Chapter 7

Dean Torkel was a practical man and scrupulous with money, especially his own. His tenant farmer Gunnar of Redeberga had now departed this life most inopportunely in the prime of his life, and without bringing any future farmers into the world. His wedding had also been interrupted in the most distressful way.

   After Dean Torkel had recovered from the wondrous aspect of this event—the fact that he had been granted the opportunity to witness a miracle of the Lord with his own eyes—he soon began to ponder the more earthly results of what had happened. He needed a new, industrious tenant farmer for Redeberga; that was the most pressing problem.

   Because he was the father confessor of Gunvor, the betrothed and very nearly married young bride, he hadn't been able to avoid forming certain basic notions from what he heard in her confession. She had most assuredly wished that life should leave both herself and her intended husband, for which he imposed only a week of mild penance. But she had also confessed that her sinful wishes were due to a strong liking for another young man whose name was also Gunnar.

   This Gunnar of Långavreten, as Dean Torkel soon discovered, was his father's third son. Normally he would not be allowed to marry at all, since that would mean dividing up the Långavreten estate into three plots, each of which would be too small to work profitably. But Gunnar was a healthy young man whose heart was set on working the land rather than moving away to become a retainer for some lord.

   Dean Torkel soon summoned the young Gunnar, heard his confession, and then quickly devised a way in which everything could be arranged. The young man was apparently pining for Gunvor as much as she was for him.

   It could all work out for the best if the young couple became Dean Torkel's new tenant farmers at Redeberga. Tyrgils of Torbjörntorp, Gunvor's father, may have envisioned a better match for his daughter than as the wife of a third son. But as the situation now stood, she wouldn't be easy to marry off, even as fair as she was, because the story of her terrible bridal ale had quickly traveled throughout Western Götaland. The dean himself had played a significant part in spreading the story, since he was eager to have his account of the miracle mentioned in many sermons. So for the freeholder Tyrgils the safest bet was to marry off his Gunvor as soon as the first opportunity arose.

   And for young Gunnar's father, Lars Kopper of Långavreten, it was not a bad idea at all to marry off his third son, and to someone the boy happened to prefer. Both fathers would benefit from the dowry and morning gift in that way. And besides, the young couple would probably not leave their fathers any peace when they realized the opportunity that had now come like manna from heaven.

   Dean Torkel had planted the first seed in a sincerely restorative conversation with Gunvor; then he had done the same with Gunnar; and after that it was simple to call in the two fathers, and the matter was soon settled. The betrothal ale could be arranged at once.

   At Michaelmas, when the harvest respite began and the fences around the fields no longer needed to be maintained, the betrothal ale was held at Redeberga with the dean himself attending to confirm the vows between Gunvor and Gunnar. He spoke to them at a moment in the festivities when the guests were still sober enough to listen to what a man of God might say, reminding them to honor the miracle of the Lord that had finally, against all earthly rhyme or reason, brought them together.

   For Gunvor this was the happiest day of her life. What did it matter that she would live her life in somewhat lesser circumstances than those she was born to? Here she sat in the wicker betrothal chair with her true Gunnar, whom she thought she had lost forever. From the depths of despair she had risen like a lark to heavenly bliss.

   After the betrothal ale had gone on for several hours they went out in the courtyard for a while to watch the sunset. They held hands, feeling both trepidation and happiness at the thought that they would now live together, to grow old and die on this farm. The somewhat difficult subject that Gunvor now wanted to discuss was met with no objections from her betrothed, and that eased her mind at once. For she was eternally grateful to the Holy Virgin for saving her from the jaws of misfortune at the last moment. Indeed, she would never forget to mention this in her prayers. So she wanted to give the two sorrel horses they had received as a betrothal gift to the cloister at Varnhem. They would make a journey there to convey their thanks to the young monk who had saved their happiness at the risk of his own life.

   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.