Erlend gave a whistle. “Son, one thing I can tell you. I don’t know how this venture of the Haftorssøns will end, but I would wager my own neck they don’t dare show Lord Magnus the naked blade of a Norwegian sword. Talk and compromise are what I think will result, with not a single arrow fired. And those fellows won’t exert themselves for my sake, because they know me and realize that I’m not as squeamish about honed steel as some of the others.
“Kinsmen you say . . . Yes, they’re your third cousins, both Magnus and those sons of Haftor. I remember them from the time I served at King Haakon’s court. It was fortunate that my kinswoman Lady Agnes was the daughter of a king; otherwise she might have found herself out on the wharves, pulling in fish, if a woman like your mother, out of pious mercy, didn’t hire her to help out in the cowshed. More than once I’ve wiped the snouts of those Haftorssøns when they had to appear before their grandfather, and they came racing into the hall as snot-nosed as if they had just crept from their mother’s lap. And if I gave them a swat out of loving kinship, to teach them some proper manners, they would shriek like stuck pigs. I hear they’ve made men of these Sudrheim changelings at last. But if you expect to receive the help of kinsmen from those quarters, you’d be looking for solace in the backside of a dog.”
Later Kristin said to Erlend, “Naakkve is so young, my dear husband. Don’t you think it’s unwise to speak so openly about such matters with him?”
“You speak so gently, my dear wife,” replied Erlend with a smile, “that I see you wish to rebuke me. When I was Naakkve’s age, I was headed north to Vargøy for the first time. If Lady Inge bjørg had remained loyal to me,” he exclaimed vehemently, “I would have sent Naakkve and Gaute to serve her. In Denmark there might have been a future for two intrepid adventurers skilled with weapons.”
“When I gave birth to these children,” said Kristin bitterly, “I didn’t think that our sons would seek their living in a foreign land.”
“You know I didn’t intend that either,” said Erlend. “But man proposes, God disposes.”
Then Kristin told herself that it wasn’t simply that she felt a stab in her heart every time she noticed that Erlend and her sons, now that they were getting older, acted as if their concerns were beyond the comprehension of a woman. But she feared Erlend’s reckless tongue; he never remembered that his sons were little more than children.
And yet as young as the boys were—Nikulaus was now seventeen winters old, Bjørgulf would be sixteen, and Gaute would turn fifteen in the fall—all three had a certain way with women that made their mother uneasy.
Admittedly nothing had happened that she could point to. They didn’t run after women, they were never coarse or discourteous in speech, and they didn’t like it when the servant men told vulgar stories or brought filthy rumors back to the manor. But Erlend too had always been very chivalrous and seemly; she had seen him blush at words over which both her father and Simon laughed heartily. But at the time she had vaguely felt that the other two laughed the way peasants laugh at tales about the Devil, while learned men, who know better his ferocious cunning, have little affection for such jests.
Even Erlend could not be called guilty of the sin of running after women; only people who didn’t know the man would think he had loose ways, meaning that he had lured women to himself and then deliberately led them astray. She never denied that Erlend had had his way with her without resorting to seductive arts and without using deceit or force. And she was certain that it was not Erlend who had done the seducing in the case of the two married women with whom he had sinned. But when loose women approached him with bold and provocative manners, she had seen him turn into an inquisitive youth; an air of concealed and impetuous frivolity would come over the man.
With anguish she thought she could see that the sons of Erlend took after their father in this regard. They always forgot to think about how others would judge them before they acted, although afterward they would take what was said to heart. And when women greeted them with smiles and gentleness, they didn’t become shy or sullen or awkward, as did most young boys their age. They would smile back and talk and behave as freely and easily as if they had been at the king’s court and were familiar with royal customs. Kristin feared they would get mixed up in some misfortune or trouble out of sheer innocence. She thought the wealthy wives and daughters, as well as the poor servingwomen, were all much too flirtatious with these handsome boys. But like other young men, they would grow furious afterward if anyone teased them about a woman. Frida Styrkaarsdatter was particularly fond of doing this. She was a foolish woman, in spite of her age; she wasn’t much younger than her mistress, and she had given birth to two bastard children. She had had difficulty even finding the father of the younger child. But Kristin had offered the poor thing a protective hand. Because Frida had nursed Bjørgulf and Skule with such care and affection, the mistress was quite indulgent toward this serving maid, even though she was annoyed that the woman was always talking to the boys about young maidens.
Kristin now thought it would be best if she could marry off her sons at a young age, but she knew this wouldn’t be easy. The men whose daughters would be equal matches for Naakkve and Bjørgulf by birth and blood would not think her sons wealthy enough. And the condemnation and royal enmity their father had brought down upon himself would stand in the way if the boys tried to improve their lot through service with greater noblemen. With bitterness she thought about the days when Erlend and Erling Vidkunssøn had spoken of a marriage between Naakkve and one of the lord’s daughters.
She knew of one or another young maiden now growing up in the valleys who might be suitable: wealthy and of good lineage, although for several generations their forefathers had refrained from serving at the king’s court and had stayed home in their parishes. But she couldn’t bear the thought that Erlend might be refused if they should make an offer to one of these landowners. In this situation Simon Darre would have been the best spokesman, but now Erlend had deprived them of his help.
She didn’t think any of her sons had a desire to serve the Church, except perhaps Gaute or Lavrans. But Lavrans was still so young. And Gaute was the only one of the boys who gave her any real help with the estate.
Storms and snow had wreaked havoc with the fences that year, and the snowfall before Holy Cross Day had delayed the repairs, so the workers had to press hard to finish in time. For this reason, Kristin sent Naakkve and Bjørgulf off one day to mend the fence around a field up near the main road.
In midafternoon Kristin went out to see how the boys were handling the unaccustomed chore. Bjørgulf was working over by the lane leading to the manor; she stopped for a while to talk with him. Then she continued northward. There she saw Naakkve leaning over the fence and talking to a woman on horseback who had stopped at the side of the road, right next to the rails. He stroked the horse and then grabbed the girl’s ankle, moving his hand, as if carelessly, up her leg under her clothing.
The maiden was the first to notice Kristin. She blushed and said something to Naakkve. Quickly he pulled his hand away and looked a little abashed. The girl was about to ride off, but Kristin called out a greeting and then talked to the maiden for a moment, asking about her kinswoman. The young girl was the niece of the mistress of Ulvsvold and had recently arrived for a visit. Kristin pretended that she hadn’t seen anything, talking to Naakkve about the fence after the maiden had gone.
Not long after, Kristin happened to stay at Ulvsvold for two weeks’ time because the mistress gave birth to a child and was then quite ill. Kristin was both her neighbor and considered the most capable healer in the region. Naakkve often came over with messages and queries for his mother, and the niece, Eyvor Haakonsdatter, would always find the opportunity to meet and talk with him. Kristin wasn’t pleased by this; she had taken a disliking to the maiden and didn’t find her beautiful, although she had heard that most men did. She was happy on the day she learned that Eyvor had returned home to Raumsdal.
But she didn’t think Naakkve had been particularly fond of Eyvor, especially when she heard that Frida kept chattering about the daughter at Loptsgaard, Aasta Audunsdatter, and teasing Naakkve about her.
One day Kristin was in the brewhouse, boiling a juniper decoction, when she heard Frida once again carrying on about Aasta. Naakkve was with Gaute and their father outside behind the courtyard. They were building a boat that they wanted to take up to the small fishing lake in the mountains. Erlend was a moderately good boatbuilder. Naakkve grew cross, and then Gaute began to tease him too: Aasta might be a suitable match.
“Ask for her hand yourself if that’s what you think,” said his brother heatedly.
“No, I don’t want her,” replied Gaute, “because I’ve heard that red hair and pine forests thrive on meager soil. But you think that red hair is pretty.”
“That saying can’t be used about women, my son,” said Erlend with a laugh. “Those with red hair usually have soft white skin.”
Frida laughed uproariously, but Kristin grew angry. She thought this talk too frivolous for such young boys. She also remembered that Sunniva Olavsdatter had red hair, although her friends called it golden.
Then Gaute said, “You should be glad I didn’t say anything; I didn’t dare, for fear of sin. On the vigil night of Whitsunday you sat with Aasta in the grain tithe barn all the time we were dancing on the church hill. So you must be fond of her.”
Naakkve was about to fall upon his brother, but at that moment Kristin came outside. After Gaute had left, she asked her other son, “What was that Gaute said about you and Aasta Audunsdatter?”
“I don’t think anything was said that you didn’t hear, Mother,” replied the boy. His face was red, and he frowned angrily.
Annoyed, Kristin said, “It’s unseemly that you young people can’t hold a vigil night without dancing and leaping about between services. We never used to do that when I was a maiden.”
“But you’ve told us yourself, Mother, that back when you were young, our grandfather used to sing while the people danced on the church hill.”
“Well, not those kinds of ballads and not such wild dancing,” said his mother. “And we children stayed properly with our parents; we didn’t go off two by two and sit in the barn.”
Naakkve was about to make an angry retort. Then Kristin happened to glance at Erlend. He was smiling so slyly as he eyed the plank he was about to cut with an axe. Indignant and dismayed, she went back inside the brewhouse.
But she thought a good deal about what she had heard. Aasta Audunsdatter was not a poor match; Loptsgaard was a wealthy estate, and there were three daughters, but no son. And Ingebjørg, Aasta’s mother, belonged to an exceedingly good lineage.
She had never thought that one day the people of Jørundgaard might call Audun Torbergssøn kinsman. But he had suffered a stroke this past winter, and everyone thought he had little time left to live. The girl was seemly and charming in manner, and clever, or so Kristin had heard. If Naakkve had great affection for the maiden, there was no reason to oppose this marriage. They would still have to wait for two more years to hold the wedding, as young as Aasta and Naakkve both were, but then she would gladly welcome Aasta as her son’s wife.
On a fine day in the middle of the summer Sira Solmund’s sister came to see Kristin to borrow something. The women were standing outside the house to say their farewells when the priest’s sister said, “Well, that Eyvor Haakonsdatter!” Her father had driven her from his estate because she was with child, so she had sought refuge at Ulvsvold.
Naakkve had been up in the loft; now he stopped on the lowest step. When his mother caught a glimpse of his face, she was suddenly so overcome that she could hardly feel her own legs beneath her. The boy was crimson all the way up to his ears as he walked away toward the main house.
But Kristin soon understood from the other woman’s gossip that things must have been such with Eyvor long before she came to their parish for the first time in the spring. My poor, innocent boy, thought Kristin, sighing with relief. He must be ashamed that he thought well of the girl.
A few nights later Kristin was alone in bed because Erlend had gone out fishing. As far as she knew, Naakkve and Gaute had gone along with him. But she was awakened when Naakkve touched her and whispered that he needed to talk to her. He climbed up and sat at the foot of her bed.
“Mother, I’ve been out to talk with that poor woman Eyvor tonight. I was sure they were lying about her; I was so certain that I would have held a glowing piece of iron in my hand to prove that she was lying—that magpie from Romundgaard.”
Kristin lay still and waited. Naakkve tried to speak firmly, but suddenly his voice threatened to break with emotion and distress.
“She was on her way to matins on the last day of Christmas. She was alone, and the road from their manor passes through the woods for a long stretch. There she met two men. It was still dark. She doesn’t know who they were, maybe foresters from the mountains. In the end she couldn’t defend herself any longer, the poor young child. She didn’t dare tell her troubles to anyone. When her mother and father discovered her misfortune, they drove her from home, with slaps and curses as they pulled her hair. When she told me all this, Mother, she wept so hard that it would have melted a rock in the hills.” Naakkve abruptly fell silent, breathing heavily.
Kristin said she thought it the worst misfortune that those villains had escaped. She hoped that God’s justice would find them and that for their deeds they might suffer their just deserts on the executioner’s block.
Then Naakkve began to talk about Eyvor’s father, how rich he was and how he was related to several respected families. Eyvor intended to send the child away to be raised in another parish. Gudmund Darre’s wife had given birth to a bastard child by a priest, and there sat Sigrid Andresdatter at Kruke, a good and honored woman. A man would have to be both hardhearted and unfair to pronounce Eyvor despoiled because against her will she had been forced to suffer such shame and misfortune; surely she was still fit to be the wife of an honorable man.