The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(31)
The next morning Kristin got up early, put some milk porridge and wheat cakes into a lovely red-flecked bowl made from birch roots—for she knew that the monk never touched meat—and took the food out to him. No one else in the house was awake yet.
Brother Edvin was standing on the ramp to the cowshed, ready to leave, with his staff and bag in hand. With a smile he thanked Kristin for her trouble and sat down in the grass and ate, while Kristin sat at his feet.
Her little white dog came running over to them, making the tiny bells on his collar ring. Kristin pulled the dog onto her lap, and Brother Edvin snapped his fingers, tossing little bits of wheat cake into the dog’s mouth, as he praised the animal.
“It’s the same breed that Queen Eufemia brought over to Norway,” he said. “Everything is so splendid here at J?rundgaard now.”
Kristin blushed with pleasure. She knew the dog was particularly fine, and she was proud to own him. No one else in the village had a pet dog. But she hadn’t known that he was of the same type as the queen’s pet dogs.
“Simon Andress?n sent him to me,” she said, hugging the dog as he licked her face. “His name is Kortelin.”
She had planned to speak to the monk about her uneasiness and ask for his advice. But now she had no wish to spend any more time on her thoughts of the night before. Brother Edvin believed that God would do what was best for Ulvhild. And it was generous of Simon to send her such a gift even before their betrothal had been formally acknowledged. She refused to think about Arne—he had behaved badly toward her, she thought.
Brother Edvin picked up his staff and bag and asked Kristin to give his greetings to the others; he wouldn’t wait for everyone to wake up, but would set off while the day was cool. She walked with him up past the church and a short way into the grove.
When they parted, he offered her God’s peace and blessed her.
“Give me a few words, as you did for Ulvhild, dear Father,” begged Kristin as she stood with her hand in his.
The monk poked his bare foot, knotty with rheumatism, in the wet grass.
“Then I would impress upon your heart, my daughter, that you should pay close attention to the way God tends to the welfare of the people here in the valley. Little rain falls, but He has given you water from the mountains, and the dew refreshes the meadows and fields each night. Thank God for the good gifts He has given you, and don’t complain if you think you are lacking something else that you think would be beneficial. You have beautiful golden hair, so do not fret because it isn’t curly. Haven’t you heard about the woman who sat and wept because she had only a little scrap of pork to give to her seven hungry children for Christmas dinner? Saint Olav came riding past at that very moment. Then he stretched out his hand over the meat and prayed to God to feed the poor urchins. But when the woman saw that a slaughtered pig lay on the table, she began to cry because she didn’t have enough bowls and pots.”
Kristin ran off toward home, and Kortelin danced around at her feet as he nipped at her clothing and barked, making all his tiny silver bells ring.
CHAPTER 6
ARNE WAS HOME at Finsbrekken for the last time before he left for Hamar. His mother and sisters were outfitting him with clothes.
The day before he was supposed to ride south he went to J?rundgaard to say farewell. There he asked Kristin in a whisper whether she would meet him on the road south of Laugarbru on the following evening.
“I would like us to be alone, just the two of us, the last time we meet,” he said. “Do you think that’s too much to ask? We who have grown up together as brother and sister?” he added when Kristin hesitated a moment before replying.
Then she promised to come if she could slip away from home.
The next morning it snowed, but later in the day it began to rain and soon the roads and fields were nothing but gray mud. Wisps of fog hovered and drifted along the mountain ridges, occasionally dropping down and twining into white mist at the foot of the mountains, but then the weather closed in again.
Sira Eirik came over to help Lavrans put together several boxes of letters. They went into the hearth house because it was more comfortable there in that kind of weather than in the larger house where the fireplace filled the room with smoke. Ragnfrid was at Laugarbru, where Ramborg was recuperating from an illness and fever she had suffered earlier that fall.
So it was not difficult for Kristin to slip away from the farm unnoticed; she didn’t dare take a horse, so she went on foot. The road was a morass of slushy snow and withered leaves; the air smelled mournfully raw and dead and moldy, and now and then a gust of wind would blow the rain right into her face. Kristin pulled her hood up over her head and held her cloak closed with both hands as she walked briskly onward. She was a little apprehensive—the clamor of the river sounded so muffled in the oppressive air, and the clouds were black and ragged, drifting above the mountain crests. Occasionally she would stop and listen behind her, thinking that she might hear Arne.
After a while she became aware of a horse’s hooves on the sodden road, and then she stopped, for she had reached a rather desolate spot and thought it would be a suitable place for them to say goodbye to each other undisturbed. A moment later she saw the rider appear behind her, and Arne jumped down from his horse, leading it forward as he walked toward her.
“It was good of you to come,” he said, “in this awful weather.”