“We don’t intend to join the festivities,” said Erling curtly.
“The Haftorss?ns are young, Sir Paal is old and feeble, and the others . . . You know yourself, sir, that they have some power, being in the king’s favor and such, but . . . what importance do they have compared to you, Erling Vidkunss?n? You, sir, have held more power in this country than any other chieftain since . . . I don’t know when. Behind you, sir, stand the ancient families that the people of this country have known, man after man, for as far back as the legends tell us of bad times and good times in our villages. In your father’s lineage—what is Magnus Eirikss?n or the sons of Haftor of Sudrheim compared to you? Is their wealth worth mentioning compared to yours? This advice you have given me—it will take time, and the Frenchmen are already in Oslo, and you can bet that they will not yield. It’s clear that the king is attempting to rule Norway according to foreign customs. I know that abroad there’s a tradition for the king to ignore the law when he so chooses, if he can find amenable men among the knighthood to support him. Olav Kyrning has sent letters to those noblemen he could find to join him, and the bishop has promised to write as well. But you could end this dispute and unrest at once, Erling Vid kunss?n, by seeking out King Magnus. You are the foremost descendant of all the old noblemen here in Norway; the king knows that all the others would stand behind you.”
“I can’t say that I’ve noticed that in the past,” said Erling bitterly. “You speak with great fervor on behalf of your brother-in-law, Simon. But don’t you understand that I can’t do it now? If I do, people would say . . . that I step forward the minute pressure is put on Erlend and it’s feared he might not be able to hold his tongue.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Stig asked again, “Has Erlend . . . talked?”
“No,” replied Simon impatiently. “He has kept silent. And I think he’ll continue to do so. Erling Vidkunss?n,” he implored, “he’s your kinsman—you were friends.”
Erling took a few deep, heavy breaths.
“Yes. Simon Andress?n, do you fully understand exactly what Erlend Nikulauss?n has brought upon himself? He wanted to dissolve the royal union with the Swedes—this form of rule that has never been tested before—which seems to bring more and more hardship and difficulty to Norway for each year that passes. He wanted to go back to the old, familiar rule, which we know brings good fortune and prosperity. Don’t you see that this was the plan of a wise and bold man? And don’t you see that now it would be difficult for anyone else to take up this plan after him? He has ruined the chances of the sons of Knut Porse—and there are no other men of royal lineage the people can rally around. You might argue that if Erlend had carried out his intentions and brought Prince Haakon here to Norway, then he would have played right into my hands. Other than deliver the boy into the country, these . . . young fellows . . . wouldn’t have been able to do much without the intervention of sober-minded men who could handle all the rest that needed to be done. That’s how it is—I can vouch for it. God knows I’ve reaped few rewards; rather, I’ve had to set aside the care of my own estates for the ten years I’ve endured unrest and toil, strife and torment without end—a few men in this country have understood as much, and I’ve had to be satisfied with that!” He pounded his hand hard against the table. “Don’t you understand, Simon, that the man who took such great plans onto his shoulders—and no one knows how important they might have been to the welfare of all of us here in Norway, and to our descendants for many years to come—he set them all aside, along with his breeches, on the bed of a wanton woman. God’s blood! It could be he deserves to pay the same penance Audun Hestakorn did!”
He grew calmer.
“Otherwise I have no reason to begrudge Erlend his release, and you mustn’t think I’m not angry about what you have told us. I think if you follow my advice, you’ll find plenty of men who will support you in this matter. But I don’t think I can help you enough by joining you that I would approach the king uninvited for the sake of this cause.”
Simon got to his feet stiffly and arduously. His face was gray-streaked with fatigue. Stig Haakonss?n came over and put his arm around his shoulders. Now he would have food; he hadn’t wanted any servants in the room before they finished talking. But now he ought to regain his strength with food and drink, and then rest. Simon thanked him, but he wanted to continue on his way shortly, if Stig would lend him a fresh horse, and if he would give his servant, Jon Daalk, lodging for the night. Simon had been forced to ride on ahead of his man the night before because his horse couldn’t keep up with Digerbein. Yes, he had been traveling almost all night; he thought he knew the road to Mandvik so well, but he had lost his way a couple of times.
Stig asked him to stay until the next day; then he would go with him at least part of the way. Well, he might even accompany him as far as Tunsberg.
“There’s no reason for me to stay here any longer. I just want to go over to the church. Since I’m here on the estate, I want to say a prayer at Halfrid’s grave, at least.”
The blood rushed and roared through his exhausted body; the pounding of his heart was deafening. He felt as if he might collapse; he was only half awake. But he heard his own voice saying evenly and calmly, “Won’t you go over there with me, Sir Erling? Of all her kinsmen, I know she was most fond of you.”
He didn’t look at the other man, but he could sense him stiffen. After a moment he heard through the rushing and ringing sound of his own blood the clear and courteous voice of Erling Vidkunss?n.
“I’ll gladly do so, Simon Darre. It’s miserable weather,” he said as he buckled on the belt with his sword and threw a thick cape around his shoulders. Simon stood as still as a rock until the other man was ready. Then they went out the door.
Outside, the autumn rain was pouring down, and the fog was drifting in so thick from the sea that they could barely see more than a couple of horse-lengths into the fields and the yellow leafy groves on either side of the path. It was not far to the church. Simon went to get the key from the chaplain at the parsonage nearby; he was relieved to see that new people had come since the days when he lived there, so he could avoid a long chat.
It was a small stone church with only one altar. Distractedly Simon looked at the same pictures and adornments he had seen so many hundreds of times before as he knelt down a short distance from Erling Vidkunss?n near the white marble gravestone; he said his prayers, crossing himself at the proper times, without fully taking notice.
Simon didn’t understand how he’d been able to do it. But now he was in the thick of it all. What he should say, he wasn’t sure—but no matter how sick with fear and shame he felt, he knew he would attempt it all the same.
He remembered the white, ill face of the aging woman lying in the dim light of the bed, and her lovely, gentle voice on that afternoon when he sat at her bedside and she told him. It was a month before the child was due, and she expected that it would take her life—but she was willing and happy to pay so dearly for their son. That poor boy who now lay under the stone in a little coffin at his mother’s shoulder. No, no man could do what he intended. . . .