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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was decided to hold three days of celebration: the bachelors' and maidens' evening on the first Friday after Midsummer; the fetching of the bride and the traditional escorting to the bridal bed on the following Sat.u.r.day; and the blessing of the bride at the ma.s.s on Sunday in Forshem Church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They rode across the courtyard between the buildings, and n.o.body came to greet them; they continued out the other side where two new longhouses and two smaller buildings were being raised. Most of the residents of Forsvik who were not out at the hay harvest seemed to be there working together.

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

A man who was way up on the wall and dressed in dirty leather clothes swung down from the wooden scaffolding in two long, nimble leaps. Everyone made way for him as he wiped the sweat from his brow and flung away the trowel, looking gravely from one visitor to the next. When his gaze fell upon Magnus Mneskold he nodded as if in affirmation and went straight over to him and held out his hand. Everyone was quiet. n.o.body moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their conversation faltered even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With renewed vigour they went back to work on the bridal mantle. Suom wove in the sign of the Pl clan in the middle of the back, a black shield with a silver chevron, so that it was very prominent although it was not sewn on but a part of the weave. After many attempts Cecilia had developed a deep, shimmering green colour which pleased them both. At last the mantle was done.

When Suom took her leave to return to Arnas, Cecilia stood up, sweeping the loveliest of green Pl mantles around her, and headed over to the longhouse, where her kinsmen were now gathered for the brief evening ale that would start off the maidens' evening celebration. When she came in the faces of the three Pl brothers lit up with genuine joy when they saw the mantle she wore. They all admired it and wanted to feel the fabric, turning it this way and that in the light to see its shimmer. They also seemed relieved to have escaped the affront to the clan if she had decided to sew a blue mantle for herself for this grand wedding celebration.

Pl Jonsson himself handed her a small goblet of ale and was the first to drink with her. Afterwards she drank with his younger brother Algot. Sture, who was the youngest and still a bachelor, had ridden to Arnas to take part in the bachelors' evening as the only youth from the Pl clan. They all raised their tankards to the young Sture because, as Pl said, it would not be easy to spend the evening drinking with men who were all Folkungs and Eriks.

Then they began the arrangements for what was to take place during the maidens' evening. Six young women from the Pl clan came into the hall, taking Cecilia's hand and greeting her. She didn't know any of them, since they were so young. The priest from Husaby Church blessed all seven of the maidens and then the house thralls brought each of them a white shift and a wreath made of lingonberry twigs.

Cecilia had only a vague idea of what a maidens' evening was, and she had no idea how she was supposed to behave when these young women, whom she didn't know, lined up holding the white shifts in their arms, with the lingonberry wreaths on top. She decided that the only thing she could do was to pretend that nothing was unfamiliar and just follow the others. They were now slowly leaving through the open doors, stepping into the summer night.

Outside stood a row of retainers. Every third man held a burning torch in his hand to keep the evil spirits or the unblessed away from the maidens as they appeared at this most dangerous of moments in terms of the powers of darkness.

Cecilia came last in the procession, which slowly headed toward the oak woods and the stream a short distance away. There the bathhouse could be glimpsed in the glow of torches.

As they left the courtyard and took their first steps into the oak forest, the other maidens began singing a song that Cecilia had never heard before, even though she'd undoubtedly heard thousands of songs. She didn't grasp all the words, since many were old-fashioned, but she understood that it was a song to a female G.o.d from heathen times. Inside the forest menacing shadows reigned. But Cecilia didn't believe in sirens of the woods or gnomes as much as she did in apprehensive armed retainers.

As custom demanded, the seven maidens arrived at the washhouse at the darkest hour of the summer night. But since it was the week after Midsummer, it wasn't very dark. Even so, they were dazzled by the burning torches that were posted around the entire washhouse. Outside stood two long benches, and there Cecilia's escort, amid much giggling and laughter, placed their clothes so that one after the other they stood there naked. They also removed their headbands and then combed their fingers through their long tresses that fell over their shoulders and b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Cecilia hesitated, blushing, although no one noticed in the dark. She had never stood naked before anyone, and at first she didn't know how she was going to manage.

The other maidens teased her by hugging their arms to their chests and shivering, telling her to make haste so that they might quickly step inside where it was warm. Cecilia then realized that there was actually one person before whom she had been naked, although a very long time ago; only one, and that was Arn Magnusson. And if she could show herself naked to a man, never mind the one she loved, then it ought to be much easier to do so before women. That was how she persuaded herself as she diffidently fumbled with her clothes, taking them off and placing them on the wooden bench.

Now all of them lined up, crossed their hands over their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and walked seven times around the bathhouse, singing yet another heathen song that Cecilia had never heard. Neither the melody nor the words were familiar. After that the first maiden to approach the bathhouse opened the door, and then everyone ran inside, shrieking and giggling in the steam.

There were big wooden vessels filled with hot or cold water, as well as buckets for pouring the water. After the first cautious attempts with a bare foot, it turned out that they had to pour some of the cold water into the hot vessel, which was so huge that it could hold at least two butchered oxen. Several of the maidens splashed cold water on some of the others, prompting more shrieks and laughter.