“What think you of this device?” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you ’tis a great wrong I do? — yet needs must I speak with you.”
“It boots but little now, I trow, to think what is right and what is wrong,” said Kristin.
“Speak not so,” begged Erlend. “I bear the blame.… Kristin, every day and every night have I longed for you,” he whispered close to her.
A shudder passed through her as she met his eyes for a moment. She felt it as guilt in her, when he looked so at her, that she had thought of anything but her love for him.
Brynhild Fluga had gone on before. Erlend asked, when they were come into the courtyard:
“Would you that we should go into the living-room, or shall we talk up in the loft-room?”
“As you will,” answered Kristin; and they mounted to the loft-room.
The moment he had barred the door behind them she was in his arms.…
She knew not how long she had lain folded thus in his arms, when Erlend said:
“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin — I scarce dare let you stay here longer.”
“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” whispered she.
Erlend pressed his cheeks to hers.
“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall not lose your good name for my sake.”
Kristin did not answer — but a soreness stirred within her; how could he speak thus — he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house; she knew not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all should go as it had gone, of that she was sure.
“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other way, I must bear you off by force — into Sweden. Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer for my sins — I have fled the land before, as you know — and I would not they should name you as the like of that other.”
“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to be parted from you, and to live on among the maids at the convent. Both your kin and mine would surely hearken to reason, and let us come together and be reconciled with them —”
Erlend clasped her to him, and groaned:
“I cannot bring you to Husaby, Kristin.”
“Why can you not?” she asked softly.
“Eline carne thither in the autumn,” said he after a moment. “I cannot move her to leave the place,” he went on hotly, “not unless I bear her to the sledge by force and drive away with her. And that methought I could not do — she has brought both our children home with her.”
Kristin felt herself sinking, sinking. In a voice breaking with fear, she said:
“I deemed you were parted from her.”
“So deemed I, too,” answered Erlend shortly. “But she must have heard in Österdal, where she was, that I had thoughts of marriage. You saw the man with me at the Yuletide feast — ’twas my foster-father, Baard Petersön of Hestnæs. I went to him when I came from Sweden; I went to my kinsman, Heming Alvsön in Saltviken, too; I talked with both about my wish to wed, and begged their help. Eline must have come to hear of it.…
“I bade her ask what she would for herself and the children — but Sigurd, her husband — they look not that he should live the winter out — and then none could deny us if we would live together.…
“I lay in the stable with Haftor and Ulv, and Eline lay in the hall in my bed. I trow my men had a rare jest to laugh at behind my back.”
Kristin could not say a word. A little after, Erlend spoke again:
“See you, the day we pledge each other at our espousals, she must understand that all is over between her and me — she has no power over me any more.…
“But ’tis hard for the children. I had not seen them for a year — they are fair children — and little can I do to give them a happy lot. ’Twould not have helped them greatly had I been able to wed their mother.”
Tears began to roll down over Kristin’s cheeks. Then Erlend said:
“Heard you what I said but now, that I had talked with my kinsfolk? Ay, they were glad enough that I was minded to wed. Then I said ’twas you I would have and none other.”
“And they liked not that?” asked Kristin at length, forlornly.
“See you not,” said Erlend gloomily, “they could say but one thing — they cannot and they will not ride with me to your father, until this bargain ’twixt you and Simon Andressön is undone again. It has made it none the easier for us, Kristin, that you have spent your Yuletide with the Dyfrin folk.”
Kristin gave way altogether and wept noiselessly. She had felt ever that there was something of wrong and dishonour in her love, and now she knew the fault was hers.
She shook with the cold when she got up soon after, and Erlend wrapped her in both the cloaks. It was quite dark now without, and Erlend went with her as far as St. Clement’s Church; then Brynhild brought her the rest of the way to Nonneseter.
7
A WEEK later Brynhild Fluga came with word that the cloak was ready, and Kristin went with her and met Erlend in the loft-room as before.
When they parted, he gave her a cloak: “So that you may have something to show in the convent,” said he. It was of blue velvet with red silk inwoven, and Erlend bade her mark that ’twas of the same hues as the dress she had worn that day in the woods. Kristin wondered it should make her so glad that he said this — she thought he had never given her greater happiness than when he said these words.
But now they could no longer make use of this way of meeting, and it was not easy to find a new one. But Erlend came often to vespers at the convent church, and sometimes Kristin would make herself an errand after the service, up to the commoners’ houses; and then they would snatch a few words together by stealth up by the fences in the murk of the winter evening.
Then Kristin thought of asking leave of Sister Potentia to visit some old, crippled women, alms-folk of the convent, who dwelt in a cottage standing in one of the fields. Behind the cottage was an outhouse where the women kept a cow; Kristin offered to tend it for them; and while she was there Erlend would join her and she would let him in.
She wondered a little to mark that, glad as Erlend was to be with her, it seemed to rankle in his mind that she could devise such a plan.
“ ’Twas no good day for you when you came to know me,” said he one evening. “Now have you learnt to follow the ways of deceit.”
“You ought not to blame me,” answered Kristin sadly. “ ’Tis not you I blame,” said Erlend quickly, with a shamed look.
“I had not thought myself,” went on Kristin, “that ’twould come so easy to me to lie. But one can do what one must do.”
“Nay, ’tis not so at all times,” said Erlend as before. “Mind you not last winter, when you could not bring yourself to tell your betrothed that you would not have him?”
To this Kristin answered naught, but only stroked his face.
She never felt so strongly how dear Erlend was to her, as when he said things like this, that made her grieve or wonder. She was glad when she could take upon herself the blame for all that was shameful and wrong in their love. Had she found courage to speak to Simon as she should have done, they might have been a long way now on the road to have all put in order. Erlend had done all he could when he had spoken of their wedding to his kinsmen. She said this to herself, when the days in the convent grew long and evil — Erlend had wished to make all things right and good again. With little tender smiles she thought of him as he drew a picture of their wedding for her — she should ride to church in silks and velvet, she should be led to the bridal-bed with the high golden crown on her flowing hair — your lovely, lovely hair, he said, drawing her plaits through his hand.
“Yet can it not be the same to you as though I had never been yours,” said Kristin musingly, once when he talked thus.
Then he clasped her to him wildly:
&nbs
p; “Can I call to mind the first time I drank in Yuletide, think you, or the first time I saw the hills at home turn green when winter was gone? Ay, well do I mind the first time you were mine, and each time since — but to have you for my own is like keeping Yule and hunting birds on green hillsides for ever —”
Happily she nestled to him. Not that she ever thought for a moment it would turn out as Erlend was so sure it would — Kristin felt that before long a day of judgment must come upon them. It could not be that things should go well for them in the end.… But she was not so much afraid — she was much more afraid Erlend might have to go northward before it all came to light, and she be left behind, parted from him. He was over at the castle at Akersnes now; Munan Baardsön was posted there while the bodyguard was at Tunsberg, where the King lay grievously sick. But sometime Erlend must go home and see to his possessions. That she was afraid of his going home to Husaby because Eline sat there waiting for him, she would not own even to herself; and neither would she own that she was less afraid to be taken in sin along with Erlend, than of standing forth alone and telling Simon and her father what was in her heart.
Almost she could have wished for punishment to come upon her, and that soon. For now she had no other thought than of Erlend; she longed for him in the day and dreamed of him at night; she could not feel remorse, but she took comfort in thinking the day would come when she would have to pay dear for all they had snatched by stealth. And in the short evening hours she could be with Erlend in the alms-women’s cowshed, she threw herself into his arms with as much passion as if she knew she had paid with her soul already that she might be his.
But time went on, and it seemed as though Erlend might have the good fortune he had counted on. Kristin never marked that any in the convent mistrusted her. Ingebjörg, indeed, had found out that she met Erlend, but Kristin saw the other never dreamed ’twas aught else than a little passing sport. That a maid of good kindred, promised in marriage, should dare wish to break the bargain her kinsfolk had made, such a thought would never come to Ingebjörg, Kristin saw. And once more a pang of terror shot through her — it might be ’twas a quite unheard-of thing, this she had taken in hand. And at this thought she wished again that discovery might come, and all be at an end.
Easter came. Kristin knew not how the winter had gone; every day she had not seen Erlend had been long as an evil year, and the long evil days had linked themselves together into weeks without end; but now it was spring and Easter was come, she felt ’twas no time since the Yuletide feast. She begged Erlend not to seek her till the Holy Week was gone by; and he yielded to her in this, as he did to all her wishes, thought Kristin. It was as much her own blame as his that they had sinned together in not keeping the Lenten fast. But Easter she was resolved they should keep. Yet it was misery not to see him. Maybe he would have to go soon; he had said naught of it, but she knew that now the King lay dying, and mayhap this might bring some turn in Erlend’s fortunes, she thought.
Thus things stood with her, when one of the first days after Easter word was brought her to go down to the parlour to her betrothed.
As soon as he came toward her and held out his hand, she felt there was somewhat amiss — his face was not as it was wont to be; his small, grey eyes did not laugh, they did not smile when he smiled. And Kristin could not help seeing it became him well to be a little less merry. He looked well, too, in a kind of travelling dress — a long blue, close-fitting outer-garment men called kothardi, and a brown shoulder-cape with a hood, which was thrown back now; the cold air had given his light-brown hair a yet stronger curl.
They sat and talked for a while. Simon had been at Formo through Lent, and had gone over to Jörungaard almost daily. They were well there; Ulvhild as well as they dared look that she should be; Ramborg was at home now, she was a fair child and lively.
“ ’Twill be over one of these days — the year you were to be here at Nonneseter,” said Simon. “By this the folks at your home will have begun to make ready for our betrothal-feast — yours and mine.”
Kristin said naught, and Simon went on:
“I said to Lavrans, I would ride hither to Oslo and speak to you of this.”
Kristin looked down and said low:
“I, too, would fain speak with you of that matter, Simon — alone.”
“I saw well myself that we must speak of it alone,” answered Simon; “and I was about to ask even now that you would pray Lady Groa to let us go together into the garden for a little.”
Kristin rose quickly and slipped from the room without a sound. Soon after she came back followed by one of the nuns with a key.
There was a door leading from the parlour out into an herb-garden that lay behind the most westerly of the convent buildings. The nun unlocked the door and they stepped out into a mist so thick they could see but a few paces in among the trees. The nearest stems were coal-black; the moisture stood in beads on every twig and bough. A little fresh snow lay melting upon the wet mould, but under the bushes some white and yellow lily plants were blooming already, and a fresh, cool smell rose from the violet leaves.
Simon led her to the nearest bench. He sat a little bent forward, with his elbows resting upon his knees. Then he looked up at her with a strange little smile:
“Almost I think I know what you would say to me,” said he. “There is another man, who is more to you than I —”
“It is so,” answered Kristin faintly.
“Methinks I know his name, too,” said Simon, in a harder tone. “It is Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby?”
After a while Kristin asked in a low voice:
“It has come to your ears, then?”
Simon was a little slow in answering:
“You can scarce think I could be so dull as not to see somewhat when we were together at Yule? I could say naught then, for my father and mother were with us. But this it is that has brought me hither alone this time. I know not whether it be wise of me to touch upon it — but methought we must talk of these things before we are given to one another.
“… But so it is now, that when I came hither yesterday — I met my kinsman, Master Öistein. And he spoke of you. He said you two had passed across the churchyard of St. Clement’s one evening, and with you was a woman they call Brynhild Fluga. I swore a great oath that he must have been amiss! And if you say it is untrue, I shall believe your word.”
“The priest saw aright,” answered Kristin defiantly. “You forswore yourself, Simon.”
He sat still a little ere he asked:
“Know you who this Brynhild Fluga is, Kristin?” As she shook her head, he said: “Munan Baardsön set her up in a house here in the town, when he wedded — she carries on unlawful dealings in wine — and other things —”
“You know her?” asked Kristin mockingly.
“I was never meant to be a monk or a priest,” said Simon, reddening. “But I can say at least that I have wronged no maid and no man’s wedded wife. See you not yourself that ’tis no honourable man’s deed to bring; you out to go about at night in such company — ?”
“Erlend did not draw me on,” said Kristin, red with anger, “nor has he promised me aught. I set my heart on him without his doing aught to tempt me — from the first time I saw him, he was dearer to me than all other men.”
Simon sat playing with his dagger, throwing it from one hand to the other.
“These are strange words to hear from a man’s betrothed maiden,” said he. “Things promise well for us two now, Kristin.” Kristin drew a deep breath:
“You would be ill served should you take me for your wife now, Simon.”
“Ay, God Almighty knows that so it seems indeed,” said Simon Andressön.
“Then I dare hope,” said Kristin meekly and timidly, “that you will uphold me, so that Sir Andres and my father may let this bargain about us be undone.”
“Do you so?” said Simon. He was silent for a little. “God knows whether you rightly understand what you say.”
>
“That do I,” said Kristin. “I know the law is such that none may force a maid to marriage against her will; else can she take her plea before the Thing —”
“I trow ’tis before the Bishop,” said Simon, with something of a grim smile. “True it is, I have had no cause to search out how the law stands in such things. And I wot well you believe not either that ’twill come to that pass. You know well enough that I will not hold you to your word, if your heart is too much set against it. But can you not understand — ’tis two years now since our marriage was agreed, and you have said no word against it till now, when all is ready for the betrothal and the wedding. Have you thought what it will mean, if you come forth now and seek to break the bond, Kristin? ”
“But you want not me either,” said Kristin.
“Ay, but I do,” answered Simon curtly. “If you think otherwise, you must even think better of it —”
“Erlend Nikulaussön and I have vowed to each other by our Christian faith,” said she, trembling, “that if we cannot come together in wedlock, then neither of us will have wife or husband all our days —”
Simon was silent a good while. Then he said with effort:
“Then I know not, Kristin, what you meant when you said Erlend had neither drawn you on nor promised you aught — he has lured you to set yourself against the counsel of all your kin. Have you thought what kind of husband you will get, if you wed a man who took another’s wife to be his paramour — and now would take for wife another man’s betrothed maiden — ?”
Kristin gulped down her tears; she whispered thickly:
“This you say but to hurt me.”
“Think you I would wish to hurt you?” asked Simon, in a low voice.
“ ’Tis not as it would have been, had you …” said Kristin falteringly. “You were not asked either, Simon — ’twas your father and my father who made the pact. It had been otherwise had you chosen me yourself —”
Simon struck his dagger into the bench so that it stood upright. A little after he drew it out again, and tried to slip it back into its sheath, but it would not go down, the point was bent. Then he sat passing it from hand to hand as before.