Kristin moaned aloud, clasped her hands before her breast, and stood there, rocking back and forth. Yes, she had said so proudly that she would not complain about Erlend Nikulauss?n if he grew tired of her, betrayed her, or even left her.
Yes, but if that was what Erlend had done . . . She thought she would have been able to stand it. If he had betrayed her once, and that had been the end of it. But he hadn’t betrayed her; he had merely failed her again and again and made her life full of anguish and uncertainty. No, he had never betrayed her, nor had he ever made her feel secure. And she could see no end to it all. Here she stood now, about to beg him to come back, to fill her goblet each day with uncertainty and unrest, with expectations, with longings and fear and hope that would be shattered.
She felt now as if he had worn her out. She had neither the youth nor the courage to live with him any longer, and she would probably never grow so old that Erlend couldn’t play with her heart. Not young enough to have the strength to live with him; not old enough to have patience with him. She had become a miserable woman; no doubt that was what she had always been. Simon was right.
Simon . . . and her father. They had held on to their loyal love for her, even as she trampled on them for the sake of this man whom she no longer had the strength to endure.
Oh, Simon. I know that never for a minute did you wish vengeance upon me. But I wonder, Simon, if you know in your grave, that now you have been avenged after all.
No, she couldn’t bear it any longer; she would have to find something to do. She made up the bed and looked for a dishrag and broom, but they were not to be found anywhere. She glanced into the alcove; now she understood why it smelled like a stable. Erlend had made a stall for his horse in there. But it had been mucked out and cleaned. His saddle and harness, which hung on the wall, were well cared for and oiled, with all the torn pieces mended.
Compassion once more washed away all other thoughts. Did he keep Soten inside because he couldn’t bear to be alone in the house?
Kristin heard a sound out on the gallery. She stepped over to the window. It was covered with dust and cobwebs, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman. She pulled the rag from the hole and peeked out. A woman was setting down a pail of milk and a small cheese out there. She was middle-aged and lame and wore ugly, tattered clothes. Kristin herself was hardly aware of how much easier she breathed.
She tidied up the room as best she could. She found the inscription that Bj?rn Gunnarss?n had carved into a timber of the wall. It was in Latin, so she couldn’t decipher the whole thing, but he called himself both Dominus and Miles, and she read the name of his ancestral estate in Elve County, which he had lost because of Aashild Gautesdatter. In the midst of the splendid carvings on the high seat was his coat of arms with its unicorn and water lilies.
A short time later Kristin heard a horse somewhere outside. She went over to the entryway and peered out.
From the leafy forest across from the farm a tall black stallion emerged, pulling a load of firewood. Erlend walked alongside to guide him. A dog was perched on top of the wood, and several more dogs were running around the sled.
Soten, the Castilian, strained against the harness and pulled the sledful of wood across the grassy courtyard. One of the dogs began barking as it crossed the green. Erlend, who had begun to unfasten the harnesses, noticed from all the dogs that something must be wrong. He took his axe from the load of wood and walked toward the house.
Kristin fled back inside, letting the door fall shut behind her. She crept over to the fireplace and stood there, trembling and waiting.
Erlend stepped inside with his axe in hand and the dogs milling around him on the threshold. They found the intruder at once and began barking furiously.
The first thing she noticed was the rush of blood that flooded his face, so youthful and red. The quick tremor on his fine, soft lips, and his big, deep-set eyes beneath the shadow of his brows.
The sight of him took her breath away. No doubt she saw the old stubble of beard on the lower half of his face, and she saw that his disheveled hair was iron gray. But the color that came and went so swiftly in his cheeks, the way it had when they were young . . . He was just as young and handsome; it was as if nothing had been able to break him.
He was poorly clad. His blue shirt was filthy and tattered; over it he wore a leather vest, scratched and scraped and torn around the eyelets, but it fit snugly and followed pliantly the graceful, strong movements of his body. His tight leather hose was torn at one knee, and the seam was split on the back of the other leg. And yet he had never looked more like the descendant of chieftains and noblemen than he did now. With such calm dignity he carried his slender body with the wide, rather sloping shoulders and the long, elegant limbs. He stood there, his weight resting slightly on one foot, one hand stuck in the belt around his slim waist, the other holding the axe at his side.