But as the beer and wine began to mount to his head, Sira Sigurd’s humour changed again and he grew quarrelsome and hotheaded—he knew well enough there was no one in the room who liked him. First he turned on Gyrd—he was the bishop of Hamar’s bailiff in Vaage and Sil, and there had been many quarrels twixt the bishop’s see and Trond Ivarsön. Gyrd said not much, but Inga was a fiery woman, and then Brother Aasgaut joined in and spoke:
“You should not forget, Sira Sigurd, our reverend Father Ingjald is your overlord, too—we know enough of you in Hamar. You wallow in all good things at Sundbu, never thinking that you are vowed to other work than to do Trond eyeservice, helping him in all wrong and injustice, to the peril of his soul and the minishing of the rights of Holy Church. Have you never heard how it fares with the false and unruly priests who hatch out devices against their spiritual fathers and those in authority? Wot you not of that time when the angels took St. Thomas of Canterbury to the door of Hell and let him peep in? He wondered much that he saw none of the priests who had set themselves up against him, as you have set yourself against your bishop. He was about to praise God’s mercy, for the holy man begrudged not salvation to all sinners—but at that the angel bade the devil lift his tail a little, and out there came, with a great bang and a foul smell of sulphur, all the priests and learned men who had wrought against the good of the church. Thus did he come to know whither they had gone.”
“There you lie, monk,” said the priest. “I have heard that tale too; only they were not priests, but beggar-monks, who came from the rear of the devil like wasps out of a wasp-nest.”
Old Jon laughed louder than all the serving-folk, and roared:
“There were both sorts, I’ll be bound—”
“Then the devil must have a fine broad tail,” said Björn Gunnarsön, and Lady Aashild smiled and said:
“Aye, have you not heard that all evil drags a long tail behind it?”
“Be still, Lady Aashild,” cried Sira Sigurd, “do not you talk of the long tail evil drags after it. You sit here as though you were mistress in the house, and not Ragnfrid. But ’tis strange you could not help her child—have you no more of that strong water you dealt in once, which could make whole the sheep already boiling in the pot, and turn women to maids in the bridal bed? Think you I know not of the wedding in this very parish where you made a bath for the bride that was no maid—”
Sira Eirik sprang up, gripped the other priest by the shoulder and thigh, and flung him right over the table, so that the jugs and tankards were overturned and food and drink ran upon the cloths and floor, while Sira Sigurd lay his length upon the ground with torn garments. Eirik leaped over the board, and would have struck him again, roaring above the tumult:
“Hold your filthy mouth, priest of Hell that you are—” Lavrans strove to part them, but Ragnfrid stood, white as death, by the board, and wrung her hands. Then Lady Aashild ran and helped Sira Sigurd to his feet, and wiped the blood from his face. She poured a beaker of mead down his throat, saying:
“You must not be so strict, Sira Eirik, that you cannot bear to listen to jesting so far on in a drinking bout. Seat yourselves now and you shall hear of that wedding. ’Twas not here in the Dale at all, nor had I the good fortune to be the one that knew of that water—could I have brewed it I trow we would not be sitting now on a hill-croft in the wilds. I might have been a rich woman and had lands in the great, rich parishes—nigh to town and cloisters and bishop and chapter,” and she smiled at the three churchmen. “But ’tis said sure enough, that the art was known in the olden days.”
And the Lady told a merry tale of a misadventure that befell in King Inga’s time when the magic wash was used by mistake by the wrong woman and of what followed thereon.
Great was the laughter in the room, and both Gyrd and Jon shouted for more such tales from Lady Aashild. But the Lady said no: “Here sit two priests and Brother Aasgaut and young lads and serving maids; ’tis best we cease before the talk grows unseemly and gross; let us bear in mind ’tis a holy day.”
The men made an outcry, but the women held with Lady Aashild. No one saw that Ragnfrid had left the room. Soon after it was time that Kristin, who sat lowest on the women’s bench among the serving maids, should go to bed—she was sleeping in Tordis’ house, there were so many guests at the manor.
It was biting cold, and the northern-lights flamed and flickered over the brows of the fells to the north. The snow crackled under Kristin’s feet as she ran over the courtyard shivering, her arms crossed on her breast.
Then she was aware of a woman in the shadow of the old loft walking hurriedly to and fro in the snow, throwing her arms about, wringing her hands, and wailing aloud. Kristin saw it was her mother, and ran to her affrighted, asking if she were ill.
“No, no,” burst out Ragnfrid. “But I could not stay within—go you to bed, child.”
As Kristin turned away her mother called her softly:
“Go back to the room and lie beside your father and Ulvhild—take her in your arms so that he may not roll upon her by mischance; he sleeps so heavily when he has drunk deep. I am going up to sleep in the old loft-room tonight.”
“Jesus, mother,” said Kristin, “you will freeze to death
