Текст книги "Birth of the Kingdom"

Автор книги: Ян Гийу

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

FIVE

Upon her homecoming to Husaby, Cecilia soon found that she was an unwelcome guest; if anyone had wished her banished to the cloister more than Birger Brosa, it was her relatives.

She had not relinquished her inheritance from her father Algot. At least half of the ten farms around Husaby were hers. And her kinsmen circled around the matter like a cat around hot porridge when it came to her sister Katarina’s inheritance. The question was whether Katarina had relinquished her birthright when she entered the cloister, and if so, whether the property would fall to the cloister, to Cecilia, or to her male kinsmen.

Husaby had been a royal estate ever since the days of Olof Skötkonung. But the Pål clan had been caretakers there for more than a century, so they reckoned Husaby as their own estate when it came to holding feasts for the clan, even though they always had to make sure that they had plenty of provisions in case the king himself came to visit. They also had to pay tax to the king.

Cecilia’s homecoming was such a disappointment to her uncle’s son Pål Jönsson and his two brothers Algot and Sture that they could scarcely conceal their dismay. It wasn’t hard for Cecilia to understand the reason for their sullen expressions or why they spoke to her only when forced to, preferring instead to sit by themselves. They stopped talking as soon as she came near.

Cecilia’s wedding was going to cost them dearly, she was well aware of that. The law and custom were both simple and clear. The richer the bridegroom, the bigger the dowry. And a richer man than the son of Arnäs was difficult to find in Western Götaland. At least that was what Cecilia surmised, without having any idea how much Arn might inherit from his father Magnus.

Cecilia had good reason not to discuss the dowry with her hostile kinsmen. It would be better to save that argument for the dowry ale when Arn’s bridal representative, who would undoubtedly be Eskil, came to arrange everything that had to be finished and decided by the wedding day. Very few would dare butt heads with Eskil.

Eskil had already sent over the old thrall woman Suom from Arnäs, since she was the most skilled in the sewing arts and could make a bridal gown better than anyone. Cecilia instantly became friends with Suom. They found great pleasure in each other’s skill with needle and thread, distaff and loom.

Some of the things they could do in the convent Suom had never seen. But she knew other things that they didn’t know at the cloister, so the two got on well together. And in this way Cecilia was spared keeping company with the unfriendly Pål brothers.

Eskil arrived at the appointed time on the day as promised, bringing a dozen guards. He quickly drank his welcome ale and explained that he didn’t intend to stay overnight, so they had better take care of the business matters at once, without any more drinking.

The Pål brothers could offer no argument, but they blushed with humiliation that this Folkung did not even care to share their bread and meat.

Things did not improve when Eskil said that he would prefer to have Cecilia included in the conversation so that she could speak her piece. This diminished the role of Pål Jönsson, which could hardly have escaped Eskil’s notice.

In silence the three Pål brothers entered the feast hall of Husaby first and took their places together at the high seat. Eskil was careful to walk slowly, taking Cecilia’s arm and whispering that she must remain calm and not worry about any of the things that now might be said. He had no chance to explain further before they moved further into the dim hall, which was still decorated with ancient runes and images of gods that were not Christian.

In silence the Pål brothers sat down in the high seat with Cecilia near them and Eskil facing them across the longtable. New ale was brought in by house thralls who said not a word, seeming to sense that this was a meeting that their masters did not particularly desire.

‘Well, shall we set the date first?’ said Eskil, wiping the ale from his mouth, as if he weren’t talking about anything difficult or important.

‘It’s customary to decide on the date after everyone agrees on all the rest,’ Pål Jönsson muttered with annoyance. He was red in the face, and the veins bulged from his forehead as if he were as taut as a bowstring, anticipating what was to follow.

‘As you like. We can talk about the dowry first,’ said Eskil.

‘Half of the inheritance from my uncle Algot rightfully belongs to Cecilia. That’s what she can take with her into the estate,’ Pål Jönsson said.

‘Absolutely not!’ Eskil snapped back. ‘Cecilia’s sister Katarina was my wife, as you may recall, and she entered Gudhem cloister while their father was still alive. It was autumn, and during the subsequent Christmas feast Algot drank until he suffered a stroke and died. We all know this sad story, may he rest in peace. So Cecilia’s inheritance is Algot’s entire estate, all ten farms. She will take those with her into the estate.’

‘Doesn’t Katarina’s inheritance fall to Gudhem cloister?’ said Pål, trying to be evasive.

‘No, because when she entered the cloister she had no inheritance, since Algot was still alive,’ Eskil replied implacably. ‘And as far as Gudhem is concerned, I have paid out of my own pocket more for Katarina’s admittance into the holy sisterhood than was ever required.’

‘So you’re demanding that I and all my brothers leave our farms and property?’ asked Pål Jönsson, wringing his hands. ‘That’s an unfair demand when at the same time you expect to keep us as your kinsmen. Remember that this is my decision to make, since I speak on Cecilia’s behalf regarding the dowry. And with conditions like those you have presented, I may decide to cancel the wedding altogether!’

Now it was finally said. It was evident when the three brothers took a deep breath that this was what they’d been planning for the past week.

Eskil’s expression didn’t change, but he waited an excruciatingly long time before he said anything. And then he spoke in a mild and friendly voice.

‘If you break the agreement, no matter that it’s an old one, you are the same as a bride-robber and will not live till sundown, my dear kinsman. That would not be a good start for this marriage. But I am not a disobliging man; I would like us to settle this for the best without bloodshed so that we can remain the friends that the union between my brother and Cecilia Algotsdotter demands. Let’s say that Cecilia’s dowry will be just the five farms and bordering lands to the north and west toward Arnäs and Lake Vänern. Then you can keep the other five farms and stay on as the king’s hosts at Husaby. Would such a proposal suit you and your two brothers better?’

None of them could object to that, and all three nodded in silent consent.

‘In return for relinquishing five farms, I may have to demand a bit more gold, let’s say twelve marks in bullion in addition to the five farms,’ Eskil went on as if speaking of trifles, and giving more attention to the ale.

But this was no small matter he was proposing as compensation. Twelve marks in gold was a sum so large that not even all the farms of the Pål clan would have sufficed. And even if they had been a mightier clan, it wouldn’t have been possible to produce such a sum in pure gold. The three brothers stared incredulously at Eskil as if unsure whether he or they had lost their minds.

‘I need more ale,’ said Eskil with a friendly smile, holding up his empty tankard just as Pål Jönsson collected himself to speak, and his words did not look to be friendly.

But he had to wait until Eskil had his new tankard, and Cecilia thought that this delay may have saved Pål’s tongue from behaving as the bane of his head.

‘Well! Perhaps I should explain one more item before you say anything, kinsman,’ Eskil went on just as Pål opened his mouth. ‘You brothers would not be responsible for those twelve marks in gold; Cecilia will pay the sum out of her own pocket.’

Once again Pål Jönsson was curtailed just as he was about to speak. All the anger that could have made him raise his hand to Eskil or say things that just as surely would have meant his death, now changed to gaping astonishment.

‘If Cecilia, though I don’t know how, can pay such an enormous amount as twelve marks in gold, I don’t understand this discussion at all,’ he said, straining to keep his words polite.

‘What is it you don’t understand, dear kinsman?’ asked Eskil, resting his tankard on his knee.

‘Compared with you Folkungs, we in the Pål clan are poor,’ said Pål Jönsson. ‘And if Cecilia can pay twelve marks in gold, which is the largest dowry any of us have ever heard of, I don’t see why you need to have five of our farms.’

‘It’s a good bargain for us, because we want to have the land along Lake Vänern as part of our property,’ Eskil replied calmly. ‘It’s a good bargain for you Pål brothers as well, if you think about it. You won’t be left without any benefits. After this wedding you can bear a sword wherever you want in Western Götaland, because as Cecilia’s representative you will become part of the Folkung clan by marriage. You can exchange your green mantle for our blue one. Anyone who harms you or your brothers will have harmed the Folkungs. Anyone who raises a sword against you will not live more than three sundowns thereafter. You will be united with us both in blood and in honour. Think on that!’

What Eskil said was true. But Pål and his brothers had been so stubbornly engaged in talking about their monetary losses, about five or ten farms in inheritance and how much better it would have been if Cecilia had gone into the cloister, that they hadn’t thought about the significance of coming under the Folkungs’ protection. Their lives would be changed completely after one wedding night.

A bit ashamed at their own simplicity, Pål and his two brothers now immediately submitted to all of Eskil’s desires.

Cecilia would be given Forsvik as the morning gift, as her own estate in perpetuity, to be inherited by her progeny. At Forsvik she would also live with her Arn. As long as she saw fit to keep him there, Eskil added with a jocular glance at Cecilia, who looked surprised by these unnecessary additions concerning the legal right to all morning gifts.

It was decided to hold three days of celebration: the bachelors’ and maidens’ evening on the first Friday after Midsummer; the fetching of the bride and the traditional escorting to the bridal bed on the following Saturday; and the blessing of the bride at the mass on Sunday in Forshem Church.

Four young men rode to the bachelors’ evening. Even from far off everyone could see that these young men were not ordinary youths. Their horses were decked out for a feast in blue fabric, and three of the men wore surcoats with the Folkung lion over their chain mail, while the fourth bore the mark of the three crowns. It was a summer day in the midst of the hay harvest, so their mantles were rolled up behind their saddles. Otherwise it would have been obvious that the fourth among them, the sole Erik, had a mantle lined with ermine. And since it wasn’t the king himself, it had to be his son Erik jarl.

Their shields hanging on the left side of the saddle were all newly painted in shining blue and gold around the lion and crowns. Behind them followed four royal guards and some pack horses.

It was a beautiful sight with all the bright colours and the stout horses, but also a sight that would make every peasant in the lands of the Goths more than wary. If such a party happened to arrive toward evening and decided to spend the night, they would not leave much ale behind but a great void in the larder, for all power in the kingdom lay with the Eriks and Folkungs, and no one could refuse them anything.

The youngest of the four was Torgils, seventeen years old, the son of Eskil Magnusson of Arnäs. The eldest was Magnus Månesköld, who once had been reckoned Birger Brosa’s son, but was now considered his foster brother. He was actually the son of Arn Magnusson. The fourth, who rode beside Erik jarl, was Folke Jonsson, son of Jon the judge in Eastern Götaland.

The four were best friends and almost always rode together in the hunt and during weapons games. Before this wedding they had spent ten days together while their riding clothes were cleaned and mended and their shields painted anew at the king’s Näs. Each day they had practiced with their weapons for several hours, for it was not some ordinary test that awaited them.

For Magnus Månesköld it hadn’t been easy to stay away from Forsvik for so long. When Birger Brosa came to Bjälbo, in a rage after the latest council meeting, he mentioned as if in passing that Arn Magnusson had returned to the kingdom. The first thing Magnus wanted to do was jump into the saddle and ride off to see his father.

But he restrained himself when he realized that Arn Magnusson was probably not a man he should seek out before first outfitting himself well and polishing all his weapons until they gleamed. And he wanted to practice even more with the bow, for Magnus had lived his entire young life hearing the sagas about how his father Arn was the best archer of all.

To himself he quietly admitted that he was a bit apprehensive at approaching Forsvik for such an unusual task. He was to be one of the young men to escort his own father to the bachelor evening. His friends had made much mirth about this. It was not granted to many men to drink their father under the table at the bachelors’ celebration. He had not been amused by these jests and said so. Arn Magnusson of Arnäs was not some ordinary bridegroom. And the bride was no little weepy and terrified goose, but his own mother, a woman beyond reproach who was shown respect by all. With this wedding, it was more a matter of restoring honour than arranging favourable family alliances, and it was nothing to jest about.

Erik jarl had argued that among one’s closest friends one could jest about anything and everyone. But he honoured Magnus’s wishes and avoided the topic. He himself was a jarl of the realm and thus highest in rank among the friends, but Magnus Månesköld was the eldest of the four, the best at weapons games, and often as wise as if he were truly Birger Brosa’s son.

As they approached Forsvik the tension grew as the meeting with Arn Magnusson approached. They all knew him by reputation but had never seen him in person.

The first workers from Forsvik they met were the ones busy with the hay harvest, cutting grass and raising hayracks. They all stopped what they were doing when they saw the gleaming trappings of the approaching riders. Then they lined up to kneel in greeting until Erik jarl ordered them back to work.

In one of the fields lying fallow close to Forsvik itself, a more surprising sight greeted them. Two young boys were practicing on horseback with two older foreigners. All four were riding in close formation, and at a cry from one of the dark-skinned strangers all four turned like lightning to the left or right or stopped short, rearing and turning on the spot in the other direction. Then they sped up and suddenly cast themselves all together in a new direction. It was a peculiar sight, a style of riding that none of the four friends had ever seen. The horses also looked foreign, smaller than regular horses but much quicker in their movements.

Soon they were discovered by the four riders practicing. One of the foreigners then drew an unusually narrow sword and yelled some warning to the other. He too drew his sword, signalling to the two boys to ride back into the farmyard at once. Then followed a moment of confusion when it looked as though the foreigners were preparing to attack, while the two boys protested and scolded without really being able to make themselves understood.

Erik jarl and his friends sat still, like their retainers, with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. It was an astonishing sight, if what they were seeing was correct, that two men were preparing to attack a group of eight.

Before they managed to decide how to behave at this unexpected welcome, one of the two boys in the field spurred his horse and rode toward them at such high speed that it was hard for them to believe their eyes. In a few seconds he was upon them. Then he stopped abruptly and bowed.

‘Forgive me, Erik jarl, that our foreign teachers took you for our foes,’ he gasped. ‘I am Sune Folkesson and am apprenticed here at Forsvik to Sir Arn, and that’s my brother over there, Sigfrid Erlingsson.’

‘I know who you are. I knew your father when I was your age,’ replied Erik jarl. ‘Since you are the one who came to meet us, you may now take us to your lord.’

Young Sune nodded eagerly. He wheeled his horse around with a single odd leap and rode ahead at a canter as he waved to Sigfrid and the two foreign teachers that there was no danger. The teachers bowed and turned their horses toward Forsvik.

The sound of hammers and axes thundered along with the ringing of metal from smithies as the four noble youths neared the bridge over the rapids with their retainers, the two boys, and the foreign riders behind them. They saw thralls and workers transporting timber although it was the middle of summer. Others were loading bricks and stones and carrying heavy yokes laden with masonry supplies in every direction. It seemed that no one had time to look up at the visitors.

They rode across the courtyard between the buildings, and nobody came to greet them; they continued out the other side where two new longhouses and two smaller buildings were being raised. Most of the residents of Forsvik who were not out at the hay harvest seemed to be there working together.

As the four visitors came around the gable of the new longhouse, they finally aroused the attention they had no doubt expected much earlier.

A man who was way up on the wall and dressed in dirty leather clothes swung down from the wooden scaffolding in two long, nimble leaps. Everyone made way for him as he wiped the sweat from his brow and flung away the trowel, looking gravely from one visitor to the next. When his gaze fell upon Magnus Månesköld he nodded as if in affirmation and went straight over to him and held out his hand. Everyone was quiet. Nobody moved.

Magnus’s head spun when he saw the warrior’s filthy hand covered with mortar extended toward him, and almost with horror his gaze sought out the man’s scarred face. His friends sat mute, just as amazed as he was.

‘If your father offers you his hand, I think you ought to take it,’ said Arn with a broad smile, wiping the sweat once more from his brow.

Magnus Månesköld immediately dismounted, took his father’s hand, and quickly dropped one knee to the ground. Then he hesitated before he fell into his father’s embrace.

His friends instantly got off their horses and handed the reins to the servants, who now seemed wakened from their paralysis and hurried over from all directions. One by one the four youths politely greeted this Arn Magnusson who did not resemble any of the images they had envisioned and discussed with each other.

The guests’ horses were taken away. Ale and wine, bread and salt were brought out, and then Arn and his four guests entered the hall of the old longhouse and sat down for a meal.

‘I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,’ Arn explained, motioning to his dirty work clothes. ‘A message came from Näs that you are the four who shall escort me to my bachelor evening, and for that honour I thank you warmly.’

‘It’s an honour for us to do so,’ replied Erik jarl with a curt bow, but his expression did not match his words.

‘You have come to a building site that is hardly suited for guests,’ said Arn after a moment. He had no difficulty seeing through their embarrassed reticence. ‘So I suggest that we leave at once, stop to rest in Askeberga, and arrive at Arnäs early tomorrow morning.’ He was expecting their astonished expressions.

‘You probably shouldn’t leave right away, Father,’ said Magnus glumly. ‘Thrall clothing and mortar in your hair are not the proper attire for a bachelors’ evening.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Arn as if not noticing that he’d been reprimanded by his own son. ‘So perhaps you might enjoy the meager entertainments that Forsvik has to offer today, while I change my attire for a new fate!’

He got up, bowed to his guests, and left, aware of the silence that remained in his wake. Their unmistakable disappointment was written in stone on their faces.

Arn was in a hurry when he came out of the longhouse. He was sure that they should all saddle up and get away from Forsvik as soon as they could. He called together all the workers and told them what he expected to see finished by the time he and his bride returned in less than a week. Then he ordered Sune and Sigfrid to ready his horse Ibn Anaza, decking him out like the horses of the four guests. Sune objected that there was no such Folkung caparison at Forsvik, so Arn went into one of the new buildings and fetched a white cloth that he tossed to the boys. Then he commanded that the guests’ retainers be given ale, and he summoned the Saracen who was handiest with a razor and ordered hot water to be brought to the bathhouse.

Inside the longhouse Erik jarl and his friends were served smoked meat, bread, and ale, but all declined to partake of the wine that was offered.

Their good mood from the trip to Forsvik was gone. They had a hard time talking, since none of them wanted to add to Magnus Månesköld’s embarrassment. Finding his father with a trowel in his hand was not something they envied him.

‘Your father is as strong and agile as any of us. Did you see the way he came down from the top of the roof in only two leaps?’ said Torgils Eskilsson in an attempt to say something positive.

‘He must have fought many battles to have so many scars on his hands and face,’ Folke Jonsson added.

Magnus Månesköld at first said nothing, just looked down into his ale and sighed. Then he muttered something to the effect that perhaps it wasn’t so odd that those who had lost the Holy Land had taken some lumps before it was over. His disappointment spread like the cold to the others.

‘But it was he who once met Emund Ulvbane in single combat at the tingof all Goths, sparing the berserker but hacking off his hand,’ Torgils attempted to console him once more.

‘Back then he was a young man like we are, and it wasn’t a trowel he was holding in his hand,’ Magnus muttered.

Their conversation faltered even more.

Less than an hour had passed when a completely different Arn Magnusson stepped through the door. His face was rosy from a hot bath, his blond hair that had been a matted gray mass of mortar and dirt was slicked back shiny and clean, and his face was now free of whiskers so that the white scars gleamed even more clearly than when they first saw him. But this was not what had changed him most.

His chain mail was of a foreign type, shining like silver and clinging to his body like cloth. On his feet he wore a type of steel shoes that none of the four had ever seen before, and spurs of gold glittered at his heels. He wore the Folkungs’ surcoat over his chain mail, and at his side hung a long, narrow sword in a black scabbard with a cross stamped on it in gold. On a chain from his left shoulder dangled a gleaming helmet.

‘The horses have been brought out to the courtyard,’ he said curtly, motioning to them to get up and follow him.

Outside, the thralls stood holding the reins of five horses. Their retainers were already mounted and waiting a short distance away.

Arn strode straight over to a black horse with a silver mane and mounted it in a single leap as the horse turned and set off at a trot. It all seemed to happen in one fluid movement.

Just outside the barnyard Arn wheeled his horse around, and it reared on its hind legs as he drew his long flashing sword and shouted something in a foreign language. The many foreigners responded with shouts and cheers.

‘He who judges too soon judges himself,’ said Torgils knowingly to Magnus as they hurried to mount their horses and catch up with Arn.

Magnus was just as confused by what he now saw as he was at his first meeting with his father. The man riding ahead of him was not the same one who had met him with the trowel in his hand.

The four urged their horses on until they came up alongside Arn, the way equal brothers ride through the land. Now they saw that it was not merely a white cloth covering his horse like those who lacked their own clan’s coat of arms. On both hind-quarters shone a great red cross, the same as that on Arn’s white shield. They knew what that meant even though none of them had ever actually seen a Templar knight in person.

They rode for a long while in silence, each man subdued by his own embarrassment. Arn made not the slightest move to start a conversation to help them out of this difficulty. He thought he had a good idea what their expressions had meant when they saw him working like a thrall, as they probably would have said in their language. But he had been so young when he was sent to Varnhem cloister that he hadn’t had time to develop such pride. And yet he had a hard time imagining that he would have turned out like these young men even if he had grown up outside the cloister walls along with Eskil.

Then Magnus came riding up beside him and asked timidly about the long, light sword they all had seen when he saluted farewell to the farm folk.

‘Hand me your sword and take mine and I’ll explain,’ said Arn, drawing his sword in a lightning-quick motion and holding it out with his iron glove around the blade by the hilt. ‘But be careful of the blade, it’s very sharp!’

When Arn took the Nordic sword in his hand he swung it a few times and nodded to himself with a smile.

‘You’re still forging in iron that you bend back and forth,’ he said before he explained.

Magnus’s sword was very beautiful, he admitted at once. It also lay well in the hand. But it was too short to use from horseback, demonstrating with a swift downward slash. Yet the iron was too soft to cut through the modern chain mail and would easily get stuck in the enemy’s shield. The edge was far too dull, and after a few blows against another man’s sword or shield it wouldn’t be of much use. So the important thing was to win quickly, and then go home and whet the blade anew, he said in an attempt to jest.

Magnus took some tentative swings with his father’s sword and then cautiously felt the edge. He flinched when he cut himself. As he was about to hand back the sword, his eyes fell on a long inscription in gold that was impossible to read. He asked what it meant, whether it was only for decoration or something that made the sword better.

‘Both,’ said Arn. ‘It’s a greeting from a friend and a blessing, and one day, but not today, I’ll tell you what it says.’

The sun was on its way up to its zenith, and Arn surprised his young companions by leaning back in the saddle and untying his mantle, which he slung over his shoulders. Arn told the wondering youths that if it was heat they wanted to protect themselves from, they should do as he did. They all hesitantly did the same, except for Erik jarl, who had ermine lining his mantle and thought the heat was bad enough without wrapping himself in fur. By the time they reached Askeberga resting place late that afternoon, he was the one who had sweated most.

On the day of the maidens’ celebration at Husaby the entire royal estate was transformed into an armed camp. At least that was Cecilia’s impression, and it made her even more agitated to hear the sound of horses’ hoofs, clanging weapons, and rough male voices everywhere. A dozen retainers had been sent from Arnäs, and more than twice as many warriors had been brought from the villages that were subject to Arnäs. A ring of tents sprouted up around Husaby, groups of riders searched through the oak woods far and wide, and scouts were sent out in every direction. Nothing must happen to the bride before she was safely under feather-bed and covers.

During the weeks at Midsummer when Cecilia felt like a guest on her own land she had spent most of her time in the weaving chamber with old Suom. Their friendship, which had developed after such a brief time, was not usual between a thrall and an unmarried noblewoman. Suom could perform miracles with her loom, making the sun and moon, images of the Victorious Bridegroom, and various churches appear as if in their actual settings, with some close and some far away. From Riseberga Cecilia had brought some of the dyes she had worked with for many years, and a sort of blended linen and woollen yarn. Suom said she had never seen such lovely colours, and everything she had done in her life would have been so much better if she’d had this knowledge from the start. Cecilia explained the origin of the dyes and how to boil and blend them; Suom showed with her hands how to weave figures right into the cloth.

So the two got a late start on the most important task, to weave Cecilia’s bridal mantle. When the bride was escorted along the road to the church for the blessing and on to the bridal ale, she was supposed to be clad in her own clan’s colours. Cecilia had such strong memories of the blue colour from her time in Gudhem convent. There she and Cecilia Blanca had been alone among all the Sverker daughters who wore red yarn around one arm as a sign of their common loyalty and hatred toward the two foes, Cecilia Rosa and Cecilia Blanca. She and her best friend had defied them by tying a small piece of blue yarn around their arms. And when the king and jarl came at last to take away Cecilia Blanca and make her queen, jarl Birger Brosa had done something that still warmed Cecilia’s memory.

She had been summoned to the hospitium and there the evil Mother Rikissa had torn off the scrap of blue yarn. Cecilia had been close to tears at this affront and her own feeling of powerlessness. Then the jarl had come over and hung his own Folkung mantle around her shoulders, which was a sign of protection that no one could mistake. Since that day she had always thought of herself as wearing blue and not green, which was the colour of the Pål clan.