Now he was riding home to her. May God bless her, Simon thought ruefully. And so it was over: the plodding around in that sibling love. The two of them over there, and he and his family. He would never have to meet Kristin Lavransdatter again.
The thought took his breath away. Just as well, by the Devil. If your eye offends you, then pluck it out, said the priests. He told himself that the main reason he had done this was to escape the sister-brother love with Kristin. He couldn’t bear it anymore.
He had only one wish now: that Ramborg would not be awake when he came home.
But when he rode in among the fences, he saw someone wearing a dark cloak standing beneath the aspen trees. The white of her wimple gleamed.
She said that she had been waiting for him ever since Sigurd returned home. The maids had gone to bed, so Ramborg herself ladled up the porridge that stood on the edge of the hearth, keeping warm. She placed bacon and bread on the table and brought in newly tapped ale.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed now, Ramborg?” asked her husband as he ate.
Ramborg did not reply. She went over to her loom and began threading the colorful little balls of wool in and out of the warp. She had set up the loom for a tapestry before Christmas, but she hadn’t made much progress yet.
“Erlend rode past, heading north, some time ago,” she said, with her back turned. “From what Sigurd said, I thought you would be riding together.”
“No, it didn’t turn out that way.”
“Erlend had a greater longing for his bed than you did?” She laughed a little. When she received no answer, she said again, “I suppose he always longs to be home with Kristin when he has been away.”
Simon was silent for a good while before he replied, “Erlend and I did not part as friends.”
Ramborg turned around abruptly. Then he told her what he had learned at Dyfrin and about the first part of the conversation with Erlend and his sons.
“It seems to me rather unreasonable that you should quarrel over such a matter when you’ve been able to remain friends until now.”
“Perhaps, but that’s how things went. And it will take too long to discuss the whole matter tonight.”
Ramborg turned back to her loom and busied herself with her work.
“Simon,” she said suddenly, “do you remember a story that Sira Eirik once told us . . . from the Bible? About a maiden named Abishag the Shunammite?”3
“No.”
“Back when King David was old and his vigor and manhood were beginning to fade—” Ramborg began, but Simon interrupted her.
“My Ramborg, it’s much too late at night; this is no time to start telling sagas. And now I do remember the story about the woman you mentioned.”
Ramborg pushed up the reed of the loom and fell silent for a while. Then she spoke again. “Do you remember the saga my father knew—about the handsome Tristan and fair Isolde and dark Isolde?”
“Yes, I remember.” Simon pushed his plate aside, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and got up. He went over to stand in front of the fireplace. With one foot resting on the edge, his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand, he stared into the fire, which was about to die out inside the stone-lined hollow. From the loom over in the corner came Ramborg’s voice, fragile-sounding and close to tears.
“When I listened to those stories, I always thought that men like King David and Sir Tristan . . . It seemed to me so foolish, and cruel, that they didn’t love the young brides who offered them their maidenhood and the love of their hearts with gentleness and seemly graciousness but preferred instead such women as Fru Bathsheba or fair Isolde, who had squandered themselves in other men’s arms. I thought that if I had been a man, I wouldn’t have been so lacking in pride . . . or so heartless.” Overcome, she fell silent. “It seems to me the most terrible fate: what happened to Abishag and poor Isolde of Bretland.” Abruptly she turned around, walked quickly across the room, and stood before her husband.
“What is it, Ramborg?” Simon reluctantly asked in a low voice. “I don’t know what you mean by all this.”
“Yes, you do,” she replied fiercely. “You’re a man just like that Tristan.”
“I find it hard to believe”—he tried to laugh—“that I should be compared with the handsome Tristan. And the two women you mentioned . . . If I remember right, they lived and died as pure maidens, untouched by their husbands.” He looked at his wife. The little triangle of her face was pale, and she was biting her lip.
Simon set his foot down, straightened up, and put both hands on her shoulders.
“My Ramborg, you and I have two children,” he said softly.
She didn’t reply.
“I’ve done my best to show you my gratitude for that gift. I thought . . . I’ve tried to be a good husband to you.”
When she didn’t speak, he let her go, went over to a bench, and sat down. Ramborg followed and stood before him, looking down at her husband: his broad thighs in the wet, muddy hose, his stout body, his heavy reddish-brown face. Her lip curled with displeasure.
“You’ve grown so ugly over the years, Simon.”
“Well, I’ve never thought myself to be a handsome man,” he said calmly.
“But I’m young and pretty. . . .” She sat down on his lap, the tears pouring from her eyes as she held his head in her hands. “Simon, look at me. Why can’t you reward me for this? Never have I wanted to belong to anyone but you. It’s what I dreamed of ever since I was a little maiden: that my husband would be a man like you. Do you remember how we were once allowed to follow along with you, both Ulvhild and I? You were going with Father to the west pasture, to look at his foals. You carried Ulvhild over the creek, and Father was going to lift me up, but I cried that I wanted you to carry me too. Do you remember?”
Simon nodded. He remembered paying a great deal of attention to Ulvhild because he thought it so sad that the lovely child was crippled. Of the youngest daughter he had no memory, except that he knew there was a girl younger than Ulvhild.
“You had the most beautiful hair. . . .” Ramborg ran her fingers through the lock of wavy light-brown hair that fell over her husband’s forehead. “And there’s still not a single streak of gray. Erlend’s hair will soon be as much white as black. And I always loved to see the deep dimples in your cheeks when you smiled . . . and the fact that you had such a merry voice.”
“Yes, no doubt I looked a little better back then than I do now.”
“No,” she whispered fiercely. “When you look at me tenderly . . . Do you remember the first time I slept in your arms? I was in bed, whimpering over a toothache. Father and Mother were asleep, and it was dark in the loft, but you came over to the bench where we lay, Ulvhild and I, and asked me why I was crying. You told me to hush and not wake the others; then you lifted me in your arms. You lit a candle and cut a splinter of wood and then poked at my gums around the aching tooth until you drew blood. Then you said a prayer over the splinter, and the tooth didn’t hurt anymore. And I was allowed to sleep in your bed, and you held me in your arms.”
Simon placed his hand on her head, pressing it to his shoulder. Now that she spoke of it, he remembered. It was when he had come to J?rundgaard to tell Lavrans that the bond between him and Kristin had to be broken. He had slept very little that night. And now he recalled that he had gotten up to tend to little Ramborg, who lay fretting over a toothache.
“Have I ever behaved toward you in such a way, my Ramborg, that you thought it right to say that I didn’t love you?”
“Simon . . . don’t you think I might deserve that you loved me more than Kristin? She was wicked and dishonest toward you, while I have stayed with you like a little lapdog all these years.”
Gently Simon lifted her off his lap, stood up, and took her hands in his.