The Templar Knight

by Jan Guillou

  Arn hacked his nearest foe’s horse straight across the small of its back so that the steed collapsed paralyzed when its hind legs failed. When the knight then lost his balance he was struck by Arn’s sword straight across his face through the helmet’s eye slit. He too fell.

  Now only two men were left on their horses out there, Arn and the third Frank. It looked as though Arn then wanted to negotiate with the man and convince him to surrender. Instead the knight once again lowered his lance and went on the attack. Instantly his head was tossed through the air, still in its helmet, and fell with a dull thud to the ground followed by the body, spurting blood. Arn seemed very surprised and reined in his horse. He ran his fingers over the edge of the sword, testing it, shook his head, and then walked Khamsiin over to the second of the three Frankish knights, who was not dead. He got down from Khamsiin and went over to help the fallen man to his feet. The bewildered knight took Arn’s hand and stood up. Arn helped him wriggle out of his helmet. The man’s face was bloody but he did not seem seriously injured.

  Arn turned to see to the first man he had knocked to the ground, but as he did the man he had just helped up drew his sword and ran it full force into the belly of Khamsiin.

  Khamsiin reared up screaming in fear and cast himself about while wildly bucking and kicking his hind legs. The sword was buried in his flesh almost to the hilt. Arn stood as if petrified for a second, then he ran toward the villain who sank to his knees and held up his hands before his face, pleading for mercy. But he found none.

  Then everything that had to be done was done at once. Arn went to get his own sword after sticking the holy Saracen sword under his belt. He called Khamsiin to him using loving and soothing words. Despite his terror and rolling eyes the stallion came staggering toward his master, the Frankish sword jolting up and down with each step. Arn caressed the animal, kissed him, and then took two steps to the side behind him, turned around suddenly and as if in a fury of despair sliced off Khamsiin’s head with a single blow.

  Then he numbly dropped his sword to the ground and walked away from the camp, his face white, and sat down by himself.

  Women and children now came rushing from all directions and began quickly digging in the sand. Some began folding up the tents, and others rounded up the camels, goats, and horses. Harald did not understand everything that was going on. He definitely didn’t want to disturb his jarl right now, and he knew he could not be of any assistance.

  The old man went to get Arn’s sword where he had dropped it, wiped it off, and then walked with slow but deliberate steps toward Arn. Harald was quite sure that he should not interfere.

  When Ibrahim came up to Arn he was sitting motionless with an absent look on his face and holding the holy sword of Islam in his hand. Ibrahim was a Bedouin and could understand Arn’s grief. He sat down next to him without saying a word. If necessary he was prepared to sit there for two days and two nights without speaking. According to custom, Arn was the one who must speak the first words.

  “Ibrahim, I know that I must speak first,” said Arn, in torment. “Such is your custom, but it might just as well have been my Rule, about which you are fortunately unaware. The sword you gave me is truly remarkable.”

  “It belongs to you now, Al Ghouti. You were our saviour. Thus it was written and thus it has now been proven by what happened.”

  “No, Ibrahim, that is not the case. Do I have the right to ask you for a favor?”

  “Yes, Al Ghouti. And whatever you ask, if it is within human power or the power of all of Banu Anaza, I shall fulfil your wish,” Ibrahim whispered with his face bowed to the ground.

  “Then take this sword and ride with it to the one to whom it belongs. Go to Yussuf ibn Ayyub Salah al-Din, the one we call in our simple language Saladin. Give him this sword. Tell him that it was written so, that Al Ghouti has said so.”

  Ibrahim silently accepted the sword which Arn now carefully handed to him. They sat for a while next to each other, staring out over the sand dunes toward the sea. Arn’s sorrow was so great that it seemed to create a shroud of coldness around him, and Ibrahim was a man particularly well suited to understand the cause, at least so he believed. But he was only half right.

  “Al Ghouti, you are now the friend of Banu Anaza forever,” said Ibrahim after a pause that could have been long or short, because for Arn time hardly existed anymore. “The favor you asked of me was too small, although I shall see that it is done. Let us now do what has to be done. We Bedouins bury horses such as Khamsiin. He was a great warrior, almost like one of our horses. Come!”

  The old man persuaded Arn to stand up and follow him. When they approached the camp everything was almost packed up and loaded onto camels. The three dead Franks, like their horses, had vanished somewhere beneath the sand. But all the women, children, and old people of the camp stood solemnly gathered around a grave in the sand, and a short distance away stood a bewildered Harald.

  The ceremonies were brief, for horses as well as for men. The Bedouins’ belief, as it was spoken in the prayer of their leader Ibrahim, was that Khamsiin would now run forever among wide green fields with plenty of cool water. Arn’s prayer was similar, although he murmured the words silently to himself, since he knew that he was now committing blasphemy. But Khamsiin had been his friend since he was a boy, and Khamsiin was the only one for whose sake Arn had ever blasphemed in his life. So great was his grief that at the moment Arn preferred the belief of the Bedouins. In his mind he could see Khamsiin in full gallop with his tail raised high and his mane fluttering, racing across the green fields of Paradise.

  Then they all set off toward Gaza. Three Franks from Ashkelon had died in Banu Anaza’s camp. Because of this the new camp had to be pitched right next to Gaza, and if that was not safe enough, then inside the city walls.

  The Bedouins’ women and children were just as skilled at riding camels and horses as any Saracen man, and they knew how to keep all the animals with them in a close group.

  Harald rode next to Arn, who had borrowed a somewhat unruly horse that seemed to be giving him trouble. But Harald did not dare say anything to his jarl on the short ride to Gaza. He never could have imagined a man such as Arn Magnusson weeping like a child, and he felt much embarrassment at seeing this weakness, especially as it was displayed before un-Christian savages. But they in turn seemed not in the least surprised at the knight’s childish sorrow over a horse. Their faces were as if carved in leather, immobile, showing no expression of either sorrow or joy, fear or relief.

  They were Bedouins. But about such people Harald knew hardly more than any Norseman.

  When they reached Gaza, Arn silently pointed out a spot where the Bedouins could pitch their camp near the city wall, but on the north side so that the smells from the city would not bother the camp since the wind was from the west. He got off his borrowed horse and began to unfasten Khamsiin’s harness and saddle. But then Ibrahim rode quickly up to him, hopped nimbly from his horse, and took Arn by the hands.

  “Al Ghouti, our friend, you must now know one thing!” he stammered, out of breath. “Our tribesmen, Banu Anaza, own the best horses in all of Arabia; that is known to all. But no one, not even sultans or caliphs, has ever been able to buy such a horse. We only give them away when we have found an exceptional reason to do so. The young stallion you just rode from our camp has hardly been broken to the saddle, as you surely noticed. He has no true master. He was intended for my son since his blood is the purest of any steed; he is our best. You must take him, because what you asked as a favor from me was too little, and so I must make you this gift.”

  “Ibrahim, you can’t…” Arn began, but could not go on. He bowed his head in tears. Ibrahim then embraced him like a father and stroked his back and neck to console him.

  “I certainly can, Al Ghouti. I am the eldest of Banu Anaza, and no one may contradict me. Not even you may contradict me, for until now you have been my guest. You can’t insult your host by refusing his gift!”

/>   “That is true,” said Arn and took a deep breath, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “Before my own people I seem weak as a woman and possibly a fool for showing such grief for a horse. But you are a Bedouin, Ibrahim. You know that this grief will never pass, and only to someone like you can I admit such a thing. Your gift is very great, and you will have my gratitude as long as I live.”

  “You shall also have a mare,” Ibrahim smiled slyly, and made a sign. Leading the mare forward was Aisha, the young woman whose love for Ali ibn Qays from the other Bedouin clan had prompted Arn to negotiate a peace between tribes.

  The gesture was well planned by Ibrahim. For according to custom Arn could not refuse a gift from Aisha, the one he had made happy through his powers, and the one who bore the name of the most beloved wife of the Prophet, peace be unto him.

  Chapter 8

  Over the course of a few years Cecilia Rosa’s life at Gudhem had fundamentally changed. The affairs of the convent had undergone such a transformation that it was difficult for anyone to grasp. Despite the fact that few new properties had been donated to the cloister in recent years, Gudhem’s income had doubled. Cecilia Rosa explained time after time that it all had to do with order and discipline. Well, that was not the only explanation, she admitted if Mother Rikissa or someone else prodded her with more persistent questions. They had also raised a number of their prices. A Folkung mantle from Gudhem now cost three times as much as when they first began making them. But just as Brother Lucien once predicted, the mantles were now selling at a steady pace; the garments didn’t disappear in a single week like they did before. This meant that it was also easier to plan the work; some of the novices could always sit and work in the vestiarium without rushing or doing the sewing in a careless fashion. The pelts that were required for the most expensive mantles could only be purchased in the spring and at only a few marketplaces. If they planned wrong, as they’d sometimes done before, then they might be left without enough pelts and far too many orders. As it was now, the fur supply never ran out, and the work flowed evenly and yet brought in so much silver that Gudhem’s coffers would have been overflowing if Mother Rikissa hadn’t ordered so much stonework from the Frankish and English stonemasons. In that way Gudhem’s increasing wealth was also made visible to the eye. The tower of the church had been finished and now held an English bell with a lovely sound; the walls around the cloister’s inner sanctum were finished, as well as the pillared vault all the way around the arcade.

  Next to the sacristy two big new rooms had been built of stone to form a separate building. This was Cecilia Rosa’s realm, where she reigned among the account books and silver coffers. In the outermost room wooden shelves had been built for her with hundreds of cubbyholes where all of Gudhem’s donation documents were stored in a strict order which only Cecilia Rosa had mastered. If Mother Rikissa came to ask about some property or other and its value or rent payments, Cecilia Rosa could without hesitation go and fetch the letter of donation and read it aloud. Then she would search in the books until she found the date of the last rent payment, how much was paid per bushel and when, and the date the next payment was due. When payments were late she wrote letters that Mother Rikissa had to sign and stamp with the seal of the abbess. The letter was sent to the bishop located nearest to the delinquent tenant, and soon thereafter minions were sent out to collect the rent, either with friendly reminders or stern fists. Not the tiniest fish ever slipped through Cecilia Rosa’s net.

  She was not unaware of the power that the position of yconoma had given her. Mother Rikissa could ask about matters large and small and obtain the answers she had the right to demand, but she could never make any important decisions without first going to the yconoma, not if it pertained to Gudhem’s business affairs. And without its business transactions Gudhem could not survive.

  So for this reason it did not surprise Cecilia Rosa that Mother Rikissa did not now treat her with the same condescension or cruelty that she had done in the beginning. They had both found a way to relate to each other that would not disrupt either the business dealings or the divine order at Gudhem.

  The more at ease Cecilia Rosa felt in handling the bookkeeping and abacus, the more time she began to have free for other things. She spent this extra time with Ulvhilde in the gardens, when it was the season, or in the vestiarium sewing and talking, sometimes far into the night.

  A long time had passed without any solution being found for the matter of Ulvhilde’s inheritance. During her visits Cecilia Blanca had seemed a bit evasive, saying merely that everything would undoubtedly work out, although nothing could be done about it in a trice. The hope that had been ignited in Ulvhilde’s heart seemed to have been extinguished, and she seemed reconciled to the situation.

  Mother Rikissa and Cecilia Rosa had found a modus vivendi in which they had as little as possible to do with each other. And so Cecilia Rosa was utterly unprepared when Mother Rikissa asked her to come to the abbess’s private rooms for a talk about what they never talked about, as she mysteriously described the reason for her summons.

  For some time now Mother Rikissa had been using the scourge on herself, and she always slept in a horsehair shift. It was something that Cecilia Rosa had noticed in passing although she didn’t give it much thought. Women in the convent sometimes got such notions, and it was nothing new or odd.

  When they now met, Mother Rikissa seemed shrunken, smaller somehow. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and she kept on rubbing her hands together as if she almost wanted to humble herself and literally bowed to Cecilia Rosa.

  In a weak voice she explained that she was seeking forgiveness, both from the Virgin Mary and from the person whom she had treated most harshly in life. She was earnestly searching her heart, she said, for the evil that had taken up residence inside her without her knowledge. Now she entertained a slight hope that this was possible, since she believed she could feel that the Mother of God was about to have mercy on her.

  But the question was whether Cecilia Rosa could do the same. All that time Cecilia Rosa had spent in the carcer and all the lashes with the scourge she had received, Mother Rikissa would gladly take upon herself now, even in double and triple measure, if she could only achieve atonement.

  She told Cecilia Rosa that even as a girl she had suffered from her ugliness; she was well aware that God had not created her as some tender virgin praised in the songs of knights. Her clan was of royal lineage, but her father was not wealthy, and this had meant that Rikissa would probably never marry, because her dowry would not be sufficient.

  Her mother had consoled her by saying that God had a plan for everything, and that a girl who was not created for the bridal bed had no doubt been created for a higher calling. God’s kingdom was where Rikissa should turn. Since her father knew old King Sverker well, they had worked out that Rikissa was particularly suited to take charge of a new convent that the Sverker clan planned to establish in Gudhem. Once both the king and her father had decided her fate she naturally had nothing to say about it. The very year after she finished her time as a novice she became abbess. God knew then how inexperienced she was and terrified of the great responsibility. Some of the severity she had shown toward Cecilia Rosa in the beginning could probably be explained by the fact that there was a war going on outside in those days. The Folkungs and the Eriks were fighting a hard battle against the Sverker side. It was unjust, of course, that Cecilia Rosa, who had been so young and delicate, had been forced to carry the yoke of war on her shoulders even inside the cloister, where war had no place. It was unfair and it was wrong. Mother Rikissa acknowledged that the sin was her own as she bowed her head as if to weep.

  During Rikissa’s long confession Cecilia Rosa had felt a flood of emotion that she never could have imagined. She felt sorry for the abbess, sympathizing with the plight of the ugly girl and picturing how both noblemen and ordinary men must have laughed behind her back. They surely must have pointed out even then how oddly like a
witch Rikissa was, just as Cecilia Rosa and Ulvhilde and Cecilia Blanca had later done. It must have been very difficult for the young Rikissa, filled with the same hopes and dreams as other maidens her age, slowly but inexorably to realize that she was doomed to a different life, a life she had not wished for at all.

  And it was also unfair, Cecilia Rosa thought. For no woman or man could choose her own appearance; the best-looking fathers and mothers could have the ugliest children, and vice versa. Whatever God’s intention for creating Rikissa in the image of a witch, at least it was not her own fault.

  “That is a sad story you have told me, Mother,” she finally began cautiously. “But it is true that your sin was a grave one; I have felt it on my own skin and through many a bitter winter night. But God is good and merciful, and anyone who regrets her sin as you do shall not be lost. My forgiveness is of only minor importance, my wounds have healed long ago, and the cold has long since left the marrow of my bones. You must seek God’s forgiveness, Mother. How could I, insignificant sinner that I am, take precedence over God in such a matter?”

  “So you will not forgive me?” Mother Rikissa sobbed, leaning forward as if in pain and twisting so that a rattling sound betrayed the cilice she wore under her woolen clothes.

  “There is nothing I would rather do, Mother,” replied Cecilia Rosa, relieved that she had actually managed to wriggle out of this dilemma. “The day that you are convinced of God’s forgiveness, come to me, and together with great joy we shall offer a prayer of thanksgiving for His grace.”