At the Haugathing field on the day of Bartholomew’s Mass, the 24th of August, the daughter’s son of King Haakon of happy memory was hailed as King. Among the men sent thither from Northern Gudbrandsdal was Lavrans Björgulfsön. He had had the name of kingsman since his youth, but in all these years he had seldom gone nigh the Household, and the good name he had won in the war against Duke Eirik he had never sought to turn to account. Nor had he now much mind to this journey to the homaging, but he could not deny himself to the call. Besides, he and the other Thing-men from the upper valley were charged to try and buy corn in the South and send it round by ship to Romsdal.
The folk of the parishes round about were heartless now, and went in dread of the winter that was at hand. An ill thing, too, the farmers deemed it that once again a child would be King in Norway. Old folks called to mind the time when King Magnus was dead and his sons were little children, and Sira Eirik said:
“Vae terræ, ubi puer rex est. Which in the Norse tongue is: No resting o’ nights for rats in the house where the cat’s a kitten.”
Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter managed all things on the manor while her husband was gone, and it was good both for Kristin and for her that they had their heads and hands full of household cares and work. All over the parish the folks were busy gathering in moss from the hills and stripping bark from the trees, for the hay-crop had been but light, and of straw there was next to none; and even the leaves gathered after St. John’s Eve were yellow and sapless. On Holy Cross day, when Sira Eirik bore the crucifix about the fields, there were many in the procession who wept and prayed aloud to God to have mercy on the people and the dumb beasts.
A week after Holy Cross Lavrans Björgulfsön came home from the Thing.
It was long past the house-folks’ bedtime, but Ragnfrid still sat in the weaving-house. She had so much to see to in the day-time now, that she often worked on late into the night at weaving and sewing. Ragnfrid liked the house well too. It had the name of being the oldest on the farm; it was called the Mound-house, and folk said it had stood there ever since the old heathen ages. Kristin and the girl called Astrid were with Ragnfrid; they were sitting spinning by the hearth.
They had been sitting for a while sleepy and silent, when they heard the hoof-beats of a single horse—a man came riding at a gallop into the wet farm-place. Astrid went to the outer room to look out—in a moment she came in again, followed by Lavrans Björgulfsön.
Both his wife and his daughter saw at once that he had been drinking more than a little. He reeled in his walk, and held to the pole of the smoke-vent while Ragnfrid took from him his dripping wet cloak and hat and unbuckled his sword-belt.
“What have you done with Halvdan and Kolbein?” she said, in some fear; “have you left them behind on the road?”
“No, I left them behind at Loptsgaard,” he said with a little laugh. “I had such a mind to come home again—there was no rest for me till I did—the men went to bed down at Loptsgaard, but I took Guldsveinen and galloped home—”
“You must find me a little food, Astrid,” he said to the servant. “Bring it in here, girl; then you need not go so far in the rain. But be quick, for I have eaten no food since early morning—”
“Had you no food at Loptsgaard, then?” asked his wife in wonder.
Lavrans sat rocking from side to side on the bench, laughing a little:
“Food there was, be sure—but I had no stomach for it when I was there. I drank a while with Sigurd—but—methought then ’twas as well I should come home at once as wait till to-morrow—”
Astrid came back bearing food and ale; she brought with her, too, a pair of dry shoes for her master.
Lavrans fumbled with his spur-buckles to unloosen them; but came near to falling on his face.
“Come hither, Kristin, my girl,” he said, “and help your father. I know you will do it from a loving heart—aye, a loving heart—to-day.”
Kristin kneeled down to obey. Then he took her head between his two hands and turned her face up:
“One thing I trow you know, my daughter—I wish for naught but your good. Never would I give you sorrow, except I see that thereby I save you from many sorrows to come. You are full young yet, Kristin—’twas but seventeen years old you were this year—three days after Halvard’s Mass—but seventeen years old—”
Kristin had done with her service now. She was a little pale as she rose from her knees and sat down again on her stool by the hearth.
Lavran’s head seemed to grow somewhat clearer as he ate and was filled. He answered his wife’s questions and the servant maid’s about the Haugathing—Aye, ’twas a fair gathering. They had managed to buy corn, and some flour and malt, part at Oslo and part at Tunsberg; the wares were from abroad—they might have been better, but they might have been worse too. Aye, he had met many, both kinsfolk and friends, and they had sent their greetings home with him—But the answers dropped from him, one by one, as he sat there.
“I spoke with Sir Andres Gudmundsön,” he said, when Astrid was gone out. “Simon marries the young widow at Manvik; he has held his betrothal feast. The wedding will be at Dyfrin at St. Andrew’s Mass. He has chosen for himself this time, has the boy. I held aloof from Sir Andres at Tunsberg, but he sought me out—’twas to tell me he knew for sure that Simon saw Lady Halfrid for the first time this mid-summer. He feared that I should think Simon had this rich marriage in mind when he broke with us.” Lavrans paused a little and laughed joylessly. “You understand—that good and worthy man feared much that we should believe such a thing of his son.”
Kristin breathed more freely. She thought it must be this that had troubled her father so sorely. Maybe he had been hoping all this time that it might come to pass after all, her marriage with Simon Andressön. At first she had been in dread lest he had heard some tidings of her doings in the south at Oslo.
She rose up and said good-night; but her father bade her stay yet a little.
“I have one more thing to tell,” said Lavrans. “I might have held my peace about it before you—but ’tis better you should know it. This it is, Kristin—the man you have set your heart on, him must you strive to forget.”
Kristin had been standing with arms hanging down and bent head. She looked up now into her father’s face. She moved her lips, but no sound came forth that could be heard.
Lavrans looked away from his daughter’s eyes; he struck out sideways with his hand:
“I wot well you know that never would I set myself against it, could I anyways believe ’twould be for your good.”
“What are the tidings that have been told you on this journey, father?” said Kristin in a clear voice.
“Erlend Nikulaussön and his kinsman, Sir Munan Baardsön, came to me at Tunsberg,” answered Lavrans. “Sir Munan asked for you for Erlend, and I answered him: no.”
Kristin stood a while, breathing heavily.
“Why will you not give me to Erlend Nikulaussön?” she asked.
“I know not how much you know of the man you would have for husband,” said Lavrans. “If you cannot guess the reason for yourself, ’twill be no pleasing thing for you to hear from my lips.”
“Is it because he has been outlawed, and banned by the Church?” asked Kristin as before.
“Know you what was the cause that King Haakon banished his near kinsman from his Court—and how at last he fell under the Church’s ban for defying the Archbishop’s bidding—and that when he fled the land ’twas not alone?”
“Aye,” said Kristin. Her voice grew unsteady: “I know, too, that he was but eighteen years old when he first knew her—his paramour.”
“No older was I when I was wed,” answered Lavrans. “We reckoned, when I was young, that at eighteen years a man was of age to answer for himself, and care for others’ welfare and his own.”
Kristin stood silent.
“You called her his paramour, the woman he has lived with for ten years, and who has borne him children,” said Lavrans after a while. “Little joy would be mine the day I sent my daughter from her home with a husband who had lived openly with a paramour year out year in before ever he was wed. But you know that ’twas not loose life only, ’twas life in adultery.”
Kristin spoke low:
“You judged not so hardly of Lady Aashild and Sir Björn.”
“Yet can I not say I would be fain we should wed into their kindred,” answered Lavrans.
“Father,” said Kristin, “have you been so free from sin all your life, that you can judge Erlend so hardly—?”
“God knows,” said Lavrans sternly, “I judge no man to be a greater sinner before Him than I am myself. But ’tis no just reckoning that I should give away my daughter to any man that pleases to ask for her, only because we all need God’s forgiveness.”
“You know I meant it not so,” said Kristin hotly. “Father—mother—you have been young yourselves—have you not your youth so much in mind that you know ’tis hard to keep oneself from the sin that comes of love—?”
Lavrans grew red as blood:
“No,” he said curtly.
“Then you know not what you do,” cried Kristin wildly, “if you part Erlend Nikulaussön and me.”
Lavrans sat himself down again on the bench.
“You are but seventeen, Kristin,” he began again. “It may be so that you and he—that you have come to be more dear to each other than I thought could be. But he is not so young a man but he should have known—had he been a good man, he had never come near a young, unripe child like you with words of love—That you were promised to another, seemed to him, mayhap, but a small thing.
“But I wed not my daughter to a man who has two children by another’s wedded wife. You know that he has children?”
“You are too young to understand that such a wrong breeds enmity in a kindred—and hatred without end. The man cannot desert his own offspring, and he cannot do them right—hardly will he find a way to bring his son forth among good folk, or to get his daughter married with any but a serving-man or a cottar. They were not flesh and blood, those children, if they hated not you and your children with a deadly hate—
“See you not, Kristin—such sins as these—it may be that God may forgive such sins more easily than many others—but they lay waste a kindred in such wise that it can never be made whole again. I thought of Björn and Aashild too—there stood this Munan, her son; he was blazing with gold; he sits in the Council of the King’s Counsellors; they hold their mother’s heritage, he and his brothers; and he hath not come once to greet his mother in her poverty in all these years. Aye, and ’twas this man your lover had chosen to be his spokesman.
“No, I say—no. Into that kindred you shall never come, while my head is above the ground.”
Kristin buried her face in her hands and broke into weeping:
“Then will I pray God night and day, night and day, that if you change not your will, He may take me away from this earth.”
“It boots not to speak more of this to-night,” said her father, with anguish in his voice. “You believe it not now, maybe; but I must needs guide your life so as I may hope to answer it hereafter. Go now, child, and rest.”
He held out his hand toward her; but she would not see it and went sobbing from the room.
The father and mother sat on a while. Then Lavrans said to his wife:
“Would you fetch me in a draught of ale?—no, bring in a little wine,” he asked. “I am weary—”
Ragnfrid did as he asked. When she came back with the tall wine stoup, her husband was sitting with his face hidden in his hands. He looked up, and passed his hand over her head-dress and her sleeves:
“Poor wife, now you are wet—Come, drink to me, Ragnfrid.”
She barely touched the cup with her lips.
“Nay now, drink with me,” said Lavrans vehemently, and tried to draw her down on his knee. Unwillingly the woman did as he bade. Lavrans said: “You will stand by me in this thing, wife of mine, will you not? Surely ’twill be best for Kristin herself that she understand from the very outset she must drive this man from her thoughts.”
“’Twill be hard for the child,” said the mother.
“Aye; well do I see it will,” said Lavrans.
They sat silent awhile, then Ragnfrid asked:
“How looks he, this Erlend of Husaby?”
“Oh,” said Lavrans slowly, “a proper fellow enough—after a fashion. But he looks not a man that is fit for much but to beguile women.”
They were silent again for a while then Lavrans said:
“The great heritage that came to him from Sir Nikulaus—with that I trow he has dealt so that it is much dwindled. ’Tis not for such a son-in-law that I have toiled and striven to make my children’s lives sure.”
The mother wandered restlessly up and down the room. Lavrans went on:
“Least of all did it like me that he sought to tempt Kolbein with silver—to bear a secret letter to Kristin.”
“Looked you what was in the letter?” asked Ragnfrid.
“No, I did not choose,” said Lavrans curtly. “I handed it back to Sir Munan, and told him what I thought of such doings. Erlend had hung his seal to it too—I know not what a man should say of such child’s tricks. Sir Munan would have me see the device of the seal; that ’twas King Skule’s privy seal, come to Erlend through his father. His thought was, I trow, that I might bethink me how great an honour they did me to sue for my daughter. But ’tis in my mind that Sir Munan had scarce pressed on this matter for Erlend so warmly, were it not that in this man’s hands ’tis downhill with the might and honour of the Husaby kindred, that it won in Sir Nikulaus’ and Sir Baard’s days—No longer can Erlend look to make such a match as befitted his birth.”
Ragnfrid stopped before her husband:
“Now I know not, husband, if you are right in this matter. First must it be said that, as times are now many men round about us on the great estates have had to be content with less of power and honour than their fathers had before them. And you yourself best know that ’tis less easy now for a man to win riches either from land or from merchantry than it was in the old world—”
“I know, I know,” broke in Lavrans impatiently. “All the more does it behoove a man to guide warily the goods that have come down to him—”
But his wife went on:
“And this, too, is to be said: I see not that Kristin can be an uneven match for Erlend. In Sweden your kin sit among the best, and your father, and his father before him bore the name of knights in this land of Norway. My forefathers were Barons of shires, son after father, many hundred years, down to Ivar the Old; my father and my father’s father were Wardens. True it is, neither you nor Trond have held titles or lands under the Crown. But, as for that, methinks it may be said that ’tis no otherwise with Erlend Nikulaussön than with you.”
“’Tis not the same,” said Lavrans hotly. “Power and the knightly name lay ready to Erlend’s hand, and he turned his back on them to go a-whoring. But now I see you are against me too. Maybe you think, like Aasmund and Trond, ’tis an honour for me that these great folks would have my daughter for one of their kinsmen—”
Ragnfrid spoke in some heat: “I have told you, I see not that you need be so overnice as to fear that Erlend’s kinsmen should think they stoop in these dealings. But see you not what all things betoken—a gentle and a biddable child to find courage to set herself up against us and turn away Simon Darre—have you not seen that Kristin is nowise herself since she came back from Oslo—see you not she goes around like one bewitched—Will you not understand, she loves this man so sorely, that, if you yield not, a great misfortune may befall?”
“What mean you by that?” asked the father, looking up sharply.
“Many a man greets his son-in-law and knows not of it,” said Ragnfrid.
The man seemed to stiffen where he sat; his face grew slowly white:
“You that are her mother!” he said hoarsely. “Have you—have you seen—such sure tokens—that you dare charge your own daughter—”
“No, no,” said Ragnfrid quickly. “I meant it not as you think. But when things are thus, who can tell what has befallen, or what may befall? I have seen her heart; not one thought hath she left but her love for this man—’twere no marvel if one day she showed us that he is dearer to her than her honour—or her life.”
Lavrans sprang up:
“Oh, you are mad! Can you think such things of our fair, good child? No harm, surely, can have come to her where she was—with the holy nuns. I wot well she is no byre-wench to go clipping behind walls and fences. Think but of it: ’tis not possible she can have seen this man or talked with him so many times—be sure it will pass away; it cannot be aught but a young maid’s fancy. God knows ’tis a heavy sight enough for me to see her sorrow so; but be sure it must pass by in time.
“Life, you say, and honour—. At home here by my own hearthstone ’twill go hard if I cannot guard my own maiden. Nor do I deem that any maid come of good people and bred up Christianly in shamefastness will be so quick to throw away her honour—nor yet her life. Aye, such things are told of in songs and ballads, sure enough—but methinks ’tis so that when a man or a maid is tempted to do such a deed, they make up a song about it, and ease their hearts thereby—but the deed itself they forbear to do—
“You yourself,” he said, stopping before his wife: “There was another man you would fain have wed, in those days when we were brought together. How think you it would have gone with you, had your father let you have your will on that score?”
It was Ragnfrid now that was grown deadly pale:
“Jesus, Maria! who hath told—”
“Sigurd of Loptsgaard said somewhat—’twas when we were just come hither to the Dale,” said Lavrans. “But answer me what I asked—Think you your life had been gladder had Ivar given you to that man?”
His wife stood with head bowed low:
“That man,” she said—he could scarce hear the words: “’Twas he would not have me.” A throb seemed to pass through her body—she struck out before her with her clenched hand.
The husband laid his hands softly on her shoulders:
“Is it that,” he asked as if overcome, and a deep and sorrowful wonder sounded in his voice; “—is it that—through all these years—have you been sorrowing for him—Ragnfrid?”
She trembled much, but she said nothing.
“Ragnfrid?” he asked again. “Aye, but afterward—when Björgulf was dead—and afterward—when you—when you would have had me be to you as—as I could not be. Were you thinking then of that other?” he spoke low, in fear and bewilderment and pain.
“How can you have such thoughts?” she whispered, on the verge of weeping.
Lavrans pressed his forehead against hers and moved his head gently from side to side.
“I know not. You are so strange—and all you have said to-night. I was afraid, Ragnfrid. Like enough I understand not the hearts of women—”
Ragnfrid smiled palely and laid her arms about his neck.
“God knows, Lavrans—I was a beggar to you because I loved you more than ’tis good that a human soul should love.—And I hated that other so that I felt the devil joyed in my hate.”
“I have held you dear, my wife,” said Lavrans, kissing her, “aye, with all my heart have I held you dear. You know that, surely? Methought always that we two were happy together—Ragnfrid?”
“You were the best husband to me,” said she with a little sob, and clung close to him.
He pressed her to him strongly:
“To-night I would fain sleep with you, Ragnfrid. And if you would be to me as you were in the old days, I should not be—such a fool—”
The woman seemed to stiffen in his arms—she drew away a little:
“’Tis Fast-time.” She spoke low,—in a strange, hard voice.
“It is so.” He laughed a little. “You and I, Ragnfrid—we have kept all the fasts, and striven to do God’s bidding in all things. And now almost I could think—maybe we had been happier had we more to repent—”
“Oh, speak not so—you,” she begged wildly, pressing her thin hands to his temples. “You know well I would not you should do aught but what you feel yourself is the right.”
He drew her to him closely once more—and groaned aloud: “God help her. God help us all, my Ragnfrid—”
Then: “I am weary,” he said, and let her go. “And ’tis time, too, for you to go to rest.”
He stood by the door waiting, while she quenched the embers on the hearth, blew out the little iron lamp by the loom, and pinched out the glowing wick. Together they went across through the rain to the hall.
Lavrans had set foot already on the loft-room stair, when he turned to his wife, who was still standing in the entry-door.
He crushed her in his arms again, for the last time, and kissed her in the dark. Then he made the sign of the cross over his wife’s face, and went up the stair.
Ragnfrid flung off her clothes and crept into bed. A while she lay and listened to her husband’s steps in the loft-room above; then she heard the bed creak, and all was still. Ragnfrid crossed her thin arms over her withered breasts:
Aye, God help her. What kind of a woman was she, what kind of mother? She would soon be old now. Yet was she the same; though she no longer begged stormily for love, as when they were young and her passion had made this man shrink and grow cold when she would have had him be lover and not only husband. So had it been—and so, time after time, when she was with child, had she been humbled, beside herself with shame, that she had not been content with his lukewarm husband-love. And then, when things were so with her, and she needed goodness and tenderness—then he had so much to give; the man’s tireless, gentle thought for her, when she was sick and tormented, had fallen on her soul like dew. Gladly did he take up all she laid on him and bear it—but there was ever something of his own he would not give. She had loved her children, so that each time she lost one, ’twas as though the heart was torn from her—God, God! what woman was she then, that even then, in the midst of her torments, she could feel it as a drop of sweetness that he took her sorrow in to his heart and laid it close beside his own.
Kristin—gladly would she have passed through the fire for her daughter—they believed it not, neither Lavrans nor the child—but ’twas so. Yet did she feel toward her now an anger that was near to hate—’twas to forget his sorrow for the child’s sorrow that he had wished to-night that he could give himself up to his wife—
Ragnfrid dared not rise, for she knew not but that Kristin might be lying awake in the other bed. But she raised herself noiselessly to her knees, and with forehead bent against the footboard of the bed she strove to pray. For her daughter, for her husband and for herself. While her body, little by little, grew stiff with the cold, she set out once more on one of the night-wanderings she knew so well, striving to break her way through to a home of peace for her heart.