Ragnfrid bore it better than any had thought possible. The father and

mother sat together; both were weeping very quietly. All in the room

were weeping. When Kristin went across to her father, he laid his arm

round her shoulders. He felt how she shook and trembled, and he drew her

close in to him. But to her it seemed that he must feel as if she were

further from him far than the dead child in the bed.

She understood not how it was that she still held out. She scarce

remembered herself what it was she held out for; but, lulled and dumb

with grief as she was, she held herself up and did not yield—

—A few planks were torn up from the church floor in front of St.

Thomas’s shrine, and a grave was hewn in the stone-hard ground beneath

for Ulvhild Lavransdatter.

It was snowing thick and silently all through those days, while the

child lay in the dead-straw; it was snowing still when she was borne to

the grave; and it went on snowing, almost without cease, till a whole

month was out.

* * * * *

To the folk of the Dale, waiting and waiting for the spring to deliver

them, it seemed as though it would never come. The days grew long and

light, and the steam-cloud from the melting snow lay on all the valley

as long as the sun shone. But the cold still held the air, and there was

no strength in the heat to overcome it. By night it froze hard—there was

loud cracking from the ice, there were booming sounds from the distant

fells; and the wolves howled and the fox barked down among the farms as

at midwinter. Men stripped the bark from the trees for their cattle, but

they dropped down dead in their stalls by scores. None could tell how

all this was to end.

Kristin went out on such a day, when water was trickling in the ruts and

the snow on the fields around glistened like silver. The snow-wreaths

had been eaten away hollow on the side toward the sun, so that the fine

ice-trellis of the snow-crust edges broke with a silver tinkle when her

foot touched them. But everywhere, where the smallest shadow fell, the

sharp cold held the air and the snow was hard.

She went upward towards the church—she knew not herself what she went to

do, but something drew her there. Her father was there—some of the

free-holders, guild-brothers, were to meet in the cloister-way, she

knew.

Half-way up the hill she met the troop of farmers, coming down. Sira

Eirik was with them. The men were all on foot; they walked stoopingly in

a dark, shaggy knot, and spoke no word together. They gave back her

greeting sullenly, as she went by them.

Kristin thought how far away the time was when every soul in the parish

had been her friend. Like enough all men knew now that she was a bad

daughter. Perhaps they knew yet more about her. It might well be that

all believed now there had been some truth in the old talk about her and

Arne and Bentein. It might be that she had fallen into the worst

ill-fame. She held her head high and passed on toward the church.

The door stood ajar. It was cold in the church, yet was it as though a

mild warmth streamed into her heart from the brown dusky hall with the

high, upspringing pillars holding up the darkness under the roof-beams.

There was no light on the altars, but a ray of sun shone in through a

chink of the door and gleamed faintly back from the pictures and the

holy vessels.

Far in before the altar of St. Thomas she saw her father kneeling with

head bent forward on his folded hands, which held his cap crushed to his

breast.

Shrinking back in fear and sadness, Kristin stole out and stood in the

cloister-way, with her hands about two of its small pillars. Framed in

the arch between them she saw Jörundgaard lying below, and behind her

home the pale-blue haze that filled the valley. Where the river lay

stretched through the country-side its ice and water sent out white

sparkles in the sunshine. But the alder thickets along its bed were

yellow-brown with blossom, even the pine-wood up by the church was

tinged with spring green, and there was a piping and twittering and

whistling of little birds in the grove near by. Aye, there had been

bird-song like this each evening after the sun was down.

And she felt that the longing she thought must have been racked out of

her long since, the longing in her body and her blood, was stirring now

again, faintly and feebly, as about to waken from a winter sleep.

Lavrans Björgulfsön came out and locked the church-door behind him. He

came and stood by his daughter, looking out through the arch next to

her. She saw how the winter gone by had harrowed her father’s face. She

understood not herself how she could touch now on what was between them,

but the words seemed to rush out of themselves:

“Is it true, what mother told me the other day—that you said to her: had

it been Arne Gyrdsön you would have given me my will?”

“Aye,” said Lavrans, not looking at her.

“You said not so while yet Arne lived,” said Kristin.

“It never came in question. I saw well enough that the boy held you

dear—but he said nothing—and he was young—and I marked not ever that you

had such thoughts towards him. You could scarce think I would _proffer_

my daughter to a man of no estate?” he smiled slightly. “But I loved the

boy,” he said in a low voice; “and had I seen you pining for love of

him—”

They stood still, gazing. Kristin felt that her father was looking at

her—she strove hard to be calm of face, but she felt herself grow deadly

white. Then her father came towards her, put both his arms around her

and pressed her strongly to him. He bent her head backwards, looked down

into his daughter’s face, and then hid it again on his shoulder.

“Jesus Kristus, little Kristin, are you _so_ unhappy—?”

“I think I shall die of it, father,” she said, her face pressed to him.

She burst into weeping. But she wept because she had felt in his caress

and seen in his eyes that now he was so worn out with pain that he could

not hold out against her any more. She had overcome him.

* * * * *

Far on in the night she was wakened in the dark by her father’s touch on

her shoulder.

“Get up,” he said softly. “Do you hear—?”

She heard the singing of the wind round the house-corners—the deep, full

note of the south-wind, heavy with wetness. Streams were pouring from

the roof; there was the whisper of rain falling on soft melting snow.

Kristin flung her dress on her back and went after her father to the

outer door. They stood together looking out into the twilight of the May

night—warm wind and rain smote against them—the heavens were a welter of

tangled drifting rain-clouds, the woods roared, the wind whistled

between the houses, and from far up in the fells they heard the dull

boom of snow-masses falling.

Kristin felt for her father’s hand and held it. He had called her that

he might show her this. So had it been between them before, that he

would have done this; and so it was now again.

When they went in to bed again, Lavrans said:

“The stranger serving-man that came last week brought me letters from

Sir Munan Baardsön. He is minded to come up the Dale to our parts next

summer to see his mother; and he asked if he might meet me and have

speech with me.”

“What will you answer him, my father?” she whispered.

“That can I not tell you now,” said Lavrans. “But I will speak with him;

and then must I order this matter so as I may deem I can answer it to

God, my daughter.”

Kristin crept in again beside Ramborg, and Lavrans went and lay down by

the side of his sleeping wife. He lay thinking that if the flood came

over-sudden and strong there were few places in the parish that lay so

much in its path as Jörundgaard. Folk said there was a prophecy that

some day the river would carry it away.

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

5

Spring came at a single bound. Only a few days after the sudden thaw the

whole parish lay dark brown under the flooding rain. The waters rushed

foaming down the hillsides, the river swelled up and lay in the

valley-bottom, like a great leaden-grey lake, with lines of tree-tops

floating on its waters and a treacherous bubbling furrow where the

current ran. At Jörundgaard the water stood far up over the fields. But

everywhere the mischief done was less than folk had feared.

Of necessity the spring work was thrown late, and the people sowed their

scanty corn with prayers to God that He would save it from the

night-frosts in autumn. And it looked as though He would hearken to them

and a little ease their burdens. June came in with mild, growing

weather, the summer was good, and folk set their faces forward in hope

that the marks of the evil year might be wiped out in time.

* * * * *

The hay harvest had been got in, when one evening four men rode up to

Jörundgaard. First came two knights, and behind them their serving-men;

and the knights were Sir Munan Baardsön and Sir Baard Petersön of

Hestnæs.

Ragnfrid and Lavrans had the board spread in the upper hall, and beds

made ready in the guest-room over the store-house. But Lavrans begged

the knights to tarry with their errand till the next day, when they

should be rested from their journey.

Sir Munan led the talk throughout the meal; he turned much to Kristin in

talking, and spoke as if he and she were well-acquainted. She saw that

this was not to her father’s liking. Sir Munan was square-built,

red-faced, ugly, talkative, and something of a buffoon in his bearing.

People called him Dumpy Munan or Dance Munan. But for all his flighty

bearing Lady Aashild’s son was a man of understanding and parts, who had

been used by the Crown more than once in matters of trust, and was known

to have a word in the counsels of them that guided the affairs of the

kingdom. He held his mother’s heritage in the Skogheim Hundred; was

exceeding rich, and had made a rich marriage. Lady Katrin, his wife, was

hard-featured beyond the common, and seldom opened her mouth; but her

husband ever spoke of her as if she were the wisest of dames, so that

she was known in jest as Lady Katrin the Ready-witted, or the

Silver-tongued. They seemed to live with each other well and lovingly,

though Sir Munan was known all too well for the looseness of his life

both before and after his marriage.

Sir Baard Petersön was a comely and a stately old man, even though now

somewhat ample of girth and heavy-limbed. His hair and beard were faded

now, but their hue was still as much yellow as ’twas white. Since King

Magnus Haakonsön’s death he had lived retired, managing his great

possessions in Nordmöre. He was a widower for the second time, and had

many children, who, it was said, were all comely, well-nurtured and

well-to-do.

The next day Lavrans and his guests went up to the upper hall for their

parley. Lavrans would have had his wife be present with them, but she

would not:

“This matter must be in your hands wholly. You know well ’twill be the

heaviest of sorrows for our daughter if it should come to naught; but I

see well that there are but too many things that may make against this

marriage.”

Sir Munan brought forth a letter from Erlend Nikulaussön. Erlend’s

proffer was that Lavrans should fix, himself, each and all of the

conditions, if he would betroth his daughter Kristin to him. Erlend was

willing to have all his possessions valued and his incomings appraised

by impartial men, and to grant to Kristin such extra-gift and

morning-gift, that she would possess a third of all his estate besides

her own dowry and all such heritage as might come to her from her kin,

should she be left a widow without living children. Further his proffer

was to grant Kristin full power to deal at her pleasure with her share

of the common estate, both what she had of her own kindred and what came

to her from her husband. But if Lavrans wished for other terms of

settlement, Erlend was most willing to hear his wishes and to follow

them in all things. To one thing only he asked that Kristin’s kindred,

on their side, should bind themselves: that, should the guardianship of

his children and Kristin’s ever come to them, they would never try to

set aside the gifts he had made to his children by Eline Ormsdatter, but

would let all such gifts hold good, as having passed from his estate

before his entry into wedlock with Kristin Lavransdatter. At the end of

all Erlend made proffer to hold the wedding in all seemly state at

Husaby.

Lavrans spoke in reply:

“This is a fair proffer. I see by it that your kinsman has it much at

heart to come to terms with me. All the more is this plain to me by

reason that he has moved you, Sir Munan, to come for the second time on

such an errand to a man like me, who am of little weight beyond my own

country-side; and that a knight like you, Sir Baard, hath been at the

pains of making such a journey to further his cause. But concerning

Erlend’s proffer I would say this: my daughter has not been bred up to

deal herself with the ordering of goods and gear, but I have ever hoped

to give her to such a man as that I could lay the maid’s welfare in his

hands with an easy mind. I know not, indeed, whether Kristin be fit to

be set in such authority, but I can scarce believe that ’twould be for

her good. She is mild of mood and biddable—and ’twas one of the reasons

I have had in mind in setting myself against this marriage, that ’tis

known Erlend has shown want of understanding in more matters than one.

Had she been a power-loving, bold and head-strong woman, then indeed the

matter had taken on another face.”

Sir Munan burst out laughing:

“Dear Lavrans, lament you that the maid is not head-strong enough—?” and

Sir Baard said with a little smile:

“Methinks your daughter has shown that she lacks not a will of her

own—for two years now she has held to Erlend clean against your will.”

Lavrans said:

“I have not forgotten it; yet do I know well what I say. She has

suffered sorely herself all this time she has stood against me; nor will

she long be glad with a husband who cannot rule her.”

“Nay then the devil’s in it!” said Sir Munan. “Then must your daughter

be far unlike all the women I have known; for I have never seen _one_

that was not fain to rule herself—and her man to boot!”

Lavrans shrugged his shoulders and made no answer.

Then said Baard Petersön:

“I can well believe, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you have found this

marriage between your daughter and my foster-son no more to your liking,

since the woman who had lived with him came to the end we know of last

year. But you must know it has come out now that the unhappy woman had

let herself be led astray by another man, Erlend’s steward at Husaby.

Erlend knew of this when he went with her down the Dale; he had

proffered to portion her fittingly, if the man would wed her.”

“Are you well assured that this is so?” asked Lavrans. “And yet I know

not,” he said again, “if the thing is anyway bettered thereby. Hard must

it be for a woman come of good kindred to go into a house hand and hand

with the master, and be led out by the serving-man.”

Munan Baardsön took the word:

“’Tis plain to me, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that what goes against my cousin

most with you, is that he has had these hapless dealings with Sigurd

Saksulvsön’s wife. And true it is that ’twas not well done of him. But

in God’s name, man, you must remember this—here was this young boy

dwelling in one house with a young and fair woman, and she had an old,

cold, strengthless husband—and the night is a half-year long up there:

methinks a man could scarce look for aught else to happen, unless Erlend

had been a very saint. There is no denying it: Erlend had made at all

times but a sorry monk; but methinks your young, fair daughter would

give you little thanks, should you give her a monkish husband.—True it

is that Erlend bore himself like a fool then, and a yet greater fool

since—But the thing should not stand against him for ever—we his kinsmen

have striven to help the boy to his feet again; the woman is dead; and

Erlend has done all in his power to care for her body and her soul; the

Bishop of Oslo himself hath absolved him of his sin, and now is he come

home again made clean by the Holy Blood at Schwerin—would you be

stricter than the Bishop of Oslo, and the Archbishop at Schwerin—or

whoever it may be that hath charge of that precious blood—?

“Dear Lavrans, true it is that chastity is a fair thing indeed; but ’tis

verily hard for a grown man to attain to it without a special gift of

grace from God. By St. Olav—Aye, and you should remember too that the

Holy King himself was not granted that gift till his life here below was

drawing to an end—very like ’twas God’s will that he should first beget

that doughty youth King Magnus, who smote down the heathen when they

raged against the Nordlands. I wot well King Olav had that son by

another than his Queen—yet doth he sit amidst the highest saints in the

host of heaven. Aye, I can see in your face that you deem this unseemly

talk—”

Sir Baard broke in:

“Lavrans Björgulfsön, I liked this matter no better than you, when first

Erlend came to me and said he had set his heart on a maid that was

handfast to another. But since then I have come to know that there is so

great kindness between these two young folk, that ’twould be great pity

to part their loves. Erlend was with me at the last Yule-tide feasting

King Haakon held for his men—they met together there, and scarce had

they seen each other when your daughter swooned away and lay a long

while as one dead—and I saw in my foster-son’s face that he would rather

lose his life than lose her.”

Lavrans sat still awhile before answering:

“Aye; all such things sound fair and fine when a man hears them told in

a knightly saga of the Southlands. But we are not in Bretland here, and

’tis like you too would ask more in the man you would choose for

son-in-law than that he had brought your daughter to swoon away for love

in all folk’s sight—”

The two others were silent, and Lavrans went on:

“’Tis in my mind, good Sirs, that had Erlend Nikulaussön not made great

waste both of his goods and of his fame, you would scarce be sitting

here pleading so strongly with a man of my estate that I should give my

daughter to him. But I would be loth it should be said of Kristin that

’twas an honour for her to wed a great estate and a man from amongst the

highest in the land—after the man had so beshamed himself, that he could

not look to make a better match, or keep undiminished the honour of his

house.”

He rose in heat, and began walking to and fro.

But Sir Munan started up:

“Now, before God, Lavrans, if the talk is of shame, I would have you

know you are over-proud in—”

Sir Baard broke in quickly, going up to Lavrans:

“Proud you are, Lavrans—you are like those udal farmers we have heard of

in olden times, who would have naught to do with the titles the Kings

would have given them, because their pride could not brook that folk

should say they owed thanks to any but themselves. I tell you, that were

Erlend still master of all the honour and riches the boy was born to,

yet would I never deem that I demeaned him or myself in asking a

well-born and wealthy man to give his daughter to my foster-son, if I

knew that the two young creatures might break their hearts if they

parted. And the rather,” he said in a low voice, laying his hand on

Lavrans’ shoulder, “if so it were that ’twould be best for the souls of

both they should wed each other.”

Lavrans drew away from the other’s hand; his face grew set and cold:

“I scarce believe I understand your meaning, Sir Knight?”

The two men looked at each other for a space; then Sir Baard said:

“I mean that Erlend has told me, they two have sworn troth to each other

with the dearest oaths. Maybe you would say that you have power to loose

your child from her oath, since she swore without your will. But Erlend

you cannot loose.—And for aught I can see what most stands in the road

is your pride—and the hate you bear to sin. But in that ’tis to me as

though you were minded to be stricter than God himself, Lavrans

Björgulfsön.”

Lavrans answered somewhat uncertainly:

“It may be there is truth in this that you say to me, Sir Baard. But

what most has set me against this match is that I have deemed Erlend to

be so unsure a man that I could not trust my daughter to his hands.”

“Methinks I can answer for my foster-son now,” said Baard quietly.

“Kristin is so dear to him that I know, if you will give her to him, he

will prove in the event such a son-in-law that you shall have no cause

of grief.”

Lavrans did not answer at once. Then Sir Baard said earnestly, holding

out his hand:

“In God’s name, Lavrans Björgulfsön, give your consent!”

Lavrans laid his hand in Sir Baard’s:

“In God’s name!”

* * * * *

Ragnfrid and Kristin were called to the upper hall, and Lavrans told

them his will. Sir Baard greeted the two women in fair and courtly

fashion; Sir Munan took Ragnfrid by the hand and spoke to her in seemly

wise, but Kristin he greeted in the foreign fashion with a kiss, and he

took time over his greeting. Kristin felt that her father looked at her

while this was doing.

“How like you your new kinsman, Sir Munan?” he asked jestingly when he

was alone with her for a moment late that evening.

Kristin looked beseechingly at him. Then he stroked her face a little

and said no more.

* * * * *

When Sir Baard and Sir Munan went to their room, Munan broke out:

“Not a little would I give to see this Lavrans Björgulfsön’s face,

should he come to know the truth about this precious daughter of his.

Here have you and I had to beg on our knees to win for Erlend a woman he

has had with him in Brynhild’s house many times—”

“Hold your peace—no word of that,” answered Sir Baard in wrath. “’Twas

the worst deed Erlend ever did, to lure that child to such places—and

see that Lavrans never hear aught of it; the best that can happen now

for all is that those two should be friends.”

The feast for the drinking of the betrothal ale was appointed to be held

that same autumn. Lavrans said he could not make the feast very great,

the year before had been such a bad one in the Dale; but to make up he

would bear the cost of the wedding himself, and hold it at Jörundgaard

in all seemly state. He named the bad year again as the cause why he

required that the time of betrothal should last a year.

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

6

For more reasons than one the betrothal feast was put off; it was not

held till the New Year; but Lavrans agreed that the bridal need not

therefore be delayed; it was to be just after Michaelmas, as was fixed

at first.

So Kristin sat now at Jörundgaard as Erlend’s betrothed in all men’s

sight. Along with her mother she looked over all the goods and gear that

had been gathered and saved up for her portion, and strove to add still

more to the great piles of bedding and clothes; for when once Lavrans

had given his daughter to the master of Husaby, it was his will that

naught should be spared.

Kristin wondered herself at times that she did not feel more glad. But,

spite of all the busyness, there was no true gladness at Jörundgaard.

Her father and mother missed Ulvhild sorely, that she saw. But she

understood too that ’twas not that alone which made them so silent and

so joyless. They were kind to her, but when they talked with her of her

betrothed, she saw that they did but force themselves to it to please

her and show her kindness; ’twas not that they themselves had a mind to

speak of Erlend. They had not learned to take more joy in the marriage

she was making, now they had come to know the man. Erlend, too, had kept

himself quiet and withdrawn the short time he had been at Jörundgaard

for the betrothal—and like enough this could not have been otherwise,

thought Kristin; for he knew it was with no good will her father had

given his consent.

She herself and Erlend had scarce had the chance to speak ten words

alone together. And it had brought a strange unwonted feeling, to sit

together thus in all folk’s sight; at such times they had little to say,

by reason of the many things between them that could not be said. There

arose in her a doubtful fear, vague and dim, but always present—perhaps

’twould make it hard for them in some way after they were wedded, that

they had come all too near to each other at the first, and after had

lived so long quite parted.

But she tried to thrust the fear away. It was meant that Erlend should

visit them at Whitsuntide; he had asked Lavrans and Ragnfrid if they had

aught against his coming, and Lavrans had laughed a little, and answered

that Erlend might be sure his daughter’s bridegroom would be welcome.

At Whitsuntide they would be able to go out together; they would have a

chance to speak together as in the old days, and then surely it would

fade away, the shadow that had come between them in this long time

apart, when each had gone about alone bearing a burden the other could

not share.

* * * * *

At Easter Simon Andressön and his wife came to Formo. Kristin saw them

in the church. Simon’s wife was standing not far off from her.

She must be much older than he, thought Kristin—nigh thirty years old.

Lady Halfrid was little and slender and thin, but she had an exceeding

gracious visage. The very hue of her pale-brown hair as it flowed in

waves from under her linen coif, seemed, as it were, so gentle, and her

eyes too were full of gentleness; they were great grey eyes flecked with

tiny golden specks. Every feature of her face was fine and pure—but her

skin was something dull and grey, and when she opened her mouth one saw

that her teeth were not good. She looked not as though she were strong,

and folks said indeed that she was sickly—she had miscarried more than

once already, Kristin had heard. She wondered how it would fare with

Simon with this wife.

The Jörundgaard folk and they of Formo had greeted each other across the

church-green more than once, but had not spoken. But on Easter-day Simon

was in the church without his wife. He went across to Lavrans, and they

spoke together a while. Kristin heard Ulvhild’s name spoken. Afterwards

he spoke with Ragnfrid. Ramborg, who was standing by her mother, called

out aloud: “I mind you quite well—_I_ know who you are.” Simon lifted

the child up a little and twirled her round: “’Tis well done of you,

Ramborg, not to have forgotten me.” Kristin he only greeted from some

way off; and her father and mother said no word afterward of the

meeting.

But Kristin pondered much upon it. For all that had come and gone, it

had been strange to see Simon Darre again as a wedded man. So much that

was past came to life again at the sight; she remembered her own blind

and all-yielding love for Erlend in those days. Now, she felt, there was

some change in it. The thought came to her: how if Simon had told his

wife how they had come to part, he and she—but she knew he had kept

silence—“for my father’s sake,” she thought scoffingly. ’Twas a poor

showing, and strange, that she should be still living here unwed, in her

parents’ house. But at least they were betrothed; Simon could see that

they had had their way in spite of all. Whatever else Erlend might have

done, to _her_ he had held faithfully, and she had not been loose or

wanton.

* * * * *

One evening in early spring Ragnfrid had to send down the valley to old

Gunhild, the widow who sewed furs. The evening was so fair that Kristin

asked if she might not go; at last they gave her leave, since all the

men were busy.

It was after sunset, and a fine white frost-haze was rising toward the

gold-green sky. Kristin heard at each hoof-stroke the brittle sound of

the evening’s ice as it broke and flew outwards in tinkling splinters.

But from all the roadside brakes there was a happy noise of birds

singing, softly but full-throated with spring, into the twilight.

Kristin rode sharply downwards; she thought not much of anything, but

felt only it was good to be abroad alone once more. She rode with her

eyes fixed on the new moon sinking down toward the mountain ridge on the

far side of the Dale; and she had near fallen from her horse when he

suddenly swerved aside and reared.

She saw a dark body lying huddled together at the roadside—and at first

she was afraid. The hateful fear that had passed into her blood—the fear

of meeting people alone by the way—she could never quite be rid of. But

she thought ’twas maybe a wayfaring man who had fallen sick; so when she

had mastered her horse again, she turned and rode back, calling out to

know who it was.

The bundle stirred a little, and a voice said:

“Methinks ’tis you yourself, Kristin Lavransdatter—?”

“Brother Edwin?” she asked softly. She came near to thinking this was

some phantom or some deviltry sent to trick her. But she went nigh to

him; it was the old monk himself, and he could not raise himself from

the ground without help.

“My dear Father—are you wandering at this time of the year?” she said in

wonder.

“Praise be to God, who sent you this way to-night,” said the monk.

Kristin saw that his whole body was shaking. “I was coming north to you

folks, but my legs would carry me no further this night. Almost I deemed

’twas God’s will that I should lie down and die on the roads I have been

wandering about on all my life. But I was fain to see you once again, my

daughter—”

Kristin helped the monk up on her horse; then led it homeward by the

bridle, holding him on. And, all the time he was lamenting that now she

would get her feet wet in the icy slush, she could hear him moaning

softly with pain.

He told her that he had been at Eyabu since Yule. Some rich farmers of

the parish had vowed in the bad year to beautify their church with new

adornments. But the work had gone slowly; he had been sick the last of

the winter—the evil was in his stomach—it could bear no food, and he

vomited blood. He believed himself he had not long to live, and he

longed now to be home in his cloister, for he was fain to die there

among his own brethren. But he had a mind first to come north up the

Dale one last time, and so he had set out, along with the monk who came

from Hamar to be the new prior of the pilgrim hospice at Roaldstad. From

Fron he had come on alone.

“I heard that you were betrothed,” he said, “to that man—and then such a

longing came on me to see you. It seemed to me a sore thing that that

should be our last meeting, that time in our church at Oslo. It has been

a heavy burden on my heart, Kristin, that you had strayed away into the

path where is no peace—”

Kristin kissed the monk’s hand:

“Truly I know not, Father, what I have done, or how deserved, that you

show me such great love.”

The monk answered in a low voice:

“I have thought many a time, Kristin, that had it so befallen we had met

more often, then might you have come to be as my daughter in the

spirit.”

“Mean you that you would have brought me to turn my heart to the holy

life of the cloister?” asked Kristin. Then, a little after, she said:

“Sira Eirik laid a command on me that, should I not win my father’s

consent and be wed with Erlend, then must I join with a godly sisterhood

and make atonement for my sins—”

“I have prayed many a time that the longing for the holy life might come

to you,” said Brother Edwin. “But not since you told me that you wot

of—I would have had you come to God, wearing your garland, Kristin—”

* * * * *

When they came to Jörundgaard Brother Edwin had to be lifted down and

borne in to his bed. They laid him in the old winter house, in the

hearth-room, and cared for him most tenderly. He was very sick, and Sira

Eirik came and tended him with medicines for the body and the soul. But

the priest said the old man’s sickness was cancer, and it could not be

that he had long to live. Brother Edwin himself said that when he had

gained a little strength he would journey south again and try to come

home to his own cloister. But Sira Eirik told the others he could not

believe this was to be thought of.

It seemed to all at Jörundgaard that a great peace and gladness had come

to them with the monk. Folks came and went in the hearth room all day

long, and there was never any lack of watchers to sit at nights by the

sick man. As many as had time flocked in to listen, when Sira Eirik came

over and read to the dying man from godly books, and they talked much

with Brother Edwin of spiritual things. And though much of what he said

was dark and veiled, even as his speech was wont to be, it seemed to

these folks that he strengthened and comforted their souls, because each

and all could see that Brother Edwin was wholly filled with the love of

God.

But the monk was fain to hear, too, of all kind of other things—asked

the news of the parishes round, and had Lavrans tell him all the story

of the evil year of drought. There were some folk who had betaken them

to evil courses in that tribulation, turning to such helpers as

Christian men should most abhor. Some way in over the ridges west of the

Dale was a place in the mountains where were certain great white stones,

of obscene shapes, and some men had fallen so low as to sacrifice boars

and gib-cats before these abominations. So Sira Eirik moved some of the

boldest, most God-fearing farmers to come with him one night and break

the stones in pieces. Lavrans had been with them, and could bear witness

that the stones were all besmeared with blood, and there lay bones and

other refuse all around them—’Twas said that up in Heidal the people had

had an old crone sit out on a great earth-fast rock three Thursday

nights, chanting ancient spells.

* * * * *

One night Kristin sat alone by Brother Edwin. At midnight he woke up,

and seemed to be suffering great pain. Then he bade Kristin take the

book of Miracles of the Virgin Mary, which Sira Eirik had lent to

Brother Edwin, and read to him.

Kristin was little used to read aloud, but she set herself down on the

step of the bed and placed the candle by her side; she laid the book on

her lap and read as well as she could.

In a little while she saw that the sick man was lying with teeth set

tight, clenching his wasted hands as the fits of agony took him.

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

“It seems so to me, now. But I know ’tis but that God has made me a

little child again and is tossing me about, up and down—

“I mind me one time when I was little—four winters old I was then—I had

run away from home into the woods. I lost myself, and wandered about

many days and nights—My mother was with the folks that found me, and

when she caught me up in her arms, I mind me well, she bit me in my

neck. I thought it was that she was angry with me—but afterward I knew

better—

“I long, myself, now, to be home out of this forest. It is written:

forsake ye all things and follow me—but there has been all too much in

this world that I had no mind to forsake—”

“_You_, Father?” said Kristin. “Ever have I heard all men say that you

have been a pattern for pure life and poverty and humbleness—”

The monk laughed slily.

“Aye, a young child like you thinks, maybe, there are no other lures in

the world than pleasure and riches and power. But I say to you, these

are small things men find by the wayside; and I—I have loved the ways

themselves—not the small things of the world did I love, but the _whole_

world. God gave me grace to love Lady Poverty and Lady Chastity from my

youth up, and thus methought with these playfellows it was safe to

wander, and so I have roved and wandered, and would have been fain to

roam over all the ways of the earth. And my heart and my thoughts have

roamed and wandered too—I fear me I have often gone astray in my

thoughts on the most hidden things. But now ’tis all over, little

Kristin; I will home now to my house and lay aside all my own thoughts,

and hearken to the clear words of the Gardian telling what I should

believe and think concerning my sin and the mercy of God—”

A little while after he dropped asleep. Kristin went and sat by the

hearth tending the fire. But well on in the morning, when she was nigh

dozing off herself, of a sudden Brother Edwin spoke from the bed:

“Glad am I, Kristin, that this matter of you and Erlend Nikulaussön is

brought to a good end.”

Kristin burst out weeping:

“We have done so much wrong before we came so far. And what gnaws at my

heart most is that I have brought my father so much sorrow. He has no

joy in this wedding either. And even so he knows not—did he know all—I

trow he would take his kindness quite from me.”

“Kristin,” said Brother Edwin gently, “see you not, child, that ’tis

therefore you must keep it from him, and ’tis therefore you must give

him no more cause of sorrow—because he never will call on you to pay the

penalty. Nothing you could do could turn your father’s heart from you.”

* * * * *

A few days later Brother Edwin was grown so much better that he would

fain set out on his journey southward. Since his heart was set on this,

Lavrans had a kind of litter made, to be slung between two horses, and

on this he brought the sick man as far south as to Lidstad; there they

gave him fresh horses and men to tend him on his way, and in this wise

was he brought as far as Hamar. There he died in the cloister of the

Preaching Friars, and was buried in their church. Afterward the Barefoot

Friars claimed that his body should be delivered to them; for that many

folks all about in the parishes held him to be a holy man, and spoke of

him by the name of Saint Evan. The peasants of the Uplands and the

Dales, all the way north to Trondheim, prayed to him as a saint. So it

came about that there was a long dispute between the two Orders about

his body.

Kristin heard naught of this till long after. But she grieved sorely at

parting from the monk. It seemed to her that he alone knew all her

life—he had known the innocent child as she was in her father’s keeping,

and he had known her secret life with Erlend; so that he was, as it

were, a link, binding together all that had first been dear to her with

all that now filled her heart and mind. Now was she quite cut off from

herself as she had been in the time when she was yet a maid.

* * * * *

“Aye,” said Ragnfrid, feeling with her hand the lukewarm brew in the

vats, “methinks ’tis cool enough now to mix in the barm.”

Kristin had been sitting in the brew-house doorway spinning, while she

waited for the brew to cool. She laid down the spindle on the threshold,

unwrapped the rug from the pail of risen yeast, and began measuring out.

“Shut the door first,” bade her mother, “so the draught may not come

in—you seem walking in your sleep, Kristin,” she said testily.

Kristin poured the yeast in to the vats, while Ragnfrid stirred.

—Geirhild Drivsdatter called on Hatt, but he was Odin. So he came and

helped her with the brewing; and he craved for his wage that which was

between the vat and her—’Twas a saga that Lavrans had once told when she

was little. That which was between the vat and her—

Kristin felt dizzy and sick with the heat and the sweet spicy-smelling

steam that filled the dark close-shut brew-house.

Out in the farm-place Ramborg and a band of children were dancing in a

ring, singing:

“The eagle sits on the topmost hill-crag

Crooking his golden claws....”

Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay

empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to

a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence

round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and

squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them.

Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother

looked at the pigs and said:

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

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

“Aye, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,”

answered Ragnfrid. “And of wild-fowl and hare we shall scarce have more

than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be

well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place—counting

serving-folk and children—and the poor that have to be fed. And even

should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I

trow, will stay out the week—at the least.”

“You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “’Tis

time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.”

* * * * *

Kristin fetched her spinning gear and sat herself down there in the back

doorway. She put the distaff with the bunch of wool up under her

arm-pit, but her hands, with the spindle in them, sank into her lap.

Beyond the fence the ears of barley gleamed silvery and silken in the

sunshine. Above the song of the river she heard now and again from the

meadows on the river-island the ring of a scythe—sometimes the iron

would strike upon a stone. Her father and the house-folk were hard at

work on the hay-making, to get it off their hands. For there was much to

get through and to make ready against her wedding.

The scent of the lukewarm grains, and the rank smell of the swine—she

grew qualmish again. And the midday heat made her so dizzy and faint.

White and stiffly upright she sat and waited for it to pass over—she

_would_ not to be sick again—

Never before had she felt what now she felt. ’Twas of no avail to try to

tell herself for comfort: it was not certain yet—she might be

wrong——That which was between the vat and her—

Eighteen reindeer. Well on toward two hundred wedding-guests—Folk would

have a rare jest to laugh at when ’twas known that all this hubbub had

but been about a breeding woman they had to see and get married before—

Oh no. She threw her spinning from her and started up as the sickness

overcame her again—Oh no, it was sure enough!—

They were to be wedded the second Sunday after Michaelmas, and the

bridal was to last for five days. There were more than two months still

to wait; they would be sure to see it on her—her mother and the other

housewives of the parish. They were ever wise in such things—knew them

months before Kristin could understand how they saw them. “Poor thing,

she grows so pale”—Impatiently Kristin rubbed her hands against her

cheeks; she felt that they were white and bloodless.

Before, she had so often thought: this must happen soon or late. And she

had not feared it so terribly. But ’twould not have been the same then,

when they could not—were forbidden to come together in lawful wise. It

was counted—aye, a shame in a manner, and a sin too—but if ’twere two

young things who _would not_ let themselves be forced apart, folk

remembered that ’twas so, and spoke of them with forbearance. _She_

would not have been ashamed. But when such things happened between a

betrothed pair—there was naught for them but laughter and gross jesting.

She saw it herself—one could not but laugh: here was brewing and mixing

of wine, slaughtering and baking and cooking for a wedding that should

be noised far abroad in the land—and she, the bride, grew qualmish if

she but smelt food, and crept in a cold sweat behind the out-houses to

be sick.

Erlend. She set her teeth hard in anger. He should have spared her this.

For she had not been willing. He should have remembered that before,

when all had been so unsure for her, when she had had naught to trust to

but his love, she had ever, ever gladly been his. He should have let her

be now, when she tried to deny him because she thought ’twas not well of

them to take aught by stealth, after her father had joined their hands

together in the sight of Erlend’s kinsmen and hers. But he had taken her

to him, half by force, with laughter and caresses; so that she had not

had strength enough to show him she was in earnest in her denial.

She went in and saw to the beer in the vats, then came back again and

stood leaning on the fence. The standing grain moved gently in shining

ripples before a breath of wind. She could not remember any year when

she had seen the corn-fields bear such thick and abundant growth.—The

river glittered far off, and she heard her father’s voice shouting—she

could not catch the words, but she could hear the reapers on the island

laughing.

Should she go to her father and tell him: ’Twould be best to let be all

this weary bustle and let Erlend and her come together quietly without

church-wedding or splendid feasts—now that the one thing needful was

that she should bear the name of wife before ’twas plain to all men that

she bore Erlend’s child under her heart already?

_He_ would be a laughing-stock, Erlend too, as much as she—or even more,

for he was no green boy any longer. But it was he who would have this

wedding; he had set his heart on seeing her stand as his bride in silk

and velvets and tall golden crown—_that_ was his will, and it had been

his will, too, to possess her in those sweet secret hours of last

spring. She had yielded to him in that. And she must do his will too in

this other thing.

But in the end ’twas like he would be forced to see—no one could have it

both ways in such things. He had talked so much of the great Yule-tide

feast he would hold at Husaby the first year she sat there as mistress

of his house—how he would show forth to all his kinsmen and friends and

all the folks from far around the fair wife he had won. Kristin smiled

scornfully. A seemly thing ’twould be this Yule-tide, such a home-coming

feast!

Her time would be at St. Gregory’s Mass or thereabout. Thoughts seemed

to swarm and jostle in her mind when she said to herself that at

Gregory’s Mass she was to bear a child. There was some fear among the

thoughts—she remembered how her mother’s cries had rung all round the

farm-place for two whole days, the time that Ulvhild was born. At

Ulvsvold two young wives had died in childbirth, one after the other—and

Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first wives too. And her own father’s mother,

whose name she bore—

But fear was not uppermost in her mind. She had often thought, when

after that first time she saw no sign that she was with child—maybe this

was to be their punishment—hers and Erlend’s. She would always be

barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared

before, would hope as vainly as of old they had feared needlessly—till

at last they would know that one day they should be borne forth from the

home of his fathers and be as though they had never been—for his brother

was a priest, and the children he had could inherit naught from him.

Dumpy Munan and his sons would come in and sit in their seats, and

Erlend would be blotted out from the line of his kindred.

She pressed her hand hard to her body. It was there—between the fence

and her—between the vat and her. ’Twas between her and all the

world—Erlend’s own son. She had made the trial already that she had once

heard Lady Aashild speak of; with blood from her right arm and her left.

’Twas a son that was coming to her—whatever fate he was to bring—She

remembered her dead little brothers, her parents’ sorrowful faces when

they spoke of them; she remembered all the times she had seen them both

in despair for Ulvhild’s sake—and the night when Ulvhild died. And she

thought of all the sorrow she herself had brought them, of her father’s

grief-worn face—and the end was not yet of the sorrows she was to bring

on her father and mother.

And yet—and yet. Kristin laid her head on the arm that rested on the

fence; the other hand she still held to her body. Even if it brought her

new sorrows, even if it led her feet down to death—she would rather die

in bearing Erlend a son than that they should both die one day, and

leave their houses standing empty, and the corn on their lands should

wave for strangers—

She heard a footstep in the room behind her. The ale! thought Kristin—I

should have seen to it long ago. She stood up and turned—and Erlend came

stooping through the doorway and stepped out into the sunlight—his face

shining with gladness.

“Is this where you are?” he asked. “And not a step will you come to meet

me, even?” he said; and came and threw his arms about her.

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

It was plain he was just alighted from his horse—his cloak still hung

from his shoulder, and his sword at his side—he was unshaven,

travel-soiled and covered with dust. He was clad in a red surcoat that

hung in folds from its collar and was open up the sides almost to the

armpits. As they passed through the brew-house and across the courtyard,

the coat swung and flapped about him so that his thighs showed right up

to the waist. His legs bent a little outwards when he walked—it was

strange she had never marked it before—she had only seen that he had

long slender legs, with fine ankles and small well-shaped feet.

Erlend had come well-attended—with five men and four led-horses. He told

Ragnfrid that he was come to fetch Kristin’s goods—’twould be more

homely for her, he thought, to find the things awaiting her at Husaby

when she came thither. And so late in the autumn as the wedding was to

be, it might be harder then to have the goods brought across the

hills—besides they might easily be spoiled by the sea-water on

ship-board. Now the Abbot of Nidarholm had proffered to give him leave

to send them by the Laurentius galleass—’twas meant she should sail from

Veöy about Assumption Day. So he was come to have the goods carted over

to Romsdal and down to Næs.

He sat in the doorway of the kitchen-house, drinking ale and talking

while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild-duck Lavrans had brought

home the day before. Mother and daughter were alone on the place; all

the women were busy raking in the meadows. He looked so glad and

happy—he was pleased with himself for coming on such a wise and prudent

errand.

Ragnfrid went out, and Kristin stayed minding the spit with the roasting

birds. Through the open door she could catch a glimpse of Erlend’s men

lying in the shadow on the other side of the courtyard, with the

ale-bowl circling among them. Erlend himself sat on the threshold,

chatting and laughing—the sun shone right down on his uncovered

coal-black hair; she spied some white threads in it. Aye, he must be

near thirty-two years old—but he bore himself like a mischievous boy.

She knew she would not be able to tell him of her trouble—time enough

when he saw it for himself. Laughing tenderness streamed through her

heart, over the hard little spot of anger at its core, like a glittering

river flowing over stones.

She loved him above all on earth—her soul was filled with her love,

though all the time she saw and remembered all those other things. How

ill this gallant in the fine red surcoat, with silver spurs on heel and

belt adorned with gold, suited with the busy harvest-time of

Jörundgaard.—She marked well, too, that her father came not up to the

farm, though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river to bear him

word of the guest that was come.

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

“Can you believe it!” he said joyfully, “Seems it not marvellous to

you—that ’tis for our wedding, all this toil and bustle?”

Kristin gave him a kiss and thrust him aside—then turned to basting the

birds and bade him stand out of the way. No, she would not say it—

* * * * *

It was not till supper-time that Lavrans came back to the farm—along

with the other harvesters. He was clad much like his workmen, in an

undyed wadmal coat cut off at the knees and loose breeches reaching to

the ankles; he walked barefoot, with his scythe over his shoulder. There

was naught in his dress to mark him off from the serving-men, save the

leathern shoulder-piece that made a perch for the hawk he bore on his

left shoulder. He led Ramborg by the hand.

He greeted his son-in-law heartily enough, begging him to forgive that

he had not come before—’twas that they must push on with the farm work

as hard as they could, for he himself had a journey to make to the

market town between the hay and the corn harvests. But when Erlend told

the errand he had come on, as they sat at the supper-board, Lavrans grew

something out of humour.

’Twas impossible he should spare carts and horses for such work at this

time. Erlend answered: he had brought four pack-horses with him. But

Lavrans said there would be three cartloads at the least. Besides, the

maid must have her wearing apparel with her here. And the bed-furniture

that Kristin was to have with her, they would need here too for the

wedding, so many guests as they would have in the house.

Well, well, said Erlend. Doubtless some way could be found to have the

goods sent through in the autumn. But he had been glad, and had thought

it seemed a wise counsel, when the Abbot had proffered to have the goods

brought in the Church galleass. The Abbot had reminded him of their

kinship. “They are all ready now to remember that,” said Erlend,

smiling. His father-in-law’s displeasure seemed not to trouble him in

the least.

But in the end it was agreed that Erlend should be given the loan of a

cart and should take away a cartload of the things Kristin would need

most when first she came to her new home.

The day after they were busy with the packing. The big and the little

loom the mother thought might go at once—Kristin would scarce have time

for weaving much more before the wedding. Ragnfrid and her daughter cut

off the web that was on the loom. It was undyed wadmal, but of the

finest, softest wool, with unwoven tufts of black sheep’s wool that made

a pattern of spots. Kristin and her mother rolled up the stuff and laid

it in the leather sack. Kristin thought: ’twould make good warm

swaddling-cloths—and right fair ones, too, with blue or red bands

wrapped round them.

The sewing-chair, too, that Arne had once made her, was to be sent.

Kristin took out of the box-seat all the things Erlend had given her

from time to time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cloak patterned

in red that she was to wear at the bridal, on the ride to church. The

mother turned it about and about, and felt the stuff and the fur lining.

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

this?”

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

Kristin’s bride-chest, that held all the goods her mother had gathered

together and saved up for her since she was a little child, was emptied

and packed anew. Its sides and cover were all carved in squares, with a

leaping beast or a bird amidst leaves in each square. The wedding-dress

Ragnfrid laid away in one of her own chests. It was not quite ready yet,

though they had sewed on it all winter. It was of scarlet silk, cut to

sit very close to the body. Kristin thought: ’twould be all too tight

across the breast now.

* * * * *

Toward evening the whole load stood ready, firmly bound under the

wagon-tilt. Erlend was to set forth early the next morning.

He stood with Kristin leaning over the courtyard gate, looking northward

to where a blue-black storm-cloud filled the Dale. Thunder was rolling

far off in the mountains—but southward the green fields and the river

lay in yellow, burning sunshine.

“Mind you the storm that day in the woods at Gerdarud?” he asked softly,

playing with her fingers.

Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and close—her

head ached, and at every breath she took her skin grew damp with sweat.

Lavrans came across to the two as they stood by the gate, and spoke of

the storm. ’Twas but rarely it did much harm down here in the parish—but

God knew if they should not hear of cattle and horses killed up in the

mountains.

It was black as night above the church up on the hillside. A lightning

flash showed them a troop of horses standing uneasily huddled together

on the green-sward outside the church gate. Lavrans thought they could

scarce belong here in the parish—rather must they be horses from Dovre

that had been running loose up on the hills below Jetta; but yet he had

a mind to go up and look at them, he shouted through a peal of

thunder—there might be some of his among them—

A fearful lightning-flash tore the darkness above the church—the thunder

crashed and bellowed so as to deafen them to all other sounds. The

cluster of horses burst asunder, scattering over the hill-slopes beneath

the mountain ridge. All three of them crossed themselves—

Then came another flash; it was as though the heavens split asunder

right above them, a mighty snow-white flame swooped down upon them—the

three were thrown against each other, and stood with shut, blinded eyes,

and a smell in their nostrils as of burning stone—while the crashing

thunder rent their ears.

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

“Look! the birch—the birch,” shouted Erlend; the great birch-tree in the

field near by seemed to totter—and a huge bough parted from the tree and

sank to the ground, leaving a great gash in the trunk.

“Think you ’twill catch fire—Jesus Kristus! The churchroof is alight!”

shouted Lavrans.

They stood and gazed—no—yes! Red flames were darting out among the

shingles beneath the ridge-turret.

Both men rushed back across the courtyard. Lavrans tore open the doors

of all the houses he came to and shouted to those inside; the house-folk

came swarming out.

“Bring axes, bring axes—timber axes,” he cried, “and bill-hooks”—he ran

on to the stables. In a moment he came out leading Guldsveinen by the

mane; he sprang on the horse’s bare back and dashed off up the hill,

with the great broad-axe in his hand. Erlend rode close behind him—all

the men followed; some were a-horseback, but some could not master the

terrified beasts, and giving up, ran on afoot. Last came Ragnfrid and

all the women on the place with pails and buckets.

None seemed to heed the storm any longer. By the light of the flashes

they could see folk streaming out of the houses further down the valley.

Sira Eirik was far up the hill already, running with his house-folk

behind him. There was a thunder of horses’ hoofs on the ridge below—some

men galloped past, turning white, appalled faces toward their burning

church.

It was blowing a little from the southeast. The fire had a strong hold

on the north wall; on the west the entrance door was blocked already.

But it had not caught yet on the south side nor on the apse.

Kristin and the women from Jörundgaard came into the graveyard south of

the church at a place where the fence was broken.

The huge red glare lighted up the grove of trees north of the church and

the green by it where there were bars to tie the horses to. None could

come thither for the glowing heat—the great cross stood alone out there,

bathed in the light of the flames. It looked as though it lived and

moved.

Through the hissing and roar of the flames sounded the thudding of axes

against the staves of the south wall. There were men in the cloister-way

hewing and hammering at the wall, while others tried to tear down the

cloister itself. Someone called out to the Jörundgaard women that

Lavrans and a few other men had followed Sira Eirik into the church, and

now ’twas high time to cut a passage through the south wall—small

tongues of flame were peeping out among the shingles here too; and

should the wind go round or die down, the fire would take hold on the

whole church.

To think of putting out the fire was vain; there was no time to make a

chain down to the river; but at Ragnfrid’s bidding the women made a line

and passed water along from the little beck that ran by the roadside—it

was but little to throw on the south wall and over the men working

there. Many of the women sobbed and wept the while, in terror for the

men who had made their way into the burning building, and in sorrow for

their church.

Kristin stood foremost in the line of women handing along the pails—she

gazed breathless at the burning church—they were both there, inside—her

father—and surely Erlend too.

The torn-down pillars of the cloister-way lay in a tangled mass of

timber and shingles from its roof. The men were attacking the inner wall

of staves now with all their might—a group of them had lifted up a great

log and were battering the wall with it.

Erlend and one of his men came out of the little door in the south wall

of the choir, carrying between them the great chest from the

sacristy—the chest Eirik was used to sit on when he heard confession.

Erlend and the man flung the chest out into the churchyard.

He shouted out something, but Kristin could not hear; he dashed on at

once into the cloister-way. Nimble as a cat he seemed as he ran—he had

thrown off his outer garments and had naught on him but shirt, breeches

and hose.

The others took up his shout—the choir and the sacristy were burning;

none could pass from the nave to the south-door any longer—the fire had

blocked both ways of escape. Some of the staves in the wall had been

splintered by the ram—Erlend had seized a fire-hook and with it he

tugged and wrenched at the wreckage of the staves—he and those with him

tore a hole in the side of the church, while other folks cried to take

care, for the roof might fall and shut in the men inside; the shingle

roof on this side too was burning hard now, and the heat had grown till

’twas scarce to be borne.

Erlend burst through the hole and helped out Sira Eirik. The priest came

bearing the holy vessels from the altars in the skirt of his gown.

A young boy followed, with one hand over his face and the other holding

the tall processional cross lance-wise in front of him. Lavrans came

next. He kept his eyes shut against the smoke—he staggered under the

weight of the great crucifix, which he bore in his arms; it was much

taller than the man himself.

Folk ran forward and helped them out and into the churchyard. Sira Eirik

stumbled and fell on his knees, and the altar vessels rolled out down

the slope. The silver dove flew open and the Host fell out—the priest

took it up, brushed the soil off it and kissed it, sobbing aloud; he

kissed the gilded head, too, that had stood on the altar with shreds of

the nails and hair of Saint Olav in it.

Lavrans Björgulfsön still stood holding up the Holy Rood. His arm lay

along the arms of the cross; his head was bowed against the shoulder of

the Christ-figure; it seemed as though the Redeemer bent his fair,

sorrowful face over the man to pity and to comfort.

The roof on the north side of the church had begun to fall in by bits—a

burning piece from a falling beam was hurled outwards and struck the

great bell in the belfry by the churchyard gate. The bell gave out a

deep sobbing note, which died in a long wail that was drowned in the

roaring of the flames.

None had paid heed to the weather all this time—the whole had lasted

indeed no long time, but whether short or long scarce any could have

told. The thunder and lightning had passed now far down the Dale; the

rain, that had begun some time back, fell ever the more heavily, and the

wind had died down.

But of a sudden it was as though a sheet of flame shot up from the

groundsill of the building—a moment, and with a mounting roar the fire

had swallowed up the church from end to end.

The people scattered, rushing away to escape the devouring heat. Erlend

was at Kristin’s side on the instant, dragging her away down the hill.

The whole man smelt of burning—when she stroked his head and face her

hand came away full of burnt hair.

They could not hear each other’s voices for the roaring of the fire. But

she saw that his eyebrows were burnt off to the roots; he had burns on

his face, and great holes were burnt in his shirt. He laughed as he

dragged her along with him after the others.

All the folk followed the old priest as he went weeping, with Lavrans

Björgulfsön bearing the crucifix.

At the foot of the churchyard Lavrans set the Rood from him up against a

tree, and sank down to a seat on the wreckage of the fence. Sira Eirik

was sitting there already—he stretched out his arms toward the burning

church:

“Farewell, farewell, thou Olav’s-Church; God bless thee, thou my

Olav’s-Church; God bless thee for every hour I have chanted in thee and

said Mass in thee—thou Olav’s-Church, good-night, good-night—”

The church-folk wept aloud with their priest. The rain streamed down on

the groups of people, but none thought of seeking shelter. Nor did it

seem to check the fierce burning of the tarred woodwork—brands and

glowing shingles were tossed out on every side. Then, suddenly, the

ridge-turret crashed down into the fiery furnace, sending a great shower

of sparks high into the air.

Lavrans sat with one hand over his face; the other arm lay in his lap,

and Kristin saw that the sleeve was all bloody from the shoulder down,

and blood ran down over his fingers. She went to him and touched his

arm.

“Not much is amiss, methinks—there fell somewhat on my shoulder,” he

said, looking up. He was white to the lips. “Ulvhild,” he murmured in

anguish, gazing into the burning pile.

Sira Eirik heard the word and laid a hand on his shoulder:

“’Twill not wake your child, Lavrans—she will sleep none the less sound

for the burning above her bed. _She_ hath not lost her soul’s home, as

we others have lost ours this night.”

Kristin hid her face on Erlend’s breast, and stood there feeling the

grasp of his arm round her shoulders. Then she heard her father asking

for his wife.

Someone answered that a woman had fallen in labour from the fright; they

had borne her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone with her

there.

Then Kristin called to mind again what she had clean forgotten ever

since they saw that the church was afire. She should not have looked on

this. There lived a man in the south of the parish who had a red stain

over half his face; ’twas said he was thus because his mother had looked

at a burning house while she was big with him. Dear, Holy Virgin Mother,

she prayed in her heart, let not my child have been marred by this—

* * * * *

The day after, the whole parish was called to meet on the church-green

to take counsel how best to build up the church anew.

Kristin sought out Sira Eirik at Romundgaard before the time set for the

meeting. She asked the priest if he deemed she should take this as a

sign. Maybe ’twas God’s will that she should say to her father she was

unworthy to wear the bridal crown; that it were more seemly she should

be given in marriage to Erlend Nikulaussön without feasting, or bridal

honours.

But Sira Eirik flew up at her with eyes glistening with wrath:

“Think you that God cares so much how you sluts may fly about and cast

yourselves away, that He would burn up a fair, venerable church for your

sake? Leave you your sinful pride, and bring not on your mother and

Lavrans such a sorrow as they would scarce win through for many a day.

If you wear not the crown with honour on your honourable day—the worse

for you; but the more need have you and Erlend of all the rites of the

Church when ye are brought together. Each and all of us have sins to

answer for; ’tis therefore, I trow, that this visitation is come upon us

all. See you to it that you mend your life, and that you help to build

up our church again, both you and Erlend.”

It was in Kristin’s mind that he knew not all, for that yet she had not

told him of this last thing that was come upon her—but she rested

content and said no more.

She went with the men to the meeting. Lavrans came with his arm in a

sling, and Erlend had many burns on his face; he was ill to look upon,

but he laughed it off. None of the wounds were large, and he said he

hoped they would not spoil his face too much when he came to be a

bridegroom. He stood up after Lavrans and promised four marks of silver

as an offering to the church, and for his betrothed, with Lavrans’

assent, land worth sixty cows from her holdings in the parish.

It was found needful for Erlend to stay a week at Jörundgaard by reason

of his burns. Kristin saw that ’twas as though Lavrans had come to like

his son-in-law better since the night of the fire; the men seemed now to

be good friends enough. She thought: maybe her father might grow to like

Erlend Nikulaussön so well that he would not judge them too strictly,

and would not take the matter so hardly as she had feared when the time

came when he must know that they had transgressed against him.

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

8

The year proved a rarely good one over all the north part of the Dale.

The hay crop was heavy, and it was got in dry; the folk came home from

the sæters in autumn with great store of dairy-stuff and full and fat

flocks and herds—they had been mercifully spared from wild beasts, too,

this year. The corn stood tall and thick as few folks could call to mind

having seen it before—it grew full-eared and ripened well, and the

weather was fair as heart could wish. Between St. Bartholomew’s and the

Virgin’s Birthfeast, the time when night-frosts were most to be feared,

it rained a little and was mild and cloudy, but thereafter the time of

harvest went by with sun and wind and mild, misty nights. The week after

Michaelmas most of the corn had been garnered all over the parish.

* * * * *

At Jörundgaard all folks were toiling and moiling, making ready for the

great wedding. The last two months Kristin had been so busy from morning

to night that she had but little time to trouble over aught but her

work. She saw that her bosom had filled out; the small pink nipples were

grown brown, and they were tender as smarting hurts when she had to get

out of bed in the cold—but it passed over when she had worked herself

warm, and after that she had no thought but of all she must get done

before evening. When now and again she was forced to straighten up her

back and stand and rest a little, she felt that the burden she bore was

growing heavy—but to look on she was still slim and slender as she had

ever been. She passed her hands down her long shapely thighs. No, she

would not grieve over it now. Sometimes a faint creeping longing would

come over her with the thought: like enough in a month or so she might

feel the child quick within her—By that time she would be at

Husaby.—Maybe Erlend would be glad—She shut her eyes and fixed her teeth

on her betrothal ring—then she saw before her Erlend’s face, pale and

moved, as he stood in the hall here in the winter and said the words of

espousal with a loud clear voice:

“So be God my witness and these men standing here, that I Erlend

Nikulaussön do espouse Kristin Lavransdatter according to the laws of

God and men, on such conditions as here have been spoken before these

witnesses standing hereby. That I shall have thee to my wife and thou

shalt have me to thy husband, so long as we two do live, to dwell

together in wedlock, with all such fellowship as God’s law and the law

of the land do appoint.”

As she ran on errands from house to house across the farm-place, she

stayed a moment—the rowan trees were so thick with berries this

year—’twould be a snowy winter. The sun shone over the pale stubble

fields where the corn sheaves stood piled on their stakes. If this

weather might only hold over the wedding!

* * * * *

Lavrans stood firmly to it that his daughter should be wedded in church.

It was fixed, therefore, that the wedding should be in the chapel at

Sundbu. On the Saturday the bridal train was to ride over the hills to

Vaage; they were to lie for the night at Sundbu and the neighbouring

farms, and ride back on Sunday after the wedding-mass. The same evening

after Vespers, when the holy day was ended, the wedding feast was to be

held, and Lavrans was to give his daughter away to Erlend. And after

midnight the bride and bridegroom were to be put to bed.

* * * * *

On Friday, after noon, Kristin stood in the upper hall balcony, watching

the bridal train come riding from the north, past the charred ruins of

the church on the hillside. It was Erlend coming with all his groomsmen;

she strained her eyes to pick him out among the others. They must not

see each other—no man must see her now before she was led forth

to-morrow in her bridal dress.

Where the ways divided, a few women left the throng and took the road to

Jörundgaard. The men rode on toward Laugarbru; they were to sleep there

that night.

Kristin went down to meet the comers. She felt wearied after the bath,

and the skin of her head was sore from the strong lye her mother had

used to wash her hair, that it might shine fair and bright on the

morrow.

Lady Aashild slipped down from her saddle into Lavrans’ arms. How can

she keep so light and young, thought Kristin. Her son Sir Munan’s wife,

Lady Katrin, might have passed for older than she; a big plump dame,

with dull and hueless skin and eyes. Strange, thought Kristin; she is

ill-favoured and he is unfaithful, and yet folks say they live well and

kindly together. Then there were two daughters of Sir Baard Petersön,

one married and one unmarried. They were neither comely nor

ill-favoured; they looked honest and kind, but held themselves something

stiffly in the strange company. Lavrans thanked them courteously that

they had been pleased to honour this wedding at the cost of so far a

journey so late in the year.

“Erlend was bred in our father’s house, when he was a boy,” said the

elder, moving forward to greet Kristin.

But now two youths came riding into the farm-place at a sharp trot—they

leaped from their horses and rushed laughing after Kristin, who ran

indoors and hid herself. They were Trond Gjesling’s two young sons, fair

and likely lads. They had brought the bridal crown with them from Sundbu

in a casket. Trond and his wife were not to come till Sunday, when they

would join the bridal train after the mass.

Kristin fled into the hearth-room; and Lady Aashild, coming after, laid

her hands on the girl’s shoulders, and drew down her face to hers to

kiss it.

“Glad am I that I live to see this day,” said Lady Aashild.

She saw how thin they were grown, Kristin’s hands, that she held in

hers. She saw that all else about her was grown thin, but that her bosom

was high and full. All the features of the face were grown smaller and

finer than before; the temples seemed as though sunken in the shadow of

the heavy, damp hair. The girl’s cheeks were round no longer, and her

fresh hue was faded. But her eyes were grown much larger and darker.

Lady Aashild kissed her again:

“I see well you have had much to strive against, Kristin,” she said.

“To-night will I give you a sleepy drink, that you may be rested and

fresh to-morrow.”

Kristin’s lips began to quiver.

“Hush,” said Lady Aashild, patting her hand. “I joy already that I shall

deck you out to-morrow—none hath seen a fairer bride, I trow, than you

shall be to-morrow.”

* * * * *

Lavrans rode over to Laugarbru to feast with his guests who were housed

there.

The men could not praise the food enough—better Friday food than this a

man could scarce find in the richest monastery. There was rye-meal

porridge, boiled beans and white bread—for fish they had only trout,

salted and fresh, and fat dried halibut.

As time went on and the men drank deeper, they grew ever more wanton of

mood, and the jests broken on the bridegroom’s head ever more gross. All

Erlend’s groomsmen were much younger than he—his equals in age and his

friends were all long since wedded men. The darling jest among the

groomsmen now was that he was so aged a man and yet was to mount the

bridal bed for the first time. Some of Erlend’s older kinsmen, who yet

kept their wits, sat in dread, at each new sally, that the talk would

come in upon matters it were best not to touch. Sir Baard of Hestnæs

kept an eye on Lavrans. The host drank deep, but it seemed not that the

ale made him more joyful—he sat in the high-seat, his face growing more

and more strained, even as his eyes grew more fixed. But Erlend, who sat

on his father-in-law’s right hand, answered in kind the wanton jests

flung at him, and laughed much; his face was flushed red and his eyes

sparkled.

Of a sudden Lavrans flew out:

“That cart, son-in-law—while I remember—what have you done with the cart

you had of me on loan in the summer?”

“Cart—?” said Erlend.

“Have you forgot already that you had a cart on loan from me in the

summer—God knows ’twas so good a cart I look not ever to see a better,

for I saw to it myself when ’twas making in my own smithy on the farm.

You promised and you swore—I take God to witness, and my house-folk know

it besides—you gave your word to bring it back to me—but that word you

have not kept—”

Some of the guests called out that this was no matter to talk of now,

but Lavrans smote the board with his fist and swore that he would know

what Erlend had done with his cart.

“Oh like enough it lies still at the farm at Næs, where we took boat out

to Veöy,” said Erlend lightly. “I thought not ’twas meant so nicely. See

you, father-in-law, thus it was—’twas a long and toilsome journey with a

heavy-laden cart over the hills, and when we were come down to the

fjord, none of my men had a mind to bring the cart all the way back

here, and then journey north again over the hills to Trondheim. So we

thought we might let it be there for a time—”

“Now, may the devil fly off with me from where I sit this very hour, if

I have ever heard of your like,” Lavrans burst out. “Is this how things

are ordered in your house—doth the word lie with you or with your men,

where they are to go or not to go—?”

Erlend shrugged his shoulders:

“True it is, much hath been as it should not have been in my

household—But now will I have the cart sent south to you again, when

Kristin and I are come thither—Dear my father-in-law,” said he, smiling

and holding out his hand, “be assured, ’twill be changed times with all

things, and with me too, when once I have brought Kristin home to be

mistress of my house. ’Twas an ill thing, this of the cart. But I

promise you, this shall be the last time you have cause of grief against

me.”

“Dear Lavrans,” said Baard Petersön, “forgive him in this small matter—”

“Small matter or great—” began Lavrans—but checked himself, and took

Erlend’s hand.

Soon after he made the sign for the feast to break up, and the guests

sought their sleeping-places.

* * * * *

On the Saturday before noon all the women and girls were busy in the old

store-house loft-room, some making ready the bridal bed, some dressing

and adorning the bride.

Ragnfrid had chosen this house for the bride-house, in part for its

having the smallest loft-room—they could make room for many more guests

in the new store-house loft, the one they had used themselves in summer

time to sleep in when Kristin was a little child, before Lavrans had set

up the great new dwelling-house, where they lived now both summer and

winter. But besides this, there was no fairer house on the farm than the

old store-house, since Lavrans had had it mended and set in order—it had

been nigh falling to the ground when they moved in to Jörundgaard. It

was adorned with the finest woodcarving both outside and in, and if the

loft-room were not great, ’twas the easier to hang it richly with rugs

and tapestries and skins.

The bridal bed stood ready made, with silk-covered pillows; fine

hangings made as it were a tent about it; over the skins and rugs on the

bed was spread a broidered silken coverlid. Ragnfrid and some other

women were busy now hanging tapestries on the timber walls and laying

cushions in order on the benches.

Kristin sat in a great arm-chair that had been brought up thither. She

was clad in her scarlet bridal robe. Great silver brooches held it

together over her bosom, and fastened the yellow silk shift showing in

the neck-opening; golden armlets glittered on the yellow silken sleeves.

A silver-gilt belt was passed thrice around her waist, and on her neck

and bosom lay neck-chain over neck-chain, the uppermost her father’s old

gold chain with the great reliquary cross. Her hands, lying in her lap,

were heavy with rings.

Lady Aashild stood behind her chair, brushing her heavy, gold-brown hair

out to all sides.

“To-morrow shall you spread it loose for the last time,” she said

smiling, as she wound the red and green silk cords that were to hold up

the crown, around Kristin’s head—Then the women came thronging round the

bride.

Ragnfrid and Gyrid of Skog took the great bridal crown of the Gjesling

kin from the board. It was gilt all over, the points ended in alternate

crosses and clover-leaves, and the circlet was set with great

rock-crystals.

They pressed it down on the bride’s head. Ragnfrid was pale, and her

hands were shaking, as she did it.

Kristin rose slowly to her feet. Jesus! how heavy ’twas to bear up all

this gold and silver—Then Lady Aashild took her by the hand and led her

forward to a great tub of water—while the bridesmaids flung open the

door to the outer sunlight, so that the light in the room should be

bright.

“Look now at yourself in the water, Kristin,” said Lady Aashild, and

Kristin bent over the tub. She caught a glimpse of her own face rising

up white through the water; it came so near that she saw the golden

crown above it. Round about, many shadows, bright and dark, were

stirring in the mirror—there was somewhat she was on the brink of

remembering—then ’twas as though she was swooning away—she caught at the

rim of the tub before her. At that moment Lady Aashild laid her hand on

hers, and drove her nails so hard into the flesh, that Kristin came to

herself with the pain.

Blasts of a great horn were heard from down by the bridge. Folk shouted

up from the courtyard that the bridegroom was coming with his train. The

women led Kristin out onto the balcony.

In the courtyard was a tossing mass of horses in state trappings and

people in festival apparel, all shining and glittering in the sun.

Kristin looked out beyond it all, far out into the Dale. The valley of

her home lay bright and still beneath a thin misty-blue haze; up above

the haze rose the mountains, grey with screes and black with forest, and

the sun poured down its light into the great bowl of the valley from a

cloudless sky.

She had not marked it before, but the trees had shed all their

leaves—the groves around shone naked and silver-grey. Only the alder

thickets along the river had a little faded green on their topmost

branches, and here and there a birch had a few yellow-white leaves

clinging to its outermost twigs. But, for the most the trees were almost

bare—all but the rowans; they were still bright, with red-brown leaves

around the clusters of their blood-red berries. In the still, warm day a

faint mouldering smell of autumn rose from the ashen covering of fallen

leaves that strewed the ground all about.

Had it not been for the rowans, it might have been early spring. And the

stillness too—but this was an autumn stillness, deathly still. When the

horn-blasts died away, no other sound was heard in all the valley but

the tinkling of bells from the stubble fields and fallows where the

beasts wandered, grazing.

The river was shrunken small, its roar sunk to a murmur; it was but a

few strands of water running amidst banks of sand and great stretches of

white round boulders. No noise of becks from the hillsides—the autumn

had been so dry. The fields all around still gleamed wet—but ’twas but

the wetness that oozes up from the earth in autumn, howsoever warm the

days may be, and however clear the air.

The crowd that filled the farm-place fell apart to make way for the

bridegroom’s train. Straightway the young groomsmen came riding

forward—there went a stir among the women in the balcony.

Lady Aashild was standing by the bride:

“Bear you well now, Kristin,” said she, “’twill not be long now till you

are safe under the linen coif.”

Kristin nodded helplessly. She felt how deathly white her face must be.

“Methinks I am all too pale a bride,” she said in a low voice.

“You are the fairest bride,” said Lady Aashild; “and there comes Erlend,

riding—fairer pair than you twain would be far to seek.”

Now Erlend himself rode forward under the balcony. He sprang lightly

from his horse, unhindered by his heavy, flowing garments. He seemed to

Kristin so fair that ’twas pain to look on him.

He was in dark raiment, clad in a slashed silken coat falling to the

feet, leaf-brown of hue and inwoven with black and white. About his

waist he had a gold-bossed belt, and at his left thigh hung a sword with

gold on hilt and sheath. Back over his shoulders fell a heavy dark-blue

velvet cloak, and pressed down on his coal-black hair he wore a black

French cap of silk that stood out at both sides in puckered wings, and

ended in two long streamers, whereof one was thrown from his left

shoulder right across his breast and out behind over the other arm.

Erlend bowed low before his bride as she stood above; then went up to

her horse and stood by it with his hand on the saddle-bow, while Lavrans

went up the stairs. A strange dizzy feeling came over Kristin at the

sight of all this splendour—in this solemn garment of green velvet,

falling to his feet, her father might have been some stranger. And her

mother’s face, under the linen coif, showed ashen-grey against the red

of her silken dress. Ragnfrid came forward and laid the cloak about her

daughter’s shoulders.

Then Lavrans took the bride’s hand and led her down to Erlend. The

bridegroom lifted her to the saddle, and himself mounted. They stayed

their horses, side by side, these two, beneath the bridal balcony, while

the train began to form and ride out through the courtyard gate. First

the priests: Sira Eirik, Sira Tormod from Ulvsvolden, and a Brother of

the Holy Cross from Hamar, a friend of Lavrans. Then came the groomsmen

and the bridesmaids, pair by pair. And now ’twas for Erlend and her to

ride forth. After them came the bride’s parents, the kinsmen, friends

and guests, in a long line down betwixt the fences to the highway. Their

road for a long way onward was strewn with clusters of rowan-berries,

branches of pine, and the last white dogfennel of autumn, and folk stood

thick along the waysides where the train passed by, greeting them with a

great shouting.

* * * * *

On the Sunday, just after sunset, the bridal train rode back to

Jörundgaard. Through the first falling folds of darkness the bonfires

shone out red from the courtyard of the bridal-house. Minstrels and

fiddlers were singing and making drums and fiddles speak as the crowd of

riders drew near to the warm red glare of the fires.

Kristin came near to falling her length on the ground when Erlend lifted

her from her horse beneath the balcony of the upper hall.

“Twas so cold upon the hills,” she whispered—“I am so weary—” She stood

for a moment—and when she climbed the stairs to the loft-room she swayed

and tottered at each step.

Up in the hall the half-frozen wedding-guests were soon warmed up again.

The many candles burning in the room gave out heat; smoking hot dishes

of food were borne around, and wine, mead and strong ale circled about.

The loud hum of voices, and the noise of many eating sounded like a far

off roaring in Kristin’s ears.

It seemed as she sat there she would never be warm through again. In a

while her cheeks began to burn, but her feet were still unthawed, and

shudders of cold ran down her back. All the heavy gold that was on her

head and body forced her to lean forward as she sat in the high-seat by

Erlend’s side.

Every time her bridegroom drank to her, she could not keep her eyes from

the red stains and patches that stood out on his face so sharply as he

began to grow warm after his ride in the cold. They were the marks left

by the burns of last summer.

* * * * *

The horror had come upon her last evening, when they sat over the

supper-board at Sundbu, and she met Björn Gunnarsön’s lightless eyes

fixed on her and Erlend—unwinking, unwavering eyes. They had dressed up

Sir Björn in knightly raiment—he looked like a dead man brought to life

by an evil spell.

At night she had lain with Lady Aashild—the bridegroom’s nearest

kinswoman in the wedding company.

“What is amiss with you, Kristin?” said Lady Aashild, a little sharply.

“Now is the time for you to bear up stiffly to the end—not give way

thus.”

“I am thinking,” said Kristin, cold with dread, “on all them we have

brought to sorrow, that we might see this day.”

“’Tis not joy alone, I trow, that you two have had,” said Lady Aashild.

“Not Erlend at the least. And methinks it has been worse still for you.”

“I am thinking on his helpless children,” said the bride again. “I am

wondering if they know their father is drinking to-day at his wedding

feast.—”

“Think on your own child,” said the Lady. “Be glad that you are drinking

at your wedding with him who is its father.”

Kristin lay awhile, weak and giddy. ’Twas so strange to hear that name,

that had filled her heart and mind each day for three months and more,

and whereof yet she had not dared speak a word to a living soul. It was

but for a little though, that this helped her.

“I am thinking of her who had to pay with her life, because she held

Erlend dear,” she whispered, shivering.

“Well if you come not to pay with your life yourself, ere you are half a

year older,” said Lady Aashild harshly. “Be glad while you may—

“What shall I say to you, Kristin?” said the old woman in a while,

despairingly. “Have you clean lost courage this day of all days? Soon

enough will it be required of you twain that you shall pay for all you

have done amiss—have no fear that it will not be so.”

* * * * *

But Kristin felt as though all things in her soul were slipping,

slipping—as though all were toppling down that she had built up since

that day of horror at Haugen, in that first time when, wild and blind

with fear, she had thought but of holding out one day more, and one day

more. And she had held out till her load grew lighter—and at last grew

even light, when she had thrown off all thought but this one thought:

that now their wedding-day was coming at last, Erlend’s wedding-day at

last.

But, when she and Erlend knelt together in the wedding-mass, all around

her seemed but some trickery of the sight—the tapers, the pictures, the

glittering vessels, the priests in their copes and white gowns. All

those who had known her where she had lived before—they seemed like

visions of a dream, standing there, close-packed in the church in their

unwonted garments. But Sir Björn stood against a pillar, looking at

those two with his dead eyes, and it seemed to her that that other who

was dead must needs have come back with him, on his arm.

She tried to look up at Saint Olav’s picture—he stood there red and

white and comely, leaning on his axe, treading his own sinful human

nature underfoot—but her glance would ever go back to Sir Björn; and

nigh to him she saw Eline Ormsdatter’s dead face, looking unmoved upon

her and Erlend. They had trampled her underfoot that they might come

hither—and she grudged it not to them.

The dead woman had arisen and flung off her all the great stones that

Kristin had striven to heap up above her. Erlend’s wasted youth, his

honour and his welfare, his friends’ good graces, his soul’s health. The

dead woman had shaken herself free from them all. “He would have me and

I would have him; you would have him and he would have you,” said Eline.

“I have paid—and he must pay and you must pay when your time comes. When

the time of sin is fulfilled, it brings forth death—”

It seemed to her she was kneeling with Erlend on a cold stone. He knelt

there with the red, burnt patches on his pale face; she knelt under the

heavy bridal crown, and felt the dull, crushing weight within her—the

burden of sin that she bore. She had played and wantoned with her sin,

had measured it as in a childish game. Holy Virgin—now the time was nigh

when it should lie full-born before her, look at her with living eyes;

show her on itself the brands of sin, the hideous deformity of sin;

strike in hate with misshapen hands at its mother’s breast. When she had

borne her child, when she saw the marks of her sin upon it and yet loved

it as she had loved her sin, then would the game be played to an end.

Kristin thought what if she shrieked aloud now, a shriek that would cut

through the song and the deep voices intoning the mass, and echo out

over the people’s heads? Would she be rid then of Eline’s face—would

there come life into the dead man’s eyes? But she clenched her teeth

together.

“—Holy King Olav, I cry upon thee. Above all in Heaven I pray for help

to thee, for I know thou didst love God’s justice above all things. I

call upon thee, that thou hold thy hand over the innocent that is in my

womb. Turn away God’s wrath from the innocent; turn it upon me; Amen, in

the precious name of the Lord—”

“My children,” said Eline’s voice, “are _they_ not guiltless? Yet is

there no place for them in the lands where Christians dwell. Your child

is begotten outside the law, even as were my children. No rights can you

claim for it in the land you have strayed away from, any more than I for

mine—”

“Holy Olav! Yet do I pray for grace. Pray thou for mercy for my son;

take him beneath thy guard; so shall I bear him to thy church on my

naked feet, so shall I bear my golden garland of maidenhood in to thee

and lay it down upon thy altar, if thou wilt but help me—amen.”

Her face was set hard as stone in her struggle to be still and calm; but

her whole body throbbed and quivered as she knelt there through the holy

mass that wedded her to Erlend.

* * * * *

And now, as she sat beside him in the high-seat at home, all things

around her were but as shadows in a fevered dream.

There were minstrels playing on harps and fiddles in the loft-room; and

the sound of music and song rose from the hall below and the courtyard

outside. There was a red glare of fire from without, when the door was

opened for the dishes and tankards to be borne in and out.

Those around the board were standing now; she was standing up between

her father and Erlend. Her father made known with a loud voice that he

had given Erlend Nikulaussön his daughter Kristin to wife. Erlend

thanked his father-in-law, and he thanked all good folk who had come

together there to honour him and his wife.

She was to sit down, they said—and now Erlend laid his bridal gifts in

her lap. Sira Eirik and Sir Munan Baardsön unrolled deeds and read aloud

from them concerning the jointures and settlements of the wedded pair;

while the groomsmen stood around, with spears in their hands, and now

and again during the reading, or when gifts and bags of money were laid

on the table, smote with the butts upon the floor.

The tables were cleared away; Erlend led her forth upon the floor, and

they danced together. Kristin thought: our groomsmen and our

bridesmaids—they are all too young for us—all they that were young with

us are gone from these places; how is it we are come back hither?

“You are so strange, Kristin,” whispered Erlend, as they danced. “I am

afraid of you, Kristin—are you not happy—?”

* * * * *

They went from house to house and greeted their guests. There were many

lights in all the rooms, and everywhere crowds of people drinking and

singing and dancing. It seemed to Kristin she scarce knew her home

again—and she had lost all knowledge of time—hours and the pictures of

her brain seemed strangely to float about loosely, mingled with each

other.

The autumn night was mild; there were minstrels in the courtyard too,

and people dancing round the bonfire. They cried out that the bride and

bridegroom must honour them, too—and then she was dancing with Erlend on

the cold, dewy sward. She seemed to wake a little then, and her head

grew more clear.

Far out in the darkness a band of white mist floated above the murmur of

the river. The mountains stood around coal-black against the

star-sprinkled sky.

Erlend led her out of the ring of dancers—and crushed her to him in the

darkness under the balcony.

“Not once have I had the chance to tell you—you are so fair—so fair and

so sweet. Your cheeks are red as flames—” he pressed his cheek to hers

as he spoke. “Kristin, what is it ails you—?”

“I am so weary, so weary,” she whispered back.

“Soon will we go and sleep,” answered her bridegroom, looking up at the

sky. The Milky Way had wheeled, and now lay all but north and south.

“Mind you that we have not once slept together since that one only night

I was with you in your bower at Skog?”

* * * * *

Soon after, Sira Eirik shouted with a loud voice out over the farmstead

that now it was Monday. The women came to lead the bride to bed. Kristin

was so weary that she was scarce able to struggle and hold back as ’twas

fit and seemly she should do. She let herself be seized and led out of

the loft-room by Lady Aashild and Gyrid of Skog. The groomsmen stood at

the foot of the stair with burning torches and naked swords; they formed

a ring round the troop of women and attended Kristin across the

farm-place, and up into the old loft-room.

The women took off her bridal finery, piece by piece, and laid it away.

Kristin saw that over the bed-foot hung the violet velvet robe she was

to wear on the morrow, and upon it lay a long, snow-white,

finely-pleated linen cloth. It was the wife’s linen coif. Erlend had

brought it for her; to-morrow she was to bind up her hair in a knot and

fasten the head-linen over it. It looked to her so fresh and cool and

restful.

At last she was standing before the bridal bed, on her naked feet,

bare-armed, clad only in the long golden-yellow silken shift. They had

set the crown on her head again—the bridegroom was to take it off, when

they two were left alone.

Ragnfrid laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, and kissed her on

the cheek—the mother’s face and hands were strangely cold, but it was as

though sobs were struggling, deep in her breast. Then she threw back the

coverings of the bed, and bade the bride seat herself in it. Kristin

obeyed, and leaned back on the pillows heaped up against the

bed-head—she had to bend her head a little forward to keep on the crown.

Lady Aashild drew the coverings up to the bride’s waist, and laid her

hands before her on the silken coverlid; then took her shining hair and

drew it forward over her bosom and the slender bare upper arms.

Next the men led the bridegroom into the loft-room. Munan Baardsön

unclasped the golden belt and sword from Erlend’s waist—when he leaned

over to hang it on the wall above the bed, he whispered something to the

bride—Kristin knew not what he said, but she did her best to smile.

The groomsmen unlaced Erlend’s silken robe and lifted off the long heavy

garment over his head. He sat him down in the great chair and they

helped him off with his spurs and boots—

Once and once only the bride found courage to look up and meet his eyes—

Then began the good-nights. Before long all the wedding-guests were gone

from the loft. Last of all, Lavrans Björgulfsön went out and shut the

door of the bride-house.

* * * * *

Erlend stood up, stripped off his under-clothing, and flung it on the

benches. He stood by the bed, took the crown and the silken cords from

off her hair, and laid them away on the table. Then he came back and

mounted into the bed. Kneeling by her side he clasped her round the

head, and pressed it in against his hot naked breast, while he kissed

her forehead all along the red-streak the crown had left on it.

She threw her arms about his shoulders and sobbed aloud—she had a sweet,

wild feeling that now the horror, the phantom visions were fading into

air—now, now once again naught was left but he and she. He lifted up her

face a moment, looked down into it, and drew his hand down over her face

and body, with a strange haste and roughness, as though he tore away a

covering:

“Forget,” he begged, in a fiery whisper, “forget all, my Kristin—all but

this, that you are my own wife, and I am your own husband—”

With his hand he quenched the flame of the last candle, then threw

himself down beside her in the dark—he too was sobbing now:

“Never have I believed it, never in all these years, that we should see

this day—”

* * * * *

Without, in the courtyard, the noise died down little by little. Wearied

with the long day’s ride, and dizzy with much strong drink, the guests

made a decent show of merry-making a little while yet—but more and ever

more of them stole away and sought out the places where they were to

sleep.

Ragnfrid showed all the guests of honour to their places, and bade them

good-night. Her husband, who should have helped her in this, was nowhere

to be seen.

The dark courtyard was empty, save for a few small groups of young

folks—servants most of them—when at last she stole out to find her

husband and bring him with her to his bed. She had seen as the night

wore on that he had grown very drunken.

She stumbled over him at last, as she crept along in her search outside

the cattle-yard—he was lying in the grass behind the bath-house, on his

face.

Groping in the darkness, she touched him with her hand—aye, it was he.

She thought he was asleep, and took him by the shoulder—she must get him

up off the icy-cold ground. But he was not asleep, at least, not wholly.

“What would you?” he asked, in a thick voice.

“You cannot lie here,” said his wife. She held him up, as he stood

swaying. With one hand she brushed the soil off his velvet robe. “’Tis

time we too went to rest, husband.” She took him by the arm, and drew

him, reeling, up towards the farm-yard buildings.

“_You_ looked not up, Ragnfrid, when you sat in the bridal bed beneath

the crown,” he said in the same voice. “Our daughter—_she_ was not so

shamefast—her eyes were not shamefast when she looked upon her

bridegroom.”

“She has waited for him seven half-years,” said the mother in a low

voice. “No marvel if she found courage to look up—”

“Nay, devil damn me if they have waited!” screamed the man—as his wife

strove fearfully to hush him.

They were in the narrow passage between the back of the privy and a

fence. Lavrans smote with his clenched fist on the beam across the

cess-pit:

“I set thee here for a scorn and for a mockery, thou beam. I set thee

here that filth might eat thee up. I set thee here in punishment for

striking down that tender little maid of mine.—I should have set thee

high above my hall-room door; and honoured thee and thanked thee with

fairest carven ornament; because thou didst save her from shame and from

sorrow,—because ’twas thy work that my Ulvhild died a sinless child—”

He turned about, reeled toward the fence and fell forward upon it, and

with his head between his arms fell into an unquenchable passion of

weeping, broken by long, deep groans.

His wife took him by the shoulder.

“Lavrans, Lavrans!” But she could not stay his weeping. “Husband.”

“Oh, never, never, never should I have given her to that man! God help

me—I must have known it all the time—he had broken down her youth and

her fairest honour. I believed it not—nay, could I believe the like of

Kristin?—but still I knew it. And yet is she too good for this weakling

boy, that hath made waste of himself and her—had he lured her astray ten

times over, I should never have given her to him, that he may spill yet

more of her life and her happiness—”

“But what other way was there?” said the mother despairingly. “You know

now, as well as I—she was his already—”

“Aye, small need was there for me to make such a mighty to-do in giving

Erlend what he had taken for himself already,” said Lavrans. “’Tis a

gallant husband she has won—my Kristin—” He tore at the fence; then fell

again a-weeping. He had seemed to Ragnfrid as though sobered a little,

but now the fit overcame him again.

She deemed she could not bring him, drunken and beside himself with

despair as he was, to the bed in the hearth-room where they should have

slept—for the room was full of guests. She looked about her—close by

stood a little barn where they kept the best hay to feed to the horses

at the spring ploughing. She went and peered in—no one was there; she

took her husband’s hand, led him inside the barn, and shut the door

behind them.

She piled up hay over herself and him and laid their cloaks above it to

keep them warm. Lavrans fell a-weeping now and again, and said

somewhat—but his speech was so broken, she could find no meaning in it.

In a little while she lifted up his head on to her lap.

“Dear my husband—since now so great a love is between them, maybe ’twill

all go better than we think—”

Lavrans spoke by fits and starts—his mind seemed growing clearer:

“See you not—he has her wholly in his power—he that has never been man

enough to rule himself.—’Twill go hard with her before she finds courage

to set herself against aught her husband wills—and should she one day be

forced to it, ’twill be bitter grief to her—my own gentle child—

—“Now am I come so far I scarce can understand why God hath laid so many

and such heavy sorrows upon me—for I have striven faithfully to do His

will. Why hath He taken our children from us, Ragnfrid, one by one—first

our sons—then little Ulvhild—and now I have given her that I loved

dearest, honourless, to an untrusty and a witless man. Now is there none

left to us but the little one—and unwise must I deem it to take joy in

her, before I see how it will go with her—with Ramborg.”

Ragnfrid shook like a leaf. Then the man laid his arm about her

shoulders:

“Lie down,” he said, “and let us sleep—” He lay for a while with his

head against his wife’s arm, sighing now and then, but at last he fell

asleep.

* * * * *

It was still pitch-dark in the barn when Ragnfrid stirred—she wondered

to find that she had slept. She felt about with her hands; Lavrans was

sitting up with knees updrawn and his arms around them.

“Are _you_ awake already?” she asked in wonder. “Are you cold?”

“No,” said he in a hoarse voice, “but I cannot go to sleep again.”

“Is it Kristin you are thinking on?” asked the mother. “Like enough

’twill go better than we think, Lavrans,” she said again.

“Aye, ’tis of that I was thinking,” said the man. “Aye, aye—maid or

woman, at least she is come to the bride-bed with the man she loves. And

’twas not so with either you or me, my poor Ragnfrid.”

His wife gave a deep, dull moan, and threw herself down on her side

amongst the hay. Lavrans put out a hand and laid it on her shoulder.

“But ’twas that I _could_ not,” said he, with passion and pain. “No, I

_could_ not—be as you would have had me—when we were young. I am not

such a one—”

In a while Ragnfrid said softly through her weeping:

“Yet ’twas well with us in our life together—Lavrans—was it not?—all

these years?”

“So thought I myself,” answered he gloomily.

Thoughts crowded and tossed to and fro within him. That single unveiled

glance in which the hearts of bridegroom and bride had leapt

together—the two young faces flushing up redly—to him it seemed a very

shamelessness. It had been agony, a scorching pain to him, that this was

his daughter. But the sight of those eyes would not leave him—and wildly

and blindly he strove against the tearing away of the veil from

something in his own heart, something that he had never owned was there,

that he had guarded against his own wife when she sought for it.

’Twas that he _could_ not, he said again stubbornly to himself. In the

devil’s name—he had been married off as a boy; he had not chosen for

himself; she was older than he—he had not desired her; he had had no

will to learn this of her—to love. He grew hot with shame even now when

he thought of it—that she would have had him love her, when he had no

will to have such love from her. That she had proffered him all this

that he had never prayed for.

He had been a good husband to her—so he had ever thought. He had shown

her all the honour he could, given her full power in her own affairs,

and asked her counsel in all things; he had been true to her—and they

had had six children together. All he had asked had been that he might

live with her, without her for ever grasping at this thing in his heart

that he would not lay bare—

To none had he ever borne love—Ingunn, Karl Steinsön’s wife, at Bru?

Lavrans flushed red in the pitch darkness. He had been their guest ever,

as often as he journeyed down the Dale. He could not call to mind that

he had spoken with the housewife _once_ alone. But when he saw her—if he

but thought of her, a sense came over him as of the first breath of the

plough-lands in the spring, when the snows are but now melted and gone.

He knew it now—it might have befallen him too—he, too, could have loved.

But he had been wedded so young, and he had grown shy of love. And so

had it come about that he throve best in the wild woods—or out on the

waste uplands—where all things that live must have wide spaces around

them—room to flee through—fearfully they look on any stranger that would

steal upon them—

One time in the year there was, when all the beasts in the woods and on

the mountains forgot their shyness—when they rushed to their mates. But

his had been given him unsought. And she had proffered him all he had

not wooed her for.

But the young ones in the nest—they had been the little warm green spot

in the wilderness—the inmost, sweetest joy of his life. Those little

girl-heads under his hand—

Marriage—they had wedded him, almost unasked. Friends—he had many, and

he had none. War—it had brought him gladness, but there had been no more

war—his armour hung there in the loft-room, little used. He had turned

farmer—But he had had his daughters—all his living and striving had

grown dear to him, because by it he cherished them and made them safe,

those soft, tender little beings he had held in his hands. He remembered

Kristin’s little two-year-old body on his shoulder, her flaxen, silky

hair against his cheek; her small hands holding to his belt, while she

butted her round, hard child’s forehead against his shoulder-blades,

when he rode out with her behind him on his horse.

And now had she that same glow in her eyes—and she had won what was

hers. She sat there in the half-shadow against the silken pillows of the

bed. In the candle-light she was all golden—golden crown and golden

shift and golden hair spread over the naked golden arms. Her eyes were

shy no longer—

Her father winced with shame.

And yet it was as though his heart was bleeding within him, for what he

himself had never won; and for his wife, there by his side, whom he had

never given what should have been hers.

Weak with pity, he felt in the darkness for Ragnfrid’s hand:

“Aye, methought it was well with us in our life together,” he said.

“Methought ’twas but that you sorrowed for our children—aye, and that

you were born heavy of mood. Never did it come to my mind, it might be

that I was no good husband to you—”

Ragnfrid trembled fitfully:

“You were ever a good husband, Lavrans.”

“Hm,” Lavrans sat with his chin resting on his knees. “Yet had it mayhap

been better with you, if you had been wedded even as our daughter was

to-day—”

Ragnfrid started up with a low, piercing cry:

“You know! How did you know it—how long have you known—?”

“I know not what ’tis you speak of,” said Lavrans after a while in a

strange deadened voice.

“This do I speak of—that I was no maid, when I came to be your wife,”

said Ragnfrid, and her voice rang clear in her despair.

In a little while Lavrans answered, as before:

“That have I never known, till now.”

Ragnfrid laid her down among the hay, shaken with weeping. When the fit

was over she lifted her head a little. A faint grey light was beginning

to creep in through the window-hole in the wall. She could dimly see her

husband sitting with his arms thrown round his knees, motionless as

stone.

“Lavrans—speak to me—” she wailed.

“What would you I should say?” asked he without stirring.

“Oh—I know not—curse me—strike me—”

“’Twould be something late now,” answered the man; there seemed to be

the shade of a scornful smile in his voice.

Ragnfrid wept again: “Aye—I heeded not then that I was betraying you. So

betrayed and so dishonoured, methought, had I been myself. There was

none had spared me. They came and brought you—you know yourself, I saw

you but three times before we were wed—Methought you were but a boy,

white and red—so young and childish—”

“I was so,” said Lavrans, and a faint ring of life came to his voice.

“And therefore a man might deem that you, who were a woman—you might

have been more afraid to—to deceive one who was so young that he knew

naught—”

“So did _I_ think after,” said Ragnfrid, weeping. “When I had come to

know you. Soon came the time, when I would have given my soul twenty

times over, to be guiltless of sin against you.”

Lavrans sat silent and motionless; then said his wife:

“You ask not anything?”

“What use to ask? It was he that—we met his burial-train at

Feginsbrekka, as we bore Ulvhild in to Nidaros—”

“Aye,” said Ragnfrid. “We had to leave the way—go aside into a meadow. I

saw them bear him on his bier—with priests and monks and armed yeomen. I

heard he had made a good end—had made his peace with God. I prayed as we

stood there with Ulvhild’s litter between us—I prayed that my sin and my

sorrow might be laid at his feet on the Last Day—”

“Aye, like enough you did,” said Lavrans, and there was the same shade

of scorn in his quiet voice.

“You know not all,” said Ragnfrid, cold with despair. “Mind you that he

came out to us at Skog the first winter we were wedded—?”

“Aye,” answered the man.

“When Björgulf was born—oh, I thought he was dearer spared me—He was

drunk when he did it—afterward he said he had never cared for me, he

would not have me—bade me forget it. My father knew it not; _he_ did not

betray you—never think that. But Trond—we were the dearest of friends to

each other then—I made my moan to him. He tried to force the man to wed

me; but he was but a boy; he was beaten—Afterwards he counselled me to

hold my peace, and to take you—”

She sat a while in silence.

“Then _he_ came out to Skog—a year was gone by; I thought not on it so

much any more. But he came out thither—he said that he repented, he

would have had me now, had I been unwedded—he loved me. He said so. God

knows if he said true. When he was gone—I dared not go out on the fjord,

dared not for my sin, not with the child. And I had begun—I had begun to

love you so!” She cried out, a single cry of the wildest pain. The man

turned his head quickly towards her.

“When Björgulf was dying—Oh, no one, no one had to me than my life. When

he lay in the death-throes—I thought, if he died, I must die too. But I

prayed _not_ God to spare my boy’s life—”

Lavrans sat a long time silent—then he asked in a dead, heavy voice:

“Was it because I was not his father?”

“I knew not if you were,” said Ragnfrid, growing stiff and stark where

she sat.

Long they sat there in a deathly stillness. Then the man asked

vehemently of a sudden:

“In Jesus name, Ragnfrid—why tell you me all this—now?”

“Oh, I know not!” She wrung her hands till the joints cracked. “That you

may avenge you on me—drive me from your house—”

“Think you that would help me—” His voice shook with scorn. “Then there

are our daughters,” he said quietly. “Kristin—and the little one.”

Ragnfrid sat still a while.

“I mind me how you judged of Erlend Nikulaussön,” she said softly. “How

judge you of me, then—?”

A long shudder of cold passed over the man’s body—yet a little of the

stiffness seemed to leave him.

“You have—we have lived together now for seven and twenty years—almost.

’Tis not the same as with a stranger. I see this too—worse than misery

has it been for you.”

Ragnfrid sank together sobbing at the words. She plucked up heart to put

her hand on one of his. He moved not at all—sat as still as a dead man.

Her weeping grew louder and louder—but her husband still sat motionless,

looking at the faint grey light creeping in around the door. At last she

lay as if all her tears were spent. Then he stroked her arm lightly

downward—and she fell to weeping again.

“Mind you,” she said through her tears, “that man who came to us one

time, when we dwelt at Skog? He that knew all the ancient lays? Mind you

the lay of a dead man that was come back from the world of torment, and

told his son the story of all that he had seen? There was heard a

groaning from Hell’s deepest ground, the querns of untrue women grinding

mould for their husbands’ meat. Bloody were the stones they dragged

at—bloody hung the hearts from out their breasts—”

Lavrans was silent.

“All these years have I thought upon those words,” said Ragnfrid. “Every

day ’twas as though my heart was bleeding, for every day methought I

ground you mould for meat—”

Lavrans know not himself why he answered as he did. It seemed to him his

breast was empty and hollow, like the breast of a man that has had the

blood-eagle carven through his back. But he laid his hand heavily and

wearily on his wife’s head, and spoke:

“Mayhap mould must needs be ground, my Ragnfrid, before the meat can

grow.”

When she tried to take his hand and kiss it, he snatched it away. But

then he looked down at his wife, took one of her hands and laid it on

his knee, and bowed his cold, stiffened face down upon it. And so they

sat on, motionless, speaking no word more.

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

● Transcriber’s Notes:

○ There is no section number 7 in Book III.

○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.

○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.

○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only

when a predominant form was found in this book.

○ Text that:

was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);

was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).