Текст книги "The Road to Jerusalem"
Автор книги: Jan Guillou
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"I don't know," said Arn. "Can't it be both?"
"Can that be so? A text that should be read both literally and allegorically? Now you're going to have to explain yourself, my son."
"In the line before it says that God restores our souls, so it's literally about us and not about some sheep," Arn began, to win a little time while he thought as incisively as he could. "But of course God can lead us on the right paths in the literal sense; paths on the ground, visible paths, the sort of paths that horses and oxcarts and people walk on. If He wants to, He can lead us on the path to Rome, for example, don't you think?"
"Hmm," said Father Henri, looking a little stern. "It probably hasn't escaped you that this part about paths here and there is one of the most common metaphors in the Holy Scriptures. If the Lord's ways are inscrutable, then we're not talking about any livestock paths, are we?"
"No, that's obvious, the paths of righteousness refer to things like the path away from sin, the path to salvation, and so on. Allegorical, that is."
"Good. Where were we? How does the next verse go? No, don't sing it, or the brothers in the garden will just idle about. Well?"
"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me,'" Arn rattled off. "The meaning must be general, I think. If I find myself in great difficulties, if I'm in the presence of death, such as climbing high up in the tower carrying mortar, for example, then I need fear nothing because God is with me. The phrase 'shadow of death' must be allegorical; death doesn't literally cast its shadow any where, and there is no special valley where I could walk beneath that shadow. And even if there were . . . purely theoretically, then it would not be the only place where I would feel solace. Not even in the darkest valley, that is, in dark moments, in sorrow or in danger, do I need to despair. Is that about right?"
On the day that Arn outgrew his old bow and arrow, that small pleasure came to an end for the time being. He had his practice area just outside the smithy and could run out now and then during the natural pauses in the work to shoot while the iron cooled down or new forges were fired up. But one day Brother Guilbert came out and saw how the boy, without hesitation but also without seeming especially interested in the task, shot twelve arrows in a row into the moving target, a wad of linen rags tied up with thongs and dangling back and forth on a thin rope.
It was time once again to start on something new. For even though Brother Guilbert thought it important that the instruments he put into Arn's hands be adapted to his size and strength, it was equally important that the boy always practice with full concentration. If it became too easy, the practice would be blunted and have a negative effect. Brother Guilbert found this difficult to explain, even to grown men. To Arn he did not explain much, nor was it necessary, since obedience was one of the most important rules at the monastery.
They found yew trees as material for the new bow and ash for the arrows. Because when the bow was changed, new arrows were also needed, since everything had to be in the right proportion to function together, just as the movement of the hand and the power of thought must be in balance.
It took a long time, from the cold springtime when only the snowdrops ventured forth until the early summer when the tulips stretched in long red rows along the arcades, to fabricate the new bow and its arrows. Arn had to be present to learn from every task, how the wood was supposed to dry in a dark and sufficiently cool place, how to cut laminates from various parts of the wood and polish them to an even shape, how to join them together with fish glue and lay them in a press, and then polish them anew. With the arrows it was simpler, of course. Arrow points belonged to the simple forging tasks that Arn could manage entirely on his own.
When it was finally time to begin testing the new working instruments, Brother Guilbert also changed the distance to the target from eighteen long paces to twenty-five. It was hard and strenuous to draw the new bow, and the effort affected the aim of the arrows so that sometimes Arn missed completely. When he then showed annoyance, Brother Guilbert was upon him at once, scolding him for indolence and insufficient confidence, the one sin as serious as the other. And Arn had to pray a number of Pater Nosters on his knees before the bow and arrows as punishment before he was called back to practice.
At such moments Brother Guilbert was tempted to explain to the boy how well he shot, without a doubt better than most of the adult, well-trained archers. But Arn had never been able to compare himself with anyone but Brother Guilbert himself. Brother Guilbert had always kept quiet about his earlier life and what it was that had made him renounce that life for constant penance at a Cistercian monastery. Father Henri had forbidden him from telling his story to Arn.
One day a group of soldiers on their way home from the Danish island of Fyn, all of them in good humor because some war was over and they would soon see their loved ones, stopped outside the cloister at the very place where Arn was practicing. At first they had found it comical to see a little lay brother with a shaved head, brown monk's cowl, and fluttering locks around his ears holding a bow and arrow in his hands. The image seemed entirely implausible. They uttered some coarse humor but then stopped to watch the little boy, expecting to fling about some more jokes. Brother Guilbert, who was standing next to Arn and instructing him, pretended not to understand the Nordic language or at least not to hear the remarks.
But the soldiers soon fell silent, because they could not believe their eyes. The little lay brother stood at eighteen paces and put one arrow after another into the target in the space of half a palm's breadth. When he missed by a thumb's breadth he seemed annoyed and apologized to his teacher, sharpening his concentration for the next shot. The soldiers moved off in silence. A short distance away they began arguing about something.
Brother Guilbert understood quite well the soldiers' embarrassment. None of them, any more than Brother Guilbert himself, had ever seen a boy with such talent. But neither then nor later did Arn comprehend this, because for him there were only two archers: himself and Brother Guilbert, and compared with the smith he was the worst archer in the world.
Father Henri had often shown himself unwilling to discuss the topic. He thought that Arn was diligent in reading and as intelligent as one could expect of a boy whose voice had not yet begun to break—woe the day that happened—but neither more nor less. Father Henri didn't consider himself to have been particularly bright as a child, yet he was reminded of himself when he looked at Arn. The most important thing was the zeal with which both he and now Arn studied. He also recalled with a smile how as a very young boy he had also discovered books that were not intended for small boys; he had been caught in the act, and was punished in much the same way he now punished Arn for the same thing. But most important was the inspiration to read, the diligence to learn, and perseverance. God gave everyone nearly equal intelligence, and it was the responsibility of each and every one to fill his mind with content, to make the most of one's talents.
To counter that logic, however, Brother Guilbert had a simple objection. Because in that case, God must have also given everyone the ability to handle a bow or a sword equally, yet some got markedly less from the instrument and others got much more. Little Arn had been given more of such gifts than any man, young or old, that Brother Guilbert had ever encountered in his life, he claimed.
That statement made Father Henri hesitant, because hardly any living man had encountered so many other men with weapons in hand as had Brother Guilbert; that much was certain. On the other hand, Brother Guilbert could not possibly lie to his own prior.
But Father Henri had felt uncomfortable with this topic of discussion, and had come to an agreement with Brother Guilbert—that is, he had forbidden him to put any whims into the boy's head. And that was why Arn never understood when he was doing well with the bow or sword, but only knew or was brusquely reminded of when he did something wrong.
Arn had not yet been allowed to use a real sword in any of his practice sessions. Nor was it necessary, for Brother Guilbert could see what would happen later when the boy's arms grew stronger and he made the transition from wooden sticks to steel.
When it came to handling a sword, the quickness of the mind and the eye, the balance of the foot, and the feeling in the hand were much more important than the strength of the arm. Brother Guilbert had seen little of the way that Nordic men handled swords, yet he could tell that these barbarians' technique was based almost entirely on strength. Their swords were short, be cause they never fought on horseback; they believed that horses were unsuited to war, oddly enough. And they stood in ranks close to each other, almost like the ancient Romans and Greeks a thousand years before, although they didn't call their formation a phalanx but a fylking. This technique required them almost exclusively to hack at an angle from above, either from the left or the right. Each man, using at least a semblance of a shield and with at least a minimum of self-preservation, could parry every such blow without having to think or move. And so they would keep at it until one of the opponents tired and the other more or less by accident landed a blow on his opponent's skull. Under these circumstances it was a matter of course that the one with the strongest arms would win in the end.
For the first three or four years Arn had been given his early training with swaddled wooden sticks, and Brother Guilbert methodically drummed into the boy's head the three-count rhythm so that it would stick and remain there forever. High blow from the left, low blow from the right, and then a lunge straight ahead or a new blow from the side. Thousands and thousands of times.
The first thing Arn learned in this way was the rhythm and the movement. The second thing he learned was to control his anger, for Brother Guilbert always struck him with the third blow, every time during the first two years. Not until the third year had Arn learned to control his feet, his movements, and his rhythm sufficiently that he could sometimes parry the third, painful thrust.
In the fourth year Brother Guilbert made fairly heavy wooden swords, which he weighted precisely with an inserted metal rod. It was important that the wooden sword in Arn's hand have the same weight in relation to his small arms that a real sword would have later in life, the same way that the bows gradually had to be made more difficult to draw. So Brother Guilbert had to experiment a good deal with the fabrication until it seemed right.
It was during practice with the sword that Brother Guilbert discovered that the boy, just as in the smithy, could use his left hand as well as his right. In every other context in the cloister, Arn's teachers, just as they hounded him in the scriptorium, tried to wean him from using the unclean hand. But for Brother Guilbert the matter appeared in a different light. He consulted his conscience and he consulted God. He didn't want to involve Father Henri in this dilemma.
Soon he realized that it wasn't a case of normal lefthandedness, because such men did exist and on occasion in his former life Brother Guilbert had faced such a man with sword in hand. And it was not easy, he knew that. It was as if everything one had learned was suddenly backwards.
So from the beginning he had trained Arn to use both hands, to shift from day to day or from week to week. But he had never seen any appreciable difference in his technique, except that the boy's left arm seemed to be somewhat stronger than his right. But that also meant that it was possible from the very first to build a secret skill into the boy's technique; he could suddenly toss the sword from one hand to the other and then begin to circle clockwise instead of counterclockwise around his opponent. If the opponent was dressed in heavy gear and his fighting fundamentals were unsure, the sudden change in tactics would have a devastating effect.
Brother Guilbert was well aware that such a line of thinking might possibly be sinful. He had also confessed them to Father Henri, but explained that as long as his task was merely to teach the boy, he had to do it as best he could. Since God had still not expressed His wish for the boy's calling in life, there was probably no difference for the time being in reading Ovid in secret with red cheeks or holding the sword in his left hand, was there?
When Father Henri consulted God, he received the answer that as long as the boy showed the same zeal in his studies as in Brother Guilbert's warlike games, then all was as it should be. But not so if he should begin to prefer arrows and sword to Glossa Ordinaria. Fortunately Arn showed no such tendencies in that direction.
And while Father Henri always preached diligence and discipline, cleanliness and prayer, Brother Guilbert always preached agility and agility, agility and diligence. It was important, just as in musical rhythm, to learn to feel when the arrow would fly toward a spot ahead of the moving target so that arrow and target would meet there. But it was equally important always to keep moving his feet, never to stand still waiting for the opponent's blow; he had to be somewhere else when the blow came so that he could strike back the very next instant.
Diligence and discipline. Cleanliness and prayer. Agility and agility, agility and diligence. Arn followed all these rules with the same ease as he followed the rules about obeying and loving all the brothers, the two most important rules at the monastery, always to speak the truth, the third rule; and then all the other less important ones, which sometimes barely made sense, such as the rules about eating at the dinner table and going to bed.
But it was no trick at all for him to follow this divine order of things. On the contrary, it was a joy. Sometimes he wondered how other children behaved out there in the base world; he did have faint memories of tobogganing, rolling hoops, and other childish games. He may have missed some of that, just as every night at the last prayer hour he prayed for his mother's soul and then missed her breath, her voice, and her hands; just as he prayed for his brother Eskil and remembered how they had been torn from each other in tears. But he understood, at any rate he felt that he understood, that the greatest happiness for a boy must be to be able to divide his time between all the wonders that books held and all the hard work in sweat and sometimes tears of pain that Brother Guilbert offered.
Magnus Folkesson had made a promise to God that he would mourn Sigrid for five years before he would remarry. Within his family this decision had aroused astonishment, since it was not usual for a man who was still fit, and who had only one legitimate son as heir, to refrain for so long from begetting new sons to strengthen the clan.
Magnus had consoled himself somewhat with a thrall, Suom, and had a love child with her. But Arnäs had become a gloomy fortress where not much happened or ever changed. After Sigrid's death Magnus had felt empty in his head and could no longer find new ideas for his trade and businesses. Everything ran in the same old ruts.
He had built some things; he had finished the walls and about six miles of road up toward Tiveden. Building a road was a deed pleasing to God, and he had promised this construction when he visited Sigrid's grave the first time and prayed for her at Varnhem and purchased prayers of intercession for her.
It couldn't hurt to combine what was pleasing to God with what would be good for future business. The day there was a road all the way through Tiveden wood he would be able to trade to the north with the Swedes. They were simple men who understood little, but they had good iron and offered a fine trade in pelts that could bring plenty of silver if there were passable roads.
Contributing to the gloominess at Arnäs was the fact that his mother, Tora Guttormsdotter, had come from her farms in Norway to tend to everything that a wife would usually oversee, for as long as he remained unmarried. But she was hard on the thralls and wanted to run everything according to old Norwegian customs, and Magnus, like many men, had a hard time putting his own mother in her place. The fact that he ought to be a better lord of his own house was a strong reason to find a new wife soon. In Magnus's view it would be wise to join forces with the Pål clan in Husaby, since his own lands bordered theirs. In that case any of the Pål daughters would bring to the estate a suitable dowry of oak forests covering the slopes of the mountain Kinnekulle. Of course, the unmarried daughters were still scarcely more than children, but youth was something that soon passed.
Eskil was both a joy and a secret sorrow to Magnus. Eskil was like himself, and also much like his mother Sigrid, whose intelligence he seemed to have inherited. Eskil wanted most of all to take part in trading expeditions, to meet foreign merchants and learn from their wares and prices how best to calculate the value of two casks of bacon in terms of wheat or hides and how to trade raw iron for silver. In this Eskil was indeed his father's son.
Yet as an almost full-grown man he was still unable to throw a lance or handle a sword the way a man of a clan with a coat of arms should be able to do. But it was true that Magnus himself resembled his eldest son in this.
Only once had Magnus as the lord of Arnäs been forced to set out for war. That was when Henriksen the Dane proclaimed himself king over the Swedes after he had ignominiously hacked off the head of Erik Jedvardsson up in Östra Aros. There were two versions of the event: some held that it occurred just after the high mass in the Trinity Church, and that Erik Jedvardsson died courageously facing great odds, and a spring emerged from the spot where his head struck the ground.
According to Erik Jedvardsson's enemies, and to King Karl Sverkersson, Erik Jedvardsson died unnecessarily because he had been too full of ale to defend himself like a man.
And yet it made little difference how King Erik had been murdered; there would have to be war in any case. The fact that the Swedes felt indignant that a Dane had come and murdered their king was easy to understand. At once they sent off a message all the way to Helsingland and the darkest forests of Svealand, and soon had gathered a great army heading for Östra Aros. But the question was how people would react in Western Götaland and in Eastern Götaland. Should they let the Swedes settle accounts with the Danish slayer of their king on their own, or should they take part in the war?
For King Karl Sverkersson and his men in Linköping, this was not a difficult decision. He had to choose between going off to war against the Danish king-slayer with as many forces as he could muster, and thus winning the crown of the Swedes for himself, or allowing them to win on their own and then elect a new king, who could be anyone at all among the Swedish chieftains or lawspeakers. For King Karl Sverkersson the choice was simple.
When the Folkungs gathered for the clan ting in Bjälbo in Eastern Götaland, they soon found that there wasn't much choice. Magnus's own brother Birger, who was now called Brosa, the Smiling One, had quickly convinced the clan ting. One war was unavoidable for all in Eastern Götaland, Birger Brosa had declared, and that was the war against the Danish murderer of the king. For the Eastern Goths the only right thing was to support King Karl in this matter. But after the victory he would probably become king of Svealand as well. Because victorious they would be; the army raised in Sweden was itself large enough to win the victory on its own. The days of the Dane, Magnus Henriksen, on earth were numbered. Now they had to look beyond his death.
For the Folkungs it was crucial that they not be split apart and end up on different sides in a war. If King Karl now won the royal crown in Svealand, he would soon demand recognition in Western Götaland as well—then all the Folkungs would be set against one another, the east against the west.
Better then to combine all the problems into a single war, so that both Western Goths and Eastern Goths would rally around King Karl in his war. If they did not do so, the same thing would happen later anyway, but at the cost of much spilled blood and in the worst case with brother set against brother.
No one at the clan meeting could contradict Birger Brosa on this. And from then on Birger Brosa usually got what he wanted.
Magnus took part in the war with his retainers in the way he found best. He and his men did not enter into the dispute until it was already won, which then mostly involved executing the last of the Danes and taking captive those who could pay ransom. He was able to return to Arnäs as a victor who had not lost a single man in the conflict but became 50 marks richer in silver, and for this he was popular with the women, though the men did not think highly of him.
He had left Eskil at Arnäs when he went off to war, despite the boy's nagging and whining. Eskil was not yet a man; besides, as the eldest son and heir, he could not be replaced like some fallen retainer.
Magnus had tried to forget his second son whom God had taken alive from him. But since he knew that Arn was the son that Sigrid had loved best, he could not forget as easily as he should for the peace of his soul. Nor could he forget Sigrid during the five years of mourning he had assigned himself. In secret he told himself that she was still the one person above all others whom he valued most highly, more than any man, even a man such as his brother Birger Brosa.
But this was something he had to keep to himself. If he said such a thing out loud he would be disdained, or regarded as crazy. Not even to Eskil could he admit these thoughts about a woman who was after all Eskil's mother.
While the ice on the lakes still held, there now came a summons to another clan ting in Bjälbo. Magnus set off with a small retinue and Eskil. For the first time his son would be allowed to take part in the men's council and therefore he admonished him not to interfere, drink too much, or say anything, but to listen and learn.
Birger Brosa received his brother and nephew with great warmth and from the start offered them more hospitality than other kinsmen. Magnus could not tell whether this had to do with brotherly love or with Birger Brosa's plans concerning the matters they would soon be disputing. But he enjoyed being treated as a worthy man, even though the gathering now included several men who were great warriors with scars from many battles. In those days such things were valued much more highly than silver. The fattest bishop could own great quantities of silver, but that did not make him a great man.
The first days were devoted only to the pleasures of hospitality, and they all spoke freely about what there might be to discuss with regard to kinsmen who were unable to attend; for example, the Norwegian kinsmen, who at the moment were at war, as usual. In this way they could also wait for those who arrived somewhat later because a winter road was impassable or the ice too dark and unreliable. Hence no one would come too late for discussions that had already been decided while they were far away swearing and groaning, struggling with a broken or overturned sleigh.
But once they all had gathered, deliberations began in the largest hall in the tower. What was surprising to many, including Magnus and Eskil, was that they gathered for the council immediately after the midday prayers were held in the tower's lower chapel, and this without eating. The roasts had just begun to be turned and would not be ready for many hours.
Birger Brosa, who had introduced this new arrangement, believed that their forefathers' custom of eating, drinking, and holding council simultaneously undoubtedly had its merits. Ale loosened the bonds of the tongue and no one felt timid when discussing things that affected them all. But sometimes the ale could loosen the tongue so much that nothing sensible was decided, or no one remembered the next day what had been decided. And sometimes kinsmen parted on bad terms.
Instead this council began in a cold hall where they had to sit with their cloaks wrapped around them, with only a few braziers that had been brought in.
The big question was the clan's allegiance to Karl Sverkersson. No one considered him a powerful king; no one thought that he could protect the kingdom if the Danes or plunderers from across the Eastern Sea fell upon the country—even less if the Norwegians came, but they were usually fully occupied killing one another. Yet was the time truly ripe for their own clan to enter the fray over the royal crowns?
Birger Brosa said that while he was convinced the time would come, it was not yet upon them. The clan stood stronger in Eastern Götaland than in Western Götaland, but Eastern Götaland was also the country where King Karl stood strongest and had the most kinsmen, especially in Linköping and the surrounding regions. In order to prevail, the Western Goths would need to turn out to a man to wage a battle over some king's crown, though most of them cared not a whit about it. That would never happen.
So it was wisest to keep their own counsel for now, to support King Karl and let no one know that their support could cease like a bolt from the blue if the conditions proved right.
Instead they would patiently continue to reinforce the clan the way they had always done, through wise marriages. And an excellent opportunity now presented itself since Birger Brosa could no longer evade that obligation, no matter how pleasant it might be for him to live as a young lord without the responsibilities that God placed upon all men sooner or later.
Birger Brosa went on, and now everyone listened attentively with no bellowing, snoring, or loud shouts for ale to disturb their thoughts: Through his brother Magnus, the clan had a bond with the Norwegian king, Magnus Sigurdsen. However, King Magnus had been defeated by Harald Gille, and the king's power would pass to Harald's sons, as things now stood. This was the opinion of everyone who had any understanding of the Norsemen's doings. Although when it came to the Norwegians, one could never be absolutely sure, since everything could change with a single blow of the sword, turning a kinsman of the king into a kinsman in exile.
Now, however, Birger Brosa volunteered to go on a courting expedition to Norway in order to become betrothed to one of Harald Gille's daughters, either Solveig or Brigida, whichever would be deemed most suitable. That would strengthen the clan's bond with Norway, no matter how long the Norsemen continued killing each other. Birger would then be married into Harald Gille's clan, and his brother Magnus into Magnus Sigurdsen's clan.
The men turned and twisted the problem in their minds for a while. Another possibility, of course, would be for Birger to marry into Karl Sverkersson's clan. But that might prove foolhardy instead of a lucky stroke, because what use would it be to become a kinsman if one day the king's crown was passed to Karl's son, if he had one. No, reinforcing the bond with Norway would be a safer and with time probably a wiser move. The matter was thus concluded, and no more needed to be said about this marriage.
Then came the question of whom Magnus ought to court. His period of mourning for Sigrid had expired, and he was a good prospect, with plenty of land and great wealth, which always made things easier. But the question was who would be the wisest choice.
First Magnus had to tell them his own thoughts on the matter. Not entirely sure of his voice, or of how he should choose his words, he took the floor. If he married into the Pål clan in Husaby, another strong clan in Western Götaland would be bound together with Bjälbo. Besides, it was advantageous that his own land and that of the Pål clan adjoined each other; a marriage would thus mean that a large portion of the shore of Lake Vänern would end up legally bound together. This meant that they would acquire a stronger grip over trade in all of Western Götaland, since Lake Vänern for the greater part of the year was the most important link to Lödöse, as well as to Denmark and Norway. There were two daughters at Husaby, and both were fair but rather young.
When Magnus sat down he could hear from the muttering and whispering of his kinsmen that they thought he had spoken well, but were not completely convinced. He surmised that someone might have other plans for him, and in that case it was not difficult to reckon who would wax eloquent.
Quite rightly Birger Brosa demanded the floor, first speaking in words of praise for his older brother, his profits and shrewdness in business, and his willingness to make a good marriage in order to strengthen the clan and please his kinsmen.
But soon his tone turned curt and harsh as he described how more audacious and more important bonds were needed for the sake of all their kinsmen. The clan of Erik had in no way given up its struggle for the crown, although they had made exacting inquiries. In Norway Erik Jedvardsson's greedy widow was plotting revenge and raising her sons to be future contenders for the throne. The clan of Erik was strong south of Skara and also had offshoots in Svealand. It was a clan that they would be wise to count a friend rather than a foe.
