For the Christmas banquet at Formo, Ramborg seated Ulf Hal dorssøn’s young wife in a place of honor, showing both of them such respect as was seemly toward a newly married couple. And she went to Jørundgaard to be with Jardtrud when she gave birth.
That took place a month after Christmas—two months too soon, and the boy was stillborn. Then Jardtrud flew into a fury. If she had known that things might go this way, she would never have married Ulf. But now it was done and could not be helped.
What Ulf Haldorssøn thought about the matter, no one knew. He didn’t say a word.
During the week before Mid-Lent, Erlend Nikulaussøn and Simon Andressøn rode south together to Kvam. Several years before Lavrans died, he and a few other farmers had purchased a small estate in the village there. Now the original owners of the manor wanted to buy it back, but it was rather unclear how things had been handled in the past as far as offering the land to the heirs,
2
or whether the kinsmen of the sellers had claimed their rights in lawful fashion. When Lavrans’s estate had been settled after his death, his share in this farm had been excluded, along with several other small properties that might involve legal proceedings over proof of ownership. The two sisters then divided up the income from them. That was why both of Lavrans’s sons-in-law were now appearing on behalf of their wives.
A good number of people had gathered, and because the tenant’s wife and children lay sick in bed in the main house, the men had to make do with meeting in an old outbuilding on the farm. It was drafty and in terrible disrepair; everyone kept on his fur cape. Each man placed his weapons within reach and kept his sword on his belt; no one had a desire to stay any longer than necessary. But they would at least have a bite to eat before they parted, and so at the time of midafternoon prayers, when the discussion was over, the men took out their bags of provisions and sat down to eat, with the packets lying next to them on the benches or in front of them on the floor. There was no table in the building.
The parish priest of Kvam had sent his son, Holmgeir Moi sessøn, in his stead. He was a devious and untrustworthy young man, whom few people liked. But his father was greatly admired, and his mother had belonged to a respected family. Holmgeir was a tall and strong fellow, hot-blooded and quick to turn on people, so no one wished to quarrel with the priest’s son. There were also many who thought him an able and witty speaker.
Simon hardly knew him and didn’t like his looks. He had a long, narrow face with pale freckles and a thin upper lip, which made his big yellow front teeth gleam like a rat’s. But Sira Moises had been Lavrans’s good friend, and for a time the son had been raised at Jørundgaard, partly as a servant and partly as a foster son, until his father had acknowledged him as his own.
3
For this reason Simon was always friendly when he met Holmgeir Moi sessøn.
Now Holmgeir had rolled a stump over to the hearth and was sitting there, sticking slices of meat—roasted thrush with pieces of bacon—on his dagger and heating them in the fire. He had been ill and had been granted fourteen days’ indulgence, he told the others, who were chewing on bread and frozen fish as the fragrant smell of Holmgeir’s meat rose up to their noses.
Simon was in a bad humor—not truly angry but slightly dejected and embarrassed. The whole property matter was difficult to sort out, and the documents he had received from his father-in-law were very unclear; and yet when he left home, he thought that he understood them. He had compared them with other documents, but now when he heard the statements of the witnesses and saw the other evidence that was put forth, he realized that his view of the matter wouldn’t hold up. But none of the other men had any better grasp of it—particularly not the sheriff’s envoy, who was also present. It was suggested that the case would have to be brought up before a
ting.
Then Erlend suddenly spoke and asked to see the documents.
Up to that moment he had sat and listened, almost as if he had no interest in the matter. Now he seemed to wake up. He carefully read through all the documents, a few of them several times. Then he explained the situation, clearly and briefly: Such and such were the provisions of the lawbooks, and in such a way they could be interpreted. The vague and clumsy phrases in the documents had to mean either this or that. If the case were brought before a
ting
, it would be decided in either this or that manner. Then he proposed a solution with which the original owners might be satisfied but which was not entirely to the detriment of the present owners.
Erlend stood up as he spoke, with his left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his right hand carelessly holding the stack of documents. He acted as if he were the one in charge of the meeting, although Simon could see that he wasn’t aware of this himself. He was used to standing up and speaking in this manner when he used to hold sheriff
tings
in his county. When he turned to one of the others to ask if something was so and if the man understood what he was explaining, he spoke as if he were interrogating a witness—not without courtesy and yet as if it were his place to ask the questions and the other man’s place to answer. When he was done speaking, he handed the documents to the envoy as if the man could be his servant and sat down. While the others discussed the matter and Simon also stated his opinion, Erlend listened, but in such a fashion as if he had no stake in the case. His replies were curt, clear, and instructive if anyone happened to address him, but all the while he scraped his fingernail on some grease spots that had appeared on his tunic, straightened his belt, picked up his gloves, and seemed to be waiting rather impatiently for the conversation to come to an end.
The others agreed to the arrangement that Erlend had proposed, and it was one that Simon could be tolerably satisfied with; he would have been unlikely to win anything more from a court case.
But he had fallen into a bad mood. He knew full well that it was childish of him to be cross because his brother-in-law had understood the matter while he had not. It was reasonable that Erlend should be better able to interpret the word of law and decipher confusing documents, since for years it had been his role to explain the statutes to people and settle disputes. But it had come upon Simon quite unexpectedly. The night before at Jørundgaard, when he talked to Erlend and Kristin about the meeting, Erlend hadn’t mentioned any opinion; he seemed to listen with only half an ear. Yes, it was clear that Erlend would be better versed in the law than ordinary farmers, but it was as if the law were no concern of his as he sat there and counseled the others with friendly indifference. Simon had a vague feeling that in some way Erlend had never respected the law as a guide in his own life.
It was also strange that he could stand up in that manner, completely untroubled. He had to be aware that this made the others think about who and what he had been and what his situation now was. Simon could feel the others thinking about this; some probably resented this man, who never seemed to care what other people thought of him. But no one said anything. When the blue-frozen clerk who had come with the envoy sat down and put the writing board on his lap, he addressed all his questions to Erlend, and Erlend spelled things out for him as he sat holding a few pieces of straw, which he had picked up from the floor, twining them around his long tan fingers and weaving them into a ring. When the clerk was finished, he handed the calfskin to Erlend, who tossed the straw ring into the hearth, took the letter, and read it half aloud:
“ ‘To all men who see or hear this document, greetings from God and from Simon Andressøn of Formo, Erlend Nikulaussøn of Jørundgaard, Vidar Steinssøn of Klaufastad, Ingemund and Toralde Bjørnssøn, Bjørn Ingemundssøn of Lundar, Alf Einarssøn, Holmgeir Moisessøn . . .’
“Do you have the wax ready?” he asked the clerk, who was blowing on his frozen fingers. “ ‘Let it be known that in the year of our Lord, one thousand three hundred and thirty-eight winters, on the Friday before Mid-Lent Sunday, we met at Granheim in the parish of Kvam . . .’
“We can take the chest that’s standing in the alcove, Alf, and use it as a table.” Erlend turned to the envoy as he gave the document back to the scribe.
Simon remembered how Erlend had been when he was in the company of his peers up north. Easy and confident enough; he wasn’t lacking in that regard. Impetuous and rash in his speech, but always with something slightly ingratiating about his manner. He was not in the least indifferent to what others thought of him if he considered them his peers or kinsmen. On the contrary, he had doubtless put great effort into winning their approval.
With an oddly fierce sense of bitterness, Simon suddenly felt allied with these farmers from here in the valley—men whom Erlend respected so little that he didn’t even wonder what they might think of him. He had done it for Erlend’s sake. For his sake Simon had parted with the circles of the gentry and well-to-do. It was all very well to be the rich farmer of Formo, but he couldn’t forget that he had turned his back on his peers, kinsmen, and the friends of his youth. Because he had assumed the role of a supplicant among them, he no longer had the strength to meet them, hardly had the strength to think of it at all. For this brother-in-law of his he had as good as denied his king and departed from the ranks of royal retainers. He had revealed to Erlend something that he found more bitter than death to recall whenever it entered his thoughts. And yet Erlend behaved toward him as if he had understood nothing and remembered nothing. It didn’t seem to trouble the fellow at all that he had wreaked havoc with another man’s life.
At that moment Erlend said to him, “We should see about leaving, Simon, if we want to make it back home tonight. I’ll go out and see to the horses.”
Simon looked up, feeling a strange ill will at the sight of the other man’s tall, handsome figure. Under the hood of his cape Erlend wore a small black silk cap that fit snugly to his head and was tied under his chin. His lean dark face with the big pale blue eyes sunk deep in the shadow of his brow looked even younger and more refined under that cap.
“And pack up my bag in the meantime,” he said from the door as he went out.
The other men had continued to talk about the case. It was quite peculiar, said one of them, that Lavrans hadn’t been able to arrange things better; the man usually knew what he was doing. He was the most experienced of farmers in all matters regarding the purchase and sale of land.
“It’s probably my father who is to blame,” said Holmgeir, the priest’s son. “He said as much this morning. If he had listened to Lavrans back then, everything would have been plain and clear. But you know how Lavrans was. . . . Toward priests he was always as amenable and submissive as a lamb.”
Even so, Lavrans of Jørundgaard had always guarded his own welfare, said someone else.
“Yes, and no doubt he thought he was doing so when he followed the priest’s advice,” said Holmgeir, laughing. “That can be the wise thing to do, even with earthly matters—as long as you’re not eyeing the same patch that the Church has set its sights on.”
Lavrans had been a strangely pious man, thought Vidar. He had never spared either property or livestock with regard to the Church or the poor.
“No,” said Holmgeir thoughtfully. “Well, if I’d been such a rich man, I too might have had a mind to pay out sums for the peace of my soul. But I wouldn’t have given away my goods with both hands, the way he did, and then walk around with red eyes and white cheeks every time I’d been to see the priest to confess my sins. And Lavrans went to confession every month.”
“Tears of remorse are the fair gifts of grace from the Holy Spirit, Holmgeir,” said old Ingemund Bjørnssøn. “Blessed is he who can weep for his sins here in this world; all the easier it will be for him to enter the other. . . .”
“Then Lavrans must have been in Heaven long ago,” said Holmgeir, “considering the way he fasted and disciplined his flesh. I’ve heard that on Good Friday he would lock himself in the loft above the storeroom and lash himself with a whip.”
“Hold your tongue,” said Simon Andressøn, trembling with bitterness; his face was blood red. Whether Holmgeir’s remark was true or not, he didn’t know. But when he was cleaning up his father-in-law’s belongings, he had found a small, oblong wooden box in the bottom of his book chest, and inside lay a silk whip that the cloisters called a flagellum. The braided strips of leather bore dark spots, which might have been blood. Simon had burned it, with a feeling of sad reverence. He realized that he had come upon something in the other man’s life that Lavrans had never wanted a living soul to see.
“I don’t think he would talk about such things to his servants, in any case,” said Simon when he trusted himself to speak.
“No, it’s just something that people have made up,” replied Holmgeir. “Surely he didn’t have such sins to repent that he would need to—” The man gave a little sneer. “If I had lived as blameless and Christian a life as Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn, and been married to a mournful woman like Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter, I think I would have wept for the sins that I
hadn’t
committed—”
Simon leaped up and struck Holmgeir in the mouth so the man tumbled back toward the hearth. His dagger fell to the floor, and in the next instant he grabbed it and tried to stab the other man. Simon shielded himself with his arm holding his cape as he seized Holmgeir’s wrist with his other hand and tried to wrest the dagger away. In the meantime the priest’s son aimed a number of blows at his face. Simon then gripped him by both arms, but the young man sank his teeth into Simon’s hand.
“You dare to bite me, you dog!” Simon let go, took several steps back, and pulled his sword from its sheath. He fell upon Holmgeir so that his young body arched back, with a few inches of steel buried in his chest. A moment later Holmgeir’s body slipped from the sword point and fell heavily, halfway in the hearth fire.