However, one thing was clear to the chaplain. Here was the son of a poor man who worked hard at farming, perhaps a freed thrall, who had too many mouths to feed and had tried to get rid of at least one of them at the cloister. And now the young man would come home, at the most ravenous age of all, and not be good for much more than saying grace. Here was a chance to do something beneficial for all parties; all he had to do was seize the opportunity.

   "I believe, my young lay brother, that you and I might be able to help each other to our mutual advantage," said the chaplain.

   "If I can help you with something, father, I shall not hesitate, but what in all the world might that be? I am only a poor lay brother," said Arn without lying, because he believed what he said.

   "Well yes, many are the poor on this earth, but sometimes God gives even the poor great gifts. And you, Arn . . . wasn't that what you said your name is? Yes, you have truly received a great gift from God."

   "Yes, that is true," said Arn, looking down in embarrassment because he was thinking of God's great gift when he got his life back.

   "Then I have the pleasure of telling you, Arn, that now you may shed a great worry for both you and your father, and at the same time do a good deed that is pleasing to God. Are you ready to hear my proposal?" said the chaplain, leaning forward trium phantly and smiling so broadly that Arn could see his brownishblack teeth and smell his terrible breath.

   "Yes, father," said Arn obediently, but shrank back in horror. "Although I have no idea what you're thinking of, father."

   "We can offer you room and board, and new clothing too, if you stay here and sing in the cathedral choir. It's a great honor for a poor young man, you should know. But then you do have a rare gift from God, as you realize yourself."

   Arn was so astonished that at first he could not reply. It finally dawned on him that the priest meant that his very ordinary singing was supposed to be the great gift, and not the fact that God had brought him back from the realm of the dead. He didn't know how to reply.

   "Yes, I can understand that you would be dumbstruck," said the chaplain, pleased. "It's not every day one shoots so many birds with one arrow. Your father will be spared from having another mouth to feed; we can make souls, both living and dead, rejoice with more beautiful masses; and you will have clothing, meals, and lodging. That would be many blessings for a single day, don't you think?"

   "No . . . I mean yes, of course, it might seem so," Arn said in confusion. For the life of him he didn't want to be taken captive by the ill-smelling priest, cathedral or not. But neither did he know how to get out of the situation. He had no idea know how to refuse someone he was supposed to obey.

   The chaplain clearly considered the matter settled. "Come with me. We'll go over to the singers' quarters so you can meet the others and be given a bed that you need only share with one other boy."

   "This is not . . . this won't work at all!" Arn stammered desperately. "I mean . . . of course I'm deeply grateful for your kindness, father . . . but it won't work . . ."

   The chaplain cast a puzzled and astonished look at the young man with the tonsure that had just started to grow out and a thrall's knotty hands that revealed harsh manual labor. What in the name of all reason could make this poor awkward youth say no to such a generous offer? He even looked as though he was agonizing over his refusal.

   "I have my horse outside. I'm responsible for the animal and must return it to another lay brother," Arn tried to explain.

   "You have a horse, you say?" the chaplain muttered, confused. "You couldn't possibly—I want to see it with my own eyes!"

   Arn obediently walked through the cathedral with the chaplain beside him. The father was busy calculating the value of a horse, deciding that it far exceeded what he had just offered the boy in the form of room and board.

   Outside in the light stood Arn's borrowed horse, quite rightly, looking very tired with its head drooping heavily. Yet the chaplain decided at once that it was a splendid horse, and Arn discovered to his dismay that his knapsack with all of Brother Rugiero's lamb sausages and smoked hams was gone. He wondered who might be looking after them. But the chaplain was expounding loudly about his fine steed. Arn protested that there was nothing special about the horse, but that he couldn't understand what had become of his hams and sausages. Then the chaplain got angry and declared that surely he wasn't so stupid as to leave such things to thieves.

   Arn was horrified at the thought that he might have been robbed, and in that way contributed directly to grievous sin. He asked innocently whether he couldn't go to the thieves and get his goods back, if he promised to forgive them. That made the chaplain even angrier and he strode off muttering angry words about horses and muttonheads. Arn at once said a brief prayer for forgiveness for the unfortunate souls who had given in to the temptation to steal. He added in his prayer that he took full blame for what had happened, because he had left his knapsack with the food to tempt those who were both weak in spirit and hungry.

On the way north from Skara the wedding of Gunnar of Redeberga was being celebrated. He was a tenant farmer who worked for the cathedral dean, Torkel of Skara. The dean, who attended the wedding feast, was pleased with what he had arranged for his tenant, because this Gunnar was not handsome to look at and did not have much to offer as a morning gift. But the dean had taken pity on his tenant, and also out of concern for his own earnings he had arranged it so that Gunnar could take a wife.

   A comfortably wealthy peasant named Tyrgils of Torbjörntorp had received the cathedral dean's help in a difficult predicament, and then at his weakest moment had promised to return the favor. This favor now meant marrying off his youngest daughter Gunvor to Gunnar of Redeberga. It was a good arrangement in many respects because Tyrgils had not had to pay a large dowry as he would have if he'd made a better match for his daughter, and at least he'd finally gotten her married. Gunnar of Redeberga had equally low demands on him when it came to the morning gift he would have to present, so despite his lack of money and land and his ugly visage he did indeed marry a young and evidently fair maid.

   The dean thought he had made a good bargain for all, but especially for his loyal and humble tenant Gunnar, who never could have won himself a fecund maid to marry on his own. Gunnar was diligent at handling his own affairs as a tenant farmer, and he returned to the dean sevenfold what he had spent. So it was wise of the dean to protect his own interest, ensuring that offspring were produced and the farm could be kept under the charge of the same family. That way he avoided the trouble of evicting Gunnar when he got old and had no children to support him or pay the rent.