‘What is Purga…what you said?’ asked King Knut hopelessly.

‘Purgatory, the cleansing fire. There your sin will be burned away with white-hot irons, so it might be time to repent.’

‘Can a Templar knight give me absolution for my sins? You are a type of monk, aren’t you?’ asked the king with a sudden spark of hope in his eyes.

‘No,’ Arn said curtly. ‘When you confess for the last time and receive extreme unction from Archbishop Petrus, you will receive forgiveness for your sins. As glad as he will be about your death, it would surprise me if he didn’t show you all conceivable kindness at that moment.’

‘That Petter is nothing but a traitor; if I weren’t dying he would want to see me killed!’ snapped King Knut, coughing and drooling. ‘And if he’s in such a good mood at my deathbed he’ll refuse to give me absolution, and then I’ll lie here as powerless as a child and deceived as well. What won’t that cost me in Purgatory?’

‘Nothing,’ said Arn calmly. ‘Now think carefully about this: God is greater than everything else. He hears all and He sees all. He is with us now. Your state of mind is the important thing; if Archbishop Petrus fails you then he in turn will have to pay for it. But you must trust in God.’

‘I want to have a priest who will give me forgiveness for my sins. And I don’t trust that Petter,’ the king muttered.

‘Now you’re being as stubborn as a child, and that doesn’t become your dignity. If you believe that you can stay alive a few more days, then I’ll call Father Guillaume here from Varnhem. He can take care of the extreme unction, confession, and forgiveness of your sins. After all, you will be going to your eternal rest at Varnhem, and that will not happen without some silver coins with your father’s picture on them. If you wish, I will ride to fetch Father Guillaume, but then you must promise to stay alive for a few more days.’

‘I don’t dare promise,’ said the king.

‘Then we’re back to the only thing that can truly save your soul. You have to trust in God,’ said Arn. ‘This is your moment to turn to God the Father; you are a king on his deathbed, and He will listen to you. You don’t need to take a detour through the saints or His Mother. Trust in God, only in Him!’

King Knut lay silent for a while, pondering what Arn had said. To his astonishment he actually did find solace in his words. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands and tried to say a silent prayer directly to God Himself. Naturally he realized that this was like a drowning man grasping at the last straw, but it didn’t hurt to try. At first he felt nothing inside but his own thoughts, but after a while it was as though a warm flood of hope and solace filled him, as if God replied by briefly touching him with His Spirit.

‘I’m complaining too much about my situation!’ he said, suddenly opening his eyes and turning toward Arn. ‘I hereby consign my soul to God, and with that enough about me. Now to my sons! Do you swear that you are among those who will make Erik jarl the next king after the Dane?’

‘Yes, I am among them,’ said Arn. ‘If Birger Brosa didn’t tell you all this already, I will tell you what has been decided. We have an agreement with the one you call the Dane, Sverker Karlsson. He has no son. After him comes Erik, your eldest son. After Erik come his brothers, first Jon, then Joar, and then Knut. This must any Sverker swear before taking the crown. It’s not God Who gives him the crown, but we free men in the lands of the Goths and Svealand. If he swears the oath then the rest of us will swear him loyalty as long as he stands by his oath. That is how it will be.’

‘And is this a good solution or a bad one?’ asked the king through clenched teeth, overcome by intense pain. ‘I’m going to die, and you’re the only one who will speak honestly to me. Tell me the truth, dear Arn.’

‘If everyone stands by his oath all will be well,’ Arn replied. ‘Then Erik jarl will become king at about the same time he would have been crowned if you had lived as long a life as my father or Birger Brosa. The cost to us will be the humiliation of having to live under the red mantles for a time. What we gain is that we save the realm from a devastating war that we could win only with great difficulty, at a high price in dead warriors and burned buildings. And so this is a good solution.’

‘Will you be part of the royal council?’

‘No, Birger Brosa has sworn that I will never be allowed to be part of the council.’

‘But I thought you two had been reconciled.’

‘That we have. But I’m not suited to be a member of the Danes’ royal council.’

‘Why not? I myself missed your services in the council. No king in our land could have a better marshal than you.’

‘That’s just it,’ said Arn with a secretive smile. ‘Birger Brosa and I are indeed completely in agreement, and we have spoken more than once about the matter. If I sat in King Sverker’s council as his marshal, and also bound by my oath of fealty to him, I might do him more harm than good. Now Birger Brosa and I are pretending that our discord continues, and I am being kept at Forsvik. There I will continue to build the power which shall be that of the Eriks and Folkungs.’

King Knut thought carefully about what he had just heard, and found that it was precisely as wily as could be expected from Birger Brosa. Once more he felt a warm stream inside him, as if God were reminding him with a slight touch.

‘Will you swear to me and to Erik that you are his marshal and no one else’s?’ he asked after long contemplation.

‘Yes, but we have to be cautious with our words,’ said Arn. ‘Remember that I must first swear the oath of allegiance to the Dane as all the others do. But that oath applies only as long as he keeps his word. If he breaks it, there will be war. In such a war I will be Erik Knutsson’s marshal, that I swear, and I can swear that to both of you!’

As Arn said this he knew that he had promised nothing more than what was obvious. But since the dying Knut seemed to believe that there was great importance in such an oath, he had his son Erik summoned to the room. The king took both their hands, pressed them to his dying heart, and extracted from them a mutual vow of loyalty. Erik jarl had a hard time tolerating the stench from his father, and his eyes filled with tears from both sorrow and disgust as he swore the oath to Arn. For the first time Arn saw something he didn’t like in Erik jarl – his inability to keep a dignified demeanour at his father’s deathbed. But he swore obediently on his life, his sword, and his wisdom to do his utmost to save the kingdom’s crown for Erik jarl the moment that Sverker Karlsson did not honour his word to the tingof all Swedes and Goths and the royal council.

King Knut Eriksson, son of Saint Erik who would be the patron saint of the new kingdom for all eternity, died quietly at his ancestral estate of Eriksberg in the year of Grace 1196. He was buried at Varnhem cloister as the first of all Eriks. No great retinue followed him to his last repose, since he was a king who had lost power several years before his death. But he was given a distinguished resting place, next to the founder of the cloister and donor, Fru Sigrid, the mother of Arn and Eskil.

Many prayers of intercession were said at Varnhem for the peace of King Knut’s soul, since the royal gifts to the cloister had been considerable, and it was promised that in times to come this church would be the burial site of the Eriks as well as the Folkungs. Birger Brosa had declared that here the connection between the three crowns and the lion would last forever.

So in time the friends Knut Eriksson and Arn Magnusson would rest close to each other.

There were two harbours in Forsvik, one for the larger ships on Lake Vättern to the east and one for riverboats on the other side on the shore of Lake Viken. At both places there were now so many people in constant motion that it took about a day to find and catch the stowaways. Young stowaways in particular, boys with a knapsack on their back who had run away from home with big dreams, often heading for Forsvik. Rumours about all the wonders for youths seeking to become men had spread from farm to farm throughout the land. Many felt called, but few were chosen.