Текст книги "Birth of the Kingdom"

Автор книги: Ян Гийу

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‘That time you almost made my heart stop beating,’ Cecilia whispered.

‘That wasn’t my intention,’ said Arn. ‘I wanted to win your heart, not stop it.’

‘By showing me what a rider you were? By standing up on a galloping horse you thought you could win my heart?’

‘Yes, I did. And by doing whatever it took. If it had helped to stand on my head, I would have done that too. But it worked, didn’t it?’

As he jested about courting her he raised himself on his arms in the saddle, slowly bent his body forward with his legs out to the side and finally placed them together as he stood on his hands in the saddle. All the while his stallion calmly continued on as if used to all manner of foolishness from his master.

‘You don’t have to show off like that,’ Cecilia giggled. ‘If I assure you that you have my heart as surely as if it were in a golden box, will you then sit down and ride properly?’

‘Yes, in that case,’ said Arn, instantly spinning to sit in the saddle with both feet in the stirrups. ‘I feel I may be getting a bit too old for such tricks, so it’s a good thing we’re already man and wife.’

‘You must not belittle the goodness and divine will that have made us man and wife!’ said Cecilia sternly, almost too sternly, she could hear. But she couldn’t help thinking that such jesting went too far.

‘I don’t think that Our Lady will take it amiss that in our happiness we speak humorously about the time when our love first bloomed,’ Arn replied cautiously.

Cecilia scolded herself for unnecessarily bringing the fear of God into their conversation, when for once it had turned so carefree and playful. As she feared they now rode in silence, and neither of them could find a way out of it.

They came to a clearing by a stream where the moss shone magically green, welcoming the last light of day shining between the trees. Next to a thick and half-rotted oak the moss formed a big, inviting bed scattered with tiny pink woodland flowers.

It was as though Umm Anaza let herself be guided by Cecilia’s thoughts, as if the mare had understood everything flowing through Cecilia’s memory when she saw this spot, for she veered off without a word from Cecilia. In silence Cecilia dismounted and spread out her mantle over the green moss.

Arn followed, dismounted, and swung the reins around the forelegs of their horses before he came over to her and spread out his mantle next to hers.

They didn’t need to say a word; everything was so clear between them, written on their faces.

When they kissed it was without fear, as if the difficult time after the wedding night had never happened. And when they both discovered their joy that the fear was gone, desire came back to them with the same power as when they were seventeen.

EIGHT

A woman of the Folkung clan had been lamentably killed by her own husband and master. This heinous act occurred late one afternoon, and that evening the murderer saw the sun go down for the first time after committing his evil deed.

The name of this wicked man was Svante Sniving of the Ymse clan, and the name of his Folkung wife whom he had killed was Elin Germundsdotter from Älgarås. They had only one son, Bengt, who was thirteen years old.

After seeing his mother struck down by his father, young Bengt fled to the estate of his maternal grandfather, Germund Birgersson, at Älgarås. That same night, a summons was sent out from there in all directions to the Folkung estates within a day’s ride.

It was daylight when the riders, who were young kinsmen clad in worn blue mantles, reached Forsvik. The unexpected guests were first offered bread, salt, and ale by Cecilia. They quickly quenched their thirst before explaining their errand, saying that they were carrying a Folkung summons for Sir Arn.

Cecilia said that she would quickly go in search of her husband, and she invited her guests to partake of ham and more ale while she was gone. Her heart pounding with alarm, she dashed toward the riding field where she could hear galloping horses. And there she found Arn along with the boys Sune and Sigfrid and the two Saracen horsemen. She waved urgently to Arn, who noticed her presence at once; he broke away from the other riders and raced across the field like the wind. He was riding Abu Anaza.

From a distance he’d already seen her agitation. When he reined in his horse and came to a stop, he dismounted at once and was at her side in one swift motion.

‘A summons has arrived from the Folkungs,’ she replied to his wordless question.

‘A summons from the Folkungs? What does that mean?’ asked Arn, looking puzzled.

‘Two young riders with solemn faces have arrived, saying only that they come bringing a summons,’ she replied. ‘I know no more than you do. Perhaps you should ask those boys over there.’

Since Arn had no better suggestion, he did as Cecilia said and called over all four riders by whistling and uttering two loud shouts. They came at once, at full gallop, reining in their horses a few paces away.

‘A summons has come from the Folkungs. Can either of you tell me what that might mean?’ he asked Sune and Sigfrid.

‘It means that all of us Folkung men at Forsvik must drop whatever we’re doing at once, arm ourselves well, and go with whoever has brought the message,’ replied Sigfrid.

‘No one in our clan can refuse a summons; that would mean eternal disgrace,’ added Sune.

‘But you’re only boys, and taking up arms doesn’t sound like something that should be required of you,’ muttered Arn crossly.

‘We are Folkungs all the same, young though we may be, and the only two of our clan that you have with you here at Forsvik, Sir Arn,’ replied Sune jauntily.

Arn sighed and thought for a moment as he stared at the ground. Then he spoke, apparently delivering orders to the two Saracen horsemen, and pointed at the blue surcoats worn by the boys. The two warriors from the Holy Land immediately bowed their heads as a sign of obedience and galloped off toward the estate.

‘Together let us seek out our kinsmen who have come with this message and find out what they want,’ said Arn. He walked over to Cecilia, pulled her up to sit in the saddle in front of him, and abruptly took off at a thundering speed for the old longhouse. Cecilia alternated between shrieking and laughing during the short ride.

Inside the longhouse the two unknown kinsmen greeted Arn with a courteous bow as he came in. After a brief pause, one of them came over and fell to his knees; with arms outstretched, he held out the summons, which was in the form of a piece of wood with the Folkung lion burned into the surface.

‘We hereby hand you, Sir Arn, your kinsmen’s summons and ask you to follow us with all men that you are able to arm,’ said the young man.

Arn accepted the summons but didn’t know what he was expected to do next. At that moment Sune and Sigfrid arrived, bowed solemnly to the two messengers, and then looked at Arn.

‘I have been away in the Holy Land for many years, and hence I have no idea what you two are requesting of me,’ he said with some embarrassment to the messengers. ‘But if you tell me what this matter concerns, I will do what honour demands.’

‘It has to do with Svante Sniving. He’s a man known for acting all too quickly, especially after drinking a great deal of ale. He beats the thralls and house servants, and even his own son,’ explained the other messenger, who thus far had not spoken.

‘That does not speak well of Svante Sniving,’ replied Arn hesitantly. ‘But tell me what this matter has to do with me.’

‘Yesterday he killed his wife, Elin Germundsdotter, who was of our clan, and he has already seen the sun set once,’ explained the first messenger.

‘A summons was sent out last night to all Folkungs who can reach Ymseborg before sundown tomorrow,’ clarified the other young kinsman.

‘I think I understand now,’ said Arn, nodding. ‘What sort of resistance can we expect from Svante?’

‘That’s hard to know. He has twelve retainers, but we should be fifty men or more by tomorrow. But we must ride no later than tonight; preferably at once,’ replied the first man.

‘We are only three Folkungs here at Forsvik, and two are mere boys. Can I take my retainers along with me?’ asked Arn, and received eager nods in reply.

There was nothing more to ask or discuss. It took less than an hour to load up the pack horses and for Forsvik’s five horsemen to dress for battle. The sun was still high in the sky when they rode off to the northwest.

It was shortly after the Feast of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, and the foliage in the woods gleamed red and gold. The nights had grown darker, which was good for the true believers, since their ninth month, the fasting month of Ramadan, had begun two days earlier. As they started off, Arn fretted about the exception to the Koran’s laws, which stated that fasting need not apply during times of war. Yet this journey could hardly be considered war; as he understood it, they were merely headed to an execution.

He rode up alongside his Muslim companions and asked them candidly for their opinion. But they simply laughed, saying that there was nothing to worry about since it was the very beginning of the fasting month. Also, the weather was pleasantly cool and the sun had come to its senses so that it once again set in the evening. And besides, they were forced to ride at a reduced speed because their two guides were so slow. Arn smiled and nodded in reply, thinking then that it was fortunate the fasting month had not occurred around Midsummer during the past few years. It would have been difficult for the Prophet’s people to refrain from water and food from sunrise to sundown.

They continued riding for a hour after the sun disappeared and darkness descended, finally forcing them to make camp for the night. Ali and Mansour, who now rode with blue shirts on top of their leather-clad steel chain mail, gave no sign that they would have preferred to stop for food and drink as soon as the sun had set.

The next day, when the sun was to go down for the third time since Svante Sniving’s killing of a Folkung woman, five dozen riders had gathered outside Ymseborg. During the night the retainers up on the castle palisades had seen fires burning in all directions as a sign that escape was impossible. The estate’s wooden gate was closed and up above perched four archers, anxiously gazing upon all the blue mantles that had gathered to confer less than a few arrow-shots away.

The leader of the Folkungs was Germund Birgersson, the father of the murdered Elin. At his side sat a grieving and bruised boy wearing a mantle that was half yellow and half black, which were the clan colours of Svante Sniving.

Arn had taken Ali and Mansour along for a short ride around the wooden fortress. They agreed that if required to take the castle, it could no doubt be easily accomplished with fire, but they wouldn’t be able to simply ride through the wooden walls. And besides, Arn now realized that speed was essential, since everything had to be done by sundown.

When he returned to the group he went to talk to Germund Birgersson to find out more about what was planned. As far as he understood, the boy would inherit Ymseborg, so surely it would be unwise to burn it down.

Germund smiled grimly, saying that he didn’t think it would be difficult to force open the gate. All he needed was for Arn, whose reputation had spread widely, also in this district, to help him persuade those who were standing guard. Arn replied that he had nothing against helping in any way he could.

‘Good. You are a man of honour, and any other response would have greatly surprised me,’ grunted Germund Birgersson with satisfaction. With an effort he got to his feet, straightening the mantle around his shoulders. ‘Mount your horse and follow me; we’ll soon take care of this minor hindrance!’

Somewhat puzzled, Arn went over to his horse, cinched the saddle tight, and rode up alongside Germund, who was now headed toward the gate of Ymseborg. None of the other Folkungs went with them.

They rode so close that they could easily have been struck by arrows, but no one chose to shoot at them.

The old Folkung chieftain cast a wily glance at Arn and rode even closer; Arn followed without hesitating, since hesitation is halfway to death.

‘I am Germund Birgersson of the Folkung clan, and I come to Ymseborg for the sake of honour and not for war or plundering. I am mistress Elin’s father, and I have come to demand my right, as have my kinsmen with me,’ said Germund in a loud and clear voice, almost as if he were singing his message.

No one up on the wooden wall replied, but neither did anyone reach out a hand to grab a weapon. Germund waited a moment before continuing.

‘We would prefer not to harm Ymseborg, for the estate shall soon pass in inheritance to the young Bengt, who is our kinsman,’ he went on. ‘Hence this is what I now swear to you. We seek no man’s death other than Svante’s. We will not harm either buildings or thralls, nor house servants, nor any of the retainers; we do not intend to visit any sort of violence upon you once we have finished here. That is our vow if you open this gate in an hour’s time and lay down your weapons. All of you will be in service to young Herr Bengt, or the one we choose to reside here as caretaker in his place. Your life here will continue as it was before. But if you should resist, I swear that not a single retainer among you will come through this alive. At my side is Arn Magnusson, and he makes the same vow to you!’

Then Germund slowly turned his horse around, and Arn followed, his expression grave, although he felt an unseemly mirth trying to force its way up inside him because someone had sworn death and destruction in his name with even asking his permission.

Not an arrow was shot at them; not a single jeer was heard.

‘I have no doubt that we’ll have this matter resolved by nightfall,’ said Germund Birgersson, groaning as he laboriously sank down at his former place in the encampment and reached toward the fire to pull out a piece of pork.

‘What do we do with the bodies when we’re done?’ asked Arn.

‘My daughter’s body I will take with me to Älgarås for a Christian burial at the church nearby,’ said Germund. ‘Svante’s body and his head we will stitch inside a cowhide and send to his kinsmen. Then we will choose a caretaker for Ymseborg, to reside here in young Bengt’s place.’

‘What about the boy? It will be a sorrowful time ahead for him, after losing both his mother and father,’ said Arn.

‘That’s true. I shall do my utmost to see to it that young Bengt’s life will be brighter from now on,’ said Germund pensively. ‘As young as he is, he still has the seed of a wastrel in his body. It is not his inclination to work the fields; instead he babbles on about knights and the king’s retainers or service at Arnäs. All youths seem to be dreaming of such things these days.’

‘Yes,’ said Arn, his expression serious as he mused. ‘The young seem to set their sights more easily on swords and lances than on ploughs and flails. But you intend to shake that inclination out of him and turn him into a farmer?’

‘I’m too old for such business,’ muttered Germund crossly at the thought that before the sun set he would have a thirteen-year-old boy foisted upon him, and he would have to try to turn the boy into a man.

Arn excused himself and went to seek out Sune and Sigfrid. He found both boys busy sharpening the tips of their arrows, their faces solemn. He took Sune’s whetstone from him and showed him how the task could be done better as he told the boys about young Bengt’s sorrowful fate. Not only was he without a mother, but he would soon be fatherless too, and then he would be forced to accompany old Germund home to become a farmer, as was the custom a hundred years ago. Perhaps, Arn mused aloud, it might not be such a foolish idea if Sune and Sigfrid stayed close to Bengt during the next few hours, since the three of them were the only retainers who were so young. And it would do no harm to tell Bengt a little about what they were learning at Forsvik.

Arn had a hard time concealing his smile as he abruptly stood up, leaving his two young squires behind.

An hour passed, and all the Folkungs mounted their horses and slowly rode toward the gate of Ymseborg, which opened before them as soon as they were within the distance of an arrow-shot. They rode into the courtyard, lined up their horses, and waited. The place was deserted except for a few thrall children peering out from vents. A couple of maids dashed across the courtyard in alarm, looking for a stray child.

Silence descended over the estate; the only sound was the snorting of the horses and the clattering of stirrups. No one spoke and nothing happened. They waited for a long time.

Finally Germund grew impatient and signalled to ten hale and hearty young men who dismounted, drew their swords, and went inside the longhouse. Soon shouts were heard, followed by a great commotion. A short time later they emerged along with Svante Sniving, whose hands and feet were bound. They forced him to his knees in front of the line of horsemen, where only one yellow and black mantle was visible among all the blue. That was young Bengt, his face expressionless, although the bruises from his father’s fists could be seen from far away.

‘I demand my right as a free yeoman in the land of the Goths and in accordance with the laws of the Goths!’ shouted Svante Sniving, his voice slurred, indicating that he was no less drunk than usual, even though this would be the last time.

‘Whoever kills a Folkung, man or woman, young or old, has no right but to live until the third sundown!’ replied Germund Birgersson from where he sat on his horse.

‘I offer double the man-price and will present my case before the ting!’ Svante Sniving yelled in reply, as if he truly believed in his legal right.

‘We Folkungs never accept a man-price, whether double or threefold, it means nothing to us,’ replied Germund with such contempt in his voice that laughter erupted from some of the stern-faced horsemen.

‘Then I demand my right to God’s judgment in single combat, the right to die as a free yeoman and not like a thrall!’ shouted Svante, still with more fury than fear in his voice.

‘To demand single combat will do you no good,’ snorted Germund Birgersson. ‘Among the kinsmen who have joined me in this matter is Arn Magnusson, here at my side. He would be the one to fight the duel for us. Then you would no doubt die faster than by the executioner’s axe, though your honour would be no greater. Be glad that we don’t hang you like a thrall; think now about the fact that your last honour in life is to die like a man without complaining or pissing!’

Germund Birgersson gave a signal, and several of the young men who had taken Svante Sniving from the longhouse brought forward a chopping block and axe. Germund silently pointed to the man who looked to be the strongest. Without hesitation he picked up the axe and the next moment Svante Sniving’s head rolled out into the courtyard as two men held the twitching body pressed to the ground until the blood stopped gushing from the neck.

During this entire scene Arn kept a watchful eye on young Bengt’s face. A slight flinching was noticeable as Arn heard the sound of the axe strike its blow, but nothing more. Not a tear, not even an attempt to make the sign of the cross.

Arn was not sure whether such a stony response was good or bad. But it was certain that this was a young man who above all hated his father.

The few things that still remained to do were quickly accomplished. Svante Sniving’s body was dragged to the nearby slaughterhouse while another man followed, carrying his head; there both would be stitched inside a cowhide. In the meantime young Bengt dismounted from his horse and slowly walked over to the place where his father’s blood was still trickling quietly in the oblique evening light.

He took off his mantle and dragged it along the ground through the blood.

The Folkungs sat on their horses, their faces expressionless as they watched the young man whose courage and honour were worthy of admiration. Germund Birgersson signalled to Arn to dismount and follow him as he went over to the boy.

Germund approached slowly until he stood behind young Bengt and placed his left hand on the boy’s left shoulder. After a brief glance from Germund, Arn did the same with his right hand. They waited for a moment in silence while young Bengt seemed to gather courage for what he wanted to say. It was not easy, because he clearly wanted to speak in a firm and resolute voice.

‘I, Bengt, son of Svante Sniving and Elin Germundsdotter, in the presence of my kinsmen, now take the name Bengt Elinsson!’ he shouted at last, managing to say the words without any sign of quavering or uncertainty.

‘I, Germund Birgersson, and my kinsman Arn Magnusson,’ replied Germund, ‘take you as one of our clan. You are now a Folkung and a Folkung you shall remain for all eternity. You are always one of us, and we will always be with you.’

In the silence that followed, Germund nodded to Arn to continue. But Arn didn’t know what to do or say until Germund leaned toward him and explained in an angry whisper. Arn then took off his blue mantle and wrapped it around young Bengt, and all of the horsemen drew their swords and pointed first toward the sky and then toward Bengt.

By swearing an oath of blood, Bengt Elinsson had been accepted into the Folkung clan. At Ymseborg, which now belonged to the boy, his maternal grandfather chose two caretakers to manage his inheritance. For Bengt had no desire to stay at Ymseborg for even one more day.

But what he did want was something that his grandfather soon learned as they rode away from the estate. All the Folkungs were then to take their leave at the encampment. With fervent zeal Bengt begged to go to Forsvik with Arn Magnusson, for he had heard from the two other young kinsmen who had come with Arn about all the wonders that were taking place there.

Germund thought that for once it might be best to make a quick decision. Young Bengt truly needed something else to think about, and the sooner the better. To ride to Älgarås for the funeral and week of mourning might be what honour demanded, at least of an older man. But a boy who in less than three days had lost both his mother and father could not be treated in the same way as others.

Germund went over to Arn Magnusson, who was speaking in a foreign tongue with his retainers, and he asked outright whether Arn might be able to comply with what the young and newly-fledged Folkung so clearly wished. Arn didn’t seem fazed in the least by this question, and he replied that it could be easily done.

And so it was that the three Folkungs who had left Forsvik in order to avenge the honour of their clan now returned with a fourth.

During the first mild weeks of autumn a sense of order descended upon Forsvik so that not even Cecilia’s stern vigilance noticed anything different. Every day boatloads arrived with winter fodder, which was stored in the barns and haystacks. From Arnäs dried fish from Lofoten began arriving in great quantities, which showed that Harald Øysteinsson had made a successful second trip with the great ship of the Templar knights.

With the third load of dried fish, new thralls arrived that Arn had requested from Eskil. They included Suom, who was so skilled at weaving, and her son Gure, who was said to be particularly proficient with anything that was to be made of wood. The hunter Kol and his son Svarte also came along.

For many reasons Arn and Cecilia had looked forward to the arrival of these thralls, and they welcomed them almost as if they were guests. Cecilia took Suom by the arm to show her the weaving room that was almost finished while Arn took the three men to the thralls’ quarters to find space for them. But he soon realized that what he could offer them was much too paltry for the coming winter, and thus he ordered Gure to start his work at Forsvik by repairing the worst of the thrall lodgings. And when he was done with that, he should begin building new quarters.

Gure was given a work team of four thralls, whom he was to supervise according to his own wishes. If he needed new tools, he could simply go to the smithies and ask for them.

At first Arn wanted to give Kol and his son Svarte lodgings in the old longhouse. But they said they would rather live in the simplest of hovels, since they were used to keeping to themselves and hunters went out at different hours than workers.

Arn thought he remembered Kol from his youth, but he had to ask several times before this was confirmed. They had hunted together when Arn was seventeen and Kol was apprenticed to his father, who was named Svarte, like Kol’s son. The old Svarte had died by now and was buried near the thralls’ farm at Arnäs. That was why it had been easier to sell Kol and his son to Arn. At Arnäs it was not viewed favourably to leave old and feeble thralls without kin.

After these explanations, Arn refrained from asking any questions about the boy’s mother. He was still not accustomed to the fact that he was the owner of human beings. From the age of five he had lived among monks and Templar knights, for whom the very idea of slavery was an abomination. He promised himself to speak with Cecilia about this matter as soon as possible.

He told Kol that the first thing of importance was to see to it that he and his son had horses and saddles so that they could make a survey of the region and find the best hunting areas. Kol and Svarte, whether morose by nature or dumbstruck with embarrassment, followed Arn over to the horse pastures. There Arn put halters on two horses that he chose for their calm nature rather than for speed and impetuous temperament.

Until the hunters became accustomed to their horses, the animals would be kept in the stable to rest instead of being released into the pastures with the others. Otherwise it would be difficult to catch them again, Arn warned as they led the horses up toward the estate.

Arn was pleased to see that Kol was overjoyed to see these horses, and he spoke eagerly with his son in the thralls’ language as he gestured toward the necks and legs of the steeds. Arn couldn’t resist asking Kol what he was telling his son. He learned that it was just such a horse that Sir Arn himself had once, long ago, brought to Arnäs, and all the servants had thought the animal a miserable beast. Even Kol and his father had foolishly believed the same until they saw Sir Arn ride the horse that was called Kamil or some such name.

‘Shimal,’ Arn corrected him. ‘It means “north” in the language of the land where these horses come from. But tell me, Kol, where do you come from?’

‘I was born at Arnäs,’ replied Kol in a low voice.

‘But what of your father, with whom I also hunted. Where was he from?’

‘From Novgorod on the other side of the Eastern Sea,’ said Kol, sounding sullen.

‘And the other thralls at Arnäs, where do they or their ancestors come from?’ Arn persisted, even though he could see that Kol would have preferred to avoid any further questions on the subject.

‘All of us come from across the sea,’ replied Kol reluctantly. ‘Some of us know this to be true; others merely believe it is so. Some say from the Byzantine Empire, other say Russia or Poland, Estonia or even the Abbasid Caliphate. There are many sagas but little knowledge about this. Some think that our fathers and mothers were once taken captive in war. Others believe that we have always been thralls, but I don’t agree.’

Arn remained silent. He stopped himself from saying at once that Kol and his son would now be free men; he needed to think about the matter first and discuss it with Cecilia. He didn’t ask any more uncomfortable questions, merely told Kol and his son to spend time getting to know the area and not to do any hunting unless the opportunity to shoot some animal happened by chance. But he assumed that right now the important thing was to find out where the hunting would be best.

Without speaking Kol nodded his agreement, and then they parted.

Arn had planned to say something to Cecilia about his concern regarding ownership of thralls during their journey to Bjälbo, where they were to attend the betrothal ale for their son Magnus and the Sverker daughter Ingrid Ylva.

But Cecilia had apparently also planned to use this journey, in particular the first idle hours on the ship crossing Lake Vättern, for a conversation that required both time and consideration. As soon as the ship left shore, she spoke at length and without stopping about the old weaver Suom and the almost miraculous skill that this woman possessed in her hands. As Cecilia had requested, Eskil had sent along a heavy bundle of tapestries that Suom had made; previously they had hung on the walls at Arnäs. A number of them Arn had already seen, since Cecilia had adorned the walls of their bedchamber with Suom’s work.

Arn murmured that some of the images were much too strange for his taste, especially the ones that purportedly depicted Jerusalem with streets of gold and Saracens with horns on the foreheads. Such images were not true, and he could attest to this better than most people.

Cecilia seemed a bit offended by his comment and said that the beauty of the images was not simply a matter of truth; it had as much to do with how the colours were put together and the ideas and visions that the pictures conjured up if beautifully done. In this manner the conversation veered a bit from what she had intended to discuss, and they ended up quarrelling.

Arn moved forward to the bow of the ship to see to their horses for a while and to speak to Sune and Sigfrid. The boys had been allowed to come along to tend to the horses even though they no doubt regarded themselves more as Sir Arn’s retainers. When Arn rejoined Cecilia, she spoke at once about the matter she wanted to discuss.

‘I want to free Suom and her son Gure,’ she said quickly, her eyes fixed on the planks at the bottom of the ship.