Birth of the Kingdom

SIX

With thundering hooves the stout Nordic horses once again pounded the bridal path. Long lances glinted in the sunlight, and the clanging and ringing of weapons could be heard everywhere, as well as the harsh, heated words of warriors. A number of the horsemen bore the king’s emblem, but most of them were Folkungs who had been summoned from farms and hamlets far and wide. A thousand armed men were to protect the bride and her procession. So many warriors had not been seen since peace had come, and it was almost like old times when the king called for a campaign.
From villages as far away as the region of Skara, every single person had come out, and since early morning crowds had lined the entire road between Husaby and Forshem Church. Some sat down to rest with ale and pork, others conversed with neighbours they hadn’t seen in a long time, while the children leaped and played all around them. Everyone was there to see the bride riding to Forshem. But they’d seen bridal processions before, so this time most of them hoped to see something more. The portent had shown four suns, and many rumours circulated about evil machinations directed at the bride. Some had to do with perils threatening the bride from dark forces; others foretold that she would be stolen by N?cken the water spirit or be turned to stone by the siren of the woods or be poisoned by the troll. Other rumours were less imaginative and had to do with war and misfortune descending over the land – and it made no difference whether the bride ended up alive under the featherbed on this night, or whether she was killed or spirited away. Among the older and wiser men there was gloomy talk of how this wedding had much to do with the struggle for power in the realm.
No matter what happened during this bridal procession, it would in any case be a drama worth waiting many hours to see. And wait they did, because those who were supposed to fetch the bride were late.
When the sun was at its zenith, Cecilia was led out into the courtyard by her three kinsmen P?l, Algot, and Sture, who had arrived that morning from Arn?s still feeling the effects of the ale. Yet they were in good humour and had much to tell about the youths’ games with the foremost archer in the land.
The three brothers were all clad in their most beautiful green mantles of the P?l clan, and yet their garb looked pale and simple in comparison with that worn by Cecilia. In the courtyard stood the bridal table and on top were five leather pouches of earth from the five farms along with a heavy chest; this was the dowry that those who came to fetch the bride would take with them. Also on the table was Cecilia’s gift for the bridegroom, the blue Folkung mantle carefully folded; she hadn’t yet shown it to anyone. The stable thralls held the reins of the groomed and festively adorned horses, and the six bridesmaids dressed in white held the long bridal veil in their hands. Cecilia would not be dressed in the veil until just before the men arrived to fetch her.
There they all now stood, but nothing happened.
‘Perhaps Herr Eskil drank too much of his own excellent ale,’ said young Sture shamelessly. Like the others, he took it for granted that Eskil Magnusson would be the one to fetch the bride, since old Herr Magnus was now crippled.
For an hour they stood in the noonday sun without budging, because that would spell bad luck. At first Cecilia feared that something bad had happened; then her concern was replaced by a cool anger that Eskil had let her stand here so long. She thought that even though Eskil might be shrewd in business affairs, he could indeed be irresponsible when it came to the well-being of others.
Yet she would soon see that none of this was Eskil’s fault.
From far off, at the bend in the road down by the stream and bridge, could be heard shouts from the waiting people. It was not the sound of surprise or alarm that they heard, but rather jubilation.
The tension grew among the three P?l brothers and Cecilia as they stood with their eyes fixed on the bend in the road where the one who had come to fetch the bride would appear.
The first thing they saw was a rider bearing the king’s banner. Then came a glittering retinue with countless lance tips flashing in the sunlight.
‘If this is the bride-fetcher we were kept waiting for, then everything is forgiven,’ P?l J?nsson gasped in surprise. He gestured for the bridesmaids to bring the white veil and drape it over Cecilia so that her hair and face and most of her body would be hidden.
Then she stood motionless and erect as the royal horsemen came thundering into the courtyard, taking up position in a wide circle with their swords drawn and their horses facing outward. Riding into the huge space formed inside this circle came the king and queen, both wearing ermine and crowns. They reined in their horses ten paces from the waiting P?l brothers and Cecilia.
Because Cecilia’s face was now hidden under the veil, no one could see her eyes. And so she was unable to meet the gaze of her dear friend the queen, but she gave a little nod in return when Cecilia Blanca smiled at her with an expression that showed she realized this was not what Cecilia Rosa had expected.
The king raised his hand for silence as he delivered his greeting.
‘Many years ago we, Knut Eriksson, king of the Swedes and Goths, promised that we would escort you, Cecilia, and our friend Arn Magnusson to the bridal ale. Promises should be kept, especially promises made by a king. We are here now and ask for forgiveness that it has taken so long to see this promise fulfilled!’
With these words, the king dismounted from his horse and stepped forward to greet the three P?l brothers, one after the other. They all returned his greeting by swiftly falling to one knee. A bride’s kinsmen rarely behaved in this manner upon handing over the bride. But it was even rarer to have the bride fetched by the king himself.
To Cecilia, King Knut merely gave a curt nod, and he did not touch her, for this would bring bad luck to both of them.
Men from the king’s retinue were summoned to load the dowry and the bride’s gift on a cart festooned with leafy boughs and drawn not by oxen but by two lively sorrel horses. The stable thralls then led forward the horses for the bridal party to mount. A stool was put in place to assist Cecilia. Since she would now be riding in her bridal attire and with the bridal veil, she could not avoid the women’s saddle, which she normally found so loathsome.
Then they rode off from the royal estate of Husaby with the king and queen in the lead, followed by the bride and then the three P?l brothers. The royal retainers fell in on either side, and horsemen galloped ahead to clear the road of curious spectators who might be standing too near. Commands resounded through the air as the leaders of the retainers shouted back and forth. The Husaby thralls started in on the warbling, rolling song that was their way of sending along their best wishes.
A more magnificent bridal procession than the one now riding through the summer sunshine down the slopes from Husaby toward Forshem had not been seen in the realm since King Knut, many years ago, went to Gudhem cloister to fetch his bride. But that time not as many peasants had turned out to watch the festivities. And this time even many town-dwellers from Skara had come out. It was easy to recognize the town-dwellers, since they dressed like womenfolk, with feathers in their caps even though they were men, and they all talked through their nose.
As the procession approached Forshem, the riders slowed their pace, with the faster horsemen galloping on ahead, kicking up clouds of dust, in order to make inquiries and ensure that both processions would arrive at the church at the same time.
From a great distance Cecilia could see that the church hill was crowded with people, but that there were also red colours among the blue. The king and queen, who were riding in front of her, must have seen the Sverker colours too, and yet they didn’t seem the least bit alarmed. So Cecilia quickly crossed herself, thinking that she was wrong in assuming there was any danger.
As she got closer, she understood the reason for all the red colour. Waiting at the church door was the archbishop, and his retainers were almost all Sverker men.
The bridegroom’s procession was now seen approaching from Arn?s. In front was the eldest leader of the Folkung retainers, who had come all the way from ?lgar?s for the honour of riding in the forefront of the Folkungs. Behind him rode Herr Eskil and Arn side by side, both in the garb of warriors, which seemed to suit Arn better than his elder brother. Arn had rowan boughs adorning both himself and his horse, since he had been greeted along his procession route by almost as many well-wishers as Cecilia had encountered. Behind Arn rode his groomsmen, which included a Cistercian monk dressed in white robes with the hood looking like a tall cornet on his head.
Everything could now take place in the order that custom prescribed. On the church hill the bride dismounted from her horse with the help of her kinsmen. The retainers of the king, the Folkungs, and the archbishop all formed a circle of shields and swords around the open area in front of the church door where the archbishop stood, wearing his finest vestments with two black-clad chaplains at his side and the white pallium draped over his chest and back.
The bride was led forward to bow her head briefly before the archbishop without touching him. Her three kinsmen dropped to one knee and kissed the bishop’s ring.
From a distance Arn and his companions had been watching; now they too came forward to greet the archbishop. Arn also kissed the bishop’s ring.
Then came the moment when Arn and Cecilia stood face to face in front of the archbishop, and Cecilia slowly removed her bridal veil to reveal her face. She had seen him through the cloth, but he had not seen her until now, as was the custom.
Then the wedding gifts were exchanged. Erik jarl stepped over to Arn and with a deep bow, which was an unexpected gesture that prompted much whispering, he handed the groom a heavy and costly belt made from heavy gold links, each of which was set with a green stone. Arn fastened the belt around Cecilia, fumbling a bit, which aroused great merriment. Then Cecilia turned around with her arms outstretched so that everyone who stood near could see the glittering gold that now encircled her waist, with one end hanging down the front of her skirt.
P?l J?nsson then brought Cecilia’s wedding gift; even folded as it was, everyone could see that it was a blue mantle. Eskil reacted quickly and removed the mantle his brother was wearing; he then unfastened from the cloth the heavy silver clasp that had held it closed under Arn’s chin. Cecilia slowly and solemnly unfolded her gift. Soon loud shouts of admiration and excitement issued from the crowds standing behind all the retainers as the people craned their necks to see. A more beautiful blue mantle had never been seen before, and the lion on the back gleamed as if made of gold, the three bars were as bright as silver, while the lion’s mouth shone bright red. Together Eskil and Cecilia placed the mantle over Arn’s shoulders.
Then he did just as Cecilia had done, spinning once around with the mantle stretched out over his arms so that everyone could see, and many more admiring shouts were heard.
The archbishop raised his staff, a bit galled that it wasn’t met with immediate silence, though this had less to do with any sort of godlessness and more to do with the fact that so many people were talking all at once and with enthusiasm about the costly wedding gifts.
‘In the name of God, the Son, and the Holy Virgin!’ intoned the archbishop, and finally everyone fell silent. ‘I now bless you, Arn Magnusson, and you, Cecilia Algotsdotter, as you enter into a marriage sanctified by God. May happiness, peace, and prosperity follow you until death do you part, and may this union, ordained by the Lord God, contribute to the peace and concord of our kingdom. Amen.’
He then took some holy water from a silver bowl, which one of the chaplains handed to him, and touched first Cecilia’s forehead, shoulders, and heart; then he did the same with Arn.
If the archbishop had had his way, Arn and Cecilia would have then embraced each other as a sign that they had now entered into marriage. Arn and Cecilia both understood the hidden meaning of this blessing, which was that they had now become husband and wife, but neither had any desire to participate in this churchly show. For their kinsmen and before the law, they would not become husband and wife until after being escorted to bed. And if they were now required to choose between the archbishop’s efforts to allow the church to rule, and the conviction of their kinsmen that old customs could not simply be dismissed, neither of them thought this was the proper moment to confront such a dilemma. It took only an exchange of glances for them to agree how they would act.
Rather vexed that the couple hadn’t seemed to understand what he was so clearly indicating with his blessing, the archbishop abruptly turned and walked into the church to conduct the mass.
The king and queen followed him, then Arn and Cecilia, their groomsmen, bridesmaids, and kinsmen, as many as would fit into the small church.
The intention was to keep the mass brief, because the archbishop knew full well that everyone’s eagerness to start the wedding celebration was greater than their thirst to commune with their God. Yet he received unexpected assistance from the bridal couple when it was time to sing the hymns, as well as from the Cistercian who was part of Arn Magnusson’s retinue. When the final hymns began, those three simply took over. With increasing zeal, and finally with tears in the eyes of both the bride and groom, the three voices joined, with Cecilia’s soprano singing the lead, and the monk’s deep voice taking the third part.
The archbishop looked out over the enraptured congregation, who seemed to have forgotten all their haste to leave God’s house and start in on the ale and entertainments. Then his glance fell upon Arn Magnusson. Unlike all the other men, he still wore his sword at his side. At first the archbishop was angry, as if this were a sign of ill intent. Yet he could see no trace of evil in this man’s eyes as he sang as well as the best of church singers and with sincere rapture. Then the archbishop quickly crossed himself, murmuring a prayer to ask forgiveness for his sinful thoughts and his foolishness as he remembered that the groom was in fact a Templar knight, no matter the blue of his mantle. And a Templar was a man of God, and the sword in that black leather scabbard with the cross of gold had been blessed by the Lord’s Mother; it was the only weapon that was allowed inside the church.
The archbishop decided to stay on good terms with Arn Magnusson. A man of God would more easily understand what needed to be changed for the better in this realm where raw fellows like King Knut and Birger Brosa reigned. It would no doubt be wise to have Arn Magnusson on his side in the struggles ahead between the ecclesiastical and the temporal powers. Surely the Knights Templar must have greater insight into such matters than any of his power-hungry kinsmen.
The thoughts that had begun for the archbishop as a mixture of malice and suspicion were now transformed into visions of a bright future as the three masterful singers voiced God’s Own hymns.
Because the crowds of spectators had thinned out after the church blessing and the mass, the bridal procession now took only an hour to reach Arn?s. There was no longer as much need to fear for the bride’s safety, since the worst was now over and no one sensed any serious threat to her life. All the warriors had now shifted position and kept the short stretch of road to Arn?s in an iron grip.
Leading the procession, after the horsemen carrying the banners of the king and the Folkungs, were Arn and Cecilia, riding side by side toward Arn?s. This was not actually the custom, but on this particular day there were many things that were not as usual. No one had ever heard of a king going to fetch the bride. Just as extraordinary was the fact that the bridal couple had sung the church hymns in such a way that outshone even the archbishop’s retinue. And certainly no guest should ride in front of the host, but if that guest happened to be the king, with the queen at his side? This wedding had in truth turned many things upside down.
Inside the walls at Arn?s there were so many bright colours that the splendour seemed almost too much for the eye to take in. At the ale tents the blood-red mantles of Sverkers mixed with the blue of the Eriks and Folkungs. But there were also many foreign garments in all manner of colours, worn by guests who had donned their finest in order to show their superior status, as happens so often in the presence of a king. Some were also Frankish men that Arn Magnusson had brought home with him; they were apparently too highborn to drink ale, and the language they spoke was utterly incomprehensible. The pounding of drums and the sound of pipers could be heard from every direction; jugglers tossed burning torches high in the air, where they spun around and were then always safely caught. Singers accompanied by stringed instruments, stood upon elevated platforms and sang Frankish ballads. The archbishop was borne on his chair into the castle courtyard, but every now and then he would stretch out his hand, good-naturedly delivering blessings right and left.
Arn and Cecilia now had to part once again, since Cecilia was to ascend to a raised bridal seat that had been adorned with leafy boughs and positioned in the courtyard. Arn also had to take his place on a similar wooden structure along with his groomsmen. Eskil had decided on this arrangement so that everybody would be able to see the bride and groom, since later on only half the guests would be able to find seats in the great hall. For all those who had to partake of the feast outside in the courtyard, it would have been disappointing to be allocated such poor seats without even having seen the bride and groom. A similar raised platform had been constructed for the archbishop, the king, and the master of Arn?s.
Brother Guilbert quickly and nimbly clambered up the wooden structure to sit down next to Arn. At the same time he called to the Frankish lute players and singers to step forward and repeat the song they had just finished. Encouraged to hear that there were some among the spectators who actually understood the words of their songs, they obeyed at once. Both Arn and Brother Guilbert nodded to each other as they listened to the first verses. It almost looked as if Brother Guilbert could have sung along, even though such songs were forbidden to him.
The song was about Sir Roland, a knight who tried in vain before he died to break his sword Dyrendal so that it wouldn’t end up in enemy hands. Inside the hilt were holy relics, a tooth from Saint Peter, blood from Saint Basil, and a thread from the kirtle that the Mother of God had worn. But the sword refused to break, no matter how hard the dying Sir Roland tried. Then the angels of God took pity on the hero and lifted the sword up to heaven, and Roland could sink down in the shade of a pine tree with his oliphant battle-horn at his side. He turned his head toward the land of the unbelievers so that Charlemagne would not find his dead hero with his face turned away in cowardice. And he confessed his sins, lifting his right gauntlet up toward God. Then Saint Gabriel came down to receive it and guide Roland’s soul to heaven.
Arn and Brother Guilbert were both very moved by this song, since they could easily imagine everything that the words described, almost as if they had actually been present. Many were the accounts they had both heard about Christian knights in the Holy Land breaking their swords in half and lying down to await death as they surrendered their souls to God.
When the two Proven?al lute players discovered that some of their listeners were actually moved by the words of the song, they moved as close to Brother Guilbert and Arn as they dared and sang verse after verse, as if they never wanted to stop. The song about Sir Roland was quite long.
Not realizing that he should have offered a few silver coins in order to be quit of the singers, Arn finally grew tired of the endless singing and in Frankish called out his thanks, saying that now that would suffice. Disappointed, the singers fell silent and moved away to find a new audience.
‘I suppose you should have paid them something,’ Brother Guilbert explained.
‘No doubt you’re right,’ said Arn. ‘But I have no silver on me, nor do you, so I’ll have to put the matter aside until later. There is too much of the monk in me, and it’s not easy to rid myself of those ways.’
‘Then you’d better make haste, since the wedding night is fast approaching,’ jested Brother Guilbert. But he regretted his words when he saw how Arn blanched at this simple statement of fact.
Finally the sound of a horn announced that the official festivities were to begin, and half of the guests headed toward the door of the great hall, while the other half remained in the courtyard without really knowing how to act so as not to seem offended that they hadn’t been included among the foremost hundred guests. Only the Sverkers openly displayed their discontent, assembling together so that they formed one large red bloodstain in the middle of the courtyard. Among those entering the great hall, there were few red mantles, and those there were belonged to women.
The most beautiful of these red mantles was worn by Ulvhilde Emundsdotter, who had been the dearest friend of both Cecilias during those dark days at Gudhem cloister. The friendship of the three women was remarkably strong, even though there was spilled blood between them. Cecilia Rosa’s future husband, Arn, was the one who had chopped off the hand of Ulvhilde’s father, Emund. And Cecilia Blanca’s husband, Knut, was the one who had killed him after a treacherous transaction.
The three women were the first to enter the great hall, staying close. Queen Blanca already knew where they were to sit during the banquet; all three would be seated together high up on the bridal dais with the six bridesmaids below.
Even though it was a bright midsummer evening, fires blazed on all sides as the guests entered. Above the high seat in the middle of the long wall of the room hung a large blue tapestry with a faded Folkung lion from the time of their ancestors. On either side of the high seat, to show respect, the house thralls had hung the two shooting targets used for the archery game on the bachelors’ evening. Almost the first thing anyone noticed in the dancing shadows from the fires was the sight of two arrows embedded in the black Sverker griffins. Around the arrows in one of the targets hung a crown of gold, so that everyone could now see with their own eyes what the rumours had already reported. The bridegroom himself had shot ten arrows so close to each other that a crown could encircle them all, and he had done so from a distance of fifty paces.
Ulvhilde made no attempt avoid the sight. On the contrary. When she took her seat next to her friends high up on the bridal dais, she giggled, saying that it was most fortunate she hadn’t been a guest on the previous day. She would have had to watch her back in order not to have arrows shot at her. For on the back of her red mantle, right in the middle, a black griffin head had been stitched with thousands of silk threads, the type of embroidery that the three friends had truly been the first in the realm to master during the time that they were confined to Gudhem under Mother Rikissa.
Cecilia Blanca was of the opinion that an insult was no bigger than one allowed it to be, and at the next shooting banquet Ulvhilde ought to see to it that a lion was used for the archery target. Then those who had made this jest would be repaid in kind.
The bridegroom’s dais was far away in the hall, on the other side of the first longtable, and in the middle of that table was the high seat. There Eskil and Erika Joarsdotter now took their places on either side of the archbishop. The king had decided to sit with the groom, just as the queen was seated with the bride. Such an honour had never been shown before to any bridal couple in the realm of the Eriks and Folkungs.
But when all had taken their seats, Erika Joarsdotter, looking worried, got up and went over to stand at the door while whispers and murmurs spread through the hall. The guests understood that something was not as it should be. And so their joy was even greater a few minutes later when old Herr Magnus came into the hall, walking next to his wife Erika. Slowly but with great dignity he made his way between all the tables all the way over to the high seat where sat down next to the archbishop, with Erika on his other side. The house thralls brought the ancestral drinking horn with the silver fittings and handed it to Herr Magnus. He got up, standing steadily on both feet, and raised the horn. At once everyone fell silent with anticipation and amazement. They had all thought that Herr Magnus had been crippled for many years and was just awaiting the release of death.
‘Few men are granted the joy that has been given to me today!’ said Herr Magnus in a loud, clear voice. ‘I now drink with you my kinsmen and friends upon welcoming a son back from the Holy Land and upon gaining a daughter in my household, and because I have been granted the grace of renewed health and the joy of seeing kinsmen and friends join me in peace and concord. None of my ancestors have had any better reason to raise this horn!’
Herr Magnus drained the ale without spilling a drop, although those sitting closest to him noticed that at the end he was shaking from exertion.
There was a brief silence after Herr Magnus sat down and handed the ancestral drinking horn to his son Eskil. Then a great cheering began, swelling to a mighty roar as the hundred guests pounded their fists on the tables. The pipes and drums started playing at once, and the food was carried in by white-clad house thralls, preceded by minstrels who both played and frolicked merrily.
‘With meat, pipes, and ale we’ll manage to avoid a good deal of gawking, and that’s much to be desired,’ said Queen Blanca as she raised her wine glass to Cecilia and Ulvhilde. ‘That’s not to say that they don’t have much to stare at, presenting as we do quite a marvellous sight up here in our green, red, and blue!’
They drank with abandon, and both Ulvhilde and Cecilia laughed heartily at their friend’s daring way of dismissing the embarrassment of being the centre of so much attention, which they had now endured for some time, amidst all the whispering and pointing.
‘Well, if they’re looking for red mantles in here, there aren’t many of us,’ said Ulvhilde, pretending to be offended as she set down her glass.
‘Don’t worry about it, dear friend,’ replied Queen Blanca. ‘It’s no small honour to be seated with the queen and the bride, and as luck would have it, you’re sitting on that black rooster.’
‘Just as you’re sitting on three crowns!’ giggled Ulvhilde, continuing the game.
Next to Arn at the other end of the hall, in the place of honour on the groom’s dais, sat the king on one side, with Magnus M?nesk?ld and Erik jarl on the other. This was at the king’s own request when he heard that Magnus had been the best in the warrior games, after the two Templar knights, who competed at an entirely different level, of course.
King Knut was sitting with one arm thrown around Arn’s shoulders, recounting long stories about how much he had suffered by not having Arn at his side during the bloody years before the crown was securely placed on his head. He had never in his life had a better friend than Arn, for Birger Brosa was more like a wise father than a friend. That was something that he could admit now that nobody could hear what they said. He had not hesitated for a moment to decide to attend the bridal banquet of his best friend, bringing along all the banners and horsemen that he could muster. Nor had he doubted that this wedding between his two friends was taking place because it was God’s will and the grace of Our Lady, as well as the reward for the years of faith and hope which Arn and Cecilia had never given up. And who was he, a poor and sinful man, to defy the will of the Almighty?
Since Cecilia Rosa and the queen were the dearest of friends in this world, the joy was even greater since now they would all live on neighbouring estates. For those who lived at Forsvik, the closest church was the one located at N?s, and he and his queen would honour Forsvik with their visits. He also hoped that Arn and Cecilia Rosa would often be his guests at N?s, and on more occasions than to attend church.
Many were the gracious words that the king spoke to Arn early in the evening. At first Arn was both happy and relieved; he had lived so long in a world where lies and falsehoods were prohibited that he believed everything that was said to him. But somewhat later in the evening he happened to think about the Saracen saga regarding the ignorant Frankish physician who proposed smearing honey onto deep gashes made by a sword.
In people’s minds, honey was the very opposite of wounds and pain, just as salt was the opposite of sweet. And since salt in a wound was what caused the most pain and harm, many believed in the honey remedy. It was also said that a thick layer of honey applied to a nasty gash did provide some relief in the beginning. But after a short time, the wound would get even worse and start to putrefy.
All of the Saracen builders were sitting together at the second long table closest to the bridegroom’s seat. Arn had seen to it himself that they were placed there, since he wanted everybody to see that they were being honoured for their work. He had also been careful to ask Erika Joarsdotter more than once to provide water in the clay tankards at that section of the long table; the house thralls were also told not to serve any pork to these foreigners. And he wanted to sit close to his builders in case any quarrels should arise.
And now it looked as if some sort of trouble was indeed brewing down there, although from this distance he couldn’t hear what the row was about. Arn cast a glance at Knut, as if to indicate that it was about time for him to go out and relieve himself, and then he jumped down behind the groom’s dais and headed toward the door, until he stopped near the Saracens, as if in response to the good wishes they wanted to offer him. And they did indeed express their congratulations as soon as he approached, and their quarreling quickly died out.
Arn felt unworthy, both in the eyes of the Saracens and in his own eyes, dressed as he was in the vain Frankish attire, which rustled under his mantle with every move. He also thought he could see a hint of derision tugging at the mouths of the builders, even though they did their best to hide it. He asked them candidly, following the Nordic manner rather than the Arab way, what the discord had concerned but received evasive answers that some of the gifts of the table might be unclean food.
He wanted to put a swift end to this dissension before rumours about these Franks who would not eat pork spread through the entire hall. There was only one way to win the immediate respect and loyalty of the Saracens. As if he were merely reciting passages from some ordinary foreign verse, he spoke to them with a smile, but using God’s own words.
‘In the name of God the Beneficent and the Merciful!’ he began, and silence fell over the table at once. ‘Hear the first verse of sura Al Maidah! Believers! Fulfil your obligations according to the agreements you have made! Permissible food for you is meat from all plant-eating animals. Or why not God’s own words from sura Al Anam? Eat of all food over which God’s name has been pronounced, if you believe in His message. Why should you not eat of food over which God’s name has been pronounced, since you have clearly been told what He has forbidden except in a dire circumstance? Many people mislead others by what they in their ignorance believe to be right or wrong. Your Lord knows best who oversteps his commandments!’
Arn needed say no more, nor did he have to explain how these words were meant to be understood. He gave a friendly nod, as if musing about something, as if he had simply recited some worldly verses to amuse his friends and fortress builders from the Holy Land. Then he calmly returned to his place, and more attention was paid to the most beautiful of all Folkung mantles in the land than to a bridegroom’s unexpected decision to recite verses.
At the Saracens’ table not a single spiteful grumble was heard for the rest of the evening.
As soon as King Knut began to get drunk, all honey was stripped from his speech and instead he started in on what was foremost on his mind. First he said that it was of greatest importance for Arn to be reconciled with his paternal uncle, Birger Brosa. Then he mentioned what he thought should be the next bridal banquet for the Folkungs, and that was when Arn’s son Magnus M?nesk?ld went to the bridal bed with the Sverker daughter Ingrid Ylva, and the sooner the better. Arn immediately filled his throat with wine.
‘The bridal coverlet hasn’t even been placed over me and Cecilia, but you’re already hastening toward the next wedding. There is some purpose behind your words – what is it?’ asked Arn after choking on the wine that had gone down the wrong way.
‘That wily archbishop over there wants to make a Sverker, and more specifically Sverker Karlsson, the next king of the realm,’ replied Knut, lowering his voice even though no one nearby could hear them any longer over the great noise of the other guests.
‘First of all, power is now in the hands of you Eriks and us Folkungs,’ replied Arn. ‘And second, I don’t understand how we would appease the archbishop with my son’s wedding to a Sverker daughter.’
‘Nor is that the intention,’ replied the king. ‘But our intent is to avoid war for as long as possible. None of us wants to relive what we saw in this kingdom during so many years of war. It’s not the archbishop and his Danish friends that we need to appease, but rather the Sverkers. The more ties of marriage between us, the easier it will be to prevent another war.’
‘Those are the thoughts of Birger Brosa,’ said Arn with a nod.
‘Yes, they are Birger Brosa’s thoughts, and his wisdom has not failed us for more than twenty years. Sune Sverkersson Sik was the brother of King Karl. If the archbishop and his Danish friends want to go to war against us, they will have to win the support of Sune Sik. It will not be enough to have the backing of King Karl’s son Sverker, whom they are fattening up to be king down there in Roskilde. Sune Sik would no doubt think twice about drawing his sword against his own son-in-law Magnus M?nesk?ld. That is our royal wish!’
‘We killed King Karl on Visings?. His son Sverker escaped to Denmark, but now you wish us to tame him with a bridal ale. And thus it makes no difference whether I, as you and Birger Brosa first proposed, or my son Magnus should marry this Ingrid Ylva?’
‘Yes, that is the arrangement we wish to make!’
‘Have you asked Magnus what he thinks of this bridal ale that is planned for him?’ asked Arn quietly.
But the king merely snorted at such a question and turned to the house thralls to order more salt beef and ale. The king was known for eating enormous quantities of salt beef, preferring it to fresh meat, since salted meat went better with ale.
Since Magnus M?nesk?ld was sitting less than an arm’s length from Arn, absorbed in a lively conversation with Erik jarl about some topic apparently dealing with spears and hunting, this question about another wedding could be quickly addressed. At least that was what Arn imagined when he leaned forward and placed his hand on his son’s arm. Magnus interrupted his conversation with his friend and turned around at once.
‘I have a question for you, my son,’ said Arn. ‘A simple question to ask, but perhaps more difficult to answer. Do you wish to enter into marriage with Ingrid Ylva, Sune Sik’s daughter?’
At first Magnus M?nesk?ld was speechless with surprise at this question. But he soon gathered his wits and gave a clear answer.
‘If it is your wish, my father, and if it is also the king’s wish, you may be assured that I will immediately comply,’ he said with a slight bow of his head.
‘It was not my intention to command you but to ask you about your own wishes,’ replied Arn with a frown.
‘My wish is to do as my father and my king will, in everything that is within my power. Going to the bridal bed is among the easier services that you might demand of me,’ replied Magnus M?nesk?ld, almost as if he were reeling off a prayer.
‘Would such a wedding make you happy or unhappy?’ Arn insisted in order to get past his son’s strange readiness to submit to their wishes.
‘Not unhappy, my father,’ said Magnus M?nesk?ld. ‘I have seen Ingrid Ylva only twice. She is a fair maiden with a slender waist and the black tresses that many of the Sverker women have, as did my own father’s mother, from what I have heard. Her dowry would not be paltry, and she is of royal lineage. What more could I desire?’
‘A great deal more if you had such affection for another that you prayed for her well-being every evening and awoke each morning with a longing to see her,’ murmured Arn with his eyes lowered.
‘I am not like you, my father,’ replied Magnus M?nesk?ld gently, and with an expression that was more sympathetic and loving than scornful upon hearing these strange questions, although he’d had to make an effort to answer them courteously. ‘The saga about the love between you and my mother is beautiful, and it is sung in the stables and fields. And this day has not diminished the beautiful song about faith, hope, and charity. I am truly happy about all of this. But I am not like you, my father. When I go to my wedding, I will do as honour demands, what my clan and my father and my king require of me. I had not thought to do anything else.’
Arn fell silent, nodded, and then turned back to the king. But he stopped himself before saying what he had first intended, that a wedding with Ingrid Ylva could doubtless be arranged as soon as an agreement had been reached with Sune Sik. Several things made him hesitate. Foremost was his sudden insight that he himself would have to be the one to fetch the bride on such an occasion. He would be bringing home the daughter of the man whose brother he had helped to kill. Such matters required thought and prayer before acting hastily.

The evening was hardly more than half over before the brief darkness arrived and it was time for dancing. With drums, tin plates, and pipes accompanying them, the six white-clad maidens got up from the bride’s dais, took one another by the hand, and went in a line in between the tables, taking long sliding steps in time to the music. This was the farewell of youth to the maiden who would now leave her sisters behind. Seldom had anyone seen this dance with foreign minstrels and music, but most people thought the performance was even better.
When the maidens completed their first circuit around the tables, the music got faster and louder. For the third and last circuit the tempo increased even more, and some of the maidens had a hard time keeping their balance. According to custom, they were supposed to dance in a circle holding each other’s hands and supporting one another during the fastest steps, but the hall at Arn?s was much too crowded for them to follow this tradition.
After completing three rounds, all the maidens stopped before the bridal seat, gasping and with flushed faces. They then invited Cecilia Rosa, the queen, and Ulvhilde Emundsdotter to come and join them. With Queen Blanca in the lead, followed by Ulvhilde and then the bride, the women slowly proceeded around the hall and out the door.
As soon as the doors were shut, shouts for more ale resounded from all directions, and there was a great tumult and murmuring; it was hard for anyone to hear even the person sitting right next to him without shouting.
No one had finished off more than a tankard before old Herr Magnus stood up. Supported by his son Eskil, he went over to the groom’s dais. Holding out his hand, he invited his son Arn to come with him, then the king, Erik jarl, Magnus M?nesk?ld, and also the monk.
Accompanied by shouts of joy and well wishes, including some brazen remarks of the type brought on by too much ale, Arn slowly and with manly dignity walked through the hall, last in the group of men led by the king.
Out in the courtyard all of the guests were now standing atop the tables and benches in order to watch the escorting of the groom to the bridal bed. Torchbearers fell in on both sides of the short procession.
It was not a long walk, just to the far end of the longhouse where the stairs led up to the bridal chamber.
Old Herr Magnus had difficulty climbing the groom’s stairs, but he was not about to admit defeat, and he brusquely refused all helping hands.
In the antechamber upstairs there was a great crush when everyone had come inside and began to undress Arn, a process that he at first tried to resist. His father jested that it was too late to turn back now.
They hung up his foreign garb and dressed him in a white, ankle-length linen shirt loosely fitted at the neck. Then the door to the bridal chamber itself could be opened.
There lay Cecilia in a long white shift with her hair unfastened and spread out around her and with her arms pressed to her sides. At the foot of the large bridal bed stood the queen, Ulvhilde, and the six bridesmaids. The king and Herr Magnus each took Arn by the arm and led him over to the bed, inviting him to lie down next to Cecilia. As he lay down, blushing with embarrassment as she was, he too pressed his arms to his sides. Then the men who had accompanied him went to stand at the foot of the bed with the women.
They all stood there for a long time without saying a word. Arn had no idea what was expected of him or of Cecilia, so he cast a nervous glance at her and asked a question that she was unable to answer. It seemed as if all their friends and kinsmen were waiting for something, although neither Arn nor Cecilia knew what that might be.
It seemed to both of them that they had spent an unbearable length of time in silence before they discovered the reason for the wait. It was the archbishop. They could hear his gasping breath on the stairs well before he appeared in the room, with a chaplain supporting him on either side.
Finally the time had come. The archbishop raised his hand and, still panting, gave them his blessing. The queen picked up one corner of the magnificent quilted coverlet, the king seized hold of the other, and together they gently drew it over Cecilia and Arn.
The escorting of the bridal couple had now been accomplished in the presence of twelve witnesses. Cecilia Rosa and Arn Magnusson were now husband and wife. According to church rules, until death did them part. According to the laws of Western G?taland and their ancestors, until such time as there was reason for them to part.
Their friends congratulated them and then, one by one, they bowed and left the bridal couple alone on their first night together.
The room was illuminated both by tarred torches set in the iron wall brackets and wax tapers. For a long time the two lay motionless in the bed, staring up at the ceiling and without speaking.
It had been a long journey to this bed, but now they were finally here, since it was God’s will and the Holy Virgin had made them a promise. And both of them had prayed for this moment for more than twenty years. But it was also because the peace and concord of the realm demanded it, and because both of their clans had decided that it would be so. The king and queen had placed the wedding coverlet over them. No couple could be declared husband and wife in a more decisive manner.
Cecilia was thinking that the torment that had seemed so interminable, from the moment she first saw him riding to N?s and then all the hindrances that had piled up, had now vanished as quickly as the flight of a swallow. So much had happened to her because of others’ wishes and the demands of custom that she had been helplessly swept away on a fast-moving current, like that leaf in the rushing spring stream that she had pictured during the ride between N?s and Riseberga. That moment when she happened to think of the leaf now seemed so long ago, and at the same time so recent. Time raced past at a dizzying speed; she tried to catch it and hold onto it by closing her eyes and conjuring up the memory of Arn riding toward her on his black horse with the silver mane. But when she shut her eyes the whole bed began to spin like a mill-wheel, and she had to open them at once.
Arn was thinking that the love he had felt so strongly for so many years, and that he had sworn never to betray, had lately been buried under all manner of things that had nothing to do with love. A short while ago, on this very evening, he and Knut had talked about a wedding as Birger Brosa’s strongest means of preventing war, as if weddings had nothing to do with love. And Magnus, who was Cecilia’s son and his own, had spoken of love in the same way when Arn asked him about marrying Ingrid Ylva. It was as if the constant struggle for power had dragged his love down in the dirt and sullied it.
As for the fleshly side of love, he had taught himself to push it aside through prayers, cold water, horseback rides in the night, and all sorts of other tricks. He had learned to regard it as sin and temptation, and yet it had now been blessed by God’s Holy Mother herself. An entire banquet hall of guests was expecting him to unite his flesh with Cecilia’s, for during the mass on the following day, the bride would go Forshem Church to be purified.
He tried to recall how it was between them when they were together and with such great desire devoted themselves to such pleasures, but it was as if the doors had been closed on that memory, bolted shut by too many prayers and nights spent in anguish in a little stone cell or a dormitory filled with brother knights.
He noticed that he was beginning to sweat, and he cautiously moved away the heavy bridal coverlet that the king and queen had pulled over them up to the tips of their noses.
‘Thank you, my beloved,’ she said.
That was all she said, as if the shyness they both shared prevented her from saying more. But there was a sweet freshness to her words, especially as she uttered the endearment that they were now entitled to use.
‘Imagine that we can now say those words: my beloved,’ he replied, his voice gruff. He decided at once not to let silence settle over them again. ‘Now that we have finally reached this day, shouldn’t we first of all thank Our Lady for holding her hands over us during the long road we have travelled?’
Cecilia made a move as if to throw off the covers and sink to her knees beside the bed, but he reached out his hand to stop her.
‘Take my hand, my beloved,’ he said, and for the first time he looked into her eyes as she turned toward him. ‘On this one occasion, I think that Our Lady would want to see us like this as we offer Her our thanks.’
He held Cecilia’s hand in his and recited a long prayer of thanksgiving in the language of the church, which she obediently and in a low voice repeated after him.
But after the prayer was done, it was as if their shyness returned. For a long time Arn studied Cecilia’s hand he was holding, unable to say a word. This was the same hand as before, although the veins were more visible now, the fingers thicker, and the nails rough and cracked from all the work she had done to please God in His cloister.
She saw him staring at her hand and probably understood what he was thinking. She in turn studied his hand, thinking that it was the same as before, made strong by working with hammers in the smithy and by wielding swords in war, but with many disfigured knuckles and white scars, signs of all the privations and pain that his long penance had entailed.
‘You are my Arn and I am your Cecilia,’ she said at last, since he didn’t seem able to muster the courage to speak. ‘But are you the same Arn and am I the same Cecilia who parted with such great sorrow back then outside the gates of Gudhem?’
‘Yes, we are the same,’ he replied. ‘Our souls are the same, though our bodies have aged; but the body is merely the shell of the soul. You are the Cecilia I remember, you are the Cecilia I tried to picture in so many dreams and prayers when I wanted to recall how you looked. Haven’t you thought the same of me?’
‘I have tried,’ she said. ‘I have always remembered you from that summer when you let your hair grow long, and in the wind it flew out behind you when you went riding; that is how I have always remembered your face. But I could never picture you differently, the way you would look when you returned home, the same Arn but older.’
‘For a long time I remembered your face as it was,’ he said. ‘Your hair and your eyes and every little sun freckle on your nose. But as the years passed I tried to imagine you older, the same Cecilia but older. It wasn’t easy, and the image I had of you grew hazy. But when I saw you again for the first time outside N?s, I realized that you were much more beautiful than I had dared dream. Those tiny wrinkles at the corner of your eyes make you look both lovelier and wiser. Oh, if only I could say these things in Frankish! Forgive me if my words sound like rough wooden clogs when I speak our language that is now so unfamiliar.’
‘The words you speak are beautiful, and I understood them well, although I have never heard anyone describe words as wooden clogs before,’ she replied with a stifled laugh.
Her laugh came as a relief, and as if simultaneously, they both drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. And with that they both ended up laughing, and Cecilia cautiously crept closer to Arn in the enormous bed.
‘So what about my face?’ said Arn with a smile. ‘Sometimes I feared that these wounds and scars would make me unrecognizable to my beloved when I finally returned home. But you didn’t mistake me for someone else, did you?’
‘I recognized you from the distance of an arrow shot, even before I could see your face close up,’ she replied eagerly. ‘Whoever has seen you on horseback will know that it is you and no one else approaching. It felt as if lightning had struck me though the sky was completely clear. I recognized you the moment I saw you, my beloved. I will never be able to explain properly how sweet it is to say those words.’
‘But when you saw my face at close hand, didn’t I frighten you then?’ Arn persisted. He was smiling broadly, but Cecilia glimpsed the concern in his eyes.
She drew her other hand from behind her back, wiped off the sweat on the coverlet, and reached out to touch his cheek, caressing the white scars without saying a word.
Finally she spoke. ‘You said that our souls are the same. But it is also said that the eyes are the mirrors of the soul, and your gentle blue eyes are the same as I remember. The Saracens have wounded you, sliced at you with their swords and lances for many years; that much I can see, as you well know. What are the wrinkles at my eyes compared to this! What serene strength your face shows, my beloved. Your wounds speak of the eternal battle against evil and the sacrifices that only those possessing great goodness and strong faith can endure. At your side I will always carry my head high, because a more handsome man cannot be found in all this kingdom of ours.’
Arn was so overcome with embarrassment at these words that she saw he could find nothing to say. Afraid that silence would once again descend upon them, she leaned over and timidly kissed him, her dry lips touching first his forehead, then his cheek, and finally she closed her eyes and kissed his mouth.
He kissed her back, as if dreaming that they were once again seventeen and everything happened so easily. But it was not as easy as back then, and he felt a strange sense of despair growing inside him as he pressed his lips to hers and cautiously placed his calloused hand on her breast.
Cecilia tried not to tense and seem afraid, but she had kept her eyes closed so long that her head had started spinning unbearably from all the wine. Abruptly she had to pull away and dash outside to the stairs; there she vomited loudly without being able to stop herself.
At first Arn lay in bed, paralysed with shame. But he soon realized that he couldn’t just lie there idly while his beloved was feeling sick. He tumbled out of bed and went out to the stairway, putting his arm around Cecilia’s shoulders to console her. Then he opened the door to the outer stairway and called for cold water. As he hoped, house thralls were posted outside, and they leaped up to obey at once.
A while later they were again lying in bed, both cooled by the cold water, each of them holding a big tankard.
Cecilia was deeply ashamed and didn’t dare meet her husband’s gaze. He comforted her with caresses at first, but soon with laughter. And it wasn’t long before she too was laughing.
‘We have the rest of our lives together to learn to make love as we once did,’ he said, stroking her damp forehead. ‘Such things are quickly forgotten in a cloister. The same is true for Templar knights, since we live as monks. But there is no haste to re-learn what we once did all too easily.’
‘Although not after drinking a cask of wine and eating an entire ox,’ said Cecilia.
‘We’ll try it with cold water instead,’ said Arn, but laughed at the same time as a fleeting thought passed through his wine-drenched mind.
Cecilia had no idea why Arn found the thought of cold water instead of wine so funny, but she laughed too, until they were both laughing hard and holding onto each other.
Late the next morning the twelve witnesses, bleary-eyed and unsteady on their feet, appeared as custom demanded. Arn had to get out of bed and accept a spear, which he was to hurl through the open window. Someone joked that the distance was so short from the bed to the window that not even Arn Magnusson could miss, even though he was known to be so poor at the sport.
Nor did he miss. The morning gift was thereby secured. Forsvik now belonged for all eternity to Cecilia Algotsdotter and her descendants.