Birth of the Kingdom

Erling and Ellen sat there a while, their cheeks red. It was as though a miracle had befallen them. But Erling quickly recovered and had livelier thoughts, calling for more ale.

Young Sune Folkesson now thought he had been sitting long enough with his eyes lowered in an unmanly fashion. If he had stepped in cow dung, the situation would not be improved by sitting and pretending nothing had happened, he reasoned. So he stood up and walked resolutely around the table to the high seat, where he sank to his knees before Sir Arn.

His foster father Erling rose halfway to his feet to shoo him off, but was stopped when Arn raised his hand in warning.

‘Well?’ Arn said kindly to the youth on his knees. ‘What do you have to tell me this time, kinsman?’

‘That I can do naught but regret my ignorant words to you, sir. But I didn’t know who you were; I thought you were a retain—’

There young Sune almost bit off his tongue, when too late he realized that instead of smoothing things over he was now making them worse. Imagine, calling Arn Magnusson a retainer!

‘You said nothing ignorant, kinsman,’ Arn replied gravely. ‘What you said about knights was not wrong, although possibly somewhat too brief. But remember that you are a Folkung speaking to another Folkung, so stand up and look me in the eye!’

Sune at once did as he was told, and when he saw the scarred face of the warrior at close range he was amazed that Sir Arn’s eyes were so gentle.

‘You said that you wanted to be a knight. Do you stand by your word?’ Arn asked.

‘Yes, Sir Arn, that dream is dearer to me than life itself!’ said Sune Folkesson with such emotion that Arn had a hard time keeping a straight face.

‘Well then,’ said Arn, passing his hand over his eyes, ‘in that case I’m afraid that you’ll be a knight with much too short a life, and we have little use for such men. But here is my offer to you. Stay here at Forsvik with me as your new foster father and teacher, and I shall turn you into a knight. That offer also applies to your foster brother Sigfrid. I will speak to your father about this. Sleep on it overnight. Pray to Our Lady, or Saint Örjan, for guidance, and give me your answer in the morning.’

‘I can give you my answer right now, Sir Arn!’ young Sune Folkesson declared.

But Arn raised his index finger in warning.

‘I told you to answer tomorrow after spending a night in prayer, yet you do not listen. To obey and to pray are the first things someone who wants to be a knight must learn.’

Arn gave the youth a look of feigned sternness, and he bowed at once and moved backward, bowing once more before he turned and rushed like an arrow back to his brothers at the end of the table. With a smile Arn saw out of the corner of his eye how they began talking excitedly.

Our Lady was indeed helping him in everything she had told him to do, he thought. He had already recruited his first two disciples.

He prayed that Our Lady would also stand by him at the greatest of all moments, which was now inconceivably near at hand, less than a night and a day away.

In the middle of the king’s island of Visingsö, only a stone’s throw from the horse path between the castle of Näs in the south and the boat harbours in the north, the loveliest of lilies grew, both blue and yellow, like the colours of the Erik clan. Only Queen Cecilia Blanca was allowed to harvest this gift of God, under strict penalty of whipping or worse for anyone who dared take any for himself.

The queen was now riding there with her dearest friend in life, Cecilia Rosa, as she was always called in the king’s castle rather than Cecilia Algotsdotter. At some distance behind them rode two castle maidservants. They needed no retainers with them since there had been peace in the kingdom longer than anyone cared to remember, and there were only the king’s people on Visingsö.

But neither of the dear friends was particularly interested in lilies on this summer day. As both of them knew more about the struggle for power than most men in the kingdom did, they had important questions to discuss. What the two of them decided could determine whether there would be war or peace in the kingdom. They had that power, and they both knew it. The next day, when the archbishop arrived with his episcopal retinue to meet with the king’s council, the decision would be announced.

The women dismounted next to the road some distance from the field of lilies, tied their horses, and sat down on some flat slabs of stone with heathen runic inscriptions that had been dragged out there to serve as the queen’s resting place. Cecilia Blanca waved away the two castle maidens and pointed sternly over towards the lilies.

For the longest time, Cecilia Rosa had held off the jarl’s importunate and, in recent years, more and more brusque demands. Birger Brosa wanted her to take her vows and enter his convent at Riseberga to become abbess. The moment she took the vows, he assured her, she would become the one who ruled Riseberga, both in spiritual and business matters.

The bishops would agree, and the new abbé at Varnhem, Father Guillaume, who now held authority over Riseberga, would quickly accede. Father Guillaume was a man who allowed himself to see the will of God if at the same time he saw gold and new green forests.

That was how things now stood. If she took her vows she would become abbess of Riseberga at once. But the jarl’s intentions were in truth not of the pious sort. It was a matter of power, and it was a matter of war or peace. With ever greater obstinacy in recent years, Birger Brosa had harped on his idea that an abbess’s oath was just as good as another abbess’s confession and testament.

The evil Mother Rikissa, who for so many years had tormented both Cecilia Blanca and Cecilia Rosa at Gudhem, had borne false witness on her deathbed. In her confession she had sworn that Cecilia Blanca had taken the vows during one of her last years at Gudhem.

If true, it meant that all of King Knut Eriksson’s children had been born illegitimately. His eldest son Erik would be prevented from inheriting the crown if this lie were believed.

If Cecilia Rosa were now promoted to abbess, she could deliver an oath stating that the queen had never taken the vows but had served only as the other lay sisters at Gudhem had done. This would unravel the whole knot. And that was precisely Birger Brosa’s idea.

The jarl did not lack good reasons for his demand. Cecilia Rosa had not been able to go to the bridal bed with Arn Magnusson as had been both intended and promised, but instead had effectively been sentenced to twenty years of penance. Yet the jarl had never abandoned her. He had taken her son Magnus, who was born out of wedlock at Gudhem, as his own, first as a son, later as a younger brother. Magnus had been raised at Bjälbo and was also brought into the clan at the ting. In addition the jarl had done much to alleviate Cecilia Rosa’s torments under Rikissa. He had supported and aided her as if she, like her son, had been accepted into the Folkung clan, although she had been merely a poor penitent. It was now time for her to repay that debt.

It wasn’t easy to contradict the wisdom of these ideas; the two Cecilias had always been in agreement on that. Cecilia Rosa had only been able to present one strong objection to the jarl. She believed that since she and Arn had sworn to be faithful to each other, and after their time of penance to fulfil what had been interrupted by slander and strict laws in equal measure, she could not take these cloister vows. That would be to betray her word. It would be the same as trampling on Arn Magnusson’s vow.

During the first years after her time of penance had expired, Birger Brosa, although he grumbled, accepted this objection. Many times he had assured her that he too wished and prayed that Arn Magnusson would return home unharmed, for any kingdom would have great need of such a warrior. Indeed, such a man ought to be made marshal at the king’s council, particularly since he was a Folkung.

But now more than four years had passed since the time of penance had expired, and they had heard nothing about Arn after the time of his great victories in the Holy Land, of which blessed Father Henri had informed them. Now the Christians had lost Jerusalem, and thousands upon thousands of Christian warriors had fallen in battle without anyone knowing their names.

Yet Cecilia Rosa had never given up hope; every evening she had directed the same prayers to Our Lady for Arn’s speedy return.

But there were limits to patience, as there were to hope. How could she go before the council the next day – before the king, the jarl, the marshal, the tax-master, the archbishop, and the other bishops – and say that it was impossible for her to accept the high calling of abbess because her earthly love for a man was greater? No, it was hard to imagine such conduct. It was much easier to imagine what a tumult that would provoke. Love was undoubtedly of little consequence. Greater were the struggle for power and the question of war or peace in the kingdom.

Cecilia Rosa had never before expressed this idea as clearly and as despondently as she did now. Cecilia Blanca took her hand in consolation, and they both sat there, dejected and silent.

‘It would have been easier for me to do this,’ the queen said at last. ‘I’m not like you; I’ve never loved any man more than I’ve loved myself or you. I envy you that, because I’d like to know what it’s like. But I don’t envy you the choice you now have to make.’

‘Don’t you even love King Knut?’ asked Cecilia Rosa, although she knew the answer.

‘We have lived a good life for the most part. I’ve borne him a daughter and four sons that lived and two that died. It was not always easy, and two of the childbeds were terrible, as you know. But I have no right to complain. Keep in mind that you had a chance to experience true love and gave birth to a wonderful son in Magnus. Your life could have been much worse.’

‘You’re right,’ said Cecilia Rosa. ‘Just think, if the war with the Sverkers had turned out differently, we both would have been trapped forever at Gudhem. True, it’s ungrateful to grumble about our lot. And we’ll always have our friendship, even if I soon must wear the veil and a cross around my neck.’

‘Would you like us to pray one last time to Our Lady for a miraculous salvation?’ asked Queen Cecilia Blanca. But Cecilia Rosa just looked down at the ground and mutely shook her head. All her prayers seemed to have vanished.

Three riders approached at a leisurely pace from the wharves to the north, but the two Cecilias paid no attention, since many riders were expected at the council meeting.

Then the two castle maidservants returned from the lily field with their aprons full of the loveliest flowers. Laughing they handed them to the queen and her friend. Both were given more lilies than they could carry. Queen Blanca, as she was usually called, then ordered the maids to fetch the baskets quickly. The lilies would soon wither if they grew too warm in their hands, as if they shrank from the captive embrace of humans. As she spoke she glanced without much interest toward the three horsemen who were now quite close. It was the tax-master Herr Eskil, some Norseman, and a Folkung.

Suddenly she was struck dumb by an odd feeling, which she was later never able to explain. It was like a gust of wind or a portent from Our Lady. With her elbow she cautiously nudged Cecilia Rosa, who stood looking the other way at the maids returning with their flower baskets.

When Cecilia Rosa turned around she first saw Eskil, whom she knew well. In the next instant she saw Arn Magnusson.

He got down from his horse and walked slowly toward her. She dropped all her lilies to the ground and moved aside in confusion so as not to step on the flowers.

She took his hands which he held out to her, but she was unable to say a thing. He too seemed totally at a loss for words. He tried to move his lips but not a sound came out.

They sank to their knees and held each other’s hands.

‘I prayed to Our Lady for this moment during all these years,’ he finally said, his voice quavering. ‘Did you do that too, my beloved Cecilia?’

She nodded as she gazed into his ravaged face and was filled with sympathy for all the hardships he had endured, now evident in these white scars.

‘Then let us thank Our Lady for never forsaking us, and because we never gave up hope,’ whispered Arn.

They bowed their heads in prayer to Our Lady, who so clearly had shown them that hope must never be abandoned and that love was truly stronger than the struggle for power – stronger than anything else.