by Jan Guillou
It was quiet for a long while in the tent as all pondered the law. Judge Karle sat down and again reached for his ale, and soon everyone's gaze was directed toward Birger Brosa, who sat with his head bowed in sadness. He noticed this and understood that now he would have to be the one to speak the evil that most of the men in the tent might already be thinking, for his brother Magnus was white in the face, as if paralyzed.
"To meet Emund Ulvbane in single combat is for many a good man, also better men than those of us who sit here, the same as certain death," he began with a deep sigh. "It is also what King Karl and his advisers have slyly plotted, and that was why Emund was granted land bordering Arnas, for this very case. My brother Magnus now has to choose between meeting Emund with a sword or becoming a man without honor, and that is a choice I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. But that is how the matter stands, and I have no good advice to give."
Magnus said nothing, nor did he look as if he wanted to say anything just now. Instead Joar Jedvardsson began to speak.
"With such offense has King Karl rewarded our striving to keep war at bay," he began heavily. "But the war will come sooner or later, as Karl Sverkersson now has shown, and all of us who sit here understand as much. The reason that my brother's son, the aspirant king Knut Eriksson, chose not to come to this landsting was that then the peace of the ting would be difficult to maintain. But Knut is the one who with falseness and murder on orders from Karl Sverkersson was robbed of his father and his crown, and soon the time will be ripe, as we all know, for us to demand honor again. So I ask you all, my kinsmen, of what use would it be now for Magnus to offer his life? Many a man would follow Magnus Folkesson into battle behind the emblem of the Folkungs, but forgive me if I now speak as frankly as the case demands. It is less certain that as many would follow Eskil Magnusson. If Magnus has to die for our case, if God so wills, then he would die better on the battlefield in the war that must come. Now all of us in the Erik
clan and the Folkung clan should at the same time break camp and march away from here. Then we will all have shown together where we stand. That is my opinion."
"That was wisely spoken, my dear kinsman," said Birger Brosa, but at the same time he squirmed with obvious discomfort, which to those who knew him showed that he probably meant the opposite of what he'd said. "However, the situation is clear. If Magnus does not come to the single combat he is an outcast, a man without honor who is not even competent to bear witness. Such a man cannot lead the Folkungs; it has never happened before and must not happen now. That much we know, but Karl Sverkersson knows it too, just as do his sly advisers who have put us in this predicament. Magnus can choose between only two things. This is difficult for a brother to say, but I must speak the truth. Either he marches off with his life intact but as a man without honor. Or else he goes to a single combat in which only a miracle of the saints can save his life. The latter choice is the better one. For no combat is decided in advance. But he who flees in cowardice has decided everything for the rest of his days. So it is."
Judge Karle stood up heavily and explained that he had nothing to add to this matter since there was no ambiguity as to the content of the law. And the difficult decision that the three clan leaders now had to make would be no easier because there were more men present. He was shaking his head sorrowfully as he left the tent.
It was quiet after his departure. They all now turned to hear what Magnus himself would say, for the biggest decision, if not the only one, was his. It was not merely a matter of his life but also the honor of the Folkungs.
"I have made my decision," he said when he could sit still no longer facing the intolerable anticipation of what he would say. "Tomorrow at dawn at the place we here at the ting call Three
Roads Meet, I shall go against Emund fully armed as the law prescribes. May God be with me and may you all pray for me. But there is no other way, for none in our clan would choose the way of dishonor, and it is also true that none would follow a dishonored man."
Eskil and Arn had been sitting at the back of the tent together, and none of the older men had paid any attention to the two half-men. Now that their father had spoken and in everyone's view had condemned himself to death, Eskil took a deep breath, looking as though he might burst into tears, but he composed himself at once. An excruciating silence followed when no one contradicted Magnus, which was the same as agreeing and thereby deciding to end his life. Then Arn mustered the courage that came of despair to say what was needed.
"Forgive us if we, the sons of Magnus, also join in this matter," he began uncertainly. "But this affects us as much as everyone else . . . in my opinion at least. Isn't it true that we were also insulted along with our father Magnus when that Emund called us bitch puppies or whatever it was he said?"
"Yes, that's true," replied Birger Brosa. "You and Eskil were just as insulted as your father Magnus. But it is his obligation to defend the honor of all of you."
"But according to the law don't we have the same right as our father to defend our honor? " asked Arn with the simple innocence of a child, so that some of the older men had a hard time keeping from laughing despite the gravity of the occasion.
"It would not be to Magnus's credit if instead of standing up for his honor like a man, he sent one of his half-grown sons to the slaughter," muttered Birger Brosa morosely and stood up at once to go outside and piss, leaving the others wordless and empty of all feeling.
But after briefly hesitating Arn slunk out to follow Birger Brosa. He had to do some searching before he found him, since
the winter darkness had fallen rapidly while they sat inside. He walked resolutely over to his uncle, who was just pulling up his hose, and spoke to him without hesitation and with great conviction.
"I have to tell you something true and important, my dear uncle. And you must believe me, for now in this grave hour there is really no time for untrue words. The truth is that of the three of us who were insulted, I am the one who can best handle a sword. It's also true that I think I could easily vanquish that Emund, or you yourself, or any of our retainers. That's why you must arrange it so that I am the one who goes to combat and not my poor father."
Birger Brosa was so taken aback by these words that he stood there holding up his hose as if he were still about to piss. The little he knew about Arn was what everyone joked about who'd had anything to do with a monastery, which even Emund Ulvbane must have heard since he had called Arn a nun. Yet now this God-fearing and very serious young man stood here telling him something that could not possibly be true, but his face bore no trace of prevarication or madness. Birger Brosa didn't know what to think. His doubt must have been obvious, for Arn made an impatient motion with his hands before an idea seemed to occur to him.
"My dear uncle, you are a much larger man than I, almost the same as that Emund," Arn said eagerly, clearly filled with his idea. "Take my hand and stand foot to foot with me," he continued, reaching out his hand to Birger Brosa, who took it out of sheer astonishment and then was shocked by the strength of his grip. Arn adjusted their feet so that they stood at an angle to each other as in an ordinary arm-wrestling match.
"So!" said Arn, suddenly cheerful. "Now try to knock me over with your strength that is greater than mine!"
Birger Brosa made a halfhearted attempt that had no effect other than to make Arn laugh at him. Then he took a better grip, and the next moment he found himself pulled down into the mud and slush. Birger Brosa got up in surprise and grabbed Arn's strong hand again; once more he was dragged to the ground as if the boy could play with him at will. After the third attempt Arn didn't want to continue, but held up his palms for his uncle to stop.
"Hear me now, my uncle," he said. "I can handle Emund or anyone else the same way, and now I will tell you why. During all my years at the monastery, I had practice every day, more than any man you know, in weapons games from a man who once was a Templar knight in the Holy Land. I swear on Our Lady and Saint Bernard, who are my two patron saint
s, that I am the one who best of all of us can defend myself with a sword. And you must know that such a man as I would not lie to anyone, especially to my kinsmen and least of all at such a grave moment."
Birger Brosa now seemed to see Arn's conviction and truthfulness flowing like light between them. All at once he was convinced that what Arn said was actually true. And when he pondered more closely what it might mean, his face lit up and he looked at Arn with an almost happy expression as he embraced him. As the wise man Birger Brosa was in everything that had to do with the struggle for power, he now realized that the blackest hour for the Folkungs could soon be turned to white, regardless of whether Arn or Emund Ulvbane won the combat at the next day's dawning. Either Arn would win, or he would lose with greater honor than what Magnus could have mustered. But then Emund's victory would be reckoned worthless.
Yet his decision aroused both doubt and discontent when Birger Brosa again entered the tent with the already grieving kinsmen and explained that Arn was the man who should fight Emund Ulvbane. This choice should be justified by proclaiming that Arn was the one who had been most wronged, in that Emund had not merely called him a bitch puppy but also directed scorn at the house of God where Arn had been raised.
Magnus objected with the greatest anguish. For at the same time he saw his life now saved, the life from which he had already begun to take his leave, he also saw that he would lose a son. And he worried that to many it would look bad if a man did not dare take up his own obligation but instead sent a less than full-grown son to the slaughter. He had a hard time taking seriously Arn's modest protestations that it was still wisest to send into single combat the one who could best handle a sword.
Puzzled, Joar Jedvardsson now left the Folkungs to themselves for the night, along with the four retainers. They all looked quite bewildered when with downcast eyes they said farewell and God bless to young Arn, who still had down on his cheeks.
When the Folkungs were left alone, Magnus suggested that they pray for as long as they could that night. Arn found this to be a good idea, but he perplexed them all when he began to pray for Emund Ulvbane's life, his sin, and his pride.
At dawn on the morning that everyone in Western Gotaland would remember in times to come and about which many sagas would be told, almost as many men gathered as were at the ting. They gathered at the place that was called Three Roads Meet. It was three arrow-shots from the ting site, and that marked the boundary for the peace of the ting. Few had gone home the night before, even though business had been concluded, because few men wanted to miss seeing with their own eyes the fight that could be the cause of war.
No one among the Folkungs and none from the Erik clan had left for home, for together they had to show the king's men that he who killed a kinsman directed a blow against them all. Also, it was even more important to stand by the man whose life would be ended for the sake of honor. A man must stand by his kinsmen from birth until death, and now was the hour of death.
From the west the Folkungs and the Erik clan approached, all of them silent and solemn. From the east came the king's men and kinsmen with cheerful laughter and scornful talk, since they knew that victory was theirs, no matter how things turned out. If Magnus Folkesson chose to save his life by not coming, the king's men would be victorious because the Folkungs would be disgraced. And if Magnus Folkesson met Emund Ulvbane in battle, victory was equally assured but would be more entertaining to watch.
Foremost among the Folkungs came Birger Brosa, Magnus Folkesson, and his two sons, all wrapped in their thick blue mantles lined with marten fur, all wearing helmets and carrying the lion shield of the Folkungs on their left arm. Now the four took up position in front of their silent kinsmen and waited. Emund and his retinue deliberately arrived late.
The weather was cold, and the sun about to rise, coloring the sky red as blood behind the king's men. It would be a good day to die, everyone thought, as with an impatient murmur they flocked around and waited for the sun's first rays to break forth. That was the hour when the battle would be joined.
And when the sun's glowing rim was first seen, an inciting war cry rose from the king's side, and Emund Ulvbane threw off his mantle, drew his heavy sword, and walked with long, mighty strides out to the middle of the battlefield.
But what happened next no one could have imagined. The smaller of Magnus Folkesson's sons, the one they called the monk boy or the nun, now cast off his mantle, took off his helmet and his scabbard, drew his long, fragile sword and kissed it as he uttered an oath that no one could hear. Then he crossed himself and walked slowly but without hesitation toward Emund.
At first there was a great silence among the thousand men gathered, then a growing murmur of displeasure. Now all could see that the monk boy was not even wearing chain mail, so that the slightest blow could smite him dead to the ground. His helmet he had also left behind.
For Emund Ulvbane this was a raw affront since now they were trying to force him to quit the fight or without much honor slay a defenseless monk boy. That was what everyone must have thought. All the Folkungs realized it as well, and they were just as surprised as the king's men to see young Arn walk into single combat to the death instead of his father. It was a foolish and risky undertaking, for no one thought that Emund Ulvbane was a man to show mercy or walk away from a fight when victory was certain. But there was courage in that boy who was risking his own life to save his father's and the honor of his clan, and so thought the king's men as well.
But Emund Ulvbane would not let himself be trapped. Instead he decided to put a quick and humiliating end to the battle which this insult from the Folkungs deserved, and he now ran with great determination toward Arn with his sword raised, ready to sever the boy's head at once.
But Emund Ulvbane promptly found himself on the ground; he must have struck too eagerly at his opponent's head and thus badly missed his target. Yet the boy did not have the wit to exploit the God-given opportunity. He stood quite still, waiting for the raging royal giant to get up and attack again.
Three times Emund now struck at his opponent, who effortlessly and always moving in a circle avoided his sword without even parrying it with his own. Those who were standing far off and could not see clearly thought at first that Emund was toying cruelly with him, as a cat does with a mouse. But those who stood close saw clearly that that was not at all what happened.
From the Folkungs and the Erik clan now rose scattered laughter, and soon the battlefield thundered with laughter which washed like scorn over Emund Ulvbane, who despite all his furious efforts could only slice big holes in the air.
Arn already felt confident, for even though his opponent was big and rough, he wasn't as big as Brother Guilbert and not a tenth as skilled with a sword. The most important thing now was to spare Emund's life, not to be affected by pride, and soon, when Emund's panting got heavier and closer, to go on the attack. Arn was pleased that despite all good advice and the attempts to talk him out of it he had stood by his decision not to wear chain mail or a helmet. If he were going to win without killing he had to be able to move quickly, and he had to have good vision at every instant, for the slightest mistake would mean his death.
When Arn suddenly began to defend himself, Emund had already grown so sluggish in his movements that everyone could see it. And Arn made him even wearier by beginning to meet his opponent's blows with his sword or his shield, although always at an angle so that he deflected Emund's blows to the ground. Time after time sparks flew from Emund's heavy sword as he struck stone. Arn pretended to parry these blows straight on, but each time turned his wrist so that Emund's blows slipped past, and he didn't need to test this method long before Emund once again fell to the ground from his own weight and strength. Then Arn rushed up and pointed the tip of his sword at Emund's throat and spoke to him for the first time. Emund was on his knees, panting mightily, and it looked as though it was his final moment.
The two combatants were out in the middle of the battlefield, t
oo far from all the shouting men for anyone to hear what was said between them. But one thing could be surmised, that the man who some called monk boy had offered Emund a chance to save his own skin if he surrendered, handing over his sword. Instead Emund suddenly threw himself back, away from the threatening tip of the sword, and stood up. So the battle was on again.
But now even the king's men realized what was happening and what they at first could neither see nor understand. The Folkung that Emund had insulted as a bitch puppy and nun was utterly superior to him, and it was no miracle or sorcery or accident, for they watched for too long for their eyes to have been deceived. Experienced warriors who stood close to other skilled warrior combatants began to describe what they were seeing, as they tried to understand and follow along in their minds what Arn was doing with his sword. They were already agreed that Arn's skill was great and that Emund had met his match. From the Folkung side the taunts began to grow louder, hurled toward the defeated man, and from the king's side scattered shouts were heard for Emund to surrender and hand over his shield. All had seen that his life had been spared several times over.
But Emund Ulvbane valued his honor higher than yielding to some puppy, and he had been in battle so many times that he was well aware that even hopeless defeats could suddenly turn without any miracle involved. But as he continued to fight he grew more cautious and began to move so as to save his strength.
At first Arn was somewhat confused by this and realized that now he could not win by causing Emund to surrender. That would have been the sensible thing to do when Emund noticed that his blows never hit home, and he should have begun to realize that Arn could strike him whenever he pleased. Arn felt that he had to think very clearly and not be affected by pride, no matter how defenseless Emund seemed. With great resolve he laid his shield on the ground to tempt Emund into new wild attacks that would sap him of all his strength.