Kristin Lavransdatter (81 page)

“Oh no, we’re not afraid of secret plans from those quarters, either. Ingebjørg Haakonsdatter must have realized by now that she squandered all rights in her own country when she married Knut Porse. It would be unwise for her to set foot inside the door here after giving her hand to that man, when we don’t want to see even his little finger within our boundaries.”

“Yes, it was clever of you to separate the boy from his mother,” said Erlend gloomily. “He’s still only a child—and now all of us Norwegian men have reason to hold our heads up high when we think about the king whom we have sworn to protect.”

“Be quiet!” said Erling Vidkunssøn in a low, dejected voice. “That’s . . . surely that’s not true.”

But the other two could see from his face that he knew it was true. Although King Magnus Eirikssøn might still be a child, he had already been infected by a sin which was unseemly to mention among Christian men. A Swedish cleric, who had been assigned to guide his book learning while he was in Sweden, had led him astray in an unmentionable manner.

Erlend said, “People are whispering on every estate and in every house around us in the north that Christ Church burned because our king is unworthy to sit in Saint Olav’s seat.”

“In God’s name, Erlend—I tell you it’s not certain this is true! And we must believe that the child, King Magnus, is innocent in God’s eyes. He can surely redeem himself. And you say that
we
have separated him from his mother? I say that God punishes the mother who deserts her child the way Ingebjørg has deserted her son—and do not put your trust in such a woman, Erlend. Keep in mind that these are treacherous people you’re now setting off to meet!”

“I think they’ve been admirably loyal toward each other. But you speak as if letters from Christ himself were floating down into the lap of your robe every day—that must be why you’ve decided that you dare to be so bold as to provoke a fight with the highest authorities of the Church.”

“Now you must stop, Erlend. Talk about things that you understand, my boy, but otherwise keep quiet.” Sir Erling got to his feet; they were both standing up now, angry and red in the face.

Erlend grimaced with disgust.

“If an animal has been mistreated, we kill it and toss the corpse into a waterfall.”

“Erlend!” The regent gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “You have sons yourself . . .” he said softly. “How can you say such a thing? And you’d better watch your tongue, Erlend. Think before you speak in that place where you’re now going. And think about it twenty times over before you do anything.”

“If that’s how you act, you who rule over the affairs of the kingdom, then it doesn’t surprise me that everything has gone awry. But I don’t think you need to be afraid,” Erlend sneered. “I doubt that I’ll do anything. But what a splendid thing it has become to live in this country. . . .

“Well, you have to set out early in the morning. And my father-in-law is tired.”

The other two men remained sitting there, without speaking, after Erlend had bid them good night. He was going to sleep aboard his ship. Erling Vidkunssøn sat and turned his goblet around and around in his hand.

“Are you coughing?” he asked, just for something to say.

“Old men catch cold easily. We have so many ailments, dear sir, which you young men know nothing about,” said Lavrans with a smile.

They sat in silence again. Until Erling Vidkunssøn said, as if to himself, “Yes, everyone thinks the same—that it doesn’t bode well for this kingdom. Six years ago in Oslo, I thought it was clear that there was a firm desire to support the Crown—among the men who are born to this task by virtue of their lineage. I . . . was counting on that.”

“I think back then your perception was correct, sir. But you yourself said that we’re accustomed to rallying around our king. This time he’s merely a child—and he spends half his time in another country.”

“Yes. Sometimes I think . . . nothing is so bad that it’s not good for something. In the past, when our kings frolicked around like stallions—then there were enough fine colts to choose from; our countrymen simply had to select the one who was the best fighter.”

Lavrans gave a laugh. “Yes, well . . .”

“We spoke three years ago, Lavrans Lagmanssøn, when you returned from your pilgrimage to Skøvde and had paid a visit to your kinsmen in Götaland.”

“I remember, sir, that you honored me by seeking me out.”

“No, no, Lavrans, you need not be so formal.” A little impatiently, Erling threw out his hands. “It was as I said,” he continued gloomily. “There’s no one here who can unite the nobles of this country. Whoever has the greatest hunger forces his way forward—there’s still some food in the trough. But those who might attempt to win power and wealth in an honorable manner, as was done in the time of our fathers, are not the ones who come forward now.”

“That seems to be true. But honor follows the banner of the chieftains.”

“Then men must think that my banner carries with it little honor,” said Erling dryly. “You have avoided everything that might have won you renown, Lavrans Lagmanssøn.”

“I’ve done so ever since I became a married man, sir. And that was at a young age; my wife was sickly and had little tolerance for the company of others. And it looks as if our lineage will not continue to thrive here in Norway. My sons died young, and only one of my brother’s sons has lived to be a man.”

Lavrans regretted that he had come to speak of this matter. Erling Vidkunssøn had endured great sorrow of his own. His daughters were healthy children and had grown to adulthood, but he too had only been allowed to keep a single son, and the boy was said to be in poor health.

But Sir Erling merely said, “And you have no close kinsmen from your mother’s lineage, either, as I recall.”

“No, no closer than the children of my grandfather’s sister. Sigurd Lodinssøn had only two daughters, and they both died giving birth to their first child—and my aunt took hers to the grave with her.”

They sat in silence again for a while.

“Men like Erlend,” said the regent in a low voice. “They’re the most dangerous kind. Men who think a little farther than their own interests, but not far enough. Don’t you think Erlend is just like an indolent youth?” He slid his wine goblet around on the table with annoyance. “But he’s intelligent, isn’t he? And of good family, and courageous? But he never wants to listen to any matter long enough to understand it fully. And if he bothers to hear a man out, he forgets the first part before the discussion comes to an end.”

Lavrans glanced over at the other man. Sir Erling had aged a great deal since he had last seen him. He looked careworn and weary; he seemed to have shrunk in his chair. He had fine, clear features, but they were a little too small, and he had a pallid complexion, as he always had. Lavrans felt that this man—even though he was a knight with integrity, who was wise and willing to serve without deceit, never sparing himself—fell somewhat short in every way as a leader. If he had been a head taller, he might have won full support more easily.

Lavrans said quietly, “Sir Knut is also clever enough that he would realize—if they’re contemplating any kind of incursion down there—that he wouldn’t have much use for Erlend in any secret council.”

“You’re rather fond of this son-in-law of yours, aren’t you, Lavrans?” said the other man, almost crossly. “If truth be told, you have no reason to love him.”

Lavrans sat running his finger through a puddle of spilled wine on the table. Sir Erling noticed that his rings were quite loose on his fingers now.

“Do
you?
” Lavrans looked up with a little smile. “And yet I think that you too are fond of him!”

“Well . . . God knows . . . But I swear to you, Lavrans, Sir Knut has plenty of things going through his mind right now. He’s the father of a son who is the grandson of King Haakon.”

“Even Erlend must realize that the child’s father has much too broad a back for that poor young nobleman ever to get around it. And his mother has all the people of Norway against her because of this marriage.”

A little while later Erling Vidkunssøn stood up and strapped on his sword. Lavrans had politely taken his guest’s cape from the hook and was holding it in his hands, when he suddenly swayed and was about to collapse, but Sir Erling caught him in his arms. With difficulty he carried the man, who was heavy and tall, over to the bed. It wasn’t a stroke, but Lavrans lay there with his lips pale blue, his limbs weak and limp. Sir Erling raced across the courtyard to wake up the hostel priest.

Lavrans felt quite embarrassed when he came to himself again. Yes, it was a weakness that occurred now and then, ever since an elk hunt two winters before, when he had gotten lost in a blizzard. That was evidently what it took for a man to learn that his body was no longer youthful, and he smiled apologetically.

Sir Erling waited until the monk had bled the ill man, although Lavrans begged him not to take the trouble, because he would have to leave so early in the morning.

The moon was high, shining above the mountains of the main-land; the water lay black below, but out on the fjord the light glinted like flecks of silver. Not a wisp came from the smoke-vent holes; the grass on the rooftops glittered like dew in the moonlight. Not a soul was on the one short street of the town as Sir Erling swiftly walked the few paces down to the king’s fortress, where he was to sleep. He looked strangely fragile and small in the moonlight, with his black cape wrapped tightly around him, shivering slightly. A couple of weary servants, who had sat up waiting for him, tumbled out of the courtyard with a lantern. The regent took the lantern and sent his men off to bed; then he shivered a little again as he climbed the stairs to his chamber up in the loft room.

JUST AFTER SAINT Bartholomew’s Day Kristin set off on the journey home in the company of a large entourage of children, servants, and possessions. Lavrans rode with her as far as Hjerdkinn.

They went out into the courtyard to talk, he and his daughter, on the morning when he was to head back south. Sunlight sparkled over the mountains; the marshes were already crimson, and the slopes were yellow like gold from the alpine birches. Up on the plateau, lakes alternately glittered and then darkened as shadows from the big, glossy, fair-weather clouds passed overhead. They billowed up incessantly, and then sank down between distant clefts and gaps amid all the gray-domed mountains and blue peaks, with patches of new snow and old snowdrifts, which encircled the view far into the distance. The small grayish-green fields of grain belonging to the travelers’ hostel looked so strange in color against the brilliant autumn hues of the mountains.

The wind was blowing, sharp and brisk. Lavrans pulled up the hood of Kristin’s cloak which had blown back around her shoulders, smoothing out the corners of her linen wimple with his fingertips.

“It seems to me your cheeks have grown so pale and thin back home on my manor,” he said. “Haven’t we taken good care of you, Kristin?”

“Yes, you have. That’s not why . . .”

“And it’s a wearisome journey for you with all the children,” said her father.

“Yes, well . . . It’s not because of those five that I have pale cheeks.” She gave him a fleeting smile, and when her father cast a startled and inquiring glance at her, she nodded and smiled again.

Lavrans looked away, but after a moment he said, “If I understand rightly how matters stand, then perhaps it will be some time before you return to Gudbrandsdal?”

“Well, we won’t let eight years pass this time,” she said in the same tone of voice. Then she caught a glimpse of his face. “Father! Oh, Father!”

“Hush, hush, my daughter.” Involuntarily he gripped her arm to stop her as she tried to throw her arms around him. “No, Kristin.”

He took her hand firmly in his and set off walking beside her. They had come some distance away from the buildings and were now wandering along a small path through the yellow birch forest, paying no attention to where they were going. Lavrans jumped over a little creek cutting across the path, and then turned around to offer his daughter a helping hand.

She saw, even from that slight movement, that he was no longer agile or spry. She had noticed before but refused to acknowledge it. He no longer sprang in and out of the saddle as nimbly as he once had; he didn’t race up the stairs or lift heavy things as easily as he had in the past. He carried his body more rigidly and carefully—as if he bore some slumbering pain within and was moving quietly so as not to arouse it. His blood pulsed visibly in the veins of his neck when he came home after riding his horse. Sometimes she noticed a swelling or puffiness under his eyes. She remembered one morning when she came into the main house, and he was lying on the bed, half-dressed, with his bare legs draped over the footboard; her mother was kneeling in front of him, rubbing his ankles.

“If you’re going to grieve for every man who is felled by age, then you’ll have much to cry about, child,” Lavrans said in a calm and quiet voice. “You have big sons yourself now, Kristin. It shouldn’t surprise you to see that your father will soon be an old man. Whenever we parted in my younger days, we didn’t know any better back then than we do now, whether we’re destined to meet again here on this earth. And I might live for a long time yet; it must be as God wills, Kristin.”

“Are you ill, Father?” she asked in a toneless voice.

“Certain frailties always come with age,” her father replied lightly.

“You’re not old, Father. You’re only fifty-two.”

“My own father didn’t live this long. Come and sit down here with me.”

There was a sort of grass-covered shelf beneath the rock face which leaned out over the stream. Lavrans unfastened his cape, folded it up, and pulled his daughter down to sit beside him. The creek gurgled and trickled over the stones in front of them, rocking a willow branch that was lying in the water. Lavrans sat with his eyes fixed on the blue-and-white mountain far beyond the autumn-tinged plateau.