by Jan Guillou
But as for the quarter-staff on a plank, he went on, that was an excellent exercise. That was the basis for everything – speed, agility, balance – and the many resultant bruises were a reminder that defensive actions were just as important as knowing how to attack. Consequently, this was the first lesson he had taught Arn when he was a little boy.
Arn raised his wine glass and confirmed at once that he spoke the truth. That was how things had been when he had arrived at Varnhem at such a young age. And he’d received a thrashing from Brother Guilbert every day for twelve years, he added, sighing heavily and bowing his head, which prompted everyone to laugh.
After they’d drunk a considerable amount of ale, the young men kept jumping up to go off and piss, while Arn and Brother Guilbert remained calmly in their seats. In this way a different young man would sit down next to the two older men as soon as a place was vacated. And for as long as the youths remained coherent, Arn and Brother Guilbert had the chance to converse with all of them.
By the time Magnus Månesköld came over to sit down next to Arn, the evening had progressed farther than Arn had expected. A shyness seemed to exist between the two of them, and a good deal of wine and ale was required to get past it.
Magnus began by apologizing for twice having misjudged his father, but he added that he had learned a great deal from these mistakes.
Arn pretended not to understand what he was referring to and asked for an explanation. Magnus spoke of his disappointment when he first saw his father, not as the knight of his dreams but as a thrall wielding a trowel, and how he should have known better as soon as they took to their horses and rode away from Forsvik. But he had been so foolish as to revive his disappointment when he saw Arn throw an axe without striking the target. And so the rebuke that he’d received was fully justified, and he’d never seen greater archers than the monk and his own father. So in that respect the sagas had spoken the truth.
Arn tried to dismiss the subject by jesting that he promised henceforth to practice strenuously at the art of throwing weapons. Yet such jesting did not suit Magnus Månesköld, who kept his solemn demeanour and only afterwards dared to ask about something that he said had been puzzling him.
‘When we arrived at Forsvik on horseback,’ he said, ‘and we came around the corner of the house, where you, my father, stood up on the ridgepole holding a trowel…when you leaped down and looked at us…how could you recognize me as your son so quickly?’
Arn burst into uncontrollable laughter, even though he would have preferred to keep a straight face.
‘Just look at this!’ he exclaimed, ruffling his son’s thick red hair. ‘Who would have hair like your mother except you, my son! And besides, even if you’d been wearing a helmet, all I had to do was look at your shields. You were the only one who bore a half-moon painted next to our Folkung lion. And if none of that were sufficient, I would have looked into your eyes. You have your mother’s beautiful brown eyes.’
‘Tomorrow I will become your legitimate son,’ said Magnus, suddenly sounding on the verge of tears.
‘You have always been my legitimate son,’ replied Arn. ‘Your mother Cecilia and I may have committed a sin when we conceived you too early. It has taken a long time for us to be able to celebrate our wedding, because it was not as easy for my kinsman Knut to become king as he first thought, and he had promised to come to our wedding as king. The love between your mother and myself was great, our yearning just as great, and so we committed a sin, though we are not the only ones who have done so. But whether it was a great sin or not, we have both atoned for it with a harsh punishment, and we are now cleansed. And tomorrow we’ll drink the bridal ale that was intended more than twenty years ago. But that’s not when you will become my son, nor when I will be Cecilia’s husband. I have always been hers, and you have always been my son, every single day in my prayers during a long war.’
Magnus sat and pondered in silence for a moment as if he were unsure in which direction he should steer the conversation. All of a sudden there were so many things crowding into his head.
‘Do you think the king will come to the wedding, as he promised?’ he then asked, as if thereby saving himself from more difficult topics for discussion.
‘No, he won’t,’ said Arn. ‘Birger Brosa will not attend, that much we know, and I don’t think the king has any desire to offend his jarl. And as far as the promises of kings are concerned, I’ve learned that it makes a difference whether they’re given before or after the crown is in place. Yet it was wisely arranged for Erik jarl to be present to honour us, representing both the Eriks and the king.’
‘But Erik jarl is here because he’s my friend,’ Magnus Månesköld objected without thinking.
‘I’m glad that he’s here, and I’m glad that he’s your friend,’ said Arn. ‘But above all else, he is a jarl of the realm and our future king. In this way my friend Knut has solved his predicament. He is here as he promised me. And he’s also not here, as he no doubt promised Birger Brosa. That is how a wise friend acts if he is king.’
‘Will there be war soon?’ asked Magnus, as if on impulse or as if the ale and not his sense of chivalry were already guiding his speech.
‘No,’ said Arn. ‘Not for a long time, but let’s talk of that subject another time, when there’s not so much ale-drinking going on.’
As if Arn’s words about the ale had reminded Magnus of nature’s call, he excused himself and on slightly unsteady legs went off into the dusk to relieve himself. House thralls brought in tarred torches and more roasts.
A short time later Brother Guilbert and Arn sat alone, each holding a wine glass, while songs and bellows surrounded them on all sides.
Arn teased Brother Guilbert about the last arrow he had shot, saying that if a man spends that much time thinking before shooting, it’s almost always sure to go wrong. It means that he wants something too much. And if you want something too much, then you take too much, and this was something that Brother Guilbert surely should know better than anyone else.
Yes, you would think that would be true, admitted Brother Guilbert. But he had been shooting to win. Or at least to do his best so that no one would think he had simply handed the victory to Arn. Yet Higher Powers had steered his arrow.
‘Deus vult!’ said Arn in jest, raising his clenched fist in the greeting of the Templar knights.
Brother Guilbert immediately joined in and struck his fist against Arn’s.
‘Perhaps we can compete again, on horseback and with more difficult targets that are moving,’ said Arn.
‘Oh no!’ replied Brother Guilbert crossly. ‘You just want to put your old teacher in his place. I’d rather go another round with you using the quarter-staff!’
At that they had a good laugh, but none of the youths were paying much attention to them any more, perhaps because they couldn’t understand the conversation. Brother Guilbert and Arn, as if from old habit, had switched to speaking Frankish.
‘Tell me one thing, brother,’ said Arn pensively. ‘How many Templar knights would it take to conquer the two lands of the Goths and Svealand?’
‘Three hundred,’ replied Brother Guilbert after pausing to consider the question. ‘Three hundred were enough to hold the Holy Land for a long time. This kingdom is bigger, but on the other hand there is no cavalry here. Three hundred knights and three strongholds and we could pacify the entire region. Aha! So that’s what you’re thinking! At this very moment I’m helping to build the first stronghold with our dear friends the Saracens. What a superb irony! And you’re not afraid that our Saracen friends will cause problems? I mean, sooner or later these Nordic barbarians are going to figure out what sort of foreigners pray five times a day and in a less than discreet manner at that, if I’m going to speak of the matter with some delicacy.’
‘That was a lot to bring up at once,’ said Arn with a sigh. ‘Yes, this is more or less what I’ve been thinking: that if I build a cavalry force using the same exercises that we use
as Templar knights, then we will have peace. More strongholds than are necessary, that’s true. And as for the Saracens, my plan is for them first to display their skills; afterwards people can choose between their demonstrated abilities and their own misconceptions about what Saracens are.’
‘That last part might be a dangerous game,’ mused Brother Guilbert. ‘You and I know the truth about Saracens. There’s an explanation for that. But won’t any one of this land’s ignorant and primitive bishops drop dead, choked by bacon, as soon as he realizes the truth about your fortress builders? And to create peace with overwhelming strength, as you are planning, is both right and wrong.’
‘I know how it’s right, but how is it wrong?’ Arn asked sharply.
‘It’s wrong because the Nordic people don’t understand the new cavalry force, how invincible it is. Once you have created such power, you will first have to demonstrate it before you can gain peace. That will mean war, in any case.’
‘I have pondered this very matter for a long time,’ Arn admitted. ‘I have only one answer and that is to make it a gentle lesson. Do you remember the foremost of the golden rules of the Templar order?’
‘When you draw your sword – do not think about who you must kill. Think about who you should spare,’ replied Brother Guilbert in Latin.
‘Precisely,’ said Arn. ‘Precisely. May it be God’s will!’
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 Näcken 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 Pål, Algot, and Sture, who had arrived that morning from Arnäs 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 Pål 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 Pål 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,’ Pål Jönsson 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 Pål 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 Pål 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 Pål 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 a
long 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 Arnäs. In front was the eldest leader of the Folkung retainers, who had come all the way from Älgarås 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.