“Oh no, Olav,” said Einar. “That is discourteous—you must not show so little zeal to make acquaintance with your wife’s kin-folk. Now let us drink,” he said; he took the bowl that the lay brother had placed on the table and drank to Olav.
“That was a heavy thirst you had on you,” said Olav under his breath. Einar was already half-drunken. Aloud he said: “Oh, acquainted we are already. And as to drinking to our closer kinship—methinks we could as well wait for that till I am agreed with your father.”
“It must be good enough when Father has agreed with the Bishop,” said Einar, bland as butter, “—since he has adopted you. But ’tis a fine thing to see young people so quick to learn: do you see now, sometimes it is proper to wait? They say Lord Torfinn was so eloquent on patience in his Advent preaching—is that where you learned your lesson?”
“Yes,” replied Olav. “But you know ’tis a new word to me, therefore I am so afraid I might forget it.”
“Be sure I shall remind you,” laughed Einar as before.
Again Olav made as though he would rise, but Arnvid pulled him back onto the seat.
“Is that how you keep your promise to the good brothers?” he said to Einar. “In this house we must keep the peace!”
“Nay, am I not peaceful? There is no harm in a little jesting among kinsfolk, kinsman!”
“I knew not that I was among kinsfolk,” muttered Arnvid with vexation.
“What say you?”
Arnvid did not own kinship with Tore of Hof’s offspring by Borghild, his leman. But he checked himself—turned his eyes upon the serving-men of the sons of Kolbein and upon the lay brother, who was listening inquisitively as he moved about.
“There are many here who are not kinsmen—”
Haftor Kolbeinsson told his brother to keep his mouth shut: “—though I think we all know Einar, all of us here, and are used to his teasing ways when he is in drink. But now, Olav, ’tis time you showed yourself a grown man—if you mean to set yourself up and play the master, it will not do to let yourself be provoked by Einar as when you were a little lad—crying with temper—”
“Crying—” Olav puffed with wrath; “I never did so! And playing the master—I trow there will be no play in it, when I go home and take over my property—”
“Nay, that’s sure,” said Haftor quietly.
Olav had a feeling that he had said something foolish; he turned scarlet again.
“ ’Tis the chief manor in that country, Hestviken. ’Tis the biggest farm in all the parish.”
“Nay, is it so?” said Haftor, imperturbably serious. “You will have much to answer for, young Olav—but you will be the man for it, sure enough. You know, brother-in-law, ’twill be worse with Ingunn, methinks. Can she cope with a mistress’s duties on a great farm like that, think you?”
“We shall find a way. My wife herself will have no need to drudge,” said Olav proudly.
“Nay, that’s sure,” said Haftor as before. “She is coming into great abundance, Ingunn, I see that.”
“Oh, that may be saying too much—though Hestviken is no such small place. The shipping and fishery are the main things.”
“Nay, is it so?” said Haftor. “Then you own much shipping too, down there in the Vik?”
Olav said: “I know not how it is with that—’tis so many years since I was at Hestviken. But in old days it was so. And now I mean to take it up again—I have followed Asbjörn Priest here and learned not a little of ships and trading.”
“Meseems you could not possibly want that,” said Einar with a smile. “With such great shipping as we saw you deal with—in Ingebjörg’s goose-pond.”
Olav rose and left the bench. They had only been making fun of him—Haftor too—he saw that.—That about shipping in the goose-pond was a game he had got up for Hallvard and Jon last summer, when the children of Frettastein were left so much to themselves.
“I cannot see that I demeaned myself in that,” he said hotly, “if I carved some little boats for the children; none could think I was playing myself—” then he heard how silly and childish this sounded, and stopped suddenly.
“Nay, ’tis true,” replied Einar; “that would be a very childish game for a boy who was already grown enough and bold enough to seduce their sister—’twas more manly work when you played with Ingunn in the outhouse and got her with child in the barn-”
“ ’Tis a lie!” said Olav furiously. “The thrall’s blood shows in you, when you use such foul talk of your own kinswoman. I know naught of a child either—but if ’tis as you say, you need not be afraid we shall ask your father to bring it up. We know that it is not to his liking—”
“Be silent now,” said Arnvid; he had jumped up and gone to Olav’s side. “And do you shut your mouths too”—he turned to the others. “Man’s work, you said—do you call it man’s work, after Kolbein has accepted atonement, that you sit here snarling like dogs? But you, Olav, should have more respect for yourself than to let them egg you on to barking with them.”
But now the sons of Kolbein and Hallvard were on their feet—beside themselves with wrath at the last words Olav had spoken. Kolbein in his young days had freed himself by oath from the fathering of a child, but ill things had been said about the matter at the time, and as the boy grew up to manhood, ’twas thought he bore an ugly likeness to Kolbein.
“Hold your jaw yourself, Arnvid,” said Haftor—he was fairly sober. “ ’Tis true your share in this business is such that you had rather it were not talked about. But Olav must brook it, though I do not begrudge him atonement instead of the reward he deserves—he cannot expect us to embrace him as if he were welcome in our kin.”
“Nay, welcome to our kin you will never be, my Olav,” sneered Hallvard.
“Answer for yourselves, not for the kin,” said Arnvid. “If that were so, think you Kolbein would have offered Olav your sister Borghild to wife instead of Ingunn, Hallvard?”
“ ’Tis a lie!” shouted Hallvard.
“That may be,” answered Arnvid. “But he told me that he meant to do so.”
“Hold your jaw, Arnvid,” Einar began again; “we all know of your friendship for Olav—’twill do you no good if we inquire into that. You keep nothing from this minion of yours—not even your own childish kinswoman for his leman—”
Arnvid leaned threateningly toward the other. “Have a care of your mouth now, Einar!”
“Nay, devil take me if I care for a rotten clerk. ’Tis a fine story, methinks, this friendship of yours for the lily-white boy. We have heard a tale or two, we have, of the kind of friendship you learn in the schools—”
Arnvid took Einar by both wrists and twisted them till the other fell on his knees with an oath and a groan of pain and rage. Then Haftor came between them.
The Kolbeinssons’ house-carls sat as before, seeming little minded to meddle in the quarrel between the masters. Einar Kolbeinsson got on his feet again and stood rubbing his hands and arms, swearing heartily below his breath.
Olav stood looking from one to the other. He did not understand it quite, but felt as though a hand squeezed at his heart: he had brought Arnvid into a worse slough than he had guessed; they fell upon his friend with grievous insults, flayed him mercilessly. It hurt him to look into Arnvid’s face, chiefly because he could not interpret what he saw in it. Then his anger flared up hotly, and all other feelings were burned up in its flame.
Einar found his voice again, now that he had his brother and cousin at his back. He said something—Olav did not hear the words. Arnvid’s face seemed to knit together—then he drove his fist at Einar and caught him below the chin, so that the man fell backward at full length and crashed against the bench.
The lay brother had rushed in among the men; he helped Einar Kolbeinsson to his feet and wiped the blood from him, as he shouted to the others: “ ’Tis a banning matter, you know that, to break the peace in our house—is this fitting conduct for nobles?”
Arnvid recovered himself a
nd said to Haftor: “Brother Sigvald is right. Now we will go, Olav and I—that is safest.”
“Shall we go?” asked Olav sharply. “ ’Twas not we who started the quarrel here—”
“Let them end it who have kept their wits,” said Arnvid curtly. “I shall give Einar his answer in a fitter place. To you, Haftor, I say that I can answer fully for my conduct in this matter—I have answered both the Bishop and Kolbein, and you are not concerned in it.”
“You said you saw nothing of it,” said Einar with a grimace; “and that may well be true, if ’tis as folk say—that you were a married man yourself for a full year before you guessed what your mother had given you a wife for—”
Olav saw Arnvid’s face quiver—as when a man has a sudden knock on an open wound; he ran back and snatched his spear, which he had left standing by the door. Seized with insensate wrath on the other’s behalf, Olav sprang between them—saw Einar swing an axe in the air and himself raised Kinfetch in both hands. He struck Einar’s axe aside so that it rang and flew out of his hands, grazed Hallvard, who stood behind him, and fell to the floor. Olav raised Kinfetch once more and struck at Einar Kolbeinsson. Einar ducked to avoid the blow—it caught him on the back below the shoulder-blade, and the axe sank in deeply. Einar dropped and lay doubled up.
Now Kolbein’s men had come to life—all three staggered out from the bench and thrust at the air with their weapons, but they were very drunken and seemed to have no great heart for a fight, though they yelled bravely. Hallvard sat on the bench holding his wounded leg, rocking to and fro and groaning.
Haftor had drawn his sword and made for the two; it was a rather short weapon and the others had axe and spear, so at first they only tried to keep Haftor from coming to close quarters. But soon they found this as much as they could do—the man was now quite sober and plied his sword with great skill; with a sullen determination to avenge his brother he took his aim, supple, swift, and sure in every muscle, with senses wide awake.
Olav defended himself, unaccustomed though he was to the use of arms in earnest—but there was a strange voluptuous excitement in this game, and in a vague way he felt acutely impatient every time Arnvid’s spear was thrust forward to protect him.
Though aware in a way that the door had been opened to the night, he was yet overwhelmed with surprise when the Prior and several of the monks rushed in. The whole scene had not lasted many minutes, but Olav had a feeling of being roused from a long dream when the fight came to an end without his clearly knowing how.
It was fairly dark in the parlour now, as the fire on the hearth had burned low. Olav looked about him at the band of black and white monks—he passed his hand across his face once, let it drop, and stood leaning on his axe. He was now filled with astonishment that this thing had actually occurred.
Someone lighted a candle at the fire and carried it to the bench, where Brother Vegard and another of the friars were busy with Einar. There was still life in him, and a sound came from him like the retching of a drunken man—Olav heard them say that the bleeding must be mostly within. Brother Vegard gave him such a queer look once—
He heard that the Prior was speaking to him, asking if it were he who first broke the peace.
“Yes, I struck first and cut down Einar Kolbeinsson. But the peace was but frail in here the whole evening—long before I broke it. At the last Einar used such shameful speech to us that we took to our weapons—”
“ ’Tis true,” said the lay brother. He was an old countryman who had entered the convent only lately. “Einar spoke such words that in old days any man would have judged he died an outlaw’s death by Olav’s hand.”
Haftor was standing by his brother; he turned and said with a cold smile: “Ay, so they will judge the murder in this house—and in the Bishop’s. Since these two are the Bishop’s men, body and soul. But mayhap the nobles of this land will soon be tired of such dishonour—that every priest who thinks he has authority uses it to shelter the worst brawlers and law-breakers—”
“That is untrue, Haftor,” said the Prior; “we servants of God will not protect any evil-doer farther than he has protection in the law. But we are bound to do our best that law-breaking be punished according to law, and not avenged by fresh unlawfulness, which begets fresh vengeance without end.”
Haftor said scornfully: “I call them dirty laws, these new laws. The old were better suited to men of honour—but ’tis true the new are better for such fellows as Olav there, who outrage the daughters of our best houses and strike down their kinsmen when they call them to account for their misdeeds.”
The Prior shrugged his shoulders. “But now the law is such that the Sheriff must take Olav and hold him prisoner until the matter be brought to judgment. And here we have these men whom I sent for,” he said, turning to some men-at-arms who, Olav knew, lived in the houses next the church. “Bjarne and Kaare, you must bind this young lad and carry him to Sir Audun. He has struck a man a blow that may give him his death.”
Olav handed Kinfetch to one of the monks.
“You need not bind me,” he said sharply to the strange men; “nay, lay no hands on me—I will go with you unforced.”
“Ay, now you must go out in any case,” said the Prior. “You can see that we cannot let you stay here—they are coming with Corpus Domini for Einar.”
Outside, it had begun to snow again and there was much wind. The town had gone to rest more than an hour ago. The little band tramped heavily in the dark through drifts and loose snow between the churchyard wall and the low, black, timber houses of the canons; everything looked dreary and lifeless, and the wind howled mournfully about the walls and whistled shrilly in the great ash trees.
One of the watch went in front, and then came an old monk who was a stranger to Olav, but he knew him to be the subprior. Then walked Olav, with a man on each side of him and one behind, so close that he almost trod on his heels. Olav’s mind was full of the thought that now he was a prisoner—but he was sleepy and strangely blunted and inert.
The Sheriff’s house lay east of the cathedral. For a long time they had to stand in the drifts hammering on the locked door, while the snow worked through their clothes and turned the whole band white. But at last the door was opened and a sleepy man with a lantern in his hand came forward and asked what was the matter. Then they were admitted.
Olav had never been inside this gate. He could distinguish nothing in the darkness but driven snow between black walls. The Sheriff was away—had ridden out of town about midday in company with the Bishop, Olav heard in a half-dazed way—he was almost asleep as he stood. Reeling with tiredness, he let himself be led into a little house that stood in the yard.
It was bitterly cold inside and pitch-dark, with no fire on the hearth. In a few minutes some men came with a candle and bedclothes, which they threw down upon the bedstead within. They bade him good-night, and Olav replied half-asleep. Then they went out and barred the door, and Olav was alone—suddenly wide awake. He stood staring at the little flame of the candle.
The first thing he felt was a kind of chill. Then his rage boiled up, with a defiant, voluptuous joy—so he had paid out that unbearable Einar Kolbeinsson—and God strike him if he rued it. He cared not, whatever his hastiness might cost him! Kolbein and those—how cordially he hated them! Now for the first time he saw how he had fallen off in these last months: his dread, his gnawing pains of conscience, all the humiliations he had been exposed to, while he was trying to find a way out of the slough in which he was sunk—it was Kolbein who had barred the way for him wherever he tried to get a firm foothold again. Had not that Kolbein crew stood in his path, he might long ago have been out of all this evil, free and safe, able to forget the painful feeling that he had been a false deceiver. But Kolbein had kept him under his thumb.—And now it was avenged—and he thanked God for it with all his heart. It mattered not that Bishop Torfinn and all these new friends of his said it was sinful to have such thoughts. A man’s flesh and blood were not
to be denied.
Olav’s mind rose in revolt against all these new doctrines and thoughts he had come under in this place—ay, they were fine in a way, he saw that even now, but—no, no, they were unnatural, impossible dreams. All men could never be such saints as to consent to submit all their concerns, great and small, to the judgment of their even Christians, always being satisfied with the law and with receiving their rights—never taking them for themselves. He remembered that Haftor had said something of the same sort this evening—that these new laws were only good for the common people. And he felt at once that he was one with such as Kolbein and his sons, if only in this—he would rather take his case against them into his own hands, set wrong against wrong, if need were. His place was among such as Kolbein and Steinfinn and Ingebjörg—and Ingunn, who had thrown herself into his arms without a thought of the law, in the warmth of her self-willed love—not among these priests and monks, whose life was passed in clear and cool regularity, who every day did the same things at the same times: prayed, worked, ate, sang, lay down to sleep, and got up again to begin their prayers. And they inquired into the laws, copied them out and discussed their wording, and disagreed among themselves and came into conflict with laymen about the laws—all because they loved this law and dreamed that by its means all folk might be tamed, till no man more would bear arms against his neighbour or take his rights by force, but all would be quiet and willing to listen to our Lord’s new and gentle tidings of brotherhood among all God’s children.—He felt a kind of distant, melancholy affection for all this even now, a respect for the men who thought thus—but he was not able always to bow beneath the law, and the very thought that they would slip these bonds about himself filled him with violent loathing.
It added to his rebellious feeling that he was dimly sure they now must look upon him as an outlaw. Bishop Torfinn could not possibly have any more love for him after the way he had repaid his fatherly kindness. And all the preaching friars had looked on him with such eyes—they must be full of resentment at his defiling their parlour with a man’s blood. The old subprior had said something about repentance and penance before he went out just now. But Olav was not in any mood for repentance.
The Axe Page 16
