The Road To Jerusalem (28 page)

Arn did not reply for a long time, and Father Henri left him to his thoughts. What he had said needed time to put down roots in Arn’s mind before they spoke more about that matter or anything else.

Arn had no difficulties seeing the formal logic in what Father Henri had said. But the basic assumption behind such logic was that every building block rested on absolute truthfulness and humility before God. Otherwise it would be a mere twisting of words. He was ashamed over what he had first thought when he heard those two redemptive words. He thought that Father Henri had temporized in his conviction out of a corrupt love for his son, that he had constructed a special benevolence in this case that would not have applied in other cases. It was wrong to think such things about Father Henri, and Arn realized that it proved he couldn’t keep himself free of sin for very many breaths after receiving forgiveness. But this was not the time to begin confessing all over again.

“So we have reached the question of my own and Brother Guilbert’s sin and our share of the guilt for what happened,” sighed Father Henri. “Out there in the other world people categorize others and evaluate them differently, as if they all did not have the same soul. It’s not like it is with us, where we are worth no more nor less than our brother. People out there weigh a man not according to his soul; their neighbor is not what they see first. They see a thrall or a king, a jarl or a freed slave; they see a man or a woman who either has noble ancestry or does not, much the way you and Brother Guilbert judge horses. That’s how it is out there in the other world, unfortunately.”

“But everyone has ancestors, everyone comes from somewhere, all the way back to Adam and Eve, and we’re all born equally naked,” Arn objected with a hint of wonder in his voice.

“Yes, indeed we all have ancestors. But some, according to that method of judging, have ancestors who are superior to others, and others have wealthier ancestors, and they inherit property from each other out there.”

“So if someone is born rich, then he remains rich; and if he has ancestors who are superior, then he doesn’t have to do anything for his own sake, since he’s naturally superior? So it doesn’t matter if he’s good or evil, intelligent or stupid—he remains superior?” Arn pondered this, at the same time looking oddly astute as he took this first stumbling step into an awareness of the other world.

“That’s precisely how it is, and that’s why some have thralls out there even today. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?” said Father Henri.

“Well, yes . . .” Arn said hesitantly. “My own father had thralls. It’s something I haven’t thought about in a long time, as if it were something my memory didn’t like. I’ve mostly thought about my mother at evening prayers, but not so much about my father, and never about the fact that he had thralls. But so it was. Now I recall that he beheaded a thrall once, I forget why, but I’ll never forget that sight.”

“You see. And I’m afraid that your father has thralls even today. He is from a superior clan, and that means, and pay close attention to this, that means that you are as well. On your mother’s gravestone there are two marks, as you have surely seen although we’ve never talked about it. One is a dragon head and a sword; that is your mother’s mark. The other is a lion rampant, and that is your father’s mark. It is the mark of the Folkung clan, and you are therefore a Folkung. And you probably don’t know what that entails.”

“No . . .” said Arn hesitantly. He looked as though he couldn’t even imagine the import of being somebody other than who he was.

“Specifically it means this,” said Father Henri straight off. “You have the right to ride with a sword, you have the right to carry a shield with the mark of the Folkungs. And if those rough customers had seen you thus, they would have never dreamed of attacking you. If you did not have a sword and were not carrying a shield with the mark of the Folkungs, you would only have needed to tell them your name, which is Arn Magnusson of Arnas, and their belligerence would have instantly melted away. This is what I never told you. I never told you who you are in the eyes of the other world, and that was very wrong. If I have any excuse to offer, it is that in here we do not view our neighbors as they do out there. And I didn’t want to lead you into the temptation of ever believing that you were superior to other people. I think you can understand that, and perhaps even forgive me for it.”

“But this can’t make me into someone other than who I am, can it?” Arn protested, puzzled. “I am as God created me, just as everyone else is, just as you are or the thralls are out there. I bear no blame for that, nor do I benefit from it. And by the way, why would the unfortunate souls who wanted to kill me let themselves be checked by a name? I was still only a ‘monk boy’ who couldn’t handle a sword in their eyes, so why would a name frighten them?”

“Because if they laid a hand on you, none of them would live to see the sun go down for more than a few days. Not one of them. Then they would bring down the whole Folkung clan, your clan, on their necks. And no peasants in all of this unfortunate land would ever dream of doing something that stupid. That’s the way it is out there, and you’re going to have to get used to it.”

“But I don’t want to get used to such an unreasonable and evil order of things, father. Nor do I want to live in a world like that.”

“You must,” said Father Henri curtly. “Because so it has been decided. You must soon go out into the other world again—that is my command.”

“I will obey your command, but—”

“No buts!” interrupted Father Henri. “You no longer have to shave your head. You shall break your fast starting now; just remember to eat cautiously at first. Immediately after supper you shall go to Brother Guilbert, and he will explain the other part of the truth about you, the part you do not know.”

Father Henri arose heavily from the small wooden bed. He suddenly felt old and stiff and thought for the first time that his life was turning to autumn, that time was running out of the hourglass, and that he might never find out what sort of task God had prepared for his beloved son.

“Pardon me, father, but one last question before you go?” ventured Arn with an expression of bewilderment on his face.

“Yes indeed, my son, ask as many last questions as you like, because the questions will never cease.”

“What was the nature of the sin that you and Brother Guilbert committed? I still can’t conceive of it.”

“Very simple, my son. If you knew who you were, you wouldn’t have had to kill. If we had told you who you were, you would have known. We kept silent about the truth because we believed we were protecting you with lies. And God enlightened us in a most brutal fashion, showing us that nothing good can come of something evil. It is that simple. But nothing evil can come of something good, either, and you had no evil intent. So, see you at vespers!”

Father Henri left Arn alone for the hours he now required for his prayers of thanksgiving, something Father Henri did not need to mention. Because as soon as Father Henri had closed the door behind him, Arn dropped to his knees and thanked God, the Holy Virgin, and Saint Bernard in turn for saving his soul through Their ineffable grace. During his prayers he felt as though God were answering him, since life returned to his body like a warm stream of hope and, finally, in the form of something as trivial as ordinary hunger.

Gunvor felt as if intoxicated by her own goodness, and it made her happy. For certainly it was a great sacrifice that she and Gunnar were now about to make. The two sorrels were almost half of all that she and her betrothed owned, and giving away so much was no easy task. But it was the right thing to do, and she was proud and glad that neither she nor Gunnar had felt any doubts as they approached the cloister at Varnhem. As Gunvor saw it, the Holy Virgin had answered her sincere prayers, not by taking her into the liberating embrace of death but by sending a young monk who with two strokes of his sword transformed both her own life and Gunnar’s forever. Now they would live together until the day that death parted them. On no day of that journey would they ever neglect to offer prayers of thanksgiving for the decision of Our Lady to save their lives and give them both what they held dearest in all the world.

Even though the monk boy had only been an instrument, as insignificant as a mucking shovel in comparison with the Blessed Virgin, he was still the only person to whom Gunvor and Gunnar could offer their thanks. And he belonged to the cloister which was the only place in this world where the grateful could present their offerings. Her father had always taken care to impress on her the importance of offerings, even though he also gave offerings to others besides God’s saints.

Following close behind her betrothed Gunnar, with mother Birgite and Gunnar’s sister Kristina behind her, she rode into the receptorium at Varnhem, where outsiders were always greeted. She felt a great reverence inside the walls, within the lovely vaulted stone where the hooves of the horses echoed like music, and before all the blazing colors of the flowers she saw in the little inner garden with the babbling fountain. She was filled with a sense of solemnity because as soon as the strangers entered the cloister, the place breathed with God’s presence.

They dismounted and tied their horses. The brother who served as the receptarius came to greet them kindly, inquiring as to why they had come. When Gunnar explained, the monk asked them to take a seat on the stone benches by the fountain and sent for ale and bread, which he blessed and broke for them as he bade them welcome. Then he went to fetch the prior.

They had to wait a good while but did not speak much since all four of them were entranced by the quietness of the place. Finally a small oak door with iron fittings opened at the far end of the receptorium, and the venerable prior came to meet them. His hair was silver-gray, curling in a wreath around his bald head, but his friendly brown eyes were full of life, which made him look younger than he probably was. He blessed them all, sat down calmly, and for the sake of courtesy shared a piece of bread with them which he also blessed. Then he got straight to the point and wanted to hear why people who were not rich—they didn’t know how he could see that at once even though they had all dressed in their finest clothes—wanted to give such a costly gift to the toilers in God’s garden. His language was sometimes difficult to understand because he used many priestly words in church language.

Gunnar, who was the one who should have spoken for them, was too embarrassed. So Gunvor immediately took over the responsibility of explaining, and Gunnar gave no sign of objecting. She told Father Henri how she had so devoutly placed her last remaining hope in the hands of Our Lady, how she was saved when a little monk boy was sent to her, and how because of that she and the one she loved most in life would be able to live together for all their days on earth.

At first the prior listened very attentively, interjecting a question or two about things that Gunvor did not realize were important. Soon the face of the venerable old man shone as if with a joy that radiated from within. Then he summoned a gigantic monk who emerged covered in soot and sweat. He examined the horses with grunts, sometimes approving and sometimes cross, and then he explained something to the prior in a completely incomprehensible language.

“The Lord be praised for your wondrous gift,” said Father Henri, and now they all listened tensely because the huge monk went over to the mare and took her by the halter, speaking kindly to her, while he didn’t seem at all interested in the stately stallion.

“Your sacrifice is great, your willingness to give us the most costly of your possessions is worthy of much respect,” Father Henri went on. “But we can accept only the mare, and that is because the stallion cannot do us any service. But you mustn’t take it as any disrespect. The intent of your gift has already been received, and perhaps the Mother of God took mercy on you and thought that you had offered too much. And so I beg you to keep the stallion.”

As they hesitated at how to reply, Father Henri gave a little sign to Brother Guilbert, who bowed like a gentleman to them all and then led the mare in through the wooden gate, closing it behind him. Gunnar was very pleased, because he had been most reluctant to part with the stallion. But since the mare had always been a bit tricky to handle he was also surprised that the foreign monk was able to take her by the bridle just like that and lead her away through a narrow gate without her protesting in the least. He assumed that monks wouldn’t know very much about horses.

When Father Henri observed that the generous and grateful guests accepted his partial refusal of their gift, he settled in his chair with pleasure and asked out of courtesy whether there was any favor he might do for them, some form of intercession perhaps?

Then Gunvor, blushing, asked if she might be allowed to thank the young monk in person, and she immediately apologized for her bold request but added that her betrothed was agreed with her in this matter.

Perhaps she had expected that the old monk would scowl and find her question unseemly. But to her relief his face instantly lit up and he thought that it was an excellent suggestion. Then he jumped up as if he were a young man, turned to hurry off, but thought of something and stopped short.

“But you must meet him alone,” he said to the couple, smiling very broadly so that they could see a big gap between his lower teeth. “The young man would be unnecessarily timid if his prior were hovering over his shoulder. He isn’t used to receiving thanks. But don’t worry, he is one of you and will understand everything you say.”

Father Henri blessed his guests as he departed, humming softly as he strode quickly like quite a young man through the oaken door.

They sat for a moment, talking about how they should interpret this response, but could find no explanation. In any case it did not seem unfitting for a young monk to be alone with guests, not even female ones, though it would have seemed improper for Gunvor and Gunnar to travel alone to Varnhem.

When Arn, freshly washed and timid, came to meet them, Gunvor fell to her knees before him and took his hands, which she could do because her betrothed and mother Birgite and sister Kristina were standing nearby. With an outpouring of words she let her gratitude flow over Arn.