The Cross

Kristin Lavransdatter - Volume III

Sigrid Undset, Alrik Gustafrom

• Publisher: Read & Co. Classics
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9781444627992
• eBook ISBN: 9781447482208
• Subtopic: Women in Fiction

In this heart-wrenching novel by Sigrid Undset, The Cross brings Kristin's story to a close as the final years of her life are consumed by the Black Death, in the final installment in the well-known Norwegian trilogy, Kristin Lavransdatter.

Kristin Lavransdatter has lost almost everything she loves. As the Black Death rapidly approaches Norway, she once again has to decide what is most important to her. Kristin grapples with her failing marriage and wavering faith while attempting to support eight sons. The once charmingly reckless characters are now facing their greatest challenge yet: the inevitability of their diminishing lives.

Completing the trilogy, Sigrid Undset's third Kristin Lavransdatter book was originally published in 1922. The author's colourful depiction of 14th century Norway is continued in this final volume as she provides a fascinatingly accurate insight into medieval Scandinavia.

Proudly republished by Read & Co. Books, this new edition of The Cross features an excerpt from Six Scandinavian Novelists by Alrik Gustafrom. An essential addition to the bookshelves of Kristen Lavransdatter fans, this volume is the perfect end to the classic Norwegian series.

THE CROSS

Part One

KINSHIP’S DUES

I

THE second year Erlend Nikulaussön and Kristin Lavransdatter dwelt on Jörundgaard, the mistress was minded to go herself and lie the summer over at the sæter.

She had thought upon this ever since the winter. At Skjenne it was the use from of old for the wife herself to pass the summer at the out-farm, for once a daughter of that house had been carried off by the mountain folk, and afterwards naught would serve the mother but she must herself lie on the mountain every summer. But in so many things they had their own ways down at Skjenne—and folk in the parish were used to this and thought it was but as it should be.

But elsewhere in the Dale ’twas not the use for the master’s womenfolk of the great manors to abide themselves at the sæters. Kristin knew that if she did it, there would be talk and wonderment among the folks.

——In God’s name, then, they must even talk. Sure it was that they gossiped about her and hers whether or no.

——Audin Torbergssön had owned no more than his weapons and the clothes he stood up in when he was wed with Ingebjörg Nikulaus-datter of Loptsgaard. He had been henchman to the Bishop of Hamar; ’twas the time when the Bishop was in the north here to hallow the new church that Ingebjörg fell into trouble. Nikulaus Sigurdssön took it hardly at first, swore to God and all men that a horse-boy never should be son-in-law of his. But Ingebjörg was brought to bed of twins; and, said folks, laughing, Nikulaus maybe deemed their bringing up too hard a matter to tackle single-handed. However that might be, he gave Audin his daughter in marriage.

This had happed two years after Kristin’s wedding. ’Twas not forgotten; folk still bore in mind that Audun was a stranger in the parish—he was a Hallander, of good kin, but his folk had fallen into great poverty. And the man himself was not over well liked in Sil; he was stiff-necked and hard, slow to forget either good or ill; yet was he a notable farmer, and had good knowledge of the laws—so in some ways Audun Torbergssön was a man of standing now in the parish, and a man that folk were little willing to fall at odds with.

Kristin thought of farmer Audun’s broad, brown face set in its curly red hair and beard; of his sharp little blue eyes. He was like more men than one that she had seen—she had seen such faces amongst their serving-folk at Husaby—Erlend’s house-carls and ship-folk.

The mistress sighed. It must be easier for such a man to hold his own, even though ’twas his wife’s lands he lived on. He had never been master of aught before——

Throughout the winter and spring Kristin talked much with Frida Styrkaarsdatter, who had come with them from the Trondheim country and was the chief of her serving-women. Over and over again she would say to the girl that they were wont to have things so and so in the Dale here in summer, the harvest-folk were used to get this, and that was how they did in the fields in autumn—Frida must bear in mind how she, Kristin, had done last year. For it was her will that all things here on the farm should go as they had gone in Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter’s time——

But to say outright that she herself would not be there on the farm that summer—this she found hard. She had lived at Jörundgaard two winters and a summer now as mistress, and she knew well that if she went to the sæter and abode there this year, ’twere much as though she ran away.

——She saw well that Erlend’s lot was no easy one. From the time he sat upon his foster-mother’s knee, he had known naught save that he was born to bid and rule over all and everything around him. And if so be he had let himself be ruled and bidden by others, at least the man himself had never known it.

’T was impossible he could be within as outwardly he seemed. He must needs be unhappy here. She herself——Her father’s manor on the floor of the still, shut-in valley, the flat fields looped in by the river bends shining through the alder woods, the farmsteads on the low ploughed lands at the foot of the fells, and the headlong hill-sides above, with grey scaurs high up against the sky, pale-hued screes below, and pine woods and leaf woods scrambling up and over the slopes from the valley-bottom—no, this no longer seemed to her the fairest and safest home in the world. ’T was so hemmed in. Surely this must seem to Erlend ugly and cramped and unkindly.

But none could mark aught on him but that he was well content——

At last, the day they let the cattle out on Jörundgaard, she got it said—in the evening, as they sat at supper. As she spoke, Erlend was groping in the fish-platter for a titbit—he sat stark still in wonderment, his fingers still in the dish, gazing at his wife. Then Kristin said quickly—’twas most because of that throat evil that was ever about among the young children in the Dale; Munan was so weakly; she would take him and Lavrans with her up to the mountains.

Ay, said Erlend. Then ’twould mayhap be best that Ivar and Skule should go with her too.

The twins jumped with joy on their bench. Through the rest of the meal each tried to out-chatter the other. They would go with Erling, they said, who was to lie away to the north among the Graahö fells, with the sheep. Three years ago shepherds from Sil had chased a sheep-stealer and killed him by his own hut in among the Boar-fells—he was an outlaw from the Österdal. As soon as the house-folk had risen from the board, Ivar and Skule bore into the hall all the weapons they owned and set to work on them.

A little later in the evening Kristin went southward, with Simon Andressön’s daughters and her sons Gaute and Lavrans. Arngjerd Simons-datter had been at Jörundgaard the most of this winter. The maid was fifteen years old now; and one day in Yule, at Formo, Simon had said somewhat of how’twas time that Arngjerd should learn something more than what she could pick up at her home; she knew already as much as the serving-women did. At that Kristin proffered to take the girl home with her and teach her as well as she could, for she knew that Simon held this daughter very dear and thought much on what was to come of her. And the child might well have need to learn other ways than those she saw at Formo. Now that his wife’s father and mother were both dead, Simon Andressön was one of the richest men in the country-side. He guided his estates well and heedfully, and was a stirring and skilful farmer on his Formo lands. But within the house things went as best they might—the serving-women ruled and guided all things, and when Simon marked that disorder and waste went beyond all bounds, he would get him one or two serving-wenches more; but he never spoke of such things to his wife, and seemed not to look, nor yet to wish, that she should charge herself more with the house-mistress’s work. Almost it was as though he did not deem her full-grown yet—but he was most kind and easy with Ramborg, and poured out gifts upon her and the children in season and out of season.

Kristin grew fond of Arngjerd when she came to know her. Fair the maid was not, but she was of a good wit, and was gentle, good-hearted, quick with her hands, and diligent. As the young girl went about with her in the house, or sat by her side in the weaving-house of an evening, Kristin often thought she could wish now that one of her children had been a daughter. A daughter must be with her mother more——

She was thinking the like this evening, as she walked, leading Lavrans by the hand, and looking on the two, Gaute and Arngjerd, who were on the path before her. Ulvhild Simonsdatter was running hither and thither, trampling to bits the brittle evening ice on the puddles—she was making believe she was a beast of some kind, and had put on her red cloak inside out, so that the white hare-skin was turned outward.

Down in the dale the shadows were thickening into dusk over the bare, brown fields. But the air of the spring evening seemed drenched with light. The first stars shone wet and white in the sky, high up where clear watery green shaded into blue-black night. But over the black edge of the fells on the further side of the dale there lingered yet a band of yellow light, and its sheen lit up the scree that overlay the steep hill-side above them. Highest up of all, where the drifts jutted over the mountain crests, there was the glimmer of snow and the glitter of the ice that hung beneath it, feeding the foaming becks that gushed down everywhere amidst the boulders. Above the valley the air was full of the noise of waters, and from below rose the river’s hoarse roar. And there was the song of birds from all the groves and thickets, and from out the forest all around.

Once Ulvhild stopped, took up a stone, and threw it in where the birds were singing. But her big sister caught her by the arm. Then she went quietly for a while, but in a little she broke away and galloped down the slope—till Gaute called her back.

They were come close to where the way led into the fir woods; from among the trees ahead came the clang of a cross-bow. Snow was still lying in the woods; it smelt cold and fresh. A short way on, in a little opening, stood Erlend with Ivar and Skule.

Ivar had shot at a squirrel; the arrow was sticking in a pine branch high up, and he wanted now to get it down. He threw stone after stone; the thick, straight tree rang again when he hit the stem.

“Stay a little; let me try to shoot it down for you,” said his father. He shook his cloak back over his shoulders, laid an arrow to his bow, and took aim, carelessly enough, in the deceitful light among the trees. The string twanged; the arrow sang through the air and buried itself in the pine branch close by the boy’s shaft. Erlend took another arrow and shot again—one of the two arrows that had stuck in the tree slipped down clattering from branch to branch; the shaft of the other was splintered, but the head still stuck fast in the limb.

Skule ran into the snow to pick up the two arrows. Ivar stood gazing up into the tree-top.

“ ’Tis mine, father, the one that sticks fast! ’Tis in up to the socket—’twas strongly shot, father!”—and he set about telling Gaute why it was he had not hit the squirrel——

Erlend laughed low and flung his cloak about him again:

“Will you turn back now, Kristin? I must be going homewards—we are off after capercailzie at daybreak, Naakkve and I——”

Kristin answered in haste, no, she would go on with the maids to the manor—she had somewhat to talk of with her sister this evening——

“Then Ivar and Skule can go with mother and be with her home—if I may go along with you, father?” said Gaute.

Erlend lifted Ulvhild Simonsdatter in his arms to bid her farewell. And bonny and fresh and rosy as she was, with her brown curls nestled in the white fur hood, he kissed her, ere he set her down, and turned and went homewards with Gaute.

Now that Erlend had naught else to take him up, he was ever about with some of his sons.——Ulvhild took her aunt’s hand and walked a little—then she ran on again, bursting in between Ivar and Skule. Ay, she was a fair child—but wild and unruly. Had they had a daughter, no doubt but Erlend would have had her too ever with him for a plaything.

At Formo Simon was in the hall, alone with his little son, when they came in. He sat in the high-seat at the middle of the long board, and watched Andres; the child knelt on the outer bench playing with some old treenails, striving to make them stand upon their heads on the flat board-top. Soon as Ulvhild saw this, forgetting to greet her father, she rushed straight up on to the bench beside her brother, took him by the nape, and knocked his face against the board-top, shrieking out that they were her pegs; father had given them to her himself.

Simon got up to part the children, and in rising chanced to knock over a little dish of earthenware that stood by his elbow. It fell to the floor and was broken in pieces.

Arngjerd crept under the board and gathered up the bits. Simon took them from her and looked at them unhappily:

“I misdoubt me your mother will be vexed at this!” ’Twas a little dish of clear white ware, a fair pattern upon it, that Sir Andres Darre had brought home from France; ’twas left to Helga, but she had given it to Ramborg, said Simon; and the women deemed it of great price. At that minute he heard his wife in the outer room, and he hid his hands, with the shards in them, behind his back.

Ramborg came in and greeted her sister and her sister’s sons. She took off Ulvhild’s cloak, and the little maid ran to her father and clung about him.

“Are we so fine to-day, Ulvhild?—wearing our silver belt on a working day, I verily believe——” but he could not take hold of the child, with his hands full as they were.

Ulvhild cried out she had been to Moster Kristin’s at Jörundgaard today, and that was why her mother had dressed her up this morning——

“Ay, your mother keeps you so brave and gay—they might well set you up in the shrine northward in the church, just as you stand,” said Simon, smiling. The one work Ramborg busied herself with was sewing clothes for her daughter; Ulvhild went ever bravely decked out.

“Why stand you thus?” Ramborg asked her husband.

Simon showed forth the shards. “I know not what you will say to this——”

Ramborg took them from him: “No need to stand there and look so like a fool—”

Kristin grew ill at ease as she sat there. ’Twas true Simon had looked foolish enough as he stood hiding the shards behind him, and, as it were, playing the child. But there was sure no need for Ramborg to say so.

“I deemed it would vex you, that your bowl had been broken,” said the man.

“Ay, you seem at all times so afraid aught may vex me—in small things like this,” answered Ramborg—and now the other two saw she was on the brink of tears.

“You know well, Ramborg, ’tis not...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Translators’ Foreword
• Contents
• The Cross
• Notes