Birth of the Kingdom

TEN

There was nothing about death that frightened Arn; he seemed to be out of the habit of even thinking about it. Or perhaps he had seen too much during his twenty years on the battlefield in the Holy Land, where he had certainly killed more than a thousand men with his own hands and had seen many thousands of others die close at hand. A bad or arrogant commander could raise his arm and in the next instant send off a squadron of sixteen brothers against a superior force pursuing them. They would ride off without hesitation with their white mantles fluttering behind them, never to be seen again. Yet there was consolation in the knowledge that they would meet these brothers in Paradise. A Templar knight never needed to fear death, because victory and Paradise were his only choices.
But it was a different matter when death came to a man as a slow, withering and stinking torment in slime and his own shit. For three long years Arn’s friend Knut had dragged himself through life, growing steadily skinnier until finally he looked like a skeleton. When Yussuf and Ibrahim looked at him they could only shake their heads and say that the tumour eating at the king’s body from inside his stomach would keep growing until it devoured his life.
Now Knut lay stretched out in his bed in his childhood home of Eriksberg, and his arms and legs were as thin as hazel twigs. Under the covers the tumour was visible as a bulge in the middle of his stomach, which in an odd way was reminiscent of a pregnant woman. He had lost all his hair, even his eyebrows and eyelashes, and in his mouth could be seen big black holes where his teeth had fallen out. The stench of him filled the entire room.
Arn had come alone to Eriksberg. Unlike all others who travelled to the king’s deathbed, he could sit there for hours without minding the stench or even noticing it.
The king was still quite lucid. The tumour was eating his body but not his mind. It wasn’t hard for Arn to understand that he was the person the king preferred to talk to during his last days, but it probably surprised many others waiting at Eriksberg. With Arn the king could talk about the Inscrutable One and the Vengeful One as well as he could with Archbishop Petrus; the difference was that Arn didn’t look both expectant and impatient at the same time. For the archbishop it was a divine blessing that Knut was finally going to die; his death was a premonition of the new order about which the archbishop had said so many sincere prayers. According to King Knut, Sverker Karlsson in Denmark had already begun packing up for the journey, so it was really not much use to lie here and resist.
For large parts of his life Knut had lived out at N?s in the middle of Lake V?ttern, constantly surrounded by stone walls and guards so that he wouldn’t die the same way so many other kings had done, including the one he had killed himself. Now that death sat in the waiting room with his hourglass in which the sand would soon run out, there were almost no armed men offering protection. The estate at Eriksberg was like any other normal large estate, without any walls or even a stockade of sharpened stakes, and the church that Saint Erik once had begun to build provided little defence. Nor was it necessary, for who would come to kill a man who already had one foot in the grave?
‘It’s still not fair,’ said King Knut in a weak voice and for at least the seventh time as Arn sat by his bedside on the second day. ‘I could have lived another twenty years, and now I have to go to my ancestors having suffered an ignominious death. Why does God want to punish me so? Am I a greater wretch than all the others? Just think of Karl Sverkersson, whom that archbishop Petter claims is the reason for my suffering. But why him? He was the one who had my father Saint Erik murdered! Isn’t the murder of a saint the worst possible sin?’
‘Yes, indeed it is a grave sin,’ said Arn with an almost impudent smile. ‘But if you think about it a bit, then you’ll probably understand that you’re grumbling about the wrong thing. How long had Karl Sverkersson been king when we killed him? Six or seven years? I don’t recall, but he was young, and you’ve been king five times as long as he was. Your life could have been more miserable and much shorter. You have to accept that. You have to be reconciled with your death and thank God for the grace He has shown you.’
‘I should thank God? Now? Here I lie in my own shit, suffering worse than a dog? How can you, who are my only true friend…just look around you, there’s nobody else here. But where was I? Oh yes, how can you say that I should thank God?’
‘At this hour it would at least be wiser than to blaspheme,’ replied Arn dryly. ‘But if you really want an answer, I’ll give you one. You shall soon die, that is true. I am your friend, that is also true, and our friendship goes far back in time—’
‘But you!’ the king interrupted him, pointing with a finger so emaciated that it looked like a bird’s claw. ‘How can you sit here healthy and feeling fine? Isn’t your sin just as great as mine when it comes to the killing of my father’s murderer?’
‘That’s possible,’ said Arn. ‘When I travelled to the Holy Land I had two sins with me in my saddlebag, heavy sins for my young age. Without the blessing of marriage I had joined together in the flesh with my beloved, and before that I had lain with her sister Katarina. And I had participated in killing a king. But these sins were atoned for over twenty years wearing the white mantle. You may think it’s unfair, but that’s how it is.’
‘How gladly I would have changed places with you in that case!’ the king snarled.
‘It’s a little late to think of that now,’ said Arn, shaking his head with a smile. ‘But if you keep your mouth shut for a moment I’ll try to tell you what I think. The sin that Karl Sverkersson committed when he caused the death of your father, Saint Erik, was something he had to atone for immediately. Now we come to you. You killed and partially atoned for the sin, but not wholly. Yet you have maintained a longer peace in the realm than any king I have heard of, and that will be reckoned in your favour in Heaven. You have five sons and a daughter, a charming wife in Cecilia Blanca, more than that, for in her you won a true queen who has been a great honour to you. You strengthened the power of the Church in the kingdom, something I don’t think you are entirely happy with just now, but that too will be reckoned in your favour. If you look at all this together, you have not lived a bad life and have not been ill rewarded. However, a debt remains to be paid for your sins, and better now than in Purgatory. So don’t complain, but die like a man, dear friend!’
‘What is Purga…what you said?’ asked King Knut hopelessly.
‘Purgatory, the cleansing fire. There your sin will be burned away with white-hot irons, so it might be time to repent.’
‘Can a Templar knight give me absolution for my sins? You are a type of monk, aren’t you?’ asked the king with a sudden spark of hope in his eyes.
‘No,’ Arn said curtly. ‘When you confess for the last time and receive extreme unction from Archbishop Petrus, you will receive forgiveness for your sins. As glad as he will be about your death, it would surprise me if he didn’t show you all conceivable kindness at that moment.’
‘That Petter is nothing but a traitor; if I weren’t dying he would want to see me killed!’ snapped King Knut, coughing and drooling. ‘And if he’s in such a good mood at my deathbed he’ll refuse to give me absolution, and then I’ll lie here as powerless as a child and deceived as well. What won’t that cost me in Purgatory?’
‘Nothing,’ said Arn calmly. ‘Now think carefully about this: God is greater than everything else. He hears all and He sees all. He is with us now. Your state of mind is the important thing; if Archbishop Petrus fails you then he in turn will have to pay for it. But you must trust in God.’
‘I want to have a priest who will give me forgiveness for my sins. And I don’t trust that Petter,’ the king muttered.
‘Now you’re being as stubborn as a child, and that doesn’t become your dignity. If you believe that you can stay alive a few more days, then I’ll call Father Guillaume here from Varnhem. He can take care of the extreme unction, confession, and forgiveness of your sins. After all, you will be going to your eternal rest at Varnhem, and that will not happen without some silver coins with your father’s picture on them. If you wish, I will ride to fetch Father Guillaume, but then you must promise to stay alive for a few more days.’
‘I don’t dare promise,’ said the king.
‘Then we’re back to the only thing that can truly save your soul. You have to trust in God,’ said Arn. ‘This is your moment to turn to God the Father; you are a king on his deathbed, and He will listen to you. You don’t need to take a detour through the saints or His Mother. Trust in God, only in Him!’
King Knut lay silent for a while, pondering what Arn had said. To his astonishment he actually did find solace in his words. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands and tried to say a silent prayer directly to God Himself. Naturally he realized that this was like a drowning man grasping at the last straw, but it didn’t hurt to try. At first he felt nothing inside but his own thoughts, but after a while it was as though a warm flood of hope and solace filled him, as if God replied by briefly touching him with His Spirit.
‘I’m complaining too much about my situation!’ he said, suddenly opening his eyes and turning toward Arn. ‘I hereby consign my soul to God, and with that enough about me. Now to my sons! Do you swear that you are among those who will make Erik jarl the next king after the Dane?’
‘Yes, I am among them,’ said Arn. ‘If Birger Brosa didn’t tell you all this already, I will tell you what has been decided. We have an agreement with the one you call the Dane, Sverker Karlsson. He has no son. After him comes Erik, your eldest son. After Erik come his brothers, first Jon, then Joar, and then Knut. This must any Sverker swear before taking the crown. It’s not God Who gives him the crown, but we free men in the lands of the Goths and Svealand. If he swears the oath then the rest of us will swear him loyalty as long as he stands by his oath. That is how it will be.’
‘And is this a good solution or a bad one?’ asked the king through clenched teeth, overcome by intense pain. ‘I’m going to die, and you’re the only one who will speak honestly to me. Tell me the truth, dear Arn.’
‘If everyone stands by his oath all will be well,’ Arn replied. ‘Then Erik jarl will become king at about the same time he would have been crowned if you had lived as long a life as my father or Birger Brosa. The cost to us will be the humiliation of having to live under the red mantles for a time. What we gain is that we save the realm from a devastating war that we could win only with great difficulty, at a high price in dead warriors and burned buildings. And so this is a good solution.’
‘Will you be part of the royal council?’
‘No, Birger Brosa has sworn that I will never be allowed to be part of the council.’
‘But I thought you two had been reconciled.’
‘That we have. But I’m not suited to be a member of the Danes’ royal council.’
‘Why not? I myself missed your services in the council. No king in our land could have a better marshal than you.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Arn with a secretive smile. ‘Birger Brosa and I are indeed completely in agreement, and we have spoken more than once about the matter. If I sat in King Sverker’s council as his marshal, and also bound by my oath of fealty to him, I might do him more harm than good. Now Birger Brosa and I are pretending that our discord continues, and I am being kept at Forsvik. There I will continue to build the power which shall be that of the Eriks and Folkungs.’
King Knut thought carefully about what he had just heard, and found that it was precisely as wily as could be expected from Birger Brosa. Once more he felt a warm stream inside him, as if God were reminding him with a slight touch.
‘Will you swear to me and to Erik that you are his marshal and no one else’s?’ he asked after long contemplation.
‘Yes, but we have to be cautious with our words,’ said Arn. ‘Remember that I must first swear the oath of allegiance to the Dane as all the others do. But that oath applies only as long as he keeps his word. If he breaks it, there will be war. In such a war I will be Erik Knutsson’s marshal, that I swear, and I can swear that to both of you!’
As Arn said this he knew that he had promised nothing more than what was obvious. But since the dying Knut seemed to believe that there was great importance in such an oath, he had his son Erik summoned to the room. The king took both their hands, pressed them to his dying heart, and extracted from them a mutual vow of loyalty. Erik jarl had a hard time tolerating the stench from his father, and his eyes filled with tears from both sorrow and disgust as he swore the oath to Arn. For the first time Arn saw something he didn’t like in Erik jarl – his inability to keep a dignified demeanour at his father’s deathbed. But he swore obediently on his life, his sword, and his wisdom to do his utmost to save the kingdom’s crown for Erik jarl the moment that Sverker Karlsson did not honour his word to the ting of all Swedes and Goths and the royal council.
King Knut Eriksson, son of Saint Erik who would be the patron saint of the new kingdom for all eternity, died quietly at his ancestral estate of Eriksberg in the year of Grace 1196. He was buried at Varnhem cloister as the first of all Eriks. No great retinue followed him to his last repose, since he was a king who had lost power several years before his death. But he was given a distinguished resting place, next to the founder of the cloister and donor, Fru Sigrid, the mother of Arn and Eskil.
Many prayers of intercession were said at Varnhem for the peace of King Knut’s soul, since the royal gifts to the cloister had been considerable, and it was promised that in times to come this church would be the burial site of the Eriks as well as the Folkungs. Birger Brosa had declared that here the connection between the three crowns and the lion would last forever.
So in time the friends Knut Eriksson and Arn Magnusson would rest close to each other.

There were two harbours in Forsvik, one for the larger ships on Lake V?ttern to the east and one for riverboats on the other side on the shore of Lake Viken. At both places there were now so many people in constant motion that it took about a day to find and catch the stowaways. Young stowaways in particular, boys with a knapsack on their back who had run away from home with big dreams, often heading for Forsvik. Rumours about all the wonders for youths seeking to become men had spread from farm to farm throughout the land. Many felt called, but few were chosen.
As a rule the younger ragamuffins were caught and put on a boat back in the direction they had come. Gure the foreman even used to toss the helmsman a silver coin for his trouble.
Sigge and Orm were twelve and thirteen years old when they arrived in this way at Forsvik just in time for King Knut’s burial at Varnhem. Like everyone, they had known that the king was going to die for about a year, but they had no idea that he had now passed away. As a result of the funeral at Varnhem, however, neither master nor mistress was at Forsvik.
Whatever Sigge and Orm had imagined about reaching the Forsvik of their dreams and seeking out Sir Arn himself, all their hopes were dashed at once by everything they saw. Perhaps they had expected a great house with carved dragonheads sticking out from both ends of the ridgepole, with Arn the knight riding in the barnyard with his flashing sword surrounded by young men and boys trying to act as he did. What they found was a village with four streets, a throng of people all hurrying back and forth, and a buzz of foreign tongues.
To their relief they discovered that there were many youths of their own age wearing clothing like themselves of grey homespun. But everywhere they also saw young men, some almost as young as they were, wearing full weaponry with chain mail and blue surcoats as if it were the most natural thing in the world. On their way down the longest street they stopped first at a big open building without walls but with a roof overhead. There at least two dozen young boys were practicing with sword and shield while older boys corrected them, demonstrated the correct methods, and then forced them to repeat the exercises time after time.
Farther down, near the end of the street, there was an open field with a fence around it, and from there came the loud thundering of horses’ hooves. Soon Sigge and Orm were perched on the fence rails, watching as if in a dream how young men moved at lightning speed back and forth across the field to commands shouted by older men. And all those on horseback wore armour as if they were going to a noble’s feast or to war. So it was true that one could learn to be a knight at Forsvik.
They sat too long at their outpost, like all the young stowaways. After what could have been hours or no time at all as far as Sigge and Orm were concerned, the riders out on the field broke off their practice, lined up in a long row, and strode off to the largest street in the village. Then the two boys were discovered and grabbed by the scruff of the neck by a young man who dismounted from his horse. Showing no kindness, he began pulling them along toward the harbour.
Then Sigge grew angry and said without the slightest shame that he and his brother had no intention of leaving on any boat, because they had both received Sir Arn’s own word that they could come to Forsvik.
At first their captor laughed at these preposterous words, but Sigge refused to back down. Planting his heels stubbornly in the dirt, he snarled that both he and his brother could swear before God and all the saints that they had been given a promise by Sir Arn himself that they could come here. Their guard then grew more wary, since he was used to captured stowaways acting submissive and whining rather than impudent. He got up on his horse, told Sigge and Orm not to move from the spot, and galloped over to the head of the riders. There he stopped before a man who bore the Folkung mantle and was one of those who had barked the commands out on the field.
At once the Folkung came riding toward the boys at a gallop with the young man who had caught them close behind. He leaped to the ground, handing his reins to the other rider, and went over to grab Sigge and Orm by the scruff of the neck. They were once again caught in a hard grip, this time in hands that were wearing iron gloves.
‘Forsvik is for Folkungs and not for runaway thrall boys!’ he said sternly. ‘What are your names and where do you come from?’
‘My name is Sigge, Gudmund’s son from Askeberga inn, and this is my brother Orm,’ said Sigge crossly but flinching under the stony grip. ‘What’s your name?’
In astonishment the Folkung loosened his grip. He too was unprepared for such candid insolence.
‘I am Bengt Elinsson and one of those in charge here at Forsvik next to Sir Arn himself,’ he replied not at all unkindly as he observed the two urchins. ‘Gurmund at Askeberga I have met, and so have all of us who have business between Forsvik and Arn?s. Gurmund is a freed innkeeper, is he not?’
‘Our father is a free man and we were both born free,’ replied Sigge.
‘Well, at least we’ll be spared the trouble of sending you back bound hand and foot. But you did run away from home, I presume?’
It was quite true that they had, since their father Gurmund had not been willing to listen to their entreaties to be allowed to move to Sir Arn’s estate at Forsvik. When they persisted he had beaten them, and finally so assiduously that they had run away, as much for that reason as because of the dream of mantles and swords. Sigge was ashamed to say anything of this, merely nodding to confirm what had been said.
‘Your father has beaten you, that is all too obvious from looking at you, and that indicates his lack of honour,’ said Bengt Elinsson, his voice no longer as stern. ‘I know a lot about how it feels to be your age, and don’t think that I aim to cause you more harm. But you are not Folkungs, so there are no jobs for you here at Forsvik, at least not the sort of jobs you have in mind. You’ll both have to return home. But I shall send a message to Gurmund that he must never again lay hands on you, unless he wants to contend with Bengt Elinsson next time.’
‘But we have Sir Arn’s word,’ Sigge insisted hesitantly. ‘And Sir Arn is a man who stands by his word.’
‘Yes, you are certainly right about that,’ said Bengt Elinsson, trying with difficulty to conceal a laugh behind his hand. ‘But when and where did Sir Arn give you two, sons of a freedman, such a promise?’
‘Five years ago,’ said Sigge boldly. ‘He spoke to us in the barnyard and showed us a sword that was so sharp it made my finger bleed just to touch it. And then he said we should seek him out in five years, and now the five years have passed.’
‘What did the sword look like?’ Bengt Elinsson asked, suddenly quite serious. ‘And how did Sir Arn look?’
‘The sword was longer than other swords, in a black scabbard with a golden cross. It was shiny, with magical runes in gold,’ said Sigge as if the memory were altogether fresh. ‘And Sir Arn had kind eyes, but many marks from blows and cuts on his face.’
‘Sir Arn is at the king’s funeral and won’t be back at Forsvik for a few days or perhaps a week,’ said Bengt Elinsson in a completely new and friendly way. ‘Until he returns you shall be our guests at Forsvik. Follow me!’
Sigge and Orm had never in their lives been called guests, nor could they understand what had made the mighty Folkung change his mind so abruptly. They stood there without being able to take a step. They must have looked extremely foolish, for Bengt Elinsson then put his arms around their thin shoulders and swept them along with him toward the harbour.
They were taken to a powerful blond man named Gure who was at work building a house. He in turn accompanied them to a row of smaller houses where there was much noise from hammers and saws. Inside one of the houses sat four boys of their own age and two older men at a long table making arrows. A big pile of arrow tips of various types lay in the middle of the table among bowls of tar, goose feathers, linen thread, and various sorts of knives. Gure explained that such young guests at Forsvik were not only to eat sweet bread; they must also make themselves useful. Some of the arrow-making was simple work, and there they could begin. But two of the other boys would show them around Forsvik so that they could learn where things were and could see where they would sleep and eat. He pointed to two of the young boys at the table. They stood up at once and bowed to him as a sign that they had understood and would obey. Then Gure left without another word.
The two boys who were going to show Sigge and Orm around were named Luke and Toke, and both had hair cropped as closely as Sigge did, which was a normal way to cut thrall children’s hair because of the lice. So Sigge took it for granted that the other two weren’t free, and that he was superior; he tried to order them to stop staring and instead do as they were told. The one who looked older and stronger told him at once to shut up and remember that he was new at Forsvik and should refrain from putting on airs.
So at first there was little conversation among the four boys as the two Forsvikers began showing the others what there was to see. They started at the smithies; there were three of them located next to one another, but the boys were soon admonished not to get in the way. They continued through the glassworks, where small drinking glasses in shimmering blue and bright red stood in long rows; the older masters had four or five apprentices each. Inside a thundering furnace the glass lay like a big glowing loaf of dough; the masters and apprentices stuck in long pipes, caught up a piece of the dough and began rolling the pipe round and round as they ran over to wooden forms that they wetted with water before they began to blow and turn at the same time. It looked like very hard work, but the great quantity of finished glasses that stood on shelves around the walls showed that they must be very successful in their work. The heat soon drove the boys onward to the saddlery, where men were working with both saddle tack and many other items in leather; then to the weaving rooms where there were mostly women of all ages; to the cooperage; and to two other workshops where the work seemed similar to that of making arrows, but everyone was working with crossbows under the guidance of two foreign masters whose language was impossible to understand.
Sigge and Orm’s eyes were so big that it made the other two boys more kindly disposed toward them, and when they headed over to look at the stables and practice halls for the warriors, Luke and Toke became more talkative. Luke said that he and his brother were freed as children, since they had been born as thralls at Forsvik. Now there were no thralls here any longer. Nor was the land at Forsvik used for anything other than pasture for winter fodder for horses and livestock. So a great deal in their lives had changed, more than just being given freedom. If everything had been as it was before, most would have grown up working the land. Instead all young people now were allowed to be apprentices in the workshops, which was like Heaven compared with toiling their whole lives out in the fields.
The two big stables were almost empty because most of the horses were kept outside as long as there was forage. But here and there a horse stood and stared at them suspiciously as they passed by, and saddles and weapons hung along the walls in long rows. Those were the weapons of the young noblemen, and nobody from the workshops was allowed to touch them.
The young nobles came from Folkung estates near and far and trained for five years. Each year new ones arrived, small and nervous, and in later years a number of them went home, self-confident and mortally dangerous with lance or sword. The young nobles also had their own longhouse, the largest at Forsvik. Ordinary folk were not allowed inside, but Toke said that there were more than sixty beds.
Next to the young nobles’ longhouse stood the foreigners’ house, and there it was not advisable to enter either. And beyond the foreigners’ house stood Sir Arn’s and Fru Cecilia’s own house. Outside it grew a whole little forest of white and red roses grew, and below the house on the slope toward Bottensj?n stood rows of apple trees. The fruit would soon be harvested, and the gardens were full of all sorts of root vegetables and herbs.
The tour concluded where it began with the arrow-making workshop, and Sigge and Orm had to learn the first simple job, to bore holes in the arrow shafts where the points would be fastened, using tools they had never seen before. Luke told them that they had now made more than ten thousand arrows at Forsvik, and most of them had been sent to Arn?s in great casks with a hundred arrows in each. Every day at least thirty new arrows were produced at Forsvik.
With the two new apprentices in the arrow workshop the tasks were reassigned so that Sigge and Orm were occupied only with the simple work of boring holes for the points. Luke and Toke then fastened the points in place and wound them with linen thread which they dipped in tar. Then the arrows were sent on to the two foreigners who worked with the most difficult task, putting on the fletches.
This was not the way Sigge and Orm had dreamed of their new life with Sir Arn at Forsvik. But they could sense that it would not be a good idea to tell Luke and Toke that they intended to be apprenticed among the young nobles.
But when Orm, who till then had been too shy to say almost anything at all, let slip a few words about his dreams at the late supper of bread and soup, he was mocked by all the workers at the table. Only Folkungs went into apprenticeship to be warriors, not freedmen with names like Sigge, Toke, Luke, or Orm. With a name like that a boy never got beyond the workshops.
Sigge clenched his teeth and said nothing. He had received a promise from Sir Arn himself, and he intended to remind him of it as soon as he got the chance.

Arn rode for the first time with a squadron of retainers from the funeral ale at Varnhem to Arn?s. Sixteen men including Sune, Sigfrid, and Torgils Eskilsson had accompanied Cecilia on the alternate route down to Varnhem, along the shore of Lake V?ttern.
The young retainers from Forsvik had drawn many curious looks at Varnhem; only the three eldest had reached the age of eighteen. Their horses were not saddled and equipped like those of others; their flanks and chests were covered with cloth in the Folkung colours. A few people had stepped forward to look at the stout black leather straps running beneath the cloth; they also pinched here and there and found that beneath a thin layer with the Folkung colours was a thick layer with chain mail sewn in as protection from arrows. The fact that only three of the retainers had reached the age of grown men also seemed odd, but even the very young in Arn Magnusson’s retinue carried their weapons with great self-confidence, and they rode like few men in Western G?taland could ride.
Arn realized that with this unavoidable display he had opened up a new reservoir in the flood of rumours about what was going on at Forsvik. But he hadn’t wanted to call Cecilia to the king’s funeral without providing her with the protection on the road that honour demanded.
In a single day they had ridden from Varnhem up to Arn?s without straining themselves or the horses very much. As usual, Cecilia was using a regular saddle with a foot in each stirrup. Riding her own Umm Anaza she had no difficulty keeping up with the group of young squires.
They did not stop in Skara because they had brought no carts to carry any purchases. All their baggage was tied up in saddlebags on two extra pack horses. Outside Skara the road was swarming with peasants on their way in and out of town with their carts since it was market day, and the blue column drew much attention and astonished glances as it thundered past. There was an ominous, secret power about these riders, and everybody could sense it. They could see that these horsemen represented a growing Folkung power. But whether it was a good or bad power, whether it was protection for the peace or a portent of war, no one could tell.
They took the road over Kinnekulle to visit stonemaster Marcellus, who was now working at the quarry on the adornments for the new church in Forshem. He already had many sculptures ready, one that roused the admiration of all, and one that made Arn blush and stammer in a way that no one had seen before.
The image that they all admired was intended to sit above the doorway of the church; it showed the Lord Jesus giving to Saint Peter the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven and handing to Saint Paul the book with which he was to spread the Christian teaching all over the world. Above Lord Jesus’s head there was a Templar cross and a text carved in good Latin which read: ‘This church is consecrated to Our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Sepulchre.’
Both the picture and the text were meant to inspire devotion in the onlooker. It was as though they were looking at the very moment itself, though it never could have taken place in the realm of the senses. But for God, time and space did not exist; He was everywhere at the same time, so the image was just as true as it was beautiful. Arn felt a great emotion in his breast, almost a trembling sensation, at being granted the grace to be involved in building this church dedicated to His Grave. Even though the construction of the church itself had a long way to go, this image was a portent of what was to come.
But the image that stunned Arn and made him feel alternately ashamed and incensed, showed the Lord Jesus accepting the keys to the church from a knight and then blessing the church with his right hand; a stonecutter sat nearby, bent over with a hammer and chisel as he worked on the church. It was obviously supposed to represent Arn giving the church to God, while Marcellus built it. It was not outright blasphemy, but it was an unreasonable way to boast of his deed.
Marcellus took a lighter view of his sculpture. He thought it merely expressed a worldly truth and a good example for human beings. For a thousand years rapturous observers would see how Arn, a Templar knight, had donated this church. Wasn’t that precisely the thought that should be expressed by dedicating the church to God’s Grave? Instead of seeking out God’s Grave in war and death in the Holy Land, true believers should seek it out in their own hearts. They had discussed this the first time they met and concluded their agreement in Skara.
Arn did not remember exactly, but he thought that exalting himself in an image standing next to the Lord Jesus was sheer pride, and that was a grave sin.
Marcellus said again that there was no pride in saying that Arn Magnusson built this church and dedicated it to God’s Grave. That was simply the truth.
Arn was glad that there was plenty of time to change things before the church would be finished and consecrated.
The travellers stopped at Arn?s for only one day, mostly because Arn wanted to walk all the way around the fortifications and examine all the details. Everything to do with the outer defences of the castle was finished. From now on they could spend as many years as they liked on the inner defences and household comforts rather than war. The residence, which was three stories high and built of stone, was almost done; they would be able to move in this winter. All that was left to build were the big storehouses for grain, dried fish, and fodder for the horses and livestock; enough to withstand a long siege. The rest were simpler tasks for which the most skilled builders in the world were no longer needed. The outer walls, towers, gates, and drawbridges were ready. That was the important thing. At Forsvik the work on the thick chains for the drawbridges and portcullises had just been completed.
The old tower keep at Arn?s had now become an armoury for the storage of weapons and valuables. In the high chamber there were several rows of wooden casks stuffed full of more than ten thousand arrows; the chamber below held crossbows, swords, and lances. Even now Arn?s was ready to resist a siege from a very strong foe. But as it looked at the moment, no war was on the horizon, so there was plenty of time to finish up everything they had planned. Soon Arn?s would be an impregnable fortress where many hundreds of Folkungs could seek shelter, regardless of who was threatening outside the walls.
Torgils, who had not been home to Arn?s since Christmas, decided to stay for a few days with his father Eskil, and Arn’s party then set off toward Forsvik. They left at the crack of dawn in order to complete their journey in a single day instead of spending the night at Askeberga.
When they neared Forsvik that evening, the alarm was rung on the big bell, and within moments all the young men and grooms stormed out towards the horses. When Arn and Cecilia and their party rode into Forsvik, three squadrons stood lining the main street. Bengt Elinsson, who was the only commander left at Forsvik, had positioned his horse three paces in front of the others. He first drew his sword, and then the others did the same, and that was how they greeted Sir Arn and Fru Cecilia’s return.
Arn rode up to Bengt, thanked him briefly, took over command, and ordered all the young men to return to whatever they were doing before the alarm sounded.

The following days at Forsvik were heavy with the bittersweet sorrow of parting. The five years for which Arn had hired his Saracen men were now over. Those who wanted to leave would do so soon, for the big ship with dried fish from Lofoten was expected in L?d?se. With that ship those returning home would sail to Bj?rgvin, the largest city on the west coast of Norway. From there ships went constantly to Lisboa in Portugal, and then they would be almost in the lands of the faithful.
Only half of the foreigners wanted to return home. Among them were the two physicians Ibrahim and Yussuf, who were sure that their services would prove much more useful in the Almohad Empire in Andalusia. The two Englishmen John and Athelsten also wanted to leave, but for them it was easier, since ships occasionally sailed between L?d?se and England, where Eskil had in recent years begun to expand his trade routes.
Half of the builders who worked on Arn?s would travel the same way as Ibrahim and Yussuf; they found it difficult to live with the true faith in a land whose very existence God seemed to have forgotten. The other half of the builders perhaps had a more forgiving view of God’s memory, although their decision to stay was probably due to the fact that many of them, like Ardous from Al Khalil, already had a wife and children.
The two feltmakers Aibar and Bulent were also unwilling to leave. They knew they could get from Bj?rgvin to Lisboa, but from there it was an unfathomably long journey to Anatolia. Besides, their home villages had long since been burned and laid waste by both Christians and the faithful. They no longer had any other home.
The brothers Jacob and Marcus Wachtian had long since begun to adopt Nordic customs; both had been speaking the local language fluently for quite a while.
Surprisingly, Jacob had also come back from one of his trips to Lübeck with a wife to whom he claimed to be lawfully wedded before God. Her name was Gretel, and she was rumoured to have been deserted by her betrothed in Lübeck on the very day of their wedding. But she found swift consolation in the arms of the foreign Armenian merchant Jacob. There was something not quite credible about that story, but no one at Forsvik found any reason to argue. For Jacob’s part it would be unthinkable to leave. His Gretel refused to return to her own country for some reason; nor did she want to go to Armenia, and besides, she was expecting a child.
Marcus had no desire to travel alone. He had no woman to amuse himself with as his brother did, which he furtively pointed out to Arn from time to time, but life at Forsvik was good. And it was a delight to invent new ways to use water power, or build new weapons or tools for their work. Although with a woman it would certainly be easier.
Arn decided to accompany the faithful and the Englishmen to L?d?se so that no harm would come to them on their last journey through the land of the infidels. He reckoned that the faithful would be safe as soon as they boarded the ship for Bj?rgvin, and he had no qualms about leaving the Englishmen to themselves in L?d?se.
It was a sombre farewell, and many friends who had worked hard together for five years wept openly when the travellers went aboard the riverboats that would take them to Lake V?nern and then on bigger ships to the G?ta River. It was a relief for all when the farewell was done and the riverboats disappeared around the first bend on the way out onto Lake Viken. Arn and Cecilia were both glad that so many of the foreigners had chosen to stay, for their work and skills were invaluable. It was still difficult to get the apprentices among the freedmen to do the tasks that took many years to learn well.
Arn had a heavy heart when he returned from L?d?se a week later. The most difficult had been parting with old Ibrahim and Yussuf, and the turcopoles Ali and Mansour; the art of those physicians could never be replaced at Forsvik. And even though the young men who had been in service longest had developed commendable skill on horseback, especially when compared to other men in the North, it would be a long time before they could ride like such Syrian warriors as Ali and Mansour. For them, weapons and horsemanship were their daily bread.
But contracts were contracts and had to be upheld. It was a consolation that half of the Saracens had chosen to stay, and Arn had to consider how much had been accomplished to secure the peace during those five years.
And yet he was not in the best of moods when he sat at the table eating and Gure came to him with two workshop lads that he didn’t recognize. At first he doubted the explanation they managed to stammer forth. He didn’t remember promising that they could be apprenticed at Forsvik. They were not Folkungs, and it was evident from far off that they were thrall boys or the son of a freedman. First he asked them sternly where they got these dreams from and whether they knew it was a grave sin to tell a lie. But then they recounted how he had come to Askeberga the first time, how they had called to him in the doorway, and how he had spoken with them in the barnyard. Then he finally remembered the incident. It made him thoughtful, and he pondered silently for a good while before he made his decision. Sigge and Orm waited with great anguish; Gure was clearly surprised.
‘Gure, take these boys to Sigfrid Erlingsson,’ he said at last. ‘Say that they shall start in the youngest group of tenderfeet, and see to it that they receive clothing and weapons in due time.’
‘But master, these boys are in no way Folkungs,’ Gure objected.
‘I know that,’ said Arn. ‘They are only sons of a freedman. But we had an agreement, and a Folkung must always honour his word.’
Gure shrugged and took Sigge and Orm with him. They both looked as if they wanted to yell and jump for joy; only with great difficulty did they manage to restrain themselves.
Arn sat at the table for a long while, his plate of food half eaten. He was asking himself a very strange question that had never occurred to him before. Could a person only be born a Folkung, or could he become one? Certainly not everyone born a Folkung was superior, while all others were inferior.
The Rule of the Knights Templar said that only a man whose father bore a coat of arms could be admitted as a brother in the order. Others would have to be content to be sergeants. On more than one occasion he had seen knight-brothers who would have made better sergeants, and vice versa.
And what rule said that you couldn’t make good men into Folkungs, just as you could inject new blood into a breed of horse? By breeding the heavy, powerful Gothic horses with the fast, agile Arabian horses they were about to develop a new breed that would be more suited to heavy cavalry. That was the next big venture they were going to start at Forsvik. It was a matter of combining the best of the Arabian and the Gothic breeds, just as they worked with different layers of iron and steel when making swords at Forsvik. Why not make Folkungs the same way?
Although he did have to see to it that those two lads were rebaptized, if they had ever been baptized at all. No Folkung horsemen could be called Sigge and Orm.

Sverker Karlsson arrived at N?s, travelling with a stately retinue of a hundred horsemen from Denmark, intending to move in with his people. He had waited with his journey until the end of the year when the ice lay thick and solid on Lake V?ttern.
After the New Year he summoned all the prominent men among the Folkungs, Eriks and Swedes to the king’s N?s to elect him after he took his oath. Three days of feasting would follow.
Never had so many red mantles been seen at N?s, not even during the reign of King Karl Sverkersson. It was not merely the Sverker colour, for also among the Danes red was most common. Erik jarl, who had been at N?s when the Sverkers arrived, whispered in disgust to Arn that it looked like a river of blood had come running across the ice.
Birger Brosa, his brother Folke, and Erik jarl were the only worldly men in the king’s new council who were not Danes or Sverkers. Eskil had been forced to give up his seat on the council when Sverker declared that such serious matters as the trade of the kingdom must be left in the hands of more knowledgeable Danes. For marshal he appointed his friend Ebbe Sunesson, who was related to the Folkungs at Arn?s, since his kinsman Konrad was married to Arn and Eskil’s half-sister Kristina. Sverker thought that this kinship was like a bridge between the Danes and the Folkungs.
Archbishop Petrus beamed like a sun and praised God over and over because finally, in His infinite wisdom and justice, He had brought home the son of the murdered King Karl to the crown of the Goths and Swedes. With that, God’s will was done, Petrus assured them.
But Sverker would not be allowed to wear the crown before he swore in front of the whole council and the royal ting of notables to uphold the law and justice with the help of God. He also had to swear that he renounced all claim to the crown for his kinsmen, since Erik jarl was the one next in line for the crown. And after Erik jarl followed his younger brothers Jon, Joar, and Knut, who would now live in the realm with all the rights pertaining to sons of the king.
Archbishop Petrus, who administered the oath, had in several places attempted to skip one thing and another but was immediately reprimanded by both the Swedes and Goths. Only when everything was truly legal did the ting of the whole kingdom swear its allegiance to King Sverker for as long as he lived – and as long as he kept his vow.
During the three days of feasting, the Danes showed how a royal feast was conducted out in the great world, with jousting between knights who rode at each other with lance and shield. Only the Danes took part in these games, since the new masters took it for granted that no man up in backward Western G?taland or Svealand could fight on horseback. And judging by the many admiring and astonished expressions that King Sverker could observe among his new subjects, these knightly arts, which had already been long established in Denmark, were something no one had ever seen up here in the North.
Arn watched closely, keeping his face expressionless as he observed the actions of the Danish knights. Some were not half bad, others were as lax as he had expected. None of them would have passed muster even as sergeants in the Order of Knights Templar, but on Nordic battlefields they would be hard to combat. If they were going to overcome these Danes out on the open field, it would require another few years of training at Forsvik. But their lead was no bigger than that.
During the feast days King Sverker and his marshal Ebbe Sunesson spent their time mostly in the great hall surrounded by Danish courtiers, summoning the important men in the kingdom one by one for discussions. Birger Brosa made the introductions. King Sverker was always careful to be friendly and to treat Folkungs and Eriks like his own Sverker kinsmen.
When it was Eskil and Arn’s turn to go before the king and his Danish courtiers, Birger Brosa announced that Eskil was a merchant and previously sat on King Knut’s council and was the heir to the estate Arn?s. About Arn he said only that he had spent much of his life in the cloister, also in Denmark, and now was the master of the forest estate of Forsvik.
Arn exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Birger Brosa about his somewhat incomplete description of what Arn had done in between his childhood years at the cloister and his present life at Forsvik. Birger Brosa merely winked back, unnoticed by anyone else.
King Sverker was happy to speak with someone who had no difficulty understanding the speech of the Danes; many of the slow Swedes seemed to find the language incomprehensible. And for Arn it was easy to fall back into the language he had spoken as a child. He still sounded more like a Dane than a Gothic man.
At first the conversation revolved around innocent topics such as how beautiful it was on the shore of Limfjord near the cloister of Vitsk?l, and about the mussel cultivation they had tried at the cloister without much success, since people living on the fjord believed that it was contrary to God’s word to eat mussels. That was no longer so, King Sverker assured him. Then he invited Arn and Eskil to visit Denmark with his letter of safe passage so that they might see their half-sister Kristina. When the brothers did not look as though this journey was of great interest to them, the king promised instead to invite both Kristina and her husband Konrad Pedersson to N?s sometime next summer. He was clearly trying to demonstrate that all old animosities had been forgotten.
So it seemed both tactless and unnecessary of marshal Ebbe Sunesson to remember suddenly how he had once gotten into a little fight at Arn?s with one of their kinsmen. But of course they bore no hard feelings about that, did they?
He had spoken calmly but with an irritating smirk on his face. Birger Brosa shook his head to warn Arn, who with great difficulty controlled himself before he replied that the one who had died was their brother Knut. He said that they both prayed for their brother’s soul, but that neither of them had a mind for revenge.
There Ebbe Sunesson should have let it rest. He may have drunk too much during the festivities, or perhaps he was elated because he had been the victor in the jousting contest. Or it could be that he and his friends had already convinced themselves that they had become lords of folk that were not worthy of respect. For what he now said made both Birger Brosa and King Sverker blanch, although for different reasons.
With open scorn he explained to Arn and Eskil that they didn’t need to feel in the least embarrassed. If it was so that they had not received their just honour after their brother’s regrettable death, he would gladly meet one of them with the sword. Or why not both at once? Then it would only be a question of whether they had enough honour and enough courage.
Arn looked down at the stone floor and with great effort stifled his first impulse to propose a duel. It must have looked as if he were ashamed because he dared not take up the challenge that had been delivered with words as clear as a slap in the face.
When the silence had become unbearable, he raised his head and said calmly that upon reflection he found it unwise for the new king and his men to begin their time in the land of the Swedes and Goths with blood. In either case, whether Herr Ebbe killed yet another Folkung from Arn?s, or he himself killed the king’s marshal, this would not benefit King Sverker or the peace they all desired.
The king then placed his hand on Ebbe Sunesson’s arm and prevented him from answering, which he seemed all too eager to do. The king said that he felt honoured that among those who had sworn allegiance to him there were good men like Eskil and Arn Magnusson who understood how to place the peace of the realm before their own honour.
They did not reply, but bowed and left without another word. Arn had to step outside in the cold air at once, since he was boiling with humiliation. Eskil hurried after to assure him that nothing good would have come of it if a Folkung, in the very first week of King Sverker’s reign, had killed his marshal. And besides, these insulting words could have been avoided if Birger Brosa had been a bit more accurate in his description of what sort of cloister life Arn had lived. As things now stood, the arrogant marshal had no idea how close to death he had come.
‘I still can’t understand what God had in mind by placing our brother’s murderer within a single sword-length of me,’ Arn muttered between clenched teeth.
‘If God wants to bring the two of you together with weapons, then He will do so. That was apparently not His intention just now,’ said Eskil, at a loss.