Kristin Lavransdatter Part 71

Oh yes . . . that was so long ago. The king's bedchamber in the stone hall of the Oslo palace. On the little table next to his bed burned a single candle; the light fell across the finely etched, faded, and aging face of the man, resting above the red silken quilts. When the priest had finished reading aloud and taken his leave, the king often picked up the book himself and lay in bed, reading with the heavy volume resting against his propped-up knees. On two footstools over by the brick fireplace sat the pages; Simon nearly always had the watch with Gunstein Ingasn. It was pleasant in the chamber. The fire burned brightly, giving heat without smoke, and the room seemed so snug with the cross-beamed ceiling and the walls always covered with tapestries. But they would grow sleepy from sitting there in that fashion, first listening to the priest read and then waiting for the king to fall asleep, as he rarely did until close to midnight. When he was sleeping, they were allowed to take turns keeping guard and napping on the bench between the fireplace and the door to the royal Council hall.

Occasionally the king would converse with them; this didn't happen often, but when it did, he was inexpressibly kind and charming. Or he would read aloud from the book a sentence or a few stanzas of a verse that he thought the young men might find useful or beneficial to hear.

One night Simon was awakened by King Haakon calling for him in pitch-darkness. The candle had burned out. Feeling wretched with shame, Simon blew some life into the embers and lit a new candle. The king lay in bed, smiling secretively.

"Does that Gunstein always snore so terribly?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"You share a bed with him in the dormitory, don't you? It might be deemed reasonable if you asked for another bedfellow for a while who makes less noise when he sleeps."

"Thank you, my Lord, but it doesn't bother me, Your Majesty!"

"Surely you must wake up, Simon, when that thunder explodes right next to your ear-don't you?"

"Yes, Your Grace, but then I give him a shove and turn him over a bit."

The king laughed. "I wonder whether you young men realize that being able to sleep so soundly is one of G.o.d's great gifts. When you reach my age, Simon my friend, perhaps you will remember my words."

That seemed endlessly far away-still clear, but not as if he were the same man, sitting here now, who had once been that young page.

One day at the beginning of Advent, when Kristin was almost alone on the estate-her sons were bringing home firewood and moss-she was surprised to see Simon Darre come riding into the courtyard. He had come to invite her and her sons to be their guests during Christmas.

"You know quite well, Simon, that we can't do that," she said somberly. "We can still be friends in our hearts, you and Ramborg and I, but as you know, it's not always possible for us to determine what we must do."

"Surely you don't mean that you're going to take this so far that you won't come to your only sister when she has to lie down to give birth."

Kristin prayed that all would go well and bring both of them joy. "But I can't tell you with certainty that I will come."

"Everyone will think it remarkably strange," admonished Simon. "You have a reputation for being the best midwife, and she's your sister, and the two of you are the mistresses of the largest estates in the northern part of the region."

"Quite a few children have been brought into the world on the great manors around here over the past few years, but I've never been asked to come. It's no longer the custom, Simon, for a birth to be considered improperly attended if the mistress of Jrund gaard is not in the room." She saw that he was greatly distressed by her words, and so she continued, "Give my greetings to Ramborg, and tell her that I will come to help her when it's time; but I cannot come to your Christmas feast, Simon."

But on the eighth day of the Christmas season she met Simon as he came to ma.s.s without Ramborg. No, she was feeling fine, he said, but she needed to rest and gather her strength, for the next day he was taking her and the children south to Dyfrin. The weather was so good for traveling by sleigh, and since Gyrd had invited them, and Ramborg was so keen on going, well . . .

CHAPTER 4.

ON THE DAY after Saint Paal's Day, Simon Darre rode north across Lake Mjsa, accompanied by two men. A bitter frost had set in, but he didn't think he could stay away from home any longer; the sleighs would have to follow later, as soon as the cold had let up a bit.

At Hamar he met a friend, Vigleik Paalssn of f.a.gaberg, and they continued on together. When they reached Lillehammer, they rested for a while at a farm where ale was served. As they sat and drank, several drunken fur peddlers began brawling in the room. Finally Simon stood up, stepped into the thick of things and separated them, but in doing so, he received a knife wound in his right forearm. It was little more than a scratch, so he paid it no mind, although the proprietress of the alehouse insisted on being allowed to bind a cloth around it.

He rode home with Vigleik and stayed the night at his manor. The men shared a bed, and toward morning Simon was awakened because the other man was thrashing in his sleep. Several times Vigleik called out his name, and so Simon woke him up to ask what was wrong.

Vigleik couldn't remember his dream properly. "But it was loathsome, and you were in it. One thing I do remember: Simon Reidarssn stood in this room and asked you to leave with him. I saw him so clearly that I could have counted every single freckle on his face."

"I wish you could sell me that dream," said Simon, half in jest and half seriously. Simon Reidarssn was his uncle's son, and they had been good friends when they were growing up, but the other Simon had died at the age of thirteen.

In the morning when the men sat down to eat, Vigleik noticed that Simon hadn't b.u.t.toned the sleeve of his tunic around his right wrist. The flesh was red and swollen all the way down to the back of his hand. He mentioned it, but Simon merely laughed.

A little later, when his friend begged him to stay on a few more days and to wait there for his wife-Vigleik couldn't forget his dream-Simon Andressn replied, almost indignantly, "Surely you haven't had such a bad dream about me that I should keep to my bed because of a mere louse bite?"

Around sunset Simon and his men rode down to Lake Losna. It had been the most beautiful day; now the towering blue and white peaks turned gold and crimson in the twilight, while along the river the groves, heavy with rime, stood furry gray in the shadows. The men had excellent horses and a brisk ride ahead of them across the long lake; tiny bits of ice sprayed up, ringing and clinking beneath the hooves of the horses. A biting wind blew hard against them. Simon was freezing, but in spite of the cold, strange nauseating waves of heat kept washing over him, followed by icy spells that seemed to seep all the way into the marrow of his spine. Now and then he noticed that his tongue was swollen and felt oddly thick at the back of his throat. Even before they had crossed the lake he had to stop and ask one of his men to help him fasten his cape so it would support his right arm.

The servants had heard Vigleik Paalssn recounting his dream; now they wanted their master to show them his wound. But Simon said it was nothing; it merely stung a bit. "I may have to get used to being left-handed for a few days."

But later that night, when the moon had risen and they were riding high along the ridge north of the lake, Simon realized that his arm might turn out to be rather troublesome after all. It ached all the way up to his armpit, the jolting of the horse caused him great pain, and the blood was hammering in his wounded limb. His head was pounding too, and spasms were shooting up from the back of his neck. He was hot and then cold by turn.

The winter road pa.s.sed high up along the slope, partway through forest and partway across white fields. Simon gazed at everything: The full moon was sailing brightly in the pale blue sky, having driven all the stars far away; only a few larger ones still dared wander in the distant heavens. The white fields glittered and sparkled; the shadows fell short and jagged across the snow; inside the woods the uncertain light lay in splotches and stripes among the firs, heavy with snow. Simon saw all this.

But at the same time he saw quite clearly a meadow with tufts of ash-brown gra.s.s in the sunlight of early spring. Several small spruce trees had sprung up here and there at the edge of the field; they glowed green like velvet in the sun. He recognized this place; it was the pasture near his home at Dyfrin. The alder woods stood beyond the field with its tree trunks a springtime shiny gray and the tops brown with blossoms. Behind stretched the long, low Raumarike ridges, shimmering blue but still speckled white with snow. They were walking down toward the alder thicket, he and Simon Reidarssn, carrying fishing gear and pike spears. They were on their way to the lake, which lay dark gray with patches of thawing ice, to fish at the open end. His dead cousin walked at his side; he saw his playmate's curly hair sticking out from his cap, reddish in the spring sunlight; he could see every freckle on the boy's face. The other Simon stuck out his lower lip and blew-phew, phew-whenever he thought his namesake was speaking gibberish. They jumped over meandering rivulets and leaped from mound to mound across the trickling snow water in the gra.s.sy meadow. The bottom was covered with moss; under the water it churned and frothed a lively green.

He was fully aware of everything around him; the whole time he saw the road pa.s.sing up one hill and down another, through the woods and over white fields in the glittering moonlight. He saw the slumbering cl.u.s.ters of houses beneath snow-laden roofs casting shadows across the fields; he saw the band of fog hovering over the river in the bottom of the valley. He knew that it was Jon who was riding right behind him and who moved up alongside him whenever they entered open clearings, and yet he happened to call the man Simon several times. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help himself, even though he noticed that his servants grew alarmed.

"We must manage to reach the monks at Roaldstad tonight, men," he said once when his mind had cleared.

The men tried to dissuade him; instead they should see about finding lodgings as soon as possible, and they mentioned the nearest parsonage. But their master clung to his plan.

"It will be hard on the horses, Simon." The two men exchanged a glance.

But Simon merely laughed. They would have to manage it for once. He thought about the arduous miles. Pain shot through his whole body as he jolted in the saddle. But he wanted to go home because now he knew that he was fated to die.

Even though his heart was alternately freezing and burning in the winter night, at the same time he felt the mild spring sunshine of the pasture back home, while he and the dead boy kept walking and walking toward the alder thicket.

For brief moments the image would vanish and his head would clear, except that it ached so dreadfully. He asked one of his men to cut open the sleeve on his wounded arm. His face turned white and the sweat poured down when Jon Daalk cautiously slit open his vest and shirt from his wrist up to his shoulder, but he managed to support the swollen limb himself with his left hand. After a while the pain began to ease.

Then the men started discussing whether they should see about sending word back south to Dyfrin once they reached Roaldstad. But Simon had his objections. He didn't want to worry his wife with such a message when it might be unnecessary; a sleigh ride in this bitter cold would be ill advised. Perhaps, when they were home at Formo . . . They should wait and see. He tried to smile at Sigurd to cheer up the young servant, who looked quite frightened and distressed.

"But you can send word to Kristin at Jrundgaard as soon as we reach home. She's so skilled at healing." His tongue felt as thick and stiff as wood as he spoke.

Kiss me, Kristin, my betrothed! At first she would think he was speaking in delirium. No, Kristin. Then she would be surprised.

Erlend had understood. Ramborg had understood. But Kristin . . . She sat there with her sorrow and rancor, and yet as angry and bitter as she now felt toward that man Erlend, she still had no thoughts for anyone else but him. You've never cherished me enough, Kristin, my beloved, that you might consider how difficult it would be for me when I had to be a brother to the woman who was once meant to be my wife.

He hadn't realized it himself back then, when he parted from her outside the convent gate in Oslo: that he would continue to think about her in this way. That he would end up feeling as if nothing he had acquired afterward in life were an equal replacement for what he had lost back then. For the maiden who had been promised to him in his youth.

She would hear this before he died. She would give him one kiss.

I am the one who loved you and who loves you still.

He had once heard those words, and he had never been able to forget them. They were from the Virgin Mary's book of miracles, a saga about a nun who fled from her convent with a knight. The Virgin saved them in the end and forgave them in spite of their sin. If it was a sin that he said this to his wife's sister before he died, then G.o.d's Mother would grant him forgiveness for this as well. He had so seldom troubled her by asking for anything. . . .

I didn't believe it myself back then: that I would never feel truly happy or merry again . . .

"No, Simon, it's too great a burden for Sokka if she has to carry both of us . . . considering how far she has had to travel tonight," he said to the person who had climbed up behind him on the horse and was supporting him. "I can see that it's you, Sigurd, but I thought it was someone else."

Toward morning they reached the pilgrims' hostel, and the two monks who were in charge tended to the ill man. After he had revived a little under their care and the feverish daze had abated, Simon Andressn insisted on borrowing a sleigh to continue northward.

The roads were in good condition; they changed horses along the way, journeyed all night, and arrived at Formo the following morning, at dawn. Simon had lain and dozed under all the covers that someone had spread over him. He felt so weighted down-sometimes he felt as if he were being crushed under heavy boulders-and his head ached terribly. Now and then he seemed to slip away. Then the pain would begin raging inside him again; it felt as if his body were swelling up more and more, growing unimaginably big and about to burst. There was a constant throbbing in his arm.

He tried to walk from the sleigh to the house, with his good arm around Jon's shoulder and Sigurd walking behind to support him. Simon sensed that the faces of the men were gray and grimy with weariness; they had spent two nights in a row in the saddle. He wanted to say something to them about it, but his tongue refused to obey him. He stumbled over the threshold and fell full length into the room-with a roar of pain as his swollen and misshapen arm struck against something. The sweat poured off him as he choked back the moans that rose up as he was undressed and helped into bed.

Not long afterward he noticed that Kristin Lavransdatter was standing next to the fireplace, grinding something with a pestle in a wooden bowl. The sound kept thudding right through his head. She poured something from a small pot into a goblet and added several drops from a gla.s.s vial that she took out of a chest. Then she emptied the crushed substance from the bowl into the pot and set it next to the fire. Such a quiet and competent manner she had.

She came over to the bed with the goblet in her hand. She walked with such ease. She was just as straight-backed and lovely as she had been as a maiden-this slender woman with the thin, somber face beneath the linen wimple. The back of his neck was also swollen, and it hurt when she slipped one arm under his shoulders to lift him up. She supported his head against her breast as she held the goblet to his lips with her left hand.

Simon smiled a little, and as she cautiously let his head slip back down to the pillow, he seized hold of her hand with his good one. Her fine, slim woman's hand was no longer soft or white.

"I suppose you can't sew silk with these fingers of yours anymore," said Simon. "But they're good and light-and how pleasantly cool your hand is, Kristin." He placed it on his forehead. Kristin remained standing there until she felt her palm grow warm; then she removed it and gently pressed her other hand against his burning brow, up along the hairline.

"Your arm has a nasty wound, Simon," she said, "but with G.o.d's help it will mend."

"I'm afraid that you won't be able to heal me, Kristin, no matter how skilled you are with medicines," said Simon. But his expression was almost cheerful. The potion began to take effect; he felt the pain much less. But his eyes felt so strange, as if he had no control over them. He thought he must be lying there with each eye squinting in opposite directions.

"No doubt things will go with me as they must," he said in the same tone of voice.

Kristin went back to her pots; she spread a paste on some linen cloths and then came over and wrapped the hot bandages around his arm, from the tips of his fingers all the way around his back and across his chest, where the swelling splayed out in red stripes from his armpit. It hurt at first, but soon the discomfort eased. She spread a woolen blanket on top and placed soft down pillows under his arm. Simon asked her what she had put on the bandages.

"Oh, various things-mostly comfrey and swallowwort," said Kristin. "If only it was summer, I could have picked them fresh from my herb garden. But I had a plentiful supply; thanks be to G.o.d I haven't needed them earlier this winter."

"What was it you once told me about swallowwort? You heard it from the abbess when you were at the convent . . . something about the name."

"Do you mean that in all languages it has a name that means 'swallow,' all the way from the Greek sea up to the northern lands?"

"Yes, because it blossoms everywhere when the swallows awake from their winter slumber." Simon pressed his lips together more firmly. By then he would have been in the ground for a long time.

"I want my resting place to be here, at the church, if I should die, Kristin," he said. "I'm such a rich man by now that someday Andres will most likely possess considerable power here at Formo. I wonder if Ramborg will have a son after I'm gone, in the spring. I would have liked to live long enough to see two sons on my estate."

Kristin told him she had sent word south to Dyfrin that he was gravely ill-with Gaute, who had ridden off that morning.

"You didn't send that child off alone, did you?" asked Simon with alarm.

There was no one at hand whom she thought could manage to keep up with Gaute riding Rauden, she told him. Simon said it would surely be a difficult journey for Ramborg; if only she wouldn't travel any faster than she could bear. "But I would like to see my children . . ."

Sometime later he began talking about his children again. He mentioned Arngjerd, wondering whether he might have been wrong not to accept the offer from the people of Eiken. But the man seemed too old to him, and he had been afraid that Grunde could turn out to be violent when he was drunk. He had always wanted to place Arngjerd in the most secure of circ.u.mstances. Now it would be Gyrd and Gudmund who would decide on her marriage. "Tell my brothers, Kristin, that I sent them my greetings and that they should tend to this matter with care. If you would take her back to Jrundgaard for a while, I would be most grateful, as I lie in my grave. And if Ramborg should remarry before Arngjerd's place is a.s.sured, then you must take her in, Kristin. You mustn't think that Ramborg has been anything but kind toward her, but if she should end up with both a stepmother and a stepfather, I'm afraid she would be regarded more as a servant girl than a . . . You remember that I was married to Halfrid when I became her father."

Kristin gently placed her hand on top of Simon's and promised she would do all she could for the maiden. She remembered everything she had seen of how difficult they were situated, those children who had a n.o.bleman for a father and were conceived in adultery. Orm and Margret and Ulf Haldorssn. She stroked Simon's hand over and over.

"It's not certain that you will die this time, you know, brother-in-law," she said with a little smile. A glimmer of the sweet and tender smile of a maiden could still pa.s.s over her thin, stern woman's face. You sweet, young Kristin.

Simon's fever was not as high that evening, and he said the pain was less. When Kristin changed the bandage on his arm, it was not as swollen, but his skin was darker, and when she cautiously pressed it, the marks from her fingers stayed for a moment.

Kristin sent the servants off to bed. She allowed Jon Daalk, who insisted on keeping watch over his master, to lie down on a bench in the room. She moved the chest with the carved back over next to the bed and sat down, leaning against the corner. Simon dozed and slept. Once when he woke up, he noticed that she had found a spindle. She was sitting erect, having stuck the distaff with the wool under her left arm, and her fingers were twining the yarn as the spindle dropped lower and lower beside her long, slender lap. Then she rolled up the yarn and began spinning again as the spindle dropped. He fell asleep watching her.

When he awoke again, toward morning, she was sitting in the same position, spinning. The light from the candle, which she had placed so the bed hangings would shield him, fell directly on her face. It was so pale and still. Her full, soft lips were narrow and pressed tight; she was sitting with her eyes lowered as she spun. She couldn't see that he was lying awake and staring at her in the shadow of the bed hangings. She looked so full of despair that Simon felt as if his heart were bleeding inside him as he lay there looking at her.

She stood up and went over to tend the fire. Without a sound. When she came back, she peeked behind the bed hangings and met his open eyes in the dark.

"How are you feeling now, Simon?" she asked gently.

"I feel fine . . . now."

But he seemed to notice that it felt tender under his left arm too, and under his chin when he moved his head. No, it must be just something he imagined.

Oh, she would never think that she had lost anything by rejecting his love; for that matter, he might as well tell her about it. It wasn't possible for that that to make her any more melancholy. He wanted to say it to her before he died-at least once: I have loved you all these years. to make her any more melancholy. He wanted to say it to her before he died-at least once: I have loved you all these years.

His fever rose again. And his left arm was hurting after all.

"You must try to sleep some more, Simon. Perhaps you will soon feel better," she said softly.

"I've slept a great deal tonight." He began talking about his children again: the three he had and loved so dearly and the one who was still unborn. Then he fell silent; the pain returned much worse. "Lie down for a while, Kristin. Surely Jon can sit with me for a time if you think it necessary for someone to keep watch."

In the morning, when she took off the bandage, Simon replied calmly to her desperate expression: "Oh no, Kristin, there was already too much festering and poison in my arm, and I was chilled through before I came into your hands. I told you that I didn't think you could heal me. Don't be so sad about it, Kristin."

"You shouldn't have made such a long journey," she said faintly.

"No man lives longer than he is meant to live," replied Simon in the same voice. "I wanted to come home. There are things we must discuss: how everything is to be arranged after I'm gone."

He chuckled. "All fires burn out sooner or later."

Kristin gazed at him, her eyes shiny with tears. He had always had so many proverbs on his lips. She looked down at his flushed red face. The heavy cheeks and the folds under his chin seemed to have sunk, lying in deep furrows. His eyes seemed both dull and glistening, but then clarity and intent returned to them. He looked up at her with the steady, searching glance that had been the most constant expression in his small, sharp, steel-gray eyes.

When daylight filled the room, Kristin saw that Simon's face had grown pinched around the nose. A white streak stretched downward on either side to the corners of his mouth.