Birth of the Kingdom

Then Brother Guilbert and Arn de Gothia pulled open the heavy gates to the cloister so that the three wagons that required protection could be driven into the courtyard next to the workshops. There the oxen were unharnessed and settled in stalls for the night.

When the work was done the rain began to taper off, and bright light was clearly visible coming through rents in the black clouds. The weather was about to change. It was still about an hour until matins.

Brother Guilbert led his guest to the church and unlocked the door. They entered without a word.

In silence Arn stopped at the baptismal font just inside the doors. He removed his wide leather cloak and placed it on the floor, then pointed with an inquiring look at the water in the font, which had no cover. He received an affirmative nod from the old monk. Arn drew his sword, dipped his fingers in the water of the font, and stroked three fingers over the flat of his sword before he slipped it back into its sheath. With more of the holy water he touched his brow, both shoulders, and his heart. Then they walked side by side up the aisle toward the altar to the spot that Brother Guilbert indicated. There they knelt and prayed in silence until they heard the monks filing in for matins. Neither of them spoke. Arn knew the monastery’s rules about the silent hours of the day as well as any monk.

By the time they began gathering for song, the storm had abated and the chirping of birds could be heard in the first light of dawn.

Father Guillaume de Bourges was first in the procession of monks coming down the side aisle. The two men who had been praying stood up and bowed silently. He bowed in return. But then he caught sight of the knight’s sword and raised his eyebrows. Brother Guilbert pointed to Arn’s red cross signifying a Templar knight, and then at the font by the church door. Father Guillaume nodded, looking reassured and smiling that he had understood.

When the singing began, Brother Guilbert explained to his travelling friend in the monastery’s secret sign language that the new abbot was strict about the rule of silence.

During the hymn, in which Arn de Gothia took part with all the rest, since he was familiar with the Psalms, he glanced from one monk to the other. Now the light was streaming into the sanctuary more brightly, and they could make out one another’s faces. A third of the brothers recognized the knight and cautiously acknowledged his nods of greeting. But most were unknown to him.

When the hymn was over and the monks began their procession back to the monastery, Father Guillaume came over and signed to Brother Guilbert that he wanted to speak with both of them in the parlatorium after breakfast. They bowed in acknowledgment.

Arn and Brother Guilbert left the church through the main door, still in silence, walked past the courtyard with the workshops, and went down to the horse stables. The morning sun was already crimson and bright, and the song of birds could be heard in every direction. At least they would have one more lovely summer day.

When they reached the horses they headed straight for the stable area where the stallions were kept. The Templar knight took hold of the top rail of the fence with both hands and vaulted over it easily. He signed with exaggerated politeness for Brother Guilbert to do the same. But the latter shook his head with a smile and slowly climbed over the way people usually did. At the other end of the stable ten stallions were standing together, as if they had not yet decided what to think about the man in white.

‘So, my dear Arn,’ said Brother Guilbert, abruptly breaking the rule of silence that was supposed to last until after breakfast, ‘have you finally learned the language of the horses?’

Arn gave him a long, searching look before he nodded with a meaningful expression. Then he whistled to get the attention of the stallions at the other end. He called to them softly, in the language of horses.

‘In the name of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, you who are the sons of the wind, come to your brother and protector!’

The horses were instantly alert, with their ears standing straight up. Then a powerful dappled grey began to approach, and soon the others followed. When the first grey raised his tail and broke into a trot, they all moved faster and then came galloping so fast that the ground shook.

‘By the Prophet, peace be unto him, you have indeed learned the language of horses down there in Outremer,’ Brother Guilbert whispered in Arabic.

‘Quite true,’ replied Arn in the same language, opening his white coat wide to stop the onrushing stallions, ‘and you seem still to recall the language that I once thought was the language of horses and not that of the unbelievers.’

They each mounted a stallion, although Brother Guilbert had to lead his to the fence to get enough support to climb onto the steed’s back. Then they rode around in the corral bareback with only their left hands lightly gripping the horses’ manes.

Arn asked whether things were still so wretched that the West Goths continued to be the last men in the world who failed to understand the value of these horses. Brother Guilbert confirmed this with a sigh. In most other places in the Cistercian world, horses were their best business. But not up here in the North. The art of mounted warfare had not yet reached these parts. So these particular horses were worth not more but less than native West Gothic horses.

Arn was astonished, and he asked whether his kinsmen still believed that one could not use cavalry in war. With a sigh Brother Guilbert said that this was true. Nordic men rode to their battles, dismounted from their horses and secured their reins. Then they rushed at one another, hacking and slashing, on the closest field.

But now Brother Guilbert could no longer hold back all the questions he had been wanting to ask since the first moment he saw this man, whom he believed to be a prodigal son standing in the receptorium, dripping with rain and muddy from his long journey. Arn began recounting his lengthy story.

The young, innocent Arn Magnusson, who once set out from Varnhem to serve in the Holy War until death or until twenty years had passed, which was usually the same thing, no longer existed. It was no untainted knight Perceval who had come back from the war.

Brother Guilbert understood this almost at once when the conversation with Father Guillaume commenced out in the cloister. It had turned into a radiantly beautiful morning with not a cloud in the sky and no wind, so Father Guillaume had taken his unusual guest and Brother Guilbert out to the conversation area by the stone benches in the cloister garden instead of summoning them to the parlatorium. There they now sat with their feet practically on top of Father Henri’s grave, because he and his broken seal had been laid to rest right here, just as he had instructed on his deathbed. They had begun their meeting by praying for Father Henri’s eternal bliss.

Brother Guilbert watched carefully as Arn began presenting his business to Father Guillaume. The latter listened attentively and kindly, and as usual with a rather patronizing expression, as if in the presence of someone who knew less than he did. Father Guillaume was a talented theologian, that was indisputable, but he was not very good at seeing through a Templar knight, thought Brother Guilbert as he soon realized what Arn was getting at.

There were obvious indications on Arn’s face that he had not been one of those monks who served the Lord by copying manuscripts or keeping accounts. He must have spent the greater part of his time in the Holy Land in the saddle with sword and lance. Only now did Brother Guilbert notice the black border at the bottom of Arn’s mantle that showed he held the rank of a fortress master in the Knights Templar and thus was in command of both war and trade. Arn would probably be able to convince the younger and less experienced Father Guillaume to go along with whatever he wished, without the latter realizing what he was doing.

As his first response to the question of why he had returned to Varnhem, Arn had said that he had come to deliver a donation of no less than ten marks in gold. Varnhem, after all, had been the place where the brothers had raised him, with the help of God, and ten marks in gold was truly no small sum to express his gratitude. In addition, he wanted his future resting place to be next to his mother, inside the church under the centre aisle.

Confronted with such good and Christian proposals, young Father Guillaume became just as accommodating as Brother Guilbert imagined that Arn must have intended. Arn made an even better impression when he excused himself, went over to the ox-carts in the courtyard, and returned with a heavy, clinking leather sack, which he handed to Father Guillaume with the utmost respect and a deep bow.

Father Guillaume clearly had a hard time resisting the temptation to open the leather purse and begin counting the gold.

Then Arn made his next move. He spoke for a moment about Varnhem’s beautiful horses, about what a shame it was that his kinsmen in this northern land did not understand the true value of these animals. He also mentioned the great and commendable work that his old friend Brother Guilbert had done without recompense to care for and improve the breeding of the horses for so many years. He added that many diligent workers in the vineyards of the Lord received their wages long after their work was done, while others who may have come late to the work received their wages more promptly. Father Guillaume solemnly pondered this familiar example of how the human view of justice so often seemed to deviate from God’s intention. Then Arn suggested that he buy all of Varnhem’s horses, and for a very good price. In this way, he was quick to add before Father Guillaume could recover from his astonishment, Varnhem would finally receive payment for its arduous labour. The cloister would also be quit of a business that produced no income up here in the North, all with a single decision.

Arn then fell silent and waited to continue until Father Guillaume had collected himself enough to utter words of gratitude.

There might be a small catch to such a large settlement, Arn was quick to add. Because for the care of the horses the buyer would need a skilled man; that person was here in Varnhem and was none other than Brother Guilbert. On the other hand, if Brother Guilbert’s most important work vanished with the horses…?

Father Guillaume then suggested that Brother Guilbert’s services be included in the purchase to assist the buyer, at least for a time…no, for as long as necessary. Arn nodded gratefully as if acknowledging a very wise decision. Brother Guilbert, who was now observing his face closely, could see not a single sign to reveal whether this had been Arn’s intention all along. He looked as though upon reflection he was agreeing with the wisdom of Father Guillaume’s proposal. Then he suggested that they see to having the donation documents drawn up, signed, and sealed that very day, since both parties happened to be present.

When Father Guillaume immediately agreed to this as well, Arn spread out his hands in a gesture of gratitude and relief. Then he asked both monks to share with him information of the type that only men of the cloth might know, about how things really stood in his homeland.

As he was swift to point out, down at the marketplace in Lödöse he had already learned who was king, jarl, and queen. He also knew that there had been peace in the country for a long time. But the answer to the question of whether this peace between the Goth lands and the Swedes to the north would last in years to come could only be learned from the men of the church, for only they were privy to the deeper truths.

Father Guillaume looked pleased at this thought, and he nodded in agreement and approval, but he still seemed unsure of what Arn wanted to know. Arn helped him out by asking a concise but very difficult question which he presented in a low voice with no change in expression.

‘Will there be war in our land again, and if so, why and when?’

The two monks frowned for a moment in contemplation. Brother Guilbert answered first, with Father Guillaume’s assent, by saying that as long as King Knut Eriksson and his jarl Birger Brosa held power, there was no danger of war. The question was, what would happen after King Knut’s demise.

‘Then the risk of a new war would be great,’ sighed Father Guillaume.

He recounted how at the previous year’s church convocation in Linköping the new Archbishop Petrus had clearly demonstrated to the men of the church where he stood. He was a supporter of the Sverker dynasty, and he had received his pallium from the Danish Archbishop Absalon in Lund. This same Absalon had plotted against the Erik dynasty and wanted to restore the royal crown of the Goths and Swedes to the Sverkers. There was also a means for achieving that goal, though King Knut Eriksson undoubtedly knew as little about it as he knew that his new archbishop was a man of the Danes and Sverkers. Bishop Absalon in Lund possessed a letter from the blessed Abbess Rikissa which she had dictated on her deathbed. In this letter she recounted how King Knut’s queen Cecilia Blanca, during the time she had spent among the novices at Gudhem convent, had taken vows of chastity and pledged to remain forever a handmaiden of the Lord. Since King Knut later brought Cecilia Blanca from Gudhem and made her his queen, and she later bore him four sons and two daughters…

It could therefore be claimed that the king’s children were illegitimate and had no right to the crown, Arn quickly summed up. Had the Holy Father in Rome given his opinion on this matter?

No, since a new Pope had just been elected, taking the name Celestinus III, they still knew nothing about what opinion the Holy See might have regarding legitimate or illegitimate royal progeny in Götaland. Surely there were greater problems demanding the immediate attention of the one who had been elevated to the Holy See.

‘But if none of King Knut’s sons could succeed him,’ Arn said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question, ‘then might not Archbishop Petrus and possibly other bishops propose a Sverker kinsman as the new king? It would not be entirely unexpected.’

The two monks nodded in gloomy affirmation. Arn sat in thought for a moment before he stood up with an expression that showed he had already dismissed these minor concerns. He thanked the monks for the valuable information, and suggested that they proceed immediately to the scriptorium to weigh the gold accurately and to have the donation documents drawn up and stamped with the proper seal.

Father Guillaume, who for a moment had thought that the conversation had taken a quite base and uninteresting turn, accepted this suggestion at once.

The odd caravan of heavily laden ox-carts escorted by light and fast Saracen horses left Varnhem cloister the next morning on the way to Skara, the market town and bishop’s see in the middle of Western Götaland, eight miles due west of Varnhem. Brother Guilbert was part of all the newly purchased goods – that was his ironic view of the sudden change in his life. Arn had bought him as easily as he had bought his gravesite, the horses, and almost all the saddle tack and bridles that were made at Varnhem. Brother Guilbert could not have had it any other way even if he had protested, since Father Guillaume seemed dazzled by the payments in gold from Arn. Instead of quietly awaiting the end of his life in Varnhem, Brother Guilbert was now riding with strangers toward an unknown destination, and he found that to be an exceedingly good situation. He had no idea what sort of plans Arn might have, but he didn’t believe that all these horses had been bought merely to please the eye.

The Saracen knights who were in the lead – and it was no secret to Brother Guilbert that they were Saracens – seemed childishly enchanted at being able to continue their long journey on horseback. This was easy to understand, especially since they were allowed to ride such magnificent steeds. It occurred to Brother Guilbert that now Saint Bernard in his Heaven must be teasing his monk who once had despaired that anyone would ever want to buy Varnhem’s horses, and in his powerlessness had shrieked that he would settle for Saracen buyers at the very least. Now these unexpected Saracens rode along, joking loudly and talking all around him. At the oxen-reins sat men who spoke other languages. Brother Guilbert had still not figured them out – who they were or where they had come from.

But there was one big problem. What Arn had done was a type of deception which the young and naïve Father Guillaume hadn’t had the wit to see through, blinded as he was by all that gold. Yet a Templar knight was allowed to own no more than a monk in Varnhem cloister. Any Templar knight who was discovered with a single gold coin would immediately have to relinquish his white mantle and leave the Templar order in disgrace.

Brother Guilbert decided that the unpleasant matter should be broached sooner rather than later, which was how every Templar knight had learned to think. He urged on his dapple grey, rode up alongside Arn at the head of the column, and asked him the question straight out.

But Arn did not seem to take offence at the troublesome query. He merely smiled and turned his exquisite stallion – which was from Outremer but of a type that Brother Guilbert did not know – and galloped back to one of the last carts in the column. He leaped onto it and began searching for something among the loaded goods.

He remounted his horse and was back at once with a water-tight leather roll which he handed without a word to Brother Guilbert, who opened it with as much trepidation as curiosity.