Now he had fallen from her side. And now she expected to see her sons die, one after the other. Perhaps in the end she would be left all alone, a childless mother.
There were so many things she had seen before to which she had given little thought, back when she viewed the world as if through the veil of Erlend’s and her love. No doubt she had noticed how Naakkve took it seriously that he was the firstborn son and should be the leader and chieftain of his brothers. No doubt she had also seen that he was very fond of Munan. And yet she was greatly shaken, as if by something unexpected, when she saw his terrible grief at the death of his youngest brother.
But her other sons regained their health, although it took a long time. On Easter Day she was able to go to church with four sons, but Bjørgulf was still in bed, and Ivar was too weak to leave the house. Lavrans had grown quite tall while he was sick in bed, and in other ways it seemed as if the events of the past half year had carried him far beyond his years.
Kristin felt as if she were now an old woman. It seemed to her that a woman was young as long as she had little children sleeping in her arms at night, playing around her during the day, and demanding her care at all times. When a mother’s children have grown away from her, then she becomes an old woman.
Her new brother-in-law, Jammælt Halvardssøn, said that the sons of Erlend were still quite young, and she herself was little more than forty years old. Surely she would soon decide to marry again; she needed a husband to help her manage her property and raise her younger sons. He mentioned several good men who he thought would be a noble match for Kristin; she should come to Ælin for a visit in the fall, and then he would see to it that she met these men, and afterward they could discuss the matter at greater length.
Kristin smiled wanly. It was true that she
wasn’t
more than forty years old. If she had heard about another woman who had been widowed at such a young age, with so many half-grown children, she would have said the same as Jammælt: The woman should marry again and seek support from a new husband; she might even give him more children. But she herself would not.
It was just after Easter that Jammælt of Ælin came to Jørundgaard, and this was the second time that Kristin met her sister’s new husband. She and her sons had not attended either the betrothal feast at Dyfrin or the wedding at Ælin. The two banquets had been held within a short time of each other during the spring when she was carrying her last child. As soon as Jammælt heard of the death of Erlend Nikulaussøn, he had rushed to Sil; in both word and deed he had helped his wife’s sister and nephews. As best he could, he took care of everything that had to be done after the master’s death, and he handled the case against the killers, since none of Erlend’s sons had yet come of age. But back then Kristin had paid no heed to anything happening around her. Even the sentencing of Gudmund Toressøn, who was found to be the murderer of Erlend, seemed to make little impression on her.
This time she talked more with her brother-in-law, and he seemed to her a pleasant man. He was not young; he was the same age as Simon Darre. A calm and steadfast man, tall and stout, with a dark complexion and quite a handsome face, but rather stoop-shouldered. He and Gaute became good friends at once. Ever since their father’s death Naakkve and Bjørgulf had grown closer to each other but had withdrawn from all the others. Ivar and Skule told their mother that they liked Jammælt, “but it seems to us that Ramborg could have shown Simon more respect by staying a widow a little longer; this new husband of hers is not his equal.” Kristin saw that these two unruly sons of hers still remembered Simon Andressøn. They had allowed him to admonish them both with sharp words and mild jests, even though the two impatient boys refused to hear a word of chastisement from their own parents except with eyes flashing with anger and hands clenched into fists.
While Jammælt was at Jørundgaard, Munan Baardsøn also paid a visit to Kristin. There was now little remaining of the former Sir Munan the Prancer. He had been a towering and imposing figure in the old days; back then he had carried his bulky body with some amount of grace, so that he seemed taller and more stately than he was. Now rheumatism had crippled him, and his flesh hung on his shriveled body; more than anything he resembled a little goblin, with a bald pate and a meager fringe of lank white hair at the back of his head. Once a thick blue-black beard had darkened his taut, full cheeks and jaw, but now an abundance of gray stubble grew in all the slack folds of his cheeks and throat, which he had a hard time shaving with his knife. He had grown bleary-eyed, he slobbered a bit, and he was terribly plagued by a weak stomach.
He had brought along his son Inge, whom people called Fluga, after his mother. He was already an old man. The father had offered this son a great deal of help in the world; he had found him a rich match and managed to get Bishop Halvard to take an interest in Inge. Munan had been married to the bishop’s cousin Katrin. Lord Halvard wanted to help Inge become prosperous so that he wouldn’t deplete the inheritance of Fru Katrin’s children. The bishop had been given authority over the county of Hedemark, and he had then made Inge Munanssøn his envoy, so he now owned quite a few properties in Skaun and Ridabu. His mother had also bought a farm in those parts; she was now a most pious and charitable woman who had vowed to live a pure life until her death. “Well, she is neither aged nor infirm,” said Munan crossly when Kristin laughed. He had doubtless wanted to arrange things so that Brynhild would move in with him and manage his household at his estate in Hamar, but she had refused.
He had so little joy in his old age, Sir Munan complained. His children were full of rancor. Those siblings who had the same mother had joined forces against the others, quarreling and squabbling with their half siblings. Worst of all was his youngest daughter; she had been born to one of his paramours while he was a married man, so she could be given no share of the inheritance. For that reason, she was trying to glean from him all that she could while he was still alive. She was a widow and had settled at Skogheim, the estate which was Sir Munan’s only real home. Neither her father nor her siblings could roust her from the place. Munan was deathly afraid of her, but whenever he tried to run off to live with one of his other children, they would torment him with complaints about the greed and dishonest behavior of their other siblings. He felt most comfortable with his youngest, lawfully born daughter, who was a nun at Gimsøy. He liked to stay for a time in the convent’s hostel, striving hard to better his soul with penances and prayers under the guidance of his daughter, but he didn’t have the strength to stay there for long. Kristin wasn’t convinced that Brynhild’s sons were any kinder toward their father than his other children, but that was something that Munan Baardsøn refused to admit; he loved them more than all his other offspring.
As pitiful as this kinsman of hers now was, it was during the time spent with him that Kristin’s stony grief first began to thaw. Sir Munan talked about Erlend day and night. When he wasn’t lamenting over his own trials, he could talk of nothing else but his dead cousin, boasting of Erlend’s exploits—particularly about his reckless youth. Erlend’s wild boldness as soon as he made his way out into the world, away from his home at Husaby—where Fru Magnhild went about raging over his father while his father raged over his elder son—and away from Hestnes and Sir Baard, his pious, somber foster father. It might have seemed that Sir Munan’s chatter would offer an odd sort of consolation for Erlend’s grieving widow. But in his own way the knight had loved his young kinsman, and all his days he had thought Erlend surpassed every other man in appearance, courage—yes, even in good sense, although he had never wanted to use it, said Munan earnestly. And even though Kristin had to recall that it surely was not in Erlend’s best interest that he had joined the king’s retainers at the age of sixteen, with this cousin as his mentor and guide, nevertheless she had to smile with tender sorrow at Munan Baardsøn. He talked so that the spittle flew from his lips and the tears seeped from his old red-rimmed eyes, as he remembered Erlend’s sparkling joy and spirit in those days of his youth, before he became tangled up in misfortune with Eline Ormsdatter and was branded for life.
Jammælt Halvardssøn, who was having a serious conversation with Gaute and Naakkve, cast a wondering glance at his sister-in-law. She was sitting on the bench against the wall with that loathsome old man and Ulf Haldorssøn, who Jammælt thought looked so sinister, but she was smiling as she talked to them and served them ale. He hadn’t seen her smile before, but it suited her, and her little, low laugh was like that of a young maiden.
Jammælt said that it would be impossible for all six brothers to continue living on their mother’s estate. It was not expected that any wealthy man of equal birth would give one of his kinswomen to Nikulaus in marriage if his five brothers settled there with him and perhaps continued to take their food from the manor after they married. And they ought to see about finding a wife for the young man; he was already twenty winters old and seemed to have a hardy disposition. For this reason Jammælt wanted to take Ivar and Skule home with him when he returned south; he would find some way to ensure their future. After Erlend Nikulaussøn had lost his life in such an unfortunate manner, it so happened that the great chieftains of the land suddenly remembered that the murdered man had been one of their peers—by birth and blood meant to surpass most of them, charming and magnanimous in many ways, and in battle a daring chieftain and skilled swordsman. But he had not had fortune on his side. Measures of the utmost severity had been levied against those men who had taken part in the murder of the landowner in his own courtyard. And Jammælt could report that many had asked him about Erlend’s sons. He had met the men of Sudrheim during Christmas, and they had mentioned that these young boys were their kinsmen. Sir Jon had asked him to bring his greetings and say that he would receive and treat the sons of Erlend Nikulaussøn as his kin if any of them wanted to join his household. Jon Haftorssøn was now about to marry the maiden Elin, who was Erling Vidkunssøn’s youngest daughter, and the young bride had asked whether the sons looked like their father. She remembered that Erlend had visited them in Bjørgvin when she was a child, and she had thought him to be the handsomest of men. And her brother, Bjarne Erlingssøn, had said that anything he could do for Erlend Nikulaussøn’s sons, he would do with the most heartfelt joy.
Kristin sat and looked at her twin sons as Jammælt talked. They looked more and more like their father: Silky, fine soot-black hair clung smoothly to their heads, although it curled a bit across their brows and down the back of their slender tan necks. They had thin faces with long, jutting noses and delicate, small mouths with a knot of muscle at each corner. But their chins were blunter and broader and their eyes were darker than Erlend’s. And above all else, his eyes were what had made Erlend so astoundingly handsome, his wife now thought. When he opened them in that lean, dark face beneath the pitch-black hair, they were so unexpectedly clear and light blue.
But now there was a glint of steely blue in the eyes of the young boys when Skule replied to his uncle. He was the one who usually spoke for both twins.
“We thank you for this fine offer, kinsman. But we have already spoken with Sir Munan and Inge and sought the advice of our older brothers, and we have come to an agreement with Inge and his father. These men are our closest kin of Father’s lineage; we will go south with Inge and intend to stay at his estate this summer and for some time to come.”
That evening the boys came downstairs to the main room to speak to Kristin after she had gone to bed.
“We hope that you will understand, Mother,” said Ivar Er lendssøn.
“We refuse to beg for the help and friendship of kin from those men who sat in silence and watched our father wrongly suffer,” added Skule.
Their mother nodded.
It seemed to her that her sons had acted properly. She realized that Jammælt was a sensible and fair-minded man, and his offer had been well intended, but she was pleased the boys were loyal to their father. And yet she could never have imagined that her sons would one day come to serve the son of Brynhild Fluga.
The twins left with Inge Fluga as soon as Ivar was strong enough to ride. It was very quiet at the manor after they were gone. Their mother remembered that at this time the year before, she lay in bed in the weaving room with a newborn child; it seemed to her like a dream. Such a short time ago she had felt so young, with her soul stirred up by the yearnings and sorrows of a young woman, by hopes and hatreds and love. Now her flock had shrunk to four sons, and in her soul the only thing stirring was an uneasiness for the grown young men. In the silence that descended upon Jørundgaard after the departure of the twins, her fear for Bjørgulf flared up with bright flames.
When guests arrived, he and Naakkve moved to the old hearth house. Bjørgulf would get out of bed in the daytime, but he had still not been outdoors. With deep fear Kristin noticed that Bjørg ulf was always sitting in the same spot; he never walked around, he hardly moved at all when she came to see him. She knew that his eyes had grown worse during his last illness. Naakkve was terribly quiet, but he had been that way ever since his father’s death, and he seemed to avoid his mother as much as he could.
Finally one day she gathered her courage and asked her eldest son how things now stood with Bjørgulf’s eyesight. For a while Naakkve gave only evasive replies, but at last she demanded that her son tell her the truth.
Naakkve said, “He can still make out strong light—” All at once the young man’s face lost all color; abruptly he turned away and left the room.
Much later that day, after Kristin had wept until she was so weary that she thought she could trust herself to speak calmly with her son, she went over to the old house.