Читать книгу Birth of the Kingdom - Jan Guillou - Страница 7

In the year of Grace 1192 just before the mass of Saint Eskil, when the nights turned white and the work of sowing the turnips would soon begin, a mighty storm came over Western Götaland. The storm lasted for three days and three nights, and it transformed the bright, promising season into autumn.

On the third night after the midnight mass, most of the monks at Varnhem cloister were still sleeping soundly, convinced that their prayers were resisting the powers of darkness and that the storm would soon die down. It was then that Brother Pietro out in the receptorium at first thought that he’d been wakened from his sleep by something in his imagination. He awoke and sat up in bed without knowing what he had heard. Outside the walls and the heavy oak door of the receptorium was only the howling of the storm and the lashing of the rain on the roof tiles and the leafy crowns of the tall ash trees.

Then he heard it again. It sounded like an iron fist pounding on the door.

In terror he tumbled out of bed, grabbed his rosary, and started muttering a prayer that he didn’t quite remember but that was supposed to ward off evil spirits. Then he went out to the vaulted entry and listened in the dark. Three heavy blows came again, and Brother Pietro could do nothing but shout through the oaken door for the stranger to make himself known. He shouted in Latin, because that language had the most power against the dark forces and because he was too groggy to say anything in the oddly singing vernacular that was spoken outside those walls.

‘Who comes this night to the Lord’s steps?’ he called, with his mouth close to the door’s lock.

‘A servant of the Lord with pure intentions and a worthy mission,’ replied the stranger in perfect Latin.

This calmed Brother Pietro’s fears, and he struggled with the heavy door handle of black cast-iron before he managed to open the door a crack.

Outside stood a stranger in an ankle-length leather cape with a hood to protect him from the rain. He shoved open the door at once with a strength that Brother Pietro could never have resisted and entered the shelter of the entryway as he pushed the monk before him.

‘God’s peace, a very long journey is now at an end. But let’s not talk in the dark. Fetch your lamp from the receptorium, my unknown brother,’ said the stranger.

Brother Pietro did as he was told, already reassured by the fact that the stranger spoke the language of the church and knew that there was a lamp in the receptorium. The monk fumbled for a moment with the last embers in the heating pan before he managed to light a wick and insert it into an oil lamp. When he returned to the vaulted entry outside the receptorium, both he and the stranger became bathed in the light reflecting off the whitewashed walls. The stranger swept off his leather cape and shook the rain from it. Brother Pietro involuntarily caught his breath when he saw the white surcoat with the red cross. From his time in Rome he knew quite well what that meant. A Templar knight had come to Varnhem.

‘My name is Arn de Gothia and you have nothing to fear from me, brother, for I was raised here in Varnhem, and from here I once rode forth to the Holy Land. But I don’t know you; what is your name, brother?’

‘I am Brother Pietro de Siena, and I have been here only two years.’

‘So you’re new here. That’s why you have to guard the door when no one else wishes to do so. But tell me first, is Father Henri still alive?’

‘No, he died four years ago.’

‘Let us pray for his eternal bliss,’ said the Templar knight, crossing himself and bowing his head for a moment.

‘Is Brother Guilbert alive?’ the knight asked when he looked up.

‘Yes, brother, he’s an old man but he still has much vigour.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. What is our new abbot called?’

‘His name is Father Guillaume de Bourges, and he came to us three years ago.’

‘Almost two hours remain before matins, but would you please wake him and say that Arn de Gothia has come to Varnhem?’ said the knight, with what looked almost like a jocular gleam in his eyes.

‘I’d rather not, brother. Father Guillaume maintains that sleep is a gift from God which we are duty-bound to administer well,’ replied Brother Pietro uneasily, squirming with displeasure at the thought of waking Father Guillaume for a matter that might not be of sufficient urgency.

‘I understand. Go instead and wake Brother Guilbert and tell him that his apprentice Arn de Gothia is waiting in the receptorium,’ the knight said kindly, although it was still an order.

‘Brother Guilbert might also be cross…I cannot leave my post in the receptorium in the middle of this evil night,’ said Brother Pietro, attempting to wriggle out of obeying the command.

‘Ah!’ said the knight with a laugh. ‘First of all, you may confidently leave the watch to a Templar knight of the Lord; you could have no stronger replacement. Second, I swear that you will be waking that old bear Guilbert with good news. So, go now. I’ll wait here and assume your watch as best I can, I promise you.’

The Templar knight had stated his command in a way that could not be refuted. Brother Pietro nodded and scurried down the arcade towards the little courtyard that was the last open space before entering the monastery proper through another oaken door.

It was not long before the door from the monastery to the receptorium courtyard was thrown open with a bang and a familiar voice echoed down the white arcade. Brother Guilbert came striding down the hallway, holding a tar torch in his hand. He did not seem as huge as before; no longer a giant. When he spied the stranger by the door, he raised his torch to see better. Then he handed the torch to Brother Pietro and went over to embrace the stranger. Neither of them uttered a word for a long time.

‘I thought you had fallen at the battle of Tiberias, my dear Arn,’ Brother Guilbert finally said in Frankish. ‘Father Henri thought so too, and we’ve said many unnecessary prayers for your soul.’

‘Those prayers were not unnecessary, seeing as I can now thank you for them in this life, brother,’ Arn de Gothia said.

Then neither of them seemed able to say anything more, and they both had to wrestle for control so as not to express unseemly emotions. It occurred to Brother Pietro that the two men must have been very close.

‘Have you come to pray at the grave of your mother, Fru Sigrid?’ Brother Guilbert asked at last, in a tone he would use with an ordinary traveller.

‘Yes, of course I want to do that,’ replied the knight in the same tone of voice. ‘But I also have a great many other things to do here at home in Varnhem, and I must first ask your help with a number of small matters that are best done before taking on the larger tasks.’

‘You know that I’ll help you with anything. Just say the word and we’ll get started.’

‘I have twenty men and ten wagons out there in the rain. Many of the men are of an ilk that cannot so easily set foot within these walls. I also have ten heavily loaded wagons, and the first three of them would be best brought into the courtyard.’ The knight spoke rapidly, as if he were talking of commonplace things, although the wagons must be very important if they had to be protected within the cloister walls.

Without a word Brother Guilbert grabbed the torch from the younger monk’s hand and stepped into the rain outside the door of the receptorium. There was indeed a line of ten muddy wagons out there, and they must have had a difficult journey. Hunched over the reins of the oxen sat surly men who did not look to have the heart for any more travelling.

Brother Guilbert laughed when he saw them, shaking his head with a smile. Then he called to Brother Pietro and began barking orders as though he himself were a Templar knight and not a Cistercian monk.

It took less than an hour to arrange accommodations for the visitors. One of the many rules at Varnhem said that anyone who came travelling by night should be accorded the same hospitality as the Lord Himself. It was a rule that Brother Guilbert kept repeating to himself, first half in jest but with ever greater amusement when he heard from the Templar knight that perhaps smoked hams were not the best sort of delicacy to serve the men in welcome. The joke about the unsuitability of smoked hams, however, went straight over Brother Pietro’s head.

But Varnhem’s entire hospitium outside the walls was empty and dark, since few travellers had arrived during the storms of the past few days. Soon the guests were both housed and fed.

Then Brother Guilbert and Arn de Gothia pulled open the heavy gates to the cloister so that the three wagons that required protection could be driven into the courtyard next to the workshops. There the oxen were unharnessed and settled in stalls for the night.

When the work was done the rain began to taper off, and bright light was clearly visible coming through rents in the black clouds. The weather was about to change. It was still about an hour until matins.

Brother Guilbert led his guest to the church and unlocked the door. They entered without a word.

In silence Arn stopped at the baptismal font just inside the doors. He removed his wide leather cloak and placed it on the floor, then pointed with an inquiring look at the water in the font, which had no cover. He received an affirmative nod from the old monk. Arn drew his sword, dipped his fingers in the water of the font, and stroked three fingers over the flat of his sword before he slipped it back into its sheath. With more of the holy water he touched his brow, both shoulders, and his heart. Then they walked side by side up the aisle toward the altar to the spot that Brother Guilbert indicated. There they knelt and prayed in silence until they heard the monks filing in for matins. Neither of them spoke. Arn knew the monastery’s rules about the silent hours of the day as well as any monk.

By the time they began gathering for song, the storm had abated and the chirping of birds could be heard in the first light of dawn.

Father Guillaume de Bourges was first in the procession of monks coming down the side aisle. The two men who had been praying stood up and bowed silently. He bowed in return. But then he caught sight of the knight’s sword and raised his eyebrows. Brother Guilbert pointed to Arn’s red cross signifying a Templar knight, and then at the font by the church door. Father Guillaume nodded, looking reassured and smiling that he had understood.

When the singing began, Brother Guilbert explained to his travelling friend in the monastery’s secret sign language that the new abbot was strict about the rule of silence.

During the hymn, in which Arn de Gothia took part with all the rest, since he was familiar with the Psalms, he glanced from one monk to the other. Now the light was streaming into the sanctuary more brightly, and they could make out one another’s faces. A third of the brothers recognized the knight and cautiously acknowledged his nods of greeting. But most were unknown to him.

When the hymn was over and the monks began their procession back to the monastery, Father Guillaume came over and signed to Brother Guilbert that he wanted to speak with both of them in the parlatorium after breakfast. They bowed in acknowledgment.

Arn and Brother Guilbert left the church through the main door, still in silence, walked past the courtyard with the workshops, and went down to the horse stables. The morning sun was already crimson and bright, and the song of birds could be heard in every direction. At least they would have one more lovely summer day.

When they reached the horses they headed straight for the stable area where the stallions were kept. The Templar knight took hold of the top rail of the fence with both hands and vaulted over it easily. He signed with exaggerated politeness for Brother Guilbert to do the same. But the latter shook his head with a smile and slowly climbed over the way people usually did. At the other end of the stable ten stallions were standing together, as if they had not yet decided what to think about the man in white.

‘So, my dear Arn,’ said Brother Guilbert, abruptly breaking the rule of silence that was supposed to last until after breakfast, ‘have you finally learned the language of the horses?’

Arn gave him a long, searching look before he nodded with a meaningful expression. Then he whistled to get the attention of the stallions at the other end. He called to them softly, in the language of horses.

‘In the name of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, you who are the sons of the wind, come to your brother and protector!’

The horses were instantly alert, with their ears standing straight up. Then a powerful dappled grey began to approach, and soon the others followed. When the first grey raised his tail and broke into a trot, they all moved faster and then came galloping so fast that the ground shook.

‘By the Prophet, peace be unto him, you have indeed learned the language of horses down there in Outremer,’ Brother Guilbert whispered in Arabic.

‘Quite true,’ replied Arn in the same language, opening his white coat wide to stop the onrushing stallions, ‘and you seem still to recall the language that I once thought was the language of horses and not that of the unbelievers.’

They each mounted a stallion, although Brother Guilbert had to lead his to the fence to get enough support to climb onto the steed’s back. Then they rode around in the corral bareback with only their left hands lightly gripping the horses’ manes.

Arn asked whether things were still so wretched that the West Goths continued to be the last men in the world who failed to understand the value of these horses. Brother Guilbert confirmed this with a sigh. In most other places in the Cistercian world, horses were their best business. But not up here in the North. The art of mounted warfare had not yet reached these parts. So these particular horses were worth not more but less than native West Gothic horses.

Arn was astonished, and he asked whether his kinsmen still believed that one could not use cavalry in war. With a sigh Brother Guilbert said that this was true. Nordic men rode to their battles, dismounted from their horses and secured their reins. Then they rushed at one another, hacking and slashing, on the closest field.

But now Brother Guilbert could no longer hold back all the questions he had been wanting to ask since the first moment he saw this man, whom he believed to be a prodigal son standing in the receptorium, dripping with rain and muddy from his long journey. Arn began recounting his lengthy story.

The young, innocent Arn Magnusson, who once set out from Varnhem to serve in the Holy War until death or until twenty years had passed, which was usually the same thing, no longer existed. It was no untainted knight Perceval who had come back from the war.

Brother Guilbert understood this almost at once when the conversation with Father Guillaume commenced out in the cloister. It had turned into a radiantly beautiful morning with not a cloud in the sky and no wind, so Father Guillaume had taken his unusual guest and Brother Guilbert out to the conversation area by the stone benches in the cloister garden instead of summoning them to the parlatorium. There they now sat with their feet practically on top of Father Henri’s grave, because he and his broken seal had been laid to rest right here, just as he had instructed on his deathbed. They had begun their meeting by praying for Father Henri’s eternal bliss.

Brother Guilbert watched carefully as Arn began presenting his business to Father Guillaume. The latter listened attentively and kindly, and as usual with a rather patronizing expression, as if in the presence of someone who knew less than he did. Father Guillaume was a talented theologian, that was indisputable, but he was not very good at seeing through a Templar knight, thought Brother Guilbert as he soon realized what Arn was getting at.

There were obvious indications on Arn’s face that he had not been one of those monks who served the Lord by copying manuscripts or keeping accounts. He must have spent the greater part of his time in the Holy Land in the saddle with sword and lance. Only now did Brother Guilbert notice the black border at the bottom of Arn’s mantle that showed he held the rank of a fortress master in the Knights Templar and thus was in command of both war and trade. Arn would probably be able to convince the younger and less experienced Father Guillaume to go along with whatever he wished, without the latter realizing what he was doing.

As his first response to the question of why he had returned to Varnhem, Arn had said that he had come to deliver a donation of no less than ten marks in gold. Varnhem, after all, had been the place where the brothers had raised him, with the help of God, and ten marks in gold was truly no small sum to express his gratitude. In addition, he wanted his future resting place to be next to his mother, inside the church under the centre aisle.

Confronted with such good and Christian proposals, young Father Guillaume became just as accommodating as Brother Guilbert imagined that Arn must have intended. Arn made an even better impression when he excused himself, went over to the ox-carts in the courtyard, and returned with a heavy, clinking leather sack, which he handed to Father Guillaume with the utmost respect and a deep bow.

Father Guillaume clearly had a hard time resisting the temptation to open the leather purse and begin counting the gold.

Then Arn made his next move. He spoke for a moment about Varnhem’s beautiful horses, about what a shame it was that his kinsmen in this northern land did not understand the true value of these animals. He also mentioned the great and commendable work that his old friend Brother Guilbert had done without recompense to care for and improve the breeding of the horses for so many years. He added that many diligent workers in the vineyards of the Lord received their wages long after their work was done, while others who may have come late to the work received their wages more promptly. Father Guillaume solemnly pondered this familiar example of how the human view of justice so often seemed to deviate from God’s intention. Then Arn suggested that he buy all of Varnhem’s horses, and for a very good price. In this way, he was quick to add before Father Guillaume could recover from his astonishment, Varnhem would finally receive payment for its arduous labour. The cloister would also be quit of a business that produced no income up here in the North, all with a single decision.

Arn then fell silent and waited to continue until Father Guillaume had collected himself enough to utter words of gratitude.

There might be a small catch to such a large settlement, Arn was quick to add. Because for the care of the horses the buyer would need a skilled man; that person was here in Varnhem and was none other than Brother Guilbert. On the other hand, if Brother Guilbert’s most important work vanished with the horses…?

Father Guillaume then suggested that Brother Guilbert’s services be included in the purchase to assist the buyer, at least for a time…no, for as long as necessary. Arn nodded gratefully as if acknowledging a very wise decision. Brother Guilbert, who was now observing his face closely, could see not a single sign to reveal whether this had been Arn’s intention all along. He looked as though upon reflection he was agreeing with the wisdom of Father Guillaume’s proposal. Then he suggested that they see to having the donation documents drawn up, signed, and sealed that very day, since both parties happened to be present.

When Father Guillaume immediately agreed to this as well, Arn spread out his hands in a gesture of gratitude and relief. Then he asked both monks to share with him information of the type that only men of the cloth might know, about how things really stood in his homeland.

As he was swift to point out, down at the marketplace in Lödöse he had already learned who was king, jarl, and queen. He also knew that there had been peace in the country for a long time. But the answer to the question of whether this peace between the Goth lands and the Swedes to the north would last in years to come could only be learned from the men of the church, for only they were privy to the deeper truths.

Father Guillaume looked pleased at this thought, and he nodded in agreement and approval, but he still seemed unsure of what Arn wanted to know. Arn helped him out by asking a concise but very difficult question which he presented in a low voice with no change in expression.

‘Will there be war in our land again, and if so, why and when?’

The two monks frowned for a moment in contemplation. Brother Guilbert answered first, with Father Guillaume’s assent, by saying that as long as King Knut Eriksson and his jarl Birger Brosa held power, there was no danger of war. The question was, what would happen after King Knut’s demise.

‘Then the risk of a new war would be great,’ sighed Father Guillaume.

He recounted how at the previous year’s church convocation in Linköping the new Archbishop Petrus had clearly demonstrated to the men of the church where he stood. He was a supporter of the Sverker dynasty, and he had received his pallium from the Danish Archbishop Absalon in Lund. This same Absalon had plotted against the Erik dynasty and wanted to restore the royal crown of the Goths and Swedes to the Sverkers. There was also a means for achieving that goal, though King Knut Eriksson undoubtedly knew as little about it as he knew that his new archbishop was a man of the Danes and Sverkers. Bishop Absalon in Lund possessed a letter from the blessed Abbess Rikissa which she had dictated on her deathbed. In this letter she recounted how King Knut’s queen Cecilia Blanca, during the time she had spent among the novices at Gudhem convent, had taken vows of chastity and pledged to remain forever a handmaiden of the Lord. Since King Knut later brought Cecilia Blanca from Gudhem and made her his queen, and she later bore him four sons and two daughters…

It could therefore be claimed that the king’s children were illegitimate and had no right to the crown, Arn quickly summed up. Had the Holy Father in Rome given his opinion on this matter?

No, since a new Pope had just been elected, taking the name Celestinus III, they still knew nothing about what opinion the Holy See might have regarding legitimate or illegitimate royal progeny in Götaland. Surely there were greater problems demanding the immediate attention of the one who had been elevated to the Holy See.

‘But if none of King Knut’s sons could succeed him,’ Arn said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question, ‘then might not Archbishop Petrus and possibly other bishops propose a Sverker kinsman as the new king? It would not be entirely unexpected.’

The two monks nodded in gloomy affirmation. Arn sat in thought for a moment before he stood up with an expression that showed he had already dismissed these minor concerns. He thanked the monks for the valuable information, and suggested that they proceed immediately to the scriptorium to weigh the gold accurately and to have the donation documents drawn up and stamped with the proper seal.

Father Guillaume, who for a moment had thought that the conversation had taken a quite base and uninteresting turn, accepted this suggestion at once.

The odd caravan of heavily laden ox-carts escorted by light and fast Saracen horses left Varnhem cloister the next morning on the way to Skara, the market town and bishop’s see in the middle of Western Götaland, eight miles due west of Varnhem. Brother Guilbert was part of all the newly purchased goods – that was his ironic view of the sudden change in his life. Arn had bought him as easily as he had bought his gravesite, the horses, and almost all the saddle tack and bridles that were made at Varnhem. Brother Guilbert could not have had it any other way even if he had protested, since Father Guillaume seemed dazzled by the payments in gold from Arn. Instead of quietly awaiting the end of his life in Varnhem, Brother Guilbert was now riding with strangers toward an unknown destination, and he found that to be an exceedingly good situation. He had no idea what sort of plans Arn might have, but he didn’t believe that all these horses had been bought merely to please the eye.

The Saracen knights who were in the lead – and it was no secret to Brother Guilbert that they were Saracens – seemed childishly enchanted at being able to continue their long journey on horseback. This was easy to understand, especially since they were allowed to ride such magnificent steeds. It occurred to Brother Guilbert that now Saint Bernard in his Heaven must be teasing his monk who once had despaired that anyone would ever want to buy Varnhem’s horses, and in his powerlessness had shrieked that he would settle for Saracen buyers at the very least. Now these unexpected Saracens rode along, joking loudly and talking all around him. At the oxen-reins sat men who spoke other languages. Brother Guilbert had still not figured them out – who they were or where they had come from.

But there was one big problem. What Arn had done was a type of deception which the young and naïve Father Guillaume hadn’t had the wit to see through, blinded as he was by all that gold. Yet a Templar knight was allowed to own no more than a monk in Varnhem cloister. Any Templar knight who was discovered with a single gold coin would immediately have to relinquish his white mantle and leave the Templar order in disgrace.

Brother Guilbert decided that the unpleasant matter should be broached sooner rather than later, which was how every Templar knight had learned to think. He urged on his dapple grey, rode up alongside Arn at the head of the column, and asked him the question straight out.

But Arn did not seem to take offence at the troublesome query. He merely smiled and turned his exquisite stallion – which was from Outremer but of a type that Brother Guilbert did not know – and galloped back to one of the last carts in the column. He leaped onto it and began searching for something among the loaded goods.

He remounted his horse and was back at once with a water-tight leather roll which he handed without a word to Brother Guilbert, who opened it with as much trepidation as curiosity.

It was a document in three languages, signed by the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Gérard de Ridefort. It said that Arn de Gothia, after twenty years of service as a provisional brother, had now left his position in the Order of the Knights Templar, released from his obligations by the Grand Master himself. But because of all the services he had rendered to the Order, whenever he desired and at his own discretion he had the right to wear the white mantle with the same status he’d enjoyed before he left the Order.

‘So you see, my dear Brother Guilbert,’ Arn said, taking the document, rolling it up and inserting it carefully back into the leather sheath, ‘I am a Templar knight and yet not. And to be honest, I can’t see there is any great harm done if someone who has so long served the crimson cross should occasionally seek protection behind it.’

At first it was not quite clear to Brother Guilbert what Arn meant by that. But after they had ridden for a while, Arn began to talk about his homeward journey, and then his words about taking protection behind the blood-red cross made more sense.

Arn had bought, taken captive, or employed in his service the men who now rode with him in the column on the roads all over Outremer, where everyone had become everyone else’s foe and where a Saracen who served the Christians was just as much at risk as a Christian who served the Saracens. But putting together a ship’s crew and a group of men who would be of good use when travelling the long way back to Western Götaland had not been the hard part.

Brother Guilbert studied his friend’s face now and then when he thought Arn wasn’t looking. He found nothing in Arn’s outward appearance that surprised him. Had someone asked him to guess how Arn might look if, against all logic, he survived twenty years as a Templar knight in Outremer, Brother Guilbert would have guessed at something like this: A blond beard that had not yet begun to grey but had nevertheless lost its lustre. All Templar knights wore beards, of course. Short hair as well. White scars on his hands and all over his face, the marks of arrows and swords and perhaps an axe-blow over one eyebrow which made that eye seem a bit stiff. This was more or less the appearance that he would have guessed. The war in Outremer had been no banquet.

But there was an unease inside Arn that could not be as easily discerned with a mere glance. He had already admitted the day before that he considered his service in the Holy War to be finished, and his reasons were good. But now that Arn was riding the last day’s march toward home and with great wealth besides – which was truly an unusual way for a Templar knight to return – he should have felt happier, exhilarated and full of eager plans. Instead there was a great sense of unease about him, something resembling fear, if that word could be applied to a Templar knight. There was still much to understand and to question.

‘Where did you get such a vast amount of gold?’ asked Brother Guilbert resolutely as they rode past Skara without entering the town. He felt that he needed to resume their conversation.

‘If I answered that question right now you wouldn’t believe me, dear Guilbert,’ replied Arn, but he looked down at the ground. ‘Or even worse, you would think that I had committed treason. And were you to believe that, however briefly, it would make both of us sad. You must take my word for it. This wealth was not come by unjustly. And I will tell you everything when we have time, for it is not a story that is easily fathomed.’

‘I believe you, of course, but don’t ever ask me again to believe you without question,’ Brother Guilbert said bitterly. ‘You and I never lied to each other inside the walls, and outside the walls I take it for granted that we speak to each other as the Templar knights we both once were.’

‘That is precisely how I want it to be, and I will never make another request that you take my word for something on faith,’ Arn almost whispered, still with his eyes cast down.

‘Well, then I’ll ask you something simpler,’ said Brother Guilbert more cheerfully and in a louder voice. ‘We’re riding toward Arnäs now, your father’s estate, are we not? Well, you’re bringing with you baggage that is not insignificant, including horses from Outremer and a monk you just acquired in Varnhem – no, don’t contradict me! I’m also part of your purchase. I admit that I’m not used to such things, but that’s the way it is. And you have bought other men, possibly after negotiations more difficult than those you pursued with Father Guillaume, but they are going to be used for something, just as I am. Won’t you tell me something about all this? Who are these men in the caravan?’

‘Two of the men, those two riding the mares to your left, are physicians from Damascus,’ replied Arn without hesitation. ‘The two sitting on the ox-carts at the rear of the column are deserters from the army of King Richard Lionheart, an archer and a crossbowman. The Norwegian Harald Øysteinsson, who wears the coat of a sergeant of the Knights Templar, served with me, but I’ve already told you that. The two sitting on the ox-carts just behind us are Armenian armourers and craftsmen from Damascus, and most of the rest of the men are builders and sappers from both sides in the war. They are all in my service, except Harald, because in their direst hour I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Does that answer the question you really wanted to ask?’

‘Yes, to a great extent,’ replied Brother Guilbert meditatively. ‘You intend to build something great. Will you tell me what it is you want all of us to build?’

‘Peace,’ said Arn resolutely.

Brother Guilbert was so surprised by the answer that for a long while he could not bring himself to ask anything more.

When on the second day of the journey the caravan neared the church in Forshem, summer had returned in all its glory. It was hard to imagine that the whole village had been rocked by storms and foul weather only a few days earlier. Trees and other debris that had fallen across roads and farms had already been removed. Out in the fields the turnip harvest was in full swing.

Since there had long been peace in the country, no armed guards rode forth along the roads, and no one disturbed the travellers, even though it must have been evident from a great distance that many of them were foreigners. The workers in the fields would straighten up for a moment to watch with curiosity the ox-carts and the knights on the lively horses, but then they went back to their labour.

When the caravan reached Forshem, Arn led his men up the hill to the church and signalled for them to rest. When all had dismounted he went over to the Prophet’s people, who usually kept to themselves, and told them there was still plenty of time before the afternoon prayer hour, but that here the Bible’s people were going to pray for a while. Then he asked the two Armenian brothers, and Harald and Brother Guilbert, to come with him into the church. But as they approached the door, the priest came hurrying out of his presbytery and called to them not to enter God’s house in disarray. He ran over and took up position before the old-fashioned ornamented doors of the wooden church. Trembling, he blocked the way with arms outstretched.

Arn then calmly told him who he was, that he was the son of Herr Magnus of Arnäs, and that all in his party were good Christians. After a long journey they wanted to give thanks at the altar and also leave an offering. They were allowed in at once by the priest, who only now seemed to notice that one of the strangers was a Cistercian in a white cloak, and that two of the men bore big red crosses on their shields. Fumbling and apologizing, he unlocked the big church doors.

But Arn did not go far up the aisle toward the altar before the priest caught up with him and tugged on his sword, saying something in an odd mixture of Latin and Swedish to indicate that swords were an abomination in God’s house. Brother Guilbert then shooed him away like a fly, explaining that the sword at Sir Arn’s side was blessed. It was the sword of a Templar knight, even if it was the only one that had ever been inside Forshem church.

At the altar the Christians fell to their knees, lighted some candles from the one that burned at the altar, and said their prayers. They also placed silver on the altar, which instantly calmed the agitated priest standing behind them.

After a while Arn asked to be left alone with his God, and everyone complied with no objections. They all went outside, closing the church doors behind them.

Arn prayed a long time for support and guidance, as he had done so often before. But never had he felt anything stir within him or seen any sign that Our Lady had answered him.

In spite of this constant lack of an answer he had never been stricken with doubt. People filled the earth, just as God had prescribed. At any one moment God and the saints had to listen to thousands of people offering up prayers, and if they had to take time to answer every one of them it would lead to great confusion. How many foolish prayers did people voice every moment, asking for luck in the hunt, success in trade, the birth of a son, or to be allowed to continue their earthly lives?

And how many thousands of times had Arn asked Our Lady for protection for Cecilia and their child? How many times had he prayed for success in war? Before every attack in the Holy War, clad in their white mantles, they all sat their horses knee to knee, about to dash headlong toward death or toward victory, and Our Lady had to listen to their prayers. Almost all prayers had selfish intent.

But this time Arn prayed to Our Lady that she might guide him and advise him in what he could and should do with all the power he had brought home; that he might not succumb and become a covetous man, that he might not be tempted by the knowledge that he was a warrior who knew more than his kinsmen did, that all the gold and all the knowledge he now had in his possession might not fall on infertile ground.

And then, for the first time ever, Our Lady answered the praying Arn so that he could hear her clear voice inside him and see her in the dazzling light that had just struck his face from one of the high windows in the little wooden church. It was not a miracle, because many people could testify to receiving an answer to prayer. But for Arn it was the first time, and he now knew with certainty what he had to do, because Our Lady herself had revealed it to him.

It was only two days’ journey from Forshem church to the fortress of Arnäs. At the halfway point they stopped for a short rest, because it was the prayer hour for the Prophet’s people. The Christians took the opportunity to have a nap.

But Arn went out to a clearing in the forest and let God’s light filter down through the delicate light-green foliage of the beeches onto his scarred face. For the first time in this long journey he felt at peace, because he had finally understood God’s intent in sparing his life all these years.

That was the important thing, the most crucial. At this particular moment he would not allow himself to be concerned with anything secondary.

For some time a strange rumour had been circulating in Western Götaland. A mighty foreign ship had been sighted, first near Lödöse in the Göta River, and then all the way up by the Troll’s Rapids. Foreigners had tried to drag the ship up the rapids using many oxen and hired draymen. But finally they had been forced to give up and go back down the river to the marketplace near Lödöse.

No one could understand the point of trying to drag such a ship up into Lake Vänern. Some of the Norwegian guards at Arnäs fortress thought that the ship must have business on the Norwegian side of Vänern. King Sverre of Norway had more than once attempted the strangest military advances by arriving by ship where no one expected him. But right now there was not much in the way of war in Norway, although it was not entirely peaceful either.

And no one could say for sure that it was a warship, for according to the rumour the ship’s big lateen sail bore a red cross which was so large that the cross was visible before anything else. No ship in the North bore such a mark, that much was certain.

For a few days extra vigilance was taken to keep watch over the calm summer waters of Lake Vänern from the high tower at Arnäs, at least until those three days of storm arrived. But when no ship appeared, and since it was a time of peace in Western Götaland, soon all went back to their normal tasks and the delayed turnip sowing.

One man never tired of sitting up in the tower and straining his watery old man’s eyes by gazing out across the water glittering in the sun. He was the lord of Arnäs, and he would remain that for as long as he lived. His name was Magnus Folkesson. Three winters ago he’d had a stroke, and since then he could not speak clearly and was paralysed on his left side from head to toe. He kept to himself up there in the tower with a couple of house thralls, as if ashamed to show himself in public. Or perhaps it was because his eldest son Eskil did not like to see his father mocked behind his back. Yet now the old man sat up there each day in plain view of everyone in Arnäs. The wind tore at his tangled white hair, but his patience seemed without limit. Many jokes were told about what the old man must imagine he could see from up there.

Yet every jester would come to rue his scorn. Herr Magnus had sensed an omen, although it turned out that he was waiting for a miracle sent by Our Lady. And he was the one, with his wide view of the surrounding countryside, who first saw what happened.

Three young thralls came running along the still wet and muddy road from Forshem to Arnäs. They were shouting and waving their arms, and all three were racing to be the first to arrive, since sometimes a poor wretch who brought important news would be given a silver coin.

When they ran out onto the long, swaying wooden causeway that led across the marsh to the fortress itself, the thrall who was somewhat bigger and stronger overtook first one and then the other, so that he arrived first, gasping and red-faced, with the others hobbling far behind.

They had been spotted even before they reached the causeway, and someone called for Svein, who was in charge of the life-guards. He staunchly confronted the first runner at the gate of the fortress, grabbing the young thrall by the neck just as he tried to run past and forcing him to his knees in a puddle of water. He held the boy in a strong grip with his iron glove and asked to hear the news. It was not easy to understand, since his grip caused so much pain that the boy mostly whimpered, but also the other two thralls had now caught up with him and of their own accord fell to their knees, jabbering at the same time as they tried to tell what they had seen.

Svein, the captain of the guards, then gave them all a box on the ears and questioned the boys one by one. At last some sense was made of what they had witnessed. A caravan with many warriors and heavy ox-carts was approaching Arnäs on the road from Forshem. They were not Sverkers or any associated clan, nor were they Folkungs or Eriks. They were from a foreign land.

There was the sound of horns being blown and guards went running for the stables, where thralls had already begun saddling the horses. People were sent to wake Herr Eskil, who at this time of day was sleeping his lordly sleep, and others were sent to the drawbridge down by the causeway to hoist it up, so that the foreigners would not be able to enter Arnäs before it was determined whether they were friend or foe.

Before long Herr Eskil was sitting on his horse, accompanied by ten guards near the drawn-up bridge to Arnäs and tensely watching the other side of the marsh where the foreigners would soon appear. It was late in the afternoon, so the men outside Arnäs had the sun in their eyes, since the opposite end of the bridge lay to the south. When the strangers appeared on the other side it was hard to see them in the bright sunlight. Some said they saw monks, others said that they were foreign warriors. The strangers seemed confused for a moment when they discovered the closed drawbridge and men in full armour on the other side. But then a knight in a white mantle and white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross slowly rode alone out onto the causeway toward the drawbridge.

Herr Eskil and his men waited in tense silence as the bearded, bare-headed knight approached. Someone whispered that the stranger was riding an oddly pitiful horse. Two of the guards dismounted to draw their bows.

Then something happened that some people would later call a miracle. Old Herr Magnus called out from up in the high tower, and later there were some who would swear that Herr Magnus clearly uttered the words ‘The Lord be praised,’ because the Prodigal Son had come back from the Holy Land.

Eskil was of another mind. As he later explained, he understood everything as soon as he heard one of the guards mention the wretched horse, since he had both good and painful memories from his youth about what sort of wenches’ horses were called pitiful, and what sort of men rode such horses.

Speaking in a voice which some described as quavering and weak, Herr Eskil ordered the drawbridge lowered for the unknown knight. He had to give the order twice before he was obeyed.

Then Herr Eskil got down from his horse and fell to his knees in prayer before the creaking drawbridge, now lowered so that the sun’s glare was in everyone’s eyes. The horse belonging to the white-clad knight appeared to have danced across the drawbridge long before it had been lowered all the way to its supports. The knight jumped down from his horse with a motion that no one had ever seen before and was quickly on his knees before Herr Eskil. The two embraced, and there were tears in Herr Eskil’s eyes.

Whether it was a double or single miracle was a subject of debate long afterwards. No one knew for certain whether it was at that moment that old Herr Magnus up in the tower regained his senses. But it was clear that Arn Magnusson, the warrior known only from the sagas in those days, had now come home after many years in the Holy Land.

There was great noise and commotion that day at Arnäs. When the mistress of the manor, Erika Joarsdotter, came out to greet the guests with a welcome ale and saw Arn and Eskil walking across the courtyard with their arms around each other’s shoulders, she dropped everything she was carrying and ran forward with her arms spread wide. Arn, who had let go of his brother Eskil, fell to his knees to greet his stepmother courteously; he was almost knocked to the ground when she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him as shamelessly as only a mother can do. Everyone could see that the returning warrior was unused to such practices.

Wagons were pulled creaking and rattling into the courtyard of the fortress. Heavy crates and a multitude of weapons were unloaded and carried into the armoury in the tower. Outside the walls a tent camp fashioned from ships’ sails and exotic carpets was quickly raised, and many willing hands helped to set up gates and fencing for all of Sir Arn’s horses. Calves were taken to be slaughtered and the spit-turners lit their fires. All around Arnäs a promising aroma soon spread of the evening to come.

When Arn greeted the guards, some of whom were unwilling to kneel before him, he abruptly asked after his father with a tense expression, as if preparing himself for sad news. Eskil replied gruffly that their father was no longer in his right mind and had retreated to the tower. Arn strode at once toward the tower, his white mantle with the red cross billowing like a sail around him so that all those in his path quickly moved aside.

Up on the highest parapet he found his father in a miserable state but with a happy expression on his face. His father was standing next to the wall with a house thrall supporting his lame side. In his healthy hand he held a rough walking-stick. Arn quickly bowed his head and kissed his father’s good hand and then gathered him in his arms. His father felt as frail as a child, his good arm was as thin as his lame one, and he exuded a rank odour. Arn stood there unable to think of what to say, when his father with great effort, his head trembling, leaned toward him and whispered something.

‘The angels of the Lord…shall rejoice…and the fatted calf…shall be slain.’

Arn heard the words quite clearly, and they were judiciously chosen, as they so clearly referred to the story in the Holy Scriptures of the return of the Prodigal Son. All the talk of his father’s lost reason was simply nonsense. With relief Arn picked the old man up in his arms and began to walk around the parapet to see how he had been living up here. When he saw the dark tower room it was worse than he had feared. He frowned at the strong odour of piss and rotting food. He spun around and headed for the stairs, speaking to his father as to a man of reason like any other, the way no one had spoken to him in many years. Arn said that the lord of Arnäs would no longer have to live in a pigsty.

On the narrow, winding tower staircase he met Eskil slowly ascending, since the stairs were not designed for sizable men with a paunch. Grumbling, Eskil now had to turn around and go back down, with Arn close behind him, carrying their father like a bundle over one shoulder as he barked orders about everything that needed to be done.

Out in the courtyard Arn set his father down, since it would be disgraceful to carry him any further like a sheaf of rye. Eskil ordered the house thralls to bring tables and feather-beds and the dragon-carved seat to one of the cookhouses by the south wall that were used only for large feasts. Arn bellowed that his father’s tower room was to be scoured from floor to ceiling, and many pairs of astonished eyes watched as the three men proceeded across the courtyard of the fortress.

The seat with the carved dragon coils was delivered at once to the cookhouse, and there Arn tenderly deposited his father. He dropped to his knees, took his father’s face in his hands, looked him in the eyes, and said that he was well aware that he was speaking to a father who understood everything just as well as he had before. Eskil stood in silence behind him and said not a word.

But old Herr Magnus now seemed so overwhelmed and was breathing so hard that there might be a risk he would suffer another stroke. Arn took his hands from his father’s face, stood up, and strode past his bewildered older brother out to the courtyard, giving an order in a language nobody could understand.

At once two men from the many foreigners in Arn’s entourage came forward. They were both dressed in dark cloaks and had blue cloth wound around their heads; one was young and the other old, and their eyes were as black as those of ravens.

‘These two men,’ said Arn, addressing his brother, but also his father, ‘are named…Abraham and Joseph. They are both my friends from the Holy Land. And they are masters of the healing arts.’

He explained something in an unintelligible language to the two raven-eyed men, who nodded that they understood. They began to examine Herr Magnus carefully, but without undue deference. They studied the whites of his eyes, listened to his breathing and his heart, struck his right knee with a little club so that his foot kicked straight out, then did the same several times with his left knee, which moved only slightly. They seemed particularly interested in that. Then they raised and lowered his weak left arm as they whispered to each other.

Eskil, who stood behind Arn, felt left out and at a loss, seeing two foreigners handling the lord of Arnäs as if inspecting some thrall child. But Arn signalled to him that all was as it should be, and then he had a brief whispered conversation in the foreign language, whereupon the two physicians retreated, bowing deeply to Eskil.

‘Abraham and Joseph have good news,’ said Arn when he and Eskil were alone. ‘Our father is too tired right now, but tomorrow the healing work will begin. With God’s help our father will be able to walk and speak once again.’

Eskil said nothing. It was as if his first joy at seeing Arn had already been clouded, and he felt a little ashamed at appearing to be the one who had not taken care of his father. Arn gave his brother a searching look and seemed to understand these hidden feelings. He threw his arms wide and they fell into each other’s embrace. They stood that way a long time without saying a word. Eskil, who seemed more bothered by the silence than Arn, finally muttered that it was a scrawny little brother who had come to the feast.

Amused, Arn replied that it appeared Eskil had managed well enough to keep the wolf from the door at Arnäs, and that he had certainly not been diminished by continuing the legacy of their ancestor, jarl Folke the Fat. Then Eskil burst out laughing and shook his younger brother back and forth with feigned indignation, and Arn let himself be shaken as he joined in the laughter.

When their merriment subsided, Arn led his brother over to their father, who was sitting quite still in his beloved chair with the dragon carvings. His left arm hung limp at his side. Arn fell to his knees and pulled Eskil down with him so that their heads were close together. Then he spoke in a kindly tone and not as if to a man who had lost his wits.

‘I know that you can hear and understand everything just as before, dear Father. You don’t have to answer me now, because if you strain yourself too much it will only get worse. But tomorrow the healing will begin, and starting tomorrow I will sit with you and tell you everything that happened in the Holy Land. But now Eskil and I will take our leave, so that he can tell me what has happened here at home. There is much that I’m impatient to know.’

With that the two sons got to their feet and bowed to their father as before. They thought they could see a little smile on his lopsided face, like the glow from a fire that was far from extinguished.

When they left the cookhouse Eskil grabbed a passing house thrall and told him that Herr Magnus was to have his bed, water, and pisspot brought to him there in the cookhouse, and that the floor should be covered with birch boughs.

In the courtyard of the fortress people and house thralls were rushing about on all sorts of errands to prepare for the unexpected welcome feast, which now had to be readied in haste and with greater grandeur than an ordinary banquet at Arnäs. But those who came near the two Folkung brothers, now walking arm in arm towards the gate, shrank back almost as if in terror. Herr Eskil was said to be the richest man in all of Western Götaland, and everyone knew enough to fear the power that resided in silver and gold, although Herr Eskil himself often invited more ridicule than fear. But next to him now walked his brother, the long-absent warrior Arn, whom the sagas had made much taller and broader than he was in truth. Yet everyone could see by his stride, by his scarred face, and by the way he wore his sword and chain-mail as though they were his normal attire, that now the other power had indeed come to Arnäs – the power of the sword, which most sensible people feared far more than the power of silver.

Eskil and Arn went out through the gate and down to the tent encampment, which was being made ready by all the foreigners in Arn’s retinue. Arn explained that they needed only to greet the freemen, and not his thralls. First he asked Harald Øysteinsson to step forward and told Eskil that the two of them had been comrades in arms for almost fifteen years. When Eskil heard the Norwegian name he frowned as if searching his memory for something. Then he asked whether Harald might possibly have a relative in Norway with the same name. When Harald confirmed this and said that the man was his grandfather, and that his father was named Øystein Møyla, Eskil nodded pensively. He hastened to invite Harald to the feast that evening in the longhouse, and he also pointed out that there would be no lack of Nordic ale in sufficient quantities; something he probably thought would cheer a kinsman who had come such a long way. Harald’s face lit up and he uttered words so warm, almost like blessings, that Eskil was soon distracted from the subject of his forefathers.

Next they greeted the old monk Brother Guilbert, whose fringe of hair was completely white and whose shiny pate showed that he no longer needed to bother with shaving his tonsure. Arn briefly recounted how while they were in Varnhem Father Guillaume had granted Brother Guilbert a leave of absence as long as he worked for Arnäs. When he shook hands with the monk, Eskil was surprised to feel a rough grip, like a smith’s and with a smith’s strength.

There were no other men in Arn’s entourage who spoke Norse, and Eskil had a hard time understanding the foreign names that Arn rattled off as they stood before men who bowed politely. To Eskil’s ears the language sometimes sounded like Frankish and sometimes like some utterly different tongue.

Arn especially wanted to introduce two brothers who were dark-skinned, but both wore a gold cross around their necks. Their names were Marcus and Jacob Wachtian, Arn explained, and he added that they would be of great use in building anything large or small as well as in conducting business.

The thought of good tradesmen cheered up Eskil, but otherwise he had begun to feel uncomfortable among these foreigners, whose language he could not understand but whose expressions he suspected he could read all too well. He imagined that they were saying things that were not very respectful about his mighty paunch.

Arn also seemed to notice Eskil’s embarrassment, so he dismissed all the men around them and led his brother back toward the fortress courtyard. After they passed through the gate he suddenly turned serious and asked his brother to meet with him alone in the tower’s accounting chamber for a talk that was to be for their ears only. But first he had a simple matter to take care of, something that would be awkward if he forgot about it before the banquet. Eskil nodded, looking a bit puzzled, and headed for the tower.

Arn strode towards the big brick cookhouses that still stood where as a boy he had helped to build them; with pleasure he noted that they had been repaired and fortified in places and showed no sign of decay.

Inside he found, as expected, Erika Joarsdotter wearing a long leather apron over a simple brown linen shift. Like a cavalry officer she was fully occupied in commanding female house thralls and servants. When she noticed Arn she quickly set down a large pot of steaming root vegetables and threw her arms around his neck for the second time. This time he let it happen without feeling embarrassed, since there were only women inside.

‘Do you know, my dearest Arn,’ said Erika in her somewhat difficult to understand speech that came through her nose as much as through her mouth and which Arn had not heard in years, ‘that when you first came here I thanked Our Lady for sending an angel to Arnäs. And here you are once again, in a white mantle and surcoat emblazoned with the sign of Our Lord. You are in truth like a warrior angel of God!’

‘What a human being sees and what God sees is not always one and the same,’ Arn muttered self-consciously. ‘We have much to talk about, you and I, and we shall, be sure of that. But right now my brother awaits, and I want only to ask you a small favour for this evening.’

Erika threw out her arms in delight and said something about a favour on any evening, speaking in a suggestive manner that Arn did not fully understand. But the other women broke out in ill-concealed giggles in the midst of the bustle of the cookhouse. Arn pretended not to notice, even though he only half perceived the joke. He quickly hastened to request that the smaller feast served out by the tents contain lamb, veal, and venison, but no meat from swine – either wild or the fatter, tame variety. Since his wishes at first seemed difficult to understand, he hurried to add that in the Holy Land, where the guests came from, there was no pork, and that everyone would much prefer lamb. He also asked that besides ale, they also serve plenty of fresh water with the meal.

It was clear that Erika found this request odd. She stood deep in thought for a moment, her cheeks flushed from the cookhouse heat and breathless from all the rushing about, making her bosom heave. But then she promised to take care of everything just as Arn had asked, and hurried off to arrange for more slaughtering and more spit-turners.

Arn hurried to the tower. The lower port was now being watched by two guards who stared as if petrified at his white mantle and surcoat as he approached. But this expression, which many men assumed upon seeing a Templar knight coming towards them, was something that Arn had years ago learned to ignore.

He found his rather impatient brother up in the accounting chamber. Without explanation Arn unhooked his white mantle, pulled off his surcoat, and folded both garments carefully in the manner prescribed by the Holy Rule. He placed them carefully on a stool, sat down, and motioned for Eskil also to take a seat.

‘You have become a man who is used to being in command,’ Eskil muttered with a mixture of levity and petulance.

‘Yes, I have been a commander in war for many years, and it takes time to become accustomed to peace,’ replied Arn, crossing himself. He seemed to murmur a brief prayer to himself before he went on. ‘You are my beloved older brother. I am your beloved younger brother. Our friendship was never broken, and the longing of both of us has been great. I have not come home to command; I have come home to serve.’

‘You still sound like a Dane when you speak, or rather a man of the Danish church, perhaps. I don’t think we should overstate the part about service, because you are my brother,’ Eskil jested, making an exaggerated gesture of welcome across the table.

‘Now the time has come that I feared most when I longed so for my homecoming,’ Arn continued with unabated gravity, as if to show that he had no interest in the levity that had been offered.

Eskil collected himself at once.

‘I know that our childhood friend Knut is now king,’ Arn went on. ‘I know that our father’s brother Birger Brosa is jarl, I know that for many years there has been peace in the realm. So now to everything I do not know…’

‘You already know the most important things, but how did you obtain this knowledge on your long journey?’ Eskil interrupted his brother, seemingly out of genuine curiosity.

‘I come from Varnhem,’ Arn resolutely continued. ‘We first intended to sail all the way to the wharves outside Arnäs, but we could not make our way past the Troll’s Rapids, since our ship was too big.’

‘So it was your ship with the cross on the sail!’

‘Yes, a Templar ship that can carry a large cargo. It will surely be of great use. But let’s speak of that later. We were forced to take the land route from Lödöse, and I found it wise to stop at Varnhem. It was there that I obtained the information, along with my friend Brother Guilbert and the horses you saw out in the pasture. Now to my question. Is Cecilia Algotsdotter still alive?’

Eskil stared in astonishment at his younger brother, who seemed to be suffering as he waited for the answer. Arn gripped the tabletop hard with his scarred hands as if preparing himself for the blow of a whip. When Eskil recovered from his surprise at this unexpected question, which came at a time when there were so many important things to discuss, he at first broke out in laughter. But Arn’s burning gaze made him quickly cover his mouth with his hand, clear his throat, and turn serious again.

‘The first thing you ask about is Cecilia Algotsdotter?’

‘I have other questions that are equally important to me, but first this one.’

‘Ah well,’ sighed Eskil, hesitating with his reply and smiling in a way that made Arn think of his childhood memories of Birger Brosa. ‘Ah well, yes, Cecilia Algotsdotter is alive.’

‘Is she unmarried, has she taken vows at a convent?’

‘She is unmarried and is the yconoma at Riseberga convent; she does the bookkeeping.’

‘So she has not taken vows, yet she manages the convent’s affairs. Where is this Riseberga?’

‘Three days’ journey from here, but you should not ride there,’ Eskil teased him.

‘Why not? Are there enemies there?’

‘No, by no means. But Queen Blanca has been there for some time and she is now on her way to Näs, which is the king’s fortress…’

‘Remember, I’ve been there!’

‘Ah yes, that’s true. When Knut killed Karl Sverkersson; it’s such things one should not forget, although it would be preferable to do so. But now Queen Blanca is on her way to Näs, and I’m sure that Cecilia is with her. Those two are as hard to separate as clay and straw. No, calm yourself, and don’t stare at me like that!’

‘I am calm! Completely calm.’

‘Yes, I can see that. So listen calmly to this. In two days’ time I’m going to ride to the council meeting at Näs to meet with the king, the jarl, and a bunch of bishops. I think that everyone at Näs would probably be pleased if you came with me.’

Arn had fallen to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. Eskil found no reason to interrupt him, even though he felt ill at ease with this continuous kneeling. Instead he stood up thoughtfully as if testing an idea. Then he nodded to himself and quietly sneaked out to the stairs leading down to the armoury. What he intended to fetch he might as well do now rather than later; he had already made up his mind.

When he came huffing back upstairs, without disturbing Arn, he sat down again to wait until he thought the rambling prayer had gone on long enough. Then he cleared his throat.

Arn stood up at once with a glint of joy in his eyes that seemed to Eskil too childish for words. He also thought that Arn’s sheepish expression was inconsistent with a man clad in expensive chain mail from his head down to his steel-reinforced shoes with spurs of gold.

‘Look here!’ said Eskil, shoving a surcoat over to Arn. ‘If you must wear warrior clothes, you should probably be honouring these colours from now on.’

Arn unfolded the surcoat without a word and briefly regarded the Folkung lion rampant above three streams. He nodded as if to confirm something to himself before he swiftly donned the garment. Eskil stood up with a blue mantle in his hands and walked around the table. He gave Arn a brief and solemn look before he draped the Folkung mantle over his brother’s shoulders.

‘Welcome for a second time. Not only to Arnäs but also to our colours,’ he said.

When Eskil now attempted to embrace his brother, whom he had so readily readmitted to the family and to the right of inheritance, Arn once again sank to his knees in prayer. Eskil sighed but saw how Arn with a practiced gesture swept aside the mantle on the left side so that his sword would not get tangled in it. It was as if he were ready at any moment to rise up with his sword drawn.

This time Arn did not remain lost in prayer for long. When he stood up it was he who embraced Eskil.

‘I remember the law about pilgrims and penitents, and I understand what you have done. I swear the oath of a Templar knight that I shall always honour these colours,’ said Arn.

‘For my part you may gladly take your oath as a Folkung, and always as a Folkung,’ replied Eskil.

‘And now I can undoubtedly do so!’ laughed Arn, opening the Folkung mantle wide with both arms as if imitating a bird of prey. Both of them laughed at this.

‘And now it must be high time, by the Devil, for the first ale in too many years between brothers in blue!’ shouted Eskil, but rued it at once when he saw how Arn flinched at his blasphemous language. In order to cover his embarrassment, he stood up and went over to an arrow loop in the embrasure facing the courtyard and bellowed something that Arn did not grasp, but he assumed it had something to do with ale.

‘Now to my next question. Pardon my selfishness when something else may be of more importance for both our country and Arnäs, yet this is my next query,’ said Arn. ‘When I set off on my penitential journey, Cecilia Algotsdotter was expecting my child…’

It was as though Arn did not dare complete the question. Eskil, who knew that he had one more piece of good news to relate, delayed his answer and said that he was much too parched in the throat to speak of this until he had some ale. Then he got up impatiently and again went over to the arrow loop and roared something that Arn now definitely knew had to do with ale. He need not have done this. Already bare feet were heard hurrying up the spiral tower staircase. Soon two large foaming wooden tankards were set before the brothers, and the thrall girl who brought them vanished like a ghost.

The brothers raised their tankards to each other. Eskil drank much longer and more manfully than Arn, which was no surprise to either of them.

‘Now I shall tell you how it stands with regard to this matter,’ said Eskil and moved closer to the table, drawing up one knee and resting the ale tankard on it. ‘Well, it was about your son, I believe—’

‘My son!’ Arn shouted.

‘Yes. Your son. His name is Magnus. He grew up with his grandfather’s brother Birger Brosa. He did not take your name, nor did he take the name Birgersson. He calls himself Magnus Månesköld and bears a moon on his shield next to our lion. He is a hereditary member at the ting and thereby a genuine Folkung. He knows that he is your son, and he has practiced to become the mightiest archer in all of Eastern Götaland since he heard of your attested skills. What else do you want to know about him?’

‘How can he know anything about my archery? Does he also know who his mother is?’ asked Arn, as troubled as he was excited.

‘Songs have been sung about you, dear brother, and sagas have been told. Some originated from the ting of all Goths, that time you won the duel against…what was his name?’

‘Emund Ulvbane.’

‘Yes, that’s right. And the monks probably told him of one thing and another, such as the time you led twenty thousand Templar knights to a glorious victory at the Mountain of Pigs, where a hundred thousand infidels fell to your swords, not to mention—’

‘The Mountain of Pigs? In the Holy Land?’

Arn broke into a fit of laughter that he could not stop. He repeated to himself the words ‘Mountain of Pigs’ and then laughed even more, as he raised his ale tankard to Eskil, and tried to drink like a man, but he immediately began to cough. When he wiped his mouth a thought occurred to him and his face lit up.

‘Mont Gisard,’ he said. ‘The battle was at Mont Gisard and there were four hundred Templar knights against five thousand Saracens.’

‘Well, that wasn’t so bad either,’ Eskil said with a smile. ‘It was true then, and it’s no surprise that the truth takes on a bit more luster in songs and sagas. But where were we? Oh yes, Magnus knows from the sagas who you are, and that’s why he keeps practicing with the bow. That’s one thing. The other is that he knows his mother Cecilia, and they get along well.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘At Bjälbo with Birger Brosa. He was raised by Birger and Brigida. Oh, that’s right, you don’t know Brigida. She’s King Harald Gille’s daughter and still talks like a Norwegian, the way you talk like a Dane. Well, for many years Magnus lived at Bjälbo as their son, and he believed nothing different. Now he is reckoned as a foster brother to Birger, and that’s why he bears that moon on his shield instead of Birger’s lily. What more would you like to know?’

‘I sense that you think I ought to have begun asking questions at the other end. But I hope you’ll forgive me. First I saw you, then our father Magnus, and I had no need to ask about what was both closest and most obvious. But during all the wars I prayed before every battle for Cecilia and the child I did not know. During the long journey across the seas there was almost nothing else to think about. Now tell me about you and yours, and about Father and Erika Joarsdotter.’

‘Well spoken, my dear brother,’ said Eskil, smacking his lips in jest as he took his mouth from his tankard as if it held the sweetest wine. ‘You choose your words well, and perhaps you will find use for that gift when you have to wheedle the bunch of bishops in the king’s council. But keep in mind that I am your brother and that we always stood close to each other, and God grant that we may remain so. With me you need never wheedle, but speak as only you can to the one who is your brother!’

Arn raised his tankard in assent.

Eskil then gave a brief account, explaining that so much still remained to be said after so many years that if they did it properly it would take all night. But after the evening’s banquet was over they would not be so pressed for time.

Eskil related that he had only one son, Torgils, who was seventeen years old and now rode as a young apprentice in the king’s guards. He also had two daughters, Beata and Sigrid, who both had married well in Svealand into Queen Blanca’s family but had not yet borne any sons. Eskil himself had no reason to complain. God had stood by him. He sat on the king’s council and was responsible for all trade abroad. He could speak the language of Lübeck, and he had sailed there twice to conclude agreements with Henrik the Lion of Saxony. From the land of the Swedes and Goths they sailed with iron, wool, hides, and butter, but above all with dried fish that was caught and prepared in Norway. From Lübeck the ship took on cargo of steel, spices, and fabrics, as well as spun thread of gold and silver, and silver coins which were payment for the dried fish. It was no small treasure that was imported into the country through this trade, and Eskil’s share was significant, since he was the sole trader of this dried fish between Norway, both Eastern and Western Götaland, Svealand, and Lübeck. Now Arnäs was surely more than twice as rich as when Arn had left.

Eskil grew excited when he talked about his business affairs. He was used to his listeners tiring quickly, wanting to change the subject. But now that he was allowed to boast longer than usual without interruption, he was both glad and amazed that his brother seemed so interested, as if he understood all about trade. He was almost suspicious of Arn’s attentiveness, so he asked some questions to see whether his brother was really following along and not just sitting and daydreaming about something else while he expertly feigned an interest.

But Arn remembered how one time – when they had ridden to the ting of all Goths that ended so unhappily for the champion of the Sverkers’ side but so happily for the Folkungs – they had spoken about this very idea of exporting the dried fish from the Lofoten Islands in Norway in large quantities. And now it had become a reality.

Arn thought this was very good news. Just as he considered it very wise to take payment for the dried fish in pure silver and not in things that only had value for the vain. But he asked himself how good a trade it was to transport iron to Lübeck and steel the other direction, instead of making steel out of the iron they had in their possession.

Eskil was pleased by his brother’s unexpected good sense, which he had not displayed back when he set off for the Holy Land, even though they both had inherited their wits from their mother Sigrid. But now Eskil’s ale was gone, and once again he went over to the arrow loop to yell for more, while behind his back Arn poured half of his own ale into the tankard of his thirstier brother.

This time a house thrall had been waiting down by the door to the tower with fresh ale, so two new tankards arrived as swiftly as the wind.

When they resumed their drinking, Eskil’s half-full tankard had been replaced without him noticing, and Arn felt youthfully pleased at having avoided discovery. By then they had lost the thread of everything that was left to tell. Each saw the other’s predicament and both tried to get in the first word.

‘Our father and Erika Joarsdotter—’ said Eskil.

‘You are well aware that I intend to celebrate a bridal ale with Cecilia,’ said Arn at the same time.

‘That’s not for you to decide!’ snapped Eskil, but regretted it at once and threw out his hand as if trying to wipe away his words.

‘Why not?’ Arn asked softly.

Eskil sighed. There was no way to avoid his brother’s question, no matter how much he wanted to postpone it along with much else until the following day.

‘When you came home – and may God bless your homecoming which is of immeasurable joy to us all – the game board was changed completely,’ replied Eskil quickly and more gently, as if he were speaking about the trading of dried fish. ‘The clan ting will decide, but if I know our Birger Brosa rightly, he will say that you must go to the bridal bed with Ingrid Ylva. She’s the daughter of Sune Sik and so has Karl Sverkersson as her grandfather – King Karl, that is.’

‘Am I supposed to drink the bridal ale with a woman whose uncle I helped to murder?’ Arn exclaimed.

‘That is indeed a good thought. Wounds and feuds must be healed for the sake of peace, and it is better done with the bridal bed than with the sword. That is our thinking. In peacetime a man’s vow is stronger than his sword. So it must be Ingrid Ylva.’

‘And if in that case I should prefer a man’s sword?’

‘I don’t think anyone wants to exchange blows with you, and I don’t think you wish to come to blows either. Your son Magnus is also old enough to marry, just as Ingrid is. It must be one of you, but it also depends on how much silver is required. No, don’t worry about that matter, my brother; the “morning gift” will be taken care of by us from Arnäs.’

‘I can take care of the morning gift myself. I had not intended anything immoderate, only the Forsvik estate, as was once agreed at the betrothal feast for Cecilia and myself. One must honour one’s agreements,’ said Arn quickly and in a low voice, but without revealing what he felt, although his brother would surely understand.

‘If you ask me for Forsvik, I can hardly say no. On a first evening like this, I cannot say no to anything you may want from me,’ Eskil continued in the same tone of voice, as if they were two businessmen talking. ‘But I still want to ask you to wait with such a request until after our first day and evening together after so many years.’

Arn did not answer, but seemed to be pondering the matter. Then he got up and took out three keys which he carried on a leather thong around his neck. He went over to the three very heavy chests that were the first to be carried into the tower from his caravan. When he unlocked them one by one, a bright golden glow spread through the room, although the rays of the sun were visible only at the bottom of the western arrow loop.

Eskil stood up slowly and went around the table with his ale tankard in his hand. To Arn’s pleasure and surprise he did not look covetous when he gazed at the gold.

‘Do you know how much there is?’ asked Eskil, as if he were still talking about dried fish.

‘No, not in our mode of reckoning,’ said Arn. ‘It’s about thirty thousand besants, or gold dinars, calculated in the Frankish manner. It might be three thousand marks in our currency.’

‘And it was not ill-gotten?’

‘No, it was not.’

‘You could buy all of Denmark.’

‘That’s not my intention. I have better things to buy.’

Arn slowly closed the three chests, locked them, and tossed the three keys across the table so that they slid to a stop just in front of Eskil’s place. Then he went slowly back to his stool and gestured for his brother to sit down again. Eskil did so in meditative silence.

‘I have three chests and three thoughts,’ said Arn when they had raised their tankards high. ‘My three thoughts are simple. As with everything else, I will tell you more about it when we have more time. But first I want to build a church of stone in Forshem, and with the most beautiful images that can be worked in stone in all of Western Götaland. Then, or rather at the same time, since all the stone must come from the same place, I want to build Arnäs so strong that no one here in the North can vanquish it. To fortify it in such a manner is something that I and the men who came here with me know how to do. We know much about building methods not yet known this far north. And the remaining third chest I will gladly share with my brother…after having purchased Forsvik, of course.’

‘For such a rich man Cecilia Algotsdotter’s kinsmen will have a hard time offering a proper dowry. Her father is dead, by the way, he ate himself lame and blind at last year’s Christmas ale.’

‘Peace be unto his soul. But all Cecilia needs is a dowry that is equal in value to Forsvik.’

‘She cannot afford even that,’ replied Eskil, but now with a little smile, which showed that he had not yet weighed every coin in this bargain.

‘I’m quite certain that she can. For Forsvik she need not pay more than four or five marks in gold, and I know as well as you do where she can get such a small sum,’ Arn shot back.

Now Eskil could restrain himself no longer; he bellowed with laughter so the ale splashed out of his tankard.

‘My brother! My brother, in truth you are my brother!’ he snorted, and downed more of his ale before he went on. ‘I thought that a warrior had come to Arnäs, but you are a man of affairs who is my equal. We must drink to that!’

‘I am your equal, since I am your brother,’ said Arn when he lowered his tankard after only pretending to drink. ‘But I am also a Templar knight. We Knights Templar conduct many trades in which the most peculiar goods change hands, and we can strike these bargains with the Devil himself and even with Norwegians!’

Laughing, Eskil agreed to everything. It seemed that he needed more ale, but he changed his mind when he looked out through the arrow loop to the west and saw the fading light.

‘It probably wouldn’t be much of a banquet without us,’ he muttered.

Arn nodded and said that he would like some time in the bath-house first, and that he ought to fetch one of his men who was best at handling a razor. A man who wore a Folkung mantle was not allowed to stink as he might in the garb of a Templar knight. Because now a new life had begun, and it had certainly not begun badly.

For the brothers Marcus and Jacob Wachtian the arrival at Arnäs was distressing. A more wretched fortress they had never seen. Marcus, who was the more jovial of the two, said that a man like Count Raymond of Tripoli would have taken a fortress like that in less time than it took to rest soldiers and horses during a hard march. Without a smile Jacob said that a man like Saladin would probably have ridden straight past it, since he wouldn’t even have noticed that it was a fortress. If the big, important task Sir Arn had talked about was to make a decent fortress out of this nest for crows, it would surely be harder work for the body than for the mind.

It was true, of course, that they hadn’t had many choices when Sir Arn rescued them from trouble after the fall of Jerusalem. A wave of euphoria following the victory had swept over Damascus, but it had soon made the city intolerable for Christians, no matter how skilled they were as craftsmen or businessmen. And during the flight towards Saint Jean d’Acre the brothers had too often encountered Christians who knew that they had been in the service of the unbelievers. Marcus and Jacob had also been robbed of all the belongings they carried with them. Even if they had managed to reach the last Christian city in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, it would not have been long before someone recognized them again. In the worst case they might have ended up on the gallows or burned at the stake. And in those days their homeland of Armenia had been laid waste by savage Turks, so that the journey there would have been even riskier than the one to Saint Jean d’Acre.

When they had stopped in despair by the wayside to say their last prayers to the Mother of God and Saint Sebastian, begging for a miraculous salvation, they had sincerely believed that none would come.

In their hour of despair Sir Arn had found them. He came riding with a small band from Damascus, strangely unafraid despite the fact that the region was teeming with Saracen brigands, as if the white mantle of the Knights Templar would guard against any sort of evil. Sir Arn had instantly recognized them from their businesses and workshops in Damascus. At the time it seemed beyond belief, since no Templar knight should have escaped Damascus alive. But he had at once offered the brothers his protection if they would enter his service for a period of no less than five years and would also accompany him to his homeland in the North.

The brothers hadn’t had much choice. And Sir Arn had promised nothing more than a hard and dangerous journey, and hard work upon their arrival – in the beginning, even filthy work. And yet what they had now managed to see of the misery in this godforsaken land in the North was worse than they could have imagined even in their darkest and most seasick hour.

At the moment, however, they had no possibility of breaking their agreement. A hard, dark, and filthy four years awaited them, if the year the journey had already taken was to be subtracted. In that respect their contract was unclear.

They had put things somewhat in order in their tent encampment outside the low, crumbling wall. To make things simpler, the camp had been divided into two parts so that the Muslims had one section to themselves and the Christians the other. Naturally they had all managed to get along on a cramped ship for more than a year, but since their hours of prayer were different there had been much stumbling about at night when the Muslims had to get up to pray and the Christians were sleeping, and vice versa.

From the fortress young girls had come down carrying huge piles of sheepskins, which the foreign guests at first received with great joy, since they had already learned that in the North the nights were cold. But some of them soon discovered that the warm, inviting sheepskins were infested with lice. Laughing at one another’s ungodly language and ungrateful jokes, both believers and infidels had stood for a long time side by side, beating the lice out of the skin rugs.

It was strange how the young women, some of whom were quite pretty, thought nothing of approaching strange men unabashed, with their hair uncovered and their arms bare. One of the English archers had half in jest pinched the bottom of a young woman with red hair, and she was not frightened at all. She merely turned and nimbly as a gazelle darted away from the rough hands that were again reaching for her.

After that the two infidel physicians had scolded the archer in a language that he did not understand. The Wachtian brothers gladly translated and concurred with what was said, and everyone in the camp soon agreed that in such a foreign and peculiar land they ought to proceed cautiously at first, especially with womenfolk, until they learned what was good and bad or lawful and unlawful. If there actually were any laws here among these savage folk.

In the evening just before prayer hour Sir Arn came alone to the tent camp. At first no one recognized him, since he seemed so much smaller. He had taken off his Templar mantle and surcoat and now wore instead some faded blue garments that hung loosely around his body. He had also shaved off his beard so that his face was now leather-brown in the middle and pale around the edges. He looked like both a man and a boy, although the scars of war on his face could now be seen more distinctly than when he wore a beard.

But Sir Arn gathered all the men with the same self-confidence he had displayed during the entire journey, and they soon stood in silence around him. As usual he spoke first in the language of the Saracens, and most of the Christians understood very little.

‘In the name of the Merciful One, dear brothers,’ he began, ‘you are all my guests, both believer and infidel, and you have travelled a long way with me to build peace and happiness, that which did not exist in Outremer. You are now in a foreign land with many customs that might offend your honour. For this reason we will have this evening after the hour of prayer two welcome feasts, one here among the tents and one up at the house. Up there many things will be served of which the Prophet, peace be unto him, expressed his condemnation. Down here in the tents you have my word as an emir that nothing unclean will be placed on a plate. When the food is brought out to you, you must bless it in His name Who sees all and hears all, and you shall enjoy it in good faith.’

As he was wont to do, Sir Arn repeated almost the same thing in Frankish, but with the proper words for God and without naming any prophet. Marcus and Jacob, who spoke Arabic as well as four or five other languages, exchanged meaningful smiles when they heard a somewhat different version, as usual, in Frankish.

Then Sir Arn asked to have a wine cask rolled out. He called over the Christians, and then everyone bowed to one another before they separated, and each and every one went to the proper feast.

The Christian guests walked in procession up toward the big longhouse. Halfway there they were met by a group of six armed men who closed ranks in an honour guard around them.

By the portal of the dark, imposing blockhouse with the grass-covered roof waited a woman in a shiny red dress who could easily have come from Outremer. She wore a thick gold sash adorned with blue stones and a blue cloak over her shoulders of the same type that Arn had now draped around himself. On her head she wore a small cap, but it in no way hid her long hair, which hung in a heavy braid down her back.

Now she raised a loaf of bread in her hands and called forth a serving woman with a bowl, the contents of which no one could see. Then she pronounced a blessing.

Sir Arn turned around and translated that they were all welcome in God’s name, and that anyone entering had to touch the bread first with his right hand and then dip a right-hand finger into the bowl of salt.

For Harald Øysteinsson, who went first among the Christian guests, still wearing his Templar surcoat and black sergeant’s mantle, this custom was not foreign. Marcus and Jacob followed their friend ‘Aral d’Austin,’ or so they pronounced his name in jest in Frankish and he did not take offence. They obeyed the same ritual but they turned to whisper in feigned seriousness toward the back of the queue that the salt burned like fire and was perhaps bewitched. So those who followed dipped one finger very quickly and cautiously into the salt.

But when they entered the long hall the Wachtian brothers were indeed struck by a feeling that they were in the presence of sorcery. There were hardly any windows, and it would have been completely dark if not for the huge log fire at the far end of the room, the tar torches burning in iron sconces along the walls, and the wax candles on the longtable against one wall. Their nostrils were filled with the odours of smoke and tar, and the strong smell of roasting meat.

Sir Arn placed his Christian guests in the middle of the longtable and then went around to the other side and sat down far to the right in what looked like a heathen throne with dragons’ heads and weird curling patterns that resembled snakes. The woman who had offered the welcome salt now sat down next to him, and on her other side was the man who looked like a barrel who was Sir Arn’s older brother; he was a man with whom they should never trifle nor make their enemy.

When the Christian guests and their hosts were seated, twelve men wearing the same blue surcoats as Sir Arn and his brother came in. They sat down on either side of the longtable below the high seat and guests. The upper half of the table was left empty; it was obvious that more than twice as many guests could be accommodated.

Sir Arn said grace in Latin so that only the corpulent old monk could mutter along, while all the others sat with chastely bowed heads and folded hands. Then Sir Arn and the monk sang a brief two-part blessing from the Psalter, and the woman between the two brothers stood up and clapped her hands loudly three times.

Now the double doors at the end of the hall were opened and a strange procession entered. First came a column of maidens with flowing hair and white linen shifts that showed rather than hid their charms, and all carried burning tapers in their hands. Then men and women mixed together came in; they too wore white clothing, and they carried heavy burdens of ale and big steaming pots of meat, fish, and vegetables, many of which the guests could recognize but also some they did not know.

Sir Arn passed out big glass goblets which were more ungainly in form than glasses in Outremer. From long experience he knew who should have what to drink. Brother Guilbert received a wine glass, along with the brothers Wachtian and the seaman Tanguy. Sir Arn himself took a glass which he placed before him with an exaggerated gesture as he joked in Frankish that this was protection against the witchcraft in the Nordic ale. Then the Norwegian protested loudly and pretended to be angry, greedily grabbing the tankard that stood foaming before him, but was stopped by a signal from Sir Arn. It was clear that no one should begin to eat or drink yet, although the food had been blessed with both prayer and song.

What everyone was waiting for now appeared, and there was a great roar from all the warriors at the lower end of the table. A repulsive cow horn covered with silver was borne in, and this object was also filled with ale. The cow horn was brought to Sir Arn’s corpulent brother, who held it high while he said something that made the warriors in the hall start banging their fists on the table, making the ale tankards jump.

Then he passed the cow horn with a slow and ceremonious gesture to Sir Arn, who now, seemingly embarrassed, accepted the horn and said something that made everyone in the hall who understood Norse burst into laughter. Then he tried to swallow the entire contents of the horn but he was obviously cheating, since most of the ale ran down his surcoat. When he took the horn from his mouth he pretended to stagger and supported himself on the edge of the table as with a shaking hand he passed the drinking horn back to his brother. For this prank he was met by thundering salvos of laughter from the Nordic warriors at the table.

The ceremony was still not over, since nobody made a move to start eating. Once again a servant filled the drinking horn and handed it to Sir Arn’s brother, who raised it above his head, saying something that was no doubt noble and pithy, since it was met by an approving murmur. Then he gulped down all the ale without spilling a drop, as easily as a drunkard gulps down a glass of wine. The jubilation in the hall rose anew, and all the men with ale mugs in front of them raised them high, uttered a blessing, and began drinking like brutes. Harald Øysteinsson was the first to thump down his wooden tankard on the table. He stood up and made a short speech in a singing, rhythmic manner that met with great approval.

Sir Arn poured wine for those he wanted to save from the horrors of ale, as he said not entirely in jest, and translated for the wine drinkers what his friend Harald had said in verse. In Frankish it became something like:

Seldom smacked spuming ale so well as to the warrior who has lacked it long.

Long was the journey.

Longer was the wait.

Now shall we drink with kinsmen no worse than Thor.

Sir Arn explained that Thor was a god who, according to the sagas, began drinking up the whole ocean when he wanted to impress the giants. Unfortunately, this was only the first of many declaimed verses, and Sir Arn did not think he could translate all of them, since it grew harder both to hear and to understand what was said.

More ale was brought in by young women scampering lightly on bare feet, and the platters of meat, fish, bread, and vegetables were piled up like an enemy army on the huge longtable. The Wachtian brothers each fell at once upon a suckling pig, the big monk and the seaman Tanguy took pieces from one of the steaming salmon that were carried in on planks. The English archers loaded up huge pieces of calf shank, while Sir Arn took a modest piece of salmon. With his long sharp dagger he also sliced a chunk out of the cheek of one of the pig heads that was suddenly plopped down before the eyes of the Wachtian brothers.

At first they both stared at the pig head in horror; it was pointing its snout straight at them. Jacob shrank back involuntarily, but Marcus leaned forward on his elbows and began to converse with the pig, so that everyone nearby who understood Frankish was soon convulsed in laughter.

He said that he presumed Sir Swine belonged in this country, not in Outremer, which seemed hardly conceivable. But it was in truth better to end up with Armenian brothers than it would have been out in the tents, where the danger was great that Sir Swine would not have been met with the greatest courtesy.

At the thought of what would have happened if this pig head had been borne out to the Muslims, Marcus and Jacob doubled over laughing. Soon the Frankish speakers laughed all the harder when the call to prayer was heard coming from the direction of the tents, since the sun went down very late in this strange land. Sir Arn also smiled a bit at the thought of a pig head being served in the midst of the Muslim evening prayers, but he simply gave a dismissive wave of the hand when his brother asked what was so funny.

‘God is grea-ea-eat,’ snorted Marcus in Arabic and raised his wine glass to Sir Arn, but a new fit of laughter caught in his throat and he spurted wine all over his host, who calmly poured him some more.

It was not long before Sir Arn and the woman next to him carefully pushed away their plates, wiped off their daggers, and stuck them in their belts. Sir Arn’s brother ate a couple of more huge pieces of meat before he did the same. Then all three in the high seat devoted themselves to drinking; two of them did so quietly while the third drank like the warriors, the Norwegian, and the two English archers John Strongbow and Athelsten Crossbow, who both showed they could drink ale at the same pace as the barbarians.

The clamour rose higher and higher. The Englishmen and the Norwegian were not too proud to move from their places to join the Nordic warriors, and there a mighty battle of honour commenced, to see who could empty an entire tankard of ale the fastest without removing it from his lips. It appeared that the Norwegian and the Englishmen acquitted themselves well in this Nordic contest. Arn leaned over to his four remaining Frankish-speaking guests and explained that it was good for their honour that at least some of the men from Outremer could do well in this strange competition. As he explained, Nordic men esteemed the ability to drink themselves rapidly senseless almost as much as the ability to handle sword and shield. Why this was so, he could not explain, but merely shrugged his shoulders as if at some mystery that was impossible to comprehend.

When the first man tumbled to the floor, vomiting, the hostess got up with a smile and without exaggerated haste. She took her leave of Sir Arn, whom she kissed on the forehead to his obvious embarrassment, and that of his brother and the Frankish-speaking guests, who by this time were the only ones except for the host and hostess who were in any condition to reply when spoken to.

Sir Arn then poured more wine for the Frankish speakers and explained that they had to remain seated for a while longer, so that it could not be said that those who drank wine had been drunk under the table by those who drank ale. However, after a glance down the longtable he opined that it would all be over within an hour, about the time that the first morning light appeared outside.

As the sun rose over Arnäs and the redwing fell silent, Arn stood alone up in the high tower, daydreaming about the landscape of his childhood. He recalled how he had hunted deer and boar up on Kinnekulle with thralls whose names he now had difficulty remembering. He thought about how he had come riding on a noble stallion named Shimal from Outremer, though the steed was never as close to him as was Khamsiin, and how his father and brother had laughed at the wretched horse that in their eyes was good for nothing.

But most of all he daydreamed about Cecilia. He recalled how the two of them had ridden up Kinnekulle one spring; she had worn a green cloak. It was on that occasion that he intended to declare his love but found himself unable to say anything before Our Lady sent him orders out of the Song of Songs, the words that he had carried in his memory during all the years of war.

Our Lady had in truth listened to his prayers and had taken mercy on his faithfulness; he had never lost hope. Now there was less than a week left of this longing. In two days’ time he would set off on the journey to Näs, where Cecilia might already have arrived, although without knowing he was so near.

He shuddered as if in terror at the thought. His waking dream seemed to have grown too immense, as if he no longer could control it.

Down below him the courtyard was quiet and almost entirely deserted. A few house thralls went about mucking away the vomit. With fir branches they swept up the piss down by the door of the longhouse. Some men came out, puffing and swearing, as they dragged a limp guard whom they would have thought dead but for the fact that he had attended a good feast at Arnäs.

The sun now climbed above the horizon in the east, and naturally the call to prayer came from down in the tent camp.

At first Arn did not react at all, since the call to prayer had so long been a daily sound in his ears that he really did not hear it. But when he looked up toward Kinnekulle and Husaby church, he realized that this must be the first sunrise over Arnäs ever to be greeted in such a manner. He tried to remember where in the Holy Koran the exceptions to the call to prayer were prescribed. Perhaps if one was in a hostile land, if one was at war and the enemy would discern the position of the faithful by the call to prayer?

The situation was somewhat similar now. When everyone moved to Forsvik they could call to prayer whenever they pleased. But if this went on for long at Arnäs it was going to be difficult to give evasive answers or to explain that in the Holy Land the love of God found many inscrutable paths into the human soul. It might also not suffice to say that these men were thralls and therefore could not be counted as enemies, any more than horses and goats.

As soon as the prayers were done, it was time to begin the day’s work. Arn felt his head pounding slightly as he descended the narrow spiral staircase in the tower.

Down in the camp, Arn was not surprised to see that all who had rested for the night in the tents of the faithful were up already, while in the Christians’ tents everyone was still asleep. Some were snoring so thunderously that it was hard to comprehend how their comrades could stand the noise.

All the faithful had rolled up their prayer rugs, and water had been set over the fire to cook the morning’s mocha. The two physicians were the first to see Arn approach, and they stood up at once to wish him God’s peace.

‘God’s peace unto you, Ibrahim Abd al-Malik and Ibrahim Yussuf, you who here in the land of the infidel must be called Abraham and Joseph.’ Arn greeted them with a bow. ‘I hope the food from my home was to your liking.’

‘The lamb was fat and delicious, and the water very cold and fresh,’ replied the older of the two.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Arn. ‘Now it is time to work. Gather the brethren!’

Soon a strange procession of foreign men began walking around the walls of Arnäs, pointing and gesticulating and arguing. They agreed on some things, but other matters had to be investigated further before they could reach a consensus. Accuracy was required to build a fortress that could not be taken by storm by an enemy. The soil around the walls had to be examined with test digs. Much had to be measured and calculated, and the many waterways around Arnäs also had to be measured and inspected closely so that the men could determine the course of the new moats around the walls. The marsh that divided the fortress out on the point from the mainland was a big advantage, and it was important not to drain the area or unintentionally dam it with dikes. Considering the present condition of the soil, it would be impossible to roll up siege towers or catapults to the fortress. All such heavy equipment would sink helplessly into the waterlogged ground. So an important part of the fortress’s defence was provided by nature itself, as He who sees all and hears all had created it.

When Arn thought that he had explained his thoughts and desires sufficiently as to what the master builders would need to test and calculate, he took the two physicians over to his father’s little cookhouse. On the way he stressed to them that here in the North their names were to be Joseph and Abraham and nothing else. They were the same names in both the Bible and in the Holy Koran; only the pronunciation was different. The two physicians nodded that they understood, or at least were resigned to this decision.

As Arn expected, his father was already awake when they entered his chamber. Herr Magnus tried to prop himself up on his healthy elbow, but it was stiff, and Arn hurried over to help him.

‘Take out those foreigners for a minute, I have to piss,’ Herr Magnus said to him in greeting. Arn was so filled with joy at hearing his father speak clearly that he was not bothered by this brusque way of saying good morning. He asked the two physicians to leave the room for a minute, and then found the pisspot and clumsily helped his father attend to his needs.

When it was done he lifted his father over into the chair with the dragon coils and asked the physicians to come back inside. They repeated their examination from the day before and whispered occasionally to Arn. He translated what was said, although he skipped most of the circumlocutions and drawn-out courtesies that were so characteristic of the Arabic language.

What had befallen Herr Magnus came as a result of blood that was too thick becoming caught in the brain. When this complaint did not lead to immediate death, which sometimes happened, then there was good reason to hope. Some people healed completely, others almost completely, and others so well that only a few signs of illness remained. However, this had nothing at all to do with the old man’s wits; only ignorant people believed such a thing.

What was needed now, besides certain restorative herbs that first had to be prepared and brewed together, were fortifying prayers and exercise. The paralysed muscles had to be put into motion one by one, but great patience was required. As for his speech, there was only one exercise, and that was to speak, which was surely the easiest demand.

On the other hand, he must never creep away to shame and darkness and stop speaking or moving. That would just make matters worse.

Yussuf, the younger of the two medical men, went outside for a moment. He came back with a round stone the size of half a fist and gave it to Arn. Then he explained that within a week, Sir Al-Ghouti’s honoured father had to learn to lift the stone with his weak left hand over his lap and place it in his healthy right hand. Each time he failed he had to pick up the stone with his good hand, place it back in the sick one, and start over. He must not give up. With determination and prayer much could be accomplished. In a week the next exercise would begin. Most important were practice and a strong will; the restorative herbs were secondary.

That was all. The two physicians bowed first to Arn and then to his father and left without another word.

Arn put the stone in his father’s left hand and explained the exercise again. Herr Magnus tried but dropped the stone at once. Arn then put it back in his hand. And his father dropped it again and angrily hissed something. Arn heard only the words ‘foreign men.’

‘Don’t speak that way to me, Father. Say it again in clear words. I know that you can, just as I know that you understand everything I say,’ said Arn, looking him sternly in the eye.

‘It’s no use…listening to…foreign men,’ his father said then, with such an effort that his head trembled a bit.

‘You’re wrong about that, Father. You proved it yourself just now. They said that you would get your speech back. And you spoke, so now we know that they were right. In medicine these men are among the best I encountered in the Holy Land. They have both been in service with the Knights Templar, and that’s why they are here with me now.’

Herr Magnus did not reply, but he nodded to show that he agreed that for the first time in three years he was wrong.

Arn put the stone back in his father’s left hand and said almost as a command that now he must practice, as the physicians had told him to do. Herr Magnus made a halfhearted attempt but then grabbed the stone with his right hand, raised it straight out over the floor, and dropped it. Arn picked it up with a laugh and put it back in his father’s lap.

‘Tell me what you want to know about the Holy Land and I will tell you, Father.’ Arn knelt down before Herr Magnus so that their faces were close together.

‘Can’t sit…long…like that,’ said Herr Magnus with difficulty, though he tried to smile. His smile was crooked because one corner of his mouth drooped.

‘My knees are more tempered by prayer than you will ever know, Father. In the Holy Land a warrior of God also has to do a great deal of praying for help. But tell me now what you want to know about, and I will tell you.’

‘Why did we lose…Jerusalem?’ asked Herr Magnus, at the same time moving the stone halfway to his good hand before he dropped it.

Arn carefully placed the stone back in his weak hand and said that he would tell him how Jerusalem was lost. But only on the condition that his father practiced with the stone while he listened.

It was not difficult for Arn to begin his story. When it came to the Lord’s inscrutable ways there was nothing he had brooded over as much as the question of why the Christians had been punished with the loss of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre.

It was because of their sins. That answer now seemed clear to him. And then he gave a detailed account of those sins. He told the story about a patriarch of the Holy City of Jerusalem who had poisoned two bishops to death, about a whoring queen mother who had installed first one and then the other of her newly arrived lovers from Paris as supreme commander of the Christian army, about greedy men who were said to fight for God’s cause but merely grabbed things for themselves; they stole, murdered, and burned, only to return home as soon as their purses were stuffed, and with what they thought was forgiveness for their sins.

As Arn described the Christians’ sins, citing the worst examples he could think of, he would now and then pick up the stone and put it once again in his father’s left hand.

But when the catalogue of sins seemed to repeat itself, his father waved his good hand to put a stop to the list of miseries. Then he took a deep breath and gathered his forces for a new question.

‘Where were you…my son…when Jerusalem was lost?’

Arn was taken aback by the question, since he had grown agitated at the thought of evil men such as the patriarch Heraclius, men who sent others to their deaths at a whim or for the sake of their vanity, like the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Gérard de Ridefort, or scoundrels like the whoremonger commander, Guy de Lusignan.

Then Arn replied, truth be told, that he had been in Damascus, a captive of the enemy. Jerusalem was lost not after a brave stand at the walls of the city; Jerusalem was lost in a foolish battle at Tiberias, when the entire Christian army was led to its death by fools and whoremongers who knew nothing of war. Few prisoners had survived; of the Knights Templar there were only two.

‘You…came home…rich?’ Herr Magnus put in.

‘Yes, that’s true, Father. I came home and I am rich, richer than Eskil. But it’s because I was a friend of the Saracens’ king.’ Arn had answered truthfully but soon regretted it when he saw anger flare up in his father’s eyes.

Herr Magnus lifted the stone in a single motion from his left to his right hand and then returned it to his sick hand, so that he could raise his good hand in a gesture cursing this son who was a traitor and had thereby grown rich.

‘No, no, that was not how it happened at all,’ Arn lied hastily to calm his father. ‘I just wanted to see if you could move the stone from one hand to the other. Your anger gave you unexpected strength. Forgive me this little trick!’

Herr Magnus relaxed at once. He looked down in surprise at the stone, which was already back in his sick hand. Then he smiled and nodded.