Not until then did Kristin realize that in all the time she had been at Husaby, she hadn’t seen a single amusement of this type that people might use to pass the time.
Kristin now had to admit to her brother-in-law that she wasn’t very clever at board games, nor was she much good at playing the zither. But she was eager to take a look at the books.
“Ah, have you learned to read books, Kristin?” asked the priest, and she could tell him rather proudly that she had already learned to do so as a child. And at the convent she had won praise for her skill in reading and writing.
The priest stood over her, smiling, as she paged through the books. One of them was a courtly tale about Tristan and Isolde,1 and the other was about holy men—she looked up Saint Martin’s story.2 The third book was in Latin and was particularly beautiful, printed with great, colorful initial letters.
“Our ancestor, Bishop Nikulaus, owned this book,” said Gunnulf.
Kristin read half-aloud: Averte faciem tuam a peccatis meis
et omnes iniquitates meas dele.
Cor mundum crea in me, Deus
et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus meis.
Ne projicias me a facie tua
et Spiritum Sanctum tuum ne auferas a me.3
“Can you understand it?” asked Gunnulf, and Kristin nodded and said that she understood a little. The words were familiar enough that it seemed strange to her that they should appear before her right now. Her face contorted and tears rose up. Then Gunnulf set the stringed instrument on his lap and said he was tempted to try to tune it.
As they sat there they heard horses out in the courtyard, and a moment later Erlend rushed into the hall, beaming with joy. He had heard who had arrived. The brothers stood with their hands on each other’s shoulders; Erlend asking questions and not waiting for the replies. Gunnulf had been in Nidaros for two days, so it was a wonder they hadn’t met there.
“It’s odd,” said Erlend. “I thought the whole clergy of Christ Church would have turned out in procession to meet you when you returned home—so wise and exceedingly learned as you now must be.”
“How do you know they didn’t do just that?” said his brother with a laugh. “I’ve heard that you never venture too close to Christ Church when you’re in town.”
“No, my boy—I don’t get too close to my Lord the Archbishop if I can avoid it. He once singed my hide,” laughed Erlend insolently. “How do you like your brother-in-law, my sweet? I see you’ve already made friends with Kristin, brother. She thinks very little of our other kinsmen. . . .”
Not until they were about to sit down to eat that evening did Erlend realize he was still wearing his cape and fur cap and his sword at his belt.
That was the merriest evening Kristin had spent at Husaby. Erlend cajoled his brother into sitting in the high seat with her, while he himself sliced off food for him and replenished his goblet. The first time he drank a toast to Gunnulf, he got down on one knee and tried to kiss his brother’s hand.
“Health and happiness, sir! We must learn to show the archbishop the proper respect, Kristin—yes, of course, you’ll be the archbishop someday, Gunnulf!”
It was late when the house servants left the hall, but the two brothers and Kristin remained behind, sitting over their drink. Erlend was seated atop the table with his face turned toward his brother.
“Yes, I thought about that during my wedding,” he said, pointing to his mother’s chest, “and that Kristin should have it. And yet I forget things so quickly, while you forget nothing, my brother. But I think Mother’s ring has come to grace a fair hand, don’t you?” He placed Kristin’s hand on his knee and twisted her betrothal ring around.
Gunnulf nodded. He placed the psaltery on Erlend’s lap. “Sing now, brother. You used to sing so beautifully and play so well.”
“That was many years ago,” said Erlend more somberly. Then he ran his fingers over the strings.
Olav the king, Harald’s son,
rode out in the thick woods,
found a tiny footprint there—
and so the news is great.
Then said he, Finn Arness?n,
riding before the band:
Fair must be so small a foot,
clad in scarlet hose.
Erlend smiled as he sang, and Kristin looked up at the priest a little shyly—to see whether the ballad of Saint Olav and Alvhild might displease him. But Gunnulf sat there smiling too, and yet she suddenly felt certain that it was not because of the ballad but because of Erlend.
“Kristin doesn’t have to sing; you must be short of breath now, my dear,” Erlend said, caressing her cheek. “But you can. . . .” He handed the stringed instrument to his brother.