The women took off her bridal finery, piece by piece, and laid it away. Kristin saw that over the bed-foot hung the violet velvet robe she was to wear on the morrow, and upon it lay a long, snow-white, finely-pleated linen cloth. It was the wife’s linen coif. Erlend had brought it for her; tomorrow she was to bind up her hair in a knot and fasten the head-linen over it. It looked to her so fresh and cool and restful.
At last she was standing before the bridal bed, on her naked feet, bare-armed, clad only in the long golden-yellow silken shift. They had set the crown on her head again; the bridegroom was to take it off, when they two were left alone.
Ragnfrid laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek—the mother’s face and hands were strangely cold, but it was as though sobs were struggling deep in her breast. Then she drew back the coverings of the bed, and bade the bride seat herself in it. Kristin obeyed, and leaned back on the pillows heaped up against the bed-head—she had to bend her head a little forward to keep on the crown. Lady Aashild drew the coverings up to the bride’s waist, and laid her hands before her on the silken coverlid; then took her shining hair and drew it forward over her bosom and the slender bare upper arms.
Next the men led the bridegroom into the loft-room. Munan Baardsön unclasped the golden belt and sword from Erlend’s waist—when he leaned over to hang it on the wall above the bed, he whispered something to the bride—Kristin knew not what he said, but she did her best to smile.
The groomsmen unlaced Erlend’s silken robe and lifted off the long heavy garment over his head. He sat him down in the great chair and they helped him off with his spurs and boots—
Once and once only the bride found courage to look up and meet his eyes.
Then began the good nights. Before long all the wedding-guests were gone from the loft. Last of all, Lavrans Björgulfsön went out and shut the door of the bride-house.
Erlend stood up, stripped off his underclothing, and flung it on the benches. He stood by the bed, took the crown and the silken cords from off her hair, and laid them away on the table. Then he came back and mounted into the bed. Kneeling by her side he clasped her round the head, and pressed it in against his hot naked breast, while he kissed her forehead all along the red-streak the crown had left on it.
She threw her arms about his shoulders and sobbed aloud—she had a sweet, wild feeling that now the horror, the phantom visions were fading into air—now, now once again naught was left but he and she. He lifted up her face a moment, looked down into it, and drew his hand down over her face and body, with a strange haste and roughness, as though he tore away a covering:
“Forget,” he begged, in a fiery whisper, “forget all, my Kristin—all but this, that you are my own wife, and I am your own husband—”
With his hand he quenched the flame of the last candle, then threw himself down beside her in the dark—he too was sobbing now:
“Never have I believed it, never in all these years, that we should see this day—”
Without, in the courtyard, the noise died down little by little. Wearied with the long day’s ride, and dizzy with much strong drink, the guests made a decent show of merrymaking a little while yet—but more and ever more of them stole away and sought out the places where they were to sleep.
Ragnfrid showed all the guests of honour to their places, and bade them good night. Her husband, who should have helped her in this, was nowhere to be seen.
The dark courtyard was empty, save for a few small groups of young folks—servants most of them—when at last she stole out to find her husband and bring him with her to his bed. She had seen as the night wore on that he had grown very drunken.
She stumbled over him at last, as she crept along in her search outside the cattle yard—he was lying in the grass behind the bathhouse on his face.
Groping in the darkness, she touched him with her hand—aye, it was he. She thought he was asleep, and took him by the shoulder—she must get him up off the icy-cold ground. But he was not asleep, at least not wholly.
“What would you?” he asked, in a thick voice.
“You cannot lie here,” said his wife. She held him up, as he stood swaying. With one hand she brushed the soil off his velvet robe. “ ’Tis time we too went to rest, husband.” She took him by the arm, and drew him, reeling, up towards the farmyard buildings.
“You looked not up, Ragnfrid, when you sat in the bridal bed beneath the crown,” he said in the same voice. “Our daughter—she was not so shamefast—her eyes were not shamefast when she looked upon her bridegroom.”
“She has waited for him seven half-years,” said the mother in a low voice. “No marvel if she found courage to look up—”
“Nay, devil damn me if they have waited!” screamed the man, as his wife strove fearfully to hush him.
They were in the narrow passage between the back of the privy and a fence. Lavrans smote with his clenched fist on the beam across the cesspit.
“I set thee here for a scorn and for a mockery, thou beam. I set thee here that filth might eat thee up. I set thee here
