"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.

   So everyone was pleased with the arrangement. Except for Gunvor, who wept bitterly for a whole week before she was forced to say yes to the dean and utter the vows that would soon be honored so that the marriage could be consummated. She had importuned her father Tyrgils to let her be quit of this abominable man and instead be allowed to marry a different Gunnar who was the third son at the neighboring farm of Långavreten. She and the youth had spoken of the matter, and both were in agreement that their betrothal should take place.

   But her father Tyrgils had flown into a rage and explained that he could ill afford such an arrangement. Långavreten was a farm as large as his own, and he would thus have to pay an exorbitant dowry if the neighbors were to unite their families in a wedding ale. Should he fail to provide a substantial dowry he would not appear to be a man of honor. There was no solution to this dilemma, and Gunvor's entreaties had not helped in the least. Her father had sought to console her only once, with assurances that the whims of young maidens were fleeting, and this one too would pass. As long as she got her first children to blow their noses, it would all be forgotten.

   Now she sat there in her bridal gown while the men sitting at the wedding tables got drunker and drunker. She felt as if she were being stabbed with needles every time she heard a joke or laughter about the wedding night, which all wanted to witness. When she saw her slobbering and drunken husband being slapped on the back by men making gestures that meant a cock as big as a horse's, her blood ran both hot and cold. She prayed to the Holy Virgin to call her home at once. She sought the grace to fall dead on the spot without having to commit the sin of suicide. It was the only way to save her from this dreadful fate. But in her heart she understood quite well that the Mother of God would never grant such a selfish request and that all hope was now gone. She would soon be irretrievably violated by that drooling old man and unable to do anything except obediently spread her legs the way the older women had taught her.

   But as the afternoon sun was setting outside, inexorably heading toward evening, she suddenly heard the voice of the Mother of God strong and clear inside her. With a wild shriek Gunvor threw herself on top of the table and with one long, nimble bound she was over it and on her way out the door. She lifted her skirts and ran off as fast as she could.

   Inside at the wedding ale it took a while before the drunken men realized what had happened; for various reasons most of them had not seen the bride run out. But then they collected themselves and on unsteady legs they initiated the chase for the runaway bride while someone—no one ever found out who it was—yelled, "Bride-robber, bride-robber, bride-robber!"