An old man with a gray moustache and beard put his hand on the side of Drake’s neck. Lady, wagging her tail, stood close to the peasant and looked up at Lars-Goren making sure it was all right.
“Good to have you back, sir,” the peasant said.
“Good to see you well,” Lars-Goren answered.
The old man smiled and looked over at Erik, then Gunnar. “Big boys,” he said, and shook his head as if the fact saddened him.
“They’ve grown, all right,” said Lars-Goren. “And how are yours?”
The peasant’s smile came back, wide and toothless. “Six grandchildren now,” he said, “all strong as oxen, two more on the way. So far, all boys!”
“God keep them!” said Lars-Goren, with more feeling than he understood.
Tears came suddenly into the peasant’s eyes. “And the same to you and yours!” he said. He gave a pat to the horse’s neck as if to end the conversation.
Lars-Goren glanced at Gunnar. The boy was watching with great curiosity as an old woman with hands so stiff they would hardly bend stood dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the end of her black kerchief. What Gunnar was thinking Lars-Goren couldn’t tell, but he saw that the old woman’s legs were shaky; she was too old and weak to be working in the fields. Lars-Goren threw a questioning look at the peasant he’d been talking with.
“It was a hard winter,” the old man said with an evasive smile. “The Devil is always busy.” Again he gave a pat to the horse’s neck, and this time, to make sure the conversation was ended, he turned away.
“Well,” said Lars-Goren, looking from the old man to the rest of them, “God be with us all!” Without another word, he swung his horse around and started at a trot down the field in the direction of the trees and the village beyond.
When they reached the road into the village, his son Gunnar came up beside him. “Pappa, what happened to the old woman?” he called out. His chubby, freckled face hovered between expressions, as if at a signal from his father he was ready either to laugh or show concern.
“Trouble of some kind,” Lars-Goren said. “They keep these things to themselves, if they can. Maybe she had a stroke, maybe her son turned murderer. If it’s bad enough, sooner or later we’ll hear.”
“But aren’t we supposed to take care of them?” Gunnar asked. When Lars-Goren said nothing, the boy demanded, “Aren’t we supposed to be like God to them?”
Lars-Goren glanced up. Though the sky was clouded over, the light was intense.
It was Erik who spoke, riding a little behind Gunnar to his left. “Even God they’d never ask for help,” he said.
Lars-Goren glanced back at him. Erik was staring straight ahead, like a knight, or rather like some image of a knight that Lars-Goren had somewhere seen but couldn’t call to mind.
“It’s true,” Lars-Goren said, half to himself. “They’re stubborn. They serve us, they treat us with a certain respect; if war comes, or plague, they’re willing to depend on us. Otherwise, our hands are tied.”
“You mean even God’s hands are tied?” asked Gunnar. As if without knowing he was doing it, he lowered his left hand to the pommel of the saddle, making himself more secure.
Lars-Goren smiled and gave no answer. They were entering the village now, Lady trotting out ahead of them, guarding her party against ox-carts, stone fences, and cats.
4.
WHILE THEY WERE EATING their lunch in the church garden, they talked with the village priest, whose name was Karl, an officious little man with large gray eyes and a face like a woman’s, a flatterer and a liar from the day he was born — for which he despised himself, but no matter how he tried he could never improve. He sat on a headstone across from them, his plump hands folded on his knees.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “all’s well! No problems!”
Whatever the situation in the village, that was always his claim.
“We had some trouble with wild dogs; in fact a child was killed, the walleyed boy that used to tend the horses.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“It was a pity. Terrible. But the situation’s well in hand now.”
He cocked his head with the meek expression of one of those saints in old paintings. “It’s good to see you back,” he said. “You know how people talk. ‘That’s the last we’ll see of Lars-Goren,’ they say. ‘Now that he’s a friend of King Gustav, we’ll drop from his mind like last year’s toothache!’” Father Karl rolled his eyes up and smiled like a baby. “They say, ‘Lars-Goren’s become a Lutheran now.’ ‘Oh?’ I say. You can imagine how it makes me laugh — Lars-Goren a Lutheran! They say, ‘He’s become a great lover, down there in Stockholm.’ ‘A lover, you say!’ I tell them, and laugh to myself. ‘That’s not the Lars-Goren I know,’ I say to myself. I could tell them a thing or two about Lars-Goren, God be praised; but what’s the difference, it does no harm, all this chatter of empty-headed fools!” He opened his hands as if granting all gossips his mercy.
Lars-Goren’s son Erik sat staring at an arrow-shaped headstone with interlocked snakes, his face slightly pale with anger. Gunnar from time to time glanced at his brother as if trying to decide what expression he himself ought to wear.
“Ah well,” said Father Karl, “there’s always unrest, even here in Hälsingland. There’s always gossip and lying and idle speculation, especially when the lord is away, you know, and people have time on their hands. I let it go, for the most part. When the moment seems right, I put a word in.” He smiled, his eyelids lowered and glanced at Lars-Goren, too good a friend to ask for thanks.
Lars-Goren knew well enough that it was all lies and flattery, Father Karl’s childish way of showing loyalty and affection by making others seem less devoted, but he said, just to be on the safe side, “What kind of unrest do you mean, Father?”
“Ah, the usual, you know—” He threw his hands up and gave a laugh. “New governments are always a problem, of course. Where will they get the money to keep things going, you know? Where will they get leaders, with all the old ones killed off in the war or the bloodbath of Stockholm or fled away to Germany? The Lutherans are everywhere, needless to say. And who knows, some of them may even be close to the king. Will they argue that the holdings of the Church should be seized? Will they raise the peasants’ taxes, or take them from the fields for the army? Such are the questions people ask in their drunken foolishness.” He blushed slightly and threw a glance at young Erik then leaned toward Lars-Goren, confidential. “You see, it’s hard to worry about someone you never met. King Gustav’s a mystery. The villagers and peasants have never laid eyes on him. But Lars-Goren, now, there’s a face and figure they can call up in their minds, a man they can brood on and speculate on: ‘What will he do? What will he think? How might he betray us?’ That’s why they gossip, you see. Testing each other out, each man trying his fears on the others, watching for an answering spark of doubt.” He shrugged sadly and looked at his knees.
Suddenly Gunnar said, “I don’t believe you!” His eyes were large and fierce, his freckled face red.