Lady Aashild had laid out the dead woman on the bench, wiped the blood from her face and covered it with the linen of her coif. Erlend stood leaning against the wall, behind the body.
“Know you,” said Aashild, “that this was the worst thing that could befall?”
She had filled the fireplace with twigs and firewood; now she thrust the horn into the midst of them and blew them into a blaze.
“Can you trust your men?” asked the Lady again.
“Ulv and Haftor are trusty, methinks—of Jon and the man with Eline I know but little.”
“You know, belike,” said the lady, “should it come out that Kristin and you were together here, and that you two were alone with her when she died, ’twere as well for Kristin you had let her drink of Eline’s brew—And should there be talk of poison, all men will call to mind what once was laid to my charge.—Had she any kindred or friends?”
“No,” said Erlend in a low voice. “She had none but me.”
“Yet,” said Lady Aashild again, “it may well be a hard matter to cover up this thing and hide the body away, without the ugliest of misthought falling on you.”
“She shall rest in hallowed ground,” said Erlend, “if it cost me Husaby. What say you Kristin?”