she unmarried, has she taken vows at a convent?’
‘She is unmarried and is the yconoma at Riseberga convent; she does the bookkeeping.’
‘So she has not taken vows, yet she manages the convent’s affairs. Where is this Riseberga?’
‘Three days’ journey from here, but you should not ride there,’ Eskil teased him.
‘Why not? Are there enemies there?’
‘No, by no means. But Queen Blanca has been there for some time and she is now on her way to Näs, which is the king’s fortress…’
‘Remember, I’ve been there!’
‘Ah yes, that’s true. When Knut killed Karl Sverkersson; it’s such things one should not forget, although it would be preferable to do so. But now Queen Blanca is on her way to Näs, and I’m sure that Cecilia is with her. Those two are as hard to separate as clay and straw. No, calm yourself, and don’t stare at me like that!’
‘I am calm! Completely calm.’
‘Yes, I can see that. So listen calmly to this. In two days’ time I’m going to ride to the council meeting at Näs to meet with the king, the jarl, and a bunch of bishops. I think that everyone at Näs would probably be pleased if you came with me.’
Arn had fallen to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. Eskil found no reason to interrupt him, even though he felt ill at ease with this continuous kneeling. Instead he stood up thoughtfully as if testing an idea. Then he nodded to himself and quietly sneaked out to the stairs leading down to the armoury. What he intended to fetch he might as well do now rather than later; he had already made up his mind.
When he came huffing back upstairs, without disturbing Arn, he sat down again to wait until he thought the rambling prayer had gone on long enough. Then he cleared his throat.
Arn stood up at once with a glint of joy in his eyes that seemed to Eskil too childish for words. He also thought that Arn’s sheepish expression was inconsistent with a man clad in expensive chain mail from his head down to his steel-reinforced shoes with spurs of gold.
‘Look here!’ said Eskil, shoving a surcoat over to Arn. ‘If you must wear warrior clothes, you should probably be honouring these colours from now on.’
Arn unfolded the surcoat without a word and briefly regarded the Folkung lion rampant above three streams. He nodded as if to confirm something to himself before he swiftly donned the garment. Eskil stood up with a blue mantle in his hands and walked around the table. He gave Arn a brief and solemn look before he draped the Folkung mantle over his brother’s shoulders.
‘Welcome for a second time. Not only to Arnäs but also to our colours,’ he said.
When Eskil now attempted to embrace his brother, whom he had so readily readmitted to the family and to the right of inheritance, Arn once again sank to his knees in prayer. Eskil sighed but saw how Arn with a practiced gesture swept aside the mantle on the left side so that his sword would not get tangled in it. It was as if he were ready at any moment to rise up with his sword drawn.
This time Arn did not remain lost in prayer for long. When he stood up it was he who embraced Eskil.
‘I remember the law about pilgrims and penitents, and I understand what you have done. I swear the oath of a Templar knight that I shall always honour these colours,’ said Arn.
‘For my part you may gladly take your oath as a Folkung, and always as a Folkung,’ replied Eskil.
‘And now I can undoubtedly do so!’ laughed Arn, opening the Folkung mantle wide with both arms as if imitating a bird of prey. Both of them laughed at this.
‘And now it must be high time, by the Devil, for the first ale in too many years between brothers in blue!’ shouted Eskil, but rued it at once when he saw how Arn flinched at his blasphemous language. In order to cover his embarrassment, he stood up and went over to an arrow loop in the embrasure facing the courtyard and bellowed something that Arn did not grasp, but he assumed it had something to do with ale.
‘Now to my next question. Pardon my selfishness when something else may be of more importance for both our country and Arnäs, yet this is my next query,’ said Arn. ‘When I set off on my penitential journey, Cecilia Algotsdotter was expecting my child…’
It was as though Arn did not dare complete the question. Eskil, who knew that he had one more piece of good news to relate, delayed his answer and said that he was much too parched in the throat to speak of this until he had some ale. Then he got up impatiently and again went over to the arrow loop and roared something that Arn now definitely knew had to do with ale. He need not have done this. Already bare feet were heard hurrying up the spiral tower staircase. Soon two large foaming wooden tankards were set before the brothers, and the thrall girl who brought them vanished like a ghost.
The brothers raised their tankards to each other. Eskil drank much longer and more manfully than Arn, which was no surprise to either of them.
‘Now I shall tell you how it stands with regard to this matter,’ said Eskil and moved closer to the table, drawing up one knee and resting the ale tankard on it. ‘Well, it was about your son, I believe—’
‘My son!’ Arn shouted.
‘Yes. Your son. His name is Magnus. He grew up with his grandfather’s brother Birger Brosa. He did not take your name, nor did he take the name Birgersson. He calls himself Magnus Månesköld and bears a moon on his shield next to our lion. He is a hereditary member at the ting and thereby a genuine Folkung. He knows that he is your son, and he has practiced to become the mightiest archer in all of Eastern Götaland since he heard of your attested skills. What else do you want to know about him?’
‘How can he know anything about my archery? Does he also know who his mother is?’ asked Arn, as troubled as he was excited.
‘Songs have been sung about you, dear brother, and sagas have been told. Some originated from the ting of all Goths, that time you won the duel against…what was his name?’
‘Emund Ulvbane.’
‘Yes, that’s right. And the monks probably told him of one thing and another, such as the time you led twenty thousand Templar knights to a glorious victory at the Mountain of Pigs, where a hundred thousand infidels fell to your swords, not to mention—’
‘The Mountain of Pigs? In the Holy Land?’
Arn broke into a fit of laughter that he could not stop. He repeated to himself the words ‘Mountain of Pigs’ and then laughed even more, as he raised his ale tankard to Eskil, and tried to drink like a man, but he immediately began to cough. When he wiped his mouth a thought occurred to him and his face lit up.
‘Mont Gisard,’ he said. ‘The battle was at Mont Gisard and there were four hundred Templar knights against five thousand Saracens.’
‘Well, that wasn’t so bad either,’ Eskil said with a smile. ‘It was true then, and it’s no surprise that the truth takes on a bit more luster in songs and sagas. But where were we? Oh yes, Magnus knows from the sagas who you are, and that’s why he keeps practicing with the bow. That’s one thing. The other is that he knows his mother Cecilia, and they get along well.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘At Bjälbo with Birger Brosa. He was raised by Birger and Brigida. Oh, that’s right, you don’t know Brigida. She’s King Harald Gille’s daughter and still talks like a Norwegian, the way you talk like a Dane. Well, for many years Magnus lived at Bjälbo as their son, and he believed nothing different. Now he is reckoned as a foster brother to Birger, and that’s why he bears that moon on his shield instead of Birger’s lily. What more would you like to know?’
‘I sense that you think I ought to have begun asking questions at the other end. But I hope you’ll forgive me. First I saw you, then our father Magnus, and I had no need to ask about what was both closest