by Jan Guillou
They visited three quarries that day before Arn and the monk seemed to find what they were looking for in the fourth one, which had only recently begun cutting sandstone. There were few stonecutters, but there was a supply of cut stone blocks that had not yet been sold.
This would save a great deal of time, Arn explained. Sandstone was often too soft, especially if used in walls that were subjected to heavy battering rams. But they didn’t have to prepare for that sort of battle at Arnäs, because the ground out on the point rose steeply up to the walls, with no possibility of deploying battering rams. And to the east toward the moat and drawbridge, the ground was far too soft and dropped off too abruptly. So sandstone would serve the purpose well.
Sandstone also had the advantage of being easier to cut and shape than limestone, not to mention granite, and here they already had a supply that could be used in construction without further delay. This was good. Choosing the right type of stone would save more than a year in construction.
Eskil made no objections. Arn thought that his brother seemed unexpectedly amenable when he agreed to every decision regarding the work that would have to be done at the quarry the following week, and where and how new stonecutters would be acquired.
But he did complain about having a serious thirst. He gave Brother Guilbert an odd look when the monk kindly handed him a leather sack full of tepid water.
The next journey they took together was not much longer, only two days from Arnäs to Näs out on the island of Visingsö in Lake Vättern. But for Arn this seemed the longest journey of his life.
Or, as he preferred to think of it, the end of a journey that had lasted most of his life.
He had made a sacred vow to Cecilia that for as long as he breathed and as long as his heart beat, his aim would be to come back to her. He had even sworn on his newly consecrated Templar sword; it was an oath that could never be broken.
Of course he had to laugh when he tried to picture himself back then, seventeen years old and unmarked by war in both soul and body. He had been as foolish as only the ignorant can be. It also brought a smile to his lips and mixed feelings to his heart when he tried to imagine that youth with the burning gaze, a sort of Perceval as Brother Guilbert would have said, vowing to survive twenty years of war in Outremer. And as a Templar knight at that. It had been an impossible dream.
But right now it was about to come true.
Over these twenty years he had prayed every day – well, maybe not every day during certain campaigns or lengthy battles when the sword took precedence over prayer – but almost every day, he had prayed to the Mother of God to hold Her protective hand over Cecilia and his unknown child. And She had done so, with some purpose in mind.
Looking at it that way – and it was the only logical way, he thought – he should now fear nothing in the whole world. It was Her divine will to bring them together again. Now it was about to happen, so what was there to worry about?
A lot, it turned out, when he forced himself to ponder how things might go. He had loved a seventeen-year-old maiden named Cecilia Algotsdotter. Then as now that word, to love a person, was unsuitable in the mouth of a Folkung and also close to mockery of the love of God. She in turn had loved a seventeen-year-old youth who was a different Arn Magnusson than the one alive today.
But who were they now? Much had happened to him during more than twenty years of war. Just as much must have happened to her during twenty years of penance in Gudhem cloister under an abbess who people had said was an abominable woman.
Would they even recognize each other?
He tried to compare himself at the present moment with that young man he had been at the age of seventeen. It was obvious that the difference in his body was great. If he had once had a handsome face as a youth, he was definitely not good-looking now. Half of his left eyebrow was missing, and his temple was one big white scar; he had received that in the hour of defeat at the Horns of Hattin, that place of eternal dishonour and tribulation. The rest of his face had at least twenty white scars, most of them from arrows. Wouldn’t a woman from the kind and peaceful cloistered world of Our Lady turn away in repugnance at such a face, which attested to what sort of man he had become?
Would he really recognize her? Yes, he was sure that he would. His stepmother Erika Joarsdotter was only a few years older than Cecilia, and he had recognized her at once, just as she had recognized him from far off.
Worst of all his worries was what he would say to her when they met. It was as if his mind shut down when he tried to come up with beautiful words for his initial greeting. For this reason he had to seek out even more solace and advice from God’s Mother.
They rowed up the river Tidan, against the current and with eight oarsmen. Arn sat alone at the bow and gazed down into the murky water, where he could catch a blurred image of his lacerated face. In the middle of the flat-bottomed riverboat, which spent its entire lifetime going up and down this river, stood their three horses. Arn had persuaded Eskil that no guards were necessary on this journey, since he and Harald bore full weaponry and had brought along their longbows and plenty of arrows. No Nordic guards would be of any consequence, but would only take up room.
Eskil woke Arn from his reverie by suddenly placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder. When Arn flinched at the touch, Eskil had a good laugh at this guard who was supposed to be on the alert in the bow. He held out a smoked ham which Arn declined.
‘It’s a delight to travel on the river on such a lovely summer day,’ said Eskil.
‘Yes,’ said Arn, gazing at the willows and alders dangling their branches in the gentle current. ‘This is something I have dreamt of for a long time, but I never thought I’d see it again.’
‘Yet now it’s time to speak a little about some evil things,’ said Eskil, sitting down heavily on the thwart next to Arn. ‘Some of it is truly sad to speak of…’
‘Better to say it now than later if it has to be told,’ said Arn, sitting up straight from where he was leaning against the boat’s planking.
‘You and I had a brother. We have two sisters who are already married off, but our brother named Knut was killed by a Dane when he was eighteen.’
‘Then let us for the first time pray together for his soul,’ said Arn at once.
Eskil sighed but acquiesced. They prayed much longer than Eskil found reasonable.
‘Who killed him and why?’ asked Arn when he looked up. In his face there was less sorrow and anger than Eskil had expected.
‘The Dane is named Ebbe Sunesson. It was at a bridegroom’s feast when one of our sisters was to go to the bridal bed, and it happened at Arnäs.’
‘So our sister was married into the Sverkers and Danes?’ Arn asked without expression.
‘Yes. Kristina is the wife of Konrad Pedersson outside Roskilde.’
‘But how did it happen? How could a bridegroom’s feast end in death?’
‘Things can get heated, as you know…There was no doubt much ale that night, as at such times, and the young Ebbe Sunesson was bragging about what a great swordsman he was, saying that no one had the courage to trade blows with him. Anyone using such language at the ale cask is more likely fooling himself rather than anyone else. But things were different with this Ebbe; he proved to have a skilled hand with a sword. He now rides with the Danish royal guard.’
‘And the one who let himself be fooled was our brother Knut?’
‘Yes, Knut was no swordsman. He was like me and our father; not like you.’
‘So, tell me what happened. Usually anyone who encounters someone who handles a sword better in such situations comes away with cuts and bruises. But death?’
‘First Ebbe sliced off one of Knut’s ears and got a great laugh for that feat. Maybe Knut could have backed out after first blood. But Ebbe taunted him so that the laughter grew even louder. When Knut then attacked in anger…’
‘So he was killed at once. I can understand how it happened,’ said Arn with more sorrow than
wrath in his voice. ‘If it be God’s will, Ebbe Sunesson shall one day meet Knut’s brother with a sword. But I don’t intend to seek revenge of my own free will. You didn’t seek revenge on the killer either? Then you must have demanded a big penalty.’
‘No, we refrained from demanding a penalty,’ replied Eskil with shame. ‘It was no easy matter, but the alternative would have been worse. Ebbe Sunesson is from the Hvide clan, into which our sister Kristina was supposed to marry the very next day. The Hvide clan is the most powerful in Denmark, next to the king’s. Archbishop Absalon in Lund is a Hvide.’
‘That was no merry wedding celebration,’ said Arn calmly, as if talking about the weather.
‘No, truly it was not,’ Eskil agreed. ‘All the Danish guests rode south the next day to conclude the bridal ale at home. We buried Knut in Forshem, and one day later our father suffered a stroke. I think it was grief that caused it.’
‘Dearly have we paid in dowry to ally ourselves with that Hvide clan,’ Arn muttered, gazing at the dark river water. ‘And what other sorrows do you have to relate?’
It was obvious from Eskil’s expression that there were more misfortunes to relate. But he hesitated a long time, and Arn had to urge him again to cleanse the evil rather than prolong it.
The next sorrow concerned Katarina Algotsdotter, Cecilia’s sister, the wife of Eskil and the mother of two married daughters and their son Torgils, whom they would soon be meeting at the king’s castle in Näs. Katarina had been neither a bad wife nor a bad mother. Indeed, she had been better than anyone had expected, since she was known to be wily and full of intrigues.
For the sake of honour more than for dowry and power, Eskil had been forced to go to the bridal bed with Katarina. Algot Pålsson, the father of Cecilia and Katarina, had already arranged a betrothal agreement between Cecilia and Arn. But that agreement had been broken when Arn and Cecilia brought down upon themselves the punishment of the Church and twenty years of penance. Algot then demanded redress, which was also his right.
The honour of the Folkungs had thus been one aspect of the matter. The other was a dowry consisting of a quarry and woods and a long stretch of shore along Lake Vänern. Perhaps Eskil had seen the benefits in this part of the bargain better than most people, for he now controlled trade on the lake for all of Western Götaland.
And the quarry brought in a lot of silver during this period when so many churches were being built all over the country. A lot of silver, that is, as long as he didn’t waste stone on his own construction projects, he added in a failed attempt at levity. Arn did not deign to smile.
Rewarding Katarina with a morning gift and keys to his estate after the evil she had done to Arn and Cecilia had been no light matter. Yet it was the best way to clean up after themselves. No one was going to say of the Folkungs that they broke promises and business agreements.
For many years Katarina was a good-tempered housewife who fulfilled her duties in everything that was required. But after fifteen years had passed she commenced the worst of sins.
Eskil spent long periods at Näs or in Östra Aros or even over in Visby on Gotland, as well as down in Lübeck in Germany. During these times as a housewife without a husband, Katarina began devoting herself to amusements of a type that could scarcely be cleansed by penance. She took one of the retainers to bed with her at night.
When Eskil found out about this the first time, he spoke in all seriousness to Katarina and explained that if there was more whispering about such a sin in his house, great misfortune could befall them. The strict language of the law regarding whoredom was only one part of the evil. Worse would be if their children lost their mother.
At first Katarina seemed to have complied. But soon the whispering began anew, and Eskil took notice not only at Arnäs but also when he saw the mortifying looks he received at the king’s council. He then did everything that honour demanded, though his decision was not made lightly but with sorrow.
His retainer Svein did as he was ordered. One night when Eskil was away visiting the king at Näs, although alone in his own lodgings and as if haunted by the nightmare, Svein and two other men strode into the cookhouse. Everyone at Arnäs knew that it was there the two sinners met.
They did not kill Katarina but instead the man she was whoring with. The bloody sheets were taken to the ting so that the sinner would be condemned in disgrace. Katarina was banished to Gudhem cloister, where she took the vows.
As far as silver was concerned in this matter, that had been the easiest to arrange. Eskil donated as much land as he thought necessary to Gudhem, and Katarina relinquished her property to the Folkung clan when she took her vows. That was the price for being allowed to live.
After this news was recounted, the rest of the journey was marked by gloom for a long while. Harald Øysteinsson sat alone in the stern of the boat with the helmsman; he felt that he ought not to get involved in the brothers’ conversation up in the bow. He could clearly see even from that distance that their faces were full of sorrow.
Situated below the old ting site at Askeberga, where the River Tidan made a sharp turn to the south, was the inn. Several boats resembling their own, long with flat bottoms but with heavier loads, had been partially drawn up onto the riverbank, and there was a great commotion among the oarsmen and the inn folk when the Folkung owner Herr Eskil arrived. Guests of lesser stature were thrown out of one longhouse, and women ran to sweep up. The man in charge of the inn, who was named Gurmund and was a freed thrall, brought ale for Herr Eskil.
Arn and Harald Øysteinsson took their bows and quivers, fetched straw from one of the barns, and made a target before they went off to practice. Harald joked that the one exercise they had been able to do during their year at sea demanded enemies at close hand, but that now once again, with God’s help, they could prepare themselves better. Arn replied curtly that practice was a duty, since it was blasphemous to believe that Our Lady would continue to help someone who had been an idler. Only he who worked hard at his archery would deserve to shoot well.
Some of the thrall boys had crept after them to watch how the two men, neither of whom they knew, would handle a bow and arrow. But soon they came running back to the inn, breathing hard, to tell anyone who cared to listen that these archers must be the best of all. Some of the freedmen then furtively headed in the direction of the archers, and soon they saw with their own eyes that it was true. Both the Folkung and his retainer in the red Norwegian tunic handled the bow and arrow better than anyone they had ever seen.
When evening fell and the lords were about to eat supper, it soon became clear that the unknown warrior in the Folkung garb was Herr Eskil’s brother, and it wasn’t long before the rumour spread all around the Askeberga area. A man from the sagas had come back to Western Götaland. Surely the man in the Folkung mantle could be none other than Arn Magnusson, who was the subject of so many ballads. The matter was discussed back and forth in cookhouses and courtyards. But no one could be entirely sure.
Two of the innkeeper’s younger sons dashed thoughtlessly into the longhouse, stopped inside the door, and called to Arn that he should say his name. Such boldness could have cost them skin on their backs and on Gurmund’s as well. He was seated at the nobles’ table inside and got up in anger to chide the louts, at the same time offering apologies to his master Eskil.
But Arn stopped him. He went over to the boys himself, grabbed them in jest by the scruff of their necks, and took them out to the courtyard. There he knelt down on one knee, feigned a stern expression, and asked them to repeat their question if they dared.
‘Are you…Sir Arn Magnusson?’ gasped the bolder of the two, shutting his eyes as if he expected a box on the ear.
‘Yes, I am Arn Magnusson,’ said Arn, now dropping the stern expression. But the boys still looked a bit scared, their eyes flicking from the scars of war on his face to the sword which hung at his side, with the golden cross on both the scabbard and the hilt.
‘We want to enter yo
ur service!’ said the bolder one, when he finally dared believe that neither whip nor curses awaited them from the warrior.
Arn laughed and explained that this was doubtless a matter that would have to wait for some years yet. But if they both practiced diligently with their wooden swords and bows, it might just be possible someday.
The smaller of the two now plucked up his courage and asked if they might see Sir Arn’s sword. Arn got to his feet, pausing a moment before he drew the sword swiftly and soundlessly out of its sheath. The two boys gasped as the shining steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Like all boys they could see at once that this was a completely different sort of sword than those wielded by both retainers and lords. It was longer and narrower but without the slightest loop or flame festooning the blade. The dragon coils or secret symbols of glowing gold that were inlaid in the upper end of the blade were also impressive.
Arn took the hand of the older boy and cautiously placed his index finger on the edge of the blade, pressing it down with a feather’s touch. At once a drop of blood appeared on his fingertip.
He put the finger in the boy’s mouth, sheathed the magic sword in its scabbard, then patted the two of them on the head, and explained that swords just as sharp awaited anyone who went into his service. But there would be hard work too. In five years’ time they should seek him out if they still had a mind to it.
Then he bowed to them as if they were already his retainers, turned on his heel, and strode with mantle fluttering back to the evening meal. The two boys stared as if bewitched at the Folkung lion on his back. They didn’t dare move a muscle until he had shut the door to the longhouse behind him.
Arn was in such a good mood as he returned to the longhouse that Eskil felt prompted to mutter that he didn’t understand how their conversation during the day’s boat ride could have caused him such delight. Arn instantly turned serious as he sat down across from Eskil at the table and cast a startled glance at the wooden trencher of porridge, drippings, and bacon before him. He shoved the trencher aside and placed his scarred hand over Eskil’s.
