So often things turn out much differently than people had imagined. What the poor in spirit call small coincidences, what the faithful call God’s will, can sometimes alter an event to such an extent that no one could have predicted the result. That applies to powerful men who are convinced that they are the instigators of their own fortune, men like Erik Jedvardsson. But it also applies to such men who stand much closer to God than others and should be better able to understand His ways, men such as Henri of Clairvaux. For both these men the ways of the Lord had truly seemed inscrutable in recent years.
When Father Henri and his seven companions and a boy arrived in Roskilde on their way south through Denmark, he was firmly resolved to continue all the way to the general capital of the Cistercian order in Cîteaux in order to present his case for the excommunication of Erik Jedvardsson and his wife Kristina. It was an extremely grave matter of principle. For the first time the Cistercians had been forced to close down a monastery because of the whim of some king or king’s wife. It was a question that was of crucial significance to the whole Christian world: Who controlled the Church? The Church itself or the sovereign power of the king? The strife over this had raged for a long time, but it took a Nordic barbarian queen such as Kristina to be ignorant of the matter.
Varnhem had to be regained at all costs. No compromise was acceptable in this matter.
And had Father Henri and his company come to Roskilde several years earlier, or several years later, everything would have gone as planned. There is no doubt about that.
But Father Henri and his company arrived just at the moment when a violent, ten-year-long civil war had ended and a new mighty lineage had ascended to power. The new king was named Valdemar, and he would be known in due course as Valdemar the Great.
He had finally succeeded in killing both his rivals, Knut and Svend, and before the decisive battle he had vowed that if God granted him victory he would establish a Cistercian monastery. Archbishop Eskil in Lund was well aware of this promise, having been forced to bless the war before the decisive battle. Archbishop Eskil was an old personal friend of no less than Holy Saint Bernard himself. It was when visiting Saint Bernard in Clairvaux that he had also become friends with Father Henri.
When the two now met in Roskilde, just as the Danish church convened for a synod, they were overjoyed to see each other again. But beyond that they were also taken by how wisely God could steer people’s paths down to the smallest detail.
All the pieces fit together with miraculous precision. Here came a Cistercian prior just at the moment when the new king was about to honor, or forget, his promise to God to build a new monastery. Instead of entering into a correspondence for many years with Cîteaux, everything could be arranged at once, since both an archbishop and a prior were present.
King Valdemar himself could also clearly feel the power of God’s will when his archbishop informed him that his sacred vow to God could actually be fulfilled immediately, since God had arranged it so.
King Valdemar set aside a portion of his inherited property, a peninsula named Vitskøl on the shores of the Limfjord in Jutland, as the site of the new monastery. The synod, which handily enough had already been convened at Roskilde, blessed the matter, and Father Henri could then resume his journey at once, as if he had merely stopped to rest in Roskilde. But he was now heading toward a completely different destination from his two home monasteries of Clairvaux and Cîteaux.
With regard to the question of Varnhem and the excommunication of Kristina and Erik Jedvardsson, what had occurred did not involve any change of principle, of course. Rather, it entailed a practical change, since the matter now had to be handled by correspondence and would therefore require somewhat more time. This meant that Father Henri had a number of important letters to write before setting off on the journey to Vitskøl, but it was quickly done. He wrote to Varnhem and instructed twenty-two of his monks to pack up plenty of the monastery’s possessions, in particular all the books, and take them along to the new monastery in Vitskøl. However, five men should stay behind in Varnhem with the ominous task of trying to protect the buildings against pillaging and destruction. At the same time they were to tell one and all about the coming excommunication of Fru Kristina and Erik Jedvardsson, to whatever effect that might have.
Next, Father Henri addressed two letters to the general chapter of the Cistercians and to the Holy Father Hadrianus IV, in which he described the immoral and drunken Erik Jedvardsson, who wanted to call himself king despite the fact that he had allowed his wife to desecrate a monastery. Then he was ready to leave for Vitskøl, which was where the Lord without a doubt was now leading his steps.
And where the Lord led Father Henri, there too he led Arn.
Erik Jedvardsson was soon to feel the power of the church. Now that he had captured one of the three royal crowns he had been striving for, he sent negotiators to the lawspeakers in both Western and Eastern Götaland. But the replies he received were disheartening. In those regions Varnhem had functioned as a smoldering and smoking pit of rumors, and the smoke had spread over both landscapes: Erik Jedvardsson and his wife Kristina were going to be excommunicated. Nobody wanted an excommunicated king.
Fortunately the Swedes didn’t know what was being said, or else they didn’t understand what excommunication meant. Erik was still sitting securely as the king of the Swedes.
Two things had to be done, one easy and one difficult. The easy task was to send a group of negotiators to that French monk who was now staying somewhere in Denmark. The king would have to humble himself in writing, rescind his demands, and beg the monks to come back to Varnhem, assuring them of the king’s support. He would ask to be allowed to have Varnhem as the burial place for his lineage, and vouchsafe that the monks would be given more land for Varnhem, and whatever else he could think of to offer. His bishop Henrik, who was a practical man of God, assured him that the alternative would be far worse. For then it would become necessary to walk on foot to Rome, dressed in sackcloth and ashes for the last bit of the journey. Barefoot, he would have to prostrate himself at the feet of the Holy Father. This would not only be difficult and time-consuming; there was no guarantee that such tactics would placate the Pope. And wouldn’t it be exceedingly vexing to have made all those efforts in vain?
So much easier to placate the monks, since it could be done with a few letters, a few pleasant words, and some land that was only a very small part of the king’s vast holdings. This was the easy task.
The difficult task had to do with washing away the widespread gossip about the ungodly king. Erik’s old idea about a crusade to Finland was reconsidered, and Bishop Henrik found it appealing. A king who was also God’s own warrior for the good faith would come to be honored by all. The path to the two remaining crowns therefore must pass through Finland.
The Swedes, who were a warlike people and who had not been able to demonstrate that quality to themselves or others for a long time, gladly joined in the new king’s plans for a plundering campaign against Finland. There were wrongs to avenge, besides everything else, since the Finns and the Estonians had conducted vicious raids along the coasts of Svealand.
The war went well for two years. The Swedes took rich booty. The raven flew to fresh wounds.
Of course the first Finns they encountered were already Christian, but making them choose between the sword and being baptized anew by a Swedish bishop could never hurt. But occasional heathens were found farther inland, in the second year of the war.
One day when Erik’s soldiers left the army’s column to find peasants they could plunder for food they encountered an old witch. The strange thing about the woman was that she spoke almost the same language as in Svealand, and she was not all afraid when she was taken captive. Instead she pluckily asked to be taken to the commander, since she had a suggestion to make which he would be hard pressed to refuse. If the soldiers did not obey her she would cast a spell that would bring them eternal misfortune.
The soldiers did as she said, more out of curiosity at what the witch might suggest to Erik Jedvardsson that he could not refuse than out of fear of her sorcery.
When Erik Jedvardsson heard about what had happened, he thought it might provide an amusing interlude that night, and so he let the witch accompany him until they made camp toward evening.
Then he had his executioner called to the royal tent, with his block and axe prepared. His closest men in the army gathered expectantly for the amusing game, and then they brought in the witch and forced her to her knees before the king.
“So, foul witch! You had a suggestion for me that I as king would not dare refuse. Let’s hear it!” shouted Erik to the filthy woman who was bound and kneeling before him. And he smiled cheerfully at his men, reaping much merriment.
“Well yes,” the woman wheezed hoarsely, because a soldier was holding her around the neck, “I have a suggestion that a wise king would not wish to refuse.”
“I’m sure everyone would like to hear it, but you understand that the executioner isn’t standing here for nothing, so what if I say no?” replied Erik, still just as cheerful.
“Release me and let me stand up so that I may speak. If you say no to my proposal I’ll go straight to your executioner,” replied the woman, strong and confident.
Erik gestured to the men to release her and then, just as cheerful as before, showed that he was prepared to listen. The men all around him were extremely amused by what was going on.
The woman straightened her hair with dignity and cleared her throat before she spoke.
“My proposal is as follows, King Erik. Let me read your palm and say who you are and what your future holds. If you find that I speak falsely about you, or if you don’t believe what I say about what is to come, then you may send me at once to your executioner. If you believe what I have to say, I need a horse and wagon to take me back to where I was abducted.”
Erik immediately turned pensive, and the men’s laughter quieted to a murmur. They all realized that a woman who was so sure of her soothsaying that she would wager her head on its truthfulness perhaps really could see into the future after all. But not everyone wanted to know their future, because it could turn bad the very next day: an arrow flying out of the woods where no one saw the archer, a lance cast in error at the end of a battle when there was no longer anything at stake. And if a pox would strike one’s family, would a man really want to know something like that in advance? It took courage to look into the future.
Erik assessed the matter in this way: he would be seen as showing cowardice if he merely sent the babbling witch off to the executioner. On the other hand, if he listened to her first and then had her beheaded, he would make a much better impression.
“Very well,” said Erik Jedvardsson. “I shall listen to your words. If I find them true, you have my word as king that you shall return home with a horse and wagon. If I think ill of your words, I shall let the executioner take care of you here and now. So let’s hear what you have to say!”
“Well.” The witch shilly-shallied. “We must go into your tent so that you and only you hear my words.”
A murmur of astonishment spread among the men. To be alone with a witch might not be wise. Erik saw their fear, and he was just as enraged by it as by the witch’s impudence.
“And if I now say no to your proposal, if I tell you to give me your prophecy here and now!” he boomed in the gruff voice he used for giving commands.
“Then you shall not know who you are or where you are bound, for your future belongs to you alone, and perhaps you would find it unwise for it to belong to everyone. Afterward you can always decide what you choose to tell of what you alone have heard,” replied the woman with confidence, as if she knew that Erik would agree to her proposal.
And he did. The woman was searched by the hands of un-abashed soldiers to ensure that she had no sharp weapon on her. Erik turned and went into his tent, and the woman was shoved in roughly after him.
Inside the tent she fell at once to her knees before the king and asked to be allowed to read one of his palms. She was given the royal hand and studied it in silence.
“I see England…” she began hesitantly. “Someone in your lineage…your father came from England. I see Rome and the man called Pope…no, that line is broken here. You were on your way to Rome…barefoot…how can that be? Well, nothing will come of that journey…hmm, your future is indeed interesting.”
Erik Jedvardsson had turned quite cold inside when he heard the reference to his English origins and how he had almost traveled to see the Pope. He was now convinced.
“So, woman! I know who I am, now tell me my future without more ado!” he ordered without his voice quavering too much.
“I see…I see three royal crowns. A new realm with three crowns as the coat of arms, and these armorial bearings will still endure after a thousand years, everywhere in your kingdom. Generation after generation, king after king for all eternity, and your mark will remain. The three crowns mean three countries will be united into a mighty kingdom, and in a thousand years these your crowns will still be the emblem of the realm, everywhere, on all seals, on all documents.”
“And what will happen to that pope?” Erik Jedvardsson was so shaken that he almost whispered.
“I see your picture everywhere…” the woman muttered low. “Everywhere pictures of you…as a saint, your head wreathed in gold against a blue sky. You began by doing evil against your god…there was that interrupted path to Rome…then you did good and thus your name shall live forever.”
“What do you have to say about my death?” asked Erik Jedvardsson, now reverently.
“Your death…your death. Do you really want to know that? Few men do.”
“Yes, say something!”
“I can’t see very clearly…” muttered the woman, who suddenly seemed a bit afraid to say what she had seen with utter clarity. But then she mustered her courage and once again her voice sounded confident.
“Your name will live on forever. No man born of woman in Svealand or the two lands of the Goths will be able to kill or even injure you,” she said hastily, standing up.
Erik Jedvardsson, who now was filled with the certainty that all his dreams would come true, and that not one of his foreseeable enemies would ever be able to kill him, strode out of the tent and in a mighty voice gave the order for a horse and wagon to be brought forth for the woman. No one was to touch her or speak to her indecorously; she was granted the protection of the king.
Erik Jedvardsson returned home to Östra Aros, his mind alight with the glorious future he now felt would be his. For he had nothing to fear from any man in Svealand or Western Götaland or Eastern Götaland.
Magnus Henriksen, however, was not a man born of woman in Svealand, Western Götaland, or Eastern Götaland. He was Danish.
He was one of the many great men of Denmark that the winds of war had blown like chaff out across the world after Valdemar finally won the long Danish war of succession. Fleeing Denmark, Magnus sailed up the Eastern Sea, stopped for a time in Linköping, and had private discussions with King Karl Sverkersson. He then continued up the coast, into Lake Mälaren and up the Fyris River.
He took King Erik Jedvardsson by surprise, and he was the one who personally chopped off the head that according to the witch in Finland would become the eternal symbol of the future kingdom.
Magnus had himself proclaimed the new king, since he had killed the old one. In those days that was the most common way to become king in the North, and on his mother’s side he was in a direct line of descent from King Inge the Old.
Magnus Henriksen lived for a year. Erik Jedvardsson lived forever.
Reading is the basis of all knowledge. It was Father Henri’s firm conviction that even men such as himself, whose main occupation was text, either writing or copying it, had to spend at least two hours a day reading, which was a means of cultivating the soul, a sort of permissible enjoyment.
The rules for reading text at Vitskøl were therefore quite strict. The brothers who had the work of their hands as their primary duty, such as the cooks from Provence, the lay brothers who busied themselves with masonry work or stone polishing, Brother Guilbert and his smith apprentices, and Brother Lucien and his garden apprentices—they all had to learn something each day that was not related to their usual work.
But this obligation took on a different aspect when it came to the little boy Arn. The first four or five years of his studies had not been designed for any practical purpose other than to hone his linguistic instrument. For the same reason he was always required to speak Latin with Father Henri, French with Brother Guilbert, and Norse with the Nordic lay brothers. The text he worked with in the first years had been mostly the psalms, since he had to learn them anyway. He had a very passable soprano voice, and when he sang the lead his voice lent extra beauty to the early morning and evening mass, in particular.
It was now Arn’s fifth year, and the cloister church in Vitskøl was finally ready. It would be consecrated by Archbishop Eskil, who was coming all the way from Lund. When the church was consecrated, the monastery would also be given its name; all Cistercian monasteries had their own name. For Vitskøl’s part Father Henri had long ago decided that the name would be Vitae Schola, the School of Life.
Arn certainly had something to do with that choice of name. Even though it was still impossible to say why God had placed this child with the Cistercian brothers, it was easy to see how the name Vitae Schola applied to Arn quite literally. Everything of any importance that he would learn in life would presumably be learned here.
And now that the boy was beginning to master his linguistic instrument, Father Henri had released him into the great sea of literature. Arn had to work on his obligatory reading every day, just like everyone else.
Father Henri was convinced that worldly literature was almost as important as theological literature to the formation of a young man’s mind. But it required a certain attentiveness on Father Henri’s part, since Arn at first darted in and out of the scriptorium at will, and sometimes discovered books that were unsuitable for boys.
The purpose of reading Ovid, for example, was naturally to concentrate on the Metamorphoses, around two hundred tales about magical transformations, texts that taught their reader much about legends and cultures that had been part of the Roman empire. On the other hand, it was less fortunate when the boy grabbed Ars amatoria, The Art of Love. Father Henri had discovered Arn with that very book in a corner of the kitchen. Arn had also appeared to be unduly excited in a manner that human nature could not conceal.
Naturally Father Henri had then administered suitable punishment, cold rubdowns and a certain number of prayers and the like, but he had not taken such a stern view of the matter as he outwardly professed. On the contrary, he had merrily related the whole incident to Brother Guilbert, who had a good laugh at the boy’s naïve sin.
The more unsuitable texts by Ovid, however, were taken away to Father Henri’s own sleeping cell, and thereafter the choice of literature for Arn’s elective reading was selected with more precision and caution.
Reading was the basis of all knowledge and all pure and wise thoughts. Of course everyone would agree with that; it was obvious. But Father Henri may possibly have differed slightly from many of his colleagues in his belief that even little boys should be given these texts in time, before they became mired too much in theological scholarship. On the other hand, it was not possible to neglect Arn’s theological training. At Vitae Schola there were only two copies of the guide to reading the Bible, Glossa Ordinaria, which all the brothers were constantly consulting. But Father Henri saw to it that Arn was given as much access to that text as possible.
And in order to avoid new embarrassments such as the incident with the unsuitable text by Ovid, Arn was now required to fetch all his books directly from Father Henri’s possession. In addition, at least one working hour each day was devoted to teaching the boy what was easy and what was hard to understand in the Holy Scriptures.
Father Henri was secretly rather happy at the eagerness with which Arn came running to get his new reading instructions, or to be quizzed on the previous day’s Bible text. The plan was for the boy to be trained half in physical labors and half in spiritual matters. Since God’s intentions for him had not yet been revealed, this method could not be called faulty, at least.
It was possible to imagine, and without thinking especially ill of him for that matter, that the time spent with Brother Guilbert was more pleasant than the time spent in the scriptorium; that his time with the lay brothers who were building the walls, where Arn was asked to carry mortar to places where it was difficult for a grown man to squeeze through, was more pleasant than the time he had to spend in the kitchen; that his time down at the harbor and out on the fjord with the fishermen was more pleasant than the time spent practicing a complicated vocal part for the next big mass.
But with little Arn, Father Henri noticed nothing of the sort; it was as though Arn attended with the same eagerness to everything actually implied by the cloister’s chosen name: Vitae Schola.
This boy might become any sort of man. He might end his days as the prior of a monastery, as far as Father Henri could see. He might also become something that was the complete opposite, about which Brother Guilbert spoke in secret, and which they ought not mention aloud, according to Father Henri. With regard to God’s intentions for Arn, they had no certainty as yet. So it was a matter of continuing as they had so far, to give both the spirit and the hand their due.
Father Henri had moved his daily lesson books to one of the arcades leading to the garden, and it was here that he sat deeply engrossed one morning when Arn came darting in. His feet were wet because he had come directly from the lavatorium; it was against the rules to pass from work of the hands to work of the spirit without first cleaning oneself. He had spent the past two hours on the last of the masonry work up in the tower of the cloister church. There had been more to do at the end than they had thought when they finally decided on the date for the consecration. The scaffolding should really be removed before Archbishop Eskil arrived to bless the church.
But when they began tearing down the scaffolding they also had a better view. Brother Guilbert and Brother Richard stood on the ground and discovered first one and then another crack that had to be patched, or joints that were not properly done. Arn was sent up to the top to climb about like a little marten to carry out all their demands for final improvements. Since he was so small compared to all the others, Arn was the only one who could climb without fear or difficulty after the wooden scaffolds had been removed. The height didn’t bother him at all, since he was firmly convinced that God would not easily visit misfortune on someone who was just a child. Besides, he was laboring to complete a work in His honor. At least that was how Arn explained it when one of the brothers tentatively asked whether he was afraid of heights.
His reply was perhaps not entirely true. Not that he was lying. At Vitae Schola no one lied; such behavior would be a gross breach of the rules of the monastery. But Arn also held a conviction, which he had no doubt imbibed with his mother’s milk, that God had a definite plan for his life and that this plan could hardly be that Arn should lay stones for some brief years of his childhood and then lose his footing and fall to his death or knock himself senseless, as two lay brothers had done during the construction. That was why he felt no fear.
But giving such an answer, if anyone had asked him, would have been to demonstrate pride, to express a belief that he was superior to others. And it would also have been a great sin, perhaps even greater than lying.
Once he had fallen from a high tower. He didn’t remember much about it, but he had read the account in a copy of the book of memory up at Varnhem, and Father Henri had talked with him about how he should understand it all. God had wanted to save his life for a future task, a great task. That was the most important part of the interpretation of the account, and anyone could see that.
About a year earlier, the reading lessons had become more and more directed toward that very purpose: how one should interpret text, and above all the Holy Scriptures. It was to such a lesson that Arn had now come running, a bit late and out of breath with his feet bare but newly washed, slipping on the polished limestone tiles in the arcade where he found Father Henri.
But Father Henri did not chide him; he seemed to be in a very good mood. He sat there with a pleased smile, as if lost in thought, and simply stroked the boy’s little shaved head for a moment before he said anything.
Arn, who had sat down next to Father Henri on the stone bench, saw that Glossa Ordinaria lay open before him. Even though the boy was sitting too far away to read the text, he could guess quite well which section of the book the monk was reading.
“Well,” said Father Henri presently, as he slowly left his world of thought. “If we begin with the text that you will sing solo toward the end of the singing mass…how are we to understand…by the way, sing me the first lines!”
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Arn sang in his clear soprano, so that the brothers in the garden stood up from their work, leaned on their tools, and listened with gentle smiles. They all loved the boy’s singing.
“Excellent, excellent, we can stop there,” said Father Henri. “And now we have to understand this text. Shall we interpret it morally or literally? No, of course not, but how then?”
“It’s obviously an allegorical text,” said Arn, panting; he needed more air since he had sung when he was still slightly out of breath.
“So you mean that we’re not actually sheep, my son? Well, that’s obvious, but why use this simile?”
“It’s clear, it’s easy to understand,” Arn surmised with a little frown. “Everyone has seen sheep and shepherds, and just as the sheep need their shepherd for protection and care, we need God. Even though we’re human beings and not sheep, God becomes like our shepherd.”
“Hmm,” said Father Henri. “So far it’s not difficult. But what does ‘He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness’ mean? Do sheep have souls?”
“No,” said Arn thoughtfully. He sensed one of Father Henri’s traps of logic, but he had already declared that the text should be interpreted allegorically. “Since the allegory from the beginning is obvious…that of the sheep representing us, so…the text following it should be interpreted literally. The Lord really does restore our souls.”
“Yes, that’s probably true,” muttered Father Henri with a sly little smile. “But what about what follows: ‘he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness’? What paths are we talking about? Literal meaning or allegorical?”
“I don’t know,” said Arn. “Can’t it be both?”
“Can that be so? A text that should be read both literally and allegorically? Now you’re going to have to explain yourself, my son.”
“In the line before it says that God restores our souls, so it’s literally about us and not about some sheep,” Arn began, to win a little time while he thought as incisively as he could. “But of course God can lead us on the right paths in the literal sense; paths on the ground, visible paths, the sort of paths that horses and oxcarts and people walk on. If He wants to, He can lead us on the path to Rome, for example, don’t you think?”
“Hmm,” said Father Henri, looking a little stern. “It probably hasn’t escaped you that this part about paths here and there is one of the most common metaphors in the Holy Scriptures. If the Lord’s ways are inscrutable, then we’re not talking about any livestock paths, are we?”
“No, that’s obvious, the paths of righteousness refer to things like the path away from sin, the path to salvation, and so on. Allegorical, that is.”
“Good. Where were we? How does the next verse go? No, don’t sing it, or the brothers in the garden will just idle about. Well?”
“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me,’” Arn rattled off. “The meaning must be general, I think. If I find myself in great difficulties, if I’m in the presence of death, such as climbing high up in the tower carrying mortar, for example, then I need fear nothing because God is with me. The phrase ‘shadow of death’ must be allegorical; death doesn’t literally cast its shadow any-where, and there is no special valley where I could walk beneath that shadow. And even if there were…purely theoretically, then it would not be the only place where I would feel solace. Not even in the darkest valley, that is, in dark moments, in sorrow or in danger, do I need to despair. Is that about right?”
On the day that Arn outgrew his old bow and arrow, that small pleasure came to an end for the time being. He had his practice area just outside the smithy and could run out now and then during the natural pauses in the work to shoot while the iron cooled down or new forges were fired up. But one day Brother Guilbert came out and saw how the boy, without hesitation but also without seeming especially interested in the task, shot twelve arrows in a row into the moving target, a wad of linen rags tied up with thongs and dangling back and forth on a thin rope.
It was time once again to start on something new. For even though Brother Guilbert thought it important that the instruments he put into Arn’s hands be adapted to his size and strength, it was equally important that the boy always practice with full concentration. If it became too easy, the practice would be blunted and have a negative effect. Brother Guilbert found this difficult to explain, even to grown men. To Arn he did not explain much, nor was it necessary, since obedience was one of the most important rules at the monastery.
They found yew trees as material for the new bow and ash for the arrows. Because when the bow was changed, new arrows were also needed, since everything had to be in the right proportion to function together, just as the movement of the hand and the power of thought must be in balance.
It took a long time, from the cold springtime when only the snowdrops ventured forth until the early summer when the tulips stretched in long red rows along the arcades, to fabricate the new bow and its arrows. Arn had to be present to learn from every task, how the wood was supposed to dry in a dark and sufficiently cool place, how to cut laminates from various parts of the wood and polish them to an even shape, how to join them together with fish glue and lay them in a press, and then polish them anew. With the arrows it was simpler, of course. Arrow points belonged to the simple forging tasks that Arn could manage entirely on his own.
When it was finally time to begin testing the new working instruments, Brother Guilbert also changed the distance to the target from eighteen long paces to twenty-five. It was hard and strenuous to draw the new bow, and the effort affected the aim of the arrows so that sometimes Arn missed completely. When he then showed annoyance, Brother Guilbert was upon him at once, scolding him for indolence and insufficient confidence, the one sin as serious as the other. And Arn had to pray a number of Pater Nosters on his knees before the bow and arrows as punishment before he was called back to practice.
At such moments Brother Guilbert was tempted to explain to the boy how well he shot, without a doubt better than most of the adult, well-trained archers. But Arn had never been able to compare himself with anyone but Brother Guilbert himself. Brother Guilbert had always kept quiet about his earlier life and what it was that had made him renounce that life for constant penance at a Cistercian monastery. Father Henri had forbidden him from telling his story to Arn.
One day a group of soldiers on their way home from the Danish island of Fyn, all of them in good humor because some war was over and they would soon see their loved ones, stopped outside the cloister at the very place where Arn was practicing. At first they had found it comical to see a little lay brother with a shaved head, brown monk’s cowl, and fluttering locks around his ears holding a bow and arrow in his hands. The image seemed entirely implausible. They uttered some coarse humor but then stopped to watch the little boy, expecting to fling about some more jokes. Brother Guilbert, who was standing next to Arn and instructing him, pretended not to understand the Nordic language or at least not to hear the remarks.
But the soldiers soon fell silent, because they could not believe their eyes. The little lay brother stood at eighteen paces and put one arrow after another into the target in the space of half a palm’s breadth. When he missed by a thumb’s breadth he seemed annoyed and apologized to his teacher, sharpening his concentration for the next shot. The soldiers moved off in silence. A short distance away they began arguing about something.
Brother Guilbert understood quite well the soldiers’ embarrassment. None of them, any more than Brother Guilbert himself, had ever seen a boy with such talent. But neither then nor later did Arn comprehend this, because for him there were only two archers: himself and Brother Guilbert, and compared with the smith he was the worst archer in the world.
Father Henri had often shown himself unwilling to discuss the topic. He thought that Arn was diligent in reading and as intelligent as one could expect of a boy whose voice had not yet begun to break—woe the day that happened—but neither more nor less. Father Henri didn’t consider himself to have been particularly bright as a child, yet he was reminded of himself when he looked at Arn. The most important thing was the zeal with which both he and now Arn studied. He also recalled with a smile how as a very young boy he had also discovered books that were not intended for small boys; he had been caught in the act, and was punished in much the same way he now punished Arn for the same thing. But most important was the inspiration to read, the diligence to learn, and perseverance. God gave everyone nearly equal intelligence, and it was the responsibility of each and every one to fill his mind with content, to make the most of one’s talents.
To counter that logic, however, Brother Guilbert had a simple objection. Because in that case, God must have also given everyone the ability to handle a bow or a sword equally, yet some got markedly less from the instrument and others got much more. Little Arn had been given more of such gifts than any man, young or old, that Brother Guilbert had ever encountered in his life, he claimed.
That statement made Father Henri hesitant, because hardly any living man had encountered so many other men with weapons in hand as had Brother Guilbert; that much was certain. On the other hand, Brother Guilbert could not possibly lie to his own prior.
But Father Henri had felt uncomfortable with this topic of discussion, and had come to an agreement with Brother Guilbert—that is, he had forbidden him to put any whims into the boy’s head. And that was why Arn never understood when he was doing well with the bow or sword, but only knew or was brusquely reminded of when he did something wrong.
Arn had not yet been allowed to use a real sword in any of his practice sessions. Nor was it necessary, for Brother Guilbert could see what would happen later when the boy’s arms grew stronger and he made the transition from wooden sticks to steel.
When it came to handling a sword, the quickness of the mind and the eye, the balance of the foot, and the feeling in the hand were much more important than the strength of the arm. Brother Guilbert had seen little of the way that Nordic men handled swords, yet he could tell that these barbarians’ technique was based almost entirely on strength. Their swords were short, because they never fought on horseback; they believed that horses were unsuited to war, oddly enough. And they stood in ranks close to each other, almost like the ancient Romans and Greeks a thousand years before, although they didn’t call their formation a phalanx but a fylking. This technique required them almost exclusively to hack at an angle from above, either from the left or the right. Each man, using at least a semblance of a shield and with at least a minimum of self-preservation, could parry every such blow without having to think or move. And so they would keep at it until one of the opponents tired and the other more or less by accident landed a blow on his opponent’s skull. Under these circumstances it was a matter of course that the one with the strongest arms would win in the end.
For the first three or four years Arn had been given his early training with swaddled wooden sticks, and Brother Guilbert methodically drummed into the boy’s head the three-count rhythm so that it would stick and remain there forever. High blow from the left, low blow from the right, and then a lunge straight ahead or a new blow from the side. Thousands and thousands of times.
The first thing Arn learned in this way was the rhythm and the movement. The second thing he learned was to control his anger, for Brother Guilbert always struck him with the third blow, every time during the first two years. Not until the third year had Arn learned to control his feet, his movements, and his rhythm sufficiently that he could sometimes parry the third, painful thrust.
In the fourth year Brother Guilbert made fairly heavy wooden swords, which he weighted precisely with an inserted metal rod. It was important that the wooden sword in Arn’s hand have the same weight in relation to his small arms that a real sword would have later in life, the same way that the bows gradually had to be made more difficult to draw. So Brother Guilbert had to experiment a good deal with the fabrication until it seemed right.
It was during practice with the sword that Brother Guilbert discovered that the boy, just as in the smithy, could use his left hand as well as his right. In every other context in the cloister, Arn’s teachers, just as they hounded him in the scriptorium, tried to wean him from using the unclean hand. But for Brother Guilbert the matter appeared in a different light. He consulted his conscience and he consulted God. He didn’t want to involve Father Henri in this dilemma.
Soon he realized that it wasn’t a case of normal lefthandedness, because such men did exist and on occasion in his former life Brother Guilbert had faced such a man with sword in hand. And it was not easy, he knew that. It was as if everything one had learned was suddenly backwards.
So from the beginning he had trained Arn to use both hands, to shift from day to day or from week to week. But he had never seen any appreciable difference in his technique, except that the boy’s left arm seemed to be somewhat stronger than his right. But that also meant that it was possible from the very first to build a secret skill into the boy’s technique; he could suddenly toss the sword from one hand to the other and then begin to circle clockwise instead of counterclockwise around his opponent. If the opponent was dressed in heavy gear and his fighting fundamentals were unsure, the sudden change in tactics would have a devastating effect.
Brother Guilbert was well aware that such a line of thinking might possibly be sinful. He had also confessed them to Father Henri, but explained that as long as his task was merely to teach the boy, he had to do it as best he could. Since God had still not expressed His wish for the boy’s calling in life, there was probably no difference for the time being in reading Ovid in secret with red cheeks or holding the sword in his left hand, was there?
When Father Henri consulted God, he received the answer that as long as the boy showed the same zeal in his studies as in Brother Guilbert’s warlike games, then all was as it should be. But not so if he should begin to prefer arrows and sword to Glossa Ordinaria. Fortunately Arn showed no such tendencies in that direction.
And while Father Henri always preached diligence and discipline, cleanliness and prayer, Brother Guilbert always preached agility and agility, agility and diligence. It was important, just as in musical rhythm, to learn to feel when the arrow would fly toward a spot ahead of the moving target so that arrow and target would meet there. But it was equally important always to keep moving his feet, never to stand still waiting for the opponent’s blow; he had to be somewhere else when the blow came so that he could strike back the very next instant.
Diligence and discipline. Cleanliness and prayer. Agility and agility, agility and diligence. Arn followed all these rules with the same ease as he followed the rules about obeying and loving all the brothers, the two most important rules at the monastery, always to speak the truth, the third rule; and then all the other less important ones, which sometimes barely made sense, such as the rules about eating at the dinner table and going to bed.
But it was no trick at all for him to follow this divine order of things. On the contrary, it was a joy. Sometimes he wondered how other children behaved out there in the base world; he did have faint memories of tobogganing, rolling hoops, and other childish games. He may have missed some of that, just as every night at the last prayer hour he prayed for his mother’s soul and then missed her breath, her voice, and her hands; just as he prayed for his brother Eskil and remembered how they had been torn from each other in tears. But he understood, at any rate he felt that he understood, that the greatest happiness for a boy must be to be able to divide his time between all the wonders that books held and all the hard work in sweat and sometimes tears of pain that Brother Guilbert offered.
Magnus Folkesson had made a promise to God that he would mourn Sigrid for five years before he would remarry. Within his family this decision had aroused astonishment, since it was not usual for a man who was still fit, and who had only one legitimate son as heir, to refrain for so long from begetting new sons to strengthen the clan.
Magnus had consoled himself somewhat with a thrall, Suom, and had a love child with her. But Arnäs had become a gloomy fortress where not much happened or ever changed. After Sigrid’s death Magnus had felt empty in his head and could no longer find new ideas for his trade and businesses. Everything ran in the same old ruts.
He had built some things; he had finished the walls and about six miles of road up toward Tiveden. Building a road was a deed pleasing to God, and he had promised this construction when he visited Sigrid’s grave the first time and prayed for her at Varnhem and purchased prayers of intercession for her.
It couldn’t hurt to combine what was pleasing to God with what would be good for future business. The day there was a road all the way through Tiveden wood he would be able to trade to the north with the Swedes. They were simple men who understood little, but they had good iron and offered a fine trade in pelts that could bring plenty of silver if there were passable roads.
Contributing to the gloominess at Arnäs was the fact that his mother, Tora Guttormsdotter, had come from her farms in Norway to tend to everything that a wife would usually oversee, for as long as he remained unmarried. But she was hard on the thralls and wanted to run everything according to old Norwegian customs, and Magnus, like many men, had a hard time putting his own mother in her place. The fact that he ought to be a better lord of his own house was a strong reason to find a new wife soon. In Magnus’s view it would be wise to join forces with the Pål clan in Husaby, since his own lands bordered theirs. In that case any of the Pål daughters would bring to the estate a suitable dowry of oak forests covering the slopes of the mountain Kinnekulle. Of course, the unmarried daughters were still scarcely more than children, but youth was something that soon passed.
Eskil was both a joy and a secret sorrow to Magnus. Eskil was like himself, and also much like his mother Sigrid, whose intelligence he seemed to have inherited. Eskil wanted most of all to take part in trading expeditions, to meet foreign merchants and learn from their wares and prices how best to calculate the value of two casks of bacon in terms of wheat or hides and how to trade raw iron for silver. In this Eskil was indeed his father’s son.
Yet as an almost full-grown man he was still unable to throw a lance or handle a sword the way a man of a clan with a coat of arms should be able to do. But it was true that Magnus himself resembled his eldest son in this.
Only once had Magnus as the lord of Arnäs been forced to set out for war. That was when Henriksen the Dane proclaimed himself king over the Swedes after he had ignominiously hacked off the head of Erik Jedvardsson up in Östra Aros. There were two versions of the event: some held that it occurred just after the high mass in the Trinity Church, and that Erik Jedvardsson died courageously facing great odds, and a spring emerged from the spot where his head struck the ground.
According to Erik Jedvardsson’s enemies, and to King Karl Sverkersson, Erik Jedvardsson died unnecessarily because he had been too full of ale to defend himself like a man.
And yet it made little difference how King Erik had been murdered; there would have to be war in any case. The fact that the Swedes felt indignant that a Dane had come and murdered their king was easy to understand. At once they sent off a message all the way to Helsingland and the darkest forests of Svealand, and soon had gathered a great army heading for Östra Aros. But the question was how people would react in Western Götaland and in Eastern Götaland. Should they let the Swedes settle accounts with the Danish slayer of their king on their own, or should they take part in the war?
For King Karl Sverkersson and his men in Linköping, this was not a difficult decision. He had to choose between going off to war against the Danish king-slayer with as many forces as he could muster, and thus winning the crown of the Swedes for himself, or allowing them to win on their own and then elect a new king, who could be anyone at all among the Swedish chieftains or lawspeakers. For King Karl Sverkersson the choice was simple.
When the Folkungs gathered for the clan ting in Bjälbo in Eastern Götaland, they soon found that there wasn’t much choice. Magnus’s own brother Birger, who was now called Brosa, the Smiling One, had quickly convinced the clan ting. One war was unavoidable for all in Eastern Götaland, Birger Brosa had declared, and that was the war against the Danish murderer of the king. For the Eastern Goths the only right thing was to support King Karl in this matter. But after the victory he would probably become king of Svealand as well. Because victorious they would be; the army raised in Sweden was itself large enough to win the victory on its own. The days of the Dane, Magnus Henriksen, on earth were numbered. Now they had to look beyond his death.
For the Folkungs it was crucial that they not be split apart and end up on different sides in a war. If King Karl now won the royal crown in Svealand, he would soon demand recognition in Western Götaland as well—then all the Folkungs would be set against one another, the east against the west.
Better then to combine all the problems into a single war, so that both Western Goths and Eastern Goths would rally around King Karl in his war. If they did not do so, the same thing would happen later anyway, but at the cost of much spilled blood and in the worst case with brother set against brother.
No one at the clan meeting could contradict Birger Brosa on this. And from then on Birger Brosa usually got what he wanted.
Magnus took part in the war with his retainers in the way he found best. He and his men did not enter into the dispute until it was already won, which then mostly involved executing the last of the Danes and taking captive those who could pay ransom. He was able to return to Arnäs as a victor who had not lost a single man in the conflict but became 50 marks richer in silver, and for this he was popular with the women, though the men did not think highly of him.
He had left Eskil at Arnäs when he went off to war, despite the boy’s nagging and whining. Eskil was not yet a man; besides, as the eldest son and heir, he could not be replaced like some fallen retainer.
Magnus had tried to forget his second son whom God had taken alive from him. But since he knew that Arn was the son that Sigrid had loved best, he could not forget as easily as he should for the peace of his soul. Nor could he forget Sigrid during the five years of mourning he had assigned himself. In secret he told himself that she was still the one person above all others whom he valued most highly, more than any man, even a man such as his brother Birger Brosa.
But this was something he had to keep to himself. If he said such a thing out loud he would be disdained, or regarded as crazy. Not even to Eskil could he admit these thoughts about a woman who was after all Eskil’s mother.
While the ice on the lakes still held, there now came a summons to another clan ting in Bjälbo. Magnus set off with a small retinue and Eskil. For the first time his son would be allowed to take part in the men’s council and therefore he admonished him not to interfere, drink too much, or say anything, but to listen and learn.
Birger Brosa received his brother and nephew with great warmth and from the start offered them more hospitality than other kinsmen. Magnus could not tell whether this had to do with brotherly love or with Birger Brosa’s plans concerning the matters they would soon be disputing. But he enjoyed being treated as a worthy man, even though the gathering now included several men who were great warriors with scars from many battles. In those days such things were valued much more highly than silver. The fattest bishop could own great quantities of silver, but that did not make him a great man.
The first days were devoted only to the pleasures of hospitality, and they all spoke freely about what there might be to discuss with regard to kinsmen who were unable to attend; for example, the Norwegian kinsmen, who at the moment were at war, as usual. In this way they could also wait for those who arrived somewhat later because a winter road was impassable or the ice too dark and unreliable. Hence no one would come too late for discussions that had already been decided while they were far away swearing and groaning, struggling with a broken or overturned sleigh.
But once they all had gathered, deliberations began in the largest hall in the tower. What was surprising to many, including Magnus and Eskil, was that they gathered for the council immediately after the midday prayers were held in the tower’s lower chapel, and this without eating. The roasts had just begun to be turned and would not be ready for many hours.
Birger Brosa, who had introduced this new arrangement, believed that their forefathers’ custom of eating, drinking, and holding council simultaneously undoubtedly had its merits. Ale loosened the bonds of the tongue and no one felt timid when discussing things that affected them all. But sometimes the ale could loosen the tongue so much that nothing sensible was decided, or no one remembered the next day what had been decided. And sometimes kinsmen parted on bad terms.
Instead this council began in a cold hall where they had to sit with their cloaks wrapped around them, with only a few braziers that had been brought in.
The big question was the clan’s allegiance to Karl Sverkersson. No one considered him a powerful king; no one thought that he could protect the kingdom if the Danes or plunderers from across the Eastern Sea fell upon the country—even less if the Norwegians came, but they were usually fully occupied killing one another. Yet was the time truly ripe for their own clan to enter the fray over the royal crowns?
Birger Brosa said that while he was convinced the time would come, it was not yet upon them. The clan stood stronger in Eastern Götaland than in Western Götaland, but Eastern Götaland was also the country where King Karl stood strongest and had the most kinsmen, especially in Linköping and the surrounding regions. In order to prevail, the Western Goths would need to turn out to a man to wage a battle over some king’s crown, though most of them cared not a whit about it. That would never happen.
So it was wisest to keep their own counsel for now, to support King Karl and let no one know that their support could cease like a bolt from the blue if the conditions proved right.
Instead they would patiently continue to reinforce the clan the way they had always done, through wise marriages. And an excellent opportunity now presented itself since Birger Brosa could no longer evade that obligation, no matter how pleasant it might be for him to live as a young lord without the responsibilities that God placed upon all men sooner or later.
Birger Brosa went on, and now everyone listened attentively with no bellowing, snoring, or loud shouts for ale to disturb their thoughts: Through his brother Magnus, the clan had a bond with the Norwegian king, Magnus Sigurdsen. However, King Magnus had been defeated by Harald Gille, and the king’s power would pass to Harald’s sons, as things now stood. This was the opinion of everyone who had any understanding of the Norsemen’s doings. Although when it came to the Norwegians, one could never be absolutely sure, since everything could change with a single blow of the sword, turning a kinsman of the king into a kinsman in exile.
Now, however, Birger Brosa volunteered to go on a courting expedition to Norway in order to become betrothed to one of Harald Gille’s daughters, either Solveig or Brigida, whichever would be deemed most suitable. That would strengthen the clan’s bond with Norway, no matter how long the Norsemen continued killing each other. Birger would then be married into Harald Gille’s clan, and his brother Magnus into Magnus Sigurdsen’s clan.
The men turned and twisted the problem in their minds for a while. Another possibility, of course, would be for Birger to marry into Karl Sverkersson’s clan. But that might prove foolhardy instead of a lucky stroke, because what use would it be to become a kinsman if one day the king’s crown was passed to Karl’s son, if he had one. No, reinforcing the bond with Norway would be a safer and with time probably a wiser move. The matter was thus concluded, and no more needed to be said about this marriage.
Then came the question of whom Magnus ought to court. His period of mourning for Sigrid had expired, and he was a good prospect, with plenty of land and great wealth, which always made things easier. But the question was who would be the wisest choice.
First Magnus had to tell them his own thoughts on the matter. Not entirely sure of his voice, or of how he should choose his words, he took the floor. If he married into the Pål clan in Husaby, another strong clan in Western Götaland would be bound together with Bjälbo. Besides, it was advantageous that his own land and that of the Pål clan adjoined each other; a marriage would thus mean that a large portion of the shore of Lake Vänern would end up legally bound together. This meant that they would acquire a stronger grip over trade in all of Western Götaland, since Lake Vänern for the greater part of the year was the most important link to Lödöse, as well as to Denmark and Norway. There were two daughters at Husaby, and both were fair but rather young.
When Magnus sat down he could hear from the muttering and whispering of his kinsmen that they thought he had spoken well, but were not completely convinced. He surmised that someone might have other plans for him, and in that case it was not difficult to reckon who would wax eloquent.
Quite rightly Birger Brosa demanded the floor, first speaking in words of praise for his older brother, his profits and shrewdness in business, and his willingness to make a good marriage in order to strengthen the clan and please his kinsmen.
But soon his tone turned curt and harsh as he described how more audacious and more important bonds were needed for the sake of all their kinsmen. The clan of Erik had in no way given up its struggle for the crown, although they had made exacting inquiries. In Norway Erik Jedvardsson’s greedy widow was plotting revenge and raising her sons to be future contenders for the throne. The clan of Erik was strong south of Skara and also had offshoots in Svealand. It was a clan that they would be wise to count a friend rather than a foe.
Erik Jedvardsson’s brother Joar was the owner of one of the farms outside Eriksberg, and he had a daughter, his eldest and not very fair, but for whom he would no doubt gladly hold a betrothal ale even for a man less wealthy than Magnus.
Magnus sighed when he heard his younger brother present this proposal. He already knew how it would turn out. His own blood would be used to bind the clan to a future important enemy or a future important ally. About this matter he could say nothing but that it sounded wise. So be it.
Eskil, who was having a hard time seeing the logic in choosing kinsmen among those who killed instead of those who had the right sort of wealth, gave his father a distressed look. He knew how it would turn out. He would soon have a new stepmother, about whom he knew nothing except that she was evidently not very fair.
Never had Arn seen Brother Guilbert as happy as the day the new horses arrived. There was a stallion, two mares, and a colt, and they were led in at once to their own pasture so that they wouldn’t mix with the Nordic horses. They seemed to be in fine condition. Their journey had not been arduous in such a good season with plenty of grazing and water along the way. They had returned with Father Henri from one of his constant journeys to the general chapter in Cîteaux. Since Father Henri and the brothers who accompanied him had traveled most of the way on foot, as usual, and since the two heavy wagons with traveling goods had been pulled by donkeys, the horses seemed to be thoroughly rested.
It was always a big event at the monastery when Father Henri returned from the general chapter. All the monks faithfully obeyed and for the most part honestly applied the rule of charity, but they were also eager for everything else he brought: the news, the letters, the new books, the knowledge of what was happening out in the secular world as well as in the ecclesiastical circles, as well as all the kernels, seeds, and cuttings that Brother Lucien cast himself upon with the enthusiasm of a child. Finally the monks were also eager to receive the cheeses and casks of wine that at least the Burgundian brothers had a hard time living without, just as the Provençal cooks had a hard time imagining cloister life without a new supply of certain herbs that Brother Lucien had not managed to grow in the harsh Danish climate.
Many of the brothers had difficulty observing the discipline and dignity that such a homecoming demanded, although they first had to celebrate mass to mark Father Henri’s return. And it was always longer than usual because the choir had learned some new songs, or old songs were presented in new voicings for this occasion, with prayers of thanksgiving for the father’s return. Arn, who still retained his lovely soprano voice, had a particularly difficult time at such masses.
But afterward the brothers would stream out of the church chattering happily like small boys in anticipation of the ceremonies, led by Father Henri, which would begin as they unpacked the heaps of baggage. Father Henri read through his list, checking off each item and distributing God’s gifts. Some brothers then went off whispering and giggling with glee with a long-awaited volume in their hands, while others praised the Lord with more dignity. The same was true of those who received new items for the garden or the kitchen.
But this time Brother Guilbert slipped away with Arn, taking him by the arm to show him the finest gift of all, though none of the other monks had any understanding of such matters: the new horses.
When they reached the pasture Arn tried hard to understand what was making the otherwise restrained Brother Guilbert so visibly excited. To Arn’s eye these horses did indeed differ a great deal from ordinary horses. They were leaner and livelier, they moved all the time as if they were nervous at being cooped up, they ran back and forth with catlike soft movements with their tails held high. Their faces looked a little wider and more triangular than those of Nordic horses, and their eyes were very big and intelligent. Their color was different. One of the mares was reddish-brown like many other horses, but had a big gray spot down her left shoulder, while her half-grown foal was almost white with gray shading. The stallion and the other mare were dapple gray in color.
More than this Arn was unable to judge, even though he had worked a long time in the second most important of Brother Guilbert’s workshops, the horseshoe smithy. Arn could shoe a horse so that neither Brother Guilbert nor any of the lay brothers had to redo his work.
Brother Guilbert stood silently leaning over the fence of the enclosure with tears in his eyes as he looked at the horses, as if he were far away in his thoughts. Arn waited expectantly.
To the boy’s surprise, Brother Guilbert suddenly began talking to the stallion in a language Arn had never heard before; he didn’t understand a word of it. But the stallion seemed to pay attention at once. He stopped and pricked up his ears toward Brother Guilbert, and after a brief hesitation calmly approached him. Brother Guilbert then rubbed his face against the horse’s muzzle in an unbecoming way and again spoke the strange language.
“Come, my boy, we’re going to go riding, you and I. You can take the colt,” said Brother Guilbert, swinging in under the fence and pulling Arn with him.
“But the colt…that won’t work, will it? He isn’t broken yet, is he?” Arn objected with obvious hesitation in his voice.
“Come here and I’ll show you, it’s not necessary!” said Brother Guilbert, calling the little colt, who came trotting over.
What happened then seemed to Arn like a miracle. Brother Guilbert stroked the colt over his muzzle and cheeks and neck, again speaking the foreign language, which the horses seemed to understand better than French or Latin. After a moment he simply lifted Arn up with one arm like a mitten so that Arn ended up astride the horse. The boy automatically grabbed hold of the colt’s mane so he could hold on tight when the bucking started; he had helped break horses before, but never from the very first day.
The next moment Brother Guilbert swung himself up onto the stallion in one fluid movement; he seemed to fly up, and the stallion instantly set off on a wild gallop around the pasture. There sat Brother Guilbert bareback, holding lightly onto the stallion’s mane with one hand, leaning daringly into the sharpest curves, yelling one thing after another to the horse in that odd language.
Arn’s young colt was soon infected by the glee and began running around too, although at a jerky, more infantile gait. But soon the two of them were galloping faster and faster. In his delight Arn began mimicking Brother Guilbert’s foreign language, as if intoxicated by the speed and the wind.
With a little shame Arn felt that he was now experiencing true and pure joy, and this was something he should not forget to bring up with Father Henri at his next confession. It was as if the horse’s life and power were flowing through him, even though the colt was so young and so far from being an accomplished steed. And if he hadn’t been broken for riding, which he certainly could not have been since he was so young, and if he had never had a rider on his back, then this in truth was a miracle.
“You see, my young chevalier, the horse is in truth man’s best friend,” said Brother Guilbert much later, when the nightingales had begun their evening song and it would soon be time for vespers, as they sat in the grass in the garden simply enjoying watching the new horses. “But these new horses are not like others, as you have already seen. They are the most noble, intelligent, fast, and tolerant horses that exist. Praise God for this gift, because they are horses from the Holy Land, Outremer.”
Brother Guilbert was red in the face with excitement, and he was still breathing hard after his wild exhibition of the stallion’s great power.
Arn had already begun to understand what distinguished these horses from others, not only in their appearance and their bearing and movements, but also in how they could be used. Yet he still asked and then received the answer he was expecting.
These horses were horses of war. What was true of swords was also true of horses: agility, agility, and more agility.
Since the men up here in the barbaric North had not yet adopted the art of fighting on horseback, Brother Guilbert went on, Nordic men needed strong, slow horses that could carry a heavy load to the battlefield. There the Nordic men would dismount, tether their horses, and then enter the fray on foot. If the Christians had attempted to meet the accursed Saracens in that manner, Jerusalem never would have been liberated.
But in the rest of the world, men fought on horseback; it was only the barbaric North that had not seized upon that strategy. And that’s why Brother Guilbert had a clear, simple idea for using these horses, whose bloodlines he could now spread throughout Denmark. He would introduce the techniques associated with the new horses, and thus bring in a great deal of silver to the cloister. Almost the same way they did so by forging better swords for the men of the North. The one method ought to be as logical and profitable as the other.
Still sensing the wind in his hair and the speed on the horse, Arn now asked eagerly and without the proper courtesy to be taught the art of fighting on horseback, as the Christians did out in the great civilized world.
Brother Guilbert laughed silently to himself, grabbed Arn playfully by the tonsure, and explained that he had been doing that all along. From the beginning. Everything that Arn had learned about horses since the day he had been put to work was directed toward that goal.
What was of foremost importance was balance, above all balance. When Arn had practiced with his wooden swords, sometimes with one in each hand, he had stood on a pole with leather sacks full of sand swinging back and forth above him, always threatening to knock him to the ground. In the same way he had practiced riding horses from the beginning, always riding bareback without a saddle. All this was for the sake of balance, so that he would be able to sit his horse no matter which way it moved.
Now his task was to break the colt, at first without a saddle, and get to know the horse, talk to him, stroke him, and always take care of him. And his name had to be a secret name, not secret from God but otherwise just between the two of them. The colt would be called Khamsiin, which was the name of a desert wind, a wind that could blow for fifty days and never grow weary. The two mares would be called Aisha and Khadiya, and the stallion Nasir. Brother Guilbert did not explain the names, saying only that each name came from the secret language of the horses. It was not something that concerned other monks in the cloister, but only the two who were chevaliers.
A saddle would be made as soon as Khamsiin was grown, but until then it was the fundamentals that were important: trust, love, and balance.
The bell rang for vespers and they had to run to the lavatorium. As they dashed off, Arn asked whether it would be possible for him to learn the secret language of the horses too. If he spoke three languages already, surely he could speak four? Brother Guilbert smiled to himself and muttered something to the effect that the day would no doubt come. But that was all he said.
Arn had always been obedient. He loved the brothers as much as he loved books. He loved hard work as much as the easier tasks. He had set stones up in the tower of the cloister church, he had caught fish in the fjord. He loved the work with sword and bow as much as the work of following the path of faith in the Holy Scriptures, verse by verse and with the help of the Glossa Ordinaria. He may have loved Aristotle somewhat less and Ovid somewhat more, although in secret he occasionally composed imitations of the unchaste verses he had managed to read before they were taken away and locked up. Naturally he confessed afterward and took his punishment for the sin, but it was worth it. What were a few extra Pater Nosters compared with the hot rushing sensation in his body at the thought of Ovid?
Father Henri had no difficulty tolerating Arn’s flagging interest in the philosopher and his somewhat overheated interest in writings that were inappropriate for boys. As far as Ovid was concerned, more than one God-fearing man of his acquaintance had put more emphasis on these studies than was suitable, both as a youth and as a man. It was nothing to cause alarm; he belonged to that category himself, at least when he looked back on his time as a novice. These were the normal fluctuations of life, nothing more. God in his wisdom had created life so that there was constant variation. If the boy did not find the philosopher very interesting—he sometimes made little impertinent objections, especially to the logical arguments—it was no wonder that, if this was a sin, it would be a sin that the boy shared with Brother Lucien, for example. Brother Lucien was devoted to the art of better enriching the world, in God’s name, with plants that could be grown for the table, or to cure the ills of humankind, or perhaps merely to bring beauty into people’s lives. But he was not very interested in reading Aristotle. Yet Father Henri would never dream of thinking of Brother Lucien as any less worthy because of that, or a brother to love less than the other brothers.
On the other hand, if someone in jest was to argue the logic the way the philosopher would have done, it might seem that the boy belonged to those who were also devoted to Brother Lucien’s teaching. It was very exacting and meticulous but important work that lay behind the monastery’s demonstration of the beauty that God could create on earth with the help of faithful brothers. The white snowdrops were the first flowers, pushing up through winter’s still hard and inhospitable shell; then with the warmth came the Easter lilies, the white narcissus, and the tulips, all of them new to the barbaric North. Visitors who came at the right time would gasp in enchantment at the blossoms on the fruit trees, all of them unknown to the barbarians, fruits such as apples, pears, and cherries. The sales of these fruits had gone wonderfully in recent years, and Arn was also the one who helped Brother Lucien fetch the wares and translate into the Nordic tongue.
Arn had maintained a balance with everything that he’d learned, and there was nothing to worry about in that respect. As long as one didn’t believe, like some of the more rigid brothers, that sword and lance had nothing to do with God’s work on earth. But brothers who thought this way had not sufficiently studied the father of them all, Saint Bernard, who had been the leading creator of the Knights Templar, more than the Pope or any other man of the cloth.
And yet. There was now a problem with the boy. Since the new horses had arrived he seemed to have gone a bit crazy. It seemed fair to say that he had acquired a vice or an urge, an interest that overshadowed all other interests. And the question then became, in a higher and strategic perspective, whether God truly wanted this or whether God wanted to see his chosen lad reprimanded. And in a more tactical perspective, how should a wise prior go about handling such a rebuke?
Father Henri had summoned Brother Guilbert on more than one occasion in order to discuss the problem. But it seemed as though the good Guilbert wanted to defuse the matter with clichés such as “boys will be boys” and “what would you have done or thought at that age?” He also said they needed to understand the delight of novelty, and mentioned that it was all part of the general education he was giving Arn.
Perhaps that was true. And yet the boy’s infatuation was so strong that it obviously risked overshadowing, at least temporarily, even his interest in books. As Arn’s confessor, Father Henri knew much more about this than Brother Guilbert. Arn was no more capable than anyone else of lying when he made confession to his prior.
Arn saw the problem simply as a matter of confessing and admitting his sinful disposition and then doing penance. He had no idea that it was something that actually worried Father Henri; that would have made him feel both sad and ashamed. For now it led only to the minor punishments of extra prayers and maybe a few days on bread and water.
When Khamsiin had grown so much that he was no longer a colt but a real horse, the love between Arn and the young stallion grew. One night when the summer was in full bloom, so that the nights were light and mild in Jutland, Arn got up after only a few hours of sleep following the midnight mass. He sneaked out to the stable, took down the saddle and bridle, and whispered some words into the darkness of night. Khamsiin came to him at once, bending his head down and accepting the boy’s hot kisses and caresses on his soft muzzle.
Then Arn mounted the horse, and cautiously they moved off toward the fence, which Khamsiin gently jumped over in almost feline silence. They walked slowly for a while, finally increasing speed so much that they must have been the fastest horse and rider ever to cross Danish soil. They stormed along like the horsemen of the apocalypse through the soft, rolling landscape and the sparse beech woods. Some nights they went all the way out to the sea, knowing that they risked having to keep up the same pace on the way back to be able to arrive in time for morning mass.
Rumors soon spread in the region about a ghost rider, an omen, a bad sign, a spirit who rode as no mortal man could ride even in dreams, a dwarf with evil sharp teeth and a glittering sword of fire.
The sword, however, was made of wood with an iron core inside for the sake of weight. But in his fantasies Arn rode with a sword that could well have been of fire. He swung it back and forth with his left hand, switched the sword and reins at full gallop and then brandished the weapon in his right hand. But the sword was not the most important thing. It was more as if he were placating his guilty conscience by doing a little work while he was out riding for pleasure instead of sleeping the sleep of the just, which was recommended by God.
It was the speed that captivated him. As young as he was, Khamsiin had a power in his legs that no other horse Arn had ridden could ever match. Arn imagined that Khamsiin was being carried forward by a supernatural power, as if this speed was something that only God could have created, and as if on Khamsiin he was flying closer to God than at any other time.
It was a sinful thought, of course. Arn knew that. He said the prayers and denied himself what he must to seek forgiveness.
But what speed! he thought. Shamefully enough, even during his most remorseful prayers.