Birth of the Kingdom. Jan Guillou

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СКАЧАТЬ of the innkeeper’s younger sons dashed thoughtlessly into the longhouse, stopped inside the door, and called to Arn that he should say his name. Such boldness could have cost them skin on their backs and on Gurmund’s as well. He was seated at the nobles’ table inside and got up in anger to chide the louts, at the same time offering apologies to his master Eskil.

      But Arn stopped him. He went over to the boys himself, grabbed them in jest by the scruff of their necks, and took them out to the courtyard. There he knelt down on one knee, feigned a stern expression, and asked them to repeat their question if they dared.

      ‘Are you…Sir Arn Magnusson?’ gasped the bolder of the two, shutting his eyes as if he expected a box on the ear.

      ‘Yes, I am Arn Magnusson,’ said Arn, now dropping the stern expression. But the boys still looked a bit scared, their eyes flicking from the scars of war on his face to the sword which hung at his side, with the golden cross on both the scabbard and the hilt.

      ‘We want to enter your service!’ said the bolder one, when he finally dared believe that neither whip nor curses awaited them from the warrior.

      Arn laughed and explained that this was doubtless a matter that would have to wait for some years yet. But if they both practiced diligently with their wooden swords and bows, it might just be possible someday.

      The smaller of the two now plucked up his courage and asked if they might see Sir Arn’s sword. Arn got to his feet, pausing a moment before he drew the sword swiftly and soundlessly out of its sheath. The two boys gasped as the shining steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Like all boys they could see at once that this was a completely different sort of sword than those wielded by both retainers and lords. It was longer and narrower but without the slightest loop or flame festooning the blade. The dragon coils or secret symbols of glowing gold that were inlaid in the upper end of the blade were also impressive.

      Arn took the hand of the older boy and cautiously placed his index finger on the edge of the blade, pressing it down with a feather’s touch. At once a drop of blood appeared on his fingertip.

      He put the finger in the boy’s mouth, sheathed the magic sword in its scabbard, then patted the two of them on the head, and explained that swords just as sharp awaited anyone who went into his service. But there would be hard work too. In five years’ time they should seek him out if they still had a mind to it.

      Then he bowed to them as if they were already his retainers, turned on his heel, and strode with mantle fluttering back to the evening meal. The two boys stared as if bewitched at the Folkung lion on his back. They didn’t dare move a muscle until he had shut the door to the longhouse behind him.

      Arn was in such a good mood as he returned to the longhouse that Eskil felt prompted to mutter that he didn’t understand how their conversation during the day’s boat ride could have caused him such delight. Arn instantly turned serious as he sat down across from Eskil at the table and cast a startled glance at the wooden trencher of porridge, drippings, and bacon before him. He shoved the trencher aside and placed his scarred hand over Eskil’s.

      ‘Eskil, my brother. You must understand one thing about me and Harald. We rode for many years with the Reaper at our side. At matins with our dear knight-brothers we never knew who might be gone by evensong. I saw many of my brothers die, also many who were better men than I. I saw the heads of the best stuck on lance-tips below the walls of Beaufort, the castle I told you about yesterday. But I leave my sorrows for the hour of prayer; believe me that I am diligent in my prayers after you are asleep. Don’t think that I took lightly what you have told me.’

      ‘The war in the Holy Land gave you strange habits,’ Eskil muttered, but was suddenly filled with curiosity. ‘Were there many Templar knights who were better than you, my brother?’

      ‘Yes,’ Arn said gravely. ‘Harald is my witness. Ask him.’

      ‘Well, what do you say to that, Harald?’

      ‘That it is true and yet it is not,’ replied Harald when he looked up from the plate of porridge swimming in fat and bacon, to which he was devoting much more interest than Arn had done. ‘When I came to the Holy Land I thought I was a warrior, since I had done nothing but fight from the age of fourteen. I thought I was one of the strongest swordsmen of all. That false belief cost me many wounds. The Templar knights were warriors like none I had ever seen or dreamt of. The Saracens thought that a Templar knight was like five ordinary men. And I would agree with them on that. But it’s also true that there were some Templar knights who stood far above all the others, and the one who was called Arn de Gothia, your brother, was among them. In the North there is no swordsman who can compare with Arn, I swear to you by the Mother of God!’

      ‘Do not blaspheme Our Lady!’ said Arn sternly. ‘Remember swordsmen like Guy de Carcasonne, Sergio de Livorne, and above all Ernesto de Navarra.’

      ‘Yes, I remember them all,’ replied Harald. ‘And you should also remember our agreement, that as soon as we set foot on Nordic soil I would no longer be your sergeant or you my master who could command me, but your Norwegian brother. And to you, Eskil, I can say that the names Arn mentioned were those of the most superior swordsmen. But now they are all dead, and Arn is not.’

      ‘It’s not a matter of sword, lance, or horse,’ said Arn, his gaze fixed on the table. ‘Our Lady holds her protective and benevolent hands over me, for She has a plan.’

      ‘Living swordsmen are better than dead ones,’ said Eskil curtly and in a tone indicating he considered the topic finished. ‘But porridge and bacon do not seem to please our swordsman?’

      Arn admitted that he was not in the habit of rejecting God’s gifts at table, but he did have a problem with liquid pig fat. Although he could also understand that such fare would warm the body well during a Nordic winter.

      Eskil took an inexplicable pleasure in the fact that his brother complained about the food even on this day. At once he ordered one of the men sitting at the oarsmen’s table on the other side of the long fire in the hall to go to the stores in the riverboat. He was to bring from the rear magazine some hams from Arnäs and a bunch of smoked sausages from Lödöse.

      After the meal, when all were sated, Eskil went over to the log-fire and picked up a piece of charcoal. Back at the table he swept aside with his elbow the remnants of the meal and quickly began drawing on the tabletop with the charcoal. It was the route from Lödöse up the Göta River and into Lake Vänern, past Arnäs and up to the mouth of the Tidan where their river journey had begun. Via the Tidan they were now on their way to Forsvik on the shore of Lake Vättern, and on the other side of Vättern they would head for Lake Boren and on to Linköping. From there other routes branched out, leading north into Svealand and south to Visby and Lübeck. This was the backbone of his realm of business, he explained proudly. He controlled all the waterways from Lödöse to Linköping. He owned all the boats, riverboats as well as the larger ships with rounded hulls that sailed across Lakes Vänern and Vättern, as well as the portage chests located at the Troll’s Fall on the Göta River. More than five hundred men, most of them freed thralls, sailed his ships on these waters. Only during the most severe and snowy winters was trade sometimes brought to a standstill for a few weeks at a time.

      Arn and Harald had quietly and attentively studied the lines that Eskil had drawn on the table with his piece of charcoal, and they nodded in agreement. It was a great thing, they both thought, to be able to connect the North Sea and Norway with the Eastern Sea and Lübeck. In this way they could thumb their noses at Danish power.

      Eskil’s face clouded over, and all the elated self-confidence drained out of СКАЧАТЬ