The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(28)

That summer was the last one that Arne Gyrds?n spent at J?rundgaard. The bishop had promised Gyrd to help the boy make his way in the world, and in the fall Arne was to leave for Hamar.

Kristin had undoubtedly noticed that Arne was fond of her, but in many ways her feelings were quite childish, so she didn’t give it much thought and behaved toward him as she always had, ever since they were children. She sought out his company as often as she could and always took his hand when they danced at home or on the church hill. The fact that her mother didn’t approve of this, she found rather amusing. But she never spoke to Arne about Simon or about her betrothal, for she noticed that he grew dispirited whenever it was mentioned.

Arne was good with his hands and he wanted to make Kristin a sewing chest to remember him by. He had carved an elegant and beautiful box and frame, and now he was working in the smithy to make iron bands and a lock for it. On a fine evening with fair weather late in the summer, Kristin went over to talk to him. She took along one of her father’s shirts to mend, sat down on the stone doorstep, and began to sew as she chatted with the young man inside the smithy. Ulvhild was with her too, hopping around on her crutch and eating raspberries that were growing among the stones piled up on the ground.

After a while Arne came over to the smithy door to cool off. He wanted to sit down next to Kristin, but she moved away a bit and asked him to take care not to get soot on the sewing that she was holding on her lap.

“So that’s how things have become between us?” said Arne. “You don’t dare let me sit with you because you’re afraid that the farm boy will get you dirty?”

Kristin looked at him in surprise and then said, “You know quite well what I meant. But take off your apron, wash the coal from your hands, and sit down here with me and rest a while.” And she made room for him.

But Arne lay down in the grass in front of her.

Then Kristin continued, “Now don’t be angry, dear Arne. Do you think I would be so ungrateful for the lovely present that you’re making for me, or that I would ever forget that you’ve always been my best friend here at home?”

“Have I been?” he asked.

“You know you have,” said Kristin. “And I’ll never forget you. But you, who are about to go out into the world—maybe you’ll acquire wealth and honor before you know it. You’ll probably forget me long before I forget you.”

“You’ll never forget me,” said Arne and smiled. “But I’ll forget you before you forget me—you’re such a child, Kristin.”

“You’re not very old yourself,” she replied.

“I’m just as old as Simon Darre,” he said. “And we can bear helmets and shields just as well as the Dyfrin people, but my parents have not had fortune on their side.”

He had wiped off his hands on some tufts of grass. Now he took hold of Kristin’s ankle and pressed his cheek against her foot, which was sticking out from the hem of her dress. She tried to pull her foot away, but Arne said, “Your mother is at Laugarbru, and Lavrans rode off from the farm—and from the buildings no one can see us sitting here. Just this once you must let me talk about what’s on my mind.”

Kristin replied, “We’ve always known, both you and I, that it would be futile for us to fall in love with each other.”

“Can I put my head in your lap?” asked Arne, and when she didn’t reply, he did it anyway, wrapping his arm around her waist. With the other hand he tugged on her braids.

“How will you like it,” he asked after a moment, “when Simon lies in your lap like this and plays with your hair?”

Kristin didn’t answer. She felt as if a weight suddenly fell upon her—Arne’s words and Arne’s head on her knees—it seemed to her as if a door were opening into a room with many dark corridors leading into more darkness. Unhappy and heartsick, she hesitated, refusing to look inside.

“Married people don’t do things like this,” she said abruptly and briskly, as if with relief. She tried to imagine Simon’s plump, round face looking up at her with the same gaze in his eyes as Arne now had; she heard his voice—and she couldn’t help laughing.

“I don’t think Simon would ever lie down on the ground to play with my shoes!”

“No, because he can play with you in his own bed,” said Arne. His voice made Kristin feel suddenly sick and helpless.

She tried to push his head off her lap, but he pressed it harder against her knees and said gently, “But I would play with your shoes and your hair and your fingers and follow you in and out all day long, Kristin, if you would be my wife and sleep in my arms every night.”

He pulled himself halfway up, put his hands on her shoulders, and looked into her eyes.

“It’s not proper for you to talk to me this way,” said Kristin quietly and shyly.

“No, it’s not,” said Arne. He got to his feet and stood in front of her. “But tell me one thing—wouldn’t you rather it had been me?”

“Oh, I would rather ...” She sat in silence for a moment. “I would rather not have any man at all—not even ...”

Arne didn’t move. He said, “Would you rather go into a convent then, as they’ve planned for Ulvhild, and be a maiden all your days?”

Kristin wrung her hands in her lap. She felt a strange, sweet trembling inside her—and with a sudden shudder she realized how sad it was for her little sister. And her eyes filled with tears of sorrow for Ulvhild’s sake.