And yet Kristin still did not think to scream. Now she finally realized what he intended to do to her, but rage overcame her with such fury and violence that she hardly felt any fear. She snarled like an animal in battle and fought against this man who was holding her down so that the ice-cold snow water soaked through her clothing and reached her burning hot flesh.
“Tomorrow you’ll know enough to keep quiet,” said Bentein. “And if it can’t be concealed, you can always blame Arne; people will sooner believe that. . . .”
He had put a finger in her mouth, so she bit him with all her might, and Bentein screamed and loosened his grip. As quick as lightning Kristin pulled one hand free and shoved it into his face, pressing her thumb as hard as she could into his eye. He bellowed and got up on one knee. She wriggled free like a cat, pushed the priest so that he fell onto his back, and then ran off down the road as the mud spurted up behind her with every step.
She ran and ran without looking back. She heard Bentein coming after her, and she raced off with her heart pounding in her throat, as she moaned softly and peered ahead—would she never reach Laugarbru? At last Kristin came to the part of the road where it passed through the fields. She saw buildings clustered on the hillside, and suddenly realized that she didn’t dare go to her mother—not the way she looked, covered with mud and withered leaves from head to toe, her clothing torn.
She could feel Bentein coming closer. She bent down and picked up two big rocks, and when he was near enough she threw them; one of them struck him so hard that it knocked him down. Then she started running again and didn’t stop until she stood on the bridge.
Trembling, she stood there holding on to the railing; everything went black and she was afraid that she would sink into unconsciousness—but then she thought about Bentein. What if he came and found her like that? Shaking with shame and bitterness, she kept on going, but her legs could hardly bear her, and now she felt how her face stung from the scratches of his fingernails, and she had hurt both her back and her arms. Tears came, hot as fire.
She wished Bentein would be dead from the rock she had thrown; she wished she had gone back and put an end to him, that she had taken out her knife, but she noticed that she must have lost it.
Then she realized again that she dared not be seen like this at home; it occurred to her that she could go to Romundgaard. She would complain to Sira Eirik.
But the priest had not yet returned from J?rundgaard. In the cookhouse she found Gunhild, Bentein’s mother. The woman was alone, and then Kristin told her how her son had behaved toward her. But she didn’t mention that she had gone out to meet Arne. When she realized that Gunhild thought she had been at Laugarbru, she didn’t dissuade her.
Gunhild said very little but cried a great deal as she washed Kristin’s clothing and mended the worst rips. And the young girl was so distressed that she didn’t notice the glances Gunhild cast at her in secret.
As Kristin was leaving, Gunhild put on her own cloak and followed her out the door, but then headed toward the stable. Kristin asked her where she was going.
“Surely I should be allowed to ride over and tend to my son,” said the woman, “to see if you’ve killed him with that rock or what’s happened to him.”
Kristin had nothing to say in reply, so she simply told Gunhild to make sure that Bentein left the village as soon as possible; she never wanted to lay eyes on him again. “Or I’ll speak of this to Lavrans, and then you can well imagine what will happen.”
Bentein headed south hardly more than a week later; he carried letters to the Bishop of Hamar from Sira Eirik, asking the bishop if he could find some occupation for Bentein or give him some assistance.
CHAPTER 7
ONE DAY during the Christmas season, Simon Andress?n arrived at J?rundgaard on horseback, quite unexpected. He apologized for coming in this manner, uninvited and alone, without kinsmen, but Sir Andres was in Sweden on business for the king. He himself had been at home at Dyfrin for some time, but there he had only the company of his younger sisters and his mother, who was ill in bed, and the days had grown so dreary for him; he suddenly felt such an urge to come and see them.
Ragnfrid and Lavrans thanked him warmly for making the long journey at the height of winter. The more they saw of Simon, the more they liked him. He was well acquainted with everything that had been agreed upon between Andres and Lavrans, and it was now decided that the betrothal ale for the young couple would be celebrated before the beginning of Lent, if Sir Andres returned home before then—otherwise, at Easter.