"I have made my decision," he said when he could sit still no longer facing the intolerable anticipation of what he would say. "Tomorrow at dawn at the place we here at the tingcall Three Roads Meet, I shall go against Emund fully armed as the law prescribes. May God be with me and may you all pray for me. But there is no other way, for none in our clan would choose the way of dishonor, and it is also true that none would follow a dishonored man."

   Eskil and Arn had been sitting at the back of the tent together, and none of the older men had paid any attention to the two half-men. Now that their father had spoken and in everyone's view had condemned himself to death, Eskil took a deep breath, looking as though he might burst into tears, but he composed himself at once. An excruciating silence followed when no one contradicted Magnus, which was the same as agreeing and thereby deciding to end his life. Then Arn mustered the courage that came of despair to say what was needed.

   "Forgive us if we, the sons of Magnus, also join in this matter," he began uncertainly. "But this affects us as much as everyone else . . . in my opinion at least. Isn't it true that we were also insulted along with our father Magnus when that Emund called us bitch puppies or whatever it was he said?"

   "Yes, that's true," replied Birger Brosa. "You and Eskil were just as insulted as your father Magnus. But it is his obligation to defend the honor of all of you."

   "But according to the law don't we have the same right as our father to defend our honor?" asked Arn with the simple innocence of a child, so that some of the older men had a hard time keeping from laughing despite the gravity of the occasion.

   "It would not be to Magnus's credit if instead of standing up for his honor like a man, he sent one of his half-grown sons to the slaughter," muttered Birger Brosa morosely and stood up at once to go outside and piss, leaving the others wordless and empty of all feeling.

   But after briefly hesitating Arn slunk out to follow Birger Brosa. He had to do some searching before he found him, since the winter darkness had fallen rapidly while they sat inside. He walked resolutely over to his uncle, who was just pulling up his hose, and spoke to him without hesitation and with great conviction.

   "I have to tell you something true and important, my dear uncle. And you must believe me, for now in this grave hour there is really no time for untrue words. The truth is that of the three of us who were insulted, I am the one who can best handle a sword. It's also true that I think I could easily vanquish that Emund, or you yourself, or any of our retainers. That's why you must arrange it so that I am the one who goes to combat and not my poor father."

   Birger Brosa was so taken aback by these words that he stood there holding up his hose as if he were still about to piss. The little he knew about Arn was what everyone joked about who'd had anything to do with a monastery, which even Emund Ulvbane must have heard since he had called Arn a nun. Yet now this God-fearing and very serious young man stood here telling him something that could not possibly be true, but his face bore no trace of prevarication or madness. Birger Brosa didn't know what to think. His doubt must have been obvious, for Arn made an impatient motion with his hands before an idea seemed to occur to him.

   "My dear uncle, you are a much larger man than I, almost the same as that Emund," Arn said eagerly, clearly filled with his idea. "Take my hand and stand foot to foot with me," he continued, reaching out his hand to Birger Brosa, who took it out of sheer astonishment and then was shocked by the strength of his grip. Arn adjusted their feet so that they stood at an angle to each other as in an ordinary arm-wrestling match.

   "So!" said Arn, suddenly cheerful. "Now try to knock me over with your strength that is greater than mine!"

   Birger Brosa made a halfhearted attempt that had no effect other than to make Arn laugh at him. Then he took a better grip, and the next moment he found himself pulled down into the mud and slush. Birger Brosa got up in surprise and grabbed Arn's strong hand again; once more he was dragged to the ground as if the boy could play with him at will. After the third attempt Arn didn't want to continue, but held up his palms for his uncle to stop.

   "Hear me now, my uncle," he said. "I can handle Emund or anyone else the same way, and now I will tell you why. During all my years at the monastery, I had practice every day, more than any man you know, in weapons games from a man who once was a Templar knight in the Holy Land. I swear on Our Lady and Saint Bernard, who are my two patron saints, that I am the one who best of all of us can defend myself with a sword. And you must know that such a man as I would not lie to anyone, especially to my kinsmen and least of all at such a grave moment."

   Birger Brosa now seemed to see Arn's conviction and truthfulness flowing like light between them. All at once he was convinced that what Arn said was actually true. And when he pondered more closely what it might mean, his face lit up and he looked at Arn with an almost happy expression as he embraced him. As the wise man Birger Brosa was in everything that had to do with the struggle for power, he now realized that the blackest hour for the Folkungs could soon be turned to white, regardless of whether Arn or Emund Ulvbane won the combat at the next day's dawning. Either Arn would win, or he would lose with greater honor than what Magnus could have mustered. But then Emund's victory would be reckoned worthless.

   Yet his decision aroused both doubt and discontent when Birger Brosa again entered the tent with the already grieving kinsmen and explained that Arn was the man who should fight Emund Ulvbane. This choice should be justified by proclaim ing that Arn was the one who had been most wronged, in that Emund had not merely called him a bitch puppy but also directed scorn at the house of God where Arn had been raised.

   Magnus objected with the greatest anguish. For at the same time he saw his life now saved, the life from which he had already begun to take his leave, he also saw that he would lose a son. And he worried that to many it would look bad if a man did not dare take up his own obligation but instead sent a less than full-grown son to the slaughter. He had a hard time taking seriously Arn's modest protestations that it was still wisest to send into single combat the one who could best handle a sword.

   Puzzled, Joar Jedvardsson now left the Folkungs to themselves for the night, along with the four retainers. They all looked quite bewildered when with downcast eyes they said farewell and God bless to young Arn, who still had down on his cheeks.

   When the Folkungs were left alone, Magnus suggested that they pray for as long as they could that night. Arn found this to be a good idea, but he perplexed them all when he began to pray for Emund Ulvbane's life, his sin, and his pride.