by Jan Guillou
Everything had gone as well as Cecilia Rosa had hoped, but also feared. Her dear friend would become queen, that was as clear as water. And for that reason she felt great joy. But now she would be alone, without her dear friend for many hard years to come. And for that reason she felt sorrow. She couldn’t tell which feeling was stronger.
Inside the walls of the cloister the rest of the day passed like any other day, even though it could not be the same. It was a novelty for all the maidens and lay-sisters at Gudhem that the king would come here on his tour of the country and take his rest near the cloister. Mother Rikissa had found it best not to say anything about what she had known for several weeks. She hadn’t even mentioned it to Cecilia Blanca, even though she’d been given a royal greeting to deliver, but it would have made Cecilia Blanca impossible to control and also would have unsettled all the other girls.
The king had made a detour from the anticipated route. After passing Jönköping he and his retinue had headed for Eriksberg, which was the king’s birthplace. It was also the place where his father, who was now more often called Holy Saint Erik, had been born and where the Erik clan had built their church with the most beautiful frescoes in Western Götaland. The king now entered the most pleasant part of the journey for him, the heartland of the Erik clan.
Many travelers came and went, and there was a constant clatter of horses’ hooves. In the vestiarium not much orderly work was done by Gudhem’s maidens, since they were fantasizing about what the smells and sounds from outside might tell them regarding about was happening. But amid the eager chatter, a distance arose between Cecilia Rosa and the others. Now she was the only one inside Gudhem with a piece of blue yarn around her right arm, alone among the Sverker daughters. It was as if some of the old hostility had come creeping back, mixed with fear or caution since she, even though alone, was the dearest friend of the future queen.
After vespers Mother Rikissa was to attend the banquet outside the walls, so she refrained from following all the others to the refectorium for a supper of lentil soup and rye bread. But the prioress had scarcely managed to say grace over the meal in the refectorium before Mother Rikissa returned and spread anxiety all around her. She was livid with barely contained anger. Pressing her lips tight, she ordered Cecilia Rosa to come with her at once. It seemed as though Cecilia Rosa might now be taken for punishment, in the worst case to the carcer.
She got up at once and followed Mother Rikissa with her head bowed, for rather than fear a bright hope had ignited inside her. And just as she hoped, she was not being led to the carcer but to the gate and then to the hospitium. There merry voices were heard from the banquet in progress. In the tents outside the smithy and stables, many men were drinking ale.
The hospitium, however, was large enough to hold only the most highly honored guests. At the oak table inside the hall sat the king himself and his jarl Birger Brosa, the archbishop and Bishop Bengt from Skara, four other men whom Cecilia Rosa did not recognize, and far down at the short end of the table sat Cecilia Blanca wearing her blue mantle with the three crowns and ermine trim.
When they entered the room Mother Rikissa roughly shoved Cecilia Rosa before her, seizing her by the scruff of the neck to make her curtsey to the dignitaries, as if she wouldn’t have thought to do so herself. Knut Eriksson frowned and gave Mother Rikissa a stern look that she pretended not to notice. Then he raised his right hand so that all talking and whispering ceased in the room at once.
“We welcome you to our banquet here at Gudhem, Cecilia Algotsdotter,” he said with a kind glance at Cecilia Rosa. Then he continued, with a less kind look at Mother Rikissa.
“We welcome you most gladly since your presence here is the wish of our betrothed. Just as we may invite Mother Rikissa if we so choose, our betrothed may invite you.”
With that he gestured toward the place where Cecilia Blanca was sitting, where there was still some room. Mother Rikissa then led Cecilia Rosa with a firm grip to the far end of the table. When she sat down Mother Rikissa angrily tore from her arm the blue piece of yarn, turned away, and went to her place at the other end of the table.
Mother Rikissa’s contemptuous handling of the blue color did not escape the attention of anyone in the hall, so at first there was an embarrassed silence. The two Cecilias held each other’s hand under the table. Everyone could see that the king was incensed by the unwise action of the mother superior.
“If you, Mother Rikissa, feel an aversion to blue yarn, then perhaps you would not feel comfortable sitting here with us this evening,” he said, his tone suspiciously gentle as he pointed to the door leading out.
“We have rules at Gudhem that not even kings can alter, and at Gudhem no maiden may wear clan colors,” replied Mother Rikissa brusquely and without fear. But then jarl Birger Brosa slammed his fist on the table so hard that the ale tankards jumped, and there was a silence like that between a lightning strike and the thunder. Everyone cringed involuntarily when he stood up and pointed at Mother Rikissa.
“Then you should know, Rikissa,” he began in a much quieter voice than anyone in the room expected, “that we Folkungs also have our rules. Cecilia Algotsdotter is a dear friend, and she is betrothed to an even dearer friend of both myself and the king. It is true that she was sentenced to harsh punishment for a sin that many of us have escaped with no punishment at all, but you shall know that in my eyes she is one of us!”
He had raised his voice toward the end of his speech and now he strode with slow, decisive steps down the table and stood directly behind the two Cecilias, giving Mother Rikissa a hard stare as he swept off his mantle and carefully, almost tenderly, draped it around Cecilia Rosa’s shoulders. He gave the king a glance, and the king nodded his approval in return. Then Birger Brosa returned to his place, hoisted his ale tankard and drank several mighty drafts, before he held out the tankard toward the two Cecilias, and then sat down with a loud grumble.
For a long while the conversation flagged. Roast-turners brought in both venison and pork, along with ale and sweet vegetables and white bread, but the guests touched only enough food as was considered polite.
The two Cecilias had no opportunity to talk, although they were bursting with impatience to discuss events. That which was called women’s prattle would not have been appropriate at the table when the mood was so solemn. They bowed their heads demurely, picking cautiously at the food which after such a long time on a cloister diet, they otherwise would have gobbled right up.
For Archbishop Stéphan, the roast-turners had brought in special food, including lamb cooked in cabbage, and unlike all the others at the table he drank wine instead of ale. He had not allowed the dispute between Mother Rikissa and the king’s jarl to interrupt his earthly enjoyments. Now he held up his wine glass and scrutinized the color of the wine before once again putting it to his lips and rolling his eyes.
“It’s like being home in Burgundy again,” he sighed as he set down his glass. “Mon Dieu! This wine certainly suffered no harm from its long journey. But speaking of journeys…how are the affairs in Lübeck going, Your Majesty?”
Just as Archbishop Stéphan had intended, Knut Eriksson brightened at this question and at once launched into an animated response.
At that very moment Eskil Magnusson, who was Arn’s brother and the nephew of Birger Brosa, was in Lübeck to draw up a trading contract, signed and sealed, with no less than Henrik the Lion of Saxony. As large a portion of the trade from the Gothic lands as could be imagined would now be rerouted to the Eastern Sea and pass between Eastern Götaland and Lübeck. If their own lighters were not sufficient, the Lübeckers would generously make their vessels available. The great new wares that the Lübeckers wanted included dried fish from Norway, which Eskil Magnusson had begun to buy in copious quantities, shipping it from the Norwegian Sea up into Lake Vänern and on via river and lake to Lake Vättern, then out from ports in Eastern Götaland. Iron from Svealand, pelts and salt herring, salmon and butter would soon be shipped t
he same way, and the goods that the Lübeckers had to offer in return were just as favorable, but best was all the silver that changed hands.
Soon all the men, worldly as well as clerical, were involved in a lively, cheerful conversation about what the new trade route with Lübeck might entail. Their hopes were high, and they were all agreed that trade belonged to new and better times. They also seemed convinced that the wealth that would come from greater trade would also lead to increased concord and peace.
The discussion grew louder, and more ale was brought in with ever-growing haste so that the feast at long last got under way.
The two Cecilias could now begin to talk to each other, since nobody could hear what they were saying at the far end of the table. Cecilia Blanca first reported how long ago Knut Eriksson had sent a message that he would be coming to Gudhem on this day, and that he would be bringing with him a queen’s mantle. So Mother Rikissa had known about it for quite a while, but malicious as she was she had decided to say nothing. That woman’s only true joy was not to love God but to torment her neighbor.
Cecilia Rosa quietly replied, saying that happiness must seem all the greater now that it was here. For it would have been so hard to go on counting the days for over a month in constant worry that something might have changed.
They had no chance to say more because the men’s dreams of all the gold and silver to be made from trading with Lübeck began dominating the room, and Bishop Bengt was careful to turn the conversation to himself. He told them what fear he had felt for his life, but how he had prayed that God might make him brave, and then he resolutely dared to intervene and rescue the two Cecilias from being abducted, and from a convent at that—the worst sort of abduction. His story droned on, nor did he omit a single insignificant detail.
Since the Cecilias couldn’t very well interrupt when a bishop was speaking, especially when he was talking about them—although mostly about himself—they chastely bowed their heads and continued to communicate in sign language under the table.
True that he chased away the boors, but where was the courage in that? Cecilia Rosa signed.
His courage would have been greater if the Sverkers had won on the fields of blood, Cecilia Blanca replied. Neither of them could hold back a giggle.
But King Knut, who was a sharp-eyed man and not yet very drunk, saw this female merriment from the corner of his eye. He turned suddenly to the Cecilias and asked in a loud voice whether this incident did not occur exactly the way Bishop Bengt had related it.
“Yes, absolutely true, it happened just as the bishop tells it,” replied Cecilia Blanca without the slightest hesitation. “Foreign warriors came and demanded with words so coarse that I can’t repeat them here that Cecilia Algotsdotter and I be delivered from the walls of Gudhem at once. Then Bishop Bengt stepped up and admonished them in stern terms and they retreated without doing harm.”
During a brief silence the king and the other men pondered these angelic words from the king’s own betrothed, and the king then promised that this matter would not go unrewarded. Bishop Bengt was quick to point out that he sought no reward for acting in accordance with his conscience and as his duty to the Lord commanded, but if something good might fall to the church then joy would arise among God’s servants, just as in Heaven. Soon the conversation took another turn.
Cecilia Rosa now asked in sign language why the lying bishop was let off the hook so easily. Cecilia Blanca answered that it would have been unwise for a future queen to disgrace one of the kingdom’s bishops before other men. But that did not mean that anything was forgotten, and the king would soon be told the truth, although at a more suitable time. By now they were signing even more excitedly above the table, and they suddenly realized that Mother Rikissa was staring at them with an expression that was anything but loving.
Birger Brosa had also seen something, although he was not one to talk much at a feast; he preferred to watch and listen. He was sitting in his usual way, leaning back slightly with that amused smile that had given him the nickname Brosa—meaning Cheerful—and with his ale tankard lazily propped on one knee. Now he quickly leaned forward and slammed down the tankard with a bang, so that the conversation stopped and all eyes turned to him. They knew that when the jarl did this he had something to say, and when the jarl had something to say everyone listened, even the king.
“It seems fitting to me,” he began with a thoughtful look on his face, “that we might talk a bit about what we could do for Gudhem, now that we are finally gathered here and have heard about Bishop Bengt’s heroic action. Does Rikissa have any suggestion, perhaps?”
All eyes turned to Mother Rikissa, for the jarl was not one to ask a rhetorical question. Mother Rikissa thought carefully before replying.
“Land is always being donated to cloisters,” she said. “Gudhem too has acquired more property as the years go by. But right now what we need at Gudhem are squirrel furs and good wintertime white fox and marten pelts.”
She looked a bit sly when she fell silent, as if she understood quite well what astonishment her answer would arouse.
“Squirrel and marten pelts? It sounds as though you and your sisters have been struck by worldly temptations, but surely things can’t possibly be as bad as that, can they, Rikissa?” asked Birger Brosa in a kindly tone and with a bigger smile than usual.
“Not at all,” Mother Rikissa snorted. “But just as you gentlemen deal in trade, a subject which you have all been boasting of so freely, the servants of the Lord must do so as well. Look at all these soiled and torn mantles that your men are wearing. Here at Gudhem we have begun to make new mantles, better and more beautiful than the ones you had before. And for these mantles we are counting on receiving an honest price. Since we are women, you can’t demand that we cut millstones like the monks at Varnhem.”
Her reply provoked both surprise and amusement. So involved in business matters as all the men had just been feeling, and as men always felt, they could do no less than nod in agreement and attempt to look wise.
“And what sort of colors are possible for these mantles that you and your sisters are sewing?” asked Birger Brosa in a kindly tone that scarcely concealed the cunning of his thoughts.
“My good jarl!” replied Mother Rikissa, feigning equal surprise at the question that Birger Brosa had just posed so innocently. “The mantles that we sew are of course red with a black griffin head…as well as blue with three crowns, or blue with the lion that you yourself, although not at this moment, usually wear on your back…”
After a brief hesitation Birger Brosa began to laugh, and Knut Eriksson joined in, so that in no time all the men around the table were laughing.
“Mother Rikissa! You have a sharp tongue, but we also find you have an amusing way with words,” said Knut Eriksson, taking a swig of ale and wiping his mouth before he went on. “The pelts you asked for shall soon be at Gudhem, we give you our word on that. Was there anything else, while we’re still in a good mood and willing to make new business deals?”
“Yes, perhaps so, my king,” replied Mother Rikissa hesitantly. “If those Lübeckers have gold and silver thread, we could make the coats of arms much lovelier. Surely both Cecilia Ulvsdotter and Cecilia Algotsdotter can attest to that, since they have both been very industrious in this new venture at Gudhem.”
All eyes now turned to the two Cecilias, who modestly had to agree with what Mother Rikissa had said. With such fine foreign thread they could embroider beautiful coats of arms on the back of the mantles.
So the king immediately promised to see to it that not only the desired furs but also Lübeck thread would arrive at Gudhem as soon as possible. He added that it was not only a better deal than bestowing land, it could also mean a more beautiful assembly at the coronation ceremony if the guests were well appointed by the women of Gudhem.
Mother Rikissa got up at once and excused herself, saying that duty called, and she thanked the king most gratefully for both the meal and the promises. The
king and the jarl both nodded good night, and she was free to go. But she remained standing there, giving Cecilia Rosa a stern look, as if she were waiting for her.
When Knut Eriksson noticed Mother Rikissa’s silent demand, he looked at his betrothed and she shook her head. He made up his mind.
“We wish you good night, Rikissa,” he said. “And as far as Cecilia Algotsdotter is concerned, we would like her to spend the night with our betrothed so that no one can say that Knut spent the night under the same roof and in the same bed as his intended.”
Mother Rikissa stood utterly still, as if she could not believe her ears. She had a hard time deciding whether she should agree and simply leave, or whether she should argue the point.
“For we all know,” interposed Birger Brosa quietly, “what misery it could mean for the Cecilias if the betrothed are not kept scrupulously apart until the bridal ale. And no matter how much it might please you, Rikissa, to be allowed to hold both the Cecilias in the nurture and admonition of the Lord for twenty years, our king would probably be less glad of it.”
Birger Brosa smiled as always, but there was poison in his words. Mother Rikissa was a contentious woman and now her eyes were flashing fire. The king intervened quickly before more damage wrought by harsh words could be done.
“We believe that you can sleep peacefully with regard to this matter, Rikissa,” he said. “For your archbishop has given his blessing for what we have now decreed and arranged. N’est-ce pas, mon cher Stéphan?”
“Comment? Oh…naturellement…uh, ma chère Mère Rikissa…it is just as His Majesty has said, a small matter, a mere trifle…”
The archbishop dug into his roast lamb once again, the third serving that had been brought in to him, and then he raised his wine glass and seemed to be inspecting it as if everything was settled. Mother Rikissa turned without a word and strode off, her heels clacking on the oaken floor as she headed toward the door.
