THREE
That day at the King’s N?s would be remembered as the Great Tumult. Seldom had anyone seen Birger Brosa in such a rage. The man who was best known for always speaking in a low voice even in the most difficult negotiations now created a din that was heard throughout the castle.
That was not how things began when Arn Magnusson rode into N?s in the company of his brother Eskil, Queen Blanca, and Cecilia Rosa. At first there had been much embracing and show of emotion. Both the jarl and the king had greeted Arn with tears and words of thanksgiving to Our Lady. White Rhine wine was brought out, and everyone was talking at once. It looked to be a day of true joy.
But all at once everything changed, as soon as Arn let slip a few words concerning his coming bridal ale with Cecilia Rosa Algotsdotter.
At first the jarl behaved as was his custom. He turned cold and quiet and suggested, although it sounded more like a command, that the king should repair to the smaller council chamber for an important matter. He also said that he and Arn, as well as the tax-master Eskil, should accompany the king.
The smaller council chamber was located on the next highest floor of the castle’s eastern tower. There stood the king’s carved wooden chair with the three crowns, the jarl’s chair with the Folkung lions, the archbishop’s chair with the cross, and a few small wooden stools upholstered in leather. Nearby stood a big oaken table with seals, wax, parchment, and writing implements. The whitewashed stone walls of the room were completely bare.
The king sat calmly in his big chair beneath one of the open arrow loops so that the light streamed in above his head. The jarl paced around the room looking agitated. Arn and Eskil had taken seats on stools.
The jarl was dressed in foreign clothes in shiny gray and black, and on his feet he wore long crackowes of red and gold leather, but his Folkung mantle with the ermine trim fluttered behind him as if blown by the wind as he paced back and forth to calm his wrath. The king, like the jarl, had put on a great paunch since Arn last saw them so long ago. He sat in apparent calm, waiting. He was almost completely bald now.
‘Love?’ yelled the jarl suddenly at a volume that indicated he had not managed to calm down at all. ‘Love is for sluggards and milksops, pipers and minstrels, maidens and thralls! But for men, love is the fruit of the devil, a dream of fools that creates more unhappiness than any other dream. It’s like a treacherous reef in the sea or trees falling across a road in the forest. It’s the mother of murder and intrigues, the father of betrayal and lies! And for this, Arn Magnusson, you come riding home after all these years? For love? When our very destiny is at stake? When your clan and your king need your support, you turn away. And you explain this shame by saying that like a minstrel you have been struck by this illness of children and fools!’
The jarl fell silent and resumed pacing about the room, gnashing his teeth. Arn sat with his arms crossed, leaning back a bit but with an implacable expression on his face. Eskil was looking out through one of the arrow loops at the bright, peaceful summer day, and King Knut was studying his hands with interest.
‘You don’t even see fit to answer me, kinsman?’ shouted the jarl with renewed force. ‘Soon the archbishop will be here with his throng of bishops. He is a wily man and a member of the Sverker clan; the cowards around him don’t dare say boo or baa. He’s a man who wants to lead the Sverker clan to the king’s crown once again, and weighing heavily in his favour are letters from both the Holy Father in Rome and that schemer Absalon in Lund. We must act before the stream turns into a whole spring flood. You could help us with this, but you demur because you’re raving about love! It’s like a reproach to all of us. How much war and how many dead kinsmen, how many burned farms will there be in our land because you rave about love? Now I demand that you answer.’
In a rage the jarl tore off his mantle and flung it over his chair before he sat down. His own words seemed to have agitated him even more, and realizing this, he tried to regain his normal composure.
‘I have taken a vow,’ said Arn, deliberately keeping his voice low, the way he remembered that Birger Brosa usually spoke. ‘I have sworn on my honour and I have sworn on my sword, which is the sword of a Templar knight and consecrated to Our Lady, if I should survive my time of penance, that I would return to Cecilia, and that she and I would fulfil the promise we had made to each other. Such a vow cannot be taken back, no matter how angry you become, my dear uncle, or how unsuitable you may find it for your intrigues. A vow is a vow. A holy vow is even stronger.’
‘A vow is not a vow!’ Birger Brosa shouted, regaining his fury in an instant. ‘A child swears to pull down the moon from the sky. What is that? Childish prattle that has nothing to do with real life. You were a youth then; now you are a man, and a warrior at that. Just as time heals all wounds, so too it grants us wisdom and turns us into men. And that is most fortunate. Would any of us here in this room answer for all the things we may have promised as foolish and na?ve youths? A vow is no vow if life sets impediments in its way. And by God, there are strong impediments confronting you now!’
‘I was no child when I swore that oath,’ replied Arn. ‘And each day for the duration of a war that lasted so long you could hardly imagine it, I repeated that vow in my prayers to Our Lady. And She has heard my prayers, because here I am.’
‘And yet you bear a Folkung mantle!’ yelled the jarl, red in the face. ‘A Folkung mantle shall be borne with honour towards the clan! Now that I think of it, how can this be? With what right do you, a penitent of twenty years who lost your inheritance and your place in the clan, wear the Folkung mantle over your shoulders?’
‘I am the cause of that,’ interjected Eskil with some trepidation when it seemed that Arn would refuse to reply to that affront. ‘In my father’s stead I am the head of the clan in Western G?taland. I and no other exchanged Arn’s Templar mantle for ours. I took him back into our clan with full rights and privileges.’
‘What has been done can in any case not be undone,’ Birger Brosa muttered, getting up to resume his pacing. The others in the room exchanged a cautious glance, and the king shrugged his shoulders. Even he had never seen Birger Brosa behave in this manner.
‘All the better that you now bear our mantle!’ shouted the jarl, pointing an accusing finger at Arn. ‘For this mantle entails more than protection from our enemies, the right to bear a sword wherever you please, and the right to ride with a retinue. This mantle means an obligation to do what is best for our clan.’
‘As long as it does not go against God’s will or a holy vow,’ said Arn calmly. ‘In all else I shall do my best to honour our colours.’
‘Then you must obey us, otherwise you may as well put your white mantle back on!’
‘I most assuredly have the right to bear the mantle of a Knight Templar,’ replied Arn, pausing before he went on. ‘But it would not be advisable. As a Templar knight I answer to no jarl or king in the entire world, no bishop or patriarch, but only the Holy Father himself.’
Birger Brosa stopped his furious pacing. He gave Arn a searching look before he went over and sat down with a sigh.
‘Let’s start over,’ he said in a low voice as if finally bridling his rage. ‘Let’s look at the situation calmly. Sune Sik’s daughter Ingrid Ylva will soon be ripe for the bridal bed. I have spoken with Sune, and like me he considers it wise that Ingrid Ylva become yet another link in the chain we are forging to keep future wars in check. Arn, you are the next eldest son of the chieftain, and also a man about whom songs are sung and sagas told. You are a good match. There are two ways we can prevent the Sverkers and the bishops from finding reasons for another war. One is for Cecilia Algotsdotter, who God knows owes us a great deal, to take on the high calling and become abbess of my cloister at Riseberga. Cecilia knows how things stand because of the insidious Mother Rikissa’s confession and testament claiming that Queen Blanca supposedly took the vows during her difficult time at Gudhem. Cecilia says she is prepared to swear that this is not true, and we all believe her. You understand?’
‘Yes, but I have objections which I will save until I’ve heard the second choice.’
‘The second?’ said Birger Brosa.
‘Yes. You said there were two ways we could entangle the Sverkers in the yarn of peace with our cunning snare. One was to make Cecilia abbess, which is more properly a matter for the Church than for us. And the second?’
‘That someone with a high position in the clan marry Ingrid Ylva!’
‘Then I shall tell you what I think,’ said Arn. ‘Here is what will happen if you make Cecilia the abbess of Riseberga, although it is properly a matter for the Church and the Cistercians. Mother Cecilia, the new abbess, will swear an oath before the archbishop, because the rules require that it be done in this manner. Then the archbishop will have a hard knot to unravel. He could do two things. He could demand trial by iron, a proof from God that her words were true, because the red-hot iron would not wound her. Or he could take up the matter in Rome. If he’s the wily intriguer you claim he is, he will choose the latter, because one never quite knows how it will go with red-hot iron. And if he takes up the matter in Rome, he will couch his words so that it looks as though the new abbess is swearing falsely. With that he will have no difficulty. The Holy Father will then excommunicate Cecilia at once. In this way we will have won something but lost much.’
‘You can’t be sure it will go so badly,’ said Birger Brosa.
‘No,’ said Arn. ‘No one can know that. I simply believe, dear uncle, that I know the paths to the Holy Father better than you do, and that my guess is therefore better than yours. But I can’t know for sure, nor can you.’
‘And if we don’t attempt this subterfuge, then neither of us will know.’
‘True. But there is great danger of making a bad situation even worse. With regard to Ingrid Ylva, I wish you success in your plans for her bridal bed. But I have given my word to go to the bridal bed with Cecilia Algotsdotter.’
‘Take Ingrid Ylva as your wife and consort as much as you like with your Cecilia!’ Birger Brosa shouted. ‘We all do the same. We choose one woman to live under the same roof with and to bear our children. But what we do beyond that is for pleasure only, what you with your foolish stubbornness call love, and that’s something else entirely. Do you think that Brigida and I loved each other when the agreement was concluded at our bridal ale? Brigida was older than me and ugly as sin, or so I thought then. She was no newly blossomed rose, but the widow of King Magnus. And yet our life has been good, and we have raised many sons, and what you call love comes with time. You have to do as we all do! You may be a great warrior with songs sung about you, even though you are merely one of the many who lost the Holy Land. But now you are home with us, and here you must act like a Folkung.’
‘And yet I would hardly yield to my uncle’s advice to sin with an abbess,’ replied Arn with a look of disgust. ‘Cecilia and I have already been punished enough for sins of the flesh, and I find it particularly poor counsel to carry on a secret love affair with an abbess.’
Birger Brosa realized that his frivolous advice regarding the abbess was undoubtedly the most foolish thing he had said during any negotiations. He was always used to winning.
‘And you, my king and childhood friend Knut?’ said Arn, careful to release Birger Brosa from his own predicament. ‘Once I recall that you promised Cecilia to me if only I accompanied you on a journey that ended with King Karl Sverkersson’s death. I see that you still wear around your neck the cross that you took from the murdered king. So, what is your opinion?’
‘I don’t consider it proper for the king to put in his word either for or against this matter,’ replied Knut uncertainly. ‘What you and Birger are discussing with such fervour is something for your clan to decide, and it would be ill-advised for the king to interfere in matters concerning weddings of other clans.’
‘But you gave me your word,’ Arn replied coldly.
‘How so? I don’t remember that,’ said the king, surprised.
‘Do you remember the time when you were trying to persuade me to go to N?s, when we had to sail the little black ship/boat through ice and slush at night?’
‘Yes, I do, and you were my friend. You stood by my side in the hour of peril, I will never forget it.’
‘Then you must also remember that first we agreed to shoot with the bow, and if I vanquished you then I would win Cecilia. I have the word of a king.’
King Knut sighed and tugged on his thin, greying beard as he pondered. ‘I was quite a young man, as were you,’ he said. ‘But that isn’t the crucial thing. For as I said, the king must take care not to interfere in the internal affairs of another clan. This is a matter for the Folkungs. But one thing you must know. Now I am your king, back then I was not. And now I tell you, go to the bridal bed with Ingrid Ylva and release Cecilia Algotsdotter from her vow and promises, so that that she may become our abbess at Riseberga.’
‘That’s impossible. We took a vow before Our Lady. What else can I do for you?’
‘Can you swear your loyalty?’ asked the king, as if changing the subject.
‘I already did that when we both were young. My word holds fast, even if yours does not,’ said Arn.
Then the king smiled for the first time during this argument, nodding in acknowledgment that Arn’s arrow could still strike home.
‘Have my uncle and my brother sworn you their loyalty?’ Arn asked, and the other three in the room all nodded.
Arn stood up without further ado, drew his sword, and fell to his knees before King Knut. He set the sword with the point on the stone floor, crossed himself, and grasped it with both hands.
‘I, Arn Magnusson, swear that as long as you are king of the Folkungs I shall be true to you, Knut Eriksson, in…auxilium et consilium,’ he said, hesitating only when he came to those last words in Latin. Then he stood up, slipped his sword back in its sheath, and went back to his seat and sat down.
‘What did you mean by those last foreign words?’ asked the king.
‘That which a knight must swear, I cannot say in our language, but it is no less worthy in church language,’ said Arn with a shrug. ‘Auxilium is one thing I swore to you, which means assistance…or support…or my sword, you might say. And consilium is the other thing a knight promises his king. It means that I have sworn always to stand by you and offer true counsel, to the best of my ability.’
‘Good,’ said King Knut. ‘Then give me one piece of advice. Archbishop Petrus talks a great deal about how I must atone for my sin of having killed Karl Sverkersson. I don’t know how much of his talk is genuine faith in God and how much is merely his desire to vex me. Now he wants me to send a crusade to the Holy Land as atonement. You must have an opinion on this, having fought there for more than twenty years?’
‘Yes, I certainly do. Build a cloister, donate gold and forests, build a church, buy relics from Rome for the archbishop’s cathedral. Do any of these things, or in the worst case all of them, rather than mount a crusade. If you send Folkungs and Eriks to the Holy Land they will all be slaughtered like sheep and for no reason, other than to cause more grief.’
‘And you say that you are sure of this?’ asked the king. ‘Is the courage in our breast not sufficient, our faith not strong enough, our swords not good enough?’
‘No, they are not!’ said Arn.
A despondent silence fell over the council chamber.
While the worst of the noise was issuing from the council chamber in the east tower, Queen Blanca and Cecilia Rosa climbed up to the battlement so they would be free of prying eyes. But the two Cecilias had no difficulty understanding Birger Brosa’s fury. It was because Arn Magnusson was defying him. Arn insisted on honouring his vow, while Birger Brosa thought he should rescind the oath so that Cecilia Rosa could go to Riseberga convent, be promoted to abbess, and then repay the debts she owed.
That was what was going on inside the council chamber; it was clear as water.
They tried to listen but could only hear clearly when Birger Brosa was holding forth, as he did time after time, shouting with contempt about love.
Cecilia Rosa felt paralysed; she could hardly think. Arn was inside, less than an arrow-shot away. It was true and yet inconceivable. Her thoughts ran in circles. as if holding her captive.
But Queen Blanca was thinking more sharply. She knew that it was high time to make a decision. ‘Come!’ she said to Cecilia Rosa, taking her by the hand. ‘We’ll go downstairs, drink some white wine, and decide what to do. It’s no use standing here listening to the noise of the menfolk.’
‘Look!’ said Cecilia Rosa, pointing over the battlement as if she were only half awake. ‘Here comes the archbishop and his retinue.’
Up on the road from the north boat harbour they could see the archbishop’s cross flashing silver, carried by an outrider in the vanguard of the procession. Behind the outrider with the cross they could see the colours of many bishop’s capes, but also the colours of all the retainers, mostly in red mantles, since the archbishop was a Sverker, after all.
‘Yes,’ said Cecilia Blanca, ‘I saw them coming and suddenly I understood how we must arrange everything before the men even know what’s happening. Come on!’
She dragged Cecilia Rosa down one floor to the king’s chamber, called for wine, and shoved her friend onto a pile of pillows and cushions from Lübeck and France on one of the beds. They made themselves comfortable without saying a word. Cecilia Rosa still seemed more lost in a dream than awake.
‘Now you must pull yourself together, my friend, both of us must,’ said the queen resolutely. ‘We have to think, we have to make a decision, and above all we have to act.’
‘How can the jarl defy the will of Our Lady? I simply don’t understand it,’ Cecilia Rosa murmured.
‘That’s how it is with men,’ snorted the queen. ‘If they find that the plans of God and His Saints agree with their own, then everything is fine. If their own thoughts of power lead in a different direction, they probably think that God will come strolling along behind. That’s the way they are. But we don’t have much time now, and you have to think clearly!’
Cecilia Rosa took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll try, really I will, I promise. But you must understand that this is not easy for me. After all these years, at the very moment that I succumbed to doubt for the first time, Our Lady brought Arn back to me. What did She mean by that? Isn’t it strange?’
‘Yes, it’s more than strange,’ Cecilia Blanca was quick to admit. ‘When we were sitting out there next to the lily field, we were contemplating your unhappiness and my joy. You would have to give up your dream for my sake. I was sad but not surprised that you would accept your unhappiness for the sake of our friendship.’
‘You would have done the same for me,’ Cecilia Rosa murmured.
‘Wake up now, dear friend!’ the queen insisted. ‘It’s happening now, right now. Just as Our Lady showed us; now I must do the same for you. You shall not take the veil and the cross, you shall go to Arn Magnusson’s bridal bed, and the sooner the better!’
‘But what will we do when the men rage against it?’ Cecilia Rosa wondered hopelessly.
‘Where is your resolve? This isn’t like you. Pull yourself together, dearest Cecilia,’ said the queen impatiently. ‘Right now we must think and act; this is no time for dreaming. Do you remember back at Gudhem when we used confession as a weapon?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecilia Rosa. ‘Those arrows struck home better than we could have hoped.’
‘Exactly,’ said the queen, encouraged by the sight of Cecilia Rosa finally waking up. ‘And today we’re going to do the same thing. The archbishop will soon be sitting out there in his tent, hobnobbing with the people before the council meeting. He’s showing his love for the lowliest sheep in God’s flock, that hypocrite. And anyone at all can come and kiss the bishop’s ring and confess. That also applies to a queen and an yconoma from Riseberga…’
‘What sort of message are we going to send in our confession this time?’ Cecilia Rosa asked eagerly, her eyes glittering and with new colour in her cheeks.
‘I will say how anguished I am at the thought of sending my dearest friend into the convent merely for my own gain, for my children’s right of inheritance to the crown. And then it will be your turn—’
‘No, don’t say a word! Let me think first. All right, I’ll confess that I saw the miracle of Our Lady, when she listened to Arn’s and my prayers for more than twenty years and sent him home unharmed. And that his holy vow is now about to be fulfilled. In this way Our Lady is showing us how great love can be, how we should never give up hope…and how I feel anguish because they are asking me to fulfil earthly obligations by going to the convent instead of accepting the gift of Our Lady. All this is true. Do you think those words will suffice?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said the queen. ‘I think that our esteemed archbishop will quickly remember God’s words about the miracle of love. He will become a strong advocate for the love between you and Arn, which must not be desecrated, because—’
‘Because we would all become implicated in a great sin by denying the obvious and clearly demonstrated will of Our Lady!’ Cecilia Rosa said with a laugh.
They were now utterly exhilarated and bursting with ideas. Cecilia Blanca even came up with new plans for how they could eat supper in such a way that there would no longer be any going back to the convent. Cecilia Rosa was astonished, blushing when she heard about these stratagems. But they finally realized that they had no time to lose; they took each other’s hand and ran like young girls down the spiral tower staircase, eager to deliver the true confessions that would turn all the men’s plans into ashes and ruins. When they came out into the courtyard they forced themselves to stop, bowed their heads, and began walking gravely and demurely over toward the archbishop’s tent outside the walls.
The heated argument in the council chamber of the east tower had subsided and turned into a long discussion as a result of Arn’s harsh words about the impossibility of mounting a crusade from the Gothic lands and Svealand. Both the king and the jarl were offended by the curt way he had dismissed the capability of Nordic men.
Arn had been forced to elucidate, and what he told the others made them both reflect and listen with dread.
Retaking the Holy Land now from the Saracens, since the fall of Jerusalem, would require an army of no less than sixty thousand men, Arn began. And an army that big would be difficult to keep supplied with food and water; it would have to be constantly in motion, plundering its way forward. So they wouldn’t be able to survive without a strong cavalry, and that alone made the use of Nordic warriors impossible. And sixty thousand men was such an enormous number that it would take every man capable of bearing arms in the two Gothic lands as well as Svealand.
But what if they did only what the Church demanded, their duty before God, and contributed as best they could, scraping together as many men as possible? What would that mean?
Ten thousand foot soldiers, said Arn. If King Knut, after much effort and persuasion and threats, managed to convince everyone that God truly wanted all Nordic men who could handle a sword or at least a pitchfork to head off for Jerusalem for the sake of their salvation – if the whole country could be convinced – then exactly how would they get there?
They would sail, of course. On the way up from England just off the coast of Jutland, Arn and his ship had met a Danish crusader army of about fifty ships with three or four thousand men aboard, although without horses. Arn and Harald had agreed that all these men were on their way to their own slaughter. They would cause more trouble rather than be of any help, if indeed they even managed to arrive safely.
Let’s say that King Knut, Arn went on, could indeed sail with a force of about that size. What would happen when they arrived in the Holy Land? Well, the only place where new crusaders could land was the city of Saint Jean d’Acre, the last Christian foothold in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and it was now extremely crowded. Would thousands of Norsemen without cavalry be received with gratitude? No, they would just be more mouths to feed. And what use would they be to the Christian army? Perhaps they could run next to the cavalry, protecting the knights’ horses. But the Norsemen could not be a fighting force of any importance, because there were too few of them to form their own army. And besides, they didn’t understand Frankish.
It would not merely be certain death; it would be a death that was unnecessary and dishonourable. And those who died would not die with the firm conviction that death in the Holy Land would grant them forgiveness for all their sins and lead them to Paradise.
Birger Brosa attempted to object, but his earlier wrath had now vanished as if blown away on the wind. He spoke softly and often with a smile, balancing his ale tankard on the knee of his crossed leg.
‘Knut and I are not accustomed to thinking of ourselves as lambs being led to the slaughter,’ he said. ‘At the start of the fight for the king’s crown, in the years after you left, we beat the Sverkers in all our encounters except one. The final battle was outside Bj?lbo, and our victory was great, although the enemy had a force almost twice as large as ours. Since then there has been peace in the kingdom. There were more than three thousand Folkungs and Eriks with our kinsmen standing side by side, one phalanx next to another. It was a formidable force. Yet you still think that we would be like lambs? That’s hard to imagine. What if this force that stood outside Bj?lbo in the battle of the fields of blood stood on the soil of the Holy Land?’
‘There we would indeed have to stand,’ said Arn. ‘The enemy would be on horseback, so we couldn’t attack, nor could we choose the time and place. The sun would reap its victims like willows in the summertime; the rain and the cloying red mud would drag us down into hopelessness and disease in the winter. The enemy would suddenly come from behind on fast horses, and a hundred men would die and another hundred be wounded and then the enemy would be gone. And there we would stand. The next day the same thing. None of us would have a chance to land a single sword blow before we were all dead.’
‘But if they come on horses,’ Birger Brosa mused, ‘then we could take them with arrows and lances. A man on horseback has twice as many things to keep track of; if he falls, he’ll be dead, and if he rides into the lances he’ll end up impaled.’
Arn took a deep breath, stood up, and went over to the heavy oak table in the middle of the room. He cleared off the writing implements, seals, and parchment, and drew with his finger in the dust.
If the army were standing still out on the flat field with good visibility in all directions, the enemy would just make small sorties, since the sun and thirst would do the heavy work.
If the army didn’t move it would die. If the army moved it would have to extend from the front to the rear, and then the attacks would come quickly from either direction. Saracen horsemen would ride up, shoot two or three arrows which almost all would strike home, and then disappear. After each such attack there would be dead and wounded to care for.
The Saracens also had some heavy cavalry with long lances, just like the Christians did. An inexperienced Nordic army would surely tempt the Saracens to use that weapon as well.
Arn described how the sky could suddenly darken with a tremendous wall of dust, how they would soon hear the ground shaking, and how they wouldn’t be able to see clearly in all that dust before the cavalry struck with full force, riding straight in among the foot soldiers, storming forward without resistance straight through the army and cutting it in half, then turning and coming back again. Three thousand warriors on foot in the Holy Land would have died in less time than they’d been arguing and discussing in this chamber, said Arn in conclusion. Then he went back to his seat.
‘I’m thinking of several things when I hear you tell all this, kinsman,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘Your honesty is great, I know that. What you tell us I believe to be true, which means that it could save us from the greatest folly.’
‘That is my hope,’ said Arn. ‘I have sworn our king auxilium, and that’s not something I take lightly.’
‘No,’ said Birger Brosa with a smile reflecting his true nature, ‘that you do not. Tomorrow at the council we will therefore delight our archbishop and his followers with the decision to build a new cloister in…well, where do you think, Knut?’
‘Julita,’ said the king. ‘It should be in Svealand where the voice of God is heard least strongly, and that would probably satisfy our bishops the most.’
‘Then Julita it shall be, and perhaps we will finally have a moment of peace from the talk of a crusade,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘But this is our decision for the present. For the future there is another and bigger question. If a Saracen army could defeat us so easily, could a Frankish army do the same? Or an English or Saxon one?’
‘Or a Danish one,’ said Arn. ‘If we encountered any of these armies on their home turf. But our land lies at the extreme end of the earth, and it would be no simple task to bring a large army all the way here. The Saracens will never come this far, nor will the Franks or the English or the Normans. But it’s less certain with the Saxons and Danes.’
‘We should reconsider,’ said Birger Brosa, with a look at King Knut, who nodded in agreement. ‘Times are changing out in the world; we have learned as much when it comes to trade, which has served us well. But if we are to survive and flourish as a kingdom in this new age—’
‘Then we have plenty of new things to learn!’ the king completed his thought.
‘Arn,’ the king went on earnestly, ‘my childhood friend, you who once helped me to gain the crown. Will you take a seat on our council? Will you be our marshal?’
Arn stood up and bowed to the king and then to the jarl, as a sign that he acquiesced at once, as he had sworn to do. Then Birger Brosa went over and embraced him, pounding him hard on the back.
‘It’s a blessing that you have come back to us, Arn, my dear nephew. I’m a man who seldom explains himself or makes excuses. So this is not easy for me.’
‘Yes,’ said Arn, ‘you surprised me. That wasn’t the way I remembered the wisest man of all in our clan, the one from whom we all tried to learn.’
‘All the better that there were few witnesses today,’ Birger Brosa said with a smile, ‘and that they were my closest kinsmen next to my own sons and my friend the king. Otherwise my reputation would have suffered. As far as Cecilia Algotsdotter is concerned…’
He paused, trying to tempt Arn to object, but Arn waited him out in silence.
‘As far as Cecilia is concerned, I have an idea that is better than the one I presented earlier. Meet with her, speak with her, sin with her if you are so inclined. But take some time, test your love and let her do the same. Then we’ll speak about the matter again, but not for a long while. Will you accept this suggestion of mine?’
Arn bowed anew to his uncle and the king, and his face revealed neither pain nor impatience.
‘Good!’ said the king. ‘At the council meeting tomorrow we shall not speak of the abbess at Riseberga, as if we had entirely forgotten that matter. Instead we’ll stuff the new cloister at Julita in the bishops’ mouths and keep them quiet with that. We are glad that the storm is over, Arn. And we are happy to see you on the council as our new marshal. So, let me have a word in private with my jarl, who needs to hear some admonishments from his king. Without witnesses.’
Arn and Eskil rose and bowed to the king and the jarl and then went out into the dark staircase of the tower.
Down in the courtyard tables and tents had been set up, and ale and wine were being poured. Eskil took Arn by the arm and steered him with firm steps to one of the tents, while Arn sighed and muttered about this constant drinking, although his displeasure was obviously feigned and only made Eskil smile.
‘It’s good that you’re still able to joke after a storm like that,’ Eskil said. ‘And as for the ale, you might change your tune now, because here at N?s we serve the excellent ale from Lübeck.’
As they approached one of the ale tents, everyone whispered and made way as before the bow wave of a boat. Eskil didn’t seem to notice.
When Arn tasted the Saxon ale he agreed at once that it was far better than any he had managed to force down before. It was darker, foamy, and tasted more strongly of hops than of juniper berries. Eskil warned him that it would also go to his head faster, so he ought to be wary of growing unruly. That might cause him to bluster and draw his sword. They laughed and hugged each other in relief that the storm actually seemed to have passed.
They discussed what could have been the reason for Birger Brosa’s unexpected loss of control. Eskil thought there were simply too many conflicting emotions all at once. Certainly the jarl was truly happy to see Arn return home alive. At the same time he had spent so many years considering how Cecilia Rosa – and Eskil explained how Cecilia had gotten that name – might serve to counter-balance the insidious Mother Rikissa’s lies about the queen’s cloister vows. The combination of joy and disappointment was not a good drink; it was like mixing ale and wine in the same goblet.
Arn said that a battle half won was better than utter defeat. They were interrupted when one of the archbishop’s chaplains made his way over to them.
The chaplain had a smug expression on his face, sticking his nose in the air in such a way that Eskil and Arn couldn’t help from smirking at each other. Then the chaplain announced his business in Latin: His Eminence the Archbishop would like to speak with Sir Arnus Magnusonius at once.
Arn smiled at the amusing distortion of his name. He replied in the same language that if His Eminence summoned him, he would promptly appear, but for urgent reasons he first had to make a detour via his saddlebags. He took the chaplain politely by the arm and walked toward the royal stables.
After he had fetched his letter of release from the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, which he thought might be the subject of the archbishop’s cunning move, he muttered something about wondering why he had been summoned. But the chaplain didn’t understand what he meant, since he actually wasn’t as familiar with Church language in daily speech as he had pretended to be with his nose in the air back at the ale tent.
Arn had to wait a moment outside the archbishop’s tent while some business was finished inside. When a man with a dark expression and a Sverker mantle emerged, Arn was called in by another chaplain.
Inside, Archbishop Petrus loomed, seated on a throne with high arms and a carved cross. Stuck into the ground before him stood the archbishop’s cross in gold with its silver rays. Another bishop was sitting next to him.
Arn stepped forward at once, knelt down on one knee, and kissed the archbishop’s ring. Then he waited for his blessing before he stood up. He bowed to the other bishop.
With a smile the archbishop leaned toward his fellow cleric and said out loud in Latin, certain as usual that the men of the Church were alone in their understanding of it, that this could be a conversation as amusing as spiritually uplifting.
‘Love is wonderful,’ said the other bishop in jest. ‘Especially when it can carry out the business of the Church, holding the Holy Virgin by the hand!’
The two worthies both had a good laugh at this jest. They paid no attention to Arn, as if they hadn’t even noticed him yet.
Arn had seen this sort of behaviour all too often in men of power to be bothered by it. But he was puzzled that these two, who spoke a Latin full of errors and with a strange Nordic sound to it, would take it for granted that he didn’t understand what they said. He had to decide quickly how to handle this, with cunning or with honesty. If he heard too much it might be too late. He crossed himself and pondered what to do. But when the archbishop leaned toward his colleague again with a smile, as if he had thought of yet another jest, Arn cleared his throat and said a few words that were mostly intended as a warning.
‘Both Your Eminences must excuse me if I interrupt your surely most interesting discourse,’ he said, at once gaining their astonished attention. ‘But it is truly balsam to the mind to hear once again a language which I master and in which each word possesses clear import.’
‘Why, you speak the Church language like a man of the cloth!’ said the archbishop with eyes wide in amazement. His contempt for yet another lowly visitor had utterly vanished.
‘Yes, because I am a man of the Church, Your Eminence,’ replied Arn with a bow, handing him his letter of release, which he assumed was the reason for this summons. The archbishop surely wanted to determine whether he was a deserter or not, a man obedient to the law of the Church or of the temporal world.
The two clerics put their heads together and searched in the various texts until they found the Latin translation from Frankish and Arabic. Then slowly and a bit solemnly they spelled their way through. They touched with something approaching reverence the seal of the Grand Master which showed the two brothers riding the same horse. When the archbishop looked up at Arn, he suddenly realized that the knight was still standing before them, so he called for a stool, which an astonished chaplain brought at once.
‘It is a great joy for me to see you once again in our land, Fortress Master Arn de Gothia,’ said the archbishop kindly, almost as if speaking to an equal.
‘It is a blessing for me to be home,’ said Arn. ‘Just as it is liberating to be able to speak the language of the Church and regain the free flight of the intellect, associations which move like birds in the air rather than crawl on the ground like turtles. When I attempt to speak my own childhood language it feels as though I have a piece of wood in my mouth instead of a tongue. Naturally this makes my joy even greater at being summoned to this audience, although no matter the occasion I would value the privilege of being presented to you.’
The archbishop at once introduced Bishop Stenar from V?xj?, whereupon Arn stepped forward and kissed Stenar’s ring as well before he sat down.
‘What does it signify that you are a Templar knight of the Lord and yet are dressed in a Folkung’s mantle?’ asked the archbishop with interest. It seemed that the conversation had now taken an entirely different turn than the two bishops had intended at first.
‘That is a complicated matter, at least at first glance, Your Eminence,’ said Arn. ‘As will be seen from the document I presented, I am forever a brother in our order, even though my service in a fighting unit was restricted in time to those twenty years during which I was serving my penance. But I do retain the right to take up my Templar mantle again at any time, which may also be seen in the written words of the Grand Master.’
‘As a Templar knight…does one not also take cloister vows?’ wondered the archbishop with a sudden concerned frown.
‘Naturally, all Templar knights swear poverty, obedience, and celibacy,’ Arn replied. ‘But as may be seen in lines 4 and 5 of the document, I was released from these vows at the moment my temporary service expired.’
The two bishops again leaned over the sheet of parchment, searching for the lines that Arn had indicated. They spelled their way through the passage and nodded in agreement. They also looked a bit relieved; Arn did not know why.
‘So now you are free both to own property and to wed,’ the archbishop stated with a sigh of relief, carefully rolling up the parchment document and handing it to Arn, who bowed and slipped it back into its leather holder.
‘But tell me,’ the archbishop asked, ‘if you do take up your white mantle, a right which you undeniably possess, to whom are you then subordinate? I have heard that you Templar knights are subordinate to no one. Can that really be true?’
‘No, but there is a grain of truth to your supposition, Your Eminence. As a Templar knight, and being of the rank of fortress master, I am subordinate to the Master of Jerusalem and the Grand Master of our Order, and we are all responsible to the Holy Father in Rome. But in the absence of the highest brothers and of the Holy Father, I am subordinate to no man, as Your Eminence supposed. Wearing the Folkung mantle I serve the king of the Swedes and Goths as well as my clan, as custom demands of us here in the North.’
‘So the moment you took up your white mantle again, you would not be subject to any of our commands here in the North,’ the archbishop summed up. ‘That is indeed an exceptional situation.’
‘A fascinating thought, Your Eminence. But it would be entirely foreign to me as a true Christian back in my homeland to flee your jurisdiction by throwing a white cloak of invisibility over myself, as it is told in the Greek myths.’
‘So your loyalty is first to the Kingdom of God and then to your clan?’ the archbishop asked quickly but with a cunning expression.
‘Such dualism is a purely false conception of the difference between the spiritual and the temporal; nothing can ever take precedence over the laws of Our Heavenly Father,’ Arn replied evasively, a bit surprised by the foolishness of the question.
‘You express yourself with admirable eloquence, Arn de Gothia,’ the archbishop commended him. At the same time he listened to something that Stenar of V?xj? was whispering to him and nodded in confirmation.
‘This conversation has been prolonged by a pleasant tone as well as unexpected content,’ the archbishop went on. ‘But time is hastening past, and we have souls waiting outside. We need to come to the point. Your time of penance was imposed on you because you sinned in the flesh with your betrothed, Cecilia Algotsdotter. Is that true?’
‘That is true,’ said Arn. ‘And I served this time of penance with sincerity and honour until my last day in the army of the Lord in the Holy Land. I do not wish to imply, of course, that I was a man free of sin, but merely that the sin which brought about my penance has undergone purification.’
‘That is our opinion as well,’ said the archbishop, sounding a bit strained. ‘But your love for this Cecilia kept you alive and strong during all these years, just as her love for you burned with the same clear flame?’
‘She has always been in my daily prayers to the Holy Virgin, Your Eminence,’ Arn replied cautiously, surprised that his innermost secrets were known to this somewhat rustic and unpolished archbishop.
‘And every day you prayed to the Holy Virgin that She might protect you, your beloved Cecilia, and your child who was born as a result of your sinful relations?’ the archbishop went on.
‘That is true,’ said Arn. ‘As I with my simple powers of comprehension understand it, the Holy Virgin has listened to my prayers. She has delivered me unharmed from the field of battle back to my beloved just as I had sworn to attempt if it were not granted me as a Templar knight to die for my salvation.’
‘Every day for twenty years you could have died and entered into Paradise; that is the special prerogative of the Knights Templar. And yet you were led unscathed back to your homeland. Would not that be proof of the divine grace that has been granted to you and Cecilia Algotsdotter?’ the archbishop asked.
‘Earthly love between man and woman certainly has its place among human beings in their life on earth, as the Holy Scriptures tell us time and again. In no way does it conflict with the love of God,’ Arn replied evasively, now discerning the intention behind the turn the discussion had taken.
‘Indeed, that is also my view,’ said the archbishop, sounding pleased. ‘In this somewhat barbaric part of God’s realm on earth, in this Ultima Thule, humans do tend to ignore this miracle of the Lord. Here the holy sacrament of marriage, ordained by God, is entered into for entirely different reasons than love, is it not?’
‘We undoubtedly do have such a tradition,’ Arn admitted. ‘However, it is my conviction and belief that Cecilia Algotsdotter and I were granted this grace by a miracle of love. I am also certain that the Holy Virgin allowed Her countenance to shine down upon us in order to show us something.’
‘Faith, hope, and charity,’ muttered the archbishop thoughtfully. ‘He who never wavers in his faith, he who never gives up hope in the benevolence of the Holy Virgin, shall be rewarded. In my opinion this is what She wants to show us all. Is that not your view as well, Arn de Gothia?’
‘Far be it from me to interpret otherwise than Your Eminence this wondrous thing that has befallen us,’ admitted Arn, now even more amazed by the archbishop’s knowledge and the good will he radiated.
‘Then in our opinion,’ drawled the archbishop with a look at Bishop Stenar, who nodded in agreement, ‘it would be a grave sin to oppose the high will that God’s Mother and thereby God have shown us in this matter. Come, my son, let me bless you!’
Arn once again stepped forward and knelt down before the archbishop, who motioned to one of his chaplains to bring a silver bowl of holy water.
‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Virgin I bless you, Arn de Gothia, who have been granted grace, who witnessed a miracle of love for the edification of all in this earthly life. And may the Lord’s countenance shine down upon you, may the Holy Virgin ever after walk by your side, and may you and your beloved Cecilia soon harvest the reward of grace, for which you both, burning with faith, have thirsted so long. Amen!’
During the blessing the archbishop touched Arn’s forehead, shoulders, and heart with the holy water.
Dazed and confused, Arn left the archbishop’s tent and stepped out into the light that now struck him sharply in the eyes, since the sun had sunk low in the west.
On the way back to the castle courtyard, where he felt sure he would find his brother still at the ale tents, he pondered what had just happened.
He did not see the benevolent hand of Our Lady behind it, although it was no doubt in accordance with Her will. He saw instead the will and intentions of human beings, but he didn’t understand how it all had fitted together. Nor did he understand how a simple Nordic bishop could have so much information about the intimate secrets of himself, Cecilia, and Our Lady.
He did not see Cecilia again until the grand council feast in the great hall, where a hundred guests were assembled just after sundown.
On Queen Blanca’s orders, branches of stock were raised at the head of the royal table, which made the women entering the hall whisper and titter happily.
The guests came into the hall in a specific order. The lowlier guests entered first and filled all the seats at the tables located farthest from the king’s table. There could be much grumbling over the seating arrangement, but the king’s ushers assiduously kept track so that nobody could seize a chance to claim a seat that was superior to his station.
Then came the guests who had seats at the king’s table; they always wore the most colourful clothing. All who were seated craned their necks to witness the splendour, or to complain about some neighbour or acquaintance who was unjustly honoured as a guest at the royal table.
Arn was among these guests, as was Harald, who made a point of complaining to his friend that he had not yet been introduced to either the jarl or the king, as if Norwegian kinsmen were not good enough. Arn whispered that there were reasons that had nothing to do with Harald’s honour; discord and rancorous discussion had delayed the introductions.
Next to last came the royal family with golden crowns, and the jarl, also wearing a crown. The king and queen were dressed in the most magnificent, but unfamiliar, clothing that shimmered in all the colours of the rainbow. The whole family wore blue mantles bordered with ermine, even the three princes who walked along chattering to each other as if this were a perfectly ordinary meal.
When the royal family members were seated the archbishop and his retinue entered, and the splendour of their clothing was no less splendid. The archbishop first blessed the royal family, and then he and all the other bishops took their seats.
Arn could see Cecilia seated far away. He tried to catch her eye, but she seemed to be hiding among the castle maidens near her and didn’t dare look in his direction.
When all the seats were filled but the two at the head of the table, the queen stood up, holding two leafy branches high over her head, one of birch and the other of rowan. An expectant murmur of approval at once rose in the hall, and the queen began to walk with the two branches, which she pretended to offer in jest or in earnest to first one, then another, then snatching them back as soon as a hand reached out. Everyone enjoyed this little drama, and speculated wildly about how it would end.
When the queen stopped next to Cecilia Rosa, who blushed and looked down at the table, they understood at least half the truth. Happy shouts and good wishes streamed toward Cecilia as she accepted the birch branch and with head bowed followed the queen to the vacant seat adorned with foliage.
Once again an expectant murmur arose when the queen held the rowan branch high above her head and slowly began walking toward the king’s table. She stopped at Arn’s seat; everyone knew him by reputation even if they had not had a chance to shake his hand, and loud shouts echoed from the stone walls, which were decorated only with banners of the Erik clan, showing golden crowns on a blue field.
Arn hesitated, not knowing what to do. But Queen Blanca whispered to him to hurry up and take the branch and follow her before it was too late. He stood up and followed along.
Queen Blanca led Arn to his beloved Cecilia, and there was such a great roar in the hall that no shout from king or jarl could have been heard.
When Arn, smiling uncertainly with his heart pounding as if before a battle, sat down next to Cecilia, the guests thumped their fists on the tables, raising a great commotion. The moment for the king or the jarl to do something had come and gone with the speed of a bird. The noise died down as the guests went back to their murmured conversations, thinking more about the anticipated meal than about the surprise they had just witnessed.
The jarl sat with his fists clenched, looking as if he were about to stand up, but he was forestalled by the archbishop, who raised both hands for silence. Taking out his white pallium, the holy sign of his high eminence, he slipped it over his back and chest and walked along the table until he reached Cecilia and Arn.
There he stopped and placed his right hand on Cecilia’s shoulder and his left on Arn’s.
‘Behold now the miracle of the Lord and of love!’ he announced in a loud voice, whereupon the whole hall fell silent, because what was happening was something entirely new. ‘This loving couple has in truth received the grace of Our Lady. They are meant to be together, for Our Lady has shown this more clearly than water. Their betrothal ale took place many years ago, so what occurs this evening is merely an affirmation. But when the wedding takes place, I promise that none of lower rank than archbishop shall be the one to read the benediction over you both at the church door. Amen!’
The archbishop walked with slow dignity and a look of satisfaction back to his place. On the way he exchanged a secret smile with the queen but avoided looking the king or the jarl in the eyes. He took off his pallium, sat down, and at once began speaking with the bishop sitting next to him. He acted as though the whole matter had already been decided.
And that was true. A woman could never become an abbess if her promise of betrothal had already been blessed by the archbishop. The sacrament of union between a man and woman was ordained by God, and what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.
The jarl sat there, white with fury under his emblem with the Folkung lion, the only insignia that was allowed in the castle hall besides the three crowns.
Suddenly he stood up, angrily knocking over the ale that had been placed before him, and strode out of the hall.