Kristin remained leaning there, with her hands on the bier, for she did not have the strength to stand up. Inga pulled aside more of the shroud so the gash from the knife wound across his collar-bone was visible.
Then she turned to the people and said in a quavering voice, “I see that it’s a lie, what people say, that a dead man’s wounds will bleed if he’s touched by the one who caused his death. He’s colder now, my boy, and not as handsome as when you last met him down on the road. You don’t care to kiss him now, I see—but I’ve heard that you didn’t refuse his lips back then.”
“Inga,” said Lavrans, stepping forward, “have you lost your senses? What are you saying?”
“Oh, you’re all so grand over there at J?rundgaard—you were much too rich a man, Lavrans Bj?rgulfs?n, for my son to dare court your daughter with honor. And no doubt Kristin thought she was too good for him too. But she wasn’t too good to run after him on the road at night and dally with him in the thickets on the evening he left. Ask her yourself and we’ll see if she dares to deny it, as Arne lies here dead—she who has brought this upon us with her loose ways…”
Lavrans did not ask the question; instead he turned to Gyrd. “You must rein in your wife—she has taken leave of her senses.”
But Kristin raised her pale face and looked around in despair.
“I did go out to meet Arne on that last evening, because he asked me to do so. But nothing happened between us that was not proper.” And as she seemed to pull herself together and fully realize what was implied, she shouted loudly, “I don’t know what you mean, Inga. Are you defaming Arne as he lies here? Never did he try to entice or seduce me.”
But Inga laughed loudly.
“Arne? No, not Arne. But Bentein didn’t let you play with him that way. Ask Gunhild, Lavrans, who washed the filth off your daughter’s back, and ask any man who was in the men’s quarters at the bishop’s citadel on New Year’s Eve when Bentein ridiculed Arne for having let her go and then was made her fool. She let Bentein come under her fur as she walked home, and she tried to play the same game with him—”
Lavrans gripped Inga by the shoulder and pressed his hand against her mouth.
“Get her out of here, Gyrd. It’s shameful that you should talk this way before the body of this good boy. But even if all of your children lay here dead, I would not stand and listen to your lies about mine. And you, Gyrd, will have to answer for what this demented woman is saying.”
Gyrd took hold of his wife to lead her away, but he said to Lavrans, “It’s true that Arne and Bentein were talking about Kristin when my son lost his life. It’s understandable that you may not have heard it, but there has been talk here in the village this fall. . . .”
Simon slammed his sword into the nearest clothes chest.
“No, good folks, now you will have to find something other than my betrothed to talk about in this death chamber. Priest, can’t you harness these people so that everything proceeds according to custom?”
The priest—Kristin now saw that he was the youngest son from Ulvsvold who had been home for Christmas—opened his book and took up his position next to the bier. But Lavrans shouted that those who had spoken of his daughter, whoever they might be, would have to eat their words.
And then Inga screamed, “Go ahead and take my life, Lavrans, just as she has taken all my solace and joy—and celebrate her marriage to this son of a knight, and yet everyone will know that she was married to Bentein on the road. Here—” And she threw the sheet that Lavrans had given her across the bier to Kristin. “I don’t need Ragnfrid’s linen to wrap around Arne for burial. Make yourself a kerchief out of it, or keep it to swaddle your wayside bastard—and go over to help Gunhild mourn for the hanged man.”
Lavrans, Gyrd, and the priest all seized hold of Inga. Simon tried to lift up Kristin, who was lying across the bier. But she vehemently shook off his hand, and then, still on her knees, she straightened up and shouted loudly, “May God my Savior help me, that is a lie!”
She put out her hand and held it over the nearest candle on the bier.
It looked as if the flame wavered and moved aside. Kristin felt everyone’s eyes upon her—for a very long time, it seemed. Then she suddenly noticed a searing pain in her palm, and with a piercing shriek she collapsed onto the floor.
She thought she had fainted, but she could feel Simon and the priest lifting her up. Inga screamed something. She saw her father’s horrified face and heard the priest shout that no one should consider it a true trial—this was not the way to ask God to bear witness—and then Simon carried Kristin out of the loft and down the stairs. Simon’s servant ran to the stable and a moment later Kristin, still only half conscious, was sitting on the front of Simon’s saddle, wrapped in his cape, as he rode down toward the village as fast as his horse could carry them.