“Is that what you want to tell me—that you still love Kristin even though you like me well enough to want to play with me?”
“I don’t know how well I like you . . . You were the one who showed your affection for me.”
“And Kristin doesn’t care for your love?” she sneered. “I’ve seen how tenderly she looks at you, Erlend. . . .”
“Be silent!” he shouted. “Perhaps she knew how worthless I was,” he said, his voice harsh and hateful. “You and I might be each other’s equal.”
“Is that it?” threatened Sunniva. “Am I supposed to be the whip you use to punish your wife?”
Erlend stood there, breathing hard. “You could call it that. But you put yourself willingly into my hands.”
“Take care,” said Sunniva, “that the whip doesn’t turn back on you.”
She was sitting up in bed, waiting. But Erlend made no attempt to argue or to make amends with his lover. He finished getting dressed and left without saying another word.
He wasn’t overly pleased with himself or with the way he had parted with Sunniva. There was no honor in it for him. But it didn’t matter now; at least he was rid of her.
CHAPTER 4
DURING THAT SPRING and summer they saw little of the master at home at Husaby. On those occasions when he did return to his manor, he and his wife behaved with courtesy and friendliness toward each other. Erlend didn’t try in any way to breach the wall that she had now put up between them, even though he would often give her a searching look. Otherwise, he seemed to have much to think about outside his own home. And he never inquired with a single word about the management of the estate.
This was something his wife mentioned when, shortly after Holy Cross Day, he asked her whether she wanted to accompany him to Raumsdal. He had business to tend to in the Uplands; perhaps she would like to take the children along, spend some time at J?rundgaard, visit kinsmen and friends in the valley? But Kristin had no wish to do so, under any circumstances.
Erlend was in Nidaros during the Law ting and afterwards out in Orkedal. Then he returned home to Husaby but immediately began preparations for a journey to Bj?rgvin. The Margygren was anchored out at Nidarholm, and he was only waiting for Haftor Graut, who was supposed to sail with him.
Three days before Saint Margareta’s Day, the hay harvesting began at Husaby. It was the finest weather, and when the workers went back out into the meadows after the midday rest, Olav the overseer asked the children to come along.
Kristin was up in the clothing chamber, which was on the second story of the armory. The house was built in such a fashion that an outside stair led up to this room and the exterior gallery running along the side; projecting over it was the third floor, which could be reached only by means of a ladder through a hatchway inside the clothing chamber. It was standing open because Erlend was up in the weapons loft.
Kristin carried the fur cape that Erlend wanted to take along on his sea voyage out to the gallery and began to shake it. Then she heard the thunder of a large group of horsemen, and a moment later she saw men come riding out of the forest on Gauldal Road. An instant later, Erlend was standing at her side.
“Is it true what you said, Kristin, that the fire went out in the cookhouse this morning?”
“Yes, Gudrid knocked over the soup kettle. We’ll have to borrow some embers from Sira Eiliv.”
Erlend looked over at the parsonage.
“No, he can’t get mixed up in this. . . . Gaute,” he called softly to the boy dawdling under the gallery, picking up one rake after another, with little desire to go out to the hay harvesting. “Come up the stairs, but stop at the top or they’ll be able to see you.”
Kristin stared at her husband. She’d never seen him look this way before. A taut, alert calm came over his voice and face as he peered south toward the road, and over his tall, supple body as he ran inside the loft and came back at once with a flat package wrapped in linen. He handed it to the boy.
“Put this inside your shirt, and pay attention to what I tell you. You must safeguard these letters—it’s more important than you can possibly know, my Gaute. Put your rake over your shoulder and walk calmly across the fields until you reach the alder thickets. Keep to the bushes down by the woods—you know the place well, I know you do—and then sneak through the densest underbrush all the way over to Skjoldvirkstad. Make sure that things are calm at the farm. If you notice any sign of unrest or strange men around, stay hidden. But if you’re sure it’s safe, then go down and give this to Ulf, if he’s home. If you can’t put the letters into his own hand and you’re sure that no one is near, then burn them as soon as you can. But take care that both the writing and the seals are completely destroyed, and that they don’t fall into anyone’s hands but Ulf’s. May God help us, my son—these are weighty matters to put into the hands of a boy only ten winters old; many a good man’s life and welfare . . . Do you understand how important this is, Gaute?”