Gunnulf asked fearfully whether something was wrong back at the manor. But Kristin shook her head. Erlend was away on a visit in Gelmin, she said in reply to her brother-in-law's queries, but she was so weary that she hadn't felt like going with him.

The priest thought about how she had come all the way into town. The horses that she and Orm had ridden were exhausted; during the last part of the journey they had barely been able to struggle their way through the snowdrifts. Gunnulf sent his two servant women off with Kristin to find dry clothing for her. They were his foster mother and her sister-there were no other women at the priest's house. He attended to his nephew himself. And all the while, Orm talked steadily.

"I think Kristin is ill. I told Father, but he got angry."

She had been so unlike herself lately, said the boy. He didn't know what was wrong. He couldn't remember whether it was her idea or his for them to come here-oh yes, she had mentioned first that she had a great longing to go to Christ Church, and he had said that he would accompany her. So this morning, just as soon as his father had ridden off, Kristin told him she wanted to go today. Orm had agreed, even though the weather was threatening-but he didn't like the look in her eyes.

Gunnulf thought to himself that he didn't like it either, when Kristin returned to the room. She looked terribly thin in Ingrid's black dress; her face was as pale as bast and her eyes were sunken, with dark blue circles underneath. Her gaze was strange and dark.

It had been three months since he had last seen her, when he attended the christening at Husaby. She had looked good then as she lay in bed in her finery, and she said she felt well-the birth had been an easy one. So he had protested when Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter and Erlend wanted to give the child to a foster mother; Kristin cried and begged to be allowed to nurse Bjrgulf herself. The second son had been named after Lavrans's father.

Now the priest asked first about Bjrgulf; he knew that Kristin was not pleased with the wet nurse to whom they had given the child. But she said he was doing well and that Frida was fond of him and took better care of him than anyone had expected. And what about Nikulaus? asked her brother-in-law. Was he still so handsome? A little smile flitted across the mother's face. Naakkve grew more and more handsome every day. No, he didn't talk much, but otherwise he was ahead of his years in every way, and so big. No one would believe he was only in his second winter; even Fru Gunna said as much.

Then Kristin fell silent again. Master Gunnulf glanced at the two of them-his brother's wife and his brother's son-who were sitting on either side of him. They looked weary and sorrowful, and his heart felt uneasy as he gazed at them.

Orm had always seemed melancholy. The boy was now fifteen years old, and he would have been the most handsome of fellows if he hadn't looked so delicate and weak. He was almost as tall as his father, but his body was much too slender and narrow-shouldered. His face resembled Erlend's too, but his eyes were much darker blue, and his mouth, beneath the first downy black mustache, was even smaller and weaker, and it was always pressed tight with a sad little furrow at each corner. Even the back of Orm's thin, tan neck under his curly black hair looked oddly unhappy as he sat there eating, slightly hunched forward.

Kristin had never sat at table with her brother-in-law in his own house. Last year she had come to town with Erlend for the springtime ting, ting, and they had stayed at this residence, which Gunnulf had inherited from his father; but at that time the priest was living on the estate of the Brothers of the Cross, subst.i.tuting for one of the canons. Master Gunnulf was now the parish priest for Steine, but he had a chaplain to a.s.sist him while he oversaw the work of copying ma.n.u.scripts for the churches of the archbishopric while the cantor, and they had stayed at this residence, which Gunnulf had inherited from his father; but at that time the priest was living on the estate of the Brothers of the Cross, subst.i.tuting for one of the canons. Master Gunnulf was now the parish priest for Steine, but he had a chaplain to a.s.sist him while he oversaw the work of copying ma.n.u.scripts for the churches of the archbishopric while the cantor,1 Herr Eirik Finssn, was ill. And during this time he lived in his own house. Herr Eirik Finssn, was ill. And during this time he lived in his own house.

The main hall was unlike any of the rooms Kristin was used to. It was a timbered building, but in the middle of the end wall, facing east, Gunnulf had had masons construct a large fireplace, like those he had seen in the countries of the south; a log fire burned between cast andirons. The table stood along one wall, and opposite were benches with writing desks. In front of a painting of the Virgin Mary burned a bra.s.s lamp, and nearby stood shelves of books.

This room seemed strange to her, and her brother-in-law seemed strange too, now that she saw him sitting at the table with members of his household-clerics and servant men who looked oddly priestlike. There were also several poor people: old men and a young boy with thin, reddish eyelids clinging like membranes to his empty eye sockets. On the women's bench next to the old housekeepers sat a young woman with a two-year-old child on her lap; she was hungrily gulping down the stew and stuffing her child's mouth so that his cheeks were about to burst.

It was the custom for all priests at Christ Church to give supper to the poor. But Kristin had heard that fewer beggars came to Gunnulf Nikulaussn than to any of the other priests, and yet-or perhaps this was the very reason-he seated them on the benches next to him in the main hall and received every wanderer like an honored guest. They were served food from his own platter and ale from the priest's own barrels. The poor would come whenever they felt in need of a supper of stew, but otherwise they preferred to go to the other priests, where they were given porridge and weak ale in the cookhouse.

As soon as the scribe had finished the prayers after the meal, the poor guests wanted to leave. Gunnulf spoke gently to each of them, asking whether they would like to spend the night or whether they needed anything else; but only the blind boy remained. The priest implored in particular the young woman with the child to stay and not take the little one out into the night, but she murmured an excuse and hurried off. Then Gunnulf asked a servant to make sure that Blind Arnstein was given ale and a good bed in the guest room. He put on a hooded cape.

"You must be tired, Orm and Kristin, and want to go to bed. Audhild will take care of you. You'll probably be asleep when I return from the church."

Then Kristin asked to go with him. "That's why I've come here," she said, fixing her despairing eyes on Gunnulf. Ingrid lent her a dry cloak, and she and Orm joined the small procession departing from the parsonage.

The bells were ringing as if they were right overhead in the black night sky-it wasn't far to the church. They trudged through deep, wet, new snow. The weather was calm now, with a few snowflakes still drifting down here and there, shimmering faintly in the dark.

Dead tired, Kristin tried to lean against the pillar she was standing next to, but the stone was icy cold. She stood in the dark church and stared up at the candles in the choir. She couldn't see Gunnulf up there, but he was sitting among the priests, with a candle beside his book. No, she would not be able to speak to him, after all.

Tonight it seemed to her that there was no help to be found anywhere. Back home Sira Eiliv admonished her because she brooded so much over her everyday sins-he said this was the temptation of pride. She should simply be diligent with her prayers and good deeds, and then she wouldn't have time to dwell on such matters. "The Devil is no fool; he'll realize that he will lose your soul in the end, and he won't feel like tempting you as much."

She listened to the antiphony and remembered the nuns' church in Oslo. There she had raised her poor little voice with others in the hymn of praise-and down in the nave stood Erlend, wrapped in a cape up to his chin, and the two of them thought only of finding a chance to speak to each other in secret.

And she had thought that this heathen and burning love was not so terrible a sin. They couldn't help themselves-and they were both unmarried. It was at most a transgression against the laws of men. Erlend wanted to escape from a terrible life of sin, and she imagined that he would have greater strength to free himself from the old burden if she put her life and her honor and her happiness into his hands.

The last time she knelt here in this church she had fully realized that when she said such things in her heart she had been trying to deceive G.o.d with tricks and lies. It was not because of their virtue but because of their good fortune that there were still commandments they had not broken, sins they had not committed. If she had been another man's wife when she met Erlend . . . she would not have been any more sparing of his salvation or his honor than she was of the man she had so mercilessly spurned. It seemed to her now that there was nothing that wouldn't have tempted her back then, in her ardor and despair. She had felt her pa.s.sion temper her will until it was sharp and hard like a knife, ready to cut through all bonds-those of kinship, Christianity, and honor. There was nothing inside her except the burning hunger to see him, to be near him, to open her lips to his hot mouth and her arms to the deadly sweet desire which he had taught her.

Oh, no. The Devil was probably not so convinced that he was going to lose her soul. But when she lay here before, crushed with sorrow over her sins, over the hardness of her heart, her impure life, and the blindness of her soul . . . then she had felt the saintly king take her in under his protective cloak. She had gripped his strong, warm hand; he had pointed out to her the light that is the source of all strength and holiness. Saint Olav turned her eyes toward Christ on the cross-see, Kristin: G.o.d's love. Yes, she had begun to understand G.o.d's love and patience. But she had turned away from the light again and closed her heart to it, and now there was nothing in her mind but impatience and anger and fear.

How wretched, wretched she was. Even she had realized that a woman like herself would need harsh trials before she could be cured of her lack of love. And yet she was so impatient that she felt her heart would break with the sorrows that had been imposed on her. They were small sorrows, but there were many of them, and she had so little patience. She glanced at her stepson's tall, slender figure over on the men's side of the church.

She couldn't help it. She loved Orm as if he were her own child; but it was impossible for her to be fond of Margret. She had tried and tried and even commanded herself to like the child, ever since that day last winter when Ulf Haldorssn brought her home to Husaby. She thought it was dreadful; how could she feel such ill will and anger toward a little maiden only nine years old? And she knew full well that part of it was because the child looked so fearfully like her mother Eline. She couldn't understand Erlend; he was simply proud that his little golden-haired daughter with the brown eyes was so pretty. The child never seemed to arouse any bad memories in the father. It was as if Erlend had completely forgotten the mother of these children. But it wasn't only only because Margret resembled the other woman that Kristin lacked affection for her stepdaughter. Margret would not tolerate anyone instructing her; she was arrogant and treated the servants badly. She was dishonest too, and she fawned over her father. She didn't love him the way Orm did; she would snuggle up to Erlend with affection and caresses only because she wanted something. And Erlend showered her with gifts and gave in to the maiden's every whim. Orm wasn't fond of his sister, either-that much Kristin had noticed. because Margret resembled the other woman that Kristin lacked affection for her stepdaughter. Margret would not tolerate anyone instructing her; she was arrogant and treated the servants badly. She was dishonest too, and she fawned over her father. She didn't love him the way Orm did; she would snuggle up to Erlend with affection and caresses only because she wanted something. And Erlend showered her with gifts and gave in to the maiden's every whim. Orm wasn't fond of his sister, either-that much Kristin had noticed.

Kristin suffered because she felt so harsh and mean since she couldn't watch Margret's behavior without feeling indignant and censorious. But she suffered even more from observing and listening to the constant discord between Erlend and his eldest son. She suffered most of all because she realized that Erlend, deep in his heart, felt a boundless love for the boy-and he treated Orm unjustly and with severity because he had no idea what to do with his son or how he might secure his future. He had given his b.a.s.t.a.r.d children property and livestock, but it seemed unthinkable that Orm would ever be fit to be a farmer. And Erlend grew desperate when he saw how frail and weak Orm was; then he would call his son rotten and rage at him to harden himself. He would spend hours with his son, training him in the use of heavy weapons that the boy couldn't possibly handle, urging him to drink himself sick in the evenings, and practically breaking the boy on dangerous and exhausting hunting expeditions. In spite of all this, Kristin saw the fear in Erlend's soul; she realized that he was often wild with sorrow because this fine and handsome son of his was suited for only one position in life-and there his birth stood in the way. And Kristin had come to understand how little patience Erlend possessed whenever he felt concern or compa.s.sion for someone he loved.

She saw that Orm realized this too. And she saw that the young boy's soul was split: Orm felt love and pride for his father, but also contempt for Erlend's unfairness when he allowed his child to suffer because he was faced with worries which he himself, and not the boy, had caused. But Orm had grown close to his young stepmother; with her he seemed to breathe easier and feel freer. When he was alone with her, he was able to banter and laugh, in his own quiet way. But Erlend was not pleased by this; he seemed to suspect that the two of them were sitting in judgment of his conduct.

Oh, no, it wasn't easy for Erlend; and it wasn't so strange that he was sensitive when it came to those two children. And yet . . .

She still trembled with pain whenever she thought about it.

The manor had been filled with guests the week before. When Margret came home, Erlend had furnished the loft which was at the far end of the hall, above the next room and the entry hall-it was to be her bower, he said. And there she slept with the servant girl whom Erlend had ordered to keep watch over and serve the maiden. Frida also slept there along with Bjrgulf. But since they had so many Christmas guests, Kristin had made up beds for the young men in this loft room; the two maids and the infant were to sleep in the servant women's house. But because she thought Erlend might not like it if she sent Margret off to sleep with the servants, she had made up a bed for her on one of the benches in the hall, where the women and maidens were sleeping. It was always difficult to get Margret up in the morning. On that morning Kristin had woken her many times, but she had lain back down, and she was still asleep after everyone else was up. Kristin wanted to clean the hall and put things in order; the guests must be given breakfast-and so she lost all patience. She yanked the pillows from under Margret's head and tore off the covers. But when she saw the child lying there naked on the sheet made of hides, she took her own cloak from her shoulders and placed it over Margret. It was a garment made from plain, undyed homespun; she only wore it when she went back and forth to the cookhouse and the storerooms, tending to the food preparation.

At that moment Erlend came into the room. He had been sleeping in a chamber above a storeroom with several other men, since Fru Gunna was sharing Kristin's bed. And he flew into a rage. He grabbed Kristin by the arm so hard that the marks from his fingers were still on her skin.

"Do you think my daughter should be lying on straw and homespun cloth? Margit is mine, even though she may not be yours. What's not good enough for your own children is good enough for her. But since you've mocked the innocent little maiden in the sight of these women, then you must rectify matters before their eyes. Put back the covers that you took from Margit."

It so happened that Erlend had been drunk the night before, and he was always bad-tempered the following day. And no doubt he thought the women must have been gossiping among themselves when they saw Eline's children. And he grew sensitive and testy about their reputation. And yet . . .

Kristin had tried to talk to Sira Eiliv about it. But he couldn't help her with this matter. Gunnulf had told her that she need not mention the sins to which she had confessed and repented before Eiliv Serkssn became her parish priest unless she thought that he should know about them in order to judge and advise her. So there were many things she had never told him, even though she felt that by not doing so she would seem, in Sira Eiliv's eyes, to be a better person than she was. But it was so good for her to have the friendship of this kind and pure-hearted man. Erlend made fun of her, but she gained such comfort from Sira Eiliv. With him she could talk as much as she liked about her children; the priest was willing to discuss with her all the small bits of news that bored Erlend and drove him from the room. The priest got on well with children, and he understood their small troubles and illnesses. Erlend laughed at Kristin when she went to the cookhouse herself to prepare special dishes, which she would send over to the parsonage. Sira Eiliv was fond of good food and drink, and it amused Kristin to spend time on such matters and to try out what she had learned from her mother or seen at the convent. Erlend didn't care what he ate as long as he was always served meat if it wasn't a time for fasting. But Sira Eiliv would come over to talk and thank her, praising her skill after she had sent him grouse on a spit, wrapped in the best bacon, or a platter of reindeer tongues in French wine and honey. And he gave her advice about her garden, obtaining cuttings for her from Tautra, where his brother was a monk, and from the Olav monastery, whose prior was a good friend of his. And he also read to her and could recount so many wonderful things about life out in the world.

But because he was such a good and pious man, it was often difficult to speak to him about the evil she saw in her own heart. When she confessed to him how embittered she felt at Erlend's behavior that day with Margret, he had impressed upon her that she must bear with her husband. But he seemed to think that Erlend alone had committed an offense when he spoke so unjustly to his wife-and in the presence of strangers. Kristin doubtless agreed with him. And yet deep in her heart she felt a complicity which she could not explain and which caused her great pain.

Kristin looked up at the holy shrine, which glittered a dull gold in the dim light behind the high altar. She had been so certain that if she stood here again, something would happen-a redemption of her soul. Once more a living fount would surge up into her heart and wash away all the anguish and fear and bitterness and confusion that filled her.

But no one had any patience for her tonight. Haven't you learned yet, Kristin-to lift your self-righteousness to the light of G.o.d's righteousness, your heathen and selfish pa.s.sion to the light of love? Perhaps you do not want want to learn it, Kristin. to learn it, Kristin.

But the last time she knelt here she had held Naakkve in her arms. His little mouth at her breast warmed her heart so well that it was like soft wax, easy for the heavenly love to shape. And she did did have Naakkve; he was playing back home in the hall, so lovely and sweet that her breast ached at the mere thought of him. His soft, curly hair was now turning dark-he was going to have black hair like his father. And he was so full of life and mischief. She made animals for him out of old furs, and he would throw them into the air and then chase after them, racing with the young dogs. And it usually ended with the fur bear falling into the hearth fire and burning up, with smoke and a foul smell. Naakkve would howl, hopping up and down and stomping, and then he would bury his head in his mother's lap-that's where all of his adventures still ended. The maids fought for his favor; the men would pick him up and toss him up to the ceiling whenever they came into the room. If the boy saw Ulf Haldorssn, he would run over and cling to the man's leg. Ulf sometimes took him along out to the farmyard. Erlend would snap his fingers at his son and set him on his shoulder for a moment, but he was the one person at Husaby who paid the least attention to the boy. And yet he have Naakkve; he was playing back home in the hall, so lovely and sweet that her breast ached at the mere thought of him. His soft, curly hair was now turning dark-he was going to have black hair like his father. And he was so full of life and mischief. She made animals for him out of old furs, and he would throw them into the air and then chase after them, racing with the young dogs. And it usually ended with the fur bear falling into the hearth fire and burning up, with smoke and a foul smell. Naakkve would howl, hopping up and down and stomping, and then he would bury his head in his mother's lap-that's where all of his adventures still ended. The maids fought for his favor; the men would pick him up and toss him up to the ceiling whenever they came into the room. If the boy saw Ulf Haldorssn, he would run over and cling to the man's leg. Ulf sometimes took him along out to the farmyard. Erlend would snap his fingers at his son and set him on his shoulder for a moment, but he was the one person at Husaby who paid the least attention to the boy. And yet he was was fond of Naakkve. Erlend fond of Naakkve. Erlend was was glad that he now had two lawfully born sons. glad that he now had two lawfully born sons.

Kristin's heart clenched tight.

They had taken Bjrgulf away from her. He whimpered whenever she tried to hold him, and Frida would put him to her own breast at once. His foster mother kept a jealous watch over the boy. But Kristin would refuse to let the new child go. Her mother and Erlend had said that she should be spared, and so they took her newborn son away and gave him to another woman. She felt an almost vengeful joy when she thought that their only accomplishment was that she would now be having a third child before Bjrgulf was even eleven months old.

She didn't dare speak of this to Sira Eiliv. He would merely think that she was resentful because now she would have to go through all of that again so soon. But that wasn't it.

She had come home from her pilgrimage with a deep dread in her soul-never would that wild desire have power over her again. Until the end of summer she lived alone with her child in the old house, weighing in her mind the words of the archbishop and Gunnulf's speech, vigilantly praying and repenting, diligently working to put the neglected farm in order, to win over her servants with kindness and concern for their welfare, eager to help and serve all those around her as far as her hands and her power might reach. A cool and wondrous peace descended upon her. She sustained herself with thoughts of her father, she sustained herself with prayers to the holy men and women Sira Eiliv read to her about, and she pondered their steadfastness and courage. And tender with joy and grat.i.tude, she remembered Brother Edvin, who had appeared before her in the moonlight on that night. She had understood his message when he smiled so gently and hung his glove on the moonbeam. If only she had enough faith, she would become a good woman.

When their first year of marriage came to an end, she had to move back in with her husband. Whenever she felt doubtful, she would console herself that the archbishop himself had impressed upon her that in her life with her husband she should show her new change of heart. And she strove zealously to tend to his welfare and his honor. Erlend himself had said: "And so it has happened after all, Kristin-you have brought honor back to Husaby." People showed her great kindness and respect; everyone seemed willing to forget that she had begun her marriage a little impetuously. Whenever the women gathered, they would seek out her advice; people praised her housekeeping at the manor, she was summoned to a.s.sist with weddings and with births on the great estates, and no one made her feel that she was too young or inexperienced or a newcomer to the region. The servants would remain sitting in the hall until late into the evening, just as they did back home at Jrundgaard-they all had something to ask their mistress about. She felt a rush of exhilaration that people were so kind to her and that Erlend was proud of her.

Then Erlend took charge of the men called up for duty on the ships south of the fjord. He dashed around, riding or sailing, and he was busy with people who came to see him and letters that had to be sent. He was so young and handsome, and so happy-the listless, dejected look that she had often seen come over him in the past seemed to have been swept away. He sparkled with alertness, like the morning. He had little time left over for her now; but she grew dizzy and wild whenever he came near her with his smiling face and those adventure-loving eyes.

She had laughed with him at the letter that had come from Munan Baardsn. The knight had not attended the gathering of the king's retainers himself, but he ridiculed the entire meeting and especially the fact that Erling Vidkunssn had been appointed leader of the realm. But first Erling had probably given himself new t.i.tles-no doubt he would want to be called regent now. Munan also wrote about her father: The mountain wolf from Sil crept under a rock and sat there mutely. I mean that your father-in-law took lodgings with the priests at Saint Laurentius Church and did not let his fair voice be heard at the discussions. He had in his possession letters bearing the seals of Sir Erngisle and Sir Karl Turesson; if they haven't yet been worn out it's because the parchment was tougher than the soles of Satan's shoes. You should also know that Lavrans gave eight marks of pure silver to Nonneseter. Apparently the man realized that Kristin was not as docile when she was there as she should have been.

Kristin felt a stab of pain and shame at this, but she had to laugh along with Erlend. For her the winter and spring had pa.s.sed in exhilarating merriment and happiness, with now and then a squall for Orm's sake-Erlend couldn't decide whether he should take the boy north with him. It ended with an outburst during Easter. One night Erlend wept in her arms: he didn't dare take his son on board for fear that Orm wouldn't be able to hold his own during a war. She had comforted him and herself-and the youth. Perhaps the boy would grow stronger over the years.

On the day she rode with Erlend to the anchorage at Birgsi, she couldn't feel either fearful or sad. She was almost intoxicated with him and with his joy and high spirits.

At that time she didn't know she was already carrying another child. When she felt unwell she had thought . . . Erlend was so exuberant, there had been so much commotion and drinking at home, and Naakkve was sucking the strength out of her. When she felt the new life stir inside her, she was . . . She had been looking forward to the winter, to traveling to town and around the valley with her bold and handsome husband; she was young and beautiful herself. She had planned to wean the boy by autumn; it was troublesome always having to take him and the nursemaid along wherever she went. She was certain that in this Russian campaign Erlend would prove fit for something other than ruining his name and his property. No, she had not been glad, and she told this to Sira Eiliv. Then the priest had reprimanded her quite sternly for her unloving and worldly disposition. And all summer long she had tried to be happy and to thank G.o.d for the new child she was to have, and for the good reports she heard about Erlend's courageous actions in the north.

Then he returned home just before Michaelmas. And she saw that he was not pleased when he realized what was to come. He said as much that evening.

"I thought that when I finally had you, it would be like celebrating Christmas every day. But now it seems that there will be mostly long periods of fasting."

Every time she thought about this, the blood would rush to her face, just as hot as on that evening when she turned away from him, flushing deep red and shedding no tears. Erlend had tried to make amends with love and kindness. But she couldn't forget it. The fire inside her, which all her tears of remorse had been unable to extinguish and all her fear of sin could not smother-it was as if Erlend had stomped it out with his foot when he said those words.

Late that night they sat in front of the fireplace in Gunnulf's house-the priest and Kristin and Orm. A jug of wine and a few small goblets stood at the edge of the hearth. Master Gunnulf had suggested several times that his guests ought to seek rest. But Kristin begged to stay sitting there a little longer.

"Do you remember, brother-in-law," she said, "that I once told you that the priest back home at Jrundgaard counseled me to enter a cloister if Father would not give his consent for Erlend to marry me?"

Gunnulf glanced involuntarily at Orm. But Kristin said with a wry little smile, "Do you think this grown-up boy doesn't know that I'm a weak and sinful woman?"

Master Gunnulf replied softly, "Did you feel a yearning for the life of a nun back then, Kristin?"

"No doubt G.o.d would have opened my eyes once I had decided to serve Him."

"Perhaps He thought that your eyes needed to be opened so you would learn that you ought to serve Him wherever you are. Your husband, children, and the servants at Husaby need to have a faithful and patient servant woman of G.o.d living among them and tending to their welfare.

"Of course the maiden who makes the best marriage is the one who chooses Christ as her bridegroom and refuses to give herself to a sinful man. But the child who has already done wrong . . ."

" 'I wish that you could have come to G.o.d with your wreath,' " whispered Kristin. "That's what he said to me, Brother Edvin Rikardssn, the monk I've often told you about. Do you feel the same way?"

Gunnulf Nikulaussn nodded. And yet many a woman has pulled herself up from a life of sin with such strength that we dare pray for her intercession. But this happened more often in the past, when she was threatened with torture and fire and glowing tongs if she called herself a Christian. I have often thought, Kristin, that back then it was easier to tear oneself away from the bonds of sin, when it could be done forcefully and all at once. And yet we humans are so corrupt-but courage is by nature present in the heart of many, and courage is what often drives a soul to seek G.o.d. The torments have incited just as many people to faithfulness as they have frightened others into apostasy. But a young, lost child who is torn from sinful desire even before she has learned to understand what it has brought upon her soul-a child placed in an order of nuns among pure maidens who have given themselves up to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world . . .

"I wish it would soon be summer," he said suddenly and stood up.

The other two looked at him in amazement.

"Oh, I happened to think about when the cuckoo was singing on the slopes in the morning back home at Husaby. First we would hear the one on the ridge to the east, behind the buildings, and then the other would reply from far off, in the woods close to By. It sounded so lovely out across the lake in the stillness of the morning. Don't you think it's beautiful at Husaby, Kristin?"

"The cuckoo in the east is the cuckoo of sorrow," said Orm Er lendssn quietly. "Husaby seems to me the fairest manor in the world."

The priest placed his hands on his nephew's narrow shoulders for a moment.

"I thought so too, kinsman. It was my father's estate for me too. The youngest son stands no closer to inheriting the ancestral farm than you do, dear Orm!"

"When Father was living with my mother, you were the closest heir," said the young boy in the same quiet voice.

"We're not to blame, Orm-my children and I," said Kristin sorrowfully.

"You must have noticed that I bear you no rancor," he replied softly.

"It's such an open, wide landscape," said Kristin after a moment. "You can see so far from Husaby, and the sky is so . . . so vast. Where I come from, the sky is like a roof above the mountain slopes. The valley lies sheltered, round and green and fresh. The world seems just the right size-neither too big nor too small." She sighed and her hands began fidgeting in her lap.

"Was his home there-the man your father wanted you to marry?" asked the priest, and Kristin nodded.

"Do you ever regret that you refused to have him?" he then asked, and she shook her head.

Gunnulf went over and pulled a book from the shelf. He sat down near the fire again, opened the clasps, and began turning the pages. But he didn't read; he sat with the open book on his lap.

"When Adam and his wife had defied G.o.d's will, then they felt in their own flesh a power that defied their their will. G.o.d had created them, man and woman, young and beautiful, so that they would live together in marriage and give birth to other heirs who would receive the gifts of His goodness: the beauty of the Garden of Eden, the fruit of the tree of life, and eternal happiness. They didn't need to be ashamed of their bodies because as long as they were obedient to G.o.d, their whole body and all of their limbs were under the command of their will, just as a hand or a foot is." will. G.o.d had created them, man and woman, young and beautiful, so that they would live together in marriage and give birth to other heirs who would receive the gifts of His goodness: the beauty of the Garden of Eden, the fruit of the tree of life, and eternal happiness. They didn't need to be ashamed of their bodies because as long as they were obedient to G.o.d, their whole body and all of their limbs were under the command of their will, just as a hand or a foot is."

Blushing blood-red, Kristin folded her hands under her breast. The priest bent toward her slightly; she felt his strong amber eyes on her lowered face.

"Eve stole what belonged to G.o.d, and her husband accepted it when she gave him what rightfully was the property of their Father and Creator. They wanted to be His equal-and they noticed that the first way in which they became His equal was this: Just as they had betrayed His dominion over the great world, so too was their dominion betrayed over the small world, the soul's house of flesh. Just as they had forsaken their Lord G.o.d, the body would now forsake its master, the soul.

"Then these bodies seemed to them so hideous and hateful that they made clothes to cover them. First a short ap.r.o.n of fig leaves. But as they became more and more familiar with their own carnal nature, they drew the clothes up over their heart and their back, which is unwilling to bend. Until today, when men dress themselves in steel all the way to their fingertips and toes and hide their faces behind the grids of their helmets. In this way unrest and deceit have grown in the world."

"Help me, Gunnulf," begged Kristin. She was white to the very edge of her lips. "I don't know my own will."

"Then say: Thy will be done," replied the priest softly. "You know you must open your heart to His love. Then you must love Him once more with all the power of your soul."

Kristin abruptly turned to face her brother-in-law.

"You can't know how much I loved Erlend. And my children!"

"Dear sister-all other love is merely a reflection of the heavens in the puddles of a muddy road. You will become sullied too if you allow yourself to sink into it. But if you always remember that it's a reflection of the light from that other home, then you will rejoice at its beauty and take good care that you do not destroy it by churning up the mire at the bottom."

"Yes, but as a priest, Gunnulf, you have promised G.o.d that you would shun these . . . difficulties."

"As you have too, Kristin-when you promised to forsake the Devil and his work. The Devil's work is what begins in sweet desire and ends with two people becoming like the snake and the toad, snapping at each other. That's what Eve learned, when she tried to give her husband and her descendants what belonged to G.o.d. She brought them nothing but banishment and the shame of blood and death, which entered the world when brother killed brother in that first small field, where thorns and thistles grew among the heaps of stones around the patches of land."

"Yes, but you're a priest," she said in the same tone of voice. "You're not subjected to the daily trial of trying to agree patiently with the will of another." And she broke into tears.

The priest said with a little smile, "About that matter there is disagreement between body and soul in every mother's child. That's why marriage and the wedding ma.s.s were created-so that man and woman would be given help in their lives: married folk and parents and children and house servants as loyal and helpful companions on the journey toward the house of peace."

Kristin said quietly, "It seems to me that it would be easier to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world than to struggle with one's own sins."

"That may be," said the priest sharply. "But you mustn't believe, Kristin, that there has ever been a priest who has not had to guard himself against the Fiend at the same time as he tried to protect the lambs from the wolf."

Kristin said in a quiet and timid voice, "I thought that those who live among the holy shrines and possess all the prayers and powerful words . . ."

Gunnulf leaned forward, tended to the fire, and then sat with his elbows on his knees.

"It was almost exactly six years ago that we arrived in Rome, Eiliv and I, along with two Scottish priests whom we had met in Avignon. We journeyed the whole way on foot.

We arrived in the city just before Lent. That's when people in the southern countries hold great celebrations and feasts-they call it carnevale carnevale. The wine, both red and white, flows in rivers from the taverns, and people dance late into the night, and there are torches and bonfires in the open marketplaces. It is springtime in Italy then, and the flowers are blooming in the meadows and gardens. The women adorn themselves with blossoms and toss roses and violets down to the people strolling along the streets. They sit up in the windows, with silk and satin tapestries hanging from the ledge over the stone walls. All buildings are made from stone down there, and the knights have their castles and strongholds in the middle of town. There are apparently no town statutes or laws about keeping the peace in the city-the knights and their men fight in the streets, making the blood run.

"There was such a castle on the street where we were staying, and the knight who ruled it was named Ermes Malavolti. Its shadow stretched over the entire narrow lane where our hostel stood, and our room was as dark and cold as the dungeon in a stone fortress. When we went out we often had to press ourselves up against the wall as he rode past with silver bells on his clothing and a whole troop of armed men. Muck and filth would splash up from the horses' hooves, because in that country people simply throw all their slops and offal outdoors. The streets are cold and dark and narrow like clefts in a mountain-quite unlike the green lanes of our towns. In the streets during carnevale carnevale they hold races-they let the wild Arabian horses race against each other." they hold races-they let the wild Arabian horses race against each other."

The priest sat in silence for a moment, then he continued.

"This Sir Ermes had a kinswoman living at his house. Isota was her name, and she might have been Isolde the Fair One herself. Her complexion and hair were as light as honey, but her eyes were no doubt black. I saw her several times at a window. . . .

"But outside the city the land is more desolate than the most desolate heaths in this country, and nothing lives there but deer and wolves; and the eagles scream. And yet there are towns and castles in the mountains all around, and out on the green plains you can see traces everywhere that people once lived in this world. Great flocks of sheep graze there now, along with herds of white oxen. Herdsmen with long spears follow them on horseback; they are dangerous folk for wayfarers to meet, for they will kill and rob them and throw their bodies into pits in the ground.