“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.
Kristin didn’t meet a living soul, except for a few cows now and then—there were mountain pastures on the ridge. But it was a clearly marked path, with log bridges across the marshes. Kristin was not afraid; she felt as if the monk were walking invisibly at her side.
Brother Edvin, if it’s true that you are a holy man, if you now stand before God, then pray for me!
Lord Jesus Christ, Holy Mary, Saint Olav. She longed to reach the destination of her journey. She longed to cast off the burden of years of concealed sins, the weight of church services and masses which she had stolen, unconfessed and unredeemed. She longed to be absolved and free—just as she had longed to be released from her burden this past spring when she was carrying the child.
He was sleeping soundly, safe on his mother’s back. He didn’t wake up until she had walked through the woods down to the farms of Snefugl and could look out across Budvik and the arm of the fjord at Saltnes. Kristin sat down in an outlying field, pulled the bundle with the child around into her lap, and loosened her robe at the breast. It felt good to hold him to her breast; it felt good to sit down; and a blessed warmth coursed through her whole body as she felt her stone-hard breasts bursting with milk empty out as he nursed.
The countryside below her lay silent and baking in the sun, with green pastures and bright fields amidst dark forest. A little smoke drifted up from the rooftops here and there. The hay harvesting had begun in a few places.
She traveled by boat from Saltnes Sand over to Steine. Then she was in completely unfamiliar regions. The road through Bynes went past farms for a while; then she reached the woods again, but there was no longer such a great distance between human dwellings. She was very tired. But then she thought about her parents—they had walked barefoot all the way from J?rundgaard at Sil, through Dovre, and on to Nidaros, carrying Ulvhild on a litter between them. She must not think that Naakkve was so heavy on her back.
And yet her head itched terribly from the sweat under her thick homespun wimple. Around her waist, where the rope held her clothing close to her body, her shift had rubbed on her skin so that it felt quite raw.
After a while there were others on the road. Now and then people would ride past her. She caught up with a farmer’s cart taking goods to town; the heavy wheels jolted and jounced over roots and stones, screeching and creaking. Two men were driving a beast to slaughter. They glanced at the young woman pilgrim because she was so beautiful; otherwise people were used to such wayfarers in these parts. At one place several men were building a house a short distance from the road; they shouted to her, and an old man came running to offer her some ale. Kristin curtseyed, took a drink, and thanked the man with such words as poor people usually said to her when she gave them alms.
A little while later she had to rest again. She found a small green hill along the road with a trickling creek. Kristin placed the child on the grass; he woke up and cried loudly, so she hurried distractedly through the prayers she had meant to say. Then she picked up Naakkve, held him on her lap, and loosened the swaddling clothes. He had sullied his underclothes, and she had little to change him with; so she rinsed the cloths and spread them out to dry on a bare rock in the sun. She wrapped the outer garments loosely around the boy. He seemed to like this, and lay there kicking as he drank from his mother’s breast. Kristin gazed happily at his fine, rosy limbs and pressed one of his hands between her breasts as she nursed him.
Two men rode past at a fast trot. Kristin glanced up briefly—it was a nobleman and his servant. But suddenly the man reined in his horse, leaped from the saddle, and walked back to where she was sitting. It was Simon Andress?n.
“Perhaps you won’t be pleased that I stopped to greet you?” he asked. He stood there holding his horse and looking down at her. He was wearing traveling clothes, with a sleeveless leather vest over a light-blue linen tunic; he wore a small silk cap on his head, and his face was rather flushed and sweaty. “It’s strange to see you—but perhaps you’d rather not speak to me?”
“Surely you should know . . . How are you, Simon?” Kristin tucked her bare feet under the hem of her skirts and tried to take the child from her breast. But the boy screamed, opening his mouth to suckle, so she had to let him nurse again. She pulled the robe over her breast as best she could and sat with her eyes lowered.
“Is it yours?” asked Simon, pointing to the child. “That was a foolish question,” he laughed. “It’s a son, isn’t it? He’s blessed with good fortune, Erlend Nikulauss?n!” He tied his horse to a tree, and now he sat down on a rock not far from Kristin. He placed his sword between his knees and sat with his hands on the hilt, poking at the dirt with the point of the scabbard.
“It was unexpected to meet you here in the north, Simon,” said Kristin, just for something to say.
“Yes,” said Simon. “I haven’t had business in this part of the country before.”
Kristin recalled that she had heard something—at the welcome celebration for her at Husaby—about the youngest son of Arne Gjavvaldss?n of Ranheim being betrothed to Andres Darre’s youngest daughter. So she asked him whether that’s where he had been.
“You know about it?” asked Simon. “Well, I suppose it must have been talked about all through these parts.”
“So it’s true,” said Kristin, “that Gjavvald is to marry Sigrid?” Simon looked up abruptly, pressing his lips together.
“I see you don’t know everything, after all.”
“I haven’t been beyond the courtyard of Husaby all winter,” said Kristin. “And I’ve seen few people. I heard there was talk of this marriage.”