Kristin’s heart began to throb, for this in some way reminded her of her meeting with Bentein — she was smitten by the thought that this perhaps was her sin — she had not for a moment thought of God nor prayed for His help. And now Sister Cecilia read further of St. Didymus. He was a Christian knight, but heretofore he had kept his faith hidden from all save a few friends. He went now to the house where the maid was; he gave money to the woman who owned the house, and thus was the first to be let in to Theodora. She fled into a corner like a frightened hare, but Didymus hailed her as his sister and as his Lord’s bride, and said he was come to save her. Then he spake with her awhile, saying: Was it not meet that a brother should wage his life for his sister’s honour? And at last she did as he bade her, changed clothes with him, and let herself be clad in Didymus’ coat of mail; he pulled the hat down over her eyes and drew the cape up about her chin, and bade her go out with her face hidden, like a youth who is abashed at having been in such a place.
Kristin thought of Arne, and was scarce able to hold back her tears. She gazed straight before her with wet eyes while the nun was reading to the end — how Didymus was led to the place of execution, and how Theodora came hastening down from the mountains, cast herself at the headsman’s feet and begged that she might die in his stead. And now the holy man and maid strove together who should first win the crown; and both were beheaded on the one day. This was the eighth-and-twentieth day of April in the year 304 after the birth of Christ, in Antioch, as was written by St. Ambrosius.
When they rose from the table, Sister Potentia came and patted Kristin kindly on the cheek: “Ay, you are longing for your mother, I can well believe.” And on that Kristin’s tears began to fall. But the nun made as though she did not see them, and led Kristin to the hostel where she was to dwell.
It was in one of the stone houses by the cloisters; a goodly room with glass windows and a big fireplace in the short wall at the far end. Along one main wall stood six bedsteads, and along the other all the maidens’ chests.
Kristin wished they would let her sleep with one of the little girls, but Sister Potentia called a fat, fair-haired, grown maiden: “Here is Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who is to be your bed-fellow — you must see now and learn to know each other.” And with that she went out.
Ingebjörg took Kristin at once by the hand and began to talk. She was not very tall, and was much too fat, above all in the face — her cheeks were so plump that her eyes looked quite small. But her skin was clear, red and white, and her hair was yellow as gold, and so curly that her thick plaits twisted and twined together like strands of rope, and small locks kept ever slipping from under her snood.
She began straightway to question Kristin about many things, but never waited for an answer; instead she talked about herself, reckoned out the whole of her kindred in all its branches — they were naught but fine and exceeding rich folk. She was betrothed, too, to a rich and mighty man, Einar Einarssön of Aganæs — but he was far too old, and twice widowed; this was her greatest sorrow, she said. Yet could Kristin not mark that she took it much to heart. Then she talked a little of Simon Darre — ’twas a marvel how closely she had looked him over in the short moment when they were passing in the cloisters. After that she had a mind to look into Kristin’s chest — but first she opened her own and brought forth all her clothes. While they were ransacking their chests, Sister Cecilia came in — she rebuked them and said that this was no seemly Sunday pastime. This made Kristin unhappy again — she had never been taken to task by any but her own mother, and that was not the same as being chid by a stranger.
Ingebjörg was not abashed. After they were come to bed in the evening, she lay chattering until Kristin fell asleep. Two elder lay-sisters slept in a corner of the room; they were to see that the maidens did not take their shifts off at night — for it was against the rules for the girls to undress entirely — and to see that they were up in time for matins in the church. But else they did not trouble themselves to keep order in the hostel, and made as though they marked it not when the maids were lying talking, or eating the dainties which they had hidden in their chests.
When Kristin was awakened next morning, Ingebjörg was in the midst of a long tale already, so that Kristin almost wondered whether the other had been talking the whole night through.
2
THE FOREIGN merchants who lay in Oslo during the summer and trafficked there, came to the town in the spring about Holy Rood Day, which is ten days before the Halvards-wake Fair.* To this folk streamed in from all the parishes between Mjosen and the Swedish marches, so that the town swarmed with people in the first weeks of May. This was the best time to buy from the strangers, before they had sold too many of their wares.
Sister Potentia had the care of the marketing for Nonneseter, and she had promised Ingebjörg and Kristin that they should go with her down to the town the day before the Halvards-wake. But about midday some of Sister Potentia’s kin came to the convent to see her; and so she could not go that day. Then Ingebjörg begged and prayed till at last she let them go alone — although it was against the rules. An old peasant who was a commoner of the convent was sent with them as escort — Haakon was his name.
Kristin had been three weeks now at Nonneseter, and in all that time she had not set foot outside the convent grounds and gardens. She wondered to see how spring-like it was outside. The little woods out in the fields were pale-green; the wood anemones grew thick as a carpet round the light-coloured tree stems; white fair-weather clouds came salling up over the islands in the fjord, and the water lay fresh and blue, slightly ruffled here and there by the light flaws of wind.
Ingebjörg skipped about, plucked bunches of leaves from the trees and smelt them, and peeped round after the folk they met; till Haakon chid her — were these seemly goings-on for a wellborn maid, and in the convent habit too? The maidens were made to walk just behind him, hand in hand, quietly and seemly; but Ingebjörg used her eyes and her tongue all the same — Haakon was somewhat deaf. Kristin, too, was wearing the novices’ garb now — an undyed, light-grey wadmal dress, woollen belt and head-band, and a plain, dark blue cloak over all, with a hood turned up so that the plaited hair was quite hid. Haakon strode in front with a stout brass-knobbed staff in his hand. He was dressed in a long black gown, had a leaden Agnus Dei hanging on his breast and an image of St. Christopher in his hat — his white hair and beard were so well brushed that they shone like silver in the sunshine.
The upper part of the town between the Nunsbeck and the bishop’s palace was a quiet neighbourhood; there were here neither shops nor taverns; most of the dwelling-places belonged to great folk from the parishes around, and the houses turned dark, windowless, timber gables to the street. But on this day whole crowds of people were roaming about the roads even up here, and the serving-folk stood loitering about the courtyard gates gossiping with the passers-by.
When they were come out near the bishop’s palace, there was a great crush upon the place in front of Halvard’s Church and the Olav-cloister — booths had been set up on the grassy slopes, and there were showmen making trained dogs jump through barrelhoops. But Haakon would not have the maids stand and look at these things, and he would not let Kristin go into the church — he said ’twould be better worth her seeing on the great Feast-day itself.
As they came down over the open space by St. Clement’s Church, Haakon took them by the hands, for here was the greatest press of folk coming from the wharves or out from the alleys between the traders’ yards.* The maidens were bound for the Mickle Yard, where the shoemakers plied their trade. For Ingebjörg had found the clothes Kristin had brought from home very good and sightly, but she said the shoes she had with her from the Dale were not fit to wear for best. And when Kristin had seen the shoes from the outland Ingebjörg had in her chest — more pairs than one — she felt she could not rest until she too had bought some like them.
The Mickle Yard was one of the largest in Oslo; it stretched from the w
harves up to the Souters’ Alley, with more than forty houses round two great courts. And now they had set up booths with wadmal roofs in the courts as well. Above the roofs of these tents there rose a statue of St. Crispinus. Within the courts was a great throng of folk buying and selling, women running between the kitchens with pots and pails, children getting in the way of folks’ feet, horses being led in and out of the stables, and serving-men carrying packages to and from the warehouses. From the balconies of the lofts above, where the finest wares were sold, shoemakers and their apprentices shouted to the two maids and dangled small gaily-coloured or gold-embroidered shoes before them.
But Ingebjörg made her way toward the loft where Didrek the shoemaker sat; he was a German, but had a Norse wife and owned a house in the Mickle Yard.
The old man was standing bargaining with an esquire wearing a traveller’s cloak, and a sword at his belt; but Ingebjörg went forward unabashed, bowed, and said:
“Good sir, will you not suffer us of your courtesy to have speech with Didrek first? We must be home in our convent by vespers; you, perchance, have no such great haste?”
The esquire bowed and stepped aside. Didrek nudged Ingebjörg with his elbow and asked, laughing, whether they danced so much in the convent that she had worn out already all the shoon she had of him the year before. Ingebjörg nudged him again and said they were still unworn, thank Heaven, but here was this other maid — and she pulled Kristin forward. Then Didrek and his lad bore forth a box into the balcony; and out of it he brought forth shoes, each pair finer than the last. They had Kristin sit down upon a chest that he might try them on her — there were white shoes and brown and red and green and blue, shoes with painted wooden heels and shoes without heels, shoes with buckles and shoes with silken laces in them, shoes in leather of two or of three hues. Kristin felt she would fain have had them all. But they cost so dear she was quite dismayed — not one pair cost less than a cow at home. Her father had given her a purse with a mark of silver in counted money* when he left — that was for pocket money, and Kristin had deemed it great riches. But she soon saw that Ingebjörg thought it no great store to go a marketing with.
Ingebjörg, too, must try on some shoes for the jest of it; that cost no money, said Didrek laughing. She did buy one pair of leaf-green shoes with red heels — she said she must have them on trust, but then Didrek knew her and her folks.
Kristin thought, indeed, that Didrek liked this none too well, and that he was vexed too, that the tall esquire in the travelling cloak had left the loft — much time had been taken up with the trying-on. So she chose for herself a pair of heelless shoes of thin purple-blue leather, broidered with silver and with rose-red stones. But she liked not the green silk laces in them. Didrek said he could change these, and took the maids with him into a room at the back of the loft. Here he had coffers full of silk ribbons and small silver buckles — ’twas against the law, strictly, for shoemakers to trade in these things — and the ribbons, too, were many of them too broad and the buckles too big for footgear.
They felt they had to buy one or two of the smaller things, and when they had drunk a cup of sweet wine with Didrek and he had packed the things they had brought into a wadmal cloth, the hour was grown somewhat late, and Kristin’s purse much lighter.
When they were come to the Ostre Stræte again the sunlight was turned golden, and, by reason of the traffic in the town, the dust hung over the street in a bright haze. The evening was warm and fair, and folk were coming down from Eikaberg with great armfuls of young green branches wherewith to deck their houses for the holy-day. And now the whim took Ingebjörg that they should go out to the Gjeita bridge — at fair-times there was wont to be so much merry-making in the fields on the farther side of the river, both jugglers and fiddlers — nay, Ingebjörg had heard there was come a whole shipful of outlandish beasts that were being shown in booths down by the waterside.
Haakon had had a pot or two of German beer at the Mickle Yard, and was now easy and mild of mood; so when the maidens took him by the arm and begged him sweetly, he gave way at last, and the three went out towards Eikaberg.
Beyond the stream there were but a few small dwelling-places scattered about the green slopes between the river and the steep hillside. They went past the Minorite monastery, and Kristin’s heart sank with shame as she bethought her how she had meant to give most of her silver for the good of Arne’s soul. But she had had no mind to speak of it to the priest at Nonneseter; she feared to be asked questions — she had thought that she could maybe come out to the barefoot friars and find if by chance Brother Edvin were in the cloister now. She was fain to meet him again — but she knew not, either, what would be the most seemly way to get speech with one of the monks and tell him her desire. And now she had so little money she knew not whether she could buy a mass — maybe she must be content to offer a thick wax-candle.
Of a sudden they heard a fearful yell from countless throats down by the shore — a storm seemed to sweep over the press of human beings down there — and now the whole mass rushed towards them, shrieking and shouting. All seemed wild with terror, and some of the runners-by cried out to Haakon and the maids that the pards were loose.…
They set out running back to the bridge, and heard folk shout to one another that a booth had fallen down and two pards had broken loose — some spoke of a serpent, too. The nearer they came to the bridge the worse became the crush. Just in front of them a woman dropped a little child out of her arms — Haakon stood astride the little one to shield it — soon after they caught sight of him far away with the child in his arms, and then they lost him.
At the narrow bridge the press of people was so great that the maids were pushed right out into a field. They saw folks run down to the river-bank; young men jumped in and swam, but elder folk sprang into boats that lay there, and these were overladen in a trice.
Kristin tried to make Ingebjörg hear — she cried out to her that they should run up to the Minorite cloister — they could see the Grey Friars come running out from it, striving to gather in the terrified people. Kristin was not so frightened as the other girl — they saw nothing, either, of the wild beasts — but Ingebjörg had quite lost her wits. And now, when there was a fresh uproar in the throng, and it was driven back by a whole troop of men from the nearest dwellings, who had armed themselves and forced their way back over the bridge, some riding and some running, and Ingebjörg was nigh coming under the feet of a horse — she gave a scream and set off running for the woods. Kristin had never thought the girl could have run so fast — it made her think of a hunted pig. She ran after her, so that they two, at least, should not be parted.
They were deep in the woods before Kristin could get Ingebjörg to stop — they were on a little path which seemed to lead down toward the road to Trælaborg. They stood still for a little to get their breath again; Ingebjörg was snivelling and weeping, and said she dared not go back alone through the town and all the way out to the convent.
Nor did Kristin deem that this would be well, with the streets in such commotion; she thought they must try to find a house where they might hire a lad to take them home. Ingebjörg thought there was a bridle-path to Trælaborg farther down by the short, and along it there lay some houses she knew. So they followed the path downward, away from the town.
Fearful and uneasy as they both were, it seemed to them they had gone far ere at last they came to a farmstead lying off in a field. In the courtyard there they found a band of men sitting drinking at a board under some ash trees, while a woman came and went, bearing out tankards to them. She looked wonderingly and sourly at the two maids in convent habit, and none of the men seemed to have a mind to go with them when Kristin told their need. At last, though, two young men stood up and said they would bring the girls to Nonneseter, if Kristin would give them a silver ducat.
She heard by their speech that they were not Norse, but she thought they seemed honest folk enough. ’Twas a shameless sum they asked, she thought
, but Ingebjörg was beside herself with fright and she saw not how they could go home alone so late; and so she struck the bargain.
No sooner were they come to the forest-path than the men drew closer to them and began to talk. Kristin liked this but ill, but she would not show she was afraid; so she answered them quietly, told of the pards and asked the men where they were from. She spied about her, too, and made as though she looked each moment to meet the serving-men they had had with them — she talked as though there had been a whole band. As they went on the men spoke less and less — nor did she understand much of their speech.
After a while she became aware that they were not going the same way she had come with Ingebjörg — the course their path took was not the same; ’twas more northerly — and she deemed they had already gone much too far.
Deep within her there smouldered a fear she dared not let herself think upon — but it strengthened her strangely to have Ingebjörd with her, for the girl was so foolish that Kristin knew she must trust in herself alone to find a way out for them both. Under her cloak, she managed by stealth to pull out the cross with the holy relic she had had of her father; she clasped it in her hand, praying fervently in her heart that they might soon meet some one, and in all ways sought to gather all her courage and to make no sign.
Just after this she saw that the path came out on to a road and there was a clearing in the forest. The town and the bay lay far below. The men had led them astray, whether wilfully or because they knew not the paths — they were high up on the mountain-side and far north of Gjeita bridge, which she could see below; the road they had now met seemed to lead thither.
Thereupon she stopped, drew forth her purse and made to count out ten silver pennies into her hand.