“Are you here, Ingunn?”
When she heard Olav’s voice, it was as though her heart beat itself to pieces—it faltered and stopped, and through her whole body went a feeling that she was stifling to death.
“Ingunn—are you here?” he asked again. He advanced into the room—she could make out his form, square-shouldered and broad in his cloak against the feeble glow from the hearth. He had heard her groaning breath and felt about, trying to find where she sat in the dark.
And now terror gave back her speech: “Come not near me! Olav—come not near me!”
“I shall not touch you. Be not afraid—I will do you no harm.”
She cringed away, speechless, fighting to overcome the terrible breathlessness that her fear had brought on her.
Olav’s voice was heard, calm and level: “It came into my mind—’twere best after all that I myself speak with Ivar and Magnhild. Have you told them who is the father?”
“Yes,” she whispered painfully.
Olav said, hesitating a little: “That was bad. I should have thought of it before—but I was so—surprised—I knew not what I said. But now I have bethought me, ’tis best I take upon myself the fatherhood. It will surely come out—such things are always noised abroad—and then we must say the child is mine. We must spread the report that I came secretly here to Berg last year at that time—”
“But it is not true,” she whispered feebly.
“No. I know that.” He said it so that it struck her like a whip. “And folk will surely doubt it—but that is all one, if they only see they must not speak their doubts too loudly. You must all say as I have said. I will not have it that you should keep such a child here in the Upplands; we should never feel safe that the story would not be ripped up again. You must take it south with you—
“Do you understand what I say?” he asked hastily, as she gave no sound beyond her heavy breathing in the darkness.
“No,” came her answer all at once, clear and firm. It had happened to her before, very rarely—when tormented and frightened to the uttermost it was as though something broke within her mind, and then she was able to face anything, calm and composed. “You must not think of that, Olav. You must have no thought of taking me to you after this.”
“Talk not so foolishly,” replied Olav impatiently. “You ought to know as well as I that we two are bound to each other hand and foot.”
“They told me—Kolbein and those—that there were many good and learned priests who judged your case otherwise than Lord Torfinn-”
“Ay, there is no case that all men are agreed on. But I hold to Bishop Torfinn’s judgment. I gave him an ill reward for his kindness that time—but I laid this case in his hands and bowed to his judgment, when it fell out as I desired. And I must bow to it now likewise.”
“Olav—do you remember that last night, when you came out to me at Ottastad?” Her voice was mournful, but calm and collected. “Do you remember saying you would kill me?—you said the one who broke troth with the other should die. You drew your knife and set it against my breast.—I have that knife—”
“Ay, keep it and welcome.—That night—oh, you must not speak of it—we swore so many oaths! I have since thought it was a greater sin, all we said then, than Einar’s slaying. But I never thought it would be you who—”
“Olav,” she said as before, “it is impossible. You could never have any joy of me if I came with you to Hestviken. I was sure of that as soon as I saw you. When you said you would come and fetch me in the summer—I saw that I had time enough to keep this concealed—”
“Ah—so you thought of that!” The words struck her like a blow, so that she threw herself upon the bed and clasped the bedpost as she broke into sobs, wailing in her abyss of shame and humiliation.
“Go from me, go from me,” she whimpered. She remembered that Dalla might come in at any moment, bringing light into the room. At the thought that Olav might see her she was wild with despair and shame. “Go,” she begged; “Olav, have pity on me and go!”
“Ay, now I will go. But you must know, ’twill be as I have said.—Nay, weep not so, Ingunn,” he pleaded. “I wish you no harm—
“Much joy of each other we may not have,” his bitterness got the better of him and he could not keep back the words. “God knows, in all these years—I often thought how I would make you a good husband—how I would do you all the good I might.—Now I dare give no such promise—it may well be difficult many a time to keep me from being hard on you. But, God helping me, our life will be no worse than we can both endure.”
“Ay, would you had killed me that day,” she wailed, as though she had scarce heard what he said.
“Be silent,” he whispered, revolted. “You speak of killing—your own babe—and of my killing you—you are more beast than human, methinks; lose your wits when you see no escape. Men and women must bear resolutely what they have brought upon themselves—”
“Go!” she beseeched him; “go, go—”
“Ay, I will go now. But I shall come back—I shall come back when you have had this child of yours, Ingunn—then maybe you will find your wits again, so far that one may talk with you—”
She felt that he came a few steps nearer—and cringed as though she awaited ill treatment. Olav’s hand felt for her shoulder in the dark; he bent over her and kissed her on the crown of her head, so hard that she felt his teeth.
“Be not so distressed,” he whispered, standing over her. “I wish you no worse than—You must believe I do but seek a way out.”
He took his hand from her and went out quickly.
Next morning Lady Magnhild came into her. Ingunn lay in bed gazing vacantly before her. Lady Magnhild’s wrath was roused when she saw that the girl looked just as despairing today as ever.
“Have you not brought this misfortune on yourself?—and now you are to be rid of it far more lightly than you had a right to expect. We must all thank God and Mary Virgin on our knees that Olav is the man he is. But I say—God requite Kolbein as he deserves, for that he set himself against Olav’s taking you long ago, and cozened that silly gull Ivar to be on his side! If they had only let Olav have you then, nine years ago!”
Ingunn lay motionless and said nothing.
Lady Magnhild went on talking: “Be it as it may, I’ll not send for Hallveig at present. Since you are in such a wretched state, we may well doubt if it will live,” she said consolingly. “And should it live, ’twill be time enough to speak of what will be best.”
On the fourth day of Easter came Tora Steinfinnsdatter. Ingunn rose to meet her sister as she came in, but she had to take hold of the bedstead to keep on her feet, such was her dread of hearing what Tora would say.
But Tora took her in her arms and patted her. “My poor, poor Ingunn!”
And then she began to speak of Olav’s generosity and of how black it would have looked if he had acted as most men in his position—sought to be rid of a wife who had never been given to him in lawful wedlock. “Sooth to say, I knew not Olav was so pious a man. He had much to do with the priests and the Church—I thought ’twas mainly for his own profit. I did not believe it was because he was so God-fearing and steadfast in the faith—
“And he will not claim that you part with your child,” said Tora, beaming. “That must be such a comfort to you—are you not overjoyed that you need not send away your child?”
“Oh yes. But speak no more of that,” begged Ingunn at last, for Tora never ceased her praises of this good luck in the midst of misfortune.
Tora said nothing of what she might have guessed or feared in the winter, nor did she censure her sister with many words, but tried rather to put a little heart into Ingunn: when relief came in a little while, she would find that the whole world would appear to her in brighter colours, and then there would come good days for her too; but she must not abandon herself as she did—she sat there in her corner all day long, never moved nor spoke a word unasked—only gazing before her in black desp
ondency.
Dalla had taken Lady Magnhild’s correction in such wise that never since had she opened her mouth to Ingunn. But she found ways enough, for all that, to torment the sick woman. Ingunn never dared lie down at night till she had felt under the bedclothes whether anything hard and sharp had been put there. And all at once she found a mass of vermin in her bed and in her day-clothes—they had been perfectly clean before. There were constantly cinders and chips and mouse-dirt in the food and drink that Dalla brought her. Every morning she tied Ingunn’s shoes so tightly that they hurt her, and while Ingunn struggled painfully to loosen them, Dalla stood by with a sneering smile. Ingunn never said a word about this.
But Tora guessed at once a good deal of what had been going on—she took Dalla to task right heartily, and the old thrall woman cringed before her young mistress like a beaten dog. And when Tora saw that Ingunn could not overcome her terror if Dalla did but approach her, she drove the old woman out of Aasa’s house for good. She helped her sister to be rid of the worst of the vermin, got her clean clothes and good food; and she checked her aunt when Lady Magnhild grumbled at Ingunn’s ingratitude—saying that she herself had had a part in the disaster, and they had assuredly treated her more gently than she had a right to expect; she would put up with no more of this sullen crossness toward Ingunn. But Tora implored the lady—let them do all they could to make these last days easy for her; when she was on her feet again after her lying-in—it would be another matter. Then she would be strong enough to hear some grave words from them both.
7
SINCE Olav Audunsson had done penance for the slaying in the preaching friars’ guest-house, he had formed fairly close ties with this monastic community; Brother Vegard, too, had been his confessor ever since he was a child, and he was a good friend of Arnvid Finnsson, who was one of the benefactors of the house. And before this last turn of events with Ingunn, Olav had had thoughts of joining the Dominicans as a brother ab extra. When the friars now saw that something weighed upon his mind, they left him in peace and avoided as far as possible lodging other guests in the women’s house, where he lay. There was no little coming and going in the convent during Lent, for many folk from the country round were wont to make their Lenten confession here and celebrate Easter in the convent church.
Olav put off his confession again and again. He could not see how he was to make it in the right way—Ingunn could not have confessed yet, for Olav knew that Brother Vegard was still her confessor, and the monk had not been absent from the convent for six weeks. So Olav sat in the women’s house and went nowhere—except to church.
But on Wednesday in Holy Week he thought he could not put it off any longer, and Brother Vegard promised to be in the church at a certain hour.
It felt cold and dark as he entered through the little side door from the cloister garth—it was the same spring weather out of doors. Brother Vegard already sat in his place in the choir, reading a book that he held on his knee, with the purple stole over his white frock. From an opening high up a sunbeam fell straight upon the pictures that were painted above the monks’ choir stalls—lighting up the likeness of our Lord at the age of twelve among the Jewish doctors. “God, my Lord,” prayed Olav in his heart, “give me discretion to say what I have to say and no more and no less.” Then he knelt before the priest and said Confiteor.
With scrupulous care he rehearsed his sins against all the ten commandments, those he had broken and those he had kept, so far as he knew—he had had good time to think over his confession. At last he came to the hard part: “Then I confess that there is one to whom I bear the most bitter grudge, so that it seems to me most difficult to forgive this person. It is one whom I have loved with all my heart, and so soon as I heard what this friend had done to me, I felt I had been so deceived that thoughts of slaughter and wicked and cruel desires arose within me. God preserved me so that I curbed myself at that time. But so hard is it for me to bear with this person that I fear I can never forgive my friend—unless God give me special grace thereto. But I am afraid, father, that I must say no more of this matter.”
“Is it because you are afraid you might otherwise disclose another’s sin?” asked Brother Vegard.
“Yes, father,” Olav drew a deep breath. “And it is for that reason that it seems so difficult to forgive. If I could tell the whole matter here in this place, I think it would be easier.”
“Consider well, my Olav, whether it does not seem so to you because you think that, could you speak freely of the wrong your even Christian has done you, you own evil thoughts, your hatred and desire of blood, would then be justified according to what we sinful men call justice?”
“It is so, father.”
The monk asked: “Do you hate this your enemy in such wise that you could wish him evil fortune every day upon earth and eternal perdition in the other world?”
“No.”
“But you could wish that he might smart for what he has done to you, often and sorely?”
“Yes. For I can see naught else but that I myself must smart for it as long as I live. And I fear that, unless God work a miracle with me, I shall never more have peace in my soul, but wrath and ill will will arise in me time after time—for after this my affairs—my welfare and my repute—will grow worse, so long as I live upon earth.”
“My son, you know that if you pray with your whole heart, God will give you strength to forgive him that trespassed against you, for it has never yet been known that God was deaf to such a prayer. But you must pray without reservation—not as that man of whom Saint Augustine tells us: he prayed that God would give him grace to lead a chaste life, but not at once; it is in such wise men are wont to pray for grace to forgive their enemies. And you must not be downcast, even if God lets you pray long and persistently before He grants you this gift.”
“Ay, father. But I fear I shall not always be able to curb myself while I wait for my prayers to be heard.”
As the monk did not reply at once, Olav said hastily: “For it is so, father, that this thing which—which my friend—has done to me—has disordered my whole life. I dare not say more of it, but there are such difficulties—Could I say more, you would see that—this person—has set so heavy a load upon my neck—”
“I can guess that it is heavy, my son. But you must be steadfast and pray. And when on Good Friday you come forward to kiss the cross, look on it closely and reflect in your heart whether your sins did not weigh something in the load which our Lord bore, when He shouldered the sins of us all. Think you then that the load which your friend has laid upon you is so heavy that you are not able to bear it—a Christian man and His man?”
Olav bent so low that he touched the monk’s knee with his forehead. “Nay. Nay, I think not that—” he whispered falteringly.
The night between Good Friday and Easter Eve Olav awoke drenched with sweat—he had been dreaming. As he lay in pitch-darkness trying to be rid of the horror this dream had left in his mind, their childhood came back to him in the very life: in his dream they had been boy and girl. But when he thought how all had promised then and how their future looked now, all that he believed himself to have secured through his constant prayers of the last few days seemed to fade away like smoke between his fingers. He drew the bedclothes over his head, and, lest he should burst into tears, he lay as a man lies on the rack, straining his whole will to a single end—the torturers shall not force one moan out of him.
That summer—that summer and that autumn, when she awaited his coming every night in her bower. Uneasy he had been; the guileless young heart in his breast had quivered with excitement and disquietude from the moment he awoke and saw that he was naked. But of her he had always felt easy. That she could fall out of his hands and into another man’s—no, that he had never imagined. That last night, when he had come to her a homicide and an outlaw, when he had put the cold blade against her warm breast and bade her keep the knife for a token—it was not that he thought she might prove faithless. Hi
s thoughts were of himself, who was about to face an uncertain fate, young and untried and doubtful as he was.
When he crept close to her and hid his face in her wheat-coloured hair, it smelt like new-mown hay. And her flesh was so soft and limp, it always made him think of corn that had not fully ripened—was still milky. Never had he taken her in his arms without the thought: “I must not be hard-handed with her, she is so slight and weak; she needs my protection against every shock and scratch, for this flesh of hers cannot be such as heals quickly.” And he had spared her all talk of that which weighed upon him, for he thought it would be a shame to shift any of his burden onto her feeble shoulders. Uneasy conscience, anxiety for the future—what should she understand of such things, with her childlike nature? The very insatiability with which she demanded his caresses, set herself to provoke them if he became absent for a moment or chanced to speak of any but their own concerns—this he took to be a kind of childishness. She had little more understanding than a child or an animal, poor thing—nay, he had often thought her like a gentle, timid beast—a tame doe or a young heifer, so fond of endearments and so easily scared.
Now he remembered that he had divined this at the same moment as he divined what it meant that she was a woman whom he would possess and enjoy—it had been clear to him that she was a weak and tender creature and that he must shield and defend her.
And now it appeared to him that this dream might have been sent him as a gift, though it had at first called up such grim torment in his mind. He had believed himself capable of wishing she might suffer abundantly for her weakness. Far from it.—He would do all in his power to help her to be let off lightly.
“My little doe—you have let yourself be chased straight into the pit—and now you lie there, battered and besmirched, a poor little beast. But I shall come and take you up and bear you away to a place where you will not be trampled upon and crushed.”—Now it was revealed to him that what had happened when he had taken her in his arms, plucked her flower, and breathed its sweetness and its scent, was only something that had chanced by the way. But what really mattered, when it came to the point, was that she had been placed in his arms in order that he might carry her through everything, take the burden from her and defend her. That was to be his happiness, the other was no more than passing joys.