In the courtyard of the fortress people and house thralls were rushing about on all sorts of errands to prepare for the unexpected welcome feast, which now had to be readied in haste and with greater grandeur than an ordinary banquet at Arnäs. But those who came near the two Folkung brothers, now walking arm in arm towards the gate, shrank back almost as if in terror. Herr Eskil was said to be the richest man in all of Western Götaland, and everyone knew enough to fear the power that resided in silver and gold, although Herr Eskil himself often invited more ridicule than fear. But next to him now walked his brother, the long-absent warrior Arn, whom the sagas had made much taller and broader than he was in truth. Yet everyone could see by his stride, by his scarred face, and by the way he wore his sword and chain-mail as though they were his normal attire, that now the other power had indeed come to Arnäs – the power of the sword, which most sensible people feared far more than the power of silver.
Eskil and Arn went out through the gate and down to the tent encampment, which was being made ready by all the foreigners in Arn’s retinue. Arn explained that they needed only to greet the freemen, and not his thralls. First he asked Harald Øysteinsson to step forward and told Eskil that the two of them had been comrades in arms for almost fifteen years. When Eskil heard the Norwegian name he frowned as if searching his memory for something. Then he asked whether Harald might possibly have a relative in Norway with the same name. When Harald confirmed this and said that the man was his grandfather, and that his father was named Øystein Møyla, Eskil nodded pensively. He hastened to invite Harald to the feast that evening in the longhouse, and he also pointed out that there would be no lack of Nordic ale in sufficient quantities; something he probably thought would cheer a kinsman who had come such a long way. Harald’s face lit up and he uttered words so warm, almost like blessings, that Eskil was soon distracted from the subject of his forefathers.
Next they greeted the old monk Brother Guilbert, whose fringe of hair was completely white and whose shiny pate showed that he no longer needed to bother with shaving his tonsure. Arn briefly recounted how while they were in Varnhem Father Guillaume had granted Brother Guilbert a leave of absence as long as he worked for Arnäs. When he shook hands with the monk, Eskil was surprised to feel a rough grip, like a smith’s and with a smith’s strength.
There were no other men in Arn’s entourage who spoke Norse, and Eskil had a hard time understanding the foreign names that Arn rattled off as they stood before men who bowed politely. To Eskil’s ears the language sometimes sounded like Frankish and sometimes like some utterly different tongue.
Arn especially wanted to introduce two brothers who were dark-skinned, but both wore a gold cross around their necks. Their names were Marcus and Jacob Wachtian, Arn explained, and he added that they would be of great use in building anything large or small as well as in conducting business.
The thought of good tradesmen cheered up Eskil, but otherwise he had begun to feel uncomfortable among these foreigners, whose language he could not understand but whose expressions he suspected he could read all too well. He imagined that they were saying things that were not very respectful about his mighty paunch.
Arn also seemed to notice Eskil’s embarrassment, so he dismissed all the men around them and led his brother back toward the fortress courtyard. After they passed through the gate he suddenly turned serious and asked his brother to meet with him alone in the tower’s accounting chamber for a talk that was to be for their ears only. But first he had a simple matter to take care of, something that would be awkward if he forgot about it before the banquet. Eskil nodded, looking a bit puzzled, and headed for the tower.
Arn strode towards the big brick cookhouses that still stood where as a boy he had helped to build them; with pleasure he noted that they had been repaired and fortified in places and showed no sign of decay.
Inside he found, as expected, Erika Joarsdotter wearing a long leather apron over a simple brown linen shift. Like a cavalry officer she was fully occupied in commanding female house thralls and servants. When she noticed Arn she quickly set down a large pot of steaming root vegetables and threw her arms around his neck for the second time. This time he let it happen without feeling embarrassed, since there were only women inside.
‘Do you know, my dearest Arn,’ said Erika in her somewhat difficult to understand speech that came through her nose as much as through her mouth and which Arn had not heard in years, ‘that when you first came here I thanked Our Lady for sending an angel to Arnäs. And here you are once again, in a white mantle and surcoat emblazoned with the sign of Our Lord. You are in truth like a warrior angel of God!’
‘What a human being sees and what God sees is not always one and the same,’ Arn muttered self-consciously. ‘We have much to talk about, you and I, and we shall, be sure of that. But right now my brother awaits, and I want only to ask you a small favour for this evening.’
Erika threw out her arms in delight and said something about a favour on any evening, speaking in a suggestive manner that Arn did not fully understand. But the other women broke out in ill-concealed giggles in the midst of the bustle of the cookhouse. Arn pretended not to notice, even though he only half perceived the joke. He quickly hastened to request that the smaller feast served out by the tents contain lamb, veal, and venison, but no meat from swine – either wild or the fatter, tame variety. Since his wishes at first seemed difficult to understand, he hurried to add that in the Holy Land, where the guests came from, there was no pork, and that everyone would much prefer lamb. He also asked that besides ale, they also serve plenty of fresh water with the meal.
It was clear that Erika found this request odd. She stood deep in thought for a moment, her cheeks flushed from the cookhouse heat and breathless from all the rushing about, making her bosom heave. But then she promised to take care of everything just as Arn had asked, and hurried off to arrange for more slaughtering and more spit-turners.
Arn hurried to the tower. The lower port was now being watched by two guards who stared as if petrified at his white mantle and surcoat as he approached. But this expression, which many men assumed upon seeing a Templar knight coming towards them, was something that Arn had years ago learned to ignore.
He found his rather impatient brother up in the accounting chamber. Without explanation Arn unhooked his white mantle, pulled off his surcoat, and folded both garments carefully in the manner prescribed by the Holy Rule. He placed them carefully on a stool, sat down, and motioned for Eskil also to take a seat.
‘You have become a man who is used to being in command,’ Eskil muttered with a mixture of levity and petulance.
‘Yes, I have been a commander in war for many years, and it takes time to become accustomed to peace,’ replied Arn, crossing himself. He seemed to murmur a brief prayer to himself before he went on. ‘You are my beloved older brother. I am your beloved younger brother. Our friendship was never broken, and the longing of both of us has been great. I have not come home to command; I have come home to serve.’
‘You still sound like a Dane when you speak, or rather a man of the Danish church, perhaps. I don’t think we should overstate the part about service, because you are my brother,’ Eskil jested, making an exaggerated gesture of welcome across the table.
‘Now the time has come that I feared most when I longed so for my homecoming,’ Arn continued with unabated gravity, as if to show that he had no interest in the levity that had been offered.
Eskil collected himself at once.