Ramborg did not reply. She went over to her loom and began threading the colorful little balls of wool in and out of the warp. She had set up the loom for a tapestry before Christmas, but she hadn’t made much progress yet.
“Erlend rode past, heading north, some time ago,” she said, with her back turned. “From what Sigurd said, I thought you would be riding together.”
“No, it didn’t turn out that way.”
“Erlend had a greater longing for his bed than you did?” She laughed a little. When she received no answer, she said again, “I suppose he always longs to be home with Kristin when he has been away.”
Simon was silent for a good while before he replied, “Erlend and I did not part as friends.”
Ramborg turned around abruptly. Then he told her what he had learned at Dyfrin and about the first part of the conversation with Erlend and his sons.
“It seems to me rather unreasonable that you should quarrel over such a matter when you’ve been able to remain friends until now.”
“Perhaps, but that’s how things went. And it will take too long to discuss the whole matter tonight.”
Ramborg turned back to her loom and busied herself with her work.
“Simon,” she said suddenly, “do you remember a story that Sira Eirik once told us . . . from the Bible? About a maiden named Abishag the Shunammite?”3
“No.”
“Back when King David was old and his vigor and manhood were beginning to fade—” Ramborg began, but Simon interrupted her.
“My Ramborg, it’s much too late at night; this is no time to start telling sagas. And now I do remember the story about the woman you mentioned.”
Ramborg pushed up the reed of the loom and fell silent for a while. Then she spoke again. “Do you remember the saga my father knew—about the handsome Tristan and fair Isolde and dark Isolde?”
“Yes, I remember.” Simon pushed his plate aside, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and got up. He went over to stand in front of the fireplace. With one foot resting on the edge, his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand, he stared into the fire, which was about to die out inside the stone-lined hollow. From the loom over in the corner came Ramborg’s voice, fragile-sounding and close to tears.
“When I listened to those stories, I always thought that men like King David and Sir Tristan . . . It seemed to me so foolish, and cruel, that they didn’t love the young brides who offered them their maidenhood and the love of their hearts with gentleness and seemly graciousness but preferred instead such women as Fru Bathsheba or fair Isolde, who had squandered themselves in other men’s arms. I thought that if I had been a man, I wouldn’t have been so lacking in pride . . . or so heartless.” Overcome, she fell silent. “It seems to me the most terrible fate: what happened to Abishag and poor Isolde of Bretland.” Abruptly she turned around, walked quickly across the room, and stood before her husband.
“What is it, Ramborg?” Simon reluctantly asked in a low voice. “I don’t know what you mean by all this.”
“Yes, you do,” she replied fiercely. “You’re a man just like that Tristan.”
“I find it hard to believe”—he tried to laugh—“that I should be compared with the handsome Tristan. And the two women you mentioned . . . If I remember right, they lived and died as pure maidens, untouched by their husbands.” He looked at his wife. The little triangle of her face was pale, and she was biting her lip.
Simon set his foot down, straightened up, and put both hands on her shoulders.
“My Ramborg, you and I have two children,” he said softly.
She didn’t reply.
“I’ve done my best to show you my gratitude for that gift. I thought . . . I’ve tried to be a good husband to you.”
When she didn’t speak, he let her go, went over to a bench, and sat down. Ramborg followed and stood before him, looking down at her husband: his broad thighs in the wet, muddy hose, his stout body, his heavy reddish-brown face. Her lip curled with displeasure.
“You’ve grown so ugly over the years, Simon.”
“Well, I’ve never thought myself to be a handsome man,” he said calmly.
“But I’m young and pretty. . . .” She sat down on his lap, the tears pouring from her eyes as she held his head in her hands. “Simon, look at me. Why can’t you reward me for this? Never have I wanted to belong to anyone but you. It’s what I dreamed of ever since I was a little maiden: that my husband would be a man like you. Do you remember how we were once allowed to follow along with you, both Ulvhild and I? You were going with Father to the west pasture, to look at his foals. You carried Ulvhild over the creek, and Father was going to lift me up, but I cried that I wanted you to carry me too. Do you remember?”