The Axe (22 page)

He had not understood what Einar meant by the insults he flung at Arnvid, but so much he saw, that Arnvid felt them like a kick on an open wound; and whenever he thought of it, it turned him sick at first, then beside himself with rage; it was as though he had been witness to a nameless piece of brutality.

He had gradually become aware that he was very far from knowing Arnvid thoroughly. He relied on him, more than on any other person he had met—on his generosity, his loyalty; he knew that Arnvid would fear nothing when it was a question of helping a friend or kinsman. But there was something about Arnvid Finnsson which made him think of a tarn with unfathomable deeps.—Or—Asbjörn All-fat had told a story one evening, of a learned doctor in the southern lands who wooed a lady, the fairest in that country. At last she made as though he should have his will; she led him secretly into her bower, loosened her clothing, and let him see her breasts. One of them was white and fair, but of the other naught was left but a putrid sore. The other hearers praised
this tale greatly and called it good and instructive—for Raimond, the learned man, turned his heart altogether from the world after this sight and betook him to a cloister. But Olav thought it the most loathsome story he had ever heard, and he lay awake till far into the night and could not get it out of his head. But there was something about Arnvid which made him afraid—that one day he would see something like this in his friend, some hidden sore. But in secret he had always shrunk most painfully at the sight of sickness and suffering—could scarce bring himself to do anyone a hurt. And Olav had a vague suspicion that it might be the fear of being touched on a sore point that had paralysed Arnvid so strangely in the autumn. Now he came near to wishing that Arnvid had not been so meek, but called him to account earlier. He did not like the thought that he had taken advantage of a man’s defencelessness. And here he lay, with the knowledge that he would be forced to ask Arnvid to have a care of Ingunn and protect her, whatever consequences his rash deed might involve; since God alone knew when he would be in a position to do so himself.

In a way Olav saw something of what ailed Arnvid. Arnvid had never made it a secret that his most heart-felt wish had always been to devote himself to the service of God in holy orders. And after this time he had spent in Hamar Olav guessed better than before that a man could wish that. But he suspected that there were more windings in Arnvid’s brain than—well, than in Asbjörn All-fat’s or Brother Vegard’s, for instance. Arnvid longed to submit himself, to obey and to serve—but at the same time he had a sort of fellow-feeling with the men who demanded that the other law should hold: the law for men with fleshly hearts, hot blood, and vengeful minds. It was as though at some time Arnvid had been badly crushed between the two laws.

It had impressed Olav that Arnvid never spoke of the years he had been married. From other quarters he had heard this and that about Arnvid’s marriage: Tordis, his wife, had first been promised to the eldest of the Finnssons, Magnus—a scapegrace, but of merry disposition, well liked and a remarkably handsome man. She had certainly been bitterly disappointed with the one she got instead—but there was no doubt Arnvid had had no great love for his wife either. Tordis was proud and quarrelsome; she made no secret of despising her husband because he was so young, quiet-mannered,
and rather shy among folk. With the mother-in-law she lived in open conflict. Arnvid must have had a joyless youth between these two imperious, quarrelling women. Doubtless it was for that he now seemed to avoid all women—except Ingunn. Of her he was intensely fond, Olav saw, and this must have been because Ingunn was so weak, had need of men to defend and support her, and had never a thought of ruling over them and giving them orders. Often Arnvid would sit lost in thought, looking at her with such strange sadness, as though pitying her.—But that was a weakness of Arnvid, that he seemed too much given to pitying—animals, for instance. Olav was kind to animals himself—but the way Arnvid could nurse and tend a sick creature—’Twas strange, too, how often it mended and thrived when Arnvid took in hand a sick animal. Even his dead wife—the two or three times Olav had heard Arnvid speak of her, it struck him that the man felt pity for her.

But lately Olav had felt a growing ill will toward Arnvid for being so ready to show compassion. Olav knew he was not free from this weakness himself, but now he saw it to be a fault: it might so easily make a man soft and cause him to give way before those who were harder of heart.

Olav sighed, weary and at a loss. It made him so sad to think of all those he had loved—Bishop Torfinn, Arnvid, Ingunn. But when he called to mind Einar Kolbeinsson and his enemies, he was
glad
he had done it, in spite of it all—nay, repent he
could
not. But he could not bear being parted from Ingunn now.—He had reached an utter deadlock.

The candle was almost burned out; Olav crept up and carefully wound the last of the wick. He went to the door and scanned it closely—not that he had any hope of being able to escape, but he felt he must.

It was a heavy, solid door, but it did not shut tight—a deal of snow had drifted in. He brought the light: there seemed to be a big lock on the outside and a wooden bar, but there was no part of the lock on the inside, only a withy handle nailed on. Olav drew his dagger and tried it in the crack of the door. Then he noticed that the key had not been turned in the lock; the door was only bolted with the wooden bar, and he could move that a little
with his dagger—only a little, for the bar was big and heavy and the blade of his dagger was thin.

But he was all on fire—his hands were trembling as he put on his boots and outer garments. He could not give up, when once he had found he was not locked in. He took his dagger in both hands and tried to force the bolt upward. At the first attempt the blade broke off in the middle. Olav clenched his teeth and thrust the rest of the blade into the crack right up to the handle. Then there was not room to work the dagger in the narrow crack. Sweating with excitement he coaxed it till he found how far in he could get the dagger—and then to bend it up and lift the bar. Several times he knew he had got it out of the catch, but it fell in again when he let go with one hand to pull the door-handle. But at last he did it.—The snow burst in upon him; he stepped quietly across the threshold and looked out into the night.

No sign of dogs—they must have shut them indoors for the weather. Not a sound but the infinitely fine whistling of dry, powdery snow blown by the wind. Slowly and cautiously Olav worked his way in the dark across the unknown courtyard. In a heap of snow by one of the houses stood a number of skis. Olav chose a pair and went on.

The gate to the street was shut, but close beside it a load of timber had been left. From that he could slip over the paling. He began to believe a miracle was taking place. He climbed the pile and dropped the skis over the fence—heard the soft sound as they fell into the snowdrift outside. “Mother!” he thought—“perhaps it is my mother who is praying for me, that I may get away.”

It was awkward with his loose cloak and long kirtle, but he succeeded in getting over and dropped into the snow out in the street. He kilted up his kirtle as high as he could with the belt and bound the skis fast to his feet; then he threw his body forward and set out against the driving snow, which flecked the darkness with streaks of white.

As soon as he reached the end of the town, the road was lost in drifts. Only here and there he made out the tops of the fences, now that his eyes were used to the dark. But he kept on, with the snow in his face almost all the time. It was perfectly impossible to distinguish any road-marks on a night like this, though he knew the farm where she was; he had ridden past it many times on the highway in company with Asbjörn, but that would not help him
in this weather. He was as good a ski-runner as the best, but the going was very heavy. Nevertheless he was undaunted and toiled on blindly—he was so certain of being helped tonight. It scarcely crossed his mind that he was quite unarmed—the dagger was useless now—and that he had no more than five or six ducats in money. But he was altogether dauntless.

He did not know what time of night it might be when at last he dragged himself into the yard of the farm where Ingunn lay. Here indeed the dogs were awake—a whole pack of them rushed out at him, barking ferociously. He kept them off with a pole he had picked up on the way, and shouted the while. At last someone appeared in a doorway.

“Is Ingunn Steinfinnsdatter within? I must speak with her instantly—I am Olav Audunsson, her husband.”

The short winter day was already sinking and the grey dusk gathering over the snow-covered land as two sledges with worn-out horses drove into the little farm near Ottastad church. The three fur-clad strangers stood awhile talking to the master of the house.

“Ay, she sits within in the room,” he said. “Her man is yet in bed, I wis—he came hither at early morn, and then they lay and talked in whispers—our Lord and Saint Olav know what there may be between them, the way they bore themselves—I fell asleep and left them to it—” he scratched his head and looked at the three with shrewd inquiry. Asbjörn Priest he knew well, and the others were Arnvid Finnsson from Miklebö, the woman’s kinsman, who had been here more than once and spoken with her, and his old henchman.

The three strode into the room. Ingunn was sitting on the step below the farther bed; she held some sewing work in her lap, but it was too dark for her to sew in that corner. She rose at once on seeing who had come, and went toward them, tall and slender in her black garb, pale and dark-eyed under her woman’s coif.

“Hush,” she bade them in a low voice, “go quietly—Olav is asleep!”

“Ay, then ’tis time you wake him, little woman,” said Asbjörn Priest. “Too much wit I never thought the boy was burdened with, but this is worse than the worst. Can he not guess they will
search for him here first of all?—and here he lies asleep!” The priest neighed in his anger.

Ingunn posted herself in the men’s way. “What would you with Olav?”

“We wish him no ill,” said Arnvid; “but the way he has marred all—You must come with me now, Ingunn, and stay with me at Miklebö, for you can guess that now the lord Torfinn can hardly refuse to give you back to your kinsfolk.”

“And what of Olav?” she asked as before.

The priest gave a despairing groan: “She there—is’t not the very mischief that he should fly straight hither? She there will never keep a close mouth with what she hears.”

“Oh yes, she will. When she sees it is for Olav’s good. Ingunn, you must know that this priest here, and I too, we run no small risk in concealing a homicide and helping him to get away.”

“I shall know how to hold my peace,” said Ingunn seriously. She stepped aside and went up to the bed, where she stood for a moment looking at the sleeper like a mother who has not the heart to wake her child.

The priest thought: “Ah yes, she is fair after all.” It seemed to him that these women for whom young boys committed folly and sin were seldom such that a sober and sapient man could see anything goodly in them. And for her here he had had uncommonly little liking: this Ingunn Steinfinnsdatter had the look of a slothful, loose-minded woman, feeble and cosseted, useful for nothing but to make trouble and strife among men. But now, he thought, perchance she was better after all than he had deemed her, she might even make a good wife, when she grew older and steadier of mind. In any case she had conducted herself like a person of sense, and she looked on her friend as though she loved him faithfully. And fair she was, he had to admit they were right who said so.

Olav looked very young and innocent as he lay asleep with his white, muscular arms under his neck and his fair hair spread over the brown woollen pillow. He slept as soundly as a child. But the moment Ingunn took hold of his shoulder and woke him, he started up wide awake, drew up his feet, and sat up in the bed with his arms clasping his knees as he looked calmly at the two men.

“Have you come hither to fetch me?”

“Arnvid has come to take your wife home with him. I—” The priest looked round at the others. “I think you must let me speak with Olav alone first.”

Arnvid took Ingunn by the hand and led her to a seat at the farther end of the room. Asbjörn All-fat sat down on the bed beside Olav. Olav asked earnestly: “What says Lord Torfinn to this? An ill chance it is that I should repay his hospitality so badly.”

“Ah, there you spoke a truer word than you know yourself. And therefore you must now see that you betake yourself yet farther, out of the land.”

“Shall I fly out of the land?” asked Olav slowly. “Uncondemned—? Does Lord Torfinn say I must do this?”

“Nay, I say it. The Bishop and the Sheriff can scarce have heard of the slaying yet—ay, Einar is dead—we look not to see them home before tomorrow. And I made Audun’s folk understand that, since they could not hold you better, they ought to keep Kolbein ignorant of your flight till the Sheriff himself could tell him. They are out searching for you now, but with this heavy going they cannot have come so far out as this, and now it will soon be night. Whatever betide, we must venture it, in God’s name—we stay here till the moon is up, a little after midnight—’tis clearing up outside and freezing. Old Guttorm will go with you and show the way. Swift ski-runners such as you are should reach Solberga by the evening of the third day. There you must stay with my sister no longer than is necessary and keep in hiding till Sven Birgersson finds you a lodging somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

“But can this be wise, to fly the country before I have been condemned to it?” asked Olav.

“Since you have taken wings, you must fly on,” said the priest. “Will you have folk say of you that you broke out of prison merely to come hither and fondle your wife? Nay, you need not look at me so madly because I say this to you.—Young you are and bull-headed, and little thought have you beyond your own affairs; such is the nature of your age. And maybe you have not thought that a man like Lord Torfinn may have many matters on hand of greater moment than that you should enjoy your Ingunn and her goods in peace. And you came with this suit of yours at
an inconvenient time—hardly could you have found a worse time to trouble the Bishop with your concerns—”