Simon Andress?n was quite familiar with Bentein’s conduct in Oslo, and he told the others about it. Bentein had become a scribe for the provost of the Maria Church and was considered a clever fellow. And there were plenty of women who were quite fond of him; he had those eyes and a quick tongue. Some thought him a handsome man—mostly women who felt they had been cheated by their husbands, or young maidens who enjoyed having men act freely toward them. Simon laughed; they knew what he meant, didn’t they? Well, Bentein was so shrewd that he didn’t get too close to those kinds of women; with them he exchanged only words, and he won a reputation for leading a pure life.
It so happened that King Haakon, who was a pious and decent man himself, wanted his men to maintain disciplined and proper behavior—at least the younger men. The others he had little control over. But the king’s priest always heard about whatever pranks the young men managed to sneak out and take part in—drunken feasts, gambling, ale-drinking, and the like. And then the rascals had to confess and repent, and they received harsh punishment; yes, two or three of the wildest boys were even sent away. But at last it came to light that it was that fox, Bentein secretarius, who had been secretly frequenting all of the ale houses and establishments that were even worse; he had actually listened to the confessions of whores and had given them absolution.
Kristin was sitting next to her mother. She tried to eat so that no one would notice how things stood with her, but her hand shook so badly that she spilled some of the porridge with every spoonful, and her tongue felt so thick and dry in her mouth that she could hardly swallow the bread. But when Simon began to talk about Bentein she had to give up all pretense of eating. She gripped the edge of the bench with her hands; terror and loathing took such a hold on her that she felt dizzy and filled with nausea. He was the one who had tried to . . . Bentein and Arne, Bentein and Arne . . . Sick with impatience she waited for the others to finish. She longed to see Arne, Arne’s handsome face, to fall to her knees and grieve, forgetting everything else.
When Ragnfrid helped Kristin into her outer garments, she kissed her daughter on the cheek. Kristin was unaccustomed to receiving any kind of caress from her mother, and it felt so good. She rested her head on Ragnfrid’s shoulder for a moment, but she could not cry.
When she came out to the courtyard, she saw that there were more people coming with them—Halvdan, Jon of Laugarbru, and Simon and his servant. She felt unreasonably anguished that the two strangers would be going along.
It was a biting cold night; the snow creaked underfoot, and the stars glittered, as dense as frost, in the black sky. After they had gone a short distance, they heard howls and shouts and furious hoofbeats south of the meadows. A little farther along the road the whole pack of riders came storming up behind them and then raced on past. The sound of ringing metal and vapor from the steaming, frost-covered bodies of the horses rose up before Lavrans and his party as they moved out of the way into the snow. Halvdan shouted at the wild throng—it was the youths from the farms south of the village. They were still celebrating Christmas and were out trying their horses. Those who were too drunk to take notice raced on ahead, thundering and bellowing as they hammered on their shields. But a few of them understood the news that Halvdan had yelled after them; they dropped away from the group, fell silent, and joined Lavrans’s party as they whispered to the men in the back of the procession.
They continued on until they could see Finsbrekken on the slope alongside the Sil River. There was a light between the buildings; in the middle of the courtyard the servants had set pine torches in a mound of snow, and the firelight gleamed red across the white hillock, but the dark houses looked as if they were streaked with clotted blood. One of Arne’s little sisters was standing outside, stamping her feet, with her arms crossed under her cloak. Kristin kissed the tear-stained face of the freezing child. Her heart was as heavy as stone, and she felt as if there was lead in her limbs as she climbed the stairs to the loft where they had laid him out.
The sound of hymns and the radiance of many lighted candles filled the doorway. In the center of the loft stood the coffin Arne had been brought home in, covered with a sheet. Boards had been placed over trestles and the coffin had been lifted on top. At its head stood a young priest with a book in his hands, singing. All around him people were kneeling with their faces hidden in their thick capes.
Lavrans lit his candle from one of the candles in the room, set it firmly on the board of the bier, and knelt down. Kristin was about to do the same, but she couldn’t get her candle to stand; then Simon stepped over to help her. As long as the priest prayed, everyone remained on their knees, repeating his words in a whisper, so that the steam hovered around their mouths. It was ice-cold in the loft.
When the priest closed his book, the people rose; many had already gathered in the death chamber. Lavrans went over to Inga. She was staring at Kristin and seemed not to hear Lavrans’s words; she stood there with the gifts he had given her, holding them as if unaware that she had anything in her hands.
“So you have come too, Kristin,” she said in an odd, strained tone of voice. “Perhaps you would like to see my son, the way he has come back to me?”
She moved a few candles aside, grabbed Kristin’s arm with a trembling hand, and with the other she tore the cloth from the dead man’s face.
It was grayish-yellow like mud, and his lips were the color of lead; they were slightly parted so that the even, narrow, bone-white teeth seemed to offer a mocking smile. Beneath the long eyelashes could be seen a glimpse of his glazed eyes, and there were several bluish-black spots high on his cheeks that were either bruises from the fight or the marks of a corpse.
“Perhaps you would like to kiss him?” asked Inga in the same tone of voice, and Kristin obediently leaned forward and pressed her lips to the dead man’s cheek. It was clammy, as if from dew, and she thought she could faintly smell the stench of the corpse; he had no doubt begun to thaw out in the heat from all the candles.
Kristin remained leaning there, with her hands on the bier, for she did not have the strength to stand up. Inga pulled aside more of the shroud so the gash from the knife wound across his collar-bone was visible.
Then she turned to the people and said in a quavering voice, “I see that it’s a lie, what people say, that a dead man’s wounds will bleed if he’s touched by the one who caused his death. He’s colder now, my boy, and not as handsome as when you last met him down on the road. You don’t care to kiss him now, I see—but I’ve heard that you didn’t refuse his lips back then.”
“Inga,” said Lavrans, stepping forward, “have you lost your senses? What are you saying?”
“Oh, you’re all so grand over there at J?rundgaard—you were much too rich a man, Lavrans Bj?rgulfs?n, for my son to dare court your daughter with honor. And no doubt Kristin thought she was too good for him too. But she wasn’t too good to run after him on the road at night and dally with him in the thickets on the evening he left. Ask her yourself and we’ll see if she dares to deny it, as Arne lies here dead—she who has brought this upon us with her loose ways. . . .”
Lavrans did not ask the question; instead he turned to Gyrd.
“You must rein in your wife—she has taken leave of her senses.”
But Kristin raised her pale face and looked around in despair.
“I did go out to meet Arne on that last evening, because he asked me to do so. But nothing happened between us that was not proper.” And as she seemed to pull herself together and fully realize what was implied, she shouted loudly, “I don’t know what you mean, Inga. Are you defaming Arne as he lies here? Never did he try to entice or seduce me.”
But Inga laughed loudly.
“Arne? No, not Arne. But Bentein didn’t let you play with him that way. Ask Gunhild, Lavrans, who washed the filth off your daughter’s back, and ask any man who was in the men’s quarters at the bishop’s citadel on New Year’s Eve when Bentein ridiculed Arne for having let her go and then was made her fool. She let Bentein come under her fur as she walked home, and she tried to play the same game with him—”