The two friends were handsome men; at any rate they made a handsome pair when they went about together; they brought life and gaiety with them, and they were well liked. When folk met Olav they said he might feel honoured in his son.
Now that he had stopped growing, Eirik was very tall, long and big of limb, but shapely, narrow in the hips and thin about the waist, though the upper part of his body seemed somewhat too broad and heavy—he had grown so broad-shouldered that he stooped a little, so that folk said in jest that he was rather top-heavy—but his head was small in comparison.
He had grown very dark of hair and complexion, and he had a long, narrow face; his features were not so handsome: the nose hooked, or rather indented, first between the eyes, and then another dent over the bridge; the mouth was so big and the upper jaw so sharply curved that his great white teeth made one think of a horse’s mouth; the long, flat chin lacked roundness. But he had such matchless eyes, said folk—Eirik’s eyes were large and light brown and seemed full of an inner light. And then he had youth, so that he passed for a handsome young man, even if his features might have been better.
Jörund Rypa was such as most call handsome, tall and well grown, with smooth flaxen hair, blue eyes, a ruddy face, and a large, rather pointed nose, a fresh, rather thick-lipped mouth. He was quiet and retiring enough among the neighbours here—Eirik was far more winning in his ways. So the one was thought handsome because he was lively, and the other’s good looks were held to excuse his being somewhat indolent or haughty.
It was this subdued manner of Jörund’s that made Olav like him, so long as he was in the room with him. But if he chanced to think of Jörund Rypa when he no longer had him before his eyes, Olav felt a profound, obscure ill will toward his son’s friend.
With unreasonable clarity he recalled an ugly little act he had seen this man do when he was a boy—one day when he and some other lads were snowballing here in the yard; Jörund had then behaved disloyally to Eirik. It was a small thing to lay so much stress on, a child’s trick during a children’s game; but at the time it had revolted Olav like the blackest treason, and the impression had remained with him, so that he could not think of Jörund without antipathy.
But when he was in Jörund’s company this feeling vanished almost entirely—he could see the injustice of laying a long-past boyish trick to the charge of this grown man. Jörund conducted himself becomingly, was quiet in his manner, looked folk frankly in the face, and never spoke without need. Olav saw therefore that he was unjust in thinking of the young man as though there were something underhand about him, for there was nothing underhand about Jörund Rypa, either in his speech or in his face or in his eyes.
One day Olav chanced to hear a scrap of talk between brother and sister. He was busy in the smithy when Eirik came to the door with Cecilia. They stopped outside.
“—every maid would be glad to be married to Jörund Kolbeinsson,” said Eirik.
“Then ’twill not be hard for him to find a match.”
“But how comes it, sister, that you like not Jörund?”
“I never said that I like him not,” replied Cecilia.
“You said so but now, when I asked you.”
“’Tis not to say I like him not”—there was a laugh in Cecilia’s voice—“if I answer no when you ask me do I like your friend!”
“But is it not one and the same thing? If you do not like him, then surely you like him not?”
“No, ’tis not the same!” The girl was laughing now; Olav heard her run on down the field. Eirik opened the door and came in, smiling at his sister’s words.
This new, exhilarating fondness for his sister filled Eirik’s heart entirely. It was as though all his childhood’s unrequited affection for his father, his anxious and burning passion for Hestviken, had dissolved in the sunny warmth and peaceful well-being of these summer days; the evil in it ran away, and the good was left behind, remoulded as a warm and golden joy in this little sister’s winning brightness and pert girlish charm. He followed her about at home, he had to have her with him whenever he went abroad, he lavished gifts on her—the best jewels and clothes he possessed, which he had never thought to part with.
He rejoiced in everything wherever he went over his father’s land—his love for this land, which was to be always his, was increased by a vague memory of his strange thought, as a child, that he might lose it in the end. It was the same as with Hestviken itself when the sun returned after a long spell of bad weather: never did the fields and the manor gleam with so bright a glance as then.
It was almost the same with his love for his father. It had been the groundwork of Eirik’s whole life that no man in the world was like his father; the only change was that he no longer thought about it. He no longer took it to heart that his father was taciturn and could by no means be called a man of good cheer—they were now friends in spite of that. Eirik did not see that it harmed anyone if his father was gloomy and cross; he himself had now grown out of the shadow that Olav cast around him.
He took his ease and disported himself in the glory of his own youth. His sister had grown into a winsome maid; he could share his joy in life with her. He had his best friend with him, and the three together enjoyed the happiness that each day brought.
Thus it was that he had already half formed the thought that Jörund spoke one evening when the two were out fishing in the fiord.
“I have been thinking, Eirik—what if we two bound our friendship in a closer tie? Think you Olav would receive it well if I let my kinsfolk ask for the hand of your sister?”
“You know right well,” replied Eirik gladly, “Father could but esteem so good an offer—and I know none to whom I would so gladly see her given, dear as I hold her; never would I advise her betrothal to a lesser man than you. And Father sets great store by my advice—” No sooner had he said it than Eirik believed his own words.
From that time it was a settled matter in Eirik’s mind that Jörund and he were to be brothers-in-law. And unconsciously he began from that moment to regard his friend in a slightly different light.
It escaped him altogether that, though he had loved Jörund Rypa ever since he first knew him as a child, it was nevertheless true that he had never entirely liked him, nor had he ever trusted Jörund so well as not to have a care—how far he might venture with him. Unsure as Eirik himself had been in everything, he was drawn to the other boy, who was so unshakably sure. But all the time he had known that what made Jörund so secure was that he was firmly resolved to keep himself safe, at whatever cost to others. Jörund Rypa would neither blink nor waver if it came to leaving a friend in the lurch. Jörund’s was not a timid nature, nor was he afraid of how folk might judge him.
But this power of Jörund’s of being sufficient to himself had clean bewitched Eirik when they were boys. And when Jörund Rypa turned up in Ragnvald Torvaldsson’s following, Eirik had pressed himself upon him, claiming the right to call himself Jörund’s best friend from childhood. There was no one in the company with whom he was better friends than another in spite of all his efforts to please his comrades; they liked him well enough—he was ready to do them a turn, brave, a daredevil in many ways, though in other things he would show himself strangely and unexpectedly petty-minded. But they laughed a little at him too—he was altogether too credulous for them, and he made too great demands on plain folk’s credulity when he told a story.
Jörund accepted the position of Eirik’s best friend, and Eirik did not haggle about the price; in the course of time he had had more than once to serve as a cat’s-paw to Jörund. But Jörund affected complete ignorance when Eirik took the blame for the other’s wrongdoing, and at the sight of his friend’s innocent, blue-eyed look Eirik himself believed in Jörund’s good faith—it would be unworthy to think otherwise. He was so good-natured in his ways, was Jörund, with his genial voice and his prompt smile, when Eirik talked nonsense to him. Careless he was in many ways, to the downright alarm of Eirik—for Eirik hi
mself was scrupulous in the performance of his duty, though he was too short of memory to do it well always, and he was hurt at any disparaging word of his conduct. Jörund knew how to take care of himself better than Eirik liked or would have admitted to be the case; Jörund spoke of women in coarser terms than Eirik could have brought himself to use even of the loose wenches who were all he yet knew. But in spite of all this, Eirik loved Jörund.
In this way they had now kept fellowship for several years. Now and again they had been parted, for Eirik from time to time would take himself off and seek service with another lord; but it always ended in his coming back to Sir Ragnvald, with whom Jörund stayed.
There was but one thing about his friend which Eirik could never put up with, and that was Jörund’s singing. Jörund comported himself well in a dance, and he had a powerful voice, so that he often led the dance; that was his pride. But he did not sing true. Eirik himself had a fine ear for music, and his singing voice was not so full as his friend’s, but warm and soft—and when Jörund broke into a ballad, Eirik felt quite sick with shame on his friend’s behalf.
The very next day Eirik told Olav that Jörund seemed to have thoughts of Cecilia. The two men were walking together across the ridge to Saltviken.
Olav listened to his son in silence and walked on without answering.
“You may be sure,” Eirik went on, “that Jörund is a man who is attended by good fortune. And you must have heard a good report of the house of Gunnarsby—”
“I know they are called rich.” Olav walked a few paces in silence. “Have you been there—at Gunnarsby?”
At once it struck Eirik that this was a thing Jörund might well have done—asked him to bear him company some time or other when he went home to see his kinsfolk. It gave him a little pang: “It never happened that I was able, when Jörund wished to have me home with him.”
“What do you think of the man himself?” asked Olav. “Is he such a one that you would deem Cecilia and her welfare safe in his hands?”
Involuntarily the old disquietude returned, vague and distant. But he had thought all this over, Jörund’s faults were such as a man may lay aside when he sets up house; and if they were to be brothers-in-law they must be loyal to each other. So Eirik answered yes, and began to sing Jörund’s praises loudly—cool-headed he was, good-natured, cheerful, mettlesome—his father had seen that for himself.
“Ay, I have seen naught but good in him.” Olav heaved a sigh. They walked on in silence. Then the father said:
“I shall speak with Baard—ask what he knows. Baard must be able to find out about these folks; he has kinsmen of his own in that part. Till then I look to hear no more said of the matter. Jörund is our guest and he must know enough of good manners not to bring forward his suit again before his brothers can take it up.”
“You may be sure of that.” Eirik was at once mortally afraid lest Jörund should upset the whole plan, if he gave any hint of it in speaking to his father, who insisted so strictly that all should proceed in seemly fashion. Or that he might scare away Cecilia if he approached her with the rather rough and aggressive good humour with which Eirik had seen him win the favour of other maids. But Cecilia would not like such ways, he saw that at once; she had been brought up by this father and she had far too much of both pride and modesty. He would have to speak of this to Jörund.
The day before Laurence-mass,3 Eirik had been on an errand up the fiord. It was a dead calm as he rowed homeward—in the north and east heat clouds with gleaming edges surged up over the hills; their reflection darkened the pale blue of the fiord and gave the water a leaden hue, while the patches of sunlight beyond were bright as silver. Eirik rowed fast—he had his best coat on and was trying to be home before the storm burst. It was warm; the sun scorched him, and the reflection on the water dazzled his eyes.
He looked over his shoulder—down in the south the sky was clear and blue, and the sea was all aglitter. Hestviken lay in sunshine—the fields of ripe corn and those which had been already cut, where the corn stood in shooks among the stubble, showed white amidst all the green. Eirik thought he would have to see to getting in all that was nearly dry, in any case—his father and Tore were not at home. He remembered storms that had threshed out the sheaves over the ground.
The sky was blue-black over toward Oslo, and the thunder rolled far away—it looked as if perhaps the storm would pass farther north. From the quay Eirik took the path by the side of the “good acre”; he leaped the fence, felt the sheaves and tore off a handful of the white barley, rubbed it between his hands and stuffed the sweet grains into his mouth. Then he heard someone singing above, on the lookout rock—a soft, veiled female voice. It could not be Cecilia, she had no voice for singing.
Eirik went up to see. On the rock lay a strange young woman; she lay with her back to him, and her face turned toward the sea. Her heavy tresses, dark with wet, were spread over the rock to dry. As she lay resting at full length on her side, with one hip raised, there was something about her that stirred Eirik’s senses, so that he came to a standstill, as though he had taken the wrong track.
In indolent repose the woman lay humming to herself as she gazed into the sunlight over the fiord. Then it struck Eirik who she must be. He came toward her.
On hearing footsteps on the rock she turned and rose on her knees. Eirik saw that her figure was full in all its outlines, but without firmness, as though overripe for a young maid, and when she rose to her feet, her movements were heavy and lacked elasticity. She flushed deeply as she looked up at him with a hesitating, evasive look of her great dark eyes, while her hands struggled to throw her heavy, dark hair back over her shoulders.
Eirik went up to her and gave her his hand.
“Have you come home now, Bothild? Welcome!”
She did not return the pressure of his hand, but withdrew hers quickly and shyly; she stood with bent head, looking down, and her voice was toneless and veiled.
Eirik himself felt confused and heavy at heart because he had been so suddenly disquieted at the sight of this girl—her doubtful attitude, her drooping head, and her hushed voice were enough to warn him that the days of their innocent and carefree life together were gone. Bothild’s startled air as she stood with her shoulders rounded, full-bosomed and broad of hip, the strong scent of her hair, wet with sea-water—it seemed as though both his conscience and hers were already darkened.
They said a few words about her journey and then spoke of the weather, which looked so threatening. Eirik told her he meant to get in what he could of the corn before the storm burst. Bothild whispered yes—if it did not come before, they would have it at night. Now and then there was a faint blink of lightning far to the north, followed by a distant rumble.
Eirik stole glances at her as they walked side by side toward the manor. She was tall, but did not hold herself erect; her hair was very thick and long, but seemed stiff now from the sea-water. But her face was fair, round, and white, with red roses in her cheeks; she had a broad forehead, smooth and white; black, curved eyebrows; and her dark-blue eyes looked up with a covert, sidelong glance under thick white lashes; her mouth was big, her chin small and round as an apple. Once she smiled at something he said, and then he saw that she had small short teeth with gaps between them, like a child’s milk teeth, and she showed her gums as she smiled—he felt he would like to take and kiss her, but roughly, without kindness.
He got in all the corn off the “good acre” that afternoon; the storm passed round to the north over the fiord, but did not reach Hestviken. It was already dark outside and distant lightnings flashed in the evening sky; between the claps of thunder the stillness of the fiord seemed uncannily hushed beneath the cliffs in the close evening air of late summer. The men went indoors. Bothild brought in supper, hanging her head, as in all she did. But it was easy to see that Cecilia was delighted to have her foster-sister back again. This added to the touch of hostility that was part of Eirik’s uneasy feeling toward Bothild; sh
e was not a seemly playmate for his sister, he thought—a woman who excited his desire in this way.
In the course of the night he was awakened by the crash of thunder; now the rain was pouring down: it drummed dully on the turf of the roof, ran off and splashed on the rocky floor of the yard, streamed over the foliage of the trees. From one corner of the smoke-vent it ran down into the room. The vivid flashes lighted up chinks in the wall at the end of the house; the logs were no longer weather-tight after the long drought. And clap after clap of thunder crashed and rattled right above the houses.
Eirik remembered Bothild the moment he woke—now she would be lying in the loft above the closet. Jörund slept like a stone on the inside of the bed, against the wall; Eirik lay outside. He was tempted to get up and go to the ladder—call up to hear if the girls were also awake; perhaps they would be frightened by the storm. But he lay where he was.
He tried to think of other things—of the fields farther up the valley, and the corn that stood there ready for the sickle; how would it fare in this weather? He could not remember that he had noticed Bothild Asgersdatter when he was last at home, the year of the Swedish troubles—it must be three years ago now. Cecilia was only a child at that time, his father was with Ivar Jonsson in Sweden, Bothild was helping her aunt in the housework; both the girls did so. He had not seen much of them, nor had he heeded them greatly.
He could not tell what had put it into his head that Bothild was not a pure maiden like Cecilia.
3 August 10.
4
FOR Eirik there was an end of the peaceful home life and the pure, innocent summer days. They were now a company of four young people—for it never occurred to Cecilia to go anywhere without her sister. But to Eirik’s fevered senses it seemed that Bothild clung to the younger girl. She was always a little in the rear, dropping behind with her indolent tongue and voluptuous gestures and her everlasting shy and stolen sidelong glances—it was at himself they were aimed, and he felt them as if she had touched him with her hand; but as soon as he looked at her, her eyes were turned away. It roused a kind of fury in the man—that she would never leave him in peace. He was ashamed of his own thoughts—here he was at home, with his father and his sister, but through Bothild’s fault he was harried and beset with desire.
The Son Avenger Page 4
