The year that Kristin was fifteen in the spring, Lavrans Björgulfsön and Sir Andres Gudmundsön of Dyfrin made tryst at the Holledis Thing. There ’twas agreed between them that Andres’ second son, Simon, should wed Kristin Lavransdatter and should have Formo, Sir Andres’ mother’s udal estate. This the two men shook hands upon; yet it was not put in writing, for Sir Andres had first to settle with his other children about their heritage. And for this reason no betrothal feast was held; but Sir Andres and Simon came to Jörundgaard to see the bride, and Lavrans gave them a great banquet.
By this time Lavrans had ready his new dwelling-house of two storeys, with corner fire-places of masonry both in the living room and the loft-room above richly furnished and adorned with fair wood-carvings. He had rebuilt the old loft-room too, and bettered the other houses in many ways, so that he was now housed as befitted an esquire bearing arms. He was very wealthy now, for he had had good fortune in his undertakings and was a shrewd and careful husband of his goods; above all was he known as a breeder of the finest horses and the goodliest cattle of all kinds. And now he had been able so to order things that his daughter was to wed into the Dyfrin kindred and the Formo estate, all folks deemed he had brought to a happy end his purpose to be the foremost man in the country-side. He, and Ragnfrid too, were well pleased with the betrothal, as were Sir Andres and Simon.
Kristin was a little cast down when she first saw Simon Andressön; for she had heard great talk of his good looks and seemly bearing, so that she had outrun all measure in her hopes of what her bridegroom would be.
Truly Simon was well-favoured, but he was something fat to be only twenty years of age; he was short of neck and had a face as round and shining as the moon. He had goodly hair, brown and curly, and his eyes were grey and clear, but lay deep and as it were shut in, the lids were so fat; his nose was over small and his mouth was small too, and pouting, but not unsightly. In spite of his stoutness, he was light, and quick, and nimble in all his ways, and was skilled in all sports. He was something too brisk and forward in his speech, but Lavrans held he showed both good wit and learning when he talked with older men.
Ragnfrid soon came to like him, and Ulvhild was taken at once with the greatest love for him—he was more gentle and kind with the little sick maid than with any other. And when Kristin had grown used a little to his round face and his way of speech, she grew to be well content with her betrothed, and happy in the way her father had ordered things for her.
Lady Aashild was at the feast. Since Jörundgaard had opened its doors to her, the great folk in the parishes round about had begun to call to mind her high birth and to think less of her doubtful fame, so that the Lady came much out among people. She said when she had seen Simon:
“’Tis a good match, Kristin; this Simon will go forward in the world—you will be spared many cares, and he will be good to live with. But to my mind he seems something too fat and too cheerful—Were it now in Norway as it was in days gone by, and as it is still in other lands—that folk were not more hard to sinners than is God himself, I would say you should find yourself a friend who is lean and sorrowful—one you could have to sit and hold converse with. Then would I say, you could not fare better than you would with Simon.”
Kristin grew red, though she understood not well what the Lady’s words might mean. But as time went on and her bridal chests filled and she evermore heard talk of her wedding and of what she was to take in to the new household, she began to long that the betrothal-knot should be tied once for all, and that Simon should come north; thus she thought much about him in the end and was glad at the thought of meeting him again.
Kristin was full-grown now and very fair to look upon. She was most like her father and had grown tall; she was small waisted, with slender, fine limbs and joints, yet round and plump withal. Her face was somewhat short and round, her forehead low and broad and white as milk; her eyes large, grey and soft, under fairly drawn eyebrows. Her mouth was something large, but it had full bright, red lips, and her chin was round as an apple and well shaped. She had goodly long, thick hair; but ’twas something dark in hue, almost as much brown as yellow, and quite straight. Lavrans liked nothing better than to hear Sira Eirik boast of Kristin—the priest had seen the maid grow up, had taught her her books and writing, and loved her much. But the father was not so pleased when the priest sometimes likened his daughter to an unblemished, silken-coated filly.
Yet all men said that had not that sorrowful mishap befallen, Ulvhild had been many times more comely than her sister. She had the fairest and sweetest face, white and red as lilies and roses; and light-yellow hair, soft as silk, which waved and clung about her slender throat and small shoulders. Her eyes were like those of her Gjesling kin; they were deep set, under straight, dark brows, and were clear as water and grey-blue; but her glance was mild, not sharp like theirs. Then too, the child’s voice was so clear and lovely that it was a joy to hearken to her, whether she spoke or sang. She was most apt at book-learning and all kinds of string-instruments and draughts, but had little mind to work with her hands, for her back soon grew weary.
There seemed little hope, indeed, this fair child should ever have full use of her limbs. It is true she had mended a little after her father and mother had been to Nidaros with her to St. Olav’s shrine. Lavrans and Ragnfrid had gone thither on foot, without man or serving-maid to attend them; they bore the child between them on a litter the whole way. After the journey Ulvhild grew so far well that she could walk a little with a crutch. But they could not hope that she should grow well enough to be wedded, and so it was like that, when the time came, she must be given to a cloister with all the wealth that should fall to her.
They never spoke of this, and Ulvhild herself scarce knew how much unlike she was to other children. She was very fond of finery and pretty clothes, and her father and mother had not the heart to deny her anything; so Ragnfrid stitched and sewed for her and decked her out like any king’s child. Once some pedlars passing through the parish lay overnight at Laugarbru; and Ulvhild got a sight of their wares there. They had some amber coloured silk-stuff, and she set her heart on having a shift of it. Lavrans was not wont to deal with such folk, who went around against the law, selling wares from the market-towns in the country parishes; but now he bought the whole bale at once. He gave Kristin some of the stuff, too, for a bridal shift, and she was sewing on it this summer. Until now all the shifts she owned had been of wool, or of linen for best wear. But now Ulvhild had a shift of silk for feast days and a Sunday shift of linen with silk let in above.
Lavrans Björgulfsön owned Laugarbru too now, and Tordis and Jon were in charge there. With them was Lavrans’ and Ragnfrid’s youngest daughter, Ramborg, whom Tordis had nursed. Ragnfrid would scarce look at the child for some time after it was born, for she said she brought her children ill-fortune. Yet she loved the little maid much and was ever sending gifts to her and Tordis; and later she went often over to Laugarbru and saw Ramborg, but she liked best to come after the child was asleep, and sit by her. Lavrans and the two older daughters were often at Laugarbru to play with the little one; she was a strong and healthy child, but not so fair as her sisters.
This was the last summer Arne Gyrdsön was on Jörundgaard. The bishop had promised Gyrd to help the youth on in the world, and in the autumn Arne was to set out for Hamar.
Kristin knew well enough that she was dear to Arne, but she was in many ways still a child in mind and she thought little about it, but bore herself to him as she had always done from the time they were children; was with him as often as she could, and always stood up with him when there was dancing at home or upon the church-green. That her mother did not like this, seemed to her something of a jest. But she never spoke to Arne of Simon or of her wedding, for she marked that he grew heavy-hearted when there was talk of it.
Arne was a very handy man and was now making Kristin a sewing-chair as a keepsake. He had covered both the box and the frame of the chair with fair, rich carving, and was now busy in the smithy on iron bands and lock for it. On a fine evening well on in summer Kristin had gone down to him. She had taken with her a jacket of her father’s she had to mend, and sat upon the stone threshold sewing while she chatted with the youth in the smithy. Ulvhild was with her; she hopped about upon her crutch, eating the raspberries which grew among the heaps of stone around the field.
After a while Arne came to the smithy door to cool himself. He made as though to seat himself beside Kristin, but she moved a little away and bade him have a care not to dirty the sewing she had upon her knee.
“Is it come to this between us,” said Arne, “that you dare not let me sit by you for fear the peasant boy should soil you?”
Kristin looked at him in wonder, and answered:
“You know well enough what I meant. But take your apron off, wash the charcoal from your hands and sit down a little and rest you here by me—” and she made room for him.
But Arne laid himself in the grass in front of her; then she said again:
“Nay, be not angry, my Arne. Can you think I could be unthankful for the brave gift you are making me, or ever forget you have been my best friend at home here all my days?”
“Have I been that?” he asked.
“You know it well,” said Kristin. “And never will I forget you. But you, who are to go out into the world—maybe you will gain wealth and honor or ever you think—you will like enough forget me, long before I forget you—”
“You will never forget me?” said Arne, smiling. “And I will forget you ere you forget me?—you are naught but a child, Kristin.”
“You are not so old either,” she replied.
“I am as old as Simon Darre,” said he again. “And we bear helm and shield as well as the Dyfrin folk, but my folks have not had fortune with them—”
He had dried his hands on the grass tufts; and now he took Kristin’s ankle and pressed his cheek to the foot which showed from under her dress. She would have drawn away her foot, but Arne said:
“Your mother is at Laugarbru, and Lavrans has ridden forth—from the houses none can see us where we sit. Surely you can let me speak this once of what is in my heart.”
Kristin answered:
“We have known all our days, both you and I, that ’twas bootless for us to set our hearts on each other.”
“May I lay my head in your lap,” said Arne, and as she did not answer, he laid his head down and twined an arm about her waist. With his other hand he pulled at the plaits of her hair.
“How will you like it,” he asked in a little, “when Simon lies in your lap thus, and plays with your hair?”
Kristin did not answer. It seemed as though a heaviness fell upon her of a sudden—Arne’s words and Arne’s head on her knee—it seemed to her as though a door opened into a room, where many dark passages led into a greater darkness; sad, and heavy at heart, she faltered and would not look inside.
“Wedded folk do not use to do so,” said she of a sudden, quickly, as if eased of a weight. She tried to see Simon’s fat round face looking up into hers as Arne was looking now; she heard his voice—and she could not keep from laughing:
“I trow Simon will never lie on the ground to play with my shoes—not he!”
“No, for he can play with you in his bed,” said Arne. His voice made her feel sick and powerless all at once. She tried to push his head from off her lap, but he pressed it against her knee and said softly:
“But I would play with your shoes and your hair and your fingers, and follow you out and in the livelong day, Kristin, were you ever so much my wife and slept in my arms each single night.”
He half sat up, put his arm round her shoulder and gazed into her eyes.
“’Tis not well done of you to talk thus to me,” said Kristin bashfully, in a low voice.
“No,” said Arne. He rose and stood before her. “But tell me one thing—would you not rather it were I—?”
“Oh! I would rather—,” she sat still a while. “I would rather not have any man—not yet—”
Arne did not move, but said:
“Would you rather be given to the cloister then, as ’tis to be with Ulvhild, and be a maid all your days?”
Kristin pressed her folded hands down into her lap. A strange, sweet trembling seized her—and with a sudden shudder she seemed to understand how much her little sister was to be pitied—her eyes filled with tears of sorrow for Ulvhild’s sake.
“Kristin,” said Arne in a low voice.
At that moment a loud scream came from Ulvhild. Her crutch had caught between the stones, and she had fallen. Arne and Kristin ran to her, and Arne lifted her up into her sister’s arms. She had cut her mouth and much blood was flowing from the hurt.
Kristin sat down with her in the smithy door, and Arne fetched water in a wooden bowl. Together they set to washing and wiping her face. She had rubbed the skin off her knees, too. Kristin bent tenderly over the small, thin legs.
Ulvhild’s wailing soon grew less, but she wept silently and bitterly as children do who are used to suffering pain. Kristin held her head to her bosom and rocked her gently.
Then the bell began to ring for Vespers up at Olav’s-Church.
Arne spoke to Kristin, but she sat bent over her sister as though she neither heard nor marked him, so that at last he grew afraid and asked if she thought there was danger in the hurt. Kristin shook her head, but looked not at him.
Soon after she got up and went towards the farmstead, bearing Ulvhild in her arms. Arne followed, silent and troubled—Kristin seemed so deep in thought, and her face was set and hard. As she walked, the bell went on ringing out over the meadows and the dale; it was still ringing as she went into the house.
She laid Ulvhild in the bed which the sisters had shared ever since Kristin had grown too big to sleep by her father and mother. She slipped her shoes off and lay down beside the little one,—lay and listened for the ringing of the bell long after it was hushed and the child slept.
It had come to her as the bell began to ring, while she sat with Ulvhild’s little bleeding face in her hands, that maybe it was a sign to her. If she should go to convent in her sister’s stead—if she should vow herself to the service of God and the Virgin Mary—might not God give the child health and strength again?
She thought of Brother Edwin’s word: that nowadays ’twas only marred and crippled children and those for whom good husbands could not be found that their fathers and mothers gave to God. She knew her father and mother were godly folks—yet had she never heard aught else but that she should wed—but when they understood that Ulvhild would be sickly all her days they planned for her straightway that she should go to the cloister—
And she had no mind to go herself—she strove against the thought that God would do a miracle for Ulvhild if she herself turned nun. She hung on Sira Eirik’s word that in these days not many miracles come to pass. And yet she felt this evening it was as Brother Edwin said; had a man but faith enough, his faith might work miracles. But she had no mind to have that faith herself, she did not love God and his Mother and the Saints so much, did not even wish to love them so—she loved the world and longed for the world—
Kristin pressed her lips down into Ulvhild’s soft, silken hair. The child slept soundly, and the elder sister sat up restlessly, but lay down again. Her heart bled with sorrow and shame, but she knew she did not wish to believe in signs and wonders, for she would not give up her heritage of health and beauty and love.
So she tried to comfort herself with the thought, that her father and mother would not be willing she should do such a thing. Nor would they think it could avail. Then, too, she was promised already, and she was sure they would not give up Simon of whom they were so fond. She felt it a betrayal of herself that they were so proud of this son-in-law; of a sudden she thought with dislike of Simon’s round, red face and small laughing eyes—of his jaunty gait—he bounced like a ball, it came to her all at once—; of his bantering talk, that made her feel awkward and foolish. ’Twas no such glory either to get him, and move with him just down to Formo—Still she would rather have him than be sent to convent—But, ah! the world beyond the hills, the King’s palace and the earls and knights Lady Aashild talked of—and a comely man with sorrowful eyes who would follow her in and out and never grow weary. She thought of Arne that summer day when he lay on his side and slept with his brown, glossy hair outspread among the heather—she had loved him then as though he were her brother. It was not well done of him to have spoken to her so, when he knew they could never belong to one another—
Word came from Laugarbru that her mother would stay there overnight. Kristin got up to undress and go to rest. She began to unlace her dress—then she put her shoes on again, threw her cloak about her and went out.
The night sky stretched clear and green above the hillcrests. It was near time for the moon to rise, and where it was yet hid behind the fell, sailed some small clouds, their lower edges shining like silver; the sky grew brighter and brighter, like metal under gathering drops of dew.
She ran up between the fences, over the road, and up the slope toward the church. It stood there, as though asleep, dark and shut, but she went up to the cross which stood near by to mark the place where St. Olav once rested as he fled before his enemies.
Kristin knelt down upon the stone and laid her folded hands upon the base of the cross: “Holy Cross, strongest of masts, fairest of trees, bridge for the sick to the fair shores of health—”
At the words of the prayer, it was as if her longing widened out and faded little by little like rings on a pool. The single thoughts that troubled her smoothed themselves out one after the other, her mind grew calmer, more tender, and there came upon her a gentle, vague sadness in place of her distress.
She lay kneeling there and drank in all the sounds of the night. The wind sighed strangely, the rushing sound of the river came from beyond the wood by the church, the beck ran near by right across the road—and all about, far and near, in the dark, she half saw and heard small rills of running and dripping water. The river gleamed white down below in the valley. The moon crept up in a little nick in the hills—the dewy leaves and stones sparkled faintly, and the newly tarred timber of the belfry shone dull and dark by the churchyard gate. Then the moon was hid once more where the mountain ridge rose higher, and now many more white and shining clouds floated in the sky.
She heard a horse coming at a slow pace from higher up the road, and the sound of men’s voices speaking low and even. She had no fear of folk here close at home where she knew everyone—so she felt quite safe.
Her father’s dogs rushed at her, turned and dashed back into the wood, then turned back and leaped upon her again. Her father shouted a greeting as he came out from among the birches. He was leading Guldsveinen by the bridle; a brace or two of birds hung dangling from the saddle, and Lavrans bore a hooded hawk upon his left wrist. He had with him a tall, bent man in a monk’s frock, and even before Kristin had seen his face she knew it was Brother Edwin. She went to meet them, wondering no more than if it had been a dream—she only smiled when Lavrans asked whether she knew their guest again.
Lavrans had chanced upon him up by the Rost bridge, and had coaxed him home with him to spend the night. But Brother Edwin would have it they must let him lie in an outhouse: “For I’m grown so lousy,” said he, “you cannot put me in the good beds.”
And for all Lavrans talked and begged, the monk held out; nay, at first he would have it they should give him his food out in the courtyard. But at last they got him into the hall with them, and Kristin made up the fire in the fireplace in the corner and set candles on the board, while a serving-maid brought in meat and drink.
The monk seated himself on the beggars’ bench by the door, and would have naught but cold porridge and water for his supper. Neither would he have aught of Lavrans’ proffer to have a bath made ready for him and have his clothes well washed.
Brother Edwin fidgeted and scratched himself, and laughed all over his lean, old face.
“Nay, nay,” said he, “these things bite into my proud hide better than either whips or the Gardian’s words. I have been sitting under a rock up here among the fells all summer—they gave me leave to go out into the wilderness to fast and pray, and there I sat and thought: now was I like a holy hermit indeed; and the poor folk away in Setnadal came up with food for me, and thought here they saw, in very truth, a godly and clean-living monk. Brother Edwin, they said, were there many such monks as you, we would be better men fast enough; but when we see priests and bishops and monks biting and fighting like young swine in a trough—Aye, I told them it was unchristian-like to talk so—but I liked to hear it well enough, and I sang and I prayed till the mountain rang again. Now will it be wholesome for me to feel the lice biting and fighting upon my skin, and to hear the good housewives, who would have all clean and seemly in their houses, cry out: that dirty pig of a monk can lie out in the barn well enough now ’tis summer. I am for northwards now to Nidaros for St. Olav’s Vigil, and ’twill be well for me to mark that folk are none too fain to come nigh me—”
Ulvhild woke, and Lavrans went and lifted her up and wrapped her in his cloak:
“Here is the child I spoke of, dear Father. Lay your hands upon her and pray to God for her as you prayed for the boy away north in Meldal, who we heard got his health again—”
The monk lifted Ulvhild’s chin gently and looked into her face. And then he raised one of her hands and kissed it.
“Pray rather, you and your wife, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you be not tempted to try and bend God’s will concerning this child. Our Lord Jesus himself has set these small feet upon the path which will lead her most surely to the home of peace—I see it by your eyes, you blessed Ulvhild, you have your intercessors in our second home.”
“The boy in Meldal got well, I have heard,” said Lavrans, in a low voice.
“He was a poor widow’s only child, and there was none but the parish to feed or clothe him when his mother should be gone. And yet the woman prayed only that God might give her a fearless heart so that she might have faith. He would bring that to pass which would be best for the lad. Naught else did I do but join in that prayer of hers.”
“’Tis hard for her mother and for me to rest content with this,” answered Lavrans heavily. “The more that she is so fair and so good.”
“Have you seen the child at Lidstad, south in the Dale,” asked the monk. “Would you rather your daughter had been like that?”
Lavrans shuddered and pressed the child close to him.
“Think you not,” said Brother Edwin again, “that in God’s eyes we are all children he has cause to grieve for, crippled as we are with sin? And yet we deem not we are so badly off in this world.”
He went to the picture of the Virgin Mary upon the wall, and all knelt down while he said the evening prayer. It seemed to them that Brother Edwin had given them good comfort.
But, none the less, after he had gone from the room to seek his place of rest, Astrid, the head serving-wench, swept with care all parts of the floor where the monk had stood, and cast the sweepings at once into the fire.
Next morning Kristin rose early, took milk-porridge and wheat-cakes in a goodly dish of flame-grained birchwood—for she knew that the monk never touched meat—and herself bore the food out to him. But few of the folk were yet about in the houses.
Brother Edwin stood upon the bridge of the cow-house, ready for the road with staff and scrip; with a smile he thanked Kristin for her pains, and sat himself down on the grass and ate, while Kristin sat at his feet.
Her little white dog came running up, the little bells on his collar tinkling. She took him into her lap, and Brother Edwin snapped his fingers at him, threw small bits of wheat-cake into his mouth, and praised him mightily the while.
“’Tis a breed Queen Euphemia brought to the country,” said he. “You are passing fine here on Jörundgaard now; both in great things and small.”
Kristin flushed with pleasure. She knew already the dog was of a fine breed, and she was proud of having it; no one else in the parish had a lapdog. But she had not known it was of the same kind as the Queen’s pet dogs.
“Simon Andressön sent him to me,” said she, and pressed it to her, while it licked her face. “His name is Kortelin.”
She had thought to speak to the monk about her trouble and to pray for his counsel. But she had no longer any wish to let her mind dwell on the thoughts of the past evening. Brother Edwin was sure God would turn all things to the best for Ulvhild. And it was good of Simon to send her such a gift before even their betrothal was fixed. Arne she would not think of—he had not borne himself as he should towards her, she thought.
Brother Edwin took his staff and scrip, and bade Kristin greet those within the house—he would not stay till folk were up, but go while the day was yet cool. She went with him up past the church and a little way into the wood.
When they parted he wished her God’s peace, and blessed her.
“Give me a word, like the word you gave to Ulvhild, dear Father,” begged Kristin, as she stood with his hand in hers. The monk rubbed his naked foot, knotted with gout, in the wet grass:
“Then would I bid you, daughter, that you lay to heart how God cares for folks’ good here in the Dale. Little rain falls here, but he has given you water from the fells, and the dew freshens meadow and field each night. Thank God for the good gifts he has given you, and murmur not if you seem to miss aught you think might well be added to you. You have bonny yellow hair; see you fret not because it does not curl. Have you not heard of the old wife who sat and wept for that she had only a small bite of swine’s flesh to give to her seven little ones for Christmas cheer. Pat at the moment St. Olav came riding by, and he stretched out his hand over the meat and prayed that God might give the poor little ravens their fill. But when the woman saw a whole pig’s carcase lying upon the board, she wept that she had not pots and platters enow!”
Kristin ran homewards with Kortelin dancing at her heels, snapping at the hem of her dress, and barking and ringing all his little silver bells.