“His head—he has such a strange head.”
“He’s swollen up,” said the woman calmly. “And it’s no wonder—he had to fight hard for his life, this boy.”
Kristin shouted something. She felt as if she were suddenly awake, to the very depths of her heart. This was her son, and he had fought for his life, just as she had.
Gunnulf turned around at once and laughed; he seized the tiny white bundle from Fru Gunna’s lap and carried it over to the bed. He placed the boy in his mother’s arms. Weak with tenderness and joy she rubbed her face against the little bit of red, silky-soft face visible among the linen wrappings.
She glanced up at Erlend. Once before she had seen his face look this haggard and gray—she couldn’t remember when, her head felt so dizzy and strange, but she knew that it was good she had no memory of it. And it was good to see him standing there with his brother; the priest had his hand on Erlend’s shoulder. An immeasurable sense of peace and well-being came over her as she looked at the tall man wearing alb and stole; the round, lean face beneath the black fringe of hair was strong, but his smile was pleasant and kind.
Erlend drove his dagger deep into the wall timber behind the mother and child.
“That’s not necessary now,” said the priest with a laugh. “The boy has been baptized, after all.”
Kristin suddenly remembered something that Brother Edvin once said. A newly baptized child was just as holy as the holy angels in heaven. The sins of the parents were washed from the child, and he had not yet committed any sins of his own. Fearful and cautious, she kissed the little face.
Fru Gunna came over to them. She was worn out and exhausted and angry at the father, who had not had the sense to offer a single word of thanks to all the women who had helped. And the priest had taken the child from her and carried him over to his mother. She should have done that, both because she had delivered the woman and because she was the godmother of the boy.
“You haven’t yet greeted your son, Erlend, or held him in your arms,” she said crossly.
Erlend lifted the swaddled infant from the mother’s arms—for a moment he lay his face close.
“I don’t think I’m going to be properly fond of you, Naakkve, until I forget what terrible suffering you caused your mother,” he said, and then gave the boy back to Kristin.
“By all means give him the blame for that,” said the old woman, annoyed. Master Gunnulf laughed, and then Fru Gunna laughed with him. She wanted to take the child and put him in his cradle, but Kristin begged to keep him with her for a while. A moment later she fell asleep with her son beside her—vaguely noticing that Erlend touched her, cautiously, as if he were afraid to hurt her, and then she was sound asleep again.
CHAPTER 5
IN THE MORNING of the tenth day after the child’s birth, Master Gunnulf said to his brother when they were alone in the hall, “It’s about time now, Erlend, for you to send word to your wife’s kinsmen about how things are with her.”
“I don’t think there’s any haste with that,” replied Erlend. “I doubt they will be overly glad at J?rundgaard when they hear that there’s already a son here on the manor.”
“Don’t you think Kristin’s mother would have realized last fall that her daughter was unwell?” Gunnulf asked. “She must be worried by now.”
Erlend didn’t say a word in reply.
But later in the day, as Gunnulf was sitting in the little house and talking to Kristin, Erlend came in. He was wearing a fur cap on his head, a short, thick homespun coat, long pants, and furry boots. He bent down to his wife and patted her cheek.
“So, dear Kristin—do you have any greetings you wish to send to J?rundgaard? I’m heading there now to bring word of our son.”
Kristin blushed bright red. She looked both frightened and happy.
“It’s no more than your father would demand of me,” said Erlend somberly, “that I bring the news myself.”
Kristin lay in silence for a moment.
“Tell them at home,” she said softly, “that I have yearned every day since I left home to fall at Father’s and Mother’s feet to beg their forgiveness.”
A few minutes later, Erlend left. Kristin didn’t think to ask how he would travel. But Gunnulf went out to the courtyard with his brother. Next to the doorway of the main house stood Erlend’s skis and a staff with a spear point.
“You’re going to ski there?” asked Gunnulf. “Who’s going with you?”
“Nobody,” replied Erlend, laughing. “You should know best of all, Gunnulf, that it’s not easy for anyone to keep up with me on skis.”
“This seems reckless to me,” said the priest. “There are many wolves in the mountain forests this year, they say.”
Erlend merely laughed and began to strap on his skis. “I was thinking of heading up through the Gjeitskar pastures before it gets dark. It will be light for a long time yet. I can make it to J?rundgaard on the evening of the third day.”
“The path from Gjeitskar to the road is uncertain, and there are bad patches of fog there too. You know it’s unsafe up in the mountain pastures in the wintertime.”
“You can lend me your flint,” said Erlend in the same tone of voice, “in case I should need to throw mine away—at some elf woman if she demands such courtesies of me as would be unseemly for a married man. Listen, brother, I’m doing now what you said I should do—going to Kristin’s father to ask him to demand whatever penances from me that he finds reasonable. Surely you can allow me to decide this much, that I myself choose how I will travel.”
And with that Master Gunnulf had to be content. But he sternly commanded the servants to conceal from Kristin that Erlend had set off alone.
To the south the sky arched pale yellow over the blue-tinged snowdrifts of the mountains on the evening when Erlend came racing down past the churchyard, making the snow crust creak and shriek. High overhead hovered the crescent moon, shining white and dewy in the twilight.
At J?rundgaard dark smoke was swirling up from the smoke vents against the pale, clear sky. The sound of an axe rang out cold and rhythmic in the stillness.
At the entrance to the courtyard a pack of dogs started barking loudly at the approaching man. Inside the courtyard a group of shaggy goats ambled around, dark silhouettes in the clear dusk. They were nibbling at a heap of fir boughs in the middle of the courtyard. Three winter-clad youngsters were running among them.
The peace of the place made an oddly deep impression on Erlend. He stood there, irresolute, and waited for Lavrans, who was coming forward to greet the stranger. His father-in-law had been over by the woodshed, talking to a man splitting rails for a fence. Lavrans stopped abruptly when he recognized his son-in-law; he thrust the spear he was holding hard into the snow.
“Is that you?” he asked in a low voice. “Alone? Is there . . . is something . . . ?” And a moment later he said, “How is it that you’ve come here like this?”
“Here’s the reason.” Erlend pulled himself together and looked his father-in-law in the eye. “I thought I could do no less than to come here myself to bring you the news. Kristin gave birth to a son on the morning of the Feast of the Annunciation.
“And yes, she is doing well now,” he added quickly.
Lavrans stood in silence for a moment. He was biting down hard on his lip—his jaw trembled and quivered faintly.
“That was news indeed!” he said then.
Little Ramborg had come over to stand at her father’s side. She looked up, her face flaming red.
“Be quiet,” said Lavrans harshly, even though the maiden hadn’t uttered a word but had merely blushed. “Don’t stand here—go away.”
He didn’t say anything more. Erlend stood leaning forward, with his left hand gripping his staff. His eyes were fixed on the snow. He had stuck his right hand inside his tunic.
Lavrans pointed. “Have you injured yourself?”