The Road To Jerusalem (30 page)

“I promise not to fail you, not to disappoint you, my dear brother,” said Arn quickly and with feeling.

“Hmm,” said Brother Guilbert, leaning forward to gaze with amusement into Arn’s childishly open face and his wide eyes. “You should probably wait a bit before making promises, because you will be required to make more sooner than you think. But for now our conversation is done. Tonight you must spend the hours between midnight mass and morning mass in our church. Seek God in your heart during this stormy night; this command comes from Father Henri. Now hurry to sleep a few hours, and perhaps we’ll see each other at midnight mass.”

“As you command so shall I obey,” muttered Arn and stood up, bowing to his teacher, and went to his sleeping cell, where he set his mind to wake up for midnight mass and not oversleep. Then he fell asleep at once.

Brother Guilbert remained sitting by the flickering candle flames for a while, lost in thought. Then he blew out the candles and strode off to the smithy, which two of the lay brothers had kept going during his talk with Arn. He was not quite finished; he would now use the last of the secret oils he had brought back from Outremer, and there were also details to plan for the ornamentation.

After midnight mass Arn was left alone in the church at Varnhem, and he spent the first hours on his knees at his mother’s grave before the altar. For such long prayer sessions he was allowed to kneel on soft cushions that could be brought from the sacristy.

He was in such a daze that he no longer felt that he knew himself. It was as though he were two persons. One was familiar: he was lay brother Arn who belonged more to Vitae Schola than to Varnhem. The other was Arn Magnusson of Arnas, who was more of a cipher than a real person. On this stormy night he prayed for God’s guidance to find what was good in these two, and he prayed to Saint Bernard to show him the way in life so that he would not stumble amid all the sin that seemed to fill the world out there. Finally he prayed for guidance to avoid the sin of pride above all others.

It was not his own belief that pride should be the foremost sin he must try to avoid—he honestly felt himself free of that particular sin. Yet he knew that this was the sin that Father Henri and Brother Guilbert feared so much that they had kept secrets from him.

In his prayers Arn made the storm outside cease and time come to a stop. Or rather, when he entered into prayer with his whole spirit, time no longer existed. So dawn came quickly, and with the dawn the storm abated.

To his surprise the whole choir came in and took up position behind the altar; some of the choir singers gave him kindly winks. He guessed that it was going to be a farewell mass of the type that was held whenever a brother who was much more important than himself was about to depart.

But then he heard from the creak of rope and tackle that the big baptismal font by the church door was being lowered, and when he turned around he saw them preparing the holy water for the baptismal font. Now he had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

Then the choir suddenly began singing the mightiest of all praise-songs to the Lord, the hymn about the eternal kingdom and eternal power. He could feel at once that the singers were approaching their task with the utmost gravity, truly doing their best. He murmured along with certain passages, keeping his eyes closed, and feeling as if he were by turns freezing cold and very hot. His breast became filled with holy light, and he was lifted by the secret power of the song up toward the Lord.

But when Arn looked up during a slow passage he discovered that some of the singers were craning their necks to look toward the baptismal font, naturally without straying in the least from their song. When he turned around he saw a sight that was the strangest and most astonishing he had seen in all his life. There stood Father Henri, blessing a sword that Brother Guilbert was holding out to him. The sword was sprinkled with holy water as if being baptized. It was unheard of: a sword in the house of God!

After the choir had sung all the verses of the mighty hymn “Te Deum,” Father Henri and Brother Guilbert walked up to the altar. Brother Guilbert carried the sword in his outstretched hands as if it were an offering or some other blessed object. The sword was carefully placed in the middle of the altar, and Father Henri began saying the Pater Noster and everyone murmured along with the prayer. Then Father Henri turned to Arn and signaled for him to move close to his mother’s grave, and when he obeyed, the choir took up a new hymn in French which Arn had never heard before. The singers had not mastered it as well as all the others. But Arn was now so filled with the ineffable that he did not hear the words of the song. His wide eyes instead devoured everything that was taking place before him.

Now the sword was taken from the altar and placed directly over his mother’s grave in front of him with the hilt toward the altar and the point of the sword toward Arn. It was a wonderfully beautiful sword with a blade that shone of a white tempered steel that Arn had never seen. The hilt of the sword was shaped so that the gilt guard formed a cross, and on it was engraved a motto that could not be misunderstood: I
N
HOC
SIGNO
VINCES
, “In this sign shalt thou conquer,” that is,
only
in this sign can one conquer, Arn realized immediately.

The hilt of the sword was shaped perfectly to fit Arn’s hands. He grasped the hilt and felt how it lay in his hand like a part of himself. The gilding shone from being newly applied. In strong sunlight he would have a more steady feel for his parrying blows from the brilliance of the gold; the gilding had nothing to do with wealth or ostentation.

Father Henri and Brother Guilbert then knelt down facing Arn on the other side of his mother’s grave, and the church fell silent, as if they all were holding their breath. Father Henri whispered to Brother Guilbert that it was probably best if he handled what came next, since he was more familiar with it. Brother Guilbert gave him a quick, pale smile at this understatement, filled as he was by the strange moment. Then he turned to Arn and looked him in the eye.

“Arn, our beloved brother,” he began in French, not in Latin, speaking in a loud voice that resounded beneath the vault of the church, “swear now the following oath which I will administer to you:

I, Arn Magnusson, swear by Jesus Christ
at the Holy Sepulchre and the Temple
that the sword I now receive
shall never be raised in anger
or for the sake of my personal gain.
This sword shall serve God’s righteous cause,
the truth, and the honor that is my brother’s and my own.
With this faith and in this sign
I shall be victorious.
But should I waver in my faith,
God shall justly smite me to the ground.
Amen.

Arn had to repeat the oath twice in French and then a third time in Latin, as he held the sword with both hands around the blade. Then Father Henri took the sword, kissed it, and held it out as he said a silent prayer with his eyes closed. Then he turned to Arn and said these words.

“Never forget your oath to God, my son. This sword which is now yours for as long as you shall live is a blessed sword which can be wielded only by you or by a Templar knight of the Lord. This sword and others like it are the only swords that are allowed inside the house of God, also remember that. And bear your sword without wavering in your love for God and without betraying the honor that accompanies this sword.”

With hands that were slightly trembling, Father Henri then handed the sword to Arn, who seemed to hesitate before he finally accepted it. It looked as though he was afraid that the sword might burn him.

But when he held it in his hands, the choir took up a new and jubilant hymn which he did not know, and it too was in French.

Arn set off that very day. But this time his departure from Varnhem was better prepared than his first journey, which had quickly ended in misfortune. The horse he now rode was the stallion Shimal, who had already served in breeding for the year and need not come back until it was time again. Arn had donned clothing made of gray and red fabric, like a man of the base world. He could not even remember the time as a child when he had worn attire other than that of a lay brother. And they had cut his hair so that it now was short but even around his head and there was no trace of the tonsure.

Brother Rugiero had prepared a heavy knapsack, and no one was going to trick him into losing it as soon as he left the walls, not this time. It also contained a good selection of plants that had to be kept moist in their leather sacks, along with seeds and fruit pits.

By his side hung the mighty sword in a simple leather scabbard, the sword that felt so light in his hand, as if it became a living part of himself when he swung it. The sword was so perfectly balanced that he could easily have stood upright and cleaned his toenails with it, not even holding it in both hands.

With a few words of thinly disguised pride Brother Guilbert had told him everything about such swords and what differentiated them from ordinary swords. Well, perhaps not everything, he added modestly. But the rest Arn would soon discover for himself.

Arn had taken a lengthy and emotional leave of them all. He was utterly filled with their love for him, which he had never really understood until that last mass when he saw and heard the great solemnity of the singers, offering him the most beautiful farewell they could give him.

Finally, out in the receptorium he was alone with Father Henri and Brother Guilbert. Father Henri nodded silently for him to mount his horse, and Arn swung up into the saddle of the impatiently prancing Shimal.

“There is one last thing you should think about now as you venture out into the other world better equipped than last time,” said Father Henri, stopping because he seemed briefly overcome by his emotions. “You carry a mighty sword at your side, as you already know. But remember also the words of Saint Bernard:
‘See, God’s warriors, what are your weapons? Are they not foremost your shield of faith, your helmet of salvation, and your
chain mail of gentleness?’ “

“Yes, father, I swear never to forget that,” replied Arn, looking Father Henri in the eye without blinking.

“Au revoir, mon petit chevalier Perceval,”
Brother Guilbert then said, and gave the impatient stallion a hard slap so that he galloped off at once with thundering hooves, heading out through the narrow stone passage to the world outside.

“That was a bit incautious of you. What if he’d fallen off the horse?” muttered Father Henri sadly.

“Arn doesn’t fall off horses, and that’s hardly the thing that threatens him most just now,” said Brother Guilbert, shaking his head with a smile at his prior’s unfounded concern.

“By the way, I don’t like that nonsense about Perceval and the Holy Grail and such vulgar songs,” Father Henri snapped as he turned abruptly and took a few steps toward the oak gate. But as so often happened, he thought of something else he wanted to say and turned halfway around.

“Perceval this and that, all those things will soon be forgotten like all the other base stories, it’s rubbish!”

“For something that is rubbish, you seem to know these vulgarities rather well yourself, father,” Brother Guilbert said with a bold laugh, displaying a merriment he didn’t usually show toward his prior.

Without a doubt both of them were moved by the farewell with Arn, although neither of them wanted to admit it. But Brother Guilbert, unlike Father Henri, was firmly convinced that he would see Arn again. Because unlike his prior, he was also entirely certain of what the task was that God had prepared for young Arn.

Herr Magnus was in a bad mood as he sat in the longhouse in the middle of a sunny afternoon, drinking too much ale. He was regretting that he was unable to love his second son Arn, whom his wife Sigrid, blessed be her memory, had loved above all else in life.

Magnus had a hard time admitting, even though he was now forcing himself to do so with the aid of liquor, that he had two grown sons who did not bless his house with the honor that was due their clan. For what good did it do if they had royal blood in their veins, as long as people pointed their fingers and snickered at them both.

In Eskil’s case Magnus had long since accepted how matters stood, because what people still had a hard time trusting was everything that belonged to the future. This included trade and new ways of using the soil and making the silver grow in the coffers; in all this Eskil was very talented and would probably leave an inheritance twice as large as what he would one day receive. Those who reproached Eskil because he was not interested in the more manly virtues were ignorant wretches. They understood nothing of God’s will behind human striving in earthly life. With regard to everything that had true meaning Eskil would become a wise and wealthy lord of Arnas; about that there was no doubt.

The fact that his eldest son was certainly no man of swordplay was something that Magnus could live with, however, without great disgrace, since it was to the advantage of Arnas that Eskil would live longer for not using sword and shield.

But the fact that his second son was also utterly lacking in the manly virtues was worse and made the disgrace much greater. Magnus had heard some of his retainers whispering scornfully about Arn as the
nun
from Varnhem. He had chosen to swallow the affront and pretend that he hadn’t heard it rather than draw more attention to what was said. It was bad enough that his retainers seemed to be entirely right in this case, for it was not easy to understand what the monks had done with the little boy-- whom Magnus remembered as a lively rascal who had learned to use a bow and arrow when he was very young. There had been lovely prayers said at table since Arn came home, but that added little to the honor of the house.

The boy had come riding up one beautiful autumn day on a skinny horse that provoked much laughter; even worse, he wore a sword at his side that seemed designed for women, if such a sword could be imagined. It was much too long and too light, with poor smithwork and too bright a sheen. Magnus had soon seen to it that the sword was put away in the tower’s armory so as not to prompt malicious laughter toward the innocent boy.