Erlend did not reply.
“And yet you blame me for the way things went with Margret, but every time I tried to reprimand her with even a single word, she would run to you, and you would tell me sternly to leave the maiden in peace—she was yours and not mine.”
“Blame you? No, I don’t,” Erlend said with difficulty, struggling hard to speak calmly. “If one of our children had been a daughter, then you might have better understood how this matter of my daughter . . . it stabs a father to the very marrow.”
“I thought I showed you this spring that I understood,” said his wife softly. “I only had to think of my own father. . . .”
“All the same, this was much worse,” said Erlend, his voice still calm. “I was an unmarried man. This man . . . was married. I was not bound. At least,” he corrected himself, “I wasn’t bound in such a way that I couldn’t free myself.”
“And yet you didn’t free yourself,” said Kristin. “Don’t you remember how it came about that you were freed?”
Erlend leaped to his feet and slapped her face. Then he stood staring at her in horror. A red patch appeared on her white cheek, but she sat rigid and motionless, her eyes hard. The child began to cry in fright; she rocked him gently in her arms, hushing him.
“That . . . was a vile thing to say, Kristin,” said her husband uncertainly.
“The last time you struck me,” she answered in a low voice, “I was carrying your child under my heart. Now you hit me as I hold your son on my lap.”
“Yes, we keep having all these children,” he shouted impatiently.
They both fell silent. Erlend began swiftly pacing back and forth. She carried the child over to the alcove and put him on the bed; when she reappeared in the alcove doorway, he stopped in front of her.
“I . . . I shouldn’t have struck you, my Kristin. I wish I hadn’t done it. I’ll probably regret it for as long as I regretted it the first time. But you . . . you’ve told me before that you think I forget things too quickly. But you never forget—not a single injustice I might have done you. I’ve tried . . . tried to be a good husband to you, but you don’t seem to think that worth remembering. You . . . you’re so beautiful, Kristin . . .” He gazed after her as she walked past him.
Oh, his wife’s quiet and dignified bearing was as lovely as the willowy grace of the young maiden had been; she was wider in the bosom and hips, but she was also taller. She held herself erect, and her neck bore the small, round head as proudly and beautifully as ever. Her pale, remote face with the dark-gray eyes stirred and excited him as much as her round, rosy child’s face had stirred and excited his restless soul with its wondrous calm. He went over and took her hand.
“For me, Kristin, you will always be the most beautiful of women, and the most dear.”
She allowed him to hold her hand but didn’t squeeze his in return. Then he flung it aside; rage overcame him once again.
“You say I’ve forgotten. That may not always be the worst of sins. I’ve never pretended to be a pious man, but I remember what I learned from Sira Jon when I was a child, and God’s servants have reminded me of it since. It’s a sin to brood over and dwell on the sins we have confessed to the priest and repented before God, receiving His forgiveness through the hand and the words of the priest. And it’s not out of piety, Kristin, that you’re constantly tearing open these old sins of ours—you want to hold the knife to my throat every time I oppose you in some way.”
He walked away and then came back.
“Domineering . . . God knows that I love you, Kristin, even though I can see how domineering you are, and you’ve never forgiven me for the injustice I did to you or for luring you astray. I’ve tolerated a great deal from you, Kristin, but I will no longer tolerate the fact that I can never have peace from these old misfortunes, nor that you speak to me as if I were your thrall.”
Kristin was trembling with fury when she spoke.
“I’ve never spoken to you as if you were my thrall. Have you ever heard me speak harshly or in anger to anyone who might be considered lesser than me, even if it was the most incompetent or worthless of our household servants? I know that before God I am free of the sin of offending His poor in either word or deed. But you’re supposed to be my lord; I’m supposed to obey and honor you, bow to you and lean on you, next to God, in accordance with God’s laws, Erlend! And if I’ve lost patience and talked to you in a manner unbefitting a wife speaking to her husband—then it’s because many times you’ve made it difficult for me to surrender my ignorance to your better understanding, to honor and obey my husband and lord as much as I would have liked. And perhaps I had expected that you . . . perhaps I thought I could provoke you into showing me that you were a man and I was only a poor woman. . . .
“But you needn’t worry, Erlend. I will not offend you again with my words, and from this day forward, I will never forget to speak to you as gently as if you were descended from thralls.”
Erlend’s face had flushed dark red. He raised his fist at her, then turned swiftly on his heel, grabbed his cape and sword from the bench near the door, and rushed out.
It was sunny outside, with a piercing wind. The air was cold, but glistening particles of thawing ice sprayed over him from the building eaves and from the swaying tree branches. The snow on the rooftops gleamed like silver, and beyond the black-green, forested slopes surrounding the town, the mountain peaks sparkled icy blue and shiny white in the sharp, dazzling light of the wintry spring day.
Erlend raced through the streets and alleyways—fast but aimless. He was boiling inside. She was wrong, it was clear that she had been wrong from the very beginning, and he was right. He had allowed himself to be provoked and struck her, undercutting his position, but she was the one who was wrong. Now he had no idea what to do with himself. He had no wish to visit any acquaintances, and he refused to go back home.
There was a great tumult in town. A large trading ship from Iceland—the first of the spring season—had put in at the docks that morning. Erlend wandered west through the lanes and emerged near Saint Martin’s Church; he headed down toward the wharves. There were already shrieks and clamor coming from the inns and alehouses, even though it was early afternoon. In his youth Erlend could have gone into such places himself, along with friends and companions. But now people would stare, wide-eyed, and afterwards they would wear out their gums gossiping if the sheriff of Orkd?la county, who had a residence in town and ale, mead, and wine in abundance in his own home, should go into an inn and ask for a taste of their paltry ale. But that was truly what he wished for most—to sit and drink with the smallholders who had come to town and with the servants and seamen. No one would make a fuss if these fellows gave their women a slap in the face; it would do them good. How in fiery Hell was a man to rule his wife if he couldn’t beat her because of her high birth and his own sense of honor. The Devil himself couldn’t compete with a woman through words. She was a witch—but so beautiful. If only he could beat her until she gave in.
The bells began to ring from all the churches in town, calling the people to vespers. The sounds tumbled in the spring wind, hovering over him in the turbulent air. No doubt she was on her way to Christ Church now, that holy witch. She would complain to God and the Virgin Mary and Saint Olav that she had been struck in the face by her husband. Erlend sent his wife’s guardian saints a greeting of sinful thoughts as the bells resounded and tolled and clanged. He headed toward Saint Gregor’s Church.