“I have to go now,” said Kristin.
And Erlend replied, “I suppose you do.” He put his hand on her foot. “You’ll get wet. You must ride, and I’ll walk. Out of the forest . . .” He gave her such a strange look.
Kristin was trembling—she thought it was because her heart was pounding so hard—and her hands were clammy and cold. When he kissed the bare skin above her knee, she tried powerlessly to push him away. Erlend raised his face for a moment, and she was suddenly reminded of a man who had once been given food at the convent—he had kissed the bread they handed to him. She sank back into the hay with open arms and let Erlend do as he liked.
She was sitting bolt upright when Erlend lifted his head from his arms. Abruptly he propped himself up on his elbow.
“Don’t look like that, Kristin!”
His voice etched a wild new pain into Kristin’s soul. He wasn’t happy—he was distressed too.
“Kristin, Kristin . . .”
And a moment later he asked, “Do you think I lured you out here to the woods because I wanted this from you, to take you by force?”
She stroked his hair but didn’t look at him.
“I wouldn’t call it force. No doubt you would have let me go as I came if I had asked you to,” she said softly.
“I’m not sure of that,” he replied, hiding his face in her lap.
“Do you think I will forsake you?” he asked fervently. “Kristin—I swear on my Christian faith—may God forsake me in my last hour if I fail to be faithful to you until I die.”
She couldn’t say a word; she merely caressed his hair, over and over.
“Now, surely, it must be time for me to go home,” she said at last, and she felt as if she were waiting with dread for his reply.
“I suppose it is,” he said gloomily. He stood up quickly, went over to his horse, and began to untie the reins.
Then Kristin stood up too—slowly, feeling faint and shattered. She didn’t know what she had expected him to do—perhaps help her up onto his horse and take her along with him so that she could avoid going back to the others. Her whole body seemed to be aching with astonishment—that this was the iniquity that all the songs were about. And because Erlend had done this to her, she felt as if she had become his possession, and she couldn’t imagine how she could live beyond his reach anymore. She was going to have to leave him now, but she could not conceive of doing so.
Down through the woods he walked, leading the horse and holding Kristin’s hand in his, but they could think of nothing to say to each other.
When they had gone so far that they could see the buildings of Skog, he said farewell.
“Kristin, don’t be sad. Before you know it the day will come when you’ll be my wife.”
But her heart sank as she spoke.
“Then you have to leave me?” she asked fearfully.
“As soon as you’ve left Skog,” he said, and his voice sounded more vibrant all at once. “If there’s no campaign, then I’ll speak to Munan. He’s been urging me for a long time to get married; I’m certain he’ll accompany me and speak to your father on my behalf.”
Kristin bowed her head. For every word he spoke, the time that lay before her seemed longer and more impossible to imagine—the convent, J?rundgaard—it was as if she were floating in a stream that was carrying her away from everything.
“Do you sleep alone in the loft, now that your kinsmen have gone?” asked Erlend. “If so, I’ll come and talk to you tonight. Will you let me in?”
“Yes,” murmured Kristin. And then they parted.
The rest of the day Kristin sat with her grandmother, and after the evening meal she helped the old woman into bed. Then she went up to the loft where she slept. There was a small window in the room, and Kristin sat down on the chest that stood beneath it; she had no desire to go to bed.
She had to wait for a long time. It was pitch dark outside when she heard the quiet footsteps on the gallery. He tapped on the door with his cape wrapped around his knuckles, and Kristin stood up, drew back the bolt, and let Erlend in.
She noticed that he was pleased when she threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him.
“I was afraid you’d be angry with me,” he said.
Some time later he said, “You mustn’t grieve over this sin. It’s not a great one. God’s law is not the same as the law of the land in this matter. Gunnulv, my brother, once explained it all to me. If two people agree to stand by each other for all eternity and then lie with each other, they are married before God and cannot break their vows without committing a great sin. I would tell you the word in Latin if I could remember it—I knew it once.”