Kristin came near to falling her length on the ground when Erlend lifted her from her horse beneath the balcony of the upper hall.
“Twas so cold upon the hills,” she whispered—“I am so weary—” She stood for a moment—and when she climbed the stairs to the loft-room she swayed and tottered at each step.
Up in the hall the half-frozen wedding-guests were soon warmed up again. The many candles burning in the room gave out heat; smoking hot dishes of food were borne around, and wine, mead and strong ale circled about. The loud hum of voices, and the noise of many eating sounded like a far off roaring in Kristin’s ears.
It seemed as she sat there she would never be warm through again. In a while her cheeks began to burn, but her feet were still unthawed, and shudders of cold ran down her back. All the heavy gold that was on her head and body forced her to lean forward as she sat in the high-seat by Erlend’s side.
Every time her bridegroom drank to her, she could not keep her eyes from the red stains and patches that stood out on his face so sharply as he began to grow warm after his ride in the cold. They were the marks left by the burns of last summer.
The horror had come upon her last evening, when they sat over the supper-board at Sundbu, and she met Björn Gunnarsön’s lightless eyes fixed on her and Erlend—unwinking, unwavering eyes. They had dressed up Sir Björn in knightly raiment—he looked like a dead man brought to life by an evil spell.
At night she had lain with Lady Aashild—the bridegroom’s nearest kinswoman in the wedding company.
“What is amiss with you, Kristin?” said Lady Aashild, a little sharply. “Now is the time for you to bear up stiffly to the end—not give way thus.”
“I am thinking,” said Kristin, cold with dread, “on all them we have brought to sorrow, that we might see this day.”