‘That’s impossible. We took a vow before Our Lady. What else can I do for you?’

‘Can you swear your loyalty?’ asked the king, as if changing the subject.

‘I already did that when we both were young. My word holds fast, even if yours does not,’ said Arn.

Then the king smiled for the first time during this argument, nodding in acknowledgment that Arn’s arrow could still strike home.

‘Have my uncle and my brother sworn you their loyalty?’ Arn asked, and the other three in the room all nodded.

Arn stood up without further ado, drew his sword, and fell to his knees before King Knut. He set the sword with the point on the stone floor, crossed himself, and grasped it with both hands.

‘I, Arn Magnusson, swear that as long as you are king of the Folkungs I shall be true to you, Knut Eriksson, in… auxilium et consilium,’ he said, hesitating only when he came to those last words in Latin. Then he stood up, slipped his sword back in its sheath, and went back to his seat and sat down.

‘What did you mean by those last foreign words?’ asked the king.

‘That which a knight must swear, I cannot say in our language, but it is no less worthy in church language,’ said Arn with a shrug. ‘ Auxiliumis one thing I swore to you, which means assistance…or support…or my sword, you might say. And consiliumis the other thing a knight promises his king. It means that I have sworn always to stand by you and offer true counsel, to the best of my ability.’

‘Good,’ said King Knut. ‘Then give me one piece of advice. Archbishop Petrus talks a great deal about how I must atone for my sin of having killed Karl Sverkersson. I don’t know how much of his talk is genuine faith in God and how much is merely his desire to vex me. Now he wants me to send a crusade to the Holy Land as atonement. You must have an opinion on this, having fought there for more than twenty years?’

‘Yes, I certainly do. Build a cloister, donate gold and forests, build a church, buy relics from Rome for the archbishop’s cathedral. Do any of these things, or in the worst case all of them, rather than mount a crusade. If you send Folkungs and Eriks to the Holy Land they will all be slaughtered like sheep and for no reason, other than to cause more grief.’

‘And you say that you are sure of this?’ asked the king. ‘Is the courage in our breast not sufficient, our faith not strong enough, our swords not good enough?’

‘No, they are not!’ said Arn.

A despondent silence fell over the council chamber.

While the worst of the noise was issuing from the council chamber in the east tower, Queen Blanca and Cecilia Rosa climbed up to the battlement so they would be free of prying eyes. But the two Cecilias had no difficulty understanding Birger Brosa’s fury. It was because Arn Magnusson was defying him. Arn insisted on honouring his vow, while Birger Brosa thought he should rescind the oath so that Cecilia Rosa could go to Riseberga convent, be promoted to abbess, and then repay the debts she owed.

That was what was going on inside the council chamber; it was clear as water.

They tried to listen but could only hear clearly when Birger Brosa was holding forth, as he did time after time, shouting with contempt about love.

Cecilia Rosa felt paralysed; she could hardly think. Arn was inside, less than an arrow-shot away. It was true and yet inconceivable. Her thoughts ran in circles. as if holding her captive.

But Queen Blanca was thinking more sharply. She knew that it was high time to make a decision. ‘Come!’ she said to Cecilia Rosa, taking her by the hand. ‘We’ll go downstairs, drink some white wine, and decide what to do. It’s no use standing here listening to the noise of the menfolk.’

‘Look!’ said Cecilia Rosa, pointing over the battlement as if she were only half awake. ‘Here comes the archbishop and his retinue.’

Up on the road from the north boat harbour they could see the archbishop’s cross flashing silver, carried by an outrider in the vanguard of the procession. Behind the outrider with the cross they could see the colours of many bishop’s capes, but also the colours of all the retainers, mostly in red mantles, since the archbishop was a Sverker, after all.

‘Yes,’ said Cecilia Blanca, ‘I saw them coming and suddenly I understood how we must arrange everything before the men even know what’s happening. Come on!’

She dragged Cecilia Rosa down one floor to the king’s chamber, called for wine, and shoved her friend onto a pile of pillows and cushions from Lübeck and France on one of the beds. They made themselves comfortable without saying a word. Cecilia Rosa still seemed more lost in a dream than awake.

‘Now you must pull yourself together, my friend, both of us must,’ said the queen resolutely. ‘We have to think, we have to make a decision, and above all we have to act.’

‘How can the jarl defy the will of Our Lady? I simply don’t understand it,’ Cecilia Rosa murmured.

‘That’s how it is with men,’ snorted the queen. ‘If they find that the plans of God and His Saints agree with their own, then everything is fine. If their own thoughts of power lead in a different direction, they probably think that God will come strolling along behind. That’s the way they are. But we don’t have much time now, and you have to think clearly!’

Cecilia Rosa took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll try, really I will, I promise. But you must understand that this is not easy for me. After all these years, at the very moment that I succumbed to doubt for the first time, Our Lady brought Arn back to me. What did She mean by that? Isn’t it strange?’

‘Yes, it’s more than strange,’ Cecilia Blanca was quick to admit. ‘When we were sitting out there next to the lily field, we were contemplating your unhappiness and my joy. You would have to give up your dream for my sake. I was sad but not surprised that you would accept your unhappiness for the sake of our friendship.’

‘You would have done the same for me,’ Cecilia Rosa murmured.

‘Wake up now, dear friend!’ the queen insisted. ‘It’s happening now, right now. Just as Our Lady showed us; now I must do the same for you. You shall not take the veil and the cross, you shall go to Arn Magnusson’s bridal bed, and the sooner the better!’

‘But what will we do when the men rage against it?’ Cecilia Rosa wondered hopelessly.

‘Where is your resolve? This isn’t like you. Pull yourself together, dearest Cecilia,’ said the queen impatiently. ‘Right now we must think and act; this is no time for dreaming. Do you remember back at Gudhem when we used confession as a weapon?’

‘Yes,’ said Cecilia Rosa. ‘Those arrows struck home better than we could have hoped.’

‘Exactly,’ said the queen, encouraged by the sight of Cecilia Rosa finally waking up. ‘And today we’re going to do the same thing. The archbishop will soon be sitting out there in his tent, hobnobbing with the people before the council meeting. He’s showing his love for the lowliest sheep in God’s flock, that hypocrite. And anyone at all can come and kiss the bishop’s ring and confess. That also applies to a queen and an yconoma from Riseberga…’

‘What sort of message are we going to send in our confession this time?’ Cecilia Rosa asked eagerly, her eyes glittering and with new colour in her cheeks.

‘I will say how anguished I am at the thought of sending my dearest friend into the convent merely for my own gain, for my children’s right of inheritance to the crown. And then it will be your turn—’

‘No, don’t say a word! Let me think first. All right, I’ll confess that I saw the miracle of Our Lady, when she listened to Arn’s and my prayers for more than twenty years and sent him home unharmed. And that his holy vow is now about to be fulfilled. In this way Our Lady is showing us how great love can be, how we should never give up hope…and how I feel anguish because they are asking me to fulfil earthly obligations by going to the convent instead of accepting the gift of Our Lady. All this is true. Do you think those words will suffice?’