Katarina was banished to Gudhem cloister, where she took the vows.
As far as silver was concerned in this matter, that had been the easiest to arrange. Eskil donated as much land as he thought necessary to Gudhem, and Katarina relinquished her property to the Folkung clan when she took her vows. That was the price for being allowed to live.
After this news was recounted, the rest of the journey was marked by gloom for a long while. Harald Øysteinsson sat alone in the stern of the boat with the helmsman; he felt that he ought not to get involved in the brothers’ conversation up in the bow. He could clearly see even from that distance that their faces were full of sorrow.
Situated below the old ting site at Askeberga, where the River Tidan made a sharp turn to the south, was the inn. Several boats resembling their own, long with flat bottoms but with heavier loads, had been partially drawn up onto the riverbank, and there was a great commotion among the oarsmen and the inn folk when the Folkung owner Herr Eskil arrived. Guests of lesser stature were thrown out of one longhouse, and women ran to sweep up. The man in charge of the inn, who was named Gurmund and was a freed thrall, brought ale for Herr Eskil.
Arn and Harald Øysteinsson took their bows and quivers, fetched straw from one of the barns, and made a target before they went off to practice. Harald joked that the one exercise they had been able to do during their year at sea demanded enemies at close hand, but that now once again, with God’s help, they could prepare themselves better. Arn replied curtly that practice was a duty, since it was blasphemous to believe that Our Lady would continue to help someonewho had been an idler. Only he who worked hard at his archery would deserve to shoot well.
Some of the thrall boys had crept after them to watch how the two men, neither of whom they knew, would handle a bow and arrow. But soon they came running back to the inn, breathing hard, to tell anyone who cared to listen that these archers must be the best of all. Some of the freedmen then furtively headed in the direction of the archers, and soon they saw with their own eyes that it was true. Both the Folkung and his retainer in the red Norwegian tunic handled the bow and arrow better than anyone they had ever seen.
When evening fell and the lords were about to eat supper, it soon became clear that the unknown warrior in the Folkung garb was Herr Eskil’s brother, and it wasn’t long before the rumour spread all around the Askeberga area. A man from the sagas had come back to Western Götaland. Surely the man in the Folkung mantle could be none other than Arn Magnusson, who was the subject of so many ballads. The matter was discussed back and forth in cookhouses and courtyards. But no one could be entirely sure.
Two of the innkeeper’s younger sons dashed thoughtlessly into the longhouse, stopped inside the door, and called to Arn that he should say his name. Such boldness could have cost them skin on their backs and on Gurmund’s as well. He was seated at the nobles’ table inside and got up in anger to chide the louts, at the same time offering apologies to his master Eskil.
But Arn stopped him. He went over to the boys himself, grabbed them in jest by the scruff of their necks, and took them out to the courtyard. There he knelt down on one knee, feigned a stern expression, and asked them to repeat their question if they dared.
‘Are you…Sir Arn Magnusson?’ gasped the bolder of the two, shutting his eyes as if he expected a box on the ear.
‘Yes, I am Arn Magnusson,’ said Arn, now dropping the stern expression. But the boys still looked a bit scared, their eyes flicking from the scars of war on his face to the sword which hung at his side, with the golden cross on both the scabbard and the hilt.
‘We want to enter your service!’ said the bolder one, when he finally dared believe that neither whip nor curses awaited them from the warrior.
Arn
As far as silver was concerned in this matter, that had been the easiest to arrange. Eskil donated as much land as he thought necessary to Gudhem, and Katarina relinquished her property to the Folkung clan when she took her vows. That was the price for being allowed to live.
After this news was recounted, the rest of the journey was marked by gloom for a long while. Harald Øysteinsson sat alone in the stern of the boat with the helmsman; he felt that he ought not to get involved in the brothers’ conversation up in the bow. He could clearly see even from that distance that their faces were full of sorrow.
Situated below the old ting site at Askeberga, where the River Tidan made a sharp turn to the south, was the inn. Several boats resembling their own, long with flat bottoms but with heavier loads, had been partially drawn up onto the riverbank, and there was a great commotion among the oarsmen and the inn folk when the Folkung owner Herr Eskil arrived. Guests of lesser stature were thrown out of one longhouse, and women ran to sweep up. The man in charge of the inn, who was named Gurmund and was a freed thrall, brought ale for Herr Eskil.
Arn and Harald Øysteinsson took their bows and quivers, fetched straw from one of the barns, and made a target before they went off to practice. Harald joked that the one exercise they had been able to do during their year at sea demanded enemies at close hand, but that now once again, with God’s help, they could prepare themselves better. Arn replied curtly that practice was a duty, since it was blasphemous to believe that Our Lady would continue to help someonewho had been an idler. Only he who worked hard at his archery would deserve to shoot well.
Some of the thrall boys had crept after them to watch how the two men, neither of whom they knew, would handle a bow and arrow. But soon they came running back to the inn, breathing hard, to tell anyone who cared to listen that these archers must be the best of all. Some of the freedmen then furtively headed in the direction of the archers, and soon they saw with their own eyes that it was true. Both the Folkung and his retainer in the red Norwegian tunic handled the bow and arrow better than anyone they had ever seen.
When evening fell and the lords were about to eat supper, it soon became clear that the unknown warrior in the Folkung garb was Herr Eskil’s brother, and it wasn’t long before the rumour spread all around the Askeberga area. A man from the sagas had come back to Western Götaland. Surely the man in the Folkung mantle could be none other than Arn Magnusson, who was the subject of so many ballads. The matter was discussed back and forth in cookhouses and courtyards. But no one could be entirely sure.
Two of the innkeeper’s younger sons dashed thoughtlessly into the longhouse, stopped inside the door, and called to Arn that he should say his name. Such boldness could have cost them skin on their backs and on Gurmund’s as well. He was seated at the nobles’ table inside and got up in anger to chide the louts, at the same time offering apologies to his master Eskil.
But Arn stopped him. He went over to the boys himself, grabbed them in jest by the scruff of their necks, and took them out to the courtyard. There he knelt down on one knee, feigned a stern expression, and asked them to repeat their question if they dared.
‘Are you…Sir Arn Magnusson?’ gasped the bolder of the two, shutting his eyes as if he expected a box on the ear.
‘Yes, I am Arn Magnusson,’ said Arn, now dropping the stern expression. But the boys still looked a bit scared, their eyes flicking from the scars of war on his face to the sword which hung at his side, with the golden cross on both the scabbard and the hilt.
‘We want to enter your service!’ said the bolder one, when he finally dared believe that neither whip nor curses awaited them from the warrior.
Arn
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