The Axe (38 page)

Olav sat as before. Arnvid dared not bring out what he had at heart. Then suddenly Olav himself spoke: “I said to her that I should come back—to Ingunn. Half a heathen she has been all her days, but I thought she had guessed so much—that we are bound together, while we are in life—”

Arnvid said: “When they wished to give her to Gudmund Jonsson, you know that would have been a right good match for her—but then she spoke as though she understood full well.”

“Ha! But now, when she herself has broken her troth, she expects that I too shall go back on all I have spoken before God and men—?”

“She expects she is to die, I believe.”

“Ay, that were the easiest way out, for both her and me.”

Arnvid did not answer.

Then Olav asked: “I promised
you
once—that I would never fail your kinswoman. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

At last Arnvid broke the silence: “Ought they not to know it, Ivar and Magnhild—that you will take her in spite of all?”

He received no answer; and spoke again: “Will you consent that I tell them what you will do?”

“I can tell them myself what I will do,” answered Olav shortly. “I forgot some of my things there too,” he added, as though to soften it.

Arnvid said nothing. He thought that, in the mood Olav was in now, it was uncertain that they would have much comfort of him when he came to Berg. But he deemed he had no right to meddle with the affair further than he had done.

In the course of the afternoon, when Olav was ready for the road, he asked Arnvid: “When had you thought of going home again?”

Arnvid said he had not thought of that yet.

Olav did not look at the other, and he spoke as though he were ashamed and had difficulty in getting the words out: “I would rather we did not see each other again—before the atonement feast. When I come back from Berg, I would rather not—” he clenched his fists and ground his teeth sharply—“I cannot bear the sight of anyone who knows of this!”

Arnvid turned crimson in the face, but he swallowed the insult and answered coolly: “As you will.—Should you change your mind, you know the way to Miklebö.”

Olav gave Arnvid his hand, but would not meet the other’s eyes. “Ay—thanks for that—’tis not that I am ungrateful—”

“Nay, nay—You go south now, to Hestviken?” he asked nevertheless.

“No, I have thought to stay here—for a time. Haply I ought to find out if I am to prepare a home-coming feast or not—” he tried to laugh. “If she is not to live, there is no need—”

Ingunn sat crouching in the corner by the bed, and it was so dark both indoors and out that she could not distinguish who it was that came in, but she thought it was Dalla, who had finished in the byre. But the figure did not move, after closing the door behind it—and a terrible fear seized her, though she could not guess what it was that had come in; her heart flew up into her throat and throbbed like a sledge-hammer if anyone spoke to her. She struggled to quell her loud breathing and drew back into her corner, still as a mouse.

“Are you here, Ingunn?”

When she heard Olav’s voice, it was as though her heart beat itself to pieces—it faltered and stopped, and through her whole body went a feeling that she was stifling to death.

“Ingunn—are you here?” he asked again. He advanced into the room—she could make out his form, square-shouldered and broad in his cloak against the feeble glow from the hearth. He had heard her groaning breath and felt about, trying to find where she sat in the dark.

And now terror gave back her speech: “Come not near me! Olav—come not near me!”

“I shall not touch you. Be not afraid—I will do you no harm.”

She cringed away, speechless, fighting to overcome the terrible breathlessness that her fear had brought on her.

Olav’s voice was heard, calm and level: “It came into my mind—’twere best after all that I myself speak with Ivar and Magnhild. Have you told them who is the father?”

“Yes,” she whispered painfully.

Olav said, hesitating a little: “That was bad. I should have thought of it before—but I was so—surprised—I knew not what I said. But now I have bethought me, ’tis best I take upon myself the fatherhood. It will surely come out—such things are always noised abroad—and then we must say the child is mine. We must spread the report that I came secretly here to Berg last year at that time—”

“But it is not true,” she whispered feebly.

“No. I know
that.”
He said it so that it struck her like a whip. “And folk will surely doubt it—but that is all one, if they only see they must not speak their doubts too loudly. You must all say as I have said. I will not have it that you should keep such a child here in the Upplands; we should never feel safe that the story would not be ripped up again. You must take it south with you—

“Do you understand what I say?” he asked hastily, as she gave no sound beyond her heavy breathing in the darkness.

“No,” came her answer all at once, clear and firm. It had happened to her before, very rarely—when tormented and frightened to the uttermost it was as though something broke within her mind, and then she was able to face anything, calm and composed. “You must not think of that, Olav. You must have no thought of taking me to you after this.”

“Talk not so foolishly,” replied Olav impatiently. “You ought to know as well as I that we two are bound to each other hand and foot.”

“They told me—Kolbein and those—that there were many good and learned priests who judged your case otherwise than Lord Torfinn-”

“Ay, there is no case that all men are agreed on. But I hold to Bishop Torfinn’s judgment. I gave him an ill reward for his kindness
that time—but I laid this case in his hands and bowed to his judgment, when it fell out as I desired. And I must bow to it now likewise.”

“Olav—do you remember that last night, when you came out to me at Ottastad?” Her voice was mournful, but calm and collected. “Do you remember saying you would kill me?—you said the one who broke troth with the other should die. You drew your knife and set it against my breast.—I have that knife—”

“Ay, keep it and welcome.—That night—oh, you must not speak of it—we swore so many oaths! I have since thought it was a greater sin, all we said then, than Einar’s slaying. But I never thought it would be you who—”

“Olav,” she said as before, “it is impossible. You could never have any joy of me if I came with you to Hestviken. I was sure of that as soon as I saw you. When you said you would come and fetch me in the summer—I saw that I had time enough to keep this concealed—”

“Ah—so you thought of that!” The words struck her like a blow, so that she threw herself upon the bed and clasped the bedpost as she broke into sobs, wailing in her abyss of shame and humiliation.

“Go from me, go from me,” she whimpered. She remembered that Dalla might come in at any moment, bringing light into the room. At the thought that Olav might
see
her she was wild with despair and shame. “Go,” she begged; “Olav, have pity on me and go!”

“Ay, now I will go. But you must know, ’twill be as I have said.—Nay, weep not so, Ingunn,” he pleaded. “I wish you no harm—

“Much joy of each other we may not have,” his bitterness got the better of him and he could not keep back the words. “God knows, in all these years—I often thought how I would make you a good husband—how I would do you all the good I might.—Now I dare give no such promise—it may well be difficult many a time to keep me from being hard on you. But, God helping me, our life will be no worse than we can both endure.”

“Ay, would you had killed me that day,” she wailed, as though she had scarce heard what he said.

“Be silent,” he whispered, revolted. “You speak of killing—your own babe—and of my killing you—you are more beast than human,
methinks; lose your wits when you see no escape. Men and women must bear resolutely what they have brought upon themselves—”

“Go!” she beseeched him; “go, go—”

“Ay, I will go now. But I shall come back—I shall come back when you have had this child of yours, Ingunn—then maybe you will find your wits again, so far that one may talk with you—”

She felt that he came a few steps nearer—and cringed as though she awaited ill treatment. Olav’s hand felt for her shoulder in the dark; he bent over her and kissed her on the crown of her head, so hard that she felt his teeth.

“Be not so distressed,” he whispered, standing over her. “I wish you no worse than—You must believe I do but seek a way out.”

He took his hand from her and went out quickly.

Next morning Lady Magnhild came into her. Ingunn lay in bed gazing vacantly before her. Lady Magnhild’s wrath was roused when she saw that the girl looked just as despairing today as ever.

“Have you not brought this misfortune on yourself?—and now you are to be rid of it far more lightly than you had a right to expect. We must all thank God and Mary Virgin on our knees that Olav is the man he is. But I say—God requite Kolbein as he deserves, for that he set himself against Olav’s taking you long ago, and cozened that silly gull Ivar to be on his side! If they had only let Olav have you then, nine years ago!”

Ingunn lay motionless and said nothing.

Lady Magnhild went on talking: “Be it as it may, I’ll not send for Hallveig at present. Since you are in such a wretched state, we may well doubt if it will live,” she said consolingly. “And should it live, ’twill be time enough to speak of what will be best.”

On the fourth day of Easter came Tora Steinfinnsdatter. Ingunn rose to meet her sister as she came in, but she had to take hold of the bedstead to keep on her feet, such was her dread of hearing what Tora would say.

But Tora took her in her arms and patted her. “My poor, poor Ingunn!”

And then she began to speak of Olav’s generosity and of how black it would have looked if he had acted as most men in his
position—sought to be rid of a wife who had never been given to him in lawful wedlock. “Sooth to say, I knew not Olav was so pious a man. He had much to do with the priests and the Church—I thought ’twas mainly for his own profit. I did not believe it was because he was so God-fearing and steadfast in the faith—

“And he will not claim that you part with your child,” said Tora, beaming. “That must be such a comfort to you—are you not overjoyed that you need not send away your child?”

“Oh yes. But speak no more of that,” begged Ingunn at last, for Tora never ceased her praises of this good luck in the midst of misfortune.

Tora said nothing of what she might have guessed or feared in the winter, nor did she censure her sister with many words, but tried rather to put a little heart into Ingunn: when relief came in a little while, she would find that the whole world would appear to her in brighter colours, and then there would come good days for her too; but she must not abandon herself as she did—she sat there in her corner all day long, never moved nor spoke a word unasked—only gazing before her in black despondency.

Dalla had taken Lady Magnhild’s correction in such wise that never since had she opened her mouth to Ingunn. But she found ways enough, for all that, to torment the sick woman. Ingunn never dared lie down at night till she had felt under the bedclothes whether anything hard and sharp had been put there. And all at once she found a mass of vermin in her bed and in her day-clothes—they had been perfectly clean before. There were constantly cinders and chips and mouse-dirt in the food and drink that Dalla brought her. Every morning she tied Ingunn’s shoes so tightly that they hurt her, and while Ingunn struggled painfully to loosen them, Dalla stood by with a sneering smile. Ingunn never said a word about this.

But Tora guessed at once a good deal of what had been going on—she took Dalla to task right heartily, and the old thrall woman cringed before her young mistress like a beaten dog. And when Tora saw that Ingunn could not overcome her terror if Dalla did but approach her, she drove the old woman out of Aasa’s house for good. She helped her sister to be rid of the worst of the vermin, got her clean clothes and good food; and she checked her aunt when Lady Magnhild grumbled at Ingunn’s ingratitude—saying that she herself had had a part in the disaster, and they had
assuredly treated her more gently than she had a right to expect; she would put up with no more of this sullen crossness toward Ingunn. But Tora implored the lady—let them do all they could to make these last days easy for her; when she was on her feet again after her lying-in—it would be another matter. Then she would be strong enough to hear some grave words from them both.

S
INCE
Olav Audunsson had done penance for the slaying in the preaching friars’ guest-house, he had formed fairly close ties with this monastic community; Brother Vegard, too, had been his confessor ever since he was a child, and he was a good friend of Arnvid Finnsson, who was one of the benefactors of the house. And before this last turn of events with Ingunn, Olav had had thoughts of joining the Dominicans as a brother
ab extra
. When the friars now saw that something weighed upon his mind, they left him in peace and avoided as far as possible lodging other guests in the women’s house, where he lay. There was no little coming and going in the convent during Lent, for many folk from the country round were wont to make their Lenten confession here and celebrate Easter in the convent church.

Olav put off his confession again and again. He could not see how he was to make it in the right way—Ingunn could not have confessed yet, for Olav knew that Brother Vegard was still her confessor, and the monk had not been absent from the convent for six weeks. So Olav sat in the women’s house and went nowhere—except to church.

But on Wednesday in Holy Week he thought he could not put it off any longer, and Brother Vegard promised to be in the church at a certain hour.

It felt cold and dark as he entered through the little side door from the cloister garth—it was the same spring weather out of doors. Brother Vegard already sat in his place in the choir, reading a book that he held on his knee, with the purple stole over his white frock. From an opening high up a sunbeam fell straight upon the pictures that were painted above the monks’ choir stalls—lighting up the likeness of our Lord at the age of twelve among
the Jewish doctors. “God, my Lord,” prayed Olav in his heart, “give me discretion to say what I have to say and no more and no less.” Then he knelt before the priest and said
Confiteor
.