For anyone who did not know, it might look as though the Folkungs were now going to set off to war from Arnäs. Even for those who knew everything, this was conceivable.
A great host of soldiers had crowded into the castle courtyard, and between the stone walls there were echoes of the horses’ iron shoes and snorting, the rattling of weapons, and impatient voices. The sun was on its way up and it was going to be a cold day, but without snow and with good road conditions. Two heavily loaded carts were dragged on ironclad oak wheels whining and creaking out through the gate to make room for all the horsemen. They were waiting for the headmen of the clan who were saying prayers in the high tower room, and some joked that they could well be lengthy prayers up there if the young monk was in charge. As if to keep warm or burn off some of their impatience, four of the Arnäs retainers began fighting one another with sword and shield, while terrified thralls had to hold their restless stallions and kinsmen outside shouted merrily and offered good advice.
It was indeed Arn who had led the prayers with his father and his uncle Birger Brosa and Eskil, for they truly needed the protection of God and the Saint before this journey, which might end well but also might end with the ravages of war sweeping across all of Western Götaland.
When Arn came out into the castle courtyard and saw the four retainers hacking away at one another with swords, he stopped short. He stood speechless in amazement when he discovered that these men, who were supposed to be his father’s finest fighters and armed guard, didn’t know how to handle a sword. He never would have imagined anything like this. Although they were full-grown men and heavily clad in knee-length chain mail and tunics bearing the colors of the Folkungs, they looked like little boys who barely knew a thing about using sword and shield.
Magnus, who saw his son’s sheepish stare and thought that Arn might have been frightened by these wild games, placed his hand calmly on Arn’s shoulder and consoled him by saying that he had no cause to be afraid of such men as long as they were in the family’s pay. But they were huge giants, which was good for Arnäs.
Then for the first time in a long while Arn looked as if he were slow to comprehend. But then a light apparently went on for him, and he smiled uncertainly at his father’s consoling words, assuring him that he hadn’t been frightened of the fighting at all. He said he felt safe at seeing that they bore the colors of the Folkungs like himself. He didn’t want to hurt his father by saying what he thought of the ability of these men to wield a sword. For by now he had learned that sometimes it was wise out in the base world not to speak the truth.
There was more trouble when Magnus discovered that Arn had heedlessly fastened the sword he’d received from the monks at his side. That sword would only arouse ridicule, so he went straight to the armory and fetched a good, beautiful Norwegian sword to offer Arn instead. But then Arn turned stubborn, the same way he did about wanting to ride his skinny monk horse instead of a manly Nordic stallion.
Magnus tried to explain that the Folkungs now had to ride with a great force to put fear into the enemy and pacify them. Even Arn who was clad in the Folkung colors had to do his share so that he did not entice ridicule. And it would be ridiculous if a son so close to the headman of the clan carried a sword like a woman’s and rode a horse that was good for nothing.
Arn restrained himself for a good long while before replying. But then he suggested politely that he might consider riding one of the sluggish black stallions, but that he would rather not carry a sword at all than relinquish his own. And faced with this dilemma Magnus relented, not entirely pleased yet relieved at being quit of the most mortifying spectacle of his son on a horse that would arouse ridicule.
Finally the mighty force could ride out from Arnäs on its way to the ting of all the Goths, the ting that was now called a landsting because King Karl Sverkersson himself would participate for the first time in two years. This time he would have to choose between war and peace.
In the vanguard the leader of the retainers rode alone with the banner of the Folkungs raised on a lance. Then followed Birger Brosa and Magnus Folkesson riding side by side, clad in silver and blue. They were wrapped in their wide blue mantles lined with marten fur, and they wore shiny pointed helmets on their heads. On the left side behind the saddle they had fastened their shields on which the rampant golden lion of the Folkungs stood defiantly posed for battle. After them rode Eskil and Arn, dressed and armed in the same manner as the headmen of the clan, and then followed a double rank of retainers who all carried lances with the colors of the Folkungs fluttering in the wind from the tips.
An equal number of Folkungs would meet up with them from the southern and western parts of the country, and outside Skara they would join with the Erik clan to demonstrate clearly, when they rode into the ting as the strongest contingent, that war would make both the Folkung and the Erik clans enemies of King Karl, since they belonged together not merely through their bond of blood but also through their shared determination never to be subjugated. The ting of all Goths would be held outside the royal manor at Axevalla.
If two young men other than Eskil and Arn had been forced to ride side by side for such a long way, they would have talked most about the struggle for power in which they themselves had unavoidably become involved. But Arn was still as passive and quiet as he had been ever since returning from Varnhem. The morning after the night he spent at Husaby, he had ridden in a wild dash to Varnhem to confess to Father Henri. When he eventually returned home he had morosely reforged the two helmets that he understood they were going to compel him and his brother to wear. What he changed was not visible so much on the outside, but the helmets were padded and warm on the inside so that they would not freeze their ears off in the cold.
But two brothers could not ride together in silence, Eskil thought. He supposed it would be better if he broke the ice and talked about what was preoccupying his mind; afterward they could more easily tackle what was obviously bothering Arn.
And so Eskil talked about the Norwegian business transactions, which had gone very well. They had succeeded in acquiring an offer of first refusal, so that the farms in question might be said to remain within the same clan, yet they had still brought home so much Norwegian silver that it was good for Arnäs. The best thing was that they had been able to sell without arousing discontent or dispute.
What concerned Eskil right now was something else: dried fish that was called clipfish in Norway—split dried cod. Up in northern Norway ocean fish were caught in huge numbers. Near a place called Lofoten they were caught in such quantities that it was more than they could eat and sell in all of Norway. This meant there was a surplus of clipfish that was cheap to buy, easy to ship, and almost like magic could last without spoiling until it was softened up in water. Eskil’s idea was to buy up all such surplus Norwegian fish and sell it in the Gothic lands, because there were many periods of fasting, especially the forty days before Easter, when it was considered a sin to eat meat. The fish that people caught in lakes and seas in the Gothic lands was not sufficient, particularly for those who lived in large communities and far from fishing waters, such as in the cities of Skara and Linköping.
To Eskil’s surprise, Arn knew at once what he was talking about, although his word was not clipfish but cabalao, which he said he had eaten often and not only during fasting. Such fish had been common in the cloister world for a long time. Arn thought that if they could convince the town dwellers of the benefits of dried fish, which he didn’t think would be an easy matter because he had a low opinion of town dwellers, then the business would surely bring in a lot of silver for whoever was first to provide the fish. It was definitely true that such fish were excellent for storing, shipping, and eating, and that the need for good food could be great at fasting times and during winters that were much too long. If one did not live in a cloister, that is.
Eskil was very glad to hear this, and he was convinced that he had discovered a new business that would soon yield much silver. He imagined hordes of slovenly town dwellers gobbling down his fish in great quantities, and he decided at once to send a trading party to his Norwegian kinsmen to place a large order. Dried fish was definitely something that belonged to the future.
When the mighty Folkung column rode past Forshem church, the last of the riders could not be seen at the same time as the first. The bell of Forshem church tolled as if to proclaim misfortune or wishes for success, and the peasants stood lined up along the road to watch the spectacle. But they stood silent and scared, for it was impossible to know whether this force of warriors was riding off to plunge the country into adversity or to maintain the peace, since that could not be seen with the naked eye. For an ordinary peasant the Folkung retinue was a sight that instilled more fear than hope.
After taking their rest at the halfway point, they would soon meet up with their kinsmen, and the host would swell to almost twice its present size. Eskil began cautiously to question Arn about what was making him so taciturn that he seemed almost dejected. He also asked about the reason for Arn’s visit to Varnhem cloister, where he had submitted to ten days of penance with the hair shirt, which Eskil had noticed though Arn had tried to hide it, and only bread and water to eat. He hurried to add that he wasn’t trying to breach the holy secrecy of the confession, but he was Arn’s brother, and a brother should be able to talk to his brother even about things that were difficult, and not merely about fish and silver.
Arn then told him without circumlocution about how he had disgraced himself by getting drunk and vomiting, and how that night up at Husaby he had done something with a woman that belonged to the sacrament of marriage. And for these stupidities he felt great remorse.
But Eskil was not at all disturbed to hear this. On the contrary, he laughed out loud so that their father turned around in his saddle up ahead and gave them both a stern look, for the Folkungs were not riding to the ting in order to spread merriment.
In a lower voice but still in a cheerful tone Eskil told Arn that now he understood everything, since it wasn’t hard to guess what Arn meant. As for vomiting after consuming too much food and ale, that was nothing to worry about; it merely showed that he had enjoyed the entertainment, and it was good manners. But then there was the matter of Katarina, because she was the one, wasn’t she? Well, even if nothing was decided yet, it could well be that he or Arn would end up married to either Katarina or Cecilia. But since Algot Pålsson of Husaby was in a bind because he lacked silver yet constantly had to pay out silver, and he had no understanding of such things, it could turn out that his lands would eventually end up within the confines of Arnäs, without having to resort to a wedding ale. All the waiting had no doubt caused impatience up there in Husaby, and what Katarina had seen fit to do was simply a way to hasten God’s plans in that respect. But that was more worthy of a laugh than a worried frown.
Arn still had a hard time laughing about what had happened. No matter how he twisted and turned the matter, he couldn’t escape the thought that he was responsible to God for what he did of his own free will. Even if this free will might be perilously jeopardized because of so much ale. Like Eskil, however, Father Henri had taken a lighter view of this sin than Arn had expected, and although Father Henri had asked many questions, he had come to the same conclusions as Eskil. A lustful and greedy woman had seduced Arn with both ale and such wiles as women use when they are being as sly as snakes. And Arn, who was innocent in more than one respect, had therefore had a difficult time defending himself against these ploys.
That was why Arn had gotten off so easily with ten days’ penance, and before God he was absolved of his sin. Even so he had a hard time feeling happy about what should have been a great relief to him. It was as if for the second time he had committed a grave sin and yet had received scant punishment, which had not made him happy at all, though both Eskil and Father Henri had obviously expected it would. He had a disquieting thought that his sin, even though it was forgiven, was still lodged somewhere inside him. For as he recalled, he had not been especially reluctant after Katarina showed him what he was supposed to do.
King Karl Sverkersson stood on the crest of Axevalla’s wall together with his closest men and saw the Folkungs and the Erik clan riding together toward the site of the ting. It was like watching a big blue sea approaching, for the Folkung colors were blue and silver and the Erik clan’s blue and gold. The lance points with the fluttering blue pennants were like a forest that stretched farther than the eye could see. They had definitely not come with only a few dozen representatives, known as oath-swearers, but as a well-equipped army, and the message they wanted to convey was not hard to grasp. And what was worse, among those riding in the vanguard were not only Joar Jedvardsson and his son-in-law Magnus Folkesson, as could be expected, but also Birger Brosa from Bjälbo. That message was also easy to read. Now the Bjälbo clan, the strongest branch of the Folkungs, had joined up with the enemy.
Fortunately the aspirant to the throne, the young Knut Eriksson, King Erik Jedvardsson’s son, was not part of the blue army. If he were, peace at the ting would be hard to hold. But the fact that Knut Eriksson was not included was also a sign of the Erik clan’s good will to maintain the peace.
After that one could still hope for a happy outcome of the dispute between Emund Ulvbane and Magnus Folkesson. Because there was a well-set trap and Magnus was in certain respects the weakest link in the Folkung chain. If they could make that link burst then much would be gained.
The ting would not begin until noon, when the sun stood at its zenith, so there was now plenty of time for discussion. Outside the largest tent in the blue camp the Folkung coat of arms was raised with the golden lion, along with the Erik clan’s new emblem, three golden crowns against a blue sky. This emblem could be viewed as an affront to King Karl Sverkersson: the Erik clan seemed to be heralding King Erik Jedvardsson as their king, since everyone knew that the three crowns had been his mark and no one else’s. And anyone who heralded King Erik Jedvardsson in the presence of King Karl Sverkersson was thereby taking a stand that could be interpreted as hostile. The enmity was even clearer since all now knew for certain that Karl Sverkersson was behind the murder of Erik Jedvardsson and that the Dane, poor Magnus Henriksen, had merely been Karl’s tool. He was lost the moment that Erik Jedvardsson fell dead to the ground. For in that instant, when Magnus Henriksen believed himself to be a victor up north in Östra Aros with a dead king at his feet, all support ceased and all promises were broken by Karl Sverkersson down in Linköping, who now instead took the field against his own regicide henchman.
That was how Karl Sverkersson had won the king’s crown. And rumor had it that the man he sent to aid Magnus Henriksen in the murder of Erik Jedvardsson was Emund Ulvbane, and that Emund was also the one who wielded the sword that severed Erik Jedvardsson’s head from his body.
If this rumor spoke true, then Magnus Folkesson was embroiled in a dispute with a king-killer, so it was important for him to think carefully about how this dispute should be handled. It was easy to see that it involved more than some outlying farms in between the lands of Arnäs and the land that the king’s half brother Boleslav had recently granted to Emund.
But if he remained calm and did not get carried away or allow himself to become agitated by those who surely wanted to inflame matters, then the game would be possible to win without much difficulty. For the judge himself, Karle Eskilsson, who was the grandson of the judge Karle of Edsvära, had also married into the Folkung clan. And now he came to join the council in the Folkung tent.
Also present were Joar Jedvardsson, Birger Brosa, Magnus and his two sons, and the two leaders of the Folkung and Erik clan retainers.
There were two things to discuss, and Judge Karle, who was the most distinguished man in the tent, presided over the discussion. He spoke gruffly and straight to the point so that no time would be wasted. If King Karl now attempted to proclaim himself king of Western Götaland as well, which might be his intention, and all the Folkungs and men of the Erik clan then rejected him, the matter would be clear. In that situation no judge and no bishop could approve the requested position of king. But if, as rumor also had it, King Karl chose instead to seek the ting’s approval of his son Sverker as jarl over Western Götaland, how would they then react?
Birger Brosa said that in his opinion this might be a very good solution. King Karl would avoid ridicule and it would make him less desirous of going to war. Western Götaland would remain free of his royal power, and if he chose to call a mere babe a jarl, it might assuage his pride but had no real meaning. Only many years from now would such a jarl be able to act as the king’s sword, but for now it was only a title. In this way war could be avoided between parties of equal strength, which was the worst sort of war.
Joar Jedvardsson and Magnus Folkesson agreed at once. War between those of equal strength was something that ought to be avoided. Whoever won such a war would pay for his victory dearly, ending up surrounded by many widows and fatherless children, as well as devastated and burned fields.
Judge Karle found that everyone was unanimous regarding this matter, and no one contradicted him.
Then they turned to the next issue, the property dispute between Magnus and young Boleslav’s man Emund Ulvbane. There was something fishy about this dispute. The matter was too minor to incite dissension, and it seemed even odder to bring it before a landsting, so the intention may have been to start a quarrel which like a wildfire could flare up into war. Behind Emund Ulvbane stood King Karl’s half brother Boleslav. But Boleslav was a child, not yet even an adolescent, and incapable of forging warlike intrigues on his own. Behind Boleslav stood King Karl, so he must be the one who wanted a quarrel.
Judge Karle said that he was well aware that this dispute had to be resolved with a light hand if peace were to be preserved. But since both sides in the dispute could bring forward dozens of oath-swearers, endless numbers if needed, the dispute could not be resolved in the manner prescribed by law. So what other approach could they take? What was Magnus’s own opinion in this matter?
Magnus now spoke, briefly and in a manly fashion, and explained that he had thought this was exactly what would happen, that with oath-swearers the dispute would remain in the same place when the ting ended as when it began. So he intended to propose a reconciliation by offering 30 marks in silver for the farms in dispute. That might be 10 marks more than the farms were actually worth, but the price was not too high if by this means the dispute could be settled. If peace could be bought for the land for only 10 marks, then the price was cheap.
Judge Karle nodded thoughtfully and approvingly and then explained how they should proceed: First they would take an oath in which all declared that the dispute had reached an impasse and could not be resolved. Then Magnus would carry in his 30 marks in silver to the ting and offer a compromise just as he had proposed. After that it would be a simple matter for the judge and his lay assessors to declare a reconciliation, and no one would be able to offer any objections.
Eskil and Arn went off by themselves to look at horses and weapons and say hello to members of their own clan that Eskil knew though Arn did not. They also greeted people from the Erik clan that neither of them knew, while Eskil explained to Arn how a ting functioned. Arn needed to know, for instance, that swords were not allowed inside the white chalk ring, which was the boundary of the ting site itself. And when he had to swear an oath he needed to know the words and say them loudly and clearly without unmanly hesitation or stammering, since such things would make him seem unreliable. The words were as follows:
As true by the grace of the gods do I speak truly.
When Arn objected that such an oath was heathen, Eskil merely laughed and explained that even if the words in the oath were from their ancestors’ time, they referred to none other than the Lord God. To convince Arn of this he pointed out that the very first words in the law of the Goths made this matter clear as water, since they were:
Christ is foremost in our law. After that our Christian teachings and all Christians: king, peasants, and all domiciled men, bishops and all book-learned men.
Arn was satisfied with this and jested that Eskil was probably included in this law as a peasant, while he necessarily had to slink along as a book-learned man. In any case it was clear that they did indeed have the law on their side.
When it was time, Bishop Bengt came from Skara and blessed the peace of the ting. Judge Karle announced in a loud voice that the ting was in session, and anyone who broke the peace of the ting was an outlaw. Then a murmur rose up from the thousand men who in suspense watched King Karl slowly make his way up to the highest mound of the ting site, where the judge stood. Soon they would see how the question of peace or war would be decided.
When the king had reached high enough ground that everyone could see him, they could also see that he was carrying in his arms a babe in swaddling clothes. Many who now understood what that meant could breathe a sigh of relief. The peace was preserved, since Karl Sverkersson did not intend to demand the crown of Western Götaland with sword in hand.
Then everything happened as Karle and Birger Brosa had predicted. Karl Sverkersson raised his infant son high over his head so that all could see him and asked the ting to greet the new jarl, Sverker of Western Götaland. A great roar came from the direction of the Sverker clan; from the men who had flocked around the king’s half brothers Kol and Boleslav came a great shout of “yes.” Then all eyes were turned tensely to the part of the ting site gleaming with blue, where Joar Jedvardsson, Magnus Folkesson, and Birger Brosa stood in front.
Birger Brosa whispered with a smile that they should wait a few moments, which they all did, standing quite still just like their men behind them. The murmur around the ting site died down, and then it was so quiet that only the wind was heard. But all at once the three men in front stretched their hands to the sky as one man, and then a forest of hands shot up behind them, and soon jubilant cries of relief and joy thundered across the whole ting site. Bishop Bengt could now bless the new jarl, who shrieked in his tiny voice so that it seemed more like a baptism than the blessing of the foremost man in Western Götaland.
Next in the deliberations were such cases that concerned only a few individuals, such as cases of killings and injuries. Then several church thieves were to be hanged to cheer up the many who had traveled so far to the ting, now that the major issue had been decided. It took until late afternoon before they came to the showdown between Magnus Folkesson and the king-killer Emund Ulvbane, and a cold wind of suspense seemed to pass over the ting as men dressed in the colors of the Sverker clan came streaming in from every direction.
At first everything went just as the Folkungs had predicted. Two dozen good men from each side were called to swear the oath, and all swore by the grace of the gods that the land which had been disputed since ancient times belonged to the man for whom they now swore their oath.
Everything that followed also went as planned, for now Magnus Folkesson brought out his silver and declared that with these coins he was prepared to enter into a reconciliation. He bade his opponent approve this action, for the price was good and peace between neighbors was worth more than silver. Emund Ulvbane bullheadedly refused to agree, but Judge Karle and his lay assessors approved the compromise at once, without even having to step aside and confer. And with that, men muttering in disappointment began to disperse in all directions, for now all could see that this matter was decided and would not lead to anything further.
But then Emund Ulvbane stepped forward and contemptuously put his foot on the silver he had just been awarded in compensation and raised his right hand as a sign that he had something to say. Everyone fell silent and waited in tense anticipation, for Emund Ulvbane looked both angry and scornful.
“Since the ting has decided, I must like any other man acquiesce,” he began in a thundering voice, for he was a very powerful man. “But it aggrieves me that silver should take precedence over honor and right. It also aggrieves me to have to compromise with a man without honor such as Magnus Folkesson. For you, Magnus, bear no semblance to a man, nor are you a man in your heart, and I deem your sons to be equally foul, for they are both bitch puppies, the one a nun and the other an ale cask.”
With that Emund Ulvbane motioned to one of his retainers to come and fetch the silver while he remained standing there with his hands on his hips. With disdainful glances he sought his enemies’ eyes. But the only person on the other side to meet his gaze was one of those he had called a bitch puppy, a young man with a sheeplike, innocent face who looked at him without the wit to feel fear. Instead his expression seemed to display astonishment and pity.
Then a great tumult and loud shouting erupted at the ting and much uneasiness. Many men hurried away, because the peace that had seemed so secure was now in grave peril.
In the Folkung tent the men soon gathered to deliberate, and the mood was sorrowful. Both Joar Jedvardsson and Birger Brosa, who had some knowledge of the law, said they had a bad feeling about what the law now prescribed about someone who had so openly used words of abuse at the ting, and what sort of response was allowed in such a case. They could not defend themselves with silver this time.
They would have to wait until Judge Karle came and recited the law, and it was a dismal wait during which not much was said. Eskil saw to it that a cask of ale was brought in and tankards for one and all, but they drank in silence, as if at the beginning of a funeral ale.
When Judge Karle entered the tent it was immediately apparent from his face that he was weighed down by sorrow and worry. He greeted the men briefly and then got straight to the point.
“Kinsmen, you want to know what the law says about the words of abuse that have now been spoken. I shall tell you the law, and then you will have to decide for yourselves the wisest course of action, for in this I have nothing to say. But regarding these insults we heard Emund utter, the law is so clear that I don’t believe Emund himself could have spoken such sharp rebukes without having many consultations and much advice. For hear now the law, I shall recite it to you at once.”
When he noticed that ale was being served, he paused and took a tankard, drinking several deep drafts as he looked as though he were reviewing the law in his mind. Then he set down the tankard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and in a high, singing voice he recited the text of the law:
If any man utters words of abuse to another: “You bear no semblance to a man nor are you a man in your heart.” “I am a man like you.” They shall meet where three roads converge. If the one who said the words comes, and the one who received them does not, then he must remain as he was called; he may not act as an oath-swearer, nor is he competent to witness, either in the case of a man or a woman. On the other hand, should the one who received the words come, while the one who said the words does not, then the one insulted must shout three times “outlaw” and make a mark for him on the ground. Then he would be worse than the one who now spoke it, since he did not dare step forth. Now they both meet, fully armed. If the one falls who received the words, to him is charged half the price of a man. If the one falls who gave the words and word felony is worst, the tongue is the bane of the head, then he shall be deemed an outlaw.
It was quiet for a long while in the tent as all pondered the law. Judge Karle sat down and again reached for his ale, and soon everyone’s gaze was directed toward Birger Brosa, who sat with his head bowed in sadness. He noticed this and understood that now he would have to be the one to speak the evil that most of the men in the tent might already be thinking, for his brother Magnus was white in the face, as if paralyzed.
“To meet Emund Ulvbane in single combat is for many a good man, also better men than those of us who sit here, the same as certain death,” he began with a deep sigh. “It is also what King Karl and his advisers have slyly plotted, and that was why Emund was granted land bordering Arnäs, for this very case. My brother Magnus now has to choose between meeting Emund with a sword or becoming a man without honor, and that is a choice I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But that is how the matter stands, and I have no good advice to give.”
Magnus said nothing, nor did he look as if he wanted to say anything just now. Instead Joar Jedvardsson began to speak.
“With such offense has King Karl rewarded our striving to keep war at bay,” he began heavily. “But the war will come sooner or later, as Karl Sverkersson now has shown, and all of us who sit here understand as much. The reason that my brother’s son, the aspirant king Knut Eriksson, chose not to come to this landsting was that then the peace of the ting would be difficult to maintain. But Knut is the one who with falseness and murder on orders from Karl Sverkersson was robbed of his father and his crown, and soon the time will be ripe, as we all know, for us to demand honor again. So I ask you all, my kinsmen, of what use would it be now for Magnus to offer his life? Many a man would follow Magnus Folkesson into battle behind the emblem of the Folkungs, but forgive me if I now speak as frankly as the case demands. It is less certain that as many would follow Eskil Magnusson. If Magnus has to die for our case, if God so wills, then he would die better on the battlefield in the war that must come. Now all of us in the Erik clan and the Folkung clan should at the same time break camp and march away from here. Then we will all have shown together where we stand. That is my opinion.”
“That was wisely spoken, my dear kinsman,” said Birger Brosa, but at the same time he squirmed with obvious discomfort, which to those who knew him showed that he probably meant the opposite of what he’d said. “However, the situation is clear. If Magnus does not come to the single combat he is an outcast, a man without honor who is not even competent to bear witness. Such a man cannot lead the Folkungs; it has never happened before and must not happen now. That much we know, but Karl Sverkersson knows it too, just as do his sly advisers who have put us in this predicament. Magnus can choose between only two things. This is difficult for a brother to say, but I must speak the truth. Either he marches off with his life intact but as a man without honor. Or else he goes to a single combat in which only a miracle of the saints can save his life. The latter choice is the better one. For no combat is decided in advance. But he who flees in cowardice has decided everything for the rest of his days. So it is.”
Judge Karle stood up heavily and explained that he had nothing to add to this matter since there was no ambiguity as to the content of the law. And the difficult decision that the three clan leaders now had to make would be no easier because there were more men present. He was shaking his head sorrowfully as he left the tent.
It was quiet after his departure. They all now turned to hear what Magnus himself would say, for the biggest decision, if not the only one, was his. It was not merely a matter of his life but also the honor of the Folkungs.
“I have made my decision,” he said when he could sit still no longer facing the intolerable anticipation of what he would say. “Tomorrow at dawn at the place we here at the ting call Three Roads Meet, I shall go against Emund fully armed as the law prescribes. May God be with me and may you all pray for me. But there is no other way, for none in our clan would choose the way of dishonor, and it is also true that none would follow a dishonored man.”
Eskil and Arn had been sitting at the back of the tent together, and none of the older men had paid any attention to the two half-men. Now that their father had spoken and in everyone’s view had condemned himself to death, Eskil took a deep breath, looking as though he might burst into tears, but he composed himself at once. An excruciating silence followed when no one contradicted Magnus, which was the same as agreeing and thereby deciding to end his life. Then Arn mustered the courage that came of despair to say what was needed.
“Forgive us if we, the sons of Magnus, also join in this matter,” he began uncertainly. “But this affects us as much as everyone else…in my opinion at least. Isn’t it true that we were also insulted along with our father Magnus when that Emund called us bitch puppies or whatever it was he said?”
“Yes, that’s true,” replied Birger Brosa. “You and Eskil were just as insulted as your father Magnus. But it is his obligation to defend the honor of all of you.”
“But according to the law don’t we have the same right as our father to defend our honor?” asked Arn with the simple innocence of a child, so that some of the older men had a hard time keeping from laughing despite the gravity of the occasion.
“It would not be to Magnus’s credit if instead of standing up for his honor like a man, he sent one of his half-grown sons to the slaughter,” muttered Birger Brosa morosely and stood up at once to go outside and piss, leaving the others wordless and empty of all feeling.
But after briefly hesitating Arn slunk out to follow Birger Brosa. He had to do some searching before he found him, since the winter darkness had fallen rapidly while they sat inside. He walked resolutely over to his uncle, who was just pulling up his hose, and spoke to him without hesitation and with great conviction.
“I have to tell you something true and important, my dear uncle. And you must believe me, for now in this grave hour there is really no time for untrue words. The truth is that of the three of us who were insulted, I am the one who can best handle a sword. It’s also true that I think I could easily vanquish that Emund, or you yourself, or any of our retainers. That’s why you must arrange it so that I am the one who goes to combat and not my poor father.”
Birger Brosa was so taken aback by these words that he stood there holding up his hose as if he were still about to piss. The little he knew about Arn was what everyone joked about who’d had anything to do with a monastery, which even Emund Ulvbane must have heard since he had called Arn a nun. Yet now this God-fearing and very serious young man stood here telling him something that could not possibly be true, but his face bore no trace of prevarication or madness. Birger Brosa didn’t know what to think. His doubt must have been obvious, for Arn made an impatient motion with his hands before an idea seemed to occur to him.
“My dear uncle, you are a much larger man than I, almost the same as that Emund,” Arn said eagerly, clearly filled with his idea. “Take my hand and stand foot to foot with me,” he continued, reaching out his hand to Birger Brosa, who took it out of sheer astonishment and then was shocked by the strength of his grip. Arn adjusted their feet so that they stood at an angle to each other as in an ordinary arm-wrestling match.
“So!” said Arn, suddenly cheerful. “Now try to knock me over with your strength that is greater than mine!”
Birger Brosa made a halfhearted attempt that had no effect other than to make Arn laugh at him. Then he took a better grip, and the next moment he found himself pulled down into the mud and slush. Birger Brosa got up in surprise and grabbed Arn’s strong hand again; once more he was dragged to the ground as if the boy could play with him at will. After the third attempt Arn didn’t want to continue, but held up his palms for his uncle to stop.
“Hear me now, my uncle,” he said. “I can handle Emund or anyone else the same way, and now I will tell you why. During all my years at the monastery, I had practice every day, more than any man you know, in weapons games from a man who once was a Templar knight in the Holy Land. I swear on Our Lady and Saint Bernard, who are my two patron saints, that I am the one who best of all of us can defend myself with a sword. And you must know that such a man as I would not lie to anyone, especially to my kinsmen and least of all at such a grave moment.”
Birger Brosa now seemed to see Arn’s conviction and truthfulness flowing like light between them. All at once he was convinced that what Arn said was actually true. And when he pondered more closely what it might mean, his face lit up and he looked at Arn with an almost happy expression as he embraced him. As the wise man Birger Brosa was in everything that had to do with the struggle for power, he now realized that the blackest hour for the Folkungs could soon be turned to white, regardless of whether Arn or Emund Ulvbane won the combat at the next day’s dawning. Either Arn would win, or he would lose with greater honor than what Magnus could have mustered. But then Emund’s victory would be reckoned worthless.
Yet his decision aroused both doubt and discontent when Birger Brosa again entered the tent with the already grieving kinsmen and explained that Arn was the man who should fight Emund Ulvbane. This choice should be justified by proclaiming that Arn was the one who had been most wronged, in that Emund had not merely called him a bitch puppy but also directed scorn at the house of God where Arn had been raised.
Magnus objected with the greatest anguish. For at the same time he saw his life now saved, the life from which he had already begun to take his leave, he also saw that he would lose a son. And he worried that to many it would look bad if a man did not dare take up his own obligation but instead sent a less than full-grown son to the slaughter. He had a hard time taking seriously Arn’s modest protestations that it was still wisest to send into single combat the one who could best handle a sword.
Puzzled, Joar Jedvardsson now left the Folkungs to themselves for the night, along with the four retainers. They all looked quite bewildered when with downcast eyes they said farewell and God bless to young Arn, who still had down on his cheeks.
When the Folkungs were left alone, Magnus suggested that they pray for as long as they could that night. Arn found this to be a good idea, but he perplexed them all when he began to pray for Emund Ulvbane’s life, his sin, and his pride.
At dawn on the morning that everyone in Western Götaland would remember in times to come and about which many sagas would be told, almost as many men gathered as were at the ting. They gathered at the place that was called Three Roads Meet. It was three arrow-shots from the ting site, and that marked the boundary for the peace of the ting. Few had gone home the night before, even though business had been concluded, because few men wanted to miss seeing with their own eyes the fight that could be the cause of war.
No one among the Folkungs and none from the Erik clan had left for home, for together they had to show the king’s men that he who killed a kinsman directed a blow against them all. Also, it was even more important to stand by the man whose life would be ended for the sake of honor. A man must stand by his kinsmen from birth until death, and now was the hour of death.
From the west the Folkungs and the Erik clan approached, all of them silent and solemn. From the east came the king’s men and kinsmen with cheerful laughter and scornful talk, since they knew that victory was theirs, no matter how things turned out. If Magnus Folkesson chose to save his life by not coming, the king’s men would be victorious because the Folkungs would be disgraced. And if Magnus Folkesson met Emund Ulvbane in battle, victory was equally assured but would be more entertaining to watch.
Foremost among the Folkungs came Birger Brosa, Magnus Folkesson, and his two sons, all wrapped in their thick blue mantles lined with marten fur, all wearing helmets and carrying the lion shield of the Folkungs on their left arm. Now the four took up position in front of their silent kinsmen and waited. Emund and his retinue deliberately arrived late.
The weather was cold, and the sun about to rise, coloring the sky red as blood behind the king’s men. It would be a good day to die, everyone thought, as with an impatient murmur they flocked around and waited for the sun’s first rays to break forth. That was the hour when the battle would be joined.
And when the sun’s glowing rim was first seen, an inciting war cry rose from the king’s side, and Emund Ulvbane threw off his mantle, drew his heavy sword, and walked with long, mighty strides out to the middle of the battlefield.
But what happened next no one could have imagined. The smaller of Magnus Folkesson’s sons, the one they called the monk boy or the nun, now cast off his mantle, took off his helmet and his scabbard, drew his long, fragile sword and kissed it as he uttered an oath that no one could hear. Then he crossed himself and walked slowly but without hesitation toward Emund.
At first there was a great silence among the thousand men gathered, then a growing murmur of displeasure. Now all could see that the monk boy was not even wearing chain mail, so that the slightest blow could smite him dead to the ground. His helmet he had also left behind.
For Emund Ulvbane this was a raw affront since now they were trying to force him to quit the fight or without much honor slay a defenseless monk boy. That was what everyone must have thought. All the Folkungs realized it as well, and they were just as surprised as the king’s men to see young Arn walk into single combat to the death instead of his father. It was a foolish and risky undertaking, for no one thought that Emund Ulvbane was a man to show mercy or walk away from a fight when victory was certain. But there was courage in that boy who was risking his own life to save his father’s and the honor of his clan, and so thought the king’s men as well.
But Emund Ulvbane would not let himself be trapped. Instead he decided to put a quick and humiliating end to the battle which this insult from the Folkungs deserved, and he now ran with great determination toward Arn with his sword raised, ready to sever the boy’s head at once.
But Emund Ulvbane promptly found himself on the ground; he must have struck too eagerly at his opponent’s head and thus badly missed his target. Yet the boy did not have the wit to exploit the God-given opportunity. He stood quite still, waiting for the raging royal giant to get up and attack again.
Three times Emund now struck at his opponent, who effortlessly and always moving in a circle avoided his sword without even parrying it with his own. Those who were standing far off and could not see clearly thought at first that Emund was toying cruelly with him, as a cat does with a mouse. But those who stood close saw clearly that that was not at all what happened.
From the Folkungs and the Erik clan now rose scattered laughter, and soon the battlefield thundered with laughter which washed like scorn over Emund Ulvbane, who despite all his furious efforts could only slice big holes in the air.
Arn already felt confident, for even though his opponent was big and rough, he wasn’t as big as Brother Guilbert and not a tenth as skilled with a sword. The most important thing now was to spare Emund’s life, not to be affected by pride, and soon, when Emund’s panting got heavier and closer, to go on the attack. Arn was pleased that despite all good advice and the attempts to talk him out of it he had stood by his decision not to wear chain mail or a helmet. If he were going to win without killing he had to be able to move quickly, and he had to have good vision at every instant, for the slightest mistake would mean his death.
When Arn suddenly began to defend himself, Emund had already grown so sluggish in his movements that everyone could see it. And Arn made him even wearier by beginning to meet his opponent’s blows with his sword or his shield, although always at an angle so that he deflected Emund’s blows to the ground. Time after time sparks flew from Emund’s heavy sword as he struck stone. Arn pretended to parry these blows straight on, but each time turned his wrist so that Emund’s blows slipped past, and he didn’t need to test this method long before Emund once again fell to the ground from his own weight and strength. Then Arn rushed up and pointed the tip of his sword at Emund’s throat and spoke to him for the first time. Emund was on his knees, panting mightily, and it looked as though it was his final moment.
The two combatants were out in the middle of the battlefield, too far from all the shouting men for anyone to hear what was said between them. But one thing could be surmised, that the man who some called monk boy had offered Emund a chance to save his own skin if he surrendered, handing over his sword. Instead Emund suddenly threw himself back, away from the threatening tip of the sword, and stood up. So the battle was on again.
But now even the king’s men realized what was happening and what they at first could neither see nor understand. The Folkung that Emund had insulted as a bitch puppy and nun was utterly superior to him, and it was no miracle or sorcery or accident, for they watched for too long for their eyes to have been deceived. Experienced warriors who stood close to other skilled warrior combatants began to describe what they were seeing, as they tried to understand and follow along in their minds what Arn was doing with his sword. They were already agreed that Arn’s skill was great and that Emund had met his match. From the Folkung side the taunts began to grow louder, hurled toward the defeated man, and from the king’s side scattered shouts were heard for Emund to surrender and hand over his shield. All had seen that his life had been spared several times over.
But Emund Ulvbane valued his honor higher than yielding to some puppy, and he had been in battle so many times that he was well aware that even hopeless defeats could suddenly turn without any miracle involved. But as he continued to fight he grew more cautious and began to move so as to save his strength.
At first Arn was somewhat confused by this and realized that now he could not win by causing Emund to surrender. That would have been the sensible thing to do when Emund noticed that his blows never hit home, and he should have begun to realize that Arn could strike him whenever he pleased. Arn felt that he had to think very clearly and not be affected by pride, no matter how defenseless Emund seemed. With great resolve he laid his shield on the ground to tempt Emund into new wild attacks that would sap him of all his strength.
A murmur of dismay spread across the battlefield when everyone saw that Arn had laid down his shield and shifted his sword to the wrong hand, for now Emund’s chance to strike with one of his mortal blows was twice as great as before. And Emund took the bait. Reinvigorated, he attacked in both desperation and rage. Arn, who was now circling constantly in the wrong direction to Emund, had more opportunities to strike at his adversary’s head or neck. Many saw this, though no one understood why he held back.
But Arn had a special plan. He had his eyes fixed not on Emund’s head or neck but on his right wrist, where the Nordic chain mail offered no protection. The longer he circled around Emund, the more often that weak spot appeared, but he waited until he saw it openly displayed. Then he struck for the first time with all his might.
A gasp of horror passed through the thousand men gathered there when they saw Emund’s great sword fly through the air with his right hand still gripping the hilt.
Emund dropped silently to his knees, tossed away his shield, and grabbed his severed wrist with his left hand to stanch the spurting blood.
Arn went up to him and pointed his sword at his throat, and everyone waited in abrupt silence for the mortal blow that was Arn’s legal right.
Instead Arn picked up Emund’s red shield with the black griffin head, turned his back to Emund, and picked up his own shield. Then he walked over to his father and handed him Emund’s shield.
Some of the men who served Boleslav, the king’s brother, hurried to Emund and carried him quickly out of sight.
With tears of pride and relief Magnus Folkesson triumphantly raised the conquered red shield to the sky, and the Folkungs drew their swords and beat on their shields so that a great battle noise erupted.
No man who was there would ever forget that day. And those who were not there would hear so many tell about it that they might as well have been present too.