As soon as he saw that it would be long ere he himself could come home, Eirik had sent Svein Ragnason over to the Ness. The young man had told Eldrid all he knew of what had taken place at Hestviken in the spring, and it did not occur to Eirik to tell his wife any more or even to inquire how much she had heard.
He lay awake that night and felt how securely Eldrid slept in his arm. He was glad he should be at home for a while in their own house, before they had to move out to Hestviken and live in the same house as his father. He remembered full well that their life together had begun in a flame of passion, when they had rushed into each other’s arms as though each would devour and suck the other dry. A change had come over them by degrees, and now they lived together as if the hunger and thirst of both were appeased. Eldrid was the first human being he had known with whom he felt so safe that he could hold his peace. It had been so from the very first days, before they were married—nay, from the days when he was a new-comer here and never had a thought that she was to be his. Not even then had he been tempted to talk wildly and at random or to assert himself noisily when he was in Eldrid’s company.
These were not new thoughts—he simply felt that with her he had enjoyed silence, calm like that of the forest, and freedom. The bond that bound him to her was the first to which he had submitted without feeling the strain.
He had seen Gunhild again at church, one day in spring. Ay, surely, she was fair—like a bell-cow with her jingling jewels, honest and capable she looked. But they had not been suited to each other after all. He was thankful to have got a wife of whom he would not tire.
He did not reflect upon what Eldrid might have found in him. He saw her calm demeanour, watched her sleeping securely by his side, and that was enough for him.
He and Svein mowed the grass on the marshes during the next few days; at evening he rowed out with Eldrid and set the nets. During the midday rest he lay on the green by the wall of the house, and most of the household did the same. Eirik listened to the two old folk and chatted with them. Holgeir seemed well pleased that he and Eldrid were leaving the place. When Svein married and came hither, Holgeir would be more of a man at the Ness, being the mistress’s kinsman. Eldrid wished to take Ragnhild with her; the woman was in two minds about it: now she would go with her mistress, now she would not. Young Svein slept with his cap over his eyes. Eldrid sat a little apart, mending a garment or spinning.
Eirik said to her one day when they were alone: “’Tis no easy lot I have in store for you at Hestviken, Eldrid. There you will find much that is not well.”
But he said nothing of what the difficulties were. It was long since Eirik had thought of speaking to anyone of the difficulties that might await him. Perhaps he had never done so, but formerly he had tried to deaden his own feelings with talk and with fussing about other things. Now he had taught himself the calmness with which one must go to work if one would unravel a knot.
It was terrible to see his father in such a state, but he dared not show that he felt it—dared not even show him special care or affection: in the man’s present plight this would only add to his torment.
Olav had been almost entirely paralysed in one side when he came to himself. Little by little he recovered sufficiently to be able to walk, but he was bent quite over on the left side; he could just move his arm, but could not control it, and the scarred and ravaged face was now quite distorted and awry. When he tried to speak, it was almost impossible to catch a word; his lips only gave out a babbling. But now he no longer tried.
One day, about a month after Eirik had brought him home to Hestviken, he made signs that he wished to be shaved of the ragged white beard that had grown over his face. Apart from that, Eirik saw how it hurt Olav to be obliged to accept help; he was always making impotent attempts to do without it. But be made an ugly mess of his beard when eating—that was the reason.
As far as Eirik could tell, his father’s understanding was not darkened. Perhaps it would have been easier if it had been.
When Olav lay sick at Oslo, Father Finn Arnvidsson had said he would give him extreme unction and the viaticum if his life were in danger—he had proved his will to confess his hidden sin. But if he was destined to recover and live on for a time with the seal of this secret doom upon his lips, then let no man venture to think there are limits to God’s mercy or that he can fathom God’s mysterious counsel. As a king receives his faithless liegeman back into his friendship, but bids him dwell awhile without the court until he be sent for—so must Olav await with manly patience a sign from our Lord.
Eirik had lodged with his own brethren during the last days at Oslo. There he made his confession to Brother Stefan and took counsel with him. And next morning, when he went forward and received corpus Domini, he prayed:
“O God, Thou who art King of kings and eternal Love. No king of this world, be he never so hard, refuses a son who would ransom his father; rather will he take the son as his father’s hostage. Lord, look not upon my sins, but look upon Thy Son’s sacred wounds and have compassion upon my poverty, that my offer may find favour in Thy sight, so that I may do such penance in his stead as my father should have done.”
Brother Stefan said that he too must wait fox a sign.
One of the greatest difficulties was that Cecilia could scarcely bear to look at her father—and Eirik guessed that affection had little part in the horror she felt for him.
None could fail to see that Cecilia had rallied and grown younger again since her husband was no more. She had grown so fair in these three months of widowhood—it was as though she had been stifled in a dungeon and were now set free. What she had said when her father would force her to lay her hand on the corpse was not true. And well it was not, thought Eirik; it would have been dreadful had it been so with her, after the ugly death that came upon Jörund.
She was a faithful mother to her two little sons. The second boy, Torgils, was still at Rynjul, where the old people would not let him go. Kolbein was now six and Audun three winters old. They were handsome and healthy children, obeyed their mother like lambs and held her in high honour; but among the folk of the manor they were full of sport and high spirits, and when they came to know their uncle, they followed at his heels wherever he went. They were not at all afraid of their grandfather, Eirik saw—they scarcely noticed him.
Early in the autumn Eirik came again to the Ness, and this time it was to bring his wife home to Hestviken.
There was a diversity of opinions among folk when Eldrid Bersesdatter came back to the country where she had lived in her youth and took her place as mistress of one of the greatest manors. But for the most part they thought it was well. True, she had done much that was ill, but that was very long ago; it was right that she should be taken out of the humble cot in which she had lived for fifteen years and restored to such condition as became her birth. Her kinswomen, the daughters of Arne and their families, received her, Una and Torgrim cordially, Baard and Signe more coolly, but in very seemly fashion.
She was still a handsome woman and carried herself so well when she mixed among folk that those who were old enough to recall Eldrid’s beauty at the time she was given to old Harald Jonsson revived the memory of that marriage. And many there were who could tell tales of her evil courses when she was mistress of Borg and later at Sigurdstad in a different way. Now she was an elderly woman, nearing the half-hundred. But she and Eirik were not so ill matched a pair to look at, for all that.
He was so big and bony that he began early to look more than his age. Tall and broad-shouldered, he stooped a little with his bulky chest and long, powerful limbs, and his back was rounded by hard work. His thin and narrow face, with its indented nose and prominent jaw, was brown, tanned, and furrowed; though no one would have called him ugly, it was not easy to see that he had once passed for a comely youth. Only the great light-brown eyes were unusually handsome; but his dark and curly hair was strongly marked with grey.
With the passing of years Eirik Olavsson
had grown very like his father, folk said—not so much in outward appearance; the tall, dark, rather loose-limbed man had indeed remarkably little in common with the father, who had been so fair-complexioned, shapely, and well-knit. But folk could clearly recognize the father’s nature in the son.
Like him, Eirik was taciturn; they were all so in that family. As Olav in his time could stand quite motionless by the hour together on the lookout rock or leaning over the fence of a cornfield, so the son now stood gazing in the same places. But he was a much more capable master of Hestviken than Olav had been. Not that the father’s management had been other than careful and wise; the family estate had not shrunk in his time. But with the son everything went with more life and spirit, and success attended him. The manor of Saltviken, which had been left untenanted in Olav Half-priest’s time, had been reclaimed, and he had helped the young folk whom he had established at Rundmyr to clear the land around.
He had brought Liv and her remaining children south to a house in Saltviken. It was indeed a better abode than the woman was used to; nevertheless she was loath to leave her cot. But Eirik said it was better that Anki’s children should live farther from Hestviken when Jörund’s sons grew up.
Anki had seized a chance of escaping from the men who were to carry him bound to the Warden. In the first two years rumours were heard from time to time that the murderer had appeared, now here, now there, on the outskirts of the parish and in the neighboring country; he must have a haunt somewhere in the forests. And when Liv had a child a year and a half after the disappearance of her husband, she gave out that he was the father-he had looked in at home a few times.
In the third spring after Jörund’s death three men of the parish were taking a short cut through the woods on the way to Gardar. Close to the Black Tarn they found in a scree the remains of a corpse, badly mangled by beasts. But one leg in a boot had been caught fast among some stones. The men then searched the forest around, seeking for traces of the dead man’s hiding-place, for they guessed him to be a robber. And, sure enough, they found a little way up the hill a kind of hut built on a ledge of rock. It looked as if the man had not been so badly off there; the couch was well covered with clothes and a great food-box stood there, still half full of food.
Now, there was one of the men who thought he had seen that box before—the low, flat carving of interlacing vines looked like the work of Eirik Olavsson of Hestviken, and there were runes cut on the pin that held the lid in place. One of the men was scholar enough to make out what was written: it was “Eirekr.” Then it occurred to them that they had seen Eirik of Hestviken wearing boots that were patched in just the same way as the one the corpse had on.
They got Arnketil’s remains up to the village, and the murderer was laid in earth just outside the churchyard wall. Then they carried what they had found to Hestviken and told Eirik the news: “The thrall was true to his nature, a thief to the last.”
“Anki did not steal these things,” said Eirik. He fixed his great, clear eyes on the peasant who had spoken. “Thrall or thief, he avenged son and daughter in such way as he was able. And it is for God to judge how great was his sin.”
No one sought to find out more. If Eirik Olavsson had secretly helped the slayer of his brother-in-law, that must be his affair. The Hestvik men had always shielded their dependants—even when they were in the wrong. It came out afterwards that he had caused masses to be said for Anki—ay, the dead man might well need that.
They had always been good Christians there and open-handed with alms. Olav had been generous while he was master, and Eirik was the same. But Olav always seemed to listen to the woes of poor folk with but half an ear and in helping them looked as if he were thinking hard of something else. Eirik said loans must be given with a laugh, and gifts with a joyful countenance. Though he was not much more of a talker than his father, one could see that he listened to what folk said; there was nothing oppressive in his silence. In every way he was more friendly than the old man had been.
The day after these men had been with him Eirik rowed south to Saltviken; he wished to give Liv the news himself.
Before setting out for home he went up to the manor to find Cecilia. He knew that she had not yet held her churching, and she still kept to the same upper chamber where she had sat with her father on the night when she had fetched him home from the Ness.
The spring sun shone in through the three small bayed loopholes and fell straight upon the woman’s coifed head; she sat on a low chest, bent over the sucking child. When her brother came in at the door, she looked up and smiled in greeting. But her eyes went back at once to the new-born boy at her breast—she looked young and thoughtful and happy. Her face had grown rounder, but her eyes were clear and her lips had recovered their bright-red hue.
She listened calmly to her brother’s account of Arnketil’s death.
“Ay, that was bound to be the end,” she said sorrowfully, “since he never would follow your advice and take himself away from here.”
Then she asked after Kolbein and Audun and Eldrid, also after her father. But all the time she was looking down at the child who now lay full-fed and asleep in her lap. Eirik was strangely moved to see this mild and blissful animal-look in the young mother’s eyes; she had never been like this when she sat with her other children.
She was fond of them. She had made clothes for them and sent them across during the winter, with a message that when she was over her childbed they might come and visit their mother. But he guessed it was something new with this little Gunnar. Him she had borne under a cheerful heart.
Una came in with ale and food for the guest. She had grown older and more portly, but was as cheerful and active as ever. She went over to Cecilia, had to look at the child—it half opened its eyes, and at once the two women were delightedly busy over the little thing.
Una took the boy in her arms and brought him over; Eirik must take a good look at him. She unswathed the back of the little head: was it not finely shaped?
“Ay, ’tis a goodly child,” said Eirik. “But he has red hair,” he laughed teasingly.
Cecilia looked up, her cheeks flushed deeply, and her brother saw she was on the point of flying into a rage. But then she laughed too. “Certainly he has red hair. ’Tis as I say—my Gunnar has every fine thing you can think of.” She came over and took back the child.
Eirik said he could not wait till Aslak came home: “but give him my greeting!”
Cecilia Olavsdatter had not been a widow more than a year when a suitor announced himself; it was Ragnvald Jonsson, the friend of Olav’s youth. He had been out and tried his fortune at Hestviken before, when the two young maids were there; first it was Bothild Asgersdatter he would have, and then Cecilia. Nothing came of it; then he took a wife who brought him an estate at the head of the fiord, and there he dwelt now, a widower with two little daughters.
Cecilia was not unwilling—she had known Ragnvald from childhood, and he was upright, kind, and a fine man to look at—even if there were many wiser than he. And Eirik could see no cause to refuse him if Cecilia herself desired this marriage.
He guessed it was a little hard for his sister to have to share her authority with Eldrid. The two women liked each other; they associated without friction. But the fact was that Cecilia had held sway as mistress of her father’s manor for the greater part of her grown-up life, and now Eldrid had to take precedence of her; she was so much older, and she was his wife. But he doubted not that Cecilia longed above all to escape from the proximity of her father.
When Eirik laid Ragnvald’s suit before Olav and gave his own opinion, his father nodded assent. So he and Ragnvald came to terms. The betrothal ale was to take place during the summer.
At Botolph’s mass1 Cecilia herself went into Oslo to make purchases for the feast. But on the evening of her return Eirik saw, as soon as his sister stood up in the boat, that something had happened. “What is it?” he asked as he helped her onto the quay.
“That I will tell you later.”
Change after change came over Cecilia’s face, usually so unruffled—she seemed to be listening, with a youthful, faraway look in her eyes; then her features contracted in mournful brooding.
Eirik was about to see his father to his bed; Eldrid was already bending down to loose her shoestring when Cecilia came in upon them.
“Stay awhile, Father—there is a matter I would fain have disposed of this evening, so I beg you will listen to me now. Nay, do not go, Eldrid—I wish you to hear it too. It is that I cannot marry Ragnvald.”
“You cannot!” Eirik turned round to his sister. “He has our word already, Cecilia!”
“I know it, but he must release us.” She looked at her father, and he looked at her with his one ice-blue, bloodshot eye; the other was half closed by the palsied lid.
“You remember Aslak Gunnarsson, Father; Jon Toresson he called himself the winter he was with us. I met him in the town; he had heard that I was now a widow, and he was on his way hither. He has not married. And now I have promised myself to him.”
Eirik saw that his father was attacked by the spasms which sometimes occurred in the dead side of his face and the palsied arm.
“You have promised yourself to two men—” He checked himself and said quietly: “It is far too late to speak of this tonight. Wait till tomorrow.”
“There is no need of much speaking. ’Tis true that I have promised myself to two men. But only one can have me. And that will be Aslak.”
“But Father and I have given our word to one man. We did so with your consent. And we will not break our word.”
“Once I have been married on the advice of you two.” The green flash that came into her eyes seemed no more than a reflection, but it reminded Eirik of the time when he had believed his sister capable of killing her husband. “I shall never give Ragnvald my troth. And if you will not betroth me to Aslak, I shall go northward with him in spite of you.”