“I can’t bear to see you anymore,” said Simon.
“But that was twenty years ago, man!” exclaimed Erlend, overcome and confused.
“Yes. But don’t you think she’s . . . worth thinking about for twenty years?”
Erlend pulled himself erect in the saddle. He met Simon’s eyes with a steady, open gaze. The moonlight lit a blue-green spark in his big, pale blue eyes.
“Yes, yes, I do. May God bless her!”
For a moment he sat motionless. Then he spurred his horse and galloped off through the puddles so the water sprayed up behind him. Simon held Digerbein back; he was almost thrown to the ground because he reined in the horse so sharply. He waited there at the edge of the woods, struggling with the restless animal, for as long as he could hear hoofbeats in the slush.
Remorse had overwhelmed him as soon as he said it. He felt regret and shame, as if in senseless anger he had struck the most defenseless of creatures—a child or a delicate, gentle, and witless beast. His hatred felt like a shattered lance; he was shattered himself from the confrontation with the man’s foolish innocence. That bird of misfortune, Erlend Nikulaussøn, understood so little that he seemed both helpless and without guile.
Simon swore and cursed to himself as he rode. Without guile . . . The man was well past forty; it was about time that he could handle a conversation man to man. If Simon had wounded himself, then by the Devil it should be considered worth the price if for once he had managed to strike Erlend a blow.
Now he was riding home to her. May God bless her, Simon thought ruefully. And so it was over: the plodding around in that sibling love. The two of them over there, and he and his family. He would never have to meet Kristin Lavransdatter again.
The thought took his breath away. Just as well, by the Devil. If your eye offends you, then pluck it out, said the priests. He told himself that the main reason he had done this was to escape the sister-brother love with Kristin. He couldn’t bear it anymore.
He had only one wish now: that Ramborg would not be awake when he came home.
But when he rode in among the fences, he saw someone wearing a dark cloak standing beneath the aspen trees. The white of her wimple gleamed.
She said that she had been waiting for him ever since Sigurd returned home. The maids had gone to bed, so Ramborg herself ladled up the porridge that stood on the edge of the hearth, keeping warm. She placed bacon and bread on the table and brought in newly tapped ale.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed now, Ramborg?” asked her husband as he ate.
Ramborg did not reply. She went over to her loom and began threading the colorful little balls of wool in and out of the warp. She had set up the loom for a tapestry before Christmas, but she hadn’t made much progress yet.
“Erlend rode past, heading north, some time ago,” she said, with her back turned. “From what Sigurd said, I thought you would be riding together.”
“No, it didn’t turn out that way.”
“Erlend had a greater longing for his bed than you did?” She laughed a little. When she received no answer, she said again, “I suppose he always longs to be home with Kristin when he has been away.”
Simon was silent for a good while before he replied, “Erlend and I did not part as friends.”
Ramborg turned around abruptly. Then he told her what he had learned at Dyfrin and about the first part of the conversation with Erlend and his sons.
“It seems to me rather unreasonable that you should quarrel over such a matter when you’ve been able to remain friends until now.”
“Perhaps, but that’s how things went. And it will take too long to discuss the whole matter tonight.”
Ramborg turned back to her loom and busied herself with her work.
“Simon,” she said suddenly, “do you remember a story that Sira Eirik once told us . . . from the Bible? About a maiden named Abishag the Shunammite?”
3
“No.”
“Back when King David was old and his vigor and manhood were beginning to fade—” Ramborg began, but Simon interrupted her.
“My Ramborg, it’s much too late at night; this is no time to start telling sagas. And now I do remember the story about the woman you mentioned.”
Ramborg pushed up the reed of the loom and fell silent for a while. Then she spoke again. “Do you remember the saga my father knew—about the handsome Tristan and fair Isolde and dark Isolde?”
“Yes, I remember.” Simon pushed his plate aside, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and got up. He went over to stand in front of the fireplace. With one foot resting on the edge, his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand, he stared into the fire, which was about to die out inside the stone-lined hollow. From the loom over in the corner came Ramborg’s voice, fragile-sounding and close to tears.
“When I listened to those stories, I always thought that men like King David and Sir Tristan . . . It seemed to me so foolish, and cruel, that they didn’t love the young brides who offered them their maidenhood and the love of their hearts with gentleness and seemly graciousness but preferred instead such women as Fru Bathsheba or fair Isolde, who had squandered themselves in other men’s arms. I thought that if I had been a man, I wouldn’t have been so lacking in pride . . . or so heartless.” Overcome, she fell silent. “It seems to me the most terrible fate: what happened to Abishag and poor Isolde of Bretland.” Abruptly she turned around, walked quickly across the room, and stood before her husband.
“What is it, Ramborg?” Simon reluctantly asked in a low voice. “I don’t know what you mean by all this.”
“Yes, you do,” she replied fiercely. “You’re a man just like that Tristan.”
“I find it hard to believe”—he tried to laugh—“that I should be compared with the handsome Tristan. And the two women you mentioned . . . If I remember right, they lived and died as pure maidens, untouched by their husbands.” He looked at his wife. The little triangle of her face was pale, and she was biting her lip.
Simon set his foot down, straightened up, and put both hands on her shoulders.
“My Ramborg, you and I have two children,” he said softly.
She didn’t reply.
“I’ve done my best to show you my gratitude for that gift. I thought . . . I’ve tried to be a good husband to you.”
When she didn’t speak, he let her go, went over to a bench, and sat down. Ramborg followed and stood before him, looking down at her husband: his broad thighs in the wet, muddy hose, his stout body, his heavy reddish-brown face. Her lip curled with displeasure.
“You’ve grown so ugly over the years, Simon.”
“Well, I’ve never thought myself to be a handsome man,” he said calmly.
“But I’m young and pretty. . . .” She sat down on his lap, the tears pouring from her eyes as she held his head in her hands. “Simon, look at me. Why can’t you reward me for this? Never have I wanted to belong to anyone but you. It’s what I dreamed of ever since I was a little maiden: that my husband would be a man like you. Do you remember how we were once allowed to follow along with you, both Ulvhild and I? You were going with Father to the west pasture, to look at his foals. You carried Ulvhild over the creek, and Father was going to lift me up, but I cried that I wanted you to carry me too. Do you remember?”
Simon nodded. He remembered paying a great deal of attention to Ulvhild because he thought it so sad that the lovely child was crippled. Of the youngest daughter he had no memory, except that he knew there was a girl younger than Ulvhild.
“You had the most beautiful hair. . . .” Ramborg ran her fingers through the lock of wavy light-brown hair that fell over her husband’s forehead. “And there’s still not a single streak of gray. Erlend’s hair will soon be as much white as black. And I always loved to see the deep dimples in your cheeks when you smiled . . . and the fact that you had such a merry voice.”
“Yes, no doubt I looked a little better back then than I do now.”
“No,” she whispered fiercely. “When you look at me tenderly . . . Do you remember the first time I slept in your arms? I was in bed, whimpering over a toothache. Father and Mother were asleep, and it was dark in the loft, but you came over to the bench where we lay, Ulvhild and I, and asked me why I was crying. You told me to hush and not wake the others; then you lifted me in your arms. You lit a candle and cut a splinter of wood and then poked at my gums around the aching tooth until you drew blood. Then you said a prayer over the splinter, and the tooth didn’t hurt anymore. And I was allowed to sleep in your bed, and you held me in your arms.”
Simon placed his hand on her head, pressing it to his shoulder. Now that she spoke of it, he remembered. It was when he had come to Jørundgaard to tell Lavrans that the bond between him and Kristin had to be broken. He had slept very little that night. And now he recalled that he had gotten up to tend to little Ramborg, who lay fretting over a toothache.
“Have I ever behaved toward you in such a way, my Ramborg, that you thought it right to say that I didn’t love you?”
“Simon . . . don’t you think I might deserve that you loved me more than Kristin? She was wicked and dishonest toward you, while I have stayed with you like a little lapdog all these years.”
Gently Simon lifted her off his lap, stood up, and took her hands in his.
“Speak no more of your sister, Ramborg—not in that manner. I wonder whether you even realize what you’re saying. Don’t you think that I fear God? Can you believe that I would be so unafraid of shame and the worst of sins, or that I wouldn’t think of my children and all my kinsmen and friends? I’m your husband, Ramborg. Don’t forget that, and don’t talk of such things to me.”
“I know you haven’t broken any of God’s commandments or breached any laws or code of honor.”
“Never have I spoken a word to your sister or touched her with my hand in any way that I cannot defend on the Day of Judgment. This I swear before God and the apostle Saint Simon.”
Ramborg nodded silently.
“Do you think your sister would have treated me as she has all these years if she thought, as you do, that I love her with sinful desire? Then you don’t know Kristin.”
“Oh, she has never thought about whether any man might desire her, except for Erlend. She hardly notices that the rest of us are flesh and blood.”
“Yes, what you say is probably true, Ramborg,” replied Simon calmly. “But then you must realize how senseless it is for you to torment me with your jealousy.”
Ramborg pulled her hands away.
“I didn’t mean to do so, Simon. But you’ve never loved me the way you love her. She is still always in your thoughts, but you seldom think of me unless you see me.”
“I’m not to blame, Ramborg, if a man’s heart is created in such a fashion that whatever is inscribed on it when it’s young and fresh is carved deeper than all the runes that are later etched.”
“Haven’t you ever heard the saying that a man’s heart is the first thing to come alive in his mother’s womb and the last thing to die inside him?” replied Ramborg quietly.
“No . . . Is there such a saying? That might well be true.” Lightly he caressed her cheek. “But if we’re going to get any sleep tonight, we should go to bed now,” he said wearily.
Ramborg fell asleep after a while. Simon slipped his arm out from under her neck, moved over to the very edge of the bed, and pulled the fur covers all the way up to his chin. His shirt was soaked through at the shoulder from her tears. He felt a bitter sympathy for his wife, but at the same time he realized with renewed bewilderment that he could no longer treat her as if she were a blind and inexperienced child. Now he had to acknowledge that Ramborg was a full-grown woman.
Gray light appeared in the windowpane; the May night was fading. He was dead tired, and tomorrow was the Sabbath. He wouldn’t go to church in the morning, even though he might need to. He had once promised Lavrans that he would never miss a mass without an exceedingly good reason. But it hadn’t helped him much to keep that promise during all these years, he thought bitterly. Tomorrow he was not going to ride to mass.
PART II
DEBTORS
CHAPTER 1
KRISTIN DID NOT hear a full account of what had happened between Erlend and Simon. Her husband told her and Bjørgulf what Simon had said about his journey to Dyfrin, and he said that afterward they had exchanged words and ended up parting as foes. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”
Erlend was rather pale, his expression firm and resolute. She had seen him look that way only a few times before, in all the years she had been married to him. She knew that this was something he would refuse to discuss any further.
She had never liked it when Erlend countered her questions with that expression. God only knew she didn’t consider herself more than a simple woman; she would have preferred to avoid taking responsibility for anything but her own children and her household duties. And yet she had been forced to deal with so many things that seemed to her more appropriate concerns for a man to handle. But Erlend had thought it quite reasonable to let them rest on her shoulders. So it didn’t suit him to act so overbearing and to rebuff her when she wanted to know about things that he had undertaken on his own that would affect the welfare of them all.
She took this enmity between Erlend and Simon Darre greatly to heart. Ramborg was her only sister. And when she thought about losing Simon’s companionship, she realized for the first time how fond she had become of this man and how much gratitude she owed him. His loyal friendship had been the best support she had in her difficult situation.
She knew that now people would be talking about this all over the countryside: that the folks of Jørundgaard had quarreled with Simon of Formo too. Simon and Ramborg were liked and respected by everyone. But most people regarded Kristin, her husband, and her sons with suspicion and ill will; this was something she had noticed long ago. Now they would be so alone.