They couldn’t hear each other’s voices above the roaring of the flames. But she saw that his eyebrows had been scorched right off, he had burns on his face, and his shirt was burned in places too. He laughed as he pulled her along after the others.
Everyone followed behind the weeping old priest and Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn, carrying the crucifix.
At the edge of the churchyard, Lavrans leaned the cross against a tree, and then sank down onto the wreckage of the gate. Sira Eirik was already sitting there; he stretched out his arms toward the burning church.
“Farewell, farewell, Olav’s church. God bless you, my Olav’s church. God bless you for every hour I have spent inside you, singing and saying the mass. Olav’s church, good night, good night.”
Everyone from the parish wept loudly along with him. The rain was pouring down on the people, huddled together, but no one thought of leaving. It didn’t look as if the rain were damping the heat in the charred timbers; fiery pieces of wood and smoldering shingles were flying everywhere. A moment later the ridge turret fell into the blaze with a shower of sparks rising up behind it.
Lavrans sat with one hand covering his face; his other arm lay across his lap, and Kristin saw that his sleeve was bloody from the shoulder all the way down. Blood was running along his fingers. She went over and touched his arm.
“I don’t think it’s serious. Something fell on my shoulder,” he said, looking up. He was so pale that even his lips were white. “Ulvhild,” he whispered with anguish as he gazed at the inferno.
Sira Eirik heard him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It will not wake your child, Lavrans. She will sleep just as soundly with the fire burning over her resting place,” he said. “She has not lost the home of her soul, as the rest of us have this evening.”
Kristin hid her face against Erlend’s chest. She stood there, feeling his arms around her. Then she heard her father ask for his wife.
Someone said that out of terror a woman had started having labor pains; they had carried her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone along.
Kristin was suddenly reminded of what she had completely forgotten ever since they realized that the church was on fire: she shouldn’t have looked at it. There was a man south of the village who had a red splotch covering half his face. They said he was born that way because his mother had looked at a fire while she was carrying him. Dear Holy Virgin Mary, she prayed in silence, don’t let my unborn child be harmed by this.
The next day a village ting was to be convened on the church hillside. The people would decide on how to rebuild the church.
Kristin sought out Sira Eirik up at Romundgaard before he left for the ting. She asked the priest whether he thought she should take this as an omen. Perhaps it was God’s will that she should tell her father she was unworthy to stand beneath the bridal crown, and that it would be more fitting for her to be married to Erlend Nikulaussøn without a wedding feast.
But Sira Eirik flew into a rage, his eyes flashing with fury.
“Do you think God cares so much about the way you sluts surrender and throw yourselves away that He would burn down a beautiful and honorable church for your sake? Rid yourself of your pride and do not cause your mother and Lavrans a sorrow from which they would scarcely recover. If you do not wear the crown with honor on your wedding day, it will be bad enough for you; but you and Erlend are in even greater need of this sacrament as you are joined together. Everyone has his sins to answer for; no doubt that is why this misfortune has been brought upon us all. Try to better your life, and help us to rebuild this church, both you and Erlend.”
Kristin thought to herself that she had not yet told him of the latest thing that had befallen her—but she decided to let it be.
She went to the ting with the men. Lavrans attended with his arm in a sling, and Erlend had numerous burns on his face. He looked so ghastly, but he only laughed. None of the wounds was serious, and he said that he hoped they wouldn’t disfigure him on his wedding day. He stood up after Lavrans and promised to give to the church four marks of silver, and to the village, on behalf of his betrothed and with Lavrans’s consent, a section of Kristin’s property worth one mark in land tax.
Erlend had to stay at Jørundgaard for a week because of his wounds. Kristin saw that Lavrans seemed to like his son-in-law better after the night of the fire; the men now seemed to be quite good friends. Then she thought that perhaps her father might be so pleased with Erlend Nikulaussøn that he would be more forbearing and not take it as hard as she had feared when one day he realized that they had sinned against him.
CHAPTER 8
THAT YEAR was an unusually good one in all the valleys of the north. The hay was abundant, and it was all safely harvested. Everyone returned home from the mountain pastures with fattened livestock and great quantities of butter and cheese—and they had been mercifully free of predators that year. The grain stood so high that few people could remember ever seeing it look so fine. The crops ripened well and were bounteous, and the weather was the best it could be. Between Saint Bartholomew’s Day and the Feast of the Birth of Mary, during the time when frosty nights were most likely, it rained a little and the weather was warm and overcast, but after that the harvest month proceeded with sunshine and wind and mild, hazy nights. By the week after Michaelmas, most of the grain had been brought in throughout the valley.
At Jørundgaard they were toiling and preparing for the great wedding. For the past two months Kristin had been so busy from morning to night, every single day, that she had had little time to worry about anything but her work. She could see that her breasts had grown heavier, and that her small pink nipples had turned brown and were as tender as wounds every morning when she had to get out of bed in the cold. But the pain passed as soon as she warmed up from her work, and then she thought only of what she had to do before nightfall. Sometimes when she straightened up to stretch out her back and paused to rest for a moment, she would notice that what she was carrying in her womb was growing heavy. But she was still just as slender and trim in appearance. She smoothed her hands over her long, fine hips. No, she didn’t want to worry about it now. At times she would suddenly think, with a prickling sense of longing, that in a month or two she would be able to feel life inside her. By that time she would be at Husaby. Maybe Erlend would be pleased. She closed her eyes and bit down on her betrothal ring—she saw Erlend’s face, pale with emotion, when he stood up in the high loft and spoke the betrothal vows in a loud, clear voice:
“As God is my witness, along with these men who stand before me, I, Erlend Nikulaussøn, promise myself to Kristin Lavransdatter in accordance with the laws of God and men, on such conditions as have been presented to these witnesses who stand here with us. That I shall possess you as my wife, and you shall possess me as your husband as long as we both shall live, that we shall live together in matrimony with all such communion as God’s laws and the laws of the land acknowledge.”
She was running errands across the courtyard, going from building to building, and she stopped for a moment. The mountain ash was full of berries this year; it would be a snowy winter. And the sun was shining over the pale fields, where the sheaves of grain stood piled on poles. If only the weather would hold until the wedding.
Lavrans held firm to his intention that his daughter should be married in a church. It was therefore decided that this would take place in the chapel at Sundbu. On Saturday the bridal procession would ride over the mountains to Vaage. They would stay the night at Sundbu and the neighboring farms, and then ride back on Sunday after the wedding mass. On the same evening, after vespers, when the Sabbath was over, the wedding would be celebrated and Lavrans would give his daughter away to Erlend. And after midnight the bride and groom would be escorted to bed.1
On Friday, in the afternoon, Kristin was standing on the gallery of the high loft, watching the travelers who came riding from the north, past the burned church on the hill. It was Erlend with all his gro
omsmen. She strained to distinguish him from the others. They were not allowed to see each other; no man could see her until she was led out in the morning, wearing her bridal clothes.
At the place where the road turned toward Jørundgaard, several women pulled away from the group. The men continued on toward Laugarbru, where they would spend the night.
Kristin went downstairs to welcome the guests. She felt so tired after her bath, and her scalp ached terribly; her mother had rinsed her hair in a strong lye solution to give it a bright sheen for the next day.
Fru Aashild Gautesdatter slipped down from her saddle into Lavrans’s arms. How lissome and young she keeps herself, thought Kristin. Her daughter-in-law Katrin, Sir Munan’s wife, almost looked older than she did; she was tall and stout, her eyes and skin colorless. It’s strange, thought Kristin, that she’s ugly and he’s unfaithful, and yet people say that they get on well together. Two of Sir Baard Petersøn’s daughters had also come, one of them married, the other not. They were neither ugly nor beautiful; they looked trustworthy and kind, but seemed quite reserved with strangers. Lavrans thanked them courteously for their willingness to honor this wedding and for making the long journey so late in the fall.
“Erlend was raised by our father when he was a boy,” said the older sister, and she stepped forward to greet Kristin.
Then two young men came trotting briskly into the courtyard. They leaped from their horses and ran laughing toward Kristin, who dashed into the house and hid. They were Trond Gjesling’s young sons, handsome and promising boys. They brought with them the bridal crown from Sundbu in a chest. Trond and his wife wouldn’t come to Jørundgaard until Sunday after the mass.
Kristin had fled to the hearth room, and Fru Aashild had followed. She placed her hands on Kristin’s shoulders and pulled her face down to her own for a kiss.
“I’m glad that I shall see this day,” said Fru Aashild.
She noticed as she held Kristin’s hands how gaunt they had become. She saw that the bride had also grown thin, but her bosom was full. All the lines of her face had become leaner and more delicate than before; in the shadow of her thick, damp hair her temples seemed slightly hollowed. Her cheeks were no longer round, and her fresh complexion had faded. But Kristin’s eyes had grown much larger and darker.
Fru Aashild kissed her again.
“I see you’ve had much to struggle with, Kristin,” she said. “I’ll give you something to drink tonight so you’ll be rested and fresh in the morning.”
Kristin’s lips began to quiver.
“Hush,” said Fru Aashild, patting her hand. “I’m looking forward to dressing you in your finery—no one will ever see a lovelier bride than you shall be tomorrow.”
Lavrans rode over to Laugarbru to dine with his guests who were staying there.
The men could not praise the food enough; a better Friday supper could not be had even in the richest cloister. There was rye-flour porridge, boiled beans, and white bread. And the fish that was served was trout, both salted and fresh, and long strips of dried halibut.
Gradually, as they helped themselves to the ale, the men became more and more boisterous and their teasing of the bridegroom became more and more vulgar. All of Erlend’s groomsmen were much younger than he was; his own peers and friends had all become married men long ago. Now the men joked about the fact that he was so old and would lie in the bridal bed for the first time. Some of Erlend’s older kinsmen, who were still rather sober, were afraid that with each new word uttered the talk might shift to subjects that would be better left untouched. Sir Baard of Hestnaes kept an eye on Lavrans. He was drinking heavily, but it didn’t look as if the ale was making him any happier as he sat there in the high seat; his face grew more and more tense as his gaze grew stonier. But Erlend, who was sitting to the right of his father-in-law, parried the teasing merrily and laughed a good deal; his face was red and his eyes sparkled.
Suddenly Lavrans bellowed, “That wagon, son-in-law—while I think of it, what did you do with the wagon that you borrowed from me this past summer?”
“Wagon?” said Erlend.
“Don’t you remember that you borrowed a wagon from me last summer? God knows it was a good wagon. I’ll probably never see a better one, because I was here myself when it was built on this farm. You promised and you swore, as I can testify before God. And my house servants can verify that you promised you would bring it back to me, but you haven’t kept your word.”
Some of the guests shouted that this was nothing to talk about right now, but Lavrans pounded on the table and swore that he would find out what Erlend had done with his wagon.
“Oh, it’s probably still at the farm on the headland, where we took the boat out to Veøy,” said Erlend indifferently. “I didn’t think it was so important. You see, Father-in-law, it was a long and arduous journey with the cartload through the valleys, so by the time we reached the fjord, none of my men had a mind to travel the whole way back with the wagon and then over the mountains north to Nidaros. So I thought it could wait for the time being. . . .”
“No, may the Devil seize me right here where I’m sitting if I’ve ever heard the likes of this,” Lavrans interrupted him. “What kind of people do you employ in your household? Is it you or your men who decide where they will or will not go?”
Erlend shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s true that many things have not been as they should be in my home. The wagon will be sent back south to you when Kristin and I journey that way. My dear Father-in-law,” he said with a smile, putting out his hand, “you must know that now everything will be different, and I will be too, now that Kristin will be coming home as my wife. The matter of the wagon was unfortunate. But I promise you, this will be the last time you shall have reason to complain about me.”
“Dear Lavrans,” said Baard Petersøn, “reconcile yourself with him over this paltry matter. . . .”
“A paltry matter or a great one . . .” began Lavrans. But then he stopped himself and shook hands with Erlend.
Soon afterward he left, and the guests at Laugarbru went to find their beds for the night.
On Saturday before noon the women and maidens were busy in the old loft. Some were making up the bridal bed, while others were helping the bride to finish dressing.
Ragnfrid had chosen this building for the bridal house because it was the smallest of the lofts—they could house many more guests in the new loft over the storeroom—and it was the bedchamber they had used themselves in the summertime, when Kristin was small, before Lavrans had built the high loft house, where they now lived both summer and winter. But the old storehouse was undoubtedly also the loveliest building on the farm, ever since Lavrans had had it rebuilt; it had been in a state of disrepair when they moved to Jørundgaard. It was now decorated with the most beautiful carvings both inside and out, and the loft was not large, so it was easier to adorn it with tapestries and weavings and pelts.
The bridal bed had been made ready with silk-covered pillows, and lovely blankets had been hung all around as draperies; over the furs and woolen blankets had been spread an embroidered silk coverlet. Ragnfrid and several women were hanging tapestries up on the timbered walls and placing cushions on the benches.
Kristin was sitting in an armchair that had been carried up to the loft. She was wearing her scarlet bridal gown. Large brooches held it together at her breast and closed the yellow silk shift at the neck; golden armbands gleamed on the yellow silk sleeves. A gilded silver belt had been wrapped three times around her waist, and around her neck and on her bosom lay necklace upon necklace—and on top of them all lay her father’s old gold chain with the large reliquary cross. Her hands, which lay in her lap, were heavy with rings.
Fru Aashild was standing behind her chair, brushing out Kristin’s thick, golden-brown hair.
“Tomorrow you will wear it loose for the last time,” she said with a smile, winding around Kristin’s head the red and green silk cords that would support the
crown. Then the women gathered around the bride.
Ragnfrid and Gyrid of Skog brought over from the table the great bridal crown of the Gjesling family. It was completely gilded; the tips alternated between crosses and cloverleaves, and the circlet was set with rock crystals.
They pressed it down onto the bride’s head. Ragnfrid was pale, and her hands shook as she did this.
Kristin slowly rose to her feet. Jesus, how heavy it was to bear all that silver and gold. Then Fru Aashild took her by the hand and led her forward to a large water basin, while the bridesmaids threw open the door to let in the sun and brighten up the loft.
“Look at yourself now, Kristin,” said Fru Aashild, and Kristin bent over the basin. She saw her own face rise up, white, from the water; it came so close that she could see the golden crown above. So many light and dark shadows played all around her reflection—there was something she was just about to remember—and suddenly she felt as if she would faint away. She gripped the edge of the basin. Then Fru Aashild placed her hand on top of hers and dug in her nails so hard that Kristin came to her senses.
The sound of lur horns2 came from the bridge. People shouted from the courtyard that now the bridegroom had arrived with his entourage. The women led Kristin out onto the gallery.
The courtyard was swarming with horses, magnificently bridled, and people in festive dress; everything glittered and gleamed in the sun. Kristin stared past everything, out toward the valley. Her village lay bright and still beneath a thin, hazy-blue mist, and out of the mist towered the mountains, gray with scree and black with forests, and the sun poured its light down into the basin of the valley from a cloudless sky.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but all the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the groves shone silver-gray and naked. Only the alder thicket along the river still had a little faded green in the crowns of the trees, and a few birches held on to some pale yellow leaves at the very tips of their branches. But the trees were almost bare, except the mountain ash, which was still shining with brownish-red foliage surrounding the blood-red berries. In the still, warm day the acrid smell of autumn rose up from the ash-colored blanket of fallen leaves spread all around.