The Son Avenger (39 page)

She was still a handsome woman and carried herself so well when she mixed among folk that those who were old enough to recall Eldrid’s beauty at the time she was given to old Harald Jonsson revived the memory of that marriage. And many there were who could tell tales of her evil courses when she was mistress of Borg and later at Sigurdstad in a different way. Now she was an elderly woman, nearing the half-hundred. But she and Eirik were not so ill matched a pair to look at, for all that.

He was so big and bony that he began early to look more than his age. Tall and broad-shouldered, he stooped a little with his bulky chest and long, powerful limbs, and his back was rounded by hard work. His thin and narrow face, with its indented nose and prominent jaw, was brown, tanned, and furrowed; though no one would have called him ugly, it was not easy to see that he had once passed for a comely youth. Only the great light-brown eyes were unusually handsome; but his dark and curly hair was strongly marked with grey.

With the passing of years Eirik Olavsson had grown very like his father, folk said—not so much in outward appearance; the tall, dark, rather loose-limbed man had indeed remarkably little in common with the father, who had been so fair-complexioned, shapely, and well-knit. But folk could clearly recognize the father’s nature in the son.

Like him, Eirik was taciturn; they were all so in that family. As Olav in his time could stand quite motionless by the hour together on the lookout rock or leaning over the fence of a cornfield, so the son now stood gazing in the same places. But he was a much
more capable master of Hestviken than Olav had been. Not that the father’s management had been other than careful and wise; the family estate had not shrunk in his time. But with the son everything went with more life and spirit, and success attended him. The manor of Saltviken, which had been left untenanted in Olav Half-priest’s time, had been reclaimed, and he had helped the young folk whom he had established at Rundmyr to clear the land around.

He had brought Liv and her remaining children south to a house in Saltviken. It was indeed a better abode than the woman was used to; nevertheless she was loath to leave her cot. But Eirik said it was better that Anki’s children should live farther from Hestviken when Jörund’s sons grew up.

Anki had seized a chance of escaping from the men who were to carry him bound to the Warden. In the first two years rumours were heard from time to time that the murderer had appeared, now here, now there, on the outskirts of the parish and in the neighboring country; he must have a haunt somewhere in the forests. And when Liv had a child a year and a half after the disappearance of her husband, she gave out that he was the father-he had looked in at home a few times.

In the third spring after Jörund’s death three men of the parish were taking a short cut through the woods on the way to Gardar. Close to the Black Tarn they found in a scree the remains of a corpse, badly mangled by beasts. But one leg in a boot had been caught fast among some stones. The men then searched the forest around, seeking for traces of the dead man’s hiding-place, for they guessed him to be a robber. And, sure enough, they found a little way up the hill a kind of hut built on a ledge of rock. It looked as if the man had not been so badly off there; the couch was well covered with clothes and a great food-box stood there, still half full of food.

Now, there was one of the men who thought he had seen that box before—the low, flat carving of interlacing vines looked like the work of Eirik Olavsson of Hestviken, and there were runes cut on the pin that held the lid in place. One of the men was scholar enough to make out what was written: it was
“Eirekr.”
Then it occurred to them that they had seen Eirik of Hestviken
wearing boots that were patched in just the same way as the one the corpse had on.

They got Arnketil’s remains up to the village, and the murderer was laid in earth just outside the churchyard wall. Then they carried what they had found to Hestviken and told Eirik the news: “The thrall was true to his nature, a thief to the last.”

“Anki did not steal these things,” said Eirik. He fixed his great, clear eyes on the peasant who had spoken. “Thrall or thief, he avenged son and daughter in such way as he was able. And it is for God to judge how great was his sin.”

No one sought to find out more. If Eirik Olavsson had secretly helped the slayer of his brother-in-law, that must be his affair. The Hestvik men had always shielded their dependants—even when they were in the wrong. It came out afterwards that he had caused masses to be said for Anki—ay, the dead man might well need that.

They had always been good Christians there and open-handed with alms. Olav had been generous while he was master, and Eirik was the same. But Olav always seemed to listen to the woes of poor folk with but half an ear and in helping them looked as if he were thinking hard of something else. Eirik said loans must be given with a laugh, and gifts with a joyful countenance. Though he was not much more of a talker than his father, one could see that he listened to what folk said; there was nothing oppressive in his silence. In every way he was more friendly than the old man had been.

The day after these men had been with him Eirik rowed south to Saltviken; he wished to give Liv the news himself.

Before setting out for home he went up to the manor to find Cecilia. He knew that she had not yet held her churching, and she still kept to the same upper chamber where she had sat with her father on the night when she had fetched him home from the Ness.

The spring sun shone in through the three small bayed loopholes and fell straight upon the woman’s coifed head; she sat on a low chest, bent over the sucking child. When her brother came in at the door, she looked up and smiled in greeting. But her eyes went back at once to the new-born boy at her breast—she looked young and thoughtful and happy. Her face had grown rounder,
but her eyes were clear and her lips had recovered their bright-red hue.

She listened calmly to her brother’s account of Arnketil’s death.

“Ay, that was bound to be the end,” she said sorrowfully, “since he never
would
follow your advice and take himself away from here.”

Then she asked after Kolbein and Audun and Eldrid, also after her father. But all the time she was looking down at the child who now lay full-fed and asleep in her lap. Eirik was strangely moved to see this mild and blissful animal-look in the young mother’s eyes; she had never been like this when she sat with her other children.

She was fond of them. She had made clothes for them and sent them across during the winter, with a message that when she was over her childbed they might come and visit their mother. But he guessed it was something new with this little Gunnar. Him she had borne under a cheerful heart.

Una came in with ale and food for the guest. She had grown older and more portly, but was as cheerful and active as ever. She went over to Cecilia, had to look at the child—it half opened its eyes, and at once the two women were delightedly busy over the little thing.

Una took the boy in her arms and brought him over; Eirik must take a good look at him. She unswathed the back of the little head: was it not finely shaped?

“Ay, ’tis a goodly child,” said Eirik. “But he has red hair,” he laughed teasingly.

Cecilia looked up, her cheeks flushed deeply, and her brother saw she was on the point of flying into a rage. But then she laughed too. “Certainly he has red hair. ’Tis as I say—my Gunnar has every fine thing you can think of.” She came over and took back the child.

Eirik said he could not wait till Aslak came home: “but give him my greeting!”

Cecilia Olavsdatter had not been a widow more than a year when a suitor announced himself; it was Ragnvald Jonsson, the friend of Olav’s youth. He had been out and tried his fortune at Hestviken before, when the two young maids were there; first it was Bothild Asgersdatter he would have, and then Cecilia. Nothing
came of it; then he took a wife who brought him an estate at the head of the fiord, and there he dwelt now, a widower with two little daughters.

Cecilia was not unwilling—she had known Ragnvald from childhood, and he was upright, kind, and a fine man to look at—even if there were many wiser than he. And Eirik could see no cause to refuse him if Cecilia herself desired this marriage.

He guessed it was a little hard for his sister to have to share her authority with Eldrid. The two women liked each other; they associated without friction. But the fact was that Cecilia had held sway as mistress of her father’s manor for the greater part of her grown-up life, and now Eldrid had to take precedence of her; she was so much older, and she was his wife. But he doubted not that Cecilia longed above all to escape from the proximity of her father.

When Eirik laid Ragnvald’s suit before Olav and gave his own opinion, his father nodded assent. So he and Ragnvald came to terms. The betrothal ale was to take place during the summer.

At Botolph’s mass
¹
Cecilia herself went into Oslo to make purchases for the feast. But on the evening of her return Eirik saw, as soon as his sister stood up in the boat, that something had happened. “What is it?” he asked as he helped her onto the quay.

“That I will tell you later.”

Change after change came over Cecilia’s face, usually so unruffled—she seemed to be listening, with a youthful, faraway look in her eyes; then her features contracted in mournful brooding.

Eirik was about to see his father to his bed; Eldrid was already bending down to loose her shoestring when Cecilia came in upon them.

“Stay awhile, Father—there is a matter I would fain have disposed of this evening, so I beg you will listen to me now. Nay, do not go, Eldrid—I wish you to hear it too. It is that I cannot marry Ragnvald.”

“You cannot!” Eirik turned round to his sister. “He has our word already, Cecilia!”

“I know it, but he must release us.” She looked at her father, and he looked at her with his one ice-blue, bloodshot eye; the other was half closed by the palsied lid.

“You remember Aslak Gunnarsson, Father; Jon Toresson he called himself the winter he was with us. I met him in the town; he had heard that I was now a widow, and he was on his way hither. He has not married. And now I have promised myself to him.”

Eirik saw that his father was attacked by the spasms which sometimes occurred in the dead side of his face and the palsied arm.

“You have promised yourself to two men—” He checked himself and said quietly: “It is far too late to speak of this tonight. Wait till tomorrow.”

“There is no need of much speaking. ’Tis true that I have promised myself to two men. But only one can have me. And that will be Aslak.”

“But Father and I have given our word to
one
man. We did so with your consent. And we will not break our word.”

“Once
I have been married on the advice of you two.” The green flash that came into her eyes seemed no more than a reflection, but it reminded Eirik of the time when he had believed his sister capable of killing her husband. “I shall never give Ragnvald my troth. And if you will not betroth me to Aslak, I shall go northward with him in spite of you.”

“You must not say such things, Cecilia—you have three sons.”

“Ay, I have thought of that. But they must stay with you—they are your heirs. What say you, Eldrid?” She turned to her brother’s wife.

“I say that no good can come of breaking one’s word. But ’tis not good either to marry against one’s will. You ought to wait awhile—”

“Aslak and I have waited long enough. What say you, Father?” Think you not we have waited long enough now?”

Olav nodded.

“Father!” exclaimed Eirik. “Do I understand you rightly—do you wish us to withdraw from the bargain with Ragnvald?”

Olav laid his sound hand heavily on his son’s arm and nodded again.

“Ah, if that is the way of it, then—You are the master, Father.”

Not much more was said of the matter. Eirik had to ride to Ragnvald and tell him of the turn it had taken. At first Ragnvald was very wroth, but before long he said it was all one about the
marriage. “If Cecilia has made up her mind to a thing, I am loath to be the one who should try to force her away from her purpose.”

So it was not Ragnvald who came out to Hestviken at St. Olav’s vigil,
²
but Aslak Gunnarsson. As the guest dismounted and came toward him, Eirik saw that Aslak halted a little. The brother felt a slight shock, of aversion, or he knew not what.

They were betrothed in the course of the autumn, and the wedding was held at Hestviken in the following spring; by that time Jörund had been dead two years. Aslak had no home of his own, but lodged with his brothers at Yttre Dal. He bought up horses from the districts where the farmers carried on the breeding of foals, sold them in Oslo and along the border; he was now a man of substance and owned shares in many farms in the Upplands, but liked none of them so well that he would live there. So it was arranged that he and Cecilia should live at Hestviken.

Eirik and Aslak lived together in amity and concord. The new brother-in-law was prudent and upright, an active and companionable man—Eirik saw that. But it could never grow into any warm friendship between the two men, they both knew that. And when Aslak and Cecilia had been married over half a year, Aslak came and said he thought they might as well move to Saltviken—for in any case he or Eirik must constantly be there to see to the work of the farm, and here at Hestviken they were already so many, and now that Cecilia was with child—

Eirik guessed that the two would be glad to enjoy their happiness in a place where they would not be reminded of all the past mischances, and where Cecilia could be mistress in her own house and need not have her father before her eyes. So he and Aslak were soon agreed.

Eirik thought of all this as he came down from the upper chamber and remembered his sister’s face as she sat bending over the child she had had by Aslak. And he remembered the day in late autumn when they moved out hither; he had sailed them round himself. It was raining heavily, and the road between the fences was under water in places; Aslak lifted up his wife and carried her right up to the manor, though her feet were already as wet as they could be and the man was lame—though not so badly. And he remembered
the blaze of anger in Cecilia’s eyes when he once happened to mention Aslak’s defect: “He got it fighting one against five; at last a man threw him from behind so that he broke his leg.”