Gunnar thought that this was a very good idea, and he praised her for it, offering at once to accompany her to Varnhem to settle this matter.

   Their decision would come as a delightful balm to the soul of the young man, who was in no way as small and pitiful as Gunvor remembered him.

Brother Guilbert had been working in the smithy making a sword for six days, laboring as if in a fever or a rage or filled with divine inspiration. Naturally he had as good as ignored most of his other duties, yet Father Henri had not said a word about it. The hammer blows from the smithy resounded constantly at Varnhem, even during some of the prayer hours.

   It had been a long time since Brother Guilbert had made a sword according to the new methods, although it would have been unreasonable to sell such things to the Nordic barbarians. They would never have dreamed of paying the full price for such work. Besides, they had no particular need for Damascene swords, since they could scarcely handle their own.

   When he made Nordic swords Brother Guilbert began with three types of iron, which he combined by folding the billet over and over and hammering it out again. Through this layering he was able to achieve a certain flexibility, and yet he could polish the blade as shiny and patterned as Nordic men would have it. The better the decoration the finer they considered the sword. Most desirable was a pattern that appeared as a serpent when they breathed on the cold blade. And yet Brother Guilbert still gave the sword a strength that was greater than was usually found in this corner of the world.

   But the sword he was working on now, toiling in holy desperation, had possessed from the beginning a single core of hardened steel. The art of transforming iron into steel was not known in the North. Brother Guilbert had used his very best iron for the purpose and fired it for three days and nights, packed in charcoal, leather, and brick, for the transformation to occur. The blessed steel core he then welded inside layers of softer iron. The edge would be sharp enough to shave a monk's head. With each blow of the hammer on the anvil and with each prayer he slowly but surely completed a masterpiece the likes of which could only be found in Damascus itself or in Outremer, where others like himself had taught themselves the Saracen art. Brother Guilbert had many divergent views when it came to Saracens, but it was one subject that he wisely refused to discuss. No matter how much he loved Father Henri as the wisest and kindest prior a sinner like himself could ever serve, he knew for certain that Saracens were not a suitable topic of discussion under any circumstances.

   He had come far in his work by the sixth day, when a lay brother came to interrupt him. He had been sent by Father Henri, who had now summoned him to an urgent meeting, smithy or no smithy.

   Brother Guilbert stopped his work at once and went to the lavatorium to make his appearance worthy of his prior.

   Father Henri was waiting for him in the scriptorium, his second favorite place. It was still the beginning of autumn but the evenings had begun to grow chilly, and Father Henri had never learned to tolerate the Nordic cold. So he chose the scriptorium rather than the stone benches in the arcade by the herb garden.

   "Good evening, my dear Vulcanus," Father Henri greeted the smith jocularly when the washed but still sweating Brother Guilbert bowed his head to enter the doorway intended for much smaller men.

   "Good evening, my dear Father Jupiter, in that case," replied Brother Guilbert in the same tone of voice, sitting down unbidden before the writing desk where Father Henri stood sketching.

   There was a moment of silence while Father Henri finished off a curlicue and then wiped the quill pen and put it aside. Then he cleared his throat in the way that Brother Guilbert and many others at Varnhem or Vitae Schola recognized as a signal that now a rather lengthy explication was to ensue.

   "I'll be hearing our son Arn's confession in a while," Father Henri began with a deep sigh. "And I will give him absolution. At once. He won't be expecting it and he won't like it, because he is very remorseful and filled with thoughts of his sin and, well, everything you can imagine. But you must know, my much beloved brother, that I have truly ransacked my heart over this, and what I've arrived at is not exactly pleasant for you or me. What happened is not Arn's fault, but rather yours and mine. Naturally we have a conflict here. On the one hand there is the secular law, no matter how barbaric it may appear to us when it comes to this part of the world. And on the other hand is God's law. The secular law will not affect Arn, nor will the divine law. For your part and mine it is a more delicate matter, and by this time you must know what I'm getting at. Now be so good as not to say, I told you so!"

   "I did tell you so, father, in all humility," Brother Guilbert was quick to reply. "We should have told him who he was. If he had known who he was when he met those drunken peasants . . ."

   "I know. Then no one would have needed to be hurt!" Father Henri interrupted him with more despair than annoyance in his voice. "Regardless, we did what we did, and now we have to think about what comes next. For my part I have to start with the task of persuading Arn to understand that he is forgiven before God's law, and I don't think it will be easy. So help me God, I truly love that boy! When he rode away from us to set out for his father's estate he was that rare individual: a human being without sin . . ."

   "A Parsifal," muttered Brother Guilbert pensively. "In truth a young Parsifal."

   "A what? Oh yes, that. All right, let it go," muttered Father Henri in reply, his train of thought disturbed. He paused for a moment before he went on.

   "Now, Brother Guilbert, I command you as prior to do this: When Arn comes to see you after I talk to him, you must tell him who he is in all the aspects that I could not explain. Do you know what I mean?"

   "Certainly I know what you mean, father, and I shall obey your command to the letter," replied Brother Guilbert with great earnestness.

   Father Henri nodded, silently thinking. Then he got up and left with a wave of goodbye. Brother Guilbert sat there for a long time, praying sincerely for the strength to shape his words well when he carried out the order he had just been given.

Arn had spent ten days in one of the guest cells at Varnhem. But he had set aside all the things that were given only to guests: the well-packed straw mattress, the red quilts, and the sheepskin. He had taken a vow of silence and lived on bread and water.