‘Julita,’ said the king. ‘It should be in Svealand where the voice of God is heard least strongly, and that would probably satisfy our bishops the most.’

‘Then Julita it shall be, and perhaps we will finally have a moment of peace from the talk of a crusade,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘But this is our decision for the present. For the future there is another and bigger question. If a Saracen army could defeat us so easily, could a Frankish army do the same? Or an English or Saxon one?’

‘Or a Danish one,’ said Arn. ‘If we encountered any of these armies on their home turf. But our land lies at the extreme end of the earth, and it would be no simple task to bring a large army all the way here. The Saracens will never come this far, nor will the Franks or the English or the Normans. But it’s less certain with the Saxons and Danes.’

‘We should reconsider,’ said Birger Brosa, with a look at King Knut, who nodded in agreement. ‘Times are changing out in the world; we have learned as much when it comes to trade, which has served us well. But if we are to survive and flourish as a kingdom in this new age—’

‘Then we have plenty of new things to learn!’ the king completed his thought.

‘Arn,’ the king went on earnestly, ‘my childhood friend, you who once helped me to gain the crown. Will you take a seat on our council? Will you be our marshal?’

Arn stood up and bowed to the king and then to the jarl, as a sign that he acquiesced at once, as he had sworn to do. Then Birger Brosa went over and embraced him, pounding him hard on the back.

‘It’s a blessing that you have come back to us, Arn, my dear nephew. I’m a man who seldom explains himself or makes excuses. So this is not easy for me.’

‘Yes,’ said Arn, ‘you surprised me. That wasn’t the way I remembered the wisest man of all in our clan, the one from whom we all tried to learn.’

‘All the better that there were few witnesses today,’ Birger Brosa said with a smile, ‘and that they were my closest kinsmen next to my own sons and my friend the king. Otherwise my reputation would have suffered. As far as Cecilia Algotsdotter is concerned…’

He paused, trying to tempt Arn to object, but Arn waited him out in silence.

‘As far as Cecilia is concerned, I have an idea that is better than the one I presented earlier. Meet with her, speak with her, sin with her if you are so inclined. But take some time, test your love and let her do the same. Then we’ll speak about the matter again, but not for a long while. Will you accept this suggestion of mine?’

Arn bowed anew to his uncle and the king, and his face revealed neither pain nor impatience.

‘Good!’ said the king. ‘At the council meeting tomorrow we shall not speak of the abbess at Riseberga, as if we had entirely forgotten that matter. Instead we’ll stuff the new cloister at Julita in the bishops’ mouths and keep them quiet with that. We are glad that the storm is over, Arn. And we are happy to see you on the council as our new marshal. So, let me have a word in private with my jarl, who needs to hear some admonishments from his king. Without witnesses.’

Arn and Eskil rose and bowed to the king and the jarl and then went out into the dark staircase of the tower.

Down in the courtyard tables and tents had been set up, and ale and wine were being poured. Eskil took Arn by the arm and steered him with firm steps to one of the tents, while Arn sighed and muttered about this constant drinking, although his displeasure was obviously feigned and only made Eskil smile.

‘It’s good that you’re still able to joke after a storm like that,’ Eskil said. ‘And as for the ale, you might change your tune now, because here at Näs we serve the excellent ale from Lübeck.’

As they approached one of the ale tents, everyone whispered and made way as before the bow wave of a boat. Eskil didn’t seem to notice.

When Arn tasted the Saxon ale he agreed at once that it was far better than any he had managed to force down before. It was darker, foamy, and tasted more strongly of hops than of juniper berries. Eskil warned him that it would also go to his head faster, so he ought to be wary of growing unruly. That might cause him to bluster and draw his sword. They laughed and hugged each other in relief that the storm actually seemed to have passed.

They discussed what could have been the reason for Birger Brosa’s unexpected loss of control. Eskil thought there were simply too many conflicting emotions all at once. Certainly the jarl was truly happy to see Arn return home alive. At the same time he had spent so many years considering how Cecilia Rosa – and Eskil explained how Cecilia had gotten that name – might serve to counter-balance the insidious Mother Rikissa’s lies about the queen’s cloister vows. The combination of joy and disappointment was not a good drink; it was like mixing ale and wine in the same goblet.

Arn said that a battle half won was better than utter defeat. They were interrupted when one of the archbishop’s chaplains made his way over to them.

The chaplain had a smug expression on his face, sticking his nose in the air in such a way that Eskil and Arn couldn’t help from smirking at each other. Then the chaplain announced his business in Latin: His Eminence the Archbishop would like to speak with Sir Arnus Magnusonius at once.

Arn smiled at the amusing distortion of his name. He replied in the same language that if His Eminence summoned him, he would promptly appear, but for urgent reasons he first had to make a detour via his saddlebags. He took the chaplain politely by the arm and walked toward the royal stables.

After he had fetched his letter of release from the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, which he thought might be the subject of the archbishop’s cunning move, he muttered something about wondering why he had been summoned. But the chaplain didn’t understand what he meant, since he actually wasn’t as familiar with Church language in daily speech as he had pretended to be with his nose in the air back at the ale tent.

Arn had to wait a moment outside the archbishop’s tent while some business was finished inside. When a man with a dark expression and a Sverker mantle emerged, Arn was called in by another chaplain.

Inside, Archbishop Petrus loomed, seated on a throne with high arms and a carved cross. Stuck into the ground before him stood the archbishop’s cross in gold with its silver rays. Another bishop was sitting next to him.

Arn stepped forward at once, knelt down on one knee, and kissed the archbishop’s ring. Then he waited for his blessing before he stood up. He bowed to the other bishop.

With a smile the archbishop leaned toward his fellow cleric and said out loud in Latin, certain as usual that the men of the Church were alone in their understanding of it, that this could be a conversation as amusing as spiritually uplifting.

‘Love is wonderful,’ said the other bishop in jest. ‘Especially when it can carry out the business of the Church, holding the Holy Virgin by the hand!’

The two worthies both had a good laugh at this jest. They paid no attention to Arn, as if they hadn’t even noticed him yet.

Arn had seen this sort of behaviour all too often in men of power to be bothered by it. But he was puzzled that these two, who spoke a Latin full of errors and with a strange Nordic sound to it, would take it for granted that he didn’t understand what they said. He had to decide quickly how to handle this, with cunning or with honesty. If he heard too much it might be too late. He crossed himself and pondered what to do. But when the archbishop leaned toward his colleague again with a smile, as if he had thought of yet another jest, Arn cleared his throat and said a few words that were mostly intended as a warning.

‘Both Your Eminences must excuse me if I interrupt your surely most interesting discourse,’ he said, at once gaining their astonished attention. ‘But it is truly balsam to the mind to hear once again a language which I master and in which each word possesses clear import.’