The farmer guild of Aker had St. Margaret for their patroness, and they began their festival, each year on the twentieth of July, the day of St. Margaret’s Mass. In that day the guild-brothers and sisters, with their children, their guests and their serving-folk, gathered at Aker’s church and heard mass at St. Margaret’s Altar there; after that they wended their way to the hall of the guild which lay near the Hofvin hospital—there they were wont to hold a drinking-feast lasting five days.
But since both Aker’s church and the Hofvin spital belonged to Nonneseter, and as, besides, many of the Aker farmers were tenants of the convent, it had come to be the custom that the Abbess and some of the elder Sisters should honour the guild by coming to the feasting on the first day. And those of the young maids who were at the convent only to learn, and were not to take the veil, had leave to go with them and to dance in the evening; therefore at this feast they wore their own clothes and not the convent habit.
And so there was great stir and bustle in the novices’ sleeping rooms on the eve of St. Margaret’s Mass; the maids who were to go to the guild feast ransacking their chests and making ready their finery, while the others, less fortunate, went about something moodily and looked on. Some had set small pots in the fireplace and were boiling water to make their skin white and soft; others were making a brew to be smeared on the hair—then they parted the hair into strands and twisted them tightly round strips of leather, and this gave them curling, wavy tresses.
Ingebjörg brought out all the finery she had, but could not think what she should wear—come what might, not her best leaf-green velvet dress; that was too good and too costly for such a peasant rout. But a little, thin sister who was not to go with them—Helga was her name; she had been vowed to the convent by her father and mother while still a child—took Kristin aside and whispered: she was sure Ingebjörg would wear the green dress and her pink silk shift too.
“You have ever been kind to me, Kristin,” said Helga. “It beseems me little to meddle in such doings—but I will tell you none the less. The knight who brought you home that evening in the spring—I have seen and heard Ingebjörg talking with him since—they spoke together in the church, and he has tarried for her up in the hollow when she hath gone to Ingunn at the commoners’ house. But ’tis you he asks for, and Ingebjörg has promised him to bring you there along with her. But I wager you have not heard aught of this before!”
“True it is that Ingebjörg has said naught of this,” said Kristin. She pursed up her mouth that the other might not see the smile that would come out. So this was Ingebjörg’s way—“’Tis like she knows I am not of such as run to trysts with strange men round house-corners and behind fences,” said she proudly.
“Then I might have spared myself the pains of bringing you tidings whereof ’twould have been but seemly I should say no word,” said Helga, wounded, and they parted.
But the whole evening Kristin was put to it not to smile when anyone was looking at her.
Next morning Ingebjörg went dallying about in her shift, till Kristin saw she meant not to dress before she herself was ready.
Kristin said naught, but laughed as she went to her chest and took out her golden-yellow silken shift. She had never worn it before, and it felt so soft and cool as it slipped down over her body. It was broidered with goodly work, in silver and blue and brown silk, about the neck and down upon the breast, as much as should be seen above the low-cut gown. There were sleeves to match, too. She drew on her linen hose, and laced up the small, purple-blue shoes which Haakon, by good luck, had saved that day of commotion. Ingebjörg gazed at her—then Kristin said laughing:
“My father ever taught me never to show disdain of those beneath us—but ’tis like you are too grand to deck yourself in your best for poor tenants and peasant-folk—”
Red as a berry, Ingebjörg slipped her woollen smock down over her white hips and hurried on the pink silk shift.—Kristin threw over her own head her best velvet gown—it was violet-blue, deeply cut-out at the bosom, with long slashed sleeves flowing wellnigh to the ground. She fastened the gilt belt about her waist, and hung her grey squirrel cape over her shoulders. Then she spread her masses of yellow hair out over her shoulders and back and fitted the golden fillet, chased with small roses, upon her brow.
She saw that Helga stood watching them. Then she took from her chest a great silver clasp. It was that she had on her cloak the night Bentein met her on the highway, and she had never cared to wear it since. She went to Helga and said in a low voice:
“I know ’twas your wish to show me goodwill last night; think me not unthankful—,” and with that she gave her the clasp.
Ingebjörg was a fine sight, too, when she stood fully decked in her green gown, with a red silk cloak over her shoulders and her fair, curly hair waving behind her. They had ended by striving to outdress each other, thought Kristin, and she laughed.
The morning was cool and fresh with dew as the procession went forth from Nonneseter and wound its way westward toward Frysja. The hay-making was near at an end here on the lowlands, but along the fences grew blue-bells and yellow crowsfoot in clumps; in the fields the barley was in ear and bent its heads in pale silvery waves just tinged with pink. Here and there, where the path was narrow and led through the fields, the corn all but met about folks’ knees.
Haakon walked at the head, bearing the convent’s banner with the Virgin Mary’s picture upon the blue silken cloth. After him walked the servants and the commoners, and then came the Lady Groa and four old sisters on horseback, while behind these came the young maidens on foot; their many-hued holiday attire flaunted and shone in the sunlight. Some of the commoners’ women-folk and a few armed serving-men closed the train.
They sang as they went over the bright fields, and the folk they met at the by-ways stood aside and gave them reverent greeting. All round, out on the fields, they could see small groups of men coming walking and riding, for folks were drawing toward the church from every house and every farm. Soon they heard behind them the sound of hymns chanted in men’s deep voices, and the banner of the Hovedö monastery rose above a hillock—the red silk shone in the sun, swaying and bending to the step of the bearer.
The mighty, metal voice of the bells rang out above the neighing and screaming of stallions as the procession climbed the last slope to the church. Kristin had never seen so many horses at one time—a heaving, restless sea of horses’ backs round about the green before the church-door. Upon the sward stood and sat and lay folk dressed in all their best—but all rose in reverence as the Virgin’s flag from Nonneseter was borne in amongst them, and all bowed deeply before the Lady Groa.
It seemed as though more folk had come than the church could hold, but for those from the convent room had been kept in front near the altar. Straightway after them the Cistercian monks from Hovedö marched in and went up into the choir—and forthwith song burst from the throats of men and boys and filled the church.
Soon after the mass had begun, when the service brought all to their feet, Kristin caught sight of Erlend Nikulaussön. He was tall, and his head rose above those about him—she saw his face from the side. He had a high, steep and narrow forehead, and a large, straight nose—it jutted, triangle-like, from his face, and was strangely thin about the fine, quivering nostrils—something about it reminded Kristin of a restless, high-strung stallion. His face was not as comely as she had thought it—the long-drawn lines running down to his small, weak, yet well-formed mouth gave it as ’twere a touch of joylessness—aye, but yet, he was comely.
He turned his head and saw her. She knew not how long they stood thus, looking into each other’s eyes. From that time she thought of naught but the end of the mass; she waited, intent on what would then befall.
There was some pressing and thronging as the folks made their way out from the over-crowded church. Ingebjörg held Kristin back till they were at the rear of the throng; she gained her point—they were quite cut off from the nuns, who went out first—the two girls were among the last in coming to the offertory-box and out of the church.
Erlend stood without, just by the door, beside the priest from Gerdarud and a stoutish, red-faced man, splendid in blue velvet. Erlend himself was clad in silk, but of a sober hue—a long coat of brown, figured with black, and a black cloak with a pattern of small yellow hawks inwoven.
They greeted each other and crossed the green together to where the men’s horses stood tethered. While they spoke of the fine weather, the goodly mass and the great crowd of folk that were mustered, the fat, ruddy knight—he bore golden spurs and was named Sir Munan Baardsön—took Ingebjörg by the hand; ’twas plain he was mightily taken with the maid. Erlend and Kristin fell behind—they were silent as they walked.
There was a great to-do upon the church-green as folk began to ride away—horses jostled one another, people shouted—some angry, others laughing. Many sat in pairs upon the horses; men had their wives behind them, or their children in front upon the saddle; youths swung themselves up beside a friend. They could see the church banners, the nuns and the priests far down the hill already.
Sir Munan rode by; Ingebjörg sat in front of him, his arm about her. Both of them called out and waved. Then Erlend said:
“My serving-men are both with me—they could ride one horse and you have Haftor’s—if you would rather have it so?”
Kristin flushed as she replied: “We are so far behind the others already—I see not your serving-men hereabouts, and—” Then she broke into a laugh, and Erlend smiled.
He sprang to the saddle and helped her to a seat behind him. At home Kristin had often sat thus sidewise behind her father, after she had grown too big to ride astride the horse. Still she felt a little bashful and none too safe as she laid a hand upon Erlend’s shoulder; the other she put on the horse’s back to steady herself. They rode slowly down towards the bridge.
In a while Kristin thought she must speak, since he was silent, so she said:
“We looked not, sir, to meet you here to-day.”
“Looked you not to meet me?” asked Erlend, turning his head. “Did not Ingebjörg Filippusdatter bear you my greeting then?”
“No,” said Kristin. “I heard naught of any greeting—she hath not named you once since you came to our help last May—,” said she, guilefully—she was not sorry that Ingebjörg’s falseness should come to light.
Erlend did not look back again, but she could hear by his voice that he was smiling when he asked again:
“But the little dark one—the novice—I mind not her name—her I even feed to bear you my greeting.”
Kristin blushed, but she had to laugh too: “Aye, ’tis but Helga’s due I should say that she earned her fee,” she said.
Erlend moved his head a little—his neck almost touched her hand. Kristin shifted her hand at once further out on his shoulder. Somewhat uneasily she thought, maybe she had been more bold than was fitting, seeing she had come to this feast after a man had, in a manner, made tryst with her there.
Soon after Erlend asked:
“Will you dance with me to-night, Kristin?”
“I know not, sir,” answered the maid.
“You think, mayhap, ’tis not seemly?” he asked, and, as she did not answer, he said again: “It may well be it is not so. But I thought now maybe you might deem you would be none the worse if you took my hand in the dance to-night. But indeed ’tis eight years since I stood up to dance.”
“How may that be, sir?” asked Kristin. “Mayhap you are wedded?” But then it came into her head that had he been a wedded man, to have made tryst with her thus would have been no fair deed of him. On that she tried to mend her speech, saying: “Maybe, you have lost your betrothed maid or your wife?”
Erlend turned quickly and looked on her with strange eyes:
“Hath not Lady Aashild—? Why grew you so red when you heard who I was that evening,” he asked a little after.
Kristin flushed red once more, but did not answer; then Erlend asked again:
“I would fain know what my mother’s sister said to you of me.”
“Naught else,” said Kristin quickly, “but in your praise. She said you were so comely and so great of kin that—she said that beside such as you and her kin we were of no such great account—my folk and I—”
“Doth she still talk thus, living the life she lives,” said Erlend, and laughed bitterly. “Aye, aye—if it comfort her—Said she naught else of me?”
“What should she have said?” asked Kristin—she knew not why she was grown so strangely heavy-hearted.
“Oh, she must have said”—he spoke in a low voice, looking down, “she might have said that I had been under the Church’s ban, and had to pay dear for peace and atonement—”
Kristin was silent a long time. Then she said softly:
“There is many a man who is not master of his own fortunes—so have I heard said. ’Tis little I have seen of the world—but I will never believe of you, Erlend, that ’twas for any—dishonourable—deed.”
“May God reward you for those words, Kristin,” said Erlend, and bent his head and kissed her wrist so vehemently that the horse gave a bound beneath them. When Erlend had it in hand again, he said earnestly: “Dance with me to-night then, Kristin. Afterwards I will tell how things are with me—will tell you all—but to-night we will be happy together?”
Kristin answered: “Aye,” and they rode a while in silence.
But ere long Erlend began to ask of Lady Aashild, and Kristin told all she knew of her; she praised her much.
“Then all doors are not barred against Björn and Aashild?” asked Erlend.
Kristin said they were thought much of, and that her father and many with him deemed that most of the tales about these two were untrue.
“How liked you my kinsman, Munan Baardsön?” asked Erlend laughing slily.
“I looked not much upon him,” said Kristin, “and methought, too, he was not much to look on.”
“Knew you not,” asked Erlend, “that he is her son?”
“Son to Lady Aashild!” said Kristin, in great wonder.
“Aye, her children could not take their mother’s fair looks, though they took all else,” said Erlend.
“I have never known her first husband’s name,” said Kristin.
“They were two brothers who wedded two sisters,” said Erlend. “Baard and Nikulaus Munansön. My father was the elder, my mother was his second wife, but he had no children by his first. Baard, whom Aashild wedded, was not young either, nor, I trow, did they ever live happily together—aye, I was a little child when all this befell, they hid from me as much as they could—But she fled the land with Sir Björn and married him against the will of her kin—when Baard was dead. Then folk would have had the wedding set aside—they made out that Björn had sought her bed while her first husband was still living and that they had plotted together to put away my father’s brother. ’Tis clear they could not bring this home to them, since they had to leave them together in wedlock. But to make amends, they had to forfeit all their estate—Björn had killed their sister’s son too—my mother’s and Aashild’s, I mean—”
Kristin’s heart beat hard. At home her father and mother had kept strict watch that no unclean talk should come to the ears of their children or of young folk—but still things had happened in their own parish and Kristin had heard of them—a man had lived in adultery with a wedded woman. That was whoredom, one of the worst of sins; ’twas said they plotted the husband’s death, and that brought with it outlawry and the Church’s ban. Lavrans had said no woman was bound to stay with her husband, if he had had to do with another’s wife; the state of a child gotten in adultery could never be mended, not even though its father and mother were free to wed afterward. A man might bring into his family and make his heir his child by any wanton or strolling beggar woman, but not the child of his adultery—not if its mother came to be a knight’s lady—She thought of the misliking she had ever felt for Sir Björn with his bleached face and fat, yet shrunken body. She could not think how Lady Aashild could be so good and yielding at all times to the man who had led her away into such shame; how such a gracious woman could have let herself be beguiled by him. He was not even good to her; he let her toil and moil with all the farm work; Björn did naught but drink beer. Yet Aashild was ever mild and gentle when she spoke with her husband. Kristin wondered if her father could know all this, since he had asked Sir Björn to their home. Now she came to think, too, it seemed strange Erlend should think fit to tell such tales of his near kin. But like enough he deemed she knew of it already—
“I would like well,” said Erlend in a while, “to visit her, Moster Aashild, some day—when I journey northwards. Is he comely still, Björn, my kinsman?”
“No,” said Kristin. “He looks like hay that has lain the winter through upon the fields.”
“Aye, aye, it tells upon a man, I trow,” said Erlend, with the same bitter smile. “Never have I seen so fair a man—’tis twenty years since, I was but a lad then—but his like have I never seen—”
A little after they came to the hospital. It was an exceeding great and fine place, with many houses both of stone and of wood—houses for the sick, almhouses, hostels for travellers, a chapel and a house for the priest. There was great bustle in the courtyard, for food was being made ready in the kitchen of the hospital for the guild feast, and the poor and sick too, that were dwelling in the place, were to be feasted on the best this day.
The hall of the guild was beyond the garden of the hospital, and folks took their way thither through the herb-garden, for this was of great renown. Lady Groa had had brought hither plants that no one had heard of in Norway before, and moreover all plants that else folks were used to grow in gardens, throve better in her herbaries, both flowers and pot-herbs and healing herbs. She was a most learned woman in all such matters and had herself put into the Norse tongue the herbals of the Salernitan school—Lady Groa had been more than ever kind to Kristin since she had marked that the maid knew somewhat of herb-lore and was fain to know yet more of it.
So Kristin named for Erlend what grew in the beds on either side the grassy path they walked on. In the midday sun there was a warm and spicy scent of dill and celery, garlic and roses, southernwood and wallflower. Beyond the shadeless, baking herb-garden the fruit orchards looked cool and enticing—red cherries gleamed amid the dark leafy tops, and the apple trees drooped their branches heavy with green fruit.
About the garden was a hedge of sweet briar. There were some flowers on it still—they looked the same as other briar-roses, but in the sun the leaves smelt of wine and apples. Folk plucked sprays to deck themselves as they went past. Kristin, too, took some roses and hung them on her temples, fixed under her golden fillet. One she kept in her hand—After a time Erlend took it, saying no word. A while he bore it in his hand as they walked, then fastened it with the brooch upon his breast—he looked awkward and bashful as he did it, and was so clumsy that he pricked his fingers till they bled.
Broad tables were spread in the loft-room of the guild’s hall—two by the main-walls, for the men and the women; and two smaller boards out on the floor, where children and young folk sat side by side.
At the women’s board Lady Groa was in the high-seat, the nuns and the chief of the married women sat on the inner bench along the wall, and the unwedded women on the outer benches, the maids from Nonneseter at the upper end. Kristin knew that Erlend was watching her, but she durst not turn her head even once, either when they rose or when they sat down. Only when they got up at last to hear the priest read the names of the dead guild-brothers and sisters, she stole a hasty glance at the men’s table—she caught a glimpse of him where he stood by the wall, behind the candles burning on the board. He was looking at her.
The meal lasted long, with all the toasts in honour of God, the Virgin Mary, and St. Margaret and St. Olav and St. Halvard, and prayers and song between.
Kristin saw through the open door that the sun was gone; sounds of fiddling and song came in from the green without, and all the young folks had left the tables already when Lady Groa said to the convent maidens that they might go now and play themselves for a time if they listed.
Three red bonfires were burning upon the green; around them moved the many-coloured chains of dancers. The fiddlers sat aloft on heaped-up chests and scraped their fiddles—they played and sang a different tune in every ring; there were too many folk for one dance. It was nearly dark already—northward the wooded ridge stood out coal-black against the yellow-green sky.
Under the loft-balcony folk were sitting drinking. Some men sprang forward, as soon as the six maids from Nonneseter came down the steps. Munan Baardsön flew to meet Ingebjörg and went off with her, and Kristin was caught by the wrist—Erlend, she knew his hand already. He pressed her hand in his so that their rings grated on one another and bruised the flesh.
He drew her with him to the outermost bonfire. Many children were dancing there; Kristin gave her other hand to a twelve-year old lad, and Erlend had a little, half-grown maid on his other side.
No one was singing in the ring just then—they were swaying in and out to the tune of the fiddle as they moved round. Then someone shouted that Sivord the Dane should sing them a new dance. A tall, fair-haired man with huge fists stepped out in front of the chain and struck up his ballad:
Fair goes the dance at Munkholm
On silver sand.
There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön—
Holds the Queen’s own hand.
Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
The fiddlers knew not the tune, they thrummed their strings a little, and the Dane sang alone—he had a strong, tuneful voice.
“Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
That summer fair,
They led you out of Sweden,
To Denmark here?
To Denmark here,
All with a crown of the red gold
And many a tear.
“All with a crown of the red gold
And tear-filled eyne—
—Mind you, Queen of the Danemen,
You first were mine?”
The fiddles struck in again, the dancers hummed the new-learned tune and joined in the burden.
“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,
Sworn man to me,
Then shall you hang to-morrow
On the gallows tree!”
But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,
All unafraid
He leaped into the gold-bark
In harness clad.
“God send to you, oh Dane-Queen,
So many a good-night,
As in the high heavens
Are stars alight.
“God send to you, oh Dane-King,
So many ill years
As be leaves on the linden—
Or the hind hath hairs.”
Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?
It was far on in the night, and the fires were but heaps of embers growing more and more black. Kristin and Erlend stood hand in hand under the trees by the garden fence. Behind them the noise of the revellers was hushed—a few young lads were hopping round the glowing mounds singing softly, but the fiddlers had sought their resting-places and most of the people were gone. One or two wives went round seeking their husbands, who were lying somewhere out of doors overcome by the beer.
“Where think you I can have laid my cloak?” whispered Kristin. Erlend put his arm about her waist and drew his mantle round them both. Close pressed to one another they went into the herb-garden.
A lingering breath of the day’s warm spicy scents, deadened and damp with the chill of the dew, met them in there. The night was very dark, the sky overcast, with murky grey clouds close down upon the tree-tops. But they could tell that there were other folks in the garden. Once Erlend pressed the maiden close to him and asked in a whisper:
“Are you not afraid, Kristin?”
In her mind she caught a faint glimpse of the world outside this night—and knew that this was madness. But a blessed strengthlessness was upon her. She leaned closer to the man and whispered softly—she herself knew not what.
They came to the end of the path; a stone wall divided them from the woods. Erlend helped her up. As she jumped down on the other side, he caught her and held her lifted in his arms a moment before he set her on the grass.
She stood with upturned face to take his kiss. He held her head between his hands—it was so sweet to her to feel his fingers sink into her hair—she felt she must repay him, and so she clasped his head and sought to kiss him, as he had kissed her.
When he put his hands upon her breast, she felt as though he drew her heart from out her bosom; he parted the folds of silk ever so little and laid a kiss betwixt them—it sent a glow into her inmost soul.
“You I could never harm,” whispered Erlend. “You should never shed a tear through fault of mine. Never had I dreamed a maid might be so good as you, my Kristin—”
He drew her down into the grass beneath the bushes; they sat with their backs against the wall. Kristin said naught, but when he ceased from caressing her, she put up her hand and touched his face.
In a while Erlend asked: “Are you not weary, my dear one?” And when Kristin nestled in to his breast, he folded his arms around her and whispered: “Sleep, sleep, Kristin, here in my arms—”
She slipped deeper and deeper into darkness and warmth and happiness upon his breast.
When she came to herself again, she was lying outstretched in the grass with her cheek upon the soft brown silk above his knees. Erlend was sitting as before with his back to the stone wall, his face looked grey in the grey twilight, but his wide opened eyes were marvellously clear and fair. She saw he had wrapped his cloak all about her—her feet were so warm and snug with the fur lining around them.
“Now have you slept in my lap,” said he smiling faintly. “May God bless you, Kristin—you slept as safe as a child in its mother’s arms—”
“Have you not slept, Sir Erlend?” asked Kristin, and he smiled down into her fresh-opened eyes:
“Maybe the night will come when you and I may lie down to sleep together—I know not what you will think when you have weighed all things.—I have watched by you to-night—there is still so much betwixt us two that ’tis more than if there had lain a naked sword between you and me—Tell me if you will hold me dear, when this night is past?”
“I will hold you dear, Sir Erlend.” said Kristin, “I will hold you dear, so long as you will—and thereafter I will love none other—”
“Then,” said Erlend slowly, “may God forsake me if any, maid or woman, come to my arms ere I may make you mine in law and honour—Say you this too,” he prayed. Kristin said:
“May God forsake me if I take any other man to my arms so long as I live on earth.”
“We must go now,” said Erlend a little after, “—before folk waken—”
They passed along without the wall among the bushes.
“Have you bethought you,” asked Erlend, “what further must be done in this?”
“’Tis for you to say what we must do, Erlend,” answered Kristin.
“Your father,” he asked in a little, “they say at Gerdarud he is a mild and a righteous man. Think you he will be so exceeding loth to go back from what he hath agreed with Andres Darre?”
“Father has said so often, he would never force us, his daughters,” said Kristin. “The chief thing is that our lands and Simon’s lie so fitly together. But I trow father would not that I should miss all my gladness in this world for the sake of that.” A fear stirred within her that so simple as this perhaps it might not prove to be—but she fought it down.
“Then maybe ’twill be less hard than I deemed in the night,” said Erlend. “God help me, Kristin—methinks I cannot lose you now—unless I win you now, never can I be glad again.”
They parted among the trees, and in the dawning light Kristin found her way to the guest-chamber where the women from Nonneseter were to lie. All the beds were full, but she threw a cloak upon some straw on the floor and laid her down in all her clothes.
When she awoke, it was far on in the day. Ingebjörg Filippusdatter was sitting on a bench near by stitching down an edge of fur, that had been torn loose on her cloak. She was full of talk as ever.
“Were you with Erlend Nikulaussön the whole night?” she asked. “’Twere well you went warily with that lad, Kristin—how think you Simon Andressön would like it if you came to be dear friends with him?”
Kristin found a hand-basin and began to wash herself.
“And your betrothed—think you he would like that you danced with Dumpy Munan last night? Surely we must dance with him who chooses us out on such a night of merry-making—and Lady Groa had given us leave—”
Ingebjörg pshawed:
“Einar Einarssön and Sir Munan are friends—and besides he is wedded and old. Ugly he is to boot for that matter—but likable and hath becoming ways—see what he gave me for a remembrance of last night,” and she held forth a gold clasp which Kristin had seen in Sir Munan’s hat the day before. “But this Erlend—’tis true he was freed of the ban at Easter last year, but they say Eline Ormsdatter has been with him at Husaby since—Sir Munan says Erlend hath fled to Sira Jon at Gerdarud, and he deems ’tis because he cannot trust himself not to fall back into sin, if he meet her again—”
Kristin crossed over to the other—her face was white.
“Knew you not this?” said Ingebjörg. “That he lured a woman from her husband somewhere in Haalogaland in the North—and held her with him at his manor in despite of the King’s command and the Archbishop’s ban—they had two children together—and he was driven to fly to Sweden and hath been forced to pay in forfeit so much of his lands and goods Sir Munan says he will be a poor man in the end unless he mend his ways the sooner—”
“Think not but that I know all this,” said Kristin with a set face. “But ’tis known the matter is ended now—”
“Aye, but as to that Sir Munan said, there had been an end between them so many times before,” said Ingebjörg pensively. “But all these things can be nothing to you—you that are to wed Simon Darre. But a comely man is Erlend Nikulaussön, sure enough—”
The company from Nonneseter was to set out for home that same day after nones. Kristin had promised Erlend to meet him by the wall where they had sat the night before, if she could but find a way to come.
He was lying face downwards in the grass with his head upon his hands. As soon as he saw her, he sprang to his feet and held out both his hands, as she was about jumping from the wall.
Kristin took them, and the two stood a little, hand in hand. Then said Kristin:
“Why did you tell me that of Sir Björn and Lady Aashild yesterday?”
“I can see you know it all,” said Erlend and let go her hands suddenly. “What think you of me now, Kristin—?
“I was eighteen then,” he went on vehemently, “’tis ten years since that the King, my kinsman, sent me with the mission to Vargöyhus—and we stayed the winter at Steigen—she was wife to the Lagmand, Sigurd Saksulvsön—I thought pity of her, for he was old and ugly beyond belief—I know not how it came to pass—aye; but I loved her too. I bade Sigurd crave what amends he would; I would fain have done right by him—he is a good and doughty man in many ways—but he would have it that all must go by law; he took the matter to the King—I was to be branded for whoredom with the wife of him whose guest I had been, you understand—
“Then it came to my father’s ears and then to King Haakon’s—he—he drove me from his court. And if you must know the whole—there is naught more now betwixt Eline and me save the children, and she cares not much for them. They are in Österdal, upon a farm I owned there; I have given it to Orm, the boy—but she will not stay with them—Doubtless she reckons that Sigurd cannot live for ever—but I know not what she would be at.
“Sigurd took her back again—but she says she fared like a dog and a bondwoman in his house—so she set a tryst with me at Nidaros. ’Twas little better for me at Husaby with my father—I sold all I could lay hands on, and fled with her to Halland—Count Jacob stood my friend—Could I do aught else—she was great with my child. I knew many a man had lived even so with another’s wife and had got off cheap enough—if he were rich that is—But so it is with King Haakon, he is hardest upon his own kin. We were away from one another for a year, but then my father died and then she came back. Then there were other troubles. My tenants denied me rent and would have no speech with my bailiffs because I lay under ban—I on my side dealt harshly with them, and so they brought suit against me for robbery; but I had not the money to pay my house-folk withal; and you can see I was too young to meet these troubles wisely, and my kinsfolk would not help me—save Munan—he did all his wife would let him—
“Aye, now you know it, Kristin: I have lost much both of lands and goods and of honour. True it is; you would be better served if you held fast to Simon Andressön.”
Kristin put her arms about his neck:
“We will abide by what we swore to each other yester-night, Erlend—if so be you think as I do.”
Erlend drew her close to him, kissed her and said:
“You will see too, trust me, that all things will be changed with me now—for none in the world has power on me now but you. Oh, my thoughts were many last night, as you slept upon my lap, my fairest one. So much power the devil cannot have over a man, that I should ever work you care and woe—you, my dearest life—”