To Denmark here,
All with a crown of the red gold
And many a tear.
All with a crown of the red gold
And tear-filled eyne —
— Mind you, Queen of the Danemen
You first were mine?”
The fiddles struck in again, the dancers hummed the new-learned tune and joined in the burden:
“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön,
Sworn man to me,
Then shall you hang to-morrow
On the gallows tree!”
But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön,
All unafraid
He leaped into the gold-bark
In harness clad.
“God send you, oh Dane-Queen,
So many a good night,
As in the high heavens
Are stars alight.
God send you, oh Dane-King,
So many ill years
As be leaves on the linden —
Or the hind hath hairs.”
Know ye not Ivor Sir Alfsön?
It was far on in the night, and the fires were but heaps of embers growing more and more black. Kristin and Erlend stood hand in hand under the trees by the garden fence. Behind them the noise of the revellers was hushed — a few young lads were hopping round the glowing mounds singing softly, but the fiddlers had sought their resting-places, and most of the people were gone. One or two wives went round seeking their husbands, who were lying somewhere out of doors overcome by the beer.
“Where think you I can have laid my cloak?” whispered Kristin. Erlend put his arm about her waist and drew his mantle round them both. Close pressed to one another they went into the herb-garden.
A lingering breath of the day’s warm spicy scents, deadened and damp with the chill of the dew, met them in there. The night was very dark, the sky overcast, with murky grey clouds close down upon the tree-tops. But they could tell that there were other folks in the garden. Once Erlend pressed the maiden close to him and asked in a whisper:
“Are you not afraid, Kristin?”
In her mind she caught a faint glimpse of the world outside this night — and knew that this was madness. But a blessed strengthlessness was upon her. She only leaned closer to the man and whispered softly — she herself knew not what.
They came to the end of the path; a stone wall divided them from the woods. Erlend helped her up. As she jumped down on the other side, he caught her and held her lifted in his arms a moment before he set her on the grass.
She stood with upturned face to take his kiss. He held her head between his hands — it was so sweet to her to feel his fingers sink into her hair — she felt she must repay him, and so she clasped his head and sought to kiss him, as he had kissed her.
When he put his hands upon her breast, she felt as though he drew her heart from out her bosom; he parted the folds of silk ever so little and laid a kiss betwixt them — it sent a glow into her inmost soul.
“You I could never harm,” whispered Erlend. “You should never shed a tear through fault of mine. Never had I dreamed a maid might be so good as you, my Kristin —”
He drew her down into the grass beneath the bushes; they sat with their backs against the wall. Kristin said naught, but when he ceased from caressing her, she put up her hand and touched his face.
In a while Erlend asked: “Are you not weary, my dear one?” And when Kristin nestled in to his breast, he folded his arms around her, and whispered: “Sleep, sleep, Kristin, here in my arms —”
She slipped deeper and deeper into darkness and warmth and happiness upon his breast.
When she came to herself again, she was lying outstretched in the grass with her cheek upon the soft brown silk above his knees. Erlend was sitting as before with his back to the stone wall, his face looked grey in the grey twilight, but his wide opened eyes were marvellously clear and fair. She saw he had wrapped his cloak all about her — her feet were so warm and snug with the fur lining around them.
“Now have you slept in my lap,” said he, smiling faintly. “May God bless you, Kristin — you slept as safe as a child in its mother’s arms —”
“Have you not slept, Sir Erlend?” asked Kristin; and he smiled down into her fresh opened eyes:
“Maybe the night will come when you and I may lie down to sleep together — I know not what you will think when you have weighed all things. I have watched by you to-night — there is still so much betwixt us two that ’tis more than if there had lain a naked sword between you and me. Tell me if you will hold me dear, when this night is past?”
“I will hold you dear, Sir Erlend,” said Kristin. “I will hold you dear, so long as you will — and thereafter I will love none other.”
“Then,” said Erlend slowly, “may God forsake me if any maid or woman come to my arms ere I may make you mine in law and honour. Say you this, too,” he prayed. Kristin said:
“May God forsake me if I take any other man to my arms so long as I live on earth.”
“We must go now,” said Erlend, a little after, “before folk waken.”
They passed along without the wall among the bushes.
“Have you bethought you,” asked Erlend, “what further must be done in this?”
“ ’Tis for you to say what we must do, Erlend,” answered Kristin.
“Your father,” he asked in a little, “they say at Gerdarud he is a mild and a righteous man. Think you he will be so exceeding loth to go back from what he hath agreed with Andres Darre?”
“Father has said so often, he would never force us, his daughters,” said Kristin. “The chief thing is that our lands and Simon’s lie so fitly together. But I trow father would not that I should miss all my gladness in this world for the sake of that.” A fear stirred within her that so simple as this perhaps it might not prove to be — but she fought it down.
“Then maybe ’twill be less hard than I deemed in the night,” said Erlend. “God help me, Kristin — methinks I cannot lose you now — unless I win you now, never can I be glad again.”
They parted among the trees, and in the dawning light Kristin found her way to the guest-chamber where the women from Nonneseter were to lie. All the beds were full, but she threw a cloak upon some straw on the floor and laid her down in all her clothes.
When she awoke, it was far on in the day. Ingebjörg Filippusdatter was sitting on a bench near by, stitching down an edge of fur that had been torn loose on her cloak. She was full of talk as ever.
“Were you with Erlend Nikulaussön the whole night?” she asked. “ ’Twere well you went warily with that lad, Kristin — how think you Simon Andressön would like it if you came to be dear friends with him?”
Kristin found a hand-basin and began to wash herself.
“And your betrothed — think you he would like that you danced with Dumpy Munan last night? Surely we must dance with him who chooses us out on such a night of merry-making — and Lady Groa had given us leave.”
Ingebjörg pshawed:
“Einar Einarssön and Sir Munan are friends — and, besides, he is wedded and old. Ugly he is to boot for that matter — but likeable and hath becoming ways — see what he gave me for a remembrance of last night,” and she held forth a gold clasp which Kristin had seen in Sir Munan’s hat the day before. “But this Erlend — ’tis true he was freed of the ban at Easter last year, but they say Eline Ormsdatter has been with him at Husaby since — Sir Munan says Erlend hath fled to Sira Jon at Gerdarud, and he deems ’tis because he cannot trust himself not to fall back into sin, if he meet her again —”
Kristin crossed over to the other — her face was white.
“Knew you not this?” said Ingebjörg. “That he lured a woman from her husband somewhere in Haalogaland in the North — and held her with him at his manor in despite of the King’s command and the Archbishop’s ban — they had two children together — and he was driven to fly to Sweden, and hath been forced to pay in forfeit so much of his lands and goods, Sir Munan says he will be a
poor man in the end unless he mend his ways the sooner.”
“Think not but that I know all this,” said Kristin, with a set face. “But ’tis known the matter is ended now.”
“Ay, but as to that Sir Munan said there had been an end between them so many times before,” said Ingebjörg pensively. “But all these things can be nothing to you — you that are to wed Simon Darre. But a comely man is Erlend Nikulaussön, sure enough.”
The company from Nonneseter was to set out for home that same day after nones. Kristin had promised Erlend to meet him by the wall where they had sat the night before, if she could but find a way to come.
He was lying face downwards in the grass with his head upon his hands. As soon as he saw her, he sprang to his feet and held out both his hands, as she was about jumping from the wall.
Kristin took them, and the two stood a little, hand in hand. Then said Kristin:
“Why told you me that of Sir Björn and Lady Aashild yesterday?”
“I can see you know it all,” said Erlend, and let go her hands suddenly. “What think you of me now, Kristin?
“I was eighteen then,” he went on vehemently, “ ’tis ten years since that the King, my kinsman, sent me with the mission to Vargöyhus,* and we stayed the winter at Steigen.… She was wife to the Lagmand, Sigurd Saksulvsön.… I thought pity of her, for he was old and ugly beyond belief. I know not how it came to pass — ay, but I loved her too. I bade Sigurd crave what amends he would; I would fain have done right by him — he is a good and doughty man in many ways — but he would have it that all must go by law; he took the matter to the Thing — I was to be branded for whoredom with the wife of him whose guest I had been, you understand …
“Then it came to my father’s ears, and then to King Haakon’s … he — he drove me from his court. And if you must know the whole — there is naught more now betwixt Eline and me save the children, and she cares not much for them. They are in Österdal, upon a farm I owned there; I have given it to Orm, the boy — but she will not stay with them. Doubtless she reckons that Sigurd cannot live for ever — but I know not what she would be at.
“Sigurd took her back again — but she says she fared like a dog and a bondwoman in his house — so she set a tryst with me at Nidaros. ’Twas little better for me at Husaby with my father. I sold all I could lay hands on, and fled with her to Holland — Count Jacob stood my friend. Could I do aught else? — she was great with my child. I knew many a man had lived even so with another’s wife and had got off cheap enough — if he were rich, that is. But so it is with King Haakon, he is hardest upon his own kin. We were away from one another for a year, but then my father died and then she came back. Then there were other troubles. My tenants denied me rent and would have no speech with my bailiffs because I lay under ban — I, on my side, dealt harshly with them, and so they brought suit against me for robbery; but I had not the money to pay my household withal; and you can see I was too young to meet these troubles wisely, and my kinsfolk would not help me — save Munan — he did all his wife would let him.…
“Ay, now you know it, Kristin: I have lost much both of lands and goods and of honour. True it is; you would be better served if you held fast to Simon Andressön.”
Kristin put her arms about his neck.
“We will abide by what we swore to each other yesternight, Erlend — if so be you think as I do.”
Erlend drew her close to him, kissed her and said: “You will see too, trust me, that all things will be changed with me now — for none in the world has power on me now but you. Oh, my thoughts were many last night, as you slept upon my lap, my fairest one. So much power the devil cannot have over a man that I should ever work you care and woe — you, my dearest life.…”
4
AT the time he dwelt at Skog, Lavrans Björgulfsön had made gifts of land to Gerdarud church, that masses for the souls of his father and mother might be said on their death-days. Björgulf Ketilsön’s day was the thirteenth of August, and Lavrans had settled with his brother that this year Aasmund should bring Kristin out to Skog that she might be at the mass.
She went in fear that something should come in the way, so that her uncle would not keep his promise — she thought she had marked that Aasmund did not care overmuch about her. But the day before the mass was to be, Aasmund Björgulfsön came to the convent to fetch his brother’s daughter. Kristin was told to clothe herself in lay garb, but simply and in dark garments. There had been some carping at the Sisters of Nonneseter for going about too much without the convent walls; therefore the Bishop had given order that the maidens who were not to take the veil must wear naught like to the habit of the order when they went visiting their kinsfolk — so that laymen could not mistake them for novices or nuns.
Kristin’s heart was full of gladness as she rode along the highway with her uncle, and Aasmund grew more friendly and merry with her when he saw the maid was not so tongue-tied after all with folk. Otherwise Aasmund was somewhat moody and downcast; he said it looked as though there would be a call to arms in the autumn, and that the King would lead an army into Sweden to avenge the slaying of his son-in-law and the husband of his niece. Kristin had heard of the murder of the Swedish Dukes, and thought it a most foul deed — yet all these questions of state seemed far away from her. No one spoke much of such things at home in the Dale; she remembered, too, that her father had been to the war against Duke Eirik at Ragnhildarholm and Konungahella. Then Aasmund told her of all that had come and gone between the King and the Dukes. Kristin understood but little of this, but she gave careful heed to all her uncle told of the making and breaking of the betrothals of the King’s daughters. It gave her comfort to think ’twas not everywhere as it was at home in her countryside, that a betrothal once fixed by word of mouth was held to bind nigh as fast as a wedding. Then she took courage to tell of her adventure on the evening before Halvard-wake, and asked her uncle if he knew Erlend of Husaby. Aasmund spoke well of Erlend — said he had guided his affairs unwisely, but his father and the King were most to blame; they had borne themselves as though the young lad were a very limb of the devil only because he had fallen into this misfortune. The King was over-pious in such matters, and Sir Nikulaus was angry because Erlend had lost much good land, so they had thundered about whoredom and hell fire — “and there must be a bit of the dare-devil in every likely lad,” said Aasmund Björgulfsön. “And the woman was most fair. But you have no call now to look Erlend’s way, so trouble yourself no more about his doings.”
Erlend came not to the mass, as he had promised Kristin he would, and she thought about this more than of God’s word. She felt no sorrow that this was so — she had only that strange new feeling that she was cut off from all the ties that she had felt binding on her before.
She tried to take comfort — like enough Erlend deemed it wisest that no one in whose charge she was should come to know of their friendship at this time. She could understand herself that ’twas wise. But her heart had longed so for him, and she wept when she had gone to rest in the loft-room where she was to sleep with Aasmund’s little daughters.
The day after, she went up into the wood with the youngest of her uncle’s children, a little maid of six years. When they were come to the pastures among the woods a little way off, Erlend came running after them. Kristin knew it was he before she had seen who was coming.
“I have sat up here on the hill spying down into the courtyard the whole day,” said he. “I thought surely you would find a chance to come out —”
“Think you I came out to meet you then?” said Kristin, laughing. “And are you not afraid to beat about my uncle’s woods with dogs and bow?”
“Your uncle gave me leave to take my pastime hunting here,” said Erlend. “And the dogs are Aasmund’s — they found me out this morning.” He patted them and lifted the little girl up in his arms.
“You know me, Ragndid? But say not you have spoken with me, and you can have this” — and he took out a bunch of r
aisins and gave them to the child. “I had brought them for you,” he said to Kristin. “Think you this child can hold her tongue?”
They talked fast and laughed together. Erlend was dressed in a short close-fitting brown jacket and had a small red silk cap pulled down over his black hair — he looked so young; he laughed and played with the child; but sometimes he would take Kristin’s hand, and press it till it hurt her.
He spoke of the rumours of war and was glad: “ ’Twill be easier for me to win back the King’s friendship,” said he, “and then will all things be easy,” he said vehemently.
At last they sat down in a meadow up among the woods. Erlend had the child on his lap; Kristin sat by his side; under cover of the grass he played with her fingers. He pressed into her hand three gold rings bound together by a cord:
“By and by,” he whispered, “you shall have as many as will go on your fingers.…
“I shall wait for you here on this field each day about this time, as long as you are at Skog,” he said, as they parted. “And you must come if you can.”
The next day Aasmund Björgulfsön set out with his wife and children to the manor of Gyrid’s kin in Hadeland. They had been scared by the talk of war; the folk about Oslo still went in terror since Duke Eirik’s harrying of that countryside some years before. Aasmund’s old mother was so fearful, she was minded to seek shelter in Nonneseter — besides, she was too weak to travel with the others. So Kristin was to stay at Skog with the old woman — she called her grandmother — till Aasmund came back from Hadeland.
About the midday hour, when the folk on the farm were resting, Kristin went to the loft-room where she slept. She had brought some clothes with her in a sheepskin bag, and now she changed her garments, humming to herself the while.
Her father had given her a dress of thick cotton stuff from the East, sky-blue with a close pattern of red flowers; this she put on. She brushed and combed out her hair and bound it back from her face with a red silk ribbon, wound a red silk belt tightly about her waist, and put Erlend’s rings upon her fingers; all the time she wondered if he would think her fair.