The Templar Knight

by Jan Guillou

  At that news Cecilia Rosa had been more shocked than happy. Because expecting a child before the bridal ale was celebrated and the bedding completed, could cost young people dearly. She herself knew more about this harsh truth than did most others.

  But Cecilia Rosa brushed aside her concern at once. These were new times. Whoever was to become archbishop would probably not want to make his first decision the excommunication of someone who had the protection of the king and the jarl. So Ulvhilde’s minor sin would soon be blessed by God, and nothing more would be heard of it. She was very happy, their little friend, and freedom had embraced her with open arms.

  Relieved to hear that Ulvhilde didn’t seem to be in the danger Cecilia Rosa had at first imagined, she finally held up both hands to stop her friend’s happy chatter and tell her the truth. She brought ominous tidings from Gudhem. Cecilia Blanca fell silent at once.

  But they got off to a bad start. For when Cecilia Rosa took a deep breath and started by reporting solemnly that Mother Rikissa was now dead and buried, Cecilia Blanca clapped her hands and burst out in delighted laughter. Then she promptly crossed herself and raised her eyes heavenward, praying for forgiveness since it was a sin to rejoice at someone else’s death. Afterward she regained her cheerful demeanor and said that this was certainly not bad news.

  Cecilia Rosa had to start over. But she didn’t get very far into her story of the false confession and the abbess’s testament that was supposed to be sent to Rome before Cecilia Blanca turned serious.

  When Cecilia Rosa finished her account, they sat for a moment in silence. Because what was there actually to say about the lie itself? It was absurd to think that any unfortunate maiden who had been forced under Rikissa’s scourge at Gudhem would consider taking her vows at that particular convent. It was even more unreasonable to expect that Cecilia Blanca, who had always longed to escape and return to her betrothed and her queen’s crown, would renounce her own future and instead become Rikissa’s slave. It was like saying that birds flew in water and fish swam in the sky.

  They interrupted the conversation so that Cecilia Blanca could take her friend to say hello to her children before they continued their night together. They knew it would be a long one.

  The queen’s eldest son Erik was with his father up in Östra Aros, since he had much to learn about matters that were a king’s concern. The other two sons and the daughter Brigida were fighting so wildly over a wooden horse that the maidservant couldn’t stop them. When the two Cecilias came in, the children calmed down at once, but they stared with some amusement at Cecilia Rosa’s odd clothing. After evening prayers the two Cecilias amazed the children by singing together a hymn that was lovelier than any ever sung at Näs. They evidently hadn’t expected to hear such a heavenly song from their mother. They went to bed without a fuss, chirping with delight about this new song of their mother’s.

  As the two friends headed back to the fireplace, where more mulled wine awaited them, Cecilia Blanca explained in embarrassment that she hadn’t done much singing during her freedom, because she thought she’d had enough of it at Gudhem. But when they sang together it was different; then she remembered their dear friendship instead of the chill mornings at dawn when, groggy with sleep, they would stumble across the cold floor to the miserable lauds.

  When they sat once again by the cozy fire, with no hostile ears to hear them and with wine in their hands, it was time to try and make sense of the situation.

  Cecilia Blanca began by saying that Rikissa’s intention was to make the Holy Father in Rome declare that King Knut of Western Götaland, Eastern Götaland, and Svealand, and the archbishopric of Östra Aros, was living in whoredom. That meant that little jarl Erik had been conceived in whoredom and could not inherit the crown, nor could any of her other sons.

  It was no surprise that Rikissa wanted to send this message directly to the Holy Father in Rome. Nor that the message should go via Denmark, where the Sverkers had all their exiled kinsmen and where many of them had married close relatives of the king. The fire and the war that Rikissa had predicted on her deathbed was thus the war when the Sverkers would return to seize the king’s crown. That was how Rikissa had imagined the outcome.

  But her entire calculation was built upon a lie, Cecilia Rosa argued. What was written in her testament was not true. How such a document might be read in Rome was one matter, but when it was presented before a Swedish archbishop, the matter would be cast in a different light.

  They now fell to brooding over whether the lie might actually prevail. They found it easier to understand the fact that Rikissa had given her soul to get revenge, even if it was a terrifying thought that any person could be so evil as to condemn herself to the eternal fire for the sake of revenge.

  She probably looked on it as a sacrifice, Cecilia Rosa said; she sacrificed her soul to save her kinsmen. Like a mother or father who would give up their own lives for their child. The Cecilias could shudder at what Rikissa had done, but also understand it, especially since they’d had the misfortune to observe firsthand the evil ways of Rikissa during her earthly life.

  It was as if they suddenly felt a chill despite the warmth of the log fire. Cecilia Blanca got up, went over to her friend, kissed her, adjusted the pelts around her, and then went to arrange for some more wine.

  When she came back, they tried to free themselves of Rikissa’s evil spirit in the room. They consoled each other that at least they’d learned the news in good time, and that Birger Brosa would certainly be able to make use of this information. Then they tried to talk about other things.

  Cecilia Rosa wondered a bit about Ulvhilde. She had hardly managed to set foot outside Gudhem before she was on the way to the bridal bed. She had even tried out that bed. Was this really a good thing? In her innocence hadn’t she been delivered up like a lamb? She had only known two noblemen in her life of freedom, and now she was going to share the bed and position of one of them. Was that really such a good idea?

  Cecilia Blanca thought that it was. She knew Jon, after all, and she had been quite sure that things would go the way they did, because she also knew Ulvhilde. Naturally it was a good union between Sverkers and Folkungs that no one could fault, but that was only one side of the matter. The other thing to take into account was that certain people seemed to be made for each other. Surely Cecilia Rosa and Arn had been like that. So it might well be the same for Ulvhilde and Jon Sigurdson. Cecilia Rosa would soon see for herself, because she had decided that at Christmas they would all get together for a big Christmas feast at Näs.

  At these last words Cecilia Rosa grew so pensive that for a moment she almost forgot where she was. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, her friend the queen had invited everyone to a Christmas feast. And now that she had embarked on this new life, it was straightforward and natural. Cecilia Rosa was free; she could even decline the invitation if she wished, but she had no intention of doing so. Yet the mere possibility of declining, she thought, growing sleepy, was one of the strangest things about her new freedom.

  She fell asleep with her glass in her hand, unused as she was to this particular aspect of the free life, the right to drink as much mulled wine as she liked.

  Cecilia Blanca summoned some castle maids who carried her friend off to bed.

  The next day brought a great change in Cecilia Rosa. The queen’s maidservants took her to be bathed and scrubbed, but mostly they concentrated on her hair, which they untangled and brushed out, combed and clipped where it was rough and unevenly cut. Haircuts at the cloister were meant to keep the hair short, not to keep it beautiful, because it would never be displayed anyway.

  Cecilia Blanca had thought a great deal about what new clothes she should give her friend. It was obvious to her that they couldn’t be the most beautiful clothes; the leap from the loose brown or undyed garments of the convent to those of a mistress of a fortress would have been too great. Besides, she had understood without having to ask that Cecilia Rosa did
not want to move to Näs merely as the queen’s friend; she was much too headstrong for that. Cecilia Blanca grasped very well that her friend’s dearest wish was that Arn Magnusson would return home. Whether this hope would be answered after all these years was impossible to know, but the chances were probably not very great. So that was not a good topic of conversation either. Time would take its course, and with it would come answers, whether one wanted to hear them or not.

  Cecilia Blanca decided that Cecilia Rosa should continue her journey from Näs wearing a brown mantle as worn in the cloister by lay-sisters, but made of much softer lambs’ wool. A mantle in her clan colors would have been much too sensitive an issue, because Cecilia Rosa actually belonged to the Pål clan, so she should have a green mantle. But she had always thought of herself as Arn Magnusson’s bride and thus always pictured herself wearing a blue Folkung mantle. But the truth was that Cecilia Rosa’s betrothal to Arn Magnusson, no matter how real it might be for her, was not valid in the Church. So a brown mantle in the cloister color was the best choice for the time being.

  On the other hand, surely a secular yconoma, who had been hired by the convent, would have the right to wear whatever worldly clothing she liked. So Cecilia Blanca also had a green dress sewn, because she thought that the green would go particularly well with Cecilia Rosa’s red hair. Finally, as if to add a hint of her Folkung connection, she had exchanged Cecilia Rosa’s black wimple for a blue one, the precise blue color that she knew so well, which she could even make with her own hands.

  It took a bit of persuasion to get Cecilia Rosa to dress in all this finery, and also to wear her red hair loose for a whole day without covering her head. It was a way of practicing for the future, according to Cecilia Blanca.

  The queen realized, but perhaps too late, that this single day of practice might not be enough. For when evening approached she again took Cecilia Rosa to the maidservants’ chamber to be dressed in the much more beautiful green dress, fastening a silver sash around her waist and a silver clasp in her hair. She explained that company was coming to supper that evening.

  Then she took Cecilia Rosa to her own rooms, where there was a big polished mirror in which she could see herself from head to toe. Cecilia Blanca was all aquiver to see her friend’s reaction.

  When Cecilia Rosa looked at herself, at first she was struck dumb, and it was impossible to read in her face what she was thinking. But then she suddenly began to weep and had to sit down. Cecilia Blanca comforted her for a long while before she managed to find out what had caused this unexpected sadness.

  She had turned old and ugly, Cecilia Rosa sobbed. This wasn’t the way she remembered herself; this was somebody else who was old and ugly.

  Cecilia Blanca consoled her with a kiss but then laughed out loud. She took her friend by the hand and led her back to the mirror so that they could both look at the same time.

  “Now you can see both of us,” she said with feigned sternness. “I have looked at you for many years without being able to see myself, just as you have seen me. Well, here I stand with my stomach sticking out and breasts that hang and a pudgy face, and there you stand next to me. The mirror cannot lie. It sees a beautiful woman who is only thirty-seven years old but looks younger, and it sees me, forty years old and looking my age. Time has not taken a toll on you as much as you think, dearest Cecilia Rosa.”

  Cecilia Rosa stood in silence for a moment, staring at their reflections. Then she spun around, threw her arms around Cecilia Blanca, and begged her forgiveness. She was so unaccustomed to seeing herself and that was why she was shocked by her reflection. And she soon cheered up again.

  But this unusual reaction on the part of her friend did not make Cecilia Blanca feel any less worried, because she now realized that she had saved one secret for far too long. And soon there would be little time left to keep silent about it.

  The person who was coming to the evening banquet, riding from the north end of Visingsö and traveling from Bjälbo, was Magnus Månesköld, Cecilia Rosa’s son. The sole purpose of his visit was to meet his mother for the first time.

  Cecilia Blanca realized that there were two possibilities. One was not to say anything and let mother and son get to know each other by themselves.

  The other option was to tell her friend the truth right now, with all the uneasiness that might entail.

  She asked Cecilia Rosa to sit down before the mirror and pretended that she was going to fix her hair. She fetched a brush and combs and began brushing her friend’s hair, and kept on for a while, because it was very soothing. Then she said as if in passing, almost as if her thoughts were elsewhere, that oh, there was one more thing. Magnus Månesköld would be coming to tonight’s supper. They could ride out to meet him if she liked.

  Cecilia Rosa suddenly froze, and she stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. Tears glinted in her eyes without falling; but she said nothing. To hide her concern, Cecilia Blanca resumed brushing the lovely red hair, which was still a bit too short.

  The storm had long since abated over Lake Vättern, and there were only a few clouds in the sky when the two of them, without escort, rode to the north on the island of Visingsö. They said little on the way, although Cecilia Blanca complimented her friend for how well she rode. Cecilia Rosa said something about the weather and the lovely evening.

  In a clearing in the woods where the oaks had been cut down to make longboats years ago, they met three riders. All three of them wore Folkung mantles. The one riding in front was the youngest, and his hair shone red in the evening sun.

  When the three men saw the queen and the woman riding next to her, they reined in their horses at once. The young red-haired man dismounted and began walking across the clearing.

  Custom now demanded that Cecilia Rosa remain seated on her horse and calmly wait for the man to approach her, bow, and offer her his hand so that she could dismount safely from her saddle. Then they would greet each other.

  Cecilia Rosa would undoubtedly have known this when she was seventeen years old, and she would have behaved as custom required. It was not certain that she would remember the custom after so many years in the cloister.

  Nonetheless, as nimbly as if she were still seventeen, she leaped to the ground in a manner that was anything but courtly and rushed across the clearing, taking steps that were too long for her green dress, so that she stumbled a little.

  When Magnus Månesköld saw this he also began to run, and they met in the middle of the clearing and embraced each other without a word.

  Then they took each other by the shoulders so that they could look into each other’s eyes. They looked like mirror images.

  Magnus Månesköld had brown eyes and red hair; he was the only one in his adopted family who had such coloring.

  They gazed at each other for a long time, but neither could say a word. Then Magnus dropped to his knees before her, took her right hand, and kissed it tenderly. This was the sign that he legally acknowledged his mother.

  When he stood up he took her hand and slowly led her back to her horse. There he again knelt down as he handed her the horse’s reins, held the stirrup, and bade her step on his back to get into the saddle, as custom demanded.

  Not until she was well seated on her horse did he speak.

  “I have had many thoughts and dreams about you, my mother,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “Perhaps I thought that I might recognize you, but not with as much certainty as you and I did just now. And I never would have imagined, despite what my dear kinsman Birger Brosa told me, that it would be like seeing a sister rather than a mother. Would you therefore allow me the honor of escorting you to this evening’s banquet, dear Mother?”

  “That you may,” said Cecilia Rosa, smiling a bit at her son’s formal way of speaking.

  Magnus Månesköld was a young man with down on his cheeks who had not yet come close to the time when his kinsmen would begin to think of choosing a bride for him. But he was also a man who had grown up in the f
ortresses of power, so he knew to behave as custom demanded. He wore the Folkung mantle with the confidence that showed he understood its value, and its significance. When they approached Näs in the last rays of the setting sun he rode up beside his mother and said something about the evening chill as he hung his blue mantle over her shoulders. This was how he wanted to ride in with her to the king’s castle at Näs. He said nothing of this to his mother, but she understood.

  At the banquet he drank ale like a man, but not wine as the two Cecilias did. At the beginning of the evening he spoke with them mostly about what their imprisonment at Gudhem had been like, because he had never been able to imagine such a thing. Only now did he learn for sure that Gudhem was the place where he was born, and something about the circumstances.

  But as both the Cecilias had expected would happen, and as they had discussed using the sign language that only they understood outside the cloister, Magnus Månesköld soon began to ask cautious questions about his father. He wanted to know the truth about Arn Magnusson’s skill with the sword and bow. Cecilia Rosa answered his questions without reservation, for the fear she had felt only hours ago had now been replaced by a warm happiness. She explained that all the tales about him wielding the sword were something she had only heard others tell, although there were many stories. But once she had seen Arn Magnusson shoot with the bow at a banquet at Husaby royal estate, and he did so quite passably.

  Just as Cecilia Blanca was signing behind the prodigal son’s back what she thought he would ask next, he did wonder how good his father’s skill had been.