by Jan Guillou
But it was a different matter when death came to a man as a slow, withering and stinking torment in slime and his own shit. For three long years Arn’s friend Knut had dragged himself through life, growing steadily skinnier until finally he looked like a skeleton. When Yussuf and Ibrahim looked at him they could only shake their heads and say that the tumour eating at the king’s body from inside his stomach would keep growing until it devoured his life.
Now Knut lay stretched out in his bed in his childhood home of Eriksberg, and his arms and legs were as thin as hazel twigs. Under the covers the tumour was visible as a bulge in the middle of his stomach, which in an odd way was reminiscent of a pregnant woman. He had lost all his hair, even his eyebrows and eyelashes, and in his mouth could be seen big black holes where his teeth had fallen out. The stench of him filled the entire room.
Arn had come alone to Eriksberg. Unlike all others who travelled to the king’s deathbed, he could sit there for hours without minding the stench or even noticing it.
The king was still quite lucid. The tumour was eating his body but not his mind. It wasn’t hard for Arn to understand that he was the person the king preferred to talk to during his last days, but it probably surprised many others waiting at Eriksberg. With Arn the king could talk about the Inscrutable One and the Vengeful One as well as he could with Archbishop Petrus; the difference was that Arn didn’t look both expectant and impatient at the same time. For the archbishop it was a divine blessing that Knut was finally going to die; his death was a premonition of the new order about which the archbishop had said so many sincere prayers. According to King Knut, Sverker Karlsson in Denmark had already begun packing up for the journey, so it was really not much use to lie here and resist.
For large parts of his life Knut had lived out at Näs in the middle of Lake Vättern, constantly surrounded by stone walls and guards so that he wouldn’t die the same way so many other kings had done, including the one he had killed himself. Now that death sat in the waiting room with his hourglass in which the sand would soon run out, there were almost no armed men offering protection. The estate at Eriksberg was like any other normal large estate, without any walls or even a stockade of sharpened stakes, and the church that Saint Erik once had begun to build provided little defence. Nor was it necessary, for who would come to kill a man who already had one foot in the grave?
‘It’s still not fair,’ said King Knut in a weak voice and for at least the seventh time as Arn sat by his bedside on the second day. ‘I could have lived another twenty years, and now I have to go to my ancestors having suffered an ignominious death. Why does God want to punish me so? Am I a greater wretch than all the others? Just think of Karl Sverkersson, whom that archbishop Petter claims is the reason for my suffering. But why him? He was the one who had my father Saint Erik murdered! Isn’t the murder of a saint the worst possible sin?’
‘Yes, indeed it is a grave sin,’ said Arn with an almost impudent smile. ‘But if you think about it a bit, then you’ll probably understand that you’re grumbling about the wrong thing. How long had Karl Sverkersson been king when we killed him? Six or seven years? I don’t recall, but he was young, and you’ve been king five times as long as he was. Your life could have been more miserable and much shorter. You have to accept that. You have to be reconciled with your death and thank God for the grace He has shown you.’
‘I should thank God? Now? Here I lie in my own shit, suffering worse than a dog? How can you, who are my only true friend…just look around you, there’s nobody else here. But where was I? Oh yes, how can you say that I should thank God?’
‘At this hour it would at least be wiser than to blaspheme,’ replied Arn dryly. ‘But if you really want an answer, I’ll give you one. You shall soon die, that is true. I am your friend, that is also true, and our friendship goes far back in time—’
‘But you!’ the king interrupted him, pointing with a finger so emaciated that it looked like a bird’s claw. ‘How can you sit here healthy and feeling fine? Isn’t your sin just as great as mine when it comes to the killing of my father’s murderer?’
‘That’s possible,’ said Arn. ‘When I travelled to the Holy Land I had two sins with me in my saddlebag, heavy sins for my young age. Without the blessing of marriage I had joined together in the flesh with my beloved, and before that I had lain with her sister Katarina. And I had participated in killing a king. But these sins were atoned for over twenty years wearing the white mantle. You may think it’s unfair, but that’s how it is.’
‘How gladly I would have changed places with you in that case!’ the king snarled.
‘It’s a little late to think of that now,’ said Arn, shaking his head with a smile. ‘But if you keep your mouth shut for a moment I’ll try to tell you what I think. The sin that Karl Sverkersson committed when he caused the death of your father, Saint Erik, was something he had to atone for immediately. Now we come to you. You killed and partially atoned for the sin, but not wholly. Yet you have maintained a longer peace in the realm than any king I have heard of, and that will be reckoned in your favour in Heaven. You have five sons and a daughter, a charming wife in Cecilia Blanca, more than that, for in her you won a true queen who has been a great honour to you. You strengthened the power of the Church in the kingdom, something I don’t think you are entirely happy with just now, but that too will be reckoned in your favour. If you look at all this together, you have not lived a bad life and have not been ill rewarded. However, a debt remains to be paid for your sins, and better now than in Purgatory. So don’t complain, but die like a man, dear friend!’
‘What is Purga…what you said?’ asked King Knut hopelessly.
‘Purgatory, the cleansing fire. There your sin will be burned away with white-hot irons, so it might be time to repent.’
‘Can a Templar knight give me absolution for my sins? You are a type of monk, aren’t you?’ asked the king with a sudden spark of hope in his eyes.
‘No,’ Arn said curtly. ‘When you confess for the last time and receive extreme unction from Archbishop Petrus, you will receive forgiveness for your sins. As glad as he will be about your death, it would surprise me if he didn’t show you all conceivable kindness at that moment.’
‘That Petter is nothing but a traitor; if I weren’t dying he would want to see me killed!’ snapped King Knut, coughing and drooling. ‘And if he’s in such a good mood at my deathbed he’ll refuse to give me absolution, and then I’ll lie here as powerless as a child and deceived as well. What won’t that cost me in Purgatory?’
‘Nothing,’ said Arn calmly. ‘Now think carefully about this: God is greater than everything else. He hears all and He sees all. He is with us now. Your state of mind is the important thing; if Archbishop Petrus fails you then he in turn will have to pay for it. But you must trust in God.’
‘I want to have a priest who will give me forgiveness for my sins. And I don’t trust that Petter,’ the king muttered.
‘Now you’re being as stubborn as a child, and that doesn’t become your dignity. If you believe that you can stay alive a few more days, then I’ll call Father Guillaume here from Varnhem. He can take care of the extreme unction, confession, and forgiveness of your sins. After all, you will be going to your eternal rest at Varnhem, and that will not happen without some silver coins with your father’s picture on them. If you wish, I will ride to fetch Father Guillaume, but then you must promise to stay alive for a few more days.’
‘I don’t dare promise,’ said the king.
‘Then we’re back to the only thing that can truly save your soul. You have to trust in God,’ said Arn. ‘This is your moment to turn to God the Father; you are a king on his deathbed, and He will listen to you. You don’t need to take a detour through the saints or His Mother. Trust in God, only in Him!’
King Knut lay silent for a while, pondering what Arn had said. To his astonishment he actually did find solace in his words. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands and tried to say a
silent prayer directly to God Himself. Naturally he realized that this was like a drowning man grasping at the last straw, but it didn’t hurt to try. At first he felt nothing inside but his own thoughts, but after a while it was as though a warm flood of hope and solace filled him, as if God replied by briefly touching him with His Spirit.
‘I’m complaining too much about my situation!’ he said, suddenly opening his eyes and turning toward Arn. ‘I hereby consign my soul to God, and with that enough about me. Now to my sons! Do you swear that you are among those who will make Erik jarl the next king after the Dane?’
‘Yes, I am among them,’ said Arn. ‘If Birger Brosa didn’t tell you all this already, I will tell you what has been decided. We have an agreement with the one you call the Dane, Sverker Karlsson. He has no son. After him comes Erik, your eldest son. After Erik come his brothers, first Jon, then Joar, and then Knut. This must any Sverker swear before taking the crown. It’s not God Who gives him the crown, but we free men in the lands of the Goths and Svealand. If he swears the oath then the rest of us will swear him loyalty as long as he stands by his oath. That is how it will be.’
‘And is this a good solution or a bad one?’ asked the king through clenched teeth, overcome by intense pain. ‘I’m going to die, and you’re the only one who will speak honestly to me. Tell me the truth, dear Arn.’
‘If everyone stands by his oath all will be well,’ Arn replied. ‘Then Erik jarl will become king at about the same time he would have been crowned if you had lived as long a life as my father or Birger Brosa. The cost to us will be the humiliation of having to live under the red mantles for a time. What we gain is that we save the realm from a devastating war that we could win only with great difficulty, at a high price in dead warriors and burned buildings. And so this is a good solution.’
‘Will you be part of the royal council?’
‘No, Birger Brosa has sworn that I will never be allowed to be part of the council.’
‘But I thought you two had been reconciled.’
‘That we have. But I’m not suited to be a member of the Danes’ royal council.’
‘Why not? I myself missed your services in the council. No king in our land could have a better marshal than you.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Arn with a secretive smile. ‘Birger Brosa and I are indeed completely in agreement, and we have spoken more than once about the matter. If I sat in King Sverker’s council as his marshal, and also bound by my oath of fealty to him, I might do him more harm than good. Now Birger Brosa and I are pretending that our discord continues, and I am being kept at Forsvik. There I will continue to build the power which shall be that of the Eriks and Folkungs.’
King Knut thought carefully about what he had just heard, and found that it was precisely as wily as could be expected from Birger Brosa. Once more he felt a warm stream inside him, as if God were reminding him with a slight touch.
‘Will you swear to me and to Erik that you are his marshal and no one else’s?’ he asked after long contemplation.
‘Yes, but we have to be cautious with our words,’ said Arn. ‘Remember that I must first swear the oath of allegiance to the Dane as all the others do. But that oath applies only as long as he keeps his word. If he breaks it, there will be war. In such a war I will be Erik Knutsson’s marshal, that I swear, and I can swear that to both of you!’
As Arn said this he knew that he had promised nothing more than what was obvious. But since the dying Knut seemed to believe that there was great importance in such an oath, he had his son Erik summoned to the room. The king took both their hands, pressed them to his dying heart, and extracted from them a mutual vow of loyalty. Erik jarl had a hard time tolerating the stench from his father, and his eyes filled with tears from both sorrow and disgust as he swore the oath to Arn. For the first time Arn saw something he didn’t like in Erik jarl – his inability to keep a dignified demeanour at his father’s deathbed. But he swore obediently on his life, his sword, and his wisdom to do his utmost to save the kingdom’s crown for Erik jarl the moment that Sverker Karlsson did not honour his word to the ting of all Swedes and Goths and the royal council.
King Knut Eriksson, son of Saint Erik who would be the patron saint of the new kingdom for all eternity, died quietly at his ancestral estate of Eriksberg in the year of Grace 1196. He was buried at Varnhem cloister as the first of all Eriks. No great retinue followed him to his last repose, since he was a king who had lost power several years before his death. But he was given a distinguished resting place, next to the founder of the cloister and donor, Fru Sigrid, the mother of Arn and Eskil.
Many prayers of intercession were said at Varnhem for the peace of King Knut’s soul, since the royal gifts to the cloister had been considerable, and it was promised that in times to come this church would be the burial site of the Eriks as well as the Folkungs. Birger Brosa had declared that here the connection between the three crowns and the lion would last forever.
So in time the friends Knut Eriksson and Arn Magnusson would rest close to each other.
There were two harbours in Forsvik, one for the larger ships on Lake Vättern to the east and one for riverboats on the other side on the shore of Lake Viken. At both places there were now so many people in constant motion that it took about a day to find and catch the stowaways. Young stowaways in particular, boys with a knapsack on their back who had run away from home with big dreams, often heading for Forsvik. Rumours about all the wonders for youths seeking to become men had spread from farm to farm throughout the land. Many felt called, but few were chosen.
As a rule the younger ragamuffins were caught and put on a boat back in the direction they had come. Gure the foreman even used to toss the helmsman a silver coin for his trouble.
Sigge and Orm were twelve and thirteen years old when they arrived in this way at Forsvik just in time for King Knut’s burial at Varnhem. Like everyone, they had known that the king was going to die for about a year, but they had no idea that he had now passed away. As a result of the funeral at Varnhem, however, neither master nor mistress was at Forsvik.
Whatever Sigge and Orm had imagined about reaching the Forsvik of their dreams and seeking out Sir Arn himself, all their hopes were dashed at once by everything they saw. Perhaps they had expected a great house with carved dragonheads sticking out from both ends of the ridgepole, with Arn the knight riding in the barnyard with his flashing sword surrounded by young men and boys trying to act as he did. What they found was a village with four streets, a throng of people all hurrying back and forth, and a buzz of foreign tongues.
To their relief they discovered that there were many youths of their own age wearing clothing like themselves of grey homespun. But everywhere they also saw young men, some almost as young as they were, wearing full weaponry with chain mail and blue surcoats as if it were the most natural thing in the world. On their way down the longest street they stopped first at a big open building without walls but with a roof overhead. There at least two dozen young boys were practicing with sword and shield while older boys corrected them, demonstrated the correct methods, and then forced them to repeat the exercises time after time.
Farther down, near the end of the street, there was an open field with a fence around it, and from there came the loud thundering of horses’ hooves. Soon Sigge and Orm were perched on the fence rails, watching as if in a dream how young men moved at lightning speed back and forth across the field to commands shouted by older men. And all those on horseback wore armour as if they were going to a noble’s feast or to war. So it was true that one could learn to be a knight at Forsvik.
They sat too long at their outpost, like all the young stowaways. After what could have been hours or no time at all as far as Sigge and Orm were concerned, the riders out on the field broke off their practice, lined up in a long row, and strode off to the largest street in the village. Then the two boys were discovered and grabbed by the scruff of the neck by a young man who dismounted from his ho
rse. Showing no kindness, he began pulling them along toward the harbour.
Then Sigge grew angry and said without the slightest shame that he and his brother had no intention of leaving on any boat, because they had both received Sir Arn’s own word that they could come to Forsvik.
At first their captor laughed at these preposterous words, but Sigge refused to back down. Planting his heels stubbornly in the dirt, he snarled that both he and his brother could swear before God and all the saints that they had been given a promise by Sir Arn himself that they could come here. Their guard then grew more wary, since he was used to captured stowaways acting submissive and whining rather than impudent. He got up on his horse, told Sigge and Orm not to move from the spot, and galloped over to the head of the riders. There he stopped before a man who bore the Folkung mantle and was one of those who had barked the commands out on the field.
At once the Folkung came riding toward the boys at a gallop with the young man who had caught them close behind. He leaped to the ground, handing his reins to the other rider, and went over to grab Sigge and Orm by the scruff of the neck. They were once again caught in a hard grip, this time in hands that were wearing iron gloves.
‘Forsvik is for Folkungs and not for runaway thrall boys!’ he said sternly. ‘What are your names and where do you come from?’
‘My name is Sigge, Gudmund’s son from Askeberga inn, and this is my brother Orm,’ said Sigge crossly but flinching under the stony grip. ‘What’s your name?’
In astonishment the Folkung loosened his grip. He too was unprepared for such candid insolence.