“Is that what you want to tell me—that you still love Kristin even though you like me well enough to want to play with me?”
“I don’t know how well I like you . . . You were the one who showed your affection for me.”
“And Kristin doesn’t care for your love?” she sneered. “I’ve seen how tenderly she looks at you, Erlend. . . .”
“Be silent!” he shouted. “Perhaps she knew how worthless I was,” he said, his voice harsh and hateful. “You and I might be each other’s equal.”
“Is that it?” threatened Sunniva. “Am I supposed to be the whip you use to punish your wife?”
Erlend stood there, breathing hard. “You could call it that. But you put yourself willingly into my hands.”
“Take care,” said Sunniva, “that the whip doesn’t turn back on you.”
She was sitting up in bed, waiting. But Erlend made no attempt to argue or to make amends with his lover. He finished getting dressed and left without saying another word.
He wasn’t overly pleased with himself or with the way he had parted with Sunniva. There was no honor in it for him. But it didn’t matter now; at least he was rid of her.
CHAPTER 4
DURING THAT SPRING and summer they saw little of the master at home at Husaby. On those occasions when he did return to his manor, he and his wife behaved with courtesy and friendliness toward each other. Erlend didn’t try in any way to breach the wall that she had now put up between them, even though he would often give her a searching look. Otherwise, he seemed to have much to think about outside his own home. And he never inquired with a single word about the management of the estate.
This was something his wife mentioned when, shortly after Holy Cross Day, he asked her whether she wanted to accompany him to Raumsdal. He had business to tend to in the Uplands; perhaps she would like to take the children along, spend some time at J?rundgaard, visit kinsmen and friends in the valley? But Kristin had no wish to do so, under any circumstances.
Erlend was in Nidaros during the Law ting and afterwards out in Orkedal. Then he returned home to Husaby but immediately began preparations for a journey to Bj?rgvin. The Margygren was anchored out at Nidarholm, and he was only waiting for Haftor Graut, who was supposed to sail with him.
Three days before Saint Margareta’s Day, the hay harvesting began at Husaby. It was the finest weather, and when the workers went back out into the meadows after the midday rest, Olav the overseer asked the children to come along.
Kristin was up in the clothing chamber, which was on the second story of the armory. The house was built in such a fashion that an outside stair led up to this room and the exterior gallery running along the side; projecting over it was the third floor, which could be reached only by means of a ladder through a hatchway inside the clothing chamber. It was standing open because Erlend was up in the weapons loft.
Kristin carried the fur cape that Erlend wanted to take along on his sea voyage out to the gallery and began to shake it. Then she heard the thunder of a large group of horsemen, and a moment later she saw men come riding out of the forest on Gauldal Road. An instant later, Erlend was standing at her side.
“Is it true what you said, Kristin, that the fire went out in the cookhouse this morning?”
“Yes, Gudrid knocked over the soup kettle. We’ll have to borrow some embers from Sira Eiliv.”
Erlend looked over at the parsonage.
“No, he can’t get mixed up in this. . . . Gaute,” he called softly to the boy dawdling under the gallery, picking up one rake after another, with little desire to go out to the hay harvesting. “Come up the stairs, but stop at the top or they’ll be able to see you.”
Kristin stared at her husband. She’d never seen him look this way before. A taut, alert calm came over his voice and face as he peered south toward the road, and over his tall, supple body as he ran inside the loft and came back at once with a flat package wrapped in linen. He handed it to the boy.
“Put this inside your shirt, and pay attention to what I tell you. You must safeguard these letters—it’s more important than you can possibly know, my Gaute. Put your rake over your shoulder and walk calmly across the fields until you reach the alder thickets. Keep to the bushes down by the woods—you know the place well, I know you do—and then sneak through the densest underbrush all the way over to Skjoldvirkstad. Make sure that things are calm at the farm. If you notice any sign of unrest or strange men around, stay hidden. But if you’re sure it’s safe, then go down and give this to Ulf, if he’s home. If you can’t put the letters into his own hand and you’re sure that no one is near, then burn them as soon as you can. But take care that both the writing and the seals are completely destroyed, and that they don’t fall into anyone’s hands but Ulf’s. May God help us, my son—these are weighty matters to put into the hands of a boy only ten winters old; many a good man’s life and welfare . . . Do you understand how important this is, Gaute?”
“Yes, Father. I understand everything you said.” Gaute lifted his small, fair face with a somber expression as he stood on the stairs.
“If Ulf isn’t home, tell Isak that he has to set off at once for Hevne and ride all night—he must tell them, and he knows who I mean, that I think a headwind has sprung up here, and that I fear my journey has now been cursed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. I remember everything you’ve told me.”
“Go then. May God protect you, my son.”
Erlend dashed up to the weapons loft and was about to close the hatchway, but Kristin was already halfway through the opening. He waited until she had climbed up, then shut the hatch and ran over to a chest and took out several boxes of letters. He tore off the seals and stomped them to bits on the floor; he ripped the parchments into shreds and wrapped them around a key and tossed the whole thing out the window to the ground, where it landed in the tall nettles growing behind the building. With his hands on the windowsill, Erlend stood and watched the small boy who was walking along the edge of the grain field toward the meadow where the rows of harvest workers were toiling with scythes and rakes. When Gaute disappeared into the little grove of trees between the field and the meadow, Erlend pulled the window closed. The sound of hoofbeats was now loud and close to the manor.
Erlend turned to face his wife.
“If you can retrieve what I threw outside just now . . . let Skule do it, he’s a clever boy. Tell him to fling it into the ravine behind the cowshed. They’ll probably be watching you, and maybe the older boys as well. But I don’t think they would search you. . . .” He tucked the broken pieces of seal inside her bodice. “They can’t be recognized anymore, but even so . . .”
“Are you in some kind of danger, Erlend?” Kristin asked. As he looked down at her face, he threw himself into her open arms. For a moment he held her tight.
“I don’t know, Kristin. We’ll find out soon enough. Tore Ein dridess?n is riding in the lead, and I saw that Sir Baard is with them. I don’t expect that Tore is coming here for any good purpose.”
Now the horsemen had entered the courtyard. Erlend hesitated for a moment. Then he kissed his wife fervently, opened the hatchway, and ran downstairs. When Kristin came out onto the gallery, Erlend was standing in the courtyard below, helping the royal treasurer, an elderly and ponderous man, down from his saddle. There were at least thirty armed men with Sir Baard and the sheriff of Gauld?la county.
As Kristin walked across the courtyard, she heard the latter man say, “I bring you greetings from your cousins, Erlend. Borgar and Guttorm are enjoying the king’s hospitality in Ve?y, and I think that Haftor Toress?n has already paid a visit to Ivar and the young boy at home at Sundbu by this time. Sir Baard seized Graut yesterday morning in town.”
“And now you’ve come here to invite me to the same meeting of the royal retainers, I can see,” said Erlend with a smile.