He stood for a moment looking at Arn, until the boy couldn't help glancing up at him. Then Father Henri gave him a kindly smile, but received only a sob in response before the boy again looked away.

   "Look here, mon fils, come along with me like a good boy," said Father Henri as gently as he could, and accustomed as he was to always being obeyed, he stepped forward to pull on Arn's arm.

   "Can't you even speak Swedish, you old devil?" Arn spat, kicking and struggling as Father Henri, who was quite a big and heavy man, dragged him along toward the cloister with the same ease as if he were carrying a basket of herbs from Brother Lucien's gardens.

   When they reached the arcade by the cloister garden, Father Henri found his colleague from Alvastra sitting in the same place where they had held their discussion earlier.

   Father Stéphan's face lit up at once when he caught sight of the unruly and sullen little Arn.

   "Aha!" he exclaimed. "Here we have . . . er, our jeune oblat. Enfin. . . not particularly filled with gratitude de Dieuat the moment, eh?"

   Father Henri shook his head in agreement with a smile and promptly lifted Arn onto the lap of his colleague, who easily warded off a bold fist from the little boy.

   "Hold him as long as you can, dear brother. I must have a little chat with Brother Lucien first," said Father Henri and left the garden to find his fellow monk in charge of medicinal matters.

   "There there, don't strug-gél," Father Stéphan hushed Arn in amusement.

   "It's struggle, not strug-gél!" Arn fumed, trying to get loose, but he soon discovered that he was trapped by strong arms and gave up.

   "So, if you think that my Nordic language sounds bad to your little ears, maybe we should speak something that suits me better," whispered Father Stéphan to him in Latin, without actually expecting an answer.

   "It probably suits both of us better since you can't speak our language, you old monk," replied Arn in the same language.

   Father Stéphan beamed, happily surprised.

   "In truth I believe that we're going to get along just fine, you and I and Father Henri, much better and faster than you think, young man," the monk whispered in Arn's ear as if conveying a great secret to him.

   "I don't want to sit like a slave poring over all those tedious old books all day long," Arn muttered, although less angry than a moment earlier.

   "And what would you rather do?" asked Father Stéphan.

   "I want to go home. I don't want to be your captive and slave," said Arn, no longer able to keep up his impudent front. He burst into tears again, but leaned against Father Stéphan's chest as the monk quietly stroked and patted his slender young back.

As so often was the case, Brother Lucien was correct with his first diagnosis. The sores on Sigrid's face had nothing to do with leprosy, and he made rapid progress with his treatment.

   First he had sent some of the lay brethren up to the guesthouse to scour it clean and seal and whitewash the walls, even though Sigrid protested against the improvements, believing that in her misery she didn't deserve either cleanliness or adornments. Brother Lucien had attempted to explain that it was not a matter of esthetics but of medicine, but they didn't seem to really understand each other on this topic.

   However, Sigrid's face was soon restored with precisely the remedies Brother Lucien had prescribed in the beginning: clean, sanctified water, sunshine, and fresh air. On the other hand, he hadn't any success with the sores, which spread from her hand and up her arm, causing a nasty swelling that was tinged blue. He had tried a number of preparations that were very strong, sometimes downright dangerous, but without success. In the end he realized that there could be only one cure for this toxicity in the blood. One sure sign was that he hadn't been able to allay her fever.

   But he didn't want to tell this to Sigrid herself; instead he explained to Father Henri what had to be done. They would have to cut away all the diseased flesh—take her arm from her. Otherwise the evil from the arm would soon spread to her heart. If it had been one of the brothers themselves, all they'd have to do would be to call on Brother Guilbert with his big axe, but they undoubtedly could not act in the same way toward Fru Sigrid, their benefactor.

   Father Henri agreed. He would try to present the matter as best he could to Fru Sigrid, although at the moment he had other things to tend to. Then Brother Lucien rebuked him, cautiously and probably for the first time ever. Because they did not have much time; it was a matter of life or death.

   And yet Father Henri postponed the difficult matter, because Fru Kristina was on her way to the cloister along with an entire retinue of armed men.

   When Kristina arrived at Varnhem she was riding at the vanguard of her retainers as if she were a male commander, and she was dressed in ceremonial garb. To display her nobility she wore a queen's crown on her head.

   Father Henri and five of his closest brothers met her outside the cloister gate, which they demonstratively had locked behind them.

   Kristina did not dismount, for she preferred to talk down to the monks; she now announced that one of the buildings had to be torn down, and promptly, namely Father Henri's scriptorium. A good portion of that particular building was apparently situated on the land that was rightfully hers.

   Kristina knew quite well where to deliver the lance blow. Her intention was to make Father Henri lose his patience once and for all, and preferably his composure as well. She now found that she had succeeded with the first, at least. Father Henri spent most of his time among the books in the scriptorium; these were his brightest hours in the murky barbarity of the North. It was the part of the cloister that more than any other was his own.

   He resolutely declared that he had no intention of tearing down the scriptorium.

   Kristina replied that if the building was not demolished within a week, she would return, not only with her retainers, but with thralls who under the whips of the retainers would do the work rapidly. Perhaps the thralls would be less careful than the brothers would be if they saw fit to carry out her orders themselves. The choice was theirs.

   Father Henri was now so angry that he could hardly control himself, and he told her that instead he intended to leave Varnhem. The journey would end with an audience with the Holy Father in Rome with the intention of excommunicating her, and her husband if he was an accomplice, if she dared to do the unthinkable and challenge God's servants on earth and His Holy Roman Church. Didn't she understand that she was about to bring eternal misfortune down upon both herself and Erik Jedvardsson?