The Son Avenger

  Copyright © 1930 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  Copyright renewed 1958 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in Norwegian in two volumes as Olav Audunsson I Hestviken and Olav Audunsson og Hans Born by H. Ascheboug & Company, Oslo. Copyright © 1925, 1927 by H. Ascheboug & Company, Oslo. This translation was published in hardcover as part of The Master of Hestviken by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1930.

  Translated from the Norwegian by Arthur G. Chater.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Undset, Sigrid, 1882–1949.

  [Olav Audunsson og hans born. II. English]

  The son avenger / Sigrid Undset.

  p. cm—(Master of Hestviken; v. 4)

  Originally published in Norwegian as pt. 2 of Olav Audunssøn og hans born (2 v.).

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77309-8

  1. Middle Ages—History—Fiction. 2. Norway—History—1030-1397—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series: Undset, Sigrid, 1882-1949.

  Master of Hestviken; v. 4.

  PT8950.U506313 1995

  839.8’2372—dc20

  94-42542

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part One - Winter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part Two - The Son Avenger

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Books by Sigrid Undset

  PART ONE

  Winter

  1

  ONE evening in late autumn Olav Audunsson went down to his sheds at the waterside to see that all was made fast and well closed. It had been blowing hard during the day and the tide was high, and now on the approach of night the wind was rising. Going out on the pier, he saw that a little sailboat had put in under its lee. There was only one man in the boat, and so Olav went up to see if the stranger might need a hand.

  “Now luck is with me,” said the new-comer, shaking the water from his clothes, while Olav took charge of his arms and wiped the worst of the wet from them. “My wish was to speak with you alone, Olav, as soon as might be; and here you come yourself to meet me.”

  He talked as if they had known each other of old, and Olav thought he had seen this young lad before, but could not put a name to him—his face was fair and bold-featured, with a delicate, thin-lipped mouth; a little spoiled by the bulging, pale-blue eyes, but in spite of that he was good-looking. The hair clung to his forehead under the waxed linen hat from which the water poured, but it could be seen that it had a reddish tinge. The stranger was tall and well grown.

  Olav took the man into one of the sheds and bade him declare his errand.

  “Ay, ’tis best I say how it is, master; I have had the mischance to slay a man, and no atonement has yet been made—the case may drag on. And so I could think of no better way than to put myself in your hands: I know you for a man who will not refuse to hide me while my kinsmen make terms on my behalf.”

  Olav was silent. It had become a far more risky matter to harbour outlaws of late years since the country had grown quieter and King Haakon enforced the laws more strictly. But on the other hand he could not send the young man away—the fiord was white with foam, and night was already falling.

  “Where did this thing happen?” he asked. “And what manner of man was it you slew?”

  “’Twas at home, and the man was Hallvard Bratte, the Warden’s nephew.”

  “At home—where may that be?” asked Olav rather impatiently.

  “I see—you do not know me,” said the young man, seeming hurt. “Although I was with you as your trusty comrade both in the fight by Skeidis church and at Frysja bridge—”

  “Ah, yes—now I mind me where I have seen you before—Aslak Gunnarsson from Yttre Dal. But you have grown much since that time, Aslak, ’tis nigh four years ago.”

  Aslak went on with his tale. The way of it was that Aslak’s father had given summer pasturage to some cows for the lady Signe, Hallvard Bratte’s sister, and two of these had been struck down by the bear. When the dalesmen came back to Hamar with the lady’s cattle, she had been very unreasonable, and so one word had led to another. At last Hallvard, the lady’s brother, who was standing by, had uttered words of Gunnar of Yttre Dal to which Aslak could not listen with patience. He had got away after the slaying, had ridden south, and first sought refuge with the White Friars at Tunsberg. But on coming to the convent he learned that his kinsman Prior Sigurd was lately dead, and he quickly guessed that the monks were loath to give him shelter: they had been compelled to abandon their claim that the right of asylum enjoyed by the convent of Mariskog also applied to the house of their order in Tunsberg. The Abbot said he might indeed repair to Mariskog, but it was becoming somewhat too common for King Haakon’s enemies to take sanctuary there, and Aslak had remarked that the monks were a little uneasy, since the King no longer looked with favour on this monastery which possessed the right of asylum. That being so, Aslak had no great mind to betake himself thither: “and then I bethought me of you, Olav. A man without fear I know you to be, and one that is wont to do as he thinks fit. You yourself have roamed as an outlaw in your youth—so I thought you would not refuse me help.”

  Olav was not more favourably disposed to hide the manslayer by what he had just heard—that the lad was from the Upplands and seemed to know more about Olav’s youth in that part of the country than Olav cared to be reminded of; how much it was not easy to guess. Until now he had believed that folk in the north had long ago forgotten him and his affairs, it was so many years now since he had shown himself in those regions. Eirik had been there awhile two years ago and had visited Steinfinn Haaksonsson at Berg; Olav had not been pleased when he heard of it, nor did he grieve overmuch when it came to his ears that the cousins had fallen out a few months later, so that Eirik had not stayed long in the Upplands. But as for refusing to receive Aslak Gunnarsson, there could be no question of that.

  So he said they had better go up to the houses; Aslak must need some warm food and dry clothes.

  At any rate, thought Olav as he helped to carry the other’s gear, it was a lucky thing that nobody at home would try to ferret out who their guest was. Since Lady Mærta’s death in the spring, Bothild Asgersdatter and Cecilia managed his house, and the two young maids were so well brought up that they never troubled their father with unnecessary questions.

  Aslak Gunnarsson settled down at Hestviken. It had not been Olav’s intention that he should remain there, but he could not bring himself to say anything about the matter, and when spring came Aslak was still there, bearing himself in every way as if he belonged to the household. They called him Jon Toresson—it was Olav who hit upon this name, from which no one could guess who he was.

  Otherwise Olav was quite willing to admit that Aslak, or Jon, was a most agreeable house-mate, and he had a way of making himself useful. He was strong and industrious, incredibly handy besides—a
n excellent worker in both wood and iron, and he always found something to occupy him. Olav himself had never been more than a moderately skilful craftsman; he could accomplish all that was needed about the farm, but not such things as required special cunning or deftness of hand and a delicate eye. And since he had lost Bodvar, the house-carl who fell at Frysja bridge, he had not had a man who was practised in such crafts. And then Aslak was always cheerful and of good humour; he had a fine voice for singing, but above all he could whistle so sweetly and truly that it was a pleasure to hear him—he almost always whistled at his work. He could read a little too, so Olav got him to look at some of the writings he had concerning his estates and privileges—there were one or two matters about which he could not trust his memory.

  Withal Aslak was quiet in his ways, so that he did not too roughly disturb the muffled tone that prevailed at Hestviken.

  Life at the manor was calm and still. Little was said among the household, and all spoke low: the master’s silence lay like a damper on all these people who had lived with him so long—they were for the most part the same. Nevertheless the life of Hestviken seemed to have taken on a brighter hue since Mærta Birgersdatter’s sharp voice was hushed and her keen eyes closed. The two young foster-sisters, who now shared the duties of housewife between them, were the most demure and courteous maids a man could see; yet there was a youthful joy and brightness about them, they were so fair and so well beloved of all.

  Bothild Asgersdatter was now in her eighteenth year, quick and capable beyond her age, and not strong in health, blithe and gentle at home, but very shy among strangers.

  As to Cecilia Olavsdatter, no one ever thought of putting it down to bashfulness or timidity that she was so retiring in folks’ company: she looked everyone straight in the face with her clear, cool, pale-grey eyes. Olav’s young daughter was as taciturn as her father, and just as fair-skinned as he had been in his youth. The shining, flaxen hair lay in soft curls about the girl’s head when she wore it loose on holy-days; her complexion was white as the kernel of a nut, and her skin seemed so firm and close that sun and wind made little impression on it, and the full young lips were pink as the pale brier-rose. She was short for her fifteen years, and rather broadly built, but round and shapely, with small hands and feet, but strong of hand and sure of foot. It was rarely that Cecilia Olavsdatter smiled, and her laugh was rarer yet; but she had never been heard to weep. In her actions she was kind with her own people and charitable to the poor and sick, but rather sullen and short-spoken in her manner.

  The foster-sisters were always good friends and of one mind; they seemed to be bound together in intimate affection.

  The Hestvik maids were never abroad, except to the annual feastings within Olav’s own circle of friends; otherwise they were not to be seen at such meetings as were frequented by young people. But they went to mass every Sunday and holy-day unless the weather was very bad. And then they were so handsomely dressed and adorned that no other woman had better clothes or heavier silver belts and buckles than Olav’s maids—both were called so among the folk—and they rode, one on each side of their father, on good, well-groomed horses with newly clipped hog-manes.

  Olav’s heart was filled with deep and silent joy as he walked up the church with his daughters. Their coloured mantles of foreign cloth trailed after them; through the thin church veils shimmered the maidens’ unbound hair, Bothild’s smooth and copper-brown, Cecilia’s silky mane bright as silver. He stood during the mass and never once looked over to the women’s side; nevertheless it was as though all his thoughts were centred on their presence in that place.

  He no longer thought of himself and his own affairs; he was now an old man, it seemed to him, had made his choice of what was to become of him. But, for that very reason, all that he might yet achieve ere evening fell upon him had but one object: to brighten the lives of these two children. How their future would shape itself—of this he scarcely thought; it would surely fall out for the best. In course of time he would marry them off, and it would be a strange man indeed who would not bear such treasures safely through the world when once he had had the good fortune to win them. But still he had time enough to look about him—they were yet so very young, both of them.

  There was Eirik. But it was as though the figure of Eirik had faded into unreality in Olav’s mind; he seldom gave him a thought. He had not seen him since that day at Oslo. Olav had been away from home the only time Eirik had visited Hestviken since—it would be four years ago this summer, and then his father had gone with Ivar Jonsson on the campaign in Sweden, where that brave young leader fell. And it had grown almost to a certainty in Olav’s mind that Eirik would never possess Hestviken after him—that sin God had taken from him; the false heir was not to take over the old manor. God Himself would defend Cecilia’s rights.

  Then there came a morning in early summer. Olav and one of his men were down on the beach by the pier, busy hanging up some nets. The weather was as fine as could be. The sunlight lay in great white flakes on the sea; around the bay, fields and meadows shone with a wealth of green, and the leaves of the alders were dark already with their summer hue, while the firs had long, fresh shoots.

  Cecilia knelt on the sun-baked rock by the pier with a heap of bright, floundering fish beside her. In the morning sun the girl’s old rusty-brown everyday frock was quite resplendent; her thick, fair plaits hung over her shoulders—they were not very long, and her hair was so curly that the plaits escaped from the red ribbons that bound them. Her knife flashed as she raised it and tried the edge against her finger.

  It gave a sound of summer and mild weather in the morning stillness as Aslak loaded his boat. The water splashed and gurgled as he moved about and arranged the goods he was to take with him—Olav had sent him on an errand south to Saltviken.

  “Jon!” called Cecilia softly. The man looked up—Olav saw his healthy young face light up in a quiet smile. As the girl beckoned to him with her knife, he drew the boat up to her along the edge of the pier; she was now standing on the rock.

  She wanted him to sharpen the knife for her. She sat down as he did so, looking out across the water, with her hands resting in her lap. They were not talking together, that Olav could see—but when he had finished and took his place in the boat again, the same quiet, warm smile played across Aslak’s face. And as Cecilia went back to her work, a reflection as it were of the same smile lay upon her fair features.

  She began to clean the fish. As Aslak rowed past the rock, he dropped the oars for a stroke and waved his hand to the maid. And Cecilia raised a hand slightly in reply. Then she bent over her work again with a furtive little smile.

  Olav stared—it had given him a shock: something was passing before his eyes of which he had had no suspicion.

  Cecilia threw the cleaned fish into the bucket and straightened herself a moment. She turned her lovely white face up toward the sun and sat with closed eyes. And the smile that spread over the child’s stubborn little face was like nothing her father had ever seen before; it beamed with a sweet and secret joy—no fairer sight had Olav seen in his life.

  Afterwards he tried to shake it off. Go and take a fancy to a man who lived here at Hestviken as a servant; nay, his daughter could never do that. She could not even have known who this Jon Toresson was.

  Nevertheless Olav determined to be rid of Aslak as soon as might be. The lad was now free to remain in the country; during the past winter he had received news through the monks of Tunsberg that the ban of outlawry had been removed. So now there was no reason for Olav’s keeping him longer than he had use for his services.

  But a week went by ere Olav found occasion to broach the matter to Aslak. Covertly he kept an eye on the two young people; but he could see no sign that they were closer friends with each other than with the rest of the household. He comforted himself with the thought that he had been mistaken that morning by the pier.

  —Until the Saturday evening, when Olav and the men were to go to
the bath-house, but the women would wash themselves in the cook-house; they had been preparing juniper water. Olav and the men were crossing the yard when Cecilia called to Aslak from the cook-house door.

  It struck her father that she knew their guest’s real name.

  Aslak went over to the maid, took from her two pails, and dashed past Olav. In the golden afternoon sunshine he ran light-footed down the meadow to the spring. He was a big man, slight and loose of limb, handsome and cheerful; his curly, reddish hair shone gaily in the evening sun.

  Olav stood still. Now Cecilia appeared again at the cook-house door. She had put off her kirtle and stood in her blue undergarment, which fell about her in rich folds down to her little bare feet as she stood warming one with the other, for the stone was cold in the shadow. While waiting for the water she let down her plaits, shook out her hair, and combed it, so that it waved about her face and arms.

  Aslak came up with the pails of water. The two young people exchanged a few words, which Olav could not hear, but again Cecilia’s face beamed with that new and lovely light. And Aslak was smiling as he left her.

  On Monday evening Olav went out to the smithy and spoke to Aslak:

  “Your mind will be set toward home, Aslak, now that your atonement is made. And I think perchance you would do well to profit by the fine weather while it lasts—you reckon it a four days’ journey, do you not?”

  Aslak laid down what he had in his hands and looked at the older man. “I have thought the same myself, Olav, that I would go home ere long. If I shall not be leaving you in the lurch—will you then let me go before the haymaking?”

  “You may be sure I will. ’Tis not my wish that you stay here as my serving-man, now that you no longer need my harbouring.”