“Yes. Gaute has never received such a beating before in his life. And the whole thing started because they were quarreling about their ancestors: Reidar Birkebein and King Skule and Bishop Niko las.” Erlend shook his head. “But let’s not think about this anymore, kinsman. It’s best if we forget about it as soon as we can.”
“I can’t do that!”
“But, Simon!” This was spoken in reproach, with mild astonishment. “It’s not worth it to take this so seriously.”
“I can’t—don’t you understand? I’m not as good a man as you are.”
Erlend gave him a bewildered look. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not as good a man as you are. I can’t so easily forgive those I have wronged.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” repeated Erlend in the same tone of voice.
“I mean . . .” Simon’s face was contorted with pain and desperation. His voice was low, as if he were stifling an urge to scream out the words. “I mean that I’ve heard you speaking kindly of Judge Sigurd of Steigen, the old man whose wife you stole. I’ve seen how you loved Lavrans with all the love of a son. And I’ve never noticed that you bore any grudge toward me because you . . . enticed my betrothed away from me. I’m not as noble-minded as you think, Erlend. I’m not as noble-minded as you are. I . . . I do bear a grudge toward the man whom I have wronged.”
His cheeks flecked with white from the strain, Simon stared into the eyes of his companion. Erlend had listened to him with his mouth agape.
“I’ve never realized this until now! Do you hate me, Simon?” he whispered, overwhelmed.
“Don’t you think I have reason to do so?”
Unawares, both men had reined in their horses. They sat and stared at each other. Simon’s small eyes glittered like steel. In the hazy white light of the night, he saw that Erlend’s lean features were twitching as if something had broken inside him: an awakening. He looked up from beneath half-closed lids, biting his quivering lower lip.
“I can’t bear to see you anymore,” said Simon.
“But that was twenty years ago, man!” exclaimed Erlend, overcome and confused.
“Yes. But don’t you think she’s . . . worth thinking about for twenty years?”
Erlend pulled himself erect in the saddle. He met Simon’s eyes with a steady, open gaze. The moonlight lit a blue-green spark in his big, pale blue eyes.
“Yes, yes, I do. May God bless her!”
For a moment he sat motionless. Then he spurred his horse and galloped off through the puddles so the water sprayed up behind him. Simon held Digerbein back; he was almost thrown to the ground because he reined in the horse so sharply. He waited there at the edge of the woods, struggling with the restless animal, for as long as he could hear hoofbeats in the slush.
Remorse had overwhelmed him as soon as he said it. He felt regret and shame, as if in senseless anger he had struck the most defenseless of creatures—a child or a delicate, gentle, and witless beast. His hatred felt like a shattered lance; he was shattered himself from the confrontation with the man’s foolish innocence. That bird of misfortune, Erlend Nikulauss?n, understood so little that he seemed both helpless and without guile.
Simon swore and cursed to himself as he rode. Without guile . . . The man was well past forty; it was about time that he could handle a conversation man to man. If Simon had wounded himself, then by the Devil it should be considered worth the price if for once he had managed to strike Erlend a blow.
Now he was riding home to her. May God bless her, Simon thought ruefully. And so it was over: the plodding around in that sibling love. The two of them over there, and he and his family. He would never have to meet Kristin Lavransdatter again.
The thought took his breath away. Just as well, by the Devil. If your eye offends you, then pluck it out, said the priests. He told himself that the main reason he had done this was to escape the sister-brother love with Kristin. He couldn’t bear it anymore.
He had only one wish now: that Ramborg would not be awake when he came home.
But when he rode in among the fences, he saw someone wearing a dark cloak standing beneath the aspen trees. The white of her wimple gleamed.
She said that she had been waiting for him ever since Sigurd returned home. The maids had gone to bed, so Ramborg herself ladled up the porridge that stood on the edge of the hearth, keeping warm. She placed bacon and bread on the table and brought in newly tapped ale.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed now, Ramborg?” asked her husband as he ate.