“For we all know,” interposed Birger Brosa quietly, “what misery it could mean for the Cecilias if the betrothed are not kept scrupulously apart until the bridal ale. And no matter how much it might please you, Rikissa, to be allowed to hold boththe Cecilias in the nurture and admonition of the Lord for twenty years, our king would probably be less glad of it.”
Birger Brosa smiled as always, but there was poison in his words. Mother Rikissa was a contentious woman and now her eyes were flashing fire. The king intervened quickly before more damage wrought by harsh words could be done.
“We believe that you can sleep peacefully with regard to this matter, Rikissa,” he said. “For your archbishop has given his blessing for what we have now decreed and arranged. N’est-ce pas, mon cher Stéphan?”
“ Comment?Oh… naturellement…uh, ma chère Mère Rikissa…it is just as His Majesty has said, a small matter, a mere trifle…”
The archbishop dug into his roast lamb once again, the third serving that had been brought in to him, and then he raised his wine glass and seemed to be inspecting it as if everything was settled. Mother Rikissa turned without a word and strode off, her heels clacking on the oaken floor as she headed toward the door.
With that the king and his men were rid of the person who by her presence most hampered their speech—a desire for candor that soon began to make itself felt just as implacably as the need to relieve themselves outside in the pine boughs. It was a hindrance to have the abbess at their feast, no two ways about it.
But it was not much better with two maidens whose young ears would probably be badly singed by the long talks that the night still promised.
The king explained that they had arranged beds for the Cecilias in a chamber on the upper floor, and that a guard would be placed outside their door all night so that no malicious tongues could do harm. For the Cecilias this leave-taking was just as important as it was for the men, because they had only one last night together to say everything that they might otherwise long regret not having said. They withdrew in a courtly manner, although Birger Brosa cleared his throat and stopped them on their way, pointing at his mantle. Cecilia Rosa flushed and took off the mantle. When Birger Brosa turned his back in amusement, she placed the jarl’s mantle adorned with the Folkung lion over the shoulders where it belonged.
Soon the two Cecilias climbed into bed upstairs among the linens and thick pelts so that they were able to sleep in only their shifts and still find the night unusually warm and pleasant. Affixed to one of the log walls were tallow candles that would burn much longer than ordinary wax ones.
They lay for a while side by side, staring at the ceiling and holding hands. On a bench next to the bed lay the queen’s mantle, a majestic blue with three glinting crowns of gold reminding of all the wondrous things that had happened on this day. For a while they were so absorbed in this thought that neither of them spoke.
But the night was still young, and from downstairs came noise and laughter from the now female-free company. The men could concentrate on enjoying a good feast with liveliness and vigor, an honor demanded when dining with the king.
“I wonder if the archbishop is started on his fourth helping of roast lamb by now,” Cecilia Blanca giggled. “And I wonder if he’s as simple-minded as he seems. Did you see the way he brushed aside Mother Rikissa as if a fly had got into his wine glass?”
“That’s exactly why he’s not the simpleton he makes himself out to be,” replied Cecilia Rosa. “He couldn’t feign obedience to the king’s slightest whim. Nor could he feign that he thought it was important to decide for the king and against Mother Rikissa, so he pretended there was a fly in his wine glass, and that was that. Besides, Arn always spoke well of Archbishop Stéphan, even though he sentenced both of us to such a harsh punishment.”
“You’re far too good and you think too well of people, my dearest of friends,” Cecilia Blanca said with a sigh.
“What do you mean, dearest Blanca?”
“You have to think more like a man, Rosa, you have to learn to think as they do—the way all men think whether they bear the crown of a jarl or carry a bishop’s staff. It was not at all a fair sentence that you and Arn were given. As Birger Brosa said so clearly, many have committed the same sin without being punished at all. You were both judged too harshly, that’s clear as water, don’t you realize that?”
“No, I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”
“Rikissa. There you have the malevolent soul behind the entire matter. I was at Gudhem when your sister Katarina, who is probably no longer so dear to you, urged Rikissa to begin spinning her web. Arn, your beloved as you say, was Knut Eriksson’s friend and a Folkung. That was the relationship that Rikissa was intent on destroying; she wanted to harm the king’s friend and sow dissension. And Arn was a swordsman who could vanquish all others; many stories were told about him. That was a skill that the archbishop was intent on using.”
“But what would the archbishop and Father Henri want with another swordsman?”
“My dear beloved friend!” Cecilia Blanca burst out impatiently. “Don’t make yourself the stupid goose that Fru Helena talked about. Bishops and other prelates are constantly talking about how we must send men to the war in the Holy Land, as if we didn’t have enough to do with our own wars, and how anyone who takes up the Cross will enter Paradise. Yet they have had scant success with such speech. Do you know anyone who took the Cross and went there voluntarily? No, me neither. But they could send Arn, and they surely said many prayers of thanksgiving afterward. The truth is sometimes hard and cold. If Arn Magnusson hadn’t gained a saga-like reputation after the duel at Axevalla, had he been a man like all the others with sword and lance, you would have received a sentence of two years, not twenty.”
“You’re starting to think like a queen. Is this the talent you wish to practice?” asked Cecilia Rosa after a moment. She seemed deeply affected by her friend’s claim that the sword was the reason for the harsh judgments levied against Arn and herself.
“Yes, I am trying to learn to think like a queen. Of the two of us, I’m probably the one most suited to it. You are much too good, my dear Rosa.”
“Is that how you talked them into bringing me over here to this feast, because you were thinking like a queen? By the way, Mother Rikissa looked like she was about to burst with hatred when she came to get me.”
“She probably could have, that hag; she has to learn that she is certainly not the will of God. No, I tried first with normal cunning and caresses. But Knut did not seem to be very taken by my arts. He went and asked his jarl, so there I was disappointed. I have a long way to go to be treated as a queen.”
“So it was Birger Brosa then who decided that I should be invited?”
“He and no other. In him you have a supporter whom you must tend well. When he went over and draped the Folkung mantle around you, it was not meant merely to protect you from the cold.”
They fell silent because the salvos of laughter were now thundering up through the floor planks, and because they felt somewhat embarrassed that their conversation had taken such a somber turn. It felt as if the queen’s mantle, lying in the darkness close to them, had forced them to become something other than simply the dearest of friends. And even though the hour was not yet late, the night would end as all nights did, even nights spent in the carcer. And with that they would be separated for a very long time, perhaps even forever. Surely there was something else to talk about besides the struggle for power.
“Don’t you think he’s a handsome man? Does he look the same as you remember him?” Cecilia Rosa asked at last.