The Axe

by Sigrid Undset

  Someone within the stable was speaking in a loud voice—the door flew open behind him, and a man dashed out as if he had been thrown. He pitched against Olav, and both went to the ground. The other got onto his feet and shouted back to someone standing in the doorway, a vague black figure in the pale gleam of the lantern: “Here is one more for you to show your manhood on, Arnvid”—with which he ran off into the snow and the darkness.

  Olav shook himself and dived in under the doorway. “What was that with Gudmund?”—when in the shadow behind Arnvid he caught sight of a girl in tears.

  “Out with you, foul slut,” Arnvid said to her, furious. The woman slunk crouching past the men and out. Arnvid barred the door behind her.

  “What is it?” asked Olav again.

  “Oh—no great thing, as you may think,” said Arnvid hotly. He picked up the little lantern and hung it on the hook; Olav saw that he was trembling with agitation. “Naught else but that now every whoreson who serves about the place seems to think he dare scorn me because—because—I have said I will not have womenfolk in the stables; ’tis unfitting. Gudmund answered me that I should rather keep a watch on the bowers here and on my kinswomen.”

  Olav turned away. In the darkness beyond, the horses could be heard crunching their fodder and stamping their feet. The nearest stretched its neck and snorted at Olav, and the flame of the lantern was reflected in its dark eyes.

  “Did you hear?” Arnvid insisted.

  Olav turned to the horse and did not answer. He felt in agony that he was blushing violently.

  “What have you to say to that?” asked Arnvid hotly.

  “What would you have me say?” answered Olav in a low voice. “As my case stood—after the answer Kolbein gave me—you cannot well be surprised—that I followed your advice.”

  “My—advice!”

  “The advice you gave me that day we spoke together up in the woods. You said that when two persons under age have been betrothed by their lawful guardians, none has the right to part them, but if they agree to follow the designs of their parents, there is no need of more; they can come together as married folk—”

  “That I have never said!”

  “I mind me not how the words went. But such I guessed to be your meaning.”

  “My meaning!” whispered Arnvid, deeply moved. “Nay, Olav—what I meant—I—I thought you knew—”

  “No. What meant you, then?” asked Olav point-blank, turning toward the other. Driven by a sense of utter shame, he hardened himself, looked his friend defiantly in the eyes, while his face was on fire.

  But Arnvid Finnsson dropped his eyes before the younger man and blushed in his turn. What he had thought he could not say. And he found it hard to undeceive himself now. Confusion and shame made him speechless. That he had kept up familiar friendship with a man whom he himself believed to be the seducer of his kinswoman—how ill it looked he seemed not to have guessed till now. It was as though he had not seen its ugly, dishonourable side before—because Olav seemed so honourable all through, he had been blind to the dishonour—when it was Olav.

  Nor could he believe it now—that Olav stood there lying to him. He had always held Olav to be the most truthful of all men. And he clutched at it now—Olav’s words must be worthy of belief. He himself must have wronged his friend with his suspicion in the summer—so it must be. There had been nothing unseemly between the two, though they had been together at night in the summer.

  “I have ever thought well of you, Olav,” he said. “Believed you jealous of your honour—”

  “Then you could not well expect,” Olav broke in hotly, still staring the other in the face, “that I should lie down tamely and let the Toressons trample on my honour and cheat me of my right. I will not go home to my own country in such guise that every man may mock at me and say I let these men defraud me of the marriage I should have made. You know that they use fraud against me, Kolbein and those—you remember how I got back my ring?”

  Arnvid nodded. When the property was divided, Kolbein had given back to Olav the chests of movables which Steinfinn had taken charge of for his foster-son. But then Olav’s mother’s signet-ring was among these goods, threaded on a ribbon together with some other rings. And Olav could not say a word about his having lately seen the ring lying among Steinfinn’s own treasures.

  “And in my eyes it concerns my father’s honour too,” Olav continued excitedly, “if I am to let strangers set at naught his last will and the promises given to him before he died! And Steinfinn—you heard yourself what he said; but he knew well enough, poor man, that he had not the power to carry it against those overbearing brothers of his. Are Ingunn’s father and my father to have so little respect in their graves that they are not to be allowed the right to dispose of their own children’s marriage?”

  Arnvid reflected, a long time.

  “None the less, Olav,” he said slowly, “you must not now do such things as—go to her in her bower and meet her secretly so that all the house-folk know of it. God knows, I should not have kept my counsel so long—but it seemed to me an ill thing to speak of. You have not been afraid to show me disrespect.”

  Olav made no answer—and Arnvid felt sorry for him when he looked at him. Arnvid said: “I deem, Olav, since it has come to this between you and her, that you must take charge of the manor here.”

  Olav looked up with a question in his eyes.

  “Declare to the house-folk here that you will not give way to the new sponsors, but hold them to the bargain Steinfinn and your father made and take your wife to yourself. Step into the master’s bed with Ingunn and declare that now you think that you are next of kin to have charge for Hallvard and Jon, so long as you and Ingunn stay here in the north.”

  Olav stood biting his lip; his cheeks were burning. At first Arnvid’s advice tempted him—unspeakably. This was the plain road out of all the furtive dealings by night and by stealth which, he felt, were making him a meaner and weaklier man. Take Ingunn by the hand and boldly lead her to the bed and high seat left by Steinfinn and Ingebjörg. Then let them talk about that, all these folk about the place who giggled and muttered behind his back—though as yet they had not dared to come out with it before him.

  But then his courage sank when he thought of carrying it out. It was their sneers, their nasty little words. They were so apt at that, the people hereabout—with an innocent look, making it hard for a man to return an answer and defend himself, they dropped a few sly words with a sting in them. Many a time the malice in their speech was hidden so cunningly that it was a little while before he guessed what the men were smiling at, when one of them broke off, with too unconcerned an air, or gave a start.—Without being aware of it he had striven in all his doing at Frettastein so to conduct himself as to give them no occasion to make that sort of game of him. Until now he had succeeded in some measure—he knew that his fellow servants liked him well enough, and stood in a sort of awe of him, as happens when a man is sparing of words, but is known not to be a fool; thus he may easily be accounted wiser than he is. As yet none had dared to hint at what all knew of him and Ingunn—no word, at least, had come to his ears.

  But he flinched at the thought—the laughter and the jesting would break out sure enough when he himself made no secret of the matter and offered to take over the stewardship of the farm, where he had been reckoned a young lad until this year. Insensibly Olav’s view of himself and of his position on Steinfinn’s estate had changed—he no longer counted Frettastein as the home to which he had belonged as one of the children of the house. The chance words that had trickled into his mind, the fact that Ingunn’s kinsmen disregarded him, the stings of an evil conscience and the sense of shame at all he had done in secret, made him see himself in a meaner light than before.

  And then there was this—that he was so young; all the other men of the place were much older than he. He was well used, indeed, to their counting him and Ingunn as not yet fully grown. And he blushed at the thought of
having to own that he was living with a woman—when no grown man had led him forward and accepted him in the ranks of husbands. Without that he could not feel that it was real.

  At length he replied: “ ’Tis not to be done, Arnvid. Think you either man or woman here would obey me if I tried to command? Grim or Josep or Gudmund? Or would Dalla willingly give up her keys to Ingunn?”

  “No; Ingunn would have to be content to wear the coif—” Arnvid gave a little laugh—“till you can give her the keys of Hestviken.”

  “Nay, Arnvid; they go in fear of Kolbein, every mother’s child here—what you counsel is impossible.”

  “Then I know of only one other way—and this counsel I should have given you long ago, God forgive me. Go to Hamar and put your case in the Bishop’s hands.”

  “In Bishop Torfinn’s? I trow not I can look for much mercy of him,” said Olav slowly.

  “Your right you may look for,” replied Arnvid. “In this question it is only Holy Church that can judge. You two can only be married to each other.”

  “Who knows if the pious father will not order us to be monk and nun, send us to the cloister to expiate our sin?”

  “He will assuredly make you do penance to the Church for going to your bride without banns or wedding. But if you can bring forward witnesses that the betrothal is valid—and that I think we can surely do—he will demand of the Toressons that they accept offers of honourable atonement—”

  “Think you,” Olav broke in, “ ’twill avail much if the lord Torfinn demand it? Before now the Bishop of Hamar has had to give away to the Steinfinnssons.”

  “Ay—in questions of property and the like. But for all that, they are not so ungodly as to deny that in this matter none has the right to judge but the fathers of the Church—whether marriage be marriage or not.”

  “I wonder. Oh no—then I have more mind to take Ingunn with me and fare south to my own country.”

  “Ah, not so long as I can wield a sword. In the devil’s name, Olav, do you expect, because I have—lacked counsel so long-that I should sit here and shut my eyes while you steal my kinswoman out of my ward?” He saw that Olav was on the point of flaring up. “Be calm,” he said curtly; “I know you are not afraid of me. And I am not afraid of you either. But I reckoned we were friends. If you feel yourself that your conduct to me has been something short of a trusty friend’s, then do as I say, seek to make an end of this matter in seemliness and honour.

  “I shall go with you to the Bishop,” he added, seeing that the other still hesitated.

  “Against my will I do this thing,” said Olav with a sigh.

  “Is it more to your liking as things are now,” Arnvid rejoined hotly, “to let the talk go on, here on the manor and among the neighbours—of you and me and Ingunn? Can you not see that the womenfolk smirk and whisper behind her back wherever she goes—stare at her slyly? They look to see if she treads as lightly as ever—”

  “There is no danger on that score,” muttered Olav angrily; “so she says.” His face was crimson again. “Ingunn must stay with us, then,” he said reflectively. “Else it might be difficult even for Bishop Torfinn to get her out of Kolbein’s clutches.”

  “Ay, I shall take Tora and Ingunn with me. Think you I would let her fall into Kolbein’s hands after this?”

  “So be it, then,” answered Olav; he stared gloomily before him.

  Two days later they rode down and reached the town late in the evening. The maids were long abed next morning, and Olav said he would go seek the smith and fetch his axe, while the others made ready to hear the last mass that was sung in Christ Church.

  They had already set out when he came back to the inn. He hurried after them along the street, and the snow crunched under him—it was fine, frosty weather. The bells rang out so sweetly in the clear air, and the southern sky was so finely tinged with gold above white ridges and dark-blue water. He saw the others by the churchyard gate and ran up to them.

  Ingunn turned toward him, flushing red as a rose—Olav saw that under her hood she wore a white coif about her face like a young wife. He turned red too, and his heart began to hammer—this was dead earnest; ’twas as though he had not known it till now. Young as he was and lacking friends and kinsmen, he had taken this upon himself—to face it out that she was his wife. And it made him terribly bashful to walk beside her thus. Straight as two candles, gazing fixedly before them, they strode side by side across the churchyard.

  After the morning meal Olav accompanied Arnvid to the Bishop’s palace. He was ill at ease uring the walk, and it was no better when he had to sit waiting by himself in the Bishop’s stone hall, after a clerk had taken Arnvid up to Lord Torfinn in the Bishop’s bedchamber.

  The time dragged on and on. Olav had never been in a stone hall before and there was much to look at. The roof was also of stone and vaulted, so that no light came in except from a little glazed window in the back wall; but in spite of that it was not so very dark, as the room was whitewashed within, and the walls were painted with bright flowers and birds in place of tapestries and to the same height. The room was without any sort of fireplace, but as soon as he had entered, two men came in bearing a great brazier, which they placed in the middle of the floor. Olav went up and warmed his hands over it, when he grew tired of sitting and freezing on the bench. He was left to sit alone most of the time, and he was ill at ease in this hall; there was something churchlike about it which unsettled him.

  After a while three men came in, clad in furs; they placed themselves around the charcoal brazier and took no notice of the boy on the bench. They had come about a case they had—of fishing-rights. The two old ones were farmers from somewhere about Fagaberg, and the younger one was a priest and stepson of one of the farmers. Olav was made to feel very young and inexperienced—it would surely not be easy for him to assert himself here. Soon one of the Bishop’s men came and fetched them away. Olav himself would have been glad to go out into the palace yard too—there were many things to look at. But he judged that this would be unbecoming; he would have to stay where he was.

  At last Arnvid came in great haste, snatched his sword, and buckled it on, saying that the Bishop was to ride out to a house in Vang and had bidden him go with him. No, he had not been able to say much about Olav’s case—folk had been coming and going in the Bishop’s chamber the whole morning. No, the Bishop had not said much, but he had invited both Arnvid and Olav to lodge in the palace, so now Olav must go back to the inn and bring his horse and their things.

  “What of the maids—they cannot be left behind in the inn?”

  “No,” said Arnvid. They were to lodge in a house in the town, with two pious old women who had boarders. In a day or two they would be joined by Magnhild, Steinfinn’s sister from Berg; the Bishop would send a letter tomorrow, bidding her come: “He says you and Ingunn ought not to meet until a reconciliation be made in this affair—except, as you know, you may see each other in church and speak together there.” Arnvid dashed out.

  Olav hurried to the inn, but one of these women from the guest-house was there before him, and Ingunn and Tora were ready to go with her. So he was not able to speak to her. She looked sorrowful as he gave her his hand in farewell. But Olav said to Tora, so that her sister might hear, that the Bishop had received them well; it was a great mark of favour that all four were to be his guests.

  But when he came back to the Bishop’s palace, he was met by a young priest, who said they were to be contubernales. Olav guessed that this meant he was to sleep in this priest’s room. He was a tall, lean man with a big, bony, horse’s head, and they called him Asbjörn All-fat. He got a man to take charge of Olav’s horse, and himself showed the young man to the loft where he was to sleep. Then he said he must go down to the boat-hithe; a vessel had come that morning with goods from Gudbrandsdal—maybe ’twould amuse Olav to go with him and look on? Olav was glad to accept.

  There was much shipping at Hestviken, Olav knew; and yet no man could know less of
ships and boats than he, so strangely had his life been ordered. He used both eyes and ears when aboard the trading vessel, made bold even to ask about one thing and another. He took a hand with the men and helped to discharge the freight—’twas a better pastime than standing by with idle hands. Most of it was barrels of salt herrings and sea-trout, but there were also bales of hides and a quantity of furs, butter, and tallow. While the priest kept the tally, Olav helped him, notching the stick; in this he had had practice at Frettastein, as he had often done it for Grim; the old man was not very good at reckoning now.

  He kept with Asbjörn Priest the whole day—followed him to prayers in the choir of the church and to supper, which Olav was to take at the same table as the Bishop’s household. And when at night he went to the loft with Asbjörn and another young priest, he was in a much better frame of mind. He no longer felt such a stranger in the palace, and there were many new things to see.—Arnvid was not yet come home.

  But in the course of the night Olav awoke and lay thinking of all that had been told him of Bishop Torfinn. He was afraid of the Bishop after all.

  Rather let ten men lose their lives than one maiden be ravished, he was reported to have said. There was a case that had been much talked about in the country round, a year before. A rich man’s son in Alvheim had set his mind on a poor peasant’s daughter; as he could not tempt the woman with promises and gifts, he came one evening in springtime, when the girl was ploughing, and tried to use force. Her father was below in the wood, busy with the mending of a fence; he was old and ailing, but on hearing his daughter’s cries he took his woodcutter’s axe and ran up; he cleft the other’s skull. The ravisher was left unatoned; his kinsmen had to be content with that. But, as was natural, they tried to get the slayer to leave the country. First they offered to buy him out, but when he would not have it, they fell upon him with threats and overbearing treatment. Then Bishop Torfinn had taken the poor peasant and his children under his protection.