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INGEBORG Hjalmarsdatter was a Jutish woman of about thirty winters. Early one spring she arrived at Hornbaek, a fisher hamlet on the north coast of Zealand, a day’s ride by the shore road from Copenhagen. The men who had gone before her, found a cottage for sale, and comfortably furnished it, had explained that she was a widow of means who wanted a place where she could take refuge, when she desired, from city life, among common people such as she herself had been before making a good marriage.
The dwellers gave her an awkward welcome but were soon at ease. She put on no airs; rather, she was soft-spoken in her funny dialect, and ever ready to help when a need was real, whether for a bit of money or for hours of toil. However, nobody came truly to know her, and unwed men presently stopped paying court. She did not seek out her neighbors, nor invite them oftener than be-hooved her, nor gossip, nor say much of anything about her past. Alone in her home, she did housekeeping, kitchen gardening, and marketgoing for herself. Each day when weather allowed, she would walk miles along the beach or into the woods. That was not as reckless as it would have been formerly; the King’s peace prevailed anew, for a while, in these parts. Nevertheless, no other I woman would have dared. When the parish priest counseled her’ against it, she told him with a smile, the sadness of which matched aught he had ever seen, that she had nothing left to fear.
Time passed. Raw winds and lashing rains gave way to blos-soms, plowing and seeding of what fields the villagers held, boats bound forth to reap the waters. Blossoms fell, apples budded, furrows wore a tender green, forest filled with birdsong. On the roof of Einar Brandsen had long been fastened an old cartwheel whereon a family of storks nested, summer after summer. They were thought to be lucky for everyone thereabouts, and indeed the months wending past saw births, confirmations, weddings, large catches, merry holidays. But of course they also saw illness, death, burial, a drowned man wash up on this his own strand.
So time went as it ever had, until ~ new stranger arrived.
He came westward from the Sound, belike from Copenhagen,
since his horse was of the best and his clothes, while sturdy for traveling, were too. He was very big and appeared young, beard-less, hair yellow with a peculiar underwater tint, though the for-eign-looking face was haggard. The lordliness of his bearing scarcely fitted with the absence of servant or bodyguard.
Nearing midsummer, the sun was yet above the Kattegat, over which it threw a bridge of molten gold. Eastward across the chan-nel its low-flying rays glowed on clouds piled like mountains above Scania, which rested blue on the edge of sight. Elsewhere heaven stood clear, crossed and recrossed by wings. Far out, a few vessels lay becalmed, toylike, their sails also catching the light. Lulling of gentle surf and mewing of gulls were almost the only sounds adrift through coolness. Tang of sea and kelp mingled with odors from plowland and common on the rider’s left, and the woods which made a darkling wall beyond them.
Youngsters tending geese shrilled their delight when they saw him and sped to the roadside. A bit stiffly, he inquired how to find Fro Ingeborg’s house. His Danish resembled hers but was not quite the same. Could he be a different kind of Jute, or an actual outlander? The children buzzed like bees as he rode on.
Turning up Hombaek street, he was hardly more talkative to the grown persons who hailed him. “I am a friend bringing news solely for her ears. Tomorrow she’ll tell you what she sees fit. Meanwhile, please leave us be.”
Countryfolk like these were not shocked that he and she would spend a night together. Some snickered, some showed envy, a few who were more thoughtful recognized that here was no romp; the stranger’s manner was anything but lecherous.
Ingeborg’s cottage stood near the end of its row, an ordinary. building of moss-chinked timber gone silvery with age; thatch dropped low, full of lichen and wildflowers, anchored by cables against northerly gales. Dismounting, the newcomer unslung the bundle tied behind his saddle, took it under the same arm that held his spear, and gave a man a coin to stable his horse. The gathering goggled as he rapped on the door.