Sir Erling looked rather embarrassed. Erlend raised his eyebrows.

“Have you decided to support these efforts, Father-in-law? For the great meeting of the royal retainers?”

“No, no,” said Lavrans. “I’m merely going to the meeting, just like the other king’s men of the valley, because we have been summoned.”

But Smid Gudleikssøn spoke again. It was Lavrans who had persuaded him—and Herstein of Kruke and Trond Gjesling and Guttorm Sneis, as well as others who had not wanted to go.

“Isn’t it the custom to invite guests into the house on this estate?” asked Lavrans. “Now we’ll see whether Kristin brews ale as good as her mother’s.” Erlend looked thoughtful, and Kristin was greatly surprised.

Lavrans sat and bounced his grandchild on his knee. Naakkve was now ten months old, big and handsome. He had been allowed to wear a tunic and hose since Christmas.

“I’ve never heard of you lending your voice to such matters before, Father,” she said. “You’ve always told me that for the country, and for his subjects, it was best for the king to rule, along with those men he called to his side. Erlend says that this attempt is the work of the noblemen in the south; they want to remove Lady Ingebjørg from power, along with those men whom her father appointed to advise her. They want to steal back the power they had when King Haakon and his brother were children. But that brought great harm to the kingdom—you’ve said so yourself in the past.”

Lavrans whispered that she should send the nursemaid away. When they were alone, he asked, “Where did Erlend get this information? Did he hear it from Munan?”

Kristin told him that Orm had brought a letter from Sir Munan when he returned home in the fall. She didn’t say that she had read it to Erlend herself—he wasn’t very good at deciphering script. But in the letter Munan had complained bitterly that now every man in Norway who bore a coat of arms thought himself better at ruling the kingdom than those men who had stood at King Haakon’s side when he was alive, and they presumed to have a better understanding of the young king’s welfare than the highborn woman who was his own mother. He had warned Erlend that if there were signs that the Norwegian noblemen had intentions of doing as the Swedes had done in Skara² last summer, of plotting against Lady Ingebjørg and her old, trusted advisers, then her kinsmen would stand ready and Erlend should go to meet Munan in Hamar.

“Didn’t he mention,” asked Lavrans as he tapped his finger under Naakkve’s chubby chin, “that I’m one of the men opposed to the unlawful call to arms that Munan has been carrying through the valley, in the name of our king?”

“You!” said Kristin. “Did you meet Munan Baardsøn last fall?”

“Yes, I did,” replied Lavrans. “And there was not much agreement between us.”

“Did you talk about me?” asked Kristin swiftly.

“No, my dear Kristin,” said her father, with a laugh. “I can’t recall that your name was mentioned by either of us this time. Do you know whether your husband intends to travel south to meet with Munan Baardsøn?”

“I think so,” said Kristin. “Sira Eiliv drafted a letter for Erlend not long ago, and he mentioned that he might soon have to go south.”

Lavrans sat in silence for a moment, looking down at the child, who was fumbling with the hilt of his dagger and trying to bite the rock crystal embedded in it.

“Is it true that they want to take the regency away from Lady Ingebjørg?” asked Kristin.

“She’s about the same age as you are,” replied her father, a slight smile still on his lips. “No one wants to take from the king’s mother the honor and power that are her birthright. But the archbishop and some of our blessed king’s friends and kinsmen have gathered for a meeting to deliberate how Lady Ingebjørg’s power and honor and the interests of the people should best be protected.”

Kristin said quietly, “I can see, Father, that you haven’t come to Husaby this time just to see Naakkve and me.”

“No, that was not the only reason,” said Lavrans. Then he laughed. “And I can tell, daughter, that you’re not at all pleased!”

He put his hand up to stroke her face, just as he used to do when she was a little girl, any time he had scolded her or teased her.

Sir Erling and Erlend were wearing fur capes because it was bitterly cold in the room. The guest walked around looking at the many splendid weapons and suits of armor which Erlend had inherited from his grandfather, Gaute Erlendssøn.

Erling Vidkunssøn was a rather short man, slight in build and yet quite plump, but he carried himself well and with ease. Handsome he was not, although he had well-formed features. But his hair had a reddish tinge, and his eyelashes and brows were white; even his eyes were a very pale blue. That people nevertheless found Sir Erling to be good-looking was perhaps due to the fact that everyone knew he was the wealthiest knight in Norway. But he also had a distinctly winning and modest demeanor. He was exceptionally intelligent, well educated and learned, but because he never tried to boast of his wisdom and always seemed to be willing to listen to others, he had become known as one of the wisest men in the country. He was the same age as Erlend Nikulaussøn, and they were kinsmen, although distant ones, by way of the Stovreim lineage. They had known each other all their lives, but there had never been a close friendship between the two men.

Erlend sat down on a chest and talked about the ship which he had had built in the summer; it was a thirty-two-oar ship, and he deemed it to be a particularly swift sailing ship and easy to steer. He had hired two shipbuilders from the north, and he had personally overseen the work along with them.

“Ships are among the few things I know something about, Erling,” he said. “You just wait—it will be a beautiful sight to see Margygren cutting through the waves.”

“Margygren—what a fearfully heathen name you’ve given your ship, kinsman,” said Erling with a little laugh. “Is it your intention to travel south in it?”

“Are you as pious as my wife? She calls it a heathen name, too. She doesn’t like the ship much, either, but she’s such an inland person—she can’t stand the sea.”

“Yes, she looks pious and delicate and lovely, your wife,” said Sir Erling courteously. “As one might expect from someone of her lineage.”

“Yes,” said Erlend and laughed. “Not a day passes without her going to mass. And Sira Eiliv, our priest, whom you met, reads to us from the holy books. Reading aloud—that’s what he likes best, after ale and sumptuous food. And the poor people come to Kristin for help and advice. I think they would gladly kiss the hem of her skirts; I can scarcely recognize my own servants anymore. She’s almost like one of the women described in the holy sagas that King Haakon forced us to sit and listen to as the priest read them aloud—do you remember? Back when we were pages? Things have changed a great deal here at Husaby since you visited us last, Erling.”

After a moment he added, “It was odd, by the way, that you were willing to come here that time.”

“You mentioned the days when we were pages together,” said Erling Vidkunssøn with a smile that became him. “We were friends back then, weren’t we? We all expected that you would achieve great things here in Norway, Erlend.”

But Erlend merely laughed. “Yes, I expected as much myself.”

“Couldn’t you sail south with me, Erlend?” asked Sir Erling.

“I was thinking of traveling overland,” replied the other man.

“That will be troublesome for you—setting out over the mountains now, in the wintertime,” said Sir Erling. “It would be pleasant if you would accompany Haftor and myself.”

“I have promised to travel with others,” replied Erlend.

“Ah yes, you will join your father-in-law—yes, that seems only fitting.”

“Well, no—I don’t know these men from the valley who are riding with him.” Erlend sat in silence for a moment. “No, I have promised to look in on Munan at Stange,” he said quickly.

“You don’t need to waste your time looking for Munan there,” replied Erling. “He’s gone to his estates at Hising, and it might be some time before he comes north again. Has it been a long time since you heard from him?”

“It was around Michaelmas—he wrote to me from Ringabu.”

“Well, you know what happened in the valley here last autumn,” said Erling. “You don’t? Surely you must know that he rode around to the district sheriffs of Lake Mjøsa and all along the valley carrying letters stating that the farmers should pay for provisions and horses for a full campaign³—with six farmers for each horse—and that the gentry should send horses but would be allowed to stay at home. Haven’t you heard about this? And that the men of the northern valleys refused to pay this war tax when Munan accompanied Eirik Topp to the ting in Vaage? And Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn was the one who led the opposition—he demanded that Eirik pursue a lawful course, if anything remained of the lawful taxes, but he called it an injustice against the peasantry to demand war taxes from the farmers to help a Dane in a feud with the Danish king. And yet if our king required the service of his retainers, then he would find them quick enough to respond with good weapons and horses and armed men. But he would not send from Jørundgaard even a goat with a hemp halter unless the king commanded him to ride it himself to the mustering of the army. You truly didn’t know about this? Smid Gudleikssøn says that Lavrans had promised his tenants that he would pay the campaign levies for them, if need be.”

Erlend sat there stunned.

“Lavrans did that? Never have I heard of my wife’s father involving himself in matters other than those concerning his own properties or those of his friends.”

“No doubt he seldom does,” said Sir Erling. “But this much was clear to me when I was at Nes—when Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn decides to speak about a matter, he receives everyone’s full support, for he never speaks without understanding the issue so well that his opinion would be difficult to refute. Now, regarding these events, he has no doubt exchanged letters with his kinsmen in Sweden. Fru Ramborg, his father’s mother, and Sir Erngisle’s grandfather were the children of two brothers, so Lavrans has strong family ties over there. No matter how quiet his manner, your father-in-law commands power of some consequence in those parishes where people know him—although he doesn’t often make use of it.”

“Well, now I can understand why you have taken up with him, Erling,” said Erlend, laughing. “I was rather surprised that you had become such good friends.”

“Why should that surprise you?” replied Erling soberly. “It would be an odd man who would not want to call Lavrans of Jørundgaard his friend. You would be better served, kinsman, to listen to him than to Munan.”

“Munan has been like an older brother to me, ever since the day when I left home for the first time,” said Erlend, a little heatedly. “He has never failed me whenever I was in trouble. So if he’s in trouble now . . .”

“Munan will manage well enough,” said Erling Vidkunssøn, his voice still calm. “The letters he carried were written and sealed with the royal seal of Norway—unlawful, but that’s not his problem. Oh yes, there’s more. That to which he testified and attached his seal when he was a witness to the maiden Eufemia’s betrothal ⁴—but this cannot be easily revealed without mentioning someone whom we cannot . . . If truth be told, Erlend, I think Munan will save himself without your support—but you may harm yourself if you—”

“It’s Lady Ingebjørg that all of you want to depose, I see,” said Erlend. “But I’ve promised our kinswoman to serve her both here and abroad.”

“I have too,” replied Erling. “And I intend to keep that promise—as does every Norwegian man who has served and loved our lord and kinsman, King Haakon. And she is now best served by being separated from those advisers who counsel so young a woman to the detriment of her son and herself.”

“Do you think you’re capable of that?” asked Erlend, his voice subdued.

“Yes,” said Erling Vidkunssøn firmly. “I think we are. And everyone else thinks so too, if they refuse to listen to malicious and slanderous talk.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And those of us who are kinsmen of Lady Ingebjørg should be the last to do that.”

A servant woman raised the hatch in the floor and said that if it suited them, the mistress would now have the food carried into the hall.

After the meal, the gentlemen moved over to the hearth, where they sat and drank. Kristin settled herself on a bench, put her needlework frame in her lap, and began twining the threads. A moment later Haftor Graut came over, placed a cushion on the floor, and sat down at Kristin’s feet. He had found Erlend’s psaltery; he set it on his knee and sat there strumming it as he chatted. Haftor was quite a young man with curly blond hair and the fairest features, but his face was covered with freckles. Kristin quickly noticed that he was exceedingly talkative. He had recently made a rich marriage, but he was bored back home on his estates; that was why he wanted to travel to the gathering of the king’s retainers.

“But it’s understandable that Erlend Nikulaussøn would want to stay home,” he said, laying his head in her lap. Kristin moved away a bit, laughed, and said with an innocent expression that she knew only that her husband was intending to travel south, “for whatever reason that might be. There’s so much unrest in the country right now; it’s difficult for a simple woman to understand such things.”

“And yet it’s the simplicity of a woman that’s the main cause of it all,” replied Haftor, laughing and moving closer. “At least that’s what Erling and Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn say—I’d like to know what they mean by that. What do you think, Mistress Kristin? Lady Ingebjørg is a good and simple woman. Perhaps right now she is sitting as you are, twining silk threads with her snow-white fingers and thinking: It would be hard-hearted to refuse the loyal chieftain of her deceased husband some small assistance to improve his lot.”

Erlend came and sat down next to his wife so that Haftor had to move over a bit.

“The women chatter about such nonsense in the hostels when their husbands are foolish enough to take them along to the meeting.”

“Where I come from, it’s said that there’s no smoke unless there’s fire,” said Haftor.

“Yes, we have that saying too,” said Lavrans; he and Erling had come over to join them. “And yet I was duped, Haftor, this past winter, when I tried to light my torch with fresh horse droppings.” He perched on the edge of the table. Sir Erling at once brought his goblet and offered it to Lavrans with a word of greeting. Then the knight sat down on a bench nearby.

“It’s not likely, Haftor,” said Erlend, “that up north in Haalogaland you would know what Lady Ingebjørg and her advisers know about the undertakings and enterprises of the Danes. I suspect you might have been short-sighted when you opposed the king’s demand for help. Sir Knut⁵—yes, we might as well mention his name since he’s the one that we’re all thinking about—he seems to me a man who wouldn’t be caught unawares. You sit too far away from the cookpots to be able to smell what’s simmering inside them. And better to prepare now than regret later, I say.”

“Yes,” said Sir Erling. “You might almost say that they’re cooking for us on the neighboring farm—we Norwegians will soon be nothing more than their wards. They send over the porridge they’ve made in Sweden and say: Eat this, if you want food! I think our lord, King Haakon, made a mistake when he moved the cookhouse to the outskirts of the farm and made Oslo the foremost royal seat in the land. Before then it was in the middle of the courtyard, if we stay with this image—Bjørgvin⁶ or Nidaros—but now the archbishop and chapter⁷ rule here alone. What do you think, Erlend? You who are from Trøndelag and have all your property and all your power in this region?”

“Well, God’s blood, Erling—if that’s what you want: to carry home the cookpot and hang it over the proper hearth, then—”

“Yes,” said Haftor. “For far too long we up here in the north have had to settle for smelling the soup cooking while we spoon up cold cabbage.”

Lavrans joined in.

“As things stand, Erlend, I would not have presumed to be spokesman for the people of the district back home unless I had letters in my possession from my kinsman, Sir Erngisle. Then I knew that none of the lawful rulers plans to break the peace or the alliance between the countries, neither in the realm of the Danish king nor in that of our own king.”

“If you know who now rules in Denmark, Father-in-law, then you know more than most men,” said Erlend.

“One thing I do know. There is one man that nobody wants to see rule, not here nor in Sweden nor in Denmark. That was the purpose of the Swedes’ actions in Skara last summer, and that is the purpose of the meeting we will now hold in Oslo—to make clear to everyone who has not yet realized it, that on this matter all sober-minded men are agreed.”

By this time they had all drunk so much that they had grown boisterous, except for old Smid Gudleikssøn; he was slumped in his chair next to the hearth.

Erlend shouted, “Yes, you’re all so sober-minded that the Devil himself can’t trick you. It makes sense that you’d be afraid of Knut Porse. You don’t understand, all you good gentlemen, that he’s not the kind who can be satisfied with sitting quietly, watching the days drift past and the grass grow as God wills. I’d like to meet that knight again; I knew him when I was in Halland. And I’d have no objections to being in Knut Porse’s place.”

“That’s not something I would dare say if my wife could hear me,” said Haftor Graut.

But Erling Vidkunssøn had also drunk a good deal. He was still trying to maintain his chivalrous manner, but he finally gave up. “You!” he said, laughing uproariously. “You, kinsman? No, Erlend!” He slapped the other man on the shoulder and laughed and laughed.

“No, Erlend,” said Lavrans bluntly, “more is needed for that than a man who is capable of seducing women. If there was no more to Knut Porse than his ability to play the fox in the goose pen, then all of us Norwegian noblemen would be much too lazy to make the effort to leave our manors to chase him off—even if the goose was our own king’s mother. But no matter who Sir Knut may lure into committing foolish acts in his behalf, he never commits follies without having some reason for doing so. He has his purpose, and you can be certain that he won’t take his eyes off it.”

There was a pause in the conversation. Then Erlend spoke, and his eyes glittered.

“Then I would wish that Sir Knut were a Norwegian man!”

The others were silent. Sir Erling drank from his goblet and said, “God forbid. If we had such a man among us here in Norway, then I fear there would be a sudden end to peace in the land.”

“Peace in the land!” said Erlend scornfully.

“Yes, peace in the land,” replied Erling Vidkunssøn. “You must remember, Erlend, that we knights are not the only ones who live in this country. To you it might seem amusing if an adventurous and ambitious man like Knut Porse should rise up here. In the past, things were such in the world that if a man stirred up a group of rebels, it was always easy for him to win a following among the noblemen. Either they won and acquired titles and land, or their kinsmen won and they were granted a reprieve for both their lives and their estates. Yes, those who lost their lives have been entered in the records, but the majority survived, no matter whether things went one way or the other—that’s how it was for our fathers. But the farmers and the townspeople, Erlend—the workers who often had to make payments to two masters many times in a single year, but who still had to rejoice each time a band of rebels raced through their villages without burning their farms or slaughtering their cattle—the peasants, who had to endure such intolerable burdens and attacks—I think they must thank God and Saint Olav for old King Haakon and King Magnus and his sons, who fortified the laws and secured the peace.”

“Yes, I can believe you would think that way.” Erlend threw back his head. Lavrans sat and stared at the young man—Erlend was now fully alert. A flush had spread over his dark, fierce face, the sinews of his throat were arched taut in his slender, tan neck. Then Lavrans glanced at his daughter. Kristin had let her needlework sink to her lap, and she was intently following the men’s conversation.

“Are you so sure that the farmers and common men think this way and are rejoicing over the new sovereign?” said Erlend. “It’s true that they often had difficult times—back when kings and their rivals waged war throughout the land. I know they still remember the time when they had to flee to the mountains with their livestock and wives and children while their farms stood in flames down below in the valley. I’ve heard them talking about it. But I know they remember something else—that their own fathers were part of the hordes. We weren’t alone in the battle for power, Erling. The sons of farmers were part of it too—and sometimes they even won our ancestral estates. When law rules the land, a bastard son from Skidan who doesn’t know his own father’s name cannot win a baron’s widow and her estate, such as Reidar Darre did. His descendant was good enough to be betrothed to your daughter, Lavrans; and now he’s married to your wife’s niece, Erling! Now law and order rule—and I don’t understand how it happens, but I do know that farmers’ lands have fallen into our hands, and lawfully so. The more entrenched the law, the more quickly they lose their power and authority to take part in their own affairs or those of the realm. And that, Erling, is something that the farmers know too! Oh, no, don’t be too certain, any of you, that the peasants aren’t longing for the past when they might lose their farms by fire and force—but they could also win with weapons more than they can win with law.”

Lavrans nodded. “There may be some truth in what Erlend says,” he murmured.

But Erling Vidkunssøn stood up. “I believe you’re right; the peasants remember better the few men who rose up from meager circumstances to become lords—in the time of the sword—than the unspeakable numbers who perished in filthy poverty and wretchedness. And yet none was a sterner master to the commoners than they were. I think it was of them that the saying was first spoken: kinsmen behave worst toward their own. A man must be born to be a master, or he will turn out to be a harsh one. But if he has spent his childhood among servant men and women, then he will have an easier time understanding that without the commoners, we are in many ways helpless children all our days, and that for God’s sake as well as our own, we ought to serve them in turn with our knowledge and protect them with our chivalry. Never has it been possible to sustain a kingdom without noblemen who had the ability and the will to secure with their power the rights of those poorer than themselves.”

“You could compete in sermonizing with my brother, Erling,” said Erlend with a laugh. “But I think the people of Outer Trøn-delag liked the gentry better back when we led their sons on military incursions, let our blood run and mingle with theirs across the planks, and split apart rings and divided up the booty with our serving men. Yes, as you can hear, Kristin, sometimes I sleep with one ear open when Sira Eiliv reads aloud from the great books.”

“Property that is unlawfully won shall not be handed down to the third heir,” said Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn. “Haven’t you ever heard that before, Erlend?”

“Of course I’ve heard that!” Erlend laughed loudly. “But I’ve never seen it happen.”

Erling Vidkunssøn said, “Things are such, Erlend, that few are born to rule, but everyone is born to serve; the proper way to rule is to be your servants’ servant.”

Erlend clasped his hands behind his neck and stretched, smiling. “I’ve never thought about that. And I don’t think my leaseholders have any favors to thank me for. And yet, strange as it may seem, I think they’re fond of me.” He rubbed his cheek against Kristin’s black kitten, which had jumped up onto his shoulder and was now walking around his neck, purring and with its back arched. “But my wife here—she is the most eager to serve of all women, although you wouldn’t have reason to believe me, since the pitchers and mugs are now empty, my Kristin!”

Orm, who had been sitting quietly and listening to the men’s conversation, stood up at once and left the room.

“Your wife grew so bored that she fell asleep,” said Haftor, smiling. “And the blame is yours—you could have let me talk to her in peace—a man who knows how to speak to women.”

“All this talk has no doubt gone on much too long for you, mistress,” began Sir Erling contritely, but Kristin answered with a smile.

“It’s true, sir, that I haven’t understood everything that’s been said here this evening, but I will remember it well, and I will have plenty of time to think about it later.”

Orm came back with several maids who brought in more ale. The boy walked around, pouring for the men. Lavrans looked sorrowfully at the handsome child. He had tried to start up a conversation with Orm Erlendssøn, but he was a taciturn boy, although he had a striking and noble bearing.

One of the maids whispered to Kristin that Naakkve was awake over in the little house and crying terribly. Kristin then bid the men good night and followed the maids out when they left.

The men started drinking again. Sir Erling and Lavrans exchanged occasional glances, and then the former said, “There is something, Erlend, that I meant to discuss with you. A campaign force will certainly be summoned from the countryside here around the fjord and from Møre. People to the north are afraid that the Russians will return this summer, stronger than before, and they won’t be able to handle their defense alone. This is the first benefit for which we can thank the royal union with Sweden—but it wouldn’t be right for the people of Haalogaland⁸ to profit from it alone. Now, things are such that Arne Gjavvaldssøn is too old and sickly—so there has been talk of making you chieftain of the farmers’ ships from this side of the fjord. What would you think of that?”

Erlend pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand. His whole face glowed. “What I would think of it!”

“It’s unlikely that a large contingent could be mustered,” said Erling, admonishingly. “But perhaps you should find out what the sheriffs think. You’re well known in this area—there has been talk among the men on the council that you were perhaps the man who could do something about this matter. There are those who still remember that you won more than a little honor when you were a guardsman for Earl Jacob. I myself recall hearing him say to King Haakon that he had acted unwisely when he dealt so harshly with a capable young man. He said you were destined to be a support to your king.”

Erlend snapped his fingers. “You’re not thinking of becoming our king, Erling Vidkunssøn! Is that what all of you are plotting?” he asked, laughing boisterously. “To make Erling king?”

Erling said impatiently, “No, Erlend. Can’t you tell that now I was speaking in earnest?”

“God help me—were you joking before? I thought you were speaking in earnest all evening. All right then, let’s speak seriously. Tell me about this matter, kinsman.”

How beautiful she was. And he was a handsome child, their son. Kristin was always so sleepy in the evening now. As soon as she lay down and placed the boy close to her, they would both fall asleep. Erlend laughed a bit and tossed the twig back into the hearth. Slowly he undressed.

Northward in the spring with Margygren and three or four warships. Haftor Graut with three ships from Haalogaland. But Haftor had no experience; Erlend would be able to command him as he liked. Yes, he realized that he would have to take charge himself because this Haftor did not look either fearful or indecisive. Erlend stretched and smiled in the dark. He was thinking of finding a crew for Margygren outside of Møre. But there were plenty of bold and hearty boys both here in the parish and in Birgsi—he would be able to choose from the finest of men.

He had been married little more than a year. Childbirth, penance, and fasting. And now the boy, always the boy, night and day. And yet . . . she was still the same sweet, young Kristin, whenever he could make her forget the priest’s words and the greedy suckling child for a brief time.

He kissed her shoulder, but she didn’t notice. Poor thing—he would let her sleep. He had so much to think about tonight. Erlend turned away from her and lay staring across the room at the tiny glowing dot in the hearth. He ought to get up and cover the ashes, but he didn’t feel like it.

In bits and pieces, memories from his youth came back to him. A quivering ship’s prow that paused a scant moment, waiting for the approaching swell; then the sea washing over it. The mighty sound of the storm and the sea. The whole vessel shuddered under the press of the waves, the top of the mast cut a wild arc through the scudding clouds. It was somewhere off the coast of Halland. Overwhelmed, Erlend felt tears fill his eyes. He hadn’t realized himself how much these years of idleness had tormented him.

“I think,” said Lavrans, “that if Erlend is to come to this meeting, then he is of such high position and birth, being the kinsman of the king and his mother, that he must step forward to join the ranks of the foremost men. But I don’t know, Sir Erling, whether you feel you can trust that his judgment in these matters won’t lead him to the opposing side. If Ivar Ogmundssøn attempts to make a countermove . . . Erlend is also strongly tied to the men who will follow Sir Ivar.”

“I think it unlikely that Sir Ivar will do anything,” said Erling Vidkunssøn. “And Munan . . .” He gave a slight smile. “He’s wise enough to stay away. He knows that otherwise it might become clear to everyone how much or how little influence Munan Baard-søn wields.” They both laughed. “The truth is . . . Yes, no doubt you know better than I, Lavrans Lagmanssøn,⁹ you who have your ancestors and kinsmen over there, that the Swedish nobles are reluctant to consider our knighthood equal to their own. For that reason it’s important that we exclude no man who is among the richest and most highborn. We cannot afford to let a man like Erlend win permission to stay at home, jesting with his wife and tending to his estates—in whatever manner he tends to them,” he said when he saw Lavrans’s expression.

A smile flickered across Lavrans’s face.

“But if you think it unwise to pressure Erlend in order to make him join us, then I will not do so.”

“I think, dear sir,” said Lavrans, “that Erlend would do more good here in the villages. As you said yourself—we can expect that this war levy will be met with opposition in the districts south of Namdalseid, where the people feel they have nothing to fear from the Russians. It’s possible that Erlend might be the man who could change people’s minds about these matters in some way.”

“He has such a cursed loose tongue,” Sir Erling exclaimed.

Lavrans replied with a small smile. “Perhaps that’s the language that will appeal more to people than . . . the speech of more in sightful men.” Again they looked at each other and laughed. “However that may be, he could do more harm if he went to the meeting and spoke too loudly.”

“Well, if you cannot restrain him, then . . .”

“No, I can do so only until he meets up with the kind of birds he’s used to flying around with; my son-in-law and I are too unlike each other.”

Erlend came over to them. “Have you benefited so much from the mass that you need no breakfast?”

“I haven’t heard mention of breakfast—I’m as hungry as a wolf, and thirsty.” Lavrans stroked a dirty-white horse that he had been examining. “Whoever the man is who tends to your horses, son-in-law, I would drive him off my estate before I sat down to eat, if he was my servant.”

“I don’t dare, because of Kristin,” said Erlend. “He has gotten one of her maids with child.”

“And do you deem it such a great achievement here in these parts,” said Lavrans, raising his eyebrows, “that you now find him irreplaceable?”

“No, but you see,” said Erlend, laughing, “Kristin and the priest want them to be married—and they want me to place the man in such a position that he’ll be able to support the two of them. The girl refuses and her guardian refuses, and Tore himself is reluctant. But I’m not allowed to drive him off; she’s afraid that then he would flee the village. But Ulf Haldorssøn is his overseer, when he’s home.”

Erling Vidkunssøn walked over toward Smid Gudleikssøn. Lavrans said to his son-in-law, “It seems to me that Kristin is looking a little pale these days.”

“I know. Can’t you talk to her, Father-in-law?” Erlend said eagerly. “That boy is sucking the marrow out of her. I think she wants to keep him at her breast until the third fast, like some kind of pauper’s wife.”

“Yes, she is certainly fond of her son,” said Lavrans with a slight smile.

“I know.” Erlend shook his head. “They can sit there for three hours—Kristin and Sira Eiliv—talking about a rash he has here or there; and for every tooth he gets, they seem to think a great miracle has occurred. I’ve never heard otherwise but that all children get teeth. And it would be more wondrous if our Naakkve should have none.”

Kristin had never sat at table with her brother-in-law in his own house. Last year she had come to town with Erlend for the springtime ting, and they had stayed at this residence, which Gunnulf had inherited from his father; but at that time the priest was living on the estate of the Brothers of the Cross, substituting for one of the canons. Master Gunnulf was now the parish priest for Steine, but he had a chaplain to assist him while he oversaw the work of copying manuscripts for the churches of the archbishopric while the cantor,¹ Herr Eirik Finssøn, was ill. And during this time he lived in his own house.

The main hall was unlike any of the rooms Kristin was used to. It was a timbered building, but in the middle of the end wall, facing east, Gunnulf had had masons construct a large fireplace, like those he had seen in the countries of the south; a log fire burned between cast andirons. The table stood along one wall, and opposite were benches with writing desks. In front of a painting of the Virgin Mary burned a brass lamp, and nearby stood shelves of books.

This room seemed strange to her, and her brother-in-law seemed strange too, now that she saw him sitting at the table with members of his household—clerics and servant men who looked oddly priestlike. There were also several poor people: old men and a young boy with thin, reddish eyelids clinging like membranes to his empty eye sockets. On the women’s bench next to the old housekeepers sat a young woman with a two-year-old child on her lap; she was hungrily gulping down the stew and stuffing her child’s mouth so that his cheeks were about to burst.

It was the custom for all priests at Christ Church to give supper to the poor. But Kristin had heard that fewer beggars came to Gunnulf Nikulaussøn than to any of the other priests, and yet—or perhaps this was the very reason—he seated them on the benches next to him in the main hall and received every wanderer like an honored guest. They were served food from his own platter and ale from the priest’s own barrels. The poor would come whenever they felt in need of a supper of stew, but otherwise they preferred to go to the other priests, where they were given porridge and weak ale in the cookhouse.

As soon as the scribe had finished the prayers after the meal, the poor guests wanted to leave. Gunnulf spoke gently to each of them, asking whether they would like to spend the night or whether they needed anything else; but only the blind boy remained. The priest implored in particular the young woman with the child to stay and not take the little one out into the night, but she murmured an excuse and hurried off. Then Gunnulf asked a servant to make sure that Blind Arnstein was given ale and a good bed in the guest room. He put on a hooded cape.

“You must be tired, Orm and Kristin, and want to go to bed. Audhild will take care of you. You’ll probably be asleep when I return from the church.”

Then Kristin asked to go with him. “That’s why I’ve come here,” she said, fixing her despairing eyes on Gunnulf. Ingrid lent her a dry cloak, and she and Orm joined the small procession departing from the parsonage.

The bells were ringing as if they were right overhead in the black night sky—it wasn’t far to the church. They trudged through deep, wet, new snow. The weather was calm now, with a few snowflakes still drifting down here and there, shimmering faintly in the dark.

Tonight it seemed to her that there was no help to be found anywhere. Back home Sira Eiliv admonished her because she brooded so much over her everyday sins—he said this was the temptation of pride. She should simply be diligent with her prayers and good deeds, and then she wouldn’t have time to dwell on such matters. “The Devil is no fool; he’ll realize that he will lose your soul in the end, and he won’t feel like tempting you as much.”

She listened to the antiphony and remembered the nuns’ church in Oslo. There she had raised her poor little voice with others in the hymn of praise—and down in the nave stood Erlend, wrapped in a cape up to his chin, and the two of them thought only of finding a chance to speak to each other in secret.

And she had thought that this heathen and burning love was not so terrible a sin. They couldn’t help themselves—and they were both unmarried. It was at most a transgression against the laws of men. Erlend wanted to escape from a terrible life of sin, and she imagined that he would have greater strength to free himself from the old burden if she put her life and her honor and her happiness into his hands.

The last time she knelt here in this church she had fully realized that when she said such things in her heart she had been trying to deceive God with tricks and lies. It was not because of their virtue but because of their good fortune that there were still commandments they had not broken, sins they had not committed. If she had been another man’s wife when she met Erlend . . . she would not have been any more sparing of his salvation or his honor than she was of the man she had so mercilessly spurned. It seemed to her now that there was nothing that wouldn’t have tempted her back then, in her ardor and despair. She had felt her passion temper her will until it was sharp and hard like a knife, ready to cut through all bonds—those of kinship, Christianity, and honor. There was nothing inside her except the burning hunger to see him, to be near him, to open her lips to his hot mouth and her arms to the deadly sweet desire which he had taught her.

Oh, no. The Devil was probably not so convinced that he was going to lose her soul. But when she lay here before, crushed with sorrow over her sins, over the hardness of her heart, her impure life, and the blindness of her soul . . . then she had felt the saintly king take her in under his protective cloak. She had gripped his strong, warm hand; he had pointed out to her the light that is the source of all strength and holiness. Saint Olav turned her eyes toward Christ on the cross—see, Kristin: God’s love. Yes, she had begun to understand God’s love and patience. But she had turned away from the light again and closed her heart to it, and now there was nothing in her mind but impatience and anger and fear.

How wretched, wretched she was. Even she had realized that a woman like herself would need harsh trials before she could be cured of her lack of love. And yet she was so impatient that she felt her heart would break with the sorrows that had been imposed on her. They were small sorrows, but there were many of them, and she had so little patience. She glanced at her stepson’s tall, slender figure over on the men’s side of the church.

She couldn’t help it. She loved Orm as if he were her own child; but it was impossible for her to be fond of Margret. She had tried and tried and even commanded herself to like the child, ever since that day last winter when Ulf Haldorssøn brought her home to Husaby. She thought it was dreadful; how could she feel such ill will and anger toward a little maiden only nine years old? And she knew full well that part of it was because the child looked so fearfully like her mother Eline. She couldn’t understand Erlend; he was simply proud that his little golden-haired daughter with the brown eyes was so pretty. The child never seemed to arouse any bad memories in the father. It was as if Erlend had completely forgotten the mother of these children. But it wasn’t only because Margret resembled the other woman that Kristin lacked affection for her stepdaughter. Margret would not tolerate anyone instructing her; she was arrogant and treated the servants badly. She was dishonest too, and she fawned over her father. She didn’t love him the way Orm did; she would snuggle up to Erlend with affection and caresses only because she wanted something. And Erlend showered her with gifts and gave in to the maiden’s every whim. Orm wasn’t fond of his sister, either—that much Kristin had noticed.

Kristin suffered because she felt so harsh and mean since she couldn’t watch Margret’s behavior without feeling indignant and censorious. But she suffered even more from observing and listening to the constant discord between Erlend and his eldest son. She suffered most of all because she realized that Erlend, deep in his heart, felt a boundless love for the boy—and he treated Orm unjustly and with severity because he had no idea what to do with his son or how he might secure his future. He had given his bastard children property and livestock, but it seemed unthinkable that Orm would ever be fit to be a farmer. And Erlend grew desperate when he saw how frail and weak Orm was; then he would call his son rotten and rage at him to harden himself. He would spend hours with his son, training him in the use of heavy weapons that the boy couldn’t possibly handle, urging him to drink himself sick in the evenings, and practically breaking the boy on dangerous and exhausting hunting expeditions. In spite of all this, Kristin saw the fear in Erlend’s soul; she realized that he was often wild with sorrow because this fine and handsome son of his was suited for only one position in life—and there his birth stood in the way. And Kristin had come to understand how little patience Erlend possessed whenever he felt concern or compassion for someone he loved.

She saw that Orm realized this too. And she saw that the young boy’s soul was split: Orm felt love and pride for his father, but also contempt for Erlend’s unfairness when he allowed his child to suffer because he was faced with worries which he himself, and not the boy, had caused. But Orm had grown close to his young stepmother; with her he seemed to breathe easier and feel freer. When he was alone with her, he was able to banter and laugh, in his own quiet way. But Erlend was not pleased by this; he seemed to suspect that the two of them were sitting in judgment of his conduct.

Oh, no, it wasn’t easy for Erlend; and it wasn’t so strange that he was sensitive when it came to those two children. And yet . . .

She still trembled with pain whenever she thought about it.

The manor had been filled with guests the week before. When Margret came home, Erlend had furnished the loft which was at the far end of the hall, above the next room and the entry hall—it was to be her bower, he said. And there she slept with the servant girl whom Erlend had ordered to keep watch over and serve the maiden. Frida also slept there along with Bjørgulf. But since they had so many Christmas guests, Kristin had made up beds for the young men in this loft room; the two maids and the infant were to sleep in the servant women’s house. But because she thought Erlend might not like it if she sent Margret off to sleep with the servants, she had made up a bed for her on one of the benches in the hall, where the women and maidens were sleeping. It was always difficult to get Margret up in the morning. On that morning Kristin had woken her many times, but she had lain back down, and she was still asleep after everyone else was up. Kristin wanted to clean the hall and put things in order; the guests must be given breakfast—and so she lost all patience. She yanked the pillows from under Margret’s head and tore off the covers. But when she saw the child lying there naked on the sheet made of hides, she took her own cloak from her shoulders and placed it over Margret. It was a garment made from plain, undyed homespun; she only wore it when she went back and forth to the cookhouse and the storerooms, tending to the food preparation.

At that moment Erlend came into the room. He had been sleeping in a chamber above a storeroom with several other men, since Fru Gunna was sharing Kristin’s bed. And he flew into a rage. He grabbed Kristin by the arm so hard that the marks from his fingers were still on her skin.

“Do you think my daughter should be lying on straw and homespun cloth? Margit is mine, even though she may not be yours. What’s not good enough for your own children is good enough for her. But since you’ve mocked the innocent little maiden in the sight of these women, then you must rectify matters before their eyes. Put back the covers that you took from Margit.”

It so happened that Erlend had been drunk the night before, and he was always bad-tempered the following day. And no doubt he thought the women must have been gossiping among themselves when they saw Eline’s children. And he grew sensitive and testy about their reputation. And yet . . .

Kristin had tried to talk to Sira Eiliv about it. But he couldn’t help her with this matter. Gunnulf had told her that she need not mention the sins to which she had confessed and repented before Eiliv Serkssøn became her parish priest unless she thought that he should know about them in order to judge and advise her. So there were many things she had never told him, even though she felt that by not doing so she would seem, in Sira Eiliv’s eyes, to be a better person than she was. But it was so good for her to have the friendship of this kind and pure-hearted man. Erlend made fun of her, but she gained such comfort from Sira Eiliv. With him she could talk as much as she liked about her children; the priest was willing to discuss with her all the small bits of news that bored Erlend and drove him from the room. The priest got on well with children, and he understood their small troubles and illnesses. Erlend laughed at Kristin when she went to the cookhouse herself to prepare special dishes, which she would send over to the parsonage. Sira Eiliv was fond of good food and drink, and it amused Kristin to spend time on such matters and to try out what she had learned from her mother or seen at the convent. Erlend didn’t care what he ate as long as he was always served meat if it wasn’t a time for fasting. But Sira Eiliv would come over to talk and thank her, praising her skill after she had sent him grouse on a spit, wrapped in the best bacon, or a platter of reindeer tongues in French wine and honey. And he gave her advice about her garden, obtaining cuttings for her from Tautra, where his brother was a monk, and from the Olav monastery, whose prior was a good friend of his. And he also read to her and could recount so many wonderful things about life out in the world.

But because he was such a good and pious man, it was often difficult to speak to him about the evil she saw in her own heart. When she confessed to him how embittered she felt at Erlend’s behavior that day with Margret, he had impressed upon her that she must bear with her husband. But he seemed to think that Erlend alone had committed an offense when he spoke so unjustly to his wife—and in the presence of strangers. Kristin doubtless agreed with him. And yet deep in her heart she felt a complicity which she could not explain and which caused her great pain.

Kristin looked up at the holy shrine, which glittered a dull gold in the dim light behind the high altar. She had been so certain that if she stood here again, something would happen—a redemption of her soul. Once more a living fount would surge up into her heart and wash away all the anguish and fear and bitterness and confusion that filled her.

But no one had any patience for her tonight. Haven’t you learned yet, Kristin—to lift your self-righteousness to the light of God’s righteousness, your heathen and selfish passion to the light of love? Perhaps you do not want to learn it, Kristin.

But the last time she knelt here she had held Naakkve in her arms. His little mouth at her breast warmed her heart so well that it was like soft wax, easy for the heavenly love to shape. And she did have Naakkve; he was playing back home in the hall, so lovely and sweet that her breast ached at the mere thought of him. His soft, curly hair was now turning dark—he was going to have black hair like his father. And he was so full of life and mischief. She made animals for him out of old furs, and he would throw them into the air and then chase after them, racing with the young dogs. And it usually ended with the fur bear falling into the hearth fire and burning up, with smoke and a foul smell. Naakkve would howl, hopping up and down and stomping, and then he would bury his head in his mother’s lap—that’s where all of his adventures still ended. The maids fought for his favor; the men would pick him up and toss him up to the ceiling whenever they came into the room. If the boy saw Ulf Haldorssøn, he would run over and cling to the man’s leg. Ulf sometimes took him along out to the farmyard. Erlend would snap his fingers at his son and set him on his shoulder for a moment, but he was the one person at Husaby who paid the least attention to the boy. And yet he was fond of Naakkve. Erlend was glad that he now had two lawfully born sons.

Kristin’s heart clenched tight.

They had taken Bjørgulf away from her. He whimpered whenever she tried to hold him, and Frida would put him to her own breast at once. His foster mother kept a jealous watch over the boy. But Kristin would refuse to let the new child go. Her mother and Erlend had said that she should be spared, and so they took her newborn son away and gave him to another woman. She felt an almost vengeful joy when she thought that their only accomplishment was that she would now be having a third child before Bjørgulf was even eleven months old.

She didn’t dare speak of this to Sira Eiliv. He would merely think that she was resentful because now she would have to go through all of that again so soon. But that wasn’t it.

She had come home from her pilgrimage with a deep dread in her soul—never would that wild desire have power over her again. Until the end of summer she lived alone with her child in the old house, weighing in her mind the words of the archbishop and Gunnulf’s speech, vigilantly praying and repenting, diligently working to put the neglected farm in order, to win over her servants with kindness and concern for their welfare, eager to help and serve all those around her as far as her hands and her power might reach. A cool and wondrous peace descended upon her. She sustained herself with thoughts of her father, she sustained herself with prayers to the holy men and women Sira Eiliv read to her about, and she pondered their steadfastness and courage. And tender with joy and gratitude, she remembered Brother Edvin, who had appeared before her in the moonlight on that night. She had understood his message when he smiled so gently and hung his glove on the moonbeam. If only she had enough faith, she would become a good woman.

When their first year of marriage came to an end, she had to move back in with her husband. Whenever she felt doubtful, she would console herself that the archbishop himself had impressed upon her that in her life with her husband she should show her new change of heart. And she strove zealously to tend to his welfare and his honor. Erlend himself had said: “And so it has happened after all, Kristin—you have brought honor back to Husaby.” People showed her great kindness and respect; everyone seemed willing to forget that she had begun her marriage a little impetuously. Whenever the women gathered, they would seek out her advice; people praised her housekeeping at the manor, she was summoned to assist with weddings and with births on the great estates, and no one made her feel that she was too young or inexperienced or a newcomer to the region. The servants would remain sitting in the hall until late into the evening, just as they did back home at Jørundgaard—they all had something to ask their mistress about. She felt a rush of exhilaration that people were so kind to her and that Erlend was proud of her.

Then Erlend took charge of the men called up for duty on the ships south of the fjord. He dashed around, riding or sailing, and he was busy with people who came to see him and letters that had to be sent. He was so young and handsome, and so happy—the listless, dejected look that she had often seen come over him in the past seemed to have been swept away. He sparkled with alertness, like the morning. He had little time left over for her now; but she grew dizzy and wild whenever he came near her with his smiling face and those adventure-loving eyes.

She had laughed with him at the letter that had come from Munan Baardsøn. The knight had not attended the gathering of the king’s retainers himself, but he ridiculed the entire meeting and especially the fact that Erling Vidkunssøn had been appointed leader of the realm. But first Erling had probably given himself new titles—no doubt he would want to be called regent now. Munan also wrote about her father:

Kristin felt a stab of pain and shame at this, but she had to laugh along with Erlend. For her the winter and spring had passed in exhilarating merriment and happiness, with now and then a squall for Orm’s sake—Erlend couldn’t decide whether he should take the boy north with him. It ended with an outburst during Easter. One night Erlend wept in her arms: he didn’t dare take his son on board for fear that Orm wouldn’t be able to hold his own during a war. She had comforted him and herself—and the youth. Perhaps the boy would grow stronger over the years.

On the day she rode with Erlend to the anchorage at Birgsi, she couldn’t feel either fearful or sad. She was almost intoxicated with him and with his joy and high spirits.

At that time she didn’t know she was already carrying another child. When she felt unwell she had thought . . . Erlend was so exuberant, there had been so much commotion and drinking at home, and Naakkve was sucking the strength out of her. When she felt the new life stir inside her, she was . . . She had been looking forward to the winter, to traveling to town and around the valley with her bold and handsome husband; she was young and beautiful herself. She had planned to wean the boy by autumn; it was troublesome always having to take him and the nursemaid along wherever she went. She was certain that in this Russian campaign Erlend would prove fit for something other than ruining his name and his property. No, she had not been glad, and she told this to Sira Eiliv. Then the priest had reprimanded her quite sternly for her unloving and worldly disposition. And all summer long she had tried to be happy and to thank God for the new child she was to have, and for the good reports she heard about Erlend’s courageous actions in the north.

Then he returned home just before Michaelmas. And she saw that he was not pleased when he realized what was to come. He said as much that evening.

“I thought that when I finally had you, it would be like celebrating Christmas every day. But now it seems that there will be mostly long periods of fasting.”

Every time she thought about this, the blood would rush to her face, just as hot as on that evening when she turned away from him, flushing deep red and shedding no tears. Erlend had tried to make amends with love and kindness. But she couldn’t forget it. The fire inside her, which all her tears of remorse had been unable to extinguish and all her fear of sin could not smother—it was as if Erlend had stomped it out with his foot when he said those words.

“Do you remember, brother-in-law,” she said, “that I once told you that the priest back home at Jørundgaard counseled me to enter a cloister if Father would not give his consent for Erlend to marry me?”

Gunnulf glanced involuntarily at Orm. But Kristin said with a wry little smile, “Do you think this grown-up boy doesn’t know that I’m a weak and sinful woman?”

Master Gunnulf replied softly, “Did you feel a yearning for the life of a nun back then, Kristin?”

“No doubt God would have opened my eyes once I had decided to serve Him.”

“Perhaps He thought that your eyes needed to be opened so you would learn that you ought to serve Him wherever you are. Your husband, children, and the servants at Husaby need to have a faithful and patient servant woman of God living among them and tending to their welfare.

“Of course the maiden who makes the best marriage is the one who chooses Christ as her bridegroom and refuses to give herself to a sinful man. But the child who has already done wrong . . .”

“ ‘I wish that you could have come to God with your wreath,’ ” whispered Kristin. “That’s what he said to me, Brother Edvin Rikardssøn, the monk I’ve often told you about. Do you feel the same way?”

Gunnulf Nikulaussøn nodded. And yet many a woman has pulled herself up from a life of sin with such strength that we dare pray for her intercession. But this happened more often in the past, when she was threatened with torture and fire and glowing tongs if she called herself a Christian. I have often thought, Kristin, that back then it was easier to tear oneself away from the bonds of sin, when it could be done forcefully and all at once. And yet we humans are so corrupt—but courage is by nature present in the heart of many, and courage is what often drives a soul to seek God. The torments have incited just as many people to faithfulness as they have frightened others into apostasy. But a young, lost child who is torn from sinful desire even before she has learned to understand what it has brought upon her soul—a child placed in an order of nuns among pure maidens who have given themselves up to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world . . .

“I wish it would soon be summer,” he said suddenly and stood up.

The other two looked at him in amazement.

“Oh, I happened to think about when the cuckoo was singing on the slopes in the morning back home at Husaby. First we would hear the one on the ridge to the east, behind the buildings, and then the other would reply from far off, in the woods close to By. It sounded so lovely out across the lake in the stillness of the morning. Don’t you think it’s beautiful at Husaby, Kristin?”

“The cuckoo in the east is the cuckoo of sorrow,” said Orm Er lendssøn quietly. “Husaby seems to me the fairest manor in the world.”

The priest placed his hands on his nephew’s narrow shoulders for a moment.

“I thought so too, kinsman. It was my father’s estate for me too. The youngest son stands no closer to inheriting the ancestral farm than you do, dear Orm!”

“When Father was living with my mother, you were the closest heir,” said the young boy in the same quiet voice.

“We’re not to blame, Orm—my children and I,” said Kristin sorrowfully.

“You must have noticed that I bear you no rancor,” he replied softly.

“It’s such an open, wide landscape,” said Kristin after a moment. “You can see so far from Husaby, and the sky is so . . . so vast. Where I come from, the sky is like a roof above the mountain slopes. The valley lies sheltered, round and green and fresh. The world seems just the right size—neither too big nor too small.” She sighed and her hands began fidgeting in her lap.

“Was his home there—the man your father wanted you to marry?” asked the priest, and Kristin nodded.

“Do you ever regret that you refused to have him?” he then asked, and she shook her head.

Gunnulf went over and pulled a book from the shelf. He sat down near the fire again, opened the clasps, and began turning the pages. But he didn’t read; he sat with the open book on his lap.

“When Adam and his wife had defied God’s will, then they felt in their own flesh a power that defied their will. God had created them, man and woman, young and beautiful, so that they would live together in marriage and give birth to other heirs who would receive the gifts of His goodness: the beauty of the Garden of Eden, the fruit of the tree of life, and eternal happiness. They didn’t need to be ashamed of their bodies because as long as they were obedient to God, their whole body and all of their limbs were under the command of their will, just as a hand or a foot is.”

Blushing blood-red, Kristin folded her hands under her breast. The priest bent toward her slightly; she felt his strong amber eyes on her lowered face.

“Eve stole what belonged to God, and her husband accepted it when she gave him what rightfully was the property of their Father and Creator. They wanted to be His equal—and they noticed that the first way in which they became His equal was this: Just as they had betrayed His dominion over the great world, so too was their dominion betrayed over the small world, the soul’s house of flesh. Just as they had forsaken their Lord God, the body would now forsake its master, the soul.

“Then these bodies seemed to them so hideous and hateful that they made clothes to cover them. First a short apron of fig leaves. But as they became more and more familiar with their own carnal nature, they drew the clothes up over their heart and their back, which is unwilling to bend. Until today, when men dress themselves in steel all the way to their fingertips and toes and hide their faces behind the grids of their helmets. In this way unrest and deceit have grown in the world.”

“Help me, Gunnulf,” begged Kristin. She was white to the very edge of her lips. “I don’t know my own will.”

“Then say: Thy will be done,” replied the priest softly. “You know you must open your heart to His love. Then you must love Him once more with all the power of your soul.”

Kristin abruptly turned to face her brother-in-law.

“You can’t know how much I loved Erlend. And my children!”

“Dear sister—all other love is merely a reflection of the heavens in the puddles of a muddy road. You will become sullied too if you allow yourself to sink into it. But if you always remember that it’s a reflection of the light from that other home, then you will rejoice at its beauty and take good care that you do not destroy it by churning up the mire at the bottom.”

“Yes, but as a priest, Gunnulf, you have promised God that you would shun these . . . difficulties.”

“As you have too, Kristin—when you promised to forsake the Devil and his work. The Devil’s work is what begins in sweet desire and ends with two people becoming like the snake and the toad, snapping at each other. That’s what Eve learned, when she tried to give her husband and her descendants what belonged to God. She brought them nothing but banishment and the shame of blood and death, which entered the world when brother killed brother in that first small field, where thorns and thistles grew among the heaps of stones around the patches of land.”

“Yes, but you’re a priest,” she said in the same tone of voice. “You’re not subjected to the daily trial of trying to agree patiently with the will of another.” And she broke into tears.

The priest said with a little smile, “About that matter there is disagreement between body and soul in every mother’s child. That’s why marriage and the wedding mass were created—so that man and woman would be given help in their lives: married folk and parents and children and house servants as loyal and helpful companions on the journey toward the house of peace.”

Kristin said quietly, “It seems to me that it would be easier to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world than to struggle with one’s own sins.”

“That may be,” said the priest sharply. “But you mustn’t believe, Kristin, that there has ever been a priest who has not had to guard himself against the Fiend at the same time as he tried to protect the lambs from the wolf.”

Kristin said in a quiet and timid voice, “I thought that those who live among the holy shrines and possess all the prayers and powerful words . . .”

Gunnulf leaned forward, tended to the fire, and then sat with his elbows on his knees.

“It was almost exactly six years ago that we arrived in Rome, Eiliv and I, along with two Scottish priests whom we had met in Avignon. We journeyed the whole way on foot.

We arrived in the city just before Lent. That’s when people in the southern countries hold great celebrations and feasts—they call it carnevale. The wine, both red and white, flows in rivers from the taverns, and people dance late into the night, and there are torches and bonfires in the open marketplaces. It is springtime in Italy then, and the flowers are blooming in the meadows and gardens. The women adorn themselves with blossoms and toss roses and violets down to the people strolling along the streets. They sit up in the windows, with silk and satin tapestries hanging from the ledge over the stone walls. All buildings are made from stone down there, and the knights have their castles and strongholds in the middle of town. There are apparently no town statutes or laws about keeping the peace in the city—the knights and their men fight in the streets, making the blood run.

“There was such a castle on the street where we were staying, and the knight who ruled it was named Ermes Malavolti. Its shadow stretched over the entire narrow lane where our hostel stood, and our room was as dark and cold as the dungeon in a stone fortress. When we went out we often had to press ourselves up against the wall as he rode past with silver bells on his clothing and a whole troop of armed men. Muck and filth would splash up from the horses’ hooves, because in that country people simply throw all their slops and offal outdoors. The streets are cold and dark and narrow like clefts in a mountain—quite unlike the green lanes of our towns. In the streets during carnevale they hold races—they let the wild Arabian horses race against each other.”

The priest sat in silence for a moment, then he continued.

“This Sir Ermes had a kinswoman living at his house. Isota was her name, and she might have been Isolde the Fair One herself. Her complexion and hair were as light as honey, but her eyes were no doubt black. I saw her several times at a window. . . .

“But outside the city the land is more desolate than the most desolate heaths in this country, and nothing lives there but deer and wolves; and the eagles scream. And yet there are towns and castles in the mountains all around, and out on the green plains you can see traces everywhere that people once lived in this world. Great flocks of sheep graze there now, along with herds of white oxen. Herdsmen with long spears follow them on horseback; they are dangerous folk for wayfarers to meet, for they will kill and rob them and throw their bodies into pits in the ground.

“But out on these green plains are the pilgrim churches.”

Master Gunnulf paused for a moment.

“Perhaps this land seems so inexpressibly desolate because the city is nearby—the one that was the queen of the entire heathen world and then became Christ’s betrothed. The guards have abandoned the city, which in the teeming din of the feasting seems like an abandoned woman. The revelers have settled into the castle where the husband is absent, and they have lured the mistress into joining their carousing, with their merriment and spilling of blood and strife.

“But underground there are splendors that are more precious than all the splendors on which the sun shines. That’s where the graves of the holy martyrs are, dug into the very rock, and there are so many that the thought of them can make you dizzy. When you remember how numerous they are—the tortured witnesses who have suffered death for the sake of Christ—then it seems as if every speck of dust that is whirled up by the hooves of the revelers’ horses must be holy and worthy of worship.”

The priest pulled out a thin chain from under his robe and opened the little silver cross hanging from it. Inside was something black that looked like tinder-moss, and a tiny green bone.

“One day we were down in those catacombs all day long, and we said our prayers in caves and oratories where the first disciples of Saint Peter and Saint Paul once gathered for mass. Then the monks who owned the church into which we had descended gave us these sacred relics. This is a piece of the sponge which the pious maidens used to wipe up the martyr blood so that it would not be lost, and this is a knuckle from the finger of a holy man—but only God knows his name. Then all four of us vowed that every day we would invoke this holy man, whose honor is unknown to any human. And we chose this nameless martyr as a witness so that we might never forget how completely unworthy we are of God’s reward or the honors of men, and always remember that nothing in this world is worthy of desire except His mercy.”

Kristin kissed the cross with deference and handed it to Orm, who did the same.

Then Gunnulf said suddenly, “I want to give you this relic, kinsman.”

Orm sank down on one knee and kissed his uncle’s hand. Gunnulf hung the cross around the boy’s neck.

“Wouldn’t you have a mind to see these places, Orm?”

The boy’s face lit up with a smile. “Yes, I now know that someday I will go there.”

“Have you ever had a mind to become a priest?” asked his uncle.

“Yes,” replied the boy. “Whenever Father curses these weak arms of mine. But I don’t know whether he would like me to be a priest. And then there’s that other matter, as you know,” he murmured.

“Dispensation can be sought for your birth,” said the priest calmly. “Perhaps we might journey south together sometime, Orm, you and I.”

“Tell me more, Uncle,” Orm implored.

“That I will.” Gunnulf put his hands on the armrests of his chair and stared into the fire.

As I wandered there, seeing nothing but reminders of the tortured witnesses and thinking of the intolerable torments they had borne in the name of Jesus, a terrible temptation came over me. I thought about the way the Savior had hung nailed to the cross all those hours. But his disciples had suffered inexpressible torments for many days. Women watched their children tortured to death before their very eyes; delicate young maidens had their flesh raked from their bones with iron combs; young boys were forced to confront beasts of prey and enraged oxen. Then it occurred to me that many of these people had suffered more than Christ himself.

“I pondered this until I felt that my heart and mind would burst. But finally I received the light that I had prayed and begged for. And I realized that just as they had suffered, so should we all have the courage to suffer. Who would be so foolish not to accept pain and torment if this was the way to a faithful and steadfast bridegroom who waits with open arms, his breast bloody and burning with love.

“But he loved humankind. And that’s why he died as the bridegroom who has gone off to rescue his bride from the robbers’ hands. And they bind him and torture him to death, but he sees his sweetest friend sitting at the table with his executioners, bantering with them and mocking his pain and his loyal love.”

Gunnulf Nikulaussøn hid his face in his hands.

“Then I realized that this mighty love sustains everything in the world—even the fire in Hell. For if God wanted to, He could take our souls by force; then we would be completely powerless in His grasp. But since He loves us the way the bridegroom loves the bride, He will not force her; if she won’t embrace Him willingly, then He must allow her to flee and to shun Him. I have also thought that perhaps no soul is lost for all eternity. For I think every soul must desire this love, but it seems too dearly bought to let go of every other precious possession for the sake of this love alone. When the fire has consumed all other will that is rebellious and hostile to God, then at last the will toward God, even if it was no bigger in a person than one nail in a whole house, shall remain inside the soul, just as the iron remains in a burned-out ruin.”

“Gunnulf—” Kristin rose halfway to her feet. “I’m afraid.”

Gunnulf looked up, pale, with blazing eyes.

“I was also afraid. For I understood that the torment of God’s love will never end as long as men and maidens are born on this earth, and that He must be afraid of losing their souls—as long as He daily and hourly surrenders his body and his blood on thousands of altars and there are those who reject the sacrifice.

“And I was afraid of myself because I, an impure man, had served at his altar, said mass with impure lips, and held up the Host with impure hands. And I felt that I was like the man who led his beloved to a place of shame and betrayed her.”

He caught Kristin in his arms when she fainted, and he and Orm carried the unconscious woman over to the bed.

After a while she opened her eyes; she sat up and covered her face with her hands. She burst into tears and uttered a wild and plaintive cry, “I can’t, Gunnulf, I can’t—when you talk like that, then I realize that I can never . . .”

Gunnulf took her hand. But she turned away from the man’s pale and agitated face.

“Kristin. You cannot settle for anything less than the love that is between God and the soul.

“Kristin, look around at what the world is like. You who have given birth to two children—have you never thought about the fact that every child who is born is baptized in blood, and the first thing a person breathes on this earth is the smell of blood? Don’t you think that as their mother you should put all your effort into one thing? To ensure that your sons do not fall back on that first baptismal pact with the world but instead hold on to the other pact, which they affirmed with God at the baptismal font.”

She sobbed and sobbed.

“I’m afraid of you,” she said again. “Gunnulf, when you talk like that, then I realize I’ll never be able to find my way to peace.”

“God will find you,” said the priest quietly. “Stay calm and do not flee from Him who has been seeking you before you even existed in your mother’s womb.”

He sat in silence for a moment near the edge of the bed. Then he asked calmly and evenly whether he should wake Ingrid and ask the woman to come and help her undress. Kristin shook her head.

He made the sign of the cross over her three times. He bade Orm good night and went into the alcove where he slept.

Orm and Kristin undressed. The boy seemed deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. After Kristin was in bed, he came over to her. He looked at her tear-stained face and asked whether he should sit with her until she fell asleep.

“Oh, yes . . . oh, no, Orm, you must be tired, you who are so young. It must be very late.”

Orm stood there a little longer.

“Don’t you think it’s strange,” he said suddenly. “Father and Uncle Gunnulf—they’re so unlike each other—and yet they’re alike in a certain way.”

Kristin lay there, thinking to herself, Yes, perhaps. They’re unlike any other men.

A moment later she was asleep, and Orm went over to the other bed. He took off the rest of his clothes and crept under the covers. There was a linen sheet underneath and linen cases on the pillows. With pleasure the boy stretched out on the smooth, cool bed. His heart was pounding with excitement at these new adventures which his uncle’s words had pointed out to him. Prayers, fasts, everything he had practiced because he had been taught to do so, suddenly seemed new to him—weapons in a glorious war for which he longed. Perhaps he would become a monk—or a priest—if he could obtain dispensation because he had been born of adultery.

He left the little candlewick burning that was twined around an iron stake.

His own words had oppressed him with fear and uneasiness.

He felt faint with longing for that time—would he ever again find that nuptial joy in his heart that had filled him all spring long in Rome? Together with his three brothers he had wandered in the sunshine across the green, flower-starred meadows. He grew weak and trembled when he saw how beautiful the world was—and then to know that all of this was nothing compared to the riches of that other life. And yet this world greeted them with a thousand small joys and sweet reminders of the bridegroom. The lilies in the field and the birds in the sky reminded them of his words; he had spoken of donkeys like the ones they saw and of wells like the stone-lined cisterns they passed. They received food from the monks at the churches they visited, and when they drank the blood-red wine and broke off the golden crust from the bread made of wheat, all four priests from the barley lands understood why Christ had honored wine and wheat, which were purer than all other foodstuffs that God had given humankind, by manifesting himself in their likeness during the holy communion.

During that spring he had not felt any uneasiness or fear. He had felt himself released from the temptations of the world to such an extent that when he sensed the warm sun on his skin, then everything he had pondered before with such anguish seemed so easy to comprehend. How this body of his could be cleansed by fire to become the transfigured form . . . Feeling light and released from the demands of the earth, he needed no more sleep than the cuckoo, dozing in the spring nights. His heart sang in his breast; his soul felt like a bride in the arms of the bridegroom.

He realized full well that this would not last. No man could live on earth in this manner for long. And he had received each hour of that bright springtime like a pledge—a merciful promise that would strengthen his endurance when the skies darkened over him and the road led down into a dark ravine, through roaring rivers and cold snowdrifts.

There were so many things. There was his wealth. The great inheritance from his father—and the richly endowed benefice.² There was the path he envisioned before him. His place in the cathedral chapter; he knew it was intended for him—provided he didn’t renounce everything he owned, enter the friars’ order, take the vows of a monk, and submit to their rules. That was the life he desired—with half his heart.

And then when he grew old enough and hardened enough in the battle . . . In the kingdom of Norway there were people who lived like utter heathens or were led astray by the false teachings which the Russians put forward in the name of Christianity—the Finns and the other half-wild peoples,³ who were constantly on his mind. Wasn’t it God who had awakened in him this desire to journey to their villages, bringing the Word and the Light?

But he pushed aside these thoughts with the excuse that he had to obey the archbishop. And Lord Eiliv counseled him against it. Lord Eiliv had talked to him and listened to him and shown him clearly that he was speaking to the son of his old friend, Sir Nikulaus of Husaby. “But you are not capable of moderation, you who are descended from the daughters of Skogheims-Gaute, whether it be good or bad, whatever you have set your mind to.” The salvation of the Finns weighed heavily on the archbishop’s heart as well—but they had no need of a spiritual teacher who wrote and spoke Latin as well as his own language, who was no less knowledgeable about the law than about Aritmetica and Algorismus. Gunnulf had acquired his learning in order to use it, hadn’t he? “But it is unclear to me whether you have the gift to talk with the poor and simple people up there in the north.”

Oh, that sweet spring when his learning seemed to him no more venerable than the learning that every little maiden acquires from her mother—how to spin and brew and bake and milk—the training that every child needs to tend to his place in the world.

He had complained to the archbishop about the uneasiness and fear that came over him whenever he thought about his riches and how much he enjoyed being wealthy. For the needs of his own body he required little; he himself lived like a poor monk. But he liked to see many people sitting at his table; he liked to forestall the needs of the poor with his gifts. And he loved his horses and his books.

Lord Eiliv spoke somberly about the honors of the Church. Some were called to honor it with a stately and dignified demeanor, while others were called to show the world a voluntary poverty; wealth was nothing in itself. He reminded Gunnulf of those archbishops and prelates and priests who had been forced to suffer attacks, banishment, and offenses by kings in the past because they asserted the right of the Church. Time after time they had shown that if it was required of Norwegian clergymen, they would renounce everything to follow God. And God Himself would give the sign if it should be required—if only they all kept this firmly in sight, then they need not be afraid that wealth might become an enemy of the soul.

All this time Gunnulf noticed that the archbishop was not pleased that he thought and pondered so much on his own. It seemed to Gunnulf that Lord Eiliv Kortin and his priests were like men who were adding more and more bricks to their house. The honor of the Church and the power of the Church and the right of the Church. God knew that Gunnulf could be just as zealous as any other priest about matters of the Church; he was not one to avoid the work of hauling stones or carrying mortar for the building. But they seemed to be afraid of entering the house and resting inside. They seemed to be afraid of going astray if they thought too much.

That was not what he feared. It was impossible for a man to succumb to heresy if he kept his eye steadfastly fixed on the cross and unceasingly surrendered himself to the protection of the Holy Virgin. That was not the danger for him.

The danger was the unquenchable longing in his soul to win the favor and friendship of others.

He who had felt in the depths of his being that God loved him; to God his soul was as dear and precious as all other souls on earth.

But here at home it rose up in him again: the memory of everything that had tormented him during his childhood and youth. That his mother had not been as fond of him as she was of Erlend. That his father hadn’t wanted to pay any attention to him, the way he had constantly paid attention to Erlend. Later, when they lived with Baard at Hestnes, it was Erlend who was praised and Erlend who did wrong—Gunnulf was merely the brother. Erlend, Erlend was the chieftain for all the young boys, Erlend was the one the serving maids cursed at and then laughed at just the same. And Erlend was the one he himself loved above all others on earth. If only Erlend would be fond of him; but he could never be satisfied with the love Erlend gave him. Erlend was the only one who cared for him—but Erlend cared for so many.

And now he saw the way his brother handled everything that had fallen to his lot. God alone must know how it would end with the riches of Husaby; there was gossip enough in Nidaros about Erlend’s imprudent management. To think he took so little notice, when God had given him four handsome children; and they were handsome, even the children he had begotten in his dissolute days. Erlend perceived this not as a gift of grace but as something that was simply as it should be.

And finally he had won the love of a pure, delicate young maiden of good family. Gunnulf thought about the way Erlend had dealt with her; he could no longer respect his brother after he found that out. He grew impatient with himself when he noticed traits he had in common with his brother. Erlend, as old as he was, would turn pale or blush crimson as easily as a half-grown maiden, and Gunnulf would rage because he felt the blood coming and going just as easily in his own face. They had inherited this from their mother; a single word could make her change color.

Now Erlend assumed it was no more than reasonable that his wife was a good woman, a mirror for all wives—in spite of the fact that year after year he had tried to corrupt this young child and lead her astray. But Erlend didn’t even seem to imagine that things might be otherwise; he was now married to the woman whom he had trained in sensual pleasures, betrayal, and dishonesty. He didn’t seem to think it was something he should honor his wife for—that in spite of her fall, she was still truthful and faithful, modest and good.

And yet, when the news arrived this past summer and autumn about Erlend’s actions in the north . . . Then he had yearned for only one thing: to be with his brother. Erlend, the king’s military protector in Haalogaland; and he, the preacher of God’s words in the desolate, half-heathen districts near the Gandvik Sea⁴ . . .

Gunnulf stood up. On one wall of the alcove hung a large crucifix, and in front of it, on the floor, lay a big slab of stone.

He knelt down on the stone and stretched out his arms to either side. He had hardened his body to tolerate this position, and he could remain like this for hours, as motionless as stone. With his eyes fastened on the crucifix, he waited for the solace that would come when he was able to focus all his attention on his contemplation of the cross.

But the first thought that now came to him was this: Should he part with this image? Saint Francis and his friars had crosses which they carved themselves from a couple of tree branches. He ought to give away this beautiful rood—he could give it to the church at Husaby. Peasants, children, and women who went there for mass might gain strength from such a visible display of the Savior’s loving gentleness during his suffering. Simple souls like Kristin. For him it shouldn’t be necessary.

Night after night he had knelt here with his senses closed off and his limbs numb, until he saw the vision. The hill with the three crosses against the sky. The cross in the middle, which was meant to bear the king of heaven and earth, shook and trembled; it bent like a tree in a storm, in fear of bearing the much too precious burden, the sacrifice for all the sins of the world. The lord of the storm tents forced it, the way a knight forces his defiant stallion; the chieftain of heaven carried it into battle. Then that miracle occurred which was the key to ever deeper miracles. The blood that ran down from the cross in redemption for all sins and penance for all sorrows—that was the visible sign. With this first miracle the eye of the soul could be opened to contemplate those still hidden—God, who came down to earth and became the son of a virgin and brother to the human kin, who lay waste to Hell and who, with the released souls that were his spoils of war, stormed toward the dazzling sea of light from which the world was born and which sustains the earth. It was toward that unfathomable and eternal depth of light that his thoughts were drawn, and there they perished in the light, vanishing like a flock of birds into the radiance of an evening sky.

Out in the dark courtyard the priest paused for a moment. But none of the servants appeared to accompany him to church. He didn’t require them to attend more than two services a day. But Ingrid, his foster mother, almost always went with him to matins. This morning she was evidently still asleep too. Well, she had been up late the night before.

Gunnulf listened for a while and said, “When you speak to Orm in that manner, Erlend, you sound like our father—the way he used to speak to you.”

Erlend abruptly fell silent. Then he shouted, “But I know I never acted so senselessly when I was a boy—running off from the manor in a snowstorm, a woman who is ill and a whelp of a boy! There’s not much else to boast of about Orm’s manhood, but you can see that he’s not afraid of his father!”

“You weren’t afraid of Father either,” replied his brother with a smile.

Orm stood before his father without saying a word and tried to look indifferent.

“Well, you can go now,” said Erlend. “I’m tired of the whole lot at Husaby. But one thing I know—this summer Orm will go north with me, then I’ll make something of this pampered lamb of Kristin’s. He’s no bumbler, either,” he said eagerly to his brother. “He has a sure aim, I can tell you that. And he’s not afraid; but he’s always surly and morose, and it seems as if he has no marrow in his bones.”

“If you often rage at your son the way you did just now, then it’s not so strange that he would be morose,” said the priest.

Erlend’s mood shifted; he laughed and said, “I often had to suffer much worse from Father—and God knows I didn’t grow morose from that. It could very well be . . . but now that I’ve come here, we should celebrate Christmas, since it’s Christmastime, after all. Where’s Kristin? What was it she had to talk to you about again that she would . . .”

“I don’t think there was anything she wanted to talk to me about,” said the priest. “She had a mind to attend mass here during Christmas.”

“It seems to me that she could have made do with what we have at home,” said Erlend. “But it’s hard for her—all her youth is being stripped from her in this way.” He rammed one fist against the other. “I don’t understand why our Lord should think we need a new son every year.”

Gunnulf looked up at his brother.

“Well . . . I have no idea what our Lord thinks you may need. But what Kristin no doubt needs most is for you to be kind to her.”

“Yes, I suppose she does,” murmured Erlend.

Kristin walked along, pale and silent, with her head bowed slightly; the ankle-length, black fur cloak with the silver clasps seemed to weigh heavily on her frail, thin body.

“Would you like me to ride back home with you? Then Orm can travel home by ship,” her husband said. “I suppose you would prefer not to travel across the fjord.”

“No, you know I’m reluctant to journey by ship.”

The weather was calm and mild now—every once in a while mounds of heavy wet snow would slide down off the trees. The sky hung low and dark-gray over the white town. There was a watery, greenish-gray sheen to the snow; the timbered walls of the houses, the fences, and the tree trunks looked black in the damp air. Never, thought Kristin, had she seen the world look so cold and faded and pale.

For two summers Erlend had stayed out at sea until late autumn, patrolling the waters off the long northern coast and chasing off pirate vessels with the four small ships that bore his banner. One day he had arrived in search of fresh provisions at a new Norwegian settlement far north in Tana just as the Karelians¹ were in the process of plundering it. With the handful of men he had brought ashore, he captured eighteen of the pirates and hanged them from the roof beam in the half-burned barn. He cut down a troop of Russians attempting to flee into the mountains; he vanquished and burned several enemy ships somewhere out among the distant skerries. Rumors of his speed and boldness spread through the north; his men from Outer Trøndelag and Møre loved their chieftain for his toughness and his willingness to share in all the toil and travails of his crew. He had won friends among the peasants and the young sons on the estates of the chieftains up north in Haalogaland, where people had almost grown accustomed to having to defend their own coasts alone.

But even so, Erlend was of no help to the regent and his plans for a great crusade north. In Trøndelag people boasted of Erlend’s exploits in the Russian campaign—if talk turned to this subject, they would point out that he was one of their own. Yes, it had turned out that the young boys from the fjord possessed a fair share of good old-fashioned valor. But no matter what Erlend of Husaby said or did, it was not enough to impress grown-up and sensible men.

Kristin saw that Erlend continued to be counted among the young, even though he was a year older than the regent. She realized that this suited many, because then his words and actions could be disparaged as those of a young and reckless man. People liked him, humored him, and boasted of him—but he was never considered a fully entitled man. And she saw how willingly he accepted the role that his peers wanted him to play.

He spoke in favor of the Russian war; he talked about the Swedes who shared the Norwegian king. But they refused to acknowledge the Norwegian lords and knights as noblemen, equal with their own. In other countries, for as long as the world had existed, had anyone ever heard of demanding payment of war levies from noblemen in any other form than having them ride their own horses and bear their own shields into battle? Kristin knew this was much the same thing her father had said that time at the ting in Vaage, and Lavrans had also mentioned it to Erlend when his son-in-law had not wanted to oppose Munan Baardsøn’s plans. No, Erlend now said—and he would allude to his father-in-law’s powerful kinsmen in Sweden—he knew full well how the Swedish noblemen regarded the Norwegians. “And if we don’t show them what we’re capable of, we’ll soon be considered nothing more than wards of the Swedes.”

And people agreed that there was some truth to this. But then they would go back to talking about the regent. Sir Erling had his own reasons for lamenting what went on in the north. One year the Karelians had burned down Bjarkøy in defiance of his overseer and persecuted his leaseholders. But Erlend would change his tone and jest—Erling Vidkunssøn wasn’t thinking of his own affairs, he was sure of that. Sir Erling was such a noble and refined and distinguished knight; they couldn’t have found a better man to serve as leader for all of them. By God, Erling was as honorable and venerable as the most beautiful golden initial capital at the beginning of the book of law. People laughed, less impressed with Erlend’s praise of the regent’s integrity than with Erlend’s comparing him to a gilded letter.

No, they didn’t take Erlend seriously—not now, when he was in some ways respected. But back in the days when he was young and stubborn and desperate, when he lived with his concubine and refused to send her away in spite of the king’s command and excommunication from the Church—back then they did take him seriously, turning away from him in bitter fury at his ungodly and disgraceful life. Now it was all forgiven and forgotten, and Kristin realized that it was partly out of gratitude for this that her husband so willingly acquiesced and behaved in the way people wanted him to behave. He must have suffered bitterly during that time when he was banished from the company of his peers in Norway. But the problem was, it made her think of her father, when he released incompetent men from their obligations or debts with a mere shrug of his shoulders. It was a Christian duty to bear with those who could not conduct themselves properly. Was it in this manner that Erlend had been forgiven the sins of his youth?

But Erlend had paid the consequences for his actions when he was living with Eline. He had answered for his sins right up until the moment when he met Kristin and she eagerly followed him into new sin. Was she then the one who . . .

No. Now she was afraid of her own thoughts.

And she tried to block out of her mind all the worries about things she could not change. She wanted only to think about matters in which she could do something with her compassion. Everything else she would have to place in God’s hands. God had helped her in every instance when her own hard work could do some good. Husaby had now been transformed into a prosperous farm, as it had been in the past—in spite of the bad years. Three healthy and handsome sons He had given her, and each year He had granted her new life whenever she was faced with death in childbirth. He had allowed her to recover her full health after each convalescence. She had been permitted to keep all three of her small sons the year before, when illness took the lives of so many fair children in the region. And Gaute—Gaute would regain his health, that she firmly believed.

It must be as Erlend had said: It was necessary for him to lead his life and maintain his estates in as costly a fashion as he did. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to assert himself among his peers and win the rights and revenues that were his birthright under the Crown. She would have to believe that he understood this better than she did.

It was senseless to think that things might have been better in some ways for him—and even for her—back when he was living tangled up in sin with that other woman. In glimpses of memory she saw his face from that time, ravaged with sorrow, contorted with passion. No, no, things were fine as they were now. He was merely a little too carefree and thoughtless.

Erlend jumped down from his horse and lifted the boys onto the saddle. Then he took his youngest son from his wife so he could carry him. Kristin’s pale, worn face lit up when Gaute wasn’t frightened by his father; he must have recognized him, after all. She asked nothing about her husband’s travels, but talked only about Gaute’s four new teeth which had made him so sick.

Then the boy started to scream; he had scraped his cheek bloody on the filigree brooch on his father’s chest. He wanted to go back to his mother, and she wanted to take him, no matter how much Erlend protested.

Erlend glanced furtively at Kristin. His poor wife—she looked so miserable. He began to tell her all kinds of news. Erling had asked him to send his greetings and give her this—it was a bronze dagger, corroded with verdigris. They had found it in a heap of stones out at Giske; it was supposed to be beneficial to place such a thing in the cradle in case it was rickets that had stricken Gaute.

Kristin wrapped up the dagger again, awkwardly rose from her chair, and went over to the cradle. She put the bundle under the bedclothes with everything else that lay there: a stone axe found buried in the ground, the musk gland of a beaver, a cross made from daphne twigs, old silver, flint, roots of a Mariahand orchid, and an Olav’s Beard fern.

“Lie down now, dear Kristin,” Erlend said tenderly. He came over and pulled off her shoes and stockings. All the while he talked.

Haakon Ogmundssøn had come back, and peace with the Russians and Karelians had been concluded and sealed. Erlend himself would have to travel north this fall. For it was certain that calm would not be restored at once, and a man was needed at Vargøy who knew the region. He would be given full authority as the king’s officer in command at the fortress up there, which had to be better secured so that peace could be defended at the new border markers.

Erlend looked up into his wife’s face with excitement. She seemed a bit alarmed—but she didn’t ask many questions, and it was clear that she had little understanding of what his news meant. He saw how tired she was, so he spoke no more about this matter but remained sitting on the edge of her bed for a while.

He understood the gravity of what he had taken on. Erlend laughed quietly to himself as he took his time undressing. There would be no sitting back with his silver belt around his belly, holding feasts for friends and kinsmen, and filing his nails straight and clean as he dispatched his vassals and lieutenants here and there—the way the king’s commanders of the castles did here in the south of Norway. And the castle at Vargøy was quite a different sort of fortress.

Finns, Russians, Karelians, and mixed breeds of all kinds—troll rabble, conjurers, heathen dogs, the Devil’s own precious lambs who had to be taught to pay taxes to the Norwegian emissaries and to leave the Norwegian settlements in peace, which were spread out with as much distance between each other as from Husaby all the way to Møre. Peace—perhaps the king’s peace would be possible up there someday, but in his lifetime there would be peace only when the Devil attended mass. And he would have his own roughnecks to keep in check too. Especially toward the spring, when they began to grow despondent from the darkness and the cold and the hellish roar of the sea—when the flour and butter and liquor were in short supply, and they began fighting over their women, and life on the island grew unbearable. Erlend had witnessed some of this when he was there as a young boy with Gissur Galle. No, he wouldn’t be lying about idle!

Ingolf Peit, who was now in charge, was able enough. But Erling was right: A man from the knighthood should take control of things up there—not until then would anyone realize that it was the Norwegian king’s firm intention to assert his power over the land. Ha, ha—in that territory he would be like a needle in a coverlet. Not a single Norwegian settlement until as far south as Malang.

Ingolf was a capable fellow, but only as long as he had someone in command over him. He would put Ingolf in charge of his ship Hugrekken. Margygren was the most splendid of ships; that much he had now learned. Erlend laughed softly and happily. He had told Kristin so often before, this was one mistress she would have to put up with.

Kristin was softly humming. The thin, weak sound of her voice annoyed him.

Erlend remembered what he had been dreaming. He was walking along a shore somewhere; it was low tide, and he was leaping from stone to stone. In the distance the sea was glistening and pale, lapping at the seaweed; it was like a silent, cloudy summer evening, with no sun. At the mouth of the silvery fjord he saw the ship anchored, black and sleek, rocking gently on the waves. There was an ungodly, delicious smell of sea and kelp.

His heart grew sick with longing. Now in the darkness of the night, as he lay here in the guest bed and listened to the monotonous sound of the lullaby gnawing at his ear, he felt how strong his longing was. To be away from this house and the swarms of children who filled it, away from talk of farming matters and servants and tenants and children—and from his anguished concern for her, who was always ill and whom he always had to pity.

Erlend clasped his hands over his heart. It felt as if it had stopped; it merely lay there, shivering with fright inside his breast. He longed to be away from her. When he thought about what she would have to endure, as weak and frail as she now was—and he knew that it could happen at any hour—he felt as if he would suffocate from fear. But if he should lose Kristin . . . He didn’t know how he would be able to live without her. But he didn’t feel able to live with her, either, not now. He wanted to flee from everything and breathe freely—as if it were a matter of life itself for him.

Jesus, my Savior—oh, what kind of man was he! He realized it now, tonight. Kristin, my sweet, my dearest wife—the only time he had known deep, heartfelt joy with her was when he was leading her astray.

He who had been so convinced on that day when he was given Kristin to have and to hold before God and man that everything bad would be driven from his life so completely that he would forget it had ever existed.

He must be the kind of man who couldn’t tolerate anything truly good or pure to be near him. Because Kristin . . . Ever since she had emerged from the sin and impurity into which he had led her, she had been like an angel from God’s heaven. Kind and faithful, gentle, capable, deserving of respect. She had returned honor to Husaby. She had become once again the person she had been on that summer night, when the pure young maiden had crept under his cape there in the convent garden; and he had thought when he felt that slender young body against his side: The Devil himself wouldn’t dare harm this child or cause her sorrow.

Tears streamed down Erlend’s face.

It must be true, what the priests had told him, that sin ate up a man’s soul like rust—for he could find no rest or peace here with his sweet beloved. He longed to be away from her and everything that was hers.

He had wept himself almost to sleep when he sensed that she was up and pacing the floor, quietly humming and singing.

Erlend sprang out of bed, stumbled in the dark over a child’s shoes on the floor, and went right over to his wife and took Gaute from her. The boy started screaming, and Kristin said crossly, “I had almost lulled him to sleep!”

The father shook the crying child, gave him a few slaps on the bottom—and when the boy shrieked even louder, he hushed him so harshly that Gaute fell silent with fear. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

“It’s time for you to use what good sense you have, Kristin.” His fury robbed him of all power as he stood there, startled and naked and freezing in the pitch-dark room with a sobbing child in his arms. “There has to be an end to this, I tell you—what do you have nursemaids for? The children will sleep with them; you can’t keep on this way.”

“Won’t you allow me to have my children with me during the time I have left?” replied his wife, her voice low and plaintive.

Erlend refused to acknowledge what she meant.

“During the time you have left, you need rest. Go to bed now, Kristin,” he implored her more calmly.

He took Gaute with him to bed. He hummed to him for a while, and in the dark he found his belt lying on the step of the bed. The little silver medallions adorning it clinked and clattered as the boy played with the belt.

“The dagger isn’t in it, is it?” asked Kristin anxiously from her bed, and Gaute began howling again when he heard his mother’s voice. Erlend hushed him and made the belt clink—at last the child stopped crying and grew calm.

Perhaps it would be unwise to wish for this poor little boy to grow to adulthood—it was not certain that Gaute possessed all his wits.

Oh no, oh no. Blessed Virgin Mary, he didn’t mean that. He didn’t wish death for his own little son. No, no. Erlend held the child close in his arms and pressed his face to the soft, fine hair.

Their handsome sons. But he grew so weary of listening to them all day long; of stumbling over them whenever he came home. He couldn’t understand how three small children could be everywhere at once on such a large estate. But he remembered how furious he had been with Eline because she showed no interest in their children. He must be an unreasonable man, for he was also resentful that he no longer saw Kristin without children clinging to her.

When he held his lawfully born sons in his arms he never felt the same way he had when they gave him Orm to hold for the first time. Oh Orm, Orm, my son. He had been so tired of Eline by then—sick and tired of her stubbornness and her vehemence and her uncontrollable ardor. He had seen that she was too old for him. And he had begun to realize what this madness would eventually cost him. But he hadn’t felt that he could send her away—not after she had given up everything for his sake. The boy’s birth had given him a reason to tolerate the mother, it seemed to him. He had been so young when he became Orm’s father, and he hadn’t fully understood the child’s position, since the mother was another man’s lawful wife.

Sobs overcame him once more, and he held Gaute tighter. Orm—he had never loved any of his children the way he loved that boy; he missed him terribly, and he bitterly regretted every harsh and impatient word he had ever said to him. Orm couldn’t have known how much his father loved him. Bitterness and despair had gradually seized Erlend as it became abundantly clear that Orm would never be considered his lawful son, that he would never be able to inherit his father’s coat of arms. And Erlend felt jealousy too because he saw his son draw closer to his stepmother than to him, and it seemed to him that Kristin’s calm, gentle kindness toward the boy was a form of reproach.

Then came those days and nights that Erlend could not bear to remember. Orm lay on his bier in the loft, and the women came to tell him that they didn’t think Kristin would live. They dug a grave for Orm over in the church, and they asked whether Kristin should be buried there too. Or should she be taken instead to Saint Greg or’s Church to be laid to rest beside his parents?

Oh . . . He held his breath in fear. Behind him lay an entire lifetime of memories from which he had fled, and he couldn’t bear to think of it. Now, tonight, he understood. He could forget about it to some extent from day to day. But he couldn’t protect himself from the memories turning up at some moment such as this—and then it felt as if all courage had been conjured out of him.

Those days at Haugen—he had almost succeeded in forgetting about them entirely. He hadn’t been back to Haugen since that night when he drove off, and he hadn’t seen Bjørn or Aashild again after his wedding. And now . . . He thought about what Munan had told him—it was said that their spirits had come back. Haugen was so haunted that the buildings stood deserted; no one wanted to live there, even if they were given the farm free.

Bjørn Gunnarssøn had possessed a type of courage that Erlend knew he himself would never have. His hand had been steady when he stabbed his wife—right through the heart, said Munan.

It would be two years this winter since Bjørn and Fru Aashild died. People had not seen smoke coming from the buildings at Haugen for nearly a week; finally several men gathered their courage and went over there. Herr Bjørn was lying in bed with his throat cut; he was holding his wife’s body in his arms. On the floor next to the bed lay his bloody dagger.

Everyone knew what had happened, and yet Munan Baardsøn and his brother managed to have the two buried in consecrated ground. Perhaps they had fallen victim to robbers, people said, although the chest containing Bjørn’s and Aashild’s valuables had not been touched. And the bodies were untouched by mice or rats—in fact, those kinds of vermin never came to Haugen, and people took this as a sign of the woman’s sorcery skills.

Munan Baardsøn had been terribly distressed by his mother’s death. He had set off on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela² at once.

Erlend remembered the morning following his own mother’s death. They were anchored in Moldøy Sound, but the fog was so white and thick that only occasionally could they catch a glimpse of the mountain ridge towering above them. But there was a muffled echo from the hollow sound of the boat being rowed to shore with the priest. Erlend stood in the bow and watched them rowing away from the ship. Everything he came near was wet with fog; beads of moisture covered his hair and clothing. And the priest and his acolyte, who were strangers to Erlend, sat in the bow of the boat, their shoulders hunched as they bent over the holy vessels they held on their laps. They looked like hawks in the rain. The slap of the oars and the scrape of the oarlocks and the echo from the mountain continued to resound long after the boat had been spirited away by the fog.

On that day Erlend had also vowed to make a pilgrimage. He had only had one thought back then: that he be allowed to see his mother’s lovely, sweet face again, the way it had been before, with ts soft, smooth, light tan complexion. Now she lay dead be lowdecks, with her face ravaged by the terrible sores that ruptured and seeped little drops of clear fluid whenever she had tried to smile at him.

He was not to blame for the way his father had received him. Nor for the fact that he had turned to someone who was outcast, like himself. But then Erlend had pushed the pilgrimage from his mind, and he had refused to think any more about his mother. As painful as her life had been here on earth, she must now be in that place of peace—and there was not much peace for him, after he took up with Eline again.

Peace—he had known it only once in his life; on that night when he sat behind the stone wall near the woods of Hofvin and held Kristin as she slept on his lap—the safe, tender, undisturbed sleep of a child. He hadn’t been able to hold out for long before he shattered her tranquillity. And it wasn’t peace that he found with her later on, and he had no peace with her now. And yet he saw that everyone else in his home did find peace in the presence of his young wife.

Now he longed only to go away to that strife-torn place. He yearned madly and wildly for that remote promontory and for the thundering sea surrounding the forelands of the north, for the endless coastline and the enormous fjords which could conceal all manner of traps and deceptions, for the people whose language he understood only slightly, for their sorcery and inconstancy and cunning, for war and the sea, and for the singing of weapons, both his own and his men’s.

At last Erlend fell asleep, and then woke up again—what was it he had dreamed? Oh yes. That he was lying in a bed with a black-haired Finnish girl on either side of him. Something half-forgotten that had happened to him back when he was up north with Gissur. A wild night when they had all been drunk and reeling. He couldn’t recall much more of the whole night than the rank, wild-beast smell of the women.

And now here he lay with his sick little son in his arms and dreamed of such things. He was so shocked at himself that he didn’t dare try to sleep anymore. And he couldn’t bear to lie awake in bed. He must truly be fated to unhappiness. Rigid with anguish he lay motionless and felt the clench of his heart in his breast, while he longed for the redemption of dawn.

Outside it stormed and rained so hard that water gushed down the slopes. Erlend came out of the armory later in the day and heard Gaute screaming and crying from somewhere in the courtyard. He found his small sons in the narrow passageway between two of the buildings, sitting directly under the dripping eaves. Naakkve was clutching the youngest boy while Bjørgulf was trying to force-feed him a worm—he had a whole fistful of pink worms, twisting and squirming.

The boys looked crestfallen as their father scolded them. It was Old Aan, they said, who had mentioned that Gaute’s teeth would come in with no trouble if they could get him to take a bite of a live worm.

They were soaked through from head to toe, all three of them. Erlend bellowed for the nursemaids, who came rushing out—one from the workroom and the other from the stable. Their master cursed them roundly, stuffed Gaute under his arm like a piglet, and then chased the other two ahead of him into the hall.

A little while later, dry and content in their best blue tunics, the boys sat in a row on the step of their mother’s bed. Erlend had brought a stool over, and he chattered nonsense and fussed over his sons, hugging them close and laughing in order to drive out the remnants of the nighttime terror from his mind. But Kristin smiled happily because Erlend was playing with their children. Erlend told them that he had a Finnish witch; she was two hundred winters old, and so wizened that she was no bigger than this. He kept her in a leather pouch in the big chest that stood in his boathouse. Oh yes, he gave her food, all right; every Christmas he gave her the thigh of a Christian man—that was enough to last her the whole year. And if they weren’t nice and quiet and didn’t stop plaguing their mother, who was ill, then he would put them in the pouch too.

“Mother is sick because she’s carrying our sister,” said Naakkve, proud that he knew about such matters.

Erlend pulled the boy by the ears down onto his knee.

“Yes, and after she’s born, this sister of yours, I’m going to let my old Finnish woman work her magic on all three of you and turn you into polar bears so you can go padding around in the wild forest, but my daughter will inherit all that I own.”

The children shrieked and tumbled into their mother’s bed. Gaute didn’t understand, but he yelled and scrambled up there too, after his brothers. Kristin complained—Erlend shouldn’t tease them so horribly. But Naakkve toppled off the bed again; in an ecstasy of laughter and fright he rushed at his father, hung on to his belt, and bit at Erlend’s hands, while he shouted and cheered.

Erlend had them baptized; one of them was named after Ivar Gjesling and the other after King Skule. His name had otherwise not been continued in their family; Fru Ragnrid had said that her father was a man fated to misfortune, and no one should be named for him. But Erlend swore that none of his sons bore a prouder name than the youngest.

It was now so late in the autumn that Erlend had to journey north as soon as Kristin was out of the worst danger. And he felt in his heart that it was just as well that he left before she was out of bed again. Five sons in five years—that should be enough, and he didn’t want to have to worry that she would die in childbirth while he sat up north at Vargøy.

He could see that Kristin had thought much the same. She no longer complained that he was going to leave her behind. She had accepted each child that came as a precious gift from God, and the suffering as something to which she had to submit. But this time the experience had been so appallingly difficult that Erlend could tell that all courage seemed to have been stripped from her. She lay in bed listlessly, her face yellow as clay, staring at the two little bundles at her side; and her eyes were not as happy as they had been with the others.

Erlend sat beside her and went over the entire trip north in his mind. It would doubtless be a hard sea voyage so late in the fall—and strange to arrive there for the long nights. But he felt such an unspeakable yearning. This last bout of fear for his wife had completely broken all resistance in his soul—helplessly he surrendered to his own longing to flee from home.

Haftor would no doubt see to it that troubles commenced soon enough. Erlend laughed. They had sailed together almost as far as Trjanema, and there Haftor had found himself a Sami woman from Kola¹ whom he had taken with him. Erlend had spoken to him sternly. He had to remember that it was important for the heathens to realize that the Norwegians were the masters. And he would have to conduct himself so as not to provoke anyone unnecessarily, considering the small group of men he had with him. He shouldn’t intervene if the Finns fought and killed each other; they were to be granted that pleasure without interference. But act like a hawk over the Russians and the Kola people, or whatever that rabble was called. And leave the women alone—for one thing, they were all witches; and for another, there were plenty who would offer themselves willingly. But the Godøy youth would just have to take care of himself, until he learned.

Haftor wanted to get away from his estates and his wife. Erlend now wanted to go back home to his. He felt a blissful longing for Kristin and Husaby and his home district and all his children—for everything that was back home with Kristin.

At Lyngsfjord he got word of a ship with several monks on board; they were supposedly Dominican friars from Nidaros who were heading north to try to plant the true faith among heathens and heretics in the border territories.

Erlend felt certain that Gunnulf was among them. And three nights later he was indeed sitting alone with his brother in a sod hut that belonged to a little Norwegian farm near the shore where they had found each other.

Erlend sat talking to Gunnulf about this, and his brother listened with an odd, remote smile on his thin, compressed lips. It looked as if he were constantly sucking on his lower lip, the way a person often does when he is thinking hard about something and is on the verge of understanding but has not yet achieved full clarity in his mind.

It was late at night. All the other people on the farm were asleep in the shed; the brothers knew that they were now the only ones awake. And they were both struck by the strange circumstance that the two of them should be sitting there alone.

The muffled and muted sound of the storm and the roaring sea reached them through the sod walls. Now and then gusts of wind would blow in, breathe on the embers of the hearth, and make the flame of the oil lamp flicker. There was no furniture in the hut; the brothers were sitting on the low earthen bench which ran along three sides of the room, and between them lay Gunnulf’s writing board with ink horn, his quill pen, and a rolled-up parchment. Gunnulf had been writing down a few notes as his brother told him about meetings and Norwegian settlements, about navigation markers and weather indications and words in the Sami language—everything Erlend happened to think of. Gunnulf was piloting the ship himself; it was named Sunnivasuden, for the friars had chosen Saint Sunniva² as the patron saint for their endeavor.

“As long as you don’t suffer the same fate as the martyred Selje men,” said Erlend, and Gunnulf again gave him a little smile.

“You call me restless, Gunnulf,” Erlend continued. “Then what should we call you? First you wander around in the southern lands for all those years, and then you’ve barely returned home before you give up your benefice and prebends³ to go off to preach to the Devil and his offspring up north in Velliaa. You don’t know their language and they don’t know yours. It seems to me that you’re even more inconstant than I am.”

“I own neither manors nor kinsmen to answer for,” said the monk. “I have now freed myself from all bonds, but you have bound yourself, brother.”

“Yes, well . . . I suppose the man who owns nothing is free.”

Gunnulf replied, “A man’s possessions own him more than he owns them.”

“Hmm. No, by God, I might concede that Kristin owns me. But I won’t agree that the manor and the children own me too.”

“Don’t think that way, brother,” said Gunnulf softly. “For then you might easily lose them.”

“No, I refuse to be like those other old men, up to their chins in the muck of their land,” said Erlend, laughing, and his brother smiled with him.

“I’ve never seen fairer children than Ivar and Skule,” he said. “I think you must have looked like them at that age—it’s no wonder our mother loved you so much.”

Both brothers rested a hand on the writing board, which lay between them. Even in the faint light of the oil lamp it was possible to see how unlike the hands of these two men were. The monk’s fingers bore no rings; they were white and sinewy, shorter and stubbier than the other man’s fingers, and yet they looked much stronger—even though the palm of Erlend’s fist was now as hard as horn and a blue-white scar from an arrow wound furrowed the dark skin from his wrist all the way up his sleeve. But the fingers of Erlend’s slender, tanned hand were dry and knotty-jointed like tree branches, and they were completely covered with rings of gold and precious stones.

Erlend had an urge to take his brother’s hand, but he was too embarrassed to do so; instead, he drank a toast to him, grimacing at the bad ale.

“And you think that Kristin has now regained her full health?” Erlend continued.

“Yes, she had blossomed like a rose when I was at Husaby in the summer,” said the monk with a smile. He paused for a moment and then said somberly, “I ask this of you, brother—think more about the welfare of Kristin and your children than you have done in the past. Abide by her advice and agree to the decisions she and Eiliv have made; they’re only waiting for your consent to conclude them.”

“I’m not greatly in favor of these plans you speak of,” said Erlend with some reluctance. “And now my position will be quite different.”

“Your lands will gain in value if you consolidate your property more,” replied the monk. “Kristin’s plans seemed sensible when she explained them to me.”

“And there isn’t another woman in all of Norway who offers advice more freely than she does,” said Erlend.

“But in the end you’re the one who commands. And you now command Kristin too, and can do as you please,” Gunnulf said, his voice strangely weak.

Erlend laughed softly from deep in his throat, then stretched and yawned. Suddenly somber, he said, “You have also counseled her, my brother. And at times your advice may well have come between our friendship.”

“Do you mean the friendship between you and your wife, or the friendship between the two of us?” the monk asked hesitantly.

“Both,” replied Erlend, as if the thought had just now occurred to him.

“It isn’t usually necessary for a laywoman to be so pious,” he continued in a lighter tone of voice.

“I have counseled her as I thought best. As it was best,” Gunnulf corrected himself.

Erlend looked at the monk dressed in the rough, grayish-white friar’s robes, with the black cowl thrown back so that it lay in thick folds around his neck and over his shoulders. The crown of his head was shaved so that only a narrow fringe of hair now remained, encircling his round, gaunt, pallid face; but his hair was no longer thick and black as it had been in Gunnulf’s younger days.

“Well, you aren’t as much my brother anymore as you are the brother of all men,” said Erlend, surprising himself by the great bitterness in his own voice.

“That’s not true—although it ought to be.”

“So help me God, I think that’s the real reason that you want to go up there to the Finns!”

Gunnulf bowed his head. His amber eyes smoldered.

“To some extent that’s true,” he said swiftly.

They spread out the furs and coverlets they had brought with them. It was too cold and raw in the room for them to undress, so they bade each other good night and lay down on the earthen bench, which was quite low to the floor to escape the smoke from the hearth.

Erlend lay there thinking about the news he had received from home. He hadn’t heard much during the past years—two letters from his wife had reached him, but they had been outdated by the time they arrived. Sira Eiliv had written them for her. Kristin could write, and she had a beautiful hand, but she was never eager to do so, because she didn’t think it quite proper for an uneducated woman.

She would no doubt become even more pious now that they had acquired a holy relic in the neighboring village, and it was from a man whom she had known while he was alive. And Gaute had now won release from his illness there, and Kristin herself had recovered her full health after having been weak ever since giving birth to the twins. Gunnulf said that the friars of Hamar had finally been forced to give Edvin Rikardssøn’s body back to his brothers in Oslo, and they had now written down everything about Brother Edvin’s life and about the miracles he was said to have performed, both during his lifetime and after death. It was their intention to send these writings to the Pope in an attempt to have the monk proclaimed a saint. Several brothers from Gauldal and Medaldal had journeyed south to bear witness to the wonders that Brother Edvin had achieved with his prayers of intercession in the parishes and with a crucifix he had carved; it was now at Medalhus. They had vowed to build a small church on Vatsfjeld, the mountain where he had spent several summers, living a hermit’s existence, and where a mountain spring had become endowed with healing powers. And the brothers were given a hand from his body to enshrine in the church.

Kristin had contributed two silver bowls and the large cloak clasp with blue stones which she had inherited from her grandmother, Ulvhild Haavardsdatter, so that Tiedeken Paus in Nidaros could fashion a silver hand for Brother Edvin’s bones. And she had been to Vatsfjeld with Sira Eiliv and her children and a great entourage when the archbishop consecrated the church at Midsummer the year after Erlend had departed for the north.

Afterwards, Gaute’s health quickly improved; he had learned to walk and talk, and he was now like any other child his age. Erlend stretched out his limbs. That was the greatest joy they had been granted—that Gaute was now well. He would donate some land to the church. Gunnulf had told him that Gaute was blond, with a fair complexion, like his mother. If only he had been a little maiden, then he would have been named Magnhild. Yes, he was also longing for his handsome sons now.

Gunnulf Nikulaussøn lay there thinking about the spring day three years ago when he rode toward Husaby. On the way he met a man from the manor. The mistress was not at home, he had said; she was tending to a woman who was ill.

He was riding along a narrow, grass-covered road between old split-rail fences. Young, leafy trees covered the slopes, from the top all the way down to the swollen river rushing through the ravine below. He rode into the sun, and the tender green leaves glittered like golden flames on the branches, but inside the forest the shadows were already spreading, cool and deep, across the grassy floor.

Gunnulf reached a place where he could catch a glimpse of the lake, with a reflection of the dark opposite shore and the blue of the sky, and an image of the great summer clouds constantly merging and dispersed by the ripples. Far below the road was a small farm on green, flower-strewn slopes. A group of women wearing white wimples stood outside in the courtyard, but Kristin was not among them.

A little farther away he saw her horse; it was walking around in the pasture with several others. The road dipped down into a hollow of green shadows ahead of him, and where it curved up over the next rise in the hills, he saw her standing next to the fence beneath the foliage, listening to the birds singing. He looked at her slim, dark figure, leaning over the fence, facing the woods; there was a gleam of white from her wimple and her arm. He reined in his horse and rode toward her slowly, step by step. But when he drew closer, he saw that it was the slender stump of an old birch tree standing there.

The next evening, when his servants sailed his ship into Nidaros, the priest himself was at the helm. He felt his heart beating in his chest, steadfast and newborn. Now nothing could deter his purpose.

He now knew that what had held him back in life was the unquenchable longing he had carried with him ever since childhood. He wanted to win the love of others. To do so he had been kind-hearted, gentle, and good-natured toward the poor; he had let his wisdom shine, but with moderation and humility, among the priests of the town so that they would like him; he had been submissive toward Lord Eiliv Kortin because the archbishop was friends with his father, and he knew how Lord Eiliv wanted people to behave. He had been loving and gentle toward Orm, in order to win the boy’s affection away from his moody father. And Gunnulf had been stern and demanding toward Kristin because he saw what she needed: to encounter something that would not give way when she reached for help, something that would not lead her astray when she came, ready to follow.

But now he realized that he had sought to win her trust for himself more than he had tried to strengthen her faith in God.

Erlend had found expression for it this evening: Not as much my brother anymore as the brother of all men. This was the detour he would have to take before his brotherly love could benefit anyone at all.

Two weeks later he had divided up his possessions among his kinsmen and the Church and donned the robes of a friar. And now, this spring, when everyone was profoundly troubled by the terrible misfortune that had befallen the country—lightning had struck Christ Church in Nidaros and partially destroyed Saint Olav’s shrine—Gunnulf had won the support of the archbishop for his old plan. Together with Brother Olav Jonssøn, who was an ordained priest like himself, and three younger monks—one from Nidaros and two from the order in Bjørgvin—he was now headed north to bring the light of the Word to the lost heathens who lived and died in darkness within the boundaries of a Christian land.

Christ, you who were crucified! Now I have given up everything that could bind me. And I have placed myself in your hands, if you would find my life worthy enough to be freed from its servitude to Satan. Take me so that I may feel that I am your slave, for then I will possess you in return.

Then someday, once again, his heart would crow and sing in his chest, as it did when he walked across the green plains at Romaborg, from pilgrim church to pilgrim church: “I am my Beloved’s, and to Him belongs my desire.”

The two brothers lay there, each on his own bench in the little hut, and let their thoughts lull them to sleep. A tiny ember smoldered in the hearth between them. Their thoughts took them farther and farther away from each other. And the following day one of them headed north, and the other south.

On the first morning, as Margygren cut through the waters of Godøy Sound with its sails billowing against the blue mountains in the fine breeze, Erlend was standing on the raised afterdeck of the ship. Ulf Haldorssøn had the helm. Then Fru Sunniva came up to them. The hood of her cloak was draped over her shoulders, and the wind was blowing her wimple back from her curly, sun-yellow hair. She had the same sea-blue, gleaming eyes as her brother, and like him she had a fair complexion, but with many freckles, which also covered her small, plump hands.

From the first evening Erlend saw her at Godøy—their eyes met, and then they looked away, both of them smiling secretively—he was convinced that she knew him, and he knew her. Sunniva Olavsdatter—he could take her with his bare hands, and she was waiting for him to do so.

Now, as he stood with her hand in his—he had helped her up onto the deck—he happened to look into Ulf’s coarse, dark face. No doubt Ulf knew it too. Erlend felt oddly ashamed under the other man’s gaze. He suddenly remembered everything that this kinsman and weaponsbearer had witnessed—every mad prank that Erlend had gotten caught up in, ever since his youth. Ulf didn’t need to look at him so scornfully. Erlend consoled himself that he hadn’t intended to come any closer to this woman than honor and virtue permitted. He was old enough by now, and wise from his mistakes; he could be allowed north to Haalogaland without getting himself tangled up in some foolishness with another man’s wife. He had a wife himself now. He had been faithful to Kristin from the very first time he saw her and to this day. No reasonable man would count those few incidents that had occurred up north. But otherwise he hadn’t even looked at another woman—in that way. He knew . . . with a Norwegian woman, and even worse, with one of their peers . . . no, he would never have a moment’s peace in his heart if he betrayed Kristin in that way. But this voyage south with her on board—it might easily prove risky.

It helped somewhat that they had stormy weather along the way, so he had other things to do than banter with the woman. They had to seek harbor in Dynøy and wait a few days. While they were anchored there, something happened that made Fru Sunniva seem less enticing to him.

Erlend and Ulf and a couple of the servants slept in the same cabin where she and her maids slept. One morning he was there alone, and Fru Sunniva had not yet gotten up. Then she called to him, saying that she had lost a gold ring in her bed. He had to agree to come and help her look for it. She was crawling around in bed on her knees, wearing only her shift. Now and then they would bump into each other, and every time they would both get a devilish glint in their eyes. Then she grabbed hold of him. And it’s true that his behavior had not been overly proper, either; time and place were both against him. But she was so bold and disgracefully willing that he grew suddenly cold. Blushing with shame, he turned away from that face, which had dissolved with laughter and wantonness. He tore himself away without further explanation and left; then he sent in Fru Sunniva’s maidservants to her.

No, by Satan, he was not some young pup who allowed himself to be caught in the bedstraw. It was one thing to seduce—but to be seduced was something else entirely. But he had to laugh; here he stood, having fled from a beautiful woman like Joseph the Hebrew. Yes, strange things happened both at sea and on land.

No, Fru Sunniva. No, he had to think of one woman—a woman that he knew. She had come to meet him in a hostel for wandering soldiers—and she came with as much chasteness and dignity as a royal maiden going to mass. In groves and in barns she had been his. God forgive him—he had forgotten her birthright and her honor; and she had forgotten them for his sake, but she hadn’t been able to fling them away. Her lineage was evident in her, even when she did not think of it.

God bless you, dear Kristin. So help me, God—I will keep the promise that I made to you in secret and at the church door, or I will never be a man. So be it.

Then Erlend had Fru Sunniva put ashore at Yrjar where she had kinsmen. And best of all, she didn’t seem overly angry when they parted. There had been no need for him to bow his head with a somber expression, like a monk; they had chased each other out over the oarlocks, as the saying goes. In parting, Erlend gave her several costly furs for a cloak, and she promised that one day he would see her wearing that cloak. They would surely meet again. Poor thing, her husband was sickly and no longer young.

But Erlend was glad to come home to his wife with nothing on his conscience that he would have to conceal from her, and he was proud of his own newly tested steadfastness. He was quite giddy and wild with longing for Kristin. She was the sweetest and loveliest rose and lily—and she was his!

She had grown so beautiful that it took Erlend’s breath away when he saw her. But she had changed. The girlish demeanor which had returned each time she had recovered from a childbirth—the frail and delicate nunlike face beneath the wimple of a married woman—was now gone. She was a blossoming young woman and mother. Her cheeks were round and a healthy pink, framed by the white wimple; her breasts were high and firm, covered with glittering chains and brooches. Her hips were rounder and wider, soft beneath the belt bearing her ring of keys and the gilded sheath holding her scissors and knife. Oh yes, she had grown even more lovely. She didn’t look as if she might be easily carried off to heaven as she had before. Even her large, slender hands had grown fuller and whiter.

They stayed at Vigg that night, in the abbot’s house. And this time it was a young, flushed, and happy Kristin, gentle and glowing with joy, who rode with Erlend to the celebration at Husaby when they set off for home the next day.

They went from one banquet to another, and she accompanied the new sheriff on his rounds. Erlend now had more men serving at Husaby. Messages and letters flew between him and his subordinates and envoys. Erlend was full of high spirits and merriment. Why shouldn’t he be a capable sheriff? He who had beat his head against nearly every barrier of Norwegian law and Christian commandment. Such things were well learned and not easily forgotten. The man was quick-witted and he had been taught well in his youth. Now all this became apparent in him again. He grew accustomed to reading letters himself, and he had acquired an Icelander as his scribe. In the past, Erlend had put his seal on everything that was read aloud to him, barely casting a glance at even a single line—this is what Kristin had discovered during the two years in which she had become familiar with all the papers she found in his chests of letters.

Now a certain recklessness came over her, which she had never felt before. She grew livelier and more talkative when she was among other people—for she sensed that she was beautiful now, and she felt completely healthy and well for the first time since she had been married. And in the evening, when she and Erlend lay together in a strange bed in the loft of one of the great estates or in a farmer’s house, they would laugh and whisper and jest about the people they had met and the news they had heard. Erlend was more rash in his speech than ever, and people seemed to like him even better than before.

Kristin could see it in their own children. They would grow flustered with delight whenever their father occasionally took notice of them. Naakkve and Bjørgulf now spent all their time with such things as bows and spears and axes. Every once in a while their father would stop on his way across the courtyard, glance at them, and then correct whatever they were doing. “Not like that, my son—you should hold it like this.” And then he would shift the grip of the boy’s small fist and place his fingers in the proper position. Then they would be filled with zeal.

The two eldest sons were inseparable. Bjørgulf was the biggest and strongest of the children, as tall as Naakkve, who was a year and a half older, but stouter. Bjørgulf had tightly curled, raven black hair; his small face was broad but handsome, his eyes dark blue. One day Erlend asked Kristin anxiously whether she knew that Bjørgulf saw poorly out of one eye—he also had a slight squint. Kristin said she didn’t think there was anything wrong and that he’d probably grow out of it. As things had turned out, this child was the one she had given the least attention; he had been born when she was worn out from caring for Naakkve, and Gaute had followed soon afterwards. He was the hardiest of the children, no doubt also the smartest, but taciturn. Erlend was more fond of this son than the others.

Although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, Erlend bore some ill will toward Naakkve because the boy had arrived so inopportunely and because he was named for his grandfather. And Gaute was not as he’d expected. The boy had a large head, which was understandable, since for two years it seemed as if only his head had grown—and now his limbs had to catch up. His wits were good enough, but he spoke very slowly because if he talked fast he would slur his words or stutter, and then Margret would make fun of him. Kristin had a great weakness for the boy, even though Erlend could see that in some ways the eldest son was her favorite child. But Gaute had been so frail, and he looked a bit like Kristin’s father, with his flaxen hair and dark gray eyes. And he was always clinging to his mother. He was a rather solitary child, between the two oldest ones, who always stuck together, and the twins, who were still so little that they kept close to their foster mothers.

Kristin had less time for her children now, and she had to do as the other women did and let the serving maids look after them; but the two oldest sons preferred to follow the men around on the farm. She no longer brooded over them with that old, sickly tenderness, but she played and laughed with them more, whenever she had time to gather them around her.

At the beginning of the New Year, they received a letter at Husaby under the seal of Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn. It had been written in his own hand and sent with the priest of Orkedal, who had been traveling in the south, so it was two months old. The biggest news in the letter was that Lavrans had betrothed Ramborg to Simon Andressøn of Formo. The wedding would take place on Holy Cross Day in the spring.

Kristin was surprised beyond words. But Erlend said he had thought this might happen—ever since he had heard that Simon Darre had become a widower and had settled on his estate at Sil after old Sir Andres Gudmundssøn had died.

Old Sir Andres lay in bed, suffering from dropsy and numerous ailments and pains; he was approaching the end now, and he complained a great deal. Life had not been so easy for him in the long run, either. Things had not gone as he had wished and expected for his handsome and promising children. Simon sat with his father and tried hard to adopt the calm and lighthearted tone from the past, but the old man moaned incessantly. Helga Saksesdatter, whom Gyrd had married, was so refined that there was no end to the unreasonable demands she could dream up—Gyrd didn’t even dare belch in his own manor without asking his wife for permission. And then there was Torgrim, who was always whining about his stomach. Sir Andres would never have given his daughter to Torgrim if he had known the man was so loathsome that he was incapable of either living or dying. Astrid would have no joy from her youth or her wealth as long as her husband was alive. Sigrid wandered around the estate, broken and grieving—all smiles and merriment had deserted her, that good daughter of his. And she had borne that child, while Simon had none. Sir Andres wept, miserable and old and ill. Gudmund had refused all of the marriages suggested by his father, who had grown so old and frail that he had let the boy wear him down.

But the misfortunes had begun when Simon and that foolish maiden had defied their parents. And Lavrans was to blame—as bold a man as he was among men, his knees buckled before his womenfolk. No doubt the girl had sobbed and screamed, and he at once relented and sent word to that gilded whoremaster from Trøndelag who couldn’t even wait until he and his bride were married. But if Lavrans had been master of his house, then he, Andres Darre, would have shown that he could teach a beardless whelp sensible behavior. Kristin Lavransdatter—she certainly had children enough. A healthy, squirming son every eleventh month, he had heard.

“It’s going to be costly, Father,” said Simon, laughing. “Their inheritance will be divided up many times.” He picked up Arngjerd and set her on his lap. She had just come toddling into the room.

“Well, that one there won’t cause your inheritance to be divided up into too many parts after you—whoever does inherit it,” said Sir Andres crossly. He was fond of his son’s daughter in his own way, but it infuriated him that Simon had a bastard child. “Have you thought of marrying anew, Simon?”

“You must let Halfrid grow cold in her grave first, Father,” said Simon, stroking the child’s pale hair. “I’ll probably marry again, but there’s no reason to make haste.”

Then he picked up his crossbow and skis and set off for the forest to find some respite. With his dogs at his side he tracked elk through the mountain pass and shot wood grouse in the treetops. At night he slept in the forest hut belonging to Dyfrin, thinking that it felt good to be alone.

There was the sound of skis scraping outside in the pass; the dogs leaped up, and other dogs responded from outdoors. Simon threw open the door to the moon-blue night, and Gyrd came in, slender and tall, handsome and silent. He now looked younger than Simon, who had always been rather stout and had grown a good deal heavier during those years at Mandvik.

The brothers sat with the sack of provisions between them, eating and drinking and staring into the hearth.

“I suppose you know,” said Gyrd, “that Torgrim will make a great deal of noise and ruckus when Father is gone. And he has won Gudmund’s support. And Helga’s. They will not grant Sigrid the full rights of a sister with us.”

“I realize that. But she must be given her share as a sister; you and I should be able to force them to agree, brother.”

“It would be best if Father himself saw to this matter before he dies,” said Gyrd.

“No, let Father die in peace,” replied Simon. “You and I will manage to protect our sister, so they don’t rob her because she has suffered such misfortune.”

He rode into his own estate on a grayish-blue day as the snow was melting, when the alder trees along the Laag River were brown with buds. As he was about to cross the threshold of the main house with Arngjerd in his arms, Sigrid Andresdatter asked, “Why are you smiling like that, Simon?”

“Was I smiling?”

He had been thinking that this was a different kind of homecoming than what he had once dreamed of—when he would one day settle down here on his grandmother’s estate. A seduced sister and a paramour’s child—these were now his companions.

But on the Sunday after the Feast of the Birth of Mary in the fall, he happened to be standing next to Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn in church, and so the two of them had to give each other the traditional kiss after Sira Eirik had prayed for the peace of the Holy Church to be bountiful among them. And when Simon felt the older man’s thin, dry lips on his cheek and heard him whisper the prayer of peace, he was strangely moved. He realized that Lavrans meant more by this than if he were simply obeying the ritual of the Church.

He hastened outside after the mass was done, but over by the horses he again ran into Lavrans, who invited him to come to Jørundgaard for dinner. Simon replied that his daughter was sick and that his sister was sitting with her. Lavrans then prayed that God might heal the child and shook his hand in farewell.

Several days later they had been working hard at Formo to bring in the harvest because the weather looked threatening. Most of the grain had been brought in by evening, when the first showers opened up. Simon ran across the courtyard in the downpour; great bands of bright sunshine broke through the clouds and lit up the main building and the mountain wall beyond. Then he caught sight of a little maiden standing in front of the door in the rain and the sunlight. She had his favorite dog with her. The dog pulled loose and leaped at Simon, dragging along a woven woman’s belt, which was tied to his collar.

He saw that the girl came from highborn family. She was bareheaded and wore no cloak, but her wine-red dress was made from foreign cloth, and it was embroidered across the breast and fastened with a gilded brooch. A silken cord held her rain-dark hair back from her brow. The girl had a lively little face with a broad forehead, a sharp chin, and big, shining eyes. Her cheeks were flaming red, as if she had been running hard.

Simon knew who the maiden must be and greeted her by name: Ramborg.

“What might be the reason for you honoring us with this visit?”

It was the dog, she told Simon, as she followed him into the house and out of the rain. The dog had gotten into the habit of running off to Jørundgaard; now she was bringing him back. Oh yes, she knew it was his dog; she had seen the animal running alongside when he rode.

Simon scolded her a bit because she had come alone. He said he would have horses saddled and escort her home himself. But first she must have some food. Ramborg ran at once over to the bed where little Arngjerd lay ill; both the child and Sigrid were pleased with their guest, for Ramborg was both lively and merry. She wasn’t like her sisters, thought Simon.

He rode with Ramborg as far as the manor gate and was then about to turn around when he met Lavrans, who had just learned that the child was not with her foster sisters at Laugarbru. He was on his way out with his servants to look for her—he was quite worried. Now Simon had to come inside, and as soon as he sat down in the hall of the main house, his shyness left him and he soon felt at home with Ragnfrid and Lavrans. They sat up late over their ale, and since the weather had grown quite fierce, he accepted their invitation to stay the night.

There were two beds in the hall. Ragnfrid made up one of them nicely for the guest, and then she asked where Ramborg should sleep—with her parents or in the other building?

“No, I want to sleep in my own bed,” said the child. “Can’t I sleep with you, Simon?” she begged.

Her father said that their guest should not be bothered with children in his bed, but Ramborg continued to insist that she wanted to sleep with Simon. Finally Lavrans said sternly that she was too big to share a bed with a strange man.

“No, I’m not, Father,” she protested. “I’m not too big, am I, Simon?”

“You’re too little,” said Simon, laughing. “Offer to sleep with me five years from now and I certainly won’t say no. But by then you’ll no doubt want a different sort of man than a hideous, fat old widower, little Ramborg!”

Lavrans didn’t seem pleased by the jest; he told her sharply to keep quiet now and go lie down in her parents’ bed.

But Ramborg shouted, “Now you have asked for me, Simon Darre, so my father could hear you!”

“So be it,” replied Simon with a laugh. “But I’m afraid he would refuse me, Ramborg.”

Simon had lived in the valley for two years when Geirmund Hersteinssøn of Kruke asked for the hand of Sigrid Andresdatter. The family of Kruke was an old lineage, but even though some of the men had served in the retinues of kings, they had never won fame outside their own district. Yet it was the best marriage Sigrid could expect to make, and she was quite willing to marry Geirmund. Her brothers made the arrangements, and Simon was to hold his sister’s wedding on his estate.

One evening just before the wedding, when they were rushing about making preparations for the feast, Simon said in jest that he didn’t know how things would go with his household after Sigrid left. Then Ramborg said, “You’ll have to manage as best you can for two more years, Simon. At fourteen a maiden reaches a marriageable age, and then you can bring me home.”

“No, you I wouldn’t want,” said Simon with a laugh. “I don’t trust my ability to harness a wild maiden like you.”

“It’s the ponds with still water that have deceptive bottoms, my father says,” replied Ramborg. “I may be wild, but my sister was meek and quiet. Have you forgotten Kristin, Simon Andressøn?”

Simon jumped up from the bench, took the maiden in his arms, and raised her to his chest. He kissed her throat so hard that he left a little red mark. Horrified and astounded by his own actions, he let her go; then he grabbed Arngjerd, tossed her in the air, and hugged her in the same way so as to hide his feelings. He ran about, chasing the girls, the half-grown maiden and the little one, so that they fled up onto the tables and along the benches, until finally he lifted them up onto the crossbeam nearest the door and then ran outside.

They almost never mentioned Kristin at Jørundgaard when he was within earshot.

But Eindride Gjesling celebrated his marriage to another maiden, and the people at Jørundgaard didn’t seem overly troubled by this. They were invited to the banquet, and Ramborg told everyone proudly when she came home that four men had spoken to Lavrans about her, either on their own behalf or for kinsmen. Lavrans had told them he wouldn’t agree to any betrothal for his daughter until she was old enough to have some say in the matter herself.

And that’s how things stood until the spring of the year when Ramborg was fourteen winters old. One evening she was out in the cowshed at Formo with Simon, looking at a new calf. It was white with a brown patch, and Ramborg thought the patch looked very much like a church. Simon was sitting on the edge of the grain bin, the maiden was leaning on his knees, and he was tugging at her braids.

“It looks as if you will soon be riding in a bridal procession to church, Ramborg!”

“You know quite well that my father wouldn’t refuse you if you asked for my hand,” she said. “I’m old enough now that I could be married this year.”

Simon gave a little start, but he tried to laugh.

“Are you talking about that foolishness again?”

“You know it’s not foolishness,” said the girl, looking up at him with her big eyes. “I’ve known for a long time that what I want is to move over here to Formo with you. Why have you kissed me and held me on your lap so often for all these years if you didn’t want to marry me?”

“Certainly I would like to marry you, dear Ramborg. But I’ve never thought that such a young, beautiful maiden would be intended for me. I’m seventeen years older than you; no doubt you haven’t thought about how you would end up with an old, bleary-eyed, big-bellied husband while you were a woman in the best of her years.”

“These are my best years,” she said, her face radiant. “And besides, you’re not so decrepit, Simon!”

“But I’m ugly too. You’d soon grow tired of kissing me!”

“You have no reason to think that,” she replied, laughing again as she tilted her face up toward him for a kiss. But he didn’t kiss her.

“I won’t take advantage of your imprudence, my sweet. Lavrans wants to take you with him to the south this summer. If you haven’t changed your mind when you return, then I will thank God and Our Lady for better fortune than I had ever expected—but I will not bind you to this, fair Ramborg.”

From the other man’s demeanor Simon thought he had guessed right. But they sat and talked about the bad summer the year before and about when might be a good time to move the livestock up to the mountain pastures; about the hunting and about Lavrans’s new falcon, which was sitting on the floor, flapping its wings over the entrails of the birds roasting on a spit over the fire. Lavrans had come up to see to his horse shed in Ilmandsdal; it was reported to have collapsed, according to several people from Alv dal who had passed through earlier that day. The two men spent most of the evening in this fashion.

Then Simon finally said, “I don’t know whether Ramborg has said anything to you about a matter which we discussed one evening?”

Lavrans said slowly, “I think you should have spoken to me first, Simon. You might imagine what kind of answer you would have received. Yes, well—I can understand how it happened that you mentioned it first to the maiden—and it will make no difference. I’m happy to give my child into the hands of a good man.”

Then there’s not much more to say, thought Simon. And yet it was strange—here he sat, a man who had never intended to come too close to any virtuous maiden or woman, and now he was bound on his honor to marry a girl he did not truly want. But he made an attempt.

“It’s not true, Lavrans, that I’ve been courting your daughter behind your back. I thought I was so old that she wouldn’t consider it anything but brotherly affection from the past if I talked with her so often. And if you think I’m too old for her, I wouldn’t be surprised nor would I allow it to end the friendship between us.”

“I’ve met few men I would rather see take a son’s place than you, Simon,” replied Lavrans. “And I would rather give Ramborg away myself. You know who would be the man to arrange her marriage after I’m gone.” That was the first time any mention was made between them of Erlend Nikulaussøn. “In many ways my son-in-law is a better man than I took him for when I first met him. But I don’t know whether he’s the right person to make a wise decision about a young maiden’s marriage. And I can tell that this is what Ramborg wants herself.”

“She thinks so now,” said Simon. “But she’s hardly more than a child, and I don’t intend to press you, if you think we should wait a little longer.”

“And I,” said Lavrans with a slight frown, “do not intend to force my daughter upon you—you mustn’t believe that.”

“You should know,” said Simon quickly, “that there is not another maiden in all of Norway I would rather have than Ramborg. If truth be told, Lavrans, my good fortune seems much too great if I’m to have such a fair, young, and good bride, who is rich and descended from the best lineage. And you as my father-in-law,” he added, a little self-consciously.

Lavrans chuckled with embarrassment. “You know how I feel about you. And you will deal with my child and her inheritance in such a way that her mother and I will never have cause to regret this arrangement.”

“That I promise you, with the help of God and all the saints,” said Simon.

Then they shook hands. Simon remembered the first time he had secured such an arrangement by clasping Lavrans’s hand. His heart felt small and pained in his breast.

But Ramborg was a better match than he could have expected. There were only the two daughters to divide up the inheritance after Lavrans’s death. He would step into the role of son with the man whom he had always respected and loved above all others he knew. And Ramborg was indeed young and sweet and lively.

Surely he must have acquired the wisdom of a grown man by now. Had he actually thought he could win Kristin as a widow even though he couldn’t have her as a maiden? After the other man had enjoyed her youth—and with a dozen stepsons of his lineage? No, then he deserved to have his brothers declare him incapable and refuse to let him handle his own affairs. Erlend would live to be as old as the stone of the mountain—that type of fellow always did.

So now they would be called brothers-in-law. They hadn’t seen each other since that night in the house in Oslo. Well, no doubt it would be even more uncomfortable for Erlend than for him to be reminded of that.

He would be a good husband to Ramborg, with no deceptions. And yet it was possible that the child had lured him into a trap.

“You’re sitting there laughing?” said Lavrans.

“Was I laughing? It was just something that struck me . . .”

“You must tell me what it is, Simon, so I can laugh too.”

Simon Andressøn fixed his small, sharp eyes on the other man’s face.

“I was thinking about . . . women. I wonder whether any woman respects the laws and beliefs of men as we do among ourselves—when she or her own kind can win something by stepping over them. Halfrid, my first wife . . . Well, I haven’t spoken of this to a single Christian soul before you, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn, and I will never speak of it again. She was such a good and pious and virtuous woman that I don’t think she has ever had an equal. I’ve told you about what she did when Arngjerd was born. But back when we realized how things stood with Sigrid—well, Halfrid wanted us to hide my sister and she would pretend that she herself was with child and then present Sigrid’s child as her own. In that way we would have an heir and the child would be cared for, and Sigrid could live with us and wouldn’t have to be separated from her son. I don’t think Halfrid realized that this would have been a betrayal of her own kinsmen.”

After a moment Lavrans said, “Then you could have stayed at Mandvik, Simon.”

“Yes.” Simon Darre laughed harshly. “And perhaps with just as much right as many other men occupy lands they call their ancestral estates. Since we have nothing more to rely on in such matters except the honor of women.”

Lavrans pulled the hood over the falcon’s head and lifted the bird onto his wrist.

“This is a strange topic of conversation for a man who is thinking of marriage,” he said quietly. There was a hint of displeasure in his voice.

“Of course no one would think such things of your daughters,” replied Simon.

Lavrans looked down at his falcon, scratching it with a twig.

“Not even about Kristin?” he whispered.

“No,” said Simon firmly. “She didn’t deal with me kindly, but I never found that she was untruthful. She told me honestly and openly that she had met another man whom she cared for more than me.”

“When you so willingly let her go,” said Lavrans softly, “that was not because you had heard . . . any rumors about her?”

“No,” said Simon in the same firm voice. “I never heard rumors about Kristin.”

The next day Simon came over to Jørundgaard to see his new kinsmen. Gyrd Darre and Geirmund of Kruke were with him, but their wives had stayed behind at Formo. Simon was going to hold the wedding at his own estate, so there was much work for the women to do.

It turned out that when they met, Simon and Erlend greeted each other openly and without restraint. Simon kept his feelings in check, and Erlend was so unabashed and merry that the other man thought he must have forgotten where they had last met. Then Simon gave Kristin his hand. The two of them were more uncertain, and their eyes barely met for more than a moment.

Kristin thought his looks had faded a good deal. In his youth, Simon had been quite handsome, even though he was much too stout and his neck was too thick. His steel-gray eyes had seemed small under his full eyelids, his mouth was too little, and his dimples were too big in his round, childish face. But he had had a healthy complexion and a broad, milky-white forehead under his beautiful, curly, light-brown hair. His hair was still curly, and just as thick and nut-brown, but his whole face was now reddish-brown; he had lines under his eyes, heavy jowls, and a double chin. He had become heavyset, and he had a noticeable belly. He didn’t look like a man who would take time to lie down on the edge of the bed in the evening to whisper to his betrothed. Kristin felt sorry for her young sister; she was so lively and lovely and childishly happy about her marriage. On the very first day she showed Kristin all the chests containing her dowry and Simon’s betrothal gifts. And she said she had heard from Sigrid Andresdatter about a gilded chest that was up in the bridal loft at Formo; there were twelve costly wimples inside, and this was what her husband was going to give her on their first morning. Poor little thing, she had no idea what marriage was like. It was too bad that Kristin hardly knew her little sister; Ramborg had been to Husaby twice, but there she was always sullen and unfriendly. She didn’t care for Erlend or for Margret, who was the same age.

Simon thought to himself that he had expected—perhaps even hoped—that Kristin would look more careworn than she did, after having so many children. But she was glowing with youth and health, her posture was still erect, and her bearing just as lovely, although her step was a little firmer than before. She was the most beautiful mother with her five handsome small sons.

She was wearing a homemade gown of rust-brown wool with dark-blue birds woven into the cloth; Simon remembered standing next to her loom while she sat and worked on that cloth.

The small sons from Husaby were unruly and seemed to have no table manners. They had barely started eating before the little blond boy ducked under the table and popped up on the cushion next to Simon’s knee.

“Can I look at that odd sheath you have on your belt, kinsman Simon?” he asked. The boy spoke slowly and solemnly. It was the large silver-studded sheath holding a spoon and two knives that he had caught sight of.

“Yes, you may, kinsman. And what is your name, cousin?”

“My name is Gaute Erlendssøn, cousin.” He put the scrap of bacon he was holding onto the lap of Simon’s silver-gray Flemish surcoat, pulled a knife out of the sheath, and examined it carefully. Then he took the knife that Simon was eating with, and the spoon, and put them all back in place so he could see how the sheath looked when everything was inside. He was quite earnest, and his fingers and face were very greasy. Simon smiled at the eager expression on the small, handsome face.

A few minutes later the two oldest boys came over to the men’s bench too. The twins toppled under the table and began rolling around between everyone’s feet; then they went over to the dogs near the fire. There was little peace for the adults as they ate their supper. Their mother and father reprimanded the boys and told them to sit quietly, but the children paid them no mind. And their parents kept laughing at them and seemed not to take their mischievous behavior too seriously—not even when Lavrans, in a rather sharp voice, told one of his men to take the whelps down to the room below so people in the hall could hear themselves speak.

Everyone from Husaby was to sleep in the loft of the main house, and after the meal, while more ale was being brought in for the men, Kristin and her maids took the children over to a corner of the hall to undress them. They had gotten so dirty while eating that their mother wanted to wash them up a bit. But the youngest boys refused to be washed, and the older ones splashed the water, and then all of them started rushing around the hall as the maids pulled one piece of clothing after another off them. Finally they were all put into one bed, but they continued to yell and play and shove each other, laughing and shrieking. Pillows and coverlets and sheets were hurled this way and that, making dust fly, and the smell of chaff filled the whole room. Kristin laughed and explained calmly that they were so high-spirited from being in a strange place.

Ramborg accompanied her betrothed outside and walked with him for a short distance between the fences in the spring night. Gyrd and Geirmund had ridden on ahead while Simon stopped to say good night. He had already put his foot in the stirrup when he turned back to the maiden, took her in his arms, and held the delicate child so close that she whimpered happily.

“God bless you, dear Ramborg—you’re so fine and so fair—much too fine and fair for me,” he murmured into her mass of curls.

Ramborg stood watching Simon as he rode off into the misty moonlight. She rubbed her arm—he had gripped her so hard that it hurt. Dizzy with joy, she thought: Now there were only three days left until she would be married to him.

And full of joy and pride, with her hair pinned up, she sat in the armchair in front of the bridal bed as the guests came upstairs to greet the young couple on the first morning. With laughter and bold teasing, they watched as Simon placed the wimple of a married woman over his young wife’s head. Cheers and the clanging of weapons filled the room as Ramborg stood up, straight-backed and flushed beneath the white wimple, and gave her husband her hand.

It was not often that two noble children from the same district were married—when all the branches of the lineage were studied, it was often found that the kinship was too close. So everyone considered this wedding to be a great and joyous occasion.