Kristin Lavransdatter Part 11

Kristin wondered what could have been the reason for Erlend's brother to speak of this, but she brushed aside the nagging fear that it might have been about Erlend and someone else. And she sought solace in his words.

They sat next to each other on the chest. Erlend put his arm around Kristin, and now she felt warm and secure-at his side was the only place she would ever feel safe and protected again.

From time to time Erlend would say a great deal, speaking elat edly. Then he would fall silent for long periods, simply caressing her. Without knowing it, Kristin was gathering up from all he said every little thing that might make him more attractive and dear to her, and that would lessen his blame in all she knew about him that was not good.

Erlend's father, Sir Nikulaus, was so old when his children were born that he had neither the patience nor the ability to raise them himself. Both sons had grown up in the home of Sir Baard Petersn of Hestnaes. Erlend had no siblings other than his brother Gunnulv, who was one year younger and a priest at Christ Church. "I love him more dearly than anyone, except for you."

Kristin asked Erlend whether Gunnulv looked like him, but he laughed and said they were quite different in both temperament and appearance. Gunnulv was abroad, studying. This was the third year he had been gone, but twice he had sent letters home; the last one arrived the year before, when he was about to leave Sancta Genoveva in Paris and head for Rome. "Gunnulv will be happy when he comes home and finds me married," said Erlend.

Then he talked about the vast inheritance he had acquired from his parents. Kristin realized that he hardly knew himself how his affairs now stood. She was quite familiar with her father's land dealings, but Erlend's dealings had been of the opposite kind. He had sold and scattered, mortgaged and squandered his property, especially during the past few years as he had tried to separate from his mistress, thinking that with time his wild life would be forgotten and his kinsmen would take him back. He had believed that in the end he would be named sheriff of half of Orkdla county, just as his father had been.

"But now I have no idea how things will finally go," he said. "Maybe I'll end up on a farm on some scruffy slope like Bjrn Gunnarsn, and I'll have to carry out the dung on my back the way slaves used to do in the past because I own no horses."

"G.o.d help you," said Kristin, laughing. "Then I'd better come with you. I think I know more about peasant ways than you do."

"But I don't imagine that you've ever carried a dung basket," he said, laughing too.

"No, but I've seen how they spread out the muck, and I've sown grain almost every year back home. My father usually plows the closest fields himself, and then he lets me sow the first section because I'll bring him luck . . ." The memory painfully pierced her heart, and she said hastily, "And you'll need a woman to bake and brew the weak ale and wash out your only shirt and do the milking. You'll have to lease a cow or two from the nearest wealthy farmer."

"Oh, thank G.o.d I can hear you laugh a little once again," said Erlend, taking her onto his lap so that she lay in his arms like a child.

During the six nights before Aasmund Bjrgulfsn returned home, Erlend came up to the loft to be with Kristin each evening.

On the last night he seemed just as unhappy as she was; he said many times that they would not be parted from each other a day longer than was necessary.

Finally he said in a subdued voice, "If things should go so badly that I cannot return here to Os...o...b..fore winter-and you happen to be in need of a friend's help-then you can safely turn to Sira Jon here at Gerdarud; we've been friends since childhood. And Munan Baardsn you can also trust."

Kristin could only nod. She realized that he was talking about the same thing that had been on her mind every single day, but Erlend didn't mention it again. Then she was silent too, not wanting to show him how sick at heart she felt.

The other times he had left her as the hour grew late, but on this last night he pleaded earnestly to be allowed to lie down and sleep with her for a while.

Kristin was afraid, but Erlend said defiantly, "You should realize that if I'm discovered here in your chamber, I know how to defend myself."

She wanted so badly to keep him with her a little longer, and she was incapable of refusing him anything.

But she was worried that they might sleep too long. So for most of the night she sat up, leaning against the headboard, dozing a little now and then, not always conscious of when he was actually caressing her and when she had simply dreamed it. She kept one hand on his chest, where she could feel the beat of his heart, and turned her face toward the window so she could watch for the dawn outside.

Finally she had to wake him. She threw on some clothes and walked out onto the gallery with him. He leaped over the railing on the side of the house facing another building. Then he disappeared around the corner. Kristin went back inside and crawled into bed again; then she let herself go and wept for the first time since she had become Erlend's possession.

CHAPTER 5.

AT NONNESETER the days pa.s.sed as they had before. Kristin spent her time in the dormitory and the church, the weaving room, the library, and the refectory. The nuns and the convent servants harvested the crops of the herb garden and orchard, Holy Cross Day arrived in the fall with its procession, and then came the time of fasting before Michaelmas. Kristin was astonished that no one seemed to notice anything different about her. But she had always been quiet in the company of strangers, and Ingebjrg Filippusdatter, who was her companion day and night, managed to talk enough for both of them.

So no one noticed that her thoughts were far away from everything around her. Erlend's mistress. She told herself this: now she was Erlend's mistress. It was as if she had dreamed it all-the evening of Saint Margareta's Day, the time in the barn, the nights in her bedchamber at Skog. Either she had dreamed all that or she was dreaming now. But one day she would have to wake up; one day it would all come out. Not for a moment did she doubt that she was carrying Erlend's child.

But she couldn't really imagine what would happen to her when this came to light-whether she would be thrown into a dark cell or be sent home. Far off in the distance she glimpsed the faint images of her father and mother. Then she would close her eyes, dizzy and sick, submerged by the imagined storm, trying to steel herself to bear the misfortune, which she thought would inevitably end with her being swept into Erlend's arms for all eternity-the only place where she now felt she had a home.

So in this sense of tension there was just as much antic.i.p.ation as there was terror; there was sweetness as well as anguish. She was unhappy, but she felt that her love for Erlend was like a plant that had been sown inside her, and for every day that pa.s.sed it sprouted a new and even lusher abundance of flowers, in spite of her misery. She had experienced the last night that he had slept with her as a delicate and fleeting sweetness, and a pa.s.sion and joy awaited her in his embrace which she had never known before. Now she trembled at the memory; it felt to her like the hot, spicy gust from the sun-heated gardens. Wayside b.a.s.t.a.r.d-those were the words that Inga had flung at her. She reached out for the words and held them tight. Wayside b.a.s.t.a.r.d-a child that had been conceived in secret in the woods or meadows. She remembered the sunshine and the smell of the spruce trees in the glade. Every new, trickling sensation, every quickened pulse in her body she took to be the unborn child, reminding her that now she had ventured onto new paths; and no matter how difficult they might be to follow, she was certain that in the end they would lead her to Erlend.

She sat between Ingebjrg and Sister Astrid, embroidering on the great tapestry with the knights and birds beneath the twining leaves. All the while she was thinking that she would run away once her condition could no longer be concealed. She would walk along the road, dressed as a poor woman, with all the gold and silver she owned knotted into a cloth in her hand. She would pay for a roof over her head at a farm somewhere in an isolated village. She would become a servant woman, carrying water buckets on a yoke across her shoulders. She would tend to the stables, do the baking and washing, and suffer curses because she refused to name the father of her child. Then Erlend would come and find her.

Sometimes she imagined that he would come too late. Snow-white and beautiful, she would be lying in the poor peasant bed. Erlend would lower his head as he stepped through the doorway. He was wearing the long black cape he had worn when he came to her on those nights at Skog. The farm woman had led him to the room where she lay. He sank down and took her cold hands in his, his eyes desperate with grief. "Is this where you are, my only joy?" Then, bowed with sorrow, he would leave, with his infant son pressed to his breast inside the folds of his cape.

No, that's not how she wanted things to end. She didn't want to die, and Erlend must not suffer such a sorrow. But she was so despondent, and it helped to think such things.

Then all of a sudden it became chillingly clear to her-the child was not something she had merely imagined, it was something inevitable. One day she would have to answer for what she had done, and she felt as if her heart had stopped in terror.

But after some time had pa.s.sed, she realized it was not as certain as she had thought that she was with child. She didn't understand why this did not make her happy. It was as if she had been lying under a warm blanket, weeping; now she had to get up and step into the cold. Another month pa.s.sed, then another. Finally she was convinced-she had escaped that misfortune. Freezing and empty, she now felt more unhappy than ever, and in her heart a tiny bitterness toward Erlend was brewing. Advent was approaching and she had not heard a word, either about him or from him; she had no idea where he was.

And now she felt she could no longer endure the anguish and uncertainty; it was as if a bond between them had been broken. Now she was truly frightened. Something might happen and she would never see him again. She was separated from everything she had been bound to in the past, and the bond between them was such a fragile one. She didn't think that he would forsake her, but so many things might happen. She couldn't imagine how she would be able to stand the day-to-day uncertainty and agony of this waiting time any longer.

Sometimes she would think about her parents and sisters. She longed for them, but with the feeling that she had lost them for good.

And occasionally in church, and at other times as well, she would feel a fervent yearning to become part of it all, this community with G.o.d. It had always been part of her life, and now she stood outside with her unconfessed sin.

She told herself that this separation from her home and family and Christianity was only temporary. But Erlend would have to lead her back by the hand. When Lavrans consented to the love between her and Erlend, then she would be able to go to her father as she had before; and after she and Erlend were married, they would make confession and atone for their offense.

She began looking for evidence that other people, like herself, were not without sin. She paid more attention to gossip, and she took note of all the little things around her which indicated that not even the sisters in the convent were completely holy and unworldly. There were only small things-under Fru Groa's guidance Nonneseter was, in the eyes of the outside world, exactly as a holy order of nuns ought to be. The nuns were zealous in their service to G.o.d, diligent, and attentive to the poor and the sick. Confinement to the cloister was not so strictly enforced that the sisters could not receive visits from their friends and kinsmen in the parlatory; nor were they prevented from returning these visits in the town if the occasion so warranted. But no nun had ever brought shame upon the order through her actions in all the years that Fru Groa had been in charge.

Kristin had now developed an alert ear for all the small disturbances within the convent's walls: little complaints and jealousies and vanities. Other than nursing, no nun would lend a hand with the rough housework; they all wanted to be learned and skilled women. Each one tried to outshine the other, and those sisters who did not have talent for such refined occupations gave up and drifted through the hours as if in a daze.

Fru Groa herself was both learned and wise. She kept a vigilant eye on the conduct and industry of her spiritual daughters, but she paid little heed to the welfare of their souls. She had always been friendly and kind toward Kristin and seemed to favor her above the other young daughters, but that was because Kristin was well trained in book learning and needlework and was diligent and quiet. Fru Groa never expected replies from the sisters. On the other hand, she enjoyed talking to men. They came and went in her parlatory: landholders and envoys a.s.sociated with the convent, predicant brothers from the bishop, and representatives from the cloister at Hoved, with which she was involved in a legal matter. She had her hands full tending to the convent's large estates, the accounts, sending out clerical garb, and taking in and then sending off books to be copied. Not even the most ill-tempered person could find anything improper about Fru Groa's behavior. She simply liked to talk about those things that women seldom knew anything about.

The prior, who lived in a separate building north of the church, seemed to have no more will than the reed pen or switch of the abbess. Sister Potentia, for the most part, ruled the house. She was primarily intent on maintaining the customs that she had observed in the distinguished German convents where she had lived during her novitiate. Her former name was Sigrid Ragnvaldsdatter, but she had changed her name when she a.s.sumed the habit of the order, as was the custom in other countries. She was also the one who had decided that the pupils who were only at Nonneseter for a short time should also wear the attire of young novices.

Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter was not like the other nuns. She walked around in silence, her eyes downcast. She always replied meekly and humbly, acted as everyone's maidservant, preferred to take on the roughest tasks, and fasted more often than was prescribed-as much as Fru Groa would allow. And in church she would kneel for hours after the evening hymn or go there long before matins.

But one evening, after she had spent the whole day at the creek washing clothes along with two lay sisters, she suddenly began to sob loudly at the supper table. She threw herself onto the stone floor, crawled on her knees among the sisters, and beat her breast. With burning cheeks and streaming tears she begged them to forgive her. She was the worst sinner of them all-she had been stone-hard with arrogance all her days. It was arrogance and not humility or grat.i.tude for the death of Christ the Savior that had sustained her when she was tempted in the world; she had fled to the convent not because she loved a man's soul but because she had loved her own pride. She had served her sisters with arrogance, she had drunk vanity from her water goblet, and she had spread her bare bread thick with conceit while the sisters drank ale and ate b.u.t.ter on their bread.

From all this Kristin understood that not even Cecilia Baardsdatter was completely pure of heart. An unlit tallow candle that has hung from the ceiling and turned filthy with soot and cobwebs-that was how she compared her loveless chast.i.ty.

Fru Groa herself went over and lifted up the sobbing young woman. Sternly she said that as punishment for her outburst Cecilia would move from the sisters' dormitory into the abbess's own bed and stay there until she had recovered from this fever.

"And then, Sister Cecilia, you will sit in my chair for eight days. We will ask your advice in spiritual matters and show you such respect because of your G.o.dly conduct that you will grow sated from the tribute of sinful people. Then you must judge whether this is worth so much struggle, and decide either to live by the rules as the rest of us do or to continue the trials that no one demands of you. Then you can contemplate whether all the things that you say you do now so that we might look up to you, hence-forward you will do out of love of G.o.d and so that He might look upon you with mercy."

And so it was. Sister Cecilia lay in the abbess's room for two weeks; she had a high fever, and Fru Groa nursed the nun herself. When she had recovered, for eight days she had to sit at the abbess's side in the place of honor both in church and at home, and everyone served her. She wept the whole time, as if she were being beaten. Afterward she was much gentler and happier. She continued to live in almost the same manner as before, but she would blush like a bride if anyone looked at her, whether she was sweeping the floor or walking alone to church.

This episode with Sister Cecilia aroused in Kristin a strong yearning for peace and reconciliation with everything from which she had come to feel herself cut off. She thought about Brother Edvin, and one day she gathered her courage and asked Fru Groa for permission to visit the barefoot friars to see a friend of hers there.

She could tell that Fru Groa was not pleased; there was little friendship between the Minorites and the other cloisters of the diocese. And the abbess was no more favorably disposed when she heard who Kristin's friend was. She said that this Brother Edvin was an unreliable man of G.o.d, always roaming about the country seeking alms in other dioceses. In many places the peasantry considered him a holy man, but he didn't seem to realize that the first duty of a Franciscan monk was obedience to his superiors. He had heard the confessions of outlaws and those who had been excommunicated; he had baptized their children and sung them into their graves without asking for permission. And yet his sin was as much due to lack of understanding as it was to defiance, and he had patiently borne the reprimands which had been imposed on him because of these matters. The Church had treated him with forbearance because he was skilled at his craft; but even in the execution of his art he had come into conflict with others. The bishop's master painters in Bergen refused to allow him to work in their diocese.

Kristin was bold enough to ask where this monk with the un-Norwegian name had come from. Fru Groa was in a mood to talk. She said that he was born in Oslo, but his father was an Englishman, Rikard the Armormaster, who had married a farmer's daughter from the Skogheim district, and they had taken up residence in Oslo. Two of Edvin's brothers were respected armorers in town. But Edvin, the eldest of the armormaster's sons, had been a restless soul all his days. He had no doubt felt an attraction for the monastic life since early childhood; he had joined the gray monks at Hoved as soon as he reached the proper age. They sent him to a cloister in France to be educated; he had excellent abilities. From there he managed to win permission to leave the Cistercian order and enter the order of the Minorites instead. And when the brothers arbitrarily decided to build their church out in the fields to the east, against the orders of the bishop,1 Brother Edvin had been one of the worst and most obstinate among them-he had even used a hammer to strike one of the men sent by the bishop to stop the work and had almost killed him. Brother Edvin had been one of the worst and most obstinate among them-he had even used a hammer to strike one of the men sent by the bishop to stop the work and had almost killed him.

It had been a long time since anyone had talked at such length with Kristin. When Fru Groa dismissed her, the young maiden bent down and kissed the abbess's hand, respectfully and fervently, and tears sprang at once into her eyes. But Fru Groa, who saw that Kristin was crying, thought it was from sorrow-and so she said that perhaps one day she would be allowed to go out to visit Brother Edvin after all.

And several days later Kristin was told that some of the convent's servants had to go over to the king's castle, so at the same time they could accompany her out to the brothers in the fields.

Brother Edvin was home. Kristin had not imagined that she would be so happy to see anyone other than Erlend. The old man sat and stroked her hand as they talked, thanking her for coming. No, he hadn't been to her part of the country since that night he had stayed at Jrundgaard, but he had heard that she was to marry, and he offered her his congratulations. Then Kristin asked him to go over to the church with her.

They had to go out of the cloister and around to the main entrance; Brother Edvin didn't dare lead her across the courtyard. He seemed in general quite timid and afraid to do anything that might offend. He had grown terribly old, thought Kristin.

And when she had placed her offering on the altar for the priest of the church and then asked Edvin to hear her confession, he grew quite frightened. He didn't dare; he had been strictly forbidden to listen to confessions.

"Perhaps you've heard about it," he said. "I didn't think that I could deny these poor souls the gifts that G.o.d has bestowed on me so freely. But I was supposed to exhort them to seek reconciliation at the proper place. . . . Well then. But you, Kristin, you will have to confess to the prior at the convent."

"There is something that I cannot confess to the prior," said Kristin.

"Do you think it would benefit you if you confess to me something that you wish to conceal from your proper confessor?" said the monk more sternly.

"If you cannot hear my confession," said Kristin, "then you can let me talk to you and ask your advice about what is on my mind."

The monk looked around. The church was empty at the moment. He sat down on a chest that stood in the corner. "You must remember that I cannot absolve you, but I will advise you and I will keep silent as if you had spoken in confession."

Kristin stood before him and said, "You see, I cannot become Simon Darre's wife."

"As to this matter, you know I cannot advise you otherwise than the prior would," said Brother Edvin. "Disobedient children bring G.o.d no joy, and your father has done his best for you-you must realize that."

"I don't know what your advice will be when you hear the rest," said Kristin. "The situation is such that Simon is too good to gnaw on the bare branch from which another man has broken off the blossom."

She looked directly at the monk. But when she met his eye and noticed how the dry, wrinkled old face suddenly changed and became filled with grief and horror, something seemed to break inside her; the tears poured out, and she tried to throw herself to her knees. But Edvin pulled her vehemently back.

"No, no, sit down here on the chest with me. I cannot hear your confession." He moved aside to make room for her.

Kristin continued to cry.

He stroked her hand and said softly, "Do you remember that morning, Kristin, when I saw you for the first time on the stairs of Hamar Cathedral? I once heard a legend, when I was abroad, about a monk who could not believe that G.o.d loved all of us wretched, sinful souls. An angel came and touched his sight so that he saw a stone at the bottom of the sea, and under the stone lived a blind, white, naked creature. And the monk stared at the creature until he began to love it because it was so small and pitiful. When I saw you sitting there, so tiny and pitiful inside that huge stone building, then I thought it was reasonable that G.o.d should love someone like you. You were lovely and pure, and yet you needed protection and help. I thought I saw the whole church, with you inside it, lying in the hand of G.o.d."

Kristin said softly, "We have bound ourselves to each other with the most solemn of oaths-and I have heard that such an agreement consecrates us before G.o.d just as much as if our parents had given us to each other."

But the monk replied with despair, "I see, Kristin, that someone has been telling you of the canonical law without fully understanding it. You could not promise yourself to this man without sinning against your parents; G.o.d placed them above you before you met him. And won't it also be a sorrow and a shame for this man's kinsmen if they learn that he has seduced the daughter of a man who has carried his shield with honor all these years? And you were also betrothed. I see that you do not think you have sinned so greatly-and yet you dare not confess this to your parish priest. And if you think you are as good as married to this man, why don't you wear the linen wimple instead of going around bareheaded among the young maidens, with whom you have so little in common now? For now your thoughts must be on other things than theirs are."

"I don't know what I'm thinking about," said Kristin wearily. "It's true that all my thoughts are with this man, whom I yearn for. If it weren't for Father and Mother, then I would gladly pin up my hair on this very day-I wouldn't care if they called me a paramour, if only I could be called his."

"Do you know whether this man's intentions are such that you might be his with honor someday?" asked Brother Edvin.

Then Kristin told him about everything that had happened between Erlend Nikulaussn and herself. And as she talked, she seemed to have forgotten that she had ever doubted the outcome of the whole matter.

"Don't you see, Brother Edvin," she continued, "we couldn't control ourselves. G.o.d help me, if I met him here outside the church, after I leave you, I would go with him if he asked me to. And you should know that I have now seen that other people have sinned as we have. When I was back home I couldn't understand how anything could have such power over the souls of people that they would forget all fear of sin, but now I have seen so much that if one cannot rectify the sins one has committed out of desire or anger, then heaven must be a desolate place. They say that you too once struck a man in anger."

"That's true," said the monk, "and it is only through G.o.d's mercy that I am not called a murderer. That was many years ago. I was a young man back then, and I didn't think I could tolerate the injustice that the bishop wished to exercise against us poor brothers. King Haakon-he was the duke at that time-had given us the land for our building, but we were so poor that we had to do the work on our church ourselves, with the help of a few workmen who lent a hand more for their reward in heaven than for what we were able to pay them. Perhaps it was arrogance on the part of the mendicant monks that we wanted to build our church with such splendor; but we were as happy as children in the meadows, singing hymns as we chiseled and built walls and toiled. May G.o.d bless Brother Ranulv. He was a master builder, a skilled stone-mason; I think G.o.d Himself had granted this man all his knowledge and skills. I was cutting altarpieces from stone back then. I had finished one of Saint Clara, with the angels leading her to the church of Saint Francis early Christmas morning. It had turned out beautifully, and we all rejoiced over it. Then those cowardly devils tore down the walls, and the stones toppled and crushed my altarpieces. I lunged at a man with a hammer; I couldn't control myself.

"Yes, I see that you're smiling, Kristin. But don't you realize how badly things stand with you now? For you would rather hear about other people's frailties than about the deeds of decent people, which might serve as an example for you."

As Kristin was about to leave, Brother Edvin said, "It's not easy to advise you. If you were to do what's right, then you would bring sorrow to your parents and shame upon your entire lineage. But you must try to win release from your promise to Simon Andres-sn. Then you must wait patiently for the joy that G.o.d will send you. Do penance in your heart as best you can-and do not let this Erlend tempt you to sin more often, but ask him lovingly to seek reconciliation with your kinsmen and with G.o.d.

"I cannot absolve you of your sin," said Brother Edvin as they parted. "But I will pray for you with all my heart."

Then he placed his thin old hands on Kristin's head and said a prayer of blessing and peace for her in farewell.

CHAPTER 6.

AFTERWARD Kristin could not remember everything that Brother Edvin had said to her. But she left him with a strange feeling of clarity and serene peace in her soul.

Before, she had struggled with a hollow and secret fear, trying to defy it: her sin had not been so great. Now she felt that Edvin had shown her clearly and lucidly that she had indeed sinned, that such and such were her sins, and that she would have to take them upon her shoulders and try to bear them with patience and dignity. She strove to think of Erlend without impatience, in spite of the fact that he had sent no word and she missed his caresses. She simply had to be faithful and full of kindness toward him. She thought about her parents and promised herself that she would repay all their love after they had first recovered from the sorrow that she was going to cause them by breaking with the Dyfrin people. And she thought most about Brother Edvin's advice that she should not seek solace by looking at the failings of others; she felt herself growing humble and kind, and soon realized how easy it was for her to win the friendship of others. At once she felt consoled that it was not so difficult, after all, to get along with people-and then she thought that it shouldn't be so difficult for her and Erlend either.

Up until the day when she gave Erlend her promise, she had always tried diligently to do everything that was right and good, but she had done everything at the bidding of other people. Now she felt that she had grown up from maiden to woman. This was not just because of the pa.s.sionate, secret caresses she had received and given. She had not merely left her father's guardianship and subjected herself to Erlend's will. Brother Edvin had impressed on her the responsibility of answering for her own life, and for Erlend's as well, and she was willing to bear this burden with grace and dignity. So she lived among the nuns during the Christmas season; during the beautiful services and amidst the joy and peace, she no doubt felt herself unworthy, but she consoled herself with the belief that the time would soon come when she would be able to redeem herself again.

But on the day after New Year's, Sir Andres Darre arrived unexpectedly at the convent together with his wife and all five children. They were going to spend the last part of the Christmas holidays with friends and kinsmen in town, and they came to ask Kristin to join them at the place where they were staying for several days.

"I've been thinking, my daughter, said Fru Angerd, "that you probably wouldn't mind seeing some new faces by now."

The Dyfrin people were staying in a beautiful house that was part of an estate near the bishop's citadel. Sir Andres's nephew owned it. There was a large room where the servants slept and a magnificent loft room with a brick fireplace and three good beds. Sir Andres and Fru Angerd slept in one of the beds, along with their youngest son, Gudmund, who was still a child. Kristin and their two daughters, Astrid and Sigrid, slept in the second bed. And in the third slept Simon and his older brother, Gyrd Andressn.

All of Sir Andres's children were good-looking-Simon the least so, and yet people still considered him handsome. And Kristin noticed even more than when she had been at the Dyfrin manor the year before that both his parents and his four siblings listened closely to Simon and did everything he wished. All his kinsmen loved each other heartily but agreed without rancor to place Simon foremost.

These people led a joyful and happy life, going to one of the churches each day to make their offerings, meeting to drink among friends each evening, and allowing the young to play and dance. Everyone showed Kristin the greatest kindness, and no one seemed to notice how little joy she felt.