Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

On the fifth day, the magistrate arrived. He gathered with Nels, the sheriff, and the priest in the dwelling-house. “Now then,” he began, “the defendant, Nels Poulsen, is charged with manslaughter, and unlawful possession of a firearm.”

“Yes, your honor,” said the sheriff.

“According to the defendant’s statement, he acted in self defense, in the course of an attempted hijacking. Nels Poulsen, is that your statement?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Sheriff,” the judge continued, “in your investigation, did you find any evidence to support or contradict that statement?”

“Yes, your honor, we observed a knife in the hand of the dead man, and a laceration on the arm of the defendant.”

“Did you seek other evidence?”

“Yes, sir, we found another man lying injured in the road where we were told the incident occurred. Unfortunately, the man died before we could question him. At the scene, there was blood on the road, and tracks indicating a high-speed chase.”

“In your opinion, does the evidence suggest that the defendant’s statement is true and accurate?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Now about the firearm, Nels Poulsen, you stated that the weapon was loaned to you by its rightful owner, who is a landholder in Lillehammer parish?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Sheriff, have you any evidence to contradict this?”

“No sir, nor any to support it.”

“Based on the evidence, this is my ruling: The charge of manslaughter is dismissed. For the weapons charge, I sentence the defendant to ten days imprisonment, and a fine of twenty silver crowns.”

Nels gulped. He did not have twenty crowns. If he sold some of the cargo to pay the fine, it would sit very poorly with Peder Skurdal, and could even amount to another crime. Worse yet, a delay of ten more days would likely make it impossible to reach home before the heavy snows. The priest cleared his throat and began to object, but the magistrate held up his hand.

“I further order that the sentence be suspended, provided the sheriff of Lillehammer parish confirm the ownership of the weapon upon defendant’s arrival there, that the weapon be returned to the defendant, and a reward of ten crowns issued him, in recognition of his contribution to the public safety.”

Nels let out a sigh of relief as the magistrate rapped on the table and stood, signaling the end of the hearing.

Pastor Hansen smiled, clapping Nels on the shoulder. “Well, now,” he said, “that was a swift reversal of fortune.” After the officials were gone, he counted out ten coins from the parish strongbox and handed them to Nels. “Will you be leaving in the morning?”

“Thank you kindly, Pastor, but I must leave today. There are several hours of daylight remaining, and it is now a race against winter.”

“I understand,” said the priest. “Be sure you take plenty of food and fodder. I will instruct the servants to provide generously.”

“I am most grateful.”

“You can probably reach Hamar by nightfall.” He took up his pen and wrote a brief note. “Take this to Pastor Eglund at the praestegaard. He will lodge you there. Godspeed, my son.”

(To be continued)

Nels was stunned by the priest’s generosity. The lowliest lodgings at the praestegaard would be far better that whatever kind of dungeon the sheriff used to house prisoners. “I am very grateful, Pastor,” he said in a shaky voice.

“Not at all, Nels Poulsen. We are grateful to you for making our parish safe again. I am afraid our guest house will be needed soon, but we will make room for you in the men’s quarters.”

Nels was flattered and moved. “Thank you kindly, Pastor, but … but …” Tears came to his eyes, “I have killed a man!” With effort, he held himself from weeping. “I never killed anyone before.”

“I have already seen how much it grieves you. That is how I know you are an honest man. Rest assured, my son, defending your own life is no sin.”

For five days, Nels rested and groomed his horses, fretting about his prospects. The servants were hospitable, and more than a little in awe of him. The carpenter made him a walking cane from Nels’ description of the old one, and from his measurements. Nels thought it better than the one he had lost. The stable hands pampered the horses, and the servants’ food was even better than at Skurdal. The maidservants fussed over him, drawing scowls from the men.

All the while, the moment when he pulled the trigger and blood ran from that man’s mouth, replayed itself again and again. The bandit was quite young, probably younger than Nels. The nightmares were terrifying.

One night, the priest sent ale to accompany the servants’ supper. Nels drank his fill, but when the maids began to flirt, he excused himself with a hearty smile for the men-servants, and limped alone toward the sleeping-house. He did not want to go, to be alone and see that dying man over and over again in his mind. But he knew that to stay with the crowd would invite conflict and disruption of the delicate dynamics between the men- and maid-servants. To dally with one of these maids may yield a brief moment of pleasure, but it would also risk new violence, which to Nels would be worse than re-living the old.

He was not ready for bed, so he limped, with his new cane, over to the stables. His team smelled him and snorted softly. An old thought reoccurred to him, that his horses were better friends than men or women. They seemed to understand him better than other people did. He certainly understood them better. He smoked his pipe, stroking the horses and whispering to them.

A stable-boy approached him, “Mister, did you really kill the bad man?”

“I take no pride in that. He would have killed me first, but for these horses,” Nels replied.

“But you shot him, with a gun,”

“I could not have done, if the horses had not helped me.”

“How did they help you?”

“They did what I asked of them, instantly. We shook the wagon to throw the man off-balance before he could kill me. Why are you still out here, in the dark?

“I wanted to see you.”

“All right, you have seen me. Now, go to bed.”

“Yes, sir,” said the youngster.

(Continued)