Birth of the Kingdom

FOUR

A stern and demanding new master came to Forsvik, the very day after he had sailed off to the king’s N?s. No one had expected him back so soon.
Arn scarcely spoke to Eskil and Ellen when he arrived. He said nothing about what had happened at N?s and why he was returning after only one day. This behaviour made it even more apparent that he was the new master of Forsvik.
The lovely summer repose that prevailed in Western G?taland, when there were only weeks left until the hay had to be harvested, was transformed at once into hard winter work. If timber was to be cut in the forest, it was preferable to do it in the wintertime when sleds could be used and the wood had a ringing dryness when it was felled. But as soon as he’d had something to eat after his unexpected arrival, Arn changed his clothes from lord to thrall by hanging up his chain mail and all the blue finery and putting on the leather clothing of a thrall, even though he still wore his sword. All the servants who could be spared from transferring cargo from the ships on Lake V?ttern to the riverboats were ordered to work with him, as well as the five guards and the boys Sune and Sigfrid.
Much about his behaviour was surprising. They were surprised to see Sir Arn working with the axe and draft oxen more than anyone else. It was also unusual that he commanded the five guards at Forsvik to work like thralls, just as he did Sune and Sigfrid, who not only were somewhat young for such hard work, but also Folkung boys who should be learning swordsmanship and good manners rather than thralls’ work.
On the second day, when the amazement at these foreign customs had subsided, to be replaced by sweat and blistered hands, a few people began to grumble. Torben the guard, who was the eldest among his peers at Forsvik, dared to say aloud what everyone else was thinking, that it was shameful for guards to work like thralls.
When Arn heard this he stopped wielding the axe, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stood silent for a long moment.
‘Good,’ he said at last. ‘When the sun has moved less than half an hour, I want to see all you guards fully armed and on horseback out in the barnyard. And make sure you’re not late!’
They put down their tools in surprise and walked muttering toward the farm buildings as Arn finished up felling timber, loaded an ox-cart with two heavy pine logs, and drove them home. He told the servants and Sune and Sigfrid which two trees should be felled next and then stripped of their branches.
So Sune and Sigfrid were among those who were supposed to continue the logging work, but their curiosity was stronger than their will to obey Sir Arn. They waited until almost a half hour had passed, then sneaked down to the farm and up into one of the barns; from there they could peer out a vent hole down onto the barnyard. They would never forget what they saw and heard.
The five retainers were sitting on horseback in a square formation, with Torben foremost as the leader. They were sullenly quiet but also looked as though they were more nervous than they wanted to let on. No one said a word.
Then Sir Arn emerged from the stable on one of his small foreign horses. He rode two times around the barnyard at high speed, keeping a strict eye on the guards before he turned toward Torben and pulled up. He had put on his chain mail but wore no helmet. In one hand he held a white shield with a red cross, which made the two young spies shiver all over, because they knew quite well that this was the sign of the Knights Templar.
Instead of a sword Sir Arn held a heavy pine branch, which he tested by striking it against his naked calf as he watched the guards.
‘All of you found working on construction unworthy of you,’ Arn said at last. ‘You want to do the work of guards, which you find more worthy. And so you shall. Whoever can knock me off my horse will be excused. But anyone I knock off his horse will have to go back to cutting down pine trees!’
He said no more, but his steed began to move to the side, almost as fast as a horse could move forward; when it neared one of the barns it turned, moved obliquely backward and suddenly forward again. To Sune and Sigfrid it looked like magic. They couldn’t see what Arn was doing to make the horse dance like that. No one could ride a horse that way, and yet it was happening before their eyes.
Suddenly Arn attacked with two leaps forward, so fast that the guard who was closest didn’t have time to put up his shield before he was struck so hard in the side with the pine branch that he slumped forward with a groan. Then Arn was suddenly upon him, toppling him to the ground with a single shove. In the next instant he had quickly backed away from Torben, who had come up behind him with his sword drawn and took a wild swing, striking nothing but air.
Before Torben could look around, Arn caught up with him from the rear and pulled him easily out of his saddle. Then he urged his mount forward in two quick leaps between two of the younger guards, who raised their shields in defence.
But instead of continuing forward, Sir Arn’s horse turned suddenly and kicked to the rear so that the guards’ horses shied and reared up, not regaining their composure before Sir Arn had doubled back and struck one of the guards on the helmet with his branch, and the other across his sword arm so that the guard bent forward in the saddle, moaning in pain.
Instead of bothering any more with the two he had struck, Sir Arn sprang toward the fifth guard and raised his branch as if to deal a mighty blow. His opponent in turn raised his shield to parry the blow, only to find the attack coming from the other direction, pushing him from the saddle with such force that he flew off and landed on his back.
Sune and Sigfrid no longer cared about hiding. With wide eyes they leaned so far out the vent hole up in the barn that they almost fell to the ground. Down in the barnyard things were happening so fast that they could hardly keep up, and they whispered to each other excitedly, trying to figure out how everything was done. Sir Arn was dealing with Forsvik’s mighty guards as if they were kittens – anyone could see that.
‘This is a guard’s work at Forsvik,’ said Arn as he sat on his horse, the last man in the saddle, while the others were sitting or lying on the ground, or standing bent over with pain in body and limbs.
‘If you’d like to continue working as guards, then gather up your weapons and get into the saddle again, and we’ll start the game over.’
Arn looked at them for a moment without saying a word. But none of them made a move to remount his horse. Arn nodded as though what he saw confirmed what he had believed.
‘Then you can all go back to working in the woods. For two or three days, until Herr Eskil and my friend Harald arrive, we will work on the logging. Those of you who do good work will then be able to choose to join the guard at Arn?s or stay here at Forsvik. Anyone who chooses to stay here will be employed as a guard, but will not be as easy to beat as all of you were today.’
Arn turned his horse without a word and rode it straight into the stable. Sune and Sigfrid sneaked down from their vantage point and dashed back to the logging area without being discovered. They talked breathlessly about what they had seen. They knew that Sir Arn had given them a glimpse into a knight’s world. The sight was like a wondrous dream, for what young Folkung wouldn’t give several years of his life to be able to do even half of what they had just witnessed a real Templar knight do.
Neither of them let on when Arn and the five bruised and silent guards came back to the work site in work clothes. The two boys now made an effort to do their very best, and they forced themselves not to ask any questions about what had happened in the barnyard.
When the two young Folkungs went to bed late that evening in their own wooden bunks up in one of the big ash trees outside the barnyard, they had a hard time sleeping despite their weary, aching bodies. Time after time they tried to describe what they had seen that afternoon. A horse that moved like a bird, just as fast and just as unpredictably, a horse that obeyed its rider as if it could be guided by thought alone and not by knees, reins, and spurs. And a rider who seemed to be one with his horse, so that the combination was like an animal from the sagas. If Sir Arn had been holding a sword in his hand instead of a tree branch, he could have killed the five guards as easily as killing a freshly caught trout. It was a terrible thought. Especially for someone who was merely a simple guard.
But it was a delightful, dreamlike thought for anyone who hoped to be taught by Sir Arn and become a knight. Sune and Sigfrid did not lack for dreams as weariness finally vanquished their excitement.

After three days of heavy toil a large quantity of pine logs was stacked up outside the barnyard at Forsvik. Nobody knew what was going to be built with all this lumber, nor had anyone dared asked the taciturn Sir Arn, who worked harder than any of them.
But on the third day Herr Eskil and Harald the Norwegian returned from the king’s N?s, and the five retainers at Forsvik were then relieved of the manual labour. Arn told them that those who wanted to enter new service at Arn?s should prepare to depart that day. Those who would rather stay in his service at Forsvik to continue learning the art of war should speak up. Not one of them chose to stay at Forsvik.
There was a great commotion at the estate, because many would now have to move, travelling on riverboats to Arn?s and Kinnekulle. Erling and Ellen, who with their sons and closest servants would be leaving Forsvik for a much better estate, tried one last time to have a serious talk with their son Sigfrid and foster-son Sune about whether they really wanted to be separated from their parents at such a tender age. Erling scowled when he heard how they had both been put to work like thralls, and it shocked him that this affront seemed to have reinforced the boys’ desire to serve Sir Arn. Yet there was still time for them to change their minds, since it was decided that both Sune and Sigfrid would accompany their brothers and parents on the river journey. There were apparently many horses that had to be ridden back to Forsvik from Arn?s. Sune and Sigfrid seemed to be looking forward to this task too; they said they had an idea what special sort of horses might be involved.
As soon as the welcome ale was drunk, Herr Eskil and his brother and the Norwegian went off to sit down by the lakeshore. They had made it clear that they were not to be disturbed, so nobody approached them except when Eskil called for more ale.
At first Eskil only half in jest complained about drinking ale with a brother who was both dressed as a thrall and smelled like one. Arn replied that it was one thing if sweat came from indolence and revelry, and quite another if it came from blessed hard work. As far as thrall clothing was concerned, there were few thralls who wore the sword of a Templar knight. But they had much more important things to discuss. Arn told them he’d been working so hard in order not to think about all the things he had not been able to understand on his own.
This was indeed true, for it wasn’t easy to divine what sort of game had been played out at the king’s N?s. But Queen Blanca had clearly had a hand in most of it.
Soon after the council feast she had summoned Arn. Her message was that everything was at stake, and so he was forced to comply.
He met her at sunrise up on the rampart wall that connected the west and the east towers at N?s. They had only a brief discussion because she explained that it would not be good if anyone saw the queen alone up on the ramparts with an unmarried man.
She said quickly what she had to say. Arn must leave N?s at once and take the boat to Forsvik, then wait there several days until the council meeting was over. At present there were many enemies and evil tongues arrayed against him, and it was especially important that there be no hint that Arn and Cecilia Rosa were able to meet in secret. Such gossip could ruin everything. But there would be a wedding, Queen Blanca assured him. And it would take place as soon as the three weeks had passed before Midsummer; during that time weddings were forbidden. Until then, Arn and Cecilia Rosa must not meet. Except possibly at the house of Cecilia Rosa’s parents in Husaby, but only in the presence of many witnesses. Because this would be a wedding that many people thought would lead to war and destruction and should thus be prevented by any means necessary.
Arn told Eskil and Harald how these words from the queen had tormented him. There was no mistaking her gravity, or her wisdom. And yet it was not easy simply to take his leave.
Arn had even tried to object that he’d been promoted to marshal in the king’s council and so could not leave N?s. Queen Blanca laughed heartily at this, telling him not to worry about that. Birger Brosa, in his wrath, had declared that he would not sit on the same council with the promise-breaker Arn Magnusson.
She would explain everything to Eskil, she told him as she hurried off, dismissing any further questions. And so Arn had taken her at her word.
Eskil too had objected that Arn’s presence in the council was unavoidable, but she explained that Arn would never assume the rank of marshal of the realm. Any chance of that had been ruined as soon as the jarl declared that it would take place only over his dead body.
The council meeting had otherwise gone well, and the bishops were not in the least surprised that there was no further talk of a new abbess at Riseberga. They were pleased, however, to learn that the king had donated land and forests worth six gold marks for a new cloister at Julita in Svealand.
It was clear that the queen had been in cahoots with the archbishop. Eskil had no doubt that Arn had been as much in the dark as he was about what was happening behind their backs. What they couldn’t understand was why the queen could do all these things that were so clearly contrary to her own benefit. If Cecilia Rosa really did go to the bridal bed with Arn, the whole idea of her bearing witness against the perjury of the evil Mother Rikissa would be dead. In that case it would be uncertain whether the queen’s own son Erik could inherit the crown. Queen Blanca’s husband and king might well view this as treason.
Yet there was no denying the shrewdness of the two Cecilias. In less than a day they had fooled all the men: the king, the jarl, Eskil, and Arn himself.
But there was a more important matter that was bothering Eskil. He now had the responsibility of arranging the wedding at Arn?s, for there and nowhere else should it be held.
If he arranged this wedding he would make an enemy of Birger Brosa; if not, his own brother would become his foe. It was not a good choice.
When Eskil explained his concern, Arn said, ‘I understand your anguish, but you could never be my enemy no matter what you decide. Naturally the bridal procession would be long and perilous from Cecilia’s Husaby to Forsvik, instead of to Arn?s. But we could arrange it that way.’
‘No!’ said Eskil bluntly. ‘You shall never choose Ingrid Ylva instead of Cecilia as our uncle wished. Nothing shall stop you and Cecilia Rosa. I no longer care why this is so, I just know it is. What must occur shall not take place in secret and shame. It shall take place at Arn?s with pipes and drums and wedding guests lined up three deep!’
When they got beyond this rough spot in the conversation, they soon began talking easily about what would be done in the immediate future. Harald had received a letter with both Birger Brosa’s and King Knut’s seals to take to King Sverre in Norway. The ship down south in L?d?se had to be outfitted and manned, for soon Harald must start his first journey to fetch dried fish, if he wanted to make two trips to Lofoten that summer before the autumn storms arrived with the north wind that made it difficult to sail so far north. But even two trips should produce a good profit, and Harald would not be left without a good share of it.
It was good that Harald needed a crew, said Arn. Because at Arn?s there were five Norwegian retainers who would certainly want to sail with Harald, especially since he was travelling with a royal letter of safe conduct. And here at Forsvik there were five retainers who had lost all desire to continue in Arn’s service. They could replace the five Norwegians at Arn?s as early as tomorrow.
Arn was also going to need some thralls skilled in construction from Arn?s, and he tried to remember the names of the two who had been among the best when he was a boy. Eskil thought hard and recalled that one of them was probably dead; the other, named Gur, was still alive but very old. Yet he still lived at Arn?s with full right to bed and board, even though he could no longer work. His son, named Gure, was just as skilled as his father had once been at masonry and wood construction. There were other thralls who were good builders, although Eskil couldn’t remember their names at the moment.
Half of the foreigners at Arn?s would be moving to Forsvik, Arn went on. Only half of them were good stonemasons, but the others had skills that would be more useful at Forsvik.
After they had disposed of these matters, Eskil had a more difficult question for Arn. It was about Eskil’s only son Torgils.
Naturally Eskil had wanted Torgils to turn out like himself, a man of trade and silver, wealth and cunning. He had pondered this matter long and hard, but he realized that he couldn’t change Torgils. By the age of seventeen the youth was already riding in the king’s retinue, and his reputation was more for his skill with the bow and sword than for any interest in trade, like his father. Instead Torgils was going to take after his uncle Arn. So it was, and nothing could be done about it.
‘And what is it you’d like to tell me about this matter?’ Arn asked.
‘My son Torgils does not yet know that you’ve come back to our realm. He knows all the ballads about you, and there are times when I think he loves the saga about you more than he loves his own father.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true. But young men would rather dream about swords than about counting chambers, and we can’t take their dreams away from them. Nor should we, but rather turn their dreams to something good. Now to your question.’
‘Torgils is up at Bj?lbo right now with the king’s eldest son Erik and your son Magnus,’ said Eskil. ‘They’re having a feast and competing in archery. That’s why none of them was at N?s—’
‘I already know that,’ Arn cut him off impatiently. ‘Cecilia told me about it. But now…your question?’
‘May Torgils be apprenticed to you?’ Eskil hastened to ask. ‘My thought is that if he has to live by the sword, then he ought to have the best of teachers, and—’
‘Yes!’ Arn interrupted him. ‘You don’t seem to have noticed how close I was to asking you the same thing first, although I feared that such a question might displease you. Send Torgils to me and I’ll make him the warrior he probably could never become among the king’s retainers. Young Sigfrid Erlingsson and Sune Folkesson are already in my service!’
Eskil bowed his head in relief, gazing into his empty ale tankard. Suddenly an idea struck him.
‘You’re planning to build up a force of Folkung knights!’ he said, his face brightening.
‘Yes, that is precisely my idea,’ Arn admitted with a glance at Harald. ‘And now I must tell you something that no other ears may hear, except for Harald who is my closest friend. Here at Forsvik I shall build a cavalry that can stand against Franks or Saracens, if only I’m able to get the men while they’re still young enough to learn. But they may only be Folkungs, for the force I’m planning must not end up outside our clan. And with your son Torgils that’s especially important, since he will become the lord of Arn?s. It is he who one day shall stand on the walls and look down on the Sverker army. And by that time he will know everything that a victor must know. But only Folkungs, remember that, Eskil!’
‘But what about Eriks?’ Eskil wondered. ‘The Eriks are our brothers, aren’t they?’
‘At the moment they are, and I have personally sworn loyalty to King Knut,’ Arn said calmly. ‘But we know nothing about the future. Perhaps the Eriks and Sverkers will join forces against us some day, for reasons we can’t predict. But one thing is certain. If we build Arn?s to be a strong fortress, and God blesses our efforts to form a Folkung cavalry, no one will be able to defeat us. In this way we can avoid war, or at least shorten it, and power will be ours. My friend Harald has now heard what we intended only for the ears of close kinsmen. But if you ask him, he’ll agree that I’m right.’
‘What Arn says is true,’ said Harald. ‘Arn is the one who taught me to be a warrior, though I may have been too old when I went into his service. Arn taught many squadrons to wage war both forward in attack and backward in retreat, just as he and other knights like him do. He taught archers, sappers, foot soldiers, and both light and heavy cavalry, as well as the master armourers and sword smiths. If any clan in the North is taught these secrets of the Knights Templar, be they Birchlegs or Folkungs, Eriks or Sverkers, then all power will reside with that clan. Believe me, Eskil, for I’ve seen all this with my own eyes. Everything I say is true. I’m the son of a Norwegian king and I stand by my word!’

Queen Cecilia Blanca did not give her husband the king a peaceful moment until she got her way. He sighed at the fact that the calm that usually settled over N?s after a three-day council meeting was scant this time. But no matter what objections he thought up, she had at least two counter-arguments for him. He found it much too great an honour for an unmarried woman such as Cecilia Rosa to ride with more than a dozen of the king’s retainers as protection. That was befitting a jarl, not an unmarried woman.
But the queen replied that nothing prevented her from sending her own retainers, for Cecilia Rosa was her dearest friend in life and everyone knew it. Who could be opposed to that?
King Knut insisted that it was excessive to send so many armed men with one woman. It would be a sign that they were expecting foul play.
The queen countered that no worse fate could befall the kingdom right now than for something to happen to Cecilia Rosa on the perilous journey she was about to undertake. With a sigh the king said that Cecilia Rosa could probably do no more harm with her death than she was doing by going to the bridal bed instead of to Riseberga cloister.
Showing not the least wifely kindness, the queen told him what would happen to the kingdom if Cecilia Rosa were killed or wounded. It would divide the Folkungs at once, with Eskil and Arn Magnusson on one side, and Birger Brosa and his Bj?lbo branch on the other. And where would Magnus M?nesk?ld stand in the dispute? He was both Birger Brosa’s foster kinsman and Arn Magnusson’s son. And what if Folkung support for the crown began to waver? What would happen to the power in the kingdom then?
King Knut had to admit that the very thought of a schism among the Folkungs was a nightmare. It would throw him and his Erik clan into the midst of a conflict that could endanger his son Erik’s claim to the crown. Even worse, the crown might soon sit loosely on his own head. In this much he admitted she was right. But a split had already occurred, since Birger Brosa had set off for Bj?lbo with many harsh words for both Arn and Eskil.
Queen Blanca thought that time would soon heal this rift. Once God’s will had made it clear that nothing could be changed, all the excitement would die down. But if anything happened to Cecilia Rosa before the bridal night, they would have a fearsome foe in Arn Magnusson.
King Knut had no problem with agreeing that things could not get any worse than that. In a world where so much was decided by the sword, it was crucial to have a man like Arn Magnusson on his side. So it was even worse that Birger Brosa in his unusual fit of wrath had sworn that he would rather resign the power of the jarl than welcome Arn into the council as the new marshal. Any way they twisted and turned these questions, the pain remained like a rotting tooth.
As if nothing more need be said, the queen replied that the only sure cure for a toothache was to pull the bad tooth, and the sooner the better.

For Cecilia Rosa the following weeks passed as though they had taken from her both her freedom and her free will – as if she were floating with the current without being able to make the slightest decision for herself. She couldn’t even decide about something as simple as travelling between N?s and Riseberga cloister, as she had done so many times before.
Because she was accompanied by twelve retainers, the journey took two days longer. Normally she would have simply sailed north on Lake V?ttern to ?mmeberg and continued from there in a smaller riverboat up to ?mmelangen and through the lakes to ?stansj?. From there it would have been only a day’s ride to Riseberga.
But with twelve guards and their horses and all their gear, it was impossible to take the water route. They had to ride all the way from ?mmeberg.
She usually would have ridden with one or two men over whom she had authority. Now the guards from the king’s castle spoke of her like an item of cargo, although she was sitting on her horse right next to them. They called her ‘the wench,’ arguing about what was best for the wench’s safety and how best the wench could seek lodging for the night. The journey kept being delayed when the leader of the guards ordered men to ride ahead to scout a stretch of woods or check a ford before they rode over it. With all this extra trouble it took more than four days to reach Riseberga.
At first she had tried to close her ears and turn inward to her own dreams, sending prayers of thanksgiving to Our Lady every hour. By the second day she could no longer stand being referred to and treated like a load of silver instead of a human being. She rode up alongside Adalvard, the leader of the expedition, a man from the Erik clan.
She told him that she had made this journey many times, and only once had encountered highwaymen. The highwaymen had let her pass undisturbed when she explained that she came from the cloister and that her cargo was merely manuscripts and church silver. The bandits, who were young and had few weapons, had not frightened her in the least. Then how was it that a royal guard riding with the sign of the three crowns in the lead, a sight which should have scared off most highwaymen, was making such a fuss and displaying such timidity at every bend in the road?
Looking surly, Adalvard replied that it was his job to judge what was safe or not safe on this route, according to his own experience and knowledge. Naturally a woman of the convent would know all sorts of things that he did not. But now they had to make it through the woods of Tiveden alive, and that was something he knew best how to accomplish.
Cecilia Rosa was not satisfied with this answer, but she let it drop when their retinue came upon a farm that seemed large enough to house a dozen guards, their horses, and a wench.
The next morning, when they had proceeded a short distance along the road, she rode up to Adalvard and complained that it was not flattering to be treated like a prisoner being led to the ting to be hanged. Those words made more of an impression on him than her queries about their safety. He excused himself by saying that they were all responsible for her with their own lives.
It was a while before she spoke with Adalvard again. She was on her way to her wedding with Arn because Our Lady had listened to their prayers and allowed Herself to be persuaded. She had spared Arn for some other purpose besides the direct path to Paradise achieved through a martyr’s death. What sort of safety did Cecilia need on her simple journey to Riseberga, other than the gentle, protective hands of Our Lady?
Cecilia Rosa was well aware that such religious reasoning would hardly impress a man like Adalvard. He was acting under the king’s orders, and his first priority was man’s will, and then possibly God’s will. Or perhaps he considered it a man’s obligation to do his utmost and in that way fulfil God’s will.
But something wasn’t right. There must be some danger that she didn’t understand, while the men accompanying her feared for their lives because they were aware of the peril.
Once again she left her place in the column and rode up next to Adalvard.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me, Adalvard; that you are all responsible for me with your lives,’ she began. ‘I certainly should have displayed less impatience and more gratitude. I hope you will forgive me.’
‘Milady has nothing to apologize for. We have sworn to obey the king’s orders to the death, and until then we do not lead a hard life.’
‘You can see that I ride with a stirrup on each side, like a man,’ Cecilia went on. ‘Haven’t you wondered about this?’
‘Yes, I have, because it is most unusual for a wench, milady.’
‘I ride a great deal on my errands from Riseberga. I might even spend as much time on horseback as a royal guard,’ Cecilia continued innocently. ‘So I’ve sewn a woman’s outfit with two skirts, one around each leg. And over them I wear an apron. I look like a woman, but I can ride like a man. And you should know one thing. If the danger comes that you mentioned, I can flee faster than most of the guards here with their heavy horses. If you want to protect me from attack, we mustn’t stand and fight but ride off as fast as we can.’
Finally Cecilia had said something that made Adalvard regard her as a person with her own thoughts and not as a pile of silver. Excusing himself politely, he rode off and spoke animatedly to some of his men, waving his arms. Those he talked to fell back and spread the word.
When he rode back to Cecilia he seemed pleased and more amenable to conversation than during the previous part of the journey. Then Cecilia saw that the ground had been prepared for what she really wanted to ask.
‘Tell me, Adalvard, my faithful defender, and as a man at the king’s N?s who knows so much more than a simple woman from the cloister, why should I, a poor woman from the weak P?l clan, be the target of foul play?’
‘Poor?’ Adalvard laughed and gave her a searching glance, as if to see whether she was jesting. ‘That may be the case now,’ he grumbled, ‘but soon there will be a wedding and as the wife of a Folkung a third of his property will become yours. You’ll soon be rich, milady. Anyone who kidnapped such a bride would also get rich from the ransom.’
‘Well, it gives me a safe feeling to have such powerful giants by my side,’ Cecilia replied, only half satisfied with what she had learned. ‘But that can’t be the whole story, can it? To protect me from poor highwaymen and kidnappers with poor weapons it shouldn’t take this many men. Wouldn’t it be enough that they saw our banner with the three crowns?’
‘Yes, that’s true, milady,’ said Adalvard. And enlivened by their conversation he continued to explain, as Cecilia had hoped he would.
‘I am of the clan of King Knut and his father Saint Erik. But my older brothers inherited all my father’s farms, so becoming a retainer was my fate. I’m not complaining. Any man from the Erik clan knows how things stand in the kingdom when it comes to the struggle for power. Your life, milady, is in the centre of this struggle for power – as is your death.’
‘I don’t understand very much of the world of men,’ Cecilia said humbly. ‘So much the greater will be my pleasure at riding beside a member of the Erik clan if he can explain to me things that are beyond the comprehension of a cloister woman. What does my death or my life have to do with the struggle for power?’
‘Well, I can’t tell you anything that you won’t find out later anyway,’ said Adalvard, pleased to be the one who possessed the truth about life. ‘You should have become the abbess; then I could never have spoken to you as irreverently as I do now. But as abbess you would have sworn against the testament of the previous abbess, and then King Knut’s eldest son would have inherited the crown. But this is all something you already know, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. But if that’s not going to happen, then why would any of the Sverkers wish me any harm?’
‘If they kill us all – you, milady, myself, and all my men – then every man in the kingdom would believe that it was the Sverkers who were responsible for the foul deed, even if it wasn’t true,’ Adalvard replied with sudden distaste. He regretted the turn the discussion had taken.
‘In that case wouldn’t the wisest thing be to kill Arn Magnusson?’ asked Cecilia without the slightest quaver in her voice.
‘Yes, it would. Everyone knows that we Eriks would gain from such a murder, because there would be no wedding between the two of you. You, milady, could become abbess even more quickly since both grief and loneliness would drive you to the cloister. But I swear that we’re thinking no such thing, because that would mean breaking our alliance with the Folkungs, which has been sealed with many oaths. If the Eriks and the Folkungs start to feud, both clans will have ceded all power to the Sverkers.’
‘So now the Sverkers would most like to kill Arn Magnusson and make it look as though you Eriks were guilty of the deed,’ Cecilia filled in his thoughts. Her voice was firm, but she felt a lightning bolt strike her heart when she spoke the words.
‘That is true,’ Adalvard said with a smile. ‘If the Sverkers could kill Arn Magnusson and put the blame on us Eriks, they would gain a great deal. But who would they send to Arn?s or Forsvik to commit such a treacherous crime? Odin, who could make himself invisible? Or Thor, whose hammer could make the whole world rumble? No, there is no killer who can sneak up on Arn Magnusson in secret, you may rest assured of that, milady.’
Adalvard had a long laugh at his suggestion of Odin and Thor. Although these jests seemed ill-placed to Cecilia, she still found great comfort in them.
When they finally arrived at Riseberga, Cecilia went straight to her chambers and stood a long while with her hand on an abacus, taking in the scent of parchment and ink. A room full of documents had a special smell that was unmistakable, and she knew that later in life she would always be able to recall it.
But she still had a hard time grasping that this was really a moment of farewell. She had lived so long among these account books that in her heart she had imagined doing so for the rest of her life. No, she had imagined it as the only life available to her in this world, while Arn Magnusson belonged in the world of dreams.
Her farewell was difficult and a bit tearful. The two Sverker maidens who had been granted asylum at Riseberga, despite the fact that Birger Brosa later disapproved of this action, wept more than the others. For they had stood closest to Cecilia and were the ones she had taught most lovingly about needlework, gardening, and bookkeeping. Now the two would be alone without the yconoma’s protection, and their hope that Cecilia would return as the new abbess had been crushed.
Cecilia consoled them both as best she could, assuring them that they could always send her messages and that she would stay informed about what was happening at Riseberga. But her words did not offer as much solace as she intended. Yet she promised to keep them in her thoughts.
Now Cecilia had to take her leave. She considered the abacus that she had made herself to be her own property, and so she took it with her. She owned a horse, saddle, and tack. She had paid out of her own salary for her winter mantle and boots lined with dog furs. Beyond this she owned only the clothing she was wearing at present and a few garments for feasts held at N?s.
When she and Cecilia Blanca were young they had worn the same size clothes. But now, with seven childbirths separating them, it was only Cecilia Rosa who could wear the same clothes as in her youth. It may not have been only the childbirths. At N?s there was a constant diet of pork, or even worse, salt pork, which required a great deal of ale. In the cloisters where Cecilia Rosa had mostly lived in recent years, anything resembling gluttony was forbidden.
She also owned one and a half marks in silver, the wages she had earned honestly during the time she had been yconoma at Riseberga as a free woman and not as a penitent. She took out the silver, weighed it, and made a note in the account book that she had now taken what belonged to her.
At that moment she realized how little she knew about her own poverty or wealth. It was as though she had long been heading toward taking the cloister vows. Because of this she knew much more about each and every ?rtug owed to the cloister than she knew about any wealth she herself might possess.
When her father Algot died, he had left only two daughters as his heirs, Cecilia and Katarina. So each of them should have inherited half of the estates belonging to the clan around Husaby and Kinnekulle. But Katarina had been sent to Gudhem convent for her sins and there she had renounced all earthly possessions. Had she also renounced her inheritance? If so, to whom had it gone, to Cecilia or to Gudhem? And how much, in either case, did Cecilia own of the estates around Husaby?
She had never asked herself these questions. It was as though she had never thought of herself as the owner of worldly goods, merely as the administrator of the Church’s property.
The one and a half marks in silver that she held in her hand would be enough to buy a lovely mantle. But there was a Folkung mantle she had worked on for three years, the most beautiful of all, lined with marten fur. The lion on the back was sewn with gold and silver thread from Lübeck, and red Frankish thread had been used for the lion’s mouth and tongue. No mantle in the entire kingdom had such a brilliant sheen; it was the most magnificent work she had ever sewn in all her years at the convent. And she had never been able to conceal her dream from those around her, or from herself: to see this mantle worn by Arn Magnusson.
Such a mantle, she knew very well, was worth as much as a farm with both thralls and livestock. The mantle belonged to Riseberga cloister, even though she had sewn it with her own hands.
But it had been her dream; it could never be worn by any but a Folkung, and by no Folkung other than Arn. For a long time she sat with the quill in her hand before she conquered her doubt. Then she wrote a promissory note for fifteen marks in silver, fanned the ink dry, and stuffed the note into the correct pigeonhole.
Then she went to the storeroom and found the mantle. She held it against her cheek and breathed in the strong scent that was meant to keep moths away rather than to promote sweet dreams of love. She folded it up and put it under her arm.
At the farewell mass she took Communion.

For young Sune Folkesson and his foster brother Sigfrid, the ride between Arn?s and Forsvik was like having their most fervent wish fulfilled.
Each was now riding one of the foreign horses; Sune on a roan with a black mane and tail, Sigfrid on a sorrel with mane and tail that were almost white. Sir Arn had carefully selected the two young stallions and tried them both out first, ridden them, and played with them before deciding which boy should have which horse. He had curtly but gravely explained that both horses were young, like their new owners, and that it was important for them to grow older along with their horses, that this was the beginning of a friendship that would last until death, for only death could separate them from a horse from Outremer.
Arn hadn’t spent much time explaining the difference between these horses and Nordic horses, perhaps because he could see in the eyes of his two kinsmen that they already understood. Unlike grown men in Western G?taland, the two boys realized at once that these horses were almost like fairy-tale horses compared with the Gothic horses that the retainers rode.
Sune and Sigfrid, like nearly all their contemporaries from clans with a coat of arms, had been riding horses almost since they could walk; riding for them was like breathing or drinking water, something they no longer had to learn.
Until now, that is. Now they had to start over from scratch. The first difference they noted was the pacing. If they urged on these horses like a Nordic horse, the speed after only two or three leaps would be so dizzying that the wind filled their eyes with tears and swept their long hair straight back. The other difference they could see at once was the liveliness of their new steeds. Whereas a Nordic horse might take three steps to move sideways, these horses would take ten. This gave the rider the feeling of floating as if on water; he didn’t feel the movement but simply noted the change in position. Where a Nordic horse would move straight forward, following his head, these horses would move to the side or diagonally as if they were frolicking their way forward. It was a bit like taking a boat down rapids without really being able to steer; the slightest careless movement could lead to totally different results than those one intended.
To this extent it was like starting over, learning to ride all over again, since there were a thousand new possibilities to learn to control. The boys recalled how Sir Arn had done just that in the barnyard at Forsvik when he rode his horse with movements that looked impossible, toying with the guards as if they were kittens.
They were thirteen men riding through the forest, if Sune and Sigfrid could be counted as men. At Arn?s, Herr Eskil had given them each a small, faded blue mantle for which he had no more use; he and his brother had worn them when they were young. So now there were three men riding in blue Folkung mantles, with Sir Arn in the lead.
The foreigners had wrapped themselves in several layers of cloth and wore either headdresses made of thick bundles of cloth or strange pointed helmets with cloth around the bottom. The ones who wore such helmets were the best horsemen, and they also carried peculiar curved swords, bows on their backs, and quivers at their hips.
The group rode in a loose circle formation, and in the centre was the flock of horses with no riders. It wasn’t easy to understand how this was done, but after only an hour it became clear that all the loose horses were following the slightest variation in course made by Sir Arn.
This cavalcade of horses toward Forsvik rode straight through the forest where there were no roads. It was hard to see how Sir Arn could be so sure of the direction in a trackless wood; now and then he glanced up at the sun, that was all. And yet toward the end of the day it turned out that he had ridden straight for the Utter ford on the River Tidan, just above where the Askeberga ting met. When the beech forest thinned out and the landscape opened, they could see the river below them like a long, glittering snake. And they approached it at precisely the spot where the horses could make their way across without difficulty.
As they neared Askeberga they rode past one riverboat after another bringing cargo from Arn?s, along with some of the foreigners who did not want to ride. It seemed as though some of their cargo was so precious that they did not want to be parted from it; they sat suspiciously atop the wooden crates that were securely bound with leather thongs. Sune thought it must be gold or silver that they were guarding so carefully, but Sigfrid disagreed, since such treasures would have been stored in the tower chamber at Arn?s. They told themselves they would find out soon enough, when the whole party arrived in Forsvik.
At Askeberga all the horses were unsaddled, curried, and watered. Sir Arn then came over to Sune and Sigfrid and demonstrated the care and love they would have to show their horses from now on. Every little burr had to be removed from their tails and manes, and every inch of the horses’ bodies had to be inspected and groomed, just as each hoof had to be scraped clean and examined to make sure there was no stone or root stuck in it. And while these tasks were being done, they had to keep talking to their friend, for such a horse was a friend for life, and the greater the friendship between a horse and rider, the better they would be able to work together. The friendship was more important than any movements they made with their legs and hands to command the horses. Soon they would have to learn far more than they could imagine, because not only would they have to be faster at a full gallop than any other rider in the North, they also had to learn to ride backwards and to the side, as none of their kinsmen or friends could do. It would take time.
But during all that time they had to maintain the friendship with their horse and let that friendship grow from one day to the next; that was the foundation of all horsemanship.
Sune and Sigfrid felt at once a strong assurance that everything Sir Arn was saying was part of the great secret, even though to others’ ears it might have sounded more crazy than wise. For the sight of Sir Arn on his horse out in the barnyard in Forsvik had been incised into their memory.
An hour before prayers Arn took out his bow, strung it, and grabbed a quiver of arrows to go out and practice. He no longer lived according to the strict Rule which had been his guide for so many years that he could hardly remember his life without it. He was no longer a Templar knight; on the contrary, he would soon enter into the carnal union of man and woman blessed by God. But the Rule condemned idleness as much as pride – the indolence of not practicing the arts of war so as to be able to serve God in the hour of danger, and the pride of imagining oneself to be sufficiently skilled without practice.
He found the bale of hay that he and Harald had used as a target the last time they were in Askeberga, and headed towards the river to find a place where he would not be disturbed. Young Sune and Sigfrid came sneaking after him in the belief that he, a Templar knight, would not discover that he was being followed. At first he was tempted to pretend not to notice them, just as he had done the time they saw him chastising the lazy guards at Forsvik. But he changed his mind and picked up his pace so that he managed to hide behind a thick oak. Then he grabbed the two boys by the scruff of their necks when they came padding after him.
He warned them sternly never to follow a knight in secret. For as they surely had heard at Arn?s, his brother Eskil would have preferred to see a retinue of at least a dozen guards on the way back to Forsvik, since it was rumoured that more than one powerful man in the kingdom would gladly send secret assassins to avert the wedding at Arn?s. So Sune and Sigfrid could not have chosen a worse time to come sneaking up from behind. The boys were ashamed and hung their heads and begged forgiveness, but this lasted only a moment. Then they were eagerly offering to help their lord by retrieving the arrows after he shot each round.
Arn gave them a solemn nod but could hardly keep from laughing. He pointed to a rotten stump where they could set up the target. They were surprised at the long distance, but quickly obeyed.
When they returned and sat down expectantly on a large, mossy rock, Arn nocked the first arrow on the bowstring, pointed at the target, and said that this was the distance at which he had first noticed them following him. Then he shot five arrows in quick succession and motioned for them to run down and fetch them.
The arrows were grouped so closely together that Sigfrid, who reached the target first, could grab them all with one hand when he yanked them out of the straw. Then he fell to his knees and stared incredulously at the five arrows in his hand. Sune met his gaze and shook his head. No words were necessary.
Five times Arn shot, and five times Sune and Sigfrid ran down to fetch the arrows, which every time but one could be grasped in one hand. The boys’ initial excitement was slowly replaced by a dejected silence. If they had to be able to shoot like Arn to become a knight, neither of them thought they would ever pass the test.
Arn saw their gloomy expression and guessed the cause of it.
‘The two of you won’t have to shoot with my bow,’ he explained in a light tone when they returned with the arrows the fifth time. ‘My bow is suited to me but certainly not to you. When we get to Forsvik we’ll build bows that fit you, as well as swords and shields. You already have horses that suit you, and keep in mind that you’re just at the start of a long path.’
‘A very long path,’ said Sune quietly with his head bowed. ‘No one will ever be able to shoot better than you, Sir Arn.’
‘Nobody in our land can shoot like that,’ Sigfrid added.
‘There both of you are wrong. My friend Harald from Norway shoots like I do, and you will soon meet a monk who might shoot even better; at least he did once. There is no limit to what a man can learn except for the limits he creates inside his own head. When you saw me shooting, you simply moved that limit forward farther than you thought possible. And it would be ill-advised to do anything less, since I shall be your teacher.’
Arn laughed when he added this last remark, and he received hesitant smiles in return.
‘He who practices most will be the one who shoots best, it’s that simple,’ Arn continued. ‘I have practiced with weapons every day since I was much younger than the two of you, and if there were days when I didn’t practice, then there was war and practice of another kind. No man is born a knight; he must work to become one, and I find that acceptable. Will you two work as hard as necessary?’
The boys nodded and looked down at the ground.
‘Good. And you will certainly have to work. At first when we get to Forsvik there will be more building work than weapons games. But as soon as we get settled, your long days with sword, lance, shield, horse, and forge will begin. By evening prayers your bodies will be aching with fatigue. But you will sleep well.’
Arn gave them an encouraging smile in order to make up a little for the true words he had spoken about the path to knighthood, which was a path with no short cuts. He felt an odd tenderness for them both, as if he could picture himself as a young boy in Brother Guilbert’s strict school.
‘What does a knight pray in the evening, and to whom shall we direct our prayers?’ asked Sigfrid, looking Arn straight in the eye.
‘You ask a wonderfully wise question, Sigfrid. Who of God’s saints has the most time and the best ear for the prayers from the two of you? Our Lady is the one to whom I direct my prayers, but I have been in Her service and ridden under her banner for more than twenty years. You mentioned Saint ?rjan before, he who protects worldly knights, and he would probably suit both of you best. But it’s easier to say what you should pray for. It is fortitudo and sapientia, a knight’s two most important virtues. Fortitudo means strength and courage, sapientia means wisdom and humility. But none of this will be given to you; you will have to work to achieve it. When you pray for this at the end of the day after working hard, it’s like a reminder of what you are working and striving for. Now go to your beds and pray for the first time this prayer to Saint ?rjan.’
They bowed and obeyed at once. Arn watched them disappear into the twilight. At journey’s end there would be a new kingdom, he thought. A mighty new kingdom where peace reigned with such great strength that it would no longer be worthwhile to wage war. And these two boys, Sune Folkesson and Sigfrid Erlingsson, might be the beginning of this new kingdom.
He gathered up his arrows in the quiver, slinging it over his shoulder. He did not unstring his bow but walked silently with it in his hand down toward the river, to the lovely spot for prayer under the alders and willows that he had found the last time he was in Askeberga.
He did not really take seriously the gossip he’d heard at Arn?s, that enemies who strove for power might now entertain the notion of sending secret assassins to kill Arn Magnusson. There was some logic to this argument, he thought, noticing at once that he had shifted to Frankish in his mind to be able to think more clearly. The assassin who could make it look as if Birger Brosa, for instance, were the instigator, would have much to gain. Internecine strife among the Folkungs would benefit the Sverkers in their ambition to seize the royal crown; it would also weaken the Eriks’ positions. But all such thoughts were mere theories sodden by ale and wine. It was one thing to think up such plans, and another to carry them out. If someone was now approaching Askeberga in the twilight to murder him, where would the murderer look first? And if the killer were really in the vicinity now that light for shooting was about to vanish, how could he silently advance to use a dagger or sword?
And if the killer approached in the dark, he couldn’t very well expect to find a sleeping and unarmed Templar knight, could he?
God’s Mother had not held her protective hands over Arn for all these years of war, and She had not denied him a martyr’s death and Paradise only in the end to see him murdered in Western G?taland. She had given him the greatest gifts of earthly life, but not without conditions, since at the same time She had presented him with the greatest of all tasks She could give one of Her knights. First he was to build a church that would be consecrated to God’s Grave, to show humanity that God was present wherever people resided and did not have to be sought in war in foreign lands. The even bigger task She had given him was to create peace by building up a force that was so superior that war would be impossible.
Once again Arn found the place by the river where he could rest and pray. The brief hours of darkness had fallen; there were only a few weeks left until Midsummer when it would be dark for merely half an hour. There was no wind, and the sounds and smells of the night were strong. From the farms by the docks he could hear loud laughter when someone opened a door to go outside and piss. The oarsmen on the river were probably helping themselves to all the ale that the foreigners refused to drink. There seemed to be a nightingale in a thicket quite close by, and for a moment the bird’s powerful song filled his soul.
He had never felt such peace before; it was as if God’s Mother wanted to show him what heavenly bliss was still possible in earthly life. In everything that happened, big and small, he could now see Her will and endless grace. His father was well on his way to regaining all his faculties, and he would soon be ready to start walking again.
Ibrahim and Yussuf had moved Herr Magnus up to the large tower chamber as soon as it was cleaned like a mosque. With the help of some thralls they had built a bridge with two rails on which the sick man could shuffle along with the support of his arms. At first he moved slowly and laboriously, but well enough that they could see from day to day that soon he would be able to walk without support. And he had regained much of his good humour, saying that he would be sure to be walking in time for the wedding – perhaps like an old man, but on his own two feet. Until then, since there were only a few weeks left of the season forbidden for weddings, he would keep his blessing secret so that the power of the healing arts could be seen that much better by everyone who saw him at the wedding.
He also was able to speak much better now that he was practicing every day and had left any form of hopelessness far behind. At first he had so stubbornly resisted when they began with a stone that he had to move from one hand to the other. But he now devoted himself with such zeal to the task that Ibrahim and Yussuf sometimes had to stop him so that he didn’t overdo it.
To Arn he had said that it was like seeing and feeling at the same time how life returned to both his body and soul. But what he said that gladdened Arn even more was that he understood that this was no miracle, no matter what other people would believe when they saw him healthy once more. This was his own work, his own will, and yes, his own prayers, but most of all it was due to the skills of the two foreign gentlemen. And they were ordinary men, neither saints nor sorcerers, even though they wore odd clothes and spoke an incomprehensible language.
Then Arn had finally told his father the truth, that these men, Ibrahim and Yussuf, as their names were more properly pronounced, were Saracens.
Herr Magnus had sat in silence so long when he heard this that Arn regretted his earnest veracity. But at last his father had nodded and said that good skills from near or far were what made life better. He had seen it with his own eyes and felt it in his own limbs. And if the people of the Church had bad things to say about these Saracens, their words were worth nothing compared to what his own son had to say. For who knew better the whole truth: someone who was priest in Forshem or bishop in ?stra Aros, or someone who had waged war against the Saracens for twenty years?
Arn took the opportunity to tell him that all the fortresses of the Knights Templar had employed Saracen medical men because they were the best. What was good for God’s Holy Army of Knights Templar would surely be good in Western G?taland up in the North.
The good humour brought on by this insight made his father ask Arn to accompany him out on the walls to take a look at the new construction.
Arn had feared that it was too soon for his father to go outside, even though he had his son to support him. He had also feared that his father would find the construction unnecessary and forbid it, now that he had regained his reason.
But his concerns were groundless. When Herr Magnus saw how a perfectly smooth and high wall was being formed around the outer portions of the castle closest to Lake V?nern, and when he realized that these walls were intended to surround all of Arn?s, he was struck dumb with joy and pride. He himself had improved the fortifications considerably in his younger years, but he had often regretted that he hadn’t done better. Arn told him at length how everything would look when it was finished, and how no enemy could then threaten the Folkung clan. In all he recounted he received his father’s eager support.
The only matter that caused concern during Arn’s brief visit to Arn?s was Erika’s state of mind. Since he had heard about the death of his unknown little brother Knut, Erika’s son, he had spoken about this sorrow with her as he must. But she had made him angry by talking more about the revenge to which she had a right than about her grief. Even worse, she told him that she had offered thanks to Our Lady because a warrior of God like Arn had returned so that the days of that wretch Ebbe Sunesson were now numbered. For the law was clear. If Arn demanded a duel for the sake of the clan’s honour, the villain could not say no. Erika grew so heated that she seemed both to cry and laugh at the same time when she described how Ebbe Sunesson would feel when he was forced to draw his sword against the older brother of the youth he’d slain and then watch his own death coming straight at him.
Arn hadn’t been able to allay Erika Joarsdotter’s desire for vengeance; he found that out as soon as he tried. Instead he prayed with her for the soul of his brother Knut. Even though she couldn’t refuse such a prayer, she seemed to long more for revenge than for the peace of Knut’s soul.
It was sad to find Erika filled with such a sinful obsession. During the long night by the river he prayed first of all for Erika’s recovery and the forgiveness of her sin.

It felt as though they were on their way to the heart of darkness. The farther the river journey took them, the more certain the Wachtian brothers felt that they were leaving the habitations of men behind them and approaching the inhuman and unnamable. The individual hovels they passed looked more and more shabby, and on the banks of the river the livestock and wild children romped about together so that it was hard to tell the animals from the people.
The inn where they were to spend the night was abominable and crowded with savage, filthy men who bellowed in their incomprehensible singing language and drank like beasts until they ended up in brawls or simply passed out. All the men from Outremer, Christians as well as Muslims, kept to themselves and made camp some distance away from the inn buildings rather than set foot inside. The food that the thralls brought them they had refused with disgust and horror, and when darkness fell they all prayed, the Prophet’s people and the Christians separately, for forbearance.
In the morning it took an eternity to get going, since the sleeping oarsmen had to be rousted from the most unexpected places, wherever they happened to fall asleep. Red-eyed and grumpy, stinking of vomit and piss, these men had finally been herded together like beasts of burden to their oars. By then the sun was high, and it was said that Sir Arn and his band of riders had a lead of many hours.
Late that afternoon their boat glided up to the wharves at Forsvik. The unloading began at once, and Marcus and Jacob Wachtian were kept busy ensuring that nothing in their baggage was damaged by these ignorant and worthless souls.
Yet they agreed it could have been much worse, when Sir Arn called a meeting in the courtyard in the midst of the low grey wooden houses with the grass growing on the roofs. At least all the Nordic people around them were sober and relatively clean. At least they didn’t stink like the oarsmen.
‘In the name of God, most beneficent, ever-merciful, He Who is the God of us all even though we worship Him in different ways, I bid you welcome to my home,’ Sir Arn began as usual in Arabic. ‘This is the destination of our journey. Let us therefore, before we do or say anything else, offer prayers of thanksgiving that we have arrived safe and sound.’
Sir Arn then bowed his head in prayer, and all the men around him did the same. He waited until all had raised their heads when they finished their prayer.
‘What you see here at Forsvik will impress few of you, I know,’ Sir Arn went on. ‘But we have four years of work ahead of us until the time we have agreed on is over. None of us will recognize this place after those four years, you can be assured of that. We shall not build a fortress, but a caravanserai, a place of trade. We shall not build walls here as we did at Arn?s, but smithies, furnaces for making brick and glass, and workshops for the manufacture of saddles and tack, felt, leather goods, and clothing. But we can’t do everything at once. Of primary importance are roofs over our heads and cleanliness, which will be the same here as in Outremer. Then we will put in order everything else in the sequence we find best. But roofs over our heads must be the first priority, for winters here in the North are of a quite different nature than anything you have ever experienced. When the first snow and cold arrives, I’m sure that none of you, even in silence, will curse me that in your first days you had to slave like simple builders, although your skills could be employed doing more difficult things than dragging lumber. The Prophet’s people, peace be upon him, will not see any unclean food before them. Now we have hard work to do, but we will also reap the reward for it, because within less than half a year the first snow will fall!’
Sir Arn repeated his words in Frankish, as usual, and then he went over to the two field masters, Aibar and Bulent, and took them along to a smaller building which lay right next to running water.
‘Some people are lucky enough to be spared the slaving on construction from the start,’ Jacob Wachtian muttered. ‘What skills do we have that will spare us?’
‘Surely one thing and another, don’t worry,’ said Marcus, unconcerned, taking his brother by the arm to study more closely the estate which would apparently be their workplace for several years to come.
They took a tour around Forsvik, and since they were both men who took great pleasure in learning new things about what could be built by the hands of men, they soon had much to discuss. They could see from the quantity of new timber that was still being dragged in by ox-teams from the nearby woods that several new buildings were planned. But the piles of stones and barrels of chalk and sand made them realize that the new structures would be built differently from those that were already here. Apparently it was going to be like the big wooden longhouse at Arn?s, where one gable was entirely of stone and had a huge fireplace at the end. If they heated up that much stone with the fire, maybe they could fight off the terrible cold of winter, Marcus reasoned. Unlike in Outremer, at least here they had unlimited quantities of wood for fuel.
Sir Arn strode over to the brothers, put his arms around their shoulders, and told them that now they would soon have a chance to work on what they were best suited for. But first he had to show them his idea. He seemed happy and sure of his plan, as if this Godforsaken spot at the end of the world were already a large and flourishing caravanserai.
First he took them down to the two waterfalls and described how they could get as much power from this water as they wished. He told them that water was much better than wind, because water flowed all the time.
At the smaller waterfall there were two mill-wheels. Arn took them inside the mill and showed them how the rotating power could be transmitted to the millstones.
‘But this is just the beginning,’ he said. ‘We can build ten wheels like this if we like, and we can build them much bigger. The power produced will be slower but much stronger, if we should want to grind limestone to lime for use in mortar. Or we could obtain weaker but much faster power with smaller wheels. I want you to put your minds to work on this!’
He led them out of the millhouse, still cheerful and enthusiastic, and showed them where he wanted to build food storehouses out of brick, next to the larger waterfall so that he could run a cooling stream of water in along the floor and back out into the river.
Along the big rapids they would build a stone channel to harness all the power that would otherwise be wasted. That’s where the row of workshops would be located, since the water power could drive both the bellows and hammers. To avoid having to haul all the charcoal and fuel back and forth, he thought they might as well build the brothers’ workshops next to the smithies and glassworks. When Marcus muttered something about trying to think sharply about springs and gears, with all the pounding that would be going on next door, Sir Arn said with a laugh that he truly had not thought about that drawback. But in the wintertime it might be very beneficial to work right next to the smithies and glassworks for the sake of the warmth.
But first both of them, like Ibrahim the physician, had to start on a completely different project. During the fall with all the mud, and during the long winter, it would be hard to keep themselves and their dwellings clean if they didn’t soon begin making soap. Sir Arn apologized with a laugh when he saw the insulted looks on the faces of the two Armenian brothers. Naturally such work would seem to be something for less knowledgeable men, he admitted. But here in the North they would have to choose. Anyone who wanted to stay clean in the wintertime would have to start burning ashes and gathering bone grease to make his own soap. Oil could be boiled out of the Nordic pines the same way it was done from cedar and pines in Lebanon. Sir Arn had already had the bark slashed on many trees in the vicinity, which were bleeding pitch.
Seeing the brothers’ reluctant expressions, he assured them that he could set his own workers to the dirty task of collecting tree resin, but once it was in the iron cauldron even Armenian gentlemen would have to help out and continue the necessary work.
They looked so dismayed that Arn launched into a long, apologetic explanation. He began with something as simple as felt. Aibar and Bulent, the two Turkish feltmakers, had already begun their work. Even though most of the felt would eventually be put to military use, the surplus would be welcome in the winter.
What they had to understand was that everything that was taken for granted in Outremer was not readily available here. The same was true of soap, esteemed by both the followers of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and the Christians from Outremer.
So there were many simple tasks that had to be done before they could start on the real work: constructing crossbows, making arrows for the longbows, forging swords and helmets, extruding iron wire, and firing clay and glass.
Otherwise, Arn added with a smile, anyone who couldn’t find work doing these small, simple tasks would have to assist with the construction and masonry work. This convinced the Wachtian brothers that they should begin working on making soap, as well as gathering the right sort of water plants for the ash that was needed for glassmaking.
But he asked them, whenever they had time, to think about the water power and what it might be used for.
This last was most encouraging to them. When Sir Arn left and hurried off to talk to other groups, the Wachtian brothers went back down to the water-wheels. Inside one of the millhouses they observed the turning stones and axles as they thought out loud to each other.
Saws, they thought at once. Up here in the North they split timber and smoothed it as best they could with adzes. But what if they could saw it evenly right from the start?
There was more than enough power, just as Sir Arn had said. How could they transfer that power to saws?
It wouldn’t be easy to figure out, but this was the type of problem that put the two brothers in a better mood. They went to fetch ink and parchment at once. Both of them thought best when they could sketch their ideas.