The Road to Jerusalem - Crusades Trilogy 01

by Jan Guillou

  Besides, a break would be good. Half the retainers followed the honored guest's example, and soon almost all the men were standing outside in a row, talking together happily as they relieved themselves into the fir branches spread outside. In the wintertime a courtyard would look unclean after a good feast unless they laid out fir branches, which the thralls had to hasten to replace at regular intervals.

  When Erik Jedvardsson again took his place next to Magnus in the high seat and was served fresh ale, he held up his hand to signal that he wished to speak undisturbed. With a little smile Birger gave Magnus a look and nodded in affirmation.

  "Before all this fine hospitality goes too much to our heads and we start talking about what terrific fellows we are," he began, smiling and waiting for the polite laughter that came mostly from his own men, "it is now time to discuss a serious matter. King Sverker's days are numbered. I would not be exaggerating too much to say that soon he will no longer be with us in this earthly life. Karl Sverkersson is sitting over in Linkoping thinking that the king's crown will fall into his lap. There are many of us in Western Gotaland who refuse to accept such a misfortune, and I am one of them. With God's help I shall there-fore win the king's crown. And now I ask you all, kinsmen and friends, do I have your support, or must I leave this beautiful house as your enemy?"

  There was total silence in the hall. Even the three small boys next to Birger stared with big-eyed astonishment at Erik Jedvardsson, who had now declared that he wanted to be king. And at the same time threatened them with enmity.

  Magnus gave Birger a desperate glance, but his brother merely smiled and nodded that he would take responsibility for the rest.

  "Sir Erik, you speak with such power and determination that I do not for a moment doubt that you could become king of us all," Birger began in a loud voice so that everyone would hear that it was he, the younger brother below the high seat, and not Magnus who was speaking. Then he lowered his voice.

  "Allow me to answer you first. I speak for the entire Bjalbo lineage, since I have been entrusted to do so. My brother Magnus will have his say after me, but you must know that our two clans are connected by many blood ties and can hardly go against each other. No doubt you can sense the trust. We are not your enemies, but neither are we your friends in this particular matter at this particular time. If you wish to be king, you will have to start at a different end of the country from ours. You must get the Swedes to elect you as king at Mora Stones. If you succeed in this task, then half will already be won. However, if you try to become king in Western Gotaland against the will of the Eastern Goths, you will only bring war down upon yourself, and no one knows who would emerge the victor from that calamity. The same will happen if you go the other way. So you must win over the Swedes first. And when you have done that, then you can undoubtedly count on our support. Tell me, brother Magnus, am I not right? "

  Magnus realized that everyone was staring at him. The silence was much like the moment when the bow is drawn taut and the arrow will momentarily be loosed at its target. All he could manage was to nod slowly and pensively as if he were a wise old man. A murmur of discontent arose from Erik Jedvardsson's men at the far end of the hall.

  "You, Birger, are nothing but a young rascal," Erik Jedvardsson yelled, red in the face. "I could slay you here and now for your impudent words. Who are you to teach a full-grown warrior his course of action? "

  Erik Jedvardsson made a move toward the place where he thought his sword should be, as if he had forgotten that it was no longer the custom for men to attend a feast with their swords at their sides. All the weapons were in the stable out in the connecting building with the spit-turners.

  Birger was not about to be cowed by the feigned move toward the empty scabbard, and his smile did not flinch even for an instant when he replied.

  "You may well think that I am a rascal, Erik Jedvardsson," he began calmly, but now in a somewhat louder voice so that no one in the hall could avoid hearing his words. "This does not please me, but it still has nothing to do with the larger matter, for if you draw your sword on me, at the same moment you will draw misfortune upon yourself no matter how things may turn out."

  "You scamp, do you think for a moment that you could stand against me with a sword?" shrieked Erik Jedvardsson, even more red in the face, turning so that everyone in the hall now feared the worst. A female thrall rushed up and carried off the three small boys sitting next to Birger.

  Birger rose slowly, but his smile did not falter as he replied.

  "Now I really must beg you as our guest to stop and think, Erik Jedvardsson," he said. "If you and I were to exchange sword blows, it would go badly for you. If you die here and now, you will never be king. If you kill me, the rest of your life will be one long journey with the whole Bjalbo clan chasing you from one ting to the next, and if that does no good they will kill you in the end. Stop and think! You have a kingdom within an arm's length, that I don't doubt. Don't squander it because you think that the spokesman for the Bjalbo clan is too young and too impudent! First win over the Swedes, then us. For the second time, this is my advice."

  Birger calmly sat down and reached for a fresh tankard of ale from one of the female thralls, who was scared out of her wits. Yet he behaved as if nothing special had happened.

  Erik Jedvardsson sat glumly for a long time before he answered. He had realized that young Birger from Bjalbo had spoken rightly, with words clear as water. He now had to admit that he had been rebuked and flustered by a quick-witted youth. What everyone had heard could not be unsaid.

  "So be it," he said at last. "I had already thought of going to Mora Stones to win over the Swedes, so in that matter we seem to agree. But for these words of yours I will still have a goose to pluck with you when I return as your king."

  "I don't doubt that at all, my future lord and king," said Birger with a broad and almost exaggerated smile. He paused playfully before he went on. "But since you do seem to accept my advice, I would suggest that you make me your jarl rather than pluck me like a goose!"

  His bold manner of saying this straight to Erik Jedvardsson's angry face had a remarkable effect. At first Erik Jedvardsson stared at him with dark eyes, but Birger merely smiled back, until Erik Jedvardsson's face suddenly broke into a broad grin. And then he began to laugh. The next moment his retainers started laughing, and then Magnus's men laughed, then the women, and finally the thralls and the three small boys who were now al-lowed to return to their seats. By then the hall was booming with laughter and the storm had passed.

  Erik Jedvardsson now knew that all further discussion about his path to the king's crown had better wait until another time. He clapped his hands and called for the Norwegian bard whom he'd brought along in the rear sleigh. He demanded stories from the time when people in the North had energy and the courage that one saw all too infrequently these days.

  The bard rose from his miserable seat among the youngest retainers and began walking to the front of the hall to stand by the fire at the end, where he would tell stories and sing. In the meantime the house thralls quickly cleaned up the scraps and brought more ale, wiping up piss and vomit by the door. An expectant silence spread as the bard paused dramatically with his head bowed to let the excitement rise to the bursting point before he began.

  He started in a faint but beautiful, melodious voice, telling of Sigurd Jorsalafar's eight great victories on the road to Jerusalem, how he had plundered in Galicia, how off the coast of Sarkland, where the infidels lived, he first encountered ships full of Saracen heathens who came rowing toward him with a huge fleet of galleys, but how he then attacked without hesitation and soon vanquished the heathens, who clearly had never encountered a Nordic fleet before and had no understanding of such a battle that could end in only one way:

  The poor heathens attacked the king.

  The mighty prince killed them all.

  The army cleared out eight ships

  in the terrible battle.

  The much b
efriended prince

  brought booty on board.

  The raven flew off to fresh wounds.

  Here the bard took a break and asked for more ale so he could resume his tales, and all the men pounded their fists on the long table as a sign that they wanted to hear more.

  The two youngest boys, Arn and Knut, had listened with mouths agape and eyes wide during the story, but the somewhat older Eskil began to fret and yawn. Sigrid motioned to her house thralls to put the boys to bed. She had already made up beds for them in one of the cookhouses.

  Eskil followed along obediently, yawning again; he believed that a warm bed would be preferable to an old man telling the ancient sagas in a language that was difficult to understand. Arn and Knut kicked, whined, and protested, begging to hear more and promising to sit still, but it did no good.

  Soon all three boys were tucked in under thick pelts in a cookhouse with three of the biggest iron pots filled with glow-ing charcoal. Eskil quickly turned over and fell asleep, snuffling, while Arn and Knut lay wide awake, indignant that the eldest of them was the one who had ruined their fun. Whispering, they agreed to get dressed and slip out into the dark. Like little elves they passed two men who stood puking outside the door. They sneaked nimbly into the hall and sat down near the door in the dark where no one would see them; Arn found a big pelt, which he carefully pulled over them both, revealing only their blond bangs and wide eyes. They sat there quiet as mice, with all their attention focused on Sigurd Jorsalafar's heroic deeds.

  Despite the fact that a dozen men stumbled past Arn and Knut, and some even tripped over them on their way out or in, nobody discovered the boys hiding like grouse chicks in the forest at night. They listened, rapt and wide-eyed, as the bard sang of Sigurd Jorsalafar's triumph at Sidon, repeating the verses that the men, whose applause was growing increasingly thunderous, demanded.

  Sigurd won at Sidon, men remember this.

  Weapons were wielded fiercely in the heated battle.

  With might the warriors crushed the stubborn army's fortress.

  Beautiful swords were colored with blood when the prince prevailed.

  The applause from the hall went on and on, followed by the buzz of voices as everyone began talking at once, about the great deeds in olden times, and the kings of their own time who were like Sverker Limp-Cock and not Sigurd Jorsalafar. Magnus at-tempted a witty joke that it was different with Norsemen, since he himself was of Norwegian lineage. But nobody thought it was a good joke, least of all Erik Jedvardsson, who now stood up holding the old drinking horn they had placed before him—a Norwegian drinking horn at that, although he was probably unaware of it. And he drank with manly vigor, draining it to the bottom without taking the horn from his lips. Then he explained that he had just seen before him, as if in a vision, the new coat of arms that would be his and that of the whole realm. There would be three golden crowns: one crown for Svealand, one for Eastern Gotaland, and one for Western Gotaland. The three crowns would be set against a field the color of the sky. This, he now swore, would become in the future the new coat of arms for him and the entire kingdom.

  The hall seethed with excited applause. But Erik Jedvardsson wanted to say more. At the same time he had to piss, and since he wanted to do both equally urgently, he announced in a loud, slurred voice on the way out the door that each and every one who followed him in the future would be assured of reaping honor during the crusade. Perhaps going only so far as to the Finns on the other side of the Eastern Sea on the first venture, but then, after the Finns were converted, perhaps our men needed to gain a foothold in the Holy Land as well.

  When he reached the door he didn't bother to go outside across the high threshold; staggering, he leaned against the doorjamb for support and relieved himself right where he stood.

  He never noticed that he was pissing on Arn and his own son Knut. And they in turn could do nothing but huddle together and suffer in silence. Neither of the boys would ever forget it.

  Especially since they had now been pissed on by a man who would become a saint as well as king.

  Chapter 3

  The winter held Arnas in an iron grip. All roads to the south had been impassable since the eighth day of Christmas, and even though the ice on Lake Vanern was thick enough to cross, at least with wide-runnered sleighs, right now there was no great reason to take the trouble. What Magnus wanted to sell over there, toward Lodose, would bring double the price toward the end of winter when supplies began running low in many store-houses. At Arnas the work went on as usual in the cooperages, the slaughterhouses, and the salting houses, as it did in the women's workshops where they prepared wool and linen and wove both thick cloth and tapestries to the delight of both man and God.

  For the boys Eskil and Arn, the hard winter was a wonder-ful time. Their teacher and lay brother Erlend from Varnhem had returned to the monastery just before Christmastime, and although Paulsmas was rapidly approaching on January 25th, he had still not been able to make his way back through the snow

  to Arnas. The days that the boys should have spent sitting with their noses in the Latin text about the philosopher Saint Bernard had now become free, and they spent the time in lively winter games and boys' mischief. What was most fun was to catch mice down in the grain stores and then release them among the thrall women in the cookhouses. Shrieking with laughter, the boys would run off as shrill screams and loud banging and clattering spoke of what was happening to the mice.

  Once they sneaked into the armory and took two old-fashioned round shields out to the long slope in front of the barn near the longhouse where the hay was brought in late in the summer. They sat down on the shields and slid like small otters down the whole slope. Their loud, happy laughter attracted attention, and when their father came and saw what they were doing with the equipment of grown men, he flew into a rage and gave them a thrashing that made them run wailing to their mother in the weaving house. But that little trouble soon passed. The thrall Svarte, who had seen the boys' inventiveness, went to the car-penters' workshop, found some suitable boards, and fashioned them with dowels into a toboggan. Then he steamed one end of the board and bent it slowly upward like the front end of sleigh runners, and ran a leather cord through it as reins for the toboggan, and soon the boys were sliding full speed down the snowy slopes with shrieks and laughter once more.

  At first Magnus was out of sorts at seeing his sons tumbling about in the snow in happy games with the thralls' children. He didn't think it was seemly. Eskil and Arn were going to grow up to be the owners of thralls, not their playmates. In Sigrid's opinion, however, children were children, and the vagaries of adult life probably wouldn't elude any of them when they got a little older, be they thrall or son of the lord. Besides, now the boys got out of studying Latin.

  She smiled in her ambiguous way as she said that. The fact that the boys had to learn Latin was just as obvious to her as it was incomprehensible to Magnus. She believed that it was the language of the future. He thought that only monks and priests needed such knowledge; in Lodose he could trade with people from afar in everyday language, even if he had to muddle through and repeat things sometimes. Anyway, as soon as the lay brother managed to get through the snow from Varnhem to resume studying with the boys, the games with the thralls would be over.

  But the winter refused to release its grip on Arnas, and Eskil and Arn had never spent a winter that was more fun, since they were able to play even more games with the thrall children. They built a fort in the snow, and took turns defending it while the others attempted to take the fort, each side with the same number of thrall children. Eskil and Arn had little wooden swords in their hands, while the others had to make do with snowballs, since they were thralls and not allowed to bear arms. The result was a few tears and some black-and-blue marks.

  They also helped Kol, Svarte's boy who was their own age, to catch live mice for Svarte to use as bait in his ermine traps. Ermine pelts were very valuable; four of them would buy a thrall. When th
e wolves began to come near Arnas, Svarte put scraps from the slaughterhouses by an opening in one of the most distant hay-barns, to keep watch for the wolves when the night was moonlit, calm, and quiet.

  Foolishly Eskil now claimed, and Arn nodded eagerly in agree-ment, that their father had said they were allowed to join Svarte during the watch, as long as they kept quiet as mice. Svarte had his doubts, but he didn't dare ask Herr Magnus if it was really true that the master's children would have tried to trick him. When the weather was good, Eskil and Arn took to sneaking out at night with thick sheepskins under their arms to meet Svarte, who had two crossbows loaded. Since Svarte had said too much

  at home, Kol came out as well. Three boys with sparkling eyes and impatiently pounding hearts sat next to Svarte and waited, trying not to rustle in the hay, as they kept an eye on the white snowfield and the offal heap that was visited every night by foxes.

  Finally one night when the moon had already waned to half, but the weather was clear and calm and very cold, the wolves came. Svarte and the boys could hear their cautious steps on the crust of snow long before they could spy them with their eyes. Svarte made excited gestures for the boys to keep absolutely still. In his fervor he drew a hand across his throat to emphasize the serious punishment that would befall them otherwise, and saw at once Eskil and Arn open their eyes wide in surprise. They had never in their lives been threatened by a thrall, not even in jest. But they nodded eagerly and held up their small index and middle fingers pressed together in a sign that they swore not to make the slightest sound.