The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(37)
Lavrans gripped Inga by the shoulder and pressed his hand against her mouth.
“Get her out of here, Gyrd. It’s shameful that you should talk this way before the body of this good boy. But even if all of your children lay here dead, I would not stand and listen to your lies about mine. And you, Gyrd, will have to answer for what this demented woman is saying.”
Gyrd took hold of his wife to lead her away, but he said to Lavrans, “It’s true that Arne and Bentein were talking about Kristin when my son lost his life. It’s understandable that you may not have heard it, but there has been talk here in the village this fall. . . .”
Simon slammed his sword into the nearest clothes chest.
“No, good folks, now you will have to find something other than my betrothed to talk about in this death chamber. Priest, can’t you harness these people so that everything proceeds according to custom?”
The priest—Kristin now saw that he was the youngest son from Ulvsvold who had been home for Christmas—opened his book and took up his position next to the bier. But Lavrans shouted that those who had spoken of his daughter, whoever they might be, would have to eat their words.
And then Inga screamed, “Go ahead and take my life, Lavrans, just as she has taken all my solace and joy—and celebrate her marriage to this son of a knight, and yet everyone will know that she was married to Bentein on the road. Here—” And she threw the sheet that Lavrans had given her across the bier to Kristin. “I don’t need Ragnfrid’s linen to wrap around Arne for burial. Make yourself a kerchief out of it, or keep it to swaddle your wayside bastard—and go over to help Gunhild mourn for the hanged man.”
Lavrans, Gyrd, and the priest all seized hold of Inga. Simon tried to lift up Kristin, who was lying across the bier. But she vehemently shook off his hand, and then, still on her knees, she straightened up and shouted loudly, “May God my Savior help me, that is a lie!”
She put out her hand and held it over the nearest candle on the bier.
It looked as if the flame wavered and moved aside. Kristin felt everyone’s eyes upon her—for a very long time, it seemed. Then she suddenly noticed a searing pain in her palm, and with a piercing shriek she collapsed onto the floor.
She thought she had fainted, but she could feel Simon and the priest lifting her up. Inga screamed something. She saw her father’s horrified face and heard the priest shout that no one should consider it a true trial—this was not the way to ask God to bear witness—and then Simon carried Kristin out of the loft and down the stairs. Simon’s servant ran to the stable and a moment later Kristin, still only half conscious, was sitting on the front of Simon’s saddle, wrapped in his cape, as he rode down toward the village as fast as his horse could carry them.
They had almost reached J?rundgaard when Lavrans overtook them. The rest of their entourage came thundering along the road far behind.
“Say nothing to your mother,” said Simon as he set Kristin down next to the door. “We’ve heard far too much senseless talk tonight; it’s no wonder that you fainted in the end.”
Ragnfrid was lying awake when they came in and she asked how things had gone at the vigil. Simon spoke for all of them. Yes, there were many candles and many people. Yes, a priest was there—Tormod of Ulvsvold. Of Sira Eirik, he heard that he had ridden south to Hamar that very evening, so they would avoid any difficulty at the burial.
“We must have a mass said for the boy,” said Ragnfrid. “May God give Inga strength. She has been sorely tried, that good, capable woman.”
Lavrans fell in with the tone that Simon had set, and in a little while Simon said that now they must all go to bed—“For Kristin is both tired and sad.”
Some time later, when Ragnfrid had fallen asleep, Lavrans threw on some clothes and went over to sit on the edge of the bed where his daughters were sleeping. In the dark he found Kristin’s hand, and then he said gently, “Now you must tell me, child, what is true and what is a lie in all this talk that Inga is spouting.”
Sobbing, Kristin told him of everything that had happened on the evening that Arne left for Hamar. Lavrans said little. Then Kristin crawled forward on the bed and threw her arms around his neck, whimpering softly.
“I am to blame for Arne’s death—it’s true what Inga said....”
“Arne himself asked you to come and meet him,” said Lavrans, pulling the covers up around his daughter’s bare shoulders. “It was thoughtless of me to allow the two of you to spend so much time together, but I thought the boy had better sense. I won’t blame the two of you; I can see that these things are heavy for you to bear. And yet I never imagined that any of my daughters would fall into ill repute here in our village. It will be painful for your mother when she hears this news. But you went to Gunhild instead of coming to me—that was so unwise that I can’t understand how you could act so foolishly.”
“I don’t want to stay here in the village any longer,” wept Kristin. “I don’t dare look a single person in the eye. And all the sorrow I have caused those at Romundgaard and at Finsbrekken ...”
“Yes,” said Lavrans, “they will have to make sure, both Gyrd and Sira Eirik, that these lies about you are put in the ground along with Arne. Otherwise it is Simon Andressen who can best defend you in this matter.” And he patted her in the dark. “Don’t you think he handled things well and with good sense?”