Erlend spoke a little French and could fluently speak the kind of German that mercenaries spoke; the discussion between him and the foreign knight flowed easily and courteously. But Kristin noticed that the Flemish man did not seem pleased as things progressed, although he strove to conceal his displeasure. Erlend had told his sons to wait over in the loft of the new storehouse until he sent word for them to join them, but they were not sent for.
Erlend and his wife escorted the knight and the priest to the gate. When their guests disappeared among the fields, Erlend turned to Kristin and said with that smile she found so distasteful, “I wouldn’t let Naakkve leave the estate with that fellow even to go south to Breidin.”
Ulf Haldorss?n came over to them. He and Erlend spoke a few words that Kristin couldn’t hear, but Ulf swore fiercely and spat.
Erlend laughed and slapped the man on the shoulder. “Yes, if I’d been such a country dolt as the good farmers around here . . . But I’ve seen enough that I wouldn’t let my fair young falcons out of my hands by selling them to the Devil. Sira Solmund had no idea, that blessed fool.”
Kristin stood with her arms hanging at her sides, the color ebbing and rising in her face. Horror and shame overcame her, making her feel sick; her legs seemed to lose all strength. She had known about such things—as something endlessly remote—but that this unmentionable might venture as close as her own doorstep . . . It was like the last wave, threatening to overturn her storm-tossed, overloaded boat. Holy Mary, did she also need to fear that for her sons?
Erlend said with the same loathsome smile, “I already had my doubts last night. Sir Allart seemed to me a little too chivalrous from Naakkve’s account. I know that it’s not the custom among knights anywhere in the world to welcome a man who is to be taken into service by kissing him on the lips or by giving him costly presents before seeing proof of his abilities.”
Shaking from head to toe, Kristin said, “Why did you ask me to strew the floor with roses and cover my table with linen cloths for such a—” And she uttered the worst of words.
Erlend frowned. He had picked up a stone and was keeping an eye on Munan’s red cat, which was slithering on its stomach through the tall grass along the wall of the house, heading for the chickens near the stable door. Whoosh! He threw the stone. The cat streaked around the corner, and the flock of hens scattered. He turned to face his wife.
“I thought I could at least have a look at the man. If he had been a trustworthy fellow, then . . . But in that case I had to show the proper courtesy. I’m not Sir Allart’s confessor. And you heard that he’s planning to go to Oslo.” Erlend laughed again. “Now it’s possible that some of my true friends and dear kinsmen from the past may hear that we’re not sitting up here at J?rundgaard shaking the lice from our rags or eating herring and oat lefse.”
Bj?rgulf had a headache and was lying in bed when Kristin came up to the loft at suppertime, and Naakkve said he didn’t want to go over to the main house for the evening meal.
“You seem to me morose tonight, son,” said his mother.
“How can you think that, Mother?” said Naakkve with a scornful smile. “The fact that I’m a worse fool than other men and it’s easier to throw sand in my eyes . . . surely that’s nothing to be morose about.”
“Console yourself,” said his father as they sat down at the table and Naakkve was still too quiet. “No doubt you’ll go out into the world and have a chance to try your luck.”
“That depends, Father,” replied Naakkve in a low voice, as if he intended only Erlend to hear him, “whether Bj?rgulf can go with me.” Then he laughed softly. “But talk to Ivar and Skule about what you just said. They’re merely waiting to reach the proper age before they set off.”
Kristin stood up and put on her hooded cloak. She was going to go north to tend to the beggar at Ingebj?rg’s hut, she told them when they asked. The twins offered to go along and carry her sack, but she wanted to go alone.
The evenings were already quite dark, and north of the church the path passed through the woods and beneath the shadow of Hammer Ridge. There gusts of cold wind always issued from Rost Gorge, and the din of the river brought a trace of moisture to the air. Swarms of big white moths hovered and flitted under the trees, sometimes flying straight at her. The pale glow of the linen around her face and on her breast seemed to draw them in the dark. She swatted them away with her hand as she rushed upward, sliding on the slippery carpet of needles and stumbling over the writhing roots that sprawled across the path she was following.