The Road To Jerusalem (38 page)

Yet his decision aroused both doubt and discontent when Birger Brosa again entered the tent with the already grieving kinsmen and explained that Arn was the man who should fight Emund Ulvbane. This choice should be justified by proclaim ing that Arn was the one who had been most wronged, in that Emund had not merely called him a bitch puppy but also directed scorn at the house of God where Arn had been raised.

Magnus objected with the greatest anguish. For at the same time he saw his life now saved, the life from which he had already begun to take his leave, he also saw that he would lose a son. And he worried that to many it would look bad if a man did not dare take up his own obligation but instead sent a less than full-grown son to the slaughter. He had a hard time taking seriously Arn’s modest protestations that it was still wisest to send into single combat the one who could best handle a sword.

Puzzled, Joar Jedvardsson now left the Folkungs to themselves for the night, along with the four retainers. They all looked quite bewildered when with downcast eyes they said farewell and God bless to young Arn, who still had down on his cheeks.

When the Folkungs were left alone, Magnus suggested that they pray for as long as they could that night. Arn found this to be a good idea, but he perplexed them all when he began to pray for Emund Ulvbane’s life, his sin, and his pride.

At dawn on the morning that everyone in Western Gotaland would remember in times to come and about which many sagas would be told, almost as many men gathered as were at the
ting
. They gathered at the place that was called Three Roads Meet. It was three arrow-shots from the
ting
site, and that marked the boundary for the peace of the
ting
. Few had gone home the night before, even though business had been concluded, because few men wanted to miss seeing with their own eyes the fight that could be the cause of war.

No one among the Folkungs and none from the Erik clan had

left for home, for together they had to show the king’s men that he who killed a kinsman directed a blow against them all. Also, it was even more important to stand by the man whose life would be ended for the sake of honor. A man must stand by his kinsmen from birth until death, and now was the hour of death.

From the west the Folkungs and the Erik clan approached, all of them silent and solemn. From the east came the king’s men and kinsmen with cheerful laughter and scornful talk, since they knew that victory was theirs, no matter how things turned out. If Magnus Folkesson chose to save his life by not coming, the king’s men would be victorious because the Folkungs would be disgraced. And if Magnus Folkesson met Emund Ulvbane in battle, victory was equally assured but would be more entertaining to watch.

Foremost among the Folkungs came Birger Brosa, Magnus Folkesson, and his two sons, all wrapped in their thick blue mantles lined with marten fur, all wearing helmets and carrying the lion shield of the Folkungs on their left arm. Now the four took up position in front of their silent kinsmen and waited. Emund and his retinue deliberately arrived late.

The weather was cold, and the sun about to rise, coloring the sky red as blood behind the king’s men. It would be a good day to die, everyone thought, as with an impatient murmur they flocked around and waited for the sun’s first rays to break forth. That was the hour when the battle would be joined.

And when the sun’s glowing rim was first seen, an inciting war cry rose from the king’s side, and Emund Ulvbane threw off his mantle, drew his heavy sword, and walked with long, mighty strides out to the middle of the battlefield.

But what happened next no one could have imagined. The smaller of Magnus Folkesson’s sons, the one they called the monk boy or the nun, now cast off his mantle, took off his helmet and his scabbard, drew his long, fragile sword and kissed it as he uttered an oath that no one could hear. Then he crossed himself and walked slowly but without hesitation toward Emund.

At first there was a great silence among the thousand men gathered, then a growing murmur of displeasure. Now all could see that the monk boy was not even wearing chain mail, so that the slightest blow could smite him dead to the ground. His helmet he had also left behind.

For Emund Ulvbane this was a raw affront since now they were trying to force him to quit the fight or without much honor slay a defenseless monk boy. That was what everyone must have thought. All the Folkungs realized it as well, and they were just as surprised as the king’s men to see young Arn walk into single combat to the death instead of his father. It was a foolish and risky undertaking, for no one thought that Emund Ulvbane was a man to show mercy or walk away from a fight when victory was certain. But there was courage in that boy who was risking his own life to save his father’s and the honor of his clan, and so thought the king’s men as well.

But Emund Ulvbane would not let himself be trapped. Instead he decided to put a quick and humiliating end to the battle which this insult from the Folkungs deserved, and he now ran with great determination toward Arn with his sword raised, ready to sever the boy’s head at once.

But Emund Ulvbane promptly found himself on the ground; he must have struck too eagerly at his opponent’s head and thus badly missed his target. Yet the boy did not have the wit to exploit the God-given opportunity. He stood quite still, waiting for the raging royal giant to get up and attack again.

Three times Emund now struck at his opponent, who effortlessly and always moving in a circle avoided his sword without even parrying it with his own. Those who were standing far off and could not see clearly thought at first that Emund was toying cruelly with him, as a cat does with a mouse. But those who stood close saw clearly that that was not at all what happened.

From the Folkungs and the Erik clan now rose scattered laughter, and soon the battlefield thundered with laughter which washed like scorn over Emund Ulvbane, who despite all his furious efforts could only slice big holes in the air.

Arn already felt confident, for even though his opponent was big and rough, he wasn’t as big as Brother Guilbert and not a tenth as skilled with a sword. The most important thing now was to spare Emund’s life, not to be affected by pride, and soon, when Emund’s panting got heavier and closer, to go on the attack. Arn was pleased that despite all good advice and the attempts to talk him out of it he had stood by his decision not to wear chain mail or a helmet. If he were going to win without killing he had to be able to move quickly, and he had to have good vision at every instant, for the slightest mistake would mean his death.

When Arn suddenly began to defend himself, Emund had already grown so sluggish in his movements that everyone could see it. And Arn made him even wearier by beginning to meet his opponent’s blows with his sword or his shield, although always at an angle so that he deflected Emund’s blows to the ground. Time after time sparks flew from Emund’s heavy sword as he struck stone. Arn pretended to parry these blows straight on, but each time turned his wrist so that Emund’s blows slipped past, and he didn’t need to test this method long before Emund once again fell to the ground from his own weight and strength. Then Arn rushed up and pointed the tip of his sword at Emund’s throat and spoke to him for the first time. Emund was on his knees, panting mightily, and it looked as though it was his final moment.

The two combatants were out in the middle of the battlefield, too far from all the shouting men for anyone to hear what was said between them. But one thing could be surmised, that the man who some called monk boy had offered Emund a chance to save his own skin if he surrendered, handing over his sword. Instead Emund suddenly threw himself back, away from the threatening tip of the sword, and stood up. So the battle was on again.

But now even the king’s men realized what was happening and what they at first could neither see nor understand. The Folkung that Emund had insulted as a bitch puppy and nun was utterly superior to him, and it was no miracle or sorcery or accident, for they watched for too long for their eyes to have been deceived. Experienced warriors who stood close to other skilled warrior combatants began to describe what they were seeing, as they tried to understand and follow along in their minds what Arn was doing with his sword. They were already agreed that Arn’s skill was great and that Emund had met his match. From the Folkung side the taunts began to grow louder, hurled toward the defeated man, and from the king’s side scattered shouts were heard for Emund to surrender and hand over his shield. All had seen that his life had been spared several times over.

But Emund Ulvbane valued his honor higher than yielding to some puppy, and he had been in battle so many times that he was well aware that even hopeless defeats could suddenly turn without any miracle involved. But as he continued to fight he grew more cautious and began to move so as to save his strength.

At first Arn was somewhat confused by this and realized that now he could not win by causing Emund to surrender. That would have been the sensible thing to do when Emund noticed that his blows never hit home, and he should have begun to realize that Arn could strike him whenever he pleased. Arn felt that he had to think very clearly and not be affected by pride, no matter how defenseless Emund seemed. With great resolve he laid his shield on the ground to tempt Emund into new wild attacks that would sap him of all his strength.

A murmur of dismay spread across the battlefield when everyone saw that Arn had laid down his shield and shifted his sword to the wrong hand, for now Emund’s chance to strike with one of his mortal blows was twice as great as before. And Emund took the bait. Reinvigorated, he attacked in both desperation and rage. Arn, who was now circling constantly in the wrong direction to Emund, had more opportunities to strike at his adversary’s head or neck. Many saw this, though no one understood why he held back.

But Arn had a special plan. He had his eyes fixed not on Emund’s head or neck but on his right wrist, where the Nordic chain mail offered no protection. The longer he circled around Emund, the more often that weak spot appeared, but he waited until he saw it openly displayed. Then he struck for the first time with all his might.

A gasp of horror passed through the thousand men gathered there when they saw Emund’s great sword fly through the air with his right hand still gripping the hilt.

Emund dropped silently to his knees, tossed away his shield, and grabbed his severed wrist with his left hand to stanch the spurting blood.

Arn went up to him and pointed his sword at his throat, and everyone waited in abrupt silence for the mortal blow that was Arn’s legal right.

Instead Arn picked up Emund’s red shield with the black griffin head, turned his back to Emund, and picked up his own shield. Then he walked over to his father and handed him Emund’s shield.

Some of the men who served Boleslav, the king’s brother, hurried to Emund and carried him quickly out of sight.

With tears of pride and relief Magnus Folkesson triumphantly raised the conquered red shield to the sky, and the Folkungs drew their swords and beat on their shields so that a great battle noise erupted.

No man who was there would ever forget that day. And those who were not there would hear so many tell about it that they might as well have been present too.

Like a stormy wind in the fall, Knut Eriksson, the aspirant to be king, came back from Norway to Western Gotaland. First he rode to see his father’s brother, Joar Jedvardsson, and celebrated Advent in the church at Eriksberg, offering prayers of thanksgiving for his return. But after that he had many kinsmen to visit and could say if nothing else that he came for the hunt. It had turned into a bitterly cold wolf winter in Western Gotaland, when the snow was not too high for horses or plodding thralls but hindered the fleeing wolves. In such a winter the custom was for daring young hunters to ride from one estate to another to hunt for wolves. But besides the hunt there was a good deal to talk about concerning the victory of the Folkungs and the Erik clan at the
landsting
in Axevalla. And Knut had much to say about this and many ideas that he now wanted to sow to make it easier to reap when the time was ripe.

Knut’s first and most important destination on this wolf expedition around the country was Arnas. By the time he and his men arrived they were expected, since he had sent outriders the day before. Magnus had already sent Svarte and Kol with all the thralls available up to the forests north of Arnas to encircle wolves where there were good hunting grounds.

They were rollicking, strong young men, and half were Norwegians who now with thundering hooves rode into the castle courtyard to be met immediately by house thralls running out to take their horses. With an agile leap Knut Eriksson was first out of the saddle, and he walked toward his host Magnus with his arms outspread. But the second person he embraced was Arn. He took the young man by the shoulders and shook him like a faithful friend, saying that this was in truth an especially dear meeting, for it was with Arn, and Arn above all, that he shared one of his strongest memories from his childhood. Arn at first didn’t understand what that might be, but then Knut with great merriment reminded him of the time when the two of them sneaked into the very longhouse where they now stood to hear the Norse bard that Knut’s father, Holy Saint Erik, had brought along. Then both of them had been pissed on by no less than a king and a saint.

Now Arn remembered and said that this was indeed a vivid memory, but it was also an event that was considerably better to remember than it was at the time. They both laughed loudly at this, and it was as if two friends had found each other after many years. With his arm around Arn’s shoulder, Knut went into the longhouse as the foremost guest. The two young men had begun talking loudly and both at once, which prompted great amusement since one sounded like a Norseman and the other like a Dane.

It then felt as though God’s blessing shone down upon this visit, for things had never been better at Arnas. Nor had there ever been as much joy in the same place at the same time.