AFTERWARDS, there was much in what Brother Edwin had said to her that Kristin could not call to mind. But she left him with a mind strangely clear and peaceful.
Hitherto she had striven with a dull, secret fear and tried to brave it out; telling herself she had not sinned so deeply. Now she felt Edwin had shown her plainly and clearly, that she had sinned indeed; such and such was her sin, and she must take it upon her and try to bear it meekly and well. She strove to think of Erlend without impatience—either because he did not send word of himself or because she must want his caresses. She would only be faithful and full of love for him.
She thought of her father and mother, and vowed to herself that she would requite them for all their love, once they had got over the sorrow she must bring upon them by breaking with the Dyfrin folk. And wellnigh most of all, she thought of Brother Edwin’s words of how she must not seek comfort in looking on others’ faults; she felt she grew humble and kind, and now she saw at once how easy it was for her to win folks’ friendship. Then was she comforted by the thought that after all ’twas not so hard to come to a good understanding with people—and so it seemed to her it surely could not be so hard for her and Erlend either.
Until the day she gave her word to Erlend, she had always striven earnestly to do what was right and good—but she had done all at the bidding of others. Now she felt she had grown from maid to woman. ’Twas not only by reason of the fervent secret caresses she had taken and given, not only that she had passed from her father’s ward and was now under Erlend’s will. For Edwin had laid upon her the burden of answering for her own life, aye and for Erlend’s too. And she was willing to bear it well and bravely. Thus she went about among the nuns at Yule-tide; and, throughout the goodly rites and the joy and peace of the holy time, though she felt herself unworthy, yet she took comfort in thinking that the time would soon come when she could set herself right again.
But the second day of the new year, Sir Andres Darre with his wife and all five children came, all unlooked for, to the convent. They were come to keep the last days of Yule-tide with their friends and kindred in the town, and they asked that Kristin might have leave to be with them in their lodging for a short space.
“For methought, my daughter,” said Lady Angerd, “you would scarce be loth to see a few new faces for a time.”
The Dyfrin folk dwelt in a goodly house that stood in a dwelling place near the bishop’s palace—Sir Andres’ cousin owned it. There was a great hall where the serving-folk slept, and a fine loft-room with a fireplace of masonry and three good beds; in the one Sir Andres and Lady Angerd slept with their youngest son, Gudmund, who was yet a child; in another slept Kristin and their two daughters, Astrid and Sigrid, and in the third Simon and his eldest brother Gyrd Andressön.
All Sir Andres’ children were comely; Simon the least so, yet he too was reckoned to be well-favoured. And Kristin marked still more than when she was at Dyfrin the year before, that both his father and mother and his four brothers and sisters hearkened most to Simon and did all he would have them. They all loved each other dearly, but all agreed, without grudging or envy, in setting Simon foremost amongst them.
Here these good folk lived a merry, carefree life. They visited the churches and made their offerings every day, came together with their friends and drank in their company each evening, while the young folk had full leave to play and dance. All showed Kristin the greatest kindness, and none seemed to mark how little glad she was.
Of an evening, when the light had been put out in the loft-room, and all had sought their beds, Simon was wont to get up and go to where the maidens lay. He would sit a while on the edge of the bed; his talk was mostly to his sisters, but in the dark he would let his hand rest on Kristin’s bosom—while she lay there hot with wrath.
Now that her sense of such things was keener, she understood well that there were many things Simon was both too proud and too shy to say to her, since he saw she had no mind to such talk from him. And she felt strangely bitter and angry with him, for it seemed to her as though he would fain be a better man than he who had made her his own—even though Simon knew not there was such a one.
But one night when they had been dancing at another house, Astrid and Sigrid were left behind there to sleep with a playmate. When, late at night, the Dyfrin folk had gone to rest in their loft-room, Simon came to Kristin’s bed and climbed up into it; he laid himself down above the fur cover.
Kristin pulled the coverlid up to her chin and crossed her arms firmly upon her breast. In a little Simon tried to put his hand upon her bosom. She felt the silken broidery on his wristband, and knew he had not taken off any of his clothes.
“You are just as bashful in the dark as in the light, Kristin,” said Simon, laughing a little. “Surely you can at least let me have one hand to hold,” he said, and Kristin gave him the tips of her fingers.
“Think you not we should have somewhat to talk of, when it so falls out that we can be alone a little while?” said he; and Kristin thought, now was the time for her to speak. So she answered: yes. But after that she could not utter a word.
“May I come under the fur,” he begged again. “’Tis cold in the room now—” And he slipped in between the fur coverlid and the woollen blanket she had next her. He bent one arm round the bed head, but so that he did not touch her. Thus they lay a while.
“You are not over-easy to woo, i’ faith,” said Simon soon after, with a resigned laugh. “Now I pledge you my word, I will not so much as kiss you, if you would not I should. But surely you can speak to me at least?”
Kristin wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, but still she was silent.
“Nay, if you are not lying there trembling!” went on Simon. “Surely it cannot be that you have aught against me, Kristin?”
She felt she could not lie to Simon, so she said “No,”—but nothing more.
Simon lay a while longer; he tried to get her into talk with him. But at last he laughed again and said:
“I see well you think I should be content with hearing that you have naught against me—for to-night—and be glad to boot. ’Tis a parlous thing, so proud as you are—yet one kiss must you give me; then will I go my way and not plague you any more—”
He took the kiss, then sat up and put his feet to the floor. Kristin thought, now must she say to him what she had to say—but he was away already by his own bed, and she heard him undress.
The day after Lady Angerd was not so friendly to Kristin as was her wont. The girl saw that the Lady must have heard somewhat the night before, and that she deemed her son’s betrothed had not borne her toward him as she held was fitting.
Late that afternoon Simon spoke of a friend’s horse he was minded to take in barter for one of his own. He asked Kristin if she would go with him to look at it. She was nothing loth; and they went out into the town together.
The weather was fresh and fair. It had snowed a little overnight, but now the sun was shining, and it was freezing so that the snow crackled under their feet. Kristin felt ’twas good to be out and walk in the cold air, and when Simon brought out the horse to show her, she talked of it with him gaily enough; she knew something of horses, she had been so much with her father. And this was a comely beast—a mouse-grey stallion with a black stripe down the back and a clipped mane, well-shapen and lively, but something small and slightly built.
“He would scarce hold out under a full-armed man for long,” said Kristin.
“Indeed, no; nor did I mean him for such a rider,” said Simon.
He led the horse out into the home field behind the house, made it trot and walk, mounted to try its paces and would have Kristin ride it too. Thus they stayed together a good while out on the snowy field.
At last, as Kristin stood giving the horse bread out of her hand, while Simon leant with his arm over its back, he said all at once:
“Methinks, Kristin, you and my mother are none too loving one with another.”
“I have not meant to be unloving to your mother,” said she, “but I find not much to say to Lady Angerd.”
“Nor seems it you find much to say to me either,” said Simon. “I would not force myself upon you, Kristin, before the time comes—but things cannot go on as now, when I can never come to speech with you.”
“I have never been one for much speaking”; said Kristin, “I know it myself; and I look not you should think it so great a loss, if what is betwixt us two should come to naught.”
“You know well, what my thoughts are in that matter,” said Simon, looking at her.
Kristin flushed red as blood. And it gave her a pang that she could not mislike the fashion of Simon Darre’s wooing. After a while he said:
“Is it Arne Gyrdsön, Kristin, you feel you cannot forget?” Kristin but gazed at him; Simon went on, and his voice was gentle and kind: “Never would I blame you for that—you had grown up like brother and sister, and scarce a year is gone by. But be well assured, for your comfort, that I have your good at heart—”
Kristin’s face had grown deathly white. Neither of them spoke again as they went back through the town in the twilight. At the end of the street, in the blue-green sky, rode the new moon’s sickle with a bright star within its horn.
A year, thought Kristin; and she could not think when she had last given a thought to Arne. She grew afraid—maybe she was a wanton, wicked woman—but one year since she had seen him on his bier in the wake room, and had thought she should never be glad again in this life—she moaned within herself for terror of her own heart’s inconstancy and of the fleeting changefulness of all things. Erlend, Erlend—could he forget her—and yet it seemed to her ’twould be worse, if at any time she should forget him.
Sir Andres went with his children to the great Yule-tide feast at the King’s palace. Kristin saw all the pomp and show of the festival—they came, too, into the hall where sat King Haakon and the Lady Isabel Bruce, King Eirik’s widow. Sir Andres went forward and did homage to the King, while his children and Kristin stood somewhat behind. She thought of all Lady Aashild had told her; she called to mind that the King was near of kin to Erlend, their fathers’ mothers were sisters—and she was Erlend’s light o’ love, she had no right to stand here, least of all amid these good and worthy folk, Sir Andres’ children.
Then all at once she saw Erlend Nikulaussön—he had stepped forward in front of Queen Isabel, and stood with bowed head and with his hand upon his breast, while she spoke a few words to him; he had on the brown silk clothes that he had worn at the guild feast. Kristin stepped behind Sir Andres’ daughters.
When, some time after, Lady Angerd led her daughters up before the Queen, Kristin could not see him anywhere, but indeed she dared not lift her eyes from the floor. She wondered whether he was standing somewhere in the hall, she thought she could feel his eyes upon her—but she thought, too, that all folks looked at her as though they must know she was a liar, standing there with the golden garland on her outspread hair.
He was not in the hall where the young folk were feasted and where they danced when the tables had been taken away; this evening it was Simon with whom Kristin must dance.
Along one of the longer walls stood a fixed table, and thither the King’s men bore ale and mead and wine the whole night long. Once when Simon drew her thither and drank to her, she saw Erlend standing near, behind Simon’s back. He looked at her, and Kristin’s hand shook when she took the beaker from Simon’s hand and set it to her lips. Erlend whispered vehemently to the man who was with him—a tall comely man, well on in years and somewhat stout, who shook his head impatiently and looked as he were vexed. Soon after Simon led her back to the dance.
She knew not how long this dancing lasted—the music seemed as though ’twould never end, and each moment was long and evil to her with longing and unrest. At last it was over, and Simon drew her to the drinking board again.
A friend came forward to speak to him, and led him away a few steps, to a group of young men. And Erlend stood before her.
“I have so much I would fain say to you,” he whispered, “I know not what to say first—in Jesus’ name, Kristin, what ails you?” he asked quickly, for he saw her face grow white as chalk.
She could not see him clearly; it seemed as though there were running water between their two faces. He took a goblet from the table, drank from it and handed it to her. Kristin felt as though ’twas all too heavy for her, or as though her arm had been cut off at the shoulder; do as she would, she could not lift the cup to her mouth.
“Is it so, then, that you will drink with your betrothed, but not with me?” asked Erlend softly—but Kristin dropped the goblet from her hand and sank forward into his arms.
When she awoke she was lying on a bench with her head in a strange maiden’s lap—someone was standing by her side, striking the palms of her hands, and she had water on her face.
She sat up. Somewhere in the ring about her she saw Erlend’s face, white and drawn. Her own body felt weak, as though all her bones had melted away, and her head seemed as it were large and hollow—but somewhere within it shone one clear, desperate thought—she must speak with Erlend.
She said to Simon Darre—he stood near by:
“’Twas too hot for me, I trow,—so many tapers are burning here—and I am little used to drink so much wine—”
“Are you well again now,” asked Simon. “You frightened folks—Mayhap you would have me take you home now?”
“We must wait, surely, till your father and mother go,” said Kristin calmly. “But sit down here—I can dance no more.” She touched the cushion at her side—then she held out her other hand to Erlend:
“Sit you here, Erlend Nikulaussön; I had no time to speak my greetings to an end. ’Twas but of late Ingebjörg said she deemed you had clean forgotten her.”
She saw it was far harder for him to keep calm than for her—and it was all she could do to keep back the little tender smile, which would gather round her lips.
“You must bear the maid my thanks for thinking of me still,” he stammered. “Almost I was afraid she had forgotten me.”
Kristin paused a little. She knew not what she should say, which might seem to come from the flighty Ingebjörg and yet might tell Erlend her meaning. Then there welled up in her the bitterness of all these months of helpless waiting, and she said:
“Dear Erlend, can you think that we maidens could forget the man who defended our honour so gallantly.”
She saw his face change as though she had struck him—and at once she was sorry; then Simon asked what this was they spoke of. Kristin told him of Ingebjörg’s and her adventure in the Eikaberg woods. She marked that Simon liked the tale but little. Then she begged him to go and ask of Lady Angerd, whether they should not soon go home; ’twas true that she was weary. When he was gone, she looked at Erlend.
“’Tis strange,” said he in a low voice, “you are so quick-witted—I had scarce believed it of you.”
“Think you not I have had to learn to hide and be secret?” said she gloomily.
Erlend’s breath came heavily; he was still very pale.
“’Tis so then?” he whispered. “Yet did you promise me to turn to my friends if this should come to pass. God knows, I have thought of you each day, in dread that the worst might have befallen—”
“I know well what you mean by the worst,” said Kristin shortly. “That you have no need to fear. To me what seemed the worst was that you would not send me one word of greeting—can you not understand that I am living there amongst the nuns—like a stranger bird—?” She stopped—for she felt that the tears were coming.
“Is it therefore you are with the Dyfrin folk now?” he asked. Then such grief came upon her that she could make no answer.
She saw Lady Angerd and Simon come through the doorway. Erlend’s hand lay upon his knee, near her, and she could not take it—
“I must have speech with you,” said he eagerly, “we have not said a word to one another we should have said—”
“Come to mass in the Maria Church at Epiphany,” said Kristin quickly, as she rose and went to meet the others.
Lady Angerd showed herself most loving and careful of Kristin on the way home, and herself helped her to bed. With Simon she had no talk until the day after.
Then he said:
“How comes it that you bear messages betwixt this Erlend and Ingebjörg Filippusdatter? ’Tis not fit that you should meddle in the matter, if there be hidden dealings between them.”
“Most like there is naught in it,” said Kristin. “She is but a chatterer.”
“Methinks too,” said Simon, “you should have taken warning by what’s past and not trusted yourself out in the wild-wood paths alone with that magpie.” But Kristin reminded him hotly that it was not their fault they had strayed and lost themselves. Simon said no more.
The next day the Dyfrin folks took her back to the convent, before they themselves left for home.
Erlend came to evensong in the convent church every evening for a week without Kristin getting a chance to change a word with him. She felt as she thought a hawk must feel sitting chained to its perch with its hood over its eyes. Every word that had passed between them at their last meeting made her unhappy too—it should never have been like that. It was of no use to say to herself: it had come upon them so suddenly, they had hardly known what they said.
But one afternoon in the twilight there came to the parlour a comely woman, who looked like a townsman’s wife. She asked for Kristin Lavransdatter, and said she was the wife of a mercer and her husband had come from Denmark of late with some fine cloaks; Aasmund Björgulfsön had a mind to give one to his brother’s daughter, and the maid was to go with her and choose for herself.
Kristin was given leave to go with the woman. She thought it was unlike her uncle to wish to give her a costly gift, and strange that he should send an unknown woman to fetch her. The woman was sparing of her words at first, and said little in answer to Kristin’s questions, but when they were come down to the town, she said of a sudden:
“I will not play you false, fair child that you are—I will tell you all this thing as it is, and you must do as you deem best. ’Twas not your uncle who sent me, but a man—maybe you can guess his name, and if you cannot, then you shall not come with me. I have no husband—I make a living for myself and mine by keeping a house of call and selling beer; for such a one it boots not to be too much afraid either of sin or of the watchmen—but I will not lend my house for you to be betrayed inside my doors.”
Kristin stood still, flushing red. She was strangely sore and ashamed for Erlend’s sake. The woman said:
“I will go back with you to the convent, Kristin—but you must give me somewhat for my trouble—the knight promised me a great reward—but I too was fair once, and I too was betrayed. And ’twould not be amiss if you should name me in your prayers to-night—they call me Brynhild Fluga.”
Kristin drew a ring off her finger and gave it to the woman:
“’Tis fairly done of you, Brynhild—but if the man be my kinsman Erlend Nikulaussön, then have I naught to fear; he would have me to make peace betwixt him and my uncle. You may set your mind at ease—but I thank you none the less that you would have warned me.”
Brynhild Fluga turned away to hide a smile.
She led Kristin by the alleys behind St. Clement’s Church northward towards the river. Here a few small dwelling-places stood by themselves along the river-bank. They went towards one of them along a path between fences, and here Erlend came to meet them. He looked about him, on all sides, then took off his cloak, wrapped it about Kristin and pulled the hood over her face.
“What think you of this device,” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you ’tis a great wrong I do?—yet needs must I speak with you.”
“It boots but little now, I trow, to think what is right and what is wrong,” said Kristin.
“Speak not so,” begged Erlend. “I bear the blame—Kristin, every day and every night have I longed for you,” he whispered close to her.
A shudder passed through her as she met his eyes for a moment. She felt it as guilt in her, when he looked so at her, that she had thought of anything but her love for him.
Brynhild Fluga had gone on before. Erlend asked, when they were come into the courtyard:
“Would you that we should go into the living-room, or shall we talk up in the loft-room?”
“As you will,” answered Kristin; and they mounted to the loft-room.
The moment he had barred the door behind them she was in his arms—
She knew not how long she had lain folded thus in his arms, when Erlend said:
“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin—I scarce dare let you stay here longer.”
“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” she whispered.
Erlend pressed his cheek to hers:
“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall not lose your good name for my sake.”
Kristin did not answer—but a soreness stirred within her; how could he speak thus—he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house—she knew not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all should go as it had gone, of that she was sure.
“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other way, I must bear you off by force—into Sweden—Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer for my sins—I have fled the land before, as you know—and I would not they should name you as the like of that other.”
“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to be parted from you, and to live on among the maids at the convent. Both your kin and mine would surely hearken to reason and let us come together and be reconciled with them—”
Erlend clasped her to him and groaned:
“I cannot bring you to Husaby, Kristin.”
“Why can you not?” she asked softly.
“Eline came thither in the autumn,” said he after a moment. “I cannot move her to leave the place,” he went on hotly, “not unless I bear her to the sledge by force and drive away with her. And that methought I could not do—she has brought both our children home with her—”
Kristin felt herself sinking, sinking. In a voice breaking with fear, she said:
“I deemed you were parted from her—”
“So deemed I too,” answered Erlend shortly. “But she must have heard in Österdal, where she was, that I had thoughts of marriage. You saw the man with me at the Yule-tide feast—’twas my foster-father, Baard Petersön of Hestnæs. I went to him when I came from Sweden, I went to my kinsman Heming Alvsön in Saltviken, too; I talked with both about my wish to wed, and begged their help. Eline must have come to hear of it—
“I bade her ask what she would for herself and the children—but Sigurd, her husband—they look not that he should live the winter out—and then none could deny us if we would live together—
“—I lay in the stable with Haftor and Ulv, and Eline lay in the hall in my bed. I trow my men had a rare jest to laugh at behind my back—”
Kristin could not say a word. A little after, Erlend spoke again:
“See you, the day we pledge each other at our espousals, she must understand that all is over between her and me—she has no power over me any more—
“But ’tis hard for the children. I had not seen them for a year—they are fair children—and little can I do to give them a happy lot. ’Twould not have helped them greatly had I been able to wed their mother.”
Tears began to roll down over Kristin’s cheeks. Then Erlend said:
“Heard you what I said but now, that I had talked with my kinsfolk? Aye, they were glad enough that I was minded to wed. Then I said ’twas you I would have and none other—”
“And they liked not that?” asked Kristin at length, forlornly.
“See you not?” said Erlend gloomily, “they could say but one thing—they cannot and they will not ride with me to your father, until this bargain twixt you and Simon Andressön is undone again. It has made it none the easier for us, Kristin, that you have spent your Yule-tide with the Dyfrin folk.”
Kristin gave way altogether and wept noiselessly. She had felt ever that there was something of wrong and dishonour in her love, and now she knew the fault was hers.
She shook with the cold when she got up soon after, and Erlend wrapped her in both the cloaks. It was quite dark now without, and Erlend went with her as far as St. Clement’s Church; then Brynhild brought her the rest of the way to Nonneseter.