The Bridal Wreath

When the child Kristin was seven years old, it so fell out one time that she got leave to go with her father up to their mountain sæter.

It was a fine morning, a little way on in the summer, Kristin was in the loft-room, where they were sleeping now summer had come; she saw the sun shining outside and heard her father and his men talking in the courtyard below⁠—and she was so joyful that she could not stand still while her mother put on her clothes, but hopped and jumped about as each piece of clothing was put on her. She had never been up in the mountains before; only across the pass to Vaage, when she was taken to visit her mother’s kinsfolk at Sundbu, and sometimes to the woods near by the manor with her mother and the house-folk, when they went out to pluck berries for Ragnfrid to mix with the small beer, or to make into sour paste of cranberries and cowberries that she ate on her bread in Lent instead of butter.

The mother twisted up Kristin’s long yellow hair and tied it into her old blue cap, then kissed her daughter on the cheek, and Kristin sprang away and down to her father. Lavrans was in the saddle already; he lifted her up behind him and seated her on his cloak, which he had folded up and placed on the horse’s loins for a pillion. Kristin had to sit there astride and hold on to his belt. They called out “Goodbye” to Ragnfrid; but she came running down from the balcony with Kristin’s hooded cape⁠—she handed it to Lavrans and bade him look well to the child.

Somewhere near at hand she heard the gurgling and trickling of a beck; she followed the sound till she found it, and then lay out upon a great slab and washed her hot, gnat-bitten face and hands. Below the slab the water stood, a still, black pool, for over against it there rose a wall of rock behind some small birches and willows⁠—it made the finest of mirrors, and Kristin leaned over and looked at herself in the water, for she wished to see whether ’twas true, as Isrid said, that she bore a likeness to her father.

She smiled and nodded and bent forward till her hair met the bright hair about the round, great-eyed child-face she saw in the beck.

Round about grew a great plenty of those gay, pink flower-clusters they name valerian⁠—redder far and finer here by the fell-beck than at home by the river. Of these Kristin plucked and bound them about with grass, till she had woven herself the finest, thickest wreath of rose-pink. The child pressed it down on her head and ran to the pool to see how she looked now she was decked out like a grown maid who goes a dancing.

She stooped over the water and saw her own dark image rise from the bottom and grow clearer as it came to meet her⁠—and then in the mirror of the pool she saw another figure standing among the birches opposite and bending toward her.

But when she was come into the room Kristin forgot to look at him, for right opposite the open door, with the light full upon her face, sat a little woman who she guessed must be the witch-wife. And yet Kristin had never thought that she would look like this.

She seemed small as a child and slightly made, as she sat in the great high-backed armchair which had been brought up thither. A table had been set before her too, covered with Ragnfrid’s finest, fringed, linen tablecloth. Bacon and fowl were set out upon the silver platter; there was wine in a mazer bowl, and she had Lavrans’ own silver goblet to drink from. She had finished eating and was busy drying her small and slender hands on one of Ragnfrid’s best hand-towels. Ragnfrid herself stood in front of her and held for her a brass basin with water.

Lady Aashild let the hand-towel sink into her lap; she smiled to the child, and said in a clear and lovely voice:

“Come hither to me, child!” Then to the mother: “Fair children are these you have, Ragnfrid.”

Her face was greatly wrinkled, but as clear white and pink as a child’s, and it looked as though her skin must be just as soft and fine to the touch. Her mouth was as red and fresh as a young woman’s, and her large, hazel eyes shone bright.

Kristin was so amazed with his boldness it was a moment before she could gather her wits⁠—then she strove to tear herself away, but he had a hold of her cloak and it was fastened together by a strong silver clasp. Bentein got his arms about her again, and made to kiss her, his mouth nearly touching her chin. She tried to strike, but he held her fast by the upper arm.

“I trow you have lost your wits,” she hissed, as she struggled, “dare you to lay hands on me as I were a⁠—dearly shall you rue this tomorrow, dastard that you are⁠—”

“Nay, tomorrow you will not be so foolish,” says Bentein, putting his leg in front of her so that she half fell into the mud, and pressing one hand over her mouth.

Yet she had no thought of crying out. Now for the first time it flashed on her mind what he dared to want with her, but rage came upon her so wild and furious she had scarce a thought of fear: she snarled like an animal at grips with another, and fought furiously with the man as he tried to hold her down, while the ice-cold snow-water soaked through her clothes on to her burning skin.

“Tomorrow you will have wit enough to hold your tongue,” said Bentein, “⁠—and if it can not be hidden, you can put the blame on Arne⁠—’twill be believed the sooner⁠—”

Just then one of his fingers got into her mouth and at once she bit it with all her might, so that Bentein shrieked and let go his hold.

No sooner were they come to the forest path than the men drew closer to them and began to talk. Kristin liked this but ill, but she would not show she was afraid; so she answered them quietly, told of the pards and asked the men where they were from. She spied about her, too, and made as though she looked each moment to meet the serving-men they had had with them⁠—she talked as though there had been a whole band. As they went on the men spoke less and less⁠—nor did she understand much of their speech.

After a while she became aware that they were not going the same way she had come with Ingebjörg⁠—the course their path took was not the same; ’twas more northerly⁠—and she deemed they had already gone much too far.

Deep within her there smouldered a fear she dared not let herself think upon⁠—but it strengthened her strangely to have Ingebjörg with her, for the girl was so foolish that Kristin knew she must trust in herself alone to find a way out for them both. Under her cloak, she managed by stealth to pull out the cross with the holy relic she had had of her father; she clasped it in her