For more reasons than one the betrothal feast was put off; it was not held till the New Year; but Lavrans agreed that the bridal need not therefore be delayed; it was to be just after Michaelmas, as was fixed at first.
So Kristin sat now at Jörundgaard as Erlend’s betrothed in all men’s sight. Along with her mother she looked over all the goods and gear that had been gathered and saved up for her portion, and strove to add still more to the great piles of bedding and clothes; for when once Lavrans had given his daughter to the master of Husaby, it was his will that naught should be spared.
Kristin wondered herself at times that she did not feel more glad. But, spite of all the busyness, there was no true gladness at Jörundgaard.
Her father and mother missed Ulvhild sorely, that she saw. But she understood too that ’twas not that alone which made them so silent and so joyless. They were kind to her, but when they talked with her of her betrothed, she saw that they did but force themselves to it to please her and show her kindness; ’twas not that they themselves had a mind to speak of Erlend. They had not learned to take more joy in the marriage she was making, now they had come to know the man. Erlend, too, had kept himself quiet and withdrawn the short time he had been at Jörundgaard for the betrothal—and like enough this could not have been otherwise, thought Kristin; for he knew it was with no good will her father had given his consent.
She herself and Erlend had scarce had the chance to speak ten words alone together. And it had brought a strange unwonted feeling, to sit together thus in all folk’s sight; at such times they had little to say, by reason of the many things between them that could not be said. There arose in her a doubtful fear, vague and dim, but always present—perhaps ’twould make it hard for them in some way after they were wedded, that they had come all too near to each other at the first, and after had lived so long quite parted.
But she tried to thrust the fear away. It was meant that Erlend should visit them at Whitsuntide; he had asked Lavrans and Ragnfrid if they had aught against his coming, and Lavrans had laughed a little, and answered that Erlend might be sure his daughter’s bridegroom would be welcome.
At Whitsuntide they would be able to go out together; they would have a chance to speak together as in the old days, and then surely it would fade away, the shadow that had come between them in this long time apart, when each had gone about alone bearing a burden the other could not share.
At Easter Simon Andressön and his wife came to Formo. Kristin saw them in the church. Simon’s wife was standing not far off from her.
She must be much older than he, thought Kristin—nigh thirty years old. Lady Halfrid was little and slender and thin, but she had an exceeding gracious visage. The very hue of her pale-brown hair as it flowed in waves from under her linen coif, seemed, as it were, so gentle, and her eyes too were full of gentleness; they were great grey eyes flecked with tiny golden specks. Every feature of her face was fine and pure—but her skin was something dull and grey, and when she opened her mouth one saw that her teeth were not good. She looked not as though she were strong, and folks said indeed that she was sickly—she had miscarried more than once already, Kristin had heard. She wondered how it would fare with Simon with this wife.
The Jörundgaard folk and they of Formo had greeted each other across the church-green more than once, but had not spoken. But on Easter-day Simon was in the church without his wife. He went across to Lavrans, and they spoke together a while. Kristin heard Ulvhild’s name spoken. Afterwards he spoke with Ragnfrid. Ramborg, who was standing by her mother, called out aloud: “I mind you quite well—I know who you are.” Simon lifted the child up a little and twirled her round: “’Tis well done of you, Ramborg, not to have forgotten me.” Kristin he only greeted from some way off; and her father and mother said no word afterward of the meeting.
But Kristin pondered much upon it. For all that had come and gone, it had been strange to see Simon Darre again as a wedded man. So much that was past came to life again at the sight; she remembered her own blind and all-yielding love for Erlend in those days. Now, she felt, there was some change in it. The thought came to her: how if Simon had told his wife how they had come to part, he and she—but she knew he had kept silence—“for my father’s sake,” she thought scoffingly. ’Twas a poor showing, and strange, that she should be still living here unwed, in her parents’ house. But at least they were betrothed; Simon could see that they had had their way in spite of all. Whatever else Erlend might have done, to her he had held faithfully, and she had not been loose or wanton.
One evening in early spring Ragnfrid had to send down the valley to old Gunhild, the widow who sewed furs. The evening was so fair that Kristin asked if she might not go; at last they gave her leave, since all the men were busy.
It was after sunset, and a fine white frost-haze was rising toward the gold-green sky. Kristin heard at each hoof-stroke the brittle sound of the evening’s ice as it broke and flew outwards in tinkling splinters. But from all the roadside brakes there was a happy noise of birds singing, softly but full-throated with spring, into the twilight.
Kristin rode sharply downwards; she thought not much of anything, but felt only it was good to be abroad alone once more. She rode with her eyes fixed on the new moon sinking down toward the mountain ridge on the far side of the Dale; and she had near fallen from her horse when he suddenly swerved aside and reared.
She saw a dark body lying huddled together at the roadside—and at first she was afraid. The hateful fear that had passed into her blood—the fear of meeting people alone by the way—she could never quite be rid of. But she thought ’twas maybe a wayfaring man who had fallen sick; so when she had mastered her horse again, she turned and rode back, calling out to know who it was.
The bundle stirred a little, and a voice said:
“Methinks ’tis you yourself, Kristin Lavransdatter—?”
“Brother Edwin?” she asked softly. She came near to thinking this was some phantom or some deviltry sent to trick her. But she went nigh to him; it was the old monk himself, and he could not raise himself from the ground without help.
“My dear Father—are you wandering at this time of the year?” she said in wonder.
“Praise be to God, who sent you this way to-night,” said the monk. Kristin saw that his whole body was shaking. “I was coming north to you folks, but my legs would carry me no further this night. Almost I deemed ’twas God’s will that I should lie down and die on the roads I have been wandering about on all my life. But I was fain to see you once again, my daughter—”
Kristin helped the monk up on her horse; then led it homeward by the bridle, holding him on. And, all the time he was lamenting that now she would get her feet wet in the icy slush, she could hear him moaning softly with pain.
He told her that he had been at Eyabu since Yule. Some rich farmers of the parish had vowed in the bad year to beautify their church with new adornments. But the work had gone slowly; he had been sick the last of the winter—the evil was in his stomach—it could bear no food, and he vomited blood. He believed himself he had not long to live, and he longed now to be home in his cloister, for he was fain to die there among his own brethren. But he had a mind first to come north up the Dale one last time, and so he had set out, along with the monk who came from Hamar to be the new prior of the pilgrim hospice at Roaldstad. From Fron he had come on alone.
“I heard that you were betrothed,” he said, “to that man—and then such a longing came on me to see you. It seemed to me a sore thing that that should be our last meeting, that time in our church at Oslo. It has been a heavy burden on my heart, Kristin, that you had strayed away into the path where is no peace—”
Kristin kissed the monk’s hand:
“Truly I know not, Father, what I have done, or how deserved, that you show me such great love.”
The monk answered in a low voice:
“I have thought many a time, Kristin, that had it so befallen we had met more often, then might you have come to be as my daughter in the spirit.”
“Mean you that you would have brought me to turn my heart to the holy life of the cloister?” asked Kristin. Then, a little after, she said: “Sira Eirik laid a command on me that, should I not win my father’s consent and be wed with Erlend, then must I join with a godly sisterhood and make atonement for my sins—”
“I have prayed many a time that the longing for the holy life might come to you,” said Brother Edwin. “But not since you told me that you wot of—I would have had you come to God, wearing your garland, Kristin—”
When they came to Jörundgaard Brother Edwin had to be lifted down and borne in to his bed. They laid him in the old winter house, in the hearth-room, and cared for him most tenderly. He was very sick, and Sira Eirik came and tended him with medicines for the body and the soul. But the priest said the old man’s sickness was cancer, and it could not be that he had long to live. Brother Edwin himself said that when he had gained a little strength he would journey south again and try to come home to his own cloister. But Sira Eirik told the others he could not believe this was to be thought of.
It seemed to all at Jörundgaard that a great peace and gladness had come to them with the monk. Folks came and went in the hearth room all day long, and there was never any lack of watchers to sit at nights by the sick man. As many as had time flocked in to listen, when Sira Eirik came over and read to the dying man from godly books, and they talked much with Brother Edwin of spiritual things. And though much of what he said was dark and veiled, even as his speech was wont to be, it seemed to these folks that he strengthened and comforted their souls, because each and all could see that Brother Edwin was wholly filled with the love of God.
But the monk was fain to hear, too, of all kind of other things—asked the news of the parishes round, and had Lavrans tell him all the story of the evil year of drought. There were some folk who had betaken them to evil courses in that tribulation, turning to such helpers as Christian men should most abhor. Some way in over the ridges west of the Dale was a place in the mountains where were certain great white stones, of obscene shapes, and some men had fallen so low as to sacrifice boars and gib-cats before these abominations. So Sira Eirik moved some of the boldest, most God-fearing farmers to come with him one night and break the stones in pieces. Lavrans had been with them, and could bear witness that the stones were all besmeared with blood, and there lay bones and other refuse all around them—’Twas said that up in Heidal the people had had an old crone sit out on a great earth-fast rock three Thursday nights, chanting ancient spells.
One night Kristin sat alone by Brother Edwin. At midnight he woke up, and seemed to be suffering great pain. Then he bade Kristin take the book of Miracles of the Virgin Mary, which Sira Eirik had lent to Brother Edwin, and read to him.
Kristin was little used to read aloud, but she set herself down on the step of the bed and placed the candle by her side; she laid the book on her lap and read as well as she could.
In a little while she saw that the sick man was lying with teeth set tight, clenching his wasted hands as the fits of agony took him.
“You are suffering much, dear Father,” said Kristin sorrowfully.
“It seems so to me, now. But I know ’tis but that God has made me a little child again and is tossing me about, up and down—
“I mind me one time when I was little—four winters old I was then—I had run away from home into the woods. I lost myself, and wandered about many days and nights—My mother was with the folks that found me, and when she caught me up in her arms, I mind me well, she bit me in my neck. I thought it was that she was angry with me—but afterward I knew better—
“I long, myself, now, to be home out of this forest. It is written: forsake ye all things and follow me—but there has been all too much in this world that I had no mind to forsake—”
“You, Father?” said Kristin. “Ever have I heard all men say that you have been a pattern for pure life and poverty and humbleness—”
The monk laughed slily.
“Aye, a young child like you thinks, maybe, there are no other lures in the world than pleasure and riches and power. But I say to you, these are small things men find by the wayside; and I—I have loved the ways themselves—not the small things of the world did I love, but the whole world. God gave me grace to love Lady Poverty and Lady Chastity from my youth up, and thus methought with these playfellows it was safe to wander, and so I have roved and wandered, and would have been fain to roam over all the ways of the earth. And my heart and my thoughts have roamed and wandered too—I fear me I have often gone astray in my thoughts on the most hidden things. But now ’tis all over, little Kristin; I will home now to my house and lay aside all my own thoughts, and hearken to the clear words of the Gardian telling what I should believe and think concerning my sin and the mercy of God—”
A little while after he dropped asleep. Kristin went and sat by the hearth tending the fire. But well on in the morning, when she was nigh dozing off herself, of a sudden Brother Edwin spoke from the bed:
“Glad am I, Kristin, that this matter of you and Erlend Nikulaussön is brought to a good end.”
Kristin burst out weeping:
“We have done so much wrong before we came so far. And what gnaws at my heart most is that I have brought my father so much sorrow. He has no joy in this wedding either. And even so he knows not—did he know all—I trow he would take his kindness quite from me.”
“Kristin,” said Brother Edwin gently, “see you not, child, that ’tis therefore you must keep it from him, and ’tis therefore you must give him no more cause of sorrow—because he never will call on you to pay the penalty. Nothing you could do could turn your father’s heart from you.”
A few days later Brother Edwin was grown so much better that he would fain set out on his journey southward. Since his heart was set on this, Lavrans had a kind of litter made, to be slung between two horses, and on this he brought the sick man as far south as to Lidstad; there they gave him fresh horses and men to tend him on his way, and in this wise was he brought as far as Hamar. There he died in the cloister of the Preaching Friars, and was buried in their church. Afterward the Barefoot Friars claimed that his body should be delivered to them; for that many folks all about in the parishes held him to be a holy man, and spoke of him by the name of Saint Evan. The peasants of the Uplands and the Dales, all the way north to Trondheim, prayed to him as a saint. So it came about that there was a long dispute between the two Orders about his body.
Kristin heard naught of this till long after. But she grieved sorely at parting from the monk. It seemed to her that he alone knew all her life—he had known the innocent child as she was in her father’s keeping, and he had known her secret life with Erlend; so that he was, as it were, a link, binding together all that had first been dear to her with all that now filled her heart and mind. Now was she quite cut off from herself as she had been in the time when she was yet a maid.
“Aye,” said Ragnfrid, feeling with her hand the lukewarm brew in the vats, “methinks ’tis cool enough now to mix in the barm.”
Kristin had been sitting in the brew-house doorway spinning, while she waited for the brew to cool. She laid down the spindle on the threshold, unwrapped the rug from the pail of risen yeast, and began measuring out.
“Shut the door first,” bade her mother, “so the draught may not come in—you seem walking in your sleep, Kristin,” she said testily.
Kristin poured the yeast in to the vats, while Ragnfrid stirred.
—Geirhild Drivsdatter called on Hatt, but he was Odin. So he came and helped her with the brewing; and he craved for his wage that which was between the vat and her—’Twas a saga that Lavrans had once told when she was little. That which was between the vat and her—
Kristin felt dizzy and sick with the heat and the sweet spicy-smelling steam that filled the dark close-shut brew-house.
Out in the farm-place Ramborg and a band of children were dancing in a ring, singing:
“The eagle sits on the topmost hill-crag
Crooking his golden claws....”
Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them.
Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother looked at the pigs and said:
“With less than eighteen reindeer we shall never win through.”
“Think you we shall need so many?” said her daughter, absently.
“Aye, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,” answered Ragnfrid. “And of wild-fowl and hare we shall scarce have more than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place—counting serving-folk and children—and the poor that have to be fed. And even should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I trow, will stay out the week—at the least.”
“You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “’Tis time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.”
Kristin fetched her spinning gear and sat herself down there in the back doorway. She put the distaff with the bunch of wool up under her arm-pit, but her hands, with the spindle in them, sank into her lap.
Beyond the fence the ears of barley gleamed silvery and silken in the sunshine. Above the song of the river she heard now and again from the meadows on the river-island the ring of a scythe—sometimes the iron would strike upon a stone. Her father and the house-folk were hard at work on the hay-making, to get it off their hands. For there was much to get through and to make ready against her wedding.
The scent of the lukewarm grains, and the rank smell of the swine—she grew qualmish again. And the midday heat made her so dizzy and faint. White and stiffly upright she sat and waited for it to pass over—she would not to be sick again—
Never before had she felt what now she felt. ’Twas of no avail to try to tell herself for comfort: it was not certain yet—she might be wrong——That which was between the vat and her—
Eighteen reindeer. Well on toward two hundred wedding-guests—Folk would have a rare jest to laugh at when ’twas known that all this hubbub had but been about a breeding woman they had to see and get married before—
Oh no. She threw her spinning from her and started up as the sickness overcame her again—Oh no, it was sure enough!—
They were to be wedded the second Sunday after Michaelmas, and the bridal was to last for five days. There were more than two months still to wait; they would be sure to see it on her—her mother and the other housewives of the parish. They were ever wise in such things—knew them months before Kristin could understand how they saw them. “Poor thing, she grows so pale”—Impatiently Kristin rubbed her hands against her cheeks; she felt that they were white and bloodless.
Before, she had so often thought: this must happen soon or late. And she had not feared it so terribly. But ’twould not have been the same then, when they could not—were forbidden to come together in lawful wise. It was counted—aye, a shame in a manner, and a sin too—but if ’twere two young things who would not let themselves be forced apart, folk remembered that ’twas so, and spoke of them with forbearance. She would not have been ashamed. But when such things happened between a betrothed pair—there was naught for them but laughter and gross jesting. She saw it herself—one could not but laugh: here was brewing and mixing of wine, slaughtering and baking and cooking for a wedding that should be noised far abroad in the land—and she, the bride, grew qualmish if she but smelt food, and crept in a cold sweat behind the out-houses to be sick.
Erlend. She set her teeth hard in anger. He should have spared her this. For she had not been willing. He should have remembered that before, when all had been so unsure for her, when she had had naught to trust to but his love, she had ever, ever gladly been his. He should have let her be now, when she tried to deny him because she thought ’twas not well of them to take aught by stealth, after her father had joined their hands together in the sight of Erlend’s kinsmen and hers. But he had taken her to him, half by force, with laughter and caresses; so that she had not had strength enough to show him she was in earnest in her denial.
She went in and saw to the beer in the vats, then came back again and stood leaning on the fence. The standing grain moved gently in shining ripples before a breath of wind. She could not remember any year when she had seen the corn-fields bear such thick and abundant growth.—The river glittered far off, and she heard her father’s voice shouting—she could not catch the words, but she could hear the reapers on the island laughing.
Should she go to her father and tell him: ’Twould be best to let be all this weary bustle and let Erlend and her come together quietly without church-wedding or splendid feasts—now that the one thing needful was that she should bear the name of wife before ’twas plain to all men that she bore Erlend’s child under her heart already?
He would be a laughing-stock, Erlend too, as much as she—or even more, for he was no green boy any longer. But it was he who would have this wedding; he had set his heart on seeing her stand as his bride in silk and velvets and tall golden crown—that was his will, and it had been his will, too, to possess her in those sweet secret hours of last spring. She had yielded to him in that. And she must do his will too in this other thing.
But in the end ’twas like he would be forced to see—no one could have it both ways in such things. He had talked so much of the great Yule-tide feast he would hold at Husaby the first year she sat there as mistress of his house—how he would show forth to all his kinsmen and friends and all the folks from far around the fair wife he had won. Kristin smiled scornfully. A seemly thing ’twould be this Yule-tide, such a home-coming feast!
Her time would be at St. Gregory’s Mass or thereabout. Thoughts seemed to swarm and jostle in her mind when she said to herself that at Gregory’s Mass she was to bear a child. There was some fear among the thoughts—she remembered how her mother’s cries had rung all round the farm-place for two whole days, the time that Ulvhild was born. At Ulvsvold two young wives had died in childbirth, one after the other—and Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first wives too. And her own father’s mother, whose name she bore—
But fear was not uppermost in her mind. She had often thought, when after that first time she saw no sign that she was with child—maybe this was to be their punishment—hers and Erlend’s. She would always be barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared before, would hope as vainly as of old they had feared needlessly—till at last they would know that one day they should be borne forth from the home of his fathers and be as though they had never been—for his brother was a priest, and the children he had could inherit naught from him. Dumpy Munan and his sons would come in and sit in their seats, and Erlend would be blotted out from the line of his kindred.
She pressed her hand hard to her body. It was there—between the fence and her—between the vat and her. ’Twas between her and all the world—Erlend’s own son. She had made the trial already that she had once heard Lady Aashild speak of; with blood from her right arm and her left. ’Twas a son that was coming to her—whatever fate he was to bring—She remembered her dead little brothers, her parents’ sorrowful faces when they spoke of them; she remembered all the times she had seen them both in despair for Ulvhild’s sake—and the night when Ulvhild died. And she thought of all the sorrow she herself had brought them, of her father’s grief-worn face—and the end was not yet of the sorrows she was to bring on her father and mother.
And yet—and yet. Kristin laid her head on the arm that rested on the fence; the other hand she still held to her body. Even if it brought her new sorrows, even if it led her feet down to death—she would rather die in bearing Erlend a son than that they should both die one day, and leave their houses standing empty, and the corn on their lands should wave for strangers—
She heard a footstep in the room behind her. The ale! thought Kristin—I should have seen to it long ago. She stood up and turned—and Erlend came stooping through the doorway and stepped out into the sunlight—his face shining with gladness.
“Is this where you are?” he asked. “And not a step will you come to meet me, even?” he said; and came and threw his arms about her.
“Dearest; are you come hither?” she said in wonder.
It was plain he was just alighted from his horse—his cloak still hung from his shoulder, and his sword at his side—he was unshaven, travel-soiled and covered with dust. He was clad in a red surcoat that hung in folds from its collar and was open up the sides almost to the armpits. As they passed through the brew-house and across the courtyard, the coat swung and flapped about him so that his thighs showed right up to the waist. His legs bent a little outwards when he walked—it was strange she had never marked it before—she had only seen that he had long slender legs, with fine ankles and small well-shaped feet.
Erlend had come well-attended—with five men and four led-horses. He told Ragnfrid that he was come to fetch Kristin’s goods—’twould be more homely for her, he thought, to find the things awaiting her at Husaby when she came thither. And so late in the autumn as the wedding was to be, it might be harder then to have the goods brought across the hills—besides they might easily be spoiled by the sea-water on ship-board. Now the Abbot of Nidarholm had proffered to give him leave to send them by the Laurentius galleass—’twas meant she should sail from Veöy about Assumption Day. So he was come to have the goods carted over to Romsdal and down to Næs.
He sat in the doorway of the kitchen-house, drinking ale and talking while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild-duck Lavrans had brought home the day before. Mother and daughter were alone on the place; all the women were busy raking in the meadows. He looked so glad and happy—he was pleased with himself for coming on such a wise and prudent errand.
Ragnfrid went out, and Kristin stayed minding the spit with the roasting birds. Through the open door she could catch a glimpse of Erlend’s men lying in the shadow on the other side of the courtyard, with the ale-bowl circling among them. Erlend himself sat on the threshold, chatting and laughing—the sun shone right down on his uncovered coal-black hair; she spied some white threads in it. Aye, he must be near thirty-two years old—but he bore himself like a mischievous boy. She knew she would not be able to tell him of her trouble—time enough when he saw it for himself. Laughing tenderness streamed through her heart, over the hard little spot of anger at its core, like a glittering river flowing over stones.
She loved him above all on earth—her soul was filled with her love, though all the time she saw and remembered all those other things. How ill this gallant in the fine red surcoat, with silver spurs on heel and belt adorned with gold, suited with the busy harvest-time of Jörundgaard.—She marked well, too, that her father came not up to the farm, though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river to bear him word of the guest that was come.
Erlend stood beside her and passed his arm around her shoulders:
“Can you believe it!” he said joyfully, “Seems it not marvellous to you—that ’tis for our wedding, all this toil and bustle?”
Kristin gave him a kiss and thrust him aside—then turned to basting the birds and bade him stand out of the way. No, she would not say it—
It was not till supper-time that Lavrans came back to the farm—along with the other harvesters. He was clad much like his workmen, in an undyed wadmal coat cut off at the knees and loose breeches reaching to the ankles; he walked barefoot, with his scythe over his shoulder. There was naught in his dress to mark him off from the serving-men, save the leathern shoulder-piece that made a perch for the hawk he bore on his left shoulder. He led Ramborg by the hand.
He greeted his son-in-law heartily enough, begging him to forgive that he had not come before—’twas that they must push on with the farm work as hard as they could, for he himself had a journey to make to the market town between the hay and the corn harvests. But when Erlend told the errand he had come on, as they sat at the supper-board, Lavrans grew something out of humour.
’Twas impossible he should spare carts and horses for such work at this time. Erlend answered: he had brought four pack-horses with him. But Lavrans said there would be three cartloads at the least. Besides, the maid must have her wearing apparel with her here. And the bed-furniture that Kristin was to have with her, they would need here too for the wedding, so many guests as they would have in the house.
Well, well, said Erlend. Doubtless some way could be found to have the goods sent through in the autumn. But he had been glad, and had thought it seemed a wise counsel, when the Abbot had proffered to have the goods brought in the Church galleass. The Abbot had reminded him of their kinship. “They are all ready now to remember that,” said Erlend, smiling. His father-in-law’s displeasure seemed not to trouble him in the least.
But in the end it was agreed that Erlend should be given the loan of a cart and should take away a cartload of the things Kristin would need most when first she came to her new home.
The day after they were busy with the packing. The big and the little loom the mother thought might go at once—Kristin would scarce have time for weaving much more before the wedding. Ragnfrid and her daughter cut off the web that was on the loom. It was undyed wadmal, but of the finest, softest wool, with unwoven tufts of black sheep’s wool that made a pattern of spots. Kristin and her mother rolled up the stuff and laid it in the leather sack. Kristin thought: ’twould make good warm swaddling-cloths—and right fair ones, too, with blue or red bands wrapped round them.
The sewing-chair, too, that Arne had once made her, was to be sent. Kristin took out of the box-seat all the things Erlend had given her from time to time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cloak patterned in red that she was to wear at the bridal, on the ride to church. The mother turned it about and about, and felt the stuff and the fur lining.
“A costly cloak, indeed,” said Ragnfrid. “When was it Erlend gave you this?”
“He gave it me when I was at Nonneseter,” said her daughter.
Kristin’s bride-chest, that held all the goods her mother had gathered together and saved up for her since she was a little child, was emptied and packed anew. Its sides and cover were all carved in squares, with a leaping beast or a bird amidst leaves in each square. The wedding-dress Ragnfrid laid away in one of her own chests. It was not quite ready yet, though they had sewed on it all winter. It was of scarlet silk, cut to sit very close to the body. Kristin thought: ’twould be all too tight across the breast now.
Toward evening the whole load stood ready, firmly bound under the wagon-tilt. Erlend was to set forth early the next morning.
He stood with Kristin leaning over the courtyard gate, looking northward to where a blue-black storm-cloud filled the Dale. Thunder was rolling far off in the mountains—but southward the green fields and the river lay in yellow, burning sunshine.
“Mind you the storm that day in the woods at Gerdarud?” he asked softly, playing with her fingers.
Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and close—her head ached, and at every breath she took her skin grew damp with sweat.
Lavrans came across to the two as they stood by the gate, and spoke of the storm. ’Twas but rarely it did much harm down here in the parish—but God knew if they should not hear of cattle and horses killed up in the mountains.
It was black as night above the church up on the hillside. A lightning flash showed them a troop of horses standing uneasily huddled together on the green-sward outside the church gate. Lavrans thought they could scarce belong here in the parish—rather must they be horses from Dovre that had been running loose up on the hills below Jetta; but yet he had a mind to go up and look at them, he shouted through a peal of thunder—there might be some of his among them—
A fearful lightning-flash tore the darkness above the church—the thunder crashed and bellowed so as to deafen them to all other sounds. The cluster of horses burst asunder, scattering over the hill-slopes beneath the mountain ridge. All three of them crossed themselves—
Then came another flash; it was as though the heavens split asunder right above them, a mighty snow-white flame swooped down upon them—the three were thrown against each other, and stood with shut, blinded eyes, and a smell in their nostrils as of burning stone—while the crashing thunder rent their ears.
“Saint Olav, help us!” said Lavrans in a low voice.
“Look! the birch—the birch,” shouted Erlend; the great birch-tree in the field near by seemed to totter—and a huge bough parted from the tree and sank to the ground, leaving a great gash in the trunk.
“Think you ’twill catch fire—Jesus Kristus! The churchroof is alight!” shouted Lavrans.
They stood and gazed—no—yes! Red flames were darting out among the shingles beneath the ridge-turret.
Both men rushed back across the courtyard. Lavrans tore open the doors of all the houses he came to and shouted to those inside; the house-folk came swarming out.
“Bring axes, bring axes—timber axes,” he cried, “and bill-hooks”—he ran on to the stables. In a moment he came out leading Guldsveinen by the mane; he sprang on the horse’s bare back and dashed off up the hill, with the great broad-axe in his hand. Erlend rode close behind him—all the men followed; some were a-horseback, but some could not master the terrified beasts, and giving up, ran on afoot. Last came Ragnfrid and all the women on the place with pails and buckets.
None seemed to heed the storm any longer. By the light of the flashes they could see folk streaming out of the houses further down the valley. Sira Eirik was far up the hill already, running with his house-folk behind him. There was a thunder of horses’ hoofs on the ridge below—some men galloped past, turning white, appalled faces toward their burning church.
It was blowing a little from the southeast. The fire had a strong hold on the north wall; on the west the entrance door was blocked already. But it had not caught yet on the south side nor on the apse.
Kristin and the women from Jörundgaard came into the graveyard south of the church at a place where the fence was broken.
The huge red glare lighted up the grove of trees north of the church and the green by it where there were bars to tie the horses to. None could come thither for the glowing heat—the great cross stood alone out there, bathed in the light of the flames. It looked as though it lived and moved.
Through the hissing and roar of the flames sounded the thudding of axes against the staves of the south wall. There were men in the cloister-way hewing and hammering at the wall, while others tried to tear down the cloister itself. Someone called out to the Jörundgaard women that Lavrans and a few other men had followed Sira Eirik into the church, and now ’twas high time to cut a passage through the south wall—small tongues of flame were peeping out among the shingles here too; and should the wind go round or die down, the fire would take hold on the whole church.
To think of putting out the fire was vain; there was no time to make a chain down to the river; but at Ragnfrid’s bidding the women made a line and passed water along from the little beck that ran by the roadside—it was but little to throw on the south wall and over the men working there. Many of the women sobbed and wept the while, in terror for the men who had made their way into the burning building, and in sorrow for their church.
Kristin stood foremost in the line of women handing along the pails—she gazed breathless at the burning church—they were both there, inside—her father—and surely Erlend too.
The torn-down pillars of the cloister-way lay in a tangled mass of timber and shingles from its roof. The men were attacking the inner wall of staves now with all their might—a group of them had lifted up a great log and were battering the wall with it.
Erlend and one of his men came out of the little door in the south wall of the choir, carrying between them the great chest from the sacristy—the chest Eirik was used to sit on when he heard confession. Erlend and the man flung the chest out into the churchyard.
He shouted out something, but Kristin could not hear; he dashed on at once into the cloister-way. Nimble as a cat he seemed as he ran—he had thrown off his outer garments and had naught on him but shirt, breeches and hose.
The others took up his shout—the choir and the sacristy were burning; none could pass from the nave to the south-door any longer—the fire had blocked both ways of escape. Some of the staves in the wall had been splintered by the ram—Erlend had seized a fire-hook and with it he tugged and wrenched at the wreckage of the staves—he and those with him tore a hole in the side of the church, while other folks cried to take care, for the roof might fall and shut in the men inside; the shingle roof on this side too was burning hard now, and the heat had grown till ’twas scarce to be borne.
Erlend burst through the hole and helped out Sira Eirik. The priest came bearing the holy vessels from the altars in the skirt of his gown.
A young boy followed, with one hand over his face and the other holding the tall processional cross lance-wise in front of him. Lavrans came next. He kept his eyes shut against the smoke—he staggered under the weight of the great crucifix, which he bore in his arms; it was much taller than the man himself.
Folk ran forward and helped them out and into the churchyard. Sira Eirik stumbled and fell on his knees, and the altar vessels rolled out down the slope. The silver dove flew open and the Host fell out—the priest took it up, brushed the soil off it and kissed it, sobbing aloud; he kissed the gilded head, too, that had stood on the altar with shreds of the nails and hair of Saint Olav in it.
Lavrans Björgulfsön still stood holding up the Holy Rood. His arm lay along the arms of the cross; his head was bowed against the shoulder of the Christ-figure; it seemed as though the Redeemer bent his fair, sorrowful face over the man to pity and to comfort.
The roof on the north side of the church had begun to fall in by bits—a burning piece from a falling beam was hurled outwards and struck the great bell in the belfry by the churchyard gate. The bell gave out a deep sobbing note, which died in a long wail that was drowned in the roaring of the flames.
None had paid heed to the weather all this time—the whole had lasted indeed no long time, but whether short or long scarce any could have told. The thunder and lightning had passed now far down the Dale; the rain, that had begun some time back, fell ever the more heavily, and the wind had died down.
But of a sudden it was as though a sheet of flame shot up from the groundsill of the building—a moment, and with a mounting roar the fire had swallowed up the church from end to end.
The people scattered, rushing away to escape the devouring heat. Erlend was at Kristin’s side on the instant, dragging her away down the hill. The whole man smelt of burning—when she stroked his head and face her hand came away full of burnt hair.
They could not hear each other’s voices for the roaring of the fire. But she saw that his eyebrows were burnt off to the roots; he had burns on his face, and great holes were burnt in his shirt. He laughed as he dragged her along with him after the others.
All the folk followed the old priest as he went weeping, with Lavrans Björgulfsön bearing the crucifix.
At the foot of the churchyard Lavrans set the Rood from him up against a tree, and sank down to a seat on the wreckage of the fence. Sira Eirik was sitting there already—he stretched out his arms toward the burning church:
“Farewell, farewell, thou Olav’s-Church; God bless thee, thou my Olav’s-Church; God bless thee for every hour I have chanted in thee and said Mass in thee—thou Olav’s-Church, good-night, good-night—”
The church-folk wept aloud with their priest. The rain streamed down on the groups of people, but none thought of seeking shelter. Nor did it seem to check the fierce burning of the tarred woodwork—brands and glowing shingles were tossed out on every side. Then, suddenly, the ridge-turret crashed down into the fiery furnace, sending a great shower of sparks high into the air.
Lavrans sat with one hand over his face; the other arm lay in his lap, and Kristin saw that the sleeve was all bloody from the shoulder down, and blood ran down over his fingers. She went to him and touched his arm.
“Not much is amiss, methinks—there fell somewhat on my shoulder,” he said, looking up. He was white to the lips. “Ulvhild,” he murmured in anguish, gazing into the burning pile.
Sira Eirik heard the word and laid a hand on his shoulder:
“’Twill not wake your child, Lavrans—she will sleep none the less sound for the burning above her bed. She hath not lost her soul’s home, as we others have lost ours this night.”
Kristin hid her face on Erlend’s breast, and stood there feeling the grasp of his arm round her shoulders. Then she heard her father asking for his wife.
Someone answered that a woman had fallen in labour from the fright; they had borne her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone with her there.
Then Kristin called to mind again what she had clean forgotten ever since they saw that the church was afire. She should not have looked on this. There lived a man in the south of the parish who had a red stain over half his face; ’twas said he was thus because his mother had looked at a burning house while she was big with him. Dear, Holy Virgin Mother, she prayed in her heart, let not my child have been marred by this—
The day after, the whole parish was called to meet on the church-green to take counsel how best to build up the church anew.
Kristin sought out Sira Eirik at Romundgaard before the time set for the meeting. She asked the priest if he deemed she should take this as a sign. Maybe ’twas God’s will that she should say to her father she was unworthy to wear the bridal crown; that it were more seemly she should be given in marriage to Erlend Nikulaussön without feasting, or bridal honours.
But Sira Eirik flew up at her with eyes glistening with wrath:
“Think you that God cares so much how you sluts may fly about and cast yourselves away, that He would burn up a fair, venerable church for your sake? Leave you your sinful pride, and bring not on your mother and Lavrans such a sorrow as they would scarce win through for many a day. If you wear not the crown with honour on your honourable day—the worse for you; but the more need have you and Erlend of all the rites of the Church when ye are brought together. Each and all of us have sins to answer for; ’tis therefore, I trow, that this visitation is come upon us all. See you to it that you mend your life, and that you help to build up our church again, both you and Erlend.”
It was in Kristin’s mind that he knew not all, for that yet she had not told him of this last thing that was come upon her—but she rested content and said no more.
She went with the men to the meeting. Lavrans came with his arm in a sling, and Erlend had many burns on his face; he was ill to look upon, but he laughed it off. None of the wounds were large, and he said he hoped they would not spoil his face too much when he came to be a bridegroom. He stood up after Lavrans and promised four marks of silver as an offering to the church, and for his betrothed, with Lavrans’ assent, land worth sixty cows from her holdings in the parish.
It was found needful for Erlend to stay a week at Jörundgaard by reason of his burns. Kristin saw that ’twas as though Lavrans had come to like his son-in-law better since the night of the fire; the men seemed now to be good friends enough. She thought: maybe her father might grow to like Erlend Nikulaussön so well that he would not judge them too strictly, and would not take the matter so hardly as she had feared when the time came when he must know that they had transgressed against him.