“You know full well that your sister wouldn’t do anything to Andres except what might do him good.” When he put his arms around her again, Ramborg struggled and screamed.
“Come now, Ramborg,” said her husband, making his voice stern. “Aren’t you ashamed in front of our servants?”
But she kept on screaming. “He’s mine—that much I know. You weren’t with us when I gave birth to him, Simon,” she shouted. “We weren’t so precious to you back then.”
“You know what I had on my hands at the time,” replied her husband wearily. He dragged her across to the main house; he had to use all his strength.
After that he didn’t dare leave her side. Ramborg gradually calmed down, and when evening came, she obediently allowed her maids to help her undress.
Simon stayed up. His daughters were asleep over in their bed, and he had sent the servingwomen away. Once when he stood up and walked across the room, Ramborg asked from her bed where he was going; her voice sounded wide awake.
“I was thinking of lying down with you for a while,” he said after a moment. He took off his outer garments and shoes and then crawled under the blanket and woolen coverlet. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I realize, my Ramborg, that this has been a long and difficult day for you.”
“Your heart is beating so hard, Simon,” she said a little later.
“Well, I’m afraid for the boy too, you know. But we must wait patiently until Kristin sends us word.”
He sat up abruptly in bed, propping himself up on one elbow. In bewilderment he stared at Kristin’s white face. It was right above his own, glistening wet with tears in the candlelight; her hand was on his chest. For a moment he thought . . . But this time he wasn’t merely dreaming. Simon threw himself back against the headboard, and with a stifled moan he covered his face with his arm. He felt sick; his heart was hammering inside him, furious and hard.
“Simon, wake up!” Kristin shook him again. “Andres is calling for his father. Do you hear me? It was the first thing he said.” Her face was beaming with joy as her tears fell steadily.
Simon sat up, rubbing his face several times. Surely he hadn’t spoken in confusion when she woke him. He looked up at Kristin, who was standing next to the bed with a lantern in her hand.
Quietly, so as not to wake Ramborg, he crept out of the room with her. The loathsome nausea was still lodged in his chest. He felt as if something were about to burst inside him. Why couldn’t he stop having that dreadful dream? He who in his waking hours struggled and struggled to drive all such thoughts from his mind. But when he lay asleep, powerless and defenseless, he would have that dream, which the Devil himself must have sent. Even now, while she sat and kept watch over his deathly ill son, he dreamed like some kind of demon.
It was raining, and Kristin had no idea what time of night it might be. The boy had been half conscious, but he hadn’t spoken. And it was only when night came and she thought he was sleeping comfortably and soundly that she dared lie down for a moment to rest—with Andres in her arms so she would notice if he stirred. Then she had fallen asleep.
The boy looked so tiny as he lay alone in the bed. He was terribly pale, but his eyes were clear, and his face lit up with a smile when he saw his father. Simon dropped to his knees beside the bed, but when he reached out to lift the small body into his embrace, Kristin grabbed him by the arm.
“No, no, Simon. He’s soaked with sweat, and it’s cold in here.” She pulled the covers tighter around Andres. “Lie down next to him instead, while I send word for a maid to keep watch. I’ll go back to the main house now and get into bed with Ramborg.”
Simon crept under the covers. There was a warm hollow where she had lain and the faint, sweet scent of her hair on the pillowcase. Simon quietly uttered a moan, and then he gathered up his little son and pressed his face against the child’s damp, soft hair. Andres had become so small that he felt like nothing in Simon’s arms, but he lay there contentedly, occasionally saying a word or two.
Then he began tugging and poking at the opening of his father’s shirt; he stuck his clammy little hand inside and pulled out the amulet. “The rooster,” he said happily. “There it is.”
On the day of Kristin’s departure, as she made ready to leave, Simon came to see her in the women’s house and handed her a little wooden box.
“I thought this was something you might like to have.”
Kristin knew from the carving that it was the work of her father. Inside, wrapped in a soft piece of glove leather, was a tiny gold clasp set with five emeralds. She recognized it at once. Lavrans had worn it on his shirt whenever he wanted to look particularly fine.