The Road To Jerusalem (35 page)

Arn felt coldly resolute and stood up at once. He did not like the position he had landed in by telling the truth, and he wanted to get out of this predicament right away; as far as he knew there was only one way to do that. With long strides he went over to Tord Geirsson and almost rudely snatched the bow from him. He strung it quickly and skillfully, and carefully selected three arrows, holding two in his bow hand and nocking the third onto the bowstring. He drew it back as far as the bow would tolerate, wanting to shoot with the bow’s full power so that the arrow would drop as little as possible on the way. And then he loosed the arrow. It struck the center, a mere thumb’s-breadth below the middle of the bale of hay. They all craned their necks to see and then began whispering to one another. Arn now knew how the bow shot, and he took careful aim with the two following shots, which he loosed without hurry, and striking somewhat better. Then without a word he handed the bow to Tord Geirsson and went to sit down.

Tord Geirsson was white in the face as he stared at the three arrows protruding from the target in a tight pattern. He realized that he had lost, but he didn’t know how to handle the quandary he had landed himself in. Of all the methods he could imagine, he found every single one shameful. He did not choose wisely. He flung the bow to the floor in pique and left the hall without saying a word, but with the loud laughter of everyone in his ears.

Arn said a silent prayer for him, asking that his anger might abate and hoping that he had learned something from his pride. For his own part he prayed that Saint Bernard continue to remind him about pride and that he might not be seduced into exaggerating the importance of this simple incident.

When Algot Palsson recovered from his astonishment over Arn’s skill, he was very pleased and soon had everyone around the table drinking a
skal
to Arn in earnest, now that he had proven what a skillful archer he was. Much more ale was brought in, and Arn began to feel more at ease, soon even deciding that the tough, unhanged venison tasted quite good. And he tried to drink ale like a real man.

Katarina had taken the liberty of pouring ale for Arn herself, which was polite and something she should have done from the start, since she sat in the mistress’s place and Arn in that of the guest of honor. At first she had found him much too uncertain and humble. Now she found his stature more than impressive.

Soon she had changed places with her father in the high seat so that she was sitting next to Arn, close enough that he was aware of her body when she spoke to him, which she did more and more eagerly, showing how clever she found everything that Arn said. Her hands touched his now and then, as if accidentally.

Arn was even more enlivened by this, and drank more ale every time it was set before him. He was pleased that Katarina, who had seemed to look at him with such cold and scornful eyes when he first entered the hall, now beamed and smiled at him with such warmth that he felt the heat touch his own skin and rise up inside himself.

If Algot Palsson had handled his position as lord of the manor with greater chivalry, he would have rebuked his daughter for this flirtatious behavior. But he decided that there was a considerable difference when such unsuitable behavior for a young woman was directed toward a proud but poor clan kinsman such as Tord Geirsson, instead of toward a young nobleman from Arnas. So he looked through his fingers at such things when he noticed what good fathers cannot avoid discovering and usually choose to reprove.

Arn’s head was soon spinning from all the ale, and almost too late he noticed that he had to vomit. He made his way quickly out of the hall so as not to defile the place where people ate. When the cold air struck him in the face outside, he bent over to empty his stomach of what seemed like half a tough deer and a good cask of ale. He bitterly regretted his actions but could not think of praying before he was done.

Afterward he wiped his mouth carefully and took deep breaths of the cold air, admonishing himself about how foolish he looked no matter what he tried. Then he went inside to say good night without eating any more, wishing everyone God’s peace, and thanking them for all the generous food. Then he staggered on stiff but resolute legs out of the hall, into the courtyard, and over to the spring which now lay shrouded in darkness and drizzling rain. He splashed cold water on his face, chastised himself loudly in a slurred voice, and fumbled his way over to the guesthouse. He found his bed in the dark and fell forward like a clubbed ox.

When night came to the longhouse and only snoring was heard, Katarina cautiously crept off into the night. Algot Palsson, who usually slept poorly after big ale feasts, heard her sneak off and understood full well where she was heading. As a good father he should have prevented her from such antics and chastised her roundly.

As a good father, he consoled himself, he could also refrain from doing so; if nothing else, in hopes of having a daughter at Arnas.

For anyone who did not know, it might look as though the Folkungs were now going to set off to war from Arnas. Even for those who knew everything, this was conceivable.

A great host of soldiers had crowded into the castle courtyard, and between the stone walls there were echoes of the horses’ iron shoes and snorting, the rattling of weapons, and impatient voices. The sun was on its way up and it was going to be a cold day, but without snow and with good road conditions. Two heavily loaded carts were dragged on ironclad oak wheels whining and creaking out through the gate to make room for all the horsemen. They were waiting for the headmen of the clan who were saying prayers in the high tower room, and some joked that they could well be lengthy prayers up there if the young monk was in charge. As if to keep warm or burn off some of their impatience, four of the Arnas retainers began fighting one another with sword and shield, while terrified thralls had to hold their restless stallions and kinsmen outside shouted merrily and offered good advice.

It was indeed Arn who had led the prayers with his father and his uncle Birger Brosa and Eskil, for they truly needed the protection of God and the Saint before this journey, which might end well but also might end with the ravages of war sweeping across all of Western Gotaland.

When Arn came out into the castle courtyard and saw the four retainers hacking away at one another with swords, he stopped short. He stood speechless in amazement when he discovered that these men, who were supposed to be his father’s finest fighters and armed guard, didn’t know how to handle a sword. He never would have imagined anything like this. Although they were full-grown men and heavily clad in knee-length chain mail and tunics bearing the colors of the Folkungs, they looked like little boys who barely knew a thing about using sword and shield.

Magnus, who saw his son’s sheepish stare and thought that Arn might have been frightened by these wild games, placed his hand calmly on Arn’s shoulder and consoled him by saying that he had no cause to be afraid of such men as long as they were in the family’s pay. But they were huge giants, which was good for Arnas.

Then for the first time in a long while Arn looked as if he were slow to comprehend. But then a light apparently went on for him, and he smiled uncertainly at his father’s consoling words, assuring him that he hadn’t been frightened of the fighting at all. He said he felt safe at seeing that they bore the colors of the Folkungs like himself. He didn’t want to hurt his father by saying what he thought of the ability of these men to wield a sword. For by now he had learned that sometimes it was wise out in the base world not to speak the truth.

There was more trouble when Magnus discovered that Arn had heedlessly fastened the sword he’d received from the monks at his side. That sword would only arouse ridicule, so he went straight to the armory and fetched a good, beautiful Norwegian sword to offer Arn instead. But then Arn turned stubborn, the same way he did about wanting to ride his skinny monk horse instead of a manly Nordic stallion.

Magnus tried to explain that the Folkungs now had to ride with a great force to put fear into the enemy and pacify them. Even Arn who was clad in the Folkung colors had to do his share so that he did not entice ridicule. And it would be ridiculous if a son so close to the headman of the clan carried a sword like a woman’s and rode a horse that was good for nothing.

Arn restrained himself for a good long while before replying. But then he suggested politely that he might consider riding one of the sluggish black stallions, but that he would rather not carry a sword at all than relinquish his own. And faced with this dilemma Magnus relented, not entirely pleased yet relieved at being quit of the most mortifying spectacle of his son on a horse that would arouse ridicule.

Finally the mighty force could ride out from Arnas on its way to the
ting
of all the Goths, the
ting
that was now called a
landsting
because King Karl Sverkersson himself would participate for the first time in two years. This time he would have to choose between war and peace.

In the vanguard the leader of the retainers rode alone with the banner of the Folkungs raised on a lance. Then followed Birger Brosa and Magnus Folkesson riding side by side, clad in silver and blue. They were wrapped in their wide blue mantles lined with marten fur, and they wore shiny pointed helmets on their heads. On the left side behind the saddle they had fastened their shields on which the rampant golden lion of the Folkungs stood defiantly posed for battle. After them rode Eskil and Arn, dressed and armed in the same manner as the headmen of the clan, and then followed a double rank of retainers who all carried lances with the colors of the Folkungs fluttering in the wind from the tips.

An equal number of Folkungs would meet up with them from the southern and western parts of the country, and outside Skara they would join with the Erik clan to demonstrate clearly, when they rode into the
ting
as the strongest contingent, that war would make both the Folkung and the Erik clans enemies of King Karl, since they belonged together not merely through their bond of blood but also through their shared determination never to be subjugated. The
ting
of all Goths would be held outside the royal manor at Axevalla.

If two young men other than Eskil and Arn had been forced to ride side by side for such a long way, they would have talked most about the struggle for power in which they themselves had unavoidably become involved. But Arn was still as passive and quiet as he had been ever since returning from Varnhem. The morning after the night he spent at Husaby, he had ridden in a wild dash to Varnhem to confess to Father Henri. When he eventually returned home he had morosely reforged the two helmets that he understood they were going to compel him and his brother to wear. What he changed was not visible so much on the outside, but the helmets were padded and warm on the inside so that they would not freeze their ears off in the cold.

But two brothers could not ride together in silence, Eskil thought. He supposed it would be better if he broke the ice and talked about what was preoccupying his mind; afterward they could more easily tackle what was obviously bothering Arn.

And so Eskil talked about the Norwegian business transactions, which had gone very well. They had succeeded in acquiring an offer of first refusal, so that the farms in question might be said to remain within the same clan, yet they had still brought home so much Norwegian silver that it was good for Arnas. The best thing was that they had been able to sell without arousing discontent or dispute.

What concerned Eskil right now was something else: dried fish that was called clipfish in Norway—split dried cod. Up in northern Norway ocean fish were caught in huge numbers. Near a place called Lofoten they were caught in such quantities that it was more than they could eat and sell in all of Norway. This meant there was a surplus of clipfish that was cheap to buy, easy to ship, and almost like magic could last without spoiling until it was softened up in water. Eskil’s idea was to buy up all such surplus Norwegian fish and sell it in the Gothic lands, because there were many periods of fasting, especially the forty days before Easter, when it was considered a sin to eat meat. The fish that people caught in lakes and seas in the Gothic lands was not sufficient, particularly for those who lived in large communities and far from fishing waters, such as in the cities of Skara and Linkoping.

To Eskil’s surprise, Arn knew at once what he was talking about, although his word was not clipfish but
cabalao
, which he said he had eaten often and not only during fasting. Such fish had been common in the cloister world for a long time. Arn thought that if they could convince the town dwellers of the benefits of dried fish, which he didn’t think would be an easy matter because he had a low opinion of town dwellers, then the business would surely bring in a lot of silver for whoever was first to provide the fish. It was definitely true that such fish were excellent for storing, shipping, and eating, and that the need for good food could be great at fasting times and during winters that were much too long. If one did not live in a cloister, that is.

Eskil was very glad to hear this, and he was convinced that he had discovered a new business that would soon yield much silver. He imagined hordes of slovenly town dwellers gobbling down his fish in great quantities, and he decided at once to send a trading party to his Norwegian kinsmen to place a large order. Dried fish was definitely something that belonged to the future.

When the mighty Folkung column rode past Forshem church, the last of the riders could not be seen at the same time as the first. The bell of Forshem church tolled as if to proclaim misfortune or wishes for success, and the peasants stood lined up along the road to watch the spectacle. But they stood silent and scared, for it was impossible to know whether this force of warriors was riding off to plunge the country into adversity or to maintain the peace, since that could not be seen with the naked eye. For an ordinary peasant the Folkung retinue was a sight that instilled more fear than hope.