Kristin Lavransdatter (Kristin Lavransdatter #1-3)

Bj?rgulf continued. “You and Father thought of nothing else but your quarrel. Not about the fact that we had grown up to be men in the meantime. You never paid any heed to anyone who happened to come between your weapons and was dealt bloody wounds.”

He had leaped to his feet. Naakkve placed a hand on his shoulder. Kristin saw it was true: The two were grown men. She felt as if she were standing naked before them; she had shamelessly revealed herself to her children.

This was what they had seen most as they grew up: that their parents were getting old, that their youthful ardor was pitifully ill suited to them, and that they had not been able to age with honor and dignity.

Then the voice of a child cut through the silence. Munan shrieked in wild despair, “Mother! Are they coming to take you prisoner, Mother? Are they coming to take Mother away from us now?”

He threw his arms around her and buried his face against her waist. Kristin pulled him close, sank down onto a bench, and gathered the little boy into her arms. She tried to console him. “Little son, little son, you mustn’t cry.”

“No one can take Mother away from us.” Gaute came over and touched his little brother. “Don’t cry. They can’t do anything to her. You must get hold of yourself, Munan. Rest assured that we will protect our mother, my boy!”

Kristin sat holding the child tightly in her arms; she felt as if he had saved her with his tears.

Then Lavrans spoke, sitting up in bed with the flush of fever on his cheeks. “Well, what are you going to do, brothers?”

“When the mass is over,” said Naakkve, “we’ll go over to the parsonage and offer to pay a guarantee for our foster father. That’s the first thing we’ll do. Do you agree, my lads?”

Bj?rgulf, Gaute, Ivar, and Skule assented.

Kristin said, “Ulf raised a weapon against a man in the cemetery. And I must do something to clear both his name and mine from these rumors. These are such serious matters, boys, that I think you young men must seek someone else’s counsel to decide what should be done.”

“Who should we ask for advice?” said Naakkve, a little scornfully.

“Sir Sigurd of Sundbu is my cousin,” replied his mother hesitantly.

“Since that has never occurred to him before,” said the young man in the same tone of voice, “I don’t think it fitting for the sons of Erlend to go begging to him now, when we’re in need. What do you say, brothers? Even if we’re not legally of age, we can still wield our weapons with skill, all five of us.”

“Boys,” said Kristin, “using weapons will get you nowhere in this matter.”

“You must let us decide that, Mother,” replied Naakkve curtly. “But now, Mother, I think you should let us eat. And sit down in your usual place—for the servants’ sake,” he said, as if he could command her.

She could hardly eat a thing. She sat and pondered . . . She didn’t dare ask whether they would now send word to their father. And she wondered how this case would be handled. She knew little of the law in such matters; no doubt she would have to refute the rumors by swearing an oath along with either five or eleven others.1 If so, it would probably take place at the church of Ullinsyn in Vaagaa. She had kinsmen there on nearly every large estate, from her mother’s lineage. If her oath failed, and she had to stand before their eyes without being able to clear herself of this shameful charge . . . It would bring shame upon her father. He had been an outsider here in the valley. But he had known how to assert himself; everyone had respected him. Whenever Lavrans Bj?rg ulfs?n took up a matter at a ting or a meeting, he had always won full support. Still, she knew it was on him that her shame would fall. She suddenly realized how alone her father had stood; in spite of everything, he was alone and a stranger among the people here every time she heaped upon him one more burden of sorrow and shame and disgrace.

She didn’t think she could ever feel this way anymore; again and again she had thought her heart would burst into bloody pieces, and now, once again, it felt as if it would break.

Gaute went out to the gallery and looked north. “People are leaving the church,” he said. “Shall we wait until they’ve gone some distance away?”

“No,” replied Naakkve. “Let them see that the sons of Erlend are coming. We should get ready now, lads. We had better wear our steel helmets.”

Only Naakkve owned proper armor. He left the coat of mail behind, but he put on his helmet and picked up his shield, his sword, and a long lance. Bj?rgulf and Gaute put on the old iron hats that boys wore when they practiced sword fighting, while Ivar and Skule had to be content with the small steel caps that peasant soldiers still wore. Their mother looked at them. She had such a shattered feeling in her breast.

“It seems to me ill advised, my sons, for you to arm yourselves in this fashion to go over to the parsonage,” she said uneasily. “You shouldn’t forget about the peace of the Sabbath and the presence of the bishop.”

Naakkve replied, “Honor has grown scarce here at J?rund gaard, Mother. We have to pay dearly for whatever we can get.”

“Not you, Bj?rgulf,” pleaded their mother fearfully, for the weak-sighted boy had picked up a big battleaxe. “Remember that you can’t see well, son!”

“Oh, I can see as far as I need to,” said Bj?rgulf, weighing the axe in his hand.

Gaute went over to young Lavrans’s bed and took down their grandfather’s great sword, which the boy always insisted on keeping on the wall above his bed. He drew the blade from its scabbard and looked at it.

“You must lend me your sword, kinsman. I think our grandfather would be pleased if we took it along on this venture.”

Kristin wrung her hands as she sat there. She felt as if she would scream—with terror and the utmost dread, but also with a power that was stronger than either her torment or her fear. The way she had screamed when she gave birth to these men. Wound after countless wound she had endured in this life, but now she knew that they all had healed; the scars were as tender as raw flesh, but she knew that she would not bleed to death. Never had she felt more alive than she did now.

Blossoms and leaves had been stripped away from her, but she had not been cut down, nor had she fallen. For the first time since she had given birth to the children of Erlend Nikulauss?n, she completely forgot about the father and saw only her sons.

But the sons did not look at their mother, who sat there, pale, with strained and frightened eyes. Munan was still on her lap; he hadn’t let go of her even for a moment. The five boys left the loft.

Kristin stood up and stepped out onto the gallery. They emerged from behind the buildings and walked swiftly along the path toward Romundgaard between the pale, swaying acres of barley. Their steel caps and iron hats gleamed dully, but the sun glittered on Naakkve’s lance and on the spearpoints of the twins. She stood staring after the five young men. She was mother to them all.

Back inside she collapsed before the chest over which the picture of Mary hung. Sobs tore her apart. Munan began to cry too, and weeping, he crept close to his mother. Lavrans leaped out of bed and threw himself to his knees on the other side of her. She put her arms around both her youngest sons.

Ever since the infant had died, she had wondered why she should pray. Hard, cold, and heavy as stone, she had felt as if she were falling into the gaping maw of Hell. Now the prayers burst from her lips of their own volition; without any conscious will, her soul streamed toward Mary, maiden and mother, the Queen of Heaven and earth, with cries of anguish and gratitude and praise. Mary, Mary, I have so much—I still have endless treasures that can be plundered from me. Merciful Mother, take them into your protection!





There were many people in the courtyard of Romundgaard. When the sons of Erlend arrived, several farmers asked them what they wanted.

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