"How big of a farm is is Haugen?" asked Simon. Haugen?" asked Simon.

"I don't remember exactly; it says in the deed. But the people who work the land harvest only a small amount of hay. No one wants to live there; I've heard that the buildings are in great disrepair. You know what people say: that the dead spirits of my aunt and Herr Bjrn haunt the place.

"But I know that I will win thanks from my wife for what I did today. Kristin is fond of you, Simon-as if you were her own brother."

Simon's smile was almost imperceptible as he sat there in the shadows. He had pushed the log chair back a bit and had put his hand up to shield his eyes from the heat of the flames. But Erlend was as happy as a cat in the heat. He sat close to the hearth, leaning against a corner of the bench, with one arm resting along its back and his wounded leg propped up on the opposite side.

"Yes, she had such charming words to say about it one day this past fall," said Simon after a moment. There was an almost mocking ring to his voice.

"When our son was ill, she showed that she was a loyal sister," he said somberly, but then that slightly jesting tone was back. "Well, Erlend, we have kept faith with each other the way we swore to do when we gave our hands to Lavrans and vowed to stand by each other as brothers."

Yes," said Erlend, unsuspecting. "I'm glad for what I did to day too, Simon, my brother-in-law." They both fell silent for a while. Then Erlend hesitantly stretched out his hand to the other man. Simon took it. They clasped each other's fingers tightly, then let go and huddled back in their seats, a little embarra.s.sed.

Finally Erlend broke the silence. For a long time he had been sitting with his chin in his hand, staring into the hearth, where only a tiny flame now flickered, flaring up, dancing a bit, and playing over the charred pieces of wood, which broke apart and collapsed with brittle little sighs. Soon there would be only black coals and glowing embers left of the fire.

Erlend said quite softly, "You have treated me so magnanimously, Simon Darre, that I think few men are your equal. I . . . I haven't forgotten . . ."

"Silence! You don't know, Erlend . . . Only G.o.d in Heaven knows everything that resides in a man's mind," whispered Simon, frightened and distraught.

"That's true," said Erlend in the same quiet and somber tone of voice. "We all need Him to judge us . . . with mercy. But a man must judge a man by what he does does. And I . . . I . . . May G.o.d reward you, brother-in-law!"

Then they sat in dead silence, not daring to move for fear of being shamed.

Suddenly Erlend let his hand fall to his knee. A fiery blue ray of light flashed from the stone on the ring he wore on his right index finger. Simon knew that Kristin had given it to Erlend when he was released from the prison tower.

"But you must remember, Simon," he said in a low voice, "the old saying: Many a man is given what was intended for another, but no one is given another man's fate."

Simon raised his head sharply. Slowly his face flushed blood red; the veins at his temples stood out like dark, twisted cords.

Erlend glanced at him for a moment but quickly withdrew his eyes. Then he too turned crimson. A strangely delicate and girlish blush spread over his tan skin. He sat motionless, embarra.s.sed and confused, with his little, childish mouth open.

Simon stood up abruptly and went over to the bed.

"You'll want to take the outside edge, I presume." He tried to speak calmly and with nonchalance, but his voice quavered.

"No, I'll let you decide," said Erlend numbly. He got to his feet. "The fire?" he asked, fl.u.s.tered. "Should I cover the ashes?" He began raking the hearth.

"Finish that and then come to bed," said Simon in the same tone. His heart was pounding so hard that he could barely talk.

In the dark Erlend, soundless as a shadow, slipped under the covers on the outer edge of the bed and lay down, as quiet as a forest creature. Simon thought he would suffocate from having the other man in his bed.

CHAPTER 6.

EVERY YEAR DURING Easter week Simon Andressn held an ale feast for the people of the village. They came to Formo on the third day after ma.s.s and stayed until Thursday.

Kristin had never particularly enjoyed these banquets with their bantering and pleasantry. Both Simon and Ramborg seemed to think that the more commotion and noise there was, the better. Simon always invited his guests to bring along their children, their servants, and the children of their servants-as many as could be spared from home. On the first day everything proceeded in a quiet and orderly manner; only the gentry and the elders would converse, while the youth listened and ate and drank, and the little children kept mostly to a different building. But on the second day, from early in the morning on, the host would urge the lively young people and the children to drink and make merry, and before long the teasing would grow so wild and unrestrained that the women and maidens would slip away to the corners and stand there in cl.u.s.ters, giggling and ready to flee. But many of the more high-standing wives would seek out Ramborg's women's house, which was already occupied by the mothers who had rescued the youngest children from the tumult of the main building.

One game that was a favorite among the men was pretending to hold a ting ting. They would read summons doc.u.ments, present grievances, proclaim new laws and modify old ones, but they always twisted the words around and said them backward. Audun Tor bergssn could recite King Haakon's letter to the merchants of Bjrgvin:1 what they could charge for men's hose and for leather soles on a woman's shoes, about the men who made swords and big and small shields. But he would mix up the words until they were all jumbled and sheer babble. This game always ended with the men not having any idea what they were saying. Kristin remembered from her childhood that her father would never allow the jesting to turn to ridicule of anything related to the Church or divine services. But otherwise Lavrans thought it great fun when he and his guests would compete by jumping up on the tables and benches while they merrily shouted all manner of coa.r.s.e and unseemly nonsense. what they could charge for men's hose and for leather soles on a woman's shoes, about the men who made swords and big and small shields. But he would mix up the words until they were all jumbled and sheer babble. This game always ended with the men not having any idea what they were saying. Kristin remembered from her childhood that her father would never allow the jesting to turn to ridicule of anything related to the Church or divine services. But otherwise Lavrans thought it great fun when he and his guests would compete by jumping up on the tables and benches while they merrily shouted all manner of coa.r.s.e and unseemly nonsense.

Simon was usually most fond of games in which a man was blindfolded and had to search through the ashes for a knife, or two people had to bob for pieces of gingerbread in a big bowl of ale. The other guests would try to make them laugh, and the ale would spray all around. Or they were supposed to use their teeth to dig a ring out of a flour bin. The hall would soon take on the look of a pigsty.

But this year they had such surprisingly glorious spring weather for Easter. On Wednesday by early morning it was already sunny and warm, and right after breakfast everyone went out to the courtyard. Instead of making a noisy ruckus, the young people played with b.a.l.l.s, or shot at targets or had tugs-of-war with a rope. Later they played the stag game or the woodpile dance,2 and afterward they persuaded Geirmund of Kruke to sing and play his harp. Soon everyone, both young and old, had joined the dance. Snow still covered the fields, but the alder trees were brown with buds, and the sun shone warm and lovely on all the bare slopes. When the guests came outside after supper, there were birds singing everywhere. Then they made a bonfire in the field beyond the smithy, and they sang and danced until late into the night. The next morning everyone stayed in bed a long time and left the banquet manor much later than usual. The guests from Jrundgaard were normally the last to depart, but this time Simon persuaded Erlend and Kristin to stay until the following day. Those from Kruke were to stay at Formo until the end of the week. and afterward they persuaded Geirmund of Kruke to sing and play his harp. Soon everyone, both young and old, had joined the dance. Snow still covered the fields, but the alder trees were brown with buds, and the sun shone warm and lovely on all the bare slopes. When the guests came outside after supper, there were birds singing everywhere. Then they made a bonfire in the field beyond the smithy, and they sang and danced until late into the night. The next morning everyone stayed in bed a long time and left the banquet manor much later than usual. The guests from Jrundgaard were normally the last to depart, but this time Simon persuaded Erlend and Kristin to stay until the following day. Those from Kruke were to stay at Formo until the end of the week.

Simon had accompanied the last of his guests up to the main road. The evening sun was shining so beautifully on his estate, spread out over the hillside. He was warm and in high spirits from the drinking and noise of the feast. He walked back between the fences, homeward to the calm and pleasant goodwill that prevails when a small circle of close kin remains after a great banquet. He felt so light of heart and happier than he had been for a long time.

Down in the field near the smithy they had lit another bonfire: Erlend's sons, Sigrid's older children, Jon Daalk's sons, and his own daughters. Simon leaned over the fence for a moment to watch. Ulvhild's scarlet feast day gown gleamed and rippled in the sun. She ran back and forth, dragging branches over to the fire, and suddenly she was stretched out full length on the ground! Her father shouted merrily, but the children didn't hear him.

In the courtyard two serving maids were tending to the smallest of the children. They were sitting against the wall of the women's house, basking in the sun. Above their heads the evening light gleamed like molten gold on the small gla.s.s windowpane. Simon picked up little Inga Geirmundsdatter, tossed her high in the air, and then held her in his arms. "Can you sing for your uncle today, pretty Inga?" Then her brother and Andres both fell upon Simon, wanting to be tossed up in the air too.

Whistling, he climbed the stairs to the great hall in the loft. The sun was shining into the room so splendidly; they had let the door stand open. A wondrous calm reigned over everyone. At the end of the table Erlend and Geirmund were bent over the harp, on which they were putting new strings. They had the mead horn standing near them on the table. Sigrid was in bed, nursing her youngest son. Kristin and Ramborg were sitting with her, and a silver mug stood on a footstool between the sisters.

Simon filled his own gilded goblet to the brim with wine, went over to the bed, and drank a toast to Sigrid. "I see that all have quenched their thirst, except you, my sister!"

Laughing, she propped herself up on her elbow and accepted the goblet. The infant began howling crossly at being disturbed.

Simon sat down on the bench, still whistling softly, and listened with half an ear to what the others were saying. Sigrid and Kristin were talking about their children; Ramborg was silent, fiddling with a windmill that belonged to Andres. The men at the table were strumming the harp, trying it out; Geirmund picked out a melody on the harp and sang along. They both had such charming voices.

After a while Simon went out to the gallery, leaned against the carved post, and gazed out. From the cowshed came the eternally hungry lowing. If this weather held on for a time, perhaps the spring shortages wouldn't last as long this year.

Kristin was approaching. He didn't have to turn around; he recognized her light step. She stepped forward and stood at his side in the evening sun.

So fair and graceful, she had never seemed to him more beautiful. And all of a sudden he felt as if he had somehow been lifted up and were swimming in the light. He let out a long breath. Suddenly he thought: It was simply good to be alive. A rich and golden bliss washed over him.

She was his own sweet love. All the troubled and bitter thoughts he had had seemed nothing more than half-forgotten foolishness. My poor love. If only I could comfort you. If only you could be happy again. I would gladly give up my life if it would help you.

Oh yes, he could see that her lovely face looked older and more careworn. She had an abundance of fine, little wrinkles under her eyes, and her skin had lost its delicate hue. It had become coa.r.s.er and tan from the sun, but she was pale under the tan. And yet to him she would surely always be just as beautiful. Her big gray eyes, her fine, calm mouth, her round little chin, and her steady, subdued demeanor were the fairest he knew on earth.

It was a pleasure to see her once again dressed in a manner befitting a highborn woman. The thin little silk wimple covered only half of her golden brown tresses; her braids had been pinned up so they peeked out in front of her ears. There were streaks of gray in her hair now, but that didn't matter. And she was wearing a magnificent blue surcoat made of velvet and trimmed with marten fur. The bodice was cut so low and the sleeve holes so deep that the garment clung to her breast and shoulders like the narrow straps of a bridle. It looked so lovely. Underneath there was a glimpse of something sand yellow, a gown that fit snugly to her body, all the way up to her throat and down to her wrists. It was held closed with dozens of tiny gilded b.u.t.tons, which touched him so deeply. G.o.d forgive him-all those little golden b.u.t.tons gave him as much joy as the sight of a flock of angels.

He stood there and felt the strong, steady beat of his own heart. Something had fallen away from him-yes, like chains. Vile, hateful dreams-they were just phantoms of the night. Now he could see the love he felt for her in the light of day, in full sunlight.

"You're looking at me so strangely, Simon. Why are you smiling like that?"

The man gave a quiet, merry laugh but did not reply. Before them stretched the valley, filled with the golden warmth of the evening sun. Flocks of birds warbled and chirped metallically from the edge of the woods. Then the full, clear voice of the song thrush rang out from somewhere inside the forest. And here she stood, warmed by the sun, radiant in her brilliant finery, having emerged from the dark, cold house and the rough, heavy clothing that smelled of sweat and toil. My Kristin, it's good to see you this way again.

He took her hand, which lay before him on the railing of the gallery, and lifted it to his face. "The ring you're wearing is so lovely." He turned the gold ring on her finger and then put her hand back down. It was reddish and rough now, and he didn't know how he could ever make amends to it-so fair it had once been, her big, slender hand.

"There's Arngjerd and Gaute," said Kristin. "The two of them are quarreling again."

Their voices could be heard from underneath the loft gallery, shrill and angry. Now the maiden began shouting furiously, "Go ahead and remind me of that. It seems to me a greater honor to be called my father's b.a.s.t.a.r.d daughter than to be the lawful son of yours!"

Kristin spun on her heel and ran down the stairs. Simon followed and heard the sound of two or three slaps. She was standing under the gallery, clutching her son by the shoulder.

The two children had their eyes downcast; they were red-faced, silent, and defiant.

"I see you know how to behave as a guest. You do us such honor, your father and me."

Gaute stared at the ground. In a low, angry voice he said to his mother, "She said something . . . I don't want to repeat it."

Simon put his hand under his daughter's chin and tilted her face up. Arngjerd turned even brighter red, and her eyes blinked under her father's gaze.

"Yes," she said, pulling away from him. "I reminded Gaute that his father was a condemned villain and traitor. But before that he called you . . . He said that you, Father, were the traitor, and that it was thanks to Erlend that you were now sitting here, safe and rich, on your own manor."

"I thought you were a grown-up maiden by now. Are you going to let childish chatter provoke you so that you forget both your manners and honor among kin?" Angrily he pushed the girl away, turned toward Gaute, and asked calmly, "What do you mean, Gaute, my friend, that I betrayed your father? I've noticed before that you're cross with me. Now tell me: What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean!"

Simon shook his head.

Then the boy shouted, his eyes flashing with bitterness, "The letter they tortured my father on the rack for, trying to make him say who had put their seal on it-I saw that letter myself! I was the one who took it and burned it."

"Keep silent!" Erlend broke in among them. His face was deathly white, all the way to his lips; his eyes blazed.

"No, Erlend. It's better that we clear up this matter now. Was my name mentioned in that letter?"

"Keep silent!" Furiously Erlend seized Gaute by the shoulder and chest. "I trusted you. You, my son! It would serve you right if I killed you now."

Kristin sprang forward, as did Simon. The boy tore himself loose and took refuge with his mother. Beside himself with rage, he screamed furiously as he hid behind Kristin's arm, "I picked it up and looked at the seals before I burned it, Father! I thought the day might come when I could serve you by doing so. . . ."

"May G.o.d curse you!" A brief dry sob racked Erlend's body.

Simon too had turned pale and then dark red in the face, out of shame for his brother-in-law. He didn't dare look in Erlend's direction; he thought he would suffocate from the other's humiliation.

Kristin stood as if bewitched, still holding her arms protectively around her son. But one thought followed another, in rapid succession.

Erlend had had Simon's private seal in his possession for a short time during that spring. The brothers-in-law had jointly sold Lavrans's dock warehouse at Vey to the cloister on Holm. Erlend had mentioned that this was probably unlawful, but surely no one would question it. He had shown her the seal and said that Simon should have had a finer one carved. All three brothers had acquired a copy of their father's seal; only the inscriptions were different. But Gyrd's was much more finely etched, said Erlend.

Gyrd Darre . . . Erlend had brought her greetings from him after both of his last journeys to the south. She remembered being surprised that Erlend had visited Gyrd at Dyfrin. They had met only once, at Ramborg's wedding. Ulf Saksesn was Gyrd Darre's brother-in-law; Ulf had been part of the plot. . . .

"You were mistaken, Gaute," said Simon in a low, firm voice.

"Simon!" Unawares, Kristin gripped her husband's hand. "Keep in mind . . . there are other men than yourself who bear that emblem on their seal."

"Silence! Will you too-" Erlend tore himself away from his wife with a tormented wail and raced across the courtyard toward the stable. Simon set off after him.

"Erlend . . . Was it my brother?"

"Send for the boys. Follow me home," Erlend shouted back to his wife.

Simon caught up with him in the stable doorway and grabbed him by the arm. "Erlend, was it Gyrd?"

Erlend didn't reply; he tried to wrench his arm away. His face looked oddly stubborn and deathly pale.

"Erlend, answer me. Did my brother join you in that plan?"

"Perhaps you too would like to test your sword against mine?" Erlend snarled, and Simon could feel the other man's body trembling as they struggled.

"You know I wouldn't." Simon let go and sank back against the doorframe. "Erlend, in the name of Christ, who suffered death for our sakes: Tell me if it's true!"

Erlend led Soten out, and Simon had to step aside from the doorway. An attentive servant brought his saddle and bridle. Simon took them and sent the man away. Then Erlend took them from Simon.

"Erlend, surely you can tell me now now! You can tell me me!" He didn't know why he was begging as if for his very life. "Erlend, answer me. On the wounds of Christ, I beseech you. Tell me, man!"

"You can keep on thinking what you thought before," said Erlend in a low and cutting voice.

"Erlend, I didn't think . . . anything."

"I know know what you thought." Erlend swung himself into the saddle. Simon grabbed the harness; the horse shifted and pranced uneasily. what you thought." Erlend swung himself into the saddle. Simon grabbed the harness; the horse shifted and pranced uneasily.

"Let go, or I'll run you down," said Erlend.

"Then I'll ask Gyrd. I'll ride south tomorrow. By G.o.d, Erlend, you have to tell me. . . ."

"Yes, I'm sure he he will give you an answer," said Erlend scornfully, spurring the stallion so that Simon had to leap aside. Then Erlend galloped off from the estate. will give you an answer," said Erlend scornfully, spurring the stallion so that Simon had to leap aside. Then Erlend galloped off from the estate.

Halfway up the courtyard Simon met Kristin. She was wearing her cloak. Gaute walked at her side, carrying their clothing sack. Ramborg followed her sister.

The boy glanced up for a moment, frightened and confused. Then he withdrew his gaze. But Kristin fixed her big eyes directly on Simon's face. They were dark with sorrow and anger.

"Could you truly believe that of Erlend? That he would betray you in such a manner?"

"I didn't believe anything," said Simon vehemently. "I thought the boy was just babbling nonsense and foolishness."

"No, Simon, I don't want you to come with me," said Kristin quietly.

He saw that she was unspeakably offended and grieved.

That evening, when Simon was alone with his wife in the main house, as they undressed and their daughters were already asleep in the other bed, Ramborg suddenly asked, "Didn't you know anything about this, Simon?"

"No. Did you?" he asked tensely.

Ramborg came over and stood in the glow of the candle standing on the table. She was half undressed, in her shift and laced bodice; her hair fell in loose curls around her face.

"I didn't know, but I had a feeling. . . . Helga was so strange . . ." Her features twisted into an odd sort of smile, and she looked as if she were freezing. "She talked about how new times would be coming to Norway. The great chieftains would acquire the same rights here as in other lands." Ramborg gave a crooked, almost contorted smile. "They would be called knights and barons again.