If, for a moment, he had believed . . . well, what Erlend and his wife thought he had believed. . . . God only knew how close to the truth such a thought was when Gaute started talking about seeing his seal on the treasonous letter. The two of them might remember that he knew a few things about Erlend Nikulauss?n so that he, more than most other men, had little reason to believe the best of that gentleman. But they had probably forgotten long ago how he had once come upon them and witnessed the depths of their shamelessness.
So there was little reason for him to lie here, berating himself like a dog because he had wrongly accused Erlend in his mind. God knew it was not because he wanted to think ill of his brother-in-law; it only made him unhappy to have such thoughts. He was fully aware that it was a wildly foolish notion; he would have realized at once, even without Kristin’s words, that things couldn’t have happened that way. As quickly as the suspicion occurred to him—that Erlend might have misused his seal—he had dismissed it. No, Erlend couldn’t possibly have done that. Erlend had never in his life committed a dishonorable act that had been thought out in advance or with some specific purpose in mind.
Simon tossed and turned in bed, moaning. They had made him half mad with all this madness. He felt so tormented when he thought about how Gaute had gone around for years, believing this of him. But it was unreasonable for him to take it so hard. Even though he was fond of the boy, fond of all of Kristin’s sons, they were still hardly more than children. Did he need to be so concerned about how they might judge him?
To think he could be so furious with rage when he thought about the men who had placed their hands on the hilt of Erlend’s sword and sworn to follow their chieftain. If they were such sheep to allow themselves to be dazzled by Erlend’s persuasive and bold manner and to believe that he was a suitable chieftain, then it was only to be expected that they would behave like frightened sheep when the whole venture went awry. And yet he felt dazed when he thought about what he had learned at Dyfrin: that so many men had dared entrust the peace of the land and their own welfare into Erlend’s hands. Even Haftor Olavss?n and Borgar Trondss?n! But not one of them had the courage to step forward and demand of the king that Erlend should be granted an honorable reconciliation and a reprieve for his ancestral estates. There were so many of them that if they had joined forces, it could easily have been accomplished. Apparently there was less wisdom and courage among the noblemen of Norway than he had thought.
Simon was also angry because he had been entirely kept out of these plans. Not that they would have been able to enlist him in such a foolhardy enterprise. But that both Erlend and Gyrd had gone behind his back and concealed everything . . . Surely he was just as good a nobleman as any of the others, and not without some influence in the regions where people knew him.
In some ways he agreed with Gyrd. Considering the manner in which Erlend had squandered his position as chieftain, the man couldn’t reasonably demand that his fellow conspirators should step forward and declare their allegiance with him. Simon knew that if he had found Gyrd alone, he would not have ended up parting with his brothers in such a fashion. But there sat that knight, Sir Ulf, stretching out his long legs in front of him and talking about Erlend’s lack of sense—after it was all over! And then Gudmund spoke up. In the past neither Gyrd nor Simon had let their younger brother take a position against them. But ever since he had married the priest’s paramour, who then became his own paramour, the boy had grown so swaggering and cocky and independent. Simon had sat there glaring fiercely at Gudmund. He spoke so arrogantly and his round, red face looked so much like a child’s backside that Simon’s hands itched to give it a swat. In the end he hardly knew what he was saying to the three men.
And now he had broken with his brothers. He felt as if he would bleed to death when he thought about it, as if bonds of flesh and blood had been severed. He was the poorer for it. Bare is the brotherless back.
But however things now stood, in the midst of the heated exchange of words he had suddenly realized—he didn’t know exactly why—that Gyrd’s closed and stony demeanor wasn’t solely due to the fact that he was hard pressed to find any peace at home. In a flash Simon saw that Gyrd still loved Helga; that was what made him so strangely fettered and powerless. And in some secretive, incomprehensible way, this aroused his fury over . . . well, over life itself.
Simon hid his face in his hands. Yes, in that sense they had been good, obedient sons. It had been easy for Gyrd and him to feel love for the brides whom his father announced he had chosen for them. The old man had made a long, splendid speech to them one evening, and afterward they had both sat there feeling abashed. About marriage and friendship and faithfulness between honorable, noble spouses; in the end their father even mentioned prayers of intercession and masses. It was too bad their father hadn’t given them advice on how to forget as well—when the friendship was broken and the honor dead and the faithfulness a sin and a secret, disgraceful torment, and there was nothing left of the bond but the bleeding wound that would never heal.