The Templar Knight

‘Yes, dear Cecilia Rosa, you are completely right,’ replied Ulvhilde, looking all at once as if she were making a brave attempt to hold back the tears.

‘My dear little friend, what is it?’ Cecilia Rosa asked uncertainly.

But the answer was not forthcoming. They sat together for a while, neither of them daring to be first to break the silence, although by now Cecilia Rosa had begun to have her suspicions.

‘The thing is, Emund Ulvbane was my father, blessed be his soul,’ whispered Ulvhilde at last, her gaze fixed on the limestone floor.

‘I don’t know any Emund Ulvbane,’ said Cecilia Rosa timidly, at once regretting it.

‘Yes, you do, Cecilia Rosa; your betrothed Arn Magnusson knew him, and everyone in both Western and Eastern Götaland knows the story. My father lost his hand in that duel.’

‘Yes, of course I know about the duel at Axevalla ting,’ Cecilia Rosa admitted in shame. ‘Everyone does, just as you say. But I wasn’t there and had nothing to do with that affair. Arn was not yet betrothed to me. And you weren’t there either. So what do you mean by this? Do you intend for this matter to stand like a fortress wall between us?’

‘It’s much worse than that,’ Ulvhilde went on, no longer able to hold back the tears. ‘Knut Eriksson killed my father at Forsvik, even though he had promised that father would be allowed to come for me, my mother, and my brothers. And on the fields of blood…’

Then Ulvhilde could go no farther, but bent forward sobbing as if the pain had cloven her across her tender waist. Cecilia Rosa at first felt altogether at a loss, but she put her arms around little Ulvhilde, knelt down next to her, and awkwardly stroked her cheeks.

‘There, there,’ she consoled her. ‘What you started to tell me must come out, and you may as well do it now. So tell me what happened on the fields of blood, because I know nothing about it.’

Ulvhilde struggled for a moment, trying to catch her breath between sobs before she was able to utter the words that had to come out.

‘On the fields of blood…both my brothers died…killed by the Folkungs…and then they came to our farm where mother…where mother was still in hiding. And they burned her alive with the livestock and servants!’

It was as if Ulvhilde’s wild grief spread like a coldness between their limbs so that it was now inside Cecilia Rosa as well. They clung to each other without being able to speak. Cecilia Rosa began rocking back and forth as if she were lulling the younger girl to sleep, although now there would be no sleep. And yet something more had to be said.

‘Ulvhilde, my little friend,’ Cecilia Rosa whispered hoarsely. ‘Keep in mind that it could have been you in this position and that neither of us is at all to blame. If I can console you then I will try. If you want me to be your friend and support, I will try that too. It’s not easy to live at Gudhem, and you should know that here we need friends more than anything else.’

The death throes of Fru Helena Stensdotter took a long time. For ten days she lay dying, and during most of that time her mind was utterly clear. It made the matter that much more delicate for Mother Rikissa, who now had to send various messages far and wide.

It would not do simply to bury Fru Helena as any of Gudhem’s pensioners, because she was of royal lineage, and she had married into both the Sverker and the Erik clans. At a time when the wounds of war had been better healed, a huge retinue should have come to see her to her final rest. But as things now stood, with the fields of blood outside Bjälbo fresh in everyone’s memory, only a small but very resolute group showed up. Almost all the guests arrived several days before her death; they had to spend the time waiting in both the hospitium and other buildings outside the cloister - Folkungs and Eriks in one group, and Sverkers in another.

Cecilia Blanca and Cecilia Rosa were the only novices who were allowed to go outside the walls to sing at the graveside in the churchyard. This was not because of their clan lineage, but because their singing voices were among the loveliest at Gudhem.

Bishop Bengt had come from Skara to pray over the grave. Standing slightly removed from everyone else he wore his light-blue, gold-embroidered bishop’s vestments, and he seemed able to remain upright only by clutching his staff. On one side stood men from the Sverker and Stenkil clans in red, black, and green mantles. On the other side stood the Eriks in gold and sky-blue, and Folkungs in the same blue but with silver. In two long rows outside the churchyard were all the shields fastened to lances stuck into the ground: the Folkung lion, the three Erik crowns, the black Sverker griffin, and the Stenkil wolf’s head. Some of the shields still bore clear marks of sword-edges and lance-points, while some of the guests’ mantles bore traces of both battle and blood. Peace had reigned for too short a time for the marks of war to have been washed away in the rain.