People ran forward and helped them move down to the churchyard. Sira Eirik stumbled, fell to his knees, and the altar vessels rolled across the slope. The silver dove opened, and the Host fell out. The priest picked it up, brushed it off, and kissed it as he sobbed loudly. He kissed the gilded man’s head which had stood above the altar with a scrap of Saint Olav’s hair and nails inside.
Lavrans Bj?rgulfs?n was still standing there, holding the crucifix. His arm lay across the arms of the cross, and he was leaning his head on the shoulder of Christ. It looked as if the Savior were bending his beautiful, sad face toward the man to console him.
The roof had begun to collapse bit by bit on the north side of the church. A blazing roof beam shot out and struck the great bell in the low tower near the churchyard gate. The bell rang with a deep, mournful tone, which faded into a long moan, drowned out by the roar of the fire.
No one had paid any attention to the weather during all the tumult. The whole event had not taken much time, but no one was aware of that either. Now the thunder and lightning were far away, to the south of the valley. The rain, which had been falling for a while, was now coming down harder, and the wind had ceased.
But suddenly it was as if a sail of flames had been hoisted up from the foundation. In a flash, and with a shriek, the fire engulfed the church from one end to the other.
Everyone dashed away from the consuming heat. Erlend was suddenly at Kristin’s side and urging her down the hill. His body reeked with the stench of the fire; she pulled away a handful of singed hair when she stroked his head and face.
They couldn’t hear each other’s voices above the roaring of the flames. But she saw that his eyebrows had been scorched right off, he had burns on his face, and his shirt was burned in places too. He laughed as he pulled her along after the others.
Everyone followed behind the weeping old priest and Lavrans Bj?rgulfs?n, carrying the crucifix.
At the edge of the churchyard, Lavrans leaned the cross against a tree, and then sank down onto the wreckage of the gate. Sira Eirik was already sitting there; he stretched out his arms toward the burning church.
“Farewell, farewell, Olav’s church. God bless you, my Olav’s church. God bless you for every hour I have spent inside you, singing and saying the mass. Olav’s church, good night, good night.”
Everyone from the parish wept loudly along with him. The rain was pouring down on the people, huddled together, but no one thought of leaving. It didn’t look as if the rain were damping the heat in the charred timbers; fiery pieces of wood and smoldering shingles were flying everywhere. A moment later the ridge turret fell into the blaze with a shower of sparks rising up behind it.
Lavrans sat with one hand covering his face; his other arm lay across his lap, and Kristin saw that his sleeve was bloody from the shoulder all the way down. Blood was running along his fingers. She went over and touched his arm.
“I don’t think it’s serious. Something fell on my shoulder,” he said, looking up. He was so pale that even his lips were white. “Ulvhild,” he whispered with anguish as he gazed at the inferno.
Sira Eirik heard him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It will not wake your child, Lavrans. She will sleep just as soundly with the fire burning over her resting place,” he said. “She has not lost the home of her soul, as the rest of us have this evening.”
Kristin hid her face against Erlend’s chest. She stood there, feeling his arms around her. Then she heard her father ask for his wife.
Someone said that out of terror a woman had started having labor pains; they had carried her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone along.
Kristin was suddenly reminded of what she had completely forgotten ever since they realized that the church was on fire: she shouldn’t have looked at it. There was a man south of the village who had a red splotch covering half his face. They said he was born that way because his mother had looked at a fire while she was carrying him. Dear Holy Virgin Mary, she prayed in silence, don’t let my unborn child be harmed by this.
The next day a village ting was to be convened on the church hillside. The people would decide on how to rebuild the church.
Kristin sought out Sira Eirik up at Romundgaard before he left for the ting. She asked the priest whether he thought she should take this as an omen. Perhaps it was God’s will that she should tell her father she was unworthy to stand beneath the bridal crown, and that it would be more fitting for her to be married to Erlend Nikulauss?n without a wedding feast.
But Sira Eirik flew into a rage, his eyes flashing with fury.
“Do you think God cares so much about the way you sluts surrender and throw yourselves away that He would burn down a beautiful and honorable church for your sake? Rid yourself of your pride and do not cause your mother and Lavrans a sorrow from which they would scarcely recover. If you do not wear the crown with honor on your wedding day, it will be bad enough for you; but you and Erlend are in even greater need of this sacrament as you are joined together. Everyone has his sins to answer for; no doubt that is why this misfortune has been brought upon us all. Try to better your life, and help us to rebuild this church, both you and Erlend.”
Kristin thought to herself that she had not yet told him of the latest thing that had befallen her—but she decided to let it be.
She went to the ting with the men. Lavrans attended with his arm in a sling, and Erlend had numerous burns on his face. He looked so ghastly, but he only laughed. None of the wounds was serious, and he said that he hoped they wouldn’t disfigure him on his wedding day. He stood up after Lavrans and promised to give to the church four marks of silver, and to the village, on behalf of his betrothed and with Lavrans’s consent, a section of Kristin’s property worth one mark in land tax.
Erlend had to stay at J?rundgaard for a week because of his wounds. Kristin saw that Lavrans seemed to like his son-in-law better after the night of the fire; the men now seemed to be quite good friends. Then she thought that perhaps her father might be so pleased with Erlend Nikulauss?n that he would be more forbearing and not take it as hard as she had feared when one day he realized that they had sinned against him.
CHAPTER 8
THAT YEAR was an unusually good one in all the valleys of the north. The hay was abundant, and it was all safely harvested. Everyone returned home from the mountain pastures with fattened livestock and great quantities of butter and cheese—and they had been mercifully free of predators that year. The grain stood so high that few people could remember ever seeing it look so fine. The crops ripened well and were bounteous, and the weather was the best it could be. Between Saint Bartholomew’s Day and the Feast of the Birth of Mary, during the time when frosty nights were most likely, it rained a little and the weather was warm and overcast, but after that the harvest month proceeded with sunshine and wind and mild, hazy nights. By the week after Michaelmas, most of the grain had been brought in throughout the valley.