She had been thinking about this ever since winter. At Skjenne it had long been the custom for the mistress herself to stay in the mountain pastures; in the past a daughter from the manor had once been lured into the hills, and afterward her mother insisted on living in the mountains each summer. But in many ways they had their own customs at Skjenne; people in the region were used to it and expected as much.

But elsewhere it wasn’t customary for the women of the gentry on the large estates to go up to the pastures. Kristin knew that if she did so, people would be surprised and would gossip about it.

In God’s name, then, let them talk. No doubt they were already talking about her and her family.

Audun Torbergssøn owned nothing more than his weapons and the clothes on his back when he was wed to Ingebjørg Nikulaus-datter of Loptsgaard. He had been a groom for the bishop of Hamar. It was back when the bishop came north to consecrate the new church that Ingebjørg suffered the misfortune. Nikulaus Sigurds søn took it hard at first, swearing by God and man that a stableboy would never be his son-in-law. But Ingebjørg gave birth to twins, and people said with a laugh that Nikulaus evidently thought it would be too much to support them on his own. He allowed his daughter to marry Audun.

This happened two years after Kristin’s wedding. It had not been forgotten, and people probably still thought of Audun as a stranger to the region; he was from Hadland, of good family, but his lineage had become quite impoverished. And the man himself was not well liked in Sil; he was obstinate, hardheaded, and slow to forget either bad or good, but he was a most enterprising farmer, with a fair knowledge of the law. In many ways Audun Torbergssøn was now a respected man in the parish and a man with whom people were loath to become foes.

Kristin thought about Audun’s broad, tanned face with the thick, curly red hair and beard and those sharp, small blue eyes of his. He looked like many other men she had seen; she had seen such faces among their servants at Husaby, among Erlend’s men and ship’s crew.

She sighed. It must be easier for such a man to assert himself as he sat there on his wife’s ancestral estate since he had never ruled over anything else.

But to come right out and say that she would not be there on the farm during the summer, that was hard for her to do. She had been the mistress of Jørundgaard for two winters and a summer, and she knew that if she went up to the mountain pastures now, it would be the same as running away.

She realized that Erlend was in a terribly difficult position. Ever since the days when he sat on his foster mother’s knee, he had never known anything other than that he was born to command and rule over everything and everyone around him. And if the man had allowed himself to be ruled and commanded by others, at least he had never been aware of this himself.

He couldn’t possibly feel the way he outwardly seemed. He must be unhappy here. She herself . . . Her father’s estate at the bottom of the quiet, closed-in valley, the flat fields along the curve of the gleaming river through the alder woods, the farms on the cultivated land far below at the foot of the mountain, and the steep slopes above, with the gray clefts against the sky overhead, pale slides of scree and the spruce forest and leafy woods clambering upward through the meadows from the valley—no, this no longer seemed to her the most beautiful and safest home in the world. It felt closed off. Surely Erlend must think that it was ugly and confining and unpleasant.

But no one could tell anything from his appearance except that he seemed content.

Well, said Erlend. In that case it would be advisable for Ivar and Skule to go with her too.

The twins leaped up from the bench. During the rest of the meal they both chattered at once. They wanted to go with Erling, who would be camping north among the Gray Peaks with the sheep. Three years before, the sheepherders from Sil had caught a poacher and killed him near his stone hut in the Boar Range; he was a man who had been banished to the forest from ster Ødal. As soon as the servants got up from the table, Ivar and Skule brought into the hall all the weapons they owned and sat down to tinker with them.

A little later that evening Kristin set off southward with Simon Andressøn’s daughters and her own sons Gaute and Lavrans. Arngjerd Simonsdatter had been at Jørundgaard most of the winter. The maiden was now fifteen years old, and one day during Christmas at Formo, Simon had mentioned that Arngjerd ought to learn something more than what they could teach her at home; she was just as skilled as the serving maids. Kristin had then offered to take the girl home with her and teach her as best she could, for she could see that Simon dearly loved his daughter and worried a great deal about her future. And the child needed to learn other ways than those practiced at Formo. Since the death of his wife’s parents Simon Andressøn was now one of the richest men in the region. He managed his properties with care and good sense, and he oversaw the farm work at Formo with zeal and intelligence. But indoors things were handled poorly; the serving women were in charge of everything. Whenever Simon noticed that the disarray and slovenliness in the house had surpassed all bounds, he would hire one or two more maids, but he never spoke of such things to his wife and seemed neither to wish nor to expect that she should pay more attention to the housekeeping. It was almost as if he didn’t yet consider her to be fully grown up, but he was exceedingly kind and amenable toward Ramborg and was constantly showering her and the children with gifts.

Kristin grew fond of Arngjerd after she got to know her. The maiden was not pretty, but she was clever, gentle, good-hearted, nimble-fingered, and diligent. When the young girl accompanied her around the house or sat by her side in the weaving room in the evenings, Kristin often thought that she wished one of her own children had been a daughter. A daughter would spend more time with her mother.

She was thinking about that on this evening as she led Lavrans by the hand and looked at the two children, Gaute and Arngjerd, who were walking ahead of her along the road. Ulvhild was running about, stomping through the brittle layer of nighttime ice on the puddles of water. She was pretending to be some kind of animal and had turned her red cloak around so that the white rabbit fur was on the outside.

Down in the valley in the dusk the shadows were deepening across the bare brown fields. But the air of the spring evening seemed sated with light. The first stars were sparkling, wet and white, high up in the sky, where the limpid green was turning blue, moving toward darkness and night. Above the black rim of the mountains on the other side of the valley a border of yellow light still lingered, and its glow lit up the scree covering the steep slope that towered above them as they walked. At the very top, where the snowdrifts jutted out over the ridges, the snow glistened, and underneath glittered the glaciers, which gave birth to the streams rushing and splashing everywhere down through the scree. The sound of water completely filled the air of the countryside; from below reverberated the loud roar of the river. And the singing of birds came from the groves and leafy shrubbery on all sides.

Once Ulvhild stopped, picked up a stone, and threw it toward the sound of the birds. Her big sister grabbed her arm, and she walked on calmly for a while. But then she tore herself away and ran down the hill until Gaute shouted after her.

They had reached the place where the road headed into the forest; from the thickets came the ringing of a steel bow. Inside the woods snow lay on the ground, and the air smelled cold and fresh. A little farther on, in a small clearing, stood Erlend with Ivar and Skule.

Ivar had taken a shot at a squirrel; the arrow was stuck high up in the trunk of a fir tree, and now he was trying to get it down. He pitched stone after stone at it; the huge mast tree resonated when he struck the trunk.

“Wait a minute. I’ll try to see if I can shoot it down for you,” said his father. He shook his cape back over his shoulders, placed an arrow in his bow, and took aim rather carelessly in the uncertain light among the trees. The string twanged; the arrow whistled through the air and buried itself in the tree trunk right next to the boy’s. Erlend took out another arrow and shot again; one of the two arrows sticking out of the tree clattered down from branch to branch. The shaft of the other one had splintered, but the point was still embedded in the tree.

Skule ran into the snow to pick up the two arrows. Ivar stood and stared up at the treetop.

“It’s mine—the one that’s still up there, Father! It’s buried up to the shaft. That was a powerful shot, Father!” Then he proceeded to explain to Gaute why he hadn’t hit the squirrel.

Erlend laughed softly and straightened his cape. “Are you going to turn back now, Kristin? I’m setting off for home; we’re planning to go after wood grouse early in the morning, Naakkve and I.”

Kristin told him briskly no, that she wanted to accompany the maidens to their manor. She wanted to have a few words with her sister tonight.

“Then Ivar and Skule can go with Mother and escort her home if I can stay with you, Father,” said Gaute.

Erlend lifted Ulvhild Simonsdatter up in his arms in farewell. Because she was so pretty and pink and fresh, with her brown curls under the white fur hood, he kissed her before he set her back down and then turned and headed for home with Gaute.

Now that Erlend had nothing else to occupy him, he was always in the company of a few of his sons. Ulvhild took her aunt’s hand and walked on a bit; then she started running again, rushing in between Ivar and Skule. Yes, she was a beautiful child, but wild and unruly. If they had had a daughter, Erlend would have no doubt taken her along and played with her too.

Kristin found the spot, a steep incline baking in the direct glare of the sun; it was the very best time for picking the flowers. They grew in thick clumps over the heaps of stones and around the gray stubble. Tall, pale yellow stalks, richly adorned with small open stars. Kristin set Munan to picking raspberries in among some brushwood from which he wouldn’t be able to escape without her help; she told the dog to stay with him and keep watch. Then she took out her knife and began cutting mulleins, constantly casting an eye at the little child. Lavrans stayed at her side and cut flowers too.

She was always fearful for her two small children in the mountains. Otherwise she was not afraid of the people up there anymore. Many had already gone home from the pastures, but she was thinking of staying until after the Feast of the Birth of Mary. It was pitch black at night now, and vile when the wind blew hard—vile if they had to go outside late at night. But the weather had been so fine up in the heights, while down below, the countryside was parched this year and the grazing was poor. The men would have to stay up in the mountains during both the late fall and winter, but her father had said that he had never noticed anyone haunting their high pastures during the winter.

Kristin stopped under a solitary spruce tree in the middle of the hillside; she stood with her hands wrapped around the heavy weight of the flower stalks that were draped over her arm. From here she could look northward and see halfway to Dovre. In many places the grain was gathered in shocks in the fields.

The hillsides were yellow and sun-scorched over there too. But it was never truly green here in the valley, she thought, not as green as in Trøndelag.

Yes, she longed for the home they had had there: the manor that stood so high and magnificent on the broad breast of the ridge, with fields and meadows spreading out all around, extending below to the cluster of leafy woods that sloped down toward the lake at the bottom of the valley. The vast view across low, forested hills that undulated, wave upon wave, south toward the Dovre Range. And the lush meadows so thick and tall in the summer, red with crimson flowers beneath the red evening sky, the second crop of hay so succulent and green in the autumn.

Yes, sometimes she even felt a longing for the fjord. The skerries of Birgsi, the docks with the boats and ships, the boathouses, the smell of tar and fishing nets and the sea—all those things she had disliked so much when she first went north.

Erlend must be longing for that smell, and for the sea and the sea wind.

She missed everything that she had once found so wearisome: all the housekeeping, the scores of servants, the clamor of Erlend’s men as they rode into the courtyard with clanging weapons and jangling harnesses, the strangers who came and went, bringing them great news from all over the land and gossip about people in the town and countryside. Now she realized how quiet her life had become when all this had been silenced.

Nidaros with its churches and cloisters and banquets at the great estates in town. She longed to walk through the streets with her own servingman and maid accompanying her, to climb the loft stairs to the merchants’ shops, to choose and reject wares, to step aboard the boats on the river to buy goods: English linen hats, elegant shawls, wooden horses with riders that would thrust out their lances if you pulled a string. She thought about the meadows outside town near Nidareid where she used to walk with her children, looking at the trained dogs and bears of the wandering minstrels, buying gingerbread and walnuts.

And there were times when she longed to dress in her finery again. A silk shift and a delicate, fine wimple. The sleeveless surcoat made of pale blue velvet that Erlend had bought for her the winter before the misfortune befell them. It was edged with marten fur along the deep cut of the bodice and around the wide arm-holes, which reached all the way down to her hips, revealing the belt underneath.

And occasionally she longed for . . . oh no, she should be sensible and be happy about that—happy as long as she was free from having any more children. When she fell ill this autumn after the great slaughtering . . . It was best that it happened that way. But she had wept a little, those first few nights afterward.

It seemed an eternity since she had held an infant. Munan was only four winters old, but she had been forced to give him into the care of strangers before he was even a year. When he came back to her, he could already walk and talk, and he didn’t know her.

Erlend. Oh, Erlend. Deep in her heart she knew that he wasn’t as nonchalant as he seemed. This man who was always restless, now he seemed always so calm. Like a stream that finally runs up against a steep cliff and lets itself be diverted, trickling out into the peat to become a calm pool with marshlands all around. He wandered about Jørundgaard, doing nothing, and then he would find one or another of his sons to keep him company in his idleness. Or he would go out hunting with them. Once in a while he would go off to tar and repair one of the fishing boats they kept at the lake. Or he would set about breaking in one of the young colts, although he never had much success; he was far too impatient.

He kept to himself and pretended not to notice that no one sought out his company. His sons followed their father’s example. They were not well liked, these outsiders who had been driven to the valley by misfortune and who still went about like proud strangers, never inquiring about the customs of the region or its people. Ulf Haldorssøn was outright despised. He was openly scornful of the inhabitants of the valley, calling them stupid and old-fashioned; people who hadn’t grown up near the sea weren’t proper folks at all.

As for Kristin herself . . . She knew that she didn’t have many friends here in her own valley either. Not anymore.

She straightened her back in the peat-brown homespun dress, shading her eyes with her hand against the golden flood of afternoon sunlight.

To the north she caught a glimpse of the valley along the pale green ribbon of the river and then the crush of mountainous shapes, one after the other, grayish yellow with scree and moss-covered plateaus; toward the center, snowdrifts and clouds melded into one another in the passes and ravines. Right across from her the Rost Range jutted out its knee, closing off the valley. The Laag River had to bend its course; a distant roar reached her from the river, which cut deep through the rocky cliffs below and tumbled in a roiling froth from ledge to ledge. Just beyond the mossy slopes at the top of the range towered the two enormous Blue Peaks, which her father had compared to a woman’s breasts.

Erlend must think this place hemmed in and hideous, find it difficult to breathe.

It was a little farther to the south, on this same hillside, but closer to the familiar slopes, that she had seen the elf maiden when she was a small child.

Sira Solmund came and brought the sacred vessels from the church to him. Simon and Ramborg promised prayers, fasts, and alms if God would hear them and grant their son his life.

Erlend stopped by one day; he declined to get down from his horse and go inside, but Kristin and Simon came out to the courtyard to talk to him. He gave them a look of great distress. And yet that expression of his had always annoyed Kristin in an oddly vague and unclear way. No doubt Erlend felt aggrieved whenever he saw anyone either sad or ill, but he seemed mostly perplexed or embarrassed; he looked genuinely bewildered when he felt sad for someone.

After that, either Naakkve or the twins would come to Formo each day to ask about Andres.

The father pulled out a gilded amulet he wore on a string around his neck under his clothing. He bent down over the boy, dangling the amulet before his eyes and then putting it in the child’s hand, closing the small fingers around it. But Andres didn’t seem to take any notice.

Simon had been given this amulet when he himself was a child, and he had worn it ever since; his father had brought it back from France. It had been blessed at a cloister called Mont Saint Michel, and it bore a picture of Saint Michael with great wings. Andres liked to look at it, Simon explained softly. But the little boy thought it was a rooster; he called the greatest of all the angels a rooster. At long last Simon had managed to teach the boy to say “angel.” But one day when they were out in the courtyard, Andres saw the rooster screeching at one of the hens, and he said, “The angel’s mad now, Father.”

Kristin looked up at the man with pleading eyes; it cut her to the heart to listen to him, even though Simon was speaking in such a calm and even voice. And she was so worn out after keeping vigil all these nights; she realized that it would not be good for her to begin weeping now.

Simon stuck the amulet back inside his shirt. “Ah, well. I will give a three-year-old ox to the church on the eve of Saint Michael’s Day every autumn for as long as I live if he will wait a little longer to come for this soul. He’d be no more than a bony chicken on the balance scale, Andres, as small as he is—” But when Simon tried to laugh, his voice broke.

“Simon, Simon!” she implored.

“Yes, things will happen as they must, Kristin. And God Himself will decide; surely He knows best.” The father said no more as he stood gazing down at his son.

“Is he sleeping?” whispered Kristin as she came forward.

Simon raised his head. He ran his hand over his face. She saw that his cheeks were wet, but he replied in a calm, quiet voice, “I don’t think that Andres will have any sleep, Kristin, until he lies under the turf in consecrated ground.”

Kristin stood there as if paralyzed. Slowly her face turned pale beneath the tan until it was white all the way to her lips.

Then she went back to her corner and picked up her outer garments.

“You must arrange things so that you are alone in here when I come back.” She spoke as if her throat and mouth were parched. “Sit with him, and when you see me enter, don’t say a word. And never speak of this again—not to me or to anyone else. Not even to your priest.”

Simon got to his feet and slowly walked over to her. He too had grown pale.

“No, Kristin!” His voice was almost inaudible. “I don’t dare . . . for you to do this thing. . . .”

She put on her cloak, then took a linen cloth from the chest in the corner, folded it up, and hid it in her bodice.

“But I dare. You understand that no one must come near us afterward until I call; no one must come near us or speak to us until he wakes up and speaks himself.”

“What do you think your father would say of this?” he whispered in the same faint voice. “Kristin . . . don’t do it.”

“In the past I have done things that my father thought were wrong; back then it was merely to further my own desire. Andres is his flesh and blood too—my own flesh, Simon—my only sister’s son.”

Simon took in a heavy, trembling breath; he stood with his eyes downcast.

“But if you don’t want me to make this last attempt . . .”

He stood as before, with his head bowed, and did not reply. Then Kristin repeated her question, unaware that an odd little smile, almost scornful, had appeared on her white lips. “Do you not want me to go?”

He turned his head away. And so she walked past him, stepped soundlessly out the door, and closed it silently behind her.

Even the darkness was like a force she was pressing against. She plodded through the mud; the road had been churned up by the carts carrying unthreshed grain, and now it was thawing in the south wind. With every footstep she had to pull herself free from the night and the raw chill that clung to her feet, swept upward, and weighted down the hems of her garments. Now and then a falling leaf would drift past her, as if something alive were touching her in the dark—gentle but confident of its superior power: Turn back.

When she came out onto the main road, it was easier to walk. The road was covered with grass, and her feet did not get stuck in the mire. Her face felt as rigid as stone, her body tensed and taut. Each step carried her mercilessly toward the forest grove through which she would have to pass. A feeling rose up inside her like an inner paralysis: She couldn’t possibly walk through that patch of darkness. But she had no intention of turning around. She couldn’t feel her body because of her terror, yet all the while she kept moving forward, as if in her sleep, steadily stepping over stones and roots and puddles of water, unconsciously careful not to stumble or break her steady stride and thus allow fear to overwhelm her.

Now the spruce trees rustled closer and closer in the night; she stepped in among them, still as calm as a sleepwalker. She sensed every sound and hardly dared blink because of the dark. The drone of the river, the heavy sighing of the firs, a creek trickling over stones as she walked toward it, passed by it, and then continued on. Once a rock slid down the scree, as if some living creature were moving about up there. Sweat poured from her body, but she did not venture either to slow or to speed her step because of it.

Kristin’s eyes had now grown so accustomed to the dark that when she emerged from the woods, she could see much better; a glint came from the ribbon of the river and from the water on the marshes. The fields became visible in the blackness; the clusters of buildings looked like clumps of earth. The sky was also beginning to lighten overhead; she could feel it, although she didn’t dare look up at the black peaks towering above. But she knew that it would soon be time for the moon to rise.

She tried to remind herself that in four hours it would be daytime; people would be setting about their daily chores on all the farms throughout the countryside. The sky would grow pale with dawn; the light would rise over the mountains. Then it wouldn’t seem far to go; in the daylight it wasn’t far from Formo to the church. And by then she would have returned home long ago. But it was clear that she would be a different person.

She knew that if it had been one of her own children, she would not have dared make this last attempt. To turn away God’s hand when He reached out for a living soul. When she kept watch over her own ill children, back when she was young and her heart bled with tenderness, when she thought she would collapse in anguish and torment, she had tried to say: Lord, you love them better than I do, let thy will be done.

But now on this night she was walking along, defying her own terror. This child who was not her own—she would save him, no matter what fate she was saving him for. . . .

Because you too, Simon Darre, acquiesced when the dearest thing you possessed on earth was at stake; you agreed to more than anyone can accept with full honor.

Do you not want me to go? He hadn’t been man enough to answer. Deep in her heart she knew that if the child died, Simon would have the strength to bear this too. But she had struck at the only moment when she ever saw him on the verge of breaking down; she had seized hold of that moment and carried it off. She would share that secret with him, the knowledge that she had also witnessed him when he once stood unsteady on his feet.

For he had learned too much about her. She had accepted help from the man she had spurned every time it was a matter of saving the one she had chosen. This suitor whom she had cast aside—he was the man she had turned to each time she needed someone to protect her love. And never had she asked for Simon’s help in vain. Time after time he had stepped forward, covering her with his kindness and his strength.

So she was undertaking this nighttime errand to rid herself of a little of the debt; until that hour, she hadn’t fully realized how heavy a burden it was.

Simon had forced her to see at last that he was the strongest: stronger than she was and stronger than the man to whom she had chosen to give herself. No doubt she had realized this from the moment all three of them met, face-to-face, in that shameful place in Oslo. And yet she had refused to accept it then: that such a plump-cheeked, stout, and gaping young man could be stronger than . . .

Now she was walking along, not daring to call on a good and holy name; she took upon herself this sin in order to . . . She didn’t know what. Was it revenge? Revenge because she had been forced to see that he was more noble-minded than the two of them?

But now you too understand, Simon, that when the life of the one you love more than your own heart is at stake . . . Then the poor person grasps for anything, anything.

The moon had risen over the mountain ridge as she walked up the hill to the church. Again she felt as if she had to overcome a new wave of terror. The moonlight lay like a delicate spiderweb over the tar-timbered edifice. The church itself looked terrifying and ominously dark beneath the thin veil. Out on the green she saw the cross, but for the first time she didn’t dare approach to kneel before the blessed tree. She crept over the churchyard wall at the place where she knew the sod and stone were the lowest and most easily breached.

Here and there a gravestone glistened like water down in the tall, dewy grass. Kristin walked straight across the cemetery to the graves of the poor, which lay near the south wall.

The matter was not settled, and Simon felt rather uneasy and apprehensive as he rode northward. Perhaps he ought to have agreed; then the child would have been well provided for, and he could stop all his worrying about her future. Perhaps Gyrd and Helga were right. It was foolish of him not to seize hold with both hands when he received such an offer for this daughter of his. Eiken was a bigger estate than Formo, and Aasmund himself owned more than a third of it; he would never have thought of proposing his son as a suitor for a maiden of such birth as Arngjerd—of lowly lineage and with no kin on her mother’s side—if Simon hadn’t held a mortgage on a portion of the estate worth three marks in taxes. The family had been forced to borrow money from both Dyfrin and the nuns in Oslo when Grunde Aas mundssøn happened to slay a man for the second time. Grunde grew wild when he was drunk, although he was otherwise an upright and well-meaning fellow, said Gyrd, and surely he would allow himself to be guided by such a good and sensible woman as Arngjerd.

But the fact was that Grunde was not many years younger than Simon himself. And Arngjerd was young. And the people at Eiken wanted the wedding to take place as early as spring.

It hung on like a bad memory in Simon’s mind; he tried not to think of it if he could avoid it. But now that Arngjerd’s marriage had come under discussion, it kept cropping up. He had been an unhappy man on that first morning when he woke up at Ramborg’s side. Certainly he had been no more giddy or bold than a bridegroom ought to be when he went to bed—although it had made him feel strange and reckless to see Kristin among the bride’s attendants, and Erlend, his new brother-in-law, was among the men who escorted him up to the loft. But when he woke up the next morning and lay there looking at his bride, who was still asleep, he had felt a terrible, painful shame deep in his heart—as if he had mistreated a child.

And yet he knew that he could have spared himself this sorrow.

But she had laughed when she opened her big eyes.

“Now you’re mine, Simon.” She ran her hands over his chest. “My father is your father, and my sister is your sister.” And he grew cold with anguish, for he wondered whether she knew that his heart had given a start at her words.

Otherwise he was quite content with his marriage—this much he firmly believed. His wife was wealthy, of distinguished lineage, young and lively, beautiful and kind. She had borne him a daughter and a son, and that was something a man valued after he had tried living among riches without producing any children who could keep the estate together after the parents were gone. Two children, and their position was assured. He was so rich that he could even obtain a good match for Arngjerd.

He would have liked to have another son; yes, he wouldn’t be sad if one or two more children were born on Formo. But Ramborg was probably happy as long as she was spared all that. And that was worth something too. For he couldn’t deny that things were much more comfortable at home when Ramborg was in good humor. He might well have wished that she had a more even temperament. He didn’t always know how he stood with his wife. And more attention could have been paid to the housekeeping in his home. But no man should dare expect to have all his bowls filled to the brim, as the saying goes. This is what Simon kept telling himself as he rode homeward.

Ramborg was to travel to Kruke during the week before Saint Clement’s Day; it always cheered her up to get away from home for a while.

God only knew how things would go over there this time around. Sigrid was now carrying her eighth child. Simon had been shocked when he paid a visit to his sister on his way south; she didn’t look as if she could stand much more.

He had offered four thick wax tapers to the ancient image of the Virgin Mary at Eyabu, which was supposed to be particularly powerful in effecting miracles, and he had promised many gifts if Sigrid made it through with her life and her health. How things would go with Geirmund and all their children if the mother died and left them behind . . . No, he couldn’t think about that.

They lived together so well, Sigrid and Geirmund. Never had she heard an unkind word from her husband, she said; never had he left anything undone that he thought might please her. When he noticed that Sigrid was wasting away with longing for the child she had borne in her youth with Gjavvald Arnessøn, he had asked Simon to bring the boy to visit so the mother could spend some time with him. But Sigrid had reaped only sorrow and disappointment from the reunion with that spoiled, rich man’s son. Since then Sigrid Andresdatter had clung to her husband and the children she had with him, the way a poor, ailing sinner clings to her priest and confession.

Now she seemed fully content in many ways. And Simon understood why. Few men were as pleasant to be with as Geirmund. He had such a fine voice that even if he was only talking about the narrow-hoofed horse that had been foisted upon him, it was almost like listening to harp music.

Geirmund Hersteinssøn had always had a strange and ugly face, but in the past he had been a strong man, with a handsome build and limbs, the best bowman and hunter, and better than most in all sports. Three years ago he had become a cripple, after he returned to the village from a hunting expedition, crawling on his hands and one knee, with the other leg crushed and dragging behind him. Now he couldn’t walk across the room without a cane, and he couldn’t mount a horse or hobble around the steep slopes of the fields without help. Misfortune constantly plagued him, such an odd and eccentric man as he was, and ill prepared for safeguarding his property or welfare. Anyone who had the heart for it could fool him in trade or business dealings. But he was clever with his hands, an able craftsman in both wood and iron, and a wise and skilled speaker. And when this man took his harp on his lap, Geirmund could make people laugh or cry with his singing and playing. It was almost like listening to the knight in Geirmund’s song who could entice the leaves from the linden tree and the horn from the lively cattle with his playing.

Then the older children would take up the refrain and sing along with their father. They were more lovely to hear than the chiming of all the bells in the bishop’s Hamar. The next youngest child, Inga, could walk if she held on to the bench, although she had not yet learned to talk. But she would hum and sing all day long, and her tiny voice was so light and delicate, like a little silver bell.

They lived crowded together in a small, dark old hearth house: the man and his wife, the children, and the servants. The loft, which Geirmund had talked of building all these years, would now probably never be built. He had barely managed to put up a new barn to replace the one that had burned the previous year. But the parents couldn’t bear to part with a single one of their many children. Every time he visited Kruke, Simon had offered to take some of them in and raise them; Geirmund and Sigrid had thanked him but declined.

Simon sometimes thought that perhaps she was the one among his siblings who had found the best life, after all. Although Gyrd did say that Astrid was quite pleased with her new husband; they lived far south in Ry County, and Simon hadn’t seen them since their wedding. But Gyrd had mentioned that the sons of Torgrim were constantly quarreling with their stepfather.

And Gudmund was very happy and content. But if that was man’s happiness, then Simon thought it would not be a sin to thank God that their father hadn’t lived to see it. As soon as it could be decently permitted after Andres Darre’s death, Gudmund had celebrated his wedding to the widow whom his father wouldn’t allow him to marry. The knight of Dyfrin thought that since he had sought out young, rich, and beautiful maidens of distinguished families and unblemished reputation for his two eldest sons, and this had led to little joy for either Gyrd or Simon, then it would mean pure misery for Gudmund if his father allowed him to follow his own foolish wishes. Tordis Bergsdatter was much older than Gudmund, moderately wealthy, and she had had no children from her first marriage. But afterward she had given birth to a daughter by one of the priests at the Maria Church in Oslo, and people said that she had been much too amenable toward other men as well—including Gudmund Darre, as soon as she became acquainted with him. She was as ugly as a troll, and much too rude and coarse in speech for a woman, thought Simon. But she was lively and witty, intelligent and good-natured. He knew that he would have been fond of Tordis himself, if only she hadn’t married into their lineage. Now Gudmund was flourishing, and it was dreadful to witness; he was almost as stout and portly as Simon. And that was not Gudmund’s nature; in his youth he had been slender and handsome. He had grown so flabby and indolent that Simon felt an urge to give the boy a thrashing every time he saw him. But it was true that Gudmund had been a cursed simpleton all his days. And the fact that his children took their wits from their mother but their looks from him was at least one bit of luck in this misfortune. And yet Gudmund was thriving.

So Simon didn’t need to fret as much as he did over his brother. And in some ways it was probably also needless for him to lament on Gyrd’s behalf. But each time he went home to his father’s manor and saw how things now stood there, he felt so dreadfully overwhelmed that his heart ached when he left.

The wealth of the estate had increased; Gyrd’s brother-in-law, Ulf Saksesøn, now enjoyed the king’s full favor and grace, and he had drawn Gyrd Andressøn into the circle of men who possessed the most power and advantages in the realm. But Simon didn’t care for the man and saw that Gyrd apparently didn’t either. Reluctantly and with little joy, Gyrd of Dyfrin followed the course that his wife and her brother had set for him in order to have some peace in his house.

Helga Saksesdatter was a witch. But it was Gyrd’s two sons who caused him to look as careworn as he did. Sakse, the older one, must be sixteen winters old by now. Nearly every night his personal servant had to heave the whelp into bed, dead drunk. He had already ruined his mind and his health with liquor; no doubt he would drink himself to death before he reached the age of a man. It would be no great loss; Sakse had acquired an ugly reputation in the region for coarseness and insolence, in spite of his youth. He was his mother’s favorite. Gyrd loved Jon, his younger son, better. He also had more of the temperament needed for him to bring honor to his lineage, if only he hadn’t been . . . Well, he was a bit misshapen, with hunched shoulders and a crooked back. And he had some kind of inner stomach complaint and was unable to tolerate any food other than gruel and flat bread.

He and Gyrd, at any rate, had felt this way, at least in the past. Now he wasn’t so sure that Gyrd felt the same anymore.

He had been most fond of his older brother and of Sigrid. He remembered when they were growing up: He could sit and feel such joy for his youngest sister that he had to do something to show it. Then he would pick a quarrel with her, tease and needle her, pull on her braids, and pinch her arm—as if he couldn’t show his affection for her in any other way without feeling ashamed. He had to tease her so that without embarrassment he could give her all the treasures he had stashed away; he could include the little maiden in his games when he built a millhouse at the creek, built farms for her, and cut willow whistles for the little girls in the springtime.

The memory of that day when he learned the full extent of her misfortune was like a brand scorched onto his mind. All winter long he had seen the way Sigrid was grieving herself into the grave over her dead betrothed, but he didn’t know any more than that. Then one Sunday in early spring he was standing on the gallery at Mandvik, feeling cross with the women for not appearing. The horses were in the courtyard, outfitted with their church saddles, and the servants had been waiting a long time. Finally he grew angry and went into the women’s house. Sigrid was still in bed. Surprised, he asked whether she was ill. His wife was sitting on the edge of the bed. A tremor passed over her gentle, withered face as she looked up.

“Ill she is indeed, the poor child. But even more than that, I think she’s frightened . . . of you and your kinsmen . . . and how you will take the news.”

His sister shrieked loudly, throwing herself headlong into Halfrid’s arms and clinging to her, wrapping her thin, bare arms around her sister-in-law’s waist. Her scream pierced Simon to the heart, so he thought it would stop and be drained of all blood. Her pain and her shame coursed through him, robbing him of his wits; then came the fear, and the sweat poured out. Their father—what would he do with Sigrid now?

He was so frightened as he struggled through the thawing muck on the journey home to Raumarike that at last the servant, who was traveling with him and knew nothing of the matter, began joking about the way Simon constantly had to get down from his horse. He had been a full-grown married man for many years, and yet he was so terrified at the thought of the meeting with his father that his stomach was in upheaval.

Then his father had barely uttered a word. But he had fallen apart, as if his roots had been chopped in half. Sometimes when he was about to doze off, Simon would recall that image and be wide awake at once: his father sitting there, rocking back and forth, with his head bowed to his chest, and Gyrd standing beside him with his hand on the arm of the high seat, a little paler than usual, his eyes downcast.

“God be praised that she wasn’t here when this came out. It’s a good thing she’s staying with you and Halfrid,” Gyrd had said when the two of them were alone.

That was the only time Simon heard Gyrd say anything that might indicate he didn’t put his wife above all other women.

But he had witnessed how Gyrd seemed to fade and retreat ever since he had married Helga Saksesdatter.

During the time he was betrothed to her Gyrd had never said much, but each time he caught sight of his bride, Gyrd had looked so radiantly handsome that Simon had felt uneasy when he glanced at his brother. He had seen Helga before, Gyrd told Simon, but he had never spoken to her and could not have imagined that her kinsmen would give such a rich and beautiful bride to him.

Gyrd Darre’s splendid good looks in his youth had been something that Simon regarded as a kind of personal honor. He was handsome in a particularly appealing way, as if everyone must see that goodness, gentility, and a courageous and noble heart resided in this fine, quiet young man. Then he was wed to Helga Saksesdatter, and it was as if nothing more ever came of him.

He had always been taciturn, but the two brothers were constantly together, and Simon managed to talk enough for both of them. Simon was garrulous, well liked, and considered sensible. For drinking bouts and bantering, for hunting and skiing expeditions, and for all manner of youthful amusements, Simon had countless friends, all equally close and dear. His older brother went along, saying little but smiling his lovely, somber smile, and the few words he did say seemed to count all the more.

Now Gyrd Andressøn was as silent as a locked chest.

The summer when Simon came home and told his father that he and Kristin Lavransdatter had agreed that they both wished to have the agreement retracted which had been made on their behalf . . . back then Simon knew that Gyrd understood most of what lay behind this matter: that Simon loved his betrothed, but there was some reason why he had given up his right, and this reason was such that Simon felt scorched inside with rancor and pain. Gyrd had quietly urged his father to let the matter drop. But to Simon he had never hinted with a single word that he understood. And Simon thought that if he could possibly have greater affection for his brother than he had felt all his days, it was then, because of his silence.

He rode the last part of the journey in the twilight. The flush of the ale had left him. His men were wild and raucous, but their master seemed to have run dry of laughter and banter; he must be tired.

Then he was home. Andres tagged after his father, wherever he stood or walked. Ulvhild hovered around the saddlebags; had he brought any presents home for her? Arngjerd brought in ale and food. His wife sat down next to him as he ate, chattering and asking for news. When the children had gone to bed, Simon took Ramborg on his knee as he passed on greetings to her and spoke of kinsmen and acquaintances.

He thought it shameful and unmanly if he could not be content with such a life as he had.

No, she was not very pretty, thought her father. He looked up at the young girl as she stood before him. Short and stocky, with a small, plain, pale face; her grayish blond hair was blotchy in color, hanging down her back in two thick braids, but over her forehead it fell in lank wisps in her eyes, and she had a habit of constantly brushing her hair back.

“It must be as you wish, Father,” she said calmly when he was done speaking.

“Yes, I know that you’re a good child, but what do you think about all this?”

“I have nothing to say. You must decide about this matter, dear Father.”

“This is how things stand, Arngjerd: I would like to grant you a few more free years, free from childbirth and cares and responsibilities—all those things that fall to a woman’s lot as soon as she is married. But I wonder if perhaps you might be longing to have your own home and to take charge yourself?”

“There is no need for haste on my account,” said the girl with a little smile.

“You know that if you moved to Eiken through marriage, you would have your wealthy kinsmen nearby. Bare is the brotherless back.” He noticed the glint in Arngjerd’s eyes and her fleeting smile. “I mean Gyrd, your uncle,” he said quickly, a little embarrassed.

“Yes, I know you didn’t mean my kinswoman Helga,” she said, and they both laughed.

Simon felt a warmth in his soul, in gratitude to God and the Virgin Mary, and to Halfrid, who had made him acknowledge this daughter as his own. Whenever he and Arngjerd happened to laugh together in this way, he needed no further proof of his paternity.

He stood up and brushed off some flour that she had on her sleeve. “And the suitor—what do you think of the man?” he asked.

“I like him well enough, the little that I’ve seen of him. And one shouldn’t believe everything one hears. But you must decide, Father.”

“Then we’ll do as I’ve said. Aasmund and Grunde can wait a while longer, and if they’re of the same mind when you’re a little older . . . Otherwise, you must know, my daughter, that you may decide on your marriage yourself, insofar as you have the sense to choose in your own best interest. And your judgment is sound enough, Arngjerd.”

He put his arms around her. She blushed when her father kissed her, and Simon realized that it had been a long time since he had done this. He was usually not the kind of man who was afraid to embrace his wife in the light of day or to banter with his children. But it was always done in jest, and Arngjerd . . . It suddenly dawned on Simon that his young daughter was probably the only person at Formo with whom he sometimes spoke in earnest.

Simon felt as if he could glean a singular power from the autumn wind outside and the shifting radiance over the countryside. If they had a lasting thaw for All Saints’ Day, there would be mill water in the creeks, at least until Christmas. And he could send men into the mountains to gather moss. It had been such a dry fall; the Laag was a meager, small stream running through the fish traps made of yellow gravel and pale stones.

Up in the north end of the valley only Jørundgaard and the parsonage had millhouses on the river. He had little desire to ask permission to use the Jørundgaard mill. No doubt everyone in the region would be taking their grain there, since Sira Eirik charged a mill fee. And people thought he gained too good an idea of how much grain they had; he was so greedy about demanding tithes. But Lavrans had always allowed people to grind their grain at his mill without charge, and Kristin wanted things to continue in the same way.

If he so much as thought of her, his heart would begin trembling, sick and anguished.

It was the day before both Saint Simon’s Day and the Feast of Saint Jude, the day when he always used to go to confession. It was to search his soul, to fast and to pray, that he was sitting there in the Sæmund house while the house servants were doing the threshing in the barn.

It took no time at all to go over his sins: He had cursed; he had lied when people asked about matters that were not their concern; he had shot a deer long after he had seen by the sun that the Sabbath had begun on a Saturday evening; and he had gone hunting on Sunday morning when everyone else in the village was at mass.

What had happened when the boy lay ill—that was something he must not and dared not mention. But this was the first time in his life that he reluctantly kept silent about a sin before his parish priest.

He had thought much about it and suffered terribly over it in his heart. Surely this must be a great sin, whether he himself had used sorcery to heal or had directly lured another person into doing so.

But he wasn’t able to feel remorse when he thought about the fact that otherwise his son would now be lying in the ground. He felt fearful and dejected and kept watch to see if the child had changed afterward. He didn’t think he could discern anything.

He knew it was true of many kinds of birds and wild animals. If human hands touched the eggs or their young, the parents wanted no more to do with them but would turn away from their offspring. A man who had been granted the light of reason by God could not do the same. For Simon the situation had become such that when he held his son, he almost felt as if he couldn’t let the child out of his hands because he had grown so fearful for Andres. Sometimes he could understand why the heathen dumb beasts felt such loathing for their young because they had been touched. He too felt as if his child had been in some way infected.

But he had no regrets, did not wish that it hadn’t happened. He merely wished it had been someone other than Kristin. It was difficult enough for him that they lived in the same region.

Arngjerd came in to ask for a key. Ramborg didn’t think she had gotten it back after her husband had used it.

There was less and less order to the housekeeping on the manor. Simon remembered giving the key back to his wife; that was before he journeyed south.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll find it,” said Arngjerd.

She had such a nice smile and wise eyes. She wasn’t truly ugly either, thought her father. And her hair was lovely when she wore it loose, so thick and blond, for holy days and feasts.

The daughter of Erlend’s paramour had been pretty enough, and nothing but trouble had come of it.

But Erlend had had that daughter with a fair and highborn woman. Erlend had probably never even glanced at a woman like Arngjerd’s mother. He had sauntered jauntily through the world, and beautiful, proud women and maidens had lined up to offer him love and adventure.

Simon’s only sin of that kind—and he didn’t count the boyish pranks when he was at the king’s court—might have had a little more grandeur to it when he finally decided to betray his good and worthy wife. And he hadn’t paid her any more heed, that Jorunn; he couldn’t even remember how it happened that he first came too near the maid. He had been out carousing with friends and acquaintances a good deal that winter, and when he came home to his wife’s estate, Jorunn would always be waiting there, to see that he got into bed without causing any accidents with the hearth.

It had been no more splendid an adventure than that.

He had deserved even less that the child should turn out so well and bring him such joy. But he shouldn’t dwell on such thoughts now, when he was supposed to be thinking about his confession.

He regretted his action at once, but he didn’t like being reminded of that evening.

As if to make amends for the fact that he had kept silent about a sin, he had talked to Sira Eirik about his dreams. It was also because he needed to ease his heart—at least from that. He had been ready to leave when it suddenly occurred to him that he needed to talk about it. And this old, half-blind priest had been his spiritual father for more than twelve years.

So he went back and knelt again before Sira Eirik.

The priest sat motionless until Simon had finished talking. Then he spoke, his powerful voice now sounding old and veiled from inside the eternal twilight: It was not a sin. Every limb of the struggling church had to be tested in battle with the Fiend; that’s why God allowed the Devil to seek out a man with many kinds of temptations. As long as the man did not cast aside his weapons, as long as he refused to forsake the Lord’s banner or, fully alert and aware, refused to surrender to the visions with which the impure spirit was trying to bewitch him, then the sinful impulses were not a sin.

“No!” cried Simon, ashamed at the sound of his own voice.

He had never surrendered. He was tormented, tormented, tormented by them. Whenever he woke up from these sinful dreams, he felt as if he himself had been violated in his sleep.

He was a young lad who had taken a position with Simon now that he was home; before, he had served at Dyfrin. There everything was supposed to be done according to courtly custom; that’s what Helga had demanded. But if this fool Sigurd thought he could grumble at his master here at Formo because Simon preferred to jest and banter with his men and didn’t mind a bold reply from a servant, then the Devil would . . . Simon was about to scold the boy roundly, but he refrained; he had just come from confession after all. Jon Daalk would have to take the newcomer in hand and teach him that good peasant customs were just as acceptable as the refined ways at Dyfrin.

He merely asked in a relatively calm voice whether Sigurd was fresh out of the mountains this year and told him to put the horses inside. But he was angry.

Erlend sprang to his feet and tried to push the child aside, but she gripped the sleeve of his tunic and hung on to his arm as he walked across the room, erect and light-footed, to greet his brother-in-law. She was nagging him for something; Erlend and Simon could barely get a word in.

Her father ordered her, rather harshly, to go out to the cookhouse with the maids; they had just finished setting the table. When the maiden protested, he took her hard by the arm and tore her away from Erlend.

“Here!” Ulvhild’s uncle took a lump of resin out of his mouth and stuck it into hers. “Take it, Ulvhild, my little plum cheeks! That daughter of yours,” he said to his brother-in-law with a laugh as he gazed after the maiden, “is not going to be as docile as Arngjerd!”

Simon hadn’t been able to resist telling his wife how well Arngjerd had handled the marriage matter. But he hadn’t intended for her to tell the people of Jørundgaard. And it was unlike Ramborg to do so; he knew that she had little affection for Erlend. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the fact that Ramborg had spoken of this matter, or that she was so capricious, or that Ulvhild, little girl though she was, seemed so charmed by Erlend—just as all women were.

He went over to greet Kristin. She was sitting in the corner next to the hearth wall with Andres on her lap. The boy had grown quite fond of his aunt during the time she nursed him when he was recovering from his illness the previous fall.

Simon realized that there must be some purpose for this visit since Erlend had come too. He was not one to wear out the doorstep at Formo. Simon couldn’t deny that Erlend had handled the difficult situation admirably—considering how things had turned out between the brothers-in-law. Erlend avoided Simon as much as he could, but they met as often as necessary so that gossip wouldn’t spread about enmity between kinsmen, and then they always behaved like the best of friends. Erlend was quiet and a bit reticent whenever they were together but still displayed a free and unfettered manner.

When the food had been brought to the table and the ale set out, Erlend spoke, “I think you’re probably wondering about the reason for my visit, Simon. We’re here to invite you and Ramborg to a wedding at our manor.”

“Surely you must be jesting? I didn’t think you had anyone of marrying age on your estate.”

“That depends on how you look at it, brother-in-law. It’s Ulf Haldorssøn.”

Simon slapped his thigh.

“Next I’ll expect my plow oxen to produce calves at Christmastime!”

“You shouldn’t call Ulf a plow ox,” said Erlend with a laugh. “The unfortunate thing is that the man has been far too bold . . .”

Simon whistled.

Erlend laughed again and said, “Yes, you can well imagine that I didn’t believe my own ears when they came to the estate yesterday—the sons of Herbrand of Medalheim—and demanded that Ulf should marry their sister.”

“Herbrand Remba’s? But they’re nothing but boys; their sister can’t be old enough that Ulf would . . .”

“She’s twenty winters old. And Ulf is closer to fifty. Yes.” Erlend had turned somber. “You realize, Simon, that they must consider him a poor match for Jardtrud, but it’s the lesser of two evils if she marries him. Although Ulf is the son of a knight and a well-to-do man; he doesn’t need to earn his bread on another man’s estate, but he followed us here because he would rather live with his kinsmen than on his own farm at Skaun . . . after what happened. . . .”

Erlend fell silent for a moment. His face was tender and handsome. Then he continued.

“Now we, Kristin and I, intend to celebrate this wedding as if he were our brother. That’s why Ulf and I will ride south in the coming week to Musudal to ask for her hand at Medalheim. For the sake of appearances, you understand. But I thought of asking you a favor, brother-in-law. I remember, Simon, that I owe you a great deal. But Ulf is not well liked here in the villages. And you are so highly respected; few men are your equal . . . while I myself . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little. “Would you be willing, Simon, to ride with us and act as spokesman on Ulf’s behalf? He and I have been friends since we were boys,” pleaded Erlend.

“That I will, brother-in-law!” Simon had turned crimson; he felt oddly embarrassed and powerless at Erlend’s candid speech. “I will gladly do anything I can to honor Ulf Haldorssøn.”

Kristin had been sitting in the corner with Andres; the boy wanted his aunt to help him undress. Now she came forward into the light, holding the half-naked child, who had his arms around her neck.

“That’s kind of you, Simon,” she said softly, holding out her hand. “For this we all thank you.”

Simon lightly clasped her hand for a moment.

“Not at all, Kristin. I have always been fond of Ulf. You should know that I do this gladly.” He reached up to take his son, but Andres pretended to fret, kicking at his father with his little bare feet, laughing and clinging to Kristin.

Simon listened to the two of them as he sat and talked to Erlend about Ulf’s money matters. The boy suddenly started giggling; she knew so many lullabies and nursery rhymes, and she laughed too, a gentle, soft cooing sound from deep in her throat. Once he glanced in their direction and saw that she had made a kind of stairway with her fingers, and Andres’s fingers were people walking up it. At last she put him in the cradle and sat down next to Ramborg. The sisters chatted to each other in hushed voices.

And yet it was not a truly joyous wedding. The bride was from an old and respected family there in the valley; her kinsmen and neighbors could not possibly think she had won an equal match since she had to make do with an outsider and one who had served on another man’s estate, even though it belonged to a kinsman. Neither Ulf’s birth, as the son of a wealthy knight and his maid, nor his kinship with Erlend Nikulaussøn seemed to impress the sons of Herbrand as any great honor.

Apparently the bride herself was not content either, considering how she had behaved. Kristin sounded quite despondent when she spoke to Simon about this. He had come to Jørundgaard to take care of some matters several weeks after the wedding. Jardtrud was urging her husband to move to his property at Skaun. Weeping, she had said within Kristin’s earshot that the worst thing she could imagine was that her child should be called the son of a servant. Ulf had not replied. The newly married couple lived in the building known as the foreman’s house because Jon Einarssøn had lived there before Lavrans bought all of Laugarbru and moved him out there. But this name displeased Jardtrud. And she resented keeping her cows in the same shed as Kristin’s; no doubt she was afraid that someone might think she was Kristin’s servingwoman. That was reasonable enough, thought Kristin. She would have a shed built for the foreman’s house if Ulf didn’t decide to take his wife and move to Skaun. But perhaps that might be best after all. He was no longer so young that it would be easy for him to change the way he lived; perhaps it would be less difficult for him in a new place.

Simon thought she might be right about that. Ulf was greatly disliked in the region. He spoke scornfully about everything there in the valley. He was a capable and hardworking farmer, but he was unaccustomed to so many things in that part of the country. He took on more livestock in the fall than he could manage to feed through the winter, and when the cows languished or he ended up having to slaughter some of the starving beasts toward spring, he would grow angry and blame the fact that he was unused to the meager ways of the region, where people had to scrape off bark for fodder as early as Saint Paal’s Day.

There was another consideration: In Trøndelag the custom had gradually developed between the landowner and his tenants that he would demand as lease payment the goods that he needed most—hay, skins, flour, butter, or wool—even though certain goods or sums had been specified when the lease was settled. And it was the landowner or his envoys who recalculated the worth of one item in replacement for another, completely arbitrarily. But when Ulf made these demands upon Kristin’s leaseholders around the countryside, people called them injurious and grievously unlawful, as they were, and the tenants complained to their mistress. She took Ulf to task as soon as she heard of the matter, but Simon knew that people blamed not only Ulf but Kristin Lavransdatter as well. He had tried to explain, wherever talk of this arose, that Kristin hadn’t known about Ulf’s demands and that they were based on customs of the man’s own region. Simon feared this had done little good, although no one had said as much to his face.

For this reason he wasn’t sure whether he should wish for Ulf to stay or to leave. He didn’t know how Kristin would handle things without her diligent and loyal helper. Erlend was completely incapable of managing the farmwork, and their sons were far too young. But Ulf had turned much of the countryside against her, and now there was this: He had seduced a young maiden from a wealthy and respected family in the valley. God only knew that Kristin was already struggling hard enough, as the situation now stood.

And they were in difficult straits, the people of Jørundgaard. Erlend was no better liked than Ulf. If Erlend’s overseer and kinsman was arrogant and surly, the master himself, with his gentle and rather indolent manner, was even more irksome. Erlend Niku laussøn probably had no idea that he was turning people against him; he seemed unaware of anything except that, rich or poor, he was the same man he had always been, and he wouldn’t dream that anyone would call him arrogant for that very reason. He had plotted to incite a group of rebels against his king even though he was Lord Magnus’s kinsman, vassal, and retainer; then he himself had caused the downfall of the plan through his own foolish recklessness. But he evidently never thought that he might be branded a villain in anyone’s eyes because of these matters. Simon couldn’t see that Erlend gave much thought to anything at all.

It was hard to figure the man out. If one sat and conversed with Erlend, he was far from stupid, thought Simon, but it was as if he could never take to heart the wise and splendid things he often said. It was impossible to remember that this man would soon be old; he could have had grandchildren long ago. Upon closer study, his face was lined and his hair sprinkled with gray, yet he and Nikulaus looked more like brothers than father and son. He was just as straight-backed and slender as when Simon had seen him for the first time; his voice was just as young and resonant. He moved among others with the same ease and confidence, with that slightly muted grace to his manner. With strangers he had always been rather quiet and reserved; letting others seek him out instead of seeking their company himself, during times of both prosperity and adversity. That no one sought his company now was something that Erlend didn’t seem to notice. And the whole circle of noblemen and landowners all along the valley, intermarried and closely related with each other as they were, resented the way this haughty Trøndelag chieftain, who had been cast into their midst by misfortune, nevertheless considered himself too highborn and noble to seek their favor.

But what had caused the most bad blood toward Erlend Niku laussøn was the fact that he had drawn the men of Sundbu into misfortune along with him. Guttorm and Borgar Trondssøn had been banished from Norway, and their shares of the great Gjesling estates, as well as their half of the ancestral manor, had been seized by the Crown. Ivar of Sundbu had to buy himself reconciliation with King Magnus. The king gave the confiscated properties—not ithout demanding compensation, it was said—to Sir Sigurd Er lendssøn Eldjarn. Then the youngest of the sons of Trond, Ivar and Haavard, who had not known of their brothers’ treasonous plans, sold their shares of the Vaage estates to Sir Sigurd, who was their cousin as well as the cousin of the daughters of Lavrans. Sigurd’s mother, Gudrun Ivarsdatter, was the sister of Trond Gjesling and Ragnfrid of Jørundgaard. Ivar Gjesling moved to Ringheim at Toten, a manor that he had acquired from his wife. His children would do well to live where they had inheritance and property rights from their mother’s family. Haavard still owned a great deal of property, but it was mostly in Valdres, and with his marriage he had now come into possession of large estates in the Borge district. But the inhabitants of Vaage and northern Gudbrandsdal thought it the greatest misfortune that the ancient lineage of landowners had lost Sundbu, where they had lived and ruled the countryside for as far back as people could remember.

Kristin had never particularly enjoyed these banquets with their bantering and pleasantry. Both Simon and Ramborg seemed to think that the more commotion and noise there was, the better. Simon always invited his guests to bring along their children, their servants, and the children of their servants—as many as could be spared from home. On the first day everything proceeded in a quiet and orderly manner; only the gentry and the elders would converse, while the youth listened and ate and drank, and the little children kept mostly to a different building. But on the second day, from early in the morning on, the host would urge the lively young people and the children to drink and make merry, and before long the teasing would grow so wild and unrestrained that the women and maidens would slip away to the corners and stand there in clusters, giggling and ready to flee. But many of the more high-standing wives would seek out Ramborg’s women’s house, which was already occupied by the mothers who had rescued the youngest children from the tumult of the main building.