The Road To Jerusalem (7 page)

Sigrid explained that she had given up that custom. Not for the sake of the thralls, but because one could never have too many thralls.

Kristina couldn’t understand this reasoning. More thralls meant more mouths to feed, more animals to slaughter, and more grain to the mill—wasn’t that as clear as water?

Sigrid tried to explain the method of moving them out, breaking new ground, and freeing them at the same rate as the thralls propagated, and how that in turn produced income in the form of extra barrels of grain from the new plantings each year. The thralls also ate less food if they had to pay for it themselves.

Kristina merely laughed at these foolish ideas; it was like letting the cattle out onto a green pasture to milk, slaughter, and finally roast themselves. Sigrid soon gave up all attempts to explain and at last took Kristina to the bathhouse, where a group of house thralls was busy washing up for the evening.

The steam billowed out in big clouds when they opened the door and the midwinter cold met the moist heat inside. When they closed the door behind them and their vision cleared, Kristina was so astonished that for the first time she couldn’t hide her surprise. The room was filled with naked thralls running about with pails of hot water which they dumped into big oaken tubs, while others sat in the tubs of steaming water. Sigrid went over and grabbed a female house thrall and let Kristina feel her flesh. They certainly were healthy and well-fed, weren’t they?

Yes indeed, they looked splendid. But what was the idea of letting thralls use up wood and have their own building as if they were fine folk? She couldn’t understand it.

Sigrid explained that they were house thralls, of course. They had to turn the roasts and serve them and pour the ale and carry out the scraps all night. But wasn’t it more pleasant to have clean house thralls that didn’t stink? And they would all be dressed in clean linen after the bath; at Arnas they produced much more linen at present than they could sell.

Kristina shook her head. She couldn’t hide how absurd she found this method for treating thralls. It might give them ideas, she said. They already
had
ideas, Sigrid replied, with a smile that Kristina had a hard time understanding.

But when the feast commenced that evening it was a lovely sight when all the clean-scrubbed house thralls entered the hall in procession, clad in their white linen clothing, and carrying the first round of meat, turnips, white bread, and a soup made from leeks, beans, and something that Sigrid called red roots.

In the Norwegian high seat adorned with the winding dragon arabesques sat Magnus and Erik Jedvardsson. To the left of Magnus sat his brother Birger, his sons Eskil and little Arn, and beside them Erik Jedvardsson’s son Knut, who was the same age as Eskil. To the right of the high seat sat Kristina and Sigrid. Along the walls the tar torches burned in their iron sconces. At the long table where the twenty-four retainers sat arranged by age, expensive wax candles burned as though in church, and from the stone wall behind the high seat the heat radiated, although it was less warm farther down in the hall. The youngest retainers at the end soon pulled their cloaks around them.

The spit-turners had begun to serve the tenderest morsels from the roasting house, succulent piglets to awaken the palate. After that would come heavier meats—veal, lamb, and young wild boar—and also the old-fashioned coarse rye bread for those who didn’t like the newfangled white bread. Ale was brought to the table in large quantities, either unspiced strong ale or the kind that was given to women and children, spiced with honey and juniper berries.

In the beginning everyone behaved well at the feast, conversing easily about insignificant things, and Birger, smiling as ever, had another chance to tell the story about his journey the day before when he shot a wolf.

Erik Jedvardsson and his men drank a toast to their host. Magnus and his men drank to their guests, and everyone was in a good mood and without rancorous thoughts or harsh words.

Erik Jedvardsson praised the beauty of the hall once again-- the new method of building with horizontal logs, the beautiful dragon designs looping around the high seat, and above all the 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 ex plained 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 farther 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 honored 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 Linkoping thinking that the king’s crown will fall into his lap. There are many of us in Western Gotaland 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 Bjalbo 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 Gotaland 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 Bjalbo 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 squander it because you think that the spokesman for the Bjalbo clan is too young and too impudent! First win over the Swedes, then us. For the second time, this is my advice.”

Birger calmly sat down and reached for 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 Bjalbo 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.