They stood in a circle and passed the big drinking horn around. Then they picked up their scythes and rakes and went back to the hay harvesting. Kristin was sent home with the empty horn. She carried it in front of her in both hands as she ran barefoot through the sunshine on the green path, up toward the manor. Now and then she would stop, whenever a few drops of mead had collected in the curve of the horn. Then she would tilt it over her little face and lick the gilded rim inside and out, as well as her fingers, tasting the sweetness.

Kristin Lavransdatter sat still, staring straight ahead. Father! She remembered a tremor passing over his face, a paleness, the way a forest slope grows pale whenever a stormy gust turns the leaves of the trees upside down. An edge of cold, sharp derision in his voice, a gleam in his gray eyes, like the glint of a half-drawn sword. A brief moment, and then it would vanish—into cheerful, good-humored jest when he was young, but becoming more often a quiet, slightly melancholy gentleness as he grew older. Something other than deep, tender sweetness had resided in her father’s heart. She had learned to understand it over the years. Her father’s marvelous gentleness was not because he lacked a keen enough perception of the faults and wretchedness of others; it came from his constant searching of his own heart before God, crushing it in repentance over his own failings.

No, Father, I will not be impatient. I too have sinned greatly toward my husband.

On the evening of Holy Cross Day Kristin was sitting at the table with her house servants and seemed much the same as usual. But when her sons had gone up to the high loft to sleep, she quietly called Ulf Haldorssøn to her side. She asked him to go down to Isrid at the farm and ask her to come up to her mistress in the old weaving room.

Ulf said, “You must send word to Ranveig at Ulvsvold and to Haldis, the priest’s sister, Kristin. It would be most fitting if you sent for Astrid and Ingebjørg of Loptsgaard to take charge of the room.”

“There’s no time for that,” said Kristin. “I felt the first pangs just before midafternoon prayers. Do as I say, Ulf. I want only my own maids and Isrid at my side.”

“Kristin,” said Ulf somberly, “don’t you see what vile gossip may come of this if you creep into hiding tonight.”

Kristin let her arms fall heavily onto the table. She closed her eyes.

“Then let them talk, whoever wants to talk! I can’t bear to see the eyes of those other women around me tonight.”

The next morning her big sons sat in silence, their eyes lowered, as Munan talked on and on about the little brother he had seen in his mother’s arms over in the weaving room. Finally Bjørgulf said that he didn’t need to talk anymore about that.

Kristin lay in bed, merely listening; she felt as if she never slept so soundly that she wasn’t listening and waiting.

She got out of bed on the eighth day, but the women who were with her could tell that she wasn’t well. She was freezing, and then waves of heat would wash over her. On one day the milk would pour from her breasts and soak her clothes; the next day she didn’t have enough to give the child his fill. But she refused to go back to bed. She never let the child out of her arms; she never put him in the cradle. At night she would take him to bed with her; in the daytime she carried him around, sitting at the hearth with him, sitting on her bed, listening and waiting and staring at her son, although at times she didn’t seem to see him or to hear that he was crying. Then she would abruptly wake up. She would hold the boy in her arms and walk back and forth in the room with him. With her cheek pressed against his, she would hum softly to him, then sit down and place him to her breast, and sit there staring at him as she had before, her face as hard as stone.

One day when the boy was almost six weeks old, and the mother had not yet taken a single step across the threshold of the weaving room, Ulf Haldorssøn and Skule came in. They were dressed for travel.

“We’re riding north to Haugen now, Kristin,” said Ulf. “There has to be an end to this matter.”

Kristin sat mute and motionless, with the boy at her breast. At first she didn’t seem to comprehend. All of a sudden she jumped up, her face flushed blood red. “Do as you like. If you’re longing for your proper master, I won’t hold you back. It would be best if you drew your earnings now; then you won’t need to come back here for them later.”

Ulf began cursing fiercely. Then he looked at the woman standing there with the infant clutched to her bosom. He pressed his lips together and fell silent.

But Skule took a step forward. “Yes, Mother, I’m riding up to see Father now. If you’re forgetting that Ulf has been a foster father to all of us children, then you should at least remember that you can’t command and rule me as if I were a servant or an infant.”

“Can’t I?” Kristin struck him a blow to the ear so the boy staggered. “I think I can command and rule all of you as long as I give you food and clothing. Get out!” she shrieked, stomping her foot.

Skule was furious. But Ulf said quietly, “It’s better this way, my boy, better for her to be unreasonable and angry than to see her sitting and staring as if she had lost her wits to grief.”

Gunhild, her maid, came running after them. They were to come at once to see her mistress in the weaving room. She wanted to talk to them and to all her sons. In a curt, sharp voice, Kristin asked Ulf to ride down to Breidin to speak with a man who had leased two cows from her. He should take the twins along with him, and there was no need to return home until the next day. She sent Naakkve and Gaute up to the mountain pastures. She wanted them to go to Illmanddal to see to the horse paddock there. And on their way up they were to stop by to see Bjørn, the tar-burner and Isrid’s son, and ask him to come to Jørundgaard that evening. It would do no good for them to object since tomorrow was the Sabbath.

The next morning, as the bells were ringing, the mistress left Jørundgaard, accompanied by Bjørn and Isrid, who carried the child. She had given them good and proper clothing, but for this first church visit after the birth Kristin herself was adorned with so much gold that everyone could see she was the mistress and the other two her servants.

Defiant and proud, she faced the indignant astonishment she felt directed at her from everyone on the church green. Oh yes, in the past she had come to church quite differently on such an occasion, accompanied by the most noble of women. Sira Solmund looked at her with unkind eyes as she stood before the church door with a taper in her hand, but he received her in his customary fashion.

Isrid had retreated into childhood by now and understood very little; Bjørn was an odd and taciturn man, who never interfered in anyone else’s affairs. These two were the godmother and godfather.

Isrid told the priest the child’s name. He gave a start. He hesitated. Then he pronounced it so loudly that it was heard by the people standing in the nave.

“Erlend. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit . . .”

A shudder seemed to pass through the entire assembled congregation. And Kristin felt a wild, vindictive joy.

The child had looked quite strong when he was born. But from the very first week Kristin thought she could tell that he was not going to thrive. She herself had felt, at the moment she gave birth, that her heart was collapsing like an extinguished ember. When Isrid showed her the newborn son, she imagined that the spark of life had only an uncertain hold on this child. But she pushed this thought aside; an unspeakable number of times she had already felt as if her heart would break. And the child was plenty big and did not look weak.

But her uneasiness over the boy grew from day to day. He whimpered constantly and had a poor appetite. She often had to struggle for a long time before she could get him to take her breast. When she had finally enticed him to suckle, he would fall asleep almost at once. She couldn’t see that he was getting any bigger.

With inexpressible anguish and heartache she thought she saw that from the day he was baptized and received his father’s name, little Erlend began to weaken more quickly.

None of her children, no, none of them had she loved as she did this little unfortunate boy. None of them had she conceived in such sweet and wild joy; none had she carried with such happy anticipation. She thought back on the past nine months; in the end she had fought with all her life to hold on to hope and belief. She couldn’t bear to lose this child, but neither could she bear to save him.

Almighty God, merciful Queen, Holy Olav. She could feel that this time it would do her no good to fling herself down and beg for her child’s life.

Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who have sinned against us.

She went to church every Sabbath, as was her custom. She kissed the doorpost, sprinkled herself with holy water, sank to her knees before the ancient crucifix above the choir. The Savior gazed down, sorrowful and gentle in his death throes. Christ died to save his murderers. Holy Olav stands before him, perpetually praying for intercession for those who drove him into exile and killed him.

As we forgive those who have sinned against us.

Blessed Mary, my child is dying!

Don’t you know, Kristin, that I would rather have carried his cross and suffered his death myself than stand under my son’s cross and watch him die? But since I knew that this had to happen to save the sinners, I consented in my heart. I consented when my son prayed: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

As we forgive those who have sinned against us . . .

What you scream in your heart does not become a prayer until you have said your Pater noster without deceit.

Forgive us our sins . . . Do you remember how many times your sins were forgiven? Look at your sons over there on the men’s side. Look at him standing in front, like the chieftain of that handsome group of youths. The fruit of your sin . . . For nearly twenty years you have seen God grant him greater looks, wisdom, and manliness. See His mercy. Where is your own mercy toward your youngest son back home?

Do you remember your father? Do you remember Simon Darre?

But deep in her heart Kristin felt that she had not forgiven Erlend. She could not, because she would not. She held on to her bowl of love, refusing to let it go, even though it now contained only these last, bitter dregs. The moment when she left Erlend behind, no longer thinking of him even with this corrosive bitterness, then everything that had been between them would be over.

So she stood there during mass and knew that it would be of no benefit to her. She tried to pray: Holy Olav, help me. Work a miracle on my heart so that I might say my prayer without deceit and think of Erlend with God-fearing peace in my soul. But she knew that she did not want this prayer to be heard. Then she felt that it was useless for her to pray to be allowed to keep the child. Young Erlend was on loan from God. Only on one condition could she keep him, and she refused to accept that condition. And it was useless to lie to Saint Olav. . . .

So she kept watch over the ill child. Her tears spilled out; she wept without a sound and without moving. Her face was as gray and stony as ever, although gradually the whites of her eyes and her eyelids turned blood red. If anyone came near her, she would quickly wipe her face and simply sit there, stiff and mute.

And yet it took so little to thaw her heart. If one of her big sons came in, cast a glance at the tiny child, and spoke a few kind and sympathetic words to him, then Kristin could hardly keep from bursting into loud sobs. If she could have talked to her grown-up sons about her anguish over the infant, she knew her heart would have melted. But they had grown shy around her now. Ever since that day when they came home and learned what name she had given their youngest brother, the boys seemed to have drawn closer together and stood so far away from her.

But one day, when Naakkve was looking at the child, he said, “Mother, give me permission . . . to seek out Father and tell him how things stand with the boy.”

“It will no longer do any good,” replied his mother in despair.

Munan didn’t understand. He brought his playthings to the little brother, rejoiced when he was allowed to hold him, and thought he had made the child smile. Munan talked about when his father would come home and wondered what he would think of the new son. Kristin sat in silence, her face gray, and let her soul be torn apart by the boy’s chatter.

The infant was now thin and wrinkled like an old man; his eyes were unnaturally big and clear. And yet he had begun to smile at his mother; she would moan softly whenever she saw this. Kristin caressed his small, thin limbs, held his feet in her hands. Never would this child lie there and reach with surprise for the sweet, strange, pale pink shapes that flailed in the air above him, which he didn’t recognize as his own legs. Never would these tiny feet walk on the earth.

After she had sat through all the arduous days of the week and kept watch over the dying child, then she would think as she dressed for church that surely she was humble enough now. She had forgiven Erlend; she no longer cared about him. If only she might keep her sweetest, her most precious possession, then she would gladly forgive the man.

But when she stood before the cross, whispering her Pater noster , and she came to the words sicut et nos dimittibus debitoribus nostris, then she would feel her heart harden, the way a hand clenches into a fist to strike. No!

Without hope, her soul aching, she would weep, for she could not make herself do it.

And so Erlend Erlendssøn died on the day before the Feast of Mary Magdalena, a little less than three months old.

CHAPTER 7

THAT AUTUMN BISHOP Halvard came north through the valley on an official church visit. He arrived in Sil on the day before Saint Matthew’s Day. It had been more than two years since the bishop had come that far north, so there were many children who were to be confirmed this time. Munan Erlendssøn was among them; he was now eight years old.

Kristin asked Ulf Haldorssøn to present the child to the bishop; she didn’t have a single friend in her home parish whom she could ask to do this. Ulf seemed pleased by her request. And so, when the church bells rang, the three of them walked up the hill: Kristin, Ulf, and the boy. Her other sons had been to the earlier mass—all of them except for Lavrans, who was in bed with a fever. They didn’t want to attend this mass because it would be so crowded in the church.

As they walked past the foreman’s house, Kristin noticed that many strange horses were tied to the fence outside. Farther along the road they were overtaken by Jardtrud, who was riding with a large entourage and raced past them. Ulf pretended not to see his wife and her kinsmen.

Kristin knew that Ulf had not set foot inside his own house since just after New Year’s. Things had apparently gotten worse than usual between him and his wife, and afterward he had moved his clothes chest and his weapons up to the high loft, where he now lived with the boys. Once, in early spring, Kristin had mentioned that it was wrong for there to be such discord between him and his wife. Then he had looked at her and laughed, and she said no more.

The weather was sunny and beautiful. High over the valley the sky was blue between the peaks. The yellow foliage of the birch-covered slopes was beginning to thin out, and in the countryside most of the grain had been cut, although a few acres of pale barley still swayed near the farms, and the second crop of hay stood green and wet with dew in the meadows. There were throngs of people at the church, and a great neighing and whinneying of stallions, because the church stables were full and many had been forced to tie up their horses outside.

A muted, rancorous uneasiness passed through the crowd as Kristin and her escort moved forward. A young man slapped his thigh and laughed but was fiercely hushed by his elders. Kristin walked with measured steps and erect bearing across the green and then entered the cemetery. She paused for a moment at her child’s grave and at that of Simon Andressøn. A flat gray stone had been placed on top of it, and on the stone was etched the likeness of a man wearing a helmet and coat of mail, leaning his hands on a big, triangular shield with his coat of arms. Around the edge of the stone were chiseled the words:

In pace. Simon Armiger. Proles Dom. Andreae Filii Gudmundi Militis Pater Noster.

Ulf was standing outside the south door; he had left his sword in the gallery.

At that moment Jardtrud entered the cemetery in the company of four men: her two brothers and two old farmers. One of them was Kolbein Jonssøn, who had been Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn’s arms bearer for many years. They walked toward the priest’s entrance south of the choir.

Ulf Haldorssøn raced over to block their way. Kristin heard them speaking rapidly and vehemently; Ulf was trying to prevent his wife and her escorts from going any farther. People in the churchyard drew nearer; Kristin too moved closer. Then Ulf jumped up onto the stone foundation on which the gallery rested, leaned in, and pulled out the first axe he could reach. When one of Jardtrud’s brothers tried to pull it out of his hand, Ulf leaped forward and swung the axe in the air. The blow fell on the man’s shoulder, and then people came running and seized hold of Ulf. He struggled to free himself. Kristin saw that his face was dark red, contorted, and desperate.

Then Sira Solmund and a cleric from the bishop’s party appeared in the priest’s doorway. They exchanged a few words with the farmers. Three men who bore the white shields of the bishop took Ulf away at once, leading him out of the cemetery, while his wife and her escorts followed the two priests into the church.

Kristin approached the group of farmers. “What is it?” she asked sharply. “Why did they take Ulf away?”

“Surely you saw that he struck a man in the cemetery,” replied one of them, his voice equally sharp. Everyone moved away from her so that she was left standing alone with her son at the church door.

Kristin thought she understood. Ulf’s wife wanted to present a complaint against him to the bishop. By losing mastery of his feelings and breaching the sanctity of the cemetery, he had placed himself in a difficult position. When an unfamiliar deacon came to the door and peered outside, she went over to him, told him her name, and asked whether she might be taken to the bishop.

Inside the church all the sacred objects had been set out, but the candles on the altars were not yet lit. A little sunshine fell through the round windows high overhead and streamed between the dark brown pillars. Many of the congregation had already entered the nave and were sitting on the benches along the wall. In front of the bishop’s seat in the choir stood a small group of people: Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter and her two brothers—Geirulv with his arm bandaged—Kolbein Jonssøn, Sigurd Geitung, and Tore Borghildssøn. Behind and on either side of the bishop’s carved chair stood two young priests from Hamar, several other men from the bishop’s party, and Sira Solmund.

All of them stared as the mistress of Jørundgaard stepped forward and courtsied deeply before the bishop.

Lord Halvard was a tall, stout man with an exceedingly venerable appearance. Beneath the red silk cap his hair gleamed snow-white at his temples, and his full, oval face was a blazing red. He had a strong, crooked nose and heavy jowls, and his mouth was as narrow as a slit, almost without lips, as it cut through his closely trimmed, grayish-white beard. But his bushy eyebrows were still dark above his glittering, coal-black eyes.

“May God be with you, Kristin Lavransdatter,” said Lord Halvard. He gave the woman a penetrating look from under his heavy eyebrows. With one of his large, pale old man’s hands he grasped the gold cross hanging on his chest; in the other hand, which rested on the lap of his dark violet robes, he held a wax tablet.

“What brings you to seek me out here, Mistress Kristin?” the bishop asked. “Don’t you think it would be more fitting if you waited until the afternoon and came to see me at Romundgaard to tell me what is in your heart?”

“Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter has sought you out here, Reverend Father,” replied Kristin. “Ulf Haldorssøn has now been in the service of my husband for thirty-five years; he has always been our loyal friend and helper and a good kinsman. I thought I might be able to help him in some way.”

Jardtrud uttered a low cry of scorn or indignation. Everyone else stared at Kristin: the parishioners with bitterness, the bishop’s party with intent curiosity. Lord Halvard cast a sharp glance around before he said to Kristin, “Are things such that you would venture to defend Ulf Haldorssøn? Surely you must know—” As she attempted to answer, he quickly added, raising one hand, “No one has the right to demand testimony from you in this matter—other than your husband—unless your conscience forces you to speak. Consider it carefully, before you—”

“I was mostly thinking, Lord Bishop, that Ulf let his temper get the better of him, and he took up arms at church; I thought I might aid him in this matter by offering to pay a guarantee. Or,” she said with great effort, “my husband will certainly do all he can to help his friend and kinsman in this case.”

The bishop turned impatiently to those standing nearby, who all seemed to be seized by strong emotions. “That woman doesn’t need to be here. Her spokesman can wait over in the nave. Go over there, all of you, while I speak to the mistress. And send the parishioners outside for the time being, and Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter along with them.”

One of the young priests had been busy laying out the bishop’s vestments. Now he carefully set the miter with the gold cross on top of the spread-out folds of the cope and went over to speak to the people in the nave. The others followed him. The congregation, along with Jardtrud, left the church, and the verger closed the doors.

“You mentioned your husband,” said the bishop, looking at Kristin with the same expression as before. “Is it true that last summer you sought to be reconciled with him?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“But you were not reconciled?”

“My Lord, forgive me for saying this, but . . . I have no complaints about my husband. I sought you out to speak of this matter regarding Ulf Haldorssøn.”

“Did your husband know you were carrying a child?” asked Lord Halvard. He seemed angered by her objection.

“Yes, my Lord,” she replied in a low voice.

“How did Erlend Nikulaussøn receive the news?” asked the bishop.

Kristin stood twisting a corner of her wimple between her fingers, her eyes on the floor.

“Did he refuse to be reconciled with you when he heard about this?”

“My Lord, forgive me . . .” Kristin had turned bright red. “Whether my husband Erlend acted one way or another toward me . . . if it would help Ulf’s case for him to come here, then I know that Erlend would hasten to his side.”

The bishop frowned as he looked at her. “Do you mean out of friendship for this man, Ulf? Or, now that the matter has come to light, will Erlend after all agree to acknowledge the child you gave birth to this spring?”

Kristin lifted her head and stared at the bishop with wide eyes and parted lips. For the first time she began to understand what his words signified.

Lord Halvard gave her a somber look. “It’s true, mistress, that no one other than your husband has the right to bring charges against you for this. But surely you must realize that he will bring upon both you and himself a great sin if he takes on the paternity of another man’s child in order to protect Ulf. It would be better for all of you, if you have sinned, to confess and repent of this sin.”

The color came and went in Kristin’s face. “Has someone said that my husband wouldn’t . . . that it was not his child?”

The bishop reluctantly replied, “Would you have me believe, Kristin, that you had no idea what people have been saying about you and your overseer?”

“No, I didn’t.” She straightened up, standing with her head tilted back slightly, her face white under the folds of her wimple. “I pray you, my Reverend Lord and Father—if people have been whispering rumors about me behind my back, then ask them to repeat them to my face!”

“No names have been mentioned,” replied the bishop. “That is against the law. But Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter has asked permission to leave her husband and go home with her kinsmen because she accuses him of keeping company with another woman, a married woman, and conceiving a child with her.”

For a moment both of them fell silent. Then Kristin repeated, “My Lord, I beg you to show me such mercy that you would demand these men to speak so that I might hear them, to say that I am supposed to be this woman.”

Bishop Halvard gave her a sharp and piercing look. Then he waved his hand, and the men in the nave approached and stood around his chair. Lord Halvard spoke: “You good men of Sil have come to me today at an inconvenient time, bringing a complaint which by rights should have been presented first to my plenipotentiary. I have acceded to this because I know that you cannot be fully knowledgeable of the law. But now this woman, Mistress Kristin Lavransdatter of Jørundgaard, has come to me with an odd request. She begs me to ask you if you dare say to her face what people have been saying in the parish: that her husband, Erlend Nikulaussøn, is not the father of the child she gave birth to this spring.”

Sira Solmund replied, “It has been said on every estate and in every hovel throughout the countryside that the child was conceived in adultery and with blood guilt, by the mistress and her overseer. And it seems to us hardly credible that she did not know of this rumor herself.”

The bishop was about to speak, but Kristin said, in a loud and firm voice, “So help me Almighty God, the Virgin Mary, Saint Olav, and the archbishop Saint Thomas, I did not know this lie was being said about us.”

“Then it’s hard to understand why you felt such a need to conceal the fact that you were with child,” said the priest. “You hid from everyone and barely came out of your house all winter.”

“It’s been a long time since I had any friends among the farmers of this parish; I’ve had so little to do with anyone here over the past few years. And yet I didn’t know until now that everyone seems to be my foe. But I came to church on every Sabbath,” she said.

“Yes, and you wrapped yourself up in cloaks and dressed so that no one might see you were growing big under your belt.”

“As any woman would do; surely any woman would want to look decent in the company of other people,” replied Kristin curtly.

The priest continued, “If the child was your husband’s, as you say, then surely you wouldn’t have tended to the infant so poorly that you caused him to die of neglect.”

One of the young priests from Hamar quickly stepped forward and caught hold of Kristin. A moment later she stood as she had before, pale and straight-backed. She thanked the priest with a nod of her head.

Sira Solmund vehemently declared, “That’s what the servingwomen at Jørundgaard said. My sister, who has been to the manor, witnessed it herself. The mistress went about with her breasts bursting with milk, so that her clothing was soaked through. But any woman who saw the boy’s body can testify that he died of starvation.”

Bishop Halvard put up his hand. “That’s enough, Sira Solmund. We will keep to the matter at hand, which is whether Jardtrud Herbrandsdatter had any other basis for her claims when she brought her case against her husband than that she had heard rumors, which the mistress here says are lies. And whether Kristin can dispute these rumors. Surely no one would claim that she laid hands on the child . . .”

But Kristin stood there, her face pale, and did not speak.

The bishop said to the parish priest, “But you, Sira Solmund, it was your duty to speak to this woman and let her know what was being said. Haven’t you done so?”

The priest blushed. “I have said heartfelt prayers for this woman, that she might willingly give up her stubborn ways and seek remorse and repentance. Her father was not my friend,” said the priest heatedly. “And yet I know that Lavrans of Jørundgaard was a righteous man and a firm believer. No doubt he might have deserved better, but this daughter of his has brought shame after shame upon him. She was barely a grown maiden before her loose ways caused two boys here in the parish to die. Then she broke her promise and betrothal to a fine and splendid knight’s son, whom her father had chosen to be her husband, and forced her own will, using dishonorable means, to win this man, who you, my Lord, know full well was condemned as a traitor and betrayer of the Crown. But I thought that at last her heart would have to soften when she saw how she was hated and scorned—she and all her family—and with the worst of reputations, living there at Jørundgaard, where her father and Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter had enjoyed the respect and love of everyone.

“But it was too much when she brought her son here today to be confirmed, and that man was supposed to present the boy to you when the whole parish knows that she lives with him in both adultery and blood guilt.”

The bishop gestured for the other man to be silent.

“Ulf’s rightful father was Sir Baard Petersøn of Hestnes. He had the same mother as his half brother Gaute Erlendssøn of Skogheim, who was Erlend Nikulaussøn’s maternal grandfather.”

Lord Halvard turned impatiently to Sira Solmund, “There is no blood guilt; her mother-in-law and Ulf are cousins. It would be a breach of kinship ties and a grave sin if it were true, but you need not make it any worse than that.”

“Ulf Haldorssøn is godfather to this woman’s eldest son,” said Sira Solmund.

The bishop looked at her, and Kristin answered, “Yes, my Lord.”

Lord Halvard sat in silence for a while.

“May God help you, Kristin Lavransdatter,” he said sorrowfully. “I knew your father in the past; I was his guest at Jørundgaard in my youth. I remember that you were a lovely, innocent child. If Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn had been alive, this would never have happened. Think of your father, Kristin. For his sake, you must put aside this shame and cleanse yourself, if you can.”

In a flash the memory came back to her; she recognized the bishop. A winter’s day at sunset . . . a red, rearing colt in the courtyard and a priest with a fringe of black hair around his flaming red face. Hanging on to the halter, splattered with froth, he was trying to tame the wild animal and climb on to its back without a saddle. Groups of drunken, laughing Christmas guests were crowding around, her father among them, red-faced from liquor and the cold, shouting loudly and merrily.

She turned toward Kolbein Jonssøn.

“Kolbein! You who have known me ever since I wore a child’s cap, you who knew me and my sisters back home with my father and mother . . . I know that you were so fond of my father that you . . . Kolbein, do you believe such a thing of me?”

The farmer Kolbein looked at her, his face stern and sorrowful. “Fond of your father, you say . . . Yes, we who were his men, poor servants and commoners who loved Lavrans of Jørundgaard and thought he was the kind of man that God wanted a chieftain to be . . .

“Don’t ask us, Kristin Lavransdatter, we who saw how your father loved you and how you rewarded his love, what we think you might be capable of doing!”

Kristin bowed her head to her breast. The bishop couldn’t get another word out of her; she would no longer answer his questions.

Then Lord Halvard stood up. Next to the high altar was a small door which led to the enclosed section of the gallery behind the apse of the choir. Part of it was used as the sacristy, and part of it was furnished with several little hatches through which the lepers could receive the Host when they stood out there and listened to the mass, separated from the rest of the congregation. But no one in the parish had suffered from leprosy for many years.

“Perhaps it would be best if you waited out there, Kristin, until everyone has come inside for the service. I want to talk to you later, but in the meantime you may go home to your family.”

Kristin curtsied before the bishop. “I would rather go home now, venerable Lord, with your permission.”

“As you please, Mistress Lavransdatter. May God protect you, Kristin. If you are guilty, then they will plead your defense: God Himself and His martyrs who are the lords of the church here: Saint Olav and Saint Thomas, who died for the sake of righteousness.”

Kristin curtsied once more before the bishop. Then she went through the priest’s door out into the cemetery.

A small boy wearing a new red tunic stood there all alone, his bearing stiff and erect. Munan tilted his pale child’s face up toward his mother for a moment, his eyes big and frightened.

Her sons . . . She hadn’t thought about them before. In a flash she saw her flock of boys: the way they had stood at the periphery of her life during the past years, crowding together like a herd of horses in a thunderstorm, alert and wary, far away from her as she struggled through the final death throes of her love. What had they understood, what had they thought, what had they endured as she wrestled with her passion? What would become of them now?

She held Munan’s small, scrubbed fist in her hand. The child stared straight ahead; his lips quivered slightly, but he held his head high.

Hand in hand Kristin Lavransdatter and her son walked across the churchyard and out onto the hillside. She thought about her sons, and she felt as if she would break down and collapse on the ground. The throngs of people moved toward the church door, as the bells rang from the nearby bell tower.

She had once heard a saga about a murdered man who couldn’t fall to the ground because he had so many spears in his body. She couldn’t fall as she walked along because of all the eyes piercing through her.

Mother and child entered the high loft room. Her sons were huddled around Bjørgulf, who was sitting at the table. Naakkve straightened up and stood over his brothers, with one hand on the shoulder of the half-blind boy. Kristin looked at the narrow, dark, blue-eyed visage of her firstborn son, with the soft, downy black beard around his mouth.

“You know about it?” she asked calmly, walking over to the group.

“Yes.” Naakkve spoke for all of them. “Gunhild was at church.”

Kristin paused for a moment. The other boys turned back to their eldest brother, until their mother asked, “Did any of you know that such things were being said in the countryside—about Ulf and me?”

Then Ivar Erlendssøn abruptly turned to face her. “Don’t you think you would have heard the clamor of our actions if we had? I know I couldn’t have sat still and let my mother be branded an adulteress—not even if I knew it was true that she was!”

Kristin gazed at them sorrowfully. “I wonder, my sons, what you must have thought about everything that has happened here over the last few years.”

The boys stood in silence. Then Bjørgulf lifted his face and looked up at his mother with his failing eyes. “Jesus Christus, Mother, what were we supposed to think? This past year and all the other years before that! Do you think it was easy for us to figure out what to think?”

Naakkve said, “Oh yes, Mother. I know I should have talked to you, but you behaved in such a way that made it impossible for us. And when you let our youngest brother be baptized as if you wanted to call our father a dead man—” He broke off, gesturing vehemently.

Bjørgulf continued. “You and Father thought of nothing else but your quarrel. Not about the fact that we had grown up to be men in the meantime. You never paid any heed to anyone who happened to come between your weapons and was dealt bloody wounds.”

He had leaped to his feet. Naakkve placed a hand on his shoulder. Kristin saw it was true: The two were grown men. She felt as if she were standing naked before them; she had shamelessly revealed herself to her children.

This was what they had seen most as they grew up: that their parents were getting old, that their youthful ardor was pitifully ill suited to them, and that they had not been able to age with honor and dignity.

Then the voice of a child cut through the silence. Munan shrieked in wild despair, “Mother! Are they coming to take you prisoner, Mother? Are they coming to take Mother away from us now?”

He threw his arms around her and buried his face against her waist. Kristin pulled him close, sank down onto a bench, and gathered the little boy into her arms. She tried to console him. “Little son, little son, you mustn’t cry.”

“No one can take Mother away from us.” Gaute came over and touched his little brother. “Don’t cry. They can’t do anything to her. You must get hold of yourself, Munan. Rest assured that we will protect our mother, my boy!”

Kristin sat holding the child tightly in her arms; she felt as if he had saved her with his tears.

Then Lavrans spoke, sitting up in bed with the flush of fever on his cheeks. “Well, what are you going to do, brothers?”

“When the mass is over,” said Naakkve, “we’ll go over to the parsonage and offer to pay a guarantee for our foster father. That’s the first thing we’ll do. Do you agree, my lads?”

Bjørgulf, Gaute, Ivar, and Skule assented.

Kristin said, “Ulf raised a weapon against a man in the cemetery. And I must do something to clear both his name and mine from these rumors. These are such serious matters, boys, that I think you young men must seek someone else’s counsel to decide what should be done.”

“Who should we ask for advice?” said Naakkve, a little scornfully.

“Sir Sigurd of Sundbu is my cousin,” replied his mother hesitantly.

“Since that has never occurred to him before,” said the young man in the same tone of voice, “I don’t think it fitting for the sons of Erlend to go begging to him now, when we’re in need. What do you say, brothers? Even if we’re not legally of age, we can still wield our weapons with skill, all five of us.”

“Boys,” said Kristin, “using weapons will get you nowhere in this matter.”

“You must let us decide that, Mother,” replied Naakkve curtly. “But now, Mother, I think you should let us eat. And sit down in your usual place—for the servants’ sake,” he said, as if he could command her.

She could hardly eat a thing. She sat and pondered . . . She didn’t dare ask whether they would now send word to their father. And she wondered how this case would be handled. She knew little of the law in such matters; no doubt she would have to refute the rumors by swearing an oath along with either five or eleven others.¹ If so, it would probably take place at the church of Ullinsyn in Vaagaa. She had kinsmen there on nearly every large estate, from her mother’s lineage. If her oath failed, and she had to stand before their eyes without being able to clear herself of this shameful charge . . . It would bring shame upon her father. He had been an outsider here in the valley. But he had known how to assert himself; everyone had respected him. Whenever Lavrans Bjørg ulfsøn took up a matter at a ting or a meeting, he had always won full support. Still, she knew it was on him that her shame would fall. She suddenly realized how alone her father had stood; in spite of everything, he was alone and a stranger among the people here every time she heaped upon him one more burden of sorrow and shame and disgrace.

She didn’t think she could ever feel this way anymore; again and again she had thought her heart would burst into bloody pieces, and now, once again, it felt as if it would break.

Gaute went out to the gallery and looked north. “People are leaving the church,” he said. “Shall we wait until they’ve gone some distance away?”

“No,” replied Naakkve. “Let them see that the sons of Erlend are coming. We should get ready now, lads. We had better wear our steel helmets.”

Only Naakkve owned proper armor. He left the coat of mail behind, but he put on his helmet and picked up his shield, his sword, and a long lance. Bjørgulf and Gaute put on the old iron hats that boys wore when they practiced sword fighting, while Ivar and Skule had to be content with the small steel caps that peasant soldiers still wore. Their mother looked at them. She had such a shattered feeling in her breast.

“It seems to me ill advised, my sons, for you to arm yourselves in this fashion to go over to the parsonage,” she said uneasily. “You shouldn’t forget about the peace of the Sabbath and the presence of the bishop.”

Naakkve replied, “Honor has grown scarce here at Jørund gaard, Mother. We have to pay dearly for whatever we can get.”

“Not you, Bjørgulf,” pleaded their mother fearfully, for the weak-sighted boy had picked up a big battleaxe. “Remember that you can’t see well, son!”

“Oh, I can see as far as I need to,” said Bjørgulf, weighing the axe in his hand.

Gaute went over to young Lavrans’s bed and took down their grandfather’s great sword, which the boy always insisted on keeping on the wall above his bed. He drew the blade from its scabbard and looked at it.

“You must lend me your sword, kinsman. I think our grandfather would be pleased if we took it along on this venture.”

Kristin wrung her hands as she sat there. She felt as if she would scream—with terror and the utmost dread, but also with a power that was stronger than either her torment or her fear. The way she had screamed when she gave birth to these men. Wound after countless wound she had endured in this life, but now she knew that they all had healed; the scars were as tender as raw flesh, but she knew that she would not bleed to death. Never had she felt more alive than she did now.

Blossoms and leaves had been stripped away from her, but she had not been cut down, nor had she fallen. For the first time since she had given birth to the children of Erlend Nikulaussøn, she completely forgot about the father and saw only her sons.

But the sons did not look at their mother, who sat there, pale, with strained and frightened eyes. Munan was still on her lap; he hadn’t let go of her even for a moment. The five boys left the loft.

Kristin stood up and stepped out onto the gallery. They emerged from behind the buildings and walked swiftly along the path toward Romundgaard between the pale, swaying acres of barley. Their steel caps and iron hats gleamed dully, but the sun glittered on Naakkve’s lance and on the spearpoints of the twins. She stood staring after the five young men. She was mother to them all.

Back inside she collapsed before the chest over which the picture of Mary hung. Sobs tore her apart. Munan began to cry too, and weeping, he crept close to his mother. Lavrans leaped out of bed and threw himself to his knees on the other side of her. She put her arms around both her youngest sons.

Ever since the infant had died, she had wondered why she should pray. Hard, cold, and heavy as stone, she had felt as if she were falling into the gaping maw of Hell. Now the prayers burst from her lips of their own volition; without any conscious will, her soul streamed toward Mary, maiden and mother, the Queen of Heaven and earth, with cries of anguish and gratitude and praise. Mary, Mary, I have so much—I still have endless treasures that can be plundered from me. Merciful Mother, take them into your protection!

There were many people in the courtyard of Romundgaard. When the sons of Erlend arrived, several farmers asked them what they wanted.

“We want nothing from you . . . yet,” said Naakkve, smiling slyly. “We have business with the bishop today, Magnus. Later my brothers and I may decide that we want to have a few words with the rest of you too. But today you have no need to fear us.”

There was a great deal of shouting and commotion. Sira Solmund came out and tried to forbid the boys to stay, but then several farmers took up their cause and said they should be allowed to make inquiries about this charge against their mother. The bishop’s men came out and told the sons of Erlend they would have to leave because food was being served and no one had time to listen to them. But the farmers were not pleased by this.

“What is it, good folks?” thundered a voice overhead. No one had noticed that Lord Halvard himself had come out onto the loft gallery. Now he was standing there in his violet robes, with the red silk cap on his white hair, tall and stout and looking like a chieftain. “Who are these young men?”

He was told that they were Kristin’s sons from Jørundgaard.

“Are you the oldest?” the bishop asked Naakkve. “Then I will talk to you. But the others must wait here in the courtyard in the meantime.”

Naakkve climbed the steps to the high loft and followed the bishop into the room. Lord Halvard sat down in the high seat and looked at the young man standing before him, leaning on his lance.

“What is your name?”

“Nikulaus Erlendssøn, my Lord.”

“Do you think you need to be so well armed, Nikulaus Er lendssøn, in order to speak to your bishop?” asked the other man with a little smile.

Nikulaus blushed bright red. He went over to the corner, put down his weapons and cape, and came back. He stood before the bishop, bareheaded, his face lowered, with one hand clasping the wrist of the other, his bearing easy and free, but seemly and respectful.

Lord Halvard thought that this young man had been taught courtly and noble manners. And he couldn’t have been a child when his father lost his riches and honorable position; he must certainly remember the time when he was considered the heir of Husaby. He was a handsome lad as well; the bishop felt great compassion for him.

“Were those your brothers, all those young men who were with you? How many of you are there, you sons of Erlend?”

“There are seven of us still living, my Lord.”

“So many young lives involved in this.” The bishop gave an involuntary sigh. “Sit down, Nikulaus. I suppose you want to talk to me about these rumors that have come forth about your mother and her overseer?”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I would prefer to stand.”

The bishop looked thoughtfully at the youth. Then he said slowly, “I must tell you, Nikulaus, that I find it difficult to believe that what has been said about Kristin Lavransdatter is true. And no one other than her husband has the right to accuse her of adultery. But then there is the matter of the kinship between your father and this man Ulf and the fact that he is your godfather. Jardtrud has presented her complaint in such a manner that there is much to indicate a lack of honor on your mother’s part. Do you know whether it’s true what she says: that the man often struck her and that he has shunned her bed for almost a year?”

“Ulf and Jardtrud did not live well together; our foster father was no longer young when he married, and he can be rather stubborn and hot-tempered. Toward myself and my brothers, and toward our father and mother, he has always been the most loyal kinsman and friend. That is the first request I intended to make of you, kind sir: If it is at all possible, that you would release Ulf as a free man against payment of a guarantee.”

“You are not yet of lawful age?” asked the bishop.

“No, my Lord. But our mother is willing to pay whatever guarantee you might demand.”

The bishop shook his head.

“But my father will do the same, I’m certain of that. It’s my intention to ride straight from here to see him, to tell him what has happened. If you would grant him an audience tomorrow . . .”

The bishop rested his chin on his hand and sat there stroking his beard with his thumb, making a faint scraping sound.

“Sit down, Nikulaus,” he said, “and we’ll be able to talk better.” Naakkve bowed politely and sat down. “So then it’s true that Ulf has refused to live with his wife?” he continued as if he just happened to remember it.

“Yes, my Lord. As far as I know . . .”

The bishop couldn’t help smiling, and then the young man smiled a little too.

“Ulf has been sleeping in the loft with all of us brothers since Christmas.”

The bishop sat in silence for a moment. “What about food? Where does he eat?”

“He had his wife pack provisions for him whenever he went into the woods or left the estate.” Naakkve’s expression grew a little uncertain. “There were some quarrels about that. Mother thought it best for him to take his meals with us, as he did before he was married. Ulf didn’t want to do that because he said people would talk if he changed the terms of the agreement which he and Father made when he set up his own household, about the goods that he would be given from the estate. And he didn’t think it was right for Mother to provide food for him again without some deductions in what he had been granted. But it was arranged as Mother wanted, and Ulf began taking his meals with us again. The other part was to be figured out later.”

“Hmm . . . Otherwise your mother has a reputation for keeping a close eye on her property, and she is an exceedingly enterprising and frugal woman.”

“Not with food,” said Naakkve eagerly. “Anyone will tell you that—any man or woman who has ever served on our estate. Mother is the most generous of women when it comes to food. In that regard she’s no different now from when we were rich. She’s never happier than when she can set some special dish on the table, and she makes such an abundance that every servant, right down to the goatherd and the beggar, receives his share of the good food.”

“Hmm . . .” The bishop sat lost in thought. “You mentioned that you wanted to seek out your father?”

“Yes, my Lord. Surely that must be the reasonable thing to do?” When the bishop didn’t reply, he continued. “We spoke to Father this winter, my brother Gaute and I. We also told him that Mother was with child. But we saw no sign, nor did we hear a single word from his lips, that might indicate he had doubts that Mother had not been as faithful as gold to him or that he was surprised. But Father has never felt at ease in Sil; he wanted to live on his own farm in Dovre, and Mother was up there for a while this summer. He was angry because she refused to stay and keep house for him. He wanted her to let Gaute and me manage Jørundgaard while she moved to Haugen.”

Bishop Halvard kept rubbing his beard as he studied the young man.

No matter what sort of man Erlend Nikulaussøn might be, surely he wouldn’t have been contemptible enough to accuse his wife of adultery before their young sons.

In spite of everything that seemed to speak against Kristin Lavransdatter, he just didn’t believe it. He thought she was telling the truth when she denied knowledge of the suspicions about her and Ulf Haldorssøn. And yet he remembered that this woman had been weak before, when desires of the flesh had beckoned; with loathsome deceit she and this man with whom she now lived in discord had managed to win Lavrans’s consent.

When the talk turned to the death of the child, he saw at once that her conscience troubled her. But even if she had neglected her child, she could not be brought before a court of law for that reason. She would have to repent before God, in accordance with the strictures of her confessor. And the child might still be her husband’s even if she had cared for it poorly. She couldn’t possibly be glad to be burdened with another infant, now that she was no longer young and had been abandoned by her husband, with seven sons already, and in much more meager circumstances than was their birthright. It would be unreasonable to expect that she could have had much love for that child.

He didn’t think she was an unfaithful wife, although only God knew what he had heard and experienced in the forty years he had been a priest and listened to confessions. But he believed her.

And yet there was only one way in which he could interpret Erlend Nikulaussøn’s behavior in this matter. He had refused to seek out his wife while she was with child, or after the birth, or when the infant died. He must have thought that he was not the father.

What now remained to find out was how the man would act. Whether he would stand up and defend his wife all the same, for the sake of his seven sons, as an honorable man would do. Or whether, now that these rumors were being openly discussed, he would bring charges against her. Based on what the bishop had heard about Erlend of Husaby, he wasn’t sure he could count on the man not to do this.

“Who are your mother’s closest kinsmen?” he asked.

“Jammælt Halvardssøn of Ælin is married to her sister, the widow of Simon Darre of Formo. She also has two cousins: Ketil Aasmundssøn of Skog and his sister, Ragna, who is married to Sigurd Kyrning. Ivar Gjesling of Ringheim and his brother, Haavard Trondssøn, are the sons of her mother’s brother. But all of them live far away.”

“What about Sir Sigurd Eldjarn of Sundbu? He and your mother are cousins. In a case like this the knight must step forward to defend his kinswoman, Nikulaus! You must seek him out this very day and tell him about this, my friend!”

Naakkve replied reluctantly, “Honorable Lord, there has been little kinship between him and us. And I don’t think, my Lord, that it would benefit Mother’s case if this man came to her defense. Erlend Eldjarn’s lineage is not well liked here in the villages. Nothing harmed my father more in the eyes of the people than the fact that the Gjeslings had joined him in the plot that cost us Husaby, while they lost Sundbu.”

“Yes, Erlend Eldjarn . . .” The bishop laughed a little. “Yes, he had a talent for disagreeing with people; he quarreled with all his kinsmen up here in the north. Your maternal grandfather, who was a pious man and not afraid to give in if it meant strengthening the peace and harmony among kin—even he couldn’t manage any better. He and Erlend Eldjarn were the bitterest of foes.”

“Yes.” Naakkve couldn’t help chuckling. “And it wasn’t over anything important either: two embroidered sheets and a blue-hemmed towel. Altogether they weren’t worth more than two marks. But my grandmother had impressed upon her husband that he must make sure to acquire these things when her father’s estate was settled, and Gudrun Ivarsdatter had also spoken of them to her own husband. Erlend Eldjarn finally seized them and hid them away in his traveling bag, but Lavrans took them out again. He felt he had the most right to these things, for it was Ragnfrid who had made them as a young maiden, while she was living at home at Sundbu. When Erlend became aware of this, he struck my grandfather in the face, and then Grandfather threw him to the floor three times and shook him like a pelt. After that they never spoke again, and it was all because of those scraps of fabric; Mother has them at home in her chest.”

The bishop laughed heartily. He knew this story well, which had amused everyone greatly when it occurred: that the husbands of the daughters of Ivar should be so eager to please their wives. But he had achieved what he intended: The features of the young man’s face had thawed into a smile, and the wary, anguished expression had been driven from his handsome blue-gray eyes for a moment. Then Lord Halvard laughed even louder.

“Oh yes, Nikulaus, they did speak to each other one more time, and I was present. It was in Oslo, at the Christmas banquet, the year before Queen Eufemia died. My blessed Lord King Haakon was talking to Lavrans; he had come south to bring his greetings to his lord and to pledge his loyal service. The king told him that this enmity between the husbands of two sisters was unchristian and the behavior of petty men. Lavrans went over to where Erlend Eldjarn was standing with several other royal retainers and asked him in a friendly manner to forgive him for losing his temper; he said he would send the things to Fru Gudrun with loving greetings from her brother and sister. Erlend replied that he would agree to reconcile if Lavrans would accept the blame before the men standing there and admit that he had acted like a thief and a robber with regard to the inheritance of their father-in-law. Lavrans turned on his heel and walked away—and that, I believe, was the last time Ivar Gjesling’s sons-in-law ever met on this earth,” concluded the bishop, laughing loudly.

“But listen to me, Nikulaus Erlendssøn,” he said, placing the palms of his hands together. “I don’t know whether it would be wise to make such haste to bring your father here or to set this Ulf Haldorssøn free. It seems to me that your mother must clear her name since there has been so much talk that she has sinned. But as matters now stand, do you think it would be easy for Kristin to find the women willing to swear the oath along with her?”

Nikulaus looked up at the bishop; his eyes grew uncertain and fearful.

“But wait a few days, Nikulaus! Your father and Ulf are strangers in the region and not well liked. Kristin and Jardtrud both are from here in the valley, but Jardtrud is from much farther south, while your mother is one of their own. And I’ve noticed that Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn has not been forgotten by the people. It looks as if they mostly had intended to chastise her because she seemed to them a bad daughter. And yet already I can see that many realize the father would be poorly served by raising such an outcry against his child. They are remorseful and repentant, and soon there will be nothing they wish for more than that Kristin should be able to clear her name. And perhaps Jardtrud will have scant evidence to present when she has a look inside her bag. But it’s another matter if her husband goes around turning people against him.”

“My Lord,” said Naakkve, looking up at the bishop, “forgive me for saying this, but I find this difficult to accept. That we should do nothing for our foster father and that we should not bring our father to stand at Mother’s side.”

“Nevertheless, my son,” said Bishop Halvard, “I beg you to take my advice. Let us not hasten to summon Erlend Nikulaussøn here. But I will write a letter to Sir Sigurd of Sundbu, asking him to come see me at once. What’s that?” He stood up and went out on the gallery.

Against the wall of the building stood Gaute and Bjørgulf Er lendssøn, and several of the bishop’s men were threatening them with weapons. Bjørgulf struck a man to the ground with a blow of his axe as the bishop and Naakkve came outside. Gaute defended himself with his sword. Some farmers seized hold of Ivar and Skule, while others led away the wounded man. Sira Solmund stood off to the side, bleeding from his mouth and nose.

“Halt!” shouted Lord Halvard. “Throw down your weapons, you sons of Erlend.” He went down to the courtyard and approached the young men, who obeyed at once. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sira Solmund stepped forward, bowed, and said, “I can tell you, Reverend Father, that Gaute Erlendssøn has broken the peace of the Sabbath and struck me, his parish priest, as you can see!”

Then a middle-aged farmer stepped forward, greeted the bishop, and said, “Reverend Father, the boy was sorely provoked. This priest spoke of his mother in such a way that it would be difficult to expect Gaute to listen peaceably.”

“Keep silent, priest. I cannot listen to more than one of you at a time,” said Lord Halvard impatiently. “Speak, Olav Trondssøn.”

Olav Trondssøn said, “The priest tried to rankle the sons of Erlend, but Bjørgulf and Gaute countered his words, calmly enough. Gaute also said what we all know is true: that Kristin was with her husband at Dovre for a time this past summer, and that’s when he was conceived, the poor infant who has stirred up all this trouble. But then the priest said the people of Jørundgaard have always had so much book learning—no doubt she knew the story of King David and Bathsheba—but Erlend Nikulaussøn might have been just as cunning as Uriah the knight.”²

The bishop’s face turned as purple as his robes; his black eyes flashed. He looked at Sira Solmund for a moment, but he did not speak to him.

“Surely you must know, Gaute Erlendssøn, that with this deed you have brought the ban of the Church upon your head,” he said. Then he ordered the sons of Erlend to be escorted home to Jørundgaard; he sent along two of his men and four farmers, whom the bishop selected from among the most honorable and sensible, to keep guard over them.

“You must go with them as well, Nikulaus,” he told Naakkve. “But stay calm. Your brothers have not helped your mother, but I realize they were sorely vexed.”

In his heart the bishop of Hamar didn’t think that Kristin’s sons had harmed her case. He saw that there were already many who held a different opinion of the mistress of Jørundgaard than they had in the morning, when she caused the goblet to overflow by coming to church with Ulf Haldorssøn so that he might be godfather to her son. One of them was Kolbein Jonssøn, so Lord Halvard put him in charge of the guards.

Naakkve was the first to enter the high loft where Kristin was sitting on the bed with Lavrans, holding Munan on her lap. He told her what had happened but put great weight on the fact that the bishop considered her innocent and also thought the younger brothers had been greatly provoked to react as violently as they had. He counseled his mother not to seek out the bishop herself.

Then the four brothers were escorted into the room. Their mother stared at them; she was pale, with an odd look in her eye. In the midst of her deep despair and anguish, she felt again the strange swelling of her heart, as if it might burst. And yet she said calmly to Gaute, “Ill advised was your behavior, son, and you brought little honor to the sword of Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn by drawing it against a crowd of farmers who stood there gnawing on rumors.”

“First I drew it against the bishop’s armed men,” said Gaute indignantly. “But it’s true it did little honor to our grandfather that we had to bear arms against anyone for such a reason.”

Kristin looked at her son. Then she had to turn away. As much as his words pained her, she had to smile too—like when a child bites his mother’s nipple with his first teeth, she thought.

“Mother,” said Naakkve, “now I think it best if you go, and take Munan with you. You mustn’t leave him alone even for a moment until he is calmer,” he said quietly. “Keep him indoors so he doesn’t see that his brothers are under guard.”

Kristin stood up. “My sons, if you don’t think me undeserving, then I would ask that you kiss me before I leave.”

Naakkve, Bjørgulf, Ivar, and Skule went over and kissed her. The one who had been banned gave his mother a sorrowful look; when she held out her hand to him, he took a fold of her sleeve and kissed it. Kristin saw that all of them, except for Gaute, were now taller than she was. She straightened up Lavrans’s bed a bit, and then she left with Munan.

There were four buildings with lofts at Jørundgaard: the high loft house, the new storeroom—which had been the summer quarters during Kristin’s childhood, before Lavrans built the large house—the old storeroom, and the salt shed, which also had a loft. That’s where the servingwomen slept in the summer.

Kristin went up to the loft above the new storeroom with Munan. The two of them had slept there ever since the death of the infant. She was pacing back and forth when Frida and Gunhild brought the evening porridge. Kristin asked Frida to see to it that the guardsmen were given ale and food. The maid replied that she had already done so—at Naakkve’s bidding—but the men had said they would not accept anything from Kristin since they were at her manor for such a purpose. They had received food and drink from somewhere else.

“Even so, you must have a keg of foreign ale brought to them.”

Gunhild, the younger maid, was red-eyed from weeping. “None of the house servants believes this of you, Kristin Lavransdatter; surely you must know that. We always said that we knew it was a lie.”

“So you have heard this gossip before?” said her mistress. “It would have been better if you had mentioned it to me.”

“We didn’t dare because of Ulf,” said Frida.

And Gunhild said as she wept, “He warned us to keep it from you. I often thought that I should mention it and beg you to be more wary . . . when you would sit and talk to Ulf until late into the night.”

“Ulf . . . so he has known about this?” asked Kristin softly.

“Jardtrud has accused him of it for a long time; that was apparently always the reason that he struck her. One evening during Christmas, about the time when you were growing heavy, we were sitting and drinking with them in the foreman’s house. Solveig and Øivind were there too, along with several people from south in the parish. Suddenly Jardtrud said that he was the one who had caused it. Ulf hit her with his belt so the buckle drew blood. Since then Jardtrud has gone around saying that Ulf did not deny it with a single word.”

“And ever since people have been talking about this in the countryside?” asked the mistress.

“Yes. But those of us who are your servants have always denied it,” said Gunhild in tears.

To calm Munan, Kristin had to lie down next to the boy and take him in her arms, but she did not undress, and she did not sleep that night.

In the meantime, up in the high loft, young Lavrans had gotten out of bed and put on his clothes. Toward evening, when Naakkve went downstairs to help tend to the livestock, the boy went out to the stable. He saddled the red gelding that belonged to Gaute; it was the best horse except for the stallion, which he didn’t trust himself to ride.

Several of the men standing guard on the estate came out and asked the boy where he was headed.

“I didn’t know that I was a prisoner too,” replied young Lavrans. “But I don’t need to hide it from you. Surely you wouldn’t refuse to allow me to ride to Sundbu to bring back the knight to defend his kinswoman.”

“It will soon be dark, my boy,” said Kolbein Jonssøn. “We can’t let this child ride across Vaage Gorge at night. We must speak to his mother.”

“No, don’t do that,” said Lavrans. His lips quivered. “The purpose of my journey is such that I will trust in God and the Virgin Mary to keep watch over me, if my mother is without blame. And if not, then it makes little difference—” He broke off, for he was close to tears.

The man stood in silence for a moment. Kolbein gazed at the handsome, fair-haired child. “Go on then, and may God be with you, Lavrans Erlendssøn,” he said, and was about to help the boy into the saddle.

But Lavrans led the horse forward so the men had to step aside. At the big boulder near the manor gate, he climbed up and then flung himself onto the back of Raud. Then he galloped westward, along the road to Vaagaa.