Sigrid Andresdatter, with the brown curls framing her small round face. Whenever she laughed, deep dimples appeared in her cheeks. The dimples and the small, childish white teeth—Simon had them too. Kristin remembered that when she grew less kindly inclined toward her betrothed, these things seemed to her unmanly, especially after she had met Erlend. They were much alike, Sigrid and Simon; but in her case it seemed charming that she was so plump and quick to laughter. She was fourteen winters old back then. Kristin had never heard such merry laughter as Sigrid’s. Simon was always teasing his youngest sister and joking with her; Kristin could see that of all his siblings, he was most fond of her.
“You know that Father loved Sigrid best,” said Simon. “That’s why he wanted to see whether she and Gjavvald would like each other before he made this agreement with Arne. And they did—in my mind a little more than was proper. They always had to sit close whenever they met, and they would steal looks at each other and laugh. That was last summer at Dyfrin. But they were so young. No one could have imagined this. And our sister Astrid—you know she was betrothed when you and I . . . Well, she voiced no objections; Torgrim is very wealthy and kind, and in a certain way . . . but he finds fault with everyone and everything, and he thinks he suffers from all the ailments and troubles that anyone can name. So all of us were happy when Sigrid seemed so pleased with the man chosen for her.
“And then we brought Gjavvald’s body to the manor. Halfrid, my wife, arranged things so that Sigrid would come home with us to Mandvik. And then it came out that Sigrid wasn’t left alone when Gjavvald died.”
They were silent for a while. Then Kristin said softly, “This has not been a joyful journey for you, Simon.”
“No, it hasn’t.” Then he gave a laugh. “But I’ve gotten used to traveling on unfortunate business, Kristin. And I was the closest one, after all—Father lacked the courage, and they’re living with me at Mandvik, Sigrid and her son. But now he’ll have a place in his father’s lineage, and I could see from all of them there that he won’t be unwelcome, the poor little boy, when he goes to live with them.”
“But what of your sister?” asked Kristin, breathlessly. “Where is she to live?”
Simon looked down at the ground.
“Father will take her home to Dyfrin now,” he said in a low voice.
“Simon! Oh, how can you have the heart to agree to this?”
“You must realize,” he replied without looking up, “that it’s a great advantage for the boy, that he’ll be part of his father’s family from the beginning. Halfrid and I, we would have liked to keep both of them with us. No sister could be more loyal and loving toward another than Halfrid is toward Sigrid. None of our kinsmen has been unkind toward her—you mustn’t think that. Not even Father, although this has made him a broken man. But can’t you see? It wouldn’t be right if any of us objected to the innocent boy gaining inheritance and lineage from his father.”
Kristin’s child let go of her breast. She quickly drew her garments closed over her bosom and, trembling, hugged the infant close. He hiccupped happily a couple of times and then spit up a little over himself and his mother’s hands.
Simon glanced at the two of them and said with an odd smile, “You had better luck, Kristin, than my sister did.”
“Yes, no doubt it may seem unfair to you,” said Kristin softly,
“that I’m called wife and my son was lawfully born. I might have deserved to be left with the fatherless child of a paramour.”
“That would seem to me the worst thing I could have heard,” said Simon. “I wish you only the best, Kristin,” he said even more quietly.
A moment later he asked her for directions. He mentioned that he had come north by ship from Tunsberg. “Now I must continue on and see about catching up with my servant.”
“Is it Finn who’s traveling with you?” asked Kristin.
“No. Finn is married now; he’s no longer in my service. Do you still remember him?” asked Simon, and his voice sounded pleased.
“Is Sigrid’s son a handsome child?” asked Kristin, looking at Naakkve.
“I hear that he is. I think one infant looks much like another,” replied Simon.
“Then you must not have children of your own,” said Kristin, giving a little smile.
“No,” he said curtly. Then he bid her farewell and rode off.
When Kristin continued on, she didn’t put her child on her back. She carried him in her arms, pressing his face against the hollow of her neck. She could think of nothing else but Sigrid Andresdatter.