The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(32)
“It’s worse for you, who will have to ride such a long way. But why are you leaving so late in the evening?”
“Jon has invited me to stay at Loptsgaard tonight,” said Arne. “And I thought it would be easier for you to come here at this time of day.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Kristin thought she had never before realized how handsome Arne was. He wore a shiny steel helmet, and under it a brown woolen hood that framed his face and spread out over his shoulders; underneath, his thin face looked so bright and fair. His leather breastplate was old, flecked with rust, and scratched from the coat of mail that had been worn over it—Arne’s father had given it to him—but it fit snugly on his slender, lithe, and strong body. He wore a sword at his side and carried a spear in his hand; his other weapons hung from his saddle. He was a full-grown man and looked imposing.
Kristin put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Do you remember, Arne, that you once asked me whether I thought you were as splendid a fellow as Simon Andress?n? I want to tell you something now, before we part. You seem to me as much his superior in fair appearance and bearing as he is held above you in birth and wealth by people who value such things most.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Arne breathlessly.
“Because Brother Edvin impressed on my heart that we should thank God for His good gifts and not be like the woman who wept because she had no bowls when Saint Olav multiplied the meat for her. So you shouldn’t fret over the fact that He hasn’t given you as much wealth as He has physical gifts....”
“Is that what you meant?” said Arne. And when Kristin didn’t reply he went on, “I was wondering whether you meant that you would rather have been married to me than to that other man.”
“I probably would, at that,” she said quietly. “For I know you much better.”
Arne threw his arms around her so tight that he lifted her feet off the ground. He kissed her face many times, but then he set her down.
“God help us, Kristin. You’re such a child!”
She stood there with her head bowed, but she kept her hands on his shoulders. He gripped her wrists and held them tight.
“I see now that you don’t realize, my sweet, how my heart aches because I am going to lose you. Kristin, we’ve grown up together like two apples on a branch. I loved you before I began to realize that one day someone else would come and tear you away from me. As certain as God had to die for us all, I don’t know how I can ever be happy again in this world after today.”
Kristin wept bitterly and lifted her face so that he could kiss her.
“Don’t talk like that, my Arne,” she begged, patting his arm.
“Kristin,” said Arne in a muted voice, taking her in his arms again. “Couldn’t you consider asking your father ... Lavrans is such a good man, he would never force you against your will. Couldn’t you ask him to wait a few years? No one knows how my fortune may change—we’re both so young.”
“I must do what those at home want me to do,” she sobbed.
Then tears overcame Arne too.
“You have no idea, Kristin, how much I love you.” He hid his face on her shoulder. “If you did, and if you loved me too, then you would go to Lavrans and beg him sweetly—”
“I can’t do that,” sobbed the maiden. “I don’t think I could ever love a man so dearly that I would go against my parents’ will for his sake.” She slipped her hands under Arne’s hood and heavy steel helmet to find his face. “You mustn’t cry like that, Arne, my dearest friend.”
“I want you to have this,” he said after a moment, giving her a small brooch. “And think of me now and then, for I will never forget you, or my sorrow.”
It was almost completely dark by the time Kristin and Arne had said their last farewells. She stood and gazed after him when he finally rode away. A yellow light shone through the clouds, and the light was reflected in their footsteps, where they had walked and stood in the slush of the road; it looked so cold and bleak, she thought. She pulled out the linen cloth covering her bodice and wiped her tear-streaked face; then she turned around and set off for home.
She was wet and cold and she walked fast. After a while she heard someone approaching on the road behind her. She was a little frightened; it was possible that strangers might be traveling on this main road, even on an evening like this, and she had a lonely stretch ahead of her. Steep black scree rose up on one side, but on the other there was a sharp drop-off, covered with pine woods all the way down to the pale, leaden river at the bottom of the valley. So she was relieved when the person behind her called her name; she stopped and waited.
The person who approached was a tall, thin man wearing a dark surcoat with lighter colored sleeves. When he came closer, Kristin saw that he was dressed as a priest and carried an empty knapsack on his back. She now recognized Bentein Prestesran, as they called him—Sira Eirik’s grandson. She noticed at once that he was quite drunk.
“Well, one departs and the other arrives,” he said and laughed after they had greeted each other. “I met Arne from Brekken just now—and I see that you’re walking along and crying. So how about giving me a little smile because I’ve come back home? The two of us have also been friends since childhood, haven’t we?”