Simon did not reply.
Erlend continued. “No doubt I’ll have to pay fines for the injuries.” He smiled to himself. “And I own no other piece of Norwegian land than the farm at Dovre.”
“How big of a farm
is
Haugen?” asked Simon.
“I don’t remember exactly; it says in the deed. But the people who work the land harvest only a small amount of hay. No one wants to live there; I’ve heard that the buildings are in great disrepair. You know what people say: that the dead spirits of my aunt and Herr Bjørn haunt the place.
“But I know that I will win thanks from my wife for what I did today. Kristin is fond of you, Simon—as if you were her own brother.”
Simon’s smile was almost imperceptible as he sat there in the shadows. He had pushed the log chair back a bit and had put his hand up to shield his eyes from the heat of the flames. But Erlend was as happy as a cat in the heat. He sat close to the hearth, leaning against a corner of the bench, with one arm resting along its back and his wounded leg propped up on the opposite side.
“Yes, she had such charming words to say about it one day this past fall,” said Simon after a moment. There was an almost mocking ring to his voice.
“When our son was ill, she showed that she was a loyal sister,” he said somberly, but then that slightly jesting tone was back. “Well, Erlend, we have kept faith with each other the way we swore to do when we gave our hands to Lavrans and vowed to stand by each other as brothers.”
Yes,” said Erlend, unsuspecting. “I’m glad for what I did to day too, Simon, my brother-in-law.” They both fell silent for a while. Then Erlend hesitantly stretched out his hand to the other man. Simon took it. They clasped each other’s fingers tightly, then let go and huddled back in their seats, a little embarrassed.
Finally Erlend broke the silence. For a long time he had been sitting with his chin in his hand, staring into the hearth, where only a tiny flame now flickered, flaring up, dancing a bit, and playing over the charred pieces of wood, which broke apart and collapsed with brittle little sighs. Soon there would be only black coals and glowing embers left of the fire.
Erlend said quite softly, “You have treated me so magnanimously, Simon Darre, that I think few men are your equal. I . . . I haven’t forgotten . . .”
“Silence! You don’t know, Erlend . . . Only God in Heaven knows everything that resides in a man’s mind,” whispered Simon, frightened and distraught.
“That’s true,” said Erlend in the same quiet and somber tone of voice. “We all need Him to judge us . . . with mercy. But a man must judge a man by what he
does
. And I . . . I . . . May God reward you, brother-in-law!”
Then they sat in dead silence, not daring to move for fear of being shamed.
Suddenly Erlend let his hand fall to his knee. A fiery blue ray of light flashed from the stone on the ring he wore on his right index finger. Simon knew that Kristin had given it to Erlend when he was released from the prison tower.
“But you must remember, Simon,” he said in a low voice, “the old saying: Many a man is given what was intended for another, but no one is given another man’s fate.”
Simon raised his head sharply. Slowly his face flushed blood red; the veins at his temples stood out like dark, twisted cords.
Erlend glanced at him for a moment but quickly withdrew his eyes. Then he too turned crimson. A strangely delicate and girlish blush spread over his tan skin. He sat motionless, embarrassed and confused, with his little, childish mouth open.
Simon stood up abruptly and went over to the bed.
“You’ll want to take the outside edge, I presume.” He tried to speak calmly and with nonchalance, but his voice quavered.
“No, I’ll let you decide,” said Erlend numbly. He got to his feet. “The fire?” he asked, flustered. “Should I cover the ashes?” He began raking the hearth.
“Finish that and then come to bed,” said Simon in the same tone. His heart was pounding so hard that he could barely talk.
In the dark Erlend, soundless as a shadow, slipped under the covers on the outer edge of the bed and lay down, as quiet as a forest creature. Simon thought he would suffocate from having the other man in his bed.
CHAPTER 6
EVERY YEAR DURING Easter week Simon Andressøn held an ale feast for the people of the village. They came to Formo on the third day after mass and stayed until Thursday.
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.
One game that was a favorite among the men was pretending to hold a
ting
. They would read summons documents, present grievances, proclaim new laws and modify old ones, but they always twisted the words around and said them backward. Audun Tor bergssøn could recite King Haakon’s letter to the merchants of Bjørgvin:
1
what they could charge for men’s hose and for leather soles on a woman’s shoes, about the men who made swords and big and small shields. But he would mix up the words until they were all jumbled and sheer babble. This game always ended with the men not having any idea what they were saying. Kristin remembered from her childhood that her father would never allow the jesting to turn to ridicule of anything related to the Church or divine services. But otherwise Lavrans thought it great fun when he and his guests would compete by jumping up on the tables and benches while they merrily shouted all manner of coarse and unseemly nonsense.
Simon was usually most fond of games in which a man was blindfolded and had to search through the ashes for a knife, or two people had to bob for pieces of gingerbread in a big bowl of ale. The other guests would try to make them laugh, and the ale would spray all around. Or they were supposed to use their teeth to dig a ring out of a flour bin. The hall would soon take on the look of a pigsty.
But this year they had such surprisingly glorious spring weather for Easter. On Wednesday by early morning it was already sunny and warm, and right after breakfast everyone went out to the courtyard. Instead of making a noisy ruckus, the young people played with balls, or shot at targets or had tugs-of-war with a rope. Later they played the stag game or the woodpile dance,
2
and afterward they persuaded Geirmund of Kruke to sing and play his harp. Soon everyone, both young and old, had joined the dance. Snow still covered the fields, but the alder trees were brown with buds, and the sun shone warm and lovely on all the bare slopes. When the guests came outside after supper, there were birds singing everywhere. Then they made a bonfire in the field beyond the smithy, and they sang and danced until late into the night. The next morning everyone stayed in bed a long time and left the banquet manor much later than usual. The guests from Jørundgaard were normally the last to depart, but this time Simon persuaded Erlend and Kristin to stay until the following day. Those from Kruke were to stay at Formo until the end of the week.
Simon had accompanied the last of his guests up to the main road. The evening sun was shining so beautifully on his estate, spread out over the hillside. He was warm and in high spirits from the drinking and noise of the feast. He walked back between the fences, homeward to the calm and pleasant goodwill that prevails when a small circle of close kin remains after a great banquet. He felt so light of heart and happier than he had been for a long time.
Down in the field near the smithy they had lit another bonfire: Erlend’s sons, Sigrid’s older children, Jon Daalk’s sons, and his own daughters. Simon leaned over the fence for a moment to watch. Ulvhild’s scarlet feast day gown gleamed and rippled in the sun. She ran back and forth, dragging branches over to the fire, and suddenly she was stretched out full length on the ground! Her father shouted merrily, but the children didn’t hear him.
In the courtyard two serving maids were tending to the smallest of the children. They were sitting against the wall of the women’s house, basking in the sun. Above their heads the evening light gleamed like molten gold on the small glass windowpane. Simon picked up little Inga Geirmundsdatter, tossed her high in the air, and then held her in his arms. “Can you sing for your uncle today, pretty Inga?” Then her brother and Andres both fell upon Simon, wanting to be tossed up in the air too.
Whistling, he climbed the stairs to the great hall in the loft. The sun was shining into the room so splendidly; they had let the door stand open. A wondrous calm reigned over everyone. At the end of the table Erlend and Geirmund were bent over the harp, on which they were putting new strings. They had the mead horn standing near them on the table. Sigrid was in bed, nursing her youngest son. Kristin and Ramborg were sitting with her, and a silver mug stood on a footstool between the sisters.
Simon filled his own gilded goblet to the brim with wine, went over to the bed, and drank a toast to Sigrid. “I see that all have quenched their thirst, except you, my sister!”
Laughing, she propped herself up on her elbow and accepted the goblet. The infant began howling crossly at being disturbed.
Simon sat down on the bench, still whistling softly, and listened with half an ear to what the others were saying. Sigrid and Kristin were talking about their children; Ramborg was silent, fiddling with a windmill that belonged to Andres. The men at the table were strumming the harp, trying it out; Geirmund picked out a melody on the harp and sang along. They both had such charming voices.
After a while Simon went out to the gallery, leaned against the carved post, and gazed out. From the cowshed came the eternally hungry lowing. If this weather held on for a time, perhaps the spring shortages wouldn’t last as long this year.
Kristin was approaching. He didn’t have to turn around; he recognized her light step. She stepped forward and stood at his side in the evening sun.
So fair and graceful, she had never seemed to him more beautiful. And all of a sudden he felt as if he had somehow been lifted up and were swimming in the light. He let out a long breath. Suddenly he thought: It was simply good to be alive. A rich and golden bliss washed over him.
She was his own sweet love. All the troubled and bitter thoughts he had had seemed nothing more than half-forgotten foolishness. My poor love. If only I could comfort you. If only you could be happy again. I would gladly give up my life if it would help you.
Oh yes, he could see that her lovely face looked older and more careworn. She had an abundance of fine, little wrinkles under her eyes, and her skin had lost its delicate hue. It had become coarser and tan from the sun, but she was pale under the tan. And yet to him she would surely always be just as beautiful. Her big gray eyes, her fine, calm mouth, her round little chin, and her steady, subdued demeanor were the fairest he knew on earth.
It was a pleasure to see her once again dressed in a manner befitting a highborn woman. The thin little silk wimple covered only half of her golden brown tresses; her braids had been pinned up so they peeked out in front of her ears. There were streaks of gray in her hair now, but that didn’t matter. And she was wearing a magnificent blue surcoat made of velvet and trimmed with marten fur. The bodice was cut so low and the sleeve holes so deep that the garment clung to her breast and shoulders like the narrow straps of a bridle. It looked so lovely. Underneath there was a glimpse of something sand yellow, a gown that fit snugly to her body, all the way up to her throat and down to her wrists. It was held closed with dozens of tiny gilded buttons, which touched him so deeply. God forgive him—all those little golden buttons gave him as much joy as the sight of a flock of angels.
He stood there and felt the strong, steady beat of his own heart. Something had fallen away from him—yes, like chains. Vile, hateful dreams—they were just phantoms of the night. Now he could see the love he felt for her in the light of day, in full sunlight.
“You’re looking at me so strangely, Simon. Why are you smiling like that?”
The man gave a quiet, merry laugh but did not reply. Before them stretched the valley, filled with the golden warmth of the evening sun. Flocks of birds warbled and chirped metallically from the edge of the woods. Then the full, clear voice of the song thrush rang out from somewhere inside the forest. And here she stood, warmed by the sun, radiant in her brilliant finery, having emerged from the dark, cold house and the rough, heavy clothing that smelled of sweat and toil. My Kristin, it’s good to see you this way again.
He took her hand, which lay before him on the railing of the gallery, and lifted it to his face. “The ring you’re wearing is so lovely.” He turned the gold ring on her finger and then put her hand back down. It was reddish and rough now, and he didn’t know how he could ever make amends to it—so fair it had once been, her big, slender hand.
“There’s Arngjerd and Gaute,” said Kristin. “The two of them are quarreling again.”
Their voices could be heard from underneath the loft gallery, shrill and angry. Now the maiden began shouting furiously, “Go ahead and remind me of that. It seems to me a greater honor to be called my father’s bastard daughter than to be the lawful son of yours!”