Текст книги "Birth of the Kingdom"

Автор книги: Ян Гийу

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Arn Magnusson was defeated too, just as easily as the monk. Magnus Månesköld soon won the game, and many of the spectators were already convinced that he was the one who would finally have the least number of turnips of all and thereby win a crown of gold.

The next game was quarter-staffs on a plank. The two combatants had to balance on a plank placed over the moat and try to knock the other off using a long quarter-staff with its ends wrapped in leather. Before starting this game, it was customary to remove most of their clothing, since by the time the contest ended, all but one would have taken a bath in the moat.

Magnus Månesköld didn’t even bother to take off his open white shift when he first pointed his quarter-staff at the monk, so confident was he of victory.

The monk couldn’t very well remove his white woollen habit, and that prompted spiteful merriment among the spectators when he went to get his staff and took a few powerful practice swings through the air. But some also noticed that Arn Magnusson, standing there among the youths, was looking especially amused. He pounded the monk on the back and uttered a few coarse remarks that seemed to have something to do with taking an involuntary bath.

It was now that the games were turned upside down and became as unforgettable as the spectators had been hoping.

With a smile and shaking his head, the monk went out onto the plank where Magnus Månesköld was waiting with his quarter-staff lowered, as if expecting no threat from an old monk who could handle neither a spear nor an axe.

So quickly that no one even saw what happened, Magnus Månesköld landed in the moat, still wearing all of his clothes. The monk must have struck a lucky blow; that was what most people thought.

Brother Guilbert set down his staff and hitched up his habit around his white legs. Then he pointed at Erik jarl, who took off his white shift and stepped forward, a bit more cautiously than his friend. That didn’t help him in the slightest. Almost with the same speed, he too landed in the moat. This time the people on the walls had paid more attention to what was happening. The monk had first directed a blow at Erik jarl’s head, but halfway there he had lowered the staff with one hand and knocked his opponent’s feet out from under him.

The monk just as easily dispatched the other three youths, each of whom took off more and more clothing, anticipating the bath awaiting them. Finally only Arn Magnusson remained.

Arn removed his woollen shift and the long blue tunic before approaching Brother Guilbert. They began a conversation that few of the spectators could understand, no matter how much they strained to hear, since it was conducted in Frankish.

‘It’s no wonder that you’ve grown a bit slow over the years, my dear old teacher,’ said Arn.

‘Just remember that you’ve never even come close to defeating me, you young stripling,’ laughed Brother Guilbert as he raised his quarter-staff menacingly, feinting a blow. Arn didn’t even flinch.

‘Your problem is doubtless that I’m no longer a stripling,’ said Arn, and in the next moment the battle began.

The two fought for a long time and with dizzying speed, aiming four, five, or six blows with each attack, each of which was equally quickly fended off by his opponent. From the very beginning it was clear that these two were the superior combatants when it came to quarter-staffs on a plank.

At last it looked as if fatigue overcame the monk first, and Arn then increased his speed until he finally struck the monk’s foot and won. At the same time, he stuck out his staff so that the monk, as he fell, could grab hold of it and swing his body over toward the edge of the moat where there was solid ground. In this way most of his woollen habit stayed dry.

From that point on, none of the youths would come even close to another victory, and this was already evident when the first game on horseback commenced.

The first contest involved riding toward each other holding a long leather sack filled with sand, attempting to knock the other man out of the saddle. Arn, who had won the quarter-staff on a plank game, and hence was to determine the sequence of this battle, dispatched all of the youths as easily as the monk had done with the staff. When only the monk remained, a protracted contest began with an exhibition of horsemanship conducted at dizzying speed and with skills that were almost impossible to comprehend. Arn won this time as well, and again it looked as if the monk had tired first, and that was the reason for his defeat.

The next game entailed galloping toward rows of turnips that had been impaled on posts, and slicing through the turnips with a sword. None of the youths was able to cleave even half of the turnips in their row before Arn was already done. He didn’t bother to chop at them; he merely rode past with his long, slender sword stretched out like a wing, and all the turnips split in half. The first turnip hadn’t even hit the ground before Arn had sliced off the next. The monk, who came last, tried to ride in the same manner, but his borrowed sword got stuck in the third turnip, and with that the game was over.

Whoever won the turnip-chopping would have an almost impossible time trying to win the next game, since it was a race on horseback. If he won the first, second, and third race, it would be difficult to urge his horse to top speed against the other, rested horses.

Apparently Arn Magnusson had thought about this. It looked as if he rode the first races by holding back, although he was always just slightly ahead of his competitor. Perhaps it would have been wiser to start with the monk, who was riding one of his own foreign steeds. Instead, Arn saved the monk for last.

Then both men rode at full gallop, as they had when they competed against each other in the games with the leather sacks and the turnip-chopping. But the rested mare easily defeated Arn Magnusson’s stallion.

After that only the noblest of the games remained: archery. And no one had ever heard of monks who could shoot arrows. Yet no one had ever imagined that monks could ride like this Cistercian, let alone handle the quarter-staff and sword as he had done.

Perhaps the monk and Arn had decided between them how they would finish the games, because now things got very exciting. As soon as the monk tested the string on the bow that his friend Arn handed to him, it was easy to see that this was not the first time he’d held such a weapon in his hands.

The archery contest proceeded with two archers alternating shooting arrows at bales of hay adorned with the head of a griffin and set at a distance of fifty paces. When the targets were brought out, the spectators began snickering and murmuring at the audacity of choosing the coat of arms of the Sverkers as the target. It was not particularly honourable to jest in this way with the vanquished enemy.

Evidently without even exerting himself, the monk defeated first Sture Jönsson, then Torgils and Folke Jonsson. He had to make more of an effort to beat Erik jarl, and when it was Magnus Månesköld’s turn, it looked as if the monk had to do his utmost with every shot, since they both seemed almost equally skilled.

Both archers were evenly matched, striking the black griffin head each time, until the ninth arrow. Then Magnus Månesköld’s arrow landed outside, at the edge of the griffin, while the monk landed his arrow in the centre of the target. With the tenth arrow, Magnus once again struck the centre. Then it all came down to the monk’s last arrow.

Brother Guilbert turned and said something to Arn Magnusson, who replied curtly, shaking his head, whereupon Brother Guilbert shot his arrow so that it struck the centre of the target. And with that, the single arrow from Brother Guilbert defeated the best archer in all of Eastern Götaland.

With the archery contest, the situation was the reverse of the horseback race. It was a disadvantage to sit idle until the very end and an advantage to shoot against the lesser opponents before the decisive competition. And Brother Guilbert needed only to cast a glance at the youths to know in some strange way who was strong and who was weak, so he was able to take them in the proper sequence.

‘Now, my young apprentice, you won’t be able to rely on the power of your lungs or the strength of your legs to defeat your teacher,’ Brother Guilbert said, beaming and pulling the string of his bow taut several times as Arn stepped forward.

‘No, that’s true,’ said Arn. ‘I would much prefer that we conducted this contest just between the two of us if we truly wanted to know whether the teacher is still stronger than his apprentice. For which of us will now win?’

‘Your son Magnus was very disappointed when he lost; I could see that, even though he chivalrously hid his feelings,’ said Brother Guilbert. ‘But what would be best? If he sees his father defeated by the same monk? Or if he sees his father become the victor, even though he has practiced his whole life to defeat you, or rather the shadow of you? He is truly very skilled.’

‘Yes, I could see that,’ said Arn reluctantly. ‘Truly very skilled. Imagine what he could have become with you as his teacher. In the meantime, I can’t say who ought to win, you or me, or which victor Magnus would find it most difficult to stomach.’

‘Nor can I,’ said Brother Guilbert. Then he crossed himself as a sign that he was leaving this difficult decision to higher powers.

Arn nodded in agreement, crossed himself as well, and nocked the first arrow to the string of his bow. It struck the lower part of the griffin’s head, which wasn’t so odd, since this was his first shot, and it would either strike high or low before he had tested his bow.

For this reason Brother Guilbert took the lead until the seventh arrow, since they both hit the center of the target each time, until it was bristling with arrows. Brother Guilbert shot the seventh arrow too high, but not as high as Arn’s first arrow had been too low.

There was utter silence up on the walls, and the other competing youths had unconsciously moved closer and closer to get a better view. They now stood in a semicircle right behind the two archers.

With the eighth arrow, both struck the centre of the target. The ninth arrow, for each of them, again landed in the middle.

Arn shot his tenth arrow, which sliced off the fletchings of two other arrows, but still plunged into the centre. Now everything depended on Brother Guilbert’s last arrow.

He spent a long time taking aim; the only sound at Arnäs was the rush of wings from a flock of swifts flying past.

But then he changed his mind and lowered his bow, taking several deep breaths before he raised the bow once more and drew the string along his cheek. Again he spent a long time taking aim.

His arrow struck too high because he had taken too much time. And with that Arn was the victor of this youths’ game that no one who was present would ever forget. Nor would it be forgotten by those who were not present, because they would hear so many accounts of it over the years that they came to believe they’d actually seen it with their own eyes.

Eskil immediately came over to the youths with the mistress of Arnäs, Erika Joarsdotter, at his side. She carried two glittering crowns, one of gold and the other of silver. They stopped and all the youths lined up in front of the couple, very close to the moat so that the guests would be able to see and hear everything that was about to take place.

‘This bachelors’ evening has begun well,’ said Eskil in a loud voice. ‘You have brought great honour to my house, because such a game of youths as we have seen today has never occurred before and never shall again. The victor’s crown is gold, for a finer victory than this could not be won. To be miserly is not one of my qualities, and yet I am careful with my money. I am pleased, of course, that my brother has won since any other outcome no doubt would have taken a toll on his honour and reputation. I am also pleased that the gold will remain in this house, after a fashion. Step forward, Sir Arn!’

Arn was reluctantly shoved forward by Magnus Månesköld and young Torgils. He bowed before Eskil, and Erika Joarsdotter placed the gold crown on his head. After that Arn didn’t know what he was supposed to do, so Magnus leaned forward and tugged at his shift, which aroused great merriment among the spectators up on the wall.

Erika Joarsdotter now raised the silver crown toward Brother Guilbert, because they didn’t have to count turnips to know who had finished in second place.

Brother Guilbert protested and refused to come forward, which at first seemed like the feigned modesty of a religious man, but then he explained that in accordance with his monk’s vows, he was not allowed to own personal possessions. To give him silver would be the same as giving it to Varnhem cloister.

Eskil frowned, agreeing that it might be unnecessary to present a youth’s prize to a cloister to which he had already given more than enough in donations. A moment of indecision followed as Erika lowered the silver crown and looked at Eskil, who shrugged his shoulders.

But it was Brother Guilbert who came up with an unexpected solution. Cautiously he took the silver crown from Erika’s hands and went over to the baskets belonging to Erik jarl and Magnus Månesköld to count the turnips. He soon returned and went over to Magnus.

‘You, Magnus, are the best archer that I’ve ever seen in this land, after your father, of course,’ he said solemnly. ‘After myself, and I don’t count since divine rules prevent me from being considered, you were the best. All right, young man, bow your head!’

Blushing but at the same time looking proud, and with the encouragement of his friends, Magnus complied. And so it was that father and son went to the bachelors’ ale celebration that evening wearing crowns of gold and silver.

The youths held their own feast. They were to celebrate the bachelors’ evening on their own, at the leafy bower, as custom dictated. Eskil and Erika Joarsdotter walked back up to the castle and their waiting guests while the youths went off to the banquet hall under the open sky. Stable thralls led away their horses and house thralls hastened to bring them mantles and dry clothing, meat and ale.

When they were finally alone, all seven began talking at once, since there was much to try and understand. Most puzzling of all was the fact that an old monk had been able to beat young Nordic warriors at their own weapons games.

Arn explained that this was no ordinary monk. Brother Guilbert, like himself, had been a Templar knight, and it would have brought both of them much shame if two Templar knights could not have put the young Nordic roosters in their place.

There was much shouting and everyone was in the best of spirits even before they partook of the ale. They all had reason to be pleased.

Magnus Månesköld was satisfied, even though he had come to the games fully intending to win. But the only men who had defeated him were two of the Lord’s Templar knights, and everyone had seen on this day with their own eyes that everything recounted about these holy warriors of God was true. But Magnus had defeated all of his friends.

Erik jarl was also pleased, since he knew that he would need a great deal of luck to be able to beat Magnus Månesköld. But at least none of his other friends had managed to defeat him.

Torgils was satisfied because as the youngest contestant he had still succeeded in avoiding the last position. And Sture Jönsson was pleased even though he had come in last overall since he was one of two, not including the Templar knights, who had won one of the games, the one with axes.

Arn was pleased that he had won, even though it felt almost shameful to admit this. But since he clearly was going to have to fight to win his son’s respect, this was a good step along the way.

Brother Guilbert was perhaps the most satisfied of all, since he had shown that as an old man he could keep up with a fellow knight. He was also happy that God had determined the archery contest for the best so that he and Arn wouldn’t have to argue about the outcome.

Because so many lively youths had come for the bachelors’ evening, it would cost Eskil a lot of ale, and many of the young men would pay with an aching head the next day. The whole night was theirs.

Food and ale was as plentiful as Brother Guilbert and Arn had feared. But at Arn’s command a small cask of Lebanese wine was also brought out. He had made the wine himself, and two glasses were found for the two men who preferred wine instead of the bridal ale from Lübeck.

During the first hour, before drunkenness began to settle over them, the men talked mostly of various events that had occurred during the games. Soon someone dared to jest about Templar knights who couldn’t throw axes or spears.

Brother Guilbert explained with good humour that the business of casting away a spear was not a knight’s foremost concern; in fact, it was the last thing he would do. And as for the axe, he’d be happy to carry an axe on horseback and confront any youth. But not for the purpose of throwing it. After that he gave everyone present a stern and ferocious look, making the young men involuntarily recoil until he suddenly burst out laughing.

But as for the quarter-staff on a plank, he went on, that was an excellent exercise. That was the basis for everything – speed, agility, balance – and the many resultant bruises were a reminder that defensive actions were just as important as knowing how to attack. Consequently, this was the first lesson he had taught Arn when he was a little boy.

Arn raised his wine glass and confirmed at once that he spoke the truth. That was how things had been when he had arrived at Varnhem at such a young age. And he’d received a thrashing from Brother Guilbert every day for twelve years, he added, sighing heavily and bowing his head, which prompted everyone to laugh.

After they’d drunk a considerable amount of ale, the young men kept jumping up to go off and piss, while Arn and Brother Guilbert remained calmly in their seats. In this way a different young man would sit down next to the two older men as soon as a place was vacated. And for as long as the youths remained coherent, Arn and Brother Guilbert had the chance to converse with all of them.

By the time Magnus Månesköld came over to sit down next to Arn, the evening had progressed farther than Arn had expected. A shyness seemed to exist between the two of them, and a good deal of wine and ale was required to get past it.

Magnus began by apologizing for twice having misjudged his father, but he added that he had learned a great deal from these mistakes.

Arn pretended not to understand what he was referring to and asked for an explanation. Magnus spoke of his disappointment when he first saw his father, not as the knight of his dreams but as a thrall wielding a trowel, and how he should have known better as soon as they took to their horses and rode away from Forsvik. But he had been so foolish as to revive his disappointment when he saw Arn throw an axe without striking the target. And so the rebuke that he’d received was fully justified, and he’d never seen greater archers than the monk and his own father. So in that respect the sagas had spoken the truth.

Arn tried to dismiss the subject by jesting that he promised henceforth to practice strenuously at the art of throwing weapons. Yet such jesting did not suit Magnus Månesköld, who kept his solemn demeanour and only afterwards dared to ask about something that he said had been puzzling him.

‘When we arrived at Forsvik on horseback,’ he said, ‘and we came around the corner of the house, where you, my father, stood up on the ridgepole holding a trowel…when you leaped down and looked at us…how could you recognize me as your son so quickly?’

Arn burst into uncontrollable laughter, even though he would have preferred to keep a straight face.

‘Just look at this!’ he exclaimed, ruffling his son’s thick red hair. ‘Who would have hair like your mother except you, my son! And besides, even if you’d been wearing a helmet, all I had to do was look at your shields. You were the only one who bore a half-moon painted next to our Folkung lion. And if none of that were sufficient, I would have looked into your eyes. You have your mother’s beautiful brown eyes.’

‘Tomorrow I will become your legitimate son,’ said Magnus, suddenly sounding on the verge of tears.

‘You have always been my legitimate son,’ replied Arn. ‘Your mother Cecilia and I may have committed a sin when we conceived you too early. It has taken a long time for us to be able to celebrate our wedding, because it was not as easy for my kinsman Knut to become king as he first thought, and he had promised to come to our wedding as king. The love between your mother and myself was great, our yearning just as great, and so we committed a sin, though we are not the only ones who have done so. But whether it was a great sin or not, we have both atoned for it with a harsh punishment, and we are now cleansed. And tomorrow we’ll drink the bridal ale that was intended more than twenty years ago. But that’s not when you will become my son, nor when I will be Cecilia’s husband. I have always been hers, and you have always been my son, every single day in my prayers during a long war.’

Magnus sat and pondered in silence for a moment as if he were unsure in which direction he should steer the conversation. All of a sudden there were so many things crowding into his head.

‘Do you think the king will come to the wedding, as he promised?’ he then asked, as if thereby saving himself from more difficult topics for discussion.

‘No, he won’t,’ said Arn. ‘Birger Brosa will not attend, that much we know, and I don’t think the king has any desire to offend his jarl. And as far as the promises of kings are concerned, I’ve learned that it makes a difference whether they’re given before or after the crown is in place. Yet it was wisely arranged for Erik jarl to be present to honour us, representing both the Eriks and the king.’

‘But Erik jarl is here because he’s my friend,’ Magnus Månesköld objected without thinking.

‘I’m glad that he’s here, and I’m glad that he’s your friend,’ said Arn. ‘But above all else, he is a jarl of the realm and our future king. In this way my friend Knut has solved his predicament. He is here as he promised me. And he’s also not here, as he no doubt promised Birger Brosa. That is how a wise friend acts if he is king.’

‘Will there be war soon?’ asked Magnus, as if on impulse or as if the ale and not his sense of chivalry were already guiding his speech.

‘No,’ said Arn. ‘Not for a long time, but let’s talk of that subject another time, when there’s not so much ale-drinking going on.’

As if Arn’s words about the ale had reminded Magnus of nature’s call, he excused himself and on slightly unsteady legs went off into the dusk to relieve himself. House thralls brought in tarred torches and more roasts.

A short time later Brother Guilbert and Arn sat alone, each holding a wine glass, while songs and bellows surrounded them on all sides.

Arn teased Brother Guilbert about the last arrow he had shot, saying that if a man spends that much time thinking before shooting, it’s almost always sure to go wrong. It means that he wants something too much. And if you want something too much, then you take too much, and this was something that Brother Guilbert surely should know better than anyone else.

Yes, you would think that would be true, admitted Brother Guilbert. But he had been shooting to win. Or at least to do his best so that no one would think he had simply handed the victory to Arn. Yet Higher Powers had steered his arrow.

‘ Deus vult!’ said Arn in jest, raising his clenched fist in the greeting of the Templar knights.

Brother Guilbert immediately joined in and struck his fist against Arn’s.

‘Perhaps we can compete again, on horseback and with more difficult targets that are moving,’ said Arn.

‘Oh no!’ replied Brother Guilbert crossly. ‘You just want to put your old teacher in his place. I’d rather go another round with you using the quarter-staff!’

At that they had a good laugh, but none of the youths were paying much attention to them any more, perhaps because they couldn’t understand the conversation. Brother Guilbert and Arn, as if from old habit, had switched to speaking Frankish.

‘Tell me one thing, brother,’ said Arn pensively. ‘How many Templar knights would it take to conquer the two lands of the Goths and Svealand?’

‘Three hundred,’ replied Brother Guilbert after pausing to consider the question. ‘Three hundred were enough to hold the Holy Land for a long time. This kingdom is bigger, but on the other hand there is no cavalry here. Three hundred knights and three strongholds and we could pacify the entire region. Aha! So that’s what you’re thinking! At this very moment I’m helping to build the first stronghold with our dear friends the Saracens. What a superb irony! And you’re not afraid that our Saracen friends will cause problems? I mean, sooner or later these Nordic barbarians are going to figure out what sort of foreigners pray five times a day and in a less than discreet manner at that, if I’m going to speak of the matter with some delicacy.’

‘That was a lot to bring up at once,’ said Arn with a sigh. ‘Yes, this is more or less what I’ve been thinking: that if I build a cavalry force using the same exercises that we use as Templar knights, then we will have peace. More strongholds than are necessary, that’s true. And as for the Saracens, my plan is for them first to display their skills; afterwards people can choose between their demonstrated abilities and their own misconceptions about what Saracens are.’

‘That last part might be a dangerous game,’ mused Brother Guilbert. ‘You and I know the truth about Saracens. There’s an explanation for that. But won’t any one of this land’s ignorant and primitive bishops drop dead, choked by bacon, as soon as he realizes the truth about your fortress builders? And to create peace with overwhelming strength, as you are planning, is both right and wrong.’

‘I know how it’s right, but how is it wrong?’ Arn asked sharply.

‘It’s wrong because the Nordic people don’t understand the new cavalry force, how invincible it is. Once you have created such power, you will first have to demonstrate it before you can gain peace. That will mean war, in any case.’

‘I have pondered this very matter for a long time,’ Arn admitted. ‘I have only one answer and that is to make it a gentle lesson. Do you remember the foremost of the golden rules of the Templar order?’

‘ When you draw your sword – do not think about who you must kill. Think about who you should spare,’replied Brother Guilbert in Latin.

‘Precisely,’ said Arn. ‘Precisely. May it be God’s will!’