Kristin Lavransdatter (86 page)

“It must be strange for you, Mother, to leave this manor where you’ve lived with my father all these years,” said Kristin. “I don’t see how you can stand to do it.”

“I could stand it much less to stay here,” replied Ragnfrid, rocking little Lavrans in her arms, “and not see your father going about among the buildings.

“I’ve never told you how we happened to move to this valley and ended up living here,” she continued after a moment. “When word came that Ivar, my father, was expected to breathe his last, I was unable to travel; Lavrans had to go north alone. I remember the weather was so beautiful on the evening he left—back then he liked to ride late, when it was cool, and so he set off for Oslo in the evening. It was just before Midsummer. I followed him out to the place where the road from the manor crosses the church road—do you remember the spot where there are several big flat rocks and barren fields all around? The worst land at Skog, and always arid; but that year the grain stood high in the furrows, and we talked about that. Lavrans was on foot, leading his horse, and I was holding you by the hand. You were four winters old.

“When we reached the crossroads, I wanted you to run back to the farm buildings. You didn’t want to, but then your father told you to see if you could find five white stones and lay them out in a cross in the creek below the spring—that would protect him from the trolls of Mjørsa Forest when he sailed past. Then you set off running.”

“Is that something people believe?” asked Kristin.

“I’ve never heard of it, either before or since. I think your father made it up right then. Don’t you remember how he could think up so many things when he was playing with you?”

“Yes. I remember.”

I walked with him through the woods, all the way to the dwarf stone. He told me to turn around, and then he accompanied me back to the crossroads. He laughed and said I should know he couldn’t very well allow me to walk alone through the forest, especially after the sun was down. As we stood there at the crossroads, I put my arms around his neck. I was so sad that I couldn’t travel home with him. I had never felt comfortable at Skog, and I was always longing to go north to Gudbrandsdal. Lavrans tried to console me, and at last he said, ‘When I return and you’re holding my son in your arms, you can ask me for whatever you wish, and if it’s within my power to give it to you, then you will not have asked in vain.’ And I replied that I would ask that we might move up here and live on my ancestral estate. Your father wasn’t pleased, and he said, ‘Couldn’t you have thought of something bigger to ask for?’ He laughed a little, and I thought this was something he would never agree to, which seemed to me only reasonable. But as you know, Sigurd, your youngest brother, lived less than an hour. Halvdan baptized him, and after that the child died.

“Your father came home early one morning. The evening before, he had asked in Oslo how things stood at home, and then he set off for Skog at once. I was still keeping to my bed; I was so full of grief that I didn’t have the strength to get up, and I thought I would prefer never to get up again. God forgive me—when they brought you in to me, I turned to the wall and refused to look at you, my poor little child. But then Lavrans said, as he sat on the edge of my bed, still wearing his cape and sword, that now we would try to see if things might be better for us living here at Jørundgaard, and that’s how we came to move from Skog. But now you can see why I don’t want to live here any longer, now that Lavrans is gone.”

Ragnfrid brought the child and placed him on his mother’s breast. She took the silk coverlet, which had been spread over Kristin’s bed during the day, folded it up, and laid it aside. Then she stood there for a moment, looking down at her daughter and touching the thick, dark-blonde braids which lay between her white breasts.

“Your father asked me often whether your hair was still thick and beautiful. It was such a joy to him that you didn’t lose your looks from giving birth to so many children. And you made him so happy during the last few years because you had become such a capable wife and looked so healthy and lovely with all your fair young sons around you.”

Kristin tried to swallow back her tears.

“He often told me, Mother, that you were the best wife—he told me to tell you that.” She paused, embarrassed, and Ragnfrid laughed softly.

“Lavrans should have known that he didn’t need anyone else to tell me of his good will toward me.” She stroked the child’s head and her daughter’s hand which was holding the infant. “But perhaps he wanted . . . It’s not true, my Kristin, that I have ever en-vied your father’s love for you. It’s right and proper that you should have loved him more than you loved me. You were such a sweet and lovely little maiden—I could hardly believe that God would let me keep you. But I always thought more about what I had lost than what I still had.”

Ragnfrid sat down on the edge of the bed.

“They had other customs at Skog than I was used to back home. I can’t remember that my father ever kissed me. He kissed my mother when she lay on her bier. Mother would kiss Gudrun during the mass, because she stood next to her, and then my sister would kiss me; otherwise that was not something we ever did.

“At Skog it was the custom that when we came home from church, after taking the
corpus domini,
and we got down from our horses in the courtyard, then Sir Bjørgulf would kiss his sons and me on the cheek, while we kissed his hand. Then all the married couples would kiss each other, and we would shake hands with all the servants who had been to the church service and ask that everyone might benefit from the sacrament. They did that often, Lavrans and Aasmund; they would kiss their father on the hand when he gave them gifts and the like. Whenever he or Inga came into the room, the sons would always get to their feet and stand there until asked to sit down. At first these seemed to me foolish and foreign ways.

“Later, during the years I lived with your father when we lost our sons, and all those years when we endured such great anguish and sorrow over our Ulvhild—then it seemed good that Lavrans had been brought up as he had, with gentler and more loving ways.”

After a moment Kristin murmured, “So Father never saw Sigurd?”

“No,” replied Ragnfrid, her voice equally quiet. “Nor did I see him while he was alive.”

Kristin lay in silence; then she said, “And yet, Mother, it seems to me that there has been much good in your life.”

The tears began to stream down Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter’s pale face.

“God help me, yes. It seems that way to me, too.”

A little later she carefully picked up the infant, who had fallen asleep at his mother’s breast, and placed him in the cradle. She fastened Kristin’s shift with the little silver brooch, caressed her daughter’s cheek, and told her to go to sleep now.

Kristin put out her hand. “Mother . . .” she implored.

Ragnfrid bent down, gathered her daughter into her arms, and kissed her many times. She hadn’t done that in all the years since Ulvhild died.

 

It was the most beautiful springtime weather on the following day, as Kristin stood behind the corner of the main house looking out toward the slopes beyond the river. There was a verdant smell in the air, the singing of creeks released everywhere, and a green sheen over all the groves and meadows. At the spot where the road went along the mountainside above Laugarbru, a blanket of winter rye shimmered fresh and bright. Jon had burned off the saplings there the year before and planted rye on the cleared land.

When the funeral procession reached that spot, she would be able to see it best.

And then the procession emerged from beneath the scree, across from the fresh new acres of rye.

She could see all the priests riding on ahead, and there were also vergers among the first group, carrying the crosses and tapers. She couldn’t see the flames in the bright sunlight, but the candles looked like slender white streaks. Two horses followed, carrying her father’s coffin on a litter between them, and then she recognized Erlend on the black horse, her mother, Simon and Ramborg, and many of her kinsmen and friends in the long procession.

For a moment she could faintly hear the singing of the priests above the roar of the Laag, but then the tones of the hymn died away in the rush of the river and the steady trickling of the springtime streams on the slopes. Kristin stood there, gazing off into the distance, long after the last packhorse with the traveling bags had disappeared into the woods.

PARTIII

ERLEND NIKULAUSSØN

RAGNFRID IVARSDATTER LIVED less than two years after her husband’s death; she died early in the winter of 1332. It’s a long way from Hamar to Skaun, so they didn’t hear of her death at Husaby until she had already been in the ground more than a month. But Simon Andressøn came to Husaby during Whitsuntide; there were a few things that needed to be agreed upon among kinsmen about Ragnfrid’s estate. Kristin Lavransdatter now owned Jørundgaard, and it was decided that Simon would oversee her property and collect payments from her tenants. He had managed his mother-in-law’s properties in the valley while she lived in Hamar.

Just then Erlend was having a great deal of trouble and vexation with several matters that had occurred in his district. During the previous autumn, Huntjov, the farmer at Forbregd in Updal, had killed his neighbor because the man had called his wife a sorceress. The villagers bound the murderer and brought him to the sheriff; Erlend put him in custody in one of his lofts. But when the cold grew worse that winter, he allowed the man to move freely among his servant men. Huntjov had been one of Erlend’s crew members on
Margygren
on the voyage north, and at that time he had displayed great courage. When Erlend submitted his report regarding Huntjov’s case and asked that he be allowed to remain in the country,
¹
he also presented the man in the most favorable light. When Ulf Haldorssøn offered a guarantee that Huntjov would appear at the proper time for the
ting
at Orkedal, Erlend permitted the farmer to go home for the Christmas holy days. But then Huntjov and his wife went to visit the innkeeper in Drivdal who was their kinsman, and on the way there, they disappeared. Erlend thought they had perished in the terrible storm that had raged at the time, but many people said they had fled; now the sheriff’s men could go whistling after them. And then new charges were brought against the man who had vanished. It was said that several years earlier, Huntjov had killed a man in the mountains and buried the body under a pile of rocks—a man whom Huntjov claimed had wounded his mare in the flank. And it was revealed that his wife had indeed practiced witchcraft.

Then the priest of Updal and the archbishop’s envoy set about investigating these rumors of sorcery. And this led to shameful discoveries about the way in which people observed Christianity in many parts of Orkdøla county. This occurred mostly in the remote regions of Rennabu and Updalsskog, but an old man from Budvik was also brought before the archbishop’s court in Nidaros. Erlend showed so little zeal for this matter that people began talking about it. There was also that old man named Aan, who had lived near the lake below Husaby and practically had to be considered one of Erlend’s servants. He was skilled in runes and incantations, and it was said that he had several images in his possession to which he offered sacrifices. But nothing of the kind was found in his hut after his death. Erlend himself, along with Ulf Haldorssøn, had been with the old man when he died; people said that no doubt they had destroyed one thing or another before the priest arrived. Yes, now that people happened to think about it, Erlend’s own aunt had been accused of witchcraft, adultery, and the murder of her husband—although Fru Aashild Gautesdatter had been much too wise and clever and had too many powerful friends to be convicted of anything. Then people suddenly remembered that in his youth Erlend had lived a far from Christian life and had defied the laws of the Church.

The result of all this was that the archbishop summoned Erlend Nikulaussøn to Nidaros for an interview. Simon accompanied his brother-in-law to town; he was going to Ranheim to get his sister’s son, for the boy was supposed to travel home with him to Gudbrandsdal to visit his mother for a while.

It was a week before the Frosta
ting
²
was to be held, and Nidaros was full of people. When the brothers-in-law arrived at the bishop’s estate and were shown into the audience hall, many Brothers of the Cross were there, as well as several noble gentlemen, including the judge of the Frosta
ting,
Harald Nikulaussøn; Olav Hermanssøn, judge in Nidaros; Sir Guttorm Helgessøn, the sheriff of Jemtland; and Arne Gjavvaldssøn, who at once came over to Simon Darre to give him a hearty greeting. Arne drew Simon over to a window alcove, and they sat down there together.

Simon felt ill at ease. He hadn’t seen the other man since he was at Ranheim ten years before, and even though everyone had treated him exceedingly well, the purpose of that journey had left a scar on his soul.

While Arne boasted of young Gjavvald, Simon kept an eye on his brother-in-law. Erlend was speaking to the royal treasurer, whose name was Sir Baard Peterssøn, but he was not related to the Hestnes lineage. It could not be said that Erlend’s conduct was lacking in courtesy, and yet his manner seemed overly free and unrestrained as he stood there talking to the elderly gentleman while he rocked back and forth on his heels, with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he was wearing garments that were dark in color, but magnificent: a violet-blue
cote-hardi
³
that fit snugly to his body, with slits up the sides; a black shoulder collar with the cowl thrown back to reveal the gray silk lining; a silver-studded belt; and high red boots that were laced tightly around his calves, displaying the man’s handsome, slim legs and feet.

In the sharp light coming through the glass windows of the stone building, it was evident that Erlend Nikulaussøn now had quite a bit of gray hair at his temples. Around his mouth and under his eyes the fine, tanned skin was now etched with wrinkles, and there were creases on the long, handsome arch of his throat. And yet he looked quite young among the other gentlemen, although he was by no means the youngest man in the room. But he was just as slim and slender, and he carried his body in the same loose, rather careless fashion as he had in his youth. And when the royal treasurer left him, Erlend’s gait was just as light and supple as he began pacing around the hall, with his hands still clasped behind his back. All the other men were sitting down, occasionally conversing with each other in low, dry voices. Erlend’s light step and the ringing of his small silver spurs were all too audible.