“Aren’t you coming, brother-in-law? Have some food first—and you too, Ulf!”
Her body seemed so young and soft as she stood there with her hip turned slightly, looking back over her shoulder. As soon as she arrived in Oslo, she had begun fastening her wimple in a different manner than before. Here in the south only the wives of smallholders wore the wimple in the old-fashioned way she had worn it ever since she was married: tightly framing her face like a nun’s wimple, with the ends crossed in front so her neck was completely hidden, and the folds draped along the sides and over her hair, which was knotted at the nape of her neck. In Tr?ndelag it was considered a sign of piety to wear the wimple in this manner, which Archbishop Eiliv had always praised as the most seemly and chaste style for married women. But in order to fit in, Kristin had adopted the fashion of the south, with the linen cloth placed smoothly on her head and hanging straight back, so that her hair in front was visible, and her neck and shoulders were free. And another part of the style was to have the braids simply pinned up so they couldn’t be seen under the edge of the wimple, with the cloth fitted softly to the shape of her head. Simon had seen this before and thought it suited her—but he had never noticed how young it made her look. And her eyes were shining like stars.
Later in the day a great many people arrived to bring greetings to Erlend: Ketil of Skog, Markus Torgeirss?n, and later that evening Olav Kyrning himself, along with Sira Ingolf and Herr Guttorm, a priest from Saint Halvard’s Church. By the time the two priests arrived, it had begun to snow, a fine, dry powder, and they had lost their way in a field and wandered into some burdock bushes—their clothing was full of burrs. Everyone busily fell to picking the burdocks from the priests and their servants. Erlend and Kristin were helping Herr Guttorm; every now and then they would blush as they jested with the priest, their voices strangely unsteady and quavering when they laughed.
Simon drank a good deal early in the evening, but it didn’t make him merry—only a little more sluggish. He heard every word that was said, his hearing unbearably sharp. The others soon began speaking openly—none of them supported the king.
After a while he felt so strangely weary of it all. They sat there spouting foolish chatter, in loud and heated voices. Ketil Aas mundss?n was quite a simpleton, and his brother-in-law Markus was not much more clever himself; Olav Kyrning was a right-minded and sensible man, but short-sighted. And to Simon the two priests didn’t seem any more intelligent. Now they were all sitting there listening to Erlend and agreeing with him—and he grew more and more like the man he had always been: brash and impetuous. Now he had taken Kristin’s hand and placed it on his knee; he was sitting there playing with her fingers—and they sat close together, so their shoulders touched. Now she blushed bright red; she couldn’t take her eyes off him. When he put his arm around her waist, her lips trembled and she had trouble pressing them closed.
Then the door flew open, and Munan Baards?n stepped in.
“At last the mighty ox himself arrives,” shouted Erlend, jumping up and going to greet him.
“May God and the Virgin Mary help us—I don’t think you’re troubled in the least, Erlend,” said Munan, annoyed.
“And do you think it would do any good to whine and weep now, kinsman?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it—you’ve squandered all your wealth. . . .”
“Well, I was never the kind of man who would go to Hell with a bare backside merely to save my breeches from being burned,” said Erlend, and Kristin laughed softly, looking flustered.
Simon leaned over the table and rested his head on his arms. If only they would think he was so drunk that he’d fallen asleep—he just wanted to be left alone.
Nothing was any different than he’d expected—or at least ought to have expected. She wasn’t either. Here she sat, the only woman among all these men, as gentle and modest, comfortable and confident as ever. That’s how she had been back then—when she betrayed him—shameless or innocent, he wasn’t sure. Oh, no, that wasn’t true either . . . she hadn’t been confident at all, she hadn’t been shameless—she hadn’t been calm behind that calm demeanor. But the man had bewitched her; for Erlend’s sake she would gladly walk on searing stones—and she had trampled on Simon as if she thought he was nothing more than a cold stone.
And here he lay, thinking foolishness. She had wanted to have her way and thought of nothing else. Let them have their joy—it made no difference to him. He didn’t care if they produced seven more sons; then there would be fourteen to divide up the inheritance from Lavrans Bj?rgulfs?n’s estate. It didn’t look as if he would have to worry about his own children; Ramborg wasn’t as quick to give birth as her sister. And one day his descendants would be left with power and wealth after his death. But it made no difference to him—not this evening. He wanted to keep on drinking, but he knew that tonight God’s gifts would have no hold on him. And then he would have to lift his head and perhaps be pulled into the conversation.
“Well, you probably think you would have made a good regent, don’t you?” said Munan scornfully.
“No, you should know that we intended that position for you,” laughed Erlend.
“In God’s name, watch your tongue, man.”
The others laughed.
Erlend came over and touched Simon’s shoulder.
“Are you sleeping, brother-in-law?” Simon looked up. Erlend was standing before him with a goblet in his hand. “Drink with me, Simon. To you I owe the most gratitude for saving my life—which is dear to me, even such as it is, my man! You stood by me like a brother. If you hadn’t been my brother-in-law, I would have surely lost my head. Then you could have had my widow. . . .”
Simon leaped to his feet. For a moment they stood there staring at each other. Erlend grew sober and pale; his lips parted in a gasp.
Simon knocked the goblet out of the other man’s hand with his fist; the mead spilled out. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.
Erlend stayed where he was. He wiped his hand and wrist on the fabric of his surcoat without realizing that he was doing so, then looked around—the others hadn’t noticed. With his foot he pushed the goblet under the bench, then stood there a moment before following after his brother-in-law.
Simon Darre was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Jon Daalk was leading his horses from the stable. He didn’t move when Erlend came down to stand beside him.
“Simon! Simon . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was saying!”
“Now you do.”
Simon’s voice was toneless. He stood stock-still, without looking at the other man.
Erlend glanced around him helplessly. A pale sliver of the moon shone through the veil of clouds; small, hard bits of snow were falling. Erlend shivered in the cold.
“Where . . . where are you going?” he asked uncertainly, looking at the servant and horses.
“To find myself another inn,” said Simon curtly. “You know full well that I can’t stay here.”
“Simon!” Erlend exclaimed. “Oh, I don’t know what I would give to have those words unsaid!”
“As would I,” replied the other man in the same voice.
The door to the loft opened. Kristin stepped out onto the gallery with a lantern in her hand; she leaned over and shone the light on them.
“Is that where you are?” she asked in her clear voice. “What are you doing outdoors?”
“I thought I should see to my horses—as it’s the custom for polite people to say,” replied Simon, laughing up at her.
“But . . . you’ve taken your horses out!” she said merrily.
“Yes, a man can do strange things when he’s been drinking,” said Simon in the same manner as before.