The Road To Jerusalem (39 page)

Magnus was now the esteemed father to a son who had vanquished Emund Ulvbane himself in single combat and brought immeasurable honor to his father’s house and clan. Eskil felt equally pleased that his once defamed brother had now become the most talked-about man, and that all shadows between father and sons had been thereby chased away. Arn felt as though he, the prodigal son, was only now returning. Erika Joarsdotter was met with deep respect and lovely words from every direction. The oven-roasted venison ribs with Welsh spices and the small wild pigs with honey that she now was able to set forth with the house’s best ale and mead aroused such loud cries of admiration and amazement from all the guests that they said “
skal
” to Magnus time after time to praise his good fortune at having found such a wife. None of the guests gave the least sign that they thought Erika’s speech was muddled.

Knut Eriksson could not have received a warmer welcome at this estate, which for the sake of his plans he regarded as the most important in all of Western Gotaland at the moment. He too felt great joy and relief at this visit.

When no one could possibly eat any more, though the ale still flowed, the talk turned to what all knew would come under discussion sooner or later, namely the battle at Axevalla
landsting
.

Arn was embarrassed and laconic on this topic of conversation, saying that he had merely defeated a lout with a useless sword and worse training, and thus there was little to recount. But Knut then asked to see the sword, at least, and whatever the son of a king and the guest of honor requested was done immediately. House thralls quickly returned with the sword, holding it outstretched.

In astonishment Knut drew the blade from its scabbard, at first weighing it in his hand. Then he went out on the floor and gave it a few tentative swings through the air, and it was plain to see that he had held a sword in his hand before. But he found the sword too light and too fragile, just as he had heard from the rumors, and he asked Arn to explain.

Arn objected that swords had little place at a banquet table with tankards of ale. But then he noticed Erika Joarsdotter’s rosy, flushed face as she insisted that he show them all and explain, and so he obeyed at once.

He went over to Knut standing in the middle of the floor and asked permission to draw his friend’s sword from the scabbard. He then weighed it in his hand.

“You have a heavy and beautifully decorated Norwegian sword, my dearest childhood friend,” he said, swinging the sword thoughtfully through the air. “If you strike well then someone’s helmet might not withstand it, but look here!”

He raised the sword as if to slam the flat of the blade in the middle of the fireplace, which would have snapped the sword in two. Knut shouted in horror. Arn checked his swing as if surprised, but then he laughed and respectfully handed over Knut’s sword with care, saying that he naturally would never have damaged the sword with which a kingdom might be conquered.

But then he took his own sword from Knut, raised it, and slammed the flat of the blade with full force down onto the stone, and nothing happened except everyone heard the resounding ring of steel in the room.

“There you see the difference, my friend Knut,” he taunted as he bent his sword at the tip several times. “Our Nordic swords are made of hard iron and can break; they are also heavy to wield. The sword I have is pliable at the top third near the tip; it will not break, and it is easy to swing.”

What he said aroused wonder but not suspicion. Knut asked to exchange a few blows with Arn and drew his sword. Arn obediently raised his. As if to make a proper show of it, Arn parried Knut’s blows a few times in the air, diminishing the power of the heavy sword with the light sword’s flexibility. This enabled Arn to stand still and apparently not exert himself in the least while Knut had to use a great deal of strength for each blow without any effect. Finally Arn abruptly turned his wrist as he parried so that Knut’s blow slipped down to the floor and he tumbled after. The Norwegian kinsmen in particular found this highly amusing.

But Knut got up more amazed than angry and went over to Arn to embrace his friend. He said that all the saints must see to it that their swords were always on the same side, for he would never want Arn as his adversary.

To this eloquence, these good words, and the ability to hold one’s ale they now all drank together and with great emotion. They all felt that they were kinsmen in more than blood.

A moment later Erika Joarsdotter got up to bid everyone goodnight. Eskil came over to her and offered his praise and thanks as he wished that she might sleep well. He had never done that before, and she felt as if long-frozen ice had finally melted as it does in late spring.

When Arn came to bid her good night she giggled happily and said she doubted whether anyone had ever received so much praise for someone else’s cooking. Arn brushed off her remark and said that it was the cooking of the house that the guests had enjoyed, and that both of them had worked hard together to accomplish this. He added with a wink that it ought to remain their secret, for otherwise the rams from the North might once again find him unmanly. With that they parted with great love between stepmother and son.

Eskil now found occasion to make changes in the feast arrangements. Those who still had room for ale and mead could come up to one of his tower rooms over the courtyard; it was cold but soon the house thralls would bring in braziers. Then those who wished to sleep without noise in their ears could do so, and those who wanted to make noise could do that without bothering the mistress.

All the young men chose the tower room. Magnus found it wise to bid them good night.

Up in the tower room it was cold at first before the braziers were brought in, but the cold outside in the courtyard may have contributed as well, for by the time the young men were ready to resume their carousing the mood had changed.

In his cups Knut began to talk disingenuously about how it was actually ill advised that Arn had spared the life of Emund the king-killer. Although in another way it was also good that Arn had acted as he did, Knut hastened to assure them, for Emund was now the butt of eternal ridicule and was called Emund OneHand instead of Ulvbane. But a king-killer did not deserve to live, and as his father’s son Knut would have to finish off what Arn had not completed.

Arn blanched at these words and had nothing to say. Nor did he need to, since Eskil jumped into the conversation, but in a way that no one expected.

First Eskil affirmed that he understood full well Knut’s intent, and he personally had nothing against it. Yet there was a minor vexation with this plan that as good kinsmen they perhaps could resolve.

He went and fetched a parchment map, rolling it out on one of the tables. Then he brought candles over and asked everyone to come and look. They gathered round him in curiosity.

Eskil first put his finger on Arnas and followed the river Tidan over to the
ting
site Askeberga to the east, and then he stopped at Forsvik on the bank of Lake Vattern, which was the main estate of Emund Ulvbane, or One-Hand, he corrected himself.

“Look now and consider this,” he said, circling Emund’s lands with his finger. “Here Emund now sits at Forsvik, alone in an enemy land and with one hand cut off. That can’t give him much joy or feeling of security. From the puppy Boleslav he can expect no help, and it will probably be a long time before Karl Sverkersson shows his snout here in Western Gotaland. Look now! If we at Arnas can buy Emund’s lands, then we will own all the land between the lakes of Vanern and Vattern. We will have all roads and all trade in our hands. It would be a great step forward.”

Eskil looked as if he thought everyone had understood what he was talking about, but that was not true. Knut replied gloomily that the one matter really had nothing to do with the other.

Then Eskil cloaked his objections in well-chosen phrases, suggesting that perhaps they could take care of this matter first, before they gave the king-killer what was coming to him. Otherwise his property would be passed down within the same enemy clan. But as things now stood, Eskil almost whispered, Emund would probably not oppose the idea of moving to more secure ground, and they might offer him quite a low price for Forsvik. That shouldn’t be an excessively difficult negotiation.

Now two of Knut’s Norwegian retainers named Geir Erlendsen and Elling the Strong, which he was called not without reason, burst out in thunderous laughter because they had understood the entire plan. Soon everyone in the room was laughing so hard the tears came; all except Arn, who had no idea what was so amusing.

They all merrily drank a
skal
to Eskil for his brilliant idea and promised as good kinsmen to see to it that this matter was attended to at once in the best way possible.

“Seldom have you, kinsman Eskil, had such a simple proposal to put to anyone,” snorted Geir Erlendsen into his ale. “I do believe that Emund One-Hand will find it hard to say no to your offer, even if it’s a low price. Then you can confidently leave the rest to us and it may well be that you’ll end up getting back a good portion of your silver besides!”

“As sure as I am your leader and your future king, I swear that so shall we honor good kinsmen!” Knut Eriksson declared, and once again they all laughed with boisterous glee. Arn still understood nothing of the business that had just been concluded.

Before the hour grew too late, and since it would be a hard

ride through the snow the next day, the Norwegian kinsman Eyvind Jonsson suggested that it was time to hear the bard tell of ancestors and kinsmen and such sagas that bolstered the spirit. The bard, whose name was Orm Rognvaldsen, then stepped forward but waited until everyone had refilled their tankards of ale. Then he sat down and made himself comfortable before he began. The West Gothic kinsmen were surely expecting stories of expeditions to the west, since these sagas were the favorites of all men. But what the bard began to recount was an entirely new saga, and it went like this:

It was at Ascension Day and many portents had been
seen in the clouds. When Holy Saint Erik on this day took
part in the high mass in the Holy Trinity Church on what
was called the Lord’s Hill in Ostra Aros, a message was
delivered to him by one of his men. The enemy was approaching the town, according to the message, and preparations must be made without delay to meet the foe with
an armed troop. It is said that he replied: “Let me hear this
great holy day mass to the end in peace. I trust sincerely in
the Lord, and that we in some other place shall solemnly
be allowed to hear what remains of His worship service.”
After these words he commended himself to God, crossed
himself, and went out of the church to arm himself and
his men. Despite their small number he proceeded bravely
with them to meet the enemy.

The enemy joined them in battle, directing most of their
forces against the king. When the enemy succeeded in felling the Lord’s anointed king to the ground, they gave him
wound upon wound. Soon he lay there half dead, but then
they did even crueler things and subjected him to scorn
and derision. With mocking words Emund Ulvbane, who
was Karl Sverkersson’s hired man, stepped forward and
hacked off his venerable head, without respect and from
the front. Then Holy Saint Erik went victorious from war
to peace, and blessedly exchanged his earthly realm for the
kingdom of Heaven. But at the place where his head fell
a clear spring burst forth, and it runs to this day and is
called Saint Erik’s spring. Its waters have brought about
many miracles. So Holy Saint Erik lives today and for all
time among us.

When the bard Orm Rognvaldsen finished his saga there was utter silence, with not even the sound of tankards being pounded on the table to call for more of the same. Instead Knut asked Arn to say a prayer for his father’s eternal salvation, and to lend it more power by saying it in church language. Arn did so, but he was still shaken by sorrow and a feeling that resembled anger at what he had heard.

This was what Knut Eriksson had hired the skald Orm to recite at each and every house that they visited. Knut’s intention was that no man in the land would be able to escape knowing this story.

The next day they had great success with the wolf hunt at Arnas and shot eight animals. There was nothing better than wolf pelts in the winter.

That year a great mass was to be held early on Christmas morning at Husaby Church, which was the king’s church. But no king would show himself there, for the West Goths had defended themselves against all such. But Judge Karle would be coming to Husaby, as the most distinguished man in Western Gotaland. And that was why the Folkungs would be celebrating their early Christmas mass in Husaby and not at their own church in Forshem.

But some days in advance a message came to Arnas with a pupil sent by the priest in Forshem. He in turn had received an inquiry from the royal priest in Husaby which he himself had provoked by bragging about how good the choir singers were at his masses. Now the question was whether Arn could come a few days early to Husaby to practice with the choir so that the Christmas mass would benefit from his skill. Arn found this to be a Christian proposal that he could not refuse; he put aside his trowel and at once prepared to ride to Husaby. Magnus wanted to send retainers with him since Arn was now a man whose death would secure great renown for anyone who managed to kill him; he was also a man whose death would gladden the followers of the Sverkers. But Arn refused all such protection, declaring that on horseback and in daylight no one would dare attack him, at least not if he was allowed to ride his own miserable monk horse, he added with a laugh.

These days Magnus could also laugh at this matter, since he had realized that he was as wrong about Arn’s horse as about his sword. Arn set off at dawn the next day, well armed and well wrapped in wolfskins, with church clothing in his saddlebags. There was a biting cold, but he set a good pace so that both he and Shimal kept warm without sweating, and he reached Husaby church and presbytery by noon. As soon as he had stabled Shimal and drunk a little welcome ale and broken bread with the priest’s wife as custom required, he went to the church, which was the largest in Western Gotaland after the cathedral in Skara. It had a huge tower on the west side which was built further back in time than anyone could remember.