Kristin Lavransdatter Part 46

Ragnfrid sat motionless, her cheeks blood red.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered at last. "Do you think I begrudge our daughter her ring?"

Lavrans shook his head and gave a little smile. "I think you know why I'm doing this."

"You've said in the past that you wanted to have this ring in the grave with you," she said in the same tone of voice. "And no one but you was to wear it."

"And that's why you must never take it off, Ragnfrid. Promise me that. After you, I want no one else to wear it."

"Why are you doing this?" she repeated, holding her breath.

Her husband looked down into her face.

"This spring it was thirty-four years ago that we were married. I was an under-aged boy; during all of my manhood you have been at my side, whenever I suffered grief and whenever things went well. May G.o.d help me, I had such little understanding of how many troubles you had to bear in our life together. But now it seems to me that all of my days I felt it was good that you were here.

I don't know whether you believed that I had more love for Kristin than for you. It's true that she was my greatest joy, and she caused me the greatest sorrow. But you were mother to them all. Now I think leaving you behind will hurt me the most, when I go.

"And that's why you must never give my ring to anyone else-not even to one of our daughters; tell them they must not take it from you.

"Perhaps you may think, wife, that you've had more sorrow than joy with me; things did go wrong for us in some ways. And yet I think we have been faithful friends. And this is what I have thought: that afterwards we will meet again in such a manner that all the wrongs will no longer separate us; and the friends.h.i.+p that we had, G.o.d will build even stronger."

Ragnfrid lifted her pale, furrowed face. Her big, sunken eyes burned as she looked up at her husband. He was still holding her hand; she looked at it, lying in his, slightly raised. The three rings gleamed next to each other: on the bottom her betrothal ring, next her wedding ring, and on top his ring.

It seemed so strange to her. She remembered when he put the first one on her finger; they were standing in front of the smoke-vent pole in the hall back home at Sundbu, their fathers with them. He was pink and white, his cheeks were round, hardly more than a child-a little bashful as he took a step forward from Sir Bjrgulf's side.

The second ring he had put on her finger in front of the church door in Gerdarud, in the name of the Trinity, under the hand of the priest.

With this last ring, she felt as if he were marrying her again. Now that she would soon sit beside his lifeless body, he wanted her to know that with this ring he was committing to her the strong and vital force that had lived in this dust and ashes.

Her heart felt as if it were breaking in her breast, bleeding and bleeding, young and fierce. From grief over the warm and ardent love which she had lost and still secretly mourned; from anguished joy over the pale, luminous love which drew her to the farthest boundaries of life on this earth. Through the great darkness that would come, she saw the gleam of another, gentler sun, and she sensed the fragrance of the herbs in the garden at world's end.

Lavrans set his wife's hand back in her lap and sat down on the bench a short distance away, with his back against the table and one arm resting along the top. He did not look at her, but stared into the hearth fire.

And yet her voice was quiet and calm when she once again spoke.

"I did not know, my husband, that you had such affection for me."

"I do," he replied, his voice equally calm.

They sat in silence for a while. Ragnfrid moved her sewing from her lap onto the bench beside her. After a time she said softly, "What I told you that night-have you forgotten that?"

"I doubt that any man on this earth could forget such words. And it's true that I myself have felt that things were no better between us after I heard them. But G.o.d knows, Ragnfrid, I tried so hard to conceal from you that I gave that matter so much thought."

"I didn't realize you thought so much about it."

He turned toward her abruptly and stared at his wife.

Then Ragnfrid said, "I am to blame that things grew worse between us, Lavrans. I thought that if you could be toward me exactly the same as before that night-then you must have cared even less for me than I thought. If you had been a stern husband toward me afterwards, if you had struck me even once when you were drunk-then I would have been better able to bear my sorrow and my remorse. But when you took it so lightly . . ."

"Did you think I took it lightly?"

The faint quaver in his voice made her wild with longing. She wanted to bury herself inside him, down in the depths of the emotions that could make his voice ripple with tension and strain.

She exclaimed in fury, "If only you had taken me in your arms even once, not because I was the lawful, Christian wife they had placed at your side, but as the wife you had yearned for and fought to win. Then you couldn't have behaved toward me as if those words had not been said."

Lavrans thought about what she had said. "No . . . then . . . I don't think I could have. No."

"If you had been as fond of your betrothed as Simon was of our Kristin . . ."

Lavrans didn't reply. After a moment, as if against his will, he said softly and fearfully, "Why did you mention Simon? Simon?"

"I suppose because I couldn't compare you to that other man," Ragnfrid said, confused and frightened herself although she tried to smile. "You and Erlend are too unlike each other."

Lavrans stood up, took a few steps, feeling uneasy. Then he said in an even quieter voice, "G.o.d will not forsake Simon."

"Have you never thought that G.o.d had forsaken you?" asked his wife.

"No."

"What did you think that night as we sat in the barn, when you found out at the very same moment that Kristin and I-the two people you held dearest and loved the most faithfully-we had both betrayed you as much as we possibly could?"

"I don't think I thought much about it," replied her husband.

"But later on," continued his wife, "when you kept thinking about it, as you say you did . . ."

Lavrans turned away from her. She saw a blush flood his sunburned neck.

"I thought about all the times I had betrayed Christ," he said in a low voice.

Ragnfrid stood up, hesitating a moment before she dared go over and place her hands on her husband's shoulders. When he put his arms around her, she pressed her forehead against his chest. He could feel her crying. Lavrans pulled her closer and rested his face against her hair.

"Now, Ragnfrid, we will go to bed," he said after a moment.

Together they walked over to the crucifix, knelt, and made the sign of the cross. Lavrans said the evening prayers, speaking the language of the Church in a low, clear voice, and his wife repeated the words after him.

Then they undressed. Ragnfrid lay down on the inner side of the bed; the headboard was now much lower because lately her husband had been plagued with dizziness. Lavrans shoved the bolt on the door closed, sc.r.a.ped ashes over the fire in the hearth, blew out the candle, and climbed in beside her. In the darkness they lay with their arms touching each other. After a moment they laced their fingers together.

Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter thought it seemed like a new wedding night, and a strange one. Happiness and sorrow flowed into each other, carrying her along on waves so powerful that she felt her soul beginning to loosen its roots in her body. Now the hand of death had touched her too-for the first time.

This was how it had to end-when it had begun as it did. She remembered the first time she saw her betrothed. At that time Lavrans was pleased with her-a little shy, but willing enough to have affection for his bride. Even the fact that the boy was so radiantly handsome had irritated her. His hair hung so thick and glossy and fair around his pink-and-white, downy face. Her heart burned with anguish at the thought of another man, who was not handsome nor young nor gentle like milk and blood; she was dying with longing to sink into his embrace and drive her knife into his throat. And the first time her betrothed tried to caress her . . . They were sitting together on the steps of a loft back home, and he reached out to take one of her braids. She leaped to her feet, turned her back on him, white with anger, and left.

Oh, she remembered that nighttime journey, when she rode with Trond and Tordis through Jerndal to Dovre, to the woman who was skilled in sorcery. She had fallen to her knees, pulling off rings and bracelets and putting them on the floor in front of Fru Aas.h.i.+ld; in vain she had begged for a remedy so her bridegroom might not have his will with her. She remembered the long journey with her father and kinsmen and bridesmaids and the entourage from home, down through the valley, out across the flat countryside, to the wedding at Skog. And she remembered the first night-and all the nights afterwards-when she received the clumsy caresses of the newly married boy and acted cold as stone, never concealing how little they pleased her.

No, G.o.d had not forsaken her. In His mercy, He had heard her cries for help when she called on Him, as she sank more and more into her misery-even when she called without believing she would be heard. It felt as if the black sea were rus.h.i.+ng over her; now the waves lifted her toward a bliss so strange and so sweet that she knew it would carry her out of life.

"Talk to me, Lavrans," she implored him quietly. "I'm so tired."

Her husband whispered, "Venite ad me, omnes qui laborate et onerati estis. Ego reficiam vos1-the Lord has said."

He slipped one arm under her shoulder and pulled her close to his side. They lay there for a moment, cheek to cheek.

Then she said softly, "Now I have asked the Mother of G.o.d to answer my prayer that I need not live long after you, my husband."

His lips and his lashes brushed her cheek in the darkness like the wings of a b.u.t.terfly.

"My Ragnfrid, my Ragnfrid."

CHAPTER 8.

KRISTIN STAYED HOME at Husaby during the autumn and winter with no wish to go anywhere; she blamed this on the fact that she was unwell. But she was simply tired. She had never felt so tired before in all her life. She was tired of merriment and tired of sorrow, and most of all tired of brooding.

It would be better after she had this new child, she thought; and she felt such a fierce longing for it. It was the child that would save her. If it was a son and her father died before he was born, he would bear her father's name. And she thought about how dearly she would love this child and nurse him at her own breast. It had been such a long time since she had had an infant, and she wept with longing whenever she thought about holding a tiny child in her arms again.

She gathered her sons around her as she had in the past and tried to bring a little more discipline and order to their upbringing. She felt that in this way she was acting in accordance with her father's wishes, and it seemed to give her soul some peace. Sira Eiliv had now begun to teach Naakkve and Bjrgulf reading and Latin, and Kristin often sat in the parsonage when the children went there for lessons. But they weren't very eager pupils, and all the boys were unruly and wild except for Gaute, and so he continued to be his mother's lap-child, as Erlend called him.

Erlend had returned home from Denmark in high spirits around All Saints' Day. He had been received with the greatest honor by the duke and by his kinswoman, Lady Ingebjrg. They had thanked him heartily for his gifts of furs and silver; he had ridden in a jousting tournament and hunted stag and deer. And when they parted, Sir Knut had given him a coal-black Spanish stallion, while Lady Ingebjrg had sent kind greetings along with two silver grey-hounds for his wife. Kristin thought these foreign dogs looked sly and treacherous, and she was afraid they would harm her children. And people all around were talking about the Castilian horse. Erlend looked good on the back of the long-legged, elegantly built horse, but animals like that were not suited to this country, and only G.o.d knew how the stallion would manage in the mountains. In the meantime, wherever he went in his district, Erlend would buy the most splendid of black mares, and he now had a herd that was beautiful in appearance, at any rate. Erlend Nikulaussn usually gave his horses refined, foreign names, such as Belkolor and Bajard, but he said that this stallion was so magnificent that it didn't need any further adornment, and he named it simply Soten.1 Erlend was greatly annoyed that his wife refused to accompany him anywhere. He couldn't see that she was ill; she neither swooned nor vomited this time, and it was not even visible that she was with child. And by constantly sitting indoors, brooding and worrying over his misdeeds, she had grown weary and pale. It was during the Christmas season that fierce quarrels erupted between them. But this time Erlend didn't come and apologize for his bad temper, as he had in the past. Until now, whenever they had disagreements, he had always believed that he was to blame. Kristin was good, she was always right; if he felt uncomfortable and bored at home, then it must be because it was his nature to grow weary of what was good and right if he had too much of it. But this summer he had noticed more than once that his father-in-law had sided with him and seemed to think Kristin was lacking in wifely gentleness and tolerance. It occurred to him that she was overly sensitive about petty matters and reluctant to forgive him for minor offenses which he had committed with no ill intent. He would always beg her forgiveness after taking time to reflect, and she would say that she forgave him. But afterwards he could see that it was simply stored away, not forgotten.

So Erlend spent much time away from home, and now he often took his daughter Margret along with him. The maiden's upbringing had always been a source of disagreement between him and his wife. Kristin had never said a word about it, but Erlend knew quite well what she, and others, thought. He had treated Margret in all respects as his lawful child, and whenever she accompanied her father and stepmother everyone received her as if she were. At Ramborg's wedding she had been one of the bridesmaids, wearing a golden wreath on her flowing hair. Many of the women didn't approve, but Lavrans had persuaded them, and Simon had also said that no one should voice any objection to Erlend or say a word about it to the maiden. The lovely child was not to blame for her unfortunate birth.

But Kristin knew that Erlend planned to marry Margret to a man of n.o.ble lineage. He thought that with his present position, he could succeed in arranging it, even though the maiden had been conceived in adultery and it would be difficult to gain for her a position that was firm and secure. It might have been possible if people had been convinced that Erlend was capable of preserving and increasing his power and wealth. But although he was well-liked and respected in many ways, no one truly believed that the prosperity at Husaby would last. So Kristin was afraid that it would be difficult for him to carry out his plans for Margret. Even though she was not particularly fond of Margret, Kristin felt sorry for the maiden and dreaded the day when the girl's arrogant spirit might be broken-if she had to settle for a match that was much poorer than what her father had taught her to expect, and for circ.u.mstances that were quite different from what she had grown up with.

Then, around Candlemas, three men came from Formo to Husaby; they had skied over the mountains to bring Erlend troubling news from Simon Andressn. Simon wrote that their father-in-law was ill, and that he was not expected to live long. Lavrans wanted to ask Erlend to come to Sil, if he could; he wanted to speak to both of his sons-in-law about how everything should be arranged after his death.

Erlend cast surrept.i.tious glances at his wife. She was heavy with child now; her face was thin and quite pale. And she looked so unhappy, as if she might cry at any moment. Now he regretted his behavior toward her that winter; her father's illness came as no surprise to her, and if she had been carrying such a secret sorrow, he would have to forgive her for being unreasonable.

Alone he would be able to travel to Sil quite swiftly, if he skied over the mountains. But if he had to take along his wife, it would be a slow and difficult journey. And then he would have to wait until after the weapons-ting2 during Lent, and call meetings with his deputies first. There were also several meetings and during Lent, and call meetings with his deputies first. There were also several meetings and tings tings that he would have to attend himself. Before they could leave, it would be dangerously close to the time when she would give birth-and Kristin couldn't stand the sea, even when she was feeling well. But he didn't dare think about her not being allowed to see her father before he died. That evening, after they had gone to bed, he asked his wife whether she dared make the journey. that he would have to attend himself. Before they could leave, it would be dangerously close to the time when she would give birth-and Kristin couldn't stand the sea, even when she was feeling well. But he didn't dare think about her not being allowed to see her father before he died. That evening, after they had gone to bed, he asked his wife whether she dared make the journey.

He felt rewarded as she wept in his arms, grateful and full of remorse for her unkindness toward him that winter. Erlend grew gentle and tender, as he always did whenever he had caused a woman sorrow and then was forced to see her struggle with her grief before his eyes. And he gave in to Kristin's proposal with reasonable patience. He said at once that he wouldn't take the children along. But Kristin replied that Naakkve was old enough now, and it would be good for him to witness his grandfather's pa.s.sing. Erlend said no. Then she thought that Ivar and Skule were too young to be left in the care of the servant women. No, said Erlend. And Lavrans had grown so fond of Gaute. No, said Erlend again. It would be difficult enough, as things now stood with her-for Ragnfrid to have a nursemaid on the estate while she was tending to her husband on his sickbed, and for them to bring the newborn home again. Either Kristin would have to leave the child with foster parents on one of Lavrans's farms, or she would have to stay at Jrundgaard until summer; but he would have to travel home before then. He went over all the plans, again and again, but he tried to make his voice calm and convincing.

Then it occurred to him that he ought to bring a few things from Nidaros that his mother-in-law might need for the funeral feast: wine and wax, wheat flour and Paradise grains and the like. But at last they made their departure, reaching Jrundgaard on the day before Saint Gertrud's Day.

But this homecoming was much different for Kristin than she had imagined.

She had to be grateful that she was given the chance to see her father again. When she thought about his joy at her arrival and how he had thanked Erlend for bringing her, then she was happy. But this time she felt shut out from so many things, and it was a painful feeling.

It was less than a month before she would give birth, and Lavrans forbade her from lifting a hand to tend to him. She wasn't allowed to keep watch over him at night with the others, and Ragnfrid wouldn't hear of her offering the slightest help in spite of all the work to be done. She sat with her father during the day, but they were seldom alone together. Almost daily, guests would come to the manor; friends who wanted to see Lavrans Bjrgulfsn one last time before he died. This pleased her father, although it made him quite weary. He would talk in a merry and hearty voice to everyone-women and men, poor and rich, young and old-thanking them for their friends.h.i.+p and asking for their prayers of intercession for his soul, and hoping that G.o.d might allow them to meet on the day of rejoicing. At night, when only his close family was with him, Kristin would lie in bed in the high loft, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep because she was thinking about her father's pa.s.sing and about the impetuousness and wickedness of her own heart.

The end was coming quickly for Lavrans. He had held on to his strength until Ramborg gave birth to her child and Ragnfrid no longer needed to be at Formo so often. He had also had his servants take him over there one day so he could see his daughter and granddaughter. The little maiden had been christened Ulvhild. But then he took to his bed, and it was unlikely he would ever get up again.

Lavrans lay in the hall of the high loft. They had made up a kind of bed for him on the high-seat bench, for he couldn't bear to have his head raised; then he would grow dizzy at once and suffer fainting spells and heart spasms. They didn't dare bleed him anymore; they had done it so often during the fall and winter that he was now quite lacking in blood, and he had little desire for food or drink.

The handsome features of his face were now sharp, and the tan had faded from his once-fresh complexion; it was sallow like bone, and bloodless and pale around his lips and eyes. The thick blond hair with streaks of white was now untrimmed, lying withered and limp against the blue-patterned expanse of the pillow. But what had changed him most was the rough, gray beard now covering the lower half of his face and growing on his long, broad neck, where the sinews stood out like thick cords. Lavrans had always been meticulous about shaving before every holy day. His body was so gaunt that it was little more than a skeleton. But he said he felt fine as long as he lay flat and didn't move. And he was always cheerful and happy.

They slaughtered and brewed and baked for the funeral feast; they took out the bedclothes and mended them. Everything that could be done ahead of time was done now, so that there would be quiet when the last struggle came. It cheered Lavrans considerably to hear about these preparations. His last banquet would be far from the poorest to be held at Jrundgaard; in an honorable and worthy manner he was to take leave of his guardians.h.i.+p of the estate and his household. One day he wanted to have a look at the two cows that would be included in the funeral procession, to be given to Sira Eirik and Sira Solmund, and so they were led into the house. They had been fed extra fodder all winter long and were as splendid and fat as cows in the mountain pastures around Saint Olav's Day, even though the valley was now in the midst of the spring shortages. He laughed the hardest every time one of the cows relieved itself on the floor.

But he was afraid his wife was going to wear herself out. Kristin had considered herself a diligent housewife, and that was her reputation back home in Skaun, but she now thought that compared to her mother she was completely incompetent. No one understood how Ragnfrid managed to accomplish everything she did-and yet she never seemed to be absent for very long from her husband's side; she also helped to keep watch at night.

"Don't think of me, husband," she would say, putting her hand in his. "After you're gone, you know that I'll take a rest from all these toils."

Many years before, Lavrans Bjrgulfsn had purchased his resting place at the friars' monastery in Hamar, and Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter would accompany his body there and then stay on. She would live on a corrody in a manor owned by the monks in town. But first the coffin would be carried to the church here at home, with splendid gifts for the church and the priests; Lavrans's stallion would follow behind with his armor and weapons, and Erlend would then redeem them by paying forty-five marks of silver. One of his sons would be given the armor, preferably the child Kristin now carried, if it was a son. Perhaps there would be another Lavrans at Jrundgaard sometime in the future, said the ill man with a smile. On the journey south through Gudbrandsdal, the coffin would be carried into several more churches and stay there overnight; these would be remembered in Lavrans's testament with gifts of money and candles.

One day Simon mentioned that his father-in-law had bedsores, and he helped Ragnfrid to lift the sick man and tend to him.

Kristin was in despair over her jealous heart. She could hardly bear to see her parents on such familiar terms with Simon An-dressn. He felt at home at Jrundgaard in a way that Erlend never had. Almost every day his huge, sorrel-colored horse would be tied to the courtyard fence, and Simon would be sitting inside with Lavrans, wearing his hat and cape. He wasn't intending to stay long. But a short time later he would appear in the doorway and yell to the servants to put his horse in the stable after all. He was acquainted with all of her father's business affairs; he would get out the letter box and take out deeds and doc.u.ments. He took care of ch.o.r.es for Ragnfrid, and he talked to the overseer about the management of the farm. Kristin thought to herself that her greatest desire had been for her father to be fond of Erlend, but the first time Lavrans had taken his side against her, she had responded at once in the worst possible manner.

Simon Andressn was deeply grieved that he would soon be parted from his wife's father. But he felt such joy at the birth of his little daughter. Lavrans and Ragnfrid spoke often of little Ulvhild, and Simon could answer all their questions about the child's welfare and progress. And here too Kristin felt jealousy sting her heart-Erlend had never taken that kind of interest in their children. At the same time, it seemed to her a bit laughable when this man with the heavy, reddish-brown face who was no longer young would sit and talk so knowledgeably about an infant's stom achaches and appet.i.te.

One day Simon brought a sleigh to take her south to see her sister and niece.

He had rebuilt the old, dark hearth house, where the women of Formo had gone for hundreds of years whenever they were going to give birth. The hearth had been thrown out and replaced with a stone fireplace, with a finely carved bed placed snugly against one side. On the opposite wall hung a beautiful carved image of the Mother of G.o.d, so that whoever lay in the bed could see it. Flagstones had been laid down, and a gla.s.s pane was put in the window; there were lovely, small pieces of furniture and new benches. Simon wanted Ramborg to have this house as her women's room. Here she could keep her things and invite other women in; and whenever there were banquets at the manor, the women could retire to this house if they grew uneasy when the men became overwhelmed by drink late in the evening.

Ramborg was lying in bed, in honor of her guest. She had adorned herself with a silk wimple and a red gown trimmed across the breast with white fur. She had silk-covered pillows behind her back and a flowered, velvet coverlet on top of the bedclothes. In front of the bed stood Ulvhild Simonsdatter's cradle. It was the old Swedish cradle that Ramborg Sunesdatter had brought to Norway, the same one in which Kristin's father and grandfather, and she herself and all her siblings had slept. According to custom, she, as the eldest daughter, should have had the cradle as part of her dowry, but it had never been mentioned at the time she was married. She thought that her parents had purposely forgotten about the cradle. Didn't they think the children she and Erlend would have were worthy to sleep in it?

After that, she refused to go back to Formo, saying that she didn't have the strength.

And Kristin did feel ill, but this was from sorrow and her anguished soul. She couldn't hide from herself that the longer she stayed at home, the more painful it felt. That was just her nature: it hurt her to see that now, as her father approached his death, it was his wife who was closest to him.

She had always heard people praise her parents' life together as an exemplary marriage, beautiful and n.o.ble, with harmony, loyalty, and good will. But she had felt, without thinking too closely about it, that there was something that kept them apart-some indefinable shadow that made their life at home subdued, even though it was calm and pleasant. Now there was no longer any shadow between her parents. They talked to each other calmly and quietly, mostly about small, everyday matters; but Kristin sensed there was something new in their eyes and in the tone of their voices. She could see that her father missed his wife whenever she was somewhere else. If he managed to convince her to take a rest, he would lie in bed, fidgeting and waiting; when Ragnfrid came back, it was as if she brought peace and joy to the ill man. One day Kristin heard them talking about their dead children, and yet they looked happy. When Sira Eirik came over to read to Lavrans, Ragnfrid would always sit with them. Then he would take his wife's hand and lie there, playing with her fingers and twisting her rings around.

Kristin knew that her father loved her no less than before. But she had never noticed until now that he loved her mother. And she could see the difference between the love of a husband for the wife he had lived with all his life, during good days and bad-and his love for the child who had shared only his joys and had received his greatest tenderness. And she wept and prayed to G.o.d and Saint Olav for help-for she remembered that tearful, tender farewell with her father on the mountain in the autumn, but surely it couldn't be true that she now wished it had been the last.

On Summer Day3 Kristin gave birth to her sixth son. Five days later she was already out of bed, and she went over to the main house to sit with her father. Lavrans was not pleased by this; it had never been the custom on his estate for a woman who had recently given birth to go outdoors under open sky until the first time she went to church. She must at least agree not to cross the courtyard unless the sun was up. Ragnfrid listened as Lavrans talked about this. Kristin gave birth to her sixth son. Five days later she was already out of bed, and she went over to the main house to sit with her father. Lavrans was not pleased by this; it had never been the custom on his estate for a woman who had recently given birth to go outdoors under open sky until the first time she went to church. She must at least agree not to cross the courtyard unless the sun was up. Ragnfrid listened as Lavrans talked about this.

"I was just thinking, husband," she said, "that your women have never been very obedient; we've usually done whatever we wanted to do."

"And you've never realized that before?" asked her husband, laughing. "Well, your brother Trond isn't to blame, at any rate. Don't you remember that he used to call me spineless because I always let all of you have your way?"

When the next ma.s.s was celebrated, Ramborg went to church for the first time after giving birth, and afterwards she paid her first visit to Jrundgaard. Helga Rolvsdatter came with her; she was also a married woman now. And Haavard Trondssn of Sundbu had come to see Lavrans, too. These three young people were all the same age, and for three years they had lived together like siblings at Jrundgaard. The other two had looked up to Haavard, and he had been the leader in all their games because he was a boy. But now the two young wives with the white wimples made him feel quite clearly that they were experienced women with husbands and children and households to manage, while he was merely an immature and foolish child. Lavrans found this greatly amusing.

"Just wait until you have a wife of your own, Haavard, my foster son. Then you will truly be told how little you know," he said, and all the men in the room laughed and agreed.