Kristin wept bitterly and lifted her face so that he could kiss her.
“Don’t talk like that, my Arne,” she begged, patting his arm.
“Kristin,” said Arne in a muted voice, taking her in his arms again. “Couldn’t you consider asking your father . . . Lavrans is such a good man, he would never force you against your will. Couldn’t you ask him to wait a few years? No one knows how my fortune may change—we’re both so young.”
“I must do what those at home want me to do,” she sobbed.
Then tears overcame Arne too.
“You have no idea, Kristin, how much I love you.” He hid his face on her shoulder. “If you did, and if you loved me too, then you would go to Lavrans and beg him sweetly—”
“I can’t do that,” sobbed the maiden. “I don’t think I could ever love a man so dearly that I would go against my parents’ will for his sake.” She slipped her hands under Arne’s hood and heavy steel helmet to find his face. “You mustn’t cry like that, Arne, my dearest friend.”
“I want you to have this,” he said after a moment, giving her a small brooch. “And think of me now and then, for I will never forget you, or my sorrow.”
It was almost completely dark by the time Kristin and Arne had said their last farewells. She stood and gazed after him when he finally rode away. A yellow light shone through the clouds, and the light was reflected in their footsteps, where they had walked and stood in the slush of the road; it looked so cold and bleak, she thought. She pulled out the linen cloth covering her bodice and wiped her tear-streaked face; then she turned around and set off for home.
She was wet and cold and she walked fast. After a while she heard someone approaching on the road behind her. She was a little frightened; it was possible that strangers might be traveling on this main road, even on an evening like this, and she had a lonely stretch ahead of her. Steep black scree rose up on one side, but on the other there was a sharp drop-off, covered with pine woods all the way down to the pale, leaden river at the bottom of the valley. So she was relieved when the person behind her called her name; she stopped and waited.
The person who approached was a tall, thin man wearing a dark surcoat with lighter colored sleeves. When he came closer, Kristin saw that he was dressed as a priest and carried an empty knapsack on his back. She now recognized Bentein Prestes?n, as they called him—Sira Eirik’s grandson. She noticed at once that he was quite drunk.
“Well, one departs and the other arrives,” he said and laughed after they had greeted each other. “I met Arne from Brekken just now—and I see that you’re walking along and crying. So how about giving me a little smile because I’ve come back home? The two of us have also been friends since childhood, haven’t we?”
“It’s a poor bargain to have you come back to the valley in his stead,” said Kristin crossly. She had never liked Bentein. “Quite a few people will say the same, I’m afraid. And your grandfather was so happy that you were getting on so well down south in Oslo.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bentein with a snicker and a sneer. “So you think I was getting on well, do you? Like a pig in a wheat field, that’s how it was for me, Kristin—and the end result was the same. I was chased off with a shout and a long stick. Well, well. He doesn’t have much joy from his offspring, my grandfather. Why are you walking so fast?”
“I’m freezing,” said Kristin curtly.
“No more than I am,” said the priest. “The only clothing I have to wear is what you see. I had to sell my cape for food and ale in Lillehammer. But you must still have warmth in your body from saying farewell to Arne. I think you should let me come under your furs with you.” And he seized hold of her cloak, threw it around his shoulders, and wrapped his wet arm around her waist.
Kristin was so startled by his boldness that it took a moment for her to regain her senses—then she tried to tear herself away, but he was holding on to her cloak and it was fastened with a sturdy silver clasp. Bentein put his arms around her again and tried to kiss her, shoving his mouth close to her chin. She tried to strike him, but he was gripping her upper arms.
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” she seethed as she struggled against him. “How dare you manhandle me as if I were a . . . You’re going to regret this bitterly tomorrow, you miserable wretch.”
“Oh, tomorrow you won’t be so stupid,” said Bentein, tripping her with his leg so that she fell to her knees in the mud of the road. Then he pressed his hand over her mouth.