He was aroused by a hand on his shoulder. One of the monks signed to him to move forward—Olav had not noticed how far the mass had progressed, but the priest was already at Orate, fratres—and now he saw Eirik; he had not remarked his son’s coming.
But there under the choir arch lay Eirik, with his hands extended on either side, his forehead touching the pavement. His dark-red velvet cloak covered the kneeling figure, spreading out over the grey stones of the floor, and below it could be seen the outline of his sword; for today, when he was to offer himself and all that he owned to God, Eirik alone of all men was permitted to bear arms in God’s house.
Olav stood up and advanced the few steps, then knelt in his place at the young man’s left side. And at the last his affection for this son burst all bonds. It was his own son he was giving away today.—Olav hid his face again in the folds of his cloak.
His daughter he had promised—her he was to give away to a man whom he trusted no more than halfway, to all that was uncertain and transitory in this world; but for that reason it seemed to him that he was not taking his hand entirely from Cecilia; he might yet be compelled to intervene in her destiny. But Eirik was to be given to God, to what is firmer than all rocks, more certain than death and judgment—this was complete severance, for all time, for eternity, it might be.
“My son, my son, who is to make amends for my failure—”
Olav was too absorbed to follow the mass—he was aware of nothing around him until he heard the voice just above his head. The guardian stood in the centre under the arch; before him Eirik now knelt upright and erect, his young face turned upward, his cloak thrown back, so that the brooches and the bridegroom’s chain flashed on his silken jerkin. Eirik was clad entirely in red, for his garments were to be offered to the altar, and they had most need of a new set of red vestments.
Olav heard Eirik say the responses—loudly and clearly so that he was heard over the whole church. Some women at the back wept aloud—but there are always some women who do that, Olav tried to persuade himself, so as not to be unmanned.—Eirik was of full age, so Olav was not called upon to answer.
He saw Eirik raised to his feet by the hand of the guardian. His spurs jingled faintly as the young man followed the monk up to the high altar. Olav saw the bundle of coarse, ashy-grey homespun that lay on the altar—the novice’s habit was being blessed. Now it was given to Eirik, who took it and clasped it to his breast.
The contracting pain in his throat became unbearable—and Olav felt his burning eyes dimmed with tears. He drew his cloak before his face again. When he looked up once more, Eirik was gone.
Olav rose and went back to his place by Baard’s side. He took in nothing of the prayers and lessons that followed. They had sung the Veni Creator to the end without his hearing it.
And at last they came back. Olav thought he did not know this young monk. The fine, narrow skull shone smooth and newly shaven above the black fringe of close-cropped hair, and was it Eirik’s dark and mobile face that was now so changed, pale as bast beneath the brown complexion? His great yellow eyes blazed like stars. He looked even taller and broader in the shoulders in the grey frock with the knotted rope around his slender waist. Below the edge of the frock Olav saw his son’s feet naked in the sandals.
For a moment Eirik stood still, beaming. Then he turned, passed round the choir, was greeted by his new brethren with the kiss of peace. When his father looked up again, the last of the monks were disappearing through the door leading to the convent.
Outside the church Olav met with his company. One after another they took him by the hand, wishing him joy of his son. Several of the townsmen who knew Olav Audunsson came up and greeted him.
The daughters of Arne were wiping their tear-stained faces with the flaps of their coifs. Cecilia wore her veil down—she had certainly never raised it once while in church.
“What think you of this, my daughter?” Olav asked her as they went round to the guest-house; they had all been bidden to break their fast there.
“’Tis well,” the maid said simply.
Oh, nay, but then ’twas true she had seen so little of her brother for many years, thought Olav.
7 St. Columba’s Day is June 9; St. Laurence’s August 10.
9
OLAV had spared nothing in making his daughter’s betrothal feast, and folk who had been present spoke well of it afterwards. Laughter and merriment were always somewhat rare at Olav Audunsson’s banquets, but all was done in a handsome and worthy manner.
Signe and Una stayed on with two of their daughters and some serving-maids, and now there was a busy time at Hestviken. Cecilia’s rich dowry was to be inspected and to receive its last touches, and festival garments were to be prepared for those of his household whom Olav was to take with him on the bridal journey.
One morning Signe came and said to Olav that now they must look through those things which the child was to inherit from her mother.
Ingunn Steinfinnsdatter’s bridal chest had stood during all these years in the closet where Olav slept; he had never answered when anyone had suggested removing it to the storehouse. So when he and old Tore carried it into the light, the women were afraid that the stuffs might have suffered damage. Olav had indeed kept it resting on the ends of two beams, but the air of the closet was always so raw.
Olav saw that Cecilia was filled with expectation, though she appeared as calm as usual. His daughter had never set eyes on the goods she was to inherit from her mother; the chest had not been opened since the days Olav took his wife’s grave-clothes out of it.
Olav gave the key to Signe. But the women could not cope with the lock—he had to do it himself. Then he stood by and looked at what they took out of the chest.
The first thing that met his eyes was a folded cloth of reddish-brown wool. A glimpse of the wrong side was enough: they had used it in his childhood at Frettastein, when they hung the walls of the hall. It was embroidered with the New Jerusalem and saints adoring the Lamb, according to the vision of Saint John. Above and below the images there were borders of vines, with beasts and hunters between.
The women shook it out, and there fell from it a shower of dried flowers that had been put in to guard against moth. It had taken no hurt.
“But beautiful you cannot call it,” said Una; “it must be old as the hills.” The saints were stumpy and broad and all the men had beards. “This cannot be anything for Cecilia to take to Gunnarsby?”
“’Tis only laid over for a covering.” Olav took the tapestry, rolled it up, and laid it on the bench behind him.
Piece by piece the things were lifted into the daylight and shaken out, making the bystanders sneeze with the herbs and spices that filled the air. Cushions and tapestries, kirtles and mantles, chaperons of velvet and Flemish cloth, shifts with embroidered fronts of silk and linen, and many vests to which the skirts had not been attached.
“Deft with her hands was Ingunn,” said Una, handing one of these vests to Cecilia. “Have you ever seen such fine sewing?”
Cecilia fingered the costly piece: it was of white silk, embroidered in black and gold thread at the wrists and neck. “Nay, I have never seen the like. Mother had great skill!”
Her father nodded—he had no wish to enter the conversation. But in fact it was not Ingunn who had sewed this shirt body; he had bought it when he was in Stockholm with the Earl, of a man who said it came from Micklegarth.8 Ingunn had never finished it for wear.
The women took out the carved coffer and spread the jewels over the table—finger-rings fastened together with a ribbon, brooches white and gilt, but blackened and tarnished for want of use, a decayed leather belt studded with plates of chased metal. A ring-brooch of pure gold, which he himself had given her; he had inherited it of his father. Around the ring was inscribed the Angel’s Greeting and “Amor vincit omnia.” Then Signe handed Olav a faded band of green velvet, thickly set with gilt roses—Ingunn’s bridal garland, the symbol of inviolate maidenhood and ge
ntle birth.
“I wonder that you did not give this to Cecilia for her betrothal,” said Signe.
“The other garland that I gave her is better,” replied Olav, turning the matter aside. “This one weighs scarce the half of it.”
The women brought forward into the light a kirtle of green silk, woven with golden flowers and birds. Down to the waist it was fairly close-fitting, but wide below and exceedingly long. All the women broke into exclamations of delight at the beautiful stuff—’twas great pity that they must cut it shorter, if Cecilia was to wear it at her bridal.
Olav remembered that Ingunn had had to lift it as she went round the table pouring wine—she had caught her foot in it as they ran hand in hand across the wet courtyard that summer night—and in the dark bower he had felt the soft silk about her slender body as a part of the lawless sweetness of the adventure. His heart grew hot within him at the thought that that man should embrace his daughter in this very garb.
“’Twould be a shame to cut up and spoil such costly silk,” he said. “Cecilia is not so old but that she may grow taller yet—her mother was a tall woman. Better to let this gown lie by a few years longer.”
Olav had arranged with Aake Kolbeinsson that he was to visit Gunnarsby before the haymaking, in order to become acquainted with the home of the Rypungs before he brought his daughter thither. He went by way of Oslo, taking a number of jewels and vessels to the goldsmith—Cecilia would have to bring a share of such into the estate, but there was such good store at Hestviken that he needed only to have some of the old vessels remade. His daughter’s marriage entailed expense enough without his having to buy new silver for her dowry.
The last day he was in the town he went out into the fields and heard vespers in the Minorites’ church. After the service he went to the gate and asked leave to speak with his son.
Brother Eirik came down to the gate—again Olav gave a start on seeing the young monk, he was so unlike his old self. He had already acquired the monastic air, but in such a way that it suited him. At home Eirik had never seemed to know how to bear himself—now he was too noisy and now too abrupt, now too courteous and now too rude; but however he might be, there was too much effort in all he did. Now he seemed to have learned to comport himself calmly, and he talked as though he had thought of what he was to say.
He had little time, he said—’twas this sickness that was rife, they had it here too. Father Einar said it came from the water; it turned rotten in the heat. So now he and Brother Arne were busy in the garden. But he would ask leave to bring his father thither, so that they might talk as he worked.
It was cool in the shade of the great birches, and the grass grew high and rank under the drip from the hollowed logs that carried a stream from Eikaberg down to the convent garden. Olav sat taking his ease as he watched the two young friars in grey frocks watering rows of beans and beds of celery. In the flower-beds beyond, a rose bloomed already here and there, and round about them yellow lilies swayed, and some blue flowers the name of which Olav did not know.
Now and then as Eirik went to the water-butt he said a few words to his father. Father Einar, the master of the novices, had already begun teaching him to read in a book and to write; it came easy to him.
In one thing and another Olav recognized his son as of old—he had always had such a strong belief in himself when he was to do anything, before he had really set about it. But Eirik had not been here more than six weeks, and already Olav could see a great change in him. He sat there letting his affection for Eirik thaw and warm his heart: after all, he had always been fond of this child in a way, and it was good to feel that this battered and crippled affection might now be suffered to grow healthy and strong.
At Gunnarsby Olav was received with such marks of friendship and honour by the Kolbeinssons that he could not help liking the place.
The manor was a fair one and a great, and lying as it did on the sunny slope above a little lake, with broad acres and meadows about it and many new and well-built houses, it might well support three brothers in lordly fashion. Here the household was ordered more after the custom of the new nobles—as was to be expected with young masters and a greater range of husbandry. Between the masters themselves and the labourers in farmyard and workyard a crowd of serving-men and maids passed to and fro—some of these were poor kinsfolk of the Rypungs.
Olav had seen none of the women of Gunnarsby before now. Gunhild Rypa, the mother of the Kolbeinssons, was infirm and in her dotage. So Cecilia would have no mother-in-law above her. Aake’s and Steinar’s wives had just been brought to bed, both of them, when the betrothal feast was held at Hestviken. Olav liked them least of all the folk of Gunnarsby. Brynhild had a hard look, but Lucia was far too mild—she promised Olav that Cecilia should have milk to wash in and wine to drink, as the saying goes. Olav smiled to himself—Cecilia would be able to hold her own with them well enough; his child lacked neither wit nor will, and she bore herself in just as courtly a fashion as these two knights’ daughters. Moreover, it was only natural that these brothers’ wives should be glad to see the youngest of the family marry a franklin’s daughter; then he could leave Gunnarsby with wife and children, when the time came.
So Olav was not ill pleased with what he had seen, when he rode from Gunnarsby.
The summer heat held on day after day. Toward nones the sky was often overcast—a dark-blue wall, flecked with flame-coloured clouds, rose above the wooded ridges; within the blue darkness gleamed distant lightnings, as when a candle is moved within a tent, and the thunder rolled faintly far up the country. Sometimes a shred of cloud brought a scud of rain over the dried-up fields, but the storm that was to clear the air was long in coming. And every evening it cleared up, and every morning dawned with a hazy blue sky that heralded a hot day.
And broiling hot it was even in the middle of the morning, the day Olav and Tore rode home through the woods that divide the districts of Eyjavatn and Folden. And toward nones, as they were riding high up on a hillside, the thunder-clouds again rolled up in the north and east, casting shadows over the sun-drenched woods, and darkening the tarns scattered over the pale bogs that stretched everywhere on the lower land.
The path led across some mountain pastures at the top of the ridge, and here they would unsaddle their horses and rest a few hours. Outside one of the sæters they found a young woman sitting and spinning, while she kept an eye on a caldron that hung over a fire close by. When she saw that the new-comers were peaceful wayfarers, she was overjoyed at having guests; she pressed upon them both fresh milk and curds to take on their journey. After they had talked awhile it came out that old Tore had known some kinsfolk of her master. So they two sat and talked, while Olav went down toward the brook they heard murmuring in the wood near by—he would look for a cool place where he could lie down and sleep.
He had to go some way down; up near the sæters the banks were trodden into mire round the watering-places, and the ants swarmed on the moss where he had first flung himself down under the firs. But then he came to a little patch of dry, close-cropped grass, thyme, and ground ivy, and there he stretched himself at the edge of the wood.
He was not so sleepy—lay looking up at the great dark, silver-bordered clouds that drifted over the tree-tops, causing a succession of shadows and sharp yellow sunlight. The thunder muttered far away, and at the bottom of the slope the brook swirled and gurgled among great stones.
On the other side of the stream the wood rose steeply to the rounded summit, but right opposite to him was a scree, where masses of red-flowered willow-herb grew among the stones. And all at once it flashed on Olav that he had been here once before—he recognized the scree and the cascade of flowers and these black clouds silently rising, and the murmur of the brook and the distant thunder—all had been present before.
Then the mirage vanished as suddenly as it had come. The place looked like any other watercourse in a wood. Olav lay down again, dozed with eyes half-open to the sunshine, and br
eathed in the scent of herbs that floated about him and made him sleepy.
Then all at once he was roused, broad awake, by a little whirring sound—before he had time to grasp what it was, a shadow flitted past him as swiftly as the shadow of a bird in flight. He opened his eyes, looked about him, and was aware of Ingunn Standing in the scree on the other side of the brook among the red flowers.
Olav felt no surprise—as he rose on his knees he saw in a flash every detail he afterwards called to mind. A gust of warm wind passed through the wood at that moment, and the tall red tufts of flowers waved, the trees leaned over with a yielding droop of their tops and a soughing in their branches, but her mantle of flowing light-brown hair never stirred. She stood motionless, with her long, pale hands crossed on her bosom. Her white face was also perfectly motionless; she gazed at him with a strange, beseeching look in her great, wide eyes. Although he was so far away, he could see that her skin was pale and as it were bedewed—as it always was when she felt the heat.
It did not occur to him to marvel that he saw her as she had been at the time when they were newly grown up. It did not occur to him that he was of any age either, as he rose and ran toward the vision. Time seemed to be no more.
As he crossed the brook she stretched out her hands toward him—he could not tell whether it was to receive him or forbid him to come nearer. But now he could read a great dread in her snow-white face.
Then a stone slipped under his foot. Olav fell on his knee, and behind him there was a splash in the water. When he raised his head again, the vision was gone, but the tall swaying willow-herbs scattered over the scree stirred as though someone had fled that way.
For a moment he remained as he had fallen, on one knee, trying to collect himself. Then it came upon him, a wave of blood that seemed ready to burst his heart and his brain—and the scree was whirling upward, while dark patches fell one by one before his eyes, and he sank forward in a swoon.