Just then Erlend was having a great deal of trouble and vexation with several matters that had occurred in his district. During the previous autumn, Huntjov, the farmer at Forbregd in Updal, had killed his neighbor because the man had called his wife a sorceress. The villagers bound the murderer and brought him to the sheriff; Erlend put him in custody in one of his lofts. But when the cold grew worse that winter, he allowed the man to move freely among his servant men. Huntjov had been one of Erlend’s crew members on Margygren on the voyage north, and at that time he had displayed great courage. When Erlend submitted his report regarding Huntjov’s case and asked that he be allowed to remain in the country,¹ he also presented the man in the most favorable light. When Ulf Haldorssøn offered a guarantee that Huntjov would appear at the proper time for the ting at Orkedal, Erlend permitted the farmer to go home for the Christmas holy days. But then Huntjov and his wife went to visit the innkeeper in Drivdal who was their kinsman, and on the way there, they disappeared. Erlend thought they had perished in the terrible storm that had raged at the time, but many people said they had fled; now the sheriff’s men could go whistling after them. And then new charges were brought against the man who had vanished. It was said that several years earlier, Huntjov had killed a man in the mountains and buried the body under a pile of rocks—a man whom Huntjov claimed had wounded his mare in the flank. And it was revealed that his wife had indeed practiced witchcraft.

Then the priest of Updal and the archbishop’s envoy set about investigating these rumors of sorcery. And this led to shameful discoveries about the way in which people observed Christianity in many parts of Orkdøla county. This occurred mostly in the remote regions of Rennabu and Updalsskog, but an old man from Budvik was also brought before the archbishop’s court in Nidaros. Erlend showed so little zeal for this matter that people began talking about it. There was also that old man named Aan, who had lived near the lake below Husaby and practically had to be considered one of Erlend’s servants. He was skilled in runes and incantations, and it was said that he had several images in his possession to which he offered sacrifices. But nothing of the kind was found in his hut after his death. Erlend himself, along with Ulf Haldorssøn, had been with the old man when he died; people said that no doubt they had destroyed one thing or another before the priest arrived. Yes, now that people happened to think about it, Erlend’s own aunt had been accused of witchcraft, adultery, and the murder of her husband—although Fru Aashild Gautesdatter had been much too wise and clever and had too many powerful friends to be convicted of anything. Then people suddenly remembered that in his youth Erlend had lived a far from Christian life and had defied the laws of the Church.

The result of all this was that the archbishop summoned Erlend Nikulaussøn to Nidaros for an interview. Simon accompanied his brother-in-law to town; he was going to Ranheim to get his sister’s son, for the boy was supposed to travel home with him to Gudbrandsdal to visit his mother for a while.

It was a week before the Frosta ting² was to be held, and Nidaros was full of people. When the brothers-in-law arrived at the bishop’s estate and were shown into the audience hall, many Brothers of the Cross were there, as well as several noble gentlemen, including the judge of the Frosta ting, Harald Nikulaussøn; Olav Hermanssøn, judge in Nidaros; Sir Guttorm Helgessøn, the sheriff of Jemtland; and Arne Gjavvaldssøn, who at once came over to Simon Darre to give him a hearty greeting. Arne drew Simon over to a window alcove, and they sat down there together.

Simon felt ill at ease. He hadn’t seen the other man since he was at Ranheim ten years before, and even though everyone had treated him exceedingly well, the purpose of that journey had left a scar on his soul.

While Arne boasted of young Gjavvald, Simon kept an eye on his brother-in-law. Erlend was speaking to the royal treasurer, whose name was Sir Baard Peterssøn, but he was not related to the Hestnes lineage. It could not be said that Erlend’s conduct was lacking in courtesy, and yet his manner seemed overly free and unrestrained as he stood there talking to the elderly gentleman while he rocked back and forth on his heels, with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he was wearing garments that were dark in color, but magnificent: a violet-blue cote-hardi³ that fit snugly to his body, with slits up the sides; a black shoulder collar with the cowl thrown back to reveal the gray silk lining; a silver-studded belt; and high red boots that were laced tightly around his calves, displaying the man’s handsome, slim legs and feet.

In the sharp light coming through the glass windows of the stone building, it was evident that Erlend Nikulaussøn now had quite a bit of gray hair at his temples. Around his mouth and under his eyes the fine, tanned skin was now etched with wrinkles, and there were creases on the long, handsome arch of his throat. And yet he looked quite young among the other gentlemen, although he was by no means the youngest man in the room. But he was just as slim and slender, and he carried his body in the same loose, rather careless fashion as he had in his youth. And when the royal treasurer left him, Erlend’s gait was just as light and supple as he began pacing around the hall, with his hands still clasped behind his back. All the other men were sitting down, occasionally conversing with each other in low, dry voices. Erlend’s light step and the ringing of his small silver spurs were all too audible.

Finally one of the younger men told him with annoyance to sit down, “And stop making so much noise, man!”

Erlend came to an abrupt halt and frowned—then he turned to face the man who had spoken and said with a laugh, “Where were you out drinking last night, Jon my friend, since your head is so tender?” Then he sat down. When Judge Harald came over to him, Erlend got to his feet and waited until the other man had taken a seat, but then he sank down next to the judge, crossed one leg over the other, and sat with his hands clasped around his knee while they talked.

Erlend had told Simon quite openly about all the troubles he had endured because the murderer and his sorceress wife had escaped from his hands. But no man could possibly look more carefree than Erlend as he sat discussing the case with the judge.

Then the archbishop came in. He was escorted to his high seat by two men who propped cushions around him. Simon had never seen Lord Eiliv Kortin before. He looked old and frail and seemed to be freezing even though he wore a fur cape and a fur-trimmed cap on his head. When his turn came, Erlend escorted his brother-in-law over to the archbishop, and Simon fell to one knee as he kissed Lord Eiliv’s ring. Erlend, too, kissed the ring with respect.

He behaved very properly and respectfully when he at last stood before the archbishop, after Lord Eiliv had talked with the other gentlemen for some time about various matters. But he answered the questions put to him by one of the canons in a rather light hearted manner, and his demeanor seemed casual and innocent.

Yes, he had heard the talk about sorcery for many years. But as long as no one had come to him as enforcer of the law, he couldn’t very well be responsible for investigating all such gossip that flew among the womenfolk in a parish. Surely it was the priest who should determine whether there were any grounds for pressing charges.

Then he was asked about the old man who had lived at Husaby and was said to possess magic skills.

Erlend gave a little smile. Yes, well, Aan had boasted of this himself, but Erlend had never seen proof of his abilities. Ever since his childhood he had heard Aan talk about three women whom he called Hærn and Skøgul and Snotra, but he had never taken this for anything but storytelling and jest. “My brother Gunnulf and our priest, Sira Eiliv, talked to him many times about this matter, but apparently they never found any cause to accuse him, since they never did so. After all, the man came to church for every mass and he knew his Christian prayers.” Erlend had never had much faith in Aan’s sorcery, and after he had witnessed something of the spells and witchcraft of the Finns in the north, he had come to realize that Aan’s purported skills were mere foolishness.

Then the priest asked whether it was true that Erlend himself had once been given something by Aan—something that would bring him luck in amor?

Yes, replied Erlend swiftly and openly, with a smile. He must have been fifteen at the time, for it was about twenty-eight years ago. A leather pouch with a small white stone inside and several dried pieces that must have come from some animal. But he hadn’t had much faith in that kind of thing even back then. He gave it away the following year, when he was serving at the king’s castle for the first time. It happened in a bathhouse up in town; he had rashly shown the talismans to several other, younger boys. Later, one of the king’s retainers came to him, wanting to purchase the pouch, and Erlend had exchanged it for a fine shaving knife.

He was asked who this gentleman might be.

At first Erlend refused to say. But the archbishop himself urged him to speak. Erlend looked up with a roguish glint in his blue eyes.

“It was Sir Ivar Ogmundssøn.”

Everyone’s face took on a peculiar expression. Old Sir Guttorm Helgessøn uttered several odd snorts. Even Lord Eiliv tried to restrain a smile.

Then Erlend dared to say, with lowered eyes and biting his lip, “My Lord, surely you would not disturb that good knight with this ancient matter. As I said, I didn’t have much faith in it myself—and I’ve never noticed that it made any difference to any of us that I gave those charms to him.”

Sir Guttorm doubled over with a bellow, and then the other men gave in, one after the other, and roared with laughter. The archbishop chuckled and coughed and shook his head. It was well known that Sir Ivar had always had more desire than luck in certain matters.

After a while one of the Brothers of the Cross regained his composure enough to remind them that they had come here to discuss serious issues. Erlend asked rather sharply whether anyone had accused him of anything and whether this was an interrogation; he had assumed he had simply been invited to an interview. The discussion was then continued, but it was greatly disrupted by the fact that Guttorm Helgessøn sat there incessantly snickering.

The next day, as the brothers-in-law rode home from Ranheim, Simon brought up the subject of the interview. Simon said that Erlend seemed to take it terribly lightly—and yet he thought he could see that many of the noblemen would have blamed something on him if they could.

Erlend said he knew that’s what they would have liked, if it was within their power. For here in the north, most men now sided with the chancellor—except for the archbishop; in him, Erlend had a true friend. But Erlend’s actions in all matters were taken in accordance with the law; he always consulted with his scribe, Kløng Aressøn, who was exceptionally knowledgeable about the law. Erlend was now speaking somberly, and he smiled only briefly as he said that doubtless no one had expected him to have such a good grasp of his business affairs as he now had—neither his dear friends around the countryside nor the gentlemen of the Council. But he was no longer certain that he wanted the position of sheriff, if other conditions should apply than those he had been granted while Erling Vidkunssøn represented the king. His own situation was now such, especially since the death of his wife’s parents, that he no longer needed to secure the favor of those who had risen to power after the king had been proclaimed of age. Yes, that rotten boy might as well be declared of age now rather than later; he wasn’t going to become any more manly if they kept him hidden. Then they would know even sooner what he was concealing behind his shield—or how much the Swedish nobles controlled him. The people would learn the truth: that Erling had been right, after all. It would cost the Norwegians dearly if King Magnus tried to put Skaane⁴ under the Swedish Crown—and it would immediately lead to war with the Danes the moment one man, whether Danish or German, seized power there. And the peace in the north, which was supposed to be enforced for ten years . . . Half of that time had now passed, and it was uncertain whether the Russians would adhere to the treaty much longer. Erlend had not much faith in it, nor did Erling. No, Chancellor Paal was a learned man and in many respects sensible too—perhaps. But all the gentlemen of the Council, who had chosen him as their leader, had little more combined wit than his horse Soten. But now they were rid of Erling, for the time being. And until things changed, Erlend would just as soon step aside too. But surely Erling and his friends would want Erlend to maintain his power and prosperity up here in the north. He didn’t know what he should do.

“It seems to me that now you’ve learned to sing Sir Erling’s tune,” Simon Darre couldn’t help remarking.

Erlend replied that this was true. He had stayed at Sir Erling’s estate the summer before, when he was in Bjørgvin, and he now knew the man much better. It was evident that, above all else, Erling wanted to maintain peace in the land. But he wanted the Norwegian Crown to have the peace of the lion—which meant that no one should be allowed to break off a tooth or cut off a claw from their kinsman King Haakon’s lion. Nor should the lion be required to become the hunting dog for the people of some other country. And now Erling was also determined to bring to an end the old quarrels between the Norwegians and Lady Ingebjørg. Now that she had been left a widow by Sir Knut, it was only desirable for her to have some control over her son again. It was no doubt true that she felt such great love for the children she had borne to Knut Porse that she seemed to have almost forgotten her eldest son—but things would surely be different when she saw him again. And Lady Ingebjørg could have no reason to wish for King Magnus to interfere in the unrest occurring in Skaane, because it was under the authority of his half-brothers.

Simon thought Erlend sounded quite well-informed. But he wondered about Erling Vidkunssøn. Did the former regent think that Erlend Nikulaussøn was capable of making decisions in such matters? Or was Erling merely grasping for any possible support? The knight from Bjarkøy would be unlikely to give up his power. He could never be accused of having used it for his own benefit, but his great wealth made this unnecessary. Everyone said that over the years he had become more and more obstinate and single-minded; and by the time the other men of the Council gradually started to oppose him, he had grown so belligerent that he hardly deigned to listen to anyone else’s opinion.

It was like Erlend for him finally to climb aboard Erling Vid kunssøn’s ship with both feet, so to speak, as soon as the winds were against it. It was uncertain whether either Sir Erling or Erlend himself would benefit, now that he seemed to have joined forces wholeheartedly with his wealthy kinsman. And yet Simon had to admit that no matter how reckless Erlend’s words might be about both people and events, what he had said did not seem entirely foolish.

But that evening he was quite wild and boisterous. Erlend was now staying at Nikulausgaard, which his brother had given to him when he joined the friars. Kristin was there too, along with their two eldest boys, their youngest son, and Erlend’s daughter Margret.

Late in the evening a large group of people came to visit them, including many of the gentlemen who had been at the meeting with the archbishop the previous morning. Erlend laughed and talked loudly as they sat drinking at the table after supper. He had taken an apple from a bowl and had cut and carved it with his knife; then he rolled it across the table into the lap of Fru Sunniva Olavsdatter, who sat opposite him.

The woman sitting next to Sunniva wanted to look at it, and she reached for the apple. But Sunniva refused to give it up, and the two women pushed and tugged at each other with much shrieking and laughter. Then Erlend cried that Fru Eyvor should have an apple from him too. Before long he had tossed apples to every woman there, and he claimed to have carved love-runes into all of them.

“You’re going to be worn out, my boy, if you try to redeem all those pledges,” one of the men shouted.

“Then I’ll have to forget about redeeming them—I’ve done that before,” replied Erlend, and there was more laughter.

But the Icelander Kløng had taken a look at one of the apples and exclaimed that they weren’t runes but just meaningless cuts. He would show them how runes should be carved.

Then Erlend shouted that he shouldn’t do that. “Or else they’ll tell me I have to tie you up, Kløng, and I can’t get along without you.”

During all the commotion Erlend’s and Kristin’s youngest son had come padding into the hall. Lavrans Erlendssøn was now a little more than two years old and an exceptionally attractive child, plump and fair, with silky, fine blond curls. The women on the outer bench all wanted to hold the boy at once; they sent him from lap to lap, caressing him freely, for by now they were all giddy and wild. Kristin, who was sitting against the wall in the high seat next to her husband, asked to be given the child; he began fretting and wanted to go to his mother, but it did no good.

Suddenly Erlend leaped across the table and picked up the boy, who was now howling because Fru Sunniva and Fru Eyvor were tugging at him and fighting over him. The father took the boy in his arms, speaking soothing words. When the child kept on crying, he began humming and singing as he held him and paced back and forth in the dim light of the hall. Erlend seemed to have completely forgotten about his guests. The child’s little blond head lay on his father’s shoulder beneath the man’s dark hair, and every once in a while Erlend would touch his parted lips to the small hand resting on his chest. He continued in this way until a serving maid came in who was supposed to watch the child and should have put him to bed long ago.

Then some of the guests shouted that Erlend should sing them a ballad for a dance; he had such a fine voice. At first he declined, but then he went over to his young daughter who was sitting on the women’s bench. He put his arm around Margret and escorted her out to the floor.

“You must come with me, my Margret. Take your father’s hand for a dance!”

A young man stepped forward and took the maiden’s hand. “Margit promised to dance with me tonight,” he said. But Erlend lifted his daughter into his arms and set her down on the other side of him.

“Dance with your wife, Haakon. I never danced with anyone else when I was so newly married as you are.”

“Ingebjørg says she doesn’t want to . . . and I did promise Haakon to dance with him, Father,” said Margret.

Simon Darre had no wish to dance. He stood next to an old woman for a while and watched; now and then his gaze fell on Kristin. While her servants cleared away the dishes, wiped the table, and brought in more liquor and walnuts, Kristin stood at the end of the table. Then she sat down near the fireplace and talked to a priest who was one of the guests. After a while Simon sat down near them.

They had danced to one or two ballads when Erlend came over to his wife. “Come and dance with us, Kristin,” he begged, holding out his hand.

“I’m tired,” she said, looking up for a moment.

“You ask her, Simon. She can’t refuse to dance with you.”

Simon rose halfway and held out his hand, but Kristin shook her head. “Don’t ask me, Simon. I’m so tired. . . .”

Erlend stood there for a moment, looking as if he were embarrassed. Then he went back to Fru Sunniva and took her hand in the circle of dancers as he shouted to Margit that now she should sing for them.

“Who is that dancing next to your stepdaughter?” asked Simon. He thought he didn’t much care for that fellow’s face, even though he was a stalwart and boyish-looking young man with a healthy, tan complexion, fine teeth, and sparkling eyes, but they were set too close to his nose and he had a large, strong mouth and chin, although his face was narrow across the brow. Kristin told him it was Haakon Eindridessøn of Gimsar, the grandson of Tore Ein dridessøn, the sheriff of Gauldøla county. Haakon had recently married the lovely little woman who was sitting on the lap of Judge Olav—he was her godfather. Simon had noticed her because she looked a little like his first wife, although she was not as beautiful. When he now heard that there was kinship between them, he went over and greeted Ingebjørg and sat down to talk to her.

After a while the dancing broke up. The older folks sat down to drink, but the younger ones continued to sing and frolic out on the floor. Erlend came over to the fireplace along with several elderly gentlemen, but he was still absentmindedly leading Fru Sunniva by the hand. The men sat down near the fire, but there was no room for Sunniva, so she stood in front of Erlend and ate the walnuts he cracked in his hands for her.

“You’re an unchivalrous man, Erlend,” she said suddenly. “There you sit while I have to stand.”

“Then sit down,” said Erlend with a laugh, pulling her down onto his lap. She struggled against him, laughing and shouting to his wife to come and see how her husband was treating her.

“Erlend just does that to be kind,” replied Kristin, laughing too. “My cat can’t rub against his leg without him picking her up and putting her in his lap.”

Erlend and Fru Sunniva remained sitting there as before, feigning nonchalance, but they had both turned crimson. He held his arm lightly around her, as if he hardly noticed she was sitting there, while he and the men talked about the enmity between Erling Vidkunssøn and Chancellor Paal which was so much on everyone’s mind. Erlend said that Paal Baardsøn had displayed his attitude toward Erling in quite a womanish way—as they could judge for themselves:

“Last summer a young country boy had come to the gathering of the chieftains to offer his services to the king. Now this poor boy from Vors was so eager to learn courtly customs and manners that he tried to embellish his speech with Swedish words—it was French back when I was young, but today it’s Swedish. So one day the boy asks someone how to say traakig, which happens to mean ‘boring’ in Norwegian. Sir Paal hears this and says: ‘Traakig, my friend, that’s what Sir Erling’s wife, Fru Elin, is.’ The boy now thinks this means beautiful or noble, because that’s what she is, and apparently the poor fellow hadn’t had much opportunity to hear the woman talk. But one day Erling meets him on the stairs outside the hall, and he stops and speaks kindly to the youth, asking him whether he liked being in Nidaros, and such things, and then he tells him to give his greetings to his father. The boy thanks him and says it will please his father greatly when he returns home with greetings ‘from you, kind sir, and your boring wife.’ Whereupon Erling slaps him in the face so the boy tumbles backwards down three or four steps until a servant catches him in his arms. Now there’s a great commotion, people come running, and the matter is finally cleared up. Erling was furious at being made a laughingstock, but he feigned indifference. And the only response from the chancellor was that he laughed and said he should have explained that ‘traakig’ was what the regent was—then the boy couldn’t have misunderstood.”

Everyone agreed that such behavior on the part of the chancellor was undignified, but all of them laughed a great deal. Simon listened in silence, sitting with his chin resting on his hand. He thought this was a peculiar way for Erlend to show his friendship for Erling Vidkunssøn. The story made it quite clear that Erling must be a little unbalanced if he could believe that a youth, freshly arrived from the countryside, would dare stand on the stairs to the king’s palace and ridicule him to his face. Erlend could hardly be expected to remember Simon’s former relationship as the brother-in-law of Fru Elin and Sir Erling.

“What are you thinking about, Kristin?” he asked. She was sitting quietly, her back straight, with her hands crossed on her lap.

She replied, “Right now I’m thinking about Margret.”

Late that night, as Erlend and Simon were tending to a chore out in the courtyard, they scared off a couple standing behind the corner of the house. The nights were as light as day, and Simon recognized Haakon of Gimsar and Margret Erlendsdatter. Erlend stared after them; he was quite sober, and the other man could see that he wasn’t pleased. But Erlend said, as if in excuse, that the two had known each other since childhood and they had always teased each other. Simon thought that even if this meant nothing, it was still a shame for Haakon’s young wife, Ingebjørg.

The next day young Haakon came over to Nikulausgaard on an errand, and he asked for Margit.

Then Erlend furiously exclaimed, “My daughter is not Margit to you. And if you didn’t say everything you wanted to say yesterday, then you’ll have to forget about telling it to her.”

Haakon shrugged his shoulders, but when he left, he asked them to give his greetings to Margareta.

And there was Margret Erlendsdatter. Simon knew that people gossiped about her a good deal and that Kristin took this to heart, but her father seemed not to care. Erlend seemed certain that he could protect his maiden and that the talk meant nothing. And yet he said to Simon one day that Kløng Aressøn would like to marry his daughter, and he didn’t quite know how to handle this matter. He had nothing against the Icelander except that he was the son of a priest; he didn’t want it to be said of Margret’s children that they bore the taint of both parents’ birth. Otherwise Kløng was a likeable man, good-humored, clever, and very learned. His father, Sira Are, had raised him himself and taught him well; he had hoped his son would become a priest and had even taken steps to obtain dispensation for him, but then Kløng refused to take the vows. It seemed as if Erlend intended to leave the matter unsettled. If no better match presented itself, then he could always give the maiden to Kløng Aressøn.

And yet Erlend had already had such a good offer for his daughter that there was a great deal of talk about his arrogance and imprudence, when he allowed that match to slip away. It was the grandson of Baron Sigvat of Leirhole—Sigmund Finssøn was his name. He wasn’t wealthy, because Finn Sigvatssøn had had eleven surviving children. Nor was he altogether young; he was about the same age as Erlend, but a respected and sensible man. And yet Margret would have been wealthy enough because of the properties Erlend had given her when he married Kristin Lavransdatter, along with all the jewelry and costly possessions he had given the child over the years, as well as the dowry he had agreed upon with Sigmund. Erlend had also been overjoyed to have such a suitor for his daughter born of adultery. But when he came home and told Margret about this bridegroom, the maiden protested that she wouldn’t have him because Sigmund had several warts on one of his eyelids, and she claimed this made her feel such revulsion for him. Erlend bowed to her wishes. When Sigmund became indignant and began talking of a breach of agreement, Erlend responded angrily and told the man that he should realize all agreements were made on the condition that the maiden was willing. His daughter would not be forced into a bridal bed. Kristin agreed with her husband on this matter; he shouldn’t force the girl. But she thought Erlend ought to have had a serious discussion with his daughter and made her realize that Sigmund Finssøn was such a good match that Margret couldn’t possibly expect to find any better, considering her birth. But Erlend grew terribly angry with his wife, simply because she had dared to broach the subject with him. All of this Simon had heard about at Ranheim. There they predicted that things could not possibly end well. Erlend might be a powerful man now, and the maiden was certainly lovely, but it had done her no good for her father to spoil her and encourage her stubbornness and arrogance for all these years.

“No, it’s too late for that now. If you had done it when he was younger, he would listen to you now. But back then you never paid the slightest attention to him.”

“Oh yes, I did. But surely it was reasonable that I left him in your keeping when he was small—and besides, it’s no job for a man to hand out beatings to little boys who aren’t even in breeches yet.”

“That’s not what you thought last week,” said Kristin, her voice scornful and bitter.

Erlend didn’t reply but stood up and left the room. And Simon thought it was unkind of his wife to speak to him in this manner. Kristin was referring to something that had happened the week before. Erlend and Simon had come riding into the courtyard when little Lavrans ran toward them with a wooden sword in his hand. As he raced past his father’s horse, he rashly struck the animal across the leg with his sword. The horse reared up, and the boy was suddenly lying under its feet. Erlend backed away, yanked the horse to the side, and threw his reins to Simon. His face was white with dread as he lifted the child up in his arms. But when he saw that the boy was unharmed, he put him over his arm, took the wooden sword, and gave Lavrans a beating on his bare bottom—the boy was not yet wearing breeches. In those first heated moments, he didn’t realize how hard he was striking, and Lavrans was still walking around with black and blue marks. But afterwards Erlend tried all day to make amends with the boy, who sulked and clung to his mother, hitting and threatening his father. Later that evening, when Lavrans was settled in his parents’ bed where he usually slept because his mother still nursed him during the night, Erlend sat next to him for hours. Every once in a while he would stroke the sleeping child a bit as he gazed down at him. He told Simon that this was the boy he loved most of all his sons.

When Erlend set off for the summer tings, Simon headed home. He raced south along Gauldal, making the sparks fly from his horse’s hooves. Once, as they rode more slowly up several steep slopes, his men laughingly asked him whether he was trying to cover three days’ journey in two. Simon laughed in reply and said that was indeed his intention, “because I’m longing to reach Formo.”

That was how he always felt whenever he had been away from his estate for long; he loved his home and always felt great joy when he could turn his horse homeward. But this time it seemed he had never longed so much to return to his valley and manor and his young daughters—yes, he even yearned for Ramborg. To be truthful, he thought it unreasonable to feel this way, but up there at Husaby he had been so uneasy that now he thought he knew firsthand how cattle could sense in their bodies that a storm was brewing.

This matter was mentioned one day when Judge Harald and the sheriff of Gauldøla county were visiting Husaby. Erlend replied that many of these men had been with him when he lived up north. “Back then we shared whatever conditions we found there, eating dried fish and drinking bitter ale. Now these men whom I clothe and feed know that I won’t begrudge them white bread and foreign ale. And if I tell them to go to Hell when I get angry, they know that I don’t mean for them to set off on the journey without me in the lead.”

Ulf Haldorssøn, who was now the head of Erlend’s men, later told Kristin that this was true. Erlend’s men loved him, and he had complete command of them.

“You know yourself, Kristin, that no one should rely too heavily on what Erlend says; he must be judged by what he does.”

It was also rumored that in addition to his household servants, Erlend had men throughout the countryside—even outside Orkdøla county—who had sworn allegiance to him on the hilt of his sword. Finally a letter from the Crown arrived regarding this matter, but Erlend replied that these men had been part of his ship’s crew and they had been bound to him by oath ever since that first spring when he sailed north. He was then commanded to release the men at the next ting he held to announce the verdicts and decisions of the Law ting; and he was to summon to the meeting those men who lived outside the county and pay for their journey himself. He did summon some of his old crew members from outside Møre to the ting at Orkedal—but no one heard that he released them or any other men who had served him in his position as chieftain. For the time being the matter was allowed to languish, and as the autumn wore on, people stopped talking about it altogether.

Late that fall Erlend journeyed south and spent Christmas at the court of King Magnus, who was residing in Oslo that year. Erlend was annoyed that he couldn’t persuade his wife to come with him, but Kristin had no courage for the difficult winter journey, and she stayed at Husaby.

The girl quickly removed it and hid it in her hand as she said to her stepmother, “This belonged to my mother—that’s why Father doesn’t want me to show it to you.”

But Kristin’s face had turned even more crimson than the maiden’s. Her heart pounded with fear, but she knew that she had to speak to the young girl and warn her.

After a moment she said in a quiet and uncertain voice, “That looks like the gold clasp that Fru Helga of Gimsar used to wear to banquets.”

“Well, many gold things look much the same,” replied the maiden curtly.

Kristin locked her chest and stood with her hands resting on top so that Margret wouldn’t see how they were shaking.

“Dear Margret,” she said softly and gently, but then she had to stop while she gathered all her strength.

“Dear Margret, I have often bitterly regretted . . . My happiness has never been complete, even though my father forgave me with all his heart for the sorrows I caused him. You know that I sinned greatly against my parents for the sake of your father. But the longer I live and the more I come to understand, the harder it is for me to remember that I rewarded their kindness by causing them sorrow. Dear Margret, your father has been good to you all your days . . .”

“You don’t have to worry, Mother,” replied the girl. “I’m not your lawful daughter; you don’t have to worry that I might put on your filthy shift or step into your shoes . . .”

Her eyes flashing with anger, Kristin turned to face her stepdaughter. But then she gripped the cross she wore around her neck tightly in her hand and bit back the words she was about to speak.

Kristin was deathly afraid and anguished, and she kept a vigilant eye on Margret. Erlend noticed that something was troubling his wife, and one evening after they had gone to bed, he asked whether she might be with child again.

Kristin lay in silence for a moment before she replied that she thought she was. And when her husband lovingly took her in his arms without another word, she didn’t have the heart to tell him that something else was causing her sorrow. But when Erlend whispered to her that this time she must try and give him a daughter, she couldn’t manage a reply but lay there, rigid with fear, thinking that Erlend would find out soon enough what kind of joy a man had from his daughters.

Kristin had fallen into a deep slumber again when she suddenly realized that Erlend was sitting up in bed. Only half awake, she asked what was wrong. He hushed her in a voice that she didn’t recognize. Soundlessly he slipped out of bed, and she saw that he was pulling on a few clothes. When she propped herself up on one elbow, he pressed her back against the pillows with one hand as he bent over her and took down his sword, which hung over the headboard.

He moved as quietly as a lynx, but she saw that he was going over to the ladder which led up to Margret’s chamber above the entry hall.

For a moment Kristin lay in bed completely paralyzed with fear. Then she sat up, found her shift and gown, and began hunting for her shoes on the floor beside the bed.

Suddenly a woman’s scream rang out from the loft—loud enough to be heard all over the estate. Erlend’s voice shouted a word or two, and then Kristin heard the clang of swords striking each other and the stomp of feet overhead—then the sound of a weapon falling to the floor and Margret screaming in terror.

Kristin was on her knees, huddled next to the hearth. She scraped away the hot ashes with her bare hands and blew on the embers. When she had lit a torch and lifted it up with trembling hands, she saw Erlend in the darkness above. He leaped down from the loft, not bothering with the ladder, holding his drawn sword in his hand, and then dashed out the main door.

The boys were peering out from the dark on all sides of the room. Kristin went over to the enclosed bed on the north wall where the three eldest slept and told them to lie down and shut the door. Ivar and Skule were sitting on the bench, blinking at the light, frightened and bewildered. She told them to climb up into her bed, and then she shut them inside too. Then she lit a candle and went out into the courtyard.

It was raining. For a moment, as the light of her candle was reflected in the glistening, ice-covered ground, she saw a crowd standing outside the door to the next building: the servants’ hall where Erlend’s men slept. Then the flame of her candle was blown out, and for a moment the night was pitch-dark, but then a lantern emerged from the servants’ hall, and Ulf Haldorssøn was carrying it.

He bent down over a dark body curled up on the wet patches of ice. Kristin knelt down and touched the man. It was young Haakon of Gimsar, and he was either senseless or dead. Her hands were at once covered with blood. With Ulf’s help she straightened out his body and turned him over. The blood was gushing out of his right arm, where his hand had been lopped off.

Involuntarily Kristin glanced at the window hatch of Margret’s chamber as it slammed shut in the wind. She couldn’t discern any face up there, but it was quite dark.

As she knelt in the rain puddles, clamping her hand as tight as she could around Haakon’s wrist to stop the spurting blood, she was aware of Erlend’s men standing half-dressed all around her. Then she noticed Erlend’s gray, contorted face. With a corner of his tunic he wiped off his bloody sword. He was naked underneath and his feet were bare.

“One of you . . . find me something to bind this with. And you, Bjørn, go and wake up Sira Eiliv. We’ll carry him over to the parsonage.” She took the leather strap that they gave her and wrapped it around the stump of the man’s arm.

Suddenly Erlend said, his voice harsh and wild, “Nobody touch him! Let the man lie where he fell!”

“You must realize, husband, we can’t do that,” said Kristin calmly, although her heart was pounding so loud that she thought she would suffocate.

Erlend rammed the tip of his sword hard against the ground.

“Yes—she’s not your flesh and blood—you’ve made that quite clear to me every single day, for all these years.”

Kristin stood up and whispered quietly to him, “And yet for her sake I want this to be concealed—if it can be done. You men . . .” she turned to the servants who were standing around them. “If you’re loyal to your master, you won’t speak of this until he has told you how this quarrel with Haakon arose.”

All the men agreed. One of them dared step forward and explained: They had been awakened by the sound of a woman screaming, as if she were being taken by force. And then someone ran along their roof, but he must have slipped on the icy surface. They heard a scrambling noise and then a thud on the ground. But Kristin told the man to be silent. At that moment Sira Eiliv came running.

When Erlend turned on his heel and went inside, his wife ran after him and tried to force her way past him. When he headed for the ladder to the loft, she sprang in front of him and grabbed him by the arm.

“Erlend—what will you do to the child?” she gasped, looking up into his wild, gray face.

Without replying, he tried to fling her aside, but she held on tight.

“Wait, Erlend, wait—your child! You don’t know . . . The man was fully clothed,” she cried urgently.

He gave a loud wail before he answered. She turned as pale as a corpse with horror—his words were so raw and his voice unrecognizable with desperate anguish.

Then she wrestled mutely with the raging man. He snarled and gnashed his teeth, until she managed to catch his eye in the dim light.

“Erlend—let me go to her first. I haven’t forgotten the day when I was no better than Margret. . . .”

Then he released her and staggered backwards against the wall to the next room; he stood there, shaking like a dying beast. Kristin went to light a candle, then came back and went past him up to Margret in her bedchamber.

The first thing the candlelight fell on was a sword lying on the floor not far from the bed, and the severed hand beside it. Kristin tore off the wimple which she, without thinking, had wrapped loosely over her flowing hair before she went out to the men in the courtyard. Now she dropped it over the hand lying on the floor.

Margret was huddled up on the pillows at the headboard, staring at Kristin’s candle, wide-eyed and terrified. She was clutching the bedclothes around her, but her white shoulders shone naked under her golden curls. There was blood all over the room.

The strain in Kristin’s body erupted into violent sobs; it was such a terrible sight to see that fair young child amidst such horror.

Then Margret screamed loudly, “Mother—what will Father do to me?”

Kristin couldn’t help it: In spite of her deep sympathy for the girl, her heart seemed to shrink and harden in her breast. Margret didn’t ask what her father had done to Haakon. For an instant she saw Erlend lying on the ground and her own father standing over him with the bloody sword, and she herself . . . But Margret hadn’t budged. Kristin couldn’t stem her old feeling of scornful displeasure toward Eline’s daughter as Margret threw herself against her, trembling and almost senseless with fear. She sat down on the bed and tried to soothe the child.

That was how Erlend found them when he appeared on the ladder. He was now fully dressed. Margret began screaming again and hid her face in her stepmother’s arms. Kristin glanced up at her husband for a moment; he was calm now, but his face was pale and strange. For the first time he looked his age.

But she obeyed him when he said calmly, “You must go downstairs now, Kristin. I want to speak to my daughter alone.” Gently she laid the girl down on the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and went down the ladder.

She did as Erlend had done and got properly dressed—there would be no more sleep at Husaby that night—and then she set about reassuring the frightened children and servants.

Then Erlend interrogated the other servants. Hadn’t any of the maids suspected anything when all autumn and winter Ingeleiv kept coming to sleep with them instead of with Margret in her chamber? And the dogs had been locked up with them too. But all of them denied it, which was only to be expected.

Finally, he took his wife aside to speak to her alone. Sick at heart and deathly tired, Kristin listened to him and tried to counter his injustice with meek replies. She didn’t deny that she had been worried; but she didn’t tell him that she had never spoken to him of her fears because she received nothing but ingratitude every time she attempted to counsel him or Margret about the maiden’s best interests. And she swore by God and the Virgin Mary that she had never realized or even imagined that this man might come to Margret up in the loft at night.

“You!” said Erlend scornfully. “You said yourself that you remember the time when you were no better than Margret. And the Lord God in Heaven knows that every day, in all these years we’ve lived together, you’ve made certain I would see how you remember the injustice I did to you—even though your desire was as keen as mine. And it was your father, not I, who caused much of the unhappiness when he refused to give you to me as my wife. I was willing enough to rectify the sin from the very outset. When you saw the Gimsar gold . . .” He grabbed his wife’s hand and held it up; the two rings glittered which Erlend had given her while they were together at Gerdarud. “Didn’t you know what it meant? When all these years you’ve worn the rings I gave you after you let me take your honor?”

Kristin was faint with weariness and sorrow; she whispered, “I wonder, Erlend, whether you even remember that time when you won my honor. . . .”

Then he covered his face with his hands and flung himself down on the bench, his body writhing and convulsing. Kristin sat down some distance away; she wished she could help her husband. She realized that this misfortune was even harder for him to bear because he himself had sinned against others in the same way as they had now sinned against him. And he, who had never wanted to take the blame for any trouble he might have caused, couldn’t possibly bear the blame for this unhappiness—and there was no one else but her for him to fault. But she wasn’t angry as much as she was sad and afraid of what might happen next.

That afternoon Kristin saw Erlend and Kløng the Icelander walking together through the snowdrifts over to the armory. But only a short time later Erlend returned alone. Kristin glanced up for a moment when he came into the light and walked past her—but then she didn’t dare turn her gaze toward the corner of the room where he had retreated. She had seen that he was a broken man.

Later, when she went over to the storeroom to get something, Ivar and Skule came running to tell their mother that Kløng the Icelander was going to leave that evening. The boys were sad, because the scribe was their good friend. He was packing up his things right now; he wanted to reach Birgsi by nightfall.

Kristin could guess what had happened. Erlend had offered his daughter to the scribe, but he didn’t want a maiden who had been seduced. What this conversation must have been like for Erlend . . . she felt dizzy and ill and refused to think any more about it.

She could still feel the ashes on her head as she knelt beside her stepson’s grave and said the Pater noster for his soul.

By now there was probably not much left of the boy but bones beneath the stone. Bones and hair and a scrap of the clothing he had been laid to rest in. She had seen the remains of her little sister when they dug up her grave to take her body to her father in Hamar. Dust and ashes. She thought about her father’s handsome features; about her mother’s big eyes in her lined face, and Ragnfrid’s figure which continued to look strangely young and delicate and light, even though her face seemed old so early. Now they lay under a stone, falling apart like buildings that collapse when the people have moved away. Images swirled before her eyes: the charred remains of the church back home, and a farm in Silsaadal which they rode past on their way to Vaage—the buildings were deserted and caving in. The people who worked the fields didn’t dare go near after the sun went down. She thought about her own beloved dead—their faces and voices, their smiles and habits and demeanor. Now that they had departed for that other land, it was painful to think about their figures; it was like remembering your home when you knew it was standing there deserted, with the rotting beams sinking into the earth.

She sat on the bench along the wall of the empty church. The old smell of cold incense kept her thoughts fixed on images of death and the decay of temporal things. And she didn’t have the strength to lift up her soul to catch a glimpse of the land where they were, the place to which all goodness and love and faith had finally been moved and now endured. Each day, when she prayed for the peace of their souls, it seemed to her unfair that she should pray for those who had possessed more peace in their souls here on earth than she had ever known since she became a grown woman. Sira Eiliv would no doubt say that prayers for the dead were always good—good for oneself, since the other person had already found peace with God.

But this did not help her. It seemed to her that when her weary body was finally rotting beneath a gravestone, her restless soul would still be hovering around somewhere nearby, the way a lost spirit wanders, moaning, through the ruined buildings of an abandoned farm. For in her soul sin continued to exist, like the roots of a weed intertwined in the soil. It no longer blossomed or flared up or smelled fragrant, but it was still there in the soil, pale and strong and alive. In spite of all the tenderness that welled up inside her when she saw her husband’s despair, she didn’t have the will to silence the inner voice that asked, hurt and embittered: How can you speak that way to me? Have you forgotten when I gave you my faith and my honor? Have you forgotten when I was your beloved friend? And yet she understood that as long as this voice spoke within her, she would continue to speak to him as if she had forgotten.

In her thoughts she threw herself down before Saint Olav’s shrine, she reached for Brother Edvin’s moldering bones over in the church at Vatsfjeld, she held in her hands the reliquaries containing the tiny remnants of a dead woman’s shroud and the splinters of bone from an unknown martyr. She reached for protection to the small scraps which, through death and decay, had preserved a little of the power of the departed soul—like the magical powers residing in the rusted swords taken from the burial mounds of ancient warriors.

On the following day Erlend rode to Nidaros with only Ulf and one servant to accompany him. He didn’t return to Husaby during all of Lent, but Ulf came to get his armed men and then left to meet him at the mid-Lenten ting in Orkedal.

Ulf drew Kristin aside to tell her that Erlend had arranged with Tiedeken Paus, the German goldsmith in Nidaros, for Margret to marry his son Gerlak just after Easter.

Erlend came home for the holy day. He was quite calm and composed now, but Kristin thought she could tell that he would never recover from this misfortune the way he had recovered from so much else. Perhaps this was because he was no longer young, or because nothing had ever humiliated him so deeply. Margret seemed indifferent to the arrangements her father had made on her behalf.

One evening when Erlend and Kristin were alone, he said, “If she had been my lawful child—or her mother had been an unmarried woman—I would never have given her to a stranger, as things now stand with her. I would have granted shelter and protection to both her and any child of hers. That’s the worst of it—but because of her birth, a lawful husband can offer her the best protection.”

As Kristin made all the preparations for the departure of her stepdaughter, Erlend said one day in a brusque voice, “I don’t suppose you’re well enough to travel to town with us?”

“If that’s what you wish, I will certainly go with you,” said Kristin.

“Why should I wish it? You’ve never taken a mother’s place for her before, and you don’t need to do so now. It’s not going to be a festive wedding. And Fru Gunna of Raasvold and her son’s wife have promised to come, for the sake of kinship.”

And so Kristin stayed at Husaby while Erlend was in Nidaros to give his daughter to Gerlak Tiedekenssøn.