Only now did Arn discover that he was bleeding in several places, and that he had a broken lance-tip sticking into his waist on the left side. He felt no pain but pulled out the lance and tossed it to the ground. Then he lowered his head for a moment to catch his breath. He calmly got down from his horse, went over to the dead Sverker and hacked off his head. Picking up a lance he slipped Sverker’s head and shield with the royal emblem onto it, before with some effort remounting his horse. Sir Sune fetched Arn’s shield and handed it to him. The Danes around Archbishop Valerius had stopped fighting, nor did Arn have any intention of continuing the battle with them.

With the remainder of his heavy Forsvikers he then rode slowly back to the battle itself, with Sverker’s head and shield raised up before him on the lance. He stopped a short distance from the fighting and waited until the first shouts of victorious intoxication mixed with cries of horror began to stream toward him. The battle stopped at once.

During the stillness and silence that descended on the battlefield, Harald Øysteinsson’s Norwegian archers were able to come closer, as did all the crossbowmen from the Folkung side who had not yet accomplished much. The light Forsviker cavalry which seemed to have suffered few losses quickly gathered into new battle groups of four or by squadron.

If the battle were now to continue, it would be just as bloody as the last time.

Then King Erik rode down from his hill, surrounded by Forsviker riders, and headed out to the middle of the battlefield. There he proclaimed in a loud voice that he would pardon all those who now surrendered.

It took only a few hours to reach an agreement. Some of Sverker’s kinsmen, those among his standard-bearers who were still alive, were given a royal letter of safe passage to take his body for burial to the Sverker clan’s church at Alvastra cloister. The Danish army was permitted to stay long enough to bury their dead before they returned home. It was late July, and the heat made it essential to take care of all such tasks quickly.

The victory was great but very costly. Among the Folkungs who could not hold themselves back from attacking too early, almost all were dead, and half of them had fallen to arrows that came from their own side. Many Folkungs died at Gestilren, including Magnus Månesköld and Folke jarl. Only half of the Swedes who had come to the battle returned home.

But King Erik’s realm was saved, and he decided that the new kingdom’s emblem for all time and eternity would be the three Erik crowns and the Folkung lion.

Vreta cloister had been built on a hill out on the plain of Eastern Götaland, with an unobstructed view in all directions. Everyone at the cloister, including Abbess Cecilia Blanca, who was King Sverker’s sister, the nuns, the lay sisters, the novices, and the twenty Sverker retainers who were sent as protection, knew that the war would be decided soon. More than one of the cloister’s residents sought a reason to go up in the bell tower or onto the walls to gaze out over the wide plain where the grain which would soon be ripe was waving as far as the eye could see. Helena Sverkersdotter was the most anxious of them all, and she was the one who saw them first.

In the distance a group of riders was approaching with the blue mantles fluttering behind them like sails. There were sixteen men and they rode faster than anyone was used to seeing, despite coming from far away. For Vreta was truly no Folkung region.

The twenty Sverker retainers did what they had sworn to do, riding in full armour toward the sixteen Folkungs, and they were slain to the last man.

When the brief battle was over the Folkungs walked their horses toward the cloister, where all the gates had been closed and where many terrified eyes watched them from the walls.

A small side door was opened and out ran the maiden Helena towards the foremost of the Folkungs, whose horse stood a few paces in front of the others. Sir Sune was bleeding from several wounds, because he had come straight from Gestilren. But he felt absolutely no pain.

When the maiden Helena, gasping and stumbling, reached Sir Sune, he unfurled a blue mantle to wrap around her.

Then he lifted her up in the saddle before him and all the Folkungs rode off without haste, for it was a long way to Sir Sune’s fortress of Älgarås.

There she bore him four daughters, and the song of Sune and Helena and the cloister abduction at Vreta lived on forever.

Arn Magnusson’s wound in the side which he had received from the lance of an unknown warrior was the death of him. If his physician friends Ibrahim and Yussuf had still been at Forsvik, where he was taken, he might have lived.

He died slowly, and Cecilia sat with him during the days and nights as his life ebbed away. Alde sat at his bedside almost as often.

What troubled him about death was not the pain, because he’d had much worse pain from other wounds. But he said that he would miss all the days of peace and quiet that now awaited everyone. He could have sat under Cecilia’s apple trees and among her red and white roses with her hand in his and watched Alde find her happiness, which she herself would be allowed to determine.

No Swedish judge’s son would be chosen for her unless she wanted him. On that her mother and father were agreed without even needing to discuss the matter, since they were both unusual people who believed strongly in love.

Young Birger Magnusson came to say farewell to his grandfather who had taught him everything about war and power. His face was red with weeping at losing within such a short time both his father and grandfather, but there was more talk about the future than about sorrow. Arn made Birger promise never to rule the land from such a remote location as Näs, but to build a new city where Lake Mälaren ran out into the Eastern Sea. That would require most of all the support of the Swedes, and if no one else offered to help, then they could simply call the new kingdom Svea Rige, or Sweden.

Birger swore to do as his grandfather willed, and on his deathbed Arn handed him his sword and told him its secret and what the foreign symbols meant.

A thousand people followed the esteemed marshal to his grave at Varnhem. Only one of them had the right to wear a sword inside the church at the funeral mass, and that was the young Birger Magnusson. For his sword had been blessed, and it was the sword of a Templar knight.

In the cloister church at Varnhem, Birger swore before God to live as he had been taught by his beloved grandfather. He would build the new city and call the kingdom of the three lands by one name: Sverige.

History remembers him by the name of Birger jarl.

About the Author

BIRTH OF THE KINGDOM

Jan Guillou was born in Sweden in January 1944. He made his name as a journalist and rose to fame when he exposed a secret intelligence organization, was convicted of espionage and spent 10 months in prison, 5 of which were spent in solitary confinement. He is now a bestselling novelist and writes regularly for Sweden’s leading tabloid, commenting on current affairs.

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THE ROAD TO JERUSALEM

THE TEMPLAR KNIGHT

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.