“Oh, Erlend,” she said sadly. “You of all people in the world should know best that I have followed forbidden paths and acted falsely toward those who have trusted me most.” But she wanted so much for him to understand. “I don’t know whether you recall, my dear, but in the past you have behaved toward me in a manner that some might not call proper. And God and the Virgin Mary know that I didn’t bear you any grudge, nor did I love you any less.”
Erlend’s face grew tender.
“So I thought,” he said quietly. “But you know too that I have striven all these years to rectify the harm I have done. I consoled myself that in the end I would be able to reward you, for you were so faithful and patient.”
Then she said to him, “No doubt you have heard about my grandfather’s brother and the maiden Bengta, who fled from Sweden against the wishes of her kinsmen. God punished them by refusing to give the couple a child. Haven’t you ever feared, during all these years, that He might punish us in that way too?”
She added, her voice quavering and soft, “You can understand, my Erlend, that I was not very happy this summer when I first became aware of it. And yet I thought . . . I thought that if you should die before we were married, I would rather be left behind with your child than alone. I thought that if I should die in childbirth . . . it was still better than if you had no lawful son who could take your high seat after you, when you must leave this earth.”
Erlend replied vehemently, “Then I would think my son was too dearly bought if he should cost you your life. Don’t talk like that, Kristin.” A little later he said, “Husaby is not so dear to me. Especially since I realized that Orm can never inherit my ancestral property after me.”
1
“Do you care more for
her
son than for mine?” Kristin then asked.
“
Your
son . . . ,” Erlend gave a laugh. “Of him I know nothing more than that he will arrive half a year or so before he should. Orm I have loved for twelve years.”
Some time later Kristin asked, “Do you ever long for these children of yours?”
“Yes,” said her husband. “In the past I often went over to see them in Østerdal, where they are living.”
“You could go there now, during Advent,” said Kristin quietly.
“You wouldn’t be averse to it?” asked Erlend happily.
Kristin said that she would find it reasonable. Then he asked whether she would be against it if he brought the children back home for Christmas. “You will have to see them sometime, after all.” And again she had replied that this too seemed reasonable to her.
While Erlend was away, Kristin worked hard to prepare for Christmas. It distressed her greatly to be living among these unfamiliar men and servant women now—she had to take a firm grip on herself whenever she dressed or undressed in the presence of the two maids, whom Erlend had ordered to sleep with her in the hall. She had to remind herself that she would never have dared to sleep alone in the large house—where another had slept with Erlend before her.
The serving women on the estate were no better than could be expected. Those farmers who kept close watch over their daughters did not send them to serve on an estate where the master had lived openly with a concubine and had placed such a woman in charge. The maids were lazy and not in the habit of obeying their mistress. But some of them soon came to like the fact that Kristin was putting the house in good order and personally lent a hand with their work. They grew talkative and joyful when she listened to them and answered them gently and cheerfully. And each day Kristin showed her house servants a kind and calm demeanor. She reprimanded no one, but if a maid refused her orders, then the mistress would act as if the girl did not understand what was asked of her and would quietly show her how the work was to be done. This was how Kristin had seen her father behave toward new servants who grumbled, and no man had tried twice to disobey Lavrans of Jørundgaard.
In this manner they would have to make it through the winter. Later she would see about getting rid of those women she disliked or could not bring around.
There was one type of work that Kristin didn’t dare take up unless she was free from the eyes of these strangers. But in the morning, when she was alone in the hall, she would sew the clothing for her child—swaddling clothes of soft homespun, ribbons of red and green fabric from town, and white linen for the christening garments. As she sat there with her sewing, her thoughts would tumble between fear and then faith in the holy friends of humankind, to whom she had prayed for intercession. It was true that the child lived and moved inside her so that she had no peace, night or day. But she had heard about children who were born with a pelt where they should have had a face, with their heads turned around backwards, or their toes where their heels should have been. And she pictured Svein, who was purple over half his face because his mother had inadvertently looked at a fire.
2
Then Kristin would cast aside her sewing and go over to kneel before the image of the Virgin Mary and say seven
Ave Marias
. Brother Edvin had said that the Mother of God felt an equal joy every time she heard the angel’s greeting, even if it came from the lips of the most wretched sinner. And it was the words
Dominus tecum
that most cheered Mary’s heart; that was why Kristin always said them three times.
This always helped her for a while. She knew of many people, both men and women, who paid scant honor to God or to His Mother and who kept the commandments poorly—but she hadn’t seen that they gave birth to misshapen children because of it. Often God was so merciful that He did not visit the sins of the parents upon their poor children, although every once in a while He had to show people a sign that He could not perpetually tolerate their evil. But surely it would not be
her
child . . .
Then she called in her heart upon Saint Olav.
3
He was the one she had heard so much about that it was as though she had known him while he lived in Norway and had seen him here on this earth. He was not tall, quite stout, but straight-backed and fair, with the gold crown and shining halo on his golden curls, and a curly red beard on his firm, weatherbeaten, and intrepid face. But his deep-set and blazing eyes looked straight through everyone; those who had strayed did not dare look into them. Kristin didn’t dare either. She lowered her gaze before his eyes, but she was not afraid. It was more as if she were a child and had to lower her eyes before her father’s glance when she had done something wrong. Saint Olav looked at her, sternly but not harshly—she had promised to better her life, after all. She longed so fervently to go to Nidaros
4
and kneel down before his shrine: Erlend had promised her this, when they came north—that they would go there very soon. But the journey had been postponed. And now Kristin realized that he was reluctant to travel with her; he was ashamed and afraid of gossip.
One evening when she was sitting at the table with her servants, one of the maids, a young girl who helped in the house, said, “I was wondering, Mistress, whether it wouldn’t be better if we started sewing swaddling clothes and infant garments before we set up the loom that you’re talking about. . . .”
Kristin pretended not to hear and kept on talking about wool dyeing.
Then the girl continued, “But perhaps you have brought such garments from home?”
Kristin smiled faintly and then turned back to the others. When she glanced at the maid a little while later, she was sitting there bright red in the face and peering anxiously at her mistress. Kristin smiled again and spoke to Ulf across the table. Then the young girl began to weep. Kristin laughed a bit, and the maid cried harder and harder until she was sniffing and snuffling.
“Stop that now, Frida,” Kristin finally said calmly. “You hired on here as a grown-up serving maid; you shouldn’t behave as if you were a little child.”
The maid whimpered. She hadn’t meant to be impertinent, and Kristin mustn’t be angry.
“No,” said Kristin, smiling again. “Eat your food now and stop crying. The rest of us have no more sense, either, than what God has granted us.”
Frida jumped up and ran out, sobbing loudly.
Later, when Ulf Haldorssøn stood talking to Kristin about the work that had to be done the next day, he laughed and said, “Erlend should have married you ten years ago, Kristin. Then his affairs would have been in a better state today, in every respect.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, smiling as before. “Back then I was nine winters old. Do you think Erlend would have been capable of waiting for a child bride for years on end?”
Ulf laughed and went out.
But at night Kristin would lie in bed and weep with loneliness and humiliation.
Then Erlend came home during the week before Christmas, and Orm, his son, rode at his father’s side. Kristin felt a stab in her heart when Erlend led the boy forward and told him to greet his stepmother.
He was the most handsome child. This was how she had thought
he
would look, the son that she carried. Sometimes, when she dared to be happy, to believe that her child would be born healthy and well-formed, and to think ahead about the boy who would grow up at her knee, then it was like this she pictured him—just like his father.
Orm was perhaps a little small for his age, and slight, but handsomely built, with fine limbs and a lovely face, his complexion and hair dark, but with big blue eyes and a soft red mouth. He greeted his stepmother courteously, but his expression was hard and cold. Kristin had not had the chance to talk with the boy further. But she sensed his eyes on her, wherever she walked or stood, and she felt as if her body and gait grew even more heavy and clumsy when she knew the boy was staring at her.
She didn’t notice Erlend talking much with his son, but she realized that it was the boy who held back. Kristin told her husband that Orm was handsome and looked intelligent. Erlend had not brought his daughter along; he thought Margret was too young to make the long journey in the winter. She was even more lovely than her brother, he said proudly when Kristin asked about the little maiden—and much more clever; she had her foster parents wrapped around her little finger. She had wavy golden hair and brown eyes.
Then she must look much like her mother, thought Kristin. And she couldn’t help the feeling of envy that burned inside her. She wondered whether Erlend loved his daughter the way her father had loved her. His voice had sounded so tender and warm when he spoke of Margret.
Kristin stood up and went over to the main door. It was so dark and heavy with rain outside that there seemed to be no moon or stars. But she thought it must soon be midnight. She picked up a lantern from the entryway, went inside, and lit it. Then she threw on her cloak and went out into the rain.
“In Christ’s name,” she whispered, crossing herself three times as she stepped out into the night.
At the upper end of the courtyard stood the priest’s house. It was empty now. Ever since Erlend had been released from the ban of excommunication, there had not been a private cleric at Husaby; now and then one of the assistant priests from Orkedal would come over to say mass, but the new priest who had been assigned to the church was abroad with Master Gunnulf; they were apparently friends from school. They had been expected home this past summer, but now Erlend thought they wouldn’t return until after spring. Gunnulf had had a lung ailment in his youth, so he would be unlikely to travel during the winter.
Kristin let herself into the cold, deserted house and found the key to the church. Then she paused for a moment. It was very slippery, pitch dark, windy, and rainy. It was reckless of her to go out at night, and especially on Christmas Eve, when all the evil spirits were in the air. But she refused to give up—she had to go to the church.
“In the name of God, the Almighty, I here proceed,” she whispered aloud. Lighting her way with the lantern, Kristin set her feet down where stones and tufts of grass stuck up from the icy ground. In the darkness the path to the church seemed exceedingly long. But at last she stood on the stone threshold in front of the door.
Inside it was piercingly cold, much colder than out in the rain. Kristin walked forward toward the chancel and knelt down before the crucifix, which she glimpsed in the darkness above her.
After she had said her prayers and stood up, she stopped for a moment. She seemed to expect something to happen to her. But nothing did. She was freezing and scared in the desolate, dark church.
She crept up toward the altar and shone her light on the paintings. They were old, ugly, and stern. The altar was bare stone. She knew that the cloths, books, and vessels lay locked up in a chest.
In the nave a bench stood against the wall. Kristin went over and sat down, placing the lantern on the floor. Her cloak was wet, and her feet were wet and cold. She tried to pull one leg up underneath her, but the position was uncomfortable. So she wrapped the cloak tightly around her and struggled to focus her thoughts on the fact that now it was once again the holy midnight hour when Christ was born to the Virgin Mary in Bethlehem.
Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis.
5
Kristin remembered Sira Eirik’s deep, pure voice. And Audun, the old deacon, who never attained a higher position. And their church back home where she had stood at her mother’s side and listened to the Christmas mass. Every single year she had heard it. She tried to recall more of the holy words, but she could only think about their church and all the familiar faces. In front, on the men’s side, stood her father, staring with remote eyes into the dazzling glow of candles from the choir.
It was so incomprehensible that their church was no more. It had burned to the ground. She burst into tears at the thought. And here she was, sitting alone in the dark on this night when all Christian people were gathered in happiness and joy in God’s house. But perhaps that was as it should be, that tonight she was shut out from the celebration of the birth of God’s son to a pure and innocent maiden.