The Road to Jerusalem. Jan Guillou
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a fresh tankard of ale from one of the female thralls, who was scared out of her wits. Yet he behaved as if nothing special had happened.
Erik Jedvardsson sat glumly for a long time before he answered. He had realized that young Birger from Bjälbo had spoken rightly, with words clear as water. He now had to admit that he had been rebuked and flustered by a quick- witted youth. What everyone had heard could not be unsaid.
‘So be it,’ he said at last. ‘I had already thought of going to Mora Stones to win over the Swedes, so in that matter we seem to agree. But for these words of yours I will still have a goose to pluck with you when I return as your king.’
‘I don’t doubt that at all, my future lord and king,’ said Birger with a broad and almost exaggerated smile. He paused playfully before he went on. ‘But since you do seem to accept my advice, I would suggest that you make me your jarl rather than pluck me like a goose!’
His bold manner of saying this straight to Erik Jedvardsson’s angry face had a remarkable effect. At first Erik Jedvardsson stared at him with dark eyes, but Birger merely smiled back, until Erik Jedvardsson’s face suddenly broke into a broad grin. And then he began to laugh. The next moment his retainers started laughing, and then Magnus’s men laughed, then the women, and finally the thralls and the three small boys who were now allowed to return to their seats. By then the hall was booming with laughter and the storm had passed.
Erik Jedvardsson now knew that all further discussion about his path to the king’s crown had better wait until another time. He clapped his hands and called for the Norwegian bard whom he’d brought along in the rear sleigh. He demanded stories from the time when people in the North had energy and the courage that one saw all too infrequently these days.
The bard rose from his miserable seat among the youngest retainers and began walking to the front of the hall to stand by the fire at the end, where he would tell stories and sing. In the meantime the house thralls quickly cleaned up the scraps and brought more ale, wiping up piss and vomit by the door. An expectant silence spread as the bard paused dramatically with his head bowed to let the excitement rise to the bursting point before he began.
He started in a faint but beautiful, melodious voice, telling of Sigurd Jorsalafar’s eight great victories on the road to Jerusalem, how he had plundered in Galicia, how off the coast of Särkland, where the infidels lived, he first encountered ships full of Saracen heathens who came rowing toward him with a huge fleet of galleys, but how he then attacked without hesitation and soon vanquished the heathens, who clearly had never encountered a Nordic fleet before and had no understanding of such a battle that could end in only one way:
The poor heathens
attacked the king.
The mighty prince
killed them all.
The army cleared out eight ships
in the terrible battle.
The much befriended prince
brought booty on board.
The raven flew off to fresh wounds.
Here the bard took a break and asked for more ale so he could resume his tales, and all the men pounded their fists on the long table as a sign that they wanted to hear more.
The two youngest boys, Arn and Knut, had listened with mouths agape and eyes wide during the story, but the somewhat older Eskil began to fret and yawn. Sigrid motioned to her house thralls to put the boys to bed. She had already made up beds for them in one of the cookhouses.
Eskil followed along obediently, yawning again; he believed that a warm bed would be preferable to an old man telling the ancient sagas in a language that was difficult to understand. But Arn and Knut kicked, whined, and protested, begging to hear more and promising to sit still, but it did no good.
Soon all three boys were tucked in under thick pelts in a cookhouse with three of the biggest iron pots filled with glowing charcoal. Eskil quickly turned over and fell asleep, snuffling, while Arn and Knut lay wide awake, indignant that the eldest of them was the one who had ruined their fun. Whispering, they agreed to get dressed and slip out into the dark. Like little elves they passed two men who stood puking outside the door. They sneaked nimbly into the hall and sat down near the door in the dark where no one would see them; Arn found a big pelt, which he carefully pulled over them both; revealing only their blond bangs and wide eyes. They sat there quiet as mice, with all their attention focused on Sigurd Jorsalafar’s heroic deeds.
Despite the fact that a dozen men stumbled past Arn and Knut, and some even tripped over them on their way out or in, nobody discovered the boys hiding like grouse chicks in the forest at night. They listened, rapt and wide-eyed, as the bard sang of Sigurd Jorsalafar’s triumph at Sidon, repeating the verses that the men, whose applause was growing increasingly thunderous, demanded.
Sigurd won
at Sidon, men remember this.
Weapons were wielded fiercely
in the heated battle.
With might the warriors crushed
the stubborn army’s fortress.
Beautiful swords were coloured with
blood when the prince prevailed.
The applause from the hall went on and on, followed by the buzz of voices as everyone began talking at once, about the great deeds in olden times, and the kings of their own time who were like Sverker Limp-Cock and not Sigurd Jorsalafar. Magnus attempted a witty joke that it was different with Norsemen, since he himself was of Norwegian lineage. But nobody thought it was a good joke, least of all Erik Jedvardsson, who now stood up holding the old drinking horn they had placed before him – a Norwegian drinking horn at that, although he was probably unaware of it. And he drank with manly vigor, draining it to the bottom without taking the horn from his lips. Then he explained that he had just seen before him, as if in a vision, the new coat of arms that would be his and that of the whole realm. There would be three golden crowns: one crown for Svealand, one for Eastern Götaland, and one for Western Götaland. The three crowns would be set against a field the colour of the sky. This, he now swore, would become in the future the new coat of arms for him and the entire kingdom.
The hall seethed with excited applause. But Erik Jedvardsson wanted to say more. At the same time he had to piss, and since he wanted to do both equally urgently, he announced in a loud, slurred voice on the way out the door that each and every one who followed him in the future would be assured of reaping honour during the crusade. Perhaps going only so far as to the Finns on the other side of the Eastern Sea on the first venture, but then, after the Finns were converted, perhaps our men needed to gain a foothold in the Holy Land as well.
When he reached the door he didn’t bother to go outside across the high threshold; staggering he leaned against the door jamb for support and relieved himself right where he stood.
He never noticed that he was pissing on Arn and his own son Knut. And they in turn could do nothing but huddle together and suffer in silence. Neither of the boys would ever forget it.
Especially since they had now been pissed on by a man who would become a saint as well as king.
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