And yet her head itched terribly from the sweat under her thick homespun wimple. Around her waist, where the rope held her clothing close to her body, her shift had rubbed on her skin so that it felt quite raw.
After a while there were others on the road. Now and then people would ride past her. She caught up with a farmer’s cart taking goods to town; the heavy wheels jolted and jounced over roots and stones, screeching and creaking. Two men were driving a beast to slaughter. They glanced at the young woman pilgrim because she was so beautiful; otherwise people were used to such wayfarers in these parts. At one place several men were building a house a short distance from the road; they shouted to her, and an old man came running to offer her some ale. Kristin curtseyed, took a drink, and thanked the man with such words as poor people usually said to her when she gave them alms.
A little while later she had to rest again. She found a small green hill along the road with a trickling creek. Kristin placed the child on the grass; he woke up and cried loudly, so she hurried distractedly through the prayers she had meant to say. Then she picked up Naakkve, held him on her lap, and loosened the swaddling clothes. He had sullied his underclothes, and she had little to change him with; so she rinsed the cloths and spread them out to dry on a bare rock in the sun. She wrapped the outer garments loosely around the boy. He seemed to like this, and lay there kicking as he drank from his mother’s breast. Kristin gazed happily at his fine, rosy limbs and pressed one of his hands between her breasts as she nursed him.
Two men rode past at a fast trot. Kristin glanced up briefly—it was a nobleman and his servant. But suddenly the man reined in his horse, leaped from the saddle, and walked back to where she was sitting. It was Simon Andress?n.
“Perhaps you won’t be pleased that I stopped to greet you?” he asked. He stood there holding his horse and looking down at her. He was wearing traveling clothes, with a sleeveless leather vest over a light-blue linen tunic; he wore a small silk cap on his head, and his face was rather flushed and sweaty. “It’s strange to see you—but perhaps you’d rather not speak to me?”
“Surely you should know . . . How are you, Simon?” Kristin tucked her bare feet under the hem of her skirts and tried to take the child from her breast. But the boy screamed, opening his mouth to suckle, so she had to let him nurse again. She pulled the robe over her breast as best she could and sat with her eyes lowered.
“Is it yours?” asked Simon, pointing to the child. “That was a foolish question,” he laughed. “It’s a son, isn’t it? He’s blessed with good fortune, Erlend Nikulauss?n!” He tied his horse to a tree, and now he sat down on a rock not far from Kristin. He placed his sword between his knees and sat with his hands on the hilt, poking at the dirt with the point of the scabbard.
“It was unexpected to meet you here in the north, Simon,” said Kristin, just for something to say.
“Yes,” said Simon. “I haven’t had business in this part of the country before.”
Kristin recalled that she had heard something—at the welcome celebration for her at Husaby—about the youngest son of Arne Gjavvaldss?n of Ranheim being betrothed to Andres Darre’s youngest daughter. So she asked him whether that’s where he had been.
“You know about it?” asked Simon. “Well, I suppose it must have been talked about all through these parts.”
“So it’s true,” said Kristin, “that Gjavvald is to marry Sigrid?” Simon looked up abruptly, pressing his lips together.
“I see you don’t know everything, after all.”
“I haven’t been beyond the courtyard of Husaby all winter,” said Kristin. “And I’ve seen few people. I heard there was talk of this marriage.”
“You might as well hear it from my lips, then—the news will doubtless reach here soon enough.” He sat in silence for a moment. “Gjavvald died three days before Winter Night.1 He fell off his horse and broke his back. Do you remember before you reach Dyfrin how the road heads east of the river and there’s a steep drop-off? No, you probably don’t. We were on our way to their betrothal celebration; Arne and his sons had come by ship to Oslo.” Then Simon fell silent.
“She must have been happy, Sigrid—because she was going to marry Gjavvald,” said Kristin, shy and timid.
“Yes,” said Simon. “And she had a son by him—on the Feast Day of the Apostles this spring.”
“Oh, Simon!”