“Did your mother grieve greatly when the infant died this summer?” he asked once, quite softly.
Young Lavrans replied, “She didn’t cry after he died. But she has gone up to the cemetery gate every night since. Gaute and Naakkve usually follow her when she leaves, but they haven’t dared speak to her, and they don’t dare let Mother see that they’ve been keeping watch over her.”
A little later Erlend said, “She didn’t cry? I remember back when your mother was young, and she wept as readily as the dew drips from goat willow reeds along the creek. She was so gentle and tender, Kristin, whenever she was with people whom she knew wished her well. Later on she had to learn to be harder, and most often I was the one to blame.”
“Gunhild and Frida say that in all the days our youngest brother lived,” continued Lavrans, “she cried every minute when she thought no one would see her.”
“May God help me,” said Erlend in a low voice. “I’ve been a foolish man.”
They rode through the valley floor, with the curve of the river at their backs. Erlend wrapped his cape around the boy as best he could. Lavrans dozed and kept threatening to fall asleep. He sensed that his father’s body smelled like that of a poor man. He had a vague memory from his early childhood, while they were living at Husaby, when his father would come from the bathhouse on Saturdays and he would have several little balls in his hands. They smelled so good, and the delicate, sweet scent would cling to his palms and to his clothing during the whole Sabbath.
Erlend rode steadily and briskly. Down on the moors it was pitch-dark. Without thinking about it, he knew at every moment where he was; he recognized the changing sound of the river’s clamor, as the Laag rushed through rapids and plunged over falls. Their path took them across flat stretches, where the sparks flew from the horse’s hooves. Soten ran with confidence and ease among the writhing roots of pine trees, where the road passed through thick forest; there was a soft gurgling and rushing sound as he raced across small green plains where a meandering rivulet from the mountains streamed across. By daybreak he would be home, and that would be a fitting hour.
The whole time Erlend was doubtless thinking about that moon-blue wintry night long ago when he drove a sleigh down through this very valley. Bj?rn Gunnarss?n sat in back, holding a dead woman in his arms. But the memory was pale and distant, just as everything the child had told him seemed distant and unreal: all that had happened down in the village and those mad rumors about Kristin. Somehow his mind refused to grasp it. After he arrived, there would surely be time enough to think about what he should do. Nothing seemed real except the feeling of strain and fear—now that he would soon see Kristin.
He had waited and waited for her. He had never doubted that one day she would come to him—up until he heard what name she had given the child.
Stepping out of the church into the gray light were those people who had been to early mass to hear one of the priests from Hamar preach. The ones who emerged first saw Erlend Nikulauss?n ride past toward home, and they told the others. Some uneasiness and a great deal of talk arose; people headed down the slope and stood in groups at the place where the lane to J?rundgaard diverged from the main road.
Erlend rode into the courtyard as the waning moon sank behind the rim of clouds and the mountain ridge, pale in the dawn light.
Outside the foreman’s house stood a group of people: Jardtrud’s kinsmen and her friends who had stayed with her overnight. At the sound of horse hooves in the courtyard the men who had been keeping guard in the room under the high loft came outside.
Erlend reined in his horse. He gazed down at the farmers and said in a loud, mocking voice, “Is there a feast being held on my estate and I know nothing about it? Or why are you good folks gathered here at this early hour?”
Angry, dark looks met him from all sides. Erlend sat tall and slender astride the long-legged foreign stallion. Before, Soten’s mane had been clipped short, but now it was thick and uncut. The horse was ungroomed and had gray hairs on his head, but his eyes glittered dangerously, and he stomped and shifted uneasily, laying his ears back and tossing his small, elegant head so that flecks of lather sprinkled his neck and shoulders and the rider. The harnesswork had once been red and the saddle inlaid with gold; now they were worn and broken and mended. And the man was dressed almost like a beggar. His hair, which billowed from under a simple black woolen hat, was grayish white; a gray stubble grew on his pale, furrowed face with the big nose. But he sat erect, and he was smiling arrogantly down at the crowd of farmers. He looked young, in spite of everything, and like a chieftain. Fierce hatred surged toward this outsider, who sat there, holding his head high and uncowed—after all the grief and shame and misery he had brought upon those whom these people considered their own chieftains.