Читать книгу Birth of the Kingdom - Jan Guillou - Страница 8

Eskil was evidently not in a very good mood, even though he was doing his best not to show it. Not only would he have to ride up to the stone quarry and back, which would take this whole hot summer day and a good bit of the evening, but he no longer felt like the lord of his own house, as he had grown accustomed to being for so many years.

The scaffolding had already been erected along the wall at Arnäs, and more lumber was being brought from the woods by people who’d been set to work without asking his permission. Arn seemed to have become a stranger in many ways. He apparently didn’t understand that a younger brother could not usurp the place of his older brother, or why a Folkung in the king’s council had to travel with a sizable armed guard even though there was peace in the kingdom.

Behind them rode ten men fully armed, wearing as Arn did unbearably hot chain mail under their surcoats. Eskil himself had dressed as if riding to hunt or to a banquet, with a short surcoat and a hat with a feather. The old monk rode in his monk’s habit of thick white wool, which must have made the journey hard to bear, though his face revealed no sign of it. But he didn’t look happy, since he’d had to roll his habit up to his knees so that his bare calves were visible. Like Arn he was riding one of the smaller, foreign horses that were so restless.

On the lower slopes of Kinnekulle they reached pleasant shade as they rode in under the tall beech trees. This put Eskil instantly into a better mood, and he thought that now was the time to start discussing the good sense or lack thereof in all the construction going on. In his many years in business he’d learned that it was unwise to dispute even trifles when one was too hot or too thirsty or in a bad mood. Things would go better in the cool shade of the trees.

He urged on his horse to come up alongside Arn, who seemed to be riding with his thoughts far away, surely farther off than any stone quarry.

‘You must have ridden during hotter summer days than this, I suppose?’ Eskil began innocently.

‘Yes,’ Arn replied, obviously tearing himself away from quite different thoughts. ‘In the Holy Land the heat in summer was sometimes so great that no man could set his bare foot on the ground without burning himself badly. Riding in the shade like this is like riding in the pastures of Paradise in comparison.’

‘Yet you insist on dressing in chain mail, as if you were still riding out to battle.’

‘It’s been my custom for more than twenty years; I might even feel cold if I rode dressed like you, my brother,’ said Arn.

‘Yes, that might be so,’ said Eskil, now that he had turned the conversation onto the desired track. ‘I suppose you’ve seen nothing but war ever since you left us as a youth.’

‘That’s true,’ said Arn pensively. ‘It’s almost like a miracle to ride in such a beautiful country, in such coolness, without refugees and burned houses along the roads, and without peering continually into the woods or glancing to the rear for enemy horsemen. It’s hard enough just to describe to you how that feels.’

‘Just as it’s hard for me to describe to you how it feels after fifteen years of peace. When Knut became king and Birger Brosa his jarl, peace came to our land, and there has been peace ever since. You ought to keep that in mind.’

‘Indeed?’ said Arn, casting a glance at his brother, because he sensed that this conversation was about more than sunshine and heat.

‘You’re imposing great expenses on us now with all your construction,’ Eskil clarified. ‘I mean, it might seem unwise to prepare for war at such cost when peace prevails.’

‘As far as the expense goes, I brought the payment with me in three coffers of gold,’ Arn retorted.

‘But we’re losing great sums on all the stone we’re now using for ourselves instead of selling. Why have war expenses when there is peace?’ Eskil said patiently.

‘You’ll have to explain yourself better,’ said Arn.

‘I mean…it’s true that we own all the quarries. So we don’t need to spend silver for the stone you want to use. But in these years of peace, many stone churches are being built all over Western Götaland. And much of the stone that’s needed comes from our quarries.’

‘And if we take stone for our own use we’ll lose that profit, you mean?’

‘Yes, in business that’s how one has to think.’

‘That’s true. But if we didn’t own these quarries, I would have paid for the stone in any case. Now we can save that expense. One also has to think like that in business.’

‘Then the question remains whether it’s wise to spend so much wealth building for war when there is peace,’ Eskil sighed, displeased that for once he was making no headway with his explanations of how everything in life could be calculated in silver.

‘In the first place, we’re not building for war but for peace. When there is war one has neither the time nor the money to build.’

‘But if war doesn’t come,’ Eskil argued, ‘then haven’t all these efforts and expenses been to no avail?’

‘No,’ said Arn. ‘Because in the second place, no one can see into the future.’

‘Nor can you, no matter how wise you are in all matters concerning war.’

‘That’s quite true. And that’s why it’s the wisest course to build strong defences while we have time and peace prevails. If you want peace, prepare for war. Do you know what the greatest success of this construction would be? If a foreign army never pitches camp outside Arnäs. Then we will have built our defences as we should.’

Eskil was not entirely convinced, but a seed of doubt had been sown. If they could truly look into the future and see that the time of war was past, then strengthening their fortifications as Arn planned would not be worth all the effort and silver.

As things now stood in the kingdom, it looked as though the time of war was indeed past. Going back to the very beginning of the sagas there had never been a longer peace than under King Knut.

Eskil realized that he now wanted to exclude war as a means to be used in the struggle for power. He would rather see the sort of power that came from putting the right sons and daughters into the right bridal beds, and he would rather see the wealth created by trade with foreign lands as a protection against war. Who would want to demolish his own business? Silver was mightier than the sword, and men who had married into each other’s clans were loath to take up the sword against each other.

This was the wise manner in which they had sought to arrange things during King Knut’s reign. But no one could be completely secure, because no one could see into the future.

‘How strong can we make the castle at Arnäs?’ he asked, emerging from his long reverie.

‘Strong enough that no one can take it,’ replied Arn confidently, as though it were a given. ‘We can make Arnäs so strong that we could house a thousand Folkungs and servants within the walls for more than a year. Not even the most powerful army could endure such a long siege outside the walls without great suffering. Just think of the cold of winter, the rains of autumn, and the wet snow and mud of spring.’

‘But what would we eat and drink for so long a time?’ Eskil exclaimed with such a terrified expression that Arn had to give him a broad smile.

‘I’m afraid that the ale would be gone after a couple of months,’ said Arn. ‘And towards the end we might have to live on bread and water like penitents in the cloister. But we’d have a water supply within the walls if we dug a couple of new wells. And the advantage of grain and wheat, the same as dried fish and smoked meat, is that they can be stored for a long time in great quantities. But then we’d have to build new types of barns out of stone, which would keep all moisture out. Storing up such supplies is as important as building strong walls. If you then keep strict accounts of what you have, it’s possible that you might even be able to brew new ale.’

Eskil felt instant relief at these last words from Arn. His suspicion began to change into admiration, and with increased interest he asked how war was conducted in France and the Holy Land and Saxony, and in other countries that had bigger populations and greater riches than they did up here in the North. Arn’s replies took him into a new world, in which the armies consisted mostly of cavalry and in which mighty wooden catapults hurled blocks of stone against walls that were twice as high and twice as thick as the walls of Arnäs. Finally Eskil’s queries grew so importunate that they stopped to take a rest. Arn scraped away leaves and twigs from the ground next to a thick beech tree and smoothed out the area with his steel-clad foot. He bade Eskil sit down on one of the tree’s thick roots and called to the monk, who bowed and then took a seat next to Eskil.

‘My brother is a man of affairs who wants to create peace by using silver. Now we have to tell him how to do the same thing with steel and stone,’ Arn explained. He drew his dagger and began drawing a fortress in the brown dirt he had smoothed out.

The fortress he drew was called Beaufort and was located in Lebanon, in the northern reaches of the kingdom of Jerusalem. It had been besieged more than twenty times for varying periods, several times by the most feared Saracen commanders. But none had been able to take it, not even the great Nur al-Din, who once made the attempt with ten thousand warriors and kept at it for a year and a half. Both Arn and the monk had visited the fortress of Beaufort and remembered it well. They helped each other recall the tiniest details as Arn sketched in the dirt with his dagger.

They explained everything by turns, starting with the most important facts. The location was crucial, either up on a mountain like Beaufort or out in the water like Arnäs. But no matter how good the position for defensive war, they needed to have water inside the walls, not a spring outside that the enemy could find and cut off.

Equally important as access to water and a good position was the ability to store sufficiently large supplies of food, most importantly grain for bread and fodder for the horses. Only then could they begin to think about the construction of the walls and moats that would prevent the enemy from raising siege towers or bringing up trebuchets to fling stones and offal into the castle. And the next most important thing was the placement of the towers and firing positions so that they could cover all the angles along the walls with as few archers as possible.

Arn drew towers that protruded beyond the walls on every corner, explaining how from such towers they could shoot along the walls and not merely outward. In this way they could minimize the number of archers needed up on the ramparts, which would be a great advantage. Better shooting angles and fewer archers were essential.

Here Eskil interrupted, a bit reluctant to show his ignorance at not understanding the advantage of having fewer archers, which seemed to be a given for Arn and the monk. What did they gain by reducing their forces atop the walls?

Endurance, Arn explained. A siege was not like a three-day banquet. The point was to endure, not to let weariness reduce their vigilance. Those who laid siege to a castle wanted to take it by storm in the end, if not by negotiation. The besiegers could choose any time at all: after a day, a week, or a month; in the morning, at night, or in the broad daylight of the afternoon. Suddenly they would all appear at the walls with siege ladders, coming from every direction simultaneously, and if they had been diligent in hiding their intentions the defenders would be taken completely by surprise.

That was the decisive moment. Then it would be crucial that the defenders positioned up on the walls would have been on duty only a few hours. And that two-thirds of the defending force were rested or sleeping. When the alarm bell rang it should not take many seconds before all those who had rested were at their battle stations. If they practiced this several times, the defensive force of the castle would increase from one-third to full force in the same time it took the attackers to bring forward their siege ladders. So sleep was an important part of their defence. With this arrangement they also saved many sleeping berths, since a third of the defenders were always on the walls. And they also had a spot warmed up when they came down from duty.

But back to the fortress of Beaufort. It was indeed one of the strongest in the world, but it was located in a country where it was important to defend against the mightiest armies in the world. It would take ten years to build such a castle at Arnäs, and it would entail much extra work for no good purpose. Or, as Arn explained with a glance at Eskil, it would involve spending too much silver. A war such as that in the Holy Land, with such armies, would never come to Arnäs.

Arn erased the picture of Beaufort with his foot and began to draw Arnäs as it would one day become, with a wall enclosing more than twice the present area. The entire tip of the point would be fortified, and where the point turned into marshland a new gate would be built, but higher up on the wall. Then they would also have to build an equally high ramp of stone and earth with a moat between the wall and the bridgehead on the other side. In this way no one would be able to bring up battering rams against the gate, which would be much weaker than the stone walls no matter how strongly it was constructed. A gate at ground level, like they had now, was an invitation for the enemy to hold a victory feast.

If all this was done according to plan, Arn assured them that with less than two hundred men inside he would be able to defend Arnäs against any existing Nordic army.

Eskil then asked about the danger of fire, and both the monk and Arn nodded and said it was a good question. Arn started drawing again, describing how the courtyards inside the walls would be paved in stone, and all the sod roofs would be replaced with clay slate. Everything flammable would be replaced with stone, or in the event of siege they would be protected by ox-hides that would constantly be kept wet.

And these were just the ‘defensive’ measures that needed to be taken, Arn continued eagerly now that he saw he had captured Eskil’s interest. The other part was to mount an attack themselves. It was best to do that with troops on horseback, and long before the enemy began a siege. It would be an immense and slow undertaking to move an army to lay siege to Arnäs. On the way there the enemy’s supply column could be attacked by mounted troops on horses much faster than their own, and this alone would take a toll on the enemy’s strength and will to fight.

And after the siege had gone on for a week or so, and the enemy’s alertness had diminished, the gates of the castle could be suddenly flung open and out would stream horsemen with full weaponry, able to take many times more lives than they lost. Arn drew strong lines on the ground with his dagger.

Eskil couldn’t help feeling confused at how differently war was waged in lands outside the North. He thought that he understood Arn’s reasoning; that what was already happening out in the world would sooner or later make its way to Western Götaland. So it would be best if they learned the new techniques and built up their strength before their enemies did. But how would all this be accomplished, in addition to the construction work?

Skills were an essential part of the endeavour, said Arn. And he and many of his foreign guests had mastered those skills.

Silver was the other part. The way war was waged in the world at large, the one with the most silver became the strongest. A mounted army did not live on air or on faith, although both were necessary; the soldiers needed supplies and weapons, all of which had to be bought. War in this new age had more to do with business, rather than the willingness of kinsmen to protect each other’s lives and property. Behind every fully armed man in chain mail stood a hundred men who cultivated the grain, drove the ox-carts, burned charcoal for the smithies, forged weapons and armour, transported them across the seas, built the ships and sailed them, shoed the horses and fed them – and behind it all were vast sums of silver.

War was no longer two peasant clans fighting about honour or who would be called king or jarl. It was business – the biggest business in the world.

Whoever managed this business with good sense, plenty of silver, and sufficient skill could buy the victory if war came. Or even better, buy the peace. For he who built a strong enough fortress would never be attacked.

Eskil was struck by this sudden insight that he and his business dealings might be more important for war or peace than all his guards put together; he was speechless. Arn and the monk seemed to misunderstand his waning questions, thinking that he was tiring of the lesson, so they immediately prepared to remount their horses.

They visited three quarries that day before Arn and the monk seemed to find what they were looking for in the fourth one, which had only recently begun cutting sandstone. There were few stonecutters, but there was a supply of cut stone blocks that had not yet been sold.

This would save a great deal of time, Arn explained. Sandstone was often too soft, especially if used in walls that were subjected to heavy battering rams. But they didn’t have to prepare for that sort of battle at Arnäs, because the ground out on the point rose steeply up to the walls, with no possibility of deploying battering rams. And to the east toward the moat and drawbridge, the ground was far too soft and dropped off too abruptly. So sandstone would serve the purpose well.

Sandstone also had the advantage of being easier to cut and shape than limestone, not to mention granite, and here they already had a supply that could be used in construction without further delay. This was good. Choosing the right type of stone would save more than a year in construction.

Eskil made no objections. Arn thought that his brother seemed unexpectedly amenable when he agreed to every decision regarding the work that would have to be done at the quarry the following week, and where and how new stonecutters would be acquired.

But he did complain about having a serious thirst. He gave Brother Guilbert an odd look when the monk kindly handed him a leather sack full of tepid water.

The next journey they took together was not much longer, only two days from Arnäs to Näs out on the island of Visingsö in Lake Vättern. But for Arn this seemed the longest journey of his life.

Or, as he preferred to think of it, the end of a journey that had lasted most of his life.

He had made a sacred vow to Cecilia that for as long as he breathed and as long as his heart beat, his aim would be to come back to her. He had even sworn on his newly consecrated Templar sword; it was an oath that could never be broken.

Of course he had to laugh when he tried to picture himself back then, seventeen years old and unmarked by war in both soul and body. He had been as foolish as only the ignorant can be. It also brought a smile to his lips and mixed feelings to his heart when he tried to imagine that youth with the burning gaze, a sort of Perceval as Brother Guilbert would have said, vowing to survive twenty years of war in Outremer. And as a Templar knight at that. It had been an impossible dream.

But right now it was about to come true.

Over these twenty years he had prayed every day – well, maybe not every day during certain campaigns or lengthy battles when the sword took precedence over prayer – but almost every day, he had prayed to the Mother of God to hold Her protective hand over Cecilia and his unknown child. And She had done so, with some purpose in mind.

Looking at it that way – and it was the only logical way, he thought – he should now fear nothing in the whole world. It was Her divine will to bring them together again. Now it was about to happen, so what was there to worry about?

A lot, it turned out, when he forced himself to ponder how things might go. He had loved a seventeen-year-old maiden named Cecilia Algotsdotter. Then as now that word, to love a person, was unsuitable in the mouth of a Folkung and also close to mockery of the love of God. She in turn had loved a seventeen-year-old youth who was a different Arn Magnusson than the one alive today.

But who were they now? Much had happened to him during more than twenty years of war. Just as much must have happened to her during twenty years of penance in Gudhem cloister under an abbess who people had said was an abominable woman.

Would they even recognize each other?

He tried to compare himself at the present moment with that young man he had been at the age of seventeen. It was obvious that the difference in his body was great. If he had once had a handsome face as a youth, he was definitely not good-looking now. Half of his left eyebrow was missing, and his temple was one big white scar; he had received that in the hour of defeat at the Horns of Hattin, that place of eternal dishonour and tribulation. The rest of his face had at least twenty white scars, most of them from arrows. Wouldn’t a woman from the kind and peaceful cloistered world of Our Lady turn away in repugnance at such a face, which attested to what sort of man he had become?

Would he really recognize her? Yes, he was sure that he would. His stepmother Erika Joarsdotter was only a few years older than Cecilia, and he had recognized her at once, just as she had recognized him from far off.

Worst of all his worries was what he would say to her when they met. It was as if his mind shut down when he tried to come up with beautiful words for his initial greeting. For this reason he had to seek out even more solace and advice from God’s Mother.

They rowed up the river Tidan, against the current and with eight oarsmen. Arn sat alone at the bow and gazed down into the murky water, where he could catch a blurred image of his lacerated face. In the middle of the flat-bottomed riverboat, which spent its entire lifetime going up and down this river, stood their three horses. Arn had persuaded Eskil that no guards were necessary on this journey, since he and Harald bore full weaponry and had brought along their longbows and plenty of arrows. No Nordic guards would be of any consequence, but would only take up room.

Eskil woke Arn from his reverie by suddenly placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder. When Arn flinched at the touch, Eskil had a good laugh at this guard who was supposed to be on the alert in the bow. He held out a smoked ham which Arn declined.

‘It’s a delight to travel on the river on such a lovely summer day,’ said Eskil.

‘Yes,’ said Arn, gazing at the willows and alders dangling their branches in the gentle current. ‘This is something I have dreamt of for a long time, but I never thought I’d see it again.’

‘Yet now it’s time to speak a little about some evil things,’ said Eskil, sitting down heavily on the thwart next to Arn. ‘Some of it is truly sad to speak of…’

‘Better to say it now than later if it has to be told,’ said Arn, sitting up straight from where he was leaning against the boat’s planking.

‘You and I had a brother. We have two sisters who are already married off, but our brother named Knut was killed by a Dane when he was eighteen.’

‘Then let us for the first time pray together for his soul,’ said Arn at once.

Eskil sighed but acquiesced. They prayed much longer than Eskil found reasonable.

‘Who killed him and why?’ asked Arn when he looked up. In his face there was less sorrow and anger than Eskil had expected.

‘The Dane is named Ebbe Sunesson. It was at a bridegroom’s feast when one of our sisters was to go to the bridal bed, and it happened at Arnäs.’

‘So our sister was married into the Sverkers and Danes?’ Arn asked without expression.

‘Yes. Kristina is the wife of Konrad Pedersson outside Roskilde.’

‘But how did it happen? How could a bridegroom’s feast end in death?’

‘Things can get heated, as you know…There was no doubt much ale that night, as at such times, and the young Ebbe Sunesson was bragging about what a great swordsman he was, saying that no one had the courage to trade blows with him. Anyone using such language at the ale cask is more likely fooling himself rather than anyone else. But things were different with this Ebbe; he proved to have a skilled hand with a sword. He now rides with the Danish royal guard.’

‘And the one who let himself be fooled was our brother Knut?’

‘Yes, Knut was no swordsman. He was like me and our father; not like you.’

‘So, tell me what happened. Usually anyone who encounters someone who handles a sword better in such situations comes away with cuts and bruises. But death?’

‘First Ebbe sliced off one of Knut’s ears and got a great laugh for that feat. Maybe Knut could have backed out after first blood. But Ebbe taunted him so that the laughter grew even louder. When Knut then attacked in anger…’

‘So he was killed at once. I can understand how it happened,’ said Arn with more sorrow than wrath in his voice. ‘If it be God’s will, Ebbe Sunesson shall one day meet Knut’s brother with a sword. But I don’t intend to seek revenge of my own free will. You didn’t seek revenge on the killer either? Then you must have demanded a big penalty.’

‘No, we refrained from demanding a penalty,’ replied Eskil with shame. ‘It was no easy matter, but the alternative would have been worse. Ebbe Sunesson is from the Hvide clan, into which our sister Kristina was supposed to marry the very next day. The Hvide clan is the most powerful in Denmark, next to the king’s. Archbishop Absalon in Lund is a Hvide.’

‘That was no merry wedding celebration,’ said Arn calmly, as if talking about the weather.

‘No, truly it was not,’ Eskil agreed. ‘All the Danish guests rode south the next day to conclude the bridal ale at home. We buried Knut in Forshem, and one day later our father suffered a stroke. I think it was grief that caused it.’

‘Dearly have we paid in dowry to ally ourselves with that Hvide clan,’ Arn muttered, gazing at the dark river water. ‘And what other sorrows do you have to relate?’

It was obvious from Eskil’s expression that there were more misfortunes to relate. But he hesitated a long time, and Arn had to urge him again to cleanse the evil rather than prolong it.

The next sorrow concerned Katarina Algotsdotter, Cecilia’s sister, the wife of Eskil and the mother of two married daughters and their son Torgils, whom they would soon be meeting at the king’s castle in Näs. Katarina had been neither a bad wife nor a bad mother. Indeed, she had been better than anyone had expected, since she was known to be wily and full of intrigues.

For the sake of honour more than for dowry and power, Eskil had been forced to go to the bridal bed with Katarina. Algot Pålsson, the father of Cecilia and Katarina, had already arranged a betrothal agreement between Cecilia and Arn. But that agreement had been broken when Arn and Cecilia brought down upon themselves the punishment of the Church and twenty years of penance. Algot then demanded redress, which was also his right.

The honour of the Folkungs had thus been one aspect of the matter. The other was a dowry consisting of a quarry and woods and a long stretch of shore along Lake Vänern. Perhaps Eskil had seen the benefits in this part of the bargain better than most people, for he now controlled trade on the lake for all of Western Götaland.

And the quarry brought in a lot of silver during this period when so many churches were being built all over the country. A lot of silver, that is, as long as he didn’t waste stone on his own construction projects, he added in a failed attempt at levity. Arn did not deign to smile.

Rewarding Katarina with a morning gift and keys to his estate after the evil she had done to Arn and Cecilia had been no light matter. Yet it was the best way to clean up after themselves. No one was going to say of the Folkungs that they broke promises and business agreements.

For many years Katarina was a good-tempered housewife who fulfilled her duties in everything that was required. But after fifteen years had passed she commenced the worst of sins.

Eskil spent long periods at Näs or in Östra Aros or even over in Visby on Gotland, as well as down in Lübeck in Germany. During these times as a housewife without a husband, Katarina began devoting herself to amusements of a type that could scarcely be cleansed by penance. She took one of the retainers to bed with her at night.

When Eskil found out about this the first time, he spoke in all seriousness to Katarina and explained that if there was more whispering about such a sin in his house, great misfortune could befall them. The strict language of the law regarding whoredom was only one part of the evil. Worse would be if their children lost their mother.

At first Katarina seemed to have complied. But soon the whispering began anew, and Eskil took notice not only at Arnäs but also when he saw the mortifying looks he received at the king’s council. He then did everything that honour demanded, though his decision was not made lightly but with sorrow.

His retainer Svein did as he was ordered. One night when Eskil was away visiting the king at Näs, although alone in his own lodgings and as if haunted by the nightmare, Svein and two other men strode into the cookhouse. Everyone at Arnäs knew that it was there the two sinners met.

They did not kill Katarina but instead the man she was whoring with. The bloody sheets were taken to the ting so that the sinner would be condemned in disgrace. Katarina was banished to Gudhem cloister, where she took the vows.

As far as silver was concerned in this matter, that had been the easiest to arrange. Eskil donated as much land as he thought necessary to Gudhem, and Katarina relinquished her property to the Folkung clan when she took her vows. That was the price for being allowed to live.

After this news was recounted, the rest of the journey was marked by gloom for a long while. Harald Øysteinsson sat alone in the stern of the boat with the helmsman; he felt that he ought not to get involved in the brothers’ conversation up in the bow. He could clearly see even from that distance that their faces were full of sorrow.

Situated below the old ting site at Askeberga, where the River Tidan made a sharp turn to the south, was the inn. Several boats resembling their own, long with flat bottoms but with heavier loads, had been partially drawn up onto the riverbank, and there was a great commotion among the oarsmen and the inn folk when the Folkung owner Herr Eskil arrived. Guests of lesser stature were thrown out of one longhouse, and women ran to sweep up. The man in charge of the inn, who was named Gurmund and was a freed thrall, brought ale for Herr Eskil.

Arn and Harald Øysteinsson took their bows and quivers, fetched straw from one of the barns, and made a target before they went off to practice. Harald joked that the one exercise they had been able to do during their year at sea demanded enemies at close hand, but that now once again, with God’s help, they could prepare themselves better. Arn replied curtly that practice was a duty, since it was blasphemous to believe that Our Lady would continue to help someone who had been an idler. Only he who worked hard at his archery would deserve to shoot well.

Some of the thrall boys had crept after them to watch how the two men, neither of whom they knew, would handle a bow and arrow. But soon they came running back to the inn, breathing hard, to tell anyone who cared to listen that these archers must be the best of all. Some of the freedmen then furtively headed in the direction of the archers, and soon they saw with their own eyes that it was true. Both the Folkung and his retainer in the red Norwegian tunic handled the bow and arrow better than anyone they had ever seen.

When evening fell and the lords were about to eat supper, it soon became clear that the unknown warrior in the Folkung garb was Herr Eskil’s brother, and it wasn’t long before the rumour spread all around the Askeberga area. A man from the sagas had come back to Western Götaland. Surely the man in the Folkung mantle could be none other than Arn Magnusson, who was the subject of so many ballads. The matter was discussed back and forth in cookhouses and courtyards. But no one could be entirely sure.

Two of the innkeeper’s younger sons dashed thoughtlessly into the longhouse, stopped inside the door, and called to Arn that he should say his name. Such boldness could have cost them skin on their backs and on Gurmund’s as well. He was seated at the nobles’ table inside and got up in anger to chide the louts, at the same time offering apologies to his master Eskil.

But Arn stopped him. He went over to the boys himself, grabbed them in jest by the scruff of their necks, and took them out to the courtyard. There he knelt down on one knee, feigned a stern expression, and asked them to repeat their question if they dared.

‘Are you…Sir Arn Magnusson?’ gasped the bolder of the two, shutting his eyes as if he expected a box on the ear.

‘Yes, I am Arn Magnusson,’ said Arn, now dropping the stern expression. But the boys still looked a bit scared, their eyes flicking from the scars of war on his face to the sword which hung at his side, with the golden cross on both the scabbard and the hilt.

‘We want to enter your service!’ said the bolder one, when he finally dared believe that neither whip nor curses awaited them from the warrior.

Arn laughed and explained that this was doubtless a matter that would have to wait for some years yet. But if they both practiced diligently with their wooden swords and bows, it might just be possible someday.

The smaller of the two now plucked up his courage and asked if they might see Sir Arn’s sword. Arn got to his feet, pausing a moment before he drew the sword swiftly and soundlessly out of its sheath. The two boys gasped as the shining steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Like all boys they could see at once that this was a completely different sort of sword than those wielded by both retainers and lords. It was longer and narrower but without the slightest loop or flame festooning the blade. The dragon coils or secret symbols of glowing gold that were inlaid in the upper end of the blade were also impressive.

Arn took the hand of the older boy and cautiously placed his index finger on the edge of the blade, pressing it down with a feather’s touch. At once a drop of blood appeared on his fingertip.

He put the finger in the boy’s mouth, sheathed the magic sword in its scabbard, then patted the two of them on the head, and explained that swords just as sharp awaited anyone who went into his service. But there would be hard work too. In five years’ time they should seek him out if they still had a mind to it.

Then he bowed to them as if they were already his retainers, turned on his heel, and strode with mantle fluttering back to the evening meal. The two boys stared as if bewitched at the Folkung lion on his back. They didn’t dare move a muscle until he had shut the door to the longhouse behind him.

Arn was in such a good mood as he returned to the longhouse that Eskil felt prompted to mutter that he didn’t understand how their conversation during the day’s boat ride could have caused him such delight. Arn instantly turned serious as he sat down across from Eskil at the table and cast a startled glance at the wooden trencher of porridge, drippings, and bacon before him. He shoved the trencher aside and placed his scarred hand over Eskil’s.

‘Eskil, my brother. You must understand one thing about me and Harald. We rode for many years with the Reaper at our side. At matins with our dear knight-brothers we never knew who might be gone by evensong. I saw many of my brothers die, also many who were better men than I. I saw the heads of the best stuck on lance-tips below the walls of Beaufort, the castle I told you about yesterday. But I leave my sorrows for the hour of prayer; believe me that I am diligent in my prayers after you are asleep. Don’t think that I took lightly what you have told me.’

‘The war in the Holy Land gave you strange habits,’ Eskil muttered, but was suddenly filled with curiosity. ‘Were there many Templar knights who were better than you, my brother?’

‘Yes,’ Arn said gravely. ‘Harald is my witness. Ask him.’

‘Well, what do you say to that, Harald?’

‘That it is true and yet it is not,’ replied Harald when he looked up from the plate of porridge swimming in fat and bacon, to which he was devoting much more interest than Arn had done. ‘When I came to the Holy Land I thought I was a warrior, since I had done nothing but fight from the age of fourteen. I thought I was one of the strongest swordsmen of all. That false belief cost me many wounds. The Templar knights were warriors like none I had ever seen or dreamt of. The Saracens thought that a Templar knight was like five ordinary men. And I would agree with them on that. But it’s also true that there were some Templar knights who stood far above all the others, and the one who was called Arn de Gothia, your brother, was among them. In the North there is no swordsman who can compare with Arn, I swear to you by the Mother of God!’

‘Do not blaspheme Our Lady!’ said Arn sternly. ‘Remember swordsmen like Guy de Carcasonne, Sergio de Livorne, and above all Ernesto de Navarra.’

‘Yes, I remember them all,’ replied Harald. ‘And you should also remember our agreement, that as soon as we set foot on Nordic soil I would no longer be your sergeant or you my master who could command me, but your Norwegian brother. And to you, Eskil, I can say that the names Arn mentioned were those of the most superior swordsmen. But now they are all dead, and Arn is not.’

‘It’s not a matter of sword, lance, or horse,’ said Arn, his gaze fixed on the table. ‘Our Lady holds her protective and benevolent hands over me, for She has a plan.’

‘Living swordsmen are better than dead ones,’ said Eskil curtly and in a tone indicating he considered the topic finished. ‘But porridge and bacon do not seem to please our swordsman?’

Arn admitted that he was not in the habit of rejecting God’s gifts at table, but he did have a problem with liquid pig fat. Although he could also understand that such fare would warm the body well during a Nordic winter.

Eskil took an inexplicable pleasure in the fact that his brother complained about the food even on this day. At once he ordered one of the men sitting at the oarsmen’s table on the other side of the long fire in the hall to go to the stores in the riverboat. He was to bring from the rear magazine some hams from Arnäs and a bunch of smoked sausages from Lödöse.

After the meal, when all were sated, Eskil went over to the log-fire and picked up a piece of charcoal. Back at the table he swept aside with his elbow the remnants of the meal and quickly began drawing on the tabletop with the charcoal. It was the route from Lödöse up the Göta River and into Lake Vänern, past Arnäs and up to the mouth of the Tidan where their river journey had begun. Via the Tidan they were now on their way to Forsvik on the shore of Lake Vättern, and on the other side of Vättern they would head for Lake Boren and on to Linköping. From there other routes branched out, leading north into Svealand and south to Visby and Lübeck. This was the backbone of his realm of business, he explained proudly. He controlled all the waterways from Lödöse to Linköping. He owned all the boats, riverboats as well as the larger ships with rounded hulls that sailed across Lakes Vänern and Vättern, as well as the portage chests located at the Troll’s Fall on the Göta River. More than five hundred men, most of them freed thralls, sailed his ships on these waters. Only during the most severe and snowy winters was trade sometimes brought to a standstill for a few weeks at a time.

Arn and Harald had quietly and attentively studied the lines that Eskil had drawn on the table with his piece of charcoal, and they nodded in agreement. It was a great thing, they both thought, to be able to connect the North Sea and Norway with the Eastern Sea and Lübeck. In this way they could thumb their noses at Danish power.

Eskil’s face clouded over, and all the elated self-confidence drained out of him. What did they mean by that, and what did they know about the Danes?

Arn told him that when they had sailed up along the coast of Jutland they had passed the Limfjord. They had turned in there so that Arn could pray and donate some gold to the cloister of Vitskøl where he had spent almost ten years in his childhood. At Vitskøl they couldn’t avoid hearing some things and observing others. Denmark was a great power, united first under King Valdemar and now his son Knut. Danish warriors resembled Frankish and Saxon warriors rather than Nordic ones, and the power that Denmark possessed, so evident to the eye, would not go unused. It would grow, most likely at the expense of the German lands.

From Norway they could sail to Lödöse up the Göta River without being captured or paying tolls to the Danes. But to send trading ships to the south from Lödöse and sail between the Danish islands to Saxony and Lübeck could not be done without paying heavy tolls.

Yet they didn’t need to trouble themselves with the tolls, since the strongest side would use war to force through its will. War with the great Danish power was what they had to avoid above all.

Eskil objected that they could always try to marry into the Danish clans to keep them quiet, but both Harald and Arn laughed so rudely at this idea that Eskil was offended, and he moped for a while.

‘Harald and I have talked about a way to strengthen your trade that I think should cheer you up right now,’ Arn then said. ‘We heartily support your trade, and we agree that you have arranged everything for the best, so listen to our idea. Our ship is in Lödöse. Harald, being the Norwegian helmsman that he is, can sail that ship in any sea. Our proposal is that Harald sail the ship between Lofoten and Lödöse in return for good compensation in silver. Remember that it’s a ship that could hold three horses and two dozen men with all their provisions and all the fodder required, as well as the ten ox-carts with goods that we brought from Lödöse. Now convert that into dried fish from Lofoten and you’ll find that two voyages each summer will double your income in dried fish.’

‘To think that you still remember my idea about the dried fish,’ said Eskil, somewhat encouraged.

‘I still remember that ride we made as young boys to the ting of all Goths, from both Western and Eastern Götaland, at Axevalla,’ replied Arn. ‘That was when you told me about how you wanted to try to bring cod from Lofoten with the help of our Norwegian kinsmen. I remember that we instantly thought of the forty days of fasting before Easter, and that was when the idea came to me. As a cloister boy I had already eaten plenty of cabalao. Dried fish is no less expensive now than it was then. That must be good for your business.’

‘In truth, we are both sons of mother Sigrid,’ said Eskil nostalgically with a wave towards the room for more ale. ‘She was the first who understood what we’re talking about now. Our father is an honourable man, but without her he wouldn’t have amassed much wealth.’

‘You’re definitely right about that,’ replied Arn, deflecting the ale towards Harald as it was brought in.

‘So, Harald, do you want to go into our service as first mate on the foreign ship? And will you sail around Norway for cod?’ asked Eskil gravely after he had guzzled a considerable amount of the fresh ale.

‘That’s the agreement between Arn and myself,’ said Harald.

‘I see that you’ve got yourself a new surcoat,’ said Eskil.

‘Among your retainers at Arnäs there are several Norsemen, as you know. In your service they all wear blue and have little use for the clothes they were wearing when they arrived. I bought this Birchleg surcoat from one of them, and in it I feel more at home than in the colours I always wore in the Holy Land,’ Harald replied with some pride.

‘Two crossed arrows in gold on a red field,’ Eskil muttered pensively.

‘It suits me even better, since the bow is my best weapon, and these colours are my birthright,’ Harald assured him. ‘The bow and arrow was the Birchlegs’ primary weapon in their struggle. In Norway I had no equal with the bow, and I grew no worse in the Holy Land.’

‘That’s undoubtedly true,’ replied Eskil. ‘The Birchlegs relied heavily on the power of the bow, and that brought them their victory. You left for the Holy Land in their darkest hour. A year later, Sverre Munnsson came from the Faeroe Islands. Birger Brosa and King Knut backed him with weapons, men, and silver. Now you have won, and Sverre is king. But you know all this, don’t you?’

‘Yes, and that’s why I want to accompany your brother to Näs to thank King Knut and Jarl Birger, who supported us.’

‘No one shall take that right from you,’ muttered Eskil. ‘And you’re Øystein Møyla’s son, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right. My father fell at the battle of Re, outside Tønsberg. I was there, a mere boy. I escaped the foes to the Holy Land, and now I shall return in our own colours.’

Eskil nodded and took another drink, pondering where to lead the conversation. The other two waited patiently.

‘If you are indeed Øystein Møyla’s son you can assert your right to the crown of Norway,’ Eskil said in his business voice. ‘You’re our friend, just as Sverre is, and that’s good. But you have a choice. You can choose to support the rebels and become king or possibly die trying. Or you can sail north to King Sverre, taking a letter from King Knut and the jarl, and swear allegiance to him. That is your choice, and there is nothing in between.’

‘And if I then become your foe?’ Harald asked without pausing to consider what this new revelation might mean.

‘There’s no chance you would become our enemy,’ replied Eskil in the same clipped, businesslike tone. ‘Either you’ll die in the battle against King Sverre, in which case you wouldn’t be much of a foe to us. Or else you’ll win. In that case you would still be our friend.’

Harald stood up, holding his ale tankard in both hands, and drained it to the bottom. He slammed it to the table so that the charcoal dust outlining Eskil’s business realm sprayed in all directions. Then he gestured toward his head and staggered toward the door, sweeping his red mantle tighter around him. When he opened the door the bright summer night dazzled them all, and a nightingale could be heard singing.

‘What ideas have you sown in our friend Harald’s head now?’ Arn asked with a frown.

‘Only what I’ve learned from you in our brief time together, brother. It’s better to say what needs to be said now than wait till later. What do you think he should do?’

‘The wisest course for Harald would be to swear an oath of allegiance to King Sverre at once, on his first trip,’ said Arn. ‘A king would not treat badly the son of a fallen hero who served the same cause as he did. If Harald makes peace with Sverre it would be best for Norway, for Western Götaland, and for us Folkungs.’

‘I think so too,’ said Eskil. ‘But men who catch the scent of the king’s crown don’t always act with reason. What if Harald joins up with the rebels?’

‘Then Sverre will have a warrior opposing him who is stronger than any other in Norway,’ Arn said quietly. ‘But the same is true in the other case. If he joins up with Sverre, the king may then have so much power that the struggle for the crown will wane. I know Harald well after the many years of war he has spent at my side. It’s easy to understand that it would make a man’s head spin if he suddenly found out that he could be king. The same would have happened to you or me. But tomorrow, once he has thought it over, he’ll decide to be our first mate rather than chase after the Norwegian crown through fire and a rain of arrows.’

Arn got up, declining Eskil’s offer of more ale. He took a few sheepskins, bowed goodnight to his brother, and went out into the bright summer night. He heard the nightingale again, and the cold morning light shone in Eskil’s eyes before the door closed and he could reach for more ale.

Arn shut his eyes and took a deep breath as he stepped out into the summer night, the likes of which he remembered from his childhood. There was a strong aroma of alder and birch, and the fog hovered like dancing elves down there by the river. There was no one around.

He wrapped his unlined summer mantle around him, crossed the courtyard, and went into the cow pasture so he could be alone. Out there a black bull appeared out of the mist and began to paw with one front hoof and snort at him. Arn drew his sword and slowly continued across the pasture. Once across he sat down under a big willow tree whose lower branches drooped toward the river. Nightingales were singing all around him. They sounded different up here in the North, as if the cool, clear air gave them a better singing voice.

He prayed for the brother he had never known, Knut, who had died from youthful pride and the desire of a young Danish lord to kill someone in order to feel like a real warrior. He prayed that God might forgive the Danish lord’s sins, just as they must be forgiven by the dead man’s brothers. And he prayed that he might be spared any feelings of revenge.

He prayed for his father’s health, for Eskil and Eskil’s daughters and his son Torgils, and for the sisters he didn’t know who were already married women.

He prayed for Cecilia’s treacherous sister Katarina, that she might come to terms with her sins during her time at Gudhem and seek forgiveness for them.

Finally, he prayed for a long time that the Mother of God would give him clarity in his words at the meeting to come, and that no misfortune would befall Cecilia or their son Magnus before they were all united with the blessing of the Church.

When his prayers were done the glow of the sun appeared above the mist. Then he meditated on the great mercy he had received, that his life had been spared despite the fact that his bones should have long since been bleached white under the merciless sun of the Holy Land.

God’s Mother had taken pity on him more often than he deserved. In return She had given him a mission, and he promised not to fail Her. With all his power he would work to fulfil Her will, which he had held close to his heart ever since the moment She had appeared to him in Forshem church.

He wrapped a sheepskin round him and lay down among the roots of the willow tree that enfolded him like an embrace. He had often slept this way out in the field after saying his prayers but with one ear open so as not to be surprised by the enemy.

By old habit he woke up abruptly without knowing why. He drew his sword without a sound and stood up as he silently rubbed his hands and looked all around.

It was a wild boar sow with eight small striped piglets cautiously following her along the riverbank. Arn sat down silently and watched them, careful that the light wouldn’t glint off the blade of his sword.

The next morning they got a later start than they’d intended; Eskil’s contrary mood and somewhat red eyes had something to do with it. They rowed due south for a few hours, which was harder work for the oarsmen since the river was narrowing and the current increasing. But by midday when they reached the rapids of the River Tidan, where the boat had to be hauled by oxen and draymen to the lake of Braxenbolet, the worst of their toil was over. They had to wait a while because the draymen were hauling a boat from the other direction; both the men and the oxen needed to rest before stepping into harness again.

The party had encountered several small cargo boats on the journey, and there were two in front of them waiting their turn to be taken across the portage. There was some grumbling among the boatmen when their helmsman went ashore and began ordering the two waiting boats to yield their places. The harsh words quickly ebbed away when Eskil himself appeared. They were all his men, and he owned all the boats.

Eskil, Arn, and Harald led their horses ashore and then rode in the lead along the towpath beside the corduroy path for the boats. Arn asked whether Eskil had calculated the cost of digging a canal instead of keeping oxen and men for towing the boats. Eskil thought that it would cost the same, since this location wasn’t suitable and they would have to dig the canal further to the south across flatter land. A canal south of there would also increase the travel time beyond what it took to tow the boats. During the winter when all vessels were towed on sleds, this portage was just as passable as the frozen river. Runners were fastened to the bottoms of the smaller boats so they could be towed like sleds the whole length of the river.

At the start of the short ride they met the draymen pulling a heavily laden boat; Eskil thought the cargo was iron from Nordanskog. They reined in their horses and made way for the oxen and ox-drivers, who came first. Several of the draymen let go of the towline with one hand to greet Herr Eskil and ask Our Lady to bless him.

‘They’re all freedmen,’ Eskil answered Arn’s questioning glance. ‘Some of them I bought and then released in exchange for their labour; others I pay to work. They all work hard, both with the towing and in the fields on their tenant farms. It’s a good business.’

‘For you or for them?’ Arn asked with some mockery in his tone.

‘For both,’ replied Eskil, ignoring his brother’s gibe. ‘The truth is that this enterprise brings me in a lot of silver. But the lives of these men and their progeny would be much worse without this work. Maybe you have to be born a thrall to understand the joy they take in this toil.’

‘Could be,’ said Arn. ‘Do you have other portages like this one?’

‘There’s another on the other side of Lake Vättern, past Lake Boren. But it’s not much when you consider that we sail or row the whole way from Lödöse to Linköping,’ said Eskil, clearly pleased at how well he’d arranged everything.

They were able to make up for the delay they’d had in the morning once they got out onto Lake Braxenbolet and headed north. The wind was from the southwest, so they could set the sail. The next river they followed downstream to Lake Viken, which made the rowing easy. And out on Viken they sailed once again at a good speed.

They reached Forsvik in the early evening, having proceeded with good tailwinds.

Forsvik lay between Viken and Bottensjön, which was actually a part of Lake Vättern. On one side of Forsvik the rapids were powerful and broad, and on the other the outlet was narrower and deeper. There the currents turned two millwheels. The buildings were laid out in a large square and were mostly small and low, except for the longhouse which stood along the shore of Bottensjön. They were all built of greying timber, and the roofs were covered with sod and grass. A row of stables for the livestock stretched to the north along the shore.

They docked their riverboat at the wharves on the Viken side. A similar boat was already tied up there. It was being loaded by labourers with carts who came from the other direction.

Arn at once wanted to saddle his horse and ride out to take a look around, but Eskil didn’t think it was proper to show disregard for the farm’s hosts. They were Folkungs, after all. Arn agreed with this, and they led the horses into the courtyard and tied them to a rail by a watering trough. The visitors had already occasioned much commotion at the farm when it was discovered that these were no ordinary guests who had arrived.

The mistress stumbled with eagerness as she came running with the welcome chair. Eskil joked that he’d rather have the ale inside him than spilled over him. He and Harald at once downed a manly draft, while Arn as usual merely tasted the proffered ale.

The mistress stammered an apology, saying that the master was out on the lake tending to the trout nets, and since she had not expected company it would be a while before they would have supper ready for their guests.

Eskil grumbled a bit, but Arn quickly explained that this was even better, since all three of them would like to take a ride around the property at Forsvik. They would be back in a few hours.

The mistress curtseyed in relief, not noticing the displeasure in Eskil’s eyes. Reluctantly he went over to his horse and led it around the watering trough, where he could more easily mount by placing one foot on the trough before he heavily hoisted himself into the saddle.

Arn and Harald were ready to go. Without mounting, Arn slapped both of their horses so that they started off at a slow trot past Eskil. When Eskil, puzzled, looked up at the riderless horses, Arn and Harald came running fast from behind and then jumped, each landing with both hands on the hindquarters of his horse before pushing himself forward into the saddle and galloping off, the way all Templar knights did when there was an alarm.

Eskil didn’t seem the least amused by the performance.

At first they rode to the south. Outside the farm buildings was a garden where the bright green vines had already climbed up their poles to the height of a man. Then they headed down toward the rapids and bridge, where the blossoms from an apple orchard covered the ground like snow.

Across the bridge the fields of Forsvik stretched before them. The closest field lay fallow, and there they discovered to their surprise four youths practicing on horseback with wooden lances and shields. The boys were so engrossed in their game that they didn’t notice the three strangers ride up and stop at the edge of the field. The men watched the boys with amusement for a long while before they were discovered.

‘They’re of our clan, Folkungs all four,’ Eskil explained as he raised his hand and waved to the four young riders. The boys rode over to them at a gallop, then sprang from their mounts. Holding on to the reins, they came over and knelt quickly before Eskil.

‘What sort of foreign manners are these? I thought you were hoping for a place in the royal guard, or with Birger Brosa or myself?’ Eskil greeted them jovially.

‘This is the new custom. It’s the practice of everyone at King Valdemar’s court in Denmark, and I’ve seen it myself,’ replied the eldest of the boys, giving Eskil a steady gaze.

‘We aim to become knights!’ one of the younger boys said cockily, since it may have seemed that Eskil misunderstood.

‘Indeed? It’s no longer enough to be a retainer?’ asked Arn, leaning forward in his saddle with a stern look for the boy who had just spoken to Eskil as if he were an elderly kinsman who understood nothing. ‘Then tell me, what does a knight do?’

‘A knight…’ began the boy, quickly turning unsure as he noticed the Norwegian retainer’s amusement. Harald was vainly trying to hide his mirth with a hand over his brow and eyes.

‘Don’t mind the northerner, my young kinsman; he doesn’t know much,’ said Arn kindly and without the slightest ridicule. ‘Illuminate me instead! What does a knight do?’

‘A knight rides with lance and shield, protects maidens in distress, slays the forces of evil, or the dragon like Saint Örjan, and most of all is the foremost defender of the land during times of war,’ said the boy, now quite sure of himself and looking Arn straight in the eye. ‘And the foremost of all knights are the Knights Templar in the Holy Land,’ he added, as if wanting to demonstrate that he did know what he was talking about.

‘I see,’ said Arn. ‘Then may Our Lady hold her protective hands over all of you as you practice for such a good cause, and let us hinder you no longer.’

‘Our Lady? We pray to Saint Örjan, the patron saint of knights,’ replied the boy boldly, now even more certain that he was the one who was the expert on this topic.

‘Yes, that is true, many pray to Saint Georges,’ said Arn, turning his horse to the side to continue his survey of Forsvik. ‘But I mentioned Our Lady because She is the High Protectress of the Knights Templar.’

When the three men had ridden off a way, they all had a good laugh. But the boys didn’t hear them. With great earnestness and renewed zeal they rode at each other, holding out their short wooden lances as if they were attacking with Saracen swords.

By nightfall as they returned to Forsvik, they had seen what they needed to see. In the north the Tiveden woods began, the forest that according to ancient belief was without end. There was timber and fuel in immeasurable quantities, and close at hand. To the south along the shore of Lake Vättern there were fields with pasture that would feed more than five times the livestock and horses now at Forsvik. But the fields for grain and turnips were meagre and sandy, and the living quarters decaying and rank.

Eskil now said bluntly that he had wanted Arn to see Forsvik before they decided. A son of Arnäs ought to own a better farm than this, and Eskil at once proposed either of the farms Hönsäter or Hällekis on the slopes of Kinnekulle facing Lake Vänern. Then they could also live on neighbouring farms to their mutual enjoyment.

But Arn stubbornly insisted on Forsvik. He admitted that there was much more to build and improve than he had imagined. But such things were only a matter of time and sweat. Forsvik had the advantage of possessing enough water power to drive the forging machines, the bellows, and the mills. And there was one more important thing that had already occurred to Eskil. Forsvik was the heart of Eskil’s trade route, and that’s why he had placed Folkungs as caretakers and not more lowly folk. Whoever controlled Forsvik held a dagger to the entire route, and no one could be better suited to the task than a brother from Arnäs.

There was a constant stream of loaded ships in both directions between Lödöse and Linköping. If Arn was in charge, great smithies would soon be thundering at Forsvik. If the iron from Nordanskog came by boat from Linköping, steel and forged weapons would continue on to Arnäs and plowshares toward Lödöse. If limestone came from Arnäs and Kinnekulle, the boats could continue toward Linköping or return to Arnäs with mortar. And if barrels of unmilled grain came from Linköping, barrels of flour would move in the other direction.

Much more could be said, but basically these were Arn’s ideas. And he had many foreign craftsmen with him; not all those at Arnäs were fortress-builders. Here at Forsvik they would soon be able to manufacture a great number of new things that would benefit all of them. And which could be sold at a good profit, he added with such emphasis that Eskil burst out laughing.

At supper, as was the custom, the master and mistress of the house sat in the high seat together with the three noble guests Eskil, Harald, and Arn. The four boys with bruises on their faces and knuckles sat at the table farther away. They knew enough of manners and customs to understand that the warrior who had asked the childishly ignorant question about knights was no ordinary ruffian of a retainer, since he sat next to their father in the high seat. They also saw that like Herr Eskil he bore the Folkung lion on the back of his mantle, and no mere retainer was allowed to do that. So who was this highborn lord of their clan who treated Eskil as a close friend?

The master and mistress of the house, Erling and Ellen, who were the parents of three of the boys with dreams of knighthood, made a great fuss about their guests in the high seat. Erling had already raised his tankard of ale twice in a toast to Herr Eskil. Now, the third time, he was red in the face and spoke with a bit of a stammer as he sometimes did, exhorting all to drink to Sir Arn Magnusson.

An uncomfortable feeling began to come over one of the boys, Sune Folkesson, who was a foster brother at Forsvik. He was also the one who had spoken most boldly about what it was like to be a knight and to whom knights should direct their prayers.

And when Herr Eskil kept on saying that they now had to thank Our Lady, because a Templar knight of the Lord had returned after many years in the Holy Land, everyone in the hall fell silent. Young Sune Folkesson wished that the earth would open beneath him and swallow him up. Herr Eskil noticed everyone’s disquiet. He took a firm grip on his tankard and raised it to his brother Arn. Everyone drank in silence.

All further talk turned to stone after this toast, and everyone’s gaze was directed at Arn, who had no idea how to act and looked down at the table.

Eskil was not slow in exploiting the situation, since he already had adopted Arn’s rule that it was better to say what was unpleasant or momentous sooner rather than later. He got to his feet, raised his hand quite unnecessarily for silence, and then spoke briefly.

‘Arn, my brother, is the new master of Forsvik and all its lands, all the fishing waters and forests, as well as all servants. But you will not be left bereft, kinsmen Erling and Ellen, because I offer you a chance to move to Hönsäter on Kinnekulle, which is a better place than this one. Your leasehold will thus be the same as it was for Forsvik, although the lands at Hönsäter have a greater yield. In the presence of witnesses I now offer you this sack of soil from Hönsäter.’

With that he pulled out two leather pouches, fumbling a bit as he hid one of them and then placed the other in the hands of both Erling and Ellen, first showing them how to hold out four hands to accept a gift meant equally for the two of them.

Erling and Ellen sat there a while, their cheeks red. It was as though a miracle had befallen them. But Erling quickly recovered and had livelier thoughts, calling for more ale.

Young Sune Folkesson now thought he had been sitting long enough with his eyes lowered in an unmanly fashion. If he had stepped in cow dung, the situation would not be improved by sitting and pretending nothing had happened, he reasoned. So he stood up and walked resolutely around the table to the high seat, where he sank to his knees before Sir Arn.

His foster father Erling rose halfway to his feet to shoo him off, but was stopped when Arn raised his hand in warning.

‘Well?’ Arn said kindly to the youth on his knees. ‘What do you have to tell me this time, kinsman?’

‘That I can do naught but regret my ignorant words to you, sir. But I didn’t know who you were; I thought you were a retain—’

There young Sune almost bit off his tongue, when too late he realized that instead of smoothing things over he was now making them worse. Imagine, calling Arn Magnusson a retainer!

‘You said nothing ignorant, kinsman,’ Arn replied gravely. ‘What you said about knights was not wrong, although possibly somewhat too brief. But remember that you are a Folkung speaking to another Folkung, so stand up and look me in the eye!’

Sune at once did as he was told, and when he saw the scarred face of the warrior at close range he was amazed that Sir Arn’s eyes were so gentle.

‘You said that you wanted to be a knight. Do you stand by your word?’ Arn asked.

‘Yes, Sir Arn, that dream is dearer to me than life itself!’ said Sune Folkesson with such emotion that Arn had a hard time keeping a straight face.

‘Well then,’ said Arn, passing his hand over his eyes, ‘in that case I’m afraid that you’ll be a knight with much too short a life, and we have little use for such men. But here is my offer to you. Stay here at Forsvik with me as your new foster father and teacher, and I shall turn you into a knight. That offer also applies to your foster brother Sigfrid. I will speak to your father about this. Sleep on it overnight. Pray to Our Lady, or Saint Örjan, for guidance, and give me your answer in the morning.’

‘I can give you my answer right now, Sir Arn!’ young Sune Folkesson declared.

But Arn raised his index finger in warning.

‘I told you to answer tomorrow after spending a night in prayer, yet you do not listen. To obey and to pray are the first things someone who wants to be a knight must learn.’

Arn gave the youth a look of feigned sternness, and he bowed at once and moved backward, bowing once more before he turned and rushed like an arrow back to his brothers at the end of the table. With a smile Arn saw out of the corner of his eye how they began talking excitedly.

Our Lady was indeed helping him in everything she had told him to do, he thought. He had already recruited his first two disciples.

He prayed that Our Lady would also stand by him at the greatest of all moments, which was now inconceivably near at hand, less than a night and a day away.

In the middle of the king’s island of Visingsö, only a stone’s throw from the horse path between the castle of Näs in the south and the boat harbours in the north, the loveliest of lilies grew, both blue and yellow, like the colours of the Erik clan. Only Queen Cecilia Blanca was allowed to harvest this gift of God, under strict penalty of whipping or worse for anyone who dared take any for himself.

The queen was now riding there with her dearest friend in life, Cecilia Rosa, as she was always called in the king’s castle rather than Cecilia Algotsdotter. At some distance behind them rode two castle maidservants. They needed no retainers with them since there had been peace in the kingdom longer than anyone cared to remember, and there were only the king’s people on Visingsö.

But neither of the dear friends was particularly interested in lilies on this summer day. As both of them knew more about the struggle for power than most men in the kingdom did, they had important questions to discuss. What the two of them decided could determine whether there would be war or peace in the kingdom. They had that power, and they both knew it. The next day, when the archbishop arrived with his episcopal retinue to meet with the king’s council, the decision would be announced.

The women dismounted next to the road some distance from the field of lilies, tied their horses, and sat down on some flat slabs of stone with heathen runic inscriptions that had been dragged out there to serve as the queen’s resting place. Cecilia Blanca waved away the two castle maidens and pointed sternly over towards the lilies.

For the longest time, Cecilia Rosa had held off the jarl’s importunate and, in recent years, more and more brusque demands. Birger Brosa wanted her to take her vows and enter his convent at Riseberga to become abbess. The moment she took the vows, he assured her, she would become the one who ruled Riseberga, both in spiritual and business matters.

The bishops would agree, and the new abbé at Varnhem, Father Guillaume, who now held authority over Riseberga, would quickly accede. Father Guillaume was a man who allowed himself to see the will of God if at the same time he saw gold and new green forests.

That was how things now stood. If she took her vows she would become abbess of Riseberga at once. But the jarl’s intentions were in truth not of the pious sort. It was a matter of power, and it was a matter of war or peace. With ever greater obstinacy in recent years, Birger Brosa had harped on his idea that an abbess’s oath was just as good as another abbess’s confession and testament.

The evil Mother Rikissa, who for so many years had tormented both Cecilia Blanca and Cecilia Rosa at Gudhem, had borne false witness on her deathbed. In her confession she had sworn that Cecilia Blanca had taken the vows during one of her last years at Gudhem.

If true, it meant that all of King Knut Eriksson’s children had been born illegitimately. His eldest son Erik would be prevented from inheriting the crown if this lie were believed.

If Cecilia Rosa were now promoted to abbess, she could deliver an oath stating that the queen had never taken the vows but had served only as the other lay sisters at Gudhem had done. This would unravel the whole knot. And that was precisely Birger Brosa’s idea.

The jarl did not lack good reasons for his demand. Cecilia Rosa had not been able to go to the bridal bed with Arn Magnusson as had been both intended and promised, but instead had effectively been sentenced to twenty years of penance. Yet the jarl had never abandoned her. He had taken her son Magnus, who was born out of wedlock at Gudhem, as his own, first as a son, later as a younger brother. Magnus had been raised at Bjälbo and was also brought into the clan at the ting. In addition the jarl had done much to alleviate Cecilia Rosa’s torments under Rikissa. He had supported and aided her as if she, like her son, had been accepted into the Folkung clan, although she had been merely a poor penitent. It was now time for her to repay that debt.

It wasn’t easy to contradict the wisdom of these ideas; the two Cecilias had always been in agreement on that. Cecilia Rosa had only been able to present one strong objection to the jarl. She believed that since she and Arn had sworn to be faithful to each other, and after their time of penance to fulfil what had been interrupted by slander and strict laws in equal measure, she could not take these cloister vows. That would be to betray her word. It would be the same as trampling on Arn Magnusson’s vow.

During the first years after her time of penance had expired, Birger Brosa, although he grumbled, accepted this objection. Many times he had assured her that he too wished and prayed that Arn Magnusson would return home unharmed, for any kingdom would have great need of such a warrior. Indeed, such a man ought to be made marshal at the king’s council, particularly since he was a Folkung.

But now more than four years had passed since the time of penance had expired, and they had heard nothing about Arn after the time of his great victories in the Holy Land, of which blessed Father Henri had informed them. Now the Christians had lost Jerusalem, and thousands upon thousands of Christian warriors had fallen in battle without anyone knowing their names.

Yet Cecilia Rosa had never given up hope; every evening she had directed the same prayers to Our Lady for Arn’s speedy return.

But there were limits to patience, as there were to hope. How could she go before the council the next day – before the king, the jarl, the marshal, the tax-master, the archbishop, and the other bishops – and say that it was impossible for her to accept the high calling of abbess because her earthly love for a man was greater? No, it was hard to imagine such conduct. It was much easier to imagine what a tumult that would provoke. Love was undoubtedly of little consequence. Greater were the struggle for power and the question of war or peace in the kingdom.

Cecilia Rosa had never before expressed this idea as clearly and as despondently as she did now. Cecilia Blanca took her hand in consolation, and they both sat there, dejected and silent.

‘It would have been easier for me to do this,’ the queen said at last. ‘I’m not like you; I’ve never loved any man more than I’ve loved myself or you. I envy you that, because I’d like to know what it’s like. But I don’t envy you the choice you now have to make.’

‘Don’t you even love King Knut?’ asked Cecilia Rosa, although she knew the answer.

‘We have lived a good life for the most part. I’ve borne him a daughter and four sons that lived and two that died. It was not always easy, and two of the childbeds were terrible, as you know. But I have no right to complain. Keep in mind that you had a chance to experience true love and gave birth to a wonderful son in Magnus. Your life could have been much worse.’

‘You’re right,’ said Cecilia Rosa. ‘Just think, if the war with the Sverkers had turned out differently, we both would have been trapped forever at Gudhem. True, it’s ungrateful to grumble about our lot. And we’ll always have our friendship, even if I soon must wear the veil and a cross around my neck.’

‘Would you like us to pray one last time to Our Lady for a miraculous salvation?’ asked Queen Cecilia Blanca. But Cecilia Rosa just looked down at the ground and mutely shook her head. All her prayers seemed to have vanished.

Three riders approached at a leisurely pace from the wharves to the north, but the two Cecilias paid no attention, since many riders were expected at the council meeting.

Then the two castle maidservants returned from the lily field with their aprons full of the loveliest flowers. Laughing they handed them to the queen and her friend. Both were given more lilies than they could carry. Queen Blanca, as she was usually called, then ordered the maids to fetch the baskets quickly. The lilies would soon wither if they grew too warm in their hands, as if they shrank from the captive embrace of humans. As she spoke she glanced without much interest toward the three horsemen who were now quite close. It was the tax-master Herr Eskil, some Norseman, and a Folkung.

Suddenly she was struck dumb by an odd feeling, which she was later never able to explain. It was like a gust of wind or a portent from Our Lady. With her elbow she cautiously nudged Cecilia Rosa, who stood looking the other way at the maids returning with their flower baskets.

When Cecilia Rosa turned around she first saw Eskil, whom she knew well. In the next instant she saw Arn Magnusson.

He got down from his horse and walked slowly toward her. She dropped all her lilies to the ground and moved aside in confusion so as not to step on the flowers.

She took his hands which he held out to her, but she was unable to say a thing. He too seemed totally at a loss for words. He tried to move his lips but not a sound came out.

They sank to their knees and held each other’s hands.

‘I prayed to Our Lady for this moment during all these years,’ he finally said, his voice quavering. ‘Did you do that too, my beloved Cecilia?’

She nodded as she gazed into his ravaged face and was filled with sympathy for all the hardships he had endured, now evident in these white scars.

‘Then let us thank Our Lady for never forsaking us, and because we never gave up hope,’ whispered Arn.

They bowed their heads in prayer to Our Lady, who so clearly had shown them that hope must never be abandoned and that love was truly stronger than the struggle for power – stronger than anything else.