by Jan Guillou
‘As far as Cecilia is concerned, I have an idea that is better than the one I presented earlier. Meet with her, speak with her, sin with her if you are so inclined. But take some time, test your love and let her do the same. Then we’ll speak about the matter again, but not for a long while. Will you accept this suggestion of mine?’
Arn bowed anew to his uncle and the king, and his face revealed neither pain nor impatience.
‘Good!’ said the king. ‘At the council meeting tomorrow we shall not speak of the abbess at Riseberga, as if we had entirely forgotten that matter. Instead we’ll stuff the new cloister at Julita in the bishops’ mouths and keep them quiet with that. We are glad that the storm is over, Arn. And we are happy to see you on the council as our new marshal. So, let me have a word in private with my jarl, who needs to hear some admonishments from his king. Without witnesses.’
Arn and Eskil rose and bowed to the king and the jarl and then went out into the dark staircase of the tower.
Down in the courtyard tables and tents had been set up, and ale and wine were being poured. Eskil took Arn by the arm and steered him with firm steps to one of the tents, while Arn sighed and muttered about this constant drinking, although his displeasure was obviously feigned and only made Eskil smile.
‘It’s good that you’re still able to joke after a storm like that,’ Eskil said. ‘And as for the ale, you might change your tune now, because here at Näs we serve the excellent ale from Lübeck.’
As they approached one of the ale tents, everyone whispered and made way as before the bow wave of a boat. Eskil didn’t seem to notice.
When Arn tasted the Saxon ale he agreed at once that it was far better than any he had managed to force down before. It was darker, foamy, and tasted more strongly of hops than of juniper berries. Eskil warned him that it would also go to his head faster, so he ought to be wary of growing unruly. That might cause him to bluster and draw his sword. They laughed and hugged each other in relief that the storm actually seemed to have passed.
They discussed what could have been the reason for Birger Brosa’s unexpected loss of control. Eskil thought there were simply too many conflicting emotions all at once. Certainly the jarl was truly happy to see Arn return home alive. At the same time he had spent so many years considering how Cecilia Rosa – and Eskil explained how Cecilia had gotten that name – might serve to counter-balance the insidious Mother Rikissa’s lies about the queen’s cloister vows. The combination of joy and disappointment was not a good drink; it was like mixing ale and wine in the same goblet.
Arn said that a battle half won was better than utter defeat. They were interrupted when one of the archbishop’s chaplains made his way over to them.
The chaplain had a smug expression on his face, sticking his nose in the air in such a way that Eskil and Arn couldn’t help from smirking at each other. Then the chaplain announced his business in Latin: His Eminence the Archbishop would like to speak with Sir Arnus Magnusonius at once.
Arn smiled at the amusing distortion of his name. He replied in the same language that if His Eminence summoned him, he would promptly appear, but for urgent reasons he first had to make a detour via his saddlebags. He took the chaplain politely by the arm and walked toward the royal stables.
After he had fetched his letter of release from the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, which he thought might be the subject of the archbishop’s cunning move, he muttered something about wondering why he had been summoned. But the chaplain didn’t understand what he meant, since he actually wasn’t as familiar with Church language in daily speech as he had pretended to be with his nose in the air back at the ale tent.
Arn had to wait a moment outside the archbishop’s tent while some business was finished inside. When a man with a dark expression and a Sverker mantle emerged, Arn was called in by another chaplain.
Inside, Archbishop Petrus loomed, seated on a throne with high arms and a carved cross. Stuck into the ground before him stood the archbishop’s cross in gold with its silver rays. Another bishop was sitting next to him.
Arn stepped forward at once, knelt down on one knee, and kissed the archbishop’s ring. Then he waited for his blessing before he stood up. He bowed to the other bishop.
With a smile the archbishop leaned toward his fellow cleric and said out loud in Latin, certain as usual that the men of the Church were alone in their understanding of it, that this could be a conversation as amusing as spiritually uplifting.
‘Love is wonderful,’ said the other bishop in jest. ‘Especially when it can carry out the business of the Church, holding the Holy Virgin by the hand!’
The two worthies both had a good laugh at this jest. They paid no attention to Arn, as if they hadn’t even noticed him yet.
Arn had seen this sort of behaviour all too often in men of power to be bothered by it. But he was puzzled that these two, who spoke a Latin full of errors and with a strange Nordic sound to it, would take it for granted that he didn’t understand what they said. He had to decide quickly how to handle this, with cunning or with honesty. If he heard too much it might be too late. He crossed himself and pondered what to do. But when the archbishop leaned toward his colleague again with a smile, as if he had thought of yet another jest, Arn cleared his throat and said a few words that were mostly intended as a warning.
‘Both Your Eminences must excuse me if I interrupt your surely most interesting discourse,’ he said, at once gaining their astonished attention. ‘But it is truly balsam to the mind to hear once again a language which I master and in which each word possesses clear import.’
‘Why, you speak the Church language like a man of the cloth!’ said the archbishop with eyes wide in amazement. His contempt for yet another lowly visitor had utterly vanished.
‘Yes, because I am a man of the Church, Your Eminence,’ replied Arn with a bow, handing him his letter of release, which he assumed was the reason for this summons. The archbishop surely wanted to determine whether he was a deserter or not, a man obedient to the law of the Church or of the temporal world.
The two clerics put their heads together and searched in the various texts until they found the Latin translation from Frankish and Arabic. Then slowly and a bit solemnly they spelled their way through. They touched with something approaching reverence the seal of the Grand Master which showed the two brothers riding the same horse. When the archbishop looked up at Arn, he suddenly realized that the knight was still standing before them, so he called for a stool, which an astonished chaplain brought at once.
‘It is a great joy for me to see you once again in our land, Fortress Master Arn de Gothia,’ said the archbishop kindly, almost as if speaking to an equal.
‘It is a blessing for me to be home,’ said Arn. ‘Just as it is liberating to be able to speak the language of the Church and regain the free flight of the intellect, associations which move like birds in the air rather than crawl on the ground like turtles. When I attempt to speak my own childhood language it feels as though I have a piece of wood in my mouth instead of a tongue. Naturally this makes my joy even greater at being summoned to this audience, although no matter the occasion I would value the privilege of being presented to you.’
The archbishop at once introduced Bishop Stenar from Växjö, whereupon Arn stepped forward and kissed Stenar’s ring as well before he sat down.
‘What does it signify that you are a Templar knight of the Lord and yet are dressed in a Folkung’s mantle?’ asked the archbishop with interest. It seemed that the conversation had now taken an entirely different turn than the two bishops had intended at first.
‘That is a complicated matter, at least at first glance, Your Eminence,’ said Arn. ‘As will be seen from the document I presented, I am forever a brother in our order, even though my service in a fighting unit was restricted in time to those twenty years during which I was serving my penance. But I do retain the right to take up my Templar mantle again at any time, which may also be seen in the wri
tten words of the Grand Master.’
‘As a Templar knight…does one not also take cloister vows?’ wondered the archbishop with a sudden concerned frown.
‘Naturally, all Templar knights swear poverty, obedience, and celibacy,’ Arn replied. ‘But as may be seen in lines 4 and 5 of the document, I was released from these vows at the moment my temporary service expired.’
The two bishops again leaned over the sheet of parchment, searching for the lines that Arn had indicated. They spelled their way through the passage and nodded in agreement. They also looked a bit relieved; Arn did not know why.
‘So now you are free both to own property and to wed,’ the archbishop stated with a sigh of relief, carefully rolling up the parchment document and handing it to Arn, who bowed and slipped it back into its leather holder.
‘But tell me,’ the archbishop asked, ‘if you do take up your white mantle, a right which you undeniably possess, to whom are you then subordinate? I have heard that you Templar knights are subordinate to no one. Can that really be true?’
‘No, but there is a grain of truth to your supposition, Your Eminence. As a Templar knight, and being of the rank of fortress master, I am subordinate to the Master of Jerusalem and the Grand Master of our Order, and we are all responsible to the Holy Father in Rome. But in the absence of the highest brothers and of the Holy Father, I am subordinate to no man, as Your Eminence supposed. Wearing the Folkung mantle I serve the king of the Swedes and Goths as well as my clan, as custom demands of us here in the North.’
‘So the moment you took up your white mantle again, you would not be subject to any of our commands here in the North,’ the archbishop summed up. ‘That is indeed an exceptional situation.’
‘A fascinating thought, Your Eminence. But it would be entirely foreign to me as a true Christian back in my homeland to flee your jurisdiction by throwing a white cloak of invisibility over myself, as it is told in the Greek myths.’
‘So your loyalty is first to the Kingdom of God and then to your clan?’ the archbishop asked quickly but with a cunning expression.
‘Such dualism is a purely false conception of the difference between the spiritual and the temporal; nothing can ever take precedence over the laws of Our Heavenly Father,’ Arn replied evasively, a bit surprised by the foolishness of the question.
‘You express yourself with admirable eloquence, Arn de Gothia,’ the archbishop commended him. At the same time he listened to something that Stenar of Växjö was whispering to him and nodded in confirmation.
‘This conversation has been prolonged by a pleasant tone as well as unexpected content,’ the archbishop went on. ‘But time is hastening past, and we have souls waiting outside. We need to come to the point. Your time of penance was imposed on you because you sinned in the flesh with your betrothed, Cecilia Algotsdotter. Is that true?’
‘That is true,’ said Arn. ‘And I served this time of penance with sincerity and honour until my last day in the army of the Lord in the Holy Land. I do not wish to imply, of course, that I was a man free of sin, but merely that the sin which brought about my penance has undergone purification.’
‘That is our opinion as well,’ said the archbishop, sounding a bit strained. ‘But your love for this Cecilia kept you alive and strong during all these years, just as her love for you burned with the same clear flame?’
‘She has always been in my daily prayers to the Holy Virgin, Your Eminence,’ Arn replied cautiously, surprised that his innermost secrets were known to this somewhat rustic and unpolished archbishop.
‘And every day you prayed to the Holy Virgin that She might protect you, your beloved Cecilia, and your child who was born as a result of your sinful relations?’ the archbishop went on.
‘That is true,’ said Arn. ‘As I with my simple powers of comprehension understand it, the Holy Virgin has listened to my prayers. She has delivered me unharmed from the field of battle back to my beloved just as I had sworn to attempt if it were not granted me as a Templar knight to die for my salvation.’
‘Every day for twenty years you could have died and entered into Paradise; that is the special prerogative of the Knights Templar. And yet you were led unscathed back to your homeland. Would not that be proof of the divine grace that has been granted to you and Cecilia Algotsdotter?’ the archbishop asked.
‘Earthly love between man and woman certainly has its place among human beings in their life on earth, as the Holy Scriptures tell us time and again. In no way does it conflict with the love of God,’ Arn replied evasively, now discerning the intention behind the turn the discussion had taken.
‘Indeed, that is also my view,’ said the archbishop, sounding pleased. ‘In this somewhat barbaric part of God’s realm on earth, in this Ultima Thule, humans do tend to ignore this miracle of the Lord. Here the holy sacrament of marriage, ordained by God, is entered into for entirely different reasons than love, is it not?’
‘We undoubtedly do have such a tradition,’ Arn admitted. ‘However, it is my conviction and belief that Cecilia Algotsdotter and I were granted this grace by a miracle of love. I am also certain that the Holy Virgin allowed Her countenance to shine down upon us in order to show us something.’
‘Faith, hope, and charity,’ muttered the archbishop thoughtfully. ‘He who never wavers in his faith, he who never gives up hope in the benevolence of the Holy Virgin, shall be rewarded. In my opinion this is what She wants to show us all. Is that not your view as well, Arn de Gothia?’
‘Far be it from me to interpret otherwise than Your Eminence this wondrous thing that has befallen us,’ admitted Arn, now even more amazed by the archbishop’s knowledge and the good will he radiated.
‘Then in our opinion,’ drawled the archbishop with a look at Bishop Stenar, who nodded in agreement, ‘it would be a grave sin to oppose the high will that God’s Mother and thereby God have shown us in this matter. Come, my son, let me bless you!’
Arn once again stepped forward and knelt down before the archbishop, who motioned to one of his chaplains to bring a silver bowl of holy water.
‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Virgin I bless you, Arn de Gothia, who have been granted grace, who witnessed a miracle of love for the edification of all in this earthly life. And may the Lord’s countenance shine down upon you, may the Holy Virgin ever after walk by your side, and may you and your beloved Cecilia soon harvest the reward of grace, for which you both, burning with faith, have thirsted so long. Amen!’
During the blessing the archbishop touched Arn’s forehead, shoulders, and heart with the holy water.
Dazed and confused, Arn left the archbishop’s tent and stepped out into the light that now struck him sharply in the eyes, since the sun had sunk low in the west.
On the way back to the castle courtyard, where he felt sure he would find his brother still at the ale tents, he pondered what had just happened.
He did not see the benevolent hand of Our Lady behind it, although it was no doubt in accordance with Her will. He saw instead the will and intentions of human beings, but he didn’t understand how it all had fitted together. Nor did he understand how a simple Nordic bishop could have so much information about the intimate secrets of himself, Cecilia, and Our Lady.
He did not see Cecilia again until the grand council feast in the great hall, where a hundred guests were assembled just after sundown.
On Queen Blanca’s orders, branches of stock were raised at the head of the royal table, which made the women entering the hall whisper and titter happily.
The guests came into the hall in a specific order. The lowlier guests entered first and filled all the seats at the tables located farthest from the king’s table. There could be much grumbling over the seating arrangement, but the king’s ushers assiduously kept track so that nobody could seize a chance to claim a seat that was superior to his station.
Then came the guests who had seats at the king’s table; they always wore the most colourful clothing
. All who were seated craned their necks to witness the splendour, or to complain about some neighbour or acquaintance who was unjustly honoured as a guest at the royal table.
Arn was among these guests, as was Harald, who made a point of complaining to his friend that he had not yet been introduced to either the jarl or the king, as if Norwegian kinsmen were not good enough. Arn whispered that there were reasons that had nothing to do with Harald’s honour; discord and rancorous discussion had delayed the introductions.
Next to last came the royal family with golden crowns, and the jarl, also wearing a crown. The king and queen were dressed in the most magnificent, but unfamiliar, clothing that shimmered in all the colours of the rainbow. The whole family wore blue mantles bordered with ermine, even the three princes who walked along chattering to each other as if this were a perfectly ordinary meal.
When the royal family members were seated the archbishop and his retinue entered, and the splendour of their clothing was no less splendid. The archbishop first blessed the royal family, and then he and all the other bishops took their seats.
Arn could see Cecilia seated far away. He tried to catch her eye, but she seemed to be hiding among the castle maidens near her and didn’t dare look in his direction.
When all the seats were filled but the two at the head of the table, the queen stood up, holding two leafy branches high over her head, one of birch and the other of rowan. An expectant murmur of approval at once rose in the hall, and the queen began to walk with the two branches, which she pretended to offer in jest or in earnest to first one, then another, then snatching them back as soon as a hand reached out. Everyone enjoyed this little drama, and speculated wildly about how it would end.
When the queen stopped next to Cecilia Rosa, who blushed and looked down at the table, they understood at least half the truth. Happy shouts and good wishes streamed toward Cecilia as she accepted the birch branch and with head bowed followed the queen to the vacant seat adorned with foliage.