by Jan Guillou
He told Kol that the first thing of importance was to see to it that he and his son had horses and saddles so that they could make a survey of the region and find the best hunting areas. Kol and Svarte, whether morose by nature or dumbstruck with embarrassment, followed Arn over to the horse pastures. There Arn put halters on two horses that he chose for their calm nature rather than for speed and impetuous temperament.
Until the hunters became accustomed to their horses, the animals would be kept in the stable to rest instead of being released into the pastures with the others. Otherwise it would be difficult to catch them again, Arn warned as they led the horses up toward the estate.
Arn was pleased to see that Kol was overjoyed to see these horses, and he spoke eagerly with his son in the thralls’ language as he gestured toward the necks and legs of the steeds. Arn couldn’t resist asking Kol what he was telling his son. He learned that it was just such a horse that Sir Arn himself had once, long ago, brought to Arnäs, and all the servants had thought the animal a miserable beast. Even Kol and his father had foolishly believed the same until they saw Sir Arn ride the horse that was called Kamil or some such name.
‘Shimal,’ Arn corrected him. ‘It means “north” in the language of the land where these horses come from. But tell me, Kol, where do you come from?’
‘I was born at Arnäs,’ replied Kol in a low voice.
‘But what of your father, with whom I also hunted. Where was he from?’
‘From Novgorod on the other side of the Eastern Sea,’ said Kol, sounding sullen.
‘And the other thralls at Arnäs, where do they or their ancestors come from?’ Arn persisted, even though he could see that Kol would have preferred to avoid any further questions on the subject.
‘All of us come from across the sea,’ replied Kol reluctantly. ‘Some of us know this to be true; others merely believe it is so. Some say from the Byzantine Empire, other say Russia or Poland, Estonia or even the Abbasid Caliphate. There are many sagas but little knowledge about this. Some think that our fathers and mothers were once taken captive in war. Others believe that we have always been thralls, but I don’t agree.’
Arn remained silent. He stopped himself from saying at once that Kol and his son would now be free men; he needed to think about the matter first and discuss it with Cecilia. He didn’t ask any more uncomfortable questions, merely told Kol and his son to spend time getting to know the area and not to do any hunting unless the opportunity to shoot some animal happened by chance. But he assumed that right now the important thing was to find out where the hunting would be best.
Without speaking Kol nodded his agreement, and then they parted.
Arn had planned to say something to Cecilia about his concern regarding ownership of thralls during their journey to Bjälbo, where they were to attend the betrothal ale for their son Magnus and the Sverker daughter Ingrid Ylva.
But Cecilia had apparently also planned to use this journey, in particular the first idle hours on the ship crossing Lake Vättern, for a conversation that required both time and consideration. As soon as the ship left shore, she spoke at length and without stopping about the old weaver Suom and the almost miraculous skill that this woman possessed in her hands. As Cecilia had requested, Eskil had sent along a heavy bundle of tapestries that Suom had made; previously they had hung on the walls at Arnäs. A number of them Arn had already seen, since Cecilia had adorned the walls of their bedchamber with Suom’s work.
Arn murmured that some of the images were much too strange for his taste, especially the ones that purportedly depicted Jerusalem with streets of gold and Saracens with horns on the foreheads. Such images were not true, and he could attest to this better than most people.
Cecilia seemed a bit offended by his comment and said that the beauty of the images was not simply a matter of truth; it had as much to do with how the colours were put together and the ideas and visions that the pictures conjured up if beautifully done. In this manner the conversation veered a bit from what she had intended to discuss, and they ended up quarrelling.
Arn moved forward to the bow of the ship to see to their horses for a while and to speak to Sune and Sigfrid. The boys had been allowed to come along to tend to the horses even though they no doubt regarded themselves more as Sir Arn’s retainers. When Arn rejoined Cecilia, she spoke at once about the matter she wanted to discuss.
‘I want to free Suom and her son Gure,’ she said quickly, her eyes fixed on the planks at the bottom of the ship.
‘Why? Why Suom and Gure?’ Arn asked with curiosity.
‘Because her work has great value that will produce silver many times the worth of a thrall,’ replied Cecilia at once, without looking at Arn.
‘You can free anyone you like at Forsvik,’ said Arn. ‘Forsvik belongs to you, and therefore all the thralls are yours as well. But I would like to free Kol and his son Svarte.’
‘Why those particular hunters?’ she asked, surprised that the discussion had already moved past the initial hurdle.
‘Let’s say that Kol and his son bring home eight stags during this first winter,’ replied Arn. ‘That will not only make our meals less monotonous, but it’s more than the value of a thrall, and in only one winter. But the same can be said of every thrall. They all bring in more than their own worth.’
‘Is there something else you wish to say?’ asked Cecilia, giving him a searching glance.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter that I have been saving to discuss during this journey—’
‘I thought as much!’ she interrupted him, looking pleased. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth to show that she had no intention of saying more until Arn had finished.
‘God did not create any man or woman to be a thrall; that is how I view it,’ Arn went on. ‘Where in the Holy Scriptures does it say that such should be the case? You and I have both lived in that part of the world, behind walls, where thralldom would be unthinkable. I imagine that we think alike regarding this matter.’
‘Yes, I think we do,’ said Cecilia solemnly. ‘But what I can’t decide is whether I am wrong or whether all of our kinsmen are mistaken. Not even the thralls believe otherwise; they think that God created some of us to be masters and others to be thralls.’
‘Many of the thralls don’t even believe in God,’ remarked Arn. ‘But I have had the same thought that you mention. Am I the one who is wrong? Or am I so much wiser and better than all of our kinsmen? Even Birger Brosa and Eskil?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You and I are in agreement about this matter.’
‘But if we do indeed agree, then what should we do?’ Arn mused. ‘If we were to free all the thralls at Forsvik tomorrow, so that no one was allowed to own thralls anymore, what would happen then?’
At first Cecilia had no answer. She sat for a while, leaning her chin on her hand and pondering the matter. It occurred to her that the easy part was to forswear the sin, but the hard part was to clear up the confusion that might then arise.
‘Wages,’ said Arn at last. ‘We free all of them, let’s say sometime in midwinter so that cold will keep them sensible and they won’t go running off in all directions with their freedom. Then we will institute wages. At the start of each year every thrall, I mean every man and woman, will receive a certain amount of silver coins. Another possibility, which my blessed mother Sigrid employed, was to allow freed men to work new fields and pay a tenant’s fee each year. I suggest that we try to proceed along both these paths.’
‘But so much in wages would mean heavy expenses for us in pure silver,’ sighed Cecilia. ‘And here I was just beginning to see brighter prospects when it comes to our account books.’
‘He who gives alms to the poor performs a deed that pleases God, even when his silver pouch grows lighter,’ said Arn as he brooded. ‘It is the righteous thing to do, and you and I wish to live a righteous life. That alone is reason enough. Another reason is that those tenants that my mother freed from Arnäs worked harder
. Without costing us any winter fodder, they increased our wealth. What if freed men always work harder than thralls, what if it would be good business to free them?’
‘In that case, our thrall-owning kinsmen are not merely sinners, but also short-sighted,’ laughed Cecilia. ‘I can see that we both share a certain arrogance in thinking these thoughts, my dear Arn.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Arn. ‘But you and I wish to cleanse ourselves of a sin, so let’s do it! Whether the Lord will reward us or not, it is not our concern. And if we find it costly in terms of silver, then so be it. We can afford it. So let’s try!’
‘Yes, and we’ll wait until midwinter so they don’t go running off like chickens when they are freed,’ said Cecilia with a smile, as if picturing all the tumult that would then occur at Forsvik.
When they reached Bjälbo, Birger Brosa’s estate, Arn and Cecilia were not as well received as they had hoped. When they rode in among the welcoming fires outside the church, they were received by house thralls who showed them into one of the guest houses, as if they were supposed to share lodgings with their retainers. They had not brought a large retinue with them, just the boys Sune and Sigfrid, who may have pictured themselves as offering protection to their master and mistress, but others saw them merely as boys.
This was one of the few things that Birger Brosa himself mentioned in a brief conversation with Arn. He said that it was not befitting for a Folkung to ride without retainers, especially since the Sverkers at this banquet might take it as an insult.
Ingrid Ylva’s father was also cold in tone and handshake when he greeted Arn. Sune Sik said only a few words about the fact that the blood between them could not be washed away until after the bridal ale.
A grim mood reigned over the high seat since neither Birger Brosa nor his wife Brigida was willing to speak a single kind word to Arn or Cecilia, and the mood spread throughout the hall. As a betrothal feast, this gathering at Bjälbo was not going to be remembered as festive.
On all three evenings Arn and Cecilia withdrew as early as possible without offending the honour of their host. They barely had a chance to speak to their son Magnus or his future wife Ingrid Ylva, since the betrothal seats, decorated with leafy boughs, were far from the high seat.
They didn’t stay even an hour longer than the three days that custom dictated.
Nor did Arn find the situation much better when they arrived at Ulfshem, the next estate they were to visit and the home of Cecilia’s dear friend Ulvhilde Emundsdotter. It was in a beautiful location between Bjälbo and Linköping. There was wine for Arn and Cecilia, who both preferred not to partake of all the ale-drinking, and the meat that was served was tender. But there was a shadow between Arn and Ulvhilde that would not recede, and everyone saw it, although no one said a word.
And Ulvhilde’s husband, Jon, who was more inclined to the law than the sword, had a hard time carrying on any sort of sensible conversation with Arn, since he assumed that Arn was a man who understood nothing but war. Arn constantly felt as if Jon were addressing a halfwit or a child.
For his part, Jon found it difficult to see his young sons Birger and Emund watching Arn with their eyes bright with admiration. In one sense the situation improved, though in another sense it did not, when Arn suggested that the young Sune and Sigfrid join Jon’s sons outdoors rather than be forced to keep the older people company. The boys obediently retreated, but soon the clanging of weapons was heard from out in the courtyard, which didn’t surprise Arn, though it clearly annoyed Jon.
On the second evening, which was to be their last at Ulfshem, Arn and Cecilia, Jon and Ulvhilde were sitting at the long hearth in the great hall. It was as if the two women discovered too late that while they had a thousand things to discuss, their husbands were less pleased with each other’s company. On this evening the conversation also seemed sluggish, and the topics were inoffensive matters that would not lead to anyone’s discomfort.
Arn was fairly certain what lay at the bottom of this dark lake, and at the beginning of the evening he was determined to leave it alone. But when the first few hours had crawled by with dreary talk, too many silences, and not a single laugh, he decided it was more difficult to carry on in this way than to lance the boil.
‘Let’s speak of the matter that lies between us, since it will not get any better if we pretend it’s not there,’ said Arn in the middle of a discussion about the mild autumn they were now enjoying compared to the severe cold of the previous year.
At first there was utter silence so that only the crackling of the fire was heard.
‘You mean my father Emund Ulvbane,’ said Ulvhilde at last. ‘Yes, it would be better to speak of him now rather than later. I was only a child when he was so treacherously killed, and perhaps what I know of the matter is not the whole truth. Cecilia Rosa is my dearest friend, you are her husband, and between us there should be no lies. Tell me what happened!’
‘Your father Emund was King Sverker’s greatest and most loyal warrior,’ began Arn after taking a deep breath. ‘It was said that no man could defeat him. At the ting of all Goths at Axevalla, he offended my father Magnus so deeply that honour demanded a duel between the two, or with the son taking the father’s place, as the law provides. My father has never been a swordsman and could expect a certain death at Emund’s hands. He called for a priest, gave his confession, and said farewell to his kinsmen. But I fought against Emund in my father’s place. I was only seventeen and had no desire to kill anyone. I did all in my power, and twice I offered your father the chance to withdraw from the duel when he was at a disadvantage. But it did no good. In the end I thought the only thing to do was to wound him so badly that he would have to yield, but with his honour still intact. Today I might have managed things better, but at the time I was too young.’
‘So you were not present when Knut Eriksson killed my father at Forsvik?’ asked Ulvhilde after a long silence.
‘No,’ said Arn. ‘My brother Eskil was there, but his only task was to handle the terms of the transaction when we purchased Forsvik from your father. Once the purchase was made and sealed, Eskil rode home to Arnäs. Knut stayed behind for revenge.’
‘For what purpose did he seek revenge upon my father?’ asked Ulvhilde in surprise, as if she had never heard even a whisper about this matter before.
‘It was said that Emund was the one who had chopped off the head of Knut’s father, Saint Erik,’ replied Arn. ‘I do not know if that was true, but Knut was convinced of it. And so he killed Emund in the same manner as his own father had been killed.’
‘And yet Emund could no longer defend himself, since he had only one hand, and you were to blame for that!’ exclaimed Jon, as if to defend Ulvhilde.
‘What you say is true,’ replied Arn in a low voice. ‘But when it comes to blood revenge in our land, I have learned that one hand or two, it makes little difference.’
‘Killings are to be taken up at the ting and should not lead to more killings!’ replied Jon.
‘That may be what the law says,’ admitted Arn, ‘but when it comes to the killing of a king, no laws apply; then it’s the right of the strongest. And you are a Folkung, as I am, so surely you know that the killing of a Folkung is never a matter for the ting.’
‘That sort of justice is no justice at all!’ declared Jon.
No one had anything to say against him in this matter. But after Ulvhilde had sat in silence for a while, she got up and solemnly went over to Arn. She took his sword-hand and pressed it to her lips, kissing it three times. That was the sign of reconciliation, according to ancient custom.
The evening did not get any merrier after that; there was no jesting or loud laughter. But it still felt as if the air had been cleared between them, as when the sun is about to reappear after a thunderstorm on a hot day in late summer.
And with that, Arn’s first visit to Ulfshem did not end as badly as it had begun. And the enticement that he knew Sune and Sigfrid represented for all boy
s of their age also had its effect. After the visit Ulvhilde and Jon had no peace from their youngest son Emund, who tirelessly nagged them about going to his mother’s ancestral estate of Forsvik. That he didn’t intend to make a similar pilgrimage to his father’s land was as clear as water. He had been infected with the dream of becoming a knight. And in the end his parents promised that he would be allowed to go as soon as he turned thirteen.
Upon returning to Forsvik, Arn and Cecilia found that the estate had by no means suffered because the master and mistress had been gone for ten days. The newly purchased thrall named Gure had found many helping hands among the other thralls to repair their living quarters. And with the smiths, the fletchers, the potters, and the feltmakers the work was proceeding apace and without quarrel. Since it was nearly all foreigners engaged in these tasks, and all the crops had been harvested except for the turnips, there were many thralls available to work with Gure. He was a great asset to Forsvik, and the others were quick to obey his slightest command, as if he were their master and not their equal.
The Wachtian brothers had taken turns making lists of all the new goods that had come in, and they delivered these lists to Cecilia’s accounting chamber so that she simply had to enter the items in her ledger books. The brothers were also eager to take Arn and Cecilia to the millhouse to show them a new tool they had built.
Jacob was the one who always came up with the first designs and ideas. Then Marcus went to the smithy and shaped these ideas into iron and steel.
The question that had long preoccupied them was how the water power might be used for a saw. Since the power consisted of a water wheel that turned axles, it had proved unfeasible to transform the circular motion into the type of back-and-forth motion used when sawing by hand. So then they had asked themselves whether they ought to concentrate on the rotating motion, and in the end they had created a saw that was round. They finally found a way to make the saw blade spin evenly without warping and with a cutting edge that could withstand the heat from the rotation. But then new problems arose. It turned out to be impossible to press a log by hand against the saw blade, since the force was too great. For this reason, they had built a sled that moved along the floor and carried the logs toward the blade. But the floor was uneven; when they solved that problem other difficulties appeared.