Birth of the Kingdom

by Jan Guillou

  Inside the longhouse Erik jarl and his friends were served smoked meat, bread, and ale, but all declined to partake of the wine that was offered.

  Their good mood from the trip to Forsvik was gone. They had a hard time talking, since none of them wanted to add to Magnus Månesköld’s embarrassment. Finding his father with a trowel in his hand was not something they envied him.

  ‘Your father is as strong and agile as any of us. Did you see the way he came down from the top of the roof in only two leaps?’ said Torgils Eskilsson in an attempt to say something positive.

  ‘He must have fought many battles to have so many scars on his hands and face,’ Folke Jonsson added.

  Magnus Månesköld at first said nothing, just looked down into his ale and sighed. Then he muttered something to the effect that perhaps it wasn’t so odd that those who had lost the Holy Land had taken some lumps before it was over. His disappointment spread like the cold to the others.

  ‘But it was he who once met Emund Ulvbane in single combat at the ting of all Goths, sparing the berserker but hacking off his hand,’ Torgils attempted to console him once more.

  ‘Back then he was a young man like we are, and it wasn’t a trowel he was holding in his hand,’ Magnus muttered.

  Their conversation faltered even more.

  Less than an hour had passed when a completely different Arn Magnusson stepped through the door. His face was rosy from a hot bath, his blond hair that had been a matted gray mass of mortar and dirt was slicked back shiny and clean, and his face was now free of whiskers so that the white scars gleamed even more clearly than when they first saw him. But this was not what had changed him most.

  His chain mail was of a foreign type, shining like silver and clinging to his body like cloth. On his feet he wore a type of steel shoes that none of the four had ever seen before, and spurs of gold glittered at his heels. He wore the Folkungs’ surcoat over his chain mail, and at his side hung a long, narrow sword in a black scabbard with a cross stamped on it in gold. On a chain from his left shoulder dangled a gleaming helmet.

  ‘The horses have been brought out to the courtyard,’ he said curtly, motioning to them to get up and follow him.

  Outside, the thralls stood holding the reins of five horses. Their retainers were already mounted and waiting a short distance away.

  Arn strode straight over to a black horse with a silver mane and mounted it in a single leap as the horse turned and set off at a trot. It all seemed to happen in one fluid movement.

  Just outside the barnyard Arn wheeled his horse around, and it reared on its hind legs as he drew his long flashing sword and shouted something in a foreign language. The many foreigners responded with shouts and cheers.

  ‘He who judges too soon judges himself,’ said Torgils knowingly to Magnus as they hurried to mount their horses and catch up with Arn.

  Magnus was just as confused by what he now saw as he was at his first meeting with his father. The man riding ahead of him was not the same one who had met him with the trowel in his hand.

  The four urged their horses on until they came up alongside Arn, the way equal brothers ride through the land. Now they saw that it was not merely a white cloth covering his horse like those who lacked their own clan’s coat of arms. On both hind-quarters shone a great red cross, the same as that on Arn’s white shield. They knew what that meant even though none of them had ever actually seen a Templar knight in person.

  They rode for a long while in silence, each man subdued by his own embarrassment. Arn made not the slightest move to start a conversation to help them out of this difficulty. He thought he had a good idea what their expressions had meant when they saw him working like a thrall, as they probably would have said in their language. But he had been so young when he was sent to Varnhem cloister that he hadn’t had time to develop such pride. And yet he had a hard time imagining that he would have turned out like these young men even if he had grown up outside the cloister walls along with Eskil.

  Then Magnus came riding up beside him and asked timidly about the long, light sword they all had seen when he saluted farewell to the farm folk.

  ‘Hand me your sword and take mine and I’ll explain,’ said Arn, drawing his sword in a lightning-quick motion and holding it out with his iron glove around the blade by the hilt. ‘But be careful of the blade, it’s very sharp!’

  When Arn took the Nordic sword in his hand he swung it a few times and nodded to himself with a smile.

  ‘You’re still forging in iron that you bend back and forth,’ he said before he explained.

  Magnus’s sword was very beautiful, he admitted at once. It also lay well in the hand. But it was too short to use from horseback, demonstrating with a swift downward slash. Yet the iron was too soft to cut through the modern chain mail and would easily get stuck in the enemy’s shield. The edge was far too dull, and after a few blows against another man’s sword or shield it wouldn’t be of much use. So the important thing was to win quickly, and then go home and whet the blade anew, he said in an attempt to jest.

  Magnus took some tentative swings with his father’s sword and then cautiously felt the edge. He flinched when he cut himself. As he was about to hand back the sword, his eyes fell on a long inscription in gold that was impossible to read. He asked what it meant, whether it was only for decoration or something that made the sword better.

  ‘Both,’ said Arn. ‘It’s a greeting from a friend and a blessing, and one day, but not today, I’ll tell you what it says.’

  The sun was on its way up to its zenith, and Arn surprised his young companions by leaning back in the saddle and untying his mantle, which he slung over his shoulders. Arn told the wondering youths that if it was heat they wanted to protect themselves from, they should do as he did. They all hesitantly did the same, except for Erik jarl, who had ermine lining his mantle and thought the heat was bad enough without wrapping himself in fur. By the time they reached Askeberga resting place late that afternoon, he was the one who had sweated most.

  On the day of the maidens’ celebration at Husaby the entire royal estate was transformed into an armed camp. At least that was Cecilia’s impression, and it made her even more agitated to hear the sound of horses’ hoofs, clanging weapons, and rough male voices everywhere. A dozen retainers had been sent from Arnäs, and more than twice as many warriors had been brought from the villages that were subject to Arnäs. A ring of tents sprouted up around Husaby, groups of riders searched through the oak woods far and wide, and scouts were sent out in every direction. Nothing must happen to the bride before she was safely under feather-bed and covers.

  During the weeks at Midsummer when Cecilia felt like a guest on her own land she had spent most of her time in the weaving chamber with old Suom. Their friendship, which had developed after such a brief time, was not usual between a thrall and an unmarried noblewoman. Suom could perform miracles with her loom, making the sun and moon, images of the Victorious Bridegroom, and various churches appear as if in their actual settings, with some close and some far away. From Riseberga Cecilia had brought some of the dyes she had worked with for many years, and a sort of blended linen and woollen yarn. Suom said she had never seen such lovely colours, and everything she had done in her life would have been so much better if she’d had this knowledge from the start. Cecilia explained the origin of the dyes and how to boil and blend them; Suom showed with her hands how to weave figures right into the cloth.

  So the two got a late start on the most important task, to weave Cecilia’s bridal mantle. When the bride was escorted along the road to the church for the blessing and on to the bridal ale, she was supposed to be clad in her own clan’s colours. Cecilia had such strong memories of the blue colour from her time in Gudhem convent. There she and Cecilia Blanca had been alone among all the Sverker daughters who wore red yarn around one arm as a sign of their common loyalty and hatred toward the two foes, Cecilia Rosa and Cecilia Blanca. She and her best friend had defied them by tying a sm
all piece of blue yarn around their arms. And when the king and jarl came at last to take away Cecilia Blanca and make her queen, jarl Birger Brosa had done something that still warmed Cecilia’s memory.

  She had been summoned to the hospitium and there the evil Mother Rikissa had torn off the scrap of blue yarn. Cecilia had been close to tears at this affront and her own feeling of powerlessness. Then the jarl had come over and hung his own Folkung mantle around her shoulders, which was a sign of protection that no one could mistake. Since that day she had always thought of herself as wearing blue and not green, which was the colour of the Pål clan.

  With renewed vigour they went back to work on the bridal mantle. Suom wove in the sign of the Pål clan in the middle of the back, a black shield with a silver chevron, so that it was very prominent although it was not sewn on but a part of the weave. After many attempts Cecilia had developed a deep, shimmering green colour which pleased them both. At last the mantle was done.

  When Suom took her leave to return to Arnäs, Cecilia stood up, sweeping the loveliest of green Pål mantles around her, and headed over to the longhouse, where her kinsmen were now gathered for the brief evening ale that would start off the maidens’ evening celebration. When she came in the faces of the three Pål brothers lit up with genuine joy when they saw the mantle she wore. They all admired it and wanted to feel the fabric, turning it this way and that in the light to see its shimmer. They also seemed relieved to have escaped the affront to the clan if she had decided to sew a blue mantle for herself for this grand wedding celebration.

  Pål Jönsson himself handed her a small goblet of ale and was the first to drink with her. Afterwards she drank with his younger brother Algot. Sture, who was the youngest and still a bachelor, had ridden to Arnäs to take part in the bachelors’ evening as the only youth from the Pål clan. They all raised their tankards to the young Sture because, as Pål said, it would not be easy to spend the evening drinking with men who were all Folkungs and Eriks.

  Then they began the arrangements for what was to take place during the maidens’ evening. Six young women from the Pål clan came into the hall, taking Cecilia’s hand and greeting her. She didn’t know any of them, since they were so young. The priest from Husaby Church blessed all seven of the maidens and then the house thralls brought each of them a white shift and a wreath made of lingonberry twigs.

  Cecilia had only a vague idea of what a maidens’ evening was, and she had no idea how she was supposed to behave when these young women, whom she didn’t know, lined up holding the white shifts in their arms, with the lingonberry wreaths on top. She decided that the only thing she could do was to pretend that nothing was unfamiliar and just follow the others. They were now slowly leaving through the open doors, stepping into the summer night.

  Outside stood a row of retainers. Every third man held a burning torch in his hand to keep the evil spirits or the unblessed away from the maidens as they appeared at this most dangerous of moments in terms of the powers of darkness.

  Cecilia came last in the procession, which slowly headed toward the oak woods and the stream a short distance away. There the bathhouse could be glimpsed in the glow of torches.

  As they left the courtyard and took their first steps into the oak forest, the other maidens began singing a song that Cecilia had never heard before, even though she’d undoubtedly heard thousands of songs. She didn’t grasp all the words, since many were old-fashioned, but she understood that it was a song to a female god from heathen times. Inside the forest menacing shadows reigned. But Cecilia didn’t believe in sirens of the woods or gnomes as much as she did in apprehensive armed retainers.

  As custom demanded, the seven maidens arrived at the washhouse at the darkest hour of the summer night. But since it was the week after Midsummer, it wasn’t very dark. Even so, they were dazzled by the burning torches that were posted around the entire washhouse. Outside stood two long benches, and there Cecilia’s escort, amid much giggling and laughter, placed their clothes so that one after the other they stood there naked. They also removed their headbands and then combed their fingers through their long tresses that fell over their shoulders and breasts.

  Cecilia hesitated, blushing, although no one noticed in the dark. She had never stood naked before anyone, and at first she didn’t know how she was going to manage.

  The other maidens teased her by hugging their arms to their chests and shivering, telling her to make haste so that they might quickly step inside where it was warm. Cecilia then realized that there was actually one person before whom she had been naked, although a very long time ago; only one, and that was Arn Magnusson. And if she could show herself naked to a man, never mind the one she loved, then it ought to be much easier to do so before women. That was how she persuaded herself as she diffidently fumbled with her clothes, taking them off and placing them on the wooden bench.

  Now all of them lined up, crossed their hands over their breasts and walked seven times around the bathhouse, singing yet another heathen song that Cecilia had never heard. Neither the melody nor the words were familiar. After that the first maiden to approach the bathhouse opened the door, and then everyone ran inside, shrieking and giggling in the steam.

  There were big wooden vessels filled with hot or cold water, as well as buckets for pouring the water. After the first cautious attempts with a bare foot, it turned out that they had to pour some of the cold water into the hot vessel, which was so huge that it could hold at least two butchered oxen. Several of the maidens splashed cold water on some of the others, prompting more shrieks and laughter.

  When one of them boldly stepped into the tub and hastily sat down, she gasped several times and then gestured to the others, who followed suit. Sitting in a circle, they grabbed each others’ hands and sang more pagan songs. Some of the words made Cecilia’s already flushed cheeks turn even redder. The songs were bawdy and dealt with things that were forbidden up until the wedding night but afterwards all actually encouraged, although many verses implied that it was the forbidden fruit that always tasted best.

  Cecilia felt as if she had landed in a big tub of chicken soup, but there was in truth not much that she could do about it, nor could she get out of it by sulking. That was a consoling thought, and soon she began to feel strangely cheerful and then almost feverish, as if the sorcery of the songs had truly affected her.

  They sat there until the water began to cool and the light of dawn glimmered outside as the torches gradually went out. Then they hurried to perform the last tasks before they were allowed to start drinking. They all rushed out to the stream and jumped in, screaming shrilly at the ice-cold water, then dashed back inside the bathhouse, which now seemed wonderfully warm. There they lit new torches and helped each other to wash all over, even the most unclean parts of their bodies.

  Afterwards they quickly dried themselves with big pieces of linen and then went over to where they’d left their special clothing piled up. They put on the white shifts that they’d brought from the longhouse, pressed the wreaths down over their foreheads, and arranged their wet hair. A row of small ale tankards and a newly tapped cask were brought from the back of the bathhouse. They were soon drinking together like men, imitating the men as they walked around with their legs astraddle, swaggering barefoot across the wooden floor. Cecilia wished that she’d been able to mimic her friend Cecilia Blanca, who could belch and fart like an old man.

  They had to empty the ale cask before they were allowed to leave. Otherwise, as one of Cecilia’s young kinswomen named Ulrika explained, it would mean bad luck for the bride. But there was no cause for alarm on this occasion, since this was a night when the young maidens were allowed to drink as much as they liked.

  The ale was warm and sweetened with honey, which better suited the women, and they soon began talking louder and louder as they drank almost like men.

  And now the shyness that had existed between Cecilia and her young kinswomen disappeared. One of the maidens said that Cecilia shou
ldn’t think that any of them thought ill of her because she had reached such an old age before drinking the bridal ale. Another said that whoever waited for something good never waited too long.

  Even though these words were no doubt meant to encourage Cecilia, they suddenly made her feel embarrassed again. All of these young maidens were so much lovelier than she was; their breasts were firm and their hips softly rounded. On this evening when Cecilia had touched her own body with less modesty than ever before, she realized that her breasts drooped and her body was gaunt and angular.

  The others saw at once this hint of nervousness in Cecilia’s eyes, and before any of the others could speak, the maiden named Katarina said what she thought they were undoubtedly all thinking. For them this was a great day, for Cecilia had shown that a woman could decide much for herself. She was even able to defy her kinsmen and refuse to enter the cloister, despite the fact that a struggle for power was at stake. And she could go to the bridal bed with the one she loved instead of accepting someone chosen by her father.

  Yet one of the maidens objected that it didn’t matter with whom a woman went to the bridal bed, as long as she honoured her clan. That started a heated quarrel that went on for a while, ending only when the maiden named Katarina and another named Brigida began splashing ale at each other. Finally Katarina picked up her tankard and dumped the whole thing over Brigida’s head.