Witch-Hunt

by Margit Sandemo

  Chapter 8

  Some years later, in 1594, a new young stable lad named Klaus came to work at Grastensholm. Muscular and well built, he was endowed with passable good looks, but unfortunately he was not the most intellectually gifted of young men. As a result the other stable lads harried him with ribald and suggestive tales of big-bosomed serving wenches, the activities of cows on heat and other similar topics. Klaus usually responded to their taunts with silent tight-lipped smiles and for the most part kept himself to himself.

  He had not been there very long when he began to notice an attractive girl, aged about eleven, who often came up to the house to play with the young master Dag, a fair-haired twelve- or thirteen year old with a friendly, abstracted expression. Klaus knew the girl’s name was Liv, because he had heard Dag call her that. She had wavy, chestnut-brown hair and was so pretty, in fact, that he would watch her in secret admiration whenever he got the chance, marvelling at the sweetness of her charm.

  He had listened to the other stable lads telling how Mistress Charlotte at the big house had shown great courage during the past winter. She had proudly declared the boy, Dag, to be her son and consequently she had lost many friends from her social circle. However those who had remained true to her had proved to be worthy friends indeed. But oh, what gossip there had been – from the scullery and servants’ quarters to the finest salons. They said, although it had been a very difficult time for her, she had bravely weathered the storm. Anyway, it was rumoured that this blond boy would now inherit all Grastensholm! How foolish this seemed; he appeared to have no interest at all in the land, preferring instead to bury his head in books.

  One day, while Klaus was grooming a horse, Dag came out to the stable yard to meet Liv, who was accompanied on this particular occasion by her brother and sister. Hearing them approach, Klaus looked up in surprise. The brother was clearly the youngest, even though he was a strapping lad, already as tall as Liv. He had jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones and widely-spaced eyes that lent a quiet assurance to his expression. But this time Klaus only gave the boy and Liv the briefest of glances, because his attention was drawn immediately to the other girl, who was obviously a few year older than Liv.

  Liv was very pretty, but never in his life had he seen anyone more alluring than the older girl. As he looked at her, powerful emotions began to stir deep within him. Framed by dark brown curls, her face, with its high cheekbones, sparkling green eyes and stunning cherry red lips, had an almost feline quality. As he studied her from the shadows of a stable he was seized by a fierce yearning to reach out and embrace her. But, seemingly without noticing him, she moved casually away with the others in the direction of the main courtyard, her well rounded hips swaying provocatively as she walked.

  Klaus stood distractedly brushing the same spot on the horse’s rump and only woke from his reverie when the animal jostled him impatiently. Suddenly he saw Liv’s younger brother walking across the yard towards him. The boy bowed respectfully and asked Klaus if the horse was good-natured.

  ‘Yes, he is.’ replied the stable lad. ‘Do you want to ride it?’

  The boy was very keen to try a ride, so Klaus quickly lifted him up onto the animal and began walking him round the stable yard. ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘I’m called Are and I’m seven, nearly eight years old.’

  ‘So is this just a visit to Grastensholm?’

  ‘Yes. Dag is giving a Saint Hans feast for all the children hereabouts because it’s Midsummer. Dag is my brother.’

  ‘Is he?’ Klaus was bewildered and couldn’t quite understand this. ‘Was they your sisters with you, then?’

  ‘Yes. Liv and Sol.’

  The stable lad’s heart began to pound. ‘Sol – is she the bigger one?’

  ‘Yes, and Liv is the little one.’

  ‘How old is Sol then?’

  ‘She’s fourteen.’

  Klaus’s heart sank. He could have sworn she was at least sixteen.

  ‘Here come the Eikeby children,’ said Are, his attention elsewhere. He was an innocent child, who saw nothing unusual in Klaus’s questions. ‘They are coming to the feast too. Poor things! Folk say they get beaten every day – lots of times.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t all children get beaten?’

  ‘Not us. We don’t get beaten.’

  Klaus was astonished. ‘But that is dangerous! How else is original sin to be driven out?’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘You go to church, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s very boring, so I sit and count the stars painted up in the roof. Sometimes I watch the priest’s beard jiggle up and down. I never listen to him ’cos he’s so angry and shouting at us all the time.’

  ‘But every child must be beaten! To drive out the Devil – don’t you know?’

  ‘What devil?’

  ‘The one who lives inside us all!’ exclaimed Klaus.

  Are considered this. ‘Why do you drive him out if he just jumps back in again?’

  Klaus asked, ‘Are you never beaten?’ He simply could not believe this.

  ‘Oh, yes! When I set fire to the grass once. And when I shut the girls in the sheep shed. Ooh, they screamed lots and lots!’ He grinned at the memory. ‘But it wasn’t any devil that did it – it was me! All by myself! No, father doesn’t hold with birching ’cos he thinks children have to feel wanted. He wasn’t wanted when he was little, so he said.’

  All this was beyond Klaus. ‘Where did you live then?’

  Are pointed to the cottage that was his home.

  ‘There?’ said the stable lad. ‘But that’s where the famous healer, Tengel, lives, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s my father and Silje Arngrimsdotter is my mother. Have you heard of her?’

  ‘No-o,’ said Klaus hesitantly He was still trying to work out the family connection between Dag and Mistress Charlotte. He hadn’t been blessed with Are’s intellect.

  ‘But you’ve heard of Master Arngrim, haven’t you?’ asked Are.

  ‘Yes, he paints pictures on walls.’

  ‘Well then, that’s my mother, that is. You see she couldn’t go by her own name ‘cos women can’t do painting and such things. So nobody, except the ones who made her a Master of her craft, knows that Master Arngrim is my mother. She paints tapestries and wall hangings on cloth, but she also paints straight onto the walls. She likes doing the cloth ones best ’cos then she can stay at home. Lots of people want them – and they say she’s clever.’

  Klaus wasn’t really paying attention to all this. He was still churning through his own thoughts. ‘So Master Tengel is Dag’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the Mistress Charlotte is his mother?’

  ‘No, it’s … No, this is what happened: Dag is only my foster brother. He is not blood kin at all. Mother and father took him in when he was very small, so we’ve always been brothers.’

  Klaus nodded; things were becoming clearer.

  ‘And Sol is not my sister either.’

  ‘Is she not?’ The stable boy’s interest was rekindled.

  ‘No, she’s really my cousin. Her parents died of the plague. Sol can do magic – but you mustn’t tell!’

  Klaus smiled. That was something he did not believe. By this time, they had walked twice round the yard, so he stopped and helped the young boy down from the horse.

  Charlotte Meiden had been watching them from the window, where she stood while waiting for the food to be laid out ready for the feast. In the background she heard Dag talking with his ‘sisters’ and on the lawns she could now see that the other children had begun to gather. She was remembering the day last winter when she had summoned every ounce of courage she possessed in order to explain to the boy who she was. Obviously she had sought permission from Tengel and Silje and they had both readily agreed that he was old enough to hear the truth.

  ‘Dag,’ she had said in a soft voice that trembled slightly, ‘have you never wondered
who your real mother is?’

  His clear, intelligent eyes settled on her. ‘No, I didn’t need to wonder. It’s you, isn’t it?’

  She was so startled a shudder ran through her. ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘No one at all. I simply knew it. I have known it for a long time.’

  Charlotte remained transfixed. ‘Does it make you unhappy?’

  Slowly and deliberately he said, ‘No. We all call you our fairy godmother.’

  These thoughts were going round in her head as she stood at the window. Yes, it was true that she and her mother had done a lot for them, pulling them out of humiliating poverty to a life of which their goodness and character were worthy. Charlotte’s own siblings had openly reproached them. They were unable to comprehend how she and her mother could mix with people of such low standing, who were probably just tricksters intent on taking everything from them.

  But the family did not know Silje and Tengel, Charlotte reflected, or the unbreakable bond that joined them to her. None of them would understand the richness that this had brought both to her mother’s life and her own. Charlotte had been shaken by the events surrounding Are’s birth, witnessing how Silje had almost died. But she hoped that in a small way she had begun to make amends for her unforgivable behaviour when Dag was born. She had undoubtedly played a small part in Silje’s survival, quickly summoning help and running over to the house. But of course it was Tengel who had done most to save the situation.

  Never had she or her mother regretted anything they had done for Silje and Tengel. They were the best friends anybody could wish to have, and because they too had now become well known and respected, nobody was embarrassed at being acquainted with them. Charlotte and her mother, however, had never been ashamed of them.

  Dag had moved into the ‘Big House’ on his twelfth birthday. Are had stayed with him for the first few days, so that he would not feel lonely in his new surroundings, but in fact Dag had felt at home from the beginning. He knew Charlotte and her mother very well and was quite pleased to think that he would one day be master of the estate. Also, with his ‘siblings’ living close by, he knew he would never want for company. After some thought he decided to call his mothers ‘Mama Silje’ and ‘Mama Charlotte’, while the Dowager Baroness would be Grand-mama.

  Charlotte watched through the window as Sol came outside to fetch her little brother. Are was completely different in looks and personality from his brother and sisters, everyone considered them all to be siblings, even though only Liv and Are were truly brother and sister. The young lad had a quiet strength, and seemed at one with the earth; and although he was probably the least gifted of them all as far as schooling was concerned, he more than made up for this with his gentle humour and passion for the world around him. Are had no doubt where his future lay » he would become a farmer and take care of the home farm, or Lindenallée as it was now called. He would do it on his own and he would do it properly! Mother and father had made a clumsy attempt to play at farming and already he didn’t think much of it.

  Lindenallée – Charlotte could see it from her window. All the trees had been planted and had grown well, each of them now taller than the man who planted them. She had known for a long time that one of them was named for her. There was one for her mother as well, planted at the same time as Are’s on the other side of the allée. None of the other trees had been given names – yet.

  Sol, she could see, was now standing in the yard talking to the stable lad. Charlotte did not think this was wise. Sol was so unthinking. She had obviously forgotten the advances that had already been made to her by young lads from some of the other farms, and how angered she had been by their vulgar suggestions. Tengel had been in such a fury that even Charlotte had been scared of him on that occasion. She realised then that he could be a dangerous man if anyone threatened those closest to him.

  No, thought Charlotte, Sol ought not to be passing time with that strong well built stable boy – she was much too attractive and precocious! Yet what could anyone do? Silje had told her that for as long as she could remember, Sol had always been drawn to stable lads, carriage drivers and other simple muscular men. And there she was now admiring the lad’s physique, watching his muscles ripple beneath his linen singlet. Charlotte could see that Sol clearly enjoyed toying with him, causing him to blush and turn away whenever her green eyes transfixed him.

  Klaus for his part dared not look directly at her. All his instincts were telling him to be very wary. In the first place, he reminded himself, he was a stable hand and she was from a fine family; secondly she was but fourteen years old. Thirdly her physical presence so overpowered and aroused him that he found it difficult to breathe. Aware that he was unable to conceal this entirely, he stole a quick glance down at himself and turned hurriedly away in embarrassment.

  Sol’s eyes were sparkling green and gold as she smiled at Klaus. ‘Thank you for letting my little brother ride,’ she said sweetly. ‘Come, Are, the feasting is about to start.’ She turned and walked away, feeling wondrously elated. Knowing Klaus would be watching, she exaggerated the swaying of her hips as she went up the steps into the house.

  I will have to speak to Silje about this, thought Charlotte with a worried frown. Sweet young Sol – she could be so tender and kind-hearted and took such good care of the little ones – but wouldn’t she burn herself out unless somebody stopped her in time? She never did anything by halves, Charlotte reflected. It was as if she was living and doing everything too fast.

  ****

  The following day Silje received a visitor. The wife from one of the neighbouring farms had surprised her in the little ‘studio’ she had set up at home. Silje would not usually have let people see what she was working on, but the servant girls must have been busy elsewhere, because the woman, Beate, had marched straight in, unannounced.

  Beate was a middle-aged woman who was only too pleased to share her woes and complain about life in general, but when she saw what Silje was occupying herself with she became uncommonly agitated. For a full fifteen minutes she held forth with many repetitions of ‘Oh, dear’ and ‘Alas’ about such a terrible waste of time.

  ‘l can’t see why you want to do all this rubbish, Mistress Silje,’ she declared waving a dismissive hand in the direction of the soon-to-be-finished tapestry. ‘Wherever do you find the time to do your household chores?’

  ‘We have help with those.’

  ‘My husband would never tolerate such a thing as this! Ungodly doings is what it is, all of it. Lord save me from such foolishness! It’s a woman’s duty to keep house and be respectful to her husband and give him comfort, so it is! And what’s more, Mistress Silje, you should be wearing a hat-proper sinful not to ...’ Silje chuckled and tried to concentrate on her painting. ‘And my husband says there is nothing worse than a lazy, useless wife.’ Beate’s whining droned on and on. ‘You wouldn’t believe how hard I work from the moment I get up ’till evening, and still he complains!’

  Silje interrupted the flow – she couldn’t help herself. ‘My husband never complains,’ she said.

  The woman stared at her. ‘Then there must be something wrong with him! It’s a man’s rightful duty to chastise his woman and his children. That’s how it is and that’s how it always will be. All else would be unthinkable!’

  ‘Are you saying that you are content with your life?’ asked Silje.

  ‘Content? Of course I’m content! I have a man and he lets me live under his roof. Any woman would be grateful for that.’

  ‘Really?’ Silje was feeling argumentative now. ‘Even if he beats you?’

  The previous week Beate had arrived with her face black and blue as a result of what she called her husband’s chastisement. Any man who does not beat his wife is not the master of his house. You should know that, Mistress Silje.’

  Silje put down her brushes. ‘No! That is something I do not know! Tengel has never hit me and what is more he has never had cause to do so. We can speak to one ano
ther about anything we wish, and that is more important than trying to show who is the most powerful.’

  At this point Beate realised the conversation was heading into deep water and she was about to sink, so she changed the subject. ‘Anyway what is all this you’re doing? Wasting time, I’m sure, messing up good expensive cloth with fancy colours!’

  ‘It’s just something I’m doing to pass the time. I’m going to hang it in the bedchamber,’ Silje lied, not wanting it to be widely known who she was. ‘Have you finished all your chores already, Beate? My, you have done well!’

  Having just boasted how much hard work she did from morning to night, Beate perhaps began to see that she wasn’t so industrious after all. She left not long after that, leaving Silje alone in her studio to carry on with her painting; but the mood had deserted Silje and her head filled with thoughts about the ups and downs of the married couples they knew.

  At first she did not realise that she had a second visitor that day. Charlotte stood in the doorway for a while watching her as she sat painting her designs on a great expanse of stretched canvas. Silje had her back to Charlotte, and was mumbling angrily through gritted teeth while making sweeping strokes with her brushes.

  Artistic temperament! thought Charlotte. She couldn’t have known that it was Martin Luther, and particularly his declaration that man was the superior being in the natural order of things, that had provoked Silje’s rage. Charlotte never ceased to be amazed at how young Silje looked, even though she must by now be about thirty years old. There could be no question she was genuinely talented – every design was unique and her motifs varied with each canvas – and it came as no surprise that her work was in demand.

  Yet nothing she produced would ever be as fine as the first tapestry she had painted for Grastensholm. It depicted Charlotte’s journey from Trondheim over Varstigen and Dovre, down through Gudbrandsdalen, showing the wayfarers’ lodges and everything as she and Silje had remembered it. It was a glorious wall hanging that caught everyone’s attention.