The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(106)
They went from building to building and greeted their guests. All the rooms were filled with many candles, and people were drinking and singing and dancing everywhere. Kristin felt as though everything was so unfamiliar at home, and she had lost all sense of time; the hours and the images flowed around each other, oddly disconnected.
The autumn night was mild. There were fiddlers in the courtyard too, and people dancing around the bonfire. They shouted that the bride and groom must also do them the honor, so Kristin danced with Erlend in the cold, dew-laden courtyard. That seemed to wake her up a little and her head felt clearer.
Out in the darkness a light band of fog hovered over the rushing river. The mountains stood pitch black against the star-strewn sky.
Erlend led her away from the dance and crushed her to him in the darkness beneath an overhanging gallery.
“I haven’t even told you that you’re beautiful, so beautiful and so lovely. Your cheeks are as red as flames.” He pressed his cheek against hers as he spoke. “Kristin, what’s the matter?”
“I’m just so tired, so tired,” she whispered in reply.
“Soon we’ll go in and sleep,” said the bridegroom, looking up at the sky. The Milky Way had swung around and was stretching almost due north and south. “Do you know we’ve never spent a whole night together except that one time when I slept with you in your bedchamber at Skog?”
Some time later Sira Eirik shouted across the courtyard that now it was Monday, and then the women came to lead the bride to bed. Kristin was so tired that she hardly had the energy to resist, as she was supposed to do for the sake of propriety. She let herself be led out of the loft by Fru Aashild and Gyrid of Skog. The groomsmen stood at the foot of the stairs with burning tapers and drawn swords; they formed a circle around the group of women and escorted Kristin across the courtyard, up to the old loft.
The women removed her wedding finery, piece by piece, and laid it aside. Kristin noticed that at the foot of the bed was draped the violet-blue velvet dress that she would wear the next day, and on top of it lay a long, finely pleated, snow-white linen cloth. This was the wimple that married women wore and that Erlend had brought for her; tomorrow she would bind up her hair in a bun and fasten the cloth over it. It looked so fresh and cool and reassuring.
Finally she stood before the bridal bed, in her bare feet, bare-armed, dressed only in the ankle-length, golden-yellow silk shift. They had placed the crown on her head again; the bridegroom would take it off when the two of them were alone.
Ragnfrid placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and kissed her cheek; the mother’s face and hands were strangely cold, but she felt sobs bursting deep inside her breast. Then she threw back the covers of the bed and invited the bride to sit down. Kristin obeyed and leaned back on the silk pillows propped up against the headboard; she had to tilt her head slightly forward because of the crown. Fru Aashild pulled the covers up to Kristin’s waist, placed the bride’s hands on top of the silk coverlet, and arranged her shining hair, spreading it out over her breast and her slender, naked arms.
Then the men led the bridegroom into the loft. Munan Baards?n removed Erlend’s gold belt and sword; when he hung it up on the wall above the bed, he whispered something to the bride. Kristin didn’t understand what he said, but she did her best to smile.
The groomsmen unlaced Erlend’s silk clothing and lifted the long, heavy garment over his head. He sat down in the high-backed armchair, and they helped him take off his spurs and boots.
Only once did the bride dare to look up and meet his eyes.
Then everyone wished the couple good night. The wedding guests left the loft. Last to leave was Lavrans Bj?rgulfs?n, who closed the door to the bridal chamber.
Erlend stood up and tore off his underclothes and threw them onto the bench. He stood before the bed, took the crown and silk ribbons from Kristin’s hair, and placed them over on the table. Then he came back and climbed into bed. And kneeling beside her on the bed, he took her head in his hands, pressing it to his hot, naked chest as he kissed her forehead all along the red band that the crown had made.
She threw her arms around him and sobbed loudly. Sweet and wild, she felt that now it would all be chased away—the terror, the ghostly visions—now, at last, it was just the two of them again. He raised her face for a moment, looked down at her, and stroked her face and her body with his hand, strangely quick and rough, as if he were tearing away a covering.
“Forget,” he begged in an ardent whisper, “forget everything, my Kristin—everything except that you’re my wife, and I’m your husband.”
With his hand he put out the last flame and threw himself down next to her in the dark; he was sobbing too.
“I never believed, never in all these years, that we would live to see this day.”
Outside in the courtyard the noise died out, little by little. Weary from the ride earlier in the day and bleary with drink, the guests wandered around a while longer for the sake of propriety, but more and more of them began to slip away to find the places where they would sleep.
Ragnfrid escorted the most honored guests to their beds and bade them good night. Her husband, who should have been helping her with this, was nowhere to be found.
Small groups of youths, mostly servants, were the only ones remaining in the dark courtyard when she finally slipped away to find her husband and take him along to bed. She had noticed that Lavrans had grown exceedingly drunk as the evening wore on.