The Son Avenger

O
NE
evening in late autumn Olav Audunsson went down to his sheds at the waterside to see that all was made fast and well closed. It had been blowing hard during the day and the tide was high, and now on the approach of night the wind was rising. Going out on the pier, he saw that a little sailboat had put in under its lee. There was only one man in the boat, and so Olav went up to see if the stranger might need a hand.

“Now luck is with me,” said the new-comer, shaking the water from his clothes, while Olav took charge of his arms and wiped the worst of the wet from them. “My wish was to speak with you alone, Olav, as soon as might be; and here you come yourself to meet me.”

He talked as if they had known each other of old, and Olav thought he had seen this young lad before, but could not put a name to him—his face was fair and bold-featured, with a delicate, thin-lipped mouth; a little spoiled by the bulging, pale-blue eyes, but in spite of that he was good-looking. The hair clung to his forehead under the waxed linen hat from which the water poured, but it could be seen that it had a reddish tinge. The stranger was tall and well grown.

Olav took the man into one of the sheds and bade him declare his errand.

“Ay, ’tis best I say how it is, master; I have had the mischance to slay a man, and no atonement has yet been made—the case may drag on. And so I could think of no better way than to put myself in your hands: I know you for a man who will not refuse to hide me while my kinsmen make terms on my behalf.”

Olav was silent. It had become a far more risky matter to harbour outlaws of late years since the country had grown quieter and King Haakon enforced the laws more strictly. But on the other hand he could not send the young man away—the fiord was white with foam, and night was already falling.

“Where did this thing happen?” he asked. “And what manner of man was it you slew?”

“’Twas at home, and the man was Hallvard Bratte, the Warden’s nephew.”

“At home—where may that be?” asked Olav rather impatiently.

“I see—you do not know me,” said the young man, seeming hurt. “Although I was with you as your trusty comrade both in the fight by Skeidis church and at Frysja bridge—”

“Ah, yes—now I mind me where I have seen you before—Aslak Gunnarsson from Yttre Dal. But you have grown much since that time, Aslak, ’tis nigh four years ago.”

Aslak went on with his tale. The way of it was that Aslak’s father had given summer pasturage to some cows for the lady Signe, Hallvard Bratte’s sister, and two of these had been struck down by the bear. When the dalesmen came back to Hamar with the lady’s cattle, she had been very unreasonable, and so one word had led to another. At last Hallvard, the lady’s brother, who was standing by, had uttered words of Gunnar of Yttre Dal to which Aslak could not listen with patience. He had got away after the slaying, had ridden south, and first sought refuge with the White Friars at Tunsberg. But on coming to the convent he learned that his kinsman Prior Sigurd was lately dead, and he quickly guessed that the monks were loath to give him shelter: they had been compelled to abandon their claim that the right of asylum enjoyed by the convent of Mariskog also applied to the house of their order in Tunsberg. The Abbot said he might indeed repair to Mariskog, but it was becoming somewhat too common for King Haakon’s enemies to take sanctuary there, and Aslak had remarked that the monks were a little uneasy, since the King no longer looked with favour on this monastery which possessed the right of asylum. That being so, Aslak had no great mind to betake himself thither: “and then I bethought me of you, Olav. A man without fear I know you to be, and one that is wont to do as he thinks fit. You yourself have roamed as an outlaw in your youth—so I thought you would not refuse me help.”

Olav was not more favourably disposed to hide the manslayer by what he had just heard—that the lad was from the Upplands and seemed to know more about Olav’s youth in that part of the country than Olav cared to be reminded of;
how
much it was not
easy to guess. Until now he had believed that folk in the north had long ago forgotten him and his affairs, it was so many years now since he had shown himself in those regions. Eirik had been there awhile two years ago and had visited Steinfinn Haaksonsson at Berg; Olav had not been pleased when he heard of it, nor did he grieve overmuch when it came to his ears that the cousins had fallen out a few months later, so that Eirik had not stayed long in the Upplands. But as for refusing to receive Aslak Gunnarsson, there could be no question of that.

So he said they had better go up to the houses; Aslak must need some warm food and dry clothes.

At any rate, thought Olav as he helped to carry the other’s gear, it was a lucky thing that nobody at home would try to ferret out who their guest was. Since Lady Mærta’s death in the spring, Bothild Asgersdatter and Cecilia managed his house, and the two young maids were so well brought up that they never troubled their father with unnecessary questions.

Aslak Gunnarsson settled down at Hestviken. It had not been Olav’s intention that he should remain there, but he could not bring himself to say anything about the matter, and when spring came Aslak was still there, bearing himself in every way as if he belonged to the household. They called him Jon Toresson—it was Olav who hit upon this name, from which no one could guess who he was.

Otherwise Olav was quite willing to admit that Aslak, or Jon, was a most agreeable house-mate, and he had a way of making himself useful. He was strong and industrious, incredibly handy besides—an excellent worker in both wood and iron, and he always found something to occupy him. Olav himself had never been more than a moderately skilful craftsman; he could accomplish all that was needed about the farm, but not such things as required special cunning or deftness of hand and a delicate eye. And since he had lost Bodvar, the house-carl who fell at Frysja bridge, he had not had a man who was practised in such crafts. And then Aslak was always cheerful
and
of good humour; he had a fine voice for singing, but above all he could whistle so sweetly and truly that it was a pleasure to hear him—he almost always whistled at his work. He could read a little too, so Olav got him to look at some of the writings he had concerning his estates and
privileges—there were one or two matters about which he could not trust his memory.

Withal Aslak was quiet in his ways, so that he did not too roughly disturb the muffled tone that prevailed at Hestviken.

Life at the manor was calm and still. Little was said among the household, and all spoke low: the master’s silence lay like a damper on all these people who had lived with him so long—they were for the most part the same. Nevertheless the life of Hestviken seemed to have taken on a brighter hue since Mærta Birgersdatter’s sharp voice was hushed and her keen eyes closed. The two young foster-sisters, who now shared the duties of housewife between them, were the most demure and courteous maids a man could see; yet there was a youthful joy and brightness about them, they were so fair and so well beloved of all.

Bothild Asgersdatter was now in her eighteenth year, quick and capable beyond her age, and not strong in health, blithe and gentle at home, but very shy among strangers.

As to Cecilia Olavsdatter, no one ever thought of putting it down to bashfulness or timidity that she was so retiring in folks’ company: she looked everyone straight in the face with her clear, cool, pale-grey eyes. Olav’s young daughter was as taciturn as her father, and just as fair-skinned as he had been in his youth. The shining, flaxen hair lay in soft curls about the girl’s head when she wore it loose on holy-days; her complexion was white as the kernel of a nut, and her skin seemed so firm and close that sun and wind made little impression on it, and the full young lips were pink as the pale brier-rose. She was short for her fifteen years, and rather broadly built, but round and shapely, with small hands and feet, but strong of hand and sure of foot. It was rarely that Cecilia Olavsdatter smiled, and her laugh was rarer yet; but she had never been heard to weep. In her actions she was kind with her own people and charitable to the poor and sick, but rather sullen and short-spoken in her manner.

The foster-sisters were always good friends and of one mind; they seemed to be bound together in intimate affection.

The Hestvik maids were never abroad, except to the annual feastings within Olav’s own circle of friends; otherwise they were not to be seen at such meetings as were frequented by young people. But they went to mass every Sunday and holy-day unless
the weather was very bad. And then they were so handsomely dressed and adorned that no other woman had better clothes or heavier silver belts and buckles than Olav’s maids—both were called so among the folk—and they rode, one on each side of their father, on good, well-groomed horses with newly clipped hog-manes.

Olav’s heart was filled with deep and silent joy as he walked up the church with his daughters. Their coloured mantles of foreign cloth trailed after them; through the thin church veils shimmered the maidens’ unbound hair, Bothild’s smooth and copper-brown, Cecilia’s silky mane bright as silver. He stood during the mass and never once looked over to the women’s side; nevertheless it was as though all his thoughts were centred on their presence in that place.

He no longer thought of himself and his own affairs; he was now an old man, it seemed to him, had made his choice of what was to become of him. But, for that very reason, all that he might yet achieve ere evening fell upon him had but one object: to brighten the lives of these two children. How their future would shape itself—of this he scarcely thought; it would surely fall out for the best. In course of time he would marry them off, and it would be a strange man indeed who would not bear such treasures safely through the world when once he had had the good fortune to win them. But still he had time enough to look about him—they were yet so very young, both of them.