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 pa.s.s 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 algars for a Christian burial at the church nearby,' said Germund. 'Svante's body and his head we will st.i.tch 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 Arnas. 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 pa.s.sed, 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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 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 hors.e.m.e.n.

'Then I demand my right to G.o.d'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 p.i.s.sing!'

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 st.i.tched 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 algars 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 Arnas dried fish from Lofoten began arriving in great quant.i.ties, which showed that Harald ysteinsson 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Arnas. That was why it had been easier to sell Kol and his son to Arn. At Arnas 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 embarra.s.sment, 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 Arnas, 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 Arnas,' 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 Arnas, 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 a.s.sumed 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 Bjalbo, 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 Vattern, for a conversation that required both time and consideration. As soon as the ship left sh.o.r.e, 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 Arnas. 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.

'Why? Why Suom and Gure?' Arn asked with curiosity.

'Because her work has great value that will produce silver many times the worth of a thrall,' replied Cecilia at once, without looking at Arn.

'You can free anyone you like at Forsvik,' said Arn. 'Forsvik belongs to you, and therefore all the thralls are yours as well. But I would like to free Kol and his son Svarte.'

'Why those particular hunters?' she asked, surprised that the discussion had already moved past the initial hurdle.

'Let's say that Kol and his son bring home eight stags during this first winter,' replied Arn. 'That will not only make our meals less monotonous, but it's more than the value of a thrall, and in only one winter. But the same can be said of every thrall. They all bring in more than their own worth.'

'Is there something else you wish to say?' asked Cecilia, giving him a searching glance.

'Yes,' he said. 'It's a matter that I have been saving to discuss during this journey-'

'I thought as much!' she interrupted him, looking pleased. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth to show that she had no intention of saying more until Arn had finished.

'G.o.d did not create any man or woman to be a thrall; that is how I view it,' Arn went on. 'Where in the Holy Scriptures does it say that such should be the case? You and I have both lived in that part of the world, behind walls, where thralldom would be unthinkable. I imagine that we think alike regarding this matter.'

'Yes, I think we do,' said Cecilia solemnly. 'But what I can't decide is whether I am wrong or whether all of our kinsmen are mistaken. Not even the thralls believe otherwise; they think that G.o.d created some of us to be masters and others to be thralls.'

'Many of the thralls don't even believe in G.o.d,' remarked Arn. 'But I have had the same thought that you mention. Am I the one who is wrong? Or am I so much wiser and better than all of our kinsmen? Even Birger Brosa and Eskil?'

'Yes,' she said. 'You and I are in agreement about this matter.'

'But if we do indeed agree, then what should we do?' Arn mused. 'If we were to free all the thralls at Forsvik tomorrow, so that no one was allowed to own thralls anymore, what would happen then?'

At first Cecilia had no answer. She sat for a while, leaning her chin on her hand and pondering the matter. It occurred to her that the easy part was to forswear the sin, but the hard part was to clear up the confusion that might then arise.

'Wages,' said Arn at last. 'We free all of them, let's say sometime in midwinter so that cold will keep them sensible and they won't go running off in all directions with their freedom. Then we will inst.i.tute wages. At the start of each year every thrall, I mean every man and woman, will receive a certain amount of silver coins. Another possibility, which my blessed mother Sigrid employed, was to allow freed men to work new fields and pay a tenant's fee each year. I suggest that we try to proceed along both these paths.'

'But so much in wages would mean heavy expenses for us in pure silver,' sighed Cecilia. 'And here I was just beginning to see brighter prospects when it comes to our account books.'

'He who gives alms to the poor performs a deed that pleases G.o.d, even when his silver pouch grows lighter,' said Arn as he brooded. 'It is the righteous thing to do, and you and I wish to live a righteous life. That alone is reason enough. Another reason is that those tenants that my mother freed from Arnas worked harder. Without costing us any winter fodder, they increased our wealth. What if freed men always work harder than thralls, what if it would be good business to free them?'

'In that case, our thrall-owning kinsmen are not merely sinners, but also short-sighted,' laughed Cecilia. 'I can see that we both share a certain arrogance in thinking these thoughts, my dear Arn.'

'We'll see about that,' said Arn. 'But you and I wish to cleanse ourselves of a sin, so let's do it! Whether the Lord will reward us or not, it is not our concern. And if we find it costly in terms of silver, then so be it. We can afford it. So let's try!'

'Yes, and we'll wait until midwinter so they don't go running off like chickens when they are freed,' said Cecilia with a smile, as if picturing all the tumult that would then occur at Forsvik.

When they reached Bjalbo, Birger Brosa's estate, Arn and Cecilia were not as well received as they had hoped. When they rode in among the welcoming fires outside the church, they were received by house thralls who showed them into one of the guest houses, as if they were supposed to share lodgings with their retainers. They had not brought a large retinue with them, just the boys Sune and Sigfrid, who may have pictured themselves as offering protection to their master and mistress, but others saw them merely as boys.

This was one of the few things that Birger Brosa himself mentioned in a brief conversation with Arn. He said that it was not befitting for a Folkung to ride without retainers, especially since the Sverkers at this banquet might take it as an insult.

Ingrid Ylva's father was also cold in tone and handshake when he greeted Arn. Sune Sik said only a few words about the fact that the blood between them could not be washed away until after the bridal ale.

A grim mood reigned over the high seat since neither Birger Brosa nor his wife Brigida was willing to speak a single kind word to Arn or Cecilia, and the mood spread throughout the hall. As a betrothal feast, this gathering at Bjalbo was not going to be remembered as festive.

On all three evenings Arn and Cecilia withdrew as early as possible without offending the honour of their host. They barely had a chance to speak to their son Magnus or his future wife Ingrid Ylva, since the betrothal seats, decorated with leafy boughs, were far from the high seat.

They didn't stay even an hour longer than the three days that custom dictated.

Nor did Arn find the situation much better when they arrived at Ulfshem, the next estate they were to visit and the home of Cecilia's dear friend Ulvhilde Emundsdotter. It was in a beautiful location between Bjalbo and Linkoping. There was wine for Arn and Cecilia, who both preferred not to partake of all the ale-drinking, and the meat that was served was tender. But there was a shadow between Arn and Ulvhilde that would not recede, and everyone saw it, although no one said a word.

And Ulvhilde's husband, Jon, who was more inclined to the law than the sword, had a hard time carrying on any sort of sensible conversation with Arn, since he a.s.sumed that Arn was a man who understood nothing but war. Arn constantly felt as if Jon were addressing a halfwit or a child.

For his part, Jon found it difficult to see his young sons Birger and Emund watching Arn with their eyes bright with admiration. In one sense the situation improved, though in another sense it did not, when Arn suggested that the young Sune and Sigfrid join Jon's sons outdoors rather than be forced to keep the older people company. The boys obediently retreated, but soon the clanging of weapons was heard from out in the courtyard, which didn't surprise Arn, though it clearly annoyed Jon.

On the second evening, which was to be their last at Ulfshem, Arn and Cecilia, Jon and Ulvhilde were sitting at the long hearth in the great hall. It was as if the two women discovered too late that while they had a thousand things to discuss, their husbands were less pleased with each other's company. On this evening the conversation also seemed sluggish, and the topics were inoffensive matters that would not lead to anyone's discomfort.

Arn was fairly certain what lay at the bottom of this dark lake, and at the beginning of the evening he was determined to leave it alone. But when the first few hours had crawled by with dreary talk, too many silences, and not a single laugh, he decided it was more difficult to carry on in this way than to lance the boil.

'Let's speak of the matter that lies between us, since it will not get any better if we pretend it's not there,' said Arn in the middle of a discussion about the mild autumn they were now enjoying compared to the severe cold of the previous year.

At first there was utter silence so that only the crackling of the fire was heard.

'You mean my father Emund Ulvbane,' said Ulvhilde at last. 'Yes, it would be better to speak of him now rather than later. I was only a child when he was so treacherously killed, and perhaps what I know of the matter is not the whole truth. Cecilia Rosa is my dearest friend, you are her husband, and between us there should be no lies. Tell me what happened!'

'Your father Emund was King Sverker's greatest and most loyal warrior,' began Arn after taking a deep breath. 'It was said that no man could defeat him. At the ting ting of all Goths at Axevalla, he offended my father Magnus so deeply that honour demanded a duel between the two, or with the son taking the father's place, as the law provides. My father has never been a swordsman and could expect a certain death at Emund's hands. He called for a priest, gave his confession, and said farewell to his kinsmen. But I fought against Emund in my father's place. I was only seventeen and had no desire to kill anyone. I did all in my power, and twice I offered your father the chance to withdraw from the duel when he was at a disadvantage. But it did no good. In the end I thought the only thing to do was to wound him so badly that he would have to yield, but with his honour still intact. Today I might have managed things better, but at the time I was too young.' of all Goths at Axevalla, he offended my father Magnus so deeply that honour demanded a duel between the two, or with the son taking the father's place, as the law provides. My father has never been a swordsman and could expect a certain death at Emund's hands. He called for a priest, gave his confession, and said farewell to his kinsmen. But I fought against Emund in my father's place. I was only seventeen and had no desire to kill anyone. I did all in my power, and twice I offered your father the chance to withdraw from the duel when he was at a disadvantage. But it did no good. In the end I thought the only thing to do was to wound him so badly that he would have to yield, but with his honour still intact. Today I might have managed things better, but at the time I was too young.'