The Road To Jerusalem (9 page)

The weather was pleasant, with sunshine and no wind, and the temperature was just warm enough for a few drips to fall from the roof, so the sleigh ride was comfortable on the newly blazed path. Magnus could hear how the boys, well ensconced in their grandfather’s huge wolf-skin pelt, were shouting and laughing in the back of the sleigh as it lurched in the tracks. He urged on his two powerful sorrel horses to run faster, because he enjoyed hearing happy little boys squeal. He also allowed himself this diversion because he had a sense of foreboding, although he couldn’t say why. But he had left half his retainers back home, something that the men grumbled about because after the long winter months in isolation at Arnas they would have liked the chance to swagger a bit for whoever was on the church green. It was there their hearts lay, rather than inside the church listening to God’s word like Christian folk.

When the sleigh party from Arnas drove up onto the church green, what Magnus saw reinforced his premonitions. People were standing about in small groups, talking in low voices, and they hadn’t mixed together as was the custom; each group stood near their own clan, and many of the men were wearing chain mail underneath their cloaks, garb that was worn only in uneasy times. The church would be full, because all the neighbors from the south and all those from the west and Husaby had come. But from the east there were no other neighbors beside his own stewards, and they stood off by themselves, huddling together as if they had not yet learned how to behave like free men. Normally Magnus would have sought them out and spoken with them about the weather in a loud voice, but now was not the time for such solicitude. When Sigrid and the boys climbed down from the sleigh he left all care of the horses to his house thralls and strode with his family over to the most favor ably disposed neighbors, the Pal clan from Husaby, to find out what had happened.

King Sverker had been assassinated on his way to the morning service on Christmas Day at Tollstad church, and he had already been buried next to his wife Ulvhild in Alvastra. The outlaw who did it was known, King Sverker’s own steward and stableman from Husaby. The fellow had already fled, presumably to Denmark.

But the big question was not who had wielded the sword, but who had stood behind it. Some thought that it must be Erik Jedvardsson, who was now up in Ostra Aros with the Swedes, and who according to rumor had already been elected king of the Swedes at Mora Stones. Others thought that the instigator had to be sought in Denmark, that it was Magnus Henriksen who was now laying claim to the royal crown.

In Linkoping, Karl Sverkersson had proclaimed himself king and called a
landsting
to confirm the fact. So now the question was who would be elected king of Western Gotaland: Karl Sverkersson or Erik Jedvardsson. But the matter would not likely be resolved quietly or peacefully.

When the church bells rang for mass, all gossip ceased and the people streamed into God’s house to quell their unrest, console themselves with the Gospel, or cool their excitement with holy song. But some, like Magnus, stood lost in other thoughts, unable to cleanse themselves of all worldly things, as was the intention. Yet it was conceivable that most men of noble lineage and armorial bearings secretly shared Magnus’s worry: that this might be the last time they stood as friends beneath the same church roof. Only God could know what the future would bring and which clans would be set against each other. Not since King Sverker took the royal crown, back when Magnus was only a boy, had the Goths been forced to make war against one another. But now that time was not far off.

When the mass was over, Magnus was so deeply lost in thought that he didn’t notice it was time to go until Sigrid gave him a light poke in the side. But by then he had decided precisely what he should and should not say.

Lengthy discussions followed amongst the men, while the women and children grew more and more impatient as they waited in the sleighs, freezing. And Magnus chose his words well. He admitted that Erik Jedvardsson had visited Arnas just before the murder, but he pointed out that Erik’s wife Kristina had stirred up a lot of trouble with her dispute over Varnhem. So his clan was both for and against Erik Jedvardsson.

He also admitted that Sigrid had been very close to King Sverker, but that the king did not look upon his own Norwegian mother’s clan with tender eyes. So his lineage was both for and against the Sverker clan.

Others took a clearer position, most of them in favor of the Sverker clan, as it turned out, but Magnus did not want to bind himself or point to any of those present as his future enemy. That would be unwise no matter what happened. The enemies that God would give to a man would have to be faced sooner or later with the sword, regardless of what a man said on the spur of the moment in front of the church.

But his expression was dark and gloomy on the way home, and as they were nearing Arnas he gazed about restlessly, as if he already expected the estate to be under siege, although the snow still protected Arnas from any assaults by soldiers from the north and east.

When they arrived home Magnus called for more wood to be brought to the forges and he had them fired up. He summoned all the smithy thralls and set them to work at the bellows and anvil to forge arrowheads and spear points, as many as they could make. They had plenty of raw iron at Arnas, but it was unsuited for making swords.

The very next day Magnus outfitted two heavy sleighs to travel to Lodose and acquire the provisions that would be necessary for the coming war.

But the winter only slowly loosened its grip over Arnas, and no news was heard of armies being mobilized in either Eastern Gotaland or in Svealand. Magnus fell into a better humor and converted the work in the smithies and carpenters’ shops to more everyday purposes. Sigrid had also calmed him with the idea that Arnas would hardly be the first place the war would strike. If Erik Jedvardsson was now declared king of the Swedes, and Karl Sverkersson king of Eastern Gotaland, then those two ought to fight it out amongst themselves. Here in Western Gotaland the most important thing was to swear allegiance to the victor afterward.

Magnus half agreed with her. But he thought it equally likely that one of them would turn first to Western Gotaland to acquire yet another of the three crowns that Erik Jedvardsson said he wanted to possess. And then a decision would have to be made. Would Erik Jedvardsson be the first to make such a demand? Or would it be Karl Sverkersson? Both possibilities were wide open.

Sigrid believed that in any case they could not affect the situation by sitting at Arnas and speculating as they drank ale late into the night. Sooner or later everything would be made clear. Then, and only then, would it be time to decide. Magnus was content with that plan for the time being.

But when the icicles had been dripping from the roofs for a week and the ice on the lake had begun to thaw, a misfortune befell Arnas that was considerably greater than the one that would have occurred if either of the two kings had come to visit and demanded an oath of allegiance.

Eskil and Arn were now more subdued and disciplined since lay brother Erlend had returned to Arnas just after Blasiusmas on February 3rd. From dawn to dusk they were kept in a corner of the hall in the longhouse, close to the fireplaces, where lay brother Erlend hammered knowledge into their reluctant little minds. Both boys found their work tedious, because the texts Erlend had brought back from Varnhem were few in number and dealt with things that held no interest for little boys or even grown men in Western Gotaland. They contained mostly various philosophical dissertations on the elements and physics. Yet the work was not intended merely to teach them philosophy, for they were far too young for that; it was meant to torment them with Latin grammar. Without grammar there was no learning at all; without grammar the world would be closed to all understanding, as Erlend constantly repeated. And with a sigh the boys would once again obediently bend their heads over the texts.

Now it’s true that lay brother Erlend did not complain. But he too could have imagined a more important demonstration of his calling from God, or at least a more pleasant task, than trying to pound knowledge into the reluctant minds of small boys. But he would never dream of questioning the orders of Father Henri. And, as he sometimes told himself gloomily, perhaps this assignment was merely a difficult test that he had to endure, or a continued punishment for the sins he had committed in his earthly life before he had heard the call.

But the day of rest was sanctified, even for boys who worked only with Latin. And on the Sabbath the two dashed out after morning prayers and vanished from sight like soaped squirrels. Magnus and Sigrid had agreed to leave them alone, and they preferred not to know what the boys did outside the quiet and meditation that the day of rest required in accordance with God’s commandment.

The thrall boy Kol had a tame jackdaw that he carried around on his shoulder wherever he went, and he had promised Eskil and Arn that together they would catch new baby jackdaws as soon as this year’s brood was big enough in early summer to pluck baby birds from their nests up in the tower.

Now they had snuck up to see how many nests there were, and if there were already eggs. There were no eggs yet, but they saw that the jackdaws had begun to weave their nests for the year, and that was promising.

Eskil had asked to borrow the jackdaw from Kol and let it sit on his shoulder, and Kol of course agreed, although he pointed out that the bird might be a bit more standoffish with strangers than it was with him.

And just as Kol feared, the jackdaw suddenly left Eskil’s shoulder and flew off to perch far out on the parapet. Eskil didn’t dare do anything about the matter, because he was afraid of heights. Kol didn’t dare do anything because he was afraid of scaring the bird into flying off somewhere between heaven and earth. But Arn crawled cautiously along the parapet to catch hold of the string that was tied around one of the bird’s legs. He couldn’t reach it and had to climb up into the icy arrow slit, stand on tiptoe, and stretch out his hand as far as he could. When he reached the string and gingerly grabbed it, the jackdaw lifted off with a shriek, and Arn was dragged along as the bird plummeted. To the other terrified boys it seemed an eternity before they heard a dull thump down below as Arn struck the ground.

Soon Arnas was resounding with shouts and wails as Arn, unconscious, was carefully carried off on a stretcher to the cookhouse. By the time they laid him down, they saw that all hope was gone. Arn lay completely pale and still and he wasn’t breathing.

When Sigrid came running from the longhouse, she was at first beside herself, as any mother would have been at the news that a son had fallen and been knocked senseless. But when she saw that it was Arn lying there, she stopped short and fell silent, and her face was filled with doubt. She thought that what she was seeing couldn’t be true. Arn couldn’t possibly die so young; she had been convinced of that ever since the moment he was born, with the caul of victory.

But lifeless he lay, pale, not breathing.

When Magnus a moment later sank to his knees beside her, he already knew that all hope was gone. In despair he waved everyone out of the room except for lay brother Erlend, since he didn’t want to show his tears to thralls and housefolk.

To pray any longer for Arn’s life seemed meaningless; rather, Magnus admonished them to pray for forgiveness of the sins that had unquestionably drawn God’s punishment upon them. Erlend did not dare venture an opinion in the matter.

With tears streaming down her face, Sigrid appealed to them both not to give up hope but to pray for a miracle. And they silently acquiesced, since miracles could happen, and nothing was certain until they had at least tried to pray for it.

Magnus suggested that they direct their prayers to Our Lady, since she had clearly had the most to do with the birth of the boys.

But Sigrid felt inside that Our Lady, the Mother of God, had probably lost patience with her by now, and she feverishly pondered for a moment before it struck her that the saint who stood closest to Arn had to be the holy Saint Bernard. He was a brandnew saint; no one really knew anything about his powers in the North.

Lay brother Erlend agreed at once with her suggestion and recited one prayer after another before the kneeling parents. When darkness fell, Arn had still shown no sign of life. But they didn’t give up, even though Magnus on one occasion mumbled that all hope was gone and that now it was more a matter of accepting God’s punishment with sorrow, dignity, and regret.

But Sigrid swore before Saint Bernard and God that if Arn were saved, the boy would be given to do God’s holy work among human beings here on earth. And she repeated her promise and made Magnus repeat it for a third time along with her.

Just as Sigrid felt that the last spark of hope was about to be extinguished in her heart as well, the miracle occurred.

Arn raised himself up on one elbow and looked about in confusion as if he had just awakened from a night’s sleep instead of returning from the realm of the dead. He whimpered something about having such a pain in his other arm that he couldn’t lean on it. But the three adults did not hear him because they were immersed in prayers of thanksgiving, which were no doubt the purest and most sincere prayers they had ever offered to God.

Arn was able to walk, with his mother at his left side, into the warmth of the longhouse, where he was put to bed near the fireplaces by the gable wall. But since he still had pain in his right arm, Sot was summoned and they told her to use only her purest skills and not besmirch the Lord’s miracle with any sorcery or impure healing arts. Sot carefully squeezed Arn’s arm and examined the places that made him squeal the most, which was not easy because Arn wanted to show how brave he was and not admit to the pain while so many people were watching him, his father among them.

But he didn’t fool Sot. She fetched dried nettles and cooked a gruel that she smeared around his arm and wrapped with linen. Then she spoke with Svarte, who went to the carpenters’ shop. He worked for a while and came back with two slightly concave pieces of fir that he measured before vanishing again to finish the work as Sot had directed.