by Jan Guillou
"No . . ." said Arn hesitantly. He looked as though he couldn't even imagine the import of being somebody other than who he was.
"Specifically it means this," said Father Henri straight off. "You have the right to ride with a sword, you have the right to carry a shield with the mark of the Folkungs. And if those rough customers had seen you thus, they would have never dreamed of attacking you. If you did not have a sword and were not carrying a shield with the mark of the Folkungs, you would only have needed to tell them your name, which is Arn Magnusson of Arnas, and their belligerence would have instantly melted away. This is what I never told you. I never told you who you are in the eyes of the other world, and that was very wrong. If I have any excuse to offer, it is that in here we do not view our neighbors as they do out there. And I didn't want to lead you into the temptation of ever believing that you were superior to other people. I think you can understand that, and perhaps even forgive me
for it."
"But this can't make me into someone other than who I am, can it? " Arn protested, puzzled. "I am as God created me, just as everyone else is, just as you are or the thralls are out there. I bear no blame for that, nor do I benefit from it. And by the way, why would the unfortunate souls who wanted to kill me let themselves be checked by a name? I was still only a 'monk boy' who couldn't handle a sword in their eyes, so why would a name frighten them?"
"Because if they laid a hand on you, none of them would live to see the sun go down for more than a few days. Not one of them. Then they would bring down the whole Folkung clan, your clan, on their necks. And no peasants in all of this unfortunate land would ever dream of doing something that stupid. That's the way it is out there, and you're going to have to get used to it."
"But I don't want to get used to such an unreasonable and evil order of things, father. Nor do I want to live in a world like
that."
"You must," said Father Henri curtly. "Because so it has been decided. You must soon go out into the other world again—that is my command."
"I will obey your command, but—"
"No buts!" interrupted Father Henri. "You no longer have to shave your head. You shall break your fast starting now; just remember to eat cautiously at first. Immediately after supper you shall go to Brother Guilbert, and he will explain the other part of the truth about you, the part you do not know."
Father Henri arose heavily from the small wooden bed. He suddenly felt old and stiff and thought for the first time that his life was turning to autumn, that time was running out of the hourglass, and that he might never find out what sort of task God had prepared for his beloved son.
"Pardon me, father, but one last question before you go?" ventured Arn with an expression of bewilderment on his face.
"Yes indeed, my son, ask as many last questions as you like, because the questions will never cease."
"What was the nature of the sin that you and Brother Guilbert committed? I still can't conceive of it."
"Very simple, my son. If you knew who you were, you wouldn't have had to kill. If we had told you who you were, you would have known. We kept silent about the truth because we believed we were protecting you with lies. And God enlightened us in a most brutal fashion, showing us that nothing good can come of something evil. It is that simple. But nothing evil can come of something good, either, and you had no evil intent. So, see you at vespers!"
Father Henri left Arn alone for the hours he now required for his prayers of thanksgiving, something Father Henri did not need to mention. Because as soon as Father Henri had closed the door behind him, Arn dropped to his knees and thanked God, the Holy Virgin, and Saint Bernard in turn for saving his soul through Their ineffable grace. During his prayers he felt as though God were answering him, since life returned to his body like a warm stream of hope and, finally, in the form of something as trivial as ordinary hunger.
Gunvor felt as if intoxicated by her own goodness, and it made her happy. For certainly it was a great sacrifice that she and Gunnar were now about to make. The two sorrels were almost half of all that she and her betrothed owned, and giving away so much was no easy task. But it was the right thing to do, and she was proud and glad that neither she nor Gunnar had felt any doubts as they approached the cloister at Varnhem. As Gunvor saw it, the Holy Virgin had answered her sincere prayers, not by taking her into the liberating embrace of death but by sending a young monk who with two strokes of his sword transformed both her own life and Gunnar's forever. Now they would live together until the day that death parted them. On no day of that journey would they ever neglect to offer prayers of thanksgiving for the decision of Our Lady to save their lives and give them both what they held dearest in all the world.
Even though the monk boy had only been an instrument, as insignificant as a mucking shovel in comparison with the Blessed Virgin, he was still the only person to whom Gunvor and Gunnar could offer their thanks. And he belonged to the cloister which was the only place in this world where the grateful could present their offerings. Her father had always taken care to impress on her the importance of offerings, even though he also gave offerings to others besides God's saints.
Following close behind her betrothed Gunnar, with mother Birgite and Gunnar's sister Kristina behind her, she rode into the receptorium at Varnhem, where outsiders were always greeted. She felt a great reverence inside the walls, within the lovely vaulted stone where the hooves of the horses echoed like music, and before all the blazing colors of the flowers she saw in the little inner garden with the babbling fountain. She was filled with a sense of solemnity because as soon as the strangers entered the cloister, the place breathed with God's presence.
They dismounted and tied their horses. The brother who served as the receptarius came to greet them kindly, inquiring as to why they had come. When Gunnar explained, the monk asked them to take a seat on the stone benches by the fountain and sent for ale and bread, which he blessed and broke for them as he bade them welcome. Then he went to fetch the prior.
They had to wait a good while but did not speak much since all four of them were entranced by the quietness of the place. Finally a small oak door with iron fittings opened at the far end of the receptorium, and the venerable prior came to meet them. His hair was silver-gray, curling in a wreath around his bald head, but his friendly brown eyes were full of life, which made him look younger than he probably was. He blessed them all, sat down calmly, and for the sake of courtesy shared a piece of bread with them which he also blessed. Then he got straight to the point and wanted to hear why people who were not rich—they didn't know how he could see that at once even though they had all dressed in their finest clothes—wanted to give such a costly gift to the toilers in God's garden. His language was sometimes difficult to understand because he used many priestly words in church language.
Gunnar, who was the one who should have spoken for them, was too embarrassed. So Gunvor immediately took over the responsibility of explaining, and Gunnar gave no sign of objecting. She told Father Henri how she had so devoutly placed her last remaining hope in the hands of Our Lady, how she was saved when a little monk boy was sent to her, and how because of that she and the one she loved most in life would be able to live together for all their days on earth.
At first the prior listened very attentively, interjecting a question or two about things that Gunvor did not realize were important. Soon the face of the venerable old man shone as if with a joy that radiated from within. Then he summoned a gigantic monk who emerged covered in soot and sweat. He examined the horses with grunts, sometimes approving and sometimes cross, and then he explained something to the prior in a completely incomprehensible language.
"The Lord be praised for your wondrous gift," said Father Henri, and now they all listened tensely because the huge monk went over to the mare and took her by the halter, speaking kindly to her, while he didn't seem at all interested in the stately stallion.
"Your sacrifice is great, your willingness to give
us the most costly of your possessions is worthy of much respect," Father Henri went on. "But we can accept only the mare, and that is because the stallion cannot do us any service. But you mustn't take it as any disrespect. The intent of your gift has already been received, and perhaps the Mother of God took mercy on you and thought that you had offered too much. And so I beg you to keep the stallion."
As they hesitated at how to reply, Father Henri gave a little sign to Brother Guilbert, who bowed like a gentleman to them all and then led the mare in through the wooden gate, closing it behind him. Gunnar was very pleased, because he had been most reluctant to part with the stallion. But since the mare had always been a bit tricky to handle he was also surprised that the foreign monk was able to take her by the bridle just like that and lead her away through a narrow gate without her protesting in the least. He assumed that monks wouldn't know very much about horses.
When Father Henri observed that the generous and grateful guests accepted his partial refusal of their gift, he settled in his chair with pleasure and asked out of courtesy whether there was any favor he might do for them, some form of intercession perhaps?
Then Gunvor, blushing, asked if she might be allowed to thank the young monk in person, and she immediately apologized for her bold request but added that her betrothed was agreed with her in this matter.
Perhaps she had expected that the old monk would scowl and find her question unseemly. But to her relief his face instantly lit up and he thought that it was an excellent suggestion. Then he jumped up as if he were a young man, turned to hurry off, but thought of something and stopped short.
"But you must meet him alone," he said to the couple, smiling very broadly so that they could see a big gap between his lower teeth. "The young man would be unnecessarily timid if his prior were hovering over his shoulder. He isn't used to receiving thanks. But don't worry, he is one of you and will understand everything you say."
Father Henri blessed his guests as he departed, humming softly as he strode quickly like quite a young man through the oaken door.
They sat for a moment, talking about how they should interpret this response, but could find no explanation. In any case it did not seem unfitting for a young monk to be alone with guests, not even female ones, though it would have seemed improper for Gunvor and Gunnar to travel alone to Varnhem.
When Arn, freshly washed and timid, came to meet them, Gunvor fell to her knees before him and took his hands, which she could do because her betrothed and mother Birgite and sister Kristina were standing nearby. With an outpouring of words she let her gratitude flow over Arn.
But as she spoke she realized that the hands she was holding were in truth not those of a little boy. His hands were rough and as hard as stone; it was like taking hold of her father's hands, or a smith's. But when she looked up at Arn's bright visage it was as though his childlike and kind face did not belong with such hands. It occurred to her that Our Lady had perhaps not sent her a young monk at all, for these hands did not belong to a weak boy.
Arn stood blushing and didn't know how to deal with the situation. On the one hand, he had to respect the young woman's genuine gratitude. On the other hand, he probably thought that she was directing her thanks in the wrong direction. He carefully pulled his hands free of hers as soon as he dared and asked her to get up. He blessed her words of thanks and reminded her that they should be directed instead higher up. Gunvor agreed at once, assuring him that this she would do for as long as she lived.
Then Arn took the others by the hand, and they all felt and understood the same thing as Gunvor had when they clasped his calloused hands. They all sat for a while in embarrassed silence.
Then Gunnar felt that he had to say something before it was too late, for if he did not say something now he would regret it for the rest of his life. It was also a man's way of showing courage and honor to speak bluntly of what he was thinking.
And Gunnar began to explain, at first in a somewhat abrupt and stumbling fashion, that he and Gunvor for many years had loved each other in secret. They had constantly prayed to God for a miracle that might bring them together, despite the fact that there was no indication of such a possibility and even though both their fathers brushed aside their dreams as childish whims. But Gunnar had felt that he couldn't live without his Gunvor. And she had felt the same. On the day she was led away to the wedding ale, he had not wanted to go on living. And she had not wanted to live either. It may have been Our Lady who finally took pity on them, but it was Arn who had acted in her service and carried out her will.
Hearing the words of this simple man who was sincerely trying to express the meaning of Grace in his coarse language, Arn felt both respect and gratitude. It was as though what he had already become reconciled with—his conviction that Father Henri's absolution was correct—had served as the scaffolding and the framework of a house but not a finished house. Yet with the gift of love that these simple peasants had received and for which they had now so fervently thanked him, God's humblest instrument, it felt as if the house suddenly stood there finished with the walls and the half-timbering and all the windows in place.
"Gunnar, my friend," he said, rejoicing inside, "what you have said to me will stay with me forever, of that you can be sure. But all I can give the two of you in thanks are words from the Holy Scriptures, and do not think ill of that before you have heard what words they are. For it was your love that conquered all, and the Mother of God saw your love and then showed you mercy.
So hear now the following words of the Lord and let these words forever live in your home and in your hearts:
Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.
He had read the text in their own language so that they would understand. He had to repeat it several times to impress it upon their memory, and he told them where in the Holy Scriptures these words of God were found: The Song of Songs 8:6-7.
When they parted, Gunvor took his hand again and then asked his name. Arn tried for the first time to use his name, the name that belonged to the other world, Arn Magnusson of Arnas. But he could not do it; he felt arrogant. He told them merely that his name was Arn.
Gunnar rode off with his betrothed sitting in the saddle in front of him and with his arms around her waist, for as things now stood they still had the strong stallion and there was no reason to walk. He breathed in great gulps of autumn air and he thought it had never smelled freer or more lovely. He rode with his wife-to-be in his arms, feeling the warmth of her body and her pounding heart against his forearm. Together they repeated over and over God's own words about their victorious love.
Darkness fell rapidly that day, and the weather changed to storm. It was impossible to have a conversation outdoors, and they had been told that they could have the parlatorium next to the chapter hall to themselves. As Arn, his cloak flapping in the wind, hurried along the arcade to the meeting, he prayed that Gunvor and Gunnar might be well protected on their way home in the first storm of autumn, protected by more than the love that warmed them. Although he also thought that their love was probably strong enough to protect them against all winds, the winds of life as well as the storm that was on its way.
Brother Guilbert was already waiting in the parlatorium, thoroughly scrubbed and with his hair still wet, when Arn came in. The three candles that were lit flickered a little as he quickly opened and closed the door. They first said Pater Noster together and then a silent prayer for themselves as they faced what now had to be told.
When Brother Guilbert finally looked up after his prayers, his gaze was filled with love for his disciple, but also with an unfamiliar sadness that Arn had glimpsed only a few times before.
"As a brother in
this order, my name is Guilbert de Beaune, as you well know," Brother Guilbert slowly began. "But that was also my name in another order which is closely akin to ours; one could call it our armed sister order, which also has the same spiritual father as we do, and you know who that is."
"Holy Saint Bernard de Clairvaux," said Arn, clasping his hands in front of him on the heavy oak table and bowing his head to show that now he would listen without saying anything himself.
"True, he and none other," Brother Guilbert went on, taking a deep breath. "He was also the one who created the Holy Army of God, the Order of the Knights Templar, in which I fought for God's cause for twelve long years. I was a soldier in Outremer
for twelve years, and I have faced more than a thousand men in battle—good men and bad, courageous and cowardly, skilled and untrained—and none has ever defeated me. As you quite well realize, there is a theological side to this matter too; it is not merely a matter of knowing how to use your hands and feet. But I'll skip over that aspect for now. The fact is that I never met my match with sword or lance, not even on horseback, and I say this not to boast, because you know that none of us in the cloister would do that. I say it because it's true, and so that you will understand from whom you have learned the art of using the sword, lance, shield, bow, and perhaps most important of all, the horse. Before I go on I have to ask you a question out of sheer curiosity. Did this really never occur to you?"
"No-o," said Arn uncertainly, at the same time bewildered that for all these years and as long as he could remember he had crossed swords with a divinely blessed master. "No, at least not at first, because it was just you and I. But afterwards when I thought about the men who tried to kill me, and the childish and clumsy way they handled their swords, then I began to wonder about things. There was all the difference in the world between them and you, dear Brother Guilbert."
"Well, let's stop there and talk a bit about that. It's not dangerous; in fact I think it's good for you," Brother Guilbert continued as if changing the subject, having said what he wanted to say. "If I understood all this correctly, a man came at you at an angle from behind and took aim at your head, is that
