Lavrans said to his daughter as they rode home in the summer night, “The sons of Audhild repeated Christian prayers that their mother had taught them. They couldn’t mention the name of God or Jesus, but they said the Lord’s Prayer and credo like this: ‘I believe in the Almighty, I believe in the only begotten Son, I believe in the mightiest Spirit.’ And then they said: ‘Hail to the Lady, you who are the most blessed of women—and blessed is the fruit of your womb, the solace of all the earth.’ ”

Kristin timidly glanced up at her father’s gaunt, weatherbeaten face. In the bright summer night it seemed more ravaged with sorrows and worries than she had ever seen it.

“You’ve never told me that before,” she said softly.

“Haven’t I? Well, I may have thought it would give you more melancholy thoughts than your years could bear. Sira Eirik says that it is written according to Saint Paul the Apostle that humankind is not alone in sighing with agony.”

Kristin saw her father scratching his head. Ramborg’s sheep. Yes, well . . . He gave an exasperated laugh. It was a shame, but he had hoped she would have forgotten about it. He had given each of his two eldest grandsons a little axe, and the first thing they had used them for was to kill Ramborg’s sheep.

Simon laughed. “Yes, those Husaby boys, they’re rascals all right.”

Kristin ran down the loft stairs and unfastened the silver scissors from her belt.

“You can give these to Ramborg, as compensation for my sons killing her sheep. I know she’s wanted to have these scissors ever since she was a child. No one must say that my sons . . .” She had spoken in anger, but now she fell silent. She had noticed her parents’ faces—they were giving her a look of dismay and astonishment.

Simon didn’t take the scissors; he felt embarrassed. Then he caught sight of Bjørgulf and rode over to him, leaning down to lift the boy up into the saddle in front of him.

“I hear you’ve been making raids around the countryside—now you’re my prisoner, and tomorrow your parents can come over to see me and we’ll negotiate the ransom.”

And with that he gave a laugh and a wave and rode off with the boy wriggling and laughing in his arms. Simon had become great friends with Erlend’s sons. Kristin remembered that he had always had a way with children; her younger sisters had loved him dearly. Oddly enough it made her cross that he should be so fond of children and take pleasure in playing with them when her own husband had little interest in listening to children’s prattle.

The next day, when they were at Formo, Kristin realized that Simon had not won any favors with his wife by bringing this guest home with him.

“No one should expect Ramborg to care much for children yet,” said Ragnfrid. “She’s hardly more than a child herself. Things will be different when she’s older.”

“No doubt you’re right.” Simon and his mother-in-law exchanged a look and a little smile.

Ah, thought Kristin. Well, it had already been two months since the wedding.

Simon and Erlend got along well whenever they were together, but they didn’t seek out each other’s company. Kristin still felt a secret shyness toward Simon Darre—because of what he knew about her, and even more because she knew that he was the one whose conduct had been honorable, while Erlend had acted with shame. It made her furious when she realized that Erlend could forget even this. And so she wasn’t always amenable toward her husband. If Erlend was in a mood to bear her irritability with good humor and gentleness, it would annoy her that he wasn’t taking her words seriously. On some other day he might have little patience, and then his temper would flare, but she would respond with bitterness and coldness.

One evening they were sitting in the hearth room at Jørundgaard. Lavrans always felt most comfortable in this building, especially in weather that was rainy and oppressive, as it was on that day. In the main building, up in the hall, the ceiling was flat and the smoke from the fireplace could be bothersome. But in the hearth room the smoke would rise up to the central beam in the pitched roof, even when they had to close the smoke vent because of the weather.

Kristin sat near the hearth, sewing. She was feeling out of sorts and bored. Right across from her was Margret, dozing over her needlework and yawning now and then. The children were noisily running about the room. Ragnfrid was at Formo, and most of the servants were elsewhere. Lavrans sat in the high seat, with Erlend at his elbow, at the end of the outer bench. They had a chessboard between them and they were moving the pieces in silence, after much reflection. Once, when Ivar and Skule were tugging on a puppy, trying to tear it in half, Lavrans stood up and took the poor howling animal away from them. He didn’t say a word, but simply sat down to his game again with the dog on his lap.

Kristin went over to them and stood with one hand on her husband’s shoulder, watching the game. Erlend was a much less skilled chess player than his father-in-law, so he was most often the loser when they took out the board in the evening, but he bore this with gentle equanimity. This evening he was playing especially badly. Kristin stood there castigating him, and not in a particularly kind or sweet way.

Finally Lavrans said rather harshly, “Erlend can’t keep his thoughts on the game when you’re standing here bothering him. What do you want, anyway, Kristin? You’ve never understood board games!”

“No, you don’t seem to think I understand much at all.”

“There’s one thing I see that you don’t understand,” said her father sharply, “and that’s the proper way for a wife to speak to her husband. It would be better if you went and reined in your sons—they’re behaving worse than a pack of Christmas trolls.”

Kristin went over and set her children in a row on a bench and then sat down next to them.

“Be quiet now, my sons,” she said. “Your grandfather doesn’t want you to play in here.”

Lavrans glanced at his daughter but didn’t speak. A little later the foster mothers came in, and Kristin left with her maids and Margret to put the children to bed.

Erlend said after a moment, when he and Lavrans were alone, “I would have wished, Father-in-law, that you hadn’t reprimanded Kristin in that way. If it gives her some comfort to carp at me when she’s in a bad temper, then . . . It does no good to talk to her, and she won’t stand for anyone saying a word against her children.”

“And what about you?” said Lavrans. “Do you intend to allow your sons to grow up so ill-behaved? Where were the maids who are supposed to watch and tend to the children?”

“In the servants’ house with your men, I would think,” said Erlend, laughing and stretching. “But I don’t dare say a word to Kristin about her serving maids. Then she flies into a fury and tells me that she and I have never been examples for anyone.”

Kristin went, though rather reluctantly. It was probably Naakkve again—that morning he had left a gate open, and the cows had wandered into a barley field.

Lavrans pulled a glowing iron from the forge and set it on the anvil. His daughter sat down to wait, and for a long time there was no sound other than the pounding of the hammer against the glowing piece of iron and the ringing reply of the anvil. Finally Kristin asked her father what he wanted to say to her.

The iron was now cold. Lavrans put down his tongs and hammer and came over to Kristin. With soot on his face and hair, his clothing and hands blackened, and garbed as he was in the big leather apron, Lavrans looked much sterner than usual.

“I called you over here, my daughter, because I want to tell you this. Here on my estate you will show your husband the respect that is proper for a wife. I refuse to hear my daughter speaking the way you did to Erlend last night.”

“This is something new, Father, for you to think Erlend is a man worthy of people’s respect.”

“He’s your husband,” said Lavrans. “I didn’t force you to arrange this marriage. You should remember that.”

“You’re such warm friends,” replied Kristin. “If you had known him back then the way you know him now, then you might well have done so.”

Lavrans looked down at her, his face somber and sad.

“Now you’re speaking rashly, Kristin, and saying things that are untrue. I didn’t try to force you when you wanted to cast off the man to whom you were lawfully betrothed, even though you know I was very fond of Simon.”

“No, but Simon didn’t want me either.”

“Oh, he was much too high-minded to demand his rights when you were unwilling. But I don’t know whether he would have been so against it in his heart if I had done as Andres Darre wanted. He said we should pay no attention to the whims of you two young people. And I wonder whether the knight might have been right—now that I see you can’t live in a seemly fashion with the husband you insisted on winning.”

Kristin gave a loud and ugly laugh.

“Simon! You would never have been able to threaten Simon into marrying the woman he had found with another man in such a house.”

Lavrans gasped for air. “House?” he repeated involuntarily.

“Yes, what you men call a house of sin. The woman who owned it was Munan’s paramour. She warned me herself not to go there. I told her I was going to meet a kinsman—I didn’t know he was her kinsman.” She gave another laugh, wild and harsh.

“Silence!” said her father.

He stood there for a moment. A tremor flickered across his countenance—a smile that made his face blanch. She thought suddenly of the foliage on the mountain slope which turns white when gusts of wind twist each leaf around—patches of pale and glittering light.

“A man can learn a great deal without asking.”

Kristin broke down as she sat there on the bench, supporting herself on one elbow, with her other hand covering her eyes. For the first time in her life she was afraid of her father—deathly afraid.

He turned away from her, picked up the hammer, and put it back in its place next to the others. Then he gathered up the files and small tools and went about putting them back on the crossbeam between the walls. He stood with his back to his daughter; his hands were shaking violently.

“Have you never thought about the fact, Kristin, that Erlend kept silent about this?” Now he was standing in front of her, looking down into her pale, frightened face. “I told him no, quite firmly, when he came to me in Tunsberg with his rich kinsmen and asked for your hand. I didn’t know then that I was the one who should have thanked him for wanting to redeem my daughter’s honor. Many a man would have told me so.

“Then he came again and courted you with full honor. Not all men would have been so persistent in winning a wife who was . . . who was . . . what you were back then.”

“I don’t think any man would have dared say such a thing to you.”

“Erlend has never been afraid of cold steel.” A great weariness suddenly came over Lavrans’s face, and his voice lost all vigor and resonance. But then he spoke again, quietly and deliberately.

“As bad as this is, Kristin—it seems to me even worse that you speak of it now that he’s your husband and the father of your sons.

“If things were as you say, then you knew the worst about him before you insisted on entering into marriage with him. And yet he was willing to pay as dearly for you, as if you had been an honest maiden. He has granted you much freedom to manage and rule; you must do penance for your sin by ruling sensibly and make up for Erlend’s lack of caution—that much you owe to God and your children.

“I myself have said, and others have said the same, that Erlend doesn’t seem to be capable of much else than seducing women. You are also to blame for this being said, according to your own testimony. But since then he has shown he is capable of other things—your husband has won a good name for himself through courage and swiftness in battle. It’s no small benefit for your sons that their father has acquired a reputation for his boldness and skill with weapons. That he is . . . incautious . . . you must realize this better than anyone. It would be best for you to redeem your shame by honoring and helping the husband whom you yourself have chosen.”

Kristin was bending forward, with her head in her hands. Now she looked up, her face pale and despairing. “It was cruel of me to tell you this. Oh . . . Simon begged me . . . It was the only thing he asked of me—that I should spare you from knowing the worst.”

“Simon asked you to spare me?” Kristin heard the pain in her father’s voice. And she realized it was also cruel of her to tell him that a stranger saw fit to remind her to spare her own father.

Then Lavrans sat down beside her, took her hand in both of his, and placed it on his knee.

“Yes, it was cruel, my Kristin,” he said gently and sadly. “You are good to everyone, my dear child, but I have also realized that you can be cruel to those you love too dearly. For the sake of Jesus, Kristin, spare me the need to be so worried for you—that your impetuous spirit might bring more sorrow upon you and yours. You struggle like a colt that has been tied up in the stable for the first time, whenever your heartstrings are bound.”

Sobbing, she sank against her father, and he held her tight in his arms. They sat there for a long time in that manner, but Lavrans said no more. Finally he lifted her face.

“You’re covered in soot,” he said with a little smile. “There’s a cloth over in the corner, but it will probably just make you blacker. You must go home and wash; everyone can see that you’ve been sitting on the blacksmith’s lap.”

Gently he pushed her out the door, closed it behind her, and stood there for a moment. Then he staggered a few steps over to the bench, sank down onto it, and leaned his head back against the timbers of the wall with his contorted face tilted upward. With all his might he pressed a fist against his heart.

It never lasted long. The shortness of breath, the black dizziness, the pain that radiated out into his limbs from his heart, which shuddered and struggled, giving a few fierce thuds and then quivering quietly again. His blood hammered in the veins of his neck.

It would pass in a few minutes. It always did after he sat still for a while. But it was happening more and more often.

It was already nearing the end of Saint Olav’s Day by the time they reached the island. Erling Vidkunssøn’s ship was anchored offshore, and they met the regent at vespers in Saint Peter’s Church. He went back to the monastery with them, where Lavrans had taken lodgings. There he dined with them, sending his men down to the ship for some particularly good French wine, which he had brought along from Nidaros.

But the conversation waned as they sat drinking. Erlend was lost in his own thoughts; his eyes sparkled as they always did when he was out on some new adventure, but he seemed distracted as the others talked. Lavrans merely sipped at his wine, and Sir Erling had fallen silent.

“You look tired, kinsman,” Erlend said to him.

Yes, they had encountered stormy weather near Husastadvik the night before; he hadn’t gotten any sleep.

“And now you’ll have to ride swiftly if you’re going to reach Tunsberg by Saint Lavrans’s Day. I doubt you’ll have much peace or comfort there either. Is Master Paal with the king now?”

“Yes. Are you thinking of coming to Tunsberg?”

“If I did, it would have to be to ask the king whether he’d like to send filial greetings to his mother.” Erlend laughed. “Or whether Bishop Audfinn wants to send word to Lady Ingebjørg.”

“Many are surprised that you’re heading for Denmark, just as the chieftains are gathering for a meeting in Tunsberg,” said Sir Erling.

“Yes, isn’t it odd how people are always surprised by me? Maybe I have a mind to see some of the folk customs I haven’t seen since I was last in Denmark—maybe even participate in a tournament. And our kinswoman has invited me, after all. No one else in her lineage here in Norway wants anything to do with her now, except Munan and myself.”

“Munan . . .” Erling frowned. Then he laughed and said, “Is there so much life left in the old boar? I’d almost thought he wouldn’t have the energy to move his bulk about anymore. So Duke Knut is organizing a tournament, is he? And is Munan going to join in the jousting?”

“Yes—it’s too bad, Erling, you can’t come along to see it.” And Erlend laughed as well. “I can see you fear that Lady Ingebjørg has invited us to this christening-ale so that we might brew a different kind of ale and invite her in. But you know very well that I’m too heavy-footed and too lighthearted to be used in making secret plans. And from Munan you’ve yanked out every tooth.”

“Oh no, we’re not afraid of secret plans from those quarters, either. Ingebjørg Haakonsdatter must have realized by now that she squandered all rights in her own country when she married Knut Porse. It would be unwise for her to set foot inside the door here after giving her hand to that man, when we don’t want to see even his little finger within our boundaries.”

“Yes, it was clever of you to separate the boy from his mother,” said Erlend gloomily. “He’s still only a child—and now all of us Norwegian men have reason to hold our heads up high when we think about the king whom we have sworn to protect.”

“Be quiet!” said Erling Vidkunssøn in a low, dejected voice. “That’s . . . surely that’s not true.”

But the other two could see from his face that he knew it was true. Although King Magnus Eirikssøn might still be a child, he had already been infected by a sin which was unseemly to mention among Christian men. A Swedish cleric, who had been assigned to guide his book learning while he was in Sweden, had led him astray in an unmentionable manner.

Erlend said, “People are whispering on every estate and in every house around us in the north that Christ Church burned because our king is unworthy to sit in Saint Olav’s seat.”

“In God’s name, Erlend—I tell you it’s not certain this is true! And we must believe that the child, King Magnus, is innocent in God’s eyes. He can surely redeem himself. And you say that we have separated him from his mother? I say that God punishes the mother who deserts her child the way Ingebjørg has deserted her son—and do not put your trust in such a woman, Erlend. Keep in mind that these are treacherous people you’re now setting off to meet!”

“I think they’ve been admirably loyal toward each other. But you speak as if letters from Christ himself were floating down into the lap of your robe every day—that must be why you’ve decided that you dare to be so bold as to provoke a fight with the highest authorities of the Church.”

“Now you must stop, Erlend. Talk about things that you understand, my boy, but otherwise keep quiet.” Sir Erling got to his feet; they were both standing up now, angry and red in the face.

Erlend grimaced with disgust.

“If an animal has been mistreated, we kill it and toss the corpse into a waterfall.”

“Erlend!” The regent gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “You have sons yourself . . .” he said softly. “How can you say such a thing? And you’d better watch your tongue, Erlend. Think before you speak in that place where you’re now going. And think about it twenty times over before you do anything.”

“If that’s how you act, you who rule over the affairs of the kingdom, then it doesn’t surprise me that everything has gone awry. But I don’t think you need to be afraid,” Erlend sneered. “I doubt that I’ll do anything. But what a splendid thing it has become to live in this country. . . .

“Well, you have to set out early in the morning. And my father-in-law is tired.”

The other two men remained sitting there, without speaking, after Erlend had bid them good night. He was going to sleep aboard his ship. Erling Vidkunssøn sat and turned his goblet around and around in his hand.

“Are you coughing?” he asked, just for something to say.

“Old men catch cold easily. We have so many ailments, dear sir, which you young men know nothing about,” said Lavrans with a smile.

They sat in silence again. Until Erling Vidkunssøn said, as if to himself, “Yes, everyone thinks the same—that it doesn’t bode well for this kingdom. Six years ago in Oslo, I thought it was clear that there was a firm desire to support the Crown—among the men who are born to this task by virtue of their lineage. I . . . was counting on that.”

“I think back then your perception was correct, sir. But you yourself said that we’re accustomed to rallying around our king. This time he’s merely a child—and he spends half his time in another country.”

“Yes. Sometimes I think . . . nothing is so bad that it’s not good for something. In the past, when our kings frolicked around like stallions—then there were enough fine colts to choose from; our countrymen simply had to select the one who was the best fighter.”

Lavrans gave a laugh. “Yes, well . . .”

“We spoke three years ago, Lavrans Lagmanssøn, when you returned from your pilgrimage to Skøvde and had paid a visit to your kinsmen in Götaland.”

“I remember, sir, that you honored me by seeking me out.”

“No, no, Lavrans, you need not be so formal.” A little impatiently, Erling threw out his hands. “It was as I said,” he continued gloomily. “There’s no one here who can unite the nobles of this country. Whoever has the greatest hunger forces his way forward—there’s still some food in the trough. But those who might attempt to win power and wealth in an honorable manner, as was done in the time of our fathers, are not the ones who come forward now.”

“That seems to be true. But honor follows the banner of the chieftains.”

“Then men must think that my banner carries with it little honor,” said Erling dryly. “You have avoided everything that might have won you renown, Lavrans Lagmanssøn.”

“I’ve done so ever since I became a married man, sir. And that was at a young age; my wife was sickly and had little tolerance for the company of others. And it looks as if our lineage will not continue to thrive here in Norway. My sons died young, and only one of my brother’s sons has lived to be a man.”

Lavrans regretted that he had come to speak of this matter. Erling Vidkunssøn had endured great sorrow of his own. His daughters were healthy children and had grown to adulthood, but he too had only been allowed to keep a single son, and the boy was said to be in poor health.

But Sir Erling merely said, “And you have no close kinsmen from your mother’s lineage, either, as I recall.”

“No, no closer than the children of my grandfather’s sister. Sigurd Lodinssøn had only two daughters, and they both died giving birth to their first child—and my aunt took hers to the grave with her.”

They sat in silence again for a while.

“Men like Erlend,” said the regent in a low voice. “They’re the most dangerous kind. Men who think a little farther than their own interests, but not far enough. Don’t you think Erlend is just like an indolent youth?” He slid his wine goblet around on the table with annoyance. “But he’s intelligent, isn’t he? And of good family, and courageous? But he never wants to listen to any matter long enough to understand it fully. And if he bothers to hear a man out, he forgets the first part before the discussion comes to an end.”

Lavrans glanced over at the other man. Sir Erling had aged a great deal since he had last seen him. He looked careworn and weary; he seemed to have shrunk in his chair. He had fine, clear features, but they were a little too small, and he had a pallid complexion, as he always had. Lavrans felt that this man—even though he was a knight with integrity, who was wise and willing to serve without deceit, never sparing himself—fell somewhat short in every way as a leader. If he had been a head taller, he might have won full support more easily.

Lavrans said quietly, “Sir Knut is also clever enough that he would realize—if they’re contemplating any kind of incursion down there—that he wouldn’t have much use for Erlend in any secret council.”

“You’re rather fond of this son-in-law of yours, aren’t you, Lavrans?” said the other man, almost crossly. “If truth be told, you have no reason to love him.”

Lavrans sat running his finger through a puddle of spilled wine on the table. Sir Erling noticed that his rings were quite loose on his fingers now.

“Do you?” Lavrans looked up with a little smile. “And yet I think that you too are fond of him!”

“Well . . . God knows . . . But I swear to you, Lavrans, Sir Knut has plenty of things going through his mind right now. He’s the father of a son who is the grandson of King Haakon.”

“Even Erlend must realize that the child’s father has much too broad a back for that poor young nobleman ever to get around it. And his mother has all the people of Norway against her because of this marriage.”

A little while later Erling Vidkunssøn stood up and strapped on his sword. Lavrans had politely taken his guest’s cape from the hook and was holding it in his hands, when he suddenly swayed and was about to collapse, but Sir Erling caught him in his arms. With difficulty he carried the man, who was heavy and tall, over to the bed. It wasn’t a stroke, but Lavrans lay there with his lips pale blue, his limbs weak and limp. Sir Erling raced across the courtyard to wake up the hostel priest.

Lavrans felt quite embarrassed when he came to himself again. Yes, it was a weakness that occurred now and then, ever since an elk hunt two winters before, when he had gotten lost in a blizzard. That was evidently what it took for a man to learn that his body was no longer youthful, and he smiled apologetically.

Sir Erling waited until the monk had bled the ill man, although Lavrans begged him not to take the trouble, because he would have to leave so early in the morning.

The moon was high, shining above the mountains of the main-land; the water lay black below, but out on the fjord the light glinted like flecks of silver. Not a wisp came from the smoke-vent holes; the grass on the rooftops glittered like dew in the moonlight. Not a soul was on the one short street of the town as Sir Erling swiftly walked the few paces down to the king’s fortress, where he was to sleep. He looked strangely fragile and small in the moonlight, with his black cape wrapped tightly around him, shivering slightly. A couple of weary servants, who had sat up waiting for him, tumbled out of the courtyard with a lantern. The regent took the lantern and sent his men off to bed; then he shivered a little again as he climbed the stairs to his chamber up in the loft room.

Her husband whispered, “Venite ad me, omnes qui laborate et onerati estis. Ego reficiam vos¹—the Lord has said.”

He slipped one arm under her shoulder and pulled her close to his side. They lay there for a moment, cheek to cheek.

Then she said softly, “Now I have asked the Mother of God to answer my prayer that I need not live long after you, my husband.”

His lips and his lashes brushed her cheek in the darkness like the wings of a butterfly.

“My Ragnfrid, my Ragnfrid.”

Erlend was greatly annoyed that his wife refused to accompany him anywhere. He couldn’t see that she was ill; she neither swooned nor vomited this time, and it was not even visible that she was with child. And by constantly sitting indoors, brooding and worrying over his misdeeds, she had grown weary and pale. It was during the Christmas season that fierce quarrels erupted between them. But this time Erlend didn’t come and apologize for his bad temper, as he had in the past. Until now, whenever they had disagreements, he had always believed that he was to blame. Kristin was good, she was always right; if he felt uncomfortable and bored at home, then it must be because it was his nature to grow weary of what was good and right if he had too much of it. But this summer he had noticed more than once that his father-in-law had sided with him and seemed to think Kristin was lacking in wifely gentleness and tolerance. It occurred to him that she was overly sensitive about petty matters and reluctant to forgive him for minor offenses which he had committed with no ill intent. He would always beg her forgiveness after taking time to reflect, and she would say that she forgave him. But afterwards he could see that it was simply stored away, not forgotten.

So Erlend spent much time away from home, and now he often took his daughter Margret along with him. The maiden’s upbringing had always been a source of disagreement between him and his wife. Kristin had never said a word about it, but Erlend knew quite well what she, and others, thought. He had treated Margret in all respects as his lawful child, and whenever she accompanied her father and stepmother everyone received her as if she were. At Ramborg’s wedding she had been one of the bridesmaids, wearing a golden wreath on her flowing hair. Many of the women didn’t approve, but Lavrans had persuaded them, and Simon had also said that no one should voice any objection to Erlend or say a word about it to the maiden. The lovely child was not to blame for her unfortunate birth.

But Kristin knew that Erlend planned to marry Margret to a man of noble lineage. He thought that with his present position, he could succeed in arranging it, even though the maiden had been conceived in adultery and it would be difficult to gain for her a position that was firm and secure. It might have been possible if people had been convinced that Erlend was capable of preserving and increasing his power and wealth. But although he was well-liked and respected in many ways, no one truly believed that the prosperity at Husaby would last. So Kristin was afraid that it would be difficult for him to carry out his plans for Margret. Even though she was not particularly fond of Margret, Kristin felt sorry for the maiden and dreaded the day when the girl’s arrogant spirit might be broken—if she had to settle for a match that was much poorer than what her father had taught her to expect, and for circumstances that were quite different from what she had grown up with.

Then, around Candlemas, three men came from Formo to Husaby; they had skied over the mountains to bring Erlend troubling news from Simon Andressøn. Simon wrote that their father-in-law was ill, and that he was not expected to live long. Lavrans wanted to ask Erlend to come to Sil, if he could; he wanted to speak to both of his sons-in-law about how everything should be arranged after his death.

Erlend cast surreptitious glances at his wife. She was heavy with child now; her face was thin and quite pale. And she looked so unhappy, as if she might cry at any moment. Now he regretted his behavior toward her that winter; her father’s illness came as no surprise to her, and if she had been carrying such a secret sorrow, he would have to forgive her for being unreasonable.

Alone he would be able to travel to Sil quite swiftly, if he skied over the mountains. But if he had to take along his wife, it would be a slow and difficult journey. And then he would have to wait until after the weapons-ting² during Lent, and call meetings with his deputies first. There were also several meetings and tings that he would have to attend himself. Before they could leave, it would be dangerously close to the time when she would give birth—and Kristin couldn’t stand the sea, even when she was feeling well. But he didn’t dare think about her not being allowed to see her father before he died. That evening, after they had gone to bed, he asked his wife whether she dared make the journey.

He felt rewarded as she wept in his arms, grateful and full of remorse for her unkindness toward him that winter. Erlend grew gentle and tender, as he always did whenever he had caused a woman sorrow and then was forced to see her struggle with her grief before his eyes. And he gave in to Kristin’s proposal with reasonable patience. He said at once that he wouldn’t take the children along. But Kristin replied that Naakkve was old enough now, and it would be good for him to witness his grandfather’s passing. Erlend said no. Then she thought that Ivar and Skule were too young to be left in the care of the servant women. No, said Erlend. And Lavrans had grown so fond of Gaute. No, said Erlend again. It would be difficult enough, as things now stood with her—for Ragnfrid to have a nursemaid on the estate while she was tending to her husband on his sickbed, and for them to bring the newborn home again. Either Kristin would have to leave the child with foster parents on one of Lavrans’s farms, or she would have to stay at Jørundgaard until summer; but he would have to travel home before then. He went over all the plans, again and again, but he tried to make his voice calm and convincing.

Then it occurred to him that he ought to bring a few things from Nidaros that his mother-in-law might need for the funeral feast: wine and wax, wheat flour and Paradise grains and the like. But at last they made their departure, reaching Jørundgaard on the day before Saint Gertrud’s Day.

She had to be grateful that she was given the chance to see her father again. When she thought about his joy at her arrival and how he had thanked Erlend for bringing her, then she was happy. But this time she felt shut out from so many things, and it was a painful feeling.

It was less than a month before she would give birth, and Lavrans forbade her from lifting a hand to tend to him. She wasn’t allowed to keep watch over him at night with the others, and Ragnfrid wouldn’t hear of her offering the slightest help in spite of all the work to be done. She sat with her father during the day, but they were seldom alone together. Almost daily, guests would come to the manor; friends who wanted to see Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn one last time before he died. This pleased her father, although it made him quite weary. He would talk in a merry and hearty voice to everyone—women and men, poor and rich, young and old—thanking them for their friendship and asking for their prayers of intercession for his soul, and hoping that God might allow them to meet on the day of rejoicing. At night, when only his close family was with him, Kristin would lie in bed in the high loft, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep because she was thinking about her father’s passing and about the impetuousness and wickedness of her own heart.

The end was coming quickly for Lavrans. He had held on to his strength until Ramborg gave birth to her child and Ragnfrid no longer needed to be at Formo so often. He had also had his servants take him over there one day so he could see his daughter and granddaughter. The little maiden had been christened Ulvhild. But then he took to his bed, and it was unlikely he would ever get up again.

Lavrans lay in the hall of the high loft. They had made up a kind of bed for him on the high-seat bench, for he couldn’t bear to have his head raised; then he would grow dizzy at once and suffer fainting spells and heart spasms. They didn’t dare bleed him anymore; they had done it so often during the fall and winter that he was now quite lacking in blood, and he had little desire for food or drink.

The handsome features of his face were now sharp, and the tan had faded from his once-fresh complexion; it was sallow like bone, and bloodless and pale around his lips and eyes. The thick blond hair with streaks of white was now untrimmed, lying withered and limp against the blue-patterned expanse of the pillow. But what had changed him most was the rough, gray beard now covering the lower half of his face and growing on his long, broad neck, where the sinews stood out like thick cords. Lavrans had always been meticulous about shaving before every holy day. His body was so gaunt that it was little more than a skeleton. But he said he felt fine as long as he lay flat and didn’t move. And he was always cheerful and happy.

They slaughtered and brewed and baked for the funeral feast; they took out the bedclothes and mended them. Everything that could be done ahead of time was done now, so that there would be quiet when the last struggle came. It cheered Lavrans considerably to hear about these preparations. His last banquet would be far from the poorest to be held at Jørundgaard; in an honorable and worthy manner he was to take leave of his guardianship of the estate and his household. One day he wanted to have a look at the two cows that would be included in the funeral procession, to be given to Sira Eirik and Sira Solmund, and so they were led into the house. They had been fed extra fodder all winter long and were as splendid and fat as cows in the mountain pastures around Saint Olav’s Day, even though the valley was now in the midst of the spring shortages. He laughed the hardest every time one of the cows relieved itself on the floor.

But he was afraid his wife was going to wear herself out. Kristin had considered herself a diligent housewife, and that was her reputation back home in Skaun, but she now thought that compared to her mother she was completely incompetent. No one understood how Ragnfrid managed to accomplish everything she did—and yet she never seemed to be absent for very long from her husband’s side; she also helped to keep watch at night.

“Don’t think of me, husband,” she would say, putting her hand in his. “After you’re gone, you know that I’ll take a rest from all these toils.”

Many years before, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn had purchased his resting place at the friars’ monastery in Hamar, and Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter would accompany his body there and then stay on. She would live on a corrody in a manor owned by the monks in town. But first the coffin would be carried to the church here at home, with splendid gifts for the church and the priests; Lavrans’s stallion would follow behind with his armor and weapons, and Erlend would then redeem them by paying forty-five marks of silver. One of his sons would be given the armor, preferably the child Kristin now carried, if it was a son. Perhaps there would be another Lavrans at Jørundgaard sometime in the future, said the ill man with a smile. On the journey south through Gudbrandsdal, the coffin would be carried into several more churches and stay there overnight; these would be remembered in Lavrans’s testament with gifts of money and candles.

One day Simon mentioned that his father-in-law had bedsores, and he helped Ragnfrid to lift the sick man and tend to him.

Kristin was in despair over her jealous heart. She could hardly bear to see her parents on such familiar terms with Simon An-dressøn. He felt at home at Jørundgaard in a way that Erlend never had. Almost every day his huge, sorrel-colored horse would be tied to the courtyard fence, and Simon would be sitting inside with Lavrans, wearing his hat and cape. He wasn’t intending to stay long. But a short time later he would appear in the doorway and yell to the servants to put his horse in the stable after all. He was acquainted with all of her father’s business affairs; he would get out the letter box and take out deeds and documents. He took care of chores for Ragnfrid, and he talked to the overseer about the management of the farm. Kristin thought to herself that her greatest desire had been for her father to be fond of Erlend, but the first time Lavrans had taken his side against her, she had responded at once in the worst possible manner.

Simon Andressøn was deeply grieved that he would soon be parted from his wife’s father. But he felt such joy at the birth of his little daughter. Lavrans and Ragnfrid spoke often of little Ulvhild, and Simon could answer all their questions about the child’s welfare and progress. And here too Kristin felt jealousy sting her heart—Erlend had never taken that kind of interest in their children. At the same time, it seemed to her a bit laughable when this man with the heavy, reddish-brown face who was no longer young would sit and talk so knowledgeably about an infant’s stom achaches and appetite.

One day Simon brought a sleigh to take her south to see her sister and niece.

He had rebuilt the old, dark hearth house, where the women of Formo had gone for hundreds of years whenever they were going to give birth. The hearth had been thrown out and replaced with a stone fireplace, with a finely carved bed placed snugly against one side. On the opposite wall hung a beautiful carved image of the Mother of God, so that whoever lay in the bed could see it. Flagstones had been laid down, and a glass pane was put in the window; there were lovely, small pieces of furniture and new benches. Simon wanted Ramborg to have this house as her women’s room. Here she could keep her things and invite other women in; and whenever there were banquets at the manor, the women could retire to this house if they grew uneasy when the men became overwhelmed by drink late in the evening.

Ramborg was lying in bed, in honor of her guest. She had adorned herself with a silk wimple and a red gown trimmed across the breast with white fur. She had silk-covered pillows behind her back and a flowered, velvet coverlet on top of the bedclothes. In front of the bed stood Ulvhild Simonsdatter’s cradle. It was the old Swedish cradle that Ramborg Sunesdatter had brought to Norway, the same one in which Kristin’s father and grandfather, and she herself and all her siblings had slept. According to custom, she, as the eldest daughter, should have had the cradle as part of her dowry, but it had never been mentioned at the time she was married. She thought that her parents had purposely forgotten about the cradle. Didn’t they think the children she and Erlend would have were worthy to sleep in it?

After that, she refused to go back to Formo, saying that she didn’t have the strength.

She had always heard people praise her parents’ life together as an exemplary marriage, beautiful and noble, with harmony, loyalty, and good will. But she had felt, without thinking too closely about it, that there was something that kept them apart—some indefinable shadow that made their life at home subdued, even though it was calm and pleasant. Now there was no longer any shadow between her parents. They talked to each other calmly and quietly, mostly about small, everyday matters; but Kristin sensed there was something new in their eyes and in the tone of their voices. She could see that her father missed his wife whenever she was somewhere else. If he managed to convince her to take a rest, he would lie in bed, fidgeting and waiting; when Ragnfrid came back, it was as if she brought peace and joy to the ill man. One day Kristin heard them talking about their dead children, and yet they looked happy. When Sira Eirik came over to read to Lavrans, Ragnfrid would always sit with them. Then he would take his wife’s hand and lie there, playing with her fingers and twisting her rings around.

Kristin knew that her father loved her no less than before. But she had never noticed until now that he loved her mother. And she could see the difference between the love of a husband for the wife he had lived with all his life, during good days and bad—and his love for the child who had shared only his joys and had received his greatest tenderness. And she wept and prayed to God and Saint Olav for help—for she remembered that tearful, tender farewell with her father on the mountain in the autumn, but surely it couldn’t be true that she now wished it had been the last.

“I was just thinking, husband,” she said, “that your women have never been very obedient; we’ve usually done whatever we wanted to do.”

“And you’ve never realized that before?” asked her husband, laughing. “Well, your brother Trond isn’t to blame, at any rate. Don’t you remember that he used to call me spineless because I always let all of you have your way?”

When the next mass was celebrated, Ramborg went to church for the first time after giving birth, and afterwards she paid her first visit to Jørundgaard. Helga Rolvsdatter came with her; she was also a married woman now. And Haavard Trondssøn of Sundbu had come to see Lavrans, too. These three young people were all the same age, and for three years they had lived together like siblings at Jørundgaard. The other two had looked up to Haavard, and he had been the leader in all their games because he was a boy. But now the two young wives with the white wimples made him feel quite clearly that they were experienced women with husbands and children and households to manage, while he was merely an immature and foolish child. Lavrans found this greatly amusing.

“Just wait until you have a wife of your own, Haavard, my foster son. Then you will truly be told how little you know,” he said, and all the men in the room laughed and agreed.

Sira Eirik came daily to visit the dying man. The old parish priest’s eyesight was now failing, but he could still manage to read just as easily the story of Creation in Norwegian and the gospels and psalms in Latin, because he knew those books so well. But several years earlier, down in Saastad, Lavrans had acquired a thick volume, and it was passages from this book that he wanted to hear. Sira Eirik couldn’t read it because of his bad eyes, so Lavrans asked Kristin to try to read from the book. And after she grew accustomed to it, she managed to read beautifully and well. It was a great joy for her that now there was something she could do for her father.

The book contained what seemed to be dialogues between Fear and Courage, between Faith and Doubt, Body and Soul. There were also stories of saints and many accounts of men who, while still alive, were swept away in spirit and who witnessed the torments of the abyss, the trials of fiery purgatory, and the salvation of Heaven. Lavrans now spoke often of the purgatory fire, which he expected to enter soon, but he showed no sign of fear. He hoped for great solace from the prayers of intercession offered by his friends and the priests; and he consoled himself that Saint Olav and Saint Thomas would give him strength for the last trial, as he felt they had given him strength here in life. He had always heard that the person who firmly believed would never for a moment lose sight of the salvation toward which the soul was moving, through the fiery blaze. Kristin thought her father seemed to be looking forward to it, as if it were a test of manhood. She vaguely remembered from her childhood the time when the king’s retainers from the valley set off on a campaign against Duke Eirik.⁴ Now she thought that her father seemed eager for his death, in the same way he had been eager for battle and adventure back then.

One day she said that she thought her father had endured so many trials in this life that surely he would be spared from the worst of them in the next. Lavrans replied that it didn’t seem that way to him; he had been a rich man, he was descended from a splendid lineage, and he had won friends and prosperity in the world. “My greatest sorrows were that I never saw my mother’s face, and that I lost my children—but soon they will no longer be sorrows. And the same is true of other things that have grieved me in my life—they are no longer sorrows.”

Ragnfrid was often in the room while Kristin read. Strangers were also present, and now Erlend wanted to sit and listen too. Everyone found joy in what she read, but Kristin grew dejected and distressed. She thought about her own heart, which fully understood what was right and wrong, and yet it had always yearned for what was not righteous. And she was afraid for her little child; she could hardly sleep at night for fear that he would die unbaptized. Two women had to keep constant vigil over her, and yet she was still afraid to fall asleep. Her other children had all been baptized before they were three days old, but they had decided to wait this time, because the boy was big and strong, and they wanted to name him after Lavrans. But in the valley people strictly abided by the custom that children not be named for anyone who was still alive.

One day when Kristin was sitting with her father and holding the child on her lap, Lavrans asked her to unwrap the swaddling clothes. He had still not seen more than the infant’s face. She did as he asked and then placed the child in her father’s arms. Lavrans stroked the small, rounded chest and took one of the tiny, plump hands in his own.

“It seems strange, kinsman, that one day you will wear my coat of mail. Right now you wouldn’t fill up more space than a worm in a hollow nutshell; and this hand will have to grow big before it can grip the hilt of my sword. Looking at a lad like this, it almost seems God’s will that we not bear arms. But you won’t have to grow very old, my boy, before you long to take them up. There are so few men born of women who have such a love for God that they would forswear the right to carry weapons. I did not have it.”

He lay quietly, looking at the infant.

“You carry your children under a loving heart, my Kristin. The boy is fat and big, but you’re pale and thin as a reed; your mother said it was always that way after you gave birth. Ramborg’s daughter is small and thin, but Ramborg is blossoming like a rose,” he said, laughing.

“And yet it seems strange to me that she doesn’t want to nurse the child herself,” said Kristin.

“Simon is also against it. He says he wouldn’t reward her for the gift by wearing her out in that way. You must remember that Ramborg was not even sixteen, and she had barely grown out of her own childhood shoes when her daughter was born. And she has never known a moment of ill health before. It’s not so strange that she would have little patience. You were a grown woman when you were married, my Kristin.”

Suddenly Kristin was overcome by violent sobs; she hardly knew what she was crying about. But it was true: She had loved her children from the first moment she held them in her womb; she had loved them even as they had tormented her with anguish, weighing her down and spoiling her looks. She had loved their small faces from the first moment she saw them, and loved them every single hour as they grew and changed, becoming young men. But no one had loved them as she had or rejoiced along with her. It was not in Erlend’s nature. He was fond of them, of course, but he had always thought that Naakkve came too early, and that each son afterwards was one too many. She recalled what she had thought about the fruit of sin during the first winter she lived at Husaby; she realized she had tasted its bitterness, although not as much as she had feared. Things had gone wrong between her and Erlend back then and apparently could never be rectified.

Kristin hadn’t been close to her mother. Her sisters were mere children when she was already a grown maiden, and she had never had companions to play with. She was brought up among men; she was able to be gentle and soft because there had always been men around to hold up protective and shielding hands between her and everything else in the world. Now it seemed reasonable to her that she gave birth only to sons—boys to nurse with her blood and at her breast, to love and protect and care for until they were old enough to join the ranks of men. She remembered that she had heard of a queen who was called the Mother of Boys. She must have had a wall of watchful men around her when she was a child.

“What is it now, Kristin?” asked her father quietly after a while.

She couldn’t tell him any of this; when she stopped crying enough to talk, she said, “Shouldn’t I grieve, Father, when you are lying here . . . ?”

Finally, when Lavrans pressed her, she told him of her fears for the unbaptized child. Then he at once ordered the boy to be taken to church the next time mass was celebrated; he said he didn’t think it would cause his death any sooner than God willed it.

“And besides, I’ve been lying here long enough,” he said with a laugh. “Wretched deeds accompany our arrival and our departure, Kristin. In sickness we are born and in sickness we die, except for those who die in battle. That seemed to me the best kind of death when I was young: to be killed on the battlefield. But a sinful man has need of a sickbed, and yet I don’t think my soul will be any better healed if I lie here longer.”

And so the boy was baptized on the following Sunday and was given his grandfather’s name. Kristin and Erlend were bitterly criticized for this in the outlying villages. Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn told everyone who came to visit that it was done on his orders; he refused to have a heathen in his house when death came to the door.

Lavrans now began to worry that his death would come in the middle of the spring farm work, which would be a great hardship for many people who wanted to honor him by escorting his funeral procession. But two weeks after the child was baptized, Erlend came to Kristin in the old weaving room where she had been sleeping since giving birth. It was late in the morning, past breakfast time, but she was still in bed because the boy had been restless. Erlend was deeply distressed, but he said in a calm and loving voice that now she must get up and go to her father. Lavrans had suffered terrible convulsions and heart spasms at daybreak, and since then he lay drained of all strength. Sira Eirik was with him now, and had just heard his confession.

It was the fifth day after the Feast of Saint Halvard. It was raining lightly but steadily. When Kristin went out into the courtyard, she noticed in the gentle southern wind the earthy smell of newly plowed and manured fields. The countryside was brown in the spring rain, the sky was pale blue between the high mountains, and the mist was drifting by, halfway up the slopes. The ringing of little bells came from the groves of trees along the swollen gray river; herds of goats had been let out, and they were nibbling at the bud-covered branches. This was the kind of weather that had always filled her father’s heart with joy. The cold of winter was over for both people and livestock, the animals were finally released from their dark, narrow stalls and scanty fodder.

Kristin saw at once from her father’s face that death was now very near. The skin around his nostrils was snowy white, but bluish under his eyes and at his lips; his hair had separated into sweaty strings lying on his broad, damp forehead. But he had his full wits about him and spoke clearly, although slowly and in a weak voice.

The servants approached the bed, one by one, and Lavrans gave his hand to each of them, thanking them for their service, telling them to live well and asking for forgiveness if he had ever offended them in any way; and he asked them to remember him with a prayer for his soul. Then he said goodbye to his kinsmen. He told his daughters to bend down so he could kiss them, and he asked God and all the saints to bless them. They wept bitterly, both of them; and young Ramborg threw herself into her sister’s arms. Holding on to each other, Lavrans’s two daughters went back to their place at the foot of their father’s bed, and the younger one continued to weep on Kristin’s breast.

Erlend’s face quivered and the tears ran down his face when he lifted Lavrans’s hand to kiss it, as he quietly asked his father-in-law to forgive him for the sorrows he had caused him over the years. Lavrans said he forgave him with all his heart, and he prayed that God might be with him all his days. There was a strange, pale light in Erlend’s handsome face when he silently moved away to stand at his wife’s side, hand in hand with her.

Simon Darre did not weep, but he knelt down as he took his father-in-law’s hand to kiss it, and he held on to it tightly as he stayed on his knees a moment longer. “Your hand feels warm and good, son-in-law,” said Lavrans with a faint smile. Ramborg turned to her husband when he went to her, and Simon put his arm around her thin, girlish shoulders.

Last of all, Lavrans said goodbye to his wife. They whispered a few words to each other that no one else could hear, and exchanged a kiss in everyone’s presence, as was now proper when death was in the room. Then Ragnfrid knelt in front of her husband’s bed, with her face turned toward him; she was pale, silent, and calm.

Sira Eirik stayed with them after he had anointed the dying man with oil and given him the viaticum. He sat near the headboard and prayed; Ragnfrid was now sitting on the bed. Several hours passed. Lavrans lay with his eyes half-closed. Now and then he would move his head restlessly on the pillow and pick at the covers with his hands, breathing heavily and groaning from time to time. They thought he had lost his voice, but there was no death struggle.

Dusk came early, and the priest lit a candle. Everyone sat quietly, watching the dying man and listening to the dripping and trickling of the rain outside the house. Then the sick man grew agitated, his body trembled, his face turned blue, and he seemed to be fighting for breath. Sira Eirik put his arm under Lavrans’s shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position as he supported his head against his chest and held up the cross before his face.

Lavrans opened his eyes, fixed his gaze on the crucifix in the priest’s hand, and said softly, but so clearly that almost everyone in the room could hear him:

Several more tremors passed over his body, and his hands fumbled with the coverlet. Sira Eirik continued to hold him against his chest for a moment. Then he gently laid his friend’s body down on the bed, kissing his forehead and smoothing back his hair, before he pressed his eyelids and nostrils closed; then he stood up and began to say a prayer.

Her father seemed to her inexpressibly beautiful as he lay in the glow of the candles, with his pale, golden face uncovered. They had folded down the cloth that hid his face so that it wouldn’t become soiled by the many people who came to view the body. Sira Eirik and the parish priest from Kvam were singing over him; the latter had arrived that evening to say his last farewell to Lavrans, but he had come too late.

By the following day guests already began riding into the courtyard, and then, for the sake of propriety, Kristin had to take to her bed since she had not yet been to church. Now it was her turn to have her bed adorned with silk coverlets and the finest pillows in the house. The cradle from Formo was borrowed, and there lay the young Lavrans; all day long people came in to see her and the child.

She heard that her father’s body continued to look beautiful—it had merely yellowed a bit. And no one had ever seen so many candles brought to a dead man’s bier.

On the fifth day the funeral feast began, and it was exceptionally grand in every way. There were more than a hundred strange horses at the manor and at Laugarbru; even Formo housed some of the guests. On the seventh day the heirs divided up the estate, amicably and with friendship; Lavrans himself had made all the arrangements before his death, and everyone carefully abided by his wishes.

The next day the body, which now lay in Olav’s Church, was to begin the journey to Hamar.

The evening before—or rather, late that night—Ragnfrid came into the hearth room where her daughter lay in bed with her child. Ragnfrid was very tired, but her face was calm and clear. She asked her serving women to leave.

“All the houses are full, but I’m sure you can find a corner to sleep in. I have a mind to sit with my daughter myself on this last night that I’ll spend on my estate.”

She took the child from Kristin’s arms and carried him over to the hearth to get him ready for the night.

“It must be strange for you, Mother, to leave this manor where you’ve lived with my father all these years,” said Kristin. “I don’t see how you can stand to do it.”

“I could stand it much less to stay here,” replied Ragnfrid, rocking little Lavrans in her arms, “and not see your father going about among the buildings.

“I’ve never told you how we happened to move to this valley and ended up living here,” she continued after a moment. “When word came that Ivar, my father, was expected to breathe his last, I was unable to travel; Lavrans had to go north alone. I remember the weather was so beautiful on the evening he left—back then he liked to ride late, when it was cool, and so he set off for Oslo in the evening. It was just before Midsummer. I followed him out to the place where the road from the manor crosses the church road—do you remember the spot where there are several big flat rocks and barren fields all around? The worst land at Skog, and always arid; but that year the grain stood high in the furrows, and we talked about that. Lavrans was on foot, leading his horse, and I was holding you by the hand. You were four winters old.

“When we reached the crossroads, I wanted you to run back to the farm buildings. You didn’t want to, but then your father told you to see if you could find five white stones and lay them out in a cross in the creek below the spring—that would protect him from the trolls of Mjørsa Forest when he sailed past. Then you set off running.”

“Is that something people believe?” asked Kristin.

“I’ve never heard of it, either before or since. I think your father made it up right then. Don’t you remember how he could think up so many things when he was playing with you?”

“Yes. I remember.”

I walked with him through the woods, all the way to the dwarf stone. He told me to turn around, and then he accompanied me back to the crossroads. He laughed and said I should know he couldn’t very well allow me to walk alone through the forest, especially after the sun was down. As we stood there at the crossroads, I put my arms around his neck. I was so sad that I couldn’t travel home with him. I had never felt comfortable at Skog, and I was always longing to go north to Gudbrandsdal. Lavrans tried to console me, and at last he said, ‘When I return and you’re holding my son in your arms, you can ask me for whatever you wish, and if it’s within my power to give it to you, then you will not have asked in vain.’ And I replied that I would ask that we might move up here and live on my ancestral estate. Your father wasn’t pleased, and he said, ‘Couldn’t you have thought of something bigger to ask for?’ He laughed a little, and I thought this was something he would never agree to, which seemed to me only reasonable. But as you know, Sigurd, your youngest brother, lived less than an hour. Halvdan baptized him, and after that the child died.

“Your father came home early one morning. The evening before, he had asked in Oslo how things stood at home, and then he set off for Skog at once. I was still keeping to my bed; I was so full of grief that I didn’t have the strength to get up, and I thought I would prefer never to get up again. God forgive me—when they brought you in to me, I turned to the wall and refused to look at you, my poor little child. But then Lavrans said, as he sat on the edge of my bed, still wearing his cape and sword, that now we would try to see if things might be better for us living here at Jørundgaard, and that’s how we came to move from Skog. But now you can see why I don’t want to live here any longer, now that Lavrans is gone.”

Ragnfrid brought the child and placed him on his mother’s breast. She took the silk coverlet, which had been spread over Kristin’s bed during the day, folded it up, and laid it aside. Then she stood there for a moment, looking down at her daughter and touching the thick, dark-blonde braids which lay between her white breasts.

“Your father asked me often whether your hair was still thick and beautiful. It was such a joy to him that you didn’t lose your looks from giving birth to so many children. And you made him so happy during the last few years because you had become such a capable wife and looked so healthy and lovely with all your fair young sons around you.”

Kristin tried to swallow back her tears.

“He often told me, Mother, that you were the best wife—he told me to tell you that.” She paused, embarrassed, and Ragnfrid laughed softly.

“Lavrans should have known that he didn’t need anyone else to tell me of his good will toward me.” She stroked the child’s head and her daughter’s hand which was holding the infant. “But perhaps he wanted . . . It’s not true, my Kristin, that I have ever en-vied your father’s love for you. It’s right and proper that you should have loved him more than you loved me. You were such a sweet and lovely little maiden—I could hardly believe that God would let me keep you. But I always thought more about what I had lost than what I still had.”

Ragnfrid sat down on the edge of the bed.

“They had other customs at Skog than I was used to back home. I can’t remember that my father ever kissed me. He kissed my mother when she lay on her bier. Mother would kiss Gudrun during the mass, because she stood next to her, and then my sister would kiss me; otherwise that was not something we ever did.

“At Skog it was the custom that when we came home from church, after taking the corpus domini, and we got down from our horses in the courtyard, then Sir Bjørgulf would kiss his sons and me on the cheek, while we kissed his hand. Then all the married couples would kiss each other, and we would shake hands with all the servants who had been to the church service and ask that everyone might benefit from the sacrament. They did that often, Lavrans and Aasmund; they would kiss their father on the hand when he gave them gifts and the like. Whenever he or Inga came into the room, the sons would always get to their feet and stand there until asked to sit down. At first these seemed to me foolish and foreign ways.

“Later, during the years I lived with your father when we lost our sons, and all those years when we endured such great anguish and sorrow over our Ulvhild—then it seemed good that Lavrans had been brought up as he had, with gentler and more loving ways.”

After a moment Kristin murmured, “So Father never saw Sigurd?”

“No,” replied Ragnfrid, her voice equally quiet. “Nor did I see him while he was alive.”

Kristin lay in silence; then she said, “And yet, Mother, it seems to me that there has been much good in your life.”

The tears began to stream down Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter’s pale face.

“God help me, yes. It seems that way to me, too.”

A little later she carefully picked up the infant, who had fallen asleep at his mother’s breast, and placed him in the cradle. She fastened Kristin’s shift with the little silver brooch, caressed her daughter’s cheek, and told her to go to sleep now.

Kristin put out her hand. “Mother . . .” she implored.

Ragnfrid bent down, gathered her daughter into her arms, and kissed her many times. She hadn’t done that in all the years since Ulvhild died.

When the funeral procession reached that spot, she would be able to see it best.

And then the procession emerged from beneath the scree, across from the fresh new acres of rye.

She could see all the priests riding on ahead, and there were also vergers among the first group, carrying the crosses and tapers. She couldn’t see the flames in the bright sunlight, but the candles looked like slender white streaks. Two horses followed, carrying her father’s coffin on a litter between them, and then she recognized Erlend on the black horse, her mother, Simon and Ramborg, and many of her kinsmen and friends in the long procession.

For a moment she could faintly hear the singing of the priests above the roar of the Laag, but then the tones of the hymn died away in the rush of the river and the steady trickling of the springtime streams on the slopes. Kristin stood there, gazing off into the distance, long after the last packhorse with the traveling bags had disappeared into the woods.