"Oh yes, one more thing, young man. When you are out there you must know that not only will your brothers within these walls be praying for you, but you also have the archbishop as your friend. You can always come to me with your troubles, remember that!"

   With that Archbishop Stéphan stood up and held out his hand to Arn, who fell to his knees and with his head bowed as a sign of obedience, kissed the archbishop's hand.

When Arn rode out from Varnhem it was at first with a very heavy heart. In spite of all Father Henri's explanations and exhortations he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he was being punished, as if he had shown himself to be unworthy of the brothers' fellowship.

   But in search of consolation he began to sing, and this soon eased his heart. When he discovered that it helped, his mood changed so that he sang even more and soon out of joy rather than seeking consolation. By now he sang like all the other brothers, a little better than some and a little worse than others, neither more nor less. But his singing was suddenly of more joy to him than in many years, almost like in the days when he sang soprano in the brothers' choir.

   As his mood now shifted from dark to light just as rapidly and unpredictably as the spring weather, he also began to be filled with excitement and anticipation. It was certainly true that he knew nothing of the world outside the cloister walls. He could hardly remember what Arnäs looked like, the place that had once been his home. He remembered a very tall stone tower, a courtyard behind walls where he and other children had played a game with hoops and where his father had shown him how to shoot a bow and arrow. But he had a hard time summoning up any image in his memory about how they had actually lived. He thought he recalled that they all lived together somehow, that it was dark with a big fire, but he didn't trust his memories because they seemed so foreign. Now he was finally going to see everything with his own eyes. He should be there by tomorrow. With a better horse he could have been there by evening, but he was riding an old and slow Nordic horse, one of those that according to Brother Guilbert was no use for breeding and hardly good for anything else. But lay brother Erlend was now at Arnäs to teach new children to read, as he had once taught Arn and Eskil, and so Erlend would be given a compliant horse when he had to return to Varnhem. Father Henri was of the opinion that lay brother Erlend would be of little use at Arnäs, either for reading or anything else, after Arn came home.

   A person had to learn to come to terms with the fate determined for him by God. It would do no good to grumble that one would rather be someone else or live somewhere else. Instead one had to try to make the best of the situation; that was the only way to fulfill God's plans. The last of the brothers to repeat these words to Arn before his departure was Brother Rugiero, who had also been called from Vitae Schola to Varnhem after Father Henri found the food up there wretched.

   Brother Rugiero had secretly shed a few tears at their parting, but then foisted on Arn a gigantic package of traveling provisions that would have lasted a week or more. When Arn protested, Brother Rugiero quickly closed the boy's knapsack and mentioned that it certainly couldn't hurt to bring along a bit of food to provide for his welcome ale at home. Brother Rugiero, like the other brothers from Vitae Schola, knew little about Arn, surmising that he'd come to them because his parents were poor and were having a hard time with all the mouths to feed back home.

   After a few hours Arn spied Skara in the distance; the double tower of the cathedral rose grandly over a conglomeration of low wooden houses. Soon he caught the scent of the town, since he was approaching from downwind. It smelled of smoke and putrefaction and rubbish and manure—a smell so strong that he would have had no trouble heading in the right direction for the last half hour even if it had been pitch dark.

   When Arn came closer to the town his curiosity was aroused by a large building under construction, and he made a little detour so he could watch the work at close hand. They were erecting a fortress.

   He reined in his horse and grew more and more astonished at what he saw. A whole crowd was in motion; most of the people were busy dragging stone blocks over rolling logs, but the work looked to be proceeding sluggishly. Nowhere did he see any block and tackle or hoisting mechanisms. Everything seemed to be done by brute force. Many ill-clad men were toiling hard, overseen by men with weapons who didn't seem at all kindly disposed toward the workers. And none of those who were doing the dragging and laboring seemed happy about their work.

   The walls were not very high, and they consisted mainly of earthworks that an attacker could easily ride to the top; from there a good horse could probably leap over in one jump. Khamsiin would be able to do it easily.

   Arn didn't know very much about war and defensive works except what he had read in books, which was mostly Roman strategy and tactics. But it seemed to him that this fortress under construction would be difficult to defend if the attackers built their own covered wooden towers and rolled them up to the walls. But perhaps the Roman methods were totally antiquated.

   Some of the men supervising the work noticed Arn staring, and they came over to him and let fall some harsh words which Arn didn't fully understand, but he gathered that he should leave because he wasn't welcome. He at once begged their pardon and turned his slow horse back toward town.

   The town of Skara was also surrounded by some sort of walls that consisted of logs and piles of branches with dirt thrown on top. Outside the town gate was an area with tents and people singing foreign songs and playing instruments. When Arn drew closer he saw that many men were sitting together in one of the tents drinking ale, and they had no doubt been doing so for a good while, since some had collapsed unconscious. He saw to his surprise a woman with her clothing in disarray, staggering over to a smaller tent, and a man sitting utterly without embarrassment as he answered the call of nature.

   Arn was completely bewildered by the behavior of his fellow human beings, and this was obvious from looking at him. Three small boys spotted him, pointed their fingers, and laughed, but he had no idea why. Yet he had to pass them to get through the opening in the wall, and then they whispered something amongst themselves before they approached to block his way.

   "Here you have to pay toll to the poor to be allowed in, monk boy!" said the oldest and boldest of the three.

   "I don't have much to give," replied Arn, truly sorry. "I just have a little bread and—"

   "Bread would be good, because we have nothing at all. How much have you got, monk boy?"