you

cannot, then you shall not come with me. I have no husband—I make a

living for myself and mine by keeping a house of call and selling beer;

for such a one it boots not to be too much afraid either of sin or of

the watchmen—but I will not lend my house for you to be betrayed inside

my doors.”

Kristin stood still, flushing red. She was strangely sore and ashamed

for Erlend’s sake. The woman said:

“I will go back with you to the convent, Kristin—but you must give me

somewhat for my trouble—the knight promised me a great reward—but I too

was fair once, and I too was betrayed. And ’twould not be amiss if you

should name me in your prayers to-night—they call me Brynhild Fluga.”

Kristin drew a ring off her finger and gave it to the woman:

“’Tis fairly done of you, Brynhild—but if the man be my kinsman Erlend

Nikulaussön, then have I naught to fear; he would have me to make peace

betwixt him and my uncle. You may set your mind at ease—but I thank you

none the less that you would have warned me.”

Brynhild Fluga turned away to hide a smile.

She led Kristin by the alleys behind St. Clement’s Church northward

towards the river. Here a few small dwelling-places stood by themselves

along the river-bank. They went towards one of them along a path between

fences, and here Erlend came to meet them. He looked about him, on all

sides, then took off his cloak, wrapped it about Kristin and pulled the

hood over her face.

“What think you of this device,” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you

’tis a great wrong I do?—yet needs must I speak with you.”

“It boots but little now, I trow, to think what is right and what is

wrong,” said Kristin.

“Speak not so,” begged Erlend. “I bear the blame—Kristin, every day and

every night have I longed for you,” he whispered close to her.

A shudder passed through her as she met his eyes for a moment. She felt

it as guilt in her, when he looked so at her, that she had thought of

anything but her love for him.

Brynhild Fluga had gone on before. Erlend asked, when they were come

into the courtyard:

“Would you that we should go into the living-room, or shall we talk up

in the loft-room?”

“As you will,” answered Kristin; and they mounted to the loft-room.

The moment he had barred the door behind them she was in his arms—

* * * * *

She knew not how long she had lain folded thus in his arms, when Erlend

said:

“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin—I scarce dare let you

stay here longer.”

“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” she

whispered.

Erlend pressed his cheek to hers:

“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall

not lose your good name for my sake.”

Kristin did not answer—but a soreness stirred within her; how could he

speak thus—he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house—she knew

not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all

should go as it had gone, of that she was sure.

“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other

way, I must bear you off by force—into Sweden—Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me

kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer

for my sins—I have fled the land before, as you know—and I would not

they should name you as the like of that other.”

“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to

be parted from you, and to live on among the maids at the convent. Both

your kin and mine would surely hearken to reason and let us come

together and be reconciled with them—”

Erlend clasped her to him and groaned:

“I cannot bring you to Husaby, Kristin.”

“Why can you not?” she asked softly.

“Eline came thither in the autumn,” said he after a moment. “I cannot

move her to leave the place,” he went on hotly, “not unless I bear her

to the sledge by force and drive away with her. And that methought I

could not do—she has brought both our children home with her—”

Kristin felt herself sinking, sinking. In a voice breaking with fear,

she said:

“I deemed you were parted from her—”

“So deemed I too,” answered Erlend shortly. “But she must have heard in

Österdal, where she was, that I had thoughts of marriage. You saw the

man with me at the Yule-tide feast—’twas my foster-father, Baard

Petersön of Hestnæs. I went to him when I came from Sweden, I went to my

kinsman Heming Alvsön in Saltviken, too; I talked with both about my

wish to wed, and begged their help. Eline must have come to hear of it—

“I bade her ask what she would for herself and the children—but Sigurd,

her husband—they look not that he should live the winter out—and then

none could deny us if we would live together—

“—I lay in the stable with Haftor and Ulv, and Eline lay in the hall in

my bed. I trow my men had a rare jest to laugh at behind my back—”

Kristin could not say a word. A little after, Erlend spoke again:

“See you, the day we pledge each other at our espousals, she must

understand that all is over between her and me—she has no power over me

any more—

“But ’tis hard for the children. I had not seen them for a year—they are

fair children—and little can I do to give them a happy lot. ’Twould not

have helped them greatly had I been able to wed their mother.”

Tears began to roll down over Kristin’s cheeks. Then Erlend said:

“Heard you what I said but now, that I had talked with my kinsfolk? Aye,

they were glad enough that I was minded to wed. Then I said ’twas you I

would have and none other—”

“And they liked not that?” asked Kristin at length, forlornly.

“See you not?” said Erlend gloomily, “they could say but one thing—they

cannot and they will not ride with me to your father, until this bargain

twixt you and Simon Andressön is undone again. It has made it none the

easier for us, Kristin, that you have spent your Yule-tide with the

Dyfrin folk.”

Kristin gave way altogether and wept noiselessly. She had felt ever that

there was something of wrong and dishonour in her love, and now she knew

the fault was hers.

She shook with the cold when she got up soon after, and Erlend wrapped

her in both the cloaks. It was quite dark now without, and Erlend went

with her as far as St. Clement’s Church; then Brynhild brought her the

rest of the way to Nonneseter.

7

A week later Brynhild Fluga came with the word that the cloak was ready,

and Kristin went with her and met Erlend in the loft-room as before.

When they parted, he gave her a cloak: “So that you may have something

to show in the convent,” said he. It was of blue velvet with red silk

inwoven, and Erlend bade her mark that ’twas of the same hues as the

dress she had worn that day in the woods. Kristin wondered it should

make her so glad that he said this—she thought he had never given her

greater happiness than when he had said these words.

But now they could no longer make use of this way of meeting, and it was

not easy to find a new one. But Erlend came often to the vespers at the

convent church, and sometimes Kristin would make herself an errand after

the service up to the commoners’ houses; and then they would snatch a

few words together by stealth up by the fences in the murk of the winter

evening.

Then Kristin thought of asking leave of Sister Potentia to visit some

old, crippled women, alms-folk of the convent, who dwelt in a cottage

standing in one of the fields. Behind the cottage was an outhouse where

the women kept a cow; Kristin offered to tend it for them; and while she

was there Erlend would join her and she would let him in.

She wondered a little to mark that, glad as Erlend was to be with her,

it seemed to rankle in his mind that she could devise such a plan.

“’Twas no good day for you when you came to know me,” said he one

evening. “Now have you learnt to follow the ways of deceit.”

“_You_ ought not to blame me,” answered Kristin sadly.

“’Tis not you I blame,” said Erlend quickly with a shamed look.

“I had not thought myself,” went on Kristin, “that ’twould come so easy

to me to lie. But one _can_ do what one _must_ do.”

“Nay, ’tis not so at all times,” said Erlend as before. “Mind you not

last winter, when you could not bring yourself to tell your betrothed

that you would not have him?”

To this Kristin answered naught, but only stroked his face.

She never felt so strongly how dear Erlend was to her, as when he said

things like this that made her grieve or wonder. She was glad when she

could take upon herself the blame for all that was shameful and wrong in

their love. Had she found courage to speak to Simon as she should have

done, they might have been a long way now on the road to have all put in

order. Erlend had done all he could when he had spoken of their wedding

to his kinsmen. She said this to herself when the days in the convent

grew long and evil—Erlend had wished to make all things right and good

again. With little tender smiles she thought of him as he drew a picture

of their wedding for her,—she should ride to church in silks and velvet,

she should be led to the bridal bed with the high golden crown on her

flowing hair—“your lovely, lovely hair,” he said, drawing her plaits

through his hand.

“Yet can it not be the same to you as though I had never been yours,”

said Kristin musingly, once when he talked thus.

Then he clasped her to him wildly:

“Can I call to mind the first time I drank in Yule-tide think you, or

the first time I saw the hills at home turn green when winter was gone?

Aye, well do I mind the first time you were mine, and each time

since—but to have you for my own is like keeping Yule and hunting birds

on green hillsides for ever—”

Happily she nestled to him. Not that she ever thought for a moment it

would turn out as Erlend was so sure it would—Kristin felt that before

long a day of judgment must come upon them. It could not be that things

should go well for them in the end.... But she was not so much

afraid—she was much more afraid Erlend might have to go northward before

it all came to light, and she be left behind, parted from him. He was

over at the castle at Akersnes now; Munan Baardsön was posted there

while the bodyguard was at Tunsberg, where the King lay grievously sick.

But sometime Erlend must go home and see to his possessions. That she

was afraid of his going home to Husaby because Eline sat there awaiting

for him, she would not own even to herself; and neither would she own

that she was less afraid to be taken in sin along with Erlend than of

standing forth alone and telling Simon and her father what was in her

heart.

Almost she could have wished for punishment to come upon her, and that

soon. For now she had no other thought than of Erlend; she longed for

him in the day and dreamed of him at night; she could not feel remorse,

but she took comfort in thinking the day would come when she would have

to pay dear for all they had snatched by stealth. And in the short

evening hours she could be with Erlend in the almswomen’s cow-shed, she

threw herself into his arms with as much passion as if she knew she had

paid with her soul already that she might be his.

* * * * *

But time went on, and it seemed as though Erlend might have the good

fortune he had counted on. Kristin never marked that any in the convent

mistrusted her. Ingebjörg, indeed, had found out that she met Erlend,

but Kristin saw the other never dreamed ’twas aught else than a little

passing sport. That a maid of good kindred, promised in marriage, should

dare wish to break the bargain her kinsfolk had made, such a thought

would never come to Ingebjörg, Kristin saw. And once more a pang of

terror shot through her—it might be ’twas a quite unheard of thing, this

she had taken in hand. And at this thought she wished again that

discovery might come, and all be at an end.

Easter came. Kristin knew not how the winter had gone; every day she had

not seen Erlend had been long as an evil year, and the long evil days

had linked themselves together into weeks without end—but now it was

spring and Easter was come, she felt ’twas no time since the Yule-tide

feast. She begged Erlend not to seek her till the Holy Week was gone by;

and he yielded to her in this, as he did to all her wishes, thought

Kristin. It was as much her own blame as his that they had sinned

together in not keeping the Lenten fast. But Easter she resolved they

should keep. Yet it was misery not to see him. Maybe he would have to go

soon—he had said naught of it, but she knew that now the King lay dying,

and mayhap this might bring some turn in Erlend’s fortunes, she thought.

* * * * *

Thus things stood with her, when one of the first days after Easter word

was brought her to go down to the parlour to her betrothed.

As soon as he came toward her and held out his hand, she felt there was

somewhat amiss—his face was not as it was wont to be; his small, grey

eyes did not laugh, they did not smile when he smiled. And Kristin could

not help seeing it became him well to be a little less merry. He looked

well, too, in a kind of travelling dress—a long blue, close-fitting

outer garment men called _kothardi_, and a brown shoulder-cape with a

hood, which was thrown back now; the cold air had given his light-brown

hair a yet stronger curl.

They sat and talked for a while. Simon had been at Formo through Lent,

and had gone over to Jörundgaard almost daily. They were well there;

Ulvhild as well as they dared look that she should be; Ramborg was at

home now, she was a fair child and lively.

“’Twill be over one of these days—the year you were to be here at

Nonneseter,” said Simon. “By this the folks at your home will have begun

to make ready for our betrothal feast—yours and mine.”

Kristin said naught, and Simon went on:

“I said to Lavrans, I would ride hither to Oslo and speak to you of

this.”

Kristin looked down and said low:

“I, too, would fain speak with you of that matter, Simon—alone.”

“I saw well myself that we must speak of it alone,” answered Simon, “and

I was about to ask even now that you would pray Lady Groa to let us go

together into the garden for a little.”

Kristin rose quickly and slipped from the room without a sound. Soon

after she came back followed by one of the nuns with a key.

There was a door leading from the parlour out into an herb-garden that

lay behind the most westerly of the convent buildings. The nun unlocked

the door and they stepped out into a mist so thick they could see but a

few paces in among the trees. The nearest stems were coal-black; the

moisture stood in beads on every twig and bough. A little fresh snow lay

melting upon the wet mould, but under the bushes some white and yellow

lily plants were blooming already, and a fresh, cool smell rose from the

violet leaves.

Simon led her to the nearest bench. He sat a little bent forward with

his elbows resting upon his knees. Then he looked up at her with a

strange little smile:

“Almost I think I know what you would say to me,” said he. “There is

another man, who is more to you than I—”

“It is so,” answered Kristin faintly.

“Methinks I know his name too,” said Simon, in a harder tone. “It is

Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby?”

After a while Kristin asked in a low voice:

“It has come to your ears then?”

Simon was a little slow in answering.

“You can scarce think I could be so dull as not to see somewhat when we

were together at Yule? I could say naught then, for my father and mother

were with us. But this it is that has brought me hither alone this time.

I know not whether it be wise of me to touch upon it—but methought we

must talk of these things before we are given to one another.

“But so it is now, that when I came hither yesterday—I met my kinsman

Master Öistein. And he spoke of you. He said you two had passed across

the churchyard of St. Clement’s one evening, and with you was a woman

they call Brynhild Fluga. I swore a great oath that he must have seen

amiss! And if you say it is untrue, I shall believe your word.”

“The priest saw aright,” answered Kristin defiantly. “You foreswore

yourself, Simon.”

He sat a little ere he asked:

“Know you who this Brynhild Fluga is, Kristin?” As she shook her head,

he said: “Munan Baardsön set her up in a house here in the town, when he

wedded—she carries on unlawful dealings in wine—and other things—”

“You know her?” asked Kristin mockingly.

“I was never meant to be a monk or a priest,” said Simon reddening. “But

I can say at least that I have wronged no maid and no man’s wedded wife.

See you not yourself that ’tis no honourable man’s deed to bring you out

to go about at night in such company—”

“Erlend did not draw me on,” said Kristin, red with anger, “nor has he

promised me aught. I set my heart on him without his doing aught to

tempt me—from the first time I saw him, he was dearer to me than all

other men.”

Simon sat playing with his dagger, throwing it from one hand to the

other.

“These are strange words to hear from a man’s betrothed maiden,” said

he. “Things promise well for us two now, Kristin.”

Kristin drew a deep breath:

“You would be ill served should you take me for your wife now, Simon.”

“Aye, God Almighty knows that so it seems indeed,” said Simon Andressön.

“Then I dare hope,” said Kristin meekly and timidly, “that you will

uphold me, so that Sir Andres and my father may let this bargain about

us be undone?”

“Do you so?” said Simon. He was silent for a little. “God knows whether

you rightly understand what you say.”

“That do I,” said Kristin. “I know the law is such that none may force a

maid to marriage against her will; else can she take her plea before the

Thing—”

“I trow ’tis before the bishop,” said Simon, with something of a grim

smile. “True it is, I have had no cause to search out how the law stands

in such things. And I wot well you believe not either that ’twill come

to that pass. You know well enough that I will not hold you to your

word, if your heart is too much set against it. But can you not

understand—’tis two years now since our marriage was agreed, and you

have said no word against it till now, when all is ready for the

betrothal and the wedding. Have you thought what it will mean, if you

come forth now an seek to break the bond, Kristin?”

“But you want me not either,” said Kristin.

“Aye, but I do,” answered Simon curtly. “If you think otherwise, you

must even think better of it—”

“Erlend Nikulaussön and I have vowed to each other by our Christian

faith,” said she, trembling, “that if we cannot come together in

wedlock, then neither of us will have wife or husband all our days—”

Simon was silent a good while. Then he said with effort:

“Then I know not, Kristin, what you meant when you said Erlend had

neither drawn you on nor promised you aught—he has lured you to set

yourself against the counsel of all your kin.—Have you thought what kind

of husband you will get, if you wed a man who took another’s wife to be

his paramour—and now would take for wife another man’s betrothed

maiden—?”

Kristin gulped down her tears; she whispered thickly:

“This you say but to hurt me.”

“Think you I would wish to hurt you?” asked Simon in a low voice.

“’Tis not as it would have been, had you—” said Kristin falteringly.

“You were not asked either, Simon—’twas your father and my father who

made the pact. It had been otherwise had you chosen me yourself—”

Simon stuck his dagger into the bench so that it stood upright. A little

after he drew it out again, and tried to slip it back into its sheath,

but it would not go down, the point was bent. Then he sat passing it

from hand to hand as before.

“You know yourself,” said he in a low tone, and with a shaking voice,

“you know that you lie, if you would have it that I did not—You know

well enough, what I would have spoken of with you—many times—when you

met me so that I had not been a man, had I been able to say it—after

that—not if they had tried to drag it out of me with redhot pincers....

“—First I thought ’twas yonder dead lad. I thought I must leave you in

peace awhile—you knew me not—I deemed ’twould have been a wrong to

trouble you so soon after. Now I see you did not need so long a time to

forget—now—now—now—”

“No,” said Kristin quietly. “I know it, Simon. Now I cannot look that

you should be my friend any longer.”

“_Friend—!_” Simon gave a short, strange laugh. “Do you need my

friendship now, then?”

Kristin grew red.

“You are a man,” said she softly. “And old enough now—you can choose

yourself whom you will wed—”

Simon looked at her sharply. Then he laughed as before:

“I understand. You would have me say ’tis I who—I am to take the blame

for the breaking of our bond?

“If so be that your mind is fixed—if you have the will and the boldness

to try to carry through your purpose—then I will do it,” he said low.

“At home with all my own folks and before all your kin—save one. To your

father you must tell the truth, even as it is. If you would have it so,

I will bear your message to him, and spare you, in giving it, in so far

as I can—but Lavrans Björgulfsön shall know that never, with my will,

would I go back from one word that I have spoken to him.”

Kristin clutched the edge of the bench with both hands: this was harder

for her to bear than all else that Simon Darre had said. Pale and

fearful, she stole a glance at him.

Simon rose:

“Now must we go in,” said he. “Methinks we are nigh frozen, both of us,

and the sister is sitting waiting with the key.—I will give you a week

to think upon the matter—I have business in the town here. I shall come

hither and speak with you when I am ready to go, but you will scarce

care to see aught of me meanwhile.”

8

Kristin said to herself: now that at least is over. But she felt broken

with weariness and sick for Erlend’s arms.

She lay awake most of the night, and she resolved to do what she never

dared think of before—send word to Erlend. It was not easy to find

anyone who could go such an errand for her. The lay-sisters never went

out alone, nor did she know of any of them she thought would be willing;

the men who did the farm work were elder folk and but seldom came near

the dwellings of the nuns save to speak with the Abbess herself. There

was only Olav—He was a half-grown lad, who worked in the gardens; he had

been Lady Groa’s foster-son from the time when he was found, a new-born

babe, upon the church steps one morning. Folk said one of the

lay-sisters was his mother; she was to have been a nun; but after she

had been kept in the dark cell for six months—for grave disobedience, as

’twas said—and it was about that time the child was found—she had been

given the lay-sisters’ habit and had worked in the farmyard ever since.

Kristin had often thought of Sister Ingrid’s fate throughout these

months, but she had had few chances to speak with her. It was

venturesome to trust to Olav—he was but a child, and Lady Groa and all

the nuns were wont to chat and jest with him, when they saw the boy. But

Kristin deemed it mattered little what risks she took now. And a day or

two later, when Olav was for the town one morning Kristin sent word by

him to Akersnes, that Erlend must find some way whereby they might meet

alone.

That same afternoon Erlend’s own man, Ulv, came to the grille. He said

he was Aasmund Björgulfsön’s man, and was to pray, on his master’s

behalf, that his brother’s daughter might go down to the town for a

little, for Aasmund had not time to come to Nonneseter. Kristin thought

this device must surely fail—but when Sister Potentia asked if she knew

the bearer of the message, she said: “Yes.” So she went with Ulv to

Brynhild Fluga’s house.

Erlend awaited her in the loft-room—he was uneasy and anxious, and she

knew at once, ’twas that he was afraid again of what he seemed to fear

the most.

Always it cut her to the soul he should feel such a haunting dread that

she might be with child—when yet they could not keep apart. Harassed as

she was this evening, she said this to him—hotly enough. Erlend’s face

flushed darkly, and he laid his head down upon her shoulder:

“You are right,” said he. “I must try to let you be, Kristin,—not to put

your happiness in such jeopardy. If you will—”

She threw her arms around him and laughed, but he caught her round the

waist, forced her down upon a bench and seated himself on the further

side of the board. When she stretched her hand over to him, he covered

the palm with vehement kisses:

“I have tried more than you,” said he with passion. “You know not, how

much I deem it means for both of us, that we should be wed with all

honour—”

“Then you should not have made me yours—” said Kristin.

Erlend hid his face in his hands.

“Aye, would to God I had not done you that wrong,” he said.

* * * * *

“Neither you nor I wish that,” said Kristin, laughing boldly. “And if I

may but be forgiven and make my peace at last with my kindred and with

God, then shall I not sorrow overmuch though I must wear the woman’s

hood when I am wed. Aye, and often it seems to me, I could do without

peace even, if only I may be with you.”

“You shall bring honour with you into my house once more,” said Erlend,

“not I drag _you_ down into dishonour.”

Kristin shook her head. Then she said:

“’Tis like you will be glad then, when you hear that I have talked with

Simon Andressön—and he will not hold me to the pact that was made for us

by our fathers before I met you.”

At once Erlend was wild with joy, and Kristin was made to tell him all.

Yet she told not of the scornful words Simon had spoken of Erlend,

though she said that before Lavrans he would not take the blame upon

himself.

“’Tis but reason,” said Erlend shortly. “They like each other well, your

father and he? Aye, me he will like less, I trow—Lavrans.”

Kristin took these words as a sign that Erlend felt with her she had

still a hard road to travel ere yet they reached their journey’s end;

and she was thankful to him for it. But he did not come back to this

matter; he was glad above measure, saying he had feared so that she

would not have courage to speak with Simon.

“You like him after a fashion, I mark well,” said he.

“Can it be aught to you,” asked Kristin,“—after all that has come and

gone between you and me, that I can see that Simon is an honest man and

a stout.”

“Had you never met me,” said Erlend, “you might well have had good days

with him, Kristin. Why laugh you?”

“Oh, I did but call to mind somewhat Lady Aashild said once,” answered

Kristin. “I was but a child then—but ’twas somewhat about good days

falling to wise folk, but the best days of all to those who dare be

unwise.”

“God bless my kinswoman, if she taught you that,” said Erlend and took

her upon his knee. “’Tis strange, Kristin, never have I marked that you

were afraid.”

“Have you never marked it?” she asked as she nestled close to him.

He seated her on the bed-side and drew off her shoes, but then drew her

back again to the table.

“Oh, my Kristin—now at last it looks as if bright days might come for us

two. Methinks I had never dealt with you as I have done,” he said

stroking and stroking her hair, “had it not been that each time I saw

you, I thought ever ’twas not reason that they should give so fine and

fair a wife to _me_.—Sit you down here and drink to me,” he begged.

* * * * *

A moment after came a knock on the door—it sounded like the stroke of a

sword hilt.

“Open, Erlend Nikulaussön, if you are within.”

“’Tis Simon Darre,” said Kristin in a low voice.

“Open, man, in the devil’s name—if you be a man!” shouted Simon and beat

on the door again.

Erlend went to the bed and took his sword down from the peg in the wall.

He looked round, at a loss what to do: “There is nowhere here you can

hide—”

“’Twould scarce make things better if I hid,” said Kristin. She had

risen to her feet; she spoke very quietly, but Erlend saw that she was

trembling. “You must open,” she said in the same tone. Simon hammered on

the door again.

Erlend went and drew the bolt. Simon stepped in; he had a drawn sword in

his hand, but he thrust it back into its sheath at once.

For a while the three stood in silence. Kristin trembled; but yet, in

this first moment, she felt a strange, sweet thrill—from deep within her

something rose, scenting the combat between two men—she drew a deep

breath; here was an end to these endless months of dumb waiting and

longing and dread. She looked from one to the other, pale and with

shining eyes—then the strain within her broke in a chill, unfathomable

despair. There was more of cold scorn than of rage or jealousy in Simon

Darre’s eyes and she saw that Erlend, behind his defiant bearing, burned

with shame. It dawned upon her, how other men would think of him, who

had let her come to him in such a place, and she saw ’twas as though he

had had to suffer a blow in the face; she knew he burned to draw his

sword and fall upon Simon.

“Why have you come hither, Simon?” she cried aloud in dread.

Both men turned toward her.

“To fetch you home,” said Simon. “Here you cannot be—”

“’Tis not for you, any more, to lay commands on Kristin Lavransdatter,”

said Erlend fiercely, “she is mine now—”

“I doubt not she is,” said Simon savagely, “and a fair bridal bower have

you brought her to—” He stood a little, panting; then he mastered his

voice and spoke quietly: “But so it is that I am her betrothed

still—till her father can come for her. And for so long I mean to guard

with edge and point so much of her honour as can be saved—in others’

eyes—”

“What need of _you_ to guard her; I can—” he flushed red as blood under

Simon’s eyes. Then, flying out: “Think you I will suffer threats from a

boy like you,” he cried, laying his hand on his sword-hilt.

Simon clapped both hands behind him.

“I am not such a coward as to be afraid you should deem me afraid,” said

he as before. “I will fight you, Erlend Nikulaussön, you may stake your

soul upon that, if within due time, you have not made suit for Kristin

to her father—”

“That will I never do at your bidding, Simon Andressön,” said Erlend

angrily; the blood rushed into his face again.

“Nay—do you it to set right the wrong you have done so young a maid,”

answered Simon, unmoved, “’twill be better so for Kristin.”

Kristin gave a loud cry, in pain at Erlend’s pain. She stamped upon the

floor:

“Go, then, Simon, go—what have you to do with our affairs?”