The Road to Jerusalem. Jan Guillou
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beds, arranged in a row of compartments along one wall, stacked on top of each other with plenty of quilts and pelts so that several people could fit in the same bed without it being too crowded or too warm. This might be something to think about when he built his own new house. Magnus modestly explained that this method of arranging the beds was customary in Norway; every Norwegian knew that it was easier to escape the cold if the bed was up off the floor. But as Erik Jedvardsson quaffed more ale his tongue began to grow sharp, though at first it was hardly noticeable. He joked about King Sverker, the only king in the North who could win a war by being a coward; he joked even more about monks and how troublesome they were. He then returned to the cowardly King Sverker and made fun of the old man for marrying an old crone like Rikissa, who had been the wife of a Rus, Volodar or whatever his name was, on the other side of the Eastern Sea.
‘But my dear guest, by doing so he saved the country once again from war and devastation, haven’t you thought about that?’ Sigrid put in with a merry expression on her face, as if the ale had also gone to her head and she could therefore loosen her tongue with less responsibility than otherwise. Magnus gave her a stern look that she pretended not to see.
‘What! What do you mean? What great deeds for the country can that old man perform in bed with a woman twice widowed?’ replied Erik Jedvardsson in a loud voice, more to his own men further down the table than to Sigrid. His retainers found instant humor in his words.
‘Because Rikissa’s son is Knut Magnusson from her first marriage, and because Knut Magnusson has now become the new king of Denmark and would find it difficult to attack the country in which his mother is queen,’ Sigrid replied sharply as soon as the guffaws of the retainers had subsided. But she said it with good humor. And when Erik Jedvardsson’s expression clouded over she feigned even greater merriment, adding during the embarrassed silence that this was how an old man who could do nothing manly in bed was still able to use his bed to prevent war. So even a limp cock could do some good, and that didn’t happen every day.
The last joke about the king’s limp cock made all the retainers burst out in even louder laughter and greater applause than after Erik Jedvardsson’s joke.
Sigrid lowered her eyes as if abashed and seemed to blush at her own boldness. But Magnus suspected mischief. Nobody knew better than he what a honeyed, sharp tongue his wife possessed. And nobody knew better than he that if this feast ended up being about who won when they crossed words in the air like sword blades, then Sigrid would conquer them all, except possibly Birger. And that must not happen; it would only end in misery.
For the time being he saved the situation by launching into a long and somewhat convoluted explanation of the importance of all the knowledge that the monks had brought with them to this country. Naturally it was hard for a guest to interrupt his host, but when Magnus began to repeat himself and for the third time mentioned the importance of silver coinage in trade, Erik Jedvardsson made a show of getting up to go outside and piss. Then Magnus fell silent and shot his brother Birger an uneasy glance. But Birger smiled as usual and didn’t look the slightest bit concerned as he leaned over toward Magnus and whispered that perhaps now he would go out and piss too, because soon it would be time for what the guest had come for.
Besides, a break would be good. Half the retainers followed the honoured guest’s example, and soon almost all the men were standing outside in a row, talking together happily as they relieved themselves into the fir branches spread outside. In the wintertime a courtyard would look unclean after a good feast unless they laid out fir branches, which the thralls had to hasten to replace at regular intervals.
When Erik Jedvardsson again took his place next to Magnus in the high seat and was served fresh ale, he held up his hand to signal that he wished to speak undisturbed. With a little smile Birger gave Magnus a look and nodded in affirmation.
‘Before all this fine hospitality goes too much to our heads and we start talking about what terrific fellows we are,’ he began, smiling and waiting for the polite laughter that came mostly from his own men, ‘it is now time to discuss a serious matter. King Sverker’s days are numbered. I would not be exaggerating too much to say that soon he will no longer be with us in this earthly life. Karl Sverkersson is sitting over in Linköping thinking that the king’s crown will fall into his lap. There are many of us in Western Götaland who refuse to accept such a misfortune, and I am one of them. With God’s help I shall therefore win the king’s crown. And now I ask you all, kinsmen and friends, do I have your support, or must I leave this beautiful house as your enemy?’
There was total silence in the hall. Even the three small boys next to Birger stared with big-eyed astonishment at Erik Jedvardsson, who had now declared that he wanted to be king. And at the same time threatened them with enmity.
Magnus gave Birger a desperate glance, but his brother merely smiled and nodded that he would take responsibility for the rest.
‘Sir Erik, you speak with such power and determination that I do not for a moment doubt that you could become king of us all,’ Birger began in a loud voice so that everyone would hear that it was he, the younger brother below the high seat and not Magnus who was speaking. Then he lowered his voice.
‘Allow me to answer you first. I speak for the entire Bjälbo lineage, since I have been entrusted to do so. My brother Magnus will have his say after me, but you must know that our two clans are connected by many blood ties and can hardly go against each other. No doubt you can sense the trust. We are not your enemies, but neither are we your friends in this particular matter at this particular time. If you wish to be king, you will have to start at a different end of the country from ours. You must get the Swedes to elect you as king at Mora Stones. If you succeed in this task, then half will already be won. However, if you try to become king in Western Götaland against the will of the Eastern Goths, you will only bring war down upon yourself, and no one knows who would emerge the victor from that calamity. The same will happen if you go the other way. So you must win over the Swedes first. And when you have done that, then you can undoubtedly count on our support. Tell me, brother Magnus, am I not right?’
Magnus realized that everyone was staring at him. The silence was much like the moment when the bow is drawn taut and the arrow will momentarily be loosed at its target. All he could manage was to nod slowly and pensively as if he were a wise old man. A murmur of discontent arose from Erik Jedvardsson’s men at the far end of the hall.
‘You, Birger, are nothing but a young rascal,’ Erik Jedvardsson yelled, red in the face. ‘I could slay you here and now for your impudent words. Who are you to teach a full-grown warrior his course of action?’
Erik Jedvardsson made a move toward the place where he thought his sword should be, as if he had forgotten that it was no longer the custom for men to attend a feast with their swords at their sides. All the weapons were in the stable out in the connecting building with the spit-turners.
Birger was not about to be cowed by the feigned move toward the empty scabbard, and his smile did not flinch even for an instant when he replied.
‘You may well think that I am a rascal, Erik Jedvardsson,’ he began calmly, but now in a somewhat louder voice so that no one in the hall could avoid hearing his words. ‘This does not please me, but it still has nothing to do with the larger matter, for if you draw your sword on me, at the same moment you will draw misfortune upon yourself no matter how things may turn out.’
‘You scamp, do you think for a moment that you could stand against me with a sword?’ shrieked Erik Jedvardsson, even more red in the face, turning so that everyone in the hall now feared the worst. A female thrall rushed up and carried off the three small boys sitting next to Birger.
Birger rose slowly, but his smile did not falter as he replied.
‘Now I really must beg you as our guest to stop and think, Erik Jedvardsson,’ he said. ‘If you and I were to exchange sword blows, it would go badly for you. If you die here and now, you will never be king. If you kill me, the rest of your life will be one long journey with the whole Bjälbo clan chasing you from one ting to the next, and if that does no good they will kill you in the end. Stop and think! You have a kingdom within an arm’s length, that I don’t doubt. Don’t