“Who can say ideals aren’t the Devil’s chief trick?” he asked. “Isn’t it possible that in the country, secure in the love of his family, a man learns faith and serenity that outside the country can only produce madness or tyranny or both? Think about it, that openness of heart or willingness to communicate that we’ve defined as the root of all good. Let us consider what we mean by it, exactly. Where do we put ignorance in our ethical scheme? The ignorance of the miners of Dalarna, for instance, or the pirate Sören Norby. What good is the willingness to communicate in a man who’s got his facts all wrong? There may be no evil in the hearts of such people, but surely they put evil into the world. Never mind, you say; ignorance can be overcome by education — another form of communication, in this case communication between the culture and the individual. Yes, perhaps. But perhaps it’s precisely this education which makes the soul fold its wings. Perhaps education leads inevitably to weariness and despair. As we civilize a child by beating or cajoling or shaming him, do we not perhaps beat, cajole, and shame what breeds hope in a man — individual will, every man’s innate sense that he’s descended from the angels — to a dreary acceptance of what’s taken for necessity, the tiresome, dispiriting laws of the docile herd?
“I will not pursue the point; I leave it to your judgment. I ask, instead, where does madness fit our scheme? The Daljunker, for instance, convinced to the soles of his boots that he’s Sten Sture’s son. How does the culture communicate with a madman? Not only does he have his facts wrong. In defense of his sacred individual will, he denies dull reality with all his might, claiming he’s King Nero or Jesus, insisting that the infirmary or dungeon where we converse is not what it is but a castle in Spain. Or this, my friend: what of the well-meaning and canny political manipulator, a man like Gustav Vasa in his early days — the man who communicates truth, or so he’d claim, by simplification: complicated truth reduced to slogans? How in heaven’s name do we communicate with him, or with those he has taught to use his methods? There’s the future, I think. Power bloc against power bloc, lie against lie, until finally no one knows anymore that he’s lying; fact and that-which-seems-desirable-in-the-long-run become hopelessly confused, and the man who tells the truth, that is, sticks to the plain facts, is dismissed as a lunatic, or troublemaker, an enemy of the good. You think it’s reason the Lutherans have introduced into human affairs? It’s a new and terrifying tyranny — I think so. In the old days we knew who the tyrants were: King so-and-so. Bishop so-and-so. Queen X. Judge Y. The tyranny was official, however covert. We knew whom to watch. In the future every dog will have his plot and his secret arsenal.”
He broke off abruptly, watching Lars-Goren’s face, waiting for some answer. Instead of speaking, Lars-Goren, with a look of faint distress, raised his long arm and pointed into the valley. When he turned to look, Bishop Brask saw, below them, a horseman approaching, galloping as if the Devil were at his tail. They urged their horses forward, cantering down the slope to meet the man — the dog leaped up to follow — and when they were fifty yards away Bishop Brask recognized the rider as Lars-Goren’s fat groundsman.
“My lord,” the man shouted when he was near enough to make himself heard, “you must flee at once! King Gustav has sent men—” He gasped for breath, and Lars-Goren, drawing close, reached out to touch the man’s arm and calm him.
“Take your time,” Lars-Goren said.
When he was able to speak, the groundsman said, “There’s been a massacre in Dalarna. King Gustav’s gone mad; it’s the only explanation. And now he’s sent men in armor after you and the bishop. They’re in Hälsingland already. Nobody knows what the charge is, but I think you’d better run.”
Lars-Goren nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Don’t worry yourself, old friend. We have everything ready.” He glanced at Bishop Brask, then up at the darkening sky. “Very well,” he said again, and together they started at a canter down toward the castle.
6.
IT WAS THE SADDEST OF PARTINGS. Lars-Goren’s wife and four children stood at the arch, silent, Bishop Brask crooked on his horse, favoring his back, smiling wanly, as if casting in his mind for a suitable parting line or gesture and finding nothing that would do.
“God be with you,” said Lars-Goren’s wife, her hand on the metal armor on Lars-Goren’s knee. Her nose was red and swollen like a peasant’s. As she’d helped him into his underdress and armor, then the heavy fur that made his final layer, she’d been weeping. The groundsman stood anxiously shifting from one leg to the other, again and again casting a look down the road toward the trees.
“Will it be cold in Lappland?” little Andrea asked.
“Hush,” her mother said, rather fiercely, as if the thought of the cold alarmed her.
“Don’t worry,” Lars-Goren said, smiling down at the child but speaking to put his wife at ease. “They’ll meet us at the border. They’ll know we’re coming.”
“I wish I could come with you, Father,” Erik said. “I’d be a help. You’d see!”
“Next time,” said Lars-Goren, and instantly shifted his eyes away.
“My lord, you must hurry,” said the groundsman, wringing his hands.
Lars-Goren looked sadly at his beautiful older daughter, then at Andrea, then at his sons. “Take care of things while I’m gone,” he said to Erik. “And you—” He glanced at Gunnar. “Keep your big brother out of trouble.”
Gunnar grinned, his dimple flashing into view among the freckles. “I will,” both boys said at once. “Don’t worry.”
“Bring me a reindeer-horn ring,” said Andrea. “Promise!”
“I will if I can,” Lars-Goren said and smiled. Then he bent down over the saddle and kissed his children, first Pia, then the others, finally his wife. Now all of them were weeping.
“God bless you, Bishop Brask,” said Lars-Goren’s wife to the bishop. “Take care of yourself”
“I’ll be fine,” said the bishop with a smile. “Remember me in your prayers.”
Abruptly, Lars-Goren spurred his horse. The bishop followed. Gunnar tugged at the leash, keeping Lady from following.
7.
IN NINE DAYS, MOVING FIRST through frost, then snow, they reached the border of Angermanland and Lappland. There, surrounded by blinding white, an old woman stood barring their way, her bare hands lifted in a peasant salute. Lars-Goren made a sign to Bishop Brask, who stared in amazement, and they stopped their horses, got down from them and approached the old woman on foot. Though there was wind, a steady, thin whine in their ears, her black shawl and dress, too thin for the weather, did not move. Her bare face and hands seemed indifferent to the cold, though it was fierce enough to freeze the nostrils.
Lars-Goren bowed formally and waited for her to speak. When she said nothing, he spoke himself. “I see that you have come from another world,” he said. “I am sure that you have some urgent business with us or you would never have made such a troublesome journey. My name, as perhaps you already know, is Lars-Goren Bergquist. This man beside me is Bishop Brask. If you have anything to say to us or ask of us, I hope you will say it or ask it.”