Part III
Lavrans Björgulfsön
I
Kristin came home when the spring was at fairest. The Laagen rushed headlong round its bend, past the farmstead and the fields; through the tender leaves of the alder thickets its current glittered and sparkled with flashes of silver. ’Twas as though the gleams of light had a voice of their own and joined in the river’s song, for when the evening twilight fell, the waters seemed to go by with a duller roar. But day and night the air above Jörundgaard was filled with the rushing sound, till Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the houses quivering like the sound box of a cithern.
Small threads of water shone high up on the fell-sides, that stood wrapped in blue haze day after day. The heat brooded and quivered over the fields; the brown earth of the plough-lands was nigh hidden by the spears of corn; the meadows grew deep with grass, and shimmered like silk where the breaths of wind passed over. Groves and hill sward smelt sweet; and as soon as the sun was down there streamed out all around the strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things—it was as though the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh. Kristin thought, trembling, of the moment when Erlend’s arms released her. Each evening she lay down, sick with longing, and in the mornings she awoke, damp with sweat and tired out with her dreams.
’Twas more than she could understand how the folks at home could forbear to speak ever a word of the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week went by after week, and naught was said of Simon and her broken faith, and none asked what was in her heart. Her father lay much out in the woods, now he had the spring ploughing and sowing off his hands—he went to see his tar burners’ work, and he took hawks and hounds with him and was away many days together. When he was at home, he spoke to his daughter kindly as ever—but it was as though he had little to say to her, and never did he ask her to go with him when he rode out.
Kristin had dreaded to go home to her mother’s chidings; but Ragnfrid said never a word—and this seemed even worse.
Every year when he feasted his friends at St. John’s Mass, it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to give out among the poor folks of the parish the meat and all sorts of food that had been saved in his household in the last week of the Fast. Those who lived nighest to Jörundgaard would come themselves to fetch away the alms; these poor folks were ever welcomed and feasted, and Lavrans and his guests and all the house servants would gather round them: for some of them were old men who had by heart many sagas and lays. They sat in the hearth-room and whiled the time away with the ale-cup and friendly talk; and in the evening they danced in the courtyard.
This year the Eve of St. John was cloudy and cold; but none was sorry that it was so, for by now the farmers of the Dale had begun to fear a drought. No rain had fallen since St. Halvard’s Wake, and there had been little snow in the mountains; not for thirteen years could folk remember to have seen the river so low at midsummer.
So Lavrans and his guests were of good cheer when they went down to greet the almsmen in the hearth-room. The poor folks sat round the board eating milk porridge and washing it down with strong ale; and Kristin stood by the table, and waited on the old folk and the sick.
Lavrans greeted his poor guests, and asked if they were content with their fare. Then he went about the board to bid welcome to an old bedesman, who had been brought thither that day for his term at Jörundgaard. The man’s name was Haakon; he had fought under King Haakon the Old, and had been with the King when he took the field for the last time in Scotland. He was the poorest of the poor now, and was all but blind; the farmers of the Dale had offered to set him up in a cottage of his own, but he chose rather to be handed on as bedesman from farm to farm, for everywhere folk welcomed him more like an honoured guest, since he had seen much of the world, and had laid up great store of knowledge.
Lavrans stood by with a hand on his brother’s shoulder; for Aasmund Björgulfsön had come to Jörundgaard on a visit. He asked Haakon, too, how the food liked him.
“The ale is good, Lavrans Björgulfsön,” said Haakon, “but methinks a jade has cooked our porridge for us today. While the cook cuddles, the porridge burns, says the byword; and this porridge is singed.”
“An ill thing indeed,” said Lavrans, “that I should give you singed porridge. But I wot well the old byword doth not always say true, for ’tis my daughter, herself, who cooked the porridge for you.” He laughed, and bade Kristin and Tordis make haste to bring in the trenchers of meat.
Kristin slipped quickly out and made across to the kitchen. Her heart was beating hard—she had caught a glimpse of Aasmund’s face when Haakon was speaking.
That evening she saw her father and his brother walking and talking together in the courtyard long and late. She was dizzy with fear; and it was no better with her the next day when she marked that her father was silent and joyless. But he said no word.
Nor did he say aught after his brother was gone. But Kristin marked well that he spoke less with Haakon than was his wont, and, when their turn for harbouring the old warrior was over, Lavrans made
