Birth of the Kingdom

FIVE

Upon her homecoming to Husaby, Cecilia soon found that she was an unwelcome guest; if anyone had wished her banished to the cloister more than Birger Brosa, it was her relatives.
She had not relinquished her inheritance from her father Algot. At least half of the ten farms around Husaby were hers. And her kinsmen circled around the matter like a cat around hot porridge when it came to her sister Katarina’s inheritance. The question was whether Katarina had relinquished her birthright when she entered the cloister, and if so, whether the property would fall to the cloister, to Cecilia, or to her male kinsmen.
Husaby had been a royal estate ever since the days of Olof Sk?tkonung. But the P?l clan had been caretakers there for more than a century, so they reckoned Husaby as their own estate when it came to holding feasts for the clan, even though they always had to make sure that they had plenty of provisions in case the king himself came to visit. They also had to pay tax to the king.
Cecilia’s homecoming was such a disappointment to her uncle’s son P?l J?nsson and his two brothers Algot and Sture that they could scarcely conceal their dismay. It wasn’t hard for Cecilia to understand the reason for their sullen expressions or why they spoke to her only when forced to, preferring instead to sit by themselves. They stopped talking as soon as she came near.
Cecilia’s wedding was going to cost them dearly, she was well aware of that. The law and custom were both simple and clear. The richer the bridegroom, the bigger the dowry. And a richer man than the son of Arn?s was difficult to find in Western G?taland. At least that was what Cecilia surmised, without having any idea how much Arn might inherit from his father Magnus.
Cecilia had good reason not to discuss the dowry with her hostile kinsmen. It would be better to save that argument for the dowry ale when Arn’s bridal representative, who would undoubtedly be Eskil, came to arrange everything that had to be finished and decided by the wedding day. Very few would dare butt heads with Eskil.
Eskil had already sent over the old thrall woman Suom from Arn?s, since she was the most skilled in the sewing arts and could make a bridal gown better than anyone. Cecilia instantly became friends with Suom. They found great pleasure in each other’s skill with needle and thread, distaff and loom.
Some of the things they could do in the convent Suom had never seen. But she knew other things that they didn’t know at the cloister, so the two got on well together. And in this way Cecilia was spared keeping company with the unfriendly P?l brothers.
Eskil arrived at the appointed time on the day as promised, bringing a dozen guards. He quickly drank his welcome ale and explained that he didn’t intend to stay overnight, so they had better take care of the business matters at once, without any more drinking.
The P?l brothers could offer no argument, but they blushed with humiliation that this Folkung did not even care to share their bread and meat.
Things did not improve when Eskil said that he would prefer to have Cecilia included in the conversation so that she could speak her piece. This diminished the role of P?l J?nsson, which could hardly have escaped Eskil’s notice.
In silence the three P?l brothers entered the feast hall of Husaby first and took their places together at the high seat. Eskil was careful to walk slowly, taking Cecilia’s arm and whispering that she must remain calm and not worry about any of the things that now might be said. He had no chance to explain further before they moved further into the dim hall, which was still decorated with ancient runes and images of gods that were not Christian.
In silence the P?l brothers sat down in the high seat with Cecilia near them and Eskil facing them across the longtable. New ale was brought in by house thralls who said not a word, seeming to sense that this was a meeting that their masters did not particularly desire.
‘Well, shall we set the date first?’ said Eskil, wiping the ale from his mouth, as if he weren’t talking about anything difficult or important.
‘It’s customary to decide on the date after everyone agrees on all the rest,’ P?l J?nsson muttered with annoyance. He was red in the face, and the veins bulged from his forehead as if he were as taut as a bowstring, anticipating what was to follow.
‘As you like. We can talk about the dowry first,’ said Eskil.
‘Half of the inheritance from my uncle Algot rightfully belongs to Cecilia. That’s what she can take with her into the estate,’ P?l J?nsson said.
‘Absolutely not!’ Eskil snapped back. ‘Cecilia’s sister Katarina was my wife, as you may recall, and she entered Gudhem cloister while their father was still alive. It was autumn, and during the subsequent Christmas feast Algot drank until he suffered a stroke and died. We all know this sad story, may he rest in peace. So Cecilia’s inheritance is Algot’s entire estate, all ten farms. She will take those with her into the estate.’
‘Doesn’t Katarina’s inheritance fall to Gudhem cloister?’ said P?l, trying to be evasive.
‘No, because when she entered the cloister she had no inheritance, since Algot was still alive,’ Eskil replied implacably. ‘And as far as Gudhem is concerned, I have paid out of my own pocket more for Katarina’s admittance into the holy sisterhood than was ever required.’
‘So you’re demanding that I and all my brothers leave our farms and property?’ asked P?l J?nsson, wringing his hands. ‘That’s an unfair demand when at the same time you expect to keep us as your kinsmen. Remember that this is my decision to make, since I speak on Cecilia’s behalf regarding the dowry. And with conditions like those you have presented, I may decide to cancel the wedding altogether!’
Now it was finally said. It was evident when the three brothers took a deep breath that this was what they’d been planning for the past week.
Eskil’s expression didn’t change, but he waited an excruciatingly long time before he said anything. And then he spoke in a mild and friendly voice.
‘If you break the agreement, no matter that it’s an old one, you are the same as a bride-robber and will not live till sundown, my dear kinsman. That would not be a good start for this marriage. But I am not a disobliging man; I would like us to settle this for the best without bloodshed so that we can remain the friends that the union between my brother and Cecilia Algotsdotter demands. Let’s say that Cecilia’s dowry will be just the five farms and bordering lands to the north and west toward Arn?s and Lake V?nern. Then you can keep the other five farms and stay on as the king’s hosts at Husaby. Would such a proposal suit you and your two brothers better?’
None of them could object to that, and all three nodded in silent consent.
‘In return for relinquishing five farms, I may have to demand a bit more gold, let’s say twelve marks in bullion in addition to the five farms,’ Eskil went on as if speaking of trifles, and giving more attention to the ale.
But this was no small matter he was proposing as compensation. Twelve marks in gold was a sum so large that not even all the farms of the P?l clan would have sufficed. And even if they had been a mightier clan, it wouldn’t have been possible to produce such a sum in pure gold. The three brothers stared incredulously at Eskil as if unsure whether he or they had lost their minds.
‘I need more ale,’ said Eskil with a friendly smile, holding up his empty tankard just as P?l J?nsson collected himself to speak, and his words did not look to be friendly.
But he had to wait until Eskil had his new tankard, and Cecilia thought that this delay may have saved P?l’s tongue from behaving as the bane of his head.
‘Well! Perhaps I should explain one more item before you say anything, kinsman,’ Eskil went on just as P?l opened his mouth. ‘You brothers would not be responsible for those twelve marks in gold; Cecilia will pay the sum out of her own pocket.’
Once again P?l J?nsson was curtailed just as he was about to speak. All the anger that could have made him raise his hand to Eskil or say things that just as surely would have meant his death, now changed to gaping astonishment.
‘If Cecilia, though I don’t know how, can pay such an enormous amount as twelve marks in gold, I don’t understand this discussion at all,’ he said, straining to keep his words polite.
‘What is it you don’t understand, dear kinsman?’ asked Eskil, resting his tankard on his knee.
‘Compared with you Folkungs, we in the P?l clan are poor,’ said P?l J?nsson. ‘And if Cecilia can pay twelve marks in gold, which is the largest dowry any of us have ever heard of, I don’t see why you need to have five of our farms.’
‘It’s a good bargain for us, because we want to have the land along Lake V?nern as part of our property,’ Eskil replied calmly. ‘It’s a good bargain for you P?l brothers as well, if you think about it. You won’t be left without any benefits. After this wedding you can bear a sword wherever you want in Western G?taland, because as Cecilia’s representative you will become part of the Folkung clan by marriage. You can exchange your green mantle for our blue one. Anyone who harms you or your brothers will have harmed the Folkungs. Anyone who raises a sword against you will not live more than three sundowns thereafter. You will be united with us both in blood and in honour. Think on that!’
What Eskil said was true. But P?l and his brothers had been so stubbornly engaged in talking about their monetary losses, about five or ten farms in inheritance and how much better it would have been if Cecilia had gone into the cloister, that they hadn’t thought about the significance of coming under the Folkungs’ protection. Their lives would be changed completely after one wedding night.
A bit ashamed at their own simplicity, P?l and his two brothers now immediately submitted to all of Eskil’s desires.
Cecilia would be given Forsvik as the morning gift, as her own estate in perpetuity, to be inherited by her progeny. At Forsvik she would also live with her Arn. As long as she saw fit to keep him there, Eskil added with a jocular glance at Cecilia, who looked surprised by these unnecessary additions concerning the legal right to all morning gifts.
It was decided to hold three days of celebration: the bachelors’ and maidens’ evening on the first Friday after Midsummer; the fetching of the bride and the traditional escorting to the bridal bed on the following Saturday; and the blessing of the bride at the mass on Sunday in Forshem Church.

Four young men rode to the bachelors’ evening. Even from far off everyone could see that these young men were not ordinary youths. Their horses were decked out for a feast in blue fabric, and three of the men wore surcoats with the Folkung lion over their chain mail, while the fourth bore the mark of the three crowns. It was a summer day in the midst of the hay harvest, so their mantles were rolled up behind their saddles. Otherwise it would have been obvious that the fourth among them, the sole Erik, had a mantle lined with ermine. And since it wasn’t the king himself, it had to be his son Erik jarl.
Their shields hanging on the left side of the saddle were all newly painted in shining blue and gold around the lion and crowns. Behind them followed four royal guards and some pack horses.
It was a beautiful sight with all the bright colours and the stout horses, but also a sight that would make every peasant in the lands of the Goths more than wary. If such a party happened to arrive toward evening and decided to spend the night, they would not leave much ale behind but a great void in the larder, for all power in the kingdom lay with the Eriks and Folkungs, and no one could refuse them anything.
The youngest of the four was Torgils, seventeen years old, the son of Eskil Magnusson of Arn?s. The eldest was Magnus M?nesk?ld, who once had been reckoned Birger Brosa’s son, but was now considered his foster brother. He was actually the son of Arn Magnusson. The fourth, who rode beside Erik jarl, was Folke Jonsson, son of Jon the judge in Eastern G?taland.
The four were best friends and almost always rode together in the hunt and during weapons games. Before this wedding they had spent ten days together while their riding clothes were cleaned and mended and their shields painted anew at the king’s N?s. Each day they had practiced with their weapons for several hours, for it was not some ordinary test that awaited them.
For Magnus M?nesk?ld it hadn’t been easy to stay away from Forsvik for so long. When Birger Brosa came to Bj?lbo, in a rage after the latest council meeting, he mentioned as if in passing that Arn Magnusson had returned to the kingdom. The first thing Magnus wanted to do was jump into the saddle and ride off to see his father.
But he restrained himself when he realized that Arn Magnusson was probably not a man he should seek out before first outfitting himself well and polishing all his weapons until they gleamed. And he wanted to practice even more with the bow, for Magnus had lived his entire young life hearing the sagas about how his father Arn was the best archer of all.
To himself he quietly admitted that he was a bit apprehensive at approaching Forsvik for such an unusual task. He was to be one of the young men to escort his own father to the bachelor evening. His friends had made much mirth about this. It was not granted to many men to drink their father under the table at the bachelors’ celebration. He had not been amused by these jests and said so. Arn Magnusson of Arn?s was not some ordinary bridegroom. And the bride was no little weepy and terrified goose, but his own mother, a woman beyond reproach who was shown respect by all. With this wedding, it was more a matter of restoring honour than arranging favourable family alliances, and it was nothing to jest about.
Erik jarl had argued that among one’s closest friends one could jest about anything and everyone. But he honoured Magnus’s wishes and avoided the topic. He himself was a jarl of the realm and thus highest in rank among the friends, but Magnus M?nesk?ld was the eldest of the four, the best at weapons games, and often as wise as if he were truly Birger Brosa’s son.
As they approached Forsvik the tension grew as the meeting with Arn Magnusson approached. They all knew him by reputation but had never seen him in person.
The first workers from Forsvik they met were the ones busy with the hay harvest, cutting grass and raising hayracks. They all stopped what they were doing when they saw the gleaming trappings of the approaching riders. Then they lined up to kneel in greeting until Erik jarl ordered them back to work.
In one of the fields lying fallow close to Forsvik itself, a more surprising sight greeted them. Two young boys were practicing on horseback with two older foreigners. All four were riding in close formation, and at a cry from one of the dark-skinned strangers all four turned like lightning to the left or right or stopped short, rearing and turning on the spot in the other direction. Then they sped up and suddenly cast themselves all together in a new direction. It was a peculiar sight, a style of riding that none of the four friends had ever seen. The horses also looked foreign, smaller than regular horses but much quicker in their movements.
Soon they were discovered by the four riders practicing. One of the foreigners then drew an unusually narrow sword and yelled some warning to the other. He too drew his sword, signalling to the two boys to ride back into the farmyard at once. Then followed a moment of confusion when it looked as though the foreigners were preparing to attack, while the two boys protested and scolded without really being able to make themselves understood.
Erik jarl and his friends sat still, like their retainers, with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. It was an astonishing sight, if what they were seeing was correct, that two men were preparing to attack a group of eight.
Before they managed to decide how to behave at this unexpected welcome, one of the two boys in the field spurred his horse and rode toward them at such high speed that it was hard for them to believe their eyes. In a few seconds he was upon them. Then he stopped abruptly and bowed.
‘Forgive me, Erik jarl, that our foreign teachers took you for our foes,’ he gasped. ‘I am Sune Folkesson and am apprenticed here at Forsvik to Sir Arn, and that’s my brother over there, Sigfrid Erlingsson.’
‘I know who you are. I knew your father when I was your age,’ replied Erik jarl. ‘Since you are the one who came to meet us, you may now take us to your lord.’
Young Sune nodded eagerly. He wheeled his horse around with a single odd leap and rode ahead at a canter as he waved to Sigfrid and the two foreign teachers that there was no danger. The teachers bowed and turned their horses toward Forsvik.
The sound of hammers and axes thundered along with the ringing of metal from smithies as the four noble youths neared the bridge over the rapids with their retainers, the two boys, and the foreign riders behind them. They saw thralls and workers transporting timber although it was the middle of summer. Others were loading bricks and stones and carrying heavy yokes laden with masonry supplies in every direction. It seemed that no one had time to look up at the visitors.
They rode across the courtyard between the buildings, and nobody came to greet them; they continued out the other side where two new longhouses and two smaller buildings were being raised. Most of the residents of Forsvik who were not out at the hay harvest seemed to be there working together.
As the four visitors came around the gable of the new longhouse, they finally aroused the attention they had no doubt expected much earlier.
A man who was way up on the wall and dressed in dirty leather clothes swung down from the wooden scaffolding in two long, nimble leaps. Everyone made way for him as he wiped the sweat from his brow and flung away the trowel, looking gravely from one visitor to the next. When his gaze fell upon Magnus M?nesk?ld he nodded as if in affirmation and went straight over to him and held out his hand. Everyone was quiet. Nobody moved.
Magnus’s head spun when he saw the warrior’s filthy hand covered with mortar extended toward him, and almost with horror his gaze sought out the man’s scarred face. His friends sat mute, just as amazed as he was.
‘If your father offers you his hand, I think you ought to take it,’ said Arn with a broad smile, wiping the sweat once more from his brow.
Magnus M?nesk?ld immediately dismounted, took his father’s hand, and quickly dropped one knee to the ground. Then he hesitated before he fell into his father’s embrace.
His friends instantly got off their horses and handed the reins to the servants, who now seemed wakened from their paralysis and hurried over from all directions. One by one the four youths politely greeted this Arn Magnusson who did not resemble any of the images they had envisioned and discussed with each other.
The guests’ horses were taken away. Ale and wine, bread and salt were brought out, and then Arn and his four guests entered the hall of the old longhouse and sat down for a meal.
‘I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,’ Arn explained, motioning to his dirty work clothes. ‘A message came from N?s that you are the four who shall escort me to my bachelor evening, and for that honour I thank you warmly.’
‘It’s an honour for us to do so,’ replied Erik jarl with a curt bow, but his expression did not match his words.
‘You have come to a building site that is hardly suited for guests,’ said Arn after a moment. He had no difficulty seeing through their embarrassed reticence. ‘So I suggest that we leave at once, stop to rest in Askeberga, and arrive at Arn?s early tomorrow morning.’ He was expecting their astonished expressions.
‘You probably shouldn’t leave right away, Father,’ said Magnus glumly. ‘Thrall clothing and mortar in your hair are not the proper attire for a bachelors’ evening.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Arn as if not noticing that he’d been reprimanded by his own son. ‘So perhaps you might enjoy the meager entertainments that Forsvik has to offer today, while I change my attire for a new fate!’
He got up, bowed to his guests, and left, aware of the silence that remained in his wake. Their unmistakable disappointment was written in stone on their faces.
Arn was in a hurry when he came out of the longhouse. He was sure that they should all saddle up and get away from Forsvik as soon as they could. He called together all the workers and told them what he expected to see finished by the time he and his bride returned in less than a week. Then he ordered Sune and Sigfrid to ready his horse Ibn Anaza, decking him out like the horses of the four guests. Sune objected that there was no such Folkung caparison at Forsvik, so Arn went into one of the new buildings and fetched a white cloth that he tossed to the boys. Then he commanded that the guests’ retainers be given ale, and he summoned the Saracen who was handiest with a razor and ordered hot water to be brought to the bathhouse.
Inside the longhouse Erik jarl and his friends were served smoked meat, bread, and ale, but all declined to partake of the wine that was offered.
Their good mood from the trip to Forsvik was gone. They had a hard time talking, since none of them wanted to add to Magnus M?nesk?ld’s embarrassment. Finding his father with a trowel in his hand was not something they envied him.
‘Your father is as strong and agile as any of us. Did you see the way he came down from the top of the roof in only two leaps?’ said Torgils Eskilsson in an attempt to say something positive.
‘He must have fought many battles to have so many scars on his hands and face,’ Folke Jonsson added.
Magnus M?nesk?ld at first said nothing, just looked down into his ale and sighed. Then he muttered something to the effect that perhaps it wasn’t so odd that those who had lost the Holy Land had taken some lumps before it was over. His disappointment spread like the cold to the others.
‘But it was he who once met Emund Ulvbane in single combat at the ting of all Goths, sparing the berserker but hacking off his hand,’ Torgils attempted to console him once more.
‘Back then he was a young man like we are, and it wasn’t a trowel he was holding in his hand,’ Magnus muttered.
Their conversation faltered even more.
Less than an hour had passed when a completely different Arn Magnusson stepped through the door. His face was rosy from a hot bath, his blond hair that had been a matted gray mass of mortar and dirt was slicked back shiny and clean, and his face was now free of whiskers so that the white scars gleamed even more clearly than when they first saw him. But this was not what had changed him most.
His chain mail was of a foreign type, shining like silver and clinging to his body like cloth. On his feet he wore a type of steel shoes that none of the four had ever seen before, and spurs of gold glittered at his heels. He wore the Folkungs’ surcoat over his chain mail, and at his side hung a long, narrow sword in a black scabbard with a cross stamped on it in gold. On a chain from his left shoulder dangled a gleaming helmet.
‘The horses have been brought out to the courtyard,’ he said curtly, motioning to them to get up and follow him.
Outside, the thralls stood holding the reins of five horses. Their retainers were already mounted and waiting a short distance away.
Arn strode straight over to a black horse with a silver mane and mounted it in a single leap as the horse turned and set off at a trot. It all seemed to happen in one fluid movement.
Just outside the barnyard Arn wheeled his horse around, and it reared on its hind legs as he drew his long flashing sword and shouted something in a foreign language. The many foreigners responded with shouts and cheers.
‘He who judges too soon judges himself,’ said Torgils knowingly to Magnus as they hurried to mount their horses and catch up with Arn.
Magnus was just as confused by what he now saw as he was at his first meeting with his father. The man riding ahead of him was not the same one who had met him with the trowel in his hand.
The four urged their horses on until they came up alongside Arn, the way equal brothers ride through the land. Now they saw that it was not merely a white cloth covering his horse like those who lacked their own clan’s coat of arms. On both hind-quarters shone a great red cross, the same as that on Arn’s white shield. They knew what that meant even though none of them had ever actually seen a Templar knight in person.
They rode for a long while in silence, each man subdued by his own embarrassment. Arn made not the slightest move to start a conversation to help them out of this difficulty. He thought he had a good idea what their expressions had meant when they saw him working like a thrall, as they probably would have said in their language. But he had been so young when he was sent to Varnhem cloister that he hadn’t had time to develop such pride. And yet he had a hard time imagining that he would have turned out like these young men even if he had grown up outside the cloister walls along with Eskil.
Then Magnus came riding up beside him and asked timidly about the long, light sword they all had seen when he saluted farewell to the farm folk.
‘Hand me your sword and take mine and I’ll explain,’ said Arn, drawing his sword in a lightning-quick motion and holding it out with his iron glove around the blade by the hilt. ‘But be careful of the blade, it’s very sharp!’
When Arn took the Nordic sword in his hand he swung it a few times and nodded to himself with a smile.
‘You’re still forging in iron that you bend back and forth,’ he said before he explained.
Magnus’s sword was very beautiful, he admitted at once. It also lay well in the hand. But it was too short to use from horseback, demonstrating with a swift downward slash. Yet the iron was too soft to cut through the modern chain mail and would easily get stuck in the enemy’s shield. The edge was far too dull, and after a few blows against another man’s sword or shield it wouldn’t be of much use. So the important thing was to win quickly, and then go home and whet the blade anew, he said in an attempt to jest.
Magnus took some tentative swings with his father’s sword and then cautiously felt the edge. He flinched when he cut himself. As he was about to hand back the sword, his eyes fell on a long inscription in gold that was impossible to read. He asked what it meant, whether it was only for decoration or something that made the sword better.
‘Both,’ said Arn. ‘It’s a greeting from a friend and a blessing, and one day, but not today, I’ll tell you what it says.’
The sun was on its way up to its zenith, and Arn surprised his young companions by leaning back in the saddle and untying his mantle, which he slung over his shoulders. Arn told the wondering youths that if it was heat they wanted to protect themselves from, they should do as he did. They all hesitantly did the same, except for Erik jarl, who had ermine lining his mantle and thought the heat was bad enough without wrapping himself in fur. By the time they reached Askeberga resting place late that afternoon, he was the one who had sweated most.

On the day of the maidens’ celebration at Husaby the entire royal estate was transformed into an armed camp. At least that was Cecilia’s impression, and it made her even more agitated to hear the sound of horses’ hoofs, clanging weapons, and rough male voices everywhere. A dozen retainers had been sent from Arn?s, and more than twice as many warriors had been brought from the villages that were subject to Arn?s. A ring of tents sprouted up around Husaby, groups of riders searched through the oak woods far and wide, and scouts were sent out in every direction. Nothing must happen to the bride before she was safely under feather-bed and covers.
During the weeks at Midsummer when Cecilia felt like a guest on her own land she had spent most of her time in the weaving chamber with old Suom. Their friendship, which had developed after such a brief time, was not usual between a thrall and an unmarried noblewoman. Suom could perform miracles with her loom, making the sun and moon, images of the Victorious Bridegroom, and various churches appear as if in their actual settings, with some close and some far away. From Riseberga Cecilia had brought some of the dyes she had worked with for many years, and a sort of blended linen and woollen yarn. Suom said she had never seen such lovely colours, and everything she had done in her life would have been so much better if she’d had this knowledge from the start. Cecilia explained the origin of the dyes and how to boil and blend them; Suom showed with her hands how to weave figures right into the cloth.
So the two got a late start on the most important task, to weave Cecilia’s bridal mantle. When the bride was escorted along the road to the church for the blessing and on to the bridal ale, she was supposed to be clad in her own clan’s colours. Cecilia had such strong memories of the blue colour from her time in Gudhem convent. There she and Cecilia Blanca had been alone among all the Sverker daughters who wore red yarn around one arm as a sign of their common loyalty and hatred toward the two foes, Cecilia Rosa and Cecilia Blanca. She and her best friend had defied them by tying a small piece of blue yarn around their arms. And when the king and jarl came at last to take away Cecilia Blanca and make her queen, jarl Birger Brosa had done something that still warmed Cecilia’s memory.
She had been summoned to the hospitium and there the evil Mother Rikissa had torn off the scrap of blue yarn. Cecilia had been close to tears at this affront and her own feeling of powerlessness. Then the jarl had come over and hung his own Folkung mantle around her shoulders, which was a sign of protection that no one could mistake. Since that day she had always thought of herself as wearing blue and not green, which was the colour of the P?l clan.
With renewed vigour they went back to work on the bridal mantle. Suom wove in the sign of the P?l clan in the middle of the back, a black shield with a silver chevron, so that it was very prominent although it was not sewn on but a part of the weave. After many attempts Cecilia had developed a deep, shimmering green colour which pleased them both. At last the mantle was done.
When Suom took her leave to return to Arn?s, Cecilia stood up, sweeping the loveliest of green P?l mantles around her, and headed over to the longhouse, where her kinsmen were now gathered for the brief evening ale that would start off the maidens’ evening celebration. When she came in the faces of the three P?l brothers lit up with genuine joy when they saw the mantle she wore. They all admired it and wanted to feel the fabric, turning it this way and that in the light to see its shimmer. They also seemed relieved to have escaped the affront to the clan if she had decided to sew a blue mantle for herself for this grand wedding celebration.
P?l J?nsson himself handed her a small goblet of ale and was the first to drink with her. Afterwards she drank with his younger brother Algot. Sture, who was the youngest and still a bachelor, had ridden to Arn?s to take part in the bachelors’ evening as the only youth from the P?l clan. They all raised their tankards to the young Sture because, as P?l said, it would not be easy to spend the evening drinking with men who were all Folkungs and Eriks.
Then they began the arrangements for what was to take place during the maidens’ evening. Six young women from the P?l clan came into the hall, taking Cecilia’s hand and greeting her. She didn’t know any of them, since they were so young. The priest from Husaby Church blessed all seven of the maidens and then the house thralls brought each of them a white shift and a wreath made of lingonberry twigs.
Cecilia had only a vague idea of what a maidens’ evening was, and she had no idea how she was supposed to behave when these young women, whom she didn’t know, lined up holding the white shifts in their arms, with the lingonberry wreaths on top. She decided that the only thing she could do was to pretend that nothing was unfamiliar and just follow the others. They were now slowly leaving through the open doors, stepping into the summer night.
Outside stood a row of retainers. Every third man held a burning torch in his hand to keep the evil spirits or the unblessed away from the maidens as they appeared at this most dangerous of moments in terms of the powers of darkness.
Cecilia came last in the procession, which slowly headed toward the oak woods and the stream a short distance away. There the bathhouse could be glimpsed in the glow of torches.
As they left the courtyard and took their first steps into the oak forest, the other maidens began singing a song that Cecilia had never heard before, even though she’d undoubtedly heard thousands of songs. She didn’t grasp all the words, since many were old-fashioned, but she understood that it was a song to a female god from heathen times. Inside the forest menacing shadows reigned. But Cecilia didn’t believe in sirens of the woods or gnomes as much as she did in apprehensive armed retainers.
As custom demanded, the seven maidens arrived at the washhouse at the darkest hour of the summer night. But since it was the week after Midsummer, it wasn’t very dark. Even so, they were dazzled by the burning torches that were posted around the entire washhouse. Outside stood two long benches, and there Cecilia’s escort, amid much giggling and laughter, placed their clothes so that one after the other they stood there naked. They also removed their headbands and then combed their fingers through their long tresses that fell over their shoulders and breasts.
Cecilia hesitated, blushing, although no one noticed in the dark. She had never stood naked before anyone, and at first she didn’t know how she was going to manage.
The other maidens teased her by hugging their arms to their chests and shivering, telling her to make haste so that they might quickly step inside where it was warm. Cecilia then realized that there was actually one person before whom she had been naked, although a very long time ago; only one, and that was Arn Magnusson. And if she could show herself naked to a man, never mind the one she loved, then it ought to be much easier to do so before women. That was how she persuaded herself as she diffidently fumbled with her clothes, taking them off and placing them on the wooden bench.
Now all of them lined up, crossed their hands over their breasts and walked seven times around the bathhouse, singing yet another heathen song that Cecilia had never heard. Neither the melody nor the words were familiar. After that the first maiden to approach the bathhouse opened the door, and then everyone ran inside, shrieking and giggling in the steam.
There were big wooden vessels filled with hot or cold water, as well as buckets for pouring the water. After the first cautious attempts with a bare foot, it turned out that they had to pour some of the cold water into the hot vessel, which was so huge that it could hold at least two butchered oxen. Several of the maidens splashed cold water on some of the others, prompting more shrieks and laughter.
When one of them boldly stepped into the tub and hastily sat down, she gasped several times and then gestured to the others, who followed suit. Sitting in a circle, they grabbed each others’ hands and sang more pagan songs. Some of the words made Cecilia’s already flushed cheeks turn even redder. The songs were bawdy and dealt with things that were forbidden up until the wedding night but afterwards all actually encouraged, although many verses implied that it was the forbidden fruit that always tasted best.
Cecilia felt as if she had landed in a big tub of chicken soup, but there was in truth not much that she could do about it, nor could she get out of it by sulking. That was a consoling thought, and soon she began to feel strangely cheerful and then almost feverish, as if the sorcery of the songs had truly affected her.
They sat there until the water began to cool and the light of dawn glimmered outside as the torches gradually went out. Then they hurried to perform the last tasks before they were allowed to start drinking. They all rushed out to the stream and jumped in, screaming shrilly at the ice-cold water, then dashed back inside the bathhouse, which now seemed wonderfully warm. There they lit new torches and helped each other to wash all over, even the most unclean parts of their bodies.
Afterwards they quickly dried themselves with big pieces of linen and then went over to where they’d left their special clothing piled up. They put on the white shifts that they’d brought from the longhouse, pressed the wreaths down over their foreheads, and arranged their wet hair. A row of small ale tankards and a newly tapped cask were brought from the back of the bathhouse. They were soon drinking together like men, imitating the men as they walked around with their legs astraddle, swaggering barefoot across the wooden floor. Cecilia wished that she’d been able to mimic her friend Cecilia Blanca, who could belch and fart like an old man.
They had to empty the ale cask before they were allowed to leave. Otherwise, as one of Cecilia’s young kinswomen named Ulrika explained, it would mean bad luck for the bride. But there was no cause for alarm on this occasion, since this was a night when the young maidens were allowed to drink as much as they liked.
The ale was warm and sweetened with honey, which better suited the women, and they soon began talking louder and louder as they drank almost like men.
And now the shyness that had existed between Cecilia and her young kinswomen disappeared. One of the maidens said that Cecilia shouldn’t think that any of them thought ill of her because she had reached such an old age before drinking the bridal ale. Another said that whoever waited for something good never waited too long.
Even though these words were no doubt meant to encourage Cecilia, they suddenly made her feel embarrassed again. All of these young maidens were so much lovelier than she was; their breasts were firm and their hips softly rounded. On this evening when Cecilia had touched her own body with less modesty than ever before, she realized that her breasts drooped and her body was gaunt and angular.
The others saw at once this hint of nervousness in Cecilia’s eyes, and before any of the others could speak, the maiden named Katarina said what she thought they were undoubtedly all thinking. For them this was a great day, for Cecilia had shown that a woman could decide much for herself. She was even able to defy her kinsmen and refuse to enter the cloister, despite the fact that a struggle for power was at stake. And she could go to the bridal bed with the one she loved instead of accepting someone chosen by her father.
Yet one of the maidens objected that it didn’t matter with whom a woman went to the bridal bed, as long as she honoured her clan. That started a heated quarrel that went on for a while, ending only when the maiden named Katarina and another named Brigida began splashing ale at each other. Finally Katarina picked up her tankard and dumped the whole thing over Brigida’s head.
That sparked new laughter and the quarrel was ended and everyone poured themselves more ale. Katarina suggested that they demand another whole cask before they went to the longhouse to attend the night ale.
But when the first cask was empty, they put on their mantles over the white shifts and gathered up their other clothing. Carrying their shoes in their hands, they walked back to the longhouse. By then it was bright daylight, and a chorus of birds was singing, with promises of a beautiful wedding day.
To Cecilia’s great amusement, the maidens now sang Kyrie Eleison; for the first time she could add her own voice to the song, sounding clearer and louder than all the others. These young maidens might well have breasts and hips more beautiful than the bride’s, but she could sing better than any of them.

Ten pounds of honey, 13 salted and 26 live pigs, 24 smoked wild boar hams and an equal number of shoulders, 10 salted and 24 live sheep, 16 live oxen and 4 salted, 14 casks of butter, 360 large cheeses and 210 small, 420 chickens, 180 geese, 4 pounds pepper and cumin, 5 pounds salt, 8 barrels of herring, 200 salmon and 150 dried Norwegian fish, as well as oats, wheat, rye, and flour, plus malt, bog-myrtle, and juniper berries in sufficient quantities.
Eskil was labouring to keep count of the provisions that came streaming into Arn?s, when Arn and his companions rode into the castle half a day earlier than planned. The next day over two hundred guests would fill Arn?s, but for the bachelors’ evening more than a hundred were already expected, since there were many who were looking forward to the customary games, which this time promised to be particularly impressive. These were not just ordinary young men who were going to compete.
So far none of the guests had arrived, and Arn?s was deserted except for all the house thralls running back and forth as they tended to their tasks. The village of Arn?s had emptied out and every nook and cranny had been swept so as to provide lodging for guests who were too highborn to sleep in tents. Bowers of stock and rowan had been erected by the field on the other side of the moat below the western gate, and tables and benches had been hauled out there. Ale casks had been rolled across the castle courtyard, cartloads of birch and rowan branches had been brought in and unloaded to adorn the walls of the great hall. Tables were brought from near and far, while poles and canvas for tents set up and made taut.
Arn and his companions took no part in all this work, and after they handed their horses over to the stable thralls, Erik jarl decided that he needed to rest in order to gather strength for the evening’s strenuous trials. Folke Jonsson agreed. Besides, those who arrived first could claim the best sleeping areas.
Arn thought he could make better use of his time by not sleeping, but he didn’t say this out loud. Instead, he put his arms around the shoulders of his son Magnus and the young Torgils. Offering a few jests, but with great firmness, he led the two men toward the big tower. They both recoiled when he explained that they were now going to meet old Herr Magnus, because they had heard that the old man was no longer in his right mind.
Hence their great surprise when they climbed the tower stairs with Arn and found Herr Magnus out on the battlement. He was walking back and forth, muttering but resolute, with only a rough stick to lean on for support. A foreigner was attentively walking at his side. When Herr Magnus noticed the three visitors, a broad smile immediately lit up his face. He threw out his arms, even the one holding the stick, and offered up loud and incomprehensible words praising God for the grace that had now been granted him.
Magnus M?nesk?ld stepped forward at once, took the old man’s hand, and sank down with one knee touching the stone floor. Torgils then did the same, followed by Arn.
‘You’ve regained your strength much faster and better than I dared hope, Father,’ said Arn.
‘Yes, and that’s why I’m both happy and vexed to see the three of you, even though it’s been a long time since I saw you, Magnus, and you as well, Torgils. My two grandsons!’
‘It was truly not our intention to vex you, dear grandfather,’ said Magnus M?nesk?ld gently.
‘Oh, you misunderstand me! I merely meant that I wanted to see all of you struck dumb with surprise at the bridal ale. Everybody will be expecting to find me crippled and lying in my own piss somewhere, shoved aside where no one would see me. Instead I intend to give the bridal toast myself, because it has been a long time since I had that pleasure. So I ask all of you to promise not to say anything of this; then I will still enjoy my surprise.’
His speech flowed freely and without slurring, perhaps a bit slower than in the past, but otherwise almost the same. Both Magnus M?nesk?ld and young Torgils, who hadn’t seen him in over a year, and then more to bid him farewell than to encounter any joy, now thought that they were beholding a true miracle. And it was not difficult for Herr Magnus to see what they were thinking.
‘It’s not at all what you two imagine,’ he went on as he took a little turn around the battlement to demonstrate again that he was able to walk almost as he had done previously. ‘It’s this Frankish man who is knowledgeable in healing who has shown me the way, along with Our Lord, of course!’
Arn had been carrying on a brief and quiet conversation in an incomprehensible language with the foreigner, and what he learned was apparently favourable.
‘You mustn’t exert yourself too much today, Father,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to get overtired, because it’s going to be a long night tomorrow. And we all promise not to say a word to anyone about your surprise.’
‘Agreed?’ he added, looking at the two young men, who immediately nodded solemnly.
‘Father should rest for two hours now, then practice for an hour and rest again for two,’ Arn went on after another brief discussion with the foreigner. ‘We won’t disturb you any longer right now.’
The three men bowed and took three steps back before turning around and continuing along the battlement, with Arn in the lead. He wanted to show them the construction work that was going on.
But Magnus and Torgils seemed a bit too timid in his presence, and they soon said they wished to follow Erik jarl’s example and rest before the evening’s contests.
Disappointed by their lack of interest and concerned that there was something about the young men that he didn’t understand, Arn went over to the side facing Lake V?nern where the tackle groaned and the stone hammers rang. He was genuinely surprised to see how fast the work had progressed and how evenly the stones were being fit together. He gave all the Saracen builders much praise before he explained that they would now have a three-day holiday for the wedding. They were all invited as guests, but they would need to dress accordingly. He said nothing about washing, since it would have been insulting to mention such a thing to the Prophet’s people.
Yet he did offer a few jests about the matter to the sweaty Brother Guilbert, who had been a Templar knight for twelve years in the Holy Land, after all. Was he perhaps still obeying the Rule’s ban on unnecessary washing? Brother Guilbert had a good laugh at this assumption, explaining that of all the regulations, he found the one prescribing that a man should stink like a pig was the least comprehensible. Unless Saint Bernard, in his inscrutable wisdom when he wrote the Rule, had thought that the Saracens would be more afraid of those warriors who stank like swine.
Brother Guilbert went off to get washed and change into his white monk’s robes, because when he was toiling so hard he dressed as a lay brother. In the meantime Arn went looking for Eskil. He found his brother engaged in a palaver involving many different languages, although no one seemed to understand a single word uttered by the group of minstrels, pipers, and drummers who had arrived from Skara with four ox-carts. What needed to be negotiated was the payment and the location; in such matters people were apt to pretend that they understood less than they actually did. But when the leader of the minstrel group turned out to be from Aix-en-Provence, Arn was soon able to help his brother by clarifying the agreement regarding every silver coin, as well as the group’s right to free ale and meat. In return, they would have to set up camp with their carts a good distance away from the fortress. In the end both parties seemed satisfied with the agreement, and the minstrels immediately returned to their ox carts to head for the specified camp area.
Eskil then took his brother to the bridal chamber, which was separated from the rest of the living quarters in the western end of the loft of the longhouse, with a stairway leading up to it from each side, one for the bridegroom and one for the bride. In the chamber hung the clothing that Arn would wear at various times during the days of the bridal ale. He would wear the garb of a warrior only when going to fetch his bride; afterwards he would change into other attire. For the evening of the bridal ale, he would wear foreign clothing in blue and silver and made from cloth that was otherwise worn only by women. But now, for the bachelors’ evening, he was to dress in a loose white surcoat with sleeves that reached only to the elbow; underneath he would wear a long blue tunic made of supple dyed deerskin, leggings of undyed leather, and soft leather boots with cross-gartering. He would wear his sword no matter what his attire.
After explaining these changes of clothing to a somewhat astonished Arn, Eskil sighed as for the thousandth time that day he remembered something that demanded his prompt attention. They were six men, but seven were needed for the evening. The group included Erik jarl, Sture J?nsson from the P?l clan, and four Folkungs: Arn, Magnus M?nesk?ld, Folke Jonsson, and Eskil’s own son, Torgils. They needed a seventh, and he had to be unmarried and not a Folkung.
Arn said he could offer no suggestions in this matter, since he had only a vague idea what a bachelors’ evening was all about, although he assumed that an ungodly amount of ale would be consumed, as usual. Eskil explained with growing impatience that it signified youth’s farewell to the free life, one last night together before one of them would leave his youth behind forever. Such was the custom.
Although this time the bachelors were unusually mature, he admitted, parrying Arn’s mocking smile, and the bridegroom was a man who had already reached his best years, with both a son and a nephew among his kinsmen. A similar situation had doubtless never occurred before, since some of these unmarried men, in particular Erik jarl and Magnus M?nesk?ld, were already well known in the land to be fierce and deft at wielding weapons, many people were bound to arrive to watch the start of this bachelors’ evening.
With a sigh Arn then suggested that since Brother Guilbert was his oldest friend after Eskil himself, and he could not be said to be a Folkung, he would prefer to see the monk and no one else as the seventh man. For age apparently made no difference, and as far as being a bachelor was concerned, Brother Guilbert could certainly defend his position with greater conviction than some among these young roosters.
Eskil fretted about this decision. He thought that an old monk would be more an object of ridicule than honour to their friendship in the games that awaited them.
Even though Arn had some idea what was ahead and did not like it, he found it impossible not to comply with his kinsmen’s customs. Still, he asked with an innocent expression what young roosters might be able to accomplish that Brother Guilbert could not.
Eskil replied evasively that there were seven games, seven different tests of skill with weapons, and that eternal honour would be won by the man who bested the others on a bachelors’ evening. Hence, it would be all the worse for anyone, especially a close friend like this Brother Guilbert, who performed poorly.
When he heard this, Arn sat in silence for a moment on the featherbed, but not for the reasons that Eskil assumed. He truly had no desire to compete in weapons’ games with tenderfeet and young boys; even less desire to do them harm. It reminded him of that unpleasant day when King Richard Lionheart had urged one of his young whelps, Sir Wilfred Ivanhoe was apparently his name, to joust with lances in the lists against a Templar knight. Such sport might end badly.
Boys should be taught and fostered; it was undignified to compete against them. He realized gloomily that not even this objection would seem reasonable to his brother.
‘What sort of weapons games are we going to play and put our honour at risk?’ he asked at last.
‘As I said, there are seven different games,’ replied Eskil impatiently. ‘Three you will perform on horseback, and four on foot, involving axe, spear, bow, and quarter-staff.’
‘Three games on horseback and the quarter-staff?’ asked Arn with sudden merriment. ‘This may be more fun than you think, and don’t worry about the monk. He’ll acquit himself well and offer much entertainment for those who are watching. But I have to go and talk to him first. Then I’ll fetch bows from the tower that will suit the two of us and see to it that my mare is properly saddled, befitting a monk.’
Eskil threw out his arms, saying that he relinquished all responsibility for this decision. Then he remembered another hundred things that he had to take care of and rushed down the bridegroom’s stairs, all of a sudden in a great hurry.
Arn dropped to his knees and rested his face against the soft coverlet of the bridal bed, breathing in the scent of herbs. For a long time he prayed to God’s Mother that she might hold Her protective hands over his beloved Cecilia for as long as there was still danger, and that he might not be struck by pride or injure any of the youths, especially not his own son, in the childish games that it seemed impossible for him to avoid.

By early evening more than a hundred guests had arrived at Arn?s to drink a toast to the bachelors’ evening, but mostly to watch the youthful games. The castle courtyard was crowded with ale tents and the stages that had been set up on trestles so that the conjuror’s tricks could be witnessed by all. Pipes and drums played, and the minstrels’ children performed preposterous antics, contorting themselves to stick their heads between their legs and creeping like big lice over the boards, prompting both laughter and alarm. But the air was filled with anticipation and few could keep from talking about what was to come: youthful games unlike any in memory, in which a jarl of the realm and one of the Lord’s knights from the Holy Land would both compete.
The drama began when the seven white-garbed men rode in from the stables on their horses, one after the other, and then circled round the courtyard with Erik jarl in the lead. A white-clad monk who aroused laughter and surprise came last. All rode magnificent stallions, except for Arn Magnusson and the monk, who rode small and lean steeds that already seemed skittish amidst all the crowds and tumult.
Erik jarl led the horsemen through the gate and down toward the pasture with the stock bower, where stable thralls held the reins of their horses as they dismounted. The guests at Arn?s gathered expectantly along the low western wall where the view of the playing field was so good that none of the spectators would miss any of the action.
Down on the field the seven youths – because according to custom that is what they were called even though at least four of them were full-grown men – chose Erik jarl to decide any dispute that might arise. Yet nobody believed that these men would squabble like real youths; each and every one of them was sure to behave with honour.
The first game involved tossing an axe, and the results would determine what came next. The man who won the axe game would be in charge of the following game and thus decide how to proceed.
A disk had been sawn from a thick oak log, and a red circle had been painted in the centre of it as the target. Each of the men would be allowed three tries wielding old double-bladed axes from a distance of ten paces.
Arn and Brother Guilbert, who were standing together, joked that if a man held such a battle-axe in his hand, it was actually best to hold onto it. Once he let it go, he wouldn’t be much use. Neither of them had ever seen or practiced this skill.
Erik jarl was first. His axe hurtled through the air and stuck in the red circle with a dull thud. Applause and an appreciative murmur rose from the spectators, since it would be no small matter for a member of the Erik clan to beat four Folkungs.
The second axe also struck the target well, but the third landed outside the circle.
Then came Magnus M?nesk?ld’s turn. He too landed two axes inside the circle, with the third just outside. Erik jarl and Magnus agreed that Erik’s aim had been the better, and neither of them showed any sign of disappointment or joy in victory.
Young Torgils was next, and he managed to land only one axe inside the circle, although the other two he threw struck the oak plank hard and well. Folke Jonsson did not do quite as well as Torgils, and when it was Sture J?nsson’s turn, a good deal of murmuring and laughter could be heard from the spectators up on the wall. It was hard not to jest about what would happen if a member of the P?l clan should beat both the Folkungs and Eriks.
That was exactly what he did, beating everyone who had tried so far. All three of his axes landed close together and inside the red circle. For that he received subdued applause.
When the stout monk stepped forward, there was again laughter accompanied by some scornful remarks; people yelled that there was no doubt of his bachelor status, but there wasn’t much else in his favour. And as expected, only one axe landed fairly, and outside of the red circle, at that.
Everyone then fell silent with excitement as Arn Magnusson, the last contestant, stepped forward, holding the three axes in his hand. But the disappointment was great and many commented on his poor attempts, for two of the axes hit the target but the blades didn’t lodge firmly, and the third axe landed outside the red circle, staying there only a few moments before it fell to the ground. This was not what anyone had expected from a man of the sagas.
Seven woven baskets were brought to the youths, who now filled them with last year’s half-rotten turnips, the number depending on their placement in the first contest. Hence Arn had seven turnips in his basket, while Sture J?nsson had only one. At the end of the games, the man who had the least number of turnips would be the winner.
Now it was time for spears. And Sture J?nsson would decide who he would battle first, and with that the real game would begin. Because now it was not just a matter of being able to wield a weapon well; the man who would win also had to be able to plan cleverly. With an aim towards winning, Sture should compete with the best men first, so that they would receive many turnips for being defeated first. If on the other hand he merely wanted to make it through with modest honour, he should start at the other end and challenge the monk or Arn Magnusson, since they had both proved to have little skill at throwing axes.
As if he truly saw himself as becoming the evening’s victor, Sture J?nsson arrogantly pointed his spear at Erik jarl.
He should not have done that. Because when they both cast their three spears at a bull’s-eye on a bale of hay, Erik jarl was the winner and Sture J?nsson the one who could expect to receive seven turnips in his basket.
Erik jarl was out to win; no one had any doubt of that. Therefore it was only right and proper for him to point his spear at Magnus M?nesk?ld, who was surely his best competitor; it would be best for him to receive as many turnips as possible.
It turned into a fierce battle between the two, both of whom were very skilled at throwing spears. Time after time appreciative murmurs would pass through the crowd of spectators up on the wall. Both men threw all three of their spears with such precision and so close to the target that it was impossible to decide the winner. And so they agreed to try again.
The second time Erik jarl determined that Magnus M?nesk?ld had won. Magnus then pointed his spear at the monk and defeated him as easily as everyone had expected. After than he boldly pointed at his own father.
Arn Magnusson was defeated too, just as easily as the monk. Magnus M?nesk?ld soon won the game, and many of the spectators were already convinced that he was the one who would finally have the least number of turnips of all and thereby win a crown of gold.
The next game was quarter-staffs on a plank. The two combatants had to balance on a plank placed over the moat and try to knock the other off using a long quarter-staff with its ends wrapped in leather. Before starting this game, it was customary to remove most of their clothing, since by the time the contest ended, all but one would have taken a bath in the moat.
Magnus M?nesk?ld didn’t even bother to take off his open white shift when he first pointed his quarter-staff at the monk, so confident was he of victory.
The monk couldn’t very well remove his white woollen habit, and that prompted spiteful merriment among the spectators when he went to get his staff and took a few powerful practice swings through the air. But some also noticed that Arn Magnusson, standing there among the youths, was looking especially amused. He pounded the monk on the back and uttered a few coarse remarks that seemed to have something to do with taking an involuntary bath.
It was now that the games were turned upside down and became as unforgettable as the spectators had been hoping.
With a smile and shaking his head, the monk went out onto the plank where Magnus M?nesk?ld was waiting with his quarter-staff lowered, as if expecting no threat from an old monk who could handle neither a spear nor an axe.
So quickly that no one even saw what happened, Magnus M?nesk?ld landed in the moat, still wearing all of his clothes. The monk must have struck a lucky blow; that was what most people thought.
Brother Guilbert set down his staff and hitched up his habit around his white legs. Then he pointed at Erik jarl, who took off his white shift and stepped forward, a bit more cautiously than his friend. That didn’t help him in the slightest. Almost with the same speed, he too landed in the moat. This time the people on the walls had paid more attention to what was happening. The monk had first directed a blow at Erik jarl’s head, but halfway there he had lowered the staff with one hand and knocked his opponent’s feet out from under him.
The monk just as easily dispatched the other three youths, each of whom took off more and more clothing, anticipating the bath awaiting them. Finally only Arn Magnusson remained.
Arn removed his woollen shift and the long blue tunic before approaching Brother Guilbert. They began a conversation that few of the spectators could understand, no matter how much they strained to hear, since it was conducted in Frankish.
‘It’s no wonder that you’ve grown a bit slow over the years, my dear old teacher,’ said Arn.
‘Just remember that you’ve never even come close to defeating me, you young stripling,’ laughed Brother Guilbert as he raised his quarter-staff menacingly, feinting a blow. Arn didn’t even flinch.
‘Your problem is doubtless that I’m no longer a stripling,’ said Arn, and in the next moment the battle began.
The two fought for a long time and with dizzying speed, aiming four, five, or six blows with each attack, each of which was equally quickly fended off by his opponent. From the very beginning it was clear that these two were the superior combatants when it came to quarter-staffs on a plank.
At last it looked as if fatigue overcame the monk first, and Arn then increased his speed until he finally struck the monk’s foot and won. At the same time, he stuck out his staff so that the monk, as he fell, could grab hold of it and swing his body over toward the edge of the moat where there was solid ground. In this way most of his woollen habit stayed dry.
From that point on, none of the youths would come even close to another victory, and this was already evident when the first game on horseback commenced.
The first contest involved riding toward each other holding a long leather sack filled with sand, attempting to knock the other man out of the saddle. Arn, who had won the quarter-staff on a plank game, and hence was to determine the sequence of this battle, dispatched all of the youths as easily as the monk had done with the staff. When only the monk remained, a protracted contest began with an exhibition of horsemanship conducted at dizzying speed and with skills that were almost impossible to comprehend. Arn won this time as well, and again it looked as if the monk had tired first, and that was the reason for his defeat.
The next game entailed galloping toward rows of turnips that had been impaled on posts, and slicing through the turnips with a sword. None of the youths was able to cleave even half of the turnips in their row before Arn was already done. He didn’t bother to chop at them; he merely rode past with his long, slender sword stretched out like a wing, and all the turnips split in half. The first turnip hadn’t even hit the ground before Arn had sliced off the next. The monk, who came last, tried to ride in the same manner, but his borrowed sword got stuck in the third turnip, and with that the game was over.
Whoever won the turnip-chopping would have an almost impossible time trying to win the next game, since it was a race on horseback. If he won the first, second, and third race, it would be difficult to urge his horse to top speed against the other, rested horses.
Apparently Arn Magnusson had thought about this. It looked as if he rode the first races by holding back, although he was always just slightly ahead of his competitor. Perhaps it would have been wiser to start with the monk, who was riding one of his own foreign steeds. Instead, Arn saved the monk for last.
Then both men rode at full gallop, as they had when they competed against each other in the games with the leather sacks and the turnip-chopping. But the rested mare easily defeated Arn Magnusson’s stallion.
After that only the noblest of the games remained: archery. And no one had ever heard of monks who could shoot arrows. Yet no one had ever imagined that monks could ride like this Cistercian, let alone handle the quarter-staff and sword as he had done.
Perhaps the monk and Arn had decided between them how they would finish the games, because now things got very exciting. As soon as the monk tested the string on the bow that his friend Arn handed to him, it was easy to see that this was not the first time he’d held such a weapon in his hands.
The archery contest proceeded with two archers alternating shooting arrows at bales of hay adorned with the head of a griffin and set at a distance of fifty paces. When the targets were brought out, the spectators began snickering and murmuring at the audacity of choosing the coat of arms of the Sverkers as the target. It was not particularly honourable to jest in this way with the vanquished enemy.
Evidently without even exerting himself, the monk defeated first Sture J?nsson, then Torgils and Folke Jonsson. He had to make more of an effort to beat Erik jarl, and when it was Magnus M?nesk?ld’s turn, it looked as if the monk had to do his utmost with every shot, since they both seemed almost equally skilled.
Both archers were evenly matched, striking the black griffin head each time, until the ninth arrow. Then Magnus M?nesk?ld’s arrow landed outside, at the edge of the griffin, while the monk landed his arrow in the centre of the target. With the tenth arrow, Magnus once again struck the centre. Then it all came down to the monk’s last arrow.
Brother Guilbert turned and said something to Arn Magnusson, who replied curtly, shaking his head, whereupon Brother Guilbert shot his arrow so that it struck the centre of the target. And with that, the single arrow from Brother Guilbert defeated the best archer in all of Eastern G?taland.
With the archery contest, the situation was the reverse of the horseback race. It was a disadvantage to sit idle until the very end and an advantage to shoot against the lesser opponents before the decisive competition. And Brother Guilbert needed only to cast a glance at the youths to know in some strange way who was strong and who was weak, so he was able to take them in the proper sequence.
‘Now, my young apprentice, you won’t be able to rely on the power of your lungs or the strength of your legs to defeat your teacher,’ Brother Guilbert said, beaming and pulling the string of his bow taut several times as Arn stepped forward.
‘No, that’s true,’ said Arn. ‘I would much prefer that we conducted this contest just between the two of us if we truly wanted to know whether the teacher is still stronger than his apprentice. For which of us will now win?’
‘Your son Magnus was very disappointed when he lost; I could see that, even though he chivalrously hid his feelings,’ said Brother Guilbert. ‘But what would be best? If he sees his father defeated by the same monk? Or if he sees his father become the victor, even though he has practiced his whole life to defeat you, or rather the shadow of you? He is truly very skilled.’
‘Yes, I could see that,’ said Arn reluctantly. ‘Truly very skilled. Imagine what he could have become with you as his teacher. In the meantime, I can’t say who ought to win, you or me, or which victor Magnus would find it most difficult to stomach.’
‘Nor can I,’ said Brother Guilbert. Then he crossed himself as a sign that he was leaving this difficult decision to higher powers.
Arn nodded in agreement, crossed himself as well, and nocked the first arrow to the string of his bow. It struck the lower part of the griffin’s head, which wasn’t so odd, since this was his first shot, and it would either strike high or low before he had tested his bow.
For this reason Brother Guilbert took the lead until the seventh arrow, since they both hit the center of the target each time, until it was bristling with arrows. Brother Guilbert shot the seventh arrow too high, but not as high as Arn’s first arrow had been too low.
There was utter silence up on the walls, and the other competing youths had unconsciously moved closer and closer to get a better view. They now stood in a semicircle right behind the two archers.
With the eighth arrow, both struck the centre of the target. The ninth arrow, for each of them, again landed in the middle.
Arn shot his tenth arrow, which sliced off the fletchings of two other arrows, but still plunged into the centre. Now everything depended on Brother Guilbert’s last arrow.
He spent a long time taking aim; the only sound at Arn?s was the rush of wings from a flock of swifts flying past.
But then he changed his mind and lowered his bow, taking several deep breaths before he raised the bow once more and drew the string along his cheek. Again he spent a long time taking aim.
His arrow struck too high because he had taken too much time. And with that Arn was the victor of this youths’ game that no one who was present would ever forget. Nor would it be forgotten by those who were not present, because they would hear so many accounts of it over the years that they came to believe they’d actually seen it with their own eyes.
Eskil immediately came over to the youths with the mistress of Arn?s, Erika Joarsdotter, at his side. She carried two glittering crowns, one of gold and the other of silver. They stopped and all the youths lined up in front of the couple, very close to the moat so that the guests would be able to see and hear everything that was about to take place.
‘This bachelors’ evening has begun well,’ said Eskil in a loud voice. ‘You have brought great honour to my house, because such a game of youths as we have seen today has never occurred before and never shall again. The victor’s crown is gold, for a finer victory than this could not be won. To be miserly is not one of my qualities, and yet I am careful with my money. I am pleased, of course, that my brother has won since any other outcome no doubt would have taken a toll on his honour and reputation. I am also pleased that the gold will remain in this house, after a fashion. Step forward, Sir Arn!’
Arn was reluctantly shoved forward by Magnus M?nesk?ld and young Torgils. He bowed before Eskil, and Erika Joarsdotter placed the gold crown on his head. After that Arn didn’t know what he was supposed to do, so Magnus leaned forward and tugged at his shift, which aroused great merriment among the spectators up on the wall.
Erika Joarsdotter now raised the silver crown toward Brother Guilbert, because they didn’t have to count turnips to know who had finished in second place.
Brother Guilbert protested and refused to come forward, which at first seemed like the feigned modesty of a religious man, but then he explained that in accordance with his monk’s vows, he was not allowed to own personal possessions. To give him silver would be the same as giving it to Varnhem cloister.
Eskil frowned, agreeing that it might be unnecessary to present a youth’s prize to a cloister to which he had already given more than enough in donations. A moment of indecision followed as Erika lowered the silver crown and looked at Eskil, who shrugged his shoulders.
But it was Brother Guilbert who came up with an unexpected solution. Cautiously he took the silver crown from Erika’s hands and went over to the baskets belonging to Erik jarl and Magnus M?nesk?ld to count the turnips. He soon returned and went over to Magnus.
‘You, Magnus, are the best archer that I’ve ever seen in this land, after your father, of course,’ he said solemnly. ‘After myself, and I don’t count since divine rules prevent me from being considered, you were the best. All right, young man, bow your head!’
Blushing but at the same time looking proud, and with the encouragement of his friends, Magnus complied. And so it was that father and son went to the bachelors’ ale celebration that evening wearing crowns of gold and silver.
The youths held their own feast. They were to celebrate the bachelors’ evening on their own, at the leafy bower, as custom dictated. Eskil and Erika Joarsdotter walked back up to the castle and their waiting guests while the youths went off to the banquet hall under the open sky. Stable thralls led away their horses and house thralls hastened to bring them mantles and dry clothing, meat and ale.
When they were finally alone, all seven began talking at once, since there was much to try and understand. Most puzzling of all was the fact that an old monk had been able to beat young Nordic warriors at their own weapons games.
Arn explained that this was no ordinary monk. Brother Guilbert, like himself, had been a Templar knight, and it would have brought both of them much shame if two Templar knights could not have put the young Nordic roosters in their place.
There was much shouting and everyone was in the best of spirits even before they partook of the ale. They all had reason to be pleased.
Magnus M?nesk?ld was satisfied, even though he had come to the games fully intending to win. But the only men who had defeated him were two of the Lord’s Templar knights, and everyone had seen on this day with their own eyes that everything recounted about these holy warriors of God was true. But Magnus had defeated all of his friends.
Erik jarl was also pleased, since he knew that he would need a great deal of luck to be able to beat Magnus M?nesk?ld. But at least none of his other friends had managed to defeat him.
Torgils was satisfied because as the youngest contestant he had still succeeded in avoiding the last position. And Sture J?nsson was pleased even though he had come in last overall since he was one of two, not including the Templar knights, who had won one of the games, the one with axes.
Arn was pleased that he had won, even though it felt almost shameful to admit this. But since he clearly was going to have to fight to win his son’s respect, this was a good step along the way.
Brother Guilbert was perhaps the most satisfied of all, since he had shown that as an old man he could keep up with a fellow knight. He was also happy that God had determined the archery contest for the best so that he and Arn wouldn’t have to argue about the outcome.
Because so many lively youths had come for the bachelors’ evening, it would cost Eskil a lot of ale, and many of the young men would pay with an aching head the next day. The whole night was theirs.
Food and ale was as plentiful as Brother Guilbert and Arn had feared. But at Arn’s command a small cask of Lebanese wine was also brought out. He had made the wine himself, and two glasses were found for the two men who preferred wine instead of the bridal ale from Lübeck.
During the first hour, before drunkenness began to settle over them, the men talked mostly of various events that had occurred during the games. Soon someone dared to jest about Templar knights who couldn’t throw axes or spears.
Brother Guilbert explained with good humour that the business of casting away a spear was not a knight’s foremost concern; in fact, it was the last thing he would do. And as for the axe, he’d be happy to carry an axe on horseback and confront any youth. But not for the purpose of throwing it. After that he gave everyone present a stern and ferocious look, making the young men involuntarily recoil until he suddenly burst out laughing.
But as for the quarter-staff on a plank, he went on, that was an excellent exercise. That was the basis for everything – speed, agility, balance – and the many resultant bruises were a reminder that defensive actions were just as important as knowing how to attack. Consequently, this was the first lesson he had taught Arn when he was a little boy.
Arn raised his wine glass and confirmed at once that he spoke the truth. That was how things had been when he had arrived at Varnhem at such a young age. And he’d received a thrashing from Brother Guilbert every day for twelve years, he added, sighing heavily and bowing his head, which prompted everyone to laugh.
After they’d drunk a considerable amount of ale, the young men kept jumping up to go off and piss, while Arn and Brother Guilbert remained calmly in their seats. In this way a different young man would sit down next to the two older men as soon as a place was vacated. And for as long as the youths remained coherent, Arn and Brother Guilbert had the chance to converse with all of them.
By the time Magnus M?nesk?ld came over to sit down next to Arn, the evening had progressed farther than Arn had expected. A shyness seemed to exist between the two of them, and a good deal of wine and ale was required to get past it.
Magnus began by apologizing for twice having misjudged his father, but he added that he had learned a great deal from these mistakes.
Arn pretended not to understand what he was referring to and asked for an explanation. Magnus spoke of his disappointment when he first saw his father, not as the knight of his dreams but as a thrall wielding a trowel, and how he should have known better as soon as they took to their horses and rode away from Forsvik. But he had been so foolish as to revive his disappointment when he saw Arn throw an axe without striking the target. And so the rebuke that he’d received was fully justified, and he’d never seen greater archers than the monk and his own father. So in that respect the sagas had spoken the truth.
Arn tried to dismiss the subject by jesting that he promised henceforth to practice strenuously at the art of throwing weapons. Yet such jesting did not suit Magnus M?nesk?ld, who kept his solemn demeanour and only afterwards dared to ask about something that he said had been puzzling him.
‘When we arrived at Forsvik on horseback,’ he said, ‘and we came around the corner of the house, where you, my father, stood up on the ridgepole holding a trowel…when you leaped down and looked at us…how could you recognize me as your son so quickly?’
Arn burst into uncontrollable laughter, even though he would have preferred to keep a straight face.
‘Just look at this!’ he exclaimed, ruffling his son’s thick red hair. ‘Who would have hair like your mother except you, my son! And besides, even if you’d been wearing a helmet, all I had to do was look at your shields. You were the only one who bore a half-moon painted next to our Folkung lion. And if none of that were sufficient, I would have looked into your eyes. You have your mother’s beautiful brown eyes.’
‘Tomorrow I will become your legitimate son,’ said Magnus, suddenly sounding on the verge of tears.
‘You have always been my legitimate son,’ replied Arn. ‘Your mother Cecilia and I may have committed a sin when we conceived you too early. It has taken a long time for us to be able to celebrate our wedding, because it was not as easy for my kinsman Knut to become king as he first thought, and he had promised to come to our wedding as king. The love between your mother and myself was great, our yearning just as great, and so we committed a sin, though we are not the only ones who have done so. But whether it was a great sin or not, we have both atoned for it with a harsh punishment, and we are now cleansed. And tomorrow we’ll drink the bridal ale that was intended more than twenty years ago. But that’s not when you will become my son, nor when I will be Cecilia’s husband. I have always been hers, and you have always been my son, every single day in my prayers during a long war.’
Magnus sat and pondered in silence for a moment as if he were unsure in which direction he should steer the conversation. All of a sudden there were so many things crowding into his head.
‘Do you think the king will come to the wedding, as he promised?’ he then asked, as if thereby saving himself from more difficult topics for discussion.
‘No, he won’t,’ said Arn. ‘Birger Brosa will not attend, that much we know, and I don’t think the king has any desire to offend his jarl. And as far as the promises of kings are concerned, I’ve learned that it makes a difference whether they’re given before or after the crown is in place. Yet it was wisely arranged for Erik jarl to be present to honour us, representing both the Eriks and the king.’
‘But Erik jarl is here because he’s my friend,’ Magnus M?nesk?ld objected without thinking.
‘I’m glad that he’s here, and I’m glad that he’s your friend,’ said Arn. ‘But above all else, he is a jarl of the realm and our future king. In this way my friend Knut has solved his predicament. He is here as he promised me. And he’s also not here, as he no doubt promised Birger Brosa. That is how a wise friend acts if he is king.’
‘Will there be war soon?’ asked Magnus, as if on impulse or as if the ale and not his sense of chivalry were already guiding his speech.
‘No,’ said Arn. ‘Not for a long time, but let’s talk of that subject another time, when there’s not so much ale-drinking going on.’
As if Arn’s words about the ale had reminded Magnus of nature’s call, he excused himself and on slightly unsteady legs went off into the dusk to relieve himself. House thralls brought in tarred torches and more roasts.
A short time later Brother Guilbert and Arn sat alone, each holding a wine glass, while songs and bellows surrounded them on all sides.
Arn teased Brother Guilbert about the last arrow he had shot, saying that if a man spends that much time thinking before shooting, it’s almost always sure to go wrong. It means that he wants something too much. And if you want something too much, then you take too much, and this was something that Brother Guilbert surely should know better than anyone else.
Yes, you would think that would be true, admitted Brother Guilbert. But he had been shooting to win. Or at least to do his best so that no one would think he had simply handed the victory to Arn. Yet Higher Powers had steered his arrow.
‘Deus vult!’ said Arn in jest, raising his clenched fist in the greeting of the Templar knights.
Brother Guilbert immediately joined in and struck his fist against Arn’s.
‘Perhaps we can compete again, on horseback and with more difficult targets that are moving,’ said Arn.
‘Oh no!’ replied Brother Guilbert crossly. ‘You just want to put your old teacher in his place. I’d rather go another round with you using the quarter-staff!’
At that they had a good laugh, but none of the youths were paying much attention to them any more, perhaps because they couldn’t understand the conversation. Brother Guilbert and Arn, as if from old habit, had switched to speaking Frankish.
‘Tell me one thing, brother,’ said Arn pensively. ‘How many Templar knights would it take to conquer the two lands of the Goths and Svealand?’
‘Three hundred,’ replied Brother Guilbert after pausing to consider the question. ‘Three hundred were enough to hold the Holy Land for a long time. This kingdom is bigger, but on the other hand there is no cavalry here. Three hundred knights and three strongholds and we could pacify the entire region. Aha! So that’s what you’re thinking! At this very moment I’m helping to build the first stronghold with our dear friends the Saracens. What a superb irony! And you’re not afraid that our Saracen friends will cause problems? I mean, sooner or later these Nordic barbarians are going to figure out what sort of foreigners pray five times a day and in a less than discreet manner at that, if I’m going to speak of the matter with some delicacy.’
‘That was a lot to bring up at once,’ said Arn with a sigh. ‘Yes, this is more or less what I’ve been thinking: that if I build a cavalry force using the same exercises that we use as Templar knights, then we will have peace. More strongholds than are necessary, that’s true. And as for the Saracens, my plan is for them first to display their skills; afterwards people can choose between their demonstrated abilities and their own misconceptions about what Saracens are.’
‘That last part might be a dangerous game,’ mused Brother Guilbert. ‘You and I know the truth about Saracens. There’s an explanation for that. But won’t any one of this land’s ignorant and primitive bishops drop dead, choked by bacon, as soon as he realizes the truth about your fortress builders? And to create peace with overwhelming strength, as you are planning, is both right and wrong.’
‘I know how it’s right, but how is it wrong?’ Arn asked sharply.
‘It’s wrong because the Nordic people don’t understand the new cavalry force, how invincible it is. Once you have created such power, you will first have to demonstrate it before you can gain peace. That will mean war, in any case.’
‘I have pondered this very matter for a long time,’ Arn admitted. ‘I have only one answer and that is to make it a gentle lesson. Do you remember the foremost of the golden rules of the Templar order?’
‘When you draw your sword – do not think about who you must kill. Think about who you should spare,’ replied Brother Guilbert in Latin.
‘Precisely,’ said Arn. ‘Precisely. May it be God’s will!’