Simon . . . and her father. They had held on to their loyal love for her, even as she trampled on them for the sake of this man whom she no longer had the strength to endure.
Oh, Simon. I know that never for a minute did you wish vengeance upon me. But I wonder, Simon, if you know in your grave, that now you have been avenged after all.
No, she couldn’t bear it any longer; she would have to find something to do. She made up the bed and looked for a dishrag and broom, but they were not to be found anywhere. She glanced into the alcove; now she understood why it smelled like a stable. Erlend had made a stall for his horse in there. But it had been mucked out and cleaned. His saddle and harness, which hung on the wall, were well cared for and oiled, with all the torn pieces mended.
Compassion once more washed away all other thoughts. Did he keep Soten inside because he couldn’t bear to be alone in the house?
Kristin heard a sound out on the gallery. She stepped over to the window. It was covered with dust and cobwebs, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman. She pulled the rag from the hole and peeked out. A woman was setting down a pail of milk and a small cheese out there. She was middle-aged and lame and wore ugly, tattered clothes. Kristin herself was hardly aware of how much easier she breathed.
She tidied up the room as best she could. She found the inscription that Bj?rn Gunnarss?n had carved into a timber of the wall. It was in Latin, so she couldn’t decipher the whole thing, but he called himself both Dominus and Miles, and she read the name of his ancestral estate in Elve County, which he had lost because of Aashild Gautesdatter. In the midst of the splendid carvings on the high seat was his coat of arms with its unicorn and water lilies.
A short time later Kristin heard a horse somewhere outside. She went over to the entryway and peered out.
From the leafy forest across from the farm a tall black stallion emerged, pulling a load of firewood. Erlend walked alongside to guide him. A dog was perched on top of the wood, and several more dogs were running around the sled.
Soten, the Castilian, strained against the harness and pulled the sledful of wood across the grassy courtyard. One of the dogs began barking as it crossed the green. Erlend, who had begun to unfasten the harnesses, noticed from all the dogs that something must be wrong. He took his axe from the load of wood and walked toward the house.
Kristin fled back inside, letting the door fall shut behind her. She crept over to the fireplace and stood there, trembling and waiting.
Erlend stepped inside with his axe in hand and the dogs milling around him on the threshold. They found the intruder at once and began barking furiously.
The first thing she noticed was the rush of blood that flooded his face, so youthful and red. The quick tremor on his fine, soft lips, and his big, deep-set eyes beneath the shadow of his brows.
The sight of him took her breath away. No doubt she saw the old stubble of beard on the lower half of his face, and she saw that his disheveled hair was iron gray. But the color that came and went so swiftly in his cheeks, the way it had when they were young . . . He was just as young and handsome; it was as if nothing had been able to break him.
He was poorly clad. His blue shirt was filthy and tattered; over it he wore a leather vest, scratched and scraped and torn around the eyelets, but it fit snugly and followed pliantly the graceful, strong movements of his body. His tight leather hose was torn at one knee, and the seam was split on the back of the other leg. And yet he had never looked more like the descendant of chieftains and noblemen than he did now. With such calm dignity he carried his slender body with the wide, rather sloping shoulders and the long, elegant limbs. He stood there, his weight resting slightly on one foot, one hand stuck in the belt around his slim waist, the other holding the axe at his side.
He had called the dogs back, and now he stood staring at her, turning red and pale and not saying a word. For a good long time they both were silent. Finally the man spoke, his voice a little uncertain. “So you’ve come here, Kristin?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing up here,” she replied.
“Well, now you’ve seen it.” He glanced around the room. “You can see that I’m tolerably comfortable here; it’s good that you happened to come by on a day when everything was tidied up so nicely.” He noticed the shadow of a smile on her face. “Or perhaps you’re the one who has been cleaning up,” he said, laughing softly.
Erlend put down his axe and sat on the outer bench with his back leaning against the table. All of a sudden he grew somber. “You’re standing there so . . . there’s nothing wrong back home, is there? At J?rundgaard, I mean? With the boys?”
“No.” Now she had the chance to present her purpose. “Our sons are thriving and show great promise. But they long so much for you, Erlend. It was my intention . . . I’ve come here, husband, to ask you to return home to us. We all miss you.” She lowered her eyes.
“You look well, Kristin.” Erlend gazed at her with a little smile.
Kristin stood there, red-faced, as if he had struck a blow to her ear.
“That’s not why—”
“No, I know it’s not because you think you’re too young and fresh to be left a widow,” Erlend said when she broke off. “I don’t think any good would come of it if I returned home, Kristin,” he added in a more serious tone. “In your hands everything is flourishing at J?rundgaard; I know that. You have good fortune with all your undertakings. And I am quite content with my situation here.”
“The boys aren’t happy that we . . . are quarreling,” she replied softly.
“Oh . . .” Erlend hesitated. “They’re so young. I don’t think they take it so hard that they won’t forget about it when it’s time for them to leave their childhood behind. I might as well tell you,” he added with a little smile, “that I see them from time to time.”
She knew about this, but she felt humiliated by his words, and it seemed as if that was his intention, since he thought she didn’t know. Her sons had never realized that she knew. But she replied somberly, “Then you also know that many things at J?rundgaard are not as they should be.”
“We never talk about such matters,” he said with the same smile. “We go hunting together. But you must be hungry and thirsty.” He jumped up. “And here you stand . . . No, sit down in the high seat, Kristin. Yes, sit there, my dear. I won’t crowd in next to you.”
He brought in the milk and cheese and found some bread, butter, and dried meat. Kristin was hungry and quite thirsty, but she had trouble swallowing her food. Erlend ate in a hasty and careless manner, as had always been his custom when not among guests, and he was soon finished.
He talked about himself. The people who lived at the foot of the hill worked his land and brought him milk and a little food; otherwise he went into the mountains to hunt and fish. But then he mentioned that he was actually thinking about leaving the country, to seek service with some foreign warlord.
“Oh no, Erlend!”
He gave her a swift, searching glance. But she said no more. The light was growing dim in the room. Her face and wimple shone white against the dark wall. Erlend stood up and stoked the fire in the hearth. Then he straddled the outer bench and turned to face her; the red glow of the fire flickered over his body.
To think that he would even consider such a thing. He was almost as old as her father had been when he died. But it was all too likely that he would do it one day: take off on some whim, in search of new adventures.
“Don’t you think it’s enough?” said his wife heatedly. “Enough that you fled the village, leaving me and your sons behind? Do you have to flee the country to leave us too?”