Текст книги "Birth of the Kingdom"

Автор книги: Ян Гийу

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Without making any digressions to talk about the wedding or the youth competitions at Bjälbo, which Magnus found it pleasant to brag about, Arn began describing his plans for Arnäs. Every Folkung within three days’ journey was to go to Arnäs if misfortune were ever approaching, because there no enemy would be able to touch them.

Magnus objected sullenly that in such case one’s own estate would be left to fire and plundering, and Arn nodded grimly that this was true. But if the enemy was strong, it was more important to save one’s skin than a few timbered houses that could easily be built anew.

Magnus didn’t seem to understand or show any interest in what his father wanted to tell him. There were no enemies for as far as the eye could see. Besides, now that peace between the Sverkers and Folkungs had been so strongly sealed, wasn’t that the reason that they were able to ride together here at Ulvåsa with Ingrid Ylva waiting back at the longhouse? Wasn’t the very idea behind this wedding to secure the peace? And hadn’t he, without grumbling, agreed to the clan’s demands, even though it was no hardship to go to the bridal bed with such a lovely, dark-haired woman as Ingrid Ylva?

Arn realized too late that he had been tactless in his timing as he tried to make his own son see the threat to the realm and how they needed to defend themselves. He answered evasively that no danger would befall them during the next few years, and it was true that this wedding offered a strong message of peace. He was merely trying to see further into the future. At that, Magnus just shrugged his shoulders. Arn then asked him about the youth games at Bjälbo.

With much greater enthusiasm Magnus seized upon this topic of conversation and described in detail everything that had taken place during each of the seven contests. In the end he had come out the victor, and Erik jarl was again defeated.

More than an hour passed, and Arn began to have trouble hiding his impatience even though he had arrogantly promised Birger Brosa he would arrive at Bjälbo when the jarl did. Only with difficulty did he finally turn down Magnus’s suggestion that they have a tankard of ale before his departure. They said farewell out in the courtyard, and Arn set off for Bjälbo at once, at full gallop. Magnus watched his father ride away, thinking that no one could keep up that pace for long; no doubt his father merely wanted to show his strength as long as he was in sight, but he would have to slow down as soon as he was beyond the oak grove south of Ulvåsa.

Birger Brosa and his retinue did not have to make another rest stop before they reached Bjälbo, and they could already see the church tower in the distance when Arn suddenly came racing up behind them, riding one of his foreign stallions at great speed. When Birger Brosa was told that a rider was approaching, he turned around in his saddle and saw the Folkung mantle. At first he thought that Arn had doubtless sneaked up behind them in order to ride the last stretch of the way at this unreasonable pace. But he soon had misgivings when he saw that Arn’s steed was lathered with sweat.

Arn was relieved to find that the young horse he had chosen to ride to the wedding turned out to be good enough, even though it was slow compared to Abu Anaza. But Abu Anaza was black, and it would not have been suitable to ride such a horse to a wedding. An animal of that colour, according to what Cecilia had told him, was more appropriate for a funeral and would be considered bad luck at a wedding.

Birger Brosa led the way and came to a halt as soon as they entered the confines of Bjälbo behind the stockade. He first wished to don simpler attire, then he had to go to his writing chamber where people were waiting with all sorts of missives. Only then would he meet with Arn, and their meeting would take place in the tower chamber of the church where the clan tingwould be held in former times. A brazier and ale, cushions and sheepskins were to be taken up there at once; in an hour’s time no one but Arn was to be present. After issuing these brusque commands, Birger Brosa laboriously dismounted from his horse, handing the reins to a stable thrall without even glancing around. Then with determined strides he headed for the longhouse.

Feeling rather offended, Arn himself saw to the care of his horse, which needed attention after such a hard ride. He paid no attention to the fact that his presence in the stable caused much confusion and surprise among the thralls. The health of his horse was more important. After drying the horse’s flanks and cleaning the hooves, Arn asked for several hides, which he slung over the back of the dapple-gray steed to make sure the animal wouldn’t cool down too fast. And he spoke in a foreign tongue, whispering as he caressed and seemed to console the horse. The stable thralls shook their heads and exchanged glances behind Arn’s back, keeping out of his way.

After Arn left the horse, he went at once to brush himself off. Then at the appointed time he went to the old tower room and waited. There was a rank smell of mould and mortar. Birger Brosa arrived a bit late.

‘You are more trouble to me than any other kinsman, Arn Magnusson, and I will never make any sense of you!’ Birger Brosa said in greeting in a loud voice as he climbed the stairs. And without further ado he sank down onto the largest seat, exactly where Arn had thought he would choose to sit.

‘Then you must ask me questions, dear uncle, and with God’s help I will try to help you understand,’ replied Arn humbly. He had no desire to quarrel anew with the jarl.

‘It’s much worse than that!’ declared Birger Brosa. ‘And it will get even worse if I do understand, because then I will feel foolish that I hadn’t understood at once. And that would not please me. Nor do I have any particular wish to apologize, and I’ve already been humiliated by you once before. Now I am doing that again, for the second time. This has never happened, and as God is my witness, I shall never again, for a second time, be forced to ask some rogue for forgiveness!’

‘What is it that you wish me to forgive?’ asked Arn in surprise at this fiery drama his uncle was now presenting.

‘I’ve seen all the building that is going on at Arnäs,’ replied Birger Brosa in a different tone of voice, keeping his voice low. He threw out his arms in a gesture that almost looked like surrender. ‘I’ve seen what you’re building, and I’m not foolish. You’re building up the Folkung power to be greater than ever, you’re building so that we will be lords of this realm. My brother Magnus and your brother Eskil have also told me about what you’re doing at Forsvik. Need I say more?’

‘No, not if you wish me to forgive you, uncle,’ replied Arn cautiously.

‘Good! Will you have ale?’

‘I would prefer not to. During these past days I’ve had enough ale to last me till Christmas.’

Birger Brosa gave him a scornful smile and stood up. He took two ale tankards over to the ale cask, filled them both, and placed one of them in front of Arn before he went back to his seat. He settled himself more comfortably among the sheepskins with one knee drawn up; there he balanced his tankard, as was his custom. He gazed at Arn in silence for a while, but his expression was friendly.

‘Tell me of the castle that you’re building,’ he said. ‘How does it look today, how will it look when Arnäs is finished, and how will it look after several years?’

‘It will take time to answer these questions,’ said Arn.

‘Nothing is more important for the jarl of the realm at this moment. We have plenty of time, and we are alone, with no one else within earshot,’ replied Birger Brosa. He grabbed his tankard and took several good swallows before he placed it back on his knee. Then he threw out his hands without causing the tankard even to wobble.

‘Today there is peace, and the union is between the Eriks and Folkungs,’ Arn began hesitantly. ‘The Sverkers are lying low, biding their time until King Knut is gone, and God willing, that will not happen for a long time yet. So I do not see a war taking place for many years.’

‘Then we think alike,’ said the jarl, nodding. ‘But what about after that? What will happen then?’

‘No one knows,’ said Arn. ‘But one thing I do know: at that time there will be a greater danger of war. That doesn’t mean that things will go badly for us. For if we now build fortresses that are sufficiently strong, during the peace that we now have, our strength may preserve the peace as well as a wise marriage does.’

‘True,’ said Birger Brosa with a nod. ‘But what is our weakness?’

‘We cannot engage a Danish army on the battlefield,’ Arn swiftly replied.

‘A Danish army? Why a Danish army?’ asked Birger Brosa, raising his eyebrows.

‘That is the only danger we face and hence the only problem worth fretting about,’ replied Arn. ‘Denmark is a great power, a power that resembles the Frankish kingdom more than us, and the Danes wage war in the same way that the Franks do. The Danes have laid waste to great sections of Saxony and won much territory, showing that they are able to defeat Saxon armies. When they’ve had enough of heading southward, or when they reach so far south that they can no longer keep their armies supplied, they may turn their attention to the north. And here we sit, a much easier quarry than Saxony. And in Roskilde sits Karl Sverkersson’s son, raised as a Dane, but still with an inherited right to our crown. He could become the Danes’ nominal king in our realm. That is how the situation looks if we try to imagine what might be the worst thing that might happen.’

Birger Brosa nodded pensively, almost as if acknowledging to himself that these were his darkest thoughts and he would have preferred to ignore them. In silence he drank more ale, expecting Arn also to remain silent until he received another question.

‘When can we defeat the Danes?’ Birger Brosa asked abruptly, speaking in a loud voice.

‘In five or six years, but it will cost us dearly. In ten years it would be easier,’ replied Arn with such confidence that Birger Brosa, who had expected a more lengthy explanation, was caught off guard.

‘Give me a more detailed explanation,’ he said after another long pause.

‘In five years King Knut may die,’ said Arn, swiftly raising his hand to prevent any interruption. ‘We don’t know that, and it’s a wicked thing to think, but wicked ideas also have to be tested. Then the Danish army will come here with a more or less eager Sverker Karlsson following behind. We have a hundred horsemen. Not the kind of horsemen that can counter a great Frankish or Danish army, but a hundred horsemen that can make their passage through our land a great misery. They never engage us in battle nor do they catch up with us, but we take their supplies, we kill their draft animals, we kill or wound a dozen Danes each day. We do our best to entice them to pursue us to Arnäs. There they are crushed in their encampment. That’s what would happen in five years, and the price would be great devastation from Skara and all the way north.’

‘And in ten years?’ asked Birger Brosa.

‘In ten years we defeat them on the battlefield after first plaguing them with our light cavalry for a month,’ replied Arn. ‘But to make this possible, you will also have to exert yourself and pay for a great many things that will make big holes in your silver coffers.’

‘Why should I do this? Why not King Knut?’ asked Birger Brosa, and for the first time clearly showed surprise during this harsh conversation.

‘Because you are a Folkung,’ replied Arn. ‘The power that I am starting to build does not belong to the realm; it belongs to the Folkungs. It’s true that I have sworn loyalty to Knut, and I will stand by my oath. Perhaps some day I will also swear loyalty to Erik jarl, but we don’t know that. Today we’re united with the Eriks. But tomorrow? Of that we know nothing. The only thing that’s certain is that we Folkungs will stick together, and we’re the only power that can hold the realm together.’

‘I think you have understood this even better than you know,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘I must tell you something at once that is for your ears alone. But tell me first what you think I should do, as jarl or as a Folkung.’

‘You must build a fortress on the western shore of Lake Vättern, perhaps at Lena where you already own a large estate. The Danes will come from Skåne when they enter Western Götaland. At Skara they can continue on a northerly route toward Arnäs or take the unprotected road past Skövde and up to Lake Vättern and the king’s Näs. They must be stopped at Lena, and I hope that you will take this upon yourself. Axevalla at Skara must also be fortified. We will have our warriors in three fortresses. And our horsemen can move back and forth between the three without allowing the enemy to attack us, preventing them from knowing where the next assault will occur. With three strong fortresses, one of which is impregnable, we will be secure.’

‘But Axevalla is a royal castle,’ objected Birger Brosa.

‘All the better for the sake of your own expenses,’ said Arn with a smile. ‘If I build up Arnäs and you do the same with Lena, you, in your position as jarl, shouldn’t have a hard time convincing Knut that the king ought to add his straw to the stack and fortify his own castle of Axevalla. He would do it as much for his own sake as for ours.’

‘I notice that you’ve begun to speak to me as if we were equals,’ said Birger Brosa, and for the first time he gave Arn a broad smile, which had always been a distinctive characteristic of his, ever since his youth.

‘Now it’s my turn to ask forgiveness, my uncle. I got carried away,’ replied Arn, bowing his head for a moment.

‘I too got carried away,’ replied Birger Brosa, still smiling. ‘But from now on I wish that you and I continue to speak with each other in this informal manner, except possibly when we attend the king’s council. But now to what I wanted to tell you of a great and difficult matter. Perhaps I would like to see Sverker Karlsson as our next king.’

Birger Brosa abruptly fell silent after speaking this treacherous thought. He may have been waiting for Arn to leap to his feet in anger, upsetting his ale and lashing out with words that were far from chivalrous, or at the very least gaping in surprise like a fish. But with equal parts disappointment and astonishment, he saw that Arn’s expression did not change. He merely sat there, waiting for Birger Brosa to continue.

‘I suppose you’d like to hear how I came to this conclusion?’ he now said, sounding a bit cross and his smile fading.

‘Yes,’ replied Arn tonelessly. ‘What you say may be either treachery or something very wise, and I’d like to know which it is.’

‘The king is ill,’ said Birger Brosa with a sigh. ‘Sometimes he shits blood, and anyone knows that is not a good sign. He may not even last the five years that we need in order to offer even the most token defence.’

‘I have men trained as physicians with me who have too little to do. I will send them to Knut after Christmas,’ said Arn.

‘Men who are physicians, you say?’ Birger Brosa replied, interrupting his train of thought. ‘I thought it was mostly women who tended to such matters. No matter. But shitting blood is a bad sign, and Knut’s life rests in God’s hands. If he dies too soon, we will be in a bad position. Isn’t that true?’

‘Yes,’ said Arn. ‘So let’s consider the worst that might happen. What if Knut dies in three years? What do we do then? Is that why you’re thinking of Sverker Karlsson?’

‘Yes, that’s where he enters the picture with his Danish men,’ confirmed Birger Brosa with a gloomy nod. ‘He has been married to his Danish wife, I think Benedikta Ebbesdotter is her name, for six or seven years. She gave birth to a daughter early on, but no more children since then; and more importantly, no son.’

‘Then I think I understand,’ said Arn. ‘Without waging war, we give the crown to Sverker. But we don’t make such a gift without receiving something in return. He’ll have to swear that Erik jarl will become king after him. Am I right?’

‘More or less,’ said Birger Brosa with a nod.

‘Much could go wrong with such a cunning stratagem,’ brooded Arn. ‘Even if Sverker Karlsson produces no son, some new kinsman might appear from Denmark with claims on our crown, and then we’d be in the same situation.’

‘But by then we will have won time, and many years without war.’

‘Yes, and that would be to the benefit of the Folkungs,’ admitted Arn. ‘We would gain the time we need to secure a victorious power. But the Eriks at Näs won’t be pleased if you propose what you have now suggested to me.’

‘No, I don’t think they will,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘But the Eriks find themselves in a difficult position right now. After Erik jarl is done ranting and calling us things that he will later regret, he’ll discover that without the Folkungs no war will be waged for the sake of the king’s crown. Without us there is no power. No doubt his father Knut will have an easier time understanding this. Of course much depends on Knut over the next few years, but if things get worse, I will find the right occasion to describe what we must do to preserve the peace, and thereby save Erik’s head as well as his crown. Knut will yield if he is ravaged by disease and if the moment for such a conversation is chosen well.’

‘And after Erik jarl?’ asked Arn with a scornful smile. ‘Where have you thought the crown should be placed then?’

‘By then I will no longer be here on this earth,’ laughed Birger Brosa, raising his ale tankard and draining it to the bottom. ‘But if my view from heaven is nearly as good – and considering how many prayers of intercession I’ve paid for my soul at three cloisters, I should have quite a nice view – it would be my greatest pleasure to see the first Folkung king crowned!’

‘Then I suggest that you begin at once to marry off your kinsmen in Svealand rather than with Sverkers,’ said Arn, his face expressionless.

‘That’s precisely what I intend to do!’ exclaimed Birger Brosa. ‘And it has occurred to me that your brother Eskil, who is a very tempting marriage prospect, needs to find a new wife very soon!’

Arn sighed, smiled, and pretending resignation raised his ale tankard toward Birger Brosa. He had great admiration for his uncle’s ability to steer the struggle for power. Such men were rare, even in the Holy Land.

But he was also uneasy about the fact that no matter how many prayers of intercession had been purchased in three cloisters, even that might not be sufficient to procure a good vantage point in the next life, as Birger Brosa seemed so convinced that he had done. But Arn said not a word of what he was thinking.

The first snow came early and in great abundance that year. Among the foreigners at Forsvik, the snow and the increasing cold had a strange effect; some showed even greater diligence in their work, while others stayed indoors next to the hearth in the longhouse without doing any work at all. It wasn’t difficult to explain the difference, since those who were hardworking were those who toiled in the smithies and glassworks where the heat was always so great that everyone worked in long, thin tunics and thick-soled wooden clogs with a rough leather cover across the instep, no matter how cold it might be outdoors.

The thralls at Forsvik took care of the other winter work, such as using the sled to collect more wood or keeping the courtyard clear of snow or shovelling snow passages between the buildings. They were better on their feet when tending to such tasks.

Jacob Wachtian surprised Arn during the second week of snow by asking that the section of water conduit stretching across the field to the house of the foreign guests be covered over with snow. Arn admonished him a bit indulgently that this might not be the wisest thing to do, since it would be difficult if the water froze. But Jacob insisted that it was precisely that occurrence that he wanted to avoid, and he claimed that snow was warmer than air, and that he’d heard this from kinsmen who lived high up in the Armenian mountains. Since Jacob refused to give up this idea, although he was insistent in a most chivalrous manner, Arn decided to try out his suggestion on one of the water lines. He allowed Jacob to choose which one it would be. Cloaking his words in many unnecessary courtesies, the Christian brother then explained that so many men lived in the longhouse, and since most of them had never even seen snow before, the damage would be all the greater if the water froze and they were all forced out into the winter night to relieve themselves; it would also be difficult to wash up in the mornings and evenings.

Arn then agreed to his request, although he didn’t believe that this experiment would end well. Great heaps of snow were piled on top of the section of the water line running above ground to the longhouse.

A short time later the water stopped running into his own house, but when Arn went to see the Saracens in their longhouse, he found the water running as briskly as it did in the summertime.

Muttering and grunting, he had taken Gure outside to help break open his own water conduit using iron spits and pickaxes, and forcing boiling water into several places. Finally they managed to dislodge the ice plug, which went rattling through the house, and soon the water was flowing again. Arn then had his own water line covered in the same manner as had been done at the foreigners’ house. After that everything was as it should be, even during the coldest time in midwinter.

Winter was a good time because the days weren’t filled with such hard work that no one had any strength left to think. On the contrary, in winter people had time to reflect on matters.

For this reason Arn instituted majlisevery Thursday after midday prayers in the Saracen longhouse. He also summoned the Christian foreigners to take part. At the first meeting he apologized for not establishing this excellent custom of having a council room and conversations much earlier. But as everyone no doubt realized, there was good reason to make haste with all the work that had to be done to shelter them from the winter. Yet now the cold had overtaken them, and what they hadn’t been able to finish would not get done until spring. So, what should they talk about?

At first no one spoke. It was as if these Saracens, no matter how accustomed most of them were to the idea of majlis, had forgotten much of what they had been used to since everything in the North was so unfamiliar. In the worst case, thought Arn, this had happened because they saw themselves as slaves, subject to the mercy or disfavour of their foreign master.

Arn translated what he had said to Frankish when he realized that the two Englishmen didn’t understand a word of Arabic; their Frankish wasn’t particularly good either.

‘Wages,’ said Athelsten Crossbow, who was the first to speak. ‘We work a year. Where is wages?’ he went on.

Arn immediately translated his question to Arabic and saw that more than one man in the hall suddenly showed interest.

Work clothes could be another topic for discussion, said one of the stonemasons. Old Ibrahim, who was the most respected of the faithful and the only one who was allowed to speak for the others, added that they ought to solve the matter of God’s day of rest, since there had been a good deal of confusion about this.

After a short time the reticence of the gathering had vanished; soon so many men were talking all at once that Ibrahim and Arn had to speak up to restore order.

The first decision had to do with wages. The general opinion was that it was better to receive wages after each year served than to get five years worth of wages all at once just before they travelled back home. There were some objections, including the fact that it might be difficult to store the silver and gold, since they had no use for it while at Forsvik. Another person who was more ingratiating said that there should never be any reason to doubt the word of Al Ghouti, and everyone’s gold was doubtless better stored at Al Ghouti’s home at an-Nes.

Nevertheless, Arn decided that after his next visit to Arnäs, which would take place during the most important Christian celebration, he would bring the wages for every man in gold coins.

The matter of work clothes was easier to solve. Most of the men in the hall knew full well what working with masonry and forges and glass entailed. Arn assured them that this would be the saddle-makers’ most important task during the winter, since the masons in particular needed clothing that was reinforced with leather.

The question of a day of rest was more difficult to address; they had to discuss whether it should be Friday or Sunday. To slow the work in the smithies and at the glassworks would not be desirable. It was easiest to solve the problem with the smithies, since there were many Christians, especially if the thralls at Forsvik were considered Christian, who had no trouble working on Friday, just as the faithful could work on Sunday. It was not as simple at the glassworks, since all the skilled workers except for the Wachtian brothers were Muslim.

Then Arn asked Brother Guilbert how they had dealt with this matter when he was working with the stonemasons at Arnäs. Brother Guilbert muttered with great embarrassment that he had merely counted Sundays as Fridays, and no one had offered any protest. His words aroused much disapproval and many shocked glances among the builders who had worked on the fortress. Evidently they had been misled as to which days were Fridays and which were Sundays.

Arn quickly cut short the dispute that seemed likely to grow too big even for a majlis.He said that during the winter and at Forsvik, Friday would be a day of rest for every Muslim, while Sunday would be the Christians’ day of rest, and so it would be. They would then think about what do at Arnäs when the masonry work resumed in the spring.

Not everyone who was present at this first majliswas satisfied with what had been discussed. But that was how it usually was and would continue to be.

Arn and Cecilia had more trouble in determining when they should free their thralls. For several evenings they sat with Brother Guilbert in his chamber so as to talk undisturbed about this matter, which they wished to keep secret until it could be realized. Just to be safe, they conducted the discussion in Latin.

Brother Guilbert had no reservations whatsoever about the idea of freeing the thralls; Arn expected no less of him. But the monk realized that such important news had to be delivered with care and wisdom. If they tried to imagine themselves as thralls, it was easy to understand how such news would be received. He was most concerned that the entrenched obedience of the thralls might lead to the opposite extreme. The poor, simple souls might lose their wits and fall upon each other with weapons in order to right old wrongs, in the belief that the person who was free was allowed to strike anyone at will. Or they might simply run off to the woods.

Cecilia remarked that in the middle of winter no one would run away from Forsvik to the woods. That was why the news should be delivered soon, during the coldest period.

Arn said gloomily that it would do little good to try and guess how a thrall thought, since it must be impossible to have a sensible opinion on the matter if someone had lived his whole life as a free man. Shouldn’t they ask one of them?

Both Cecilia and Brother Guilbert objected at once, saying that if even the slightest hint of what they were planning got out, Forsvik would turn into a chicken coop of rumours and misconceptions before evensong. But Arn stubbornly insisted and asked them who they might suggest to ask for advice.

They both replied at once that they should ask Gure, Suom’s son.

For Gure, who had not had a free moment since the snow began falling, busy as he was with hearths and drafty doors, this sudden summons to the master’s house seemed an ill omen. He stopped his work at once and made his way from the thrall quarters to the courtyard, where he cut across the open space to Arn’s house. He thought nervously that perhaps he had devoted too much time to the thralls and too little time to the stables and shelter for the livestock; harsh words were probably awaiting him. He did not fear the whip, because it had never been used even once at Arnäs; he knew from talking to everyone that not a single thrall had been whipped at Forsvik since the new master and mistress had arrived.

Outside Arn’s house he paused in the snow for a moment, feeling at a loss. From inside he heard voices that sounded loud and ominous, as if Sir Arn and those he was talking to in a foreign tongue were not in agreement. What worried him most was not the fact that he was about to be rebuked, but that he didn’t know the reason. He stood outside so long that he started to freeze, but no one came out to get him. He could not enter of his own volition; no thrall was allowed inside the mistress’s chamber, and he could hear that she was inside. He stuffed his hands under his armpits and started stamping his feet in the snow to stop shivering from the cold.

He wondered to himself if this was his punishment, to freeze for his sins. But if that was the case, shouldn’t he at least know why? What good was a punishment without knowing the reason behind it?

Brother Guilbert unexpectedly came to his aid; it might not have happened if he had remembered the lavatoriumarrangement inside the master’s house. But since he lived in the old longhouse, he was used to going outside to relieve himself. As he stepped outside and raised his robes, he discovered he was just about to spray his water on Gure waiting nearby.

Brother Guilbert quickly went about his business and then put his arm around Gure’s shoulders and led him inside through the dark clothing chamber to the large room where the hearth kept it as warm as a bathhouse. The monk led him over to the great fireplace and pressed him down onto a stool a suitable distance away from the blaze while he said something to Arn in a foreign tongue.