Birth Of the Kingdom (2010) (12 page)

‘What sort of foreign manners are these? I thought you were hoping for a place in the royal guard, or with Birger Brosa or myself?’ Eskil greeted them jovially.

‘This is the new custom. It’s the practice of everyone at King Valdemar’s court in Denmark, and I’ve seen it myself,’ replied the eldest of the boys, giving Eskil a steady gaze.

‘We aim to become knights!’ one of the younger boys said cockily, since it may have seemed that Eskil misunderstood.

‘Indeed? It’s no longer enough to be a retainer?’ asked Arn, leaning forward in his saddle with a stern look for the boy who had just spoken to Eskil as if he were an elderly kinsman who understood nothing. ‘Then tell me, what does a knight do?’

‘A knight…’ began the boy, quickly turning unsure as he noticed the Norwegian retainer’s amusement. Harald was vainly trying to hide his mirth with a hand over his brow and eyes.

‘Don’t mind the northerner, my young kinsman; he doesn’t know much,’ said Arn kindly and without the slightest ridicule. ‘Illuminate me instead! What does a knight do?’

‘A knight rides with lance and shield, protects maidens in distress, slays the forces of evil, or the dragon like Saint Örjan, and most of all is the foremost defender of the land during times of war,’ said the boy, now quite sure of himself and looking Arn straight in the eye. ‘And the foremost of all knights are the Knights Templar in the Holy Land,’ he added, as if wanting to demonstrate that he did know what he was talking about.

‘I see,’ said Arn. ‘Then may Our Lady hold her protective hands over all of you as you practice for such a good cause, and let us hinder you no longer.’

‘Our Lady? We pray to Saint Örjan, the patron saint of knights,’ replied the boy boldly, now even more certain that he was the one who was the expert on this topic.

‘Yes, that is true, many pray to Saint Georges,’ said Arn, turning his horse to the side to continue his survey of Forsvik. ‘But I mentioned Our Lady because She is the High Protectress of the Knights Templar.’

When the three men had ridden off a way, they all had a good laugh. But the boys didn’t hear them. With great earnestness and renewed zeal they rode at each other, holding out their short wooden lances as if they were attacking with Saracen swords.

By nightfall as they returned to Forsvik, they had seen what they needed to see. In the north the Tiveden woods began, the forest that according to ancient belief was without end. There was timber and fuel in immeasurable quantities, and close at hand. To the south along the shore of Lake Vättern there were fields with pasture that would feed more than five times the livestock and horses now at Forsvik. But the fields for grain and turnips were meagre and sandy, and the living quarters decaying and rank.

Eskil now said bluntly that he had wanted Arn to see Forsvik before they decided. A son of Arnäs ought to own a better farm than this, and Eskil at once proposed either of the farms Hönsäter or Hällekis on the slopes of Kinnekulle facing Lake Vänern. Then they could also live on neighbouring farms to their mutual enjoyment.

But Arn stubbornly insisted on Forsvik. He admitted that there was much more to build and improve than he had imagined. But such things were only a matter of time and sweat. Forsvik had the advantage of possessing enough water power to drive the forging machines, the bellows, and the mills. And there was one more important thing that had already occurred to Eskil. Forsvik was the heart of Eskil’s
trade route, and that’s why he had placed Folkungs as caretakers and not more lowly folk. Whoever controlled Forsvik held a dagger to the entire route, and no one could be better suited to the task than a brother from Arnäs.

There was a constant stream of loaded ships in both directions between Lödöse and Linköping. If Arn was in charge, great smithies would soon be thundering at Forsvik. If the iron from Nordanskog came by boat from Linköping, steel and forged weapons would continue on to Arnäs and plowshares toward Lödöse. If limestone came from Arnäs and Kinnekulle, the boats could continue toward Linköping or return to Arnäs with mortar. And if barrels of unmilled grain came from Linköping, barrels of flour would move in the other direction.

Much more could be said, but basically these were Arn’s ideas. And he had many foreign craftsmen with him; not all those at Arnäs were fortress-builders. Here at Forsvik they would soon be able to manufacture a great number of new things that would benefit all of them. And which could be sold at a good profit, he added with such emphasis that Eskil burst out laughing.

At supper, as was the custom, the master and mistress of the house sat in the high seat together with the three noble guests Eskil, Harald, and Arn. The four boys with bruises on their faces and knuckles sat at the table farther away. They knew enough of manners and customs to understand that the warrior who had asked the childishly ignorant question about knights was no ordinary ruffian of a retainer, since he sat next to their father in the high seat. They also saw that like Herr Eskil he bore the Folkung lion on the back of his mantle, and no mere retainer was allowed to do that. So who was this highborn lord of their clan who treated Eskil as a close friend?

The master and mistress of the house, Erling and Ellen,
who were the parents of three of the boys with dreams of knighthood, made a great fuss about their guests in the high seat. Erling had already raised his tankard of ale twice in a toast to Herr Eskil. Now, the third time, he was red in the face and spoke with a bit of a stammer as he sometimes did, exhorting all to drink to Sir Arn Magnusson.

An uncomfortable feeling began to come over one of the boys, Sune Folkesson, who was a foster brother at Forsvik. He was also the one who had spoken most boldly about what it was like to be a knight and to whom knights should direct their prayers.

And when Herr Eskil kept on saying that they now had to thank Our Lady, because a Templar knight of the Lord had returned after many years in the Holy Land, everyone in the hall fell silent. Young Sune Folkesson wished that the earth would open beneath him and swallow him up. Herr Eskil noticed everyone’s disquiet. He took a firm grip on his tankard and raised it to his brother Arn. Everyone drank in silence.

All further talk turned to stone after this toast, and everyone’s gaze was directed at Arn, who had no idea how to act and looked down at the table.

Eskil was not slow in exploiting the situation, since he already had adopted Arn’s rule that it was better to say what was unpleasant or momentous sooner rather than later. He got to his feet, raised his hand quite unnecessarily for silence, and then spoke briefly.

‘Arn, my brother, is the new master of Forsvik and all its lands, all the fishing waters and forests, as well as all servants. But you will not be left bereft, kinsmen Erling and Ellen, because I offer you a chance to move to Hönsäter on Kinnekulle, which is a better place than this one. Your leasehold will thus be the same as it was for Forsvik, although the lands at Hönsäter have a greater yield. In the
presence of witnesses I now offer you this sack of soil from Hönsäter.’

With that he pulled out two leather pouches, fumbling a bit as he hid one of them and then placed the other in the hands of both Erling and Ellen, first showing them how to hold out four hands to accept a gift meant equally for the two of them.

Erling and Ellen sat there a while, their cheeks red. It was as though a miracle had befallen them. But Erling quickly recovered and had livelier thoughts, calling for more ale.

Young Sune Folkesson now thought he had been sitting long enough with his eyes lowered in an unmanly fashion. If he had stepped in cow dung, the situation would not be improved by sitting and pretending nothing had happened, he reasoned. So he stood up and walked resolutely around the table to the high seat, where he sank to his knees before Sir Arn.

His foster father Erling rose halfway to his feet to shoo him off, but was stopped when Arn raised his hand in warning.

‘Well?’ Arn said kindly to the youth on his knees. ‘What do you have to tell me this time, kinsman?’

‘That I can do naught but regret my ignorant words to you, sir. But I didn’t know who you were; I thought you were a retain—’

There young Sune almost bit off his tongue, when too late he realized that instead of smoothing things over he was now making them worse. Imagine, calling Arn Magnusson a retainer!

‘You said nothing ignorant, kinsman,’ Arn replied gravely. ‘What you said about knights was not wrong, although possibly somewhat too brief. But remember that you are a Folkung speaking to another Folkung, so stand up and look me in the eye!’

Sune at once did as he was told, and when he saw the scarred face of the warrior at close range he was amazed that Sir Arn’s eyes were so gentle.

‘You said that you wanted to be a knight. Do you stand by your word?’ Arn asked.

‘Yes, Sir Arn, that dream is dearer to me than life itself!’ said Sune Folkesson with such emotion that Arn had a hard time keeping a straight face.

‘Well then,’ said Arn, passing his hand over his eyes, ‘in that case I’m afraid that you’ll be a knight with much too short a life, and we have little use for such men. But here is my offer to you. Stay here at Forsvik with me as your new foster father and teacher, and I shall turn you into a knight. That offer also applies to your foster brother Sigfrid. I will speak to your father about this. Sleep on it overnight. Pray to Our Lady, or Saint Örjan, for guidance, and give me your answer in the morning.’

‘I can give you my answer right now, Sir Arn!’ young Sune Folkesson declared.

But Arn raised his index finger in warning.

‘I told you to answer tomorrow after spending a night in prayer, yet you do not listen. To obey and to pray are the first things someone who wants to be a knight must learn.’

Arn gave the youth a look of feigned sternness, and he bowed at once and moved backward, bowing once more before he turned and rushed like an arrow back to his brothers at the end of the table. With a smile Arn saw out of the corner of his eye how they began talking excitedly.

Our Lady was indeed helping him in everything she had told him to do, he thought. He had already recruited his first two disciples.

He prayed that Our Lady would also stand by him at the greatest of all moments, which was now inconceivably near at hand, less than a night and a day away.

In the middle of the king’s island of Visingsö, only a stone’s throw from the horse path between the castle of Näs in the
south and the boat harbours in the north, the loveliest of lilies grew, both blue and yellow, like the colours of the Erik clan. Only Queen Cecilia Blanca was allowed to harvest this gift of God, under strict penalty of whipping or worse for anyone who dared take any for himself.

The queen was now riding there with her dearest friend in life, Cecilia Rosa, as she was always called in the king’s castle rather than Cecilia Algotsdotter. At some distance behind them rode two castle maidservants. They needed no retainers with them since there had been peace in the kingdom longer than anyone cared to remember, and there were only the king’s people on Visingsö.

But neither of the dear friends was particularly interested in lilies on this summer day. As both of them knew more about the struggle for power than most men in the kingdom did, they had important questions to discuss. What the two of them decided could determine whether there would be war or peace in the kingdom. They had that power, and they both knew it. The next day, when the archbishop arrived with his episcopal retinue to meet with the king’s council, the decision would be announced.

The women dismounted next to the road some distance from the field of lilies, tied their horses, and sat down on some flat slabs of stone with heathen runic inscriptions that had been dragged out there to serve as the queen’s resting place. Cecilia Blanca waved away the two castle maidens and pointed sternly over towards the lilies.

For the longest time, Cecilia Rosa had held off the jarl’s importunate and, in recent years, more and more brusque demands. Birger Brosa wanted her to take her vows and enter his convent at Riseberga to become abbess. The moment she took the vows, he assured her, she would become the one who ruled Riseberga, both in spiritual and business matters.

The bishops would agree, and the new abbé at Varnhem, Father Guillaume, who now held authority over Riseberga, would quickly accede. Father Guillaume was a man who allowed himself to see the will of God if at the same time he saw gold and new green forests.

That was how things now stood. If she took her vows she would become abbess of Riseberga at once. But the jarl’s intentions were in truth not of the pious sort. It was a matter of power, and it was a matter of war or peace. With ever greater obstinacy in recent years, Birger Brosa had harped on his idea that an abbess’s oath was just as good as another abbess’s confession and testament.

The evil Mother Rikissa, who for so many years had tormented both Cecilia Blanca and Cecilia Rosa at Gudhem, had borne false witness on her deathbed. In her confession she had sworn that Cecilia Blanca had taken the vows during one of her last years at Gudhem.

If true, it meant that all of King Knut Eriksson’s children had been born illegitimately. His eldest son Erik would be prevented from inheriting the crown if this lie were believed.

If Cecilia Rosa were now promoted to abbess, she could deliver an oath stating that the queen had never taken the vows but had served only as the other lay sisters at Gudhem had done. This would unravel the whole knot. And that was precisely Birger Brosa’s idea.

The jarl did not lack good reasons for his demand. Cecilia Rosa had not been able to go to the bridal bed with Arn Magnusson as had been both intended and promised, but instead had effectively been sentenced to twenty years of penance. Yet the jarl had never abandoned her. He had taken her son Magnus, who was born out of wedlock at Gudhem, as his own, first as a son, later as a younger brother. Magnus had been raised at Bjälbo and was also brought into the clan at the
ting.
In addition the jarl had done much to alleviate
Cecilia Rosa’s torments under Rikissa. He had supported and aided her as if she, like her son, had been accepted into the Folkung clan, although she had been merely a poor penitent. It was now time for her to repay that debt.