The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(107)

At last she stumbled upon him as she was walking stealthily outside the farmyard, looking for him. He was lying face down in the grass behind the bathhouse.

Fumbling in the dark, she recognized him—yes, it was him. She thought he was sleeping, and she touched his shoulder, trying to pull him up from the ice-cold ground. But he wasn’t asleep—at least not completely.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice groggy.

“You can’t stay here,” said his wife. She held on to him, for he was reeling as he stood there. With her other hand she brushed off his velvet clothes. “It’s time for us to go to bed too, husband.” She put her hand under his arm and led the staggering man up toward the farm. They walked along behind the farmyard buildings.

“You didn’t look up, Ragnfrid, when you sat in the bridal bed wearing the crown,” he said in the same voice. “Our daughter was less modest than you were; her eyes were not shy as she looked at her bridegroom.”

“She has waited for him for three and a half years,” said the mother quietly. “After that I think she would dare to look up.”

“No, the Devil take me if they’ve waited!” shouted the father, and his wife hushed him, alarmed.

They were standing in the narrow lane between the back of the latrine and the fence. Lavrans slammed his fist against the lower timber of the outhouse.

“I put you here to suffer ridicule and shame, you timber. I put you here so the muck would devour you. I put you here as punishment because you struck down my pretty little maiden. I should have put you above the door of my loft and honored and thanked you with decorative carvings because you saved her from shame and from sorrow—for you caused my Ulvhild to die an innocent child.”

He spun around, staggered against the fence, and collapsed against it with his head resting on his arms as he sobbed uncontrollably, with long deep moans in between.

His wife put her arms around his shoulders.

“Lavrans, Lavrans.” But she could not console him. “Husband.”

“Oh, I never, never, never should have given her to that man. God help me—I knew it all along—he has crushed her youth and her fair honor. I refused to believe it, no, I could not believe such a thing of Kristin. But I knew it all the same. Even so, she is too good for that weak boy, who has shamed both her and himself. I shouldn’t have given her to him, even if he had seduced her ten times, so that now he can squander more of her life and happiness.”

“What else was there to do?” said Ragnfrid in resignation. “You could see for yourself that she was already his.”

“Yes, but I didn’t need to make such a great fuss to give Erlend what he had already taken himself,” said Lavrans. “It’s a fine husband she has won, my Kristin.” He yanked at the fence. Then he wept some more. Ragnfrid thought he had grown a bit more sober, but now the drink took the upper hand again.

As drunk as he was and as overcome with despair, she didn’t think she could take him up to the hearth room where they were supposed to sleep—it was filled with guests. She looked around. Nearby was a small barn where they kept the best hay for the horses during the spring farm work. She walked over and peered inside; no one was there. Then she led her husband inside and shut the door behind them.

Ragnfrid piled the hay up all around and then placed their capes over both of them. Lavrans continued to weep off and on, and occasionally he would say something, but it was so confused that she couldn’t understand him. After a while she lifted his head into her lap.

“My dear husband, since they feel such love for each other, maybe everything will turn out better than we expect....”

Lavrans, who now seemed more clearheaded, replied, gasping, “Don’t you see? He now has complete power over her; this man who could never restrain himself. She will find it difficult to oppose anything that her husband wishes—and if she is forced to do so one day, then it will torment her bitterly, that gentle child of mine.

“I don’t understand any longer why God has given me so many great sorrows. I have striven faithfully to do His will. Why did He take our children from us, Ragnfrid, one after the other? First our sons, then little Ulvhild, and now I have given the one I love most dearly, without honor, to an unreliable and imprudent man. Now we have only the little one left. And it seems to me unwise to rejoice over Ramborg until I see how things may go for her.”

Ragnfrid was shaking like a leaf. Then she touched her husband’s shoulder.

“Lie down,” she begged him. “Let’s go to sleep.” And with his head in his wife’s arms Lavrans lay quietly for a while, sighing now and then, until finally he fell asleep.



It was still pitch dark in the barn when Ragnfrid stirred; she was surprised she had slept at all. She put out her hand. Lavrans was sitting up with his hands clasped around his knees.

“Are you already awake?” she asked, astonished. “Are you cold?”

“No,” he replied, his voice hoarse, “but I can’t sleep anymore.”

“Is it Kristin you’re thinking about?” asked Ragnfrid. “It may turn out better than we think, Lavrans,” she told him again.

“Yes, that’s what I’m thinking about,” said her husband. “Well, well. Maiden or wife, at least she lay in the bridal bed with the one she had given her love to. Neither you nor I did that, my poor Ragnfrid.”