NINE
Filled with a sense of foreboding, Arn rode at the front of the groom’s procession as it entered Link?ping. From the bishop’s stronghold to the cathedral three red Sverker banners waved, as if taunting the guests. And among the spectators watching with hostility, only red mantles were visible; there was not a blue one in sight. And not a single rowan bough was tossed toward the bridegroom to wish him well.
It was like riding into an ambush. If Sune Sik and his kinsmen wanted to turn this wedding into a blood feud, they would be able to kill all the foremost Folkungs except for the aged Herr Magnus of Arn?s, who had been forced to forgo this ride through the chill of autumn because of his health.
As they neared the cathedral they could hear the distant shouts greeting the bride’s procession with much greater warmth. Birger Brosa was leading the way, as the one who had fetched the bride.
Even Erik jarl was riding in the groom’s procession alongside his friend Magnus M?nesk?ld, who had his mother Cecilia on the other side of him; his paternal uncle, councillor Eskil, rode behind him. All the powerful Folkungs and King Knut’s eldest son as well were putting their lives at risk. If the Sverkers truly wanted to take back the crown by force, this was the time to do it.
But the Folkungs had not come to the enemy’s city unprepared like lambs to the slaughter. From Bj?lbo came a hundred retainers and kinsmen fully armed. They had drawn lots so that half of the men swore not to drink even one tankard of ale during the first day and night. Those who won the draw had sworn to remain sober on the second day and night. The Folkungs were not about to be slaughtered either by surprise or by fire.
Yet it was for Cecilia that Arn felt the greatest concern. He could easily ride through hordes of Nordic peasant soldiers or use his sword to slash his way through the ranks of retainers. But the question that he hardly dared even consider was whether his foremost duty was to stay by Cecilia’s side or to save himself so that the Folkungs would not be robbed of all defenders and avengers when the subsequent war began.
When the first arrows were shot, it was Arn’s duty to ride away to save himself. His loyalty to the Folkungs demanded this. There was no better man to lead their avenging army to victory, and he couldn’t possibly deny this fact either to his own conscience or to anyone else.
Nevertheless he decided to break with the laws of honour if the worst should happen. He would not leave Link?ping alive without Cecilia. She was riding a good horse, and her new gown allowed her to sit astride the saddle with solid support in both stirrups. She was also an excellent horsewoman. At the sight of a single glinting weapon anywhere, he would immediately ride up alongside and clear the way for her.
These were his thoughts as they approached the cathedral where the bridal procession was coming from the other direction, and his expression was more harsh and sombre than would be expected of a bridegroom’s father. People whispered and pointed at him, and he suspected that in their opinion, he was the one among the enemies wearing the blue mantles who ought to be felled first.
Outside the cathedral they dismounted. Stable thralls came running to hold the reins of their horses. Arn surveyed the area with suspicion, casting a glance up at the walls of the bishop’s stronghold when he went to fetch Magnus, who was suffering terribly after the bachelors’ evening at Bj?lbo that had been almost as good as the one at Arn?s. Even better, according to Magnus, since this time he didn’t have to compete against old men and monks. Hence in the last games of his youth he had salvaged the victor’s crown that had been denied him at Arn?s.
The gift for the bride was a heavy necklace made of gold with red stones. Erik jarl brought it to Arn, who accepted it and then handed it to his son Magnus. With much fumbling the groom fastened the necklace around Ingrid Ylva’s neck, over the red mantle that she wore.
Then Sune Sik himself brought forward the gift for the groom, a Frankish sword with a sheath adorned with gold and silver; the hilt was strewn with gemstones. A sword that was more suitable for a banquet than a battle, Arn thought to himself as Ingrid Ylva fastened the sword at Magnus’s waist.
The bishop blessed the bridal couple, and both the bride and groom kissed his ring. After that everyone who could find room inside went into the cathedral for mass, which was kept brief since the wedding guests were thinking more of the feast than of heavenly joys. During the mass many men wearing red mantles cast angry glances at Arn because he kept his sword at his side even though everyone else had left their weapons outdoors.
There was no hint of danger or treachery on the road between the bishop’s estate and the cathedral or onward across the bridge to the St?ng royal estate where the wedding banquet was to be held.
The royal estate was old and drafty, but it was still the finest building in all of Link?ping. No doubt Sune Sik lived in far better quarters, but it was just as certain that he wanted to show that when he was the host, it was as the king’s brother at a royal estate. Here in Link?ping all Sverkers regarded the royal estates as their private property.
Two rows of heavy wooden pillars supported the roof of the hall, and they had all been painted red, as if to conceal the ungodly images, still faintly visible, that had been carved into the wood. Crosses and images of Christ hung like incantations between iron brackets that held tarred torches out from the walls.
Arn and Cecilia were expecting a rather gloomy evening like the previous one they had spent at Bj?lbo. Yet as soon as they took their seats, both Birger Brosa and the bride’s father, Sune Sik, showed that it was their intention to make it a good evening among friends, even at the high seat. It was impossible to know what had made them change their behaviour so dramatically. Cecilia tried to find out from Valevaks, who was Sune Sik’s wife and the bride’s mother, but she learned very little, since the woman spoke more Polish than Norse.
The bishop, who was seated far from Arn and Cecilia on the other side of Sune Sik, also seemed to want to show his goodwill and friendship. As soon as he had drunk a toast with Birger Brosa and Sune Sik, he turned to the groom’s parents. There was no wine at this banquet, and although Arn and Cecilia had determined to leave the ale placed in front of them untouched, they were soon shamed into drinking it because of the unexpected friendliness streaming toward them from all directions.
Birger Brosa surprised Arn more than once by praising him as a close kinsman and friend to Sune Sik, and the jarl spoke so loudly that Arn couldn’t avoid hearing.
Something had happened to change the game, but at the moment the only thing to do was to remain courteous and wait until the next day to find out what was going on.
Escorting the couple to bed began earlier than anticipated, since there were so many guests in the hall who wanted to have this custom out of the way; then they could breathe more easily. When Sverkers and Folkungs became united in blood through Magnus M?nesk?ld and Ingrid Ylva, the risk of fire, treachery, and murder would be over.
The bridal chamber was in a separate house near the river St?ng?n, and it was guarded by as many retainers wearing blue mantles as wore red. The only difference was that those in blue were able to stand upright without difficulty because not a drop of ale had passed their lips.
After the ring dance in the hall, the bride was escorted out by her kinsmen. Those who remained inside suddenly fell silent, as if listening for the clang of weapons and shrill screams. But everything seemed calm outside.
Then it was time for the truly decisive moment when Magnus M?nesk?ld and his Folkung kinsmen were to leave the hall.
With his right hand Arn pulled Cecilia close to his side as he cautiously loosened his sword. Then they walked out between the rows of dazzling torches. They didn’t speak to each other, but both bowed their heads in prayer, asking for mercy.
Yet nothing untoward happened. Soon they were standing next to the bridal bed on which Magnus and Ingrid Ylva lay in their white linen shifts, looking merry and holding hands. The bishop said a brief prayer over them, and Birger Brosa and Sune Sik pulled the bridal coverlet over the beautiful, dark-haired Ingrid Ylva and the vigorous, red-haired Magnus M?nesk?ld.
Everyone in the room secretly breathed a sigh of relief, and Sune Sik immediately went over to Arn and held out both hands, thanking God for this reconciliation that had now taken place and swearing that there was no longer any blood between them. For they were now both fathers-in-law to the other’s offspring, and blood united them instead of separating them.
When the witnesses emerged from the bedchamber and stepped out into the courtyard, they were greeted with cheers of relief and joy, since this wedding had led to peace and reconciliation.
Now it would be easier to liven up the mood inside the hall. And such was the case as soon as the guests in the high seat returned to their places. Arn recalled that only once before in his life had he been sick from too much ale, and that time he had promised himself never to repeat such foolishness. To his embarrassment, Birger Brosa and Sune Sik quickly drank him under the table, as if they had both joined in some malicious drinking pact against him.
Cecilia displayed no pity for his miserable condition the next morning. On the contrary, she had a great deal to say about the recklessness of a swordsman who drank as much ale as some ordinary, rough retainer. Arn defended himself by saying that he’d felt such great relief the moment he saw the coverlet drawn over Magnus and Ingrid Ylva that the ale had more easily seeped in as his wits left him, because he no longer needed to think clearly.
But over the two following feast days, Arn was very cautious about the amount of ale he drank, and Sune Sik had also procured wine for him and Cecilia; no one ever drank wine in such manly quantities as ale.
Ingrid Ylva had received the Ulv?sa estate as a morning gift from the Folkungs, and after the three feast days in Link?ping jarl Birger Brosa rode at the head of the bridal procession to Ulv?sa, located on a promontory on the shores of Lake Boren.
Since Boren was connected to Lake V?ttern, Arn and Cecilia would now be practically neighbours to Magnus and Ingrid Ylva. It was only a day’s journey by boat between the two estates in the summertime and an even shorter journey by sleigh in the winter. Cecilia and Ingrid Ylva had already found it easy to talk to each other since Ingrid Ylva had spent many years at Vreta cloister, and they quickly reached agreement about many things having to do with visiting each other and the important holidays. Their husbands had very little to say about these matters.
The visit to Ulv?sa would be brief so that the young people, as soon as honour deemed it possible, would not have the burden of taking care of older kinsmen. After that the intention was for Arn and Cecilia to travel together with Eskil on one of his boats, first to Forsvik. From there Eskil would continue on to Arn?s.
But as they prepared to depart from Ulv?sa on the second feast day, Birger Brosa came to Arn, hemming and hawing, to say that he would like Arn to accompany him back to Bj?lbo so that the two of them might have a talk.
If the jarl made a request, it could not be refused. Arn had no idea why Birger Brosa wanted to have this conversation, but he had no trouble explaining to Cecilia and Eskil that he would have to travel by a different route. They both assented without asking any questions. And Eskil chivalrously vowed that with his own life he would protect the life and safety of this Folkung woman. Arn laughed that this was so much easier to promise now that peace had been secured.
When Birger Brosa and his retinue made ready to ride back to Bj?lbo, Arn apologized and said that he would have to follow somewhat later, as he wanted to take advantage of the moment to speak privately with his son Magnus. Birger Brosa couldn’t very well object to this, but he frowned and muttered that it was a short journey to Bj?lbo. He had no intention of waiting for his kinsman, since his time was precious. Arn promised not to keep his uncle waiting at Bj?lbo; in fact, they would probably arrive at the same time.
‘Then you’ll certainly need a good horse!’ snorted Birger Brosa and set off at a slow gallop with his retainers lagging behind in surprise.
‘I’ll be all right with my horse, dear uncle,’ whispered Arn after the retreating jarl.
It seemed most likely that Ingrid Ylva and Magnus thought they had spent enough time in the company of their kinsmen; they were already behaving with affection toward one another. Yet Magnus could not say no to his father’s request for a short ride and conversation, just the two of them.
Ulv?sa stood in a beautiful location on the promontory, with water glittering all around and fertile fields tended by both the house thralls from the estate and people from the nearby village of Hamra, which now was also owned by Ingrid Ylva. The farm buildings were of the older type and would not be comfortable in the winter. Arn said nothing of this, although he was thinking that next spring he would send builders from Forsvik to repair the living quarters for both the house servants and thralls. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it; right now there were more important things to discuss.
Without making any digressions to talk about the wedding or the youth competitions at Bj?lbo, which Magnus found it pleasant to brag about, Arn began describing his plans for Arn?s. Every Folkung within three days’ journey was to go to Arn?s if misfortune were ever approaching, because there no enemy would be able to touch them.
Magnus objected sullenly that in such case one’s own estate would be left to fire and plundering, and Arn nodded grimly that this was true. But if the enemy was strong, it was more important to save one’s skin than a few timbered houses that could easily be built anew.
Magnus didn’t seem to understand or show any interest in what his father wanted to tell him. There were no enemies for as far as the eye could see. Besides, now that peace between the Sverkers and Folkungs had been so strongly sealed, wasn’t that the reason that they were able to ride together here at Ulv?sa with Ingrid Ylva waiting back at the longhouse? Wasn’t the very idea behind this wedding to secure the peace? And hadn’t he, without grumbling, agreed to the clan’s demands, even though it was no hardship to go to the bridal bed with such a lovely, dark-haired woman as Ingrid Ylva?
Arn realized too late that he had been tactless in his timing as he tried to make his own son see the threat to the realm and how they needed to defend themselves. He answered evasively that no danger would befall them during the next few years, and it was true that this wedding offered a strong message of peace. He was merely trying to see further into the future. At that, Magnus just shrugged his shoulders. Arn then asked him about the youth games at Bj?lbo.
With much greater enthusiasm Magnus seized upon this topic of conversation and described in detail everything that had taken place during each of the seven contests. In the end he had come out the victor, and Erik jarl was again defeated.
More than an hour passed, and Arn began to have trouble hiding his impatience even though he had arrogantly promised Birger Brosa he would arrive at Bj?lbo when the jarl did. Only with difficulty did he finally turn down Magnus’s suggestion that they have a tankard of ale before his departure. They said farewell out in the courtyard, and Arn set off for Bj?lbo at once, at full gallop. Magnus watched his father ride away, thinking that no one could keep up that pace for long; no doubt his father merely wanted to show his strength as long as he was in sight, but he would have to slow down as soon as he was beyond the oak grove south of Ulv?sa.
Birger Brosa and his retinue did not have to make another rest stop before they reached Bj?lbo, and they could already see the church tower in the distance when Arn suddenly came racing up behind them, riding one of his foreign stallions at great speed. When Birger Brosa was told that a rider was approaching, he turned around in his saddle and saw the Folkung mantle. At first he thought that Arn had doubtless sneaked up behind them in order to ride the last stretch of the way at this unreasonable pace. But he soon had misgivings when he saw that Arn’s steed was lathered with sweat.
Arn was relieved to find that the young horse he had chosen to ride to the wedding turned out to be good enough, even though it was slow compared to Abu Anaza. But Abu Anaza was black, and it would not have been suitable to ride such a horse to a wedding. An animal of that colour, according to what Cecilia had told him, was more appropriate for a funeral and would be considered bad luck at a wedding.
Birger Brosa led the way and came to a halt as soon as they entered the confines of Bj?lbo behind the stockade. He first wished to don simpler attire, then he had to go to his writing chamber where people were waiting with all sorts of missives. Only then would he meet with Arn, and their meeting would take place in the tower chamber of the church where the clan ting would be held in former times. A brazier and ale, cushions and sheepskins were to be taken up there at once; in an hour’s time no one but Arn was to be present. After issuing these brusque commands, Birger Brosa laboriously dismounted from his horse, handing the reins to a stable thrall without even glancing around. Then with determined strides he headed for the longhouse.
Feeling rather offended, Arn himself saw to the care of his horse, which needed attention after such a hard ride. He paid no attention to the fact that his presence in the stable caused much confusion and surprise among the thralls. The health of his horse was more important. After drying the horse’s flanks and cleaning the hooves, Arn asked for several hides, which he slung over the back of the dapple-gray steed to make sure the animal wouldn’t cool down too fast. And he spoke in a foreign tongue, whispering as he caressed and seemed to console the horse. The stable thralls shook their heads and exchanged glances behind Arn’s back, keeping out of his way.
After Arn left the horse, he went at once to brush himself off. Then at the appointed time he went to the old tower room and waited. There was a rank smell of mould and mortar. Birger Brosa arrived a bit late.
‘You are more trouble to me than any other kinsman, Arn Magnusson, and I will never make any sense of you!’ Birger Brosa said in greeting in a loud voice as he climbed the stairs. And without further ado he sank down onto the largest seat, exactly where Arn had thought he would choose to sit.
‘Then you must ask me questions, dear uncle, and with God’s help I will try to help you understand,’ replied Arn humbly. He had no desire to quarrel anew with the jarl.
‘It’s much worse than that!’ declared Birger Brosa. ‘And it will get even worse if I do understand, because then I will feel foolish that I hadn’t understood at once. And that would not please me. Nor do I have any particular wish to apologize, and I’ve already been humiliated by you once before. Now I am doing that again, for the second time. This has never happened, and as God is my witness, I shall never again, for a second time, be forced to ask some rogue for forgiveness!’
‘What is it that you wish me to forgive?’ asked Arn in surprise at this fiery drama his uncle was now presenting.
‘I’ve seen all the building that is going on at Arn?s,’ replied Birger Brosa in a different tone of voice, keeping his voice low. He threw out his arms in a gesture that almost looked like surrender. ‘I’ve seen what you’re building, and I’m not foolish. You’re building up the Folkung power to be greater than ever, you’re building so that we will be lords of this realm. My brother Magnus and your brother Eskil have also told me about what you’re doing at Forsvik. Need I say more?’
‘No, not if you wish me to forgive you, uncle,’ replied Arn cautiously.
‘Good! Will you have ale?’
‘I would prefer not to. During these past days I’ve had enough ale to last me till Christmas.’
Birger Brosa gave him a scornful smile and stood up. He took two ale tankards over to the ale cask, filled them both, and placed one of them in front of Arn before he went back to his seat. He settled himself more comfortably among the sheepskins with one knee drawn up; there he balanced his tankard, as was his custom. He gazed at Arn in silence for a while, but his expression was friendly.
‘Tell me of the castle that you’re building,’ he said. ‘How does it look today, how will it look when Arn?s is finished, and how will it look after several years?’
‘It will take time to answer these questions,’ said Arn.
‘Nothing is more important for the jarl of the realm at this moment. We have plenty of time, and we are alone, with no one else within earshot,’ replied Birger Brosa. He grabbed his tankard and took several good swallows before he placed it back on his knee. Then he threw out his hands without causing the tankard even to wobble.
‘Today there is peace, and the union is between the Eriks and Folkungs,’ Arn began hesitantly. ‘The Sverkers are lying low, biding their time until King Knut is gone, and God willing, that will not happen for a long time yet. So I do not see a war taking place for many years.’
‘Then we think alike,’ said the jarl, nodding. ‘But what about after that? What will happen then?’
‘No one knows,’ said Arn. ‘But one thing I do know: at that time there will be a greater danger of war. That doesn’t mean that things will go badly for us. For if we now build fortresses that are sufficiently strong, during the peace that we now have, our strength may preserve the peace as well as a wise marriage does.’
‘True,’ said Birger Brosa with a nod. ‘But what is our weakness?’
‘We cannot engage a Danish army on the battlefield,’ Arn swiftly replied.
‘A Danish army? Why a Danish army?’ asked Birger Brosa, raising his eyebrows.
‘That is the only danger we face and hence the only problem worth fretting about,’ replied Arn. ‘Denmark is a great power, a power that resembles the Frankish kingdom more than us, and the Danes wage war in the same way that the Franks do. The Danes have laid waste to great sections of Saxony and won much territory, showing that they are able to defeat Saxon armies. When they’ve had enough of heading southward, or when they reach so far south that they can no longer keep their armies supplied, they may turn their attention to the north. And here we sit, a much easier quarry than Saxony. And in Roskilde sits Karl Sverkersson’s son, raised as a Dane, but still with an inherited right to our crown. He could become the Danes’ nominal king in our realm. That is how the situation looks if we try to imagine what might be the worst thing that might happen.’
Birger Brosa nodded pensively, almost as if acknowledging to himself that these were his darkest thoughts and he would have preferred to ignore them. In silence he drank more ale, expecting Arn also to remain silent until he received another question.
‘When can we defeat the Danes?’ Birger Brosa asked abruptly, speaking in a loud voice.
‘In five or six years, but it will cost us dearly. In ten years it would be easier,’ replied Arn with such confidence that Birger Brosa, who had expected a more lengthy explanation, was caught off guard.
‘Give me a more detailed explanation,’ he said after another long pause.
‘In five years King Knut may die,’ said Arn, swiftly raising his hand to prevent any interruption. ‘We don’t know that, and it’s a wicked thing to think, but wicked ideas also have to be tested. Then the Danish army will come here with a more or less eager Sverker Karlsson following behind. We have a hundred horsemen. Not the kind of horsemen that can counter a great Frankish or Danish army, but a hundred horsemen that can make their passage through our land a great misery. They never engage us in battle nor do they catch up with us, but we take their supplies, we kill their draft animals, we kill or wound a dozen Danes each day. We do our best to entice them to pursue us to Arn?s. There they are crushed in their encampment. That’s what would happen in five years, and the price would be great devastation from Skara and all the way north.’
‘And in ten years?’ asked Birger Brosa.
‘In ten years we defeat them on the battlefield after first plaguing them with our light cavalry for a month,’ replied Arn. ‘But to make this possible, you will also have to exert yourself and pay for a great many things that will make big holes in your silver coffers.’
‘Why should I do this? Why not King Knut?’ asked Birger Brosa, and for the first time clearly showed surprise during this harsh conversation.
‘Because you are a Folkung,’ replied Arn. ‘The power that I am starting to build does not belong to the realm; it belongs to the Folkungs. It’s true that I have sworn loyalty to Knut, and I will stand by my oath. Perhaps some day I will also swear loyalty to Erik jarl, but we don’t know that. Today we’re united with the Eriks. But tomorrow? Of that we know nothing. The only thing that’s certain is that we Folkungs will stick together, and we’re the only power that can hold the realm together.’
‘I think you have understood this even better than you know,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘I must tell you something at once that is for your ears alone. But tell me first what you think I should do, as jarl or as a Folkung.’
‘You must build a fortress on the western shore of Lake V?ttern, perhaps at Lena where you already own a large estate. The Danes will come from Sk?ne when they enter Western G?taland. At Skara they can continue on a northerly route toward Arn?s or take the unprotected road past Sk?vde and up to Lake V?ttern and the king’s N?s. They must be stopped at Lena, and I hope that you will take this upon yourself. Axevalla at Skara must also be fortified. We will have our warriors in three fortresses. And our horsemen can move back and forth between the three without allowing the enemy to attack us, preventing them from knowing where the next assault will occur. With three strong fortresses, one of which is impregnable, we will be secure.’
‘But Axevalla is a royal castle,’ objected Birger Brosa.
‘All the better for the sake of your own expenses,’ said Arn with a smile. ‘If I build up Arn?s and you do the same with Lena, you, in your position as jarl, shouldn’t have a hard time convincing Knut that the king ought to add his straw to the stack and fortify his own castle of Axevalla. He would do it as much for his own sake as for ours.’
‘I notice that you’ve begun to speak to me as if we were equals,’ said Birger Brosa, and for the first time he gave Arn a broad smile, which had always been a distinctive characteristic of his, ever since his youth.
‘Now it’s my turn to ask forgiveness, my uncle. I got carried away,’ replied Arn, bowing his head for a moment.
‘I too got carried away,’ replied Birger Brosa, still smiling. ‘But from now on I wish that you and I continue to speak with each other in this informal manner, except possibly when we attend the king’s council. But now to what I wanted to tell you of a great and difficult matter. Perhaps I would like to see Sverker Karlsson as our next king.’
Birger Brosa abruptly fell silent after speaking this treacherous thought. He may have been waiting for Arn to leap to his feet in anger, upsetting his ale and lashing out with words that were far from chivalrous, or at the very least gaping in surprise like a fish. But with equal parts disappointment and astonishment, he saw that Arn’s expression did not change. He merely sat there, waiting for Birger Brosa to continue.
‘I suppose you’d like to hear how I came to this conclusion?’ he now said, sounding a bit cross and his smile fading.
‘Yes,’ replied Arn tonelessly. ‘What you say may be either treachery or something very wise, and I’d like to know which it is.’
‘The king is ill,’ said Birger Brosa with a sigh. ‘Sometimes he shits blood, and anyone knows that is not a good sign. He may not even last the five years that we need in order to offer even the most token defence.’
‘I have men trained as physicians with me who have too little to do. I will send them to Knut after Christmas,’ said Arn.
‘Men who are physicians, you say?’ Birger Brosa replied, interrupting his train of thought. ‘I thought it was mostly women who tended to such matters. No matter. But shitting blood is a bad sign, and Knut’s life rests in God’s hands. If he dies too soon, we will be in a bad position. Isn’t that true?’
‘Yes,’ said Arn. ‘So let’s consider the worst that might happen. What if Knut dies in three years? What do we do then? Is that why you’re thinking of Sverker Karlsson?’
‘Yes, that’s where he enters the picture with his Danish men,’ confirmed Birger Brosa with a gloomy nod. ‘He has been married to his Danish wife, I think Benedikta Ebbesdotter is her name, for six or seven years. She gave birth to a daughter early on, but no more children since then; and more importantly, no son.’
‘Then I think I understand,’ said Arn. ‘Without waging war, we give the crown to Sverker. But we don’t make such a gift without receiving something in return. He’ll have to swear that Erik jarl will become king after him. Am I right?’
‘More or less,’ said Birger Brosa with a nod.
‘Much could go wrong with such a cunning stratagem,’ brooded Arn. ‘Even if Sverker Karlsson produces no son, some new kinsman might appear from Denmark with claims on our crown, and then we’d be in the same situation.’
‘But by then we will have won time, and many years without war.’
‘Yes, and that would be to the benefit of the Folkungs,’ admitted Arn. ‘We would gain the time we need to secure a victorious power. But the Eriks at N?s won’t be pleased if you propose what you have now suggested to me.’
‘No, I don’t think they will,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘But the Eriks find themselves in a difficult position right now. After Erik jarl is done ranting and calling us things that he will later regret, he’ll discover that without the Folkungs no war will be waged for the sake of the king’s crown. Without us there is no power. No doubt his father Knut will have an easier time understanding this. Of course much depends on Knut over the next few years, but if things get worse, I will find the right occasion to describe what we must do to preserve the peace, and thereby save Erik’s head as well as his crown. Knut will yield if he is ravaged by disease and if the moment for such a conversation is chosen well.’
‘And after Erik jarl?’ asked Arn with a scornful smile. ‘Where have you thought the crown should be placed then?’
‘By then I will no longer be here on this earth,’ laughed Birger Brosa, raising his ale tankard and draining it to the bottom. ‘But if my view from heaven is nearly as good – and considering how many prayers of intercession I’ve paid for my soul at three cloisters, I should have quite a nice view – it would be my greatest pleasure to see the first Folkung king crowned!’
‘Then I suggest that you begin at once to marry off your kinsmen in Svealand rather than with Sverkers,’ said Arn, his face expressionless.
‘That’s precisely what I intend to do!’ exclaimed Birger Brosa. ‘And it has occurred to me that your brother Eskil, who is a very tempting marriage prospect, needs to find a new wife very soon!’
Arn sighed, smiled, and pretending resignation raised his ale tankard toward Birger Brosa. He had great admiration for his uncle’s ability to steer the struggle for power. Such men were rare, even in the Holy Land.
But he was also uneasy about the fact that no matter how many prayers of intercession had been purchased in three cloisters, even that might not be sufficient to procure a good vantage point in the next life, as Birger Brosa seemed so convinced that he had done. But Arn said not a word of what he was thinking.
The first snow came early and in great abundance that year. Among the foreigners at Forsvik, the snow and the increasing cold had a strange effect; some showed even greater diligence in their work, while others stayed indoors next to the hearth in the longhouse without doing any work at all. It wasn’t difficult to explain the difference, since those who were hardworking were those who toiled in the smithies and glassworks where the heat was always so great that everyone worked in long, thin tunics and thick-soled wooden clogs with a rough leather cover across the instep, no matter how cold it might be outdoors.
The thralls at Forsvik took care of the other winter work, such as using the sled to collect more wood or keeping the courtyard clear of snow or shovelling snow passages between the buildings. They were better on their feet when tending to such tasks.
Jacob Wachtian surprised Arn during the second week of snow by asking that the section of water conduit stretching across the field to the house of the foreign guests be covered over with snow. Arn admonished him a bit indulgently that this might not be the wisest thing to do, since it would be difficult if the water froze. But Jacob insisted that it was precisely that occurrence that he wanted to avoid, and he claimed that snow was warmer than air, and that he’d heard this from kinsmen who lived high up in the Armenian mountains. Since Jacob refused to give up this idea, although he was insistent in a most chivalrous manner, Arn decided to try out his suggestion on one of the water lines. He allowed Jacob to choose which one it would be. Cloaking his words in many unnecessary courtesies, the Christian brother then explained that so many men lived in the longhouse, and since most of them had never even seen snow before, the damage would be all the greater if the water froze and they were all forced out into the winter night to relieve themselves; it would also be difficult to wash up in the mornings and evenings.
Arn then agreed to his request, although he didn’t believe that this experiment would end well. Great heaps of snow were piled on top of the section of the water line running above ground to the longhouse.
A short time later the water stopped running into his own house, but when Arn went to see the Saracens in their longhouse, he found the water running as briskly as it did in the summertime.
Muttering and grunting, he had taken Gure outside to help break open his own water conduit using iron spits and pickaxes, and forcing boiling water into several places. Finally they managed to dislodge the ice plug, which went rattling through the house, and soon the water was flowing again. Arn then had his own water line covered in the same manner as had been done at the foreigners’ house. After that everything was as it should be, even during the coldest time in midwinter.
Winter was a good time because the days weren’t filled with such hard work that no one had any strength left to think. On the contrary, in winter people had time to reflect on matters.
For this reason Arn instituted majlis every Thursday after midday prayers in the Saracen longhouse. He also summoned the Christian foreigners to take part. At the first meeting he apologized for not establishing this excellent custom of having a council room and conversations much earlier. But as everyone no doubt realized, there was good reason to make haste with all the work that had to be done to shelter them from the winter. Yet now the cold had overtaken them, and what they hadn’t been able to finish would not get done until spring. So, what should they talk about?
At first no one spoke. It was as if these Saracens, no matter how accustomed most of them were to the idea of majlis, had forgotten much of what they had been used to since everything in the North was so unfamiliar. In the worst case, thought Arn, this had happened because they saw themselves as slaves, subject to the mercy or disfavour of their foreign master.
Arn translated what he had said to Frankish when he realized that the two Englishmen didn’t understand a word of Arabic; their Frankish wasn’t particularly good either.
‘Wages,’ said Athelsten Crossbow, who was the first to speak. ‘We work a year. Where is wages?’ he went on.
Arn immediately translated his question to Arabic and saw that more than one man in the hall suddenly showed interest.
Work clothes could be another topic for discussion, said one of the stonemasons. Old Ibrahim, who was the most respected of the faithful and the only one who was allowed to speak for the others, added that they ought to solve the matter of God’s day of rest, since there had been a good deal of confusion about this.
After a short time the reticence of the gathering had vanished; soon so many men were talking all at once that Ibrahim and Arn had to speak up to restore order.
The first decision had to do with wages. The general opinion was that it was better to receive wages after each year served than to get five years worth of wages all at once just before they travelled back home. There were some objections, including the fact that it might be difficult to store the silver and gold, since they had no use for it while at Forsvik. Another person who was more ingratiating said that there should never be any reason to doubt the word of Al Ghouti, and everyone’s gold was doubtless better stored at Al Ghouti’s home at an-Nes.
Nevertheless, Arn decided that after his next visit to Arn?s, which would take place during the most important Christian celebration, he would bring the wages for every man in gold coins.
The matter of work clothes was easier to solve. Most of the men in the hall knew full well what working with masonry and forges and glass entailed. Arn assured them that this would be the saddle-makers’ most important task during the winter, since the masons in particular needed clothing that was reinforced with leather.
The question of a day of rest was more difficult to address; they had to discuss whether it should be Friday or Sunday. To slow the work in the smithies and at the glassworks would not be desirable. It was easiest to solve the problem with the smithies, since there were many Christians, especially if the thralls at Forsvik were considered Christian, who had no trouble working on Friday, just as the faithful could work on Sunday. It was not as simple at the glassworks, since all the skilled workers except for the Wachtian brothers were Muslim.
Then Arn asked Brother Guilbert how they had dealt with this matter when he was working with the stonemasons at Arn?s. Brother Guilbert muttered with great embarrassment that he had merely counted Sundays as Fridays, and no one had offered any protest. His words aroused much disapproval and many shocked glances among the builders who had worked on the fortress. Evidently they had been misled as to which days were Fridays and which were Sundays.
Arn quickly cut short the dispute that seemed likely to grow too big even for a majlis. He said that during the winter and at Forsvik, Friday would be a day of rest for every Muslim, while Sunday would be the Christians’ day of rest, and so it would be. They would then think about what do at Arn?s when the masonry work resumed in the spring.
Not everyone who was present at this first majlis was satisfied with what had been discussed. But that was how it usually was and would continue to be.
Arn and Cecilia had more trouble in determining when they should free their thralls. For several evenings they sat with Brother Guilbert in his chamber so as to talk undisturbed about this matter, which they wished to keep secret until it could be realized. Just to be safe, they conducted the discussion in Latin.
Brother Guilbert had no reservations whatsoever about the idea of freeing the thralls; Arn expected no less of him. But the monk realized that such important news had to be delivered with care and wisdom. If they tried to imagine themselves as thralls, it was easy to understand how such news would be received. He was most concerned that the entrenched obedience of the thralls might lead to the opposite extreme. The poor, simple souls might lose their wits and fall upon each other with weapons in order to right old wrongs, in the belief that the person who was free was allowed to strike anyone at will. Or they might simply run off to the woods.
Cecilia remarked that in the middle of winter no one would run away from Forsvik to the woods. That was why the news should be delivered soon, during the coldest period.
Arn said gloomily that it would do little good to try and guess how a thrall thought, since it must be impossible to have a sensible opinion on the matter if someone had lived his whole life as a free man. Shouldn’t they ask one of them?
Both Cecilia and Brother Guilbert objected at once, saying that if even the slightest hint of what they were planning got out, Forsvik would turn into a chicken coop of rumours and misconceptions before evensong. But Arn stubbornly insisted and asked them who they might suggest to ask for advice.
They both replied at once that they should ask Gure, Suom’s son.
For Gure, who had not had a free moment since the snow began falling, busy as he was with hearths and drafty doors, this sudden summons to the master’s house seemed an ill omen. He stopped his work at once and made his way from the thrall quarters to the courtyard, where he cut across the open space to Arn’s house. He thought nervously that perhaps he had devoted too much time to the thralls and too little time to the stables and shelter for the livestock; harsh words were probably awaiting him. He did not fear the whip, because it had never been used even once at Arn?s; he knew from talking to everyone that not a single thrall had been whipped at Forsvik since the new master and mistress had arrived.
Outside Arn’s house he paused in the snow for a moment, feeling at a loss. From inside he heard voices that sounded loud and ominous, as if Sir Arn and those he was talking to in a foreign tongue were not in agreement. What worried him most was not the fact that he was about to be rebuked, but that he didn’t know the reason. He stood outside so long that he started to freeze, but no one came out to get him. He could not enter of his own volition; no thrall was allowed inside the mistress’s chamber, and he could hear that she was inside. He stuffed his hands under his armpits and started stamping his feet in the snow to stop shivering from the cold.
He wondered to himself if this was his punishment, to freeze for his sins. But if that was the case, shouldn’t he at least know why? What good was a punishment without knowing the reason behind it?
Brother Guilbert unexpectedly came to his aid; it might not have happened if he had remembered the lavatorium arrangement inside the master’s house. But since he lived in the old longhouse, he was used to going outside to relieve himself. As he stepped outside and raised his robes, he discovered he was just about to spray his water on Gure waiting nearby.
Brother Guilbert quickly went about his business and then put his arm around Gure’s shoulders and led him inside through the dark clothing chamber to the large room where the hearth kept it as warm as a bathhouse. The monk led him over to the great fireplace and pressed him down onto a stool a suitable distance away from the blaze while he said something to Arn in a foreign tongue.
Gure rubbed his hands to get warm as he kept his eyes on the floor, noticing how the master and mistress and the monk were all studying him, even though no one said a word. Suddenly Fru Cecilia stood up, took a tray with smoked ham on it from the bed, and carried it over to him with a knife.
Gure understood only that what had just happened could not have happened. A mistress did not serve food to a thrall, and he had no idea what he should do with the knife and ham. But she nodded and motioned for him to cut off a piece and eat it; reluctantly he did so.
‘It was not our intention to keep you waiting outside in the cold, Gure,’ said Sir Arn at last. ‘We asked you to come here because we wish to ask you about a certain matter.’
Sir Arn fell silent, and all three again stared at Gure. The smoked ham, which he had never before tasted, turned into a lump of wax in his mouth, and he was unable to swallow it.
‘What we are about to ask you must stay with us here in this room,’ Fru Cecilia went on. ‘We want to know your opinion, but we don’t want you to repeat our words to anyone else. Do you understand?’
Gure nodded, dumbstruck by what she said. He now guessed that something valuable must have been stolen and the master wanted to ask him about it, since he was the one who had the most oversight of all the thralls at Forsvik. He could tell that he was in a bad position since he knew nothing of this matter and they might not believe him. Thieves were hanged. But what happened to the person who protected a thief with lies?
‘If we gave you your freedom, Gure, what would you do?’ asked Sir Arn without the slightest warning.
Gure had to think carefully about this unexpected question. With great difficulty he finally managed to swallow the piece of meat in his mouth. He realized that he had to come up with a sensible answer, and at once, because the master and mistress and the monk were all looking at him, as if anticipating something remarkable.
‘First I would thank the White Christ, then I would thank my master and mistress,’ he replied at last, as if the words simply spilled from his lips. Though he immediately regretted that he hadn’t named his master and mistress before the White Christ.
‘And what would you do after that?’ asked Fru Cecilia.
‘I would go to a church man to be baptized,’ he replied slyly in order to gain time. But he won only a few moments’ delay because now the monk spoke up.
‘I can baptize you tomorrow, but what would you do after that?’ asked Brother Guilbert.
At first Gure had no answer. Freedom was a dream, but a dream that ended where it began. After that, there was nothing.
‘What could a free man do?’ asked Gure, thinking hard. ‘Wouldn’t a free man have to eat? Wouldn’t a free man have to work? If I, as a free man, could do the same building work that I now do, then I would. What else would I do?’
‘Do the others think the same?’ asked Fru Cecilia.
‘Yes, we all probably think the same way,’ replied Gure, now more sure of his words. ‘People have been whispering for some time that we might be freed. Some have said they are sure of it; others have snorted at the rumour, which always spreads through farms. Freedmen can stay with their masters or work new fields; everyone knows that. If we could stay at Forsvik, then we would. If you drove us away, we would have to accept that decision; there is no other choice.’
‘We thank you for these words,’ said Sir Arn. ‘You are a man who thinks sensibly, and you have already understood what we are intending. So let me speak the truth to you. When your mistress and I come back from Christmas at Arn?s, where we will stay until dawn, we intend to free all the thralls at Forsvik. That is the truth. But we don’t want you to speak of this matter to any of your peers, nor to anyone else, not even your own mother. This may be the last order I give you as a thrall, but you must obey.’
‘A thrall’s word is of no worth, either before the law or in the view of others,’ replied Gure looking Arn straight in the eye. ‘Yet I give you my word, Sir Arn!’
Arn merely smiled without replying as he got up and motioned for Cecilia to do the same. That brought Brother Guilbert to his feet as well. Gure understood at once that this was a sign for him to go, but he didn’t know how to take his leave; he attempted to bow and he slipped out.
As soon as Gure had shut the door behind him, Arn, Cecilia, and Brother Guilbert began talking all at once about the strange scene they had just witnessed. It was Arn’s view that what they had just seen and heard with their own eyes and ears showed that the thralls were not nearly as half-witted as people said. Brother Guilbert talked about baptizing those who were freed, and that Gure should be made foreman of the freed thralls so that Arn and Cecilia wouldn’t have to run around taking charge of every little matter. They both agreed about this, but Cecilia warned that perhaps not everyone was like Gure. For she had studied him closely as he spoke and thought she noticed something odd. Gure didn’t speak like any other thrall she had ever heard; he spoke almost as well as they did. It had also occurred to her that he didn’t look like a thrall, either. If Arn and Gure exchanged clothing, many might not be able to tell who was the thrall and who was the knight.
She didn’t know what had made her say these words, but she regretted them at once when, for the first time, she saw anger flash in Arn’s eyes. It didn’t help matters that she tried to jest to banish her reckless words by saying that of course she meant that Gure looked more like Eskil, only thinner.
The Saint Lucia celebrations were held around the darkest night of the year, when the forces of evil were stronger than at any other time, and so a great commotion was deliberately stirred up at Forsvik. A procession of house thralls plodded three times around the courtyard in the frigid midwinter night. Everyone carried blazing torches and wore horned masks made from woven straw. In spite of the bitter cold, many shivering Saracens peered outside in surprise or crowded onto their porch wrapped in mantles and rugs to watch the strange goings-on. It was so cold that the snow creaked loudly under the straw shoes that the thralls wore over their summer footwear.
Once again, the forces of evil were kept away from Forsvik on that night, and soon the frosty silence of midwinter settled over the estate anew; only the hunters were awake.
Arn and Cecilia, Torgils and the three boys, Sune, Sigfrid, and Bengt, and the Christian foreigners at Forsvik had all returned by sleigh from Arn?s after the dawn church service on Christmas Day. They had also attended the Christmas ale, which had been kept unusually moderate for the sake of old Herr Magnus. When they all returned, it was time for the big change.
On the following day, before the midday meal, all of Forsvik’s thralls were summoned to the great hall in the old longhouse. They were more than thirty souls, counting a few nursing infants resting in their mothers’ arms. Many of the thralls were workers in the fields or storehouses who had never set foot inside the great hall. The house thralls teased some of their kinsmen because of their wide-eyed amazement.
When everyone had gathered in the hall, Arn and Cecilia stood at the high seat. Arn was the one to speak, since Cecilia had requested that he do so, even though these thralls were rightfully her property and not his.
He briefly explained the reason for summoning them. He and Fru Cecilia had both decided that no one should be in bondage at Forsvik, since such a state was an abomination in the eyes of God. Hence they were now all free, and after their name they were allowed to add the name of Forsvik or call themselves Forsvikers, so that everyone in the villages and at other estates would know that they came from a place that had no thralls.
As free men and women, they would work for wages. Those who chose to remain at Forsvik would receive their first annual wages the following Christmas. For those who would rather work new fields near Forsvik as tenants, that too could be arranged.
After these words, Arn and Cecilia sat down. They were both surprised and disappointed that not a single thrall shrieked and no words of gratitude came streaming toward them. Nor did anyone say a prayer. They could see the startled looks on many faces, so they had no reason to believe that Gure had broken his promise to keep their secret. A few embraced the person standing nearest, and a few tears were also visible.
Around New Year’s the north wind began blowing, ushering in an entire week of snowstorms that wrapped Forsvik in a warm blanket of snow drifts, filling in all the crevices in the floors and windows of the old thrall houses, where the cold would have otherwise killed both those who were free and those who were not.
During the storms, not even the hunters went outside. At the smithies and glassworks, everyone continued their labours as usual, but it was impossible to conduct any riding practice. And since every vent and window of the stable was kept closed, they couldn’t continue with the exercises that Brother Guilbert had started with the boys and Torgils Eskilsson. No one could shoot arrows or swing a sword in the dark.
But midwinter in the North was the time for sagas and tales. No dark night went to waste without stories or long conversations about topics that few had time for during the busier seasons of the year. In the thrall houses sagas were recounted that would have displeased the master and mistress. But most of the freed men and women thought that what they didn’t hear wouldn’t harm them.
Arn and Brother Guilbert spent three days together in Arn and Cecilia’s chambers while she stayed with Suom and some of the former thrall women in the weaving house. It stood next to the hot glassworks, which made it easier to keep out the cold.
The question that Brother Guilbert and Arn discussed at length had to do with the difficulty of imagining goodness through violence. Many faithful Christians during that time would have had trouble understanding such a conversation. But for two Templar knights, there was nothing difficult about seeing swords and fire as serving God’s cause. Indeed, that was the role of the Knights Templar, given to them by God Himself and defended by His Mother.
Instead, the question had to be asked whether the strict Rule of the Templars could be applied to an ordinary Christian life.
Brother Guilbert was going to take a greater responsibility for training the boys in the use of weapons, because Arn was unsure that he himself was the best suited for the job. But this meant that they would have to take turns supervising the construction work at Arn?s, since the Muslim builders shouldn’t be left alone in a land where the laws would not protect them. And quarrels might easily arise. Brother Guilbert had noticed a few thrall women at Arn?s hovering around the building site at night.
For Arn it would not be easy taking his turn away from Forsvik. On one of the long winter nights Arn and Cecilia lay under the covers just as they had imagined that they would, and he recounted his long stories from the Holy Land. Now and then they were disturbed by a gust of wind striking the hearth and sending ash through the bedchamber. It was on that night that she first felt something stirring inside of her, like a little fish flicking its tail.
She understood what it was at once; she had already sensed but hadn’t dared believe in such a miracle. She was over forty, after all, and she thought she was far too old for this blessing.
Arn was in the middle of a story from the Holy Land, recounting how he had just ordered that the banner be unfurled with the symbol of the Virgin Mary, the High Protectress of the Templar Knights. And he raised his hand to give the signal to attack, and in unison all the white-clad knights made the sign of the cross and took several deep breaths.
Then Cecilia quietly took Arn’s hand and told him. He fell silent at once and turned to face her. And he saw that what she said was true and neither a dream nor a jest. Gently he embraced her and whispered that Our Lady had blessed them with yet another miracle.
Around the feast of Saint Tiburtius, during the time when the ice broke up in the lakes of Western G?taland, when the pike spawned and the riverboats started up with Eskil’s trade between Link?ping and L?d?se again, Arn and the stonemasons travelled to Arn?s to resume the construction work. According to what Cecilia had told him, he had a good month ahead of him before he needed to return to see his newborn son or daughter. Cecilia thought it would be a daughter. Arn thought he would have yet another son. They had promised each other that if it was a son, Cecilia would choose his name, but if it was a daughter, then Arn would decide.
The work on the wall proceeded briskly, and the builders seemed happy to get started after a winter that at first had seemed pleasantly indolent, but in the end much too long. They also claimed to be satisfied with the new tools from Forsvik’s smithies and the work clothes that each of them had received in the proper size from the saddlemaker and the weaving house. They all wore leather garb from their shoulders down to their knees, and on their feet they had wooden clogs like those worn by the smiths, although with an iron cap around the toe and heel. Many had complained that dropping a stone could cause great misery if it landed on anyone’s foot.
The winter had damaged some of the structures, but not as much as Arn had feared, and soon the summer would dry out the top joints of the walls. Then the workers would be able to seal them with melted lead, just as Brother Guilbert had suggested. What now needed to be built was the longest expanse of the wall from the harbour to the living quarters and village. It would be an easy task, because there was to be only one tower in the middle, and it was rewarding to see how the work progressed day by day.
The question of which day of rest should be honoured had not yet been successfully resolved, or at least not everyone was satisfied. After long and tedious discussions at more than one majlis at Forsvik, Arn had grown weary of the issue and decided that at Arn?s Sunday should be counted as Friday. On Sundays the faithful couldn’t work anyway, since that would offend those who lived at Arn?s and lead to quarrels about who had the true faith. And those kinds of quarrels were the worst of all.
Since God is the One who sees all and hears all, and is both merciful and beneficent, Arn thought that He would certainly forgive His faithful – who were forced into exile so far away in a foreign land but only for a short period of their lives – if they made Sunday into Friday. After a good deal of brooding and discussion with the physician Ibrahim, who had the most book-learning of any of the Saracen guests, Arn had found certain passages in the Koran to support this arrangement that had been made out of necessity.
The work was monotonous and the days empty of conversation, except when the exchange of words had to do with which of two stones should be hewn to fit best with the one next to it. Even though all the stones were nearly the same when they came from the quarry at Kinnekulle, most had to be trimmed and altered slightly in order to fit together as tightly as possible, the way both Arn and the Saracen builders required.
Arn began counting the days and the hours till he would be able to return to Forsvik. He couldn’t leave until Brother Guilbert arrived, and he came a day later than they had agreed, a very long day for Arn. But he heard that everything was well with Cecilia, and nothing untoward had happened at Forsvik while he was away. The day she would give birth was approaching, but according to the womenfolk who knew about such matters, he should have no trouble getting there in time.
He took a hasty farewell from both his kinsmen and the builders. Never had he thought that a boat could move so slowly as it did on that day, and as he stopped for the night at Askeberga, he considered borrowing a horse to continue on through the light spring night at once. But he changed his mind when he saw only dray animals and slow Gothic steeds in the stable.
After the feasts of Filippus and Jacob, when the livestock was turned out to pasture and the fences mended in Western G?taland, Cecilia Algotsdotter gave birth to a healthy little girl at Forsvik. Afterwards a celebration was held for three days, and no one did any work, not even in the smithies. All free men and women at Forsvik took part with equal joy, since this blessing upon the house was now important to them all.
Arn decided that the child should be named Alde, a foreign name from one of his sagas, but also a beautiful name, Cecilia thought when she tried it out for herself as she lulled the little one to sleep at her breast. Alde Arnsdotter, she whispered.
Now the happiest time began for Arn and Cecilia since the day they were married. That was how they would always remember it. During that summer Arn, looking like a boyishly proud father, rode with his daughter in his arms nearly as often as he rode with those who were to become knights. And at that time there was no hint of the dark clouds gathering far in the distance, where the heavens and the earth met in the southwest.