But Olav had told him that now Torgrim had received Berse’s answer; they had his leave to come and speak with him of the matter after the last day of Yule—he held it unbecoming to conclude a bargain of this nature during Advent or in the holy-days. The betrothal ale might then take place before Lent, and if Olav Audunsson desired the wedding to be held so soon as the early summer, Berse would not oppose it, seeing that Eirik was not so young and Gunhild had already completed her twentieth year.
And Una said both she and Signe would so order it that he could meet Gunhild Bersesdatter at Yuletide: “for you two ought to hold some converse ere you be bound together in betrothal—since it is now agreed you are to wed Gunhild.”
He was troubled enough in his mind over what he had buried in the ground at Rundmyr. That hiding-place was known to others besides him. True, he had long ago forbidden Arnketil to harbour dishonest folk, but here was proof that at Rundmyr they held his commands but lightly. And Jörund had challenged him more than once, demanding to know what he had done with the treasure. Eirik put him off, reminding him that he had bought the silver of him for the price of a good horse, and saying that it lay in a spot that it was unsafe to visit even in broad daylight. Moreover, he tried every means of keeping Jörund in good humour—took him out hunting and in his boat and found pretexts for making visits to all the houses where he had friends or kinsfolk. It was no longer quite to his mind to roam about so much, but he saw that the quiet life at Hestviken was dangerous for Jörund: the man was as full of humours as a bull, and if he turned vicious, Eirik was afraid Cecilia would suffer for it.
But he himself was too happy to let any of this take a real hold of him. When he brought Gunhild out hither, he thought that in some way the others’ troubles and difficulties would also grow less. She brought such gladness with her.
Then one morning, a fortnight before Yule, when Eirik came out into the yard he saw that a thin coat of snow lay on the ground. The morning moon shone like a bright speck behind the drifting mist, promising a heavier fall. Eirik made up his mind that today he would take up the silver again; otherwise the snow might force him to wait he knew not how long, and he yearned to be rid of it.
He asked Jörund to go out hunting with him during the day, and when the two came home at dark Eirik had killed a fox and carried with him a little bundle in an earthy homespun cloth.
He did not know whether to tell his father of it or not. But he had no desire to lie more than he could help in this wretched affair. And he was afraid it would trouble and distress Cecilia if there were once more talk of this silver—she had enough hard work in any case, making ready for Yule, and at night she had little rest, for the infant child.
So he merely said to his father that Jörund had business north in the next parish and he had promised to accompany his brother-in-law. Then they rode to Draumtorp.
They arrived there at evening, and Eirik was ill pleased when he heard that Berse of Eiken was there with two of his sons, Gunhild’s own brothers. It had increased his indignation over the affair from the first that Guttorm of Draumtorp was her uncle. But that he should be compelled to utter his lying tale in the hearing of those who were soon to be his brothers-in-law, that was a thing he had not looked for.
But it went well. When Eirik had once made a beginning, he told a smooth and credible story of his fox-hunt and of his dog that had stuck fast in an earth and of the find they had made, which Jörund and he at once had thought might be a part of the Draumtorp treasure.
Guttorm was glad to get back some of his silver, so Eirik and Jörund were given the best of welcomes. The attack in the Gerdarud forest was then discussed at great length. The brothers-in-law from Hestviken listened to the old men and replied no more than there was need—this seemed to please Berse; he grew very friendly; he even jested with Eirik, saying mayhap they would be better acquainted in time—and in the end Eirik was vouchsafed the honour of escorting Berse to bed. Now that he was rid of his ugly secret, Eirik’s mood soon became light and gay, and he had drunk all he needed, so it was with a right merry heart he helped his father-in-law that was to be. Even when he was overwhelmed by the frailty of his nature, this old Berse contrived somehow to preserve his dignity in the midst of his throes.
Guttorm of Draumtorp had a long talk with Eirik next morning. He seemed to be a wise and sober man. He spoke of Berse, calling to mind that the old man had been honoured for many years as the franklins’ leader, and with every right; he had been a generous, brave, and shrewd man in his younger days. Now in truth he had grown somewhat odd with age—and his young wife, the third, whom he had married when he was already sixty winters old, had no little sway over him, though he would not allow it. And his children by the first wife had brought great sorrow upon him. The son, Benedikt, had blamed his father for his sister’s misfortune, and he had ridden from Eiken in anger; Berse never saw him again, for he fell the year after in Denmark. But Eldrid did not die, ’twas not so well.
“But all the children he had by Helga, my sister, are good and virtuous folk, Eirik—and now I am glad Gunhild shall make so good a marriage.”
Eirik guessed from this that all the maid’s kinsfolk knew of the agreement; her younger brothers, Torleif and Kaare, also greeted him as one who was soon to be their brother-in-law.
Guttorm had once met Olav Audunsson at Hestbæk, and in taking leave he bade Eirik bring greetings to his father. So when Eirik came home he had to say he had been at Draumtorp and to tell Olav of the finding of the silver. Olav was angry when he heard that such things had been found in his woods. Eirik replied that he had already reproved Anki and Liv and that he would not fail to keep a watch in future, but he begged his father to spare them this time.
At Yule Eirik met the folk from Eiken, and now they greeted him in such wise that all could see what was in the wind. When they rode to church from Skikkjustad on the eighth day of Yule, in driving rain on a road slippery with ice, Berse bade Eirik ride beside Gunhild and keep an eye on her horse; and at Rynjul they were allowed to sit by themselves over the chessboard a whole evening. It was a strange game, for Gunhild was as stupid as could be at this play, but this too became her well in Eirik’s eyes—he had never before played chess with any woman but his sister, and she played better than most men.
That same evening Olav of Hestviken and Berse of Eiken spoke long together in another house on the manor—though it was a holy-day—and kinsmen and friends on both sides were present. Afterwards Olav told Eirik of the agreement they had come to regarding the bride’s portion; Olav was to come to Eiken on the eve of St. Agnes9 with his son and his witnesses, and next day Eirik Olavsson was to betroth Gunhild Bersesdatter with ring and gifts.
On the following morning Gunhild was sent home together with her stepmother and her eldest, married brother, but Berse stayed behind at Rynjul with his two younger sons. It was the finest, clearest winter weather, and so Eirik proposed that they should ride into the town, as many as were minded to see the great procession when the King visited the Church of St. Mary on the day of Epiphany—for it was reported that King Haakon was in Oslo.
All the young men wished to go—Berse’s sons, young Torgils Torgrimsson and his cousin, Sigmund Baardsson from Skikkjustad. Then said Torgrim himself, the master of the house, that he might have a mind to go. “What think you, Olav, shall we two join company with the young folk for once?”
Olav laughed and shook his head. He must be thinking rather of returning home. “Long enough has Cecilia been left alone at Hestviken.”
Then Berse himself spoke up. He had served in King Eirik’s body-guard and afterwards in King Haakon’s, and now he would do his King a last homage and would take his place in the procession.
Thus they made slow progress, and when they came to the town it was so late that Eirik could not go to his convent and seek lodging there, as had been his intention, but followed the rest of the company to a yard where Guttorm’s son-in-law owned a house.
Late as it was,
the upper room into which they came was full of men, and the tables were full of food and drink. The men flocked about Guttorm to tell him the great news that was over the whole town: three nights ago the men of Aker had descended on the den of those miscreants who so long had made the forests around Oslo unsafe. Last autumn the ruffians had fallen upon a little farm in a clearing by Elivaag, where two brothers dwelt with their wives and a young sister; they had plundered the place and slaughtered the cattle, ravished the women, who were alone at home—but one of the robbers seemed to have liked the young girl so well that he had visited her since. She received him with a show of kindness and at last coaxed him into telling her where was the robber stronghold, and so her brothers had gathered the peasants and led them thither; six of the robbers had been slain or burned in their house, but four men and one woman lay in the dungeon of the old royal castle waiting to receive the reward of their misdeeds on the rock of execution. The girl had claimed as her meed to be allowed to hold her ravisher’s hair clear of the headsman’s axe.
At long last, when the men had said their say and drunk their fill, all came to bed. Eirik lay on the outside in a bed with Jörund Rypa and Kaare Bersesson; they two fell asleep at once, but he lay awake, in a torment of dismay, trying to tell himself that he need not be afraid, ere he knew whether there were aught to be afraid of.
He took the rosary from his neck and held it in his hands. But in all these years he had never been wont to pray for anything—he had only prayed in order to feel that God was there and that he could speak to Him, but he had been content with all that fell to him from God’s hand. Ah, yes, he had prayed for Cecilia. But now he knew not what he might do—if what he had done were wrong, then he could not well pray God to help him conceal the truth, if it were meant to come to light.
He stood down by the castle quay, caught in the press of people, so that he could scarce see anything of the procession-listening to folks’ talk around him. It seemed impossible they could speak of aught but the robbers.
The church was full of folk, so there was no room to kneel down, and he could not follow the mass, for his heart was in too great a tumult. But he stayed behind when the church began to empty. Then he saw that he had been standing close to a side altar, and on the wall beside it was painted Mary with her attendant virgins: Margaret, Lucy, Cecilia, Barbara, Agatha; last of the band stood Agnes with her lamb. She was to have been the witness of his plighting his troth to Gunhild; he had been glad of that, for he had had a special affection for this young and childlike martyr ever since he had heard her legend. So he approached her with a prayer: “Pray for me for what is best.” He grew calmer on the instant; it was as though he had taken counsel with a little sister.
Someone touched him on the shoulder, and he rose at once—it was Guttorm of Draumtorp. Eirik had expected this, it seemed to him. They went out of the church together, but as they stood outside the porch looking up the street, Guttorm said suddenly:
“We may just as well talk inside. Something has come up of which I thought I would fain speak with you in private, Eirik Olavsson. Maybe you guess what it is?”
Eirik looked at the other, but made no reply.
“I wish to hear,” said Guttorm, “if aught else had come to light about my silver, the rest of it. So we went out to the castle this morning between matins and mass—Berse was bound thither in any case, and so I went with him. Sir Tore then had the prisoners brought up into the hall, so that we might question them.”
Eirik pressed his hat between his hands, but answered nothing. Now they were standing by the same side altar—and on the wall above him he saw the painting of the holy virgins; lithe and slender in their bright kirtles they stood in a ring about their Queen, smiling upon the King’s Son in her lap. Eirik was reminded of the verse: Ego mater pulchr æ dilectionis, et timoris, et agnitionis, et sanctæ spei,1 and of the response: Deo gratias.
Guttorm scratched his head.
“Sooth to say, Eirik—it mislikes me to have to speak of these things—And I am thinking—could you not say it yourself?”
“I—?”
“You can guess I questioned them closely of that hiding-place of theirs out in the Hestvik woods.” He looked searchingly at the young man who stood with a calm, white face looking down at the floor. “For, to be brief, it would seem that as you found my silver, you knew where to look?”
Eirik nodded slightly.
“I have got you back your silver, Guttorm,” he said quietly. “Can you not be content with that?”
“Is it true that you had bought it?”
“Yes. But you will hardly think I bought it of any unknown,” he went on, in a more lively tone. “The place where—where I got wind of this affair—is the dwelling of poor and ignorant folk—the man was like a foster-father to me when I was a boy. They have little wit—and all kinds of beggars and the like frequent their cot, some of our own beadsmen among them, good folk, such as have served in our boats, all kinds of vagabonds besides. Guttorm—could you not forbear to look more closely into this matter, be content that I have borne the cost of getting back your goods—and leave me to sit in judgment at home over my own folk?”
“No, Eirik—’tis useless that you try to give out that it was one of your folk—”
Eirik broke in: “In God’s name, if you know more, then you must know that I have special grounds for dealing with the matter as I have done—secretly.”
“That may be so.” Guttorm paused awhile, turning over something in his mind. “You know not if there be more of my silver to be found up there?”
“No.—I have given no thought to that. I cannot believe it either—but if you will, you could come out to us when the snow is gone, I will gladly help you to make search.”
Guttorm looked at the young man sharply—he himself reddened as he spoke. “Better we make an end of it,” he then said. “Jörund Rypa says there were four cups—the great tankard and four small ones—”
Eirik looked at Guttorm, bewildered. The lump of silver, he thought; then it was Jörund himself who had melted down some of the booty—this grew worse and worse. He shook his head.
“I have seen it in no other shape than as it was when I gave it to you. So I know not who has melted down your silver cups.”
“There should be four cups and the lump of silver, says he,” Guttorm rejoined in a low voice.
Eirik stared—slowly a blush crept over his pale face.
“Then Jörund’s memory is at fault.”
“That horse you gave him in exchange,” asked Guttorm warily—“that was worth more than the silver you brought me—’twas the one he rode yesterday?”
“Since you know who it was,” said Eirik hotly, “can you suppose I was minded to haggle over the price?”
Guttorm was silent for a few moments. Then he asked slowly: “Then you know of no more than the silver that I received back from you? You give me your answer here, where we stand, and I take your word for it.”
Involuntarily Eirik looked up at the wall—it flashed through his mind that he had heard of pictures that found a voice: Mary herself and her Son had witnessed from painted lips and mouths of stone that the truth might be made manifest. But no change came over the gentle faces under the golden crowns, and the holy virgins stood motionless, showing forth the wheels and the swords that had once torn their bodies asunder.
“No. I know naught of more,” he said simply.
Guttorm held out his hand. As Eirik made no move to take it, he seized the young man’s, pressed it hard.
“I believe you, I say. But that I had to get this affair straightened out—you cannot bear me ill will for that?”
“No. You had to do it—”
“’Tis cold standing here,” said Guttorm. “Come, let us go out.”
Outside, the smoke whirled up from all the white roofs—it was mild, the sun shone, and the sky was blue. The thin coat of fresh snow that had fallen during the night had been trodden down, so that the street was s
lippery. “I shall have to take your arm,” said Guttorm.
Eirik could utter nothing in reply. He saw what the elder man meant, but it was bitter to have to swallow such amends when he had been forced to put up with so immense and undeserved an insult. Arm in arm the two walked up West Street. In the square outside St. Halvard’s Church Guttorm met some men he knew; he leaned heavily on Eirik’s arm while he spoke to them. Eirik stood dumb as a post. But when they reached the house by Holy Cross Church, where they were lodged, he said to Guttorm:
“Ere we go in—I would fain ask you of one or two matters.”
“That is fair enough.”
They had passed behind the yards, where the river ran between clay banks. Eirik bade Guttorm tell him what had passed in the hall of the castle that morning, and who had been present.
Guttorm said Berse had been there with both his sons, Torgrim from Rynjul and Jörund Rypa, himself and his son-in-law Karl. Of the castle folk none had been present but Sir Tore and the men-at-arms who brought in the prisoners.
None of these had taken part in the attack on Guttorm and his company—the robbers either had been killed or had left the band before this winter. But the woman had been ready to make known what had become of the Draumtorp silver; she had sold it to that man who stood there, Jörund Rypa. The two had known each other of old. Then Jörund had straightway confirmed her words, but said that Aasa had declared to him it was her heritage, which she had just fetched from home, and he had believed her, for he knew that she came of good family. He bought the silver of her because she said she would then see about leaving her man-married they were not—and she would amend her life.
To this the woman had replied that nothing had been said of where the silver came from, nor had she seen any sign that night of Jörund’s zeal for the improvement of her morals.