Katarina had taken the liberty of pouring ale for Arn herself, which was polite and something she should have done from the start, since she sat in the mistress's place and Arn in that of the guest of honor. At first she had found him much too uncertain and humble. Now she found his stature more than impressive.

   Soon she had changed places with her father in the high seat so that she was sitting next to Arn, close enough that he was aware of her body when she spoke to him, which she did more and more eagerly, showing how clever she found everything that Arn said. Her hands touched his now and then, as if accidentally.

   Arn was even more enlivened by this, and drank more ale every time it was set before him. He was pleased that Katarina, who had seemed to look at him with such cold and scornful eyes when he first entered the hall, now beamed and smiled at him with such warmth that he felt the heat touch his own skin and rise up inside himself.

   If Algot Pålsson had handled his position as lord of the manor with greater chivalry, he would have rebuked his daughter for this flirtatious behavior. But he decided that there was a considerable difference when such unsuitable behavior for a young woman was directed toward a proud but poor clan kinsman such as Tord Geirsson, instead of toward a young nobleman from Arnäs. So he looked through his fingers at such things when he noticed what good fathers cannot avoid discovering and usually choose to reprove.

   Arn's head was soon spinning from all the ale, and almost too late he noticed that he had to vomit. He made his way quickly out of the hall so as not to defile the place where people ate. When the cold air struck him in the face outside, he bent over to empty his stomach of what seemed like half a tough deer and a good cask of ale. He bitterly regretted his actions but could not think of praying before he was done.

   Afterward he wiped his mouth carefully and took deep breaths of the cold air, admonishing himself about how foolish he looked no matter what he tried. Then he went inside to say good night without eating any more, wishing everyone God's peace, and thanking them for all the generous food. Then he staggered on stiff but resolute legs out of the hall, into the courtyard, and over to the spring which now lay shrouded in darkness and drizzling rain. He splashed cold water on his face, chastised himself loudly in a slurred voice, and fumbled his way over to the guesthouse. He found his bed in the dark and fell forward like a clubbed ox.

   When night came to the longhouse and only snoring was heard, Katarina cautiously crept off into the night. Algot Pålsson, who usually slept poorly after big ale feasts, heard her sneak off and understood full well where she was heading. As a good father he should have prevented her from such antics and chastised her roundly.

   As a good father, he consoled himself, he could also refrain from doing so; if nothing else, in hopes of having a daughter at Arnäs.

Chapter 9

For anyone who did not know, it might look as though the Folkungs were now going to set off to war from Arnäs. Even for those who knew everything, this was conceivable.

   A great host of soldiers had crowded into the castle courtyard, and between the stone walls there were echoes of the horses' iron shoes and snorting, the rattling of weapons, and impatient voices. The sun was on its way up and it was going to be a cold day, but without snow and with good road conditions. Two heavily loaded carts were dragged on ironclad oak wheels whining and creaking out through the gate to make room for all the horsemen. They were waiting for the headmen of the clan who were saying prayers in the high tower room, and some joked that they could well be lengthy prayers up there if the young monk was in charge. As if to keep warm or burn off some of their impatience, four of the Arnäs retainers began fighting one another with sword and shield, while terrified thralls had to hold their restless stallions and kinsmen outside shouted merrily and offered good advice.

   It was indeed Arn who had led the prayers with his father and his uncle Birger Brosa and Eskil, for they truly needed the protection of God and the Saint before this journey, which might end well but also might end with the ravages of war sweeping across all of Western Götaland.

   When Arn came out into the castle courtyard and saw the four retainers hacking away at one another with swords, he stopped short. He stood speechless in amazement when he discovered that these men, who were supposed to be his father's finest fighters and armed guard, didn't know how to handle a sword. He never would have imagined anything like this. Although they were full-grown men and heavily clad in knee-length chain mail and tunics bearing the colors of the Folkungs, they looked like little boys who barely knew a thing about using sword and shield.

   Magnus, who saw his son's sheepish stare and thought that Arn might have been frightened by these wild games, placed his hand calmly on Arn's shoulder and consoled him by saying that he had no cause to be afraid of such men as long as they were in the family's pay. But they were huge giants, which was good for Arnäs.

   Then for the first time in a long while Arn looked as if he were slow to comprehend. But then a light apparently went on for him, and he smiled uncertainly at his father's consoling words, assuring him that he hadn't been frightened of the fighting at all. He said he felt safe at seeing that they bore the colors of the Folkungs like himself. He didn't want to hurt his father by saying what he thought of the ability of these men to wield a sword. For by now he had learned that sometimes it was wise out in the base world not to speak the truth.

   There was more trouble when Magnus discovered that Arn had heedlessly fastened the sword he'd received from the monks at his side. That sword would only arouse ridicule, so he went straight to the armory and fetched a good, beautiful Norwegian sword to offer Arn instead. But then Arn turned stubborn, the same way he did about wanting to ride his skinny monk horse instead of a manly Nordic stallion.

   Magnus tried to explain that the Folkungs now had to ride with a great force to put fear into the enemy and pacify them. Even Arn who was clad in the Folkung colors had to do his share so that he did not entice ridicule. And it would be ridiculous if a son so close to the headman of the clan carried a sword like a woman's and rode a horse that was good for nothing.

   Arn restrained himself for a good long while before replying. But then he suggested politely that he might consider riding one of the sluggish black stallions, but that he would rather not carry a sword at all than relinquish his own. And faced with this dilemma Magnus relented, not entirely pleased yet relieved at being quit of the most mortifying spectacle of his son on a horse that would arouse ridicule.