Текст книги "The Templar Knight"

Автор книги: Ян Гийу

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“Then take this sword and ride with it to the one to whom it belongs. Go to Yussuf ibn Ayyub Salah al-Din, the one we call in our simple language Saladin. Give him this sword. Tell him that it was written so, that Al Ghouti has said so.”

Ibrahim silently accepted the sword which Arn now carefully handed to him. They sat for a while next to each other, staring out over the sand dunes toward the sea. Arn’s sorrow was so great that it seemed to create a shroud of coldness around him, and Ibrahim was a man particularly well suited to understand the cause, at least so he believed. But he was only half right.

“Al Ghouti, you are now the friend of Banu Anaza forever,” said Ibrahim after a pause that could have been long or short, because for Arn time hardly existed anymore. “The favor you asked of me was too small, although I shall see that it is done. Let us now do what has to be done. We Bedouins bury horses such as Khamsiin. He was a great warrior, almost like one of our horses. Come!”

The old man persuaded Arn to stand up and follow him. When they approached the camp everything was almost packed up and loaded onto camels. The three dead Franks, like their horses, had vanished somewhere beneath the sand. But all the women, children, and old people of the camp stood solemnly gathered around a grave in the sand, and a short distance away stood a bewildered Harald.

The ceremonies were brief, for horses as well as for men. The Bedouins’ belief, as it was spoken in the prayer of their leader Ibrahim, was that Khamsiin would now run forever among wide green fields with plenty of cool water. Arn’s prayer was similar, although he murmured the words silently to himself, since he knew that he was now committing blasphemy. But Khamsiin had been his friend since he was a boy, and Khamsiin was the only one for whose sake Arn had ever blasphemed in his life. So great was his grief that at the moment Arn preferred the belief of the Bedouins. In his mind he could see Khamsiin in full gallop with his tail raised high and his mane fluttering, racing across the green fields of Paradise.

Then they all set off toward Gaza. Three Franks from Ashkelon had died in Banu Anaza’s camp. Because of this the new camp had to be pitched right next to Gaza, and if that was not safe enough, then inside the city walls.

The Bedouins’ women and children were just as skilled at riding camels and horses as any Saracen man, and they knew how to keep all the animals with them in a close group.

Harald rode next to Arn, who had borrowed a somewhat unruly horse that seemed to be giving him trouble. But Harald did not dare say anything to his jarl on the short ride to Gaza. He never could have imagined a man such as Arn Magnusson weeping like a child, and he felt much embarrassment at seeing this weakness, especially as it was displayed before un-Christian savages. But they in turn seemed not in the least surprised at the knight’s childish sorrow over a horse. Their faces were as if carved in leather, immobile, showing no expression of either sorrow or joy, fear or relief.

They were Bedouins. But about such people Harald knew hardly more than any Norseman.

When they reached Gaza, Arn silently pointed out a spot where the Bedouins could pitch their camp near the city wall, but on the north side so that the smells from the city would not bother the camp since the wind was from the west. He got off his borrowed horse and began to unfasten Khamsiin’s harness and saddle. But then Ibrahim rode quickly up to him, hopped nimbly from his horse, and took Arn by the hands.

“Al Ghouti, our friend, you must now know one thing!” he stammered, out of breath. “Our tribesmen, Banu Anaza, own the best horses in all of Arabia; that is known to all. But no one, not even sultans or caliphs, has ever been able to buy such a horse. We only give them away when we have found an exceptional reason to do so. The young stallion you just rode from our camp has hardly been broken to the saddle, as you surely noticed. He has no true master. He was intended for my son since his blood is the purest of any steed; he is our best. You must take him, because what you asked as a favor from me was too little, and so I must make you this gift.”

“Ibrahim, you can’t…” Arn began, but could not go on. He bowed his head in tears. Ibrahim then embraced him like a father and stroked his back and neck to console him.

“I certainly can, Al Ghouti. I am the eldest of Banu Anaza, and no one may contradict me. Not even you may contradict me, for until now you have been my guest. You can’t insult your host by refusing his gift!”

“That is true,” said Arn and took a deep breath, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “Before my own people I seem weak as a woman and possibly a fool for showing such grief for a horse. But you are a Bedouin, Ibrahim. You know that this grief will never pass, and only to someone like you can I admit such a thing. Your gift is very great, and you will have my gratitude as long as I live.”

“You shall also have a mare,” Ibrahim smiled slyly, and made a sign. Leading the mare forward was Aisha, the young woman whose love for Ali ibn Qays from the other Bedouin clan had prompted Arn to negotiate a peace between tribes.

The gesture was well planned by Ibrahim. For according to custom Arn could not refuse a gift from Aisha, the one he had made happy through his powers, and the one who bore the name of the most beloved wife of the Prophet, peace be unto him.

Chapter 8

Over the course of a few years Cecilia Rosa’s life at Gudhem had fundamentally changed. The affairs of the convent had undergone such a transformation that it was difficult for anyone to grasp. Despite the fact that few new properties had been donated to the cloister in recent years, Gudhem’s income had doubled. Cecilia Rosa explained time after time that it all had to do with order and discipline. Well, that was not the only explanation, she admitted if Mother Rikissa or someone else prodded her with more persistent questions. They had also raised a number of their prices. A Folkung mantle from Gudhem now cost three times as much as when they first began making them. But just as Brother Lucien once predicted, the mantles were now selling at a steady pace; the garments didn’t disappear in a single week like they did before. This meant that it was also easier to plan the work; some of the novices could always sit and work in the vestiariumwithout rushing or doing the sewing in a careless fashion. The pelts that were required for the most expensive mantles could only be purchased in the spring and at only a few marketplaces. If they planned wrong, as they’d sometimes done before, then they might be left without enough pelts and far too many orders. As it was now, the fur supply never ran out, and the work flowed evenly and yet brought in so much silver that Gudhem’s coffers would have been overflowing if Mother Rikissa hadn’t ordered so much stonework from the Frankish and English stonemasons. In that way Gudhem’s increasing wealth was also made visible to the eye. The tower of the church had been finished and now held an English bell with a lovely sound; the walls around the cloister’s inner sanctum were finished, as well as the pillared vault all the way around the arcade.

Next to the sacristy two big new rooms had been built of stone to form a separate building. This was Cecilia Rosa’s realm, where she reigned among the account books and silver coffers. In the outermost room wooden shelves had been built for her with hundreds of cubbyholes where all of Gudhem’s donation documents were stored in a strict order which only Cecilia Rosa had mastered. If Mother Rikissa came to ask about some property or other and its value or rent payments, Cecilia Rosa could without hesitation go and fetch the letter of donation and read it aloud. Then she would search in the books until she found the date of the last rent payment, how much was paid per bushel and when, and the date the next payment was due. When payments were late she wrote letters that Mother Rikissa had to sign and stamp with the seal of the abbess. The letter was sent to the bishop located nearest to the delinquent tenant, and soon thereafter minions were sent out to collect the rent, either with friendly reminders or stern fists. Not the tiniest fish ever slipped through Cecilia Rosa’s net.

She was not unaware of the power that the position of yconomahad given her. Mother Rikissa could ask about matters large and small and obtain the answers she had the right to demand, but she could never make any important decisions without first going to the yconoma, not if it pertained to Gudhem’s business affairs. And without its business transactions Gudhem could not survive.

So for this reason it did not surprise Cecilia Rosa that Mother Rikissa did not now treat her with the same condescension or cruelty that she had done in the beginning. They had both found a way to relate to each other that would not disrupt either the business dealings or the divine order at Gudhem.

The more at ease Cecilia Rosa felt in handling the bookkeeping and abacus, the more time she began to have free for other things. She spent this extra time with Ulvhilde in the gardens, when it was the season, or in the vestiariumsewing and talking, sometimes far into the night.

A long time had passed without any solution being found for the matter of Ulvhilde’s inheritance. During her visits Cecilia Blanca had seemed a bit evasive, saying merely that everything would undoubtedly work out, although nothing could be done about it in a trice. The hope that had been ignited in Ulvhilde’s heart seemed to have been extinguished, and she seemed reconciled to the situation.

Mother Rikissa and Cecilia Rosa had found a modus vivendi in which they had as little as possible to do with each other. And so Cecilia Rosa was utterly unprepared when Mother Rikissa asked her to come to the abbess’s private rooms for a talk about what they never talked about, as she mysteriously described the reason for her summons.

For some time now Mother Rikissa had been using the scourge on herself, and she always slept in a horsehair shift. It was something that Cecilia Rosa had noticed in passing although she didn’t give it much thought. Women in the convent sometimes got such notions, and it was nothing new or odd.

When they now met, Mother Rikissa seemed shrunken, smaller somehow. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and she kept on rubbing her hands together as if she almost wanted to humble herself and literally bowed to Cecilia Rosa.

In a weak voice she explained that she was seeking forgiveness, both from the Virgin Mary and from the person whom she had treated most harshly in life. She was earnestly searching her heart, she said, for the evil that had taken up residence inside her without her knowledge. Now she entertained a slight hope that this was possible, since she believed she could feel that the Mother of God was about to have mercy on her.

But the question was whether Cecilia Rosa could do the same. All that time Cecilia Rosa had spent in the carcerand all the lashes with the scourge she had received, Mother Rikissa would gladly take upon herself now, even in double and triple measure, if she could only achieve atonement.

She told Cecilia Rosa that even as a girl she had suffered from her ugliness; she was well aware that God had not created her as some tender virgin praised in the songs of knights. Her clan was of royal lineage, but her father was not wealthy, and this had meant that Rikissa would probably never marry, because her dowry would not be sufficient.

Her mother had consoled her by saying that God had a plan for everything, and that a girl who was not created for the bridal bed had no doubt been created for a higher calling. God’s kingdom was where Rikissa should turn. Since her father knew old King Sverker well, they had worked out that Rikissa was particularly suited to take charge of a new convent that the Sverker clan planned to establish in Gudhem. Once both the king and her father had decided her fate she naturally had nothing to say about it. The very year after she finished her time as a novice she became abbess. God knew then how inexperienced she was and terrified of the great responsibility. Some of the severity she had shown toward Cecilia Rosa in the beginning could probably be explained by the fact that there was a war going on outside in those days. The Folkungs and the Eriks were fighting a hard battle against the Sverker side. It was unjust, of course, that Cecilia Rosa, who had been so young and delicate, had been forced to carry the yoke of war on her shoulders even inside the cloister, where war had no place. It was unfair and it was wrong. Mother Rikissa acknowledged that the sin was her own as she bowed her head as if to weep.

During Rikissa’s long confession Cecilia Rosa had felt a flood of emotion that she never could have imagined. She felt sorry for the abbess, sympathizing with the plight of the ugly girl and picturing how both noblemen and ordinary men must have laughed behind her back. They surely must have pointed out even then how oddly like a witch Rikissa was, just as Cecilia Rosa and Ulvhilde and Cecilia Blanca had later done. It must have been very difficult for the young Rikissa, filled with the same hopes and dreams as other maidens her age, slowly but inexorably to realize that she was doomed to a different life, a life she had not wished for at all.

And it was also unfair, Cecilia Rosa thought. For no woman or man could choose her own appearance; the best-looking fathers and mothers could have the ugliest children, and vice versa. Whatever God’s intention for creating Rikissa in the image of a witch, at least it was not her own fault.

“That is a sad story you have told me, Mother,” she finally began cautiously. “But it is true that your sin was a grave one; I have felt it on my own skin and through many a bitter winter night. But God is good and merciful, and anyone who regrets her sin as you do shall not be lost. My forgiveness is of only minor importance, my wounds have healed long ago, and the cold has long since left the marrow of my bones. You must seek God’s forgiveness, Mother. How could I, insignificant sinner that I am, take precedence over God in such a matter?”

“So you will not forgive me?” Mother Rikissa sobbed, leaning forward as if in pain and twisting so that a rattling sound betrayed the cilice she wore under her woolen clothes.

“There is nothing I would rather do, Mother,” replied Cecilia Rosa, relieved that she had actually managed to wriggle out of this dilemma. “The day that you are convinced of God’s forgiveness, come to me, and together with great joy we shall offer a prayer of thanksgiving for His grace.”

Mother Rikissa slowly straightened up from her hunched position and nodded thoughtfully, as if she had found Cecilia Rosa’s words proper and worthy of consideration, even though she had not received the forgiveness she had sought. She wiped her eyes as if she had actually shed a few tears, and sighed deeply. Then she began to speak about all the trouble that had been caused by the two who had run off from Gudhem and Varnhem. Both she and the elderly Father Henri had been harshly taken to task by the archbishop for this grave sin, which it had been their responsibility to prevent.

But Mother Rikissa had not had anything to say in her defense, since she had known nothing about what had gone on behind her back. Now, so long afterward, couldn’t dear Cecilia Rosa show some mercy and explain the truth of the matter? Cecilia Rosa turned to ice inside. She scrutinized Mother Rikissa and thought she could see the serpent eyes of the Devil, for the pupils in those red-rimmed eyes had turned to slits. They looked like the eyes of a snake or perhaps a goat, didn’t they?

“No, Mother Rikissa,” she replied stonily. “About this matter I know no more than you. How would I, a sinful penitent, come to know anything about what a monk and a nun were planning?”

She got up and left without saying anything more, and without first kissing Mother Rikissa’s hand. She kept her temper under control until she had closed the doors on her and come out into the lovely arcade. There the roses now twined their way up all the pillars as a constant greeting from Sister Leonore, of whom nothing had been heard, nor of Brother Lucien. And since nothing was heard about punishment and penance or excommunication, that was good news. By now they were probably both in southern France, happy with their child and without sin.

Cecilia Rosa walked slowly past all the climbing roses in the arcade, smelling the red ones and caressing the odorless white ones. All the roses seemed to send greetings from Sister Leonore and the happy land of Occitania. Yet a cold shiver went through Cecilia Rosa although it was a warm summer night.

She had been sitting in the presence of the Serpent herself. The serpent had spoken as sweetly as a lamb, and for a moment she had made Cecilia Rosa believe that the Serpent was indeed a lamb. What great misfortune and what a terrible punishment might have resulted if she had given in to that siren song.

In every phase of life, it was important to try and think like a man of power, or at least like Cecilia Blanca.

There was one thing that had happened in recent weeks that might offer an explanation for Mother Rikissa’s penitence, or rather her fruitless attempt to lure Cecilia Rosa into betraying herself as the worst sort of sinner against the peace of the cloister. A message had come from Queen Cecilia Blanca saying that she would not come alone to Gudhem on her next visit. She would bring the jarl Birger Brosa with her.

This was fateful news. The jarl was not a man who would travel to the convent to waste his valuable time speaking with some poor penitent woman, even if he had shown Cecilia Rosa his support. If the jarl came, there was something important afoot.

Cecilia Rosa also suspected this when she received the message. Nowadays Mother Rikissa could not keep such an imminent event to herself. The yconomahad to know well in advance what sort of hospitality was expected from Gudhem, so that she could send her men to purchase all the sorts of food that would normally not be eaten at Gudhem. The rules naturally forbade all men and women who had dedicated their lives to God from eating four-footed animals. But for jarls there were certainly no such rules. Nor did such rules apply in all cloisters. It was well known that the Burgundian monks at Varnhem, under Father Henri’s supervision with his clear consent, had created the best cuisine in the North. Birger Brosa could come to Varnhem unannounced and still dine better than at any of his own tables. But when it came to Gudhem, he was more prudent.

Yet whatever Birger Brosa had on his mind, it was not something that Cecilia Rosa worried about beforehand. She had nothing special to hope for except that eventually her long penance would come to an end. Until that time, no king or jarl could do anything at all for her except try to keep Mother Rikissa, if not obedient to the nurture and admonition of the Lord, then at least within the discipline of the secular authorities. And unlike Mother Rikissa, Cecilia Rosa had nothing to fear from the jarl and the queen. For her it was only a matter of sweet anticipation as she waited for her dear friend Cecilia Blanca’s visit, which this time would be much different.

The jarl arrived with a great retinue. He was already quite well-fed and content because for safety’s sake he had stayed up at Varnhem for a day and a night before he and the queen continued the short distance to Gudhem.

Horses’ hooves clattered on the new cobblestones outside the walls, and men spoke in loud, rough voices. A great din arose from the tent posts, ropes and windlasses as the camp for the jarl’s men was raised; the tension inside Gudhem grew with each unfamiliar sound. But Cecilia Rosa, who could now go out to the hospitiumwithout asking Mother Rikissa’s permission, sat inside with her books and her goose quill, finishing up all the bookkeeping occasioned by the state visit. It felt good not to rush off to see the queen, whose visit cheered her heart each year; instead she would first conclude her work, as a good toiler in God’s garden. She believed that enjoyment and rest were the rewards for good work. And that was a belief that she would take with her one day, to her life outside Gudhem. For now so much of her penance had been served that she could see the end of it, and she had cautiously begun to imagine what her life might be like in the future. But she couldn’t be very specific in her daydreaming, because one thing was not at all clear.

It had been several years since any news had come from Varnhem and Father Henri about Arn Magnusson. The only thing she knew for certain was that he was not dead, for according to what Father Henri had told Cecilia Blanca, Arn had now risen to the high rank of a Templar knight. If he had fallen in the holy war, masses would have been read for his soul all over the Cistercian world. So she knew that he was among the living, but nothing more.

However, tidings of Arn were the first thing Birger Brosa spoke of when she went out to the hospitium, embraced Cecilia Blanca, and then bowed her head to the jarl. She didn’t dare embrace him because her years in the cloister had begun to take a deep toll on her, although she was not aware of it.

When they had said their greetings and the jarl had received his desired tankard of ale, he sat down comfortably at the table, pulling up one leg as was his wont. Then he gave Cecilia Blanca a sly look as she sat down and arranged her skirts.

“So, my dear kinswoman Cecilia,” he said with a smile, stalling a bit to pique her curiosity even more. “The queen and I have a great deal to say to you. Some news is of great import and other news may be of lesser interest. But I think you would like to hear first the latest news about Arn Magnusson. He is now one of the great victors of the Knights Templar, and recently he won a huge battle at a place called Mont Grisar, at least that’s what I thought Father Henri said. It was no ordinary battle. Fifty thousand Saracens fell, and he himself led ten thousand knights, riding in the vanguard. May God preserve such a warrior so that we have him home soon. We Folkungs hope for this as much as you do, Cecilia!”

Cecilia Rosa at once bowed her head in a prayer of thanksgiving and soon the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Birger Brosa and Cecilia Blanca let her weep but exchanged a meaningful glance.

“Shall we switch to another topic that also warrants our attention?” asked the jarl after a while, again smiling broadly. Cecilia Rosa nodded and dried her tears. But she smiled at Cecilia Blanca as if neither words nor silent cloister signs were needed to explain the joy that the news from Varnhem had brought her.

“Well, I thought I’d speak with you about Ulvhilde Emundsdotter, because that matter has not been easy to resolve,” the jarl went on when he thought Cecilia Rosa had collected herself sufficiently.

Then he calmly explained, point by point and in good order, how various difficulties had arisen and what he had tried to do about them.

First and foremost he wanted to say that it was quite true that Ulvhilde had the law of Western Götaland on her side. About that, three lagmänwere in agreement. Ulfshem had been Ulvhilde’s childhood home. As her mother and her brother had been killed, she was indeed the rightful heiress to Ulfshem.

And yet the matter had not been quite so simple. For King Knut Eriksson had been no friend of her father, Emund One-Hand. On the contrary, when the issue of the inheritance had been brought up, the king had vehemently declared that if he could kill Emund again every single day, then he would be supremely happy to do so. Emund was a king-killer and worse because in an ignominious and cowardly fashion he had slain Saint Erik, King Knut’s father. And why, King Knut had then asked, should he feel the slightest mercy toward the evil Emund’s offspring?

Because the law required it, Birger Brosa had then tried to explain. The law was above all other power; the law was the basis on which a country was built, and no king could object to that.

But the difficulties were not limited to the king’s intractable stance. Ulfshem had been burned to the ground. Then it had been given to some Folkungs who had served well in the victory on the fields of blood. Now living at Ulfshem were Sigurd Folkesson and his two unmarried sons. Their mother had died in childbed, and for some reason Folkesson had never remarried.

These Folkungs could claim that they had been given Ulfshem by royal bequest and that they had then built up everything from the ground.

Here, to his considerable surprise, the jarl was interrupted by Cecilia Rosa who almost audaciously pointed out that the land was worth much more than any buildings.

The jarl frowned at being corrected in this way, but since the only witness was the queen he chose to ignore the affront. Instead of being annoyed he praised Cecilia Rosa for her shrewd business sense.

In any case, this matter had been gone over time and time again. There was more than one way to get out of this fox-burrow.

One way was with silver. Another way was by marriage. For if Ulvhilde agreed to be betrothed to one of Sigurd’s sons, there would be no impediment to her assuming more than half ownership of Ulfshem. She had to have something as a dowry, after all.

Here Cecilia Rosa looked as if she wanted to say something, but she refrained.

The second possibility, the jarl went on as he held up his forefinger with a smile so as not to be interrupted again, was to buy out the Folkungs now living at Ulfshem.

As Cecilia Rosa surely understood, he and Cecilia Blanca had not wanted to have this discussion in Ulvhilde’s presence; that was the only reason she had not yet been invited over to the hospitium.

They wanted to know what Cecilia Rosa thought of this, and whether they could agree on a wise solution so they could then summon Ulvhilde. What was Cecilia Rosa’s opinion? She was the one who knew Ulvhilde best. Should they seek the expensive solution and buy out the Folkungs, or could they simply arrange for her to marry into the Folkung clan?

Cecilia Rosa thought that this dilemma could be settled in the twinkling of an eye. In a better world in which Ulvhilde had not had all those nearest and dearest to her killed in a war, her father would have long ago made the best match he could for her. But as things now stood, Ulvhilde had no such constraints. Cecilia Rosa was sure that she would go along with whatever her two sole friends proposed for her, in consultation with the jarl. But rushing to force Ulvhilde into a bridal bed might just as well lead to her unhappiness as to her happiness.

After thinking for a while, Cecilia Rosa suggested that it would be best if Ulvhilde were simply allowed to travel home to her family estate without any betrothal promises. While Birger Brosa arranged for new land for the Folkung Sigurd and his two sons, they could stay and help Ulvhilde settle in as mistress of the estate. For it was no easy matter to learn such responsibilities, since she had spent the greater part of her life in singing hymns, gardening, and doing needlework.

After a brief pause he nodded his agreement and asked Cecilia Rosa to go to the cloister and fetch Ulvhilde.

Before leaving she was reminded by Cecilia Blanca that this would be the last time Ulvhilde walked through the gate of Gudhem, for they would take her along on their journey north in a day or two. So, she added, if there was any suitable Sverker mantle, it would be best to bring it along at once. The jarl would surely have nothing against paying for such a gift. And if he made a fuss about this small expense, Cecilia Blanca would pay for it herself. She and Birger Brosa had a good laugh at that.

Her cheeks red and her heart pounding, Cecilia Rosa hurried into the cloister and off to the vestiarium, where at this hour she expected to find Ulvhilde. But she wasn’t there. Cecilia Rosa quickly selected a very lovely bloodred Sverker mantle with gold and silk threads adorning the embroidered black griffin on the back. She folded it up under her arm, and hurried off to find Ulvhilde. She suddenly felt a great sense of unease.

And as if guided by this foreboding she did not stop to look in places where she should have looked first, but went straight to Mother Rikissa’s own rooms. There she found them both on their knees and weeping. As if to console the young woman Mother Rikissa had placed her arm around Ulvhilde’s shoulders, which were shaking with sobs. What Cecilia Rosa had feared most was about to happen or in the worst case had already happened, despite all her warnings to Ulvhilde.

“Don’t let yourself be led astray, Ulvhilde!” she shouted, running over to them and brusquely snatching Ulvhilde from Mother Rikissa’s clawlike grip. She embraced her and stroked her trembling back as she fumbled with the red mantle.

Mother Rikissa then stood up, hissing with her red-rimmed eyes flashing. She began screaming wildly that no one had the right to interrupt confession. Then she tried to seize Ulvhilde’s arms to pull her away.

With a strength that did not seem her own, Cecilia Rosa separated her weeping friend from the witch and then held up the red mantle as protection between them. Both quieted down, surprised to see the large, bloodred garment.

Cecilia Rosa promptly draped the Sverker mantle over Ulvhilde’s shoulders, as if it were an iron shield against Mother Rikissa’s evil.

“Now you must get hold of yourself, Rikissa!” she said, again displaying a force that she would not have believed she possessed. “She is your slave no longer, not your poor maiden Ulvhilde among the novices without silver or clan. Here stands Ulvhilde of Ulfshem, and you two, God be praised, shall never see each other again!”