Kristin Lavransdatter (153 page)

Margret was still beautiful, but she had grown so big and fat that Kristin didn’t think she had ever seen such a stout woman. But there was all the more room for silver links on her belt, while a silver brooch as large as a small shield fit nicely between her enormous breasts. Her heavy body was always adorned like an altar with the costliest of fabrics and gilded metals. Gerlak Tiede kenssøn seemed to have the greatest love for his wife.

A year earlier Gaute had visited his sister and brother-in-law in Bjørgvin during the spring meetings, and in the fall he traveled over the mountains with a herd of horses, which he sold in town. The journey turned out to be so profitable that Gaute swore he would do it again this autumn. Kristin thought he should be allowed to do as he wished. No doubt he had some of his father’s lust for travel in his blood; surely he would settle down as he grew older. When his mother saw that he was aching to get away, she urged him to go. Last year he had been forced to come home through the mountains at the height of winter.

He set off on a beautiful sunny morning right after Saint Bartholomew’s Day. It was the time for slaughtering the goats, and the whole manor smelled of cooked goat meat. Everyone had eaten his fill and was feeling content. All summer long they had tasted no fresh meat except on high holy days, but now they had their share of the pungent meat and the strong, fatty broth at both breakfast and supper for many days. Kristin was exhausted and elated after helping with the first big slaughtering of the year and making sausages. She stood on the main road and waved with a corner of her wimple at Gaute’s entourage. It was a lovely sight: splendid horses and fresh young men riding along with glittering weapons and jangling harnesses. There was a great thundering as they rode across the high bridge. Gaute turned in his saddle and waved his hat, and Kristin waved back, giving a giddy little cry of joy and pride.

 

Just after Winter Day
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rain and sleet swept in over the countryside, with storms and snow in the mountains. Kristin was a little uneasy, for Gaute had still not returned. But she was never as fearful for him as she had been for the others; she believed in the good fortune of this son.

A week later Kristin was coming out of the cowshed late one evening when she caught sight of several horsemen up by the manor gate. The fog was billowing like white smoke around the lantern she carried; she began walking through the rain to meet the group of dark, fur-clad men. Could it be Gaute? It was unlikely that strangers would be arriving so late.

Then she saw that the rider in front was Sigurd of Sundbu. With the slight stiffness of an old man, he dismounted from his horse.

“Yes, I bring you news from Gaute, Kristin,” he said after they had greeted each other. “He arrived at Sundbu yesterday.”

It was so dark she couldn’t make out his expression. But his voice sounded so strange. And when he walked toward the door of the main house, he told his men to go with Kristin’s stableboy to the servants’ quarters. She grew frightened when he said nothing more, but when they were alone in the room, she asked quite calmly, “What news do you bring, kinsman? Is he ill, since he hasn’t come home with you?”

“No, Gaute is so well that I’ve never seen him look better. But his men were tired . . .”

He blew at the foam on the ale bowl that Kristin handed to him, then took a swallow and praised the brew.

“Good ale should be given to the one who brings good news,” said the mistress with a smile.

“Well, I wonder what you’ll say when you’ve heard all of my news,” he remarked rather diffidently. “He did not return alone this time, your son . . .”

Kristin stood there waiting.

“He has brought along . . . well, she’s the daughter of Helge of Hovland. He has apparently taken this—this maiden . . . taken her by force from her father.”

Kristin still said nothing. But she sat down on the bench across from him. Her lips were narrow and pressed tight.

“Gaute asked me to come here; I suppose he was afraid you wouldn’t be pleased. He asked me to tell you the news, and now I’ve done so,” concluded Sir Sigurd faintly.

“You must tell me everything you know about this matter, Sigurd,” said Kristin calmly.

Sir Sigurd did as she asked, in a vague and disjointed way, with a great deal of roundabout talk. He himself seemed to be quite horrified by Gaute’s action. But from his account Kristin discerned that Gaute had met the maiden in Bjørgvin the year before. Her name was Jofrid, and no, she had not been abducted. But Gaute had probably realized that it would do no good to speak to the maiden’s kinsmen about marriage. Helge of Hovland was a very wealthy man and belonged to the lineage known as Duk, with estates all over Voss. And then the Devil had tempted the two young people. . . . Sir Sigurd tugged at his clothing and scratched his head, as if he were swarming with lice.

Then, this past summer—when Kristin thought that Gaute was at Sundbu and was going to accompany Sir Sigurd into the mountain pastures to hunt for two vicious bears—he had actually journeyed over the heights and down to Sogn; Jofrid was staying there with a married sister. Helge had three daughters and no sons. Sigurd groaned in distress; yes, he had promised Gaute to keep silent about this. He knew the boy must be going to see a maiden, but he had never dreamed that Gaute was thinking of doing anything so foolish.

“Yes, my son is going to have to pay dearly for this,” replied Kristin. Her face was impassive and calm.

Sigurd said that winter had now set in for good, and the roads were nearly impassable. After the men of Hovland had had time to think things over, perhaps they would see . . . It was best if Gaute won Jofrid with the consent of her kinsmen—now that she was already his.

“But what if they don’t see things that way? And demand revenge for abducting a woman?”

Sir Sigurd squirmed and scratched even more.

“I suppose it’s an unredeemable offense,”
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he said quietly. “I’m not quite certain . . .”

Kristin did not reply.

Then Sir Sigurd continued, his voice imploring, “Gaute said . . . He expected that you would welcome them kindly. He said that surely you are not so old that you’ve forgotten . . . Well, he said that you won the husband you insisted on having—do you understand?”

Kristin nodded.

“She’s the fairest child I have ever seen in my life, Kristin,” said Sigurd fervently. Tears welled up in his eyes. “It’s terrible that the Devil has lured Gaute into this misdeed, but surely you will receive these two poor children with kindness, won’t you?”

Kristin nodded again.

 

The countryside was sodden the next day, pallid and black under torrents of rain when Gaute rode into the courtyard around mid afternoon prayers.

Kristin felt a cold sweat on her brow as she leaned against the doorway. There stood Gaute, lifting down from her horse a woman dressed in a hooded black cloak. She was small in build, barely reaching up to his shoulders. Gaute tried to take her hand to lead her forward, but she pushed him away and came to meet Kristin alone. Gaute busied himself talking to the servants and giving orders to the men who had accompanied him. Then he cast another glance at the two women standing in front of the door; Kristin was holding both hands of the newly arrived girl. Gaute rushed over to them with a joyful greeting on his lips. In the entryway Sir Sigurd put his arm around his shoulder and gave him a fatherly pat, huffing and puffing after the strain.

Kristin was taken by surprise when the girl lifted her face, so white and so lovely inside the drenched hood of her cloak. And she was so young and as small as a child.

Then the girl said, “I do not expect to be welcomed by you, Gaute’s mother, but now all doors have been closed to me except this one. If you will tolerate my presence here on the manor, mistress, then I will never forget that I arrived here without property or honor, but with good intentions to serve you and Gaute, my lord.”

Before she knew it, Kristin had taken the girl’s hands and said, “May God forgive my son for what he has brought upon you, my fair child. Come in, Jofrid. May God help both of you, just as I will help you as best I can!”

A moment later she realized that she had offered much too warm a welcome to this woman, whom she did not know. But by then Jofrid had taken off her outer garments. Her heavy winter gown, which was a pale blue woven homespun, was dripping wet at the hem, and the rain had soaked right through her cloak to her shoulders. There was a gentle, sorrowful dignity about this child-like girl. She kept her small head with its dark tresses gracefully bowed; two thick pitch-black braids fell past her waist. Kristin kindly took Jofrid’s hand and led her to the warmest place on the bench next to the hearth. “You must be freezing,” she said.

Gaute came over and gave his mother a hearty embrace. “Mother, things will happen as they must. Have you ever seen as beautiful a maiden as my Jofrid? I had to have her, whatever it may cost me. And you must treat her with kindness, my dearest mother. . . .”

Jofrid Helgesdatter was indeed beautiful; Kristin could not stop looking at her. She was rather short, with wide shoulders and hips, but a soft and charming figure. And her skin was so delicate and pure that she was lovely even though her face was quite pale. The features of her face were short and broad, but the expansive, strong arc of her cheeks and chin gave it beauty, and her wide mouth had thin, rosy lips with small, even teeth that looked like a child’s first teeth. When she raised her heavy eyelids, her clear gray-green eyes were like shining stars beneath the long black eyelashes. Black hair, light-colored eyes—Kristin had always thought that was the most beautiful combination, ever since she had seen Erlend for the first time. Most of her own handsome sons had that coloring.

Kristin showed Jofrid to a place on the women’s bench next to her own. She sat there, graceful and shy, among all the servants she didn’t know, eating little and blushing every time Gaute drank a toast to her during the meal.

He was bursting with pride and restless elation as he sat in the high seat. To honor her son’s return home, Kristin had spread a cloth over the table that evening and set two wax tapers in the candlesticks made of gilded copper. Gaute and Sir Sigurd were constantly toasting each other, and the old gentleman grew more and more maudlin, putting his arm around Gaute’s shoulder and promising to speak on his behalf to his wealthy kinsmen, yes, even to King Magnus himself. Surely he would be able to obtain for him reconciliation with the maiden’s offended kin. Sigurd Eldjarn himself had not a single foe; it was his father’s rancorous temperament and his own misfortune with his wife that had made him so alone.

In the end Gaute sprang to his feet with the drinking horn in his hand. How handsome he is, thought Kristin, and how like Father! Her father had been the same way when he was beginning to feel drunk—so radiant with joy, straight-backed and lively.

“Things are now such between this woman, Jofrid Helgesdatter, and myself that today we celebrate our homecoming, and later we will celebrate our wedding, if God grants us such happiness. You, Sigurd, we thank for your steadfast kinship, and you, Mother, for welcoming us as I expected you would, with your loyal, motherly warmth. As we brothers have often discussed, you seem to us the most magnanimous of women and the most loving mother. Therefore I ask you to honor us by preparing our bridal bed in such a fine and beautiful manner that without shame I can invite Jofrid to sleep there beside me. And I ask you to accompany Jofrid up to the loft yourself, so that she might retire with as much seemliness as possible since she has neither a mother still alive nor any kinswomen here.”

Sir Sigurd was now quite drunk, and he burst out laughing. “You slept together in my loft; if I didn’t know better . . . I thought the two of you had already shared a bed before.”

Gaute shook his golden hair impatiently. “Yes, kinsman, but this is the first night Jofrid will sleep in my arms on her own manor, God willing.

“But I beg you good people to drink and be merry tonight. Now you have seen the woman who will be my wife here at Jørundgaard. This woman and no other—I swear this before God, our Lord, and on my Christian faith. I expect all of you to respect her, both servants and maids, and I expect you, my men, to help me keep and protect her in a seemly manner, my boys.”

During all the shouting and commotion that accompanied Gaute’s speech, Kristin quietly left the table and whispered to Ingrid to follow her up to the loft.

Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn’s magnificent loft room had fallen into disrepair over the years, after the sons of Erlend had moved in. Kristin hadn’t wanted to give the reckless boys any but the coars est and most essential of bedclothes and pieces of furniture, and she seldom had the room cleaned, for it wasn’t worth the effort. Gaute and his friends tracked in filth and manure as quickly as she swept it out. There was an ingrained smell from men coming in and flinging themselves onto the beds, soaked and sweaty and muddy from the woods and the farmyard—a smell of the stables and leather garments and wet dogs.

Now Kristin and her maid quickly swept and cleaned as best they could. The mistress brought in fine bed coverlets, blankets, and cushions and burned some juniper. On a little table which she moved close to the bed she placed a silver goblet filled with the last of the wine in the house, a loaf of wheat bread, and a candle in an iron holder. This was as elegant as she could make things on such short notice.

Weapons hung on the timbered wall next to the alcove: Erlend’s heavy two-handed sword and the smaller sword he used to carry, along with felling axes and broadaxes; Bjørgulf’s and Naakkve’s axes still hung there too. And the two small axes that the boys seldom used because they considered them too lightweight. But these were the tools that her father had used to carve and shape all manner of objects with such skill and care that afterward he only had to do the fine polishing with his gouge and knife. Kristin carried the axes into the alcove and put them inside Erlend’s chest, where his bloody shirt lay, along with the axe he was holding in his hand when he received the mortal wound.