“It is written that he who draws his sword shall lose his life by the sword, Erlend!”
“Yes, I’ve heard that said, my dear. And yet most of our forefathers, both yours and mine, Kristin, died peacefully and in a Christian manner in their beds, with the last rites and comfort for their souls. You only need think of your own father; he proved in his youth that he was a man who could use his sword.”
“But that was during a war, Erlend, at the summons of the king to whom they had sworn allegiance; it was in order to protect their homeland that Father and the others took up their weapons. And yet Father said himself that it was not God’s will that we should bear arms against each other—baptized Christian men.”
“Yes, I know that. But the world has been this way ever since Adam and Eve ate from the tree—and that was before my time. It’s not my fault that we’re born with sin inside us.”
“What shameful things you’re saying!”
Erlend heatedly interrupted her. “Kristin, you know full well that I have never refused to atone and repent for my sins as best I could. It’s true that I’m not a pious man. I saw too much in my childhood and youth. My father was such a dear friend of the great lords of the chapter.2 They came and went at his house like gray pigs: Lord Eiliv, back when he was a priest, and Herr Sigvat Lande, and all the others, and they brought little else with them but quarrels and disputes. They were hardhearted and merciless toward their own bishop; they proved to be no more holy or peaceable even though each day they held the most sacred relics in their hands and lifted up God Himself in the bread and wine.”
“Surely we are not to judge the priests. That’s what Father always said: It’s our obligation to bow before the priesthood and obey them, but their human behavior shall be judged by God alone.”
“Yes, well . . .” Erlend hesitated. “I know he said that, and you’ve also said the same in the past. I know you’re more pious than I can ever be. And yet, Kristin, I have difficulty accepting that this is the proper interpretation of God’s words: that you should go about storing everything away and never forgetting. He had a long memory too, Lavrans did. No, I won’t say anything about your father except that he was pious and noble, and you are too; I know that. But often when you speak so gently and sweetly, as if your mouth were full of honey, I fear that you’re thinking mostly about old wrongs, and God will have to judge whether you’re as pious in your heart as you are in words.”
Suddenly Kristin fell forward, stretched out across the table with her face buried in her arms, and began shrieking. Erlend leaped to his feet. She lay there, weeping with raw, ragged sobs that shuddered down her back. Erlend put his arm around her shoulder.
“Kristin, what is it? What is it?” he repeated, sitting down next to her on the bench and trying to lift her head. “Kristin, don’t weep like this. I think you must have lost your senses.”
“I’m frightened!” She sat up, wringing her hands together in her lap. “I’m so frightened. Gentle Virgin Mary, help us all. I’m so frightened. What will become of my sons?”
“Yes, my Kristin . . . but you must get used to it. You can’t keep hiding them under your skirts. Soon they’ll be grown men, all our sons. And you’re still acting like a bitch with pups.” He sat with his legs crossed and his hands clasped around one knee, looking down at his wife with a weary expression. “You snap blindly at both friend and foe over anything that has to do with your offspring.”
Abruptly she got to her feet and stood there for a moment, mutely wringing her hands. Then she began swiftly pacing the room. She didn’t say a word, and Erlend sat in silence, watching her.
“Skule . . .” She stopped in front of her husband. “You gave your son an ill-fated name. But you insisted on it. You wanted the duke to rise up again in that child.”
“It’s a fine name, Kristin. Ill fated . . . that can mean many things. When I revived my great-grandfather through my son, I remembered that good fortune had deserted him, but he was still a king, and with better rights than the combmaker’s descendants.”
“You were certainly proud, you and Munan Baards?n, that you were close kinsmen of King Haakon Haalegg.”
“Yes, you know that Sverre’s lineage gained royal blood from my father’s aunt, Margret Skulesdatter.”
For a long time both husband and wife stood staring into each other’s eyes.
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking, my fair wife.” Erlend went back to the high seat and sat down. With his hands resting on the heads of the two warriors, he leaned forward slightly, giving her a cold and challenging smile. “But as you can see, my Kristin, it hasn’t broken me to become a poor and friendless man. You should know that I have no fear that the lineage of my forefathers has fallen along with me from power and honor for all eternity. Good fortune has also deserted me; but if my plan had been carried out, my sons and I would now have positions and seats at the king’s right hand, which we, his close kinsmen, are entitled to by birth. For me, no doubt, the game is over. But I see in my sons, Kristin, that they will attain the positions which are their birthright. You don’t need to lament over them, and you must not try to bind them to this remote valley of yours. Let them freely make their own way. Then you might see, before you die, that they have once again won a foothold in their father’s ancestral regions.”