The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(20)
Suddenly Ragnfrid broke the silence. “Are you asleep, Lavrans?”
“No,” replied her husband. “I’m listening to Ulvhild. God will help His innocent lamb, my wife—we mustn’t doubt that. But it’s hard to lie here and wait.”
“God hates me for my sins,” said Ragnfrid in despair. “My children are in peace where they are—I don’t dare doubt that. And now Ulvhild’s time has come too. But He has cast me out, for my heart is a viper’s nest of sin and sorrow.”
Just then the door opened. Sira Eirik stepped inside, straightening up his enormous body as he stood in the doorway, and pronounced in his deep, clear voice, “God help those in this house!”
The priest placed the box containing his medical things2 on the step of the bed, went over to the hearth, and poured warm water over his hands. Then he pulled out his cross, raised it to all four corners of the room, and murmured something in Latin. After that he opened the smoke vent so that light could stream into the room. Then he went over and looked at Ulvhild.
Kristin was afraid that he would discover her and chase her away—usually very little escaped Sira Eirik’s eye. But he didn’t look around. The priest took a vial out of his box, poured something onto a tuft of finely carded wool, and placed it over Ulvhild’s nose and mouth.
“Soon her suffering will lessen,” said the priest. He went over to Lavrans and attended to him as he asked them to tell him how the accident had occurred. Lavrans had two broken ribs and he had received a wound to his lungs, but the priest didn’t think he was in danger.
“What about Ulvhild?” asked her father sorrowfully.
“I’ll tell you after I have examined her,” replied the priest. “But you must go up to the loft and rest; we need quiet here and more room for those who will take care of her.” He put Lavrans’s arm around his shoulder, lifted up the man, and helped him out. Kristin would have preferred to go with her father, but she didn’t dare show herself.
When Sira Eirik returned, he didn’t speak to Ragnfrid but cut the clothes off Ulvhild, who was now whimpering less and seemed to be half asleep. Cautiously he ran his hands over the child’s body and limbs.
“Are things so bad for my child, Eirik, that you don’t know what to do? Is that why you have nothing to say?” asked Ragnfrid in a subdued voice.
The priest replied softly, “It looks as if her back is badly injured, Ragnfrid. I don’t know anything else to do except to let God and Saint Olav prevail. There’s not much I can do here.”
The mother said vehemently, “Then we must pray. You know that Lavrans and I will give everything you ask for, sparing nothing, if you can convince God to allow Ulvhild to live.”
“I think it would be a miracle,” said the priest, “if she were to live and regain her health.”
“But aren’t you always talking about miracles both day and night? Don’t you think a miracle could happen for my child?” she said in the same tone of voice.
“It’s true that miracles do occur,” said the priest, “but God does not grant everyone’s prayers—we do not know His mysterious ways. And don’t you think it would be worse for this pretty little maiden to grow up crippled and lame?”
Ragnfrid shook her head and cried softly, “I have lost so many, priest, I cannot lose her too.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” replied the priest, “and pray with all my might. But you must try, Ragnfrid, to bear whatever fate God visits upon you.”
The mother murmured softly, “Never have I loved any of my children as I have loved this one. If she too is taken from me, I think my heart will break.”
“God help you, Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter,” said Sira Eirik, shaking his head. “You want nothing more from all your prayers and fasting than to force your will on God. Does it surprise you, then, that it has accomplished so little good?”
Ragnfrid gave the priest a stubborn look and said, “I have sent for Fru Aashild.”
“Well, you may know her, but I do not,” said the priest.
“I will not live without Ulvhild,” said Ragnfrid in the same voice as before. “If God won’t help her, then I will seek the aid of Fru Aashild, or offer myself up to the Devil if he will help!”
The priest looked as if he wanted to make a sharp retort, but he restrained himself. He leaned down and touched the injured girl’s limbs again.
“Her hands and feet are cold,” he said. “We must put some kegs of hot water next to her—and then you must not touch her again until Fru Aashild arrives.”
Kristin soundlessly slipped down onto the bench and pretended to sleep. Her heart was pounding with fear. She had not understood much of the conversation between Sira Eirik and her mother, but it had frightened her greatly, and she knew it wasn’t meant for her ears.
Her mother stood up to get the kegs; then she broke down, sobbing. “Pray for us, nevertheless, Sira Eirik!”
A little while later her mother came back with Tordis. The priest and the women bustled around Ulvhild, and then Kristin was discovered and sent away.
The light dazzled Kristin as she stood in the courtyard. She thought that most of the day had passed while she sat in the dark winter house, but the buildings were light gray and the grass was shimmering, as glossy as silk in the white midday sun. Beyond the golden lattice of the alder thicket, with its tiny new leaves, the river glinted. It filled the air with its cheerful, monotonous roar, for it flowed strongly down a flat, rocky riverbed near J?rundgaard. The mountainsides rose up in a clear blue haze, and the streams leaped down the slopes through melting snow. The sweet, strong spring outside made Kristin weep with sorrow at the helplessness she felt all around her.