The Wreath (Kristin Lavransdatter #1)(51)



The meal lasted a long time with all of the toasts in honor of God, the Virgin Mary, and Saint Margareta, Saint Olav, and Saint Halvard, interspersed with prayers and hymns.

Kristin could see through the open door that the sun had gone down; the sound of fiddles and songs could be heard from out on the green, and the young people had already left the tables when Fru Groa said to the young daughters that now they might go out to play for a while, if they so pleased.

Three red bonfires were burning on the green; around them moved the chains of dancers, now aglow, now in silhouette. The fiddlers were sitting on stacks of chests, bowing the strings of their instruments; they were playing and singing a different tune in each circle. There were far too many people to form only one dance. It was nearly dusk already; to the north the crest of the forested ridges stood coal-black against the yellowish green sky.

People were sitting under the gallery of the loft, drinking. Several men leaped up as soon as the six maidens from Nonneseter came down the stairs. Munan Baards?n ran up to Ingebj?rg and dashed off with her, and Kristin was seized by the wrist—it was Erlend; she already knew his touch. He gripped her hand so tightly that their rings scraped against each other and bit into their flesh.

He pulled her along to the farthest bonfire, where many children were dancing. Kristin took a twelve-year-old boy by the hand, and Erlend had a tiny, half-grown maiden on his other side.

No one was singing in their circle just then—they walked and swayed from side to side, in time with the sound of the fiddle. Then someone shouted that Sivord the Dane should sing a new ballad for them. A tall, fair man with enormous fists stepped in front of the chain of dancers and performed his song: They are dancing now at Munkholm

across the white sand.

There dances Ivar Herr Jons?n

taking the Queen’s hand.

Do you know Ivar Herr Jons?n?





The fiddle players didn’t know the tune; they plucked a little on the strings, and the Dane sang alone. He had a beautiful, strong voice. Do you remember, Danish Queen,

that summer so clear

when you were led out of Sweden

and to Denmark here.

When you were led out of Sweden

and to Denmark here

with a golden crown so red

and on your cheek a tear.



With a golden crown so red

and on your cheek a tear.

Do you remember, Danish Queen,

the first man you held dear!





The fiddlers played along once more, and the dancers hummed the newly learned tune and joined in with the refrain. And are you, Ivar Herr Jons?n,

my very own man,

then tomorrow from the gallows

you shall surely hang!



And it was Ivar Herr Jons?n

but he did not quail,

he sprang into the golden boat,

clad in coat of mail.




May you be granted, Danish Queen,

as many good nights

as do fill the vault of heaven

all the stars so bright.



May you be granted, Danish King,

life so fraught with cares

as the linden tree has leaves

and the hart has hairs.

Do you know Ivar Herr Jons?n?





It was late at night, and the bonfires were mere mounds of glowing embers that grew dimmer and dimmer. Kristin and Erlend stood hand in hand beneath the trees by the garden fence. Behind them the noise of the revelers had died out; a few young boys were humming and leaping around the ember mounds, but the fiddlers had gone off to bed and most of the people had left. Here and there a woman walked around in search of her husband, toppled by ale somewhere outdoors.

“I wonder where I’ve left my cloak,” whispered Kristin. Erlend put his arm around her waist and wrapped his cape around both of them. Walking close together, they went into the herb garden.

A remnant of the day’s hot, spicy scent wafted toward them, muted and damp with the coolness of the dew. The night was quite dark, the sky hazy gray with clouds above the treetops. But they sensed that others were in the garden.

Erlend pressed the maiden to him once and asked in a whisper, “You’re not afraid, are you Kristin?”

Suddenly she vaguely remembered the world outside this night —it was madness. But she was so blissfully robbed of all power. She leaned closer to the man and whispered faintly; she didn’t know herself what she said.

They reached the end of the path; there was a stone fence along the edge of the woods. Erlend helped her up. As she was about to jump down to the other side, he caught her and held her in his arms for a moment before he set her down in the grass.

She stood there with her face raised and received his kiss. He placed his hands at her temples. She thought it so wonderful to feel his fingers sinking into her hair, and then she put her hands up to his face and tried to kiss him the way he had kissed her.

When he placed his hands on her bodice and stroked her breasts, she felt as if he had laid her heart bare and then seized it; gently he parted the folds of her silk shift and kissed the place in between—heat rushed to the roots of her heart.

“You I could never hurt,” whispered Erlend. “Don’t ever weep a single tear for my sake. I never thought a maiden could be as good as you are, my Kristin....”

He pulled her down into the grass under the bushes; they sat with their backs against the stone fence. Kristin said not a word, but when he stopped caressing her, she raised her hand and touched his face.

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