Sira Eiliv had sent her a letter, and she had reported to Erlend what it said about their sons. Otherwise they never spoke of their children. They didn’t talk about the past or the future anymore. Kristin would bring him some piece of clothing or a plate of food; he would ask her how she had fared since they last met, and they would sit on the bed holding hands. Sometimes they would be left alone for a moment in the small, cold and filthy, stench-filled room. Then they would cling to each other with mute, passionate caresses, hearing but paying no attention to Kristin’s maid laughing with the castle guards outside on the stairs.
There would be plenty of time, either after he was taken from her or after he came back to her, for thinking about all the children and their changed circumstances—and about everything else in her life besides her husband. She didn’t want to lose a single hour of the time they had together, and she didn’t dare think about her reunion with the four sons she had left behind up north. For this reason she accepted Simon Andress?n’s offer to travel alone to Nidaros; along with Arne Gjavvaldss?n, he would see to her interests in the settling of the estate. King Magnus would not be made richer by acquiring Erlend’s property; his debts were much greater than he himself had thought, and he had raised money that was sent to Denmark and Scotland and England. Erlend shrugged his shoulders and said with a faint smile that he didn’t expect to be compensated for that.
So Erlend’s situation was largely unchanged when Simon Andress?n returned to Oslo around Holy Cross Day in the fall. But he was horrified to see how exhausted they both looked, Kristin and his brother-in-law; and he felt strangely weak and sick at heart when they both still had enough composure to thank him for coming at that time of year, when he could least be spared from his own estates. But now people were gathering in Tunsberg, where King Magnus had come to wait for his bride.
A little later in the month Simon managed to book himself passage on a ship with several merchants who were planning to sail there in a week’s time. One morning a stranger arrived with the request that Simon Andress?n should trouble himself to come to Saint Halvard’s Church at once. Olav Kyrning was waiting for him there.
The deputy royal treasurer was in a terribly agitated state. He was in charge of the castle while the treasurer was in Tunsberg. The previous evening a group of gentlemen had arrived and shown him a letter with King Magnus’s seal on it, saying that they were to investigate Erlend Nikulauss?n’s case. He had ordered the prisoner to be brought to them. The three men were foreigners, apparently Frenchmen; Olav didn’t understand their language, but this morning the royal priest had spoken to them in Latin. They were supposedly kinsmen of the maiden who was to be Norway’s queen—what a promising start this was! They had interrogated Erlend in the harshest manner . . . had brought along some kind of rack and several men who knew how to use such things. Today Olav had refused to allow Erlend to be taken out of his chamber and had put him under heavy guard. He would take responsibility for it, because this was not lawful—such conduct had never been heard of before in Norway!
Simon borrowed a horse from one of the priests at the church and rode at once back to Akersnes with Olav.
Olav Kyrning glanced a little anxiously at the other man’s grim face, which was flooded with furious waves of crimson. Now and then Simon would make a wild and violent gesture, not even aware of it himself—but the borrowed horse would start, rear up, and rebel beneath the rider.
“I can see you’re angry, Simon,” said Olav Kyrning.
Simon hardly knew what was foremost in his mind. He was so furious that he felt spells of nausea overtake him. The blind and desperate feeling that surged up inside him, driving him to the utmost rage, was a form of shame—a man who was defenseless, without weapon or protection, who had to tolerate the hands of strangers in his clothes, strangers searching his body . . . It was like hearing about the rape of women. He grew dizzy with the desire for revenge and the need to spill blood to retaliate. No, such had never been the custom in Norway. Did they want Norwegian noblemen to grow used to tolerating such things? That would never happen!
He was sick with horror at what he would now see. Fear of the shame he would bring upon the other man by seeing him in such a state overwhelmed all other feelings as Olav Kyrning unlocked the door to Erlend’s prison cell.
Erlend was lying flat on the floor, his body placed diagonally from one corner of the room to the other; he was so tall that this was the only way he could find enough room to stretch out full length. Some straw and pieces of clothing had been placed underneath him, on top of the floor’s thick layer of filth. His body was covered all the way up to his chin with his dark-blue, fur-lined cape so that the soft, grayish-brown marten fur of the collar seemed to blend with the curly black tangle of the beard that Erlend had grown while in prison.