The Son Avenger

by Sigrid Undset

  Nay, said Cecilia, it was on Bothild that most of the household duties fell, Bothild was a far better housewife. And she had left everything in such good order that it was easy for Cecilia to work single-handed for a time. ’Twas always so that Signe Arnesdatter took one of them with her when she went to visit her married children, and this time it was Bothild who was to go—nay, she would not be home for a good while yet; Helga did not expect to be brought to bed before St. Margaret’s Mass2 or thereabouts, and Signe always made a long stay with that daughter.

  Nay, Bothild was not yet betrothed, but no doubt their father would soon look about for a husband for her. And Bothild might well look to make a good match; she had inherited not a few chattels from her aunt, and Olav would add to her dowry, and with her gifts and her goodness, and her beauty—ah, beauty! There were not many maidens hereabout who were so fair as Bothild Asgersdatter, so said all the countryside. Her hair was fine as silk, and so long and thick “she can scarce comb it herself; I do that for her; we are wont to plait each other’s hair.”

  Eirik lay smiling to himself from pure joy. He rejoiced too that Jörund could see what his ancestral home was like: a great manor and a house of gentlefolk, maintained in lordly fashion—but after the old usage; the houses were small and old, here were no newfangled courtiers’ ways, but it was the more dignified on that account. Such things might be suitable for the new families who had risen from a poor estate, but there was no need of them here at Hestviken; Olav Audunsson and his children had no need of ostentation.

  Eirik saw his father come out of the stable in the yard below. Olav stopped, looked up at the rock where the young people were sitting, but went indoors without calling to them or saying anything.

  Cecilia, however, rose at once. “I am sure Father thinks ’tis time we go in and go to bed. And you may well be tired too, brother.”

  Eirik awoke next morning to the sound of bells and lowing—leaped up, into his clothes, and out.

  The sun had just risen above the ridge in the north-east; it shone in splendour upon the green that clung fast to the clefts of the rock. Outside, the sea lay bright and smooth as a mirror; over the meadows at the entrance to the valley lay long shadows of trees and bushes in the morning sunlight.

  The feeble warmth of the beams was grateful in the early coolness. Eirik came out in time to see the last of the cattle disappear into the woods. Cecilia stood by the gate, fastening the hasp of withy and calling to the herdsmen. Now she came back, walking along the high balk of the cornfield, for she was barefooted and the path was muddy. She was dressed like a working-woman, in an old blue smock she had kilted up to her knees, and her feet were red with cold in the dewy grass.

  “Are you up already?” she greeted her brother. Ay, she was always early up: “the first morning hours are the busiest.” There was a smell of the byre about her, and her white arms were soiled from milking; the wrists were as round as if they had been turned in a lathe. The two stiff plaits that hung over her bosom were short and thick, and ruffled in the knots, so curly was her hair.

  Cecilia had to go off to the bleaching-ground; Eirik sat on the step of the barn and watched her laying out her linen. She went into the dairy and spoke to Ragna, and he stood at the door meanwhile—she was so brisk and prompt in all that she did.

  Her brother followed at her heels, sitting on the threshold of the women’s house while she washed herself in the water-butt outside and rinsed her feet. She stepped past him over the threshold and called from within: would he come in and see the room?

  The women’s bower was the largest room in the manor; with its walls of fresh yellow logs it was much finer than the dark hall, and its furniture was richly carved; the beam from which the pot hung over the hearth ended in a wild, gaping horse’s head. Along the wall stood weaving-frames, reels of yarn, and chests; over the crossbeams hung folded blankets and cushions for the benches. Cecilia, who had now put on shoes and stockings, took down the best of them to show him.

  From a carved box his sister fetched a stone jar and a little silver goblet, filled it, and drank to her brother.

  “Father gave us this last year—we were to have it, he said, in case one day we might have to receive a guest. And now you are the first.”

  “Thanks! It was good wine too.”

  “But strong? We were all drunken on it one evening last autumn, Bothild and I and the maids.” She looked up at her brother with a bashful little laugh, as though unused to tell strangers of her own affairs. “There was one whose name was Yngvild, she is not here any more; ’twas she who thought of it—we danced in here. There were to be games on the green by the shore to the northward, and they would have had us with them when they came down to take boat, Gaute Sigurdsson and Jon Tasall and a few more; but Father said no, though there were two from Rynjul among them—’twas of no use. Yngvild was angry; she said Father kept us stricter than Lady Groa keeps the children who are sent to her convent to be taught. So she persuaded us to lay aside our sewing, and we danced in here, and then we drank of the wine that was meant for our guests.”

  “What said Father to that?” Eirik smiled. He felt nothing beyond his bright new-born love for this sweet young sister. Every word she spoke and every gesture she made filled his soul with joy.

  “Father? He said nothing, as you may well guess. But two days after, he came and ordered us to move into the hall and sleep in the upper chamber there; ’twas too unsafe for young maids to sleep alone in a bower that lay so near the shore. Until then we had lived here night and day. And next time Yngvild offered to oppose him, he answered that ’twas best she went home to her own father, for belike she would obey him.”

  “Is he so strict with you, Father?”

  Cecilia had put on her kirtle; it was red, handsomely embroidered. She fastened her belt about her and hung on its scissors and knife, purse and bunch of keys. The little barefooted dairymaid was now a fine young franklin’s daughter.

  “Strict he is, in that he holds so firmly to customs and manners as they were observed in old time—we may not open our mouths or move our eyes when strangers are present. But he bears us goodwill withal.” She took out of her chest and spread on the bed a sleeveless, low-necked kirtle of brown velvet, embroidered with rings and crosses of yellow silk. The long-sleeved shift that belonged to it was of red silk and had gilt hooks to fasten it over the bosom. “Such dresses he gave both to Bothild and me—’twas after he had refused us leave to go into Oslo to see the damsels’ wedding with the Swedish dukes. Meseems ’tis high time we came to town one day—to the fair or to Halvard’s Vigil. But father will not have it.”

  “Have you never been up to Oslo?”

  Cecilia shook her head and wrapped her finery in its covering of homespun cloth. “God knows when we shall have a chance to wear these trappings.”

  “That will come when we are to drink your betrothal ale.”

  Cecilia’s face changed in an instant; she turned to her chest and put away her finery. “I know naught of that.”

  The beauty and charm of his sister went to Eirik’s head like a slight intoxication. He did not know how it was he had never thought of her in all these years; had he done so, he would surely have kept himself from one thing and another, from drinking and gaming, brawling, wenching, and debauchery. He regretted now that he had had so little thought of curbing himself—he had never thought of it—had yielded to every temptation and obeyed the fancy of the moment. Thus he had been carried away by what soon became habit, and he got the reputation of being a man of immoral ways, one who haunted taverns and worse places. Nor was this reputation undeserved. But the result was that he enjoyed no more respect than other hired servants, a man-at-arms in his lord’s retinue.

  Now that it was too late, he saw that he ought to have followed his father’s advice; then he could have asserted himself so that none would ever forget he was the son of Olav of Hestviken. If he had kept himself more from dice and ale-houses, bought himself clothes and arms inst
ead, kept his own horse—and then he should have stayed indoors, in the company of older men of good report, sat still and modestly listened to their talk. Then he might also have been received in the ladies’ hall, where high-born damsels sat; he might have borne them company to the dance and to mass.

  He had kept himself a stranger to all such women, dreaming of them, in pale, harmless dreams. But he was too shy in their presence, and far too lazy and irresolute to compel himself to break with his evil habits.

  Yet in a way he did not believe they were so pure and grand as he liked to think they were. Jörund told a different tale, and he was just as welcome in their bower as in other places. And Jörund used to say that he dallied with them freely and boldly. There was only one thing they were afraid of, he sneered—short of that they liked a man to handle them somewhat rudely.

  This was one of the things Eirik disliked in his friend—that he could speak thus of the damsels of his own estate. It took away Eirik’s desire to try his fortune there—he did not realize that he was unwilling to hazard his own good opinion of good women. There were plenty of the other sort for other uses.

  But the truth was that every maid would gladly have married Jörund—he never let people forget who he was: one of the sons of Gunnarsby, and that he had only taken service in a lord’s retinue in order to see something of the world before settling down at home on his own estate. His morals were no better than Eirik Olavsson’s, he was no more squeamish in the choice of those he drank with, and at the sight of dice and gaming-tables he went clean mad—but luck was with him more often than not. Nevertheless no one ever forgot that Jörund was no less a man than any of the King’s body-guard, for all that he had chosen to serve a lord whose followers enjoyed a freer life.—But then it was true that Jörund had not left home at enmity with his kinsfolk.

  At the bottom of Eirik’s mind lay the thought that one day he would break with this retainer’s life. One day he would return to his ancestral home, be reconciled to his father, recover his position as the heir of Hestviken. And then no doubt it would be time to marry—it would be for his father to find a suitable bride for him.

  Eirik had been on a ride round the parish, had visited his kinswoman Una Arnesdatter and met others of his acquaintance. In the evening Eirik mentioned at home that on the next day there would be dancing on the green by the shore to the northward, where young people from north and south were sometimes wont to assemble.

  “Cecilia may go with us to the games, may she not?”

  Olav answered: “They are unused to taking part in such gatherings, the children here. Nor can we stay up so late at home on a Saturday evening—we have a long way to church.”

  Eirik protested: there were many other houses that lay just as far from the church, and they could rest when they came home from mass. Olav muttered something—a refusal—and made as though he did not notice that Cecilia was looking at him.

  Jörund guessed it was of no use to pursue this subject with the master of the house and took up another. But a little later Eirik asked suddenly:

  “What was that, Father, that I heard from Una? She said you had that Aslak Gunnarsson from Yttre Dal here last winter—he called himself by another name, and you kept him hid, so that the Sheriff never knew you were harbouring an outlaw.”

  “Did he not?” said Olav with a faint smile.

  “One cannot say your father hid him so well as that,” said old Tore laughing. “Reidulf is not fond of trouble. And since the winter of the Swedish broil I trow he is more afraid of Olav disturbing him than minded to disturb Olav.”

  “Nevertheless it was unmanly to fling himself upon strangers in such a case,” said Eirik. “But those red-polls of Yttre Dal are like that—proud in spite of their poverty, but ready to accept help where they can find it, when they are hard pressed. I met his brother, that time I was in the Upplands, a haughty and ungracious fellow he was—”

  “Then Aslak is not like him,” said one of the house-carls warmly; “we were all fond of him.” At this Olav interrupted the man, sent him out for something, and began to talk to Tore about a horse that had some boils under its mane.

  Olav had gone down to the waterside before going to rest. As he came back he saw Cecilia standing on the lookout rock. Her father went up to her.

  “You must come in now, Cecilia—’tis late.”

  The girl turned round to him. In the pale gleam of the summer night her father saw that her face was discomposed—the stubborn features were slackened in irresolution. But she said nothing and followed him obediently down to the houses.

  Next morning, when Cecilia brought in the food, Olav said to his daughter: “You know, if you have a mind to go with them for once and listen to the dancing, I will not deny you—now that you can have your brother’s company.”

  Cecilia looked at him rather doubtfully.

  “But perhaps you have no mind to go—?”

  “Oh, yes. Gladly would I be there for once,” said Cecilia.

  The thin new moon floated in summer whiteness in the rosy grey of the sky above Hudrheimsland as Olav rowed round the foot of the Bull. A reflection of daylight still rested on the rocky wall of the promontory. Olav rowed with cautious strokes in the evening stillness. He put in at a little cove where there was a strip of sand, drew up the boat, and made his way up through the wooded cleft in the rock.

  He had bow and arrows with him, and he stole along quietly. On reaching the height, where the trees thinned out and the moss-grown rocks sloped down to the Otter Stone, he paused for a moment, but then resumed his way northward into the forest. After a while the sound of singing came up to him and the smell of smoke.

  As he came out on a little knoll, he saw the fire blazing far below; beneath him he had the bay with the clear curve of its sandy beach, and higher up between the flat rocks lay the dancing-green, burned yellow by the summer sun. Around the great bonfire the chain moved in a ring, black against the flames; the dancers’ feet drummed on the dry ground, and their song rang sweetly in the still evening air. Olav could not catch the words, for he did not know this ballad by heart, but he recognized the tune and knew that it was the lay of Charlemagne and Roland. The one who sang for them had a deep, warm voice; Olav wondered if it might be Eirik—he had always been singing when he was a boy. They were too far off for Olav to recognize any of the dancers in the twilight. Some were sitting down to rest outside the circle.

  Olav stretched himself on the crisp bog-moss, which still felt warm from the heat of the sun. The ballads were wafted up to him, and the sound of the tramping in time to the song:

  It was dum-dum dumdelideia dum-dum dumdelidei—

  Now and again he heard the crackling sound of the fire, and, far below, the fiord murmured and lapped against the rocks. The moon had gone down long ago; above him the summer night grew dark. Nor were there many stars out tonight—it was already a little past midsummer.

  At last the man rose, picked up his bow and arrows, and walked quietly back, down through the forest.

  He lay in his bed within the dark closet, dozing and losing himself in a web of vague dreams, but every time he was on the point of falling asleep, he woke up with a start. Each time it was nothing, only a feeling that he had been waked by something from without. But there was no one in the hearth-room, and it was growing lighter and lighter—they had forgotten to close the smoke-vent.

  At last he heard them in the yard—they were taking leave of the other young people who were going farther inland. Then his own folk came in. From the closet Olav could hear them talking and yawning as the men took off their footgear. Cecilia had not gone up; once or twice she gave a little laugh.

  “’Tis morning already,” her father heard her say. “In three hours we must ride away to church. ’Tis not worth while to go up to the loft—I think I will lie down in here.”

  There was a slight creaking in the south bed as she got up into it, then came the louder sound of the men getting into the other. A few words pa
ssed between them. Cecilia’s voice grew faint with sleepiness, then she left off answering, and soon after, one of the men began to snore.

  Olav got up after a while; he would go into the hearth-room and close the vent. In the north bed he saw the heads of the young men; they had rolled the coverlet about them.

  Cecilia was asleep in the other bed; she lay right on her back, her delicate, flower-like face showed white among the masses of loosened hair. Olav was reminded of her mother, who had lain thus, in the same bed, year after year, flung down like a corpse, paralysed to the waist, slowly withering to death.

  But the sleeping child was radiant with health. She was white in the face, but it was fresh and round as pearls; a little stubborn and self-willed she looked, even when asleep, and the long, pale lashes cast a shadow on the rounded cheeks. The short, straight nose and the broad curve of the chin betokened obstinacy or steadfastness—one could not say which it was at her age.

  One of the hands hung down over the side of the bed—it looked uncomfortable. Olav cautiously raised it and laid it on her bosom. Her breasts were rounded firmly and delicately under the red woollen gown, making a wide gape at the opening and showing an embroidered kerchief under the silver lacing. She had outgrown this gown in the sleeves too—they did not reach nearly to her wrists.

  Olav stood looking at his daughter till he felt himself shivering in the chilly morning air with only a cloak about him. He bent down and made the sign of the cross over her. Then he picked up the little red shoes; they were dark with wet from the water in the bottom of the boat—her father set them on the edge of the cold hearth.

  1 Linnœa borealis—reputed to be a cure for shingles.

  2 July 20.

  3

  EIRIK and Jörund went much abroad to feastings and merrymakings and often Cecilia was with them; Olav had nothing to say to it.