She woke up in the gray light of dawn the next day, as she had every morning up there. She lay in bed listening to the horses plodding around outside the house. She had her arms wrapped around Erlend’s head. The other mornings, when she woke up in the early gray hour, she had been seized by the same anguish and shame as the first time; she had fought to subdue those feelings. The two of them were a married couple who had quarreled and now reconciled; nothing could benefit the children more than that their father and mother became friends once again.
But on this morning she lay there, struggling to remember her sons. For she felt as if she had been bewitched; Erlend had spirited her away and brought her up here, straight from the woods of Gerdarud, where he had taken her into his arms the first time. They were so young; it couldn’t be true that she had already borne this man seven sons. She was the mother of tall, grown-up men. But she felt as if she had been lying here in his arms and merely dreamed about those long years they had spent together as husband and wife at Husaby. All his impetuous words resounded and enticed her; dizzy with fear, she felt as if Erlend had swept away her sevenfold burden of responsibility. This is the way it must feel when the young mare is unsaddled up in the mountain pasture. The packs and saddle and bridle are removed, and the wind and air of the mountain plateau stream against her; she is free to graze the fine grass on the heights, free to run as far as she likes across all the slopes.
But at the same time she was already yearning, with a sweet and willing sense of longing, to bear a new burden. She was yearning with a faint, tender giddiness for the one who would now live nearest her heart for nine long months. She had been certain of it, from the first morning she woke up here in Erlend’s arms. Her barrenness had left her, along with the harsh, dry, gasping heat in her heart. She was hiding Erlend’s child in her womb, and with a strangely gentle feeling of impatience, her soul was reaching out toward the hour when the infant would be brought into the light.
My big sons no longer need me, she thought. They think I’m unreasonable, that I nag them. We’ll just be in their way, the little child and I. No, I can’t leave here; we must stay here with Erlend. I can’t leave.
But when they sat down together to eat breakfast, she mentioned nevertheless that she would have to return home to her children.
It was Lavrans and Munan she was thinking of. They were old enough now that she was embarrassed to imagine them living up here with Erlend and herself, perhaps looking with astonishment at their parents who had become so youthful. But those two couldn’t be without her.
Erlend sat and stared at her as she talked about going home. At last he gave her a fleeting smile. “Well . . . if that’s what you want, then you must go.”
He wanted to accompany her for part of the journey. He rode all the way through Rost Gorge and up to Sil, until they could see a little of the church roof above the tops of the spruce trees. Then he said goodbye. He smiled to the very end, slyly confident.
“You know now, Kristin, that whether you come at night or by day, whether I have to wait for you a short time or a long time, I will welcome you as if you were the Queen of Heaven come down from the clouds to my farm.”
She laughed. “I don’t dare speak as grandly as that. But you must now realize, my love, that there will be great joy at your manor on the day the master returns to his own home.”
He shook his head and chuckled. Smiling, they took leave of each other; smiling, Erlend leaned over as they sat on their horses, side by side, and kissed her many times, and between each kiss, he looked at her with his laughing eyes.
“So we’ll see,” he said finally, “which of us is more stubborn, my fair Kristin. This is not the last time we will meet; you and I both know that!” As she rode past the church, she gave a little shudder. She felt as if she were returning home from inside the mountain. As if Erlend were the mountain king himself and could not come past the church and the cross on the hill.
She pulled in the reins; she had a great urge to turn around and ride after him.
Then she looked out across the green slopes, down at her beautiful estate with the meadows and fields and the glistening curve of the river winding through the valley. The mountains rose up in a blue shimmer of heat. The sky was filled with billowing summer clouds. It was madness. There, with his sons, was where he belonged. He was no mountain knight; he was a Christian man, no matter how full he was of wild ideas and foolish whims. Her lawful husband, with whom she had endured both good and bad—beloved, beloved, no matter how sorely he had tormented her with his unpredictable impulses. She would have to be forbearing, since she could not live without him; she would have to strive to bear the anguish and uncertainty as best she could. She didn’t think it would be long before he followed her—now that they had been together once again.
CHAPTER 6
SHE TOLD HER sons that their father had to take care of a few things at Haugen before he moved home. No doubt he would come south early in the fall.
She went about her estate, looking young, her cheeks flushed, her face soft and gentle, moving more quickly about her work, although she didn’t manage to accomplish nearly as much as she used to with her usual quiet and measured manner. She no longer chastised her sons sharply, as had been her custom whenever they did something wrong or failed to satisfy her demands properly. Now she spoke to them in a jesting manner or let it pass without saying a word.
Lavrans now wanted to sleep with his older brothers up in the loft.
“Yes, I suppose you should be counted among the grown-up boys too, my son.” She ran her fingers through the boy’s thick, golden-brown hair and pulled him close; he was already so tall that he came up to the middle of her breast. “What about you, Munan? Can you stand to have your mother treat you as a child for a while longer?” In the evenings, after the boy had gone to bed in the main room, he liked to have his mother sit on the bed and pamper him a bit. He would lie there with his head in her lap, chattering more childishly than he allowed himself to do during the day when his brothers could hear him. They would talk about when his father was coming home.
Then he would move over next to the wall, and his mother would spread the covers over him. Kristin would light a candle, pick up her sons’ clothes that needed mending, and sit down to sew.
She pulled out the brooch pinned to her bodice and put her hand inside to touch her breasts. They were as round and firm as a young woman’s. She pushed up her sleeve all the way to the shoulder and looked at her bare arm in the light. It had grown whiter and fuller. Then she stood up and took a few steps, noticing how softly she walked in her soft slippers. She ran her hands down over her slim hips; they were no longer sharp and dry like a man’s. The blood coursed through her body the way sap flows through the trees in the spring. It was youth that was sprouting inside her.
She went to the brewhouse with Frida to pour warm water over the grain for the Christmas malt. Frida had neglected to tend to it in time, and the grain had lain there, swelling until it was completely dry. But Kristin didn’t scold the maid; with a slight smile she listened to Frida’s excuses. This was the first time that Kristin had failed to take care of it herself.
By Christmas she would have Erlend back home with her. When she sent word to him, he would have to return at once. The man wasn’t so rash that he would refuse to relent this time; he had to realize that she couldn’t possibly move up to Haugen, far from everyone, when she was no longer walking alone. But she would wait a little more before she sent word—even though it was certain enough—perhaps until she felt some sign of life. The second autumn that they lived at J?rundgaard, she had strayed from the road, as people called a miscarriage. But she had quickly taken solace. She was not afraid that it would happen again this time; it couldn’t possibly. And yet . . .
She felt as if she had to wrap her entire body protectively around this tiny, fragile life she carried under her heart, the way a person cups her hands like a shield around a little, newly lit flame.