“Well, one departs and the other arrives,” he said and laughed after they had greeted each other. “I met Arne from Brekken just now—and I see that you’re walking along and crying. So how about giving me a little smile because I’ve come back home? The two of us have also been friends since childhood, haven’t we?”
“It’s a poor bargain to have you come back to the valley in his stead,” said Kristin crossly. She had never liked Bentein. “Quite a few people will say the same, I’m afraid. And your grandfather was so happy that you were getting on so well down south in Oslo.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bentein with a snicker and a sneer. “So you think I was getting on well, do you? Like a pig in a wheat field, that’s how it was for me, Kristin—and the end result was the same. I was chased off with a shout and a long stick. Well, well. He doesn’t have much joy from his offspring, my grandfather. Why are you walking so fast?”
“I’m freezing,” said Kristin curtly.
“No more than I am,” said the priest. “The only clothing I have to wear is what you see. I had to sell my cape for food and ale in Lillehammer. But you must still have warmth in your body from saying farewell to Arne. I think you should let me come under your furs with you.” And he seized hold of her cloak, threw it around his shoulders, and wrapped his wet arm around her waist.
Kristin was so startled by his boldness that it took a moment for her to regain her senses—then she tried to tear herself away, but he was holding on to her cloak and it was fastened with a sturdy silver clasp. Bentein put his arms around her again and tried to kiss her, shoving his mouth close to her chin. She tried to strike him, but he was gripping her upper arms.
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” she seethed as she struggled against him. “How dare you manhandle me as if I were a . . . You’re going to regret this bitterly tomorrow, you miserable wretch.”
“Oh, tomorrow you won’t be so stupid,” said Bentein, tripping her with his leg so that she fell to her knees in the mud of the road. Then he pressed his hand over her mouth.
And yet Kristin still did not think to scream. Now she finally realized what he intended to do to her, but rage overcame her with such fury and violence that she hardly felt any fear. She snarled like an animal in battle and fought against this man who was holding her down so that the ice-cold snow water soaked through her clothing and reached her burning hot flesh.
“Tomorrow you’ll know enough to keep quiet,” said Bentein. “And if it can’t be concealed, you can always blame Arne; people will sooner believe that. . . .”
He had put a finger in her mouth, so she bit him with all her might, and Bentein screamed and loosened his grip. As quick as lightning Kristin pulled one hand free and shoved it into his face, pressing her thumb as hard as she could into his eye. He bellowed and got up on one knee. She wriggled free like a cat, pushed the priest so that he fell onto his back, and then ran off down the road as the mud spurted up behind her with every step.
She ran and ran without looking back. She heard Bentein coming after her, and she raced off with her heart pounding in her throat, as she moaned softly and peered ahead—would she never reach Laugarbru? At last Kristin came to the part of the road where it passed through the fields. She saw buildings clustered on the hillside, and suddenly realized that she didn’t dare go to her mother—not the way she looked, covered with mud and withered leaves from head to toe, her clothing torn.
She could feel Bentein coming closer. She bent down and picked up two big rocks, and when he was near enough she threw them; one of them struck him so hard that it knocked him down. Then she started running again and didn’t stop until she stood on the bridge.
Trembling, she stood there holding on to the railing; everything went black and she was afraid that she would sink into unconsciousness—but then she thought about Bentein. What if he came and found her like that? Shaking with shame and bitterness, she kept on going, but her legs could hardly bear her, and now she felt how her face stung from the scratches of his fingernails, and she had hurt both her back and her arms. Tears came, hot as fire.
She wished Bentein would be dead from the rock she had thrown; she wished she had gone back and put an end to him, that she had taken out her knife, but she noticed that she must have lost it.
Then she realized again that she dared not be seen like this at home; it occurred to her that she could go to Romundgaard. She would complain to Sira Eirik.
But the priest had not yet returned from J?rundgaard. In the cookhouse she found Gunhild, Bentein’s mother. The woman was alone, and then Kristin told her how her son had behaved toward her. But she didn’t mention that she had gone out to meet Arne. When she realized that Gunhild thought she had been at Laugarbru, she didn’t dissuade her.
Gunhild said very little but cried a great deal as she washed Kristin’s clothing and mended the worst rips. And the young girl was so distressed that she didn’t notice the glances Gunhild cast at her in secret.
As Kristin was leaving, Gunhild put on her own cloak and followed her out the door, but then headed toward the stable. Kristin asked her where she was going.
“Surely I should be allowed to ride over and tend to my son,” said the woman, “to see if you’ve killed him with that rock or what’s happened to him.”
Kristin had nothing to say in reply, so she simply told Gunhild to make sure that Bentein left the village as soon as possible; she never wanted to lay eyes on him again. “Or I’ll speak of this to Lavrans, and then you can well imagine what will happen.”
Bentein headed south hardly more than a week later; he carried letters to the Bishop of Hamar from Sira Eirik, asking the bishop if he could find some occupation for Bentein or give him some assistance.
CHAPTER 7
ONE DAY during the Christmas season, Simon Andress?n arrived at J?rundgaard on horseback, quite unexpected. He apologized for coming in this manner, uninvited and alone, without kinsmen, but Sir Andres was in Sweden on business for the king. He himself had been at home at Dyfrin for some time, but there he had only the company of his younger sisters and his mother, who was ill in bed, and the days had grown so dreary for him; he suddenly felt such an urge to come and see them.
Ragnfrid and Lavrans thanked him warmly for making the long journey at the height of winter. The more they saw of Simon, the more they liked him. He was well acquainted with everything that had been agreed upon between Andres and Lavrans, and it was now decided that the betrothal ale for the young couple would be celebrated before the beginning of Lent, if Sir Andres returned home before then—otherwise, at Easter.
Kristin was quiet and shy when she was with her betrothed; she found little to talk about with him. One evening when everyone had been sitting and drinking, Simon asked her to go outside with him to get some fresh air. As they stood on the gallery in front of the loft room, he put his arm around her waist and kissed her. After that, he did it often whenever they were alone. She wasn’t pleased by this, but she allowed him to do it because she knew there was no escape from the betrothal. Now she thought of her marriage as something she had to do, but not something that she looked forward to. And yet she liked Simon well enough, especially when he was talking to the others and did not touch her or speak to her.