“How comes it that you bear messages betwixt this Erlend and Ingebjörg Filippusdatter? ’Tis not fit you should meddle in the matter, if there be hidden dealings between them!”
“Most like there is naught in it,” said Kristin. “She is but a chatterer.”
“Methinks too,” said Simon, “you should have taken warning by what’s past, and not trusted yourself out in the wildwood paths alone with that magpie.” But Kristin reminded him hotly, that it was not their fault they had strayed and lost themselves. Simon said no more.
The next day the Dyfrin folks took her back to the convent, before they themselves left for home.
Erlend came to evensong in the convent church every evening for a week without Kristin getting a chance to change a word with him. She felt as she thought a hawk must feel sitting chained to its perch with its hood over its eyes. Every word that had passed between them at their last meeting made her unhappy too—it should never have been like that. It was of no use to say to herself: it had come upon them so suddenly, they had hardly known what they said.
But one afternoon in the twilight there came to the parlour a comely woman, who looked like a townsman’s wife. She asked for Kristin Lavransdatter, and said she was the wife of a mercer and her husband had come from Denmark of late with some fine cloaks; Aasmund Björgulfsön had a mind to give one to his brother’s daughter, and the maid was to go with her and choose for herself.
Kristin was given leave to go with the woman. She thought it was unlike her uncle to wish to give her a costly gift, and strange that he should send an unknown woman to fetch her. The woman was sparing of her words at first, and said little in answer to Kristin’s questions, but when they were come down to the town, she said of a sudden:
“I will not play you false, fair child that you are—I will tell you all this thing as it is, and you must do as you deem best. ’Twas not your uncle who sent me, but a man—maybe you can guess his name, and if you cannot, then you shall not come with me. I have no husband—I make a living for myself and mine by keeping a house of call and selling beer; for such a one it boots not to be too much afraid either of sin or of the watchmen—but I will not lend my house for you to be betrayed inside my doors.”
Kristin stood still, flushing red. She was strangely sore and ashamed for Erlend’s sake. The woman said:
“I will go back with you to the convent, Kristin—but you must give me somewhat for my trouble—the knight promised me a great reward; but I, too, was fair once, and I, too, was betrayed. And ’twould not be amiss if you should name me in your prayers tonight—they call me Brynhild Fluga.”
Kristin drew a ring off her finger and gave it to the woman:
“ ’Tis fairly done of you, Brynhild—but if the man be my kinsman Erlend Nikulaussön, then have I naught to fear; he would have me to make peace betwixt him and my uncle. You may set your mind at ease—but I thank you none the less that you would have warned me.”
Brynhild Fluga turned away to hide a smile.
She led Kristin by the alleys behind St. Clement’s Church northward towards the river. Here a few small dwelling-places stood by themselves along the riverbank. They went towards one of them, along a path between fences, and here Erlend came to meet them. He looked about him on all sides, then took off his cloak, wrapped it about Kristin, and pulled the hood over her face.
“What think you of this device,” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you ’tis a great wrong I do?—yet needs must I speak with you.”
“It boots but little now, I trow, to think what is right and what is wrong,” said Kristin.
“Speak not so,” begged Erlend. “I bear the blame—Kristin, every day and every night have I longed for you,” he whispered close to her.
A shudder passed through her as she met his eyes for a moment. She felt it as guilt in her, when he looked so at her, that she had thought of anything but her love for him.
Brynhild Fluga had gone on before. Erlend asked, when they were come into the courtyard:
“Would you that we should go into the living-room, or shall we talk up in the loft-room?”
“As you will,” answered Kristin; and they mounted to the loft-room.
The moment he had barred the door behind them she was in his arms—
She knew not how long she had lain folded thus in his arms, when Erlend said:
“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin—I scarce dare let you stay here longer.”
“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” she whispered.
Erlend pressed his cheek to hers.
“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall not lose your good name for my sake.”
Kristin did not answer—but a soreness stirred within her; how could he speak thus—he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house; she knew not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all should go as it had gone, of that she was sure.
“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other way, I must bear you off by force—into Sweden. Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer for my sins—I have fled the land before, as you know—and I would not they should name you as the like of that other.”
“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to be parted from
