“It was not a sin that you lived with her,” said the priest after a moment, “if it could have been done without breaking other laws. But you drove her into sinful defiance against everyone God had put in charge of this child—and then you brought the shame of blood upon her. I told you this too, back when we talked of this matter. That’s why the Church has created laws regarding marriage, why banns must be announced, and why we priests must not marry man and maiden against the will of their kinsmen.” He sat down, clasped his hands around one knee, and stared out across the summer-bright landscape, where the little lake glinted blue at the bottom of the valley. “Surely you must realize that, Erlend. You had sown a thicket of brambles around yourself, with nettles and thorns. How could you draw a young maiden to you without her being cut and flayed bloody?”
“You stood by me more than once, brother, during that time when I was with Eline,” said Erlend softly. “I have never forgotten that.”
“I don’t think I would have done so,” replied Gunnulf, and his voice quavered, “if I had imagined that you would have the heart to behave in such a manner toward a pure and delicate maiden—and a mere child compared to you.”
Erlend said nothing.
Gunnulf asked him gently, “That time in Oslo—didn’t you ever think about what would happen to Kristin if she became with child while she was living in the convent? And was betrothed to another man? Her father a proud and honorable man—and all her kinsmen of noble lineage, unaccustomed to bearing shame.”
“Of course I thought about it.” Erlend had turned his face away. “Munan promised to take care of her—and I told her that too.”
“Munan! Would you deign to speak to a man like Munan of Kristin’s honor?”
“He’s not the sort of man you think,” said Erlend curtly.
“But what about our kinswoman Fru Katrin? For surely you didn’t intend for him to take Kristin to any of his other estates, where his paramours live. . . .”
Erlend slammed his fist against the ground, making his knuckles bleed.
“The Devil himself must have a hand in it when a man’s wife goes to his brother for confession!”
“She hasn’t confessed to me,” said the priest. “Nor am I her parish priest. She told me her laments during her bitter fear and anguish, and I tried to help her and give her such advice and solace as I thought best.”
“I see.” Erlend threw back his head and looked up at his brother. “I know that I shouldn’t have done it; I shouldn’t have allowed her to come to me at Brynhild’s inn.”
The priest sat speechless for a moment.
“At Brynhild Fluga’s?”
“Yes, didn’t she tell you that when she told you all the rest?”
“It will be hard enough for Kristin to say such things about her lawful husband in confession,” said the priest after a pause. “I think she would rather die than speak of it anywhere else.”
He fell silent and then said harshly and vehemently, “If you felt, Erlend, that you were her husband before God and the one who should protect and guard her, then I think your behavior was even worse. You seduced her in groves and in barns, you led her across a harlot’s threshold. And finally up to Bjørn Gunnarssøn and Fru Aashild . . .”
“You mustn’t speak of Aunt Aashild that way,” said Erlend in a low voice.
“You’ve said yourself that you thought our aunt caused the death of our father’s brother—she and that man Bjørn.”
“It makes no difference to me,” said Erlend forcefully. “I’m fond of Aunt Aashild.”
“Yes, so I see,” said the priest. A crooked, mocking little smile appeared on his lips. “Since you were ready to leave her to face Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn after you carried off his daughter. It seems as if you think that your affection is worth paying dearly for, Erlend.”
“Jesus!” Erlend hid his face in his hands.
But the priest continued quickly, “If only you had seen the torment of your wife’s soul as she trembled in horror of her sins, unconfessed and unredeemed—as she sat there, about to give birth to your child, with death standing at the door—so young a child herself, and so unhappy.”
“I know, I know!” Erlend was shaking. “I know she lay there thinking about this as she suffered. For Christ’s sake, Gunnulf, say no more. I’m your brother, after all!”
But he continued without mercy.
“If I had been a man like you and not a priest, and if I had led astray so young and good a maiden, I would have freed myself from that other woman. God help me, but I would have done as Aunt Aashild did to her husband and then burned in Hell forever after, rather than allow my innocent and dearest beloved to suffer such things as you have done.”
Erlend sat in silence for a moment, trembling.
“You say that you’re a priest,” he said softly. “Are you such a
good
priest that you have never sinned—with a woman?”
Gunnulf did not look at his brother. Blood flushed red across his face.
“You have no right to ask me that, but I will answer you all the same. He who died for us on the cross knows how much I need his mercy. But I tell you, Erlend—if on the whole round disk of this earth he had not one servant who was pure and unmarked by sin, and if in his holy Church there was not a single priest who was more faithful and worthy than I am, miserable betrayer of the Lord that I am, then the Lord’s commandments and laws are what we can learn from this. His Word cannot be defiled by the mouth of an impure priest; it can only burn and consume our own lips—although perhaps you can’t understand this. But you know as well as I, along with every filthy thrall of the Devil that He has bought with His own blood—God’s law cannot be shaken nor His honor diminished. Just as His sun is equally mighty, whether it shines above the barren sea and desolate gray moors or above these fair lands.”
Erlend had hidden his face in his hands. He sat still for a long time, but when he spoke his voice was dry and hard.
“Priest or no priest—since you’re not such a strict adherent of pure living—don’t you see . . . Could you have done that to a woman who had slept in your arms and borne you two children? Could you have done to her what our aunt did to her husband?”
The priest didn’t answer at first. Then he said with some scorn, “You don’t seem to judge Aunt Aashild too harshly.”
“But it can’t be the same for a man as for a woman,” said Erlend. “I remember the last time they were here at Husaby, and Herr Bjørn was with them. We sat near the hearth, Mother and Aunt Aashild, and Herr Bjørn played the harp and sang for them. I stood at his knee. Then Uncle Baard called to her—he was in bed, and he wanted her to come to bed too. He used words that were vulgar and shameless. Aunt Aashild stood up and Herr Bjørn did too. He left the room, but before he did, they looked at each other. Later, when I was old enough to understand, I thought . . . that it might be true after all. I had begged for permission to light the way for Herr Bjørn over to the loft where he was going to sleep, but I didn’t dare, and I didn’t dare sleep in the hall, either. I ran outside and went to sleep with the men in the servants’ house. By Jesus, Gunnulf—it can’t be the same for a man as it was for Aashild that evening. No, Gunnulf—to kill a woman who . . . unless I caught her with another man . . .”
And yet that was exactly what he had done. But Gunnulf wouldn’t dare mention
that
to his brother.
Then the priest asked coldly, “Wasn’t it true that Eline had been unfaithful to you?”
“Unfaithful!” Erlend abruptly turned to face his brother, furious. “Do you think I should have blamed her for taking up with Gissur, after I had told her so often that it was over between us?”
Gunnulf bowed his head.
“No. No doubt you’re right,” he said, his voice weary and low.
But having won that small concession, Erlend flared up. He threw back his head and looked at the priest.
“You take so much notice of Kristin, Gunnulf. The way you’ve been hanging about her all spring—almost more than is decent for a brother and a priest. It’s as if you didn’t want her to be mine. If things hadn’t been the way they were with her when you first met, people might even think . . .”
Gunnulf stared at him. Provoked by his brother’s gaze, Erlend jumped to his feet. Gunnulf stood up too. When he continued to stare, Erlend lashed out at him with his fist. The priest grabbed his wrist. He tried to charge at Gunnulf, but his brother stood his ground.
Erlend grew meek at once. “I should have remembered that you’re a priest,” he said softly.
“Well, you have nothing to repent on that account,” said Gunnulf with a little smile. Erlend stood there rubbing his wrist.
“Yes, you always had such devilishly strong hands.”
“This is the way it was when we were boys.” Gunnulf’s voice grew oddly tender and gentle. “I’ve thought about that often during the years I was away from home—about when we were boys. We often fought, but it never lasted long, Erlend.”
“But now,” said the other man sorrowfully, “it can never be the same as when we were boys, Gunnulf.”
“No,” murmured the priest. “I suppose it can’t.”
They stood in silence for a long time. Finally Gunnulf said, “I’m going away now, Erlend. I’ll go down to bid Eiliv farewell, and then I’m leaving. I’m heading over to visit the priest in Orkedal; I won’t go to Nidaros while
she
is there.” He gave a small smile.
“Gunnulf! I didn’t mean . . . Don’t leave me this way.”
Gunnulf didn’t move. He breathed hard several times and then he said, “There’s one thing I want to tell you, Erlend—since you now know that I know everything about you. Sit down.”
The priest sat down in the same position as before. Erlend stretched out in front of him, lying with one hand propped under his chin and looking up at his brother’s strangely tense and rigid face. Then he smiled.
“What is it, Gunnulf? Are you about to confess to me?”
“Yes,” said his brother softly. But then he fell silent for a long time. Erlend noticed that his lips moved once, and he clasped his hands tighter around his knee.
“What is it?” He gave him a fleeting smile. “It can’t be that you—that some fair woman out there in the southern lands . . .”
“No,” said the priest. His voice had a peculiar gruff tone. “This is not about love. Do you know, Erlend, how it happened that I was promised to the priesthood?”
“Yes. When our brothers died and they thought they were going to lose us too . . .”
“No,” said Gunnulf. “They thought Munan had regained his health, and Gaute was not ill at all; he didn’t die until the next winter. But you lay in bed and were suffocating, and that’s when Mother promised that I would serve Saint Olav if he would save your life.”
“Who told you that?” asked Erlend after a moment.
“Ingrid, my foster mother.”
“Well, I would have been an odd gift to offer to Saint Olav,” said Erlend, with a laugh. “He would have been poorly served by me. But you’ve told me, Gunnulf, that you were pleased even as a boy to be called to the priesthood.”
“Yes,” said the priest. “But it was not always so. I remember the day you left Husaby along with Munan Baardsøn to journey to our kinsman, the king, to join his service. Your horse danced beneath you, and your new weapons gleamed and shone. I would never bear weapons. You were handsome, my brother. You were only sixteen winters old, and I had already noticed long ago that women and maidens were fond of you.”
“All that glory was short-lived,” said Erlend. “I learned to cut my nails straight across, to swear on the name of Jesus with every other word, and to resort to my dagger to defend myself when I wielded a sword. Then I was sent north and met
her
—and was banished with shame from the king’s retinue, and our father closed his door to me.”
“And you left the country with a beautiful woman,” said Gunnulf in the same low voice. “We heard at home that you had become a chief of guards at Earl Jacob’s castle.”
“Well, it wasn’t as grand as it seemed back home,” said Erlend, laughing.
“You and Father were no longer friends. But he had so little regard for me that he didn’t even bother to quarrel with me. Mother loved me, that I know—but she found me less worthy than you. I felt it the most when you left the country. You, brother, were the only one who had any real love for me. And God knows you were my dearest friend on earth. But back when I was young and ignorant, I would sometimes think you had been given so much more than I had. Now I’ve told you, Erlend.”
Erlend lay with his face against the ground.
“Don’t go, Gunnulf,” he begged.
“I must,” said the priest. “Now we’ve told each other far too much. May God and the Virgin Mary grant that we meet again at a better time. Farewell, Erlend.”
“Farewell,” said Erlend, but did not look up.
When Gunnulf, wearing traveling clothes, stepped out of the priest’s house several hours later, he saw a man riding south across the fields toward the forest. He had a bow slung over his shoulder and three dogs were running alongside his horse. It was Erlend.
In the meantime Kristin was walking briskly along the forest path over the ridge. The sun was now high, and the tops of the fir trees shone against the summer sky, but inside the woods it was still cool and fresh with the morning. A fragrant smell filled the air from spruce boughs, the marshy earth, and the twinflowers that covered the ground everywhere, in bloom with pairs of tiny pink, bell-shaped blossoms. And the path, overgrown with grass, was damp and soft and felt good under her feet. Kristin walked along, saying her prayers; now and then she would look up at the small white, fair-weather clouds swimming in the blue above the treetops.
The whole time she found herself thinking about Brother Edvin. This is how he had walked and walked, year in and year out, from early spring until late in the fall. Over mountain paths, through dark ravines and white snowdrifts. He rested in the mountain pastures, drank from the creeks, and ate from the bread that milk-maids and horse herdsmen brought out to him. Then he would bid them live well and God’s peace and bestow blessings on both them and the livestock. Through rustling mountain meadows the monk would hike down into the valley. Tall and stoop-shouldered, with his head bowed, he wandered the main roads past manors and farms—and everywhere he went, he would leave behind his loving prayers of intercession for everyone, like good weather.