Their master frowned and seemed about to answer sharply, but Kristin laid her hand upon his sleeve:
“Let them go, dear sir!” She shuddered a little. “Loth would we be, in truth, both my sister and I, this matter should be talked of.”
The stranger looked down at her—he bit his lip and nodded, as though he understood her. Then he gave each of the captives a blow on the nape with the flat of his sword which sent them sprawling forwards. “Run for it then,” he said, kicking them, and both scrambled up and took to their heels as fast as they could. Then he turned again to the maidens and asked if they would please to ride.
Ingebjörg let herself be lifted into Erlend’s saddle, but it was soon plain that she could not keep her seat—she slid down again at once. He looked at Kristin doubtfully, and she said that she was used to ride on a man’s saddle.
He took hold of her below the knees and lifted her up. A sweet and happy thrill ran through her to feel how carefully he held her from him, as though afraid to come near her—at home no one ever minded how tight they held her when they helped her on to a horse. She felt marvellously honoured and uplifted—
The knight—as Ingebjörg called him, though he had but silver spurs—now offered that maiden his hand, and his men sprang to their saddles. Ingebjörg would have it that they should ride round the town to the northcard, below the Ryenberg and Martestokke, and not through the streets. First she gave as a reason that Sir Erlend and his men were fully armed—were they not? The knight answered gravely that the ban on carrying arms was not over strict at any time—for travellers at least—and now everyone in the town was out on a wild beast hunt—Then she said she was fearful of the pards. Kristin saw full well that Ingebjörg was fain to go by the longest and loneliest road, that she might have the more talk with Erlend.
“This is the second time this evening that we hinder you, good sir,” said she, and Erlend answered soberly:
“ ’Tis no matter, I am bound no further than to Gerdarud tonight—and ’tis light the whole night long.”
It liked Kristin well that he jested not, nor bantered them, but talked to her as though she were his like or even more than his like. She thought of Simon; she had not met other young men of courtly breeding. But ’twas true, this man seemed older than Simon—
They rode down into the valley below the Ryenberg hills and up along the beck. The path was narrow, and the young bushes swung wet, heavily-scented branches against her—it was a little darker down here, and the air was cool and the leaves all dewy along the beck-path.
They went slowly, and the horses’ hoofs sounded muffled on the damp, grass-grown path. She rocked gently in the saddle; behind her she heard Ingebjörg’s chatter and the stranger’s deep, quiet voice. He said little and answered as if his mind wandered—it sounded almost as if his mood were like her own, she thought—she felt strangely drowsy, yet safe and content now that all the day’s chances were safely over.
It was like waking to come out of the woods, on to the green slopes under the Martestokke hills. The sun was gone down and the town and the bay lay below them in a clear, pale light—above the Aker ridges there was a light-yellow strip edging the pale-blue sky. In the evening hush, sounds were borne to them from far off as they came out of the cool depths of the wood—a cartwheel creaked somewhere upon a road, dogs on the farms bayed at each other across the valley. And from the woods behind them birds trilled and sang full-throated, now the sun was down.
Smoke was in the air from the fires on lands under clearance, and out in a field there was the red flare of a bonfire; against the great ruddy flame the clearness of the night seemed a kind of darkness.
They were riding between the fences of the convent-fields when the stranger spoke to her again. He asked her what she thought best; should he go with her to the gate and ask for speech of the Lady Groa, so that he might tell her how this thing had come about. But Ingebjörg would have it that they should steal in through the church; then maybe they might slip into the convent without anyone knowing they had been away so much too long—it might be her kinsfolks’ visit had made Sister Potentia forget them.
The open place before the west door of the church was empty and still, and it came not into Kristin’s thoughts to wonder at this, though there was wont to be much life there of an evening with folks from the neighbourhood who came to the nuns’ church, and round about were houses wherein lay-servants and commoners dwelt. They said farewell to Erlend here. Kristin stood and stroked his horse; it was black and had a comely head and soft eyes—she thought it like Morvin, whom she had been wont to ride at home when she was a child.
“What is your horse’s name, sir?” she asked, as it turned its head from her and snuffed at its master’s breast.
“Bayard,” said he, looking at her over the horse’s neck. “You ask my horse’s name, but not mine?”
“I would be fain to know your name, sir,” she replied, and bent her head a little.
“I am called Erlend Nikulaussön,” said he.
“Then, Erlend Nikulaussön, have thanks for your good service this night,” said Kristin and proffered him her hand.
Of a sudden she flushed red, and half withdrew her hand from his.
“Lady Aashild Gautesdatter of Dovre, is she your kinswoman?” she asked.
To her wonder
