It would happen around Saint Gregor’s Day. Her thoughts seemed to swirl in her head whenever she told herself that sometime close to Saint Gregor’s Day she would give birth to a child. She was a little frightened by it too; she remembered her mother’s shrill screams, which had rung out over the farm for two days when Ulvhild had come into the world. Over at Ulvsvold two young women had died, one after the other, in childbirth; and Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first two wives had died too. And her own grandmother, for whom she was named.
But fear was not what she felt most. These past years, when she realized again that she was still not pregnant, she had thought that perhaps this was to be their punishment, hers and Erlend’s—that she would continue to be barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared before; they would hope so futilely, just as they had feared so needlessly. Until at last they would realize that one day they would be carried out from his ancestral estate and vanish. His brother was a priest, after all, and the children that Erlend already had could never inherit from him. Munan the Stump and his sons would come in and take their place, and Erlend would be erased from the lineage.
She pressed her hand hard against her womb. It was there—between her and the fence, between her and the vat. Between her and the whole world—Erlend’s legitimate son. She had tried everything she had heard Fru Aashild once speak of, with blood from her right and left arm. She was carrying a son, whatever fate he might bring her. She remembered her brothers who had died and her parents’ sorrowful faces whenever they mentioned them; she remembered all those times when she had seen them in despair over Ulvhild, and the night she died. And she thought about all the sorrow she herself had caused them, and about her father’s careworn face. And yet this was not the end of the grief she would bring to her father and mother.
And yet, and yet. Kristin rested her head on her arm lying along the fence; the other hand she kept pressed against her womb. Even if this brought her new sorrows, even if it caused her own death, she would still rather die giving Erlend a son than have them both die someday, with the buildings standing empty and with the grain in their fields swaying for strangers.
Someone came into the front room. The ale! thought Kristin. I should have looked at it long ago. She straightened up—and then Erlend stooped as he came out of the doorway and stepped forward into the sunlight, beaming with joy.
“So this is where you are,” he said. “And you don’t even take a step to meet me?” he asked. He came over and embraced her.
“Beloved, have you come to visit?” she asked, astonished.
He must have just dismounted from his horse; he still had his cape over his shoulders and his sword at his side. He was unshaven, filthy, and covered with dust. He was wearing a red surcoat, which draped from the neckline and was slit up the sides almost to his arms. As they went through the brewhouse and across the courtyard, his clothes fluttered around him so that his thighs were visible clear up to his waist. It was odd; she had never noticed before that he walked slightly crooked. Before she had only seen that he had long, slender legs and narrow ankles and small, well-shaped feet.
Erlend had brought a full escort along with him: five men and four spare horses. He told Ragnfrid that he had come to get Kristin’s household goods. Wouldn’t it be a comfort for her to find her things at Husaby when she arrived? And since the wedding was to take place so late in the fall, it might be more difficult to transport everything then. And wouldn’t it be more likely to suffer damage from sea water on the ship? The abbot at Nidarholm had offered to send everything now with the Laurentius cloister’s ship; they expected to set sail from Ve?y around Assumption Day. That was why he had come to convey her things through Raumsdal to the headland.
He sat in the doorway to the cookhouse and drank ale and talked while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild ducks that Lavrans had brought home the day before. The mother and daughter were alone at home; the women servants were all out in the meadows, raking. He looked so happy; he was so pleased with himself for coming on such a sensible errand.
Her mother left, and Kristin tended to the birds on the spit. Through the open door she caught a glimpse of Erlend’s men lying in the shade across the courtyard, passing the basin of ale among them. He sat on the stoop, chatting and laughing. The sun shone brightly on his bare, soot-black hair; she noticed that there were several gray streaks in it. Well, he would soon be thirty-two, after all, but he acted like a brash young man. She knew that she wouldn’t tell him about her trouble; there would be time enough for that when he realized it himself. A good-humored tenderness coursed through her heart, over the hard little anger that lay at the bottom, like a glittering river over stones.
She loved him more than anything; it filled her heart, even though she always saw and remembered everything else. How out of place this courtier seemed amidst the busy farm work, wearing his elegant red surcoat, silver spurs on his feet, and a belt studded with gold. She also noticed that her father didn’t come up to the farm, even though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river with word of the guest who had arrived.
Erlend came over to Kristin and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Can you believe it?” he said, his face radiant. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you—that all these preparations are being made for our wedding?”
Kristin gave him a kiss and pushed him aside. She poured fat over the birds and told him not to get in her way. No, she wouldn’t tell him.
Lavrans didn’t come up to the farm until the haymakers did, around suppertime. He wasn’t dressed much differently from the workmen, in an undyed, knee-length homespun tunic and ankle-length leggings of the same fabric. He was barefoot and carried his scythe over his shoulder. The only thing that distinguished his attire from that of the servants was a shoulder collar of leather for the hawk that was perched on his left shoulder. He was holding Ramborg’s hand.
Lavrans greeted his son-in-law heartily enough and asked his forgiveness for not coming earlier. They had to push as hard as they could to get the farm work done because he had to make a journey into town between the haying season and the harvest. But when Erlend presented the reason for his visit at the supper table, Lavrans became quite cross.
It was impossible for him to do without any of his wagons or horses right now. Erlend replied that he had brought along four extra horses himself. Lavrans thought there would be at least three cartloads. Besides, the maiden would have to keep all her clothing at J?rundgaard. And the bed linen that Kristin would be taking with her would be needed at the farm during the wedding for all the guests they would have to house.
“Never mind,” said Erlend. Surely they would find a way to transport everything in the fall. But he had been so pleased, and he thought it sounded so sensible, when the abbot had suggested that Kristin’s things might travel with the monastery’s ship. The abbot had reminded him of their kinship. “That’s something they’re all remembering now,” said Erlend with a smile. His father-in-law’s disapproval did not seem to affect him in the least.
And so it was decided that Erlend should borrow a wagon and take a cartload of those things that Kristin would need most when she arrived at her new home.
The next day they were busy with the packing. Ragnfrid thought that both the large and the small looms could be sent along now; she wouldn’t have time to weave anything else before the wedding. The mother and daughter cut off the weaving that was on the loom. It was an undyed homespun fabric, but of the finest and softest wool, with tufts of black wool woven in to form a pattern. Kristin and her mother rolled up the cloth and placed it in a leather bag. Kristin thought it would be good for swaddling clothes, and it would be pretty with red or blue ribbons around it.