Текст книги "The Road to Jerusalem"
Автор книги: Jan Guillou
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
The laws said that bride-robbers could be struck down if caught in the act. But not an innocent person, because that would be concomitant to murder.
On the one hand, the law was such that if twelve men swore that Arn was innocent and that a miracle had occurred, then Arn would be acquitted at the ting, if the matter went that far. On the other hand, if the families of the dead man, or in the worst case the two dead men, wanted to bring a suit at the ting, then the question would arise as to whether Arn, as he clearly was named, had anyone who could serve as his oath-swearers and who were not foreigners. Did Arn have anyone who could be his oath-swearers, and did he possibly belong to any clan?
"Yes," sighed Father Henri in relief. "The young man does belong to a clan. His name is Arn Magnusson of Arnäs, his father is Magnus Folkesson, and his uncle is Birger Brosa of Bjälbo. Eskil the judge is his kinsman, et cetera, et cetera. The boy thus belongs to the Folkung clan, although I am unsure whether he entirely understands what that means. Of course there would be no problem getting oath-swearers."
"Well, is that so! Praise be to God!" exclaimed Dean Torkel. "I shall hurry to inform the kinsmen that they should not expect success at any ting. This is even better, now they won't have anything against testifying that the account of the miracle is true!"
Despite the fact that the two men of God now seemed to have found a simple solution to a legal problem, they were of much different minds. The dean was so happy he seemed to be hovering a bit above the ground, for his account of the miracle, which he would speak of at great length in the cathedral, had now been saved and would also be recorded in calligraphy on parchment by those who did such things best.
Father Henri, who knew that no miracle had taken place, was relieved that Arn would not be subjected to the harsh and blind justice of Western Götaland. But he grieved for Arn's sake, and he grieved for his own sin, for he now realized that he and Brother Guilbert must share the blame for what had happened.
"Could I receive at once the writing help that this great and important matter deserves?" asked the dean, full of bright enthusiasm.
"Yes, of course, brother," replied Father Henri in a surprisingly deliberate tone. "We shall see to it at once."
Father Henri summoned one of the scribes and explained in French, which he was sure that the uneducated dean did not speak, that he should keep a straight face and keep writing and make no objections, no matter how demented the whole thing might sound.
When the dean, with a youthful bounce to his step and praising the Lord vociferously, was led toward the scriptorium, Father Henri got up with a heavy heart to seek out the unhappy Arn. He knew quite well where he would find him.
Chapter 7
Dean Torkel was a practical man and scrupulous with money, especially his own. His tenant farmer Gunnar of Redeberga had now departed this life most inopportunely in the prime of his life, and without bringing any future farmers into the world. His wedding had also been interrupted in the most distressful way.
After Dean Torkel had recovered from the wondrous aspect of this event—the fact that he had been granted the opportunity to witness a miracle of the Lord with his own eyes—he soon began to ponder the more earthly results of what had happened. He needed a new, industrious tenant farmer for Redeberga; that was the most pressing problem.
Because he was the father confessor of Gunvor, the betrothed and very nearly married young bride, he hadn't been able to avoid forming certain basic notions from what he heard in her confession. She had most assuredly wished that life should leave both herself and her intended husband, for which he imposed only a week of mild penance. But she had also confessed that her sinful wishes were due to a strong liking for another young man whose name was also Gunnar.
This Gunnar of Långavreten, as Dean Torkel soon discovered, was his father's third son. Normally he would not be allowed to marry at all, since that would mean dividing up the Långavreten estate into three plots, each of which would be too small to work profitably. But Gunnar was a healthy young man whose heart was set on working the land rather than moving away to become a retainer for some lord.
Dean Torkel soon summoned the young Gunnar, heard his confession, and then quickly devised a way in which everything could be arranged. The young man was apparently pining for Gunvor as much as she was for him.
It could all work out for the best if the young couple became Dean Torkel's new tenant farmers at Redeberga. Tyrgils of Torbjörntorp, Gunvor's father, may have envisioned a better match for his daughter than as the wife of a third son. But as the situation now stood, she wouldn't be easy to marry off, even as fair as she was, because the story of her terrible bridal ale had quickly traveled throughout Western Götaland. The dean himself had played a significant part in spreading the story, since he was eager to have his account of the miracle mentioned in many sermons. So for the freeholder Tyrgils the safest bet was to marry off his Gunvor as soon as the first opportunity arose.
And for young Gunnar's father, Lars Kopper of Långavreten, it was not a bad idea at all to marry off his third son, and to someone the boy happened to prefer. Both fathers would benefit from the dowry and morning gift in that way. And besides, the young couple would probably not leave their fathers any peace when they realized the opportunity that had now come like manna from heaven.
Dean Torkel had planted the first seed in a sincerely restorative conversation with Gunvor; then he had done the same with Gunnar; and after that it was simple to call in the two fathers, and the matter was soon settled. The betrothal ale could be arranged at once.
At Michaelmas, when the harvest respite began and the fences around the fields no longer needed to be maintained, the betrothal ale was held at Redeberga with the dean himself attending to confirm the vows between Gunvor and Gunnar. He spoke to them at a moment in the festivities when the guests were still sober enough to listen to what a man of God might say, reminding them to honor the miracle of the Lord that had finally, against all earthly rhyme or reason, brought them together.
For Gunvor this was the happiest day of her life. What did it matter that she would live her life in somewhat lesser circumstances than those she was born to? Here she sat in the wicker betrothal chair with her true Gunnar, whom she thought she had lost forever. From the depths of despair she had risen like a lark to heavenly bliss.
After the betrothal ale had gone on for several hours they went out in the courtyard for a while to watch the sunset. They held hands, feeling both trepidation and happiness at the thought that they would now live together, to grow old and die on this farm. The somewhat difficult subject that Gunvor now wanted to discuss was met with no objections from her betrothed, and that eased her mind at once. For she was eternally grateful to the Holy Virgin for saving her from the jaws of misfortune at the last moment. Indeed, she would never forget to mention this in her prayers. So she wanted to give the two sorrel horses they had received as a betrothal gift to the cloister at Varnhem. They would make a journey there to convey their thanks to the young monk who had saved their happiness at the risk of his own life.
Gunnar thought that this was a very good idea, and he praised her for it, offering at once to accompany her to Varnhem to settle this matter.
Their decision would come as a delightful balm to the soul of the young man, who was in no way as small and pitiful as Gunvor remembered him.
Brother Guilbert had been working in the smithy making a sword for six days, laboring as if in a fever or a rage or filled with divine inspiration. Naturally he had as good as ignored most of his other duties, yet Father Henri had not said a word about it. The hammer blows from the smithy resounded constantly at Varnhem, even during some of the prayer hours.
It had been a long time since Brother Guilbert had made a sword according to the new methods, although it would have been unreasonable to sell such things to the Nordic barbarians. They would never have dreamed of paying the full price for such work. Besides, they had no particular need for Damascene swords, since they could scarcely handle their own.
When he made Nordic swords Brother Guilbert began with three types of iron, which he combined by folding the billet over and over and hammering it out again. Through this layering he was able to achieve a certain flexibility, and yet he could polish the blade as shiny and patterned as Nordic men would have it. The better the decoration the finer they considered the sword. Most desirable was a pattern that appeared as a serpent when they breathed on the cold blade. And yet Brother Guilbert still gave the sword a strength that was greater than was usually found in this corner of the world.
But the sword he was working on now, toiling in holy desperation, had possessed from the beginning a single core of hardened steel. The art of transforming iron into steel was not known in the North. Brother Guilbert had used his very best iron for the purpose and fired it for three days and nights, packed in charcoal, leather, and brick, for the transformation to occur. The blessed steel core he then welded inside layers of softer iron. The edge would be sharp enough to shave a monk's head. With each blow of the hammer on the anvil and with each prayer he slowly but surely completed a masterpiece the likes of which could only be found in Damascus itself or in Outremer, where others like himself had taught themselves the Saracen art. Brother Guilbert had many divergent views when it came to Saracens, but it was one subject that he wisely refused to discuss. No matter how much he loved Father Henri as the wisest and kindest prior a sinner like himself could ever serve, he knew for certain that Saracens were not a suitable topic of discussion under any circumstances.
He had come far in his work by the sixth day, when a lay brother came to interrupt him. He had been sent by Father Henri, who had now summoned him to an urgent meeting, smithy or no smithy.
Brother Guilbert stopped his work at once and went to the lavatorium to make his appearance worthy of his prior.
Father Henri was waiting for him in the scriptorium, his second favorite place. It was still the beginning of autumn but the evenings had begun to grow chilly, and Father Henri had never learned to tolerate the Nordic cold. So he chose the scriptorium rather than the stone benches in the arcade by the herb garden.
"Good evening, my dear Vulcanus," Father Henri greeted the smith jocularly when the washed but still sweating Brother Guilbert bowed his head to enter the doorway intended for much smaller men.
"Good evening, my dear Father Jupiter, in that case," replied Brother Guilbert in the same tone of voice, sitting down unbidden before the writing desk where Father Henri stood sketching.
There was a moment of silence while Father Henri finished off a curlicue and then wiped the quill pen and put it aside. Then he cleared his throat in the way that Brother Guilbert and many others at Varnhem or Vitae Schola recognized as a signal that now a rather lengthy explication was to ensue.
"I'll be hearing our son Arn's confession in a while," Father Henri began with a deep sigh. "And I will give him absolution. At once. He won't be expecting it and he won't like it, because he is very remorseful and filled with thoughts of his sin and, well, everything you can imagine. But you must know, my much beloved brother, that I have truly ransacked my heart over this, and what I've arrived at is not exactly pleasant for you or me. What happened is not Arn's fault, but rather yours and mine. Naturally we have a conflict here. On the one hand there is the secular law, no matter how barbaric it may appear to us when it comes to this part of the world. And on the other hand is God's law. The secular law will not affect Arn, nor will the divine law. For your part and mine it is a more delicate matter, and by this time you must know what I'm getting at. Now be so good as not to say, I told you so!"
"I did tell you so, father, in all humility," Brother Guilbert was quick to reply. "We should have told him who he was. If he had known who he was when he met those drunken peasants . . ."
"I know. Then no one would have needed to be hurt!" Father Henri interrupted him with more despair than annoyance in his voice. "Regardless, we did what we did, and now we have to think about what comes next. For my part I have to start with the task of persuading Arn to understand that he is forgiven before God's law, and I don't think it will be easy. So help me God, I truly love that boy! When he rode away from us to set out for his father's estate he was that rare individual: a human being without sin . . ."
"A Parsifal," muttered Brother Guilbert pensively. "In truth a young Parsifal."
"A what? Oh yes, that. All right, let it go," muttered Father Henri in reply, his train of thought disturbed. He paused for a moment before he went on.
"Now, Brother Guilbert, I command you as prior to do this: When Arn comes to see you after I talk to him, you must tell him who he is in all the aspects that I could not explain. Do you know what I mean?"
"Certainly I know what you mean, father, and I shall obey your command to the letter," replied Brother Guilbert with great earnestness.
Father Henri nodded, silently thinking. Then he got up and left with a wave of goodbye. Brother Guilbert sat there for a long time, praying sincerely for the strength to shape his words well when he carried out the order he had just been given.
Arn had spent ten days in one of the guest cells at Varnhem. But he had set aside all the things that were given only to guests: the well-packed straw mattress, the red quilts, and the sheepskin. He had taken a vow of silence and lived on bread and water.
Father Henri found him pale with dark rings under his eyes, and a look that was frozen with grief. It was impossible to tell how the young man was going to speak or behave, whether he was even in his right mind, and whether he would understand what would soon happen to him. Father Henri decided to act solely in accordance with his calling at first, and offer neither consolation nor reprimand.
"I am now prepared to hear your confession, my son," said Father Henri, sitting down on the hard wooden bed and motioning to Arn to sit beside him.
"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned," Arn began, but he had to break off to timidly clear his throat, since his ten days of silence had made his voice uncertain. "I have committed the most heinous of sins and have nothing to offer as excuse. I killed two men although I could have merely wounded them instead. I killed two men although I knew that it would be better for my soul if I myself died and met the Lord Jesus without this sin on my back. I am therefore prepared to submit to whatever penance and punishment you impose on me, father. And nothing would seem to me too harsh."
"Is that all? Nothing else, as long as we're at it?" asked Father Henri in a light tone, regretting at once that he no doubt sounded as if he were mocking the young man's anguish.
"No . . . that's all . . . I mean, I've had bad thoughts, ill-conceived thoughts, when I tried to place the blame on someone else, but all that is contained in what I have already confessed," said Arn, palpably embarrassed.
Father Henri felt relieved that Arn was still so lucid that he had control over his speech when responding to such a bewildering question. But now came the momentous part, the grace of God which so often passes human understanding. Father Henri took a deep breath and consulted God one last time before he spoke the two crucial words. Then he waited a moment until he felt that God within him was giving the support that was necessary.
"Te absolvo, I forgive you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, my son," he said, making the sign of the cross first over Arn and then over himself.
Arn stared at him as if under a spell, unable to understand what he had heard. Father Henri waited until the meaning of the words had sunk in deep. Then he cleared his throat at great length, this time quite conscious that it was a sign that he would now present his explication.
"The grace of the Lord is in truth great, but you are now truly free of sin, my son. I have forgiven you as your father confessor and as God's humble servant and with His consent. Let us rejoice over the great thing that has happened, but let us not take it lightly. You shall know that all this time you have spent in solitude consulting with God, I have done the same. And if God may have said something to you that He has not said to me, there may possibly be an intention behind that as well. For we have indeed had to deal with a very difficult matter, the most difficult I have ever encountered as a father confessor. The anguish you have suffered during these days as you offered genuine repentance has been a part of the testing of your soul."
"But . . . but it . . . it can't be possible . . . murder . . .?" Arn stammered.
"Stop interrupting me and listen," Father Henri continued firmly, yet he was relieved because Arn seemed to be much more capable of speech than he had feared. "God's good world is twofold in this case, and we have to try to look at the whole. There is a world out there, extra muros, with its sometimes very peculiar laws. According to those laws you are without guilt; so far it is very simple. But we have our own higher world intra muros, and it places considerably higher demands upon us. First, my own sin and that of Brother Guilbert is greater than yours, when it comes to these killings. I shall explain in more detail in a moment. Second, we have to try to see your deed from God's higher perspective, no matter how difficult this may appear to us poor sinful humans. And we must try to understand what God meant. It was not for this deed that He has kept watch over you, you can be assured of that. Your great task in life, whatever it is, still lies before you. But God used the most practical instrument He found available to punish men who had committed a dire sin. Because this is how it was: They had forced a young woman, Gunvor, whom you met for the first time there by the road, to marry a man for whom she felt disgust. And they forced her to do this for the sake of their own desire and their own profit. When she in desperation tried to escape her adverse fate, they were filled with wrath and wanted to kill anyone who crossed their path. Then they lied loudly that the first man they met would be a bride-robber, and according to the laws out there, they would have the pleasure of killing him. When God saw this He grew angry and set you in the path of the sinners in order to punish them as severely as only He can. That cathedral Dean Torkel was thus not entirely wrong when he spoke of how he saw an angel guiding your hand, although all that nonsense about a miracle, et cetera, et cetera, is drivel, of course. You were God's instrument and carried out His judgment, which you might not have been able to do if Brother Guilbert and I had not deceived you. That is why you are now forgiven and without sin, my son. Your fast ends today, but be careful to eat cautiously this evening; it's not good to gulp down food after such a long fast. So. That's all."
Arn did not reply for a long time, and Father Henri left him to his thoughts. What he had said needed time to put down roots in Arn's mind before they spoke more about that matter or anything else.
Arn had no difficulties seeing the formal logic in what Father Henri had said. But the basic assumption behind such logic was that every building block rested on absolute truthfulness and humility before God. Otherwise it would be a mere twisting of words. He was ashamed over what he had first thought when he heard those two redemptive words. He thought that Father Henri had temporized in his conviction out of a corrupt love for his son, that he had constructed a special benevolence in this case that would not have applied in other cases. It was wrong to think such things about Father Henri, and Arn realized that it proved he couldn't keep himself free of sin for very many breaths after receiving forgiveness. But this was not the time to begin confessing all over again.
"So we have reached the question of my own and Brother Guilbert's sin and our share of the guilt for what happened," sighed Father Henri. "Out there in the other world people categorize others and evaluate them differently, as if they all did not have the same soul. It's not like it is with us, where we are worth no more nor less than our brother. People out there weigh a man not according to his soul; their neighbor is not what they see first. They see a thrall or a king, a jarl or a freed slave; they see a man or a woman who either has noble ancestry or does not, much the way you and Brother Guilbert judge horses. That's how it is out there in the other world, unfortunately."
"But everyone has ancestors, everyone comes from somewhere, all the way back to Adam and Eve, and we're all born equally naked," Arn objected with a hint of wonder in his voice.
"Yes, indeed we all have ancestors. But some, according to that method of judging, have ancestors who are superior to others, and others have wealthier ancestors, and they inherit property from each other out there."
"So if someone is born rich, then he remains rich; and if he has ancestors who are superior, then he doesn't have to do anything for his own sake, since he's naturally superior? So it doesn't matter if he's good or evil, intelligent or stupid—he remains superior?" Arn pondered this, at the same time looking oddly astute as he took this first stumbling step into an awareness of the other world.
"That's precisely how it is, and that's why some have thralls out there even today. You're aware of that, aren't you?" said Father Henri.
"Well, yes . . ." Arn said hesitantly. "My own father had thralls. It's something I haven't thought about in a long time, as if it were something my memory didn't like. I've mostly thought about my mother at evening prayers, but not so much about my father, and never about the fact that he had thralls. But so it was. Now I recall that he beheaded a thrall once, I forget why, but I'll never forget that sight."
"You see. And I'm afraid that your father has thralls even today. He is from a superior clan, and that means, and pay close attention to this, that means that you are as well. On your mother's gravestone there are two marks, as you have surely seen although we've never talked about it. One is a dragon head and a sword; that is your mother's mark. The other is a lion rampant, and that is your father's mark. It is the mark of the Folkung clan, and you are therefore a Folkung. And you probably don't know what that entails."
"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 Arnäs, 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.
