Kristin Lavransdatter (139 page)

He shook his head and chuckled. Smiling, they took leave of each other; smiling, Erlend leaned over as they sat on their horses, side by side, and kissed her many times, and between each kiss, he looked at her with his laughing eyes.

“So we’ll see,” he said finally, “which of us is more stubborn, my fair Kristin. This is not the last time we will meet; you and I both know that!” As she rode past the church, she gave a little shudder. She felt as if she were returning home from inside the mountain. As if Erlend were the mountain king himself and could not come past the church and the cross on the hill.

She pulled in the reins; she had a great urge to turn around and ride after him.

Then she looked out across the green slopes, down at her beautiful estate with the meadows and fields and the glistening curve of the river winding through the valley. The mountains rose up in a blue shimmer of heat. The sky was filled with billowing summer clouds. It was madness. There, with his sons, was where he belonged. He was no mountain knight; he was a Christian man, no matter how full he was of wild ideas and foolish whims. Her lawful husband, with whom she had endured both good and bad—beloved, beloved, no matter how sorely he had tormented her with his unpredictable impulses. She would have to be forbearing, since she could not live without him; she would have to strive to bear the anguish and uncertainty as best she could. She didn’t think it would be long before he followed her—now that they had been together once again.

SHE TOLD HER sons that their father had to take care of a few things at Haugen before he moved home. No doubt he would come south early in the fall.

She went about her estate, looking young, her cheeks flushed, her face soft and gentle, moving more quickly about her work, although she didn’t manage to accomplish nearly as much as she used to with her usual quiet and measured manner. She no longer chastised her sons sharply, as had been her custom whenever they did something wrong or failed to satisfy her demands properly. Now she spoke to them in a jesting manner or let it pass without saying a word.

Lavrans now wanted to sleep with his older brothers up in the loft.

“Yes, I suppose you should be counted among the grown-up boys too, my son.” She ran her fingers through the boy’s thick, golden-brown hair and pulled him close; he was already so tall that he came up to the middle of her breast. “What about you, Munan? Can you stand to have your mother treat you as a child for a while longer?” In the evenings, after the boy had gone to bed in the main room, he liked to have his mother sit on the bed and pamper him a bit. He would lie there with his head in her lap, chattering more childishly than he allowed himself to do during the day when his brothers could hear him. They would talk about when his father was coming home.

Then he would move over next to the wall, and his mother would spread the covers over him. Kristin would light a candle, pick up her sons’ clothes that needed mending, and sit down to sew.

She pulled out the brooch pinned to her bodice and put her hand inside to touch her breasts. They were as round and firm as a young woman’s. She pushed up her sleeve all the way to the shoulder and looked at her bare arm in the light. It had grown whiter and fuller. Then she stood up and took a few steps, noticing how softly she walked in her soft slippers. She ran her hands down over her slim hips; they were no longer sharp and dry like a man’s. The blood coursed through her body the way sap flows through the trees in the spring. It was youth that was sprouting inside her.

 

She went to the brewhouse with Frida to pour warm water over the grain for the Christmas malt. Frida had neglected to tend to it in time, and the grain had lain there, swelling until it was completely dry. But Kristin didn’t scold the maid; with a slight smile she listened to Frida’s excuses. This was the first time that Kristin had failed to take care of it herself.

By Christmas she would have Erlend back home with her. When she sent word to him, he would have to return at once. The man wasn’t so rash that he would refuse to relent this time; he had to realize that she couldn’t possibly move up to Haugen, far from everyone, when she was no longer walking alone. But she would wait a little more before she sent word—even though it was certain enough—perhaps until she felt some sign of life. The second autumn that they lived at Jørundgaard, she had strayed from the road, as people called a miscarriage. But she had quickly taken solace. She was not afraid that it would happen again this time; it couldn’t possibly. And yet . . .

She felt as if she had to wrap her entire body protectively around this tiny, fragile life she carried under her heart, the way a person cups her hands like a shield around a little, newly lit flame.

 

One day late in the fall Ivar and Skule came and told her they wanted to ride up to see their father. It was fine weather up in the mountains, and they wanted to ask if they could stay with him and go hunting during these days of bare frost.

Naakkve and Bjørgulf were sitting at the chessboard. They paused to listen.

“I don’t know,” said Kristin. She hadn’t given any thought to who should carry her message. She looked at her two half-grown sons. She realized it was foolish, but she couldn’t manage to speak of it to them. She could tell them to take Lavrans along and then ask him to talk to his father alone. He was so young that he wouldn’t think it strange. And yet . . .

“Your father will soon be coming home,” she said. “You might end up delaying him. And soon I’ll be sending word to him myself.”

The twins sulked. Naakkve looked up from the chess game and said curtly, “Do as our mother says, boys.”

 

During Christmas she sent Naakkve north to Erlend. “You must tell him, son, that I am longing for him so greatly, as all of you must be too!” She didn’t mention the other news that had come about; she thought it likely that this grown lad would have noticed it. He would have to decide for himself whether he would speak of it to his father.

Naakkve returned without having seen his father. Erlend had gone to Raumsdal. He must have received word that his daughter and her husband were about to move to Bjørgvin, and that Margret wanted to meet with her father at Veøy.

That was reasonable enough. Kristin lay awake at night, now and then stroking Munan’s face as he slept at her side. She was sad that Erlend didn’t come for Christmas. But it was reasonable that he should want to see his daughter while he had the chance. She wiped away her tears as they slid down her cheeks. She was so quick to weep, just as she had been when she was young.

 

Just after Christmas, Sira Eirik died. Kristin had visited him at Romundgaard several times during the fall after he had taken to his bed, and she attended his funeral. Otherwise she never went out among people. She thought it a great loss that their old parish priest was gone.

At the funeral she heard that someone had met Erlend north at Lesja. He was on his way home to his farm. Surely he would come soon.

Several days later she sat on the bench under the little window, breathing on her hand mirror, which she had taken out, and rubbing it shiny so she could study her face.

She had been as suntanned as a peasant woman during the past few years, but now all trace of the sun had vanished. Her skin was white, with round, bright red roses on her cheeks, like in a painting. Her face had not been so lovely since she was a young maiden. Kristin sat and held her breath with wondrous joy.

At last they would have a daughter, as Erlend had wished for so dearly, if it turned out as the wise women said. Magnhild. They would have to break with custom this time and name her after his mother.

Part of a fairy tale she had once heard drifted through her mind. Seven sons who were driven high into the wilderness as outlaws because of an unborn little sister. Then she laughed at herself; she didn’t understand why she happened to think about that now.

She took from her sewing chest a shirt of the finest white linen, which she worked on whenever she was alone. She pulled out threads from the neckband and stitched birds and beasts on the loosely woven backing; it was years since she had done such fine embroidery. If only Erlend would come
now
, while it was still making her look beautiful: young and straight-backed, blushing and thriving.

 

Just after Saint Gregor’s Day the weather turned so lovely that it was almost like spring. The snow began to melt, gleaming like silver; there were already bare brown patches on the slopes facing south, and the mountains rose up from the blue haze.

Gaute was standing outside in the courtyard, repairing a sleigh that had fallen apart. Naakkve was leaning against the wall of the woodshed, watching his brother work. At that moment Kristin came from the cookhouse, carrying with both hands a large trough full of newly baked wheat bread.

Gaute glanced up at his mother. Then he threw the axe and wheel hubs into the sleigh, ran after her, and took the trough from her; he carried it over to the storehouse.

Kristin had stopped where she was, her cheeks red. When Gaute came back, she went over to her sons. “I think the two of you should ride up to your father in the next few days. Tell him that he is sorely needed here at home to take over the management from me. I have so little strength now, and I will be in bed in the middle of the spring farm work.”

The young boys listened to her, and they too blushed, but she could see that they were full of joy. Naakkve said, feigning nonchalance, “We might as well ride up there today, around midafternoon prayers. What do you think, brother?”

 

On the following day around noon Kristin heard horsemen out in the courtyard. It was Naakkve and Gaute; they were alone. They stood next to their horses, their eyes on the ground, not saying a word.

“What did your father say?” their mother asked.

Gaute stood leaning on his spear. He kept his eyes downcast.

Then Naakkve spoke. “Father asked us to tell you that he has been waiting for you to come to him every day this winter. And he said that you would be no less welcome than you were last time you saw him.”

The color came and went in Kristin’s face.

“Didn’t you mention to your father . . . that things are such with me that . . . it won’t be long before I have another child?”

Gaute replied without looking up, “Father didn’t seem to think that was any reason . . . that you shouldn’t be able to move to Haugen.”

Kristin stood there for a moment. “What did he say?” she then asked, her voice low and sharp.

Naakkve didn’t want to speak. Gaute lifted his hand slightly, casting a swift and beseeching glance at his brother. Then the older son spoke after all. “Father asked us to tell you this: You knew when the child was conceived how rich a man he was. And if he hasn’t grown any richer since, he hasn’t grown any poorer either.”

Kristin turned away from her sons and slowly walked back toward the main house. Heavy and weary, she sat down on the bench under the window from which the spring sun had already melted the ice and frost.

It
was
true. She had begged to sleep in his arms—at first. But it wasn’t kind of him to remind her of that now. She thought it wasn’t kind of Erlend to send her such a reply with their sons.

 

The spring weather held on. The wind blew from the south, and the rain lasted for a week. The river rose, becoming swollen and thunderous. It roared and rushed down the slopes; the snow plunged down the mountainsides. And then the sunshine returned.

Kristin was standing outside behind the buildings in the grayish blue of the evening. A great chorus of birdsong came from the thicket down in the field. Gaute and the twins had gone up to the mountain pastures; they were in search of blackcock. In the morning the clamor of the birds’ mating dance on the mountain slopes could be heard all the way down at the manor.

She clasped her hands under her breast. There was so little time left; she had to bear these last days with patience. She too had doubtless been stubborn and difficult to live with quite often. Unreasonable in her worries about the children . . . For too long, as Erlend had said. Yet it seemed to her that he was being harsh now. But the day would soon arrive when he would have to come to her; surely he knew that too.

It was sunny and rainy by turns. One afternoon her sons called to her. All seven of them were standing out in the courtyard along with all the servants. Above the valley stretched three rainbows. The innermost one ended at the buildings of Formo; it was unbroken, with brilliant colors. The two outer ones were fainter and faded away at the top.

Even as they stood there, staring at this astonishing fair omen, the sky grew dark and overcast. From the south a blizzard of snow swept in. It began snowing so hard that soon the whole world had turned white.

That evening Kristin told Munan the story about King Snjo and his pretty white daughter, whose name was Mjøll, and about King Harald Luva, who was brought up by the Dovre giant inside the mountain north of Dovre. She thought with sorrow and remorse that it was years since she had sat and told stories to her children in this fashion. She felt sorry that she had offered Lavrans and Munan so little pleasure of this kind. And they would soon be big boys. While the others had been small, back home at Husaby, she had spent the evenings telling them stories—often, so often.

She saw that her older sons were listening too. She blushed bright red and came to a stop. Munan asked her to tell them more. Naakkve stood up and moved closer.

“Do you remember, Mother, the story about Torstein Uksafot and the trolls of Høiland Forest? Tell us that one!”

As she talked, a memory came back to her. They had lain down to rest and to have something to eat in the birch grove down by the river: her father and the hay harvesters, both men and women. Her father was lying on his stomach; she was sitting astride him, on the small of his back, and kicking him in the flanks with her heels. It was a hot day, and she had been given permission to go barefoot, just like the grown-up women. Her father was reeling off the members of the Høiland troll lineage: Jernskjold married Skjoldvor; their daughters were Skjolddis and Skjoldgjerd, whom Torstein Uksafot killed. Skjoldgjerd had been married to Skjoldketil, and their sons were Skjoldbjørn and Skjoldhedin and Valskjold, who wed Skjoldskjessa; they gave birth to Skjoldulf and Skjoldorm. Skjoldulf won Skjoldkatla, and together they conceived Skjold and Skjoldketil . . .