It was also strange that he could stand up in that manner, completely untroubled. He had to be aware that this made the others think about who and what he had been and what his situation now was. Simon could feel the others thinking about this; some probably resented this man, who never seemed to care what other people thought of him. But no one said anything. When the blue-frozen clerk who had come with the envoy sat down and put the writing board on his lap, he addressed all his questions to Erlend, and Erlend spelled things out for him as he sat holding a few pieces of straw, which he had picked up from the floor, twining them around his long tan fingers and weaving them into a ring. When the clerk was finished, he handed the calfskin to Erlend, who tossed the straw ring into the hearth, took the letter, and read it half aloud:
“ ‘To all men who see or hear this document, greetings from God and from Simon Andress?n of Formo, Erlend Nikulauss?n of J?rundgaard, Vidar Steinss?n of Klaufastad, Ingemund and Toralde Bj?rnss?n, Bj?rn Ingemundss?n of Lundar, Alf Einarss?n, Holmgeir Moisess?n . . .’
“Do you have the wax ready?” he asked the clerk, who was blowing on his frozen fingers. “ ‘Let it be known that in the year of our Lord, one thousand three hundred and thirty-eight winters, on the Friday before Mid-Lent Sunday, we met at Granheim in the parish of Kvam . . .’
“We can take the chest that’s standing in the alcove, Alf, and use it as a table.” Erlend turned to the envoy as he gave the document back to the scribe.
Simon remembered how Erlend had been when he was in the company of his peers up north. Easy and confident enough; he wasn’t lacking in that regard. Impetuous and rash in his speech, but always with something slightly ingratiating about his manner. He was not in the least indifferent to what others thought of him if he considered them his peers or kinsmen. On the contrary, he had doubtless put great effort into winning their approval.
With an oddly fierce sense of bitterness, Simon suddenly felt allied with these farmers from here in the valley—men whom Erlend respected so little that he didn’t even wonder what they might think of him. He had done it for Erlend’s sake. For his sake Simon had parted with the circles of the gentry and well-to-do. It was all very well to be the rich farmer of Formo, but he couldn’t forget that he had turned his back on his peers, kinsmen, and the friends of his youth. Because he had assumed the role of a supplicant among them, he no longer had the strength to meet them, hardly had the strength to think of it at all. For this brother-in-law of his he had as good as denied his king and departed from the ranks of royal retainers. He had revealed to Erlend something that he found more bitter than death to recall whenever it entered his thoughts. And yet Erlend behaved toward him as if he had understood nothing and remembered nothing. It didn’t seem to trouble the fellow at all that he had wreaked havoc with another man’s life.
At that moment Erlend said to him, “We should see about leaving, Simon, if we want to make it back home tonight. I’ll go out and see to the horses.”
Simon looked up, feeling a strange ill will at the sight of the other man’s tall, handsome figure. Under the hood of his cape Erlend wore a small black silk cap that fit snugly to his head and was tied under his chin. His lean dark face with the big pale blue eyes sunk deep in the shadow of his brow looked even younger and more refined under that cap.
“And pack up my bag in the meantime,” he said from the door as he went out.
The other men had continued to talk about the case. It was quite peculiar, said one of them, that Lavrans hadn’t been able to arrange things better; the man usually knew what he was doing. He was the most experienced of farmers in all matters regarding the purchase and sale of land.
“It’s probably my father who is to blame,” said Holmgeir, the priest’s son. “He said as much this morning. If he had listened to Lavrans back then, everything would have been plain and clear. But you know how Lavrans was. . . . Toward priests he was always as amenable and submissive as a lamb.”
Even so, Lavrans of J?rundgaard had always guarded his own welfare, said someone else.
“Yes, and no doubt he thought he was doing so when he followed the priest’s advice,” said Holmgeir, laughing. “That can be the wise thing to do, even with earthly matters—as long as you’re not eyeing the same patch that the Church has set its sights on.”
Lavrans had been a strangely pious man, thought Vidar. He had never spared either property or livestock with regard to the Church or the poor.