“Ask for her hand yourself if that’s what you think,” said his brother heatedly.
“No, I don’t want her,” replied Gaute, “because I’ve heard that red hair and pine forests thrive on meager soil. But you think that red hair is pretty.”
“That saying can’t be used about women, my son,” said Erlend with a laugh. “Those with red hair usually have soft white skin.”
Frida laughed uproariously, but Kristin grew angry. She thought this talk too frivolous for such young boys. She also remembered that Sunniva Olavsdatter had red hair, although her friends called it golden.
Then Gaute said, “You should be glad I didn’t say anything; I didn’t dare, for fear of sin. On the vigil night of Whitsunday you sat with Aasta in the grain tithe barn all the time we were dancing on the church hill. So you must be fond of her.”
Naakkve was about to fall upon his brother, but at that moment Kristin came outside. After Gaute had left, she asked her other son, “What was that Gaute said about you and Aasta Audunsdatter?”
“I don’t think anything was said that you didn’t hear, Mother,” replied the boy. His face was red, and he frowned angrily.
Annoyed, Kristin said, “It’s unseemly that you young people can’t hold a vigil night without dancing and leaping about between services. We never used to do that when I was a maiden.”
“But you’ve told us yourself, Mother, that back when you were young, our grandfather used to sing while the people danced on the church hill.”
“Well, not those kinds of ballads and not such wild dancing,” said his mother. “And we children stayed properly with our parents; we didn’t go off two by two and sit in the barn.”
Naakkve was about to make an angry retort. Then Kristin happened to glance at Erlend. He was smiling so slyly as he eyed the plank he was about to cut with an axe. Indignant and dismayed, she went back inside the brewhouse.
But she thought a good deal about what she had heard. Aasta Audunsdatter was not a poor match; Loptsgaard was a wealthy estate, and there were three daughters, but no son. And Ingebj?rg, Aasta’s mother, belonged to an exceedingly good lineage.
She had never thought that one day the people of J?rundgaard might call Audun Torbergss?n kinsman. But he had suffered a stroke this past winter, and everyone thought he had little time left to live. The girl was seemly and charming in manner, and clever, or so Kristin had heard. If Naakkve had great affection for the maiden, there was no reason to oppose this marriage. They would still have to wait for two more years to hold the wedding, as young as Aasta and Naakkve both were, but then she would gladly welcome Aasta as her son’s wife.
On a fine day in the middle of the summer Sira Solmund’s sister came to see Kristin to borrow something. The women were standing outside the house to say their farewells when the priest’s sister said, “Well, that Eyvor Haakonsdatter!” Her father had driven her from his estate because she was with child, so she had sought refuge at Ulvsvold.
Naakkve had been up in the loft; now he stopped on the lowest step. When his mother caught a glimpse of his face, she was suddenly so overcome that she could hardly feel her own legs beneath her. The boy was crimson all the way up to his ears as he walked away toward the main house.
But Kristin soon understood from the other woman’s gossip that things must have been such with Eyvor long before she came to their parish for the first time in the spring. My poor, innocent boy, thought Kristin, sighing with relief. He must be ashamed that he thought well of the girl.
A few nights later Kristin was alone in bed because Erlend had gone out fishing. As far as she knew, Naakkve and Gaute had gone along with him. But she was awakened when Naakkve touched her and whispered that he needed to talk to her. He climbed up and sat at the foot of her bed.
“Mother, I’ve been out to talk with that poor woman Eyvor tonight. I was sure they were lying about her; I was so certain that I would have held a glowing piece of iron in my hand to prove that she was lying—that magpie from Romundgaard.”
Kristin lay still and waited. Naakkve tried to speak firmly, but suddenly his voice threatened to break with emotion and distress.
“She was on her way to matins on the last day of Christmas. She was alone, and the road from their manor passes through the woods for a long stretch. There she met two men. It was still dark. She doesn’t know who they were, maybe foresters from the mountains. In the end she couldn’t defend herself any longer, the poor young child. She didn’t dare tell her troubles to anyone. When her mother and father discovered her misfortune, they drove her from home, with slaps and curses as they pulled her hair. When she told me all this, Mother, she wept so hard that it would have melted a rock in the hills.” Naakkve abruptly fell silent, breathing heavily.