Monasterio Beatae Mariae de Varnhemio became the name of the cloister in Varnhem. Father Henri, who now sat in his old scriptorium, felt a shiver of pleasure when he printed the name. It was only right that the Blessed Virgin should have this monastery dedicated to her, since it was she who, by sending Fru Sigrid a vision during the dedication of Skara Cathedral, was most responsible for the genesis of this cloister. And now at last there would be better order here.
Father Henri in truth had much to rejoice about, and he was now trying to express it all in his long letter. The Cistercians had won a complicated and dangerous game against the emperor of Germany, Frederick I Barbarossa himself. And Father Henri had been allowed to attend in a corner, since his two good friends Archbishop Eskil of Lund and Father Stéphan from Alvastra were present too. Who could have imagined such a development twenty years ago when he and Stéphan had come wandering the long, cold, and gloomy road to the North?
Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had deposed Pope Alexander III and named his own more docile antipope in Rome. The Christian world thus had to choose sides, either the true pope, Alexander, or the usurper in Rome. The outcome of this strife was in no way certain.
Many kings feared the German emperor and thus wanted to stand with him; among them unfortunately was King Valdemar of Denmark and several of his more timorous bishops. But Archbishop Eskil of Lund, the friend of the Cistercians, had taken a stand against his king and for the true pope, Alexander III. Because of this, Eskil had been forced into exile.
The strife, of course, actually dealt with the old story about whether kings and emperors should have power over the Church, or whether the Church would remain exempt from worldly power.
The Cistercians’ countermove had been Svealand and Götaland. King Karl Sverkersson, who did not know enough about Emperor Frederick Barbarossa to fear him, was persuaded to go along with the creation of a new archbishopric comprising Svealand and the two Goth lands. As the situation now stood, it did not make much difference in which city the archbishop’s see was placed, as long as it was done. King Sverker had wisely avoided his own city of Linköping in favor of the Swedish city of Östra Aros. That was fine, the Cistercians had reasoned, because the main thing was to strike while the iron was hot.
And so it came to pass that Father Henri was allowed to attend the meeting in the cathedral in Sens when Eskil, in the presence of the pope himself, anointed Stéphan as archbishop over the new archdiocese of Svealand and the two Goth lands. Since the archdiocese of Norway was also faithful to the true pope, the struggle now turned to the disadvantage of Frederick Barbarossa and his antipope. Eskil had recently been able to return to Denmark in triumph, and Stéphan was already installed in Östra Aros. The battle was won.
A Cistercian brother holding the position of the third Nordic archbishop was truly no small thing. Varnhem, of course, had already been restored to favor by King Erik Jedvardsson, but now his successor Karl Sverkersson had assured the monastery new properties and new privileges. He had even donated some of his own land to establish a Cistercian nunnery up in Vreta in Eastern Götaland.
Now that the monastery was finally secure, it was time to make a new attempt to restore it to its former state. For Varnhem had long been languishing with only twelve brothers, whose task it was to repair and maintain the cloister and prevent the property from going to ruin.
During the years that had passed, Vitae Schola in Denmark had surpassed Varnhem in every respect. For that very reason it was also natural, now that Father Henri had taken on the management of the restoration work at Varnhem, to draw the first new monks from Vitae Schola itself.
Among those who were called to Varnhem were Brother Guilbert and Arn.
For Arn nowhere was home. Varnhem was not home, just as little as Vitae Schola by the Limfjord was home, or any other place. His home was wherever the brothers were, and, most important, where Brother Guilbert and Father Henri happened to be.
The difficult part about leaving Vitae Schola had been to leave Khamsiin. Brother Guilbert had decided that Khamsiin had to stay behind for breeding at Vitae Schola. He had explained this to Arn by drawing complicated patterns in the sand showing which horses had been sired by Khamsiin and which had been sired by Nasir, and why Nasir and a young stallion sired by Khamsiin and Aisha had to go with the caravan to Varnhem, while Khamsiin had to stay at Vitae Schola. Arn had not been able to question this decision.
The young stallion was dappled red and gray, and after the farewell mass at Vitae Schola Brother Guilbert had told Arn that the young stallion would be named Shimal, which in the secret language of horses meant the North. But when Brother Guilbert saw the sorrow in Arn’s eyes he took him aside and explained that this was not a sin, nothing to be ashamed of, to miss his horse. Those who said that a horse was only a thing, a possession without a soul, and therefore not worthy of love, knew nothing. They were correct only in formal terms, but the world was full of men, also good men of God, who were formally right about one thing or another, and yet lacked true understanding. Before God and for many of God’s men, it was entirely proper to love a horse such as Khamsiin. This Brother Guilbert swore.
On the other hand, Arn had to realize that his horses, like his neighbors and his brothers and kinsmen, would all eventually die. Even the simple fact that horses did not live as long as human beings meant that Arn would most likely have to mourn more than one horse. Grief was a part of life, such as God had ordered it.
Arn let himself be consoled somewhat, but only because it was not sinful to grieve when he was forced to leave Khamsiin behind.
Although he was now reckoned as a man and not a boy, he couldn’t help shedding a tear as the column left Vitae Schola. No one saw it but Brother Guilbert. And no one but Brother Guilbert would have understood the reason. Like Arn, the other brothers and lay brothers had no home anywhere except where brothers resided in God’s good world. And what did the others know about horses from Outremer?
Just before Bartelsmas in late August, the busiest harvesttime and also when the goats were slaughtered in Western Götaland, Arn saw Varnhem’s church tower rising up in the distance, at first indistinct like some oddly scraggly or dried-up treetop or one that had been struck by lightning, in the midst of a luxuriant grove of oaks. Later it became very clear.
He recognized the church tower from his childhood, but that was not what moved him. He knew that buried inside the church lay his mother, whom he still talked to every evening in his prayers. He felt as though she might be found alive in there, although only her bones remained. From the recesses of his memory he retrieved a vague image of himself as a child standing alone among strange men, not yet his beloved brothers, at the funeral mass. Now, filled with solemnity, he rode in through the cloister gate, paying scant attention to whether he recognized the place, which he no doubt did, or to how dilapidated everything had become. When Arn greeted Father Henri coming to meet the newcomers just inside the cloister gate, he begged forgiveness and hurried into the church, falling to his knees at the entrance, and crossing himself before he continued up the aisle toward the altar.
At the front of the church knelt two lay brothers who were working with hammer and chisel on the stone block that covered his mother’s grave. Previously it had been provided only with a small, almost unnoticeable symbol. Now that the Cistercians had won their great victory over the worldly power, and Monasterio Beatae Mariae de Varnhemio was a safe place for both the brothers and the bones of the dead, Father Henri had decided that the grave should be marked. The thought had been for the work to be completed before the caravan from Vitae Schola arrived, but the weather during their journey had been unexpectedly favorable.
Arn shyly greeted the lay brothers, first in Latin, which they didn’t know very well; then in French, which they didn’t understand at all; and finally in Norse, which was their language, although it was more lilting than he remembered. Then he fell to his knees and prayed in thanksgiving for arriving successfully.
When he read the text on the gravestone, both that which had already been carved and that which was only sketched in, he felt as if his mother were still alive. Not only her soul but also her flesh and blood self, as if she lay there beneath the limestone, smiling up at him. “Under this stone rests Sigrid, our most highly valued donor, in eternal peace, born in the year of the Lord 1127, died 1155, in blessed remembrance,” he read. After the text there was a sketch of a lion and something else that he didn’t recognize. He saw her hands before him and smelled her scent and thought he could hear her voice.
At the welcome mass when all were gathered, his mother was mentioned time after time in the prayers of thanksgiving. It filled him with feelings that he couldn’t quite understand, which he at once decided to confess. He feared that he had been struck by pride.
In the weeks before Father Henri’s reinstallation as prior at Varnhem, which Archbishop Stéphan himself would attend on a visitation, Brother Guilbert and Arn worked feverishly along with a couple of local lay brothers to get the water supply fixed. The big millpond had silted up and had to be dredged; the aqueduct that was supposed to carry the water to the large and small drive wheels was in disrepair, so that the flow was diminished to a mere tenth of its potential power. The mill wheel and gear system also needed numerous repairs. The water stream was both the cloister’s motor and its cleansing soul, just as important in the lavatorium and cookhouse as it was as a power source for the bellows, mills, and hammer-anvil. Because of the great importance of this repair work, the small group in charge of the water was relieved of attending all the day’s masses and study hours. Arn fell into bed after vespers and slept dreamlessly until morning mass. One workday followed another until he began to have the feeling that time had stopped and the hours flowed together into one long work shift.
But on the day that the archbishop and his retinue came riding in through the cloister gates of Varnhem, new fresh water was purling through the lavatorium and cookhouse, and the guest rooms stood newly whitewashed and clean. In one of the smithies the clang of hammer on anvil was already heard.
After the installation mass the archbishop preached to the brothers about the victory of good over evil, and how the Cistercian order now held such a strong position that no outside threat was to be found in this corner of the world. What remained, however, was the constant threat that always existed inside each human being, that his own sins, pride or sloth or indifference, might bring down on him God’s righteous wrath. And for this reason no one could take his rest or lean back in gorged contentment; each man had to continue his work in God’s garden with the same assiduous perseverance as always.
After the thanksgiving meal, Archbishop Stéphan and Father Henri retired to the place out in the arcade where they always used to sit together in the past, near the garden plot that was now clearly overgrown. They had a long talk about something they didn’t want the other brothers to hear, speaking so low that the brothers working in the garden could hear only an occasional word when one of the reverends flared up, briefly and intensely like a dry piece of tinder, and then quickly returned to more subdued tones.
After about an hour the two men seemed to have reached a reconciliation, and then they summoned Arn, who was already hard at work in one of the smithies where the mechanisms that were supposed to drive the bellows had completely broken down.
Arn went to the lavatorium and washed his whole body clean, wondering whether he ought to shave his tonsure, which he had not done in recent weeks after he was relieved of all his duties except work on the water lines. When he ran his hand over his scalp he felt half an inch of stubble—no state in which to meet an archbishop. On the other hand, he could not be late now that they had summoned him.
Feeling a bit abashed, Arn went out to the arcade, knelt before the archbishop and kissed his hand, asking forgiveness for his unkempt appearance. Father Henri hastened to explain that Arn was one of those who had been assigned special work duties in recent weeks, but the archbishop simply waved off such a minor concern and asked Arn to sit down, which was an astonishing concession.
Arn sat on a stone bench facing the two venerable men but felt no peace with the situation. He could not understand why they wanted to speak with him in particular, since he was but a young lay brother. He would never have guessed what was now to become of him, since he no doubt believed that his life had already been given a fixed path, just as predictable as the stars’ movement across the firmament.
“Do you happen to remember me, young man?” asked the archbishop kindly, surprisingly speaking in French instead of Latin.
“No, monseigneur, I cannot honestly say that I do,” replied Arn with embarrassment, looking at the ground.
“The first time we met you tried to slap me, called me an old codger or something on that order, and said you didn’t want to sit and read boring books. But I suppose you’ve forgotten that too?” the archbishop went on, with a sternness that was so clearly feigned that anyone on earth except Arn could have seen right through it.
“Monseigneur, I truly beg your pardon, I can only defend myself by saying that I was a child and knew no better,” Arn replied, blushing with shame as he imagined himself laying a hand on an archbishop. But then both the archbishop and Father Henri burst out laughing.
“Now now, young man, I was trying to jest. I’m not actually here to demand vengeance for that tiny offense. I should be grateful, from what I’ve heard, that it’s not today you choose to strike me. No, don’t apologize again! Instead, you must listen to me. My dear old friend Henri and I have discussed your situation back and forth, as we also did when you came here as a child. You do know that it was a miracle that brought you to us, don’t you, my son?”
“I’ve read the account,” Arn said quietly. “But I don’t remember any of it myself; I only recall what I read.”
“But if Saint Bernard and the Lord did raise you up from the realm of the dead to bring you to us, what sort of conclusion would you draw from that? Have you contemplated that dilemma?” the archbishop asked in a new and more serious tone, as if he were now beginning the conversation in earnest.
“When I was a little boy and fell from a high wall, the Lord showed mercy toward me and perhaps toward my mother and father as well for their fervent prayers. That’s what is true, that much we can consider certain,” replied Arn, still not daring to raise his eyes.
“Certain, well, that’s not saying too much, is it?” said Archbishop Stéphan with a scarcely perceptible hint of impatience in his voice. “But then don’t we come immediately to the question of why?”
“Yes,” said Arn. “We do come to the question of why, but I’ve never been able to find an answer. When it comes to the grace of the Lord, it is many times beyond what humans can conceive. I’m not exactly the only one who cannot understand everything about the grace of God.”
“Aha! Now I’m starting to recognize the little rascal who tried to strike me and called me an old codger. That’s good, young man! Just keep talking back, and I’m not being sarcastic; I like it when you talk back. So we haven’t transformed you into some sort of passive vegetable in the garden; you have your free will and your mind intact, and we both think that is splendid. Henri has made a point of describing this characteristic of yours. By the way, I haven’t spoken French in a long time, do you mind if we switch to Latin?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Good. Actually I had just intended to retaliate, because when we met the first time you chided me for not speaking very good Norse. Well, that jest fell flat, since your French is excellent. How can that be, since most of your studies are in Latin?”
“We’ve had an arrangement whereby I speak Latin about spiritual and academic matters, French when doing the other half of the work, and Norse with the lay brothers who don’t speak much French,” replied Arn, raising his head for the first time and looking the archbishop in the eye. By now he had conquered the worst of his embarrassment.
“An excellent arrangement. It’s good that you retain your Norse language, even better if things turn out the way I think,” muttered the archbishop pensively. “But let me now ask you something specific, and I really want an honest answer. Has the Lord God spoken to you? Has He revealed His intentions for you?”
“No, Your Grace. God has never spoken directly to me, and I know nothing of His intentions for me,” Arn replied, once again feeling embarrassed and at a disadvantage. It was as if through sin he had made himself unworthy of God’s original plan, whatever it may have been.
The two older men pondered Arn’s reply thoughtfully and in silence. They said nothing at all for a long time, but at last they exchanged a knowing look and nodded to each other. Father Henri made a great show of clearing his throat, the way he always did before launching into a long explanation.
“My beloved son, you must now listen to me and not be frightened,” Father Henri began with visible emotion. “My good friend Stéphan and I have reached a decision which we believe is the only right one. We know as little as you do about what God has in mind for you; all we know is that it must be something special. But since none of us knows, it might be that His call has simply not been made as yet. Our task, and yours, could be to prepare you as well as possible for the call when it does come, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course, Father,” Arn replied in a low voice. His throat was suddenly dry.
“Your education is remarkable and the work of your hands is of great joy to us here within these walls,” Father Henri went on. “But you know nothing of the world outside. That is why you must now go out into that world; you must return to your father’s estate at Arnäs, which lies a day’s ride from here. Well, a Nordic day’s ride, that is…you know what I mean, with horses from Outremer it would probably take half a day, I would guess. This is the command we now give you. You must return to the place that was once your home.”
“I…I will naturally obey your command,” said Arn, although the words stuck in his throat. He felt as though he’d been felled by an unexpected blow, as if he’d been excommunicated, cast out from the holy community.
“I see that you are not happy with our command,” said the archbishop.
“No, Your Grace. I’ve tried to acquit myself well here at the cloister, and I don’t mean to boast in any way when I say that, but I can honestly argue that I’ve done my best,” said Arn, crushed.
“You are a Cistercian, my young friend,” said Archbishop Stéphan. “Think on that. You will always be one of us, for what is done cannot be undone. Perhaps it is also intended that you shall remain one of us intra muros forever, that is what we do not know. Perhaps you will come back after finding that the world out there does not suit you, fully prepared to make your vows to the cloister. But first you must learn of the things about which you have no knowledge, and you can’t learn about the outside world in here, no matter how hard you study. We want what is best for you. You should know that both Henri and I truly love you, and we will both pray for you while you are out there. But you must learn something about the other world, that is what is needed.”
“When may I come back? How long do I have to stay out there?” asked Arn with a new spark of hope.
“When God wills it, you will come back to us. If God does not will it, He will give you another purpose out there. You must ask Him in your prayers. It’s not something we can decide, since it’s a matter between you and God,” said the archbishop, starting to stand up as if the conversation were over. But then he thought of something to add and brightened up a little.
“Oh yes, one more thing, young man. When you are out there you must know that not only will your brothers within these walls be praying for you, but you also have the archbishop as your friend. You can always come to me with your troubles, remember that!”
With that Archbishop Stéphan stood up and held out his hand to Arn, who fell to his knees and with his head bowed as a sign of obedience, kissed the archbishop’s hand.
When Arn rode out from Varnhem it was at first with a very heavy heart. In spite of all Father Henri’s explanations and exhortations he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he was being punished, as if he had shown himself to be unworthy of the brothers’ fellowship.
But in search of consolation he began to sing, and this soon eased his heart. When he discovered that it helped, his mood changed so that he sang even more and soon out of joy rather than seeking consolation. By now he sang like all the other brothers, a little better than some and a little worse than others, neither more nor less. But his singing was suddenly of more joy to him than in many years, almost like in the days when he sang soprano in the brothers’ choir.
As his mood now shifted from dark to light just as rapidly and unpredictably as the spring weather, he also began to be filled with excitement and anticipation. It was certainly true that he knew nothing of the world outside the cloister walls. He could hardly remember what Arnäs looked like, the place that had once been his home. He remembered a very tall stone tower, a courtyard behind walls where he and other children had played a game with hoops and where his father had shown him how to shoot a bow and arrow. But he had a hard time summoning up any image in his memory about how they had actually lived. He thought he recalled that they all lived together somehow, that it was dark with a big fire, but he didn’t trust his memories because they seemed so foreign. Now he was finally going to see everything with his own eyes. He should be there by tomorrow. With a better horse he could have been there by evening, but he was riding an old and slow Nordic horse, one of those that according to Brother Guilbert was no use for breeding and hardly good for anything else. But lay brother Erlend was now at Arnäs to teach new children to read, as he had once taught Arn and Eskil, and so Erlend would be given a compliant horse when he had to return to Varnhem. Father Henri was of the opinion that lay brother Erlend would be of little use at Arnäs, either for reading or anything else, after Arn came home.
A person had to learn to come to terms with the fate determined for him by God. It would do no good to grumble that one would rather be someone else or live somewhere else. Instead one had to try to make the best of the situation; that was the only way to fulfill God’s plans. The last of the brothers to repeat these words to Arn before his departure was Brother Rugiero, who had also been called from Vitae Schola to Varnhem after Father Henri found the food up there wretched.
Brother Rugiero had secretly shed a few tears at their parting, but then foisted on Arn a gigantic package of traveling provisions that would have lasted a week or more. When Arn protested, Brother Rugiero quickly closed the boy’s knapsack and mentioned that it certainly couldn’t hurt to bring along a bit of food to provide for his welcome ale at home. Brother Rugiero, like the other brothers from Vitae Schola, knew little about Arn, surmising that he’d come to them because his parents were poor and were having a hard time with all the mouths to feed back home.
After a few hours Arn spied Skara in the distance; the double tower of the cathedral rose grandly over a conglomeration of low wooden houses. Soon he caught the scent of the town, since he was approaching from downwind. It smelled of smoke and putrefaction and rubbish and manure—a smell so strong that he would have had no trouble heading in the right direction for the last half hour even if it had been pitch dark.
When Arn came closer to the town his curiosity was aroused by a large building under construction, and he made a little detour so he could watch the work at close hand. They were erecting a fortress.
He reined in his horse and grew more and more astonished at what he saw. A whole crowd was in motion; most of the people were busy dragging stone blocks over rolling logs, but the work looked to be proceeding sluggishly. Nowhere did he see any block and tackle or hoisting mechanisms. Everything seemed to be done by brute force. Many ill-clad men were toiling hard, overseen by men with weapons who didn’t seem at all kindly disposed toward the workers. And none of those who were doing the dragging and laboring seemed happy about their work.
The walls were not very high, and they consisted mainly of earthworks that an attacker could easily ride to the top; from there a good horse could probably leap over in one jump. Khamsiin would be able to do it easily.
Arn didn’t know very much about war and defensive works except what he had read in books, which was mostly Roman strategy and tactics. But it seemed to him that this fortress under construction would be difficult to defend if the attackers built their own covered wooden towers and rolled them up to the walls. But perhaps the Roman methods were totally antiquated.
Some of the men supervising the work noticed Arn staring, and they came over to him and let fall some harsh words which Arn didn’t fully understand, but he gathered that he should leave because he wasn’t welcome. He at once begged their pardon and turned his slow horse back toward town.
The town of Skara was also surrounded by some sort of walls that consisted of logs and piles of branches with dirt thrown on top. Outside the town gate was an area with tents and people singing foreign songs and playing instruments. When Arn drew closer he saw that many men were sitting together in one of the tents drinking ale, and they had no doubt been doing so for a good while, since some had collapsed unconscious. He saw to his surprise a woman with her clothing in disarray, staggering over to a smaller tent, and a man sitting utterly without embarrassment as he answered the call of nature.
Arn was completely bewildered by the behavior of his fellow human beings, and this was obvious from looking at him. Three small boys spotted him, pointed their fingers, and laughed, but he had no idea why. Yet he had to pass them to get through the opening in the wall, and then they whispered something amongst themselves before they approached to block his way.
“Here you have to pay toll to the poor to be allowed in, monk boy!” said the oldest and boldest of the three.
“I don’t have much to give,” replied Arn, truly sorry. “I just have a little bread and—”
“Bread would be good, because we have nothing at all. How much have you got, monk boy?”
“I have four pieces of bread baked this morning,” said Arn truthfully.
“Fine, we’ll take them. Give us the bread at once!” called all three. And it seemed to Arn that they suddenly looked happy.
Fortified by the thought that he could make his neighbor happy so easily, Arn opened his knapsack and handed over the pieces of bread. The three boys snatched them away and ran off, laughing wildly and without a word of thanks. Arn watched them go in amazement. He suspected that he’d been fooled in some way, but he didn’t understand why anyone would want to do such a thing, so he felt guilty for thinking ill of his neighbor.
When he tried to go through the gate, two sleepy men with weapons in their hands prevented him from doing so. First they wanted to know his name and what business he had there. Arn replied that he was lay brother Arn from Varnhem and that he had come to visit the cathedral, but that he would be moving on soon. They let him in with a laugh and said something mysterious about how he should mind he didn’t commit some act that he didn’t understand either. And because his confusion was so obvious from his expression, the two men laughed even more.
When Arn entered through the gate he wasn’t sure which way to go. The direction of the cathedral was clear from the two tall towers visible from anywhere in town. But there seemed to be nothing but compost amongst all the low and tightly packed wooden buildings. At first Arn thought he would have to find another way through all the garbage. But then he saw a man come riding down an alley that seemed to head straight for the cathedral. The hooves of his horse sank deeper with every step into sludge, manure, and rotting garbage. Very hesitantly and with the stench tickling his nostrils, Arn took the same alley in the opposite direction. It was still morning, or time that was reckoned as morning inside the town. Everywhere cocks were crowing, and at several spots along the alley he was almost struck by garbage thrown out from pots and cooking vessels. The people apparently shared living quarters with their livestock and poultry. He was filled with more astonishment than disgust.
But when Arn finally emerged from the alley and found himself in front of the cathedral itself, the crowded streets gave way to a large market square with long rows of tents where all sorts of trade was conducted. The ground was also cleaner out here.
Cautiously he dismounted from his horse, careful where he set his feet, and tied the reins to a post outside the cathedral where two other horses stood. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should let his curiosity take over and go to see what was being sold in the tents, or whether he should go inside God’s house first. As soon as he posed that question to himself he was ashamed that he’d had even the slightest doubt; he walked straight in through the church door, fell to his knees, and crossed himself.
It was almost deserted inside and so dark that he had to pause for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Up by the altar burned a score of small candles; he saw a woman just lighting a new one before kneeling down to pray.
Somewhere up ahead in the darkness a choir began singing hymns, but it didn’t sound very good. He could clearly discern two voices singing off-key, and it filled him with wonder, as if they were mocking the Lord by singing like that in His house.
Arn went over to one of the side aisles and sat down on a little stone bench to meditate. He did not feel at home in this house of God. Up by the altar hung large tapestries woven in garish colors along with two pictures of saints and a Virgin Mary painted in blue, yellow, red, and green. Across from him, light shone through a glass window up along the side of the tower, breaking into all the colors of the rainbow. It made a presumptuous and false impression on Arn, as if the gaudiness were duplicitous. The image of Jesus Christ on one of the walls of the tower was spangled in gold and silver, as if the Lord had been an earthly prince. He knelt down and prayed first for the forgiveness of his sins and then asked God to forgive the people who had turned His house into a worldly manifestation of loathsome and idolatrous taste.
But from the limestone of the little bench he felt an odd warmth when he sat back down, as if the stone were talking to him. He had the notion that he had sat there before, although that was impossible. Then he saw his mother before him, as if she were coming toward him, smiling. But the vision vanished abruptly when the choir in front took up a new hymn.
This time the choir sang in only two-part harmony, but it still did no good, since the lead singer of the second voice kept leading the others astray. In the belief that he might now do a good deed, Arn went to stand next to the choir, taking up the second voice and singing it correctly. He had known the lyrics since he was a mere babe.
Chaplain Inge felt at first as if God in jest, weary of all the false notes, had decided to correct them. But then he discovered that there was a young lay brother from Varnhem standing nearby, and he had shamelessly taken over the lead of the second voice. When they had finished the hymn the chaplain, who was leading the choir, went right over to Arn and put him in the middle of the choir, thus engaging his services for the rest of the mass.
Afterward several of the singers eagerly wanted to ask questions of Arn, but the chaplain quickly took him aside and led him into the sacristy, where light came in through two small windows so that they could see each other as they talked. Arn was asked to take a seat and was given a mug of water; the chaplain joked that it was poor compensation for such beautiful singing.
Arn, not realizing that this was said in jest, immediately refused the water, saying that he certainly wasn’t demanding payment for singing in God’s house. When asked his name he replied that he was called Arn of Varnhem, nothing more.
The chaplain now got excited because he thought he’d made a discovery. Here was clearly a young man who could not be admitted as a full brother by the Cistercians, who for some reason had been cast out and thus might be available as a blessed addition to the choir. No matter what anyone said about those foreign monks, they could certainly sing to delight God’s angels; that much no one could deny.
Since no one had ever spoken to Arn with hidden intentions, he understood nothing of the import of all the questions that the anxious chaplain now showered upon him.
So he had left Varnhem to return home? And where was home exactly? And what did his father and mother do? Oh, his mother was dead, peace be with her memory and blessings on her soul. But his father, what did he do? Worked like everyone else in the sweat of his brow? Did the young man mean in agriculture? Was his father a peasant or a freedman then?
Arn answered as best he could without lying, except when it came to the difficult question of whether his father was rich, which he quickly denied. He considered the word “rich” to mean something shameful and didn’t want to think such thoughts about his own father. And he wasn’t sure what the words peasant or freedman signified exactly, even though he doubted either had anything to do with his father.
However, one thing was clear to the chaplain. Here was the son of a poor man who worked hard at farming, perhaps a freed thrall, who had too many mouths to feed and had tried to get rid of at least one of them at the cloister. And now the young man would come home, at the most ravenous age of all, and not be good for much more than saying grace. Here was a chance to do something beneficial for all parties; all he had to do was seize the opportunity.
“I believe, my young lay brother, that you and I might be able to help each other to our mutual advantage,” said the chaplain.
“If I can help you with something, father, I shall not hesitate, but what in all the world might that be? I am only a poor lay brother,” said Arn without lying, because he believed what he said.
“Well yes, many are the poor on this earth, but sometimes God gives even the poor great gifts. And you, Arn…wasn’t that what you said your name is? Yes, you have truly received a great gift from God.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Arn, looking down in embarrassment because he was thinking of God’s great gift when he got his life back.
“Then I have the pleasure of telling you, Arn, that now you may shed a great worry for both you and your father, and at the same time do a good deed that is pleasing to God. Are you ready to hear my proposal?” said the chaplain, leaning forward triumphantly and smiling so broadly that Arn could see his brownish-black teeth and smell his terrible breath.
“Yes, father,” said Arn obediently, but shrank back in horror. “Although I have no idea what you’re thinking of, father.”
“We can offer you room and board, and new clothing too, if you stay here and sing in the cathedral choir. It’s a great honor for a poor young man, you should know. But then you do have a rare gift from God, as you realize yourself.”
Arn was so astonished that at first he could not reply. It finally dawned on him that the priest meant that his very ordinary singing was supposed to be the great gift, and not the fact that God had brought him back from the realm of the dead. He didn’t know how to reply.
“Yes, I can understand that you would be dumbstruck,” said the chaplain, pleased. “It’s not every day one shoots so many birds with one arrow. Your father will be spared from having another mouth to feed; we can make souls, both living and dead, rejoice with more beautiful masses; and you will have clothing, meals, and lodging. That would be many blessings for a single day, don’t you think?”
“No…I mean yes, of course, it might seem so,” Arn said in confusion. For the life of him he didn’t want to be taken captive by the ill-smelling priest, cathedral or not. But neither did he know how to get out of the situation. He had no idea know how to refuse someone he was supposed to obey.
The chaplain clearly considered the matter settled. “Come with me. We’ll go over to the singers’ quarters so you can meet the others and be given a bed that you need only share with one other boy.”
“This is not…this won’t work at all!” Arn stammered desperately. “I mean…of course I’m deeply grateful for your kindness, father…but it won’t work…”
The chaplain cast a puzzled and astonished look at the young man with the tonsure that had just started to grow out and a thrall’s knotty hands that revealed harsh manual labor. What in the name of all reason could make this poor awkward youth say no to such a generous offer? He even looked as though he was agonizing over his refusal.
“I have my horse outside. I’m responsible for the animal and must return it to another lay brother,” Arn tried to explain.
“You have a horse, you say?” the chaplain muttered, confused. “You couldn’t possibly—I want to see it with my own eyes!”
Arn obediently walked through the cathedral with the chaplain beside him. The father was busy calculating the value of a horse, deciding that it far exceeded what he had just offered the boy in the form of room and board.
Outside in the light stood Arn’s borrowed horse, quite rightly, looking very tired with its head drooping heavily. Yet the chaplain decided at once that it was a splendid horse, and Arn discovered to his dismay that his knapsack with all of Brother Rugiero’s lamb sausages and smoked hams was gone. He wondered who might be looking after them. But the chaplain was expounding loudly about his fine steed. Arn protested that there was nothing special about the horse, but that he couldn’t understand what had become of his hams and sausages. Then the chaplain got angry and declared that surely he wasn’t so stupid as to leave such things to thieves.
Arn was horrified at the thought that he might have been robbed, and in that way contributed directly to grievous sin. He asked innocently whether he couldn’t go to the thieves and get his goods back, if he promised to forgive them. That made the chaplain even angrier and he strode off muttering angry words about horses and muttonheads. Arn at once said a brief prayer for forgiveness for the unfortunate souls who had given in to the temptation to steal. He added in his prayer that he took full blame for what had happened, because he had left his knapsack with the food to tempt those who were both weak in spirit and hungry.
On the way north from Skara the wedding of Gunnar of Redeberga was being celebrated. He was a tenant farmer who worked for the cathedral dean, Torkel of Skara. The dean, who attended the wedding feast, was pleased with what he had arranged for his tenant, because this Gunnar was not handsome to look at and did not have much to offer as a morning gift. But the dean had taken pity on his tenant, and also out of concern for his own earnings he had arranged it so that Gunnar could take a wife.
A comfortably wealthy peasant named Tyrgils of Torbjörntorp had received the cathedral dean’s help in a difficult predicament, and then at his weakest moment had promised to return the favor. This favor now meant marrying off his youngest daughter Gunvor to Gunnar of Redeberga. It was a good arrangement in many respects because Tyrgils had not had to pay a large dowry as he would have if he’d made a better match for his daughter, and at least he’d finally gotten her married. Gunnar of Redeberga had equally low demands on him when it came to the morning gift he would have to present, so despite his lack of money and land and his ugly visage he did indeed marry a young and evidently fair maid.
The dean thought he had made a good bargain for all, but especially for his loyal and humble tenant Gunnar, who never could have won himself a fecund maid to marry on his own. Gunnar was diligent at handling his own affairs as a tenant farmer, and he returned to the dean sevenfold what he had spent. So it was wise of the dean to protect his own interest, ensuring that offspring were produced and the farm could be kept under the charge of the same family. That way he avoided the trouble of evicting Gunnar when he got old and had no children to support him or pay the rent.
So everyone was pleased with the arrangement. Except for Gunvor, who wept bitterly for a whole week before she was forced to say yes to the dean and utter the vows that would soon be honored so that the marriage could be consummated. She had importuned her father Tyrgils to let her be quit of this abominable man and instead be allowed to marry a different Gunnar who was the third son at the neighboring farm of Långavreten. She and the youth had spoken of the matter, and both were in agreement that their betrothal should take place.
But her father Tyrgils had flown into a rage and explained that he could ill afford such an arrangement. Långavreten was a farm as large as his own, and he would thus have to pay an exorbitant dowry if the neighbors were to unite their families in a wedding ale. Should he fail to provide a substantial dowry he would not appear to be a man of honor. There was no solution to this dilemma, and Gunvor’s entreaties had not helped in the least. Her father had sought to console her only once, with assurances that the whims of young maidens were fleeting, and this one too would pass. As long as she got her first children to blow their noses, it would all be forgotten.
Now she sat there in her bridal gown while the men sitting at the wedding tables got drunker and drunker. She felt as if she were being stabbed with needles every time she heard a joke or laughter about the wedding night, which all wanted to witness. When she saw her slobbering and drunken husband being slapped on the back by men making gestures that meant a cock as big as a horse’s, her blood ran both hot and cold. She prayed to the Holy Virgin to call her home at once. She sought the grace to fall dead on the spot without having to commit the sin of suicide. It was the only way to save her from this dreadful fate. But in her heart she understood quite well that the Mother of God would never grant such a selfish request and that all hope was now gone. She would soon be irretrievably violated by that drooling old man and unable to do anything except obediently spread her legs the way the older women had taught her.
But as the afternoon sun was setting outside, inexorably heading toward evening, she suddenly heard the voice of the Mother of God strong and clear inside her. With a wild shriek Gunvor threw herself on top of the table and with one long, nimble bound she was over it and on her way out the door. She lifted her skirts and ran off as fast as she could.
Inside at the wedding ale it took a while before the drunken men realized what had happened; for various reasons most of them had not seen the bride run out. But then they collected themselves and on unsteady legs they initiated the chase for the runaway bride while someone—no one ever found out who it was—yelled, “Bride-robber, bride-robber, bride-robber!”
The drunken men then staggered back to grab their swords and spears. They saddled their horses with fumbling fingers, while worried women peered after the fleeing bride, who was still in sight, running toward the road to Skara.
Arn came riding up in at a leisurely pace, his stomach churning. He was in no hurry because he knew that the night would be dark without stars or moon, and so he would have to seek a place to camp. He had no hope of reaching Arnäs before noon the next day.
Suddenly a young woman came rushing toward him with her clothes in disarray, a wild look on her face, and her arms flailing about. He stopped his horse, dumbfounded, and stared at her, incapable of either understanding what she was saying or uttering a friendly greeting.
“Save me, save me from the demons!” the woman cried, and abruptly fell exhausted to the ground before the hooves of his horse.
Arn got down from his horse, puzzled and frightened. He could clearly see that his neighbor was in trouble, but how was he to go about helping her?
He squatted down next to the small, gasping female body and cautiously reached out his hand to stroke her lovely brown hair, but he didn’t dare. When she looked up at him, her face filled with happiness and she started talking in confusion about his kind eyes, about Our Lady who had sent an angel to save her, and other things that made him suspect she had lost her wits.
This was how the drunken, raging wedding guests found the runaway bride and her abductor. The first men to dismount instantly grabbed hold of the bride, who began screaming in such a heartrending fashion that they tied her hands and feet and put a gag in her mouth. Two men seized hold of Arn by grabbing both his hands behind his back and forcing his head forward. He offered no resistance.
At once the bridegroom himself, Gunnar of Redeberga, came riding up, and someone handed him a sword. According to the law he had the right to slay the bride-robber caught in the act. When Arn saw the sword being raised, he asked calmly to be allowed to say his prayers first, and the breathless mob considered this to be a Christian request that they could not honorably refuse.
Arn felt no fear when he fell to his knees, only astonishment. Was it only for this that God had spared his life? To be beheaded by a drunken mob who clearly believed that he had intended to do the woman harm? It was too ridiculous to be true, so he prayed not for his own life but for reason to return to these unfortunate people who were about to commit a mortal sin out of sheer confusion.
He must have looked pitiful as he knelt there praying. He was only half a man, with downy cheeks, dressed in a worn monk’s cloak with obvious traces on his scalp of the monks’ manner of shaving their tonsures. And then someone began to pray for Arn in the belief that he was helping the unfortunate in his prayers. Another said that it wasn’t much of a manly deed to slay a defenseless young monk; at least they ought to give him a sword so he could defend himself and die like a man. Murmurs of agreement were heard, and suddenly Arn saw a short, ungainly Nordic sword drop down in front of him onto the grass.
Then he thanked God at great length before he took up the sword; it was clear that he would be allowed to live.
The cathedral dean, Torkel of Skara, had now come so close that he could see everything that was happening clearly, and what he saw, or thought he saw, would be very important.
Because when Gunnar of Redeberga attacked with his sword held high to put a quick end to the wretch who had ruined his wedding feast, he found himself striking at thin air. He had no idea what had happened, even though he didn’t consider himself especially drunk.
He swung again without hitting Arn, and again and again.
Arn saw that the man facing him was defenseless, and he guessed that it might have something to do with liquor. All the better, he thought, since then he wouldn’t risk doing harm to his neighbor.
But for Gunnar of Redeberga what happened was like a bad dream. His friends started laughing at him, and no matter how he swung the sword at that cursed demon, because a demon he must be, the wretch was somewhere else. He did not flee, yet he was always somewhere else.
Arn was circling calmly in the opposite direction with the sword in his left hand, since Brother Guilbert had always stressed that this would be the hardest for his opponent to defend against. He didn’t need to parry much with his own sword; it was enough just to keep moving. He reckoned that the old man would soon tire and give up, and that no one would be hurt, since God had interceded to save them all.
But humiliated and somewhat scared, Gunnar of Redeberga now asked the old warrior Joar to assist him in his lawful task. Joar was an experienced swordsman who had seen how the groom was fooled by simple tricks. So Joar now threw himself into the fight to make short work of the matter. The dean’s desperate protests were of little avail.
Arn, who suddenly found himself in danger, grew frightened and tossed the sword to his right hand, spinning around to defend himself with two quick moves, for the first time fighting in earnest.
Gunnar of Redeberga at once fell to the ground with his throat slashed, and Joar sank down moaning after a lunge struck him in the middle of his soft belly.
The men stood as if turned to stone. The wedding guests had all seen with their own eyes something that could not possibly have occurred, something that had to be a miracle.
But Arn stood still in fright, because he realized full well, after taking part in so much fighting, that the man who first attacked him lay kicking out the last of his life’s blood on the ground. And the other man, who knew how to wield a sword, was mortally wounded. Crushed by his evil deeds, Arn let his sword fall to the ground and bowed his head in prayer, ready in the next moment to suffer the beheading rightfully administered by any of the men present.
But the dean reached his arms in the air toward the sky and began singing a hymn, which at least for the moment made any renewed attacks on Arn unsuitable. And then the dean, filled with the spirit, spoke sternly about the miracle they had just witnessed, how an obviously innocent person had, because of his innocence, received the highest protection. The dean himself had clearly seen the archangel Gabriel standing behind the small unprotected boy, guiding his arms in defense. Soon several of the men declared that they too had witnessed the same thing, in truth a miracle from God, how a defenseless young monk had been able to vanquish two grown warriors.
Now they freed the bride from her bonds, and she too fell into prayer, thanking God for sending someone to rescue her at the last moment. They sang more hymns, but Arn was unable to take part in the singing.
The cathedral dean then questioned Arn about where he came from and decided to escort the poor monk personally back to Varnhem. Gunnar of Redeberga would be carried home to be buried and the gravely wounded Joar would be carried on a litter to his home.
It was a very oddly matched pair that came riding up to Varnhem on that mild autumn morning when the rowan trees and oaks and beeches around the monastery had begun to turn yellow and red.
Cathedral Dean Torkel was in a radiant mood, for God had granted him the opportunity to witness one of His miracles on earth. It was a signal honor.
Arn, who had been fasting since his misdeed and refused to spend the night anywhere but in the cathedral in prayer, was ashen-gray in the face and weighted down by his grievous sin. He was well aware that the dean’s confused talk of a miracle was untrue. God had shown him grace by giving him a sword, with which he could have defended himself without injuring anyone. But he had misused that grace and instead committed the worst of sins. He knew that now he was lost, and it amazed him that God had not smote him to the ground at once when he committed such an unforgivable deed.
When they were let in the cloister gate beneath the two tall ash trees that were the only visible remains of what Arn’s mother had once donated, Arn began praying at once for forgiveness. He slunk into the cloister church to pray for the strength to be able to do honest penance soon.
Dean Torkel proudly asked for an audience with Father Henri, because he had such magnificent news to report.
The conversation between the two men was very strange, and not only because they had a hard time understanding each other. Dean Torkel spoke Latin as poorly as Father Henri spoke Norse, and besides, Dean Torkel was so excited that he couldn’t tell the story sensibly. Father Henri had to ask him to calm down, drink a glass of wine, and then begin at the beginning.
And when it gradually dawned on Father Henri what a catastrophe had occurred, he was at a loss to understand the dean’s giddy enthusiasm.
It was obvious that Arn was no bride-robber. How he could even be accused of something like that was at first very difficult for his uneducated Nordic colleague to explain.
When someone foolishly took it into his head to toss a sword to Arn, it was equally obvious that the result would be one dead and one dying man. But it was (blasphemous thought) as if God the Father were cruelly joking with the wedding guests in that case. Or, perhaps rather, He was punishing them for their ruthless thoughtlessness when a frightened woman ran off and they took the first man on the road to be a bride-robber. The latter displayed despicably barbaric behavior, especially as they then supposed they had the right to slay on the spot the man they had encountered. On the other hand, the laws were such in this part of the world that the poor misguided souls had to some measure acted in good faith.
But the hardest thing to swallow was the dean’s self-righteous notions that he had been granted the opportunity to witness a miracle with the archangel Gabriel standing behind Arn, helping him to wield each stroke of the sword.
Father Henri muttered to himself that if the archangel Gabriel had really seen what was going on, he wouldn’t have rushed to help Arn but instead come to the aid of the foolish drunkards. But he said none of this aloud.
The imagined miracle became a more delicate matter in that Dean Torkel was now asking the cloister’s help to have his account written down properly, while he still had the images clear in his mind and also remembered the names of all the witnesses.
At first Father Henri gave an evasive reply to the request and asked instead to be informed of what the laws outside the walls said about lay brother Arn’s behavior. For a long while Dean Torkel was distracted from his request for written assistance.
The laws said that bride-robbers could be struck down if caught in the act. But not an innocent person, because that would be concomitant to murder.
On the one hand, the law was such that if twelve men swore that Arn was innocent and that a miracle had occurred, then Arn would be acquitted at the ting, if the matter went that far. On the other hand, if the families of the dead man, or in the worst case the two dead men, wanted to bring a suit at the ting, then the question would arise as to whether Arn, as he clearly was named, had anyone who could serve as his oath-swearers and who were not foreigners. Did Arn have anyone who could be his oath-swearers, and did he possibly belong to any clan?
“Yes,” sighed Father Henri in relief. “The young man does belong to a clan. His name is Arn Magnusson of Arnäs, his father is Magnus Folkesson, and his uncle is Birger Brosa of Bjälbo. Eskil the judge is his kinsman, et cetera, et cetera. The boy thus belongs to the Folkung clan, although I am unsure whether he entirely understands what that means. Of course there would be no problem getting oath-swearers.”
“Well, is that so! Praise be to God!” exclaimed Dean Torkel. “I shall hurry to inform the kinsmen that they should not expect success at any ting. This is even better, now they won’t have anything against testifying that the account of the miracle is true!”
Despite the fact that the two men of God now seemed to have found a simple solution to a legal problem, they were of much different minds. The dean was so happy he seemed to be hovering a bit above the ground, for his account of the miracle, which he would speak of at great length in the cathedral, had now been saved and would also be recorded in calligraphy on parchment by those who did such things best.
Father Henri, who knew that no miracle had taken place, was relieved that Arn would not be subjected to the harsh and blind justice of Western Götaland. But he grieved for Arn’s sake, and he grieved for his own sin, for he now realized that he and Brother Guilbert must share the blame for what had happened.
“Could I receive at once the writing help that this great and important matter deserves?” asked the dean, full of bright enthusiasm.
“Yes, of course, brother,” replied Father Henri in a surprisingly deliberate tone. “We shall see to it at once.”
Father Henri summoned one of the scribes and explained in French, which he was sure that the uneducated dean did not speak, that he should keep a straight face and keep writing and make no objections, no matter how demented the whole thing might sound.
When the dean, with a youthful bounce to his step and praising the Lord vociferously, was led toward the scriptorium, Father Henri got up with a heavy heart to seek out the unhappy Arn. He knew quite well where he would find him.