by Jan Guillou
After a while Arn asked to be left alone with his God, and everyone complied with no objections. They all went outside, closing the church doors behind them.
Arn prayed a long time for support and guidance, as he had done so often before. But never had he felt anything stir within him or seen any sign that Our Lady had answered him.
In spite of this constant lack of an answer he had never been stricken with doubt. People filled the earth, just as God had prescribed. At any one moment God and the saints had to listen to thousands of people offering up prayers, and if they had to take time to answer every one of them it would lead to great confusion. How many foolish prayers did people voice every moment, asking for luck in the hunt, success in trade, the birth of a son, or to be allowed to continue their earthly lives?
And how many thousands of times had Arn asked Our Lady for protection for Cecilia and their child? How many times had he prayed for success in war? Before every attack in the Holy War, clad in their white mantles, they all sat their horses knee to knee, about to dash headlong toward death or toward victory, and Our Lady had to listen to their prayers. Almost all prayers had selfish intent.
But this time Arn prayed to Our Lady that she might guide him and advise him in what he could and should do with all the power he had brought home; that he might not succumb and become a covetous man, that he might not be tempted by the knowledge that he was a warrior who knew more than his kinsmen did, that all the gold and all the knowledge he now had in his possession might not fall on infertile ground.
And then, for the first time ever, Our Lady answered the praying Arn so that he could hear her clear voice inside him and see her in the dazzling light that had just struck his face from one of the high windows in the little wooden church. It was not a miracle, because many people could testify to receiving an answer to prayer. But for Arn it was the first time, and he now knew with certainty what he had to do, because Our Lady herself had revealed it to him.
It was only two days’ journey from Forshem church to the fortress of Arnäs. At the halfway point they stopped for a short rest, because it was the prayer hour for the Prophet’s people. The Christians took the opportunity to have a nap.
But Arn went out to a clearing in the forest and let God’s light filter down through the delicate light-green foliage of the beeches onto his scarred face. For the first time in this long journey he felt at peace, because he had finally understood God’s intent in sparing his life all these years.
That was the important thing, the most crucial. At this particular moment he would not allow himself to be concerned with anything secondary.
For some time a strange rumour had been circulating in Western Götaland. A mighty foreign ship had been sighted, first near Lödöse in the Göta River, and then all the way up by the Troll’s Rapids. Foreigners had tried to drag the ship up the rapids using many oxen and hired draymen. But finally they had been forced to give up and go back down the river to the marketplace near Lödöse.
No one could understand the point of trying to drag such a ship up into Lake Vänern. Some of the Norwegian guards at Arnäs fortress thought that the ship must have business on the Norwegian side of Vänern. King Sverre of Norway had more than once attempted the strangest military advances by arriving by ship where no one expected him. But right now there was not much in the way of war in Norway, although it was not entirely peaceful either.
And no one could say for sure that it was a warship, for according to the rumour the ship’s big lateen sail bore a red cross which was so large that the cross was visible before anything else. No ship in the North bore such a mark, that much was certain.
For a few days extra vigilance was taken to keep watch over the calm summer waters of Lake Vänern from the high tower at Arnäs, at least until those three days of storm arrived. But when no ship appeared, and since it was a time of peace in Western Götaland, soon all went back to their normal tasks and the delayed turnip sowing.
One man never tired of sitting up in the tower and straining his watery old man’s eyes by gazing out across the water glittering in the sun. He was the lord of Arnäs, and he would remain that for as long as he lived. His name was Magnus Folkesson. Three winters ago he’d had a stroke, and since then he could not speak clearly and was paralysed on his left side from head to toe. He kept to himself up there in the tower with a couple of house thralls, as if ashamed to show himself in public. Or perhaps it was because his eldest son Eskil did not like to see his father mocked behind his back. Yet now the old man sat up there each day in plain view of everyone in Arnäs. The wind tore at his tangled white hair, but his patience seemed without limit. Many jokes were told about what the old man must imagine he could see from up there.
Yet every jester would come to rue his scorn. Herr Magnus had sensed an omen, although it turned out that he was waiting for a miracle sent by Our Lady. And he was the one, with his wide view of the surrounding countryside, who first saw what happened.
Three young thralls came running along the still wet and muddy road from Forshem to Arnäs. They were shouting and waving their arms, and all three were racing to be the first to arrive, since sometimes a poor wretch who brought important news would be given a silver coin.
When they ran out onto the long, swaying wooden causeway that led across the marsh to the fortress itself, the thrall who was somewhat bigger and stronger overtook first one and then the other, so that he arrived first, gasping and red-faced, with the others hobbling far behind.
They had been spotted even before they reached the causeway, and someone called for Svein, who was in charge of the life-guards. He staunchly confronted the first runner at the gate of the fortress, grabbing the young thrall by the neck just as he tried to run past and forcing him to his knees in a puddle of water. He held the boy in a strong grip with his iron glove and asked to hear the news. It was not easy to understand, since his grip caused so much pain that the boy mostly whimpered, but also the other two thralls had now caught up with him and of their own accord fell to their knees, jabbering at the same time as they tried to tell what they had seen.
Svein, the captain of the guards, then gave them all a box on the ears and questioned the boys one by one. At last some sense was made of what they had witnessed. A caravan with many warriors and heavy ox-carts was approaching Arnäs on the road from Forshem. They were not Sverkers or any associated clan, nor were they Folkungs or Eriks. They were from a foreign land.
There was the sound of horns being blown and guards went running for the stables, where thralls had already begun saddling the horses. People were sent to wake Herr Eskil, who at this time of day was sleeping his lordly sleep, and others were sent to the drawbridge down by the causeway to hoist it up, so that the foreigners would not be able to enter Arnäs before it was determined whether they were friend or foe.
Before long Herr Eskil was sitting on his horse, accompanied by ten guards near the drawn-up bridge to Arnäs and tensely watching the other side of the marsh where the foreigners would soon appear. It was late in the afternoon, so the men outside Arnäs had the sun in their eyes, since the opposite end of the bridge lay to the south. When the strangers appeared on the other side it was hard to see them in the bright sunlight. Some said they saw monks, others said that they were foreign warriors. The strangers seemed confused for a moment when they discovered the closed drawbridge and men in full armour on the other side. But then a knight in a white mantle and white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross slowly rode alone out onto the causeway toward the drawbridge.
Herr Eskil and his men waited in tense silence as the bearded, bare-headed knight approached. Someone whispered that the stranger was riding an oddly pitiful horse. Two of the guards dismounted to draw their bows.
Then something happened that some people would later call a miracle. Old Herr Magnus called out from up in the high tower, and later there were some who would swear that Herr Magnus clearly uttered the words ‘The Lord be praised,’ because the Pro
digal Son had come back from the Holy Land.
Eskil was of another mind. As he later explained, he understood everything as soon as he heard one of the guards mention the wretched horse, since he had both good and painful memories from his youth about what sort of wenches’ horses were called pitiful, and what sort of men rode such horses.
Speaking in a voice which some described as quavering and weak, Herr Eskil ordered the drawbridge lowered for the unknown knight. He had to give the order twice before he was obeyed.
Then Herr Eskil got down from his horse and fell to his knees in prayer before the creaking drawbridge, now lowered so that the sun’s glare was in everyone’s eyes. The horse belonging to the white-clad knight appeared to have danced across the drawbridge long before it had been lowered all the way to its supports. The knight jumped down from his horse with a motion that no one had ever seen before and was quickly on his knees before Herr Eskil. The two embraced, and there were tears in Herr Eskil’s eyes.
Whether it was a double or single miracle was a subject of debate long afterwards. No one knew for certain whether it was at that moment that old Herr Magnus up in the tower regained his senses. But it was clear that Arn Magnusson, the warrior known only from the sagas in those days, had now come home after many years in the Holy Land.
There was great noise and commotion that day at Arnäs. When the mistress of the manor, Erika Joarsdotter, came out to greet the guests with a welcome ale and saw Arn and Eskil walking across the courtyard with their arms around each other’s shoulders, she dropped everything she was carrying and ran forward with her arms spread wide. Arn, who had let go of his brother Eskil, fell to his knees to greet his stepmother courteously; he was almost knocked to the ground when she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him as shamelessly as only a mother can do. Everyone could see that the returning warrior was unused to such practices.
Wagons were pulled creaking and rattling into the courtyard of the fortress. Heavy crates and a multitude of weapons were unloaded and carried into the armoury in the tower. Outside the walls a tent camp fashioned from ships’ sails and exotic carpets was quickly raised, and many willing hands helped to set up gates and fencing for all of Sir Arn’s horses. Calves were taken to be slaughtered and the spit-turners lit their fires. All around Arnäs a promising aroma soon spread of the evening to come.
When Arn greeted the guards, some of whom were unwilling to kneel before him, he abruptly asked after his father with a tense expression, as if preparing himself for sad news. Eskil replied gruffly that their father was no longer in his right mind and had retreated to the tower. Arn strode at once toward the tower, his white mantle with the red cross billowing like a sail around him so that all those in his path quickly moved aside.
Up on the highest parapet he found his father in a miserable state but with a happy expression on his face. His father was standing next to the wall with a house thrall supporting his lame side. In his healthy hand he held a rough walking-stick. Arn quickly bowed his head and kissed his father’s good hand and then gathered him in his arms. His father felt as frail as a child, his good arm was as thin as his lame one, and he exuded a rank odour. Arn stood there unable to think of what to say, when his father with great effort, his head trembling, leaned toward him and whispered something.
‘The angels of the Lord…shall rejoice…and the fatted calf…shall be slain.’
Arn heard the words quite clearly, and they were judiciously chosen, as they so clearly referred to the story in the Holy Scriptures of the return of the Prodigal Son. All the talk of his father’s lost reason was simply nonsense. With relief Arn picked the old man up in his arms and began to walk around the parapet to see how he had been living up here. When he saw the dark tower room it was worse than he had feared. He frowned at the strong odour of piss and rotting food. He spun around and headed for the stairs, speaking to his father as to a man of reason like any other, the way no one had spoken to him in many years. Arn said that the lord of Arnäs would no longer have to live in a pigsty.
On the narrow, winding tower staircase he met Eskil slowly ascending, since the stairs were not designed for sizable men with a paunch. Grumbling, Eskil now had to turn around and go back down, with Arn close behind him, carrying their father like a bundle over one shoulder as he barked orders about everything that needed to be done.
Out in the courtyard Arn set his father down, since it would be disgraceful to carry him any further like a sheaf of rye. Eskil ordered the house thralls to bring tables and feather-beds and the dragon-carved seat to one of the cookhouses by the south wall that were used only for large feasts. Arn bellowed that his father’s tower room was to be scoured from floor to ceiling, and many pairs of astonished eyes watched as the three men proceeded across the courtyard of the fortress.
The seat with the carved dragon coils was delivered at once to the cookhouse, and there Arn tenderly deposited his father. He dropped to his knees, took his father’s face in his hands, looked him in the eyes, and said that he was well aware that he was speaking to a father who understood everything just as well as he had before. Eskil stood in silence behind him and said not a word.
But old Herr Magnus now seemed so overwhelmed and was breathing so hard that there might be a risk he would suffer another stroke. Arn took his hands from his father’s face, stood up, and strode past his bewildered older brother out to the courtyard, giving an order in a language nobody could understand.
At once two men from the many foreigners in Arn’s entourage came forward. They were both dressed in dark cloaks and had blue cloth wound around their heads; one was young and the other old, and their eyes were as black as those of ravens.
‘These two men,’ said Arn, addressing his brother, but also his father, ‘are named…Abraham and Joseph. They are both my friends from the Holy Land. And they are masters of the healing arts.’
He explained something in an unintelligible language to the two raven-eyed men, who nodded that they understood. They began to examine Herr Magnus carefully, but without undue deference. They studied the whites of his eyes, listened to his breathing and his heart, struck his right knee with a little club so that his foot kicked straight out, then did the same several times with his left knee, which moved only slightly. They seemed particularly interested in that. Then they raised and lowered his weak left arm as they whispered to each other.
Eskil, who stood behind Arn, felt left out and at a loss, seeing two foreigners handling the lord of Arnäs as if inspecting some thrall child. But Arn signalled to him that all was as it should be, and then he had a brief whispered conversation in the foreign language, whereupon the two physicians retreated, bowing deeply to Eskil.
‘Abraham and Joseph have good news,’ said Arn when he and Eskil were alone. ‘Our father is too tired right now, but tomorrow the healing work will begin. With God’s help our father will be able to walk and speak once again.’
Eskil said nothing. It was as if his first joy at seeing Arn had already been clouded, and he felt a little ashamed at appearing to be the one who had not taken care of his father. Arn gave his brother a searching look and seemed to understand these hidden feelings. He threw his arms wide and they fell into each other’s embrace. They stood that way a long time without saying a word. Eskil, who seemed more bothered by the silence than Arn, finally muttered that it was a scrawny little brother who had come to the feast.
Amused, Arn replied that it appeared Eskil had managed well enough to keep the wolf from the door at Arnäs, and that he had certainly not been diminished by continuing the legacy of their ancestor, jarl Folke the Fat. Then Eskil burst out laughing and shook his younger brother back and forth with feigned indignation, and Arn let himself be shaken as he joined in the laughter.
When their merriment subsided, Arn led his brother over to their father, who was sitting quite still in his beloved chair with the dragon carvings. His left arm hung limp at his side. Arn fell to his knees and pulled Eskil down with him so that
their heads were close together. Then he spoke in a kindly tone and not as if to a man who had lost his wits.
‘I know that you can hear and understand everything just as before, dear Father. You don’t have to answer me now, because if you strain yourself too much it will only get worse. But tomorrow the healing will begin, and starting tomorrow I will sit with you and tell you everything that happened in the Holy Land. But now Eskil and I will take our leave, so that he can tell me what has happened here at home. There is much that I’m impatient to know.’
With that the two sons got to their feet and bowed to their father as before. They thought they could see a little smile on his lopsided face, like the glow from a fire that was far from extinguished.
When they left the cookhouse Eskil grabbed a passing house thrall and told him that Herr Magnus was to have his bed, water, and pisspot brought to him there in the cookhouse, and that the floor should be covered with birch boughs.
In the courtyard of the fortress people and house thralls were rushing about on all sorts of errands to prepare for the unexpected welcome feast, which now had to be readied in haste and with greater grandeur than an ordinary banquet at Arnäs. But those who came near the two Folkung brothers, now walking arm in arm towards the gate, shrank back almost as if in terror. Herr Eskil was said to be the richest man in all of Western Götaland, and everyone knew enough to fear the power that resided in silver and gold, although Herr Eskil himself often invited more ridicule than fear. But next to him now walked his brother, the long-absent warrior Arn, whom the sagas had made much taller and broader than he was in truth. Yet everyone could see by his stride, by his scarred face, and by the way he wore his sword and chain-mail as though they were his normal attire, that now the other power had indeed come to Arnäs – the power of the sword, which most sensible people feared far more than the power of silver.
