Birth of the Kingdom
The Crusades Trilogy
Jan Guillou
Translated by Steven T. Murray
‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions’
Jacula Prudentum, 1651, no. 170
‘We who are strong are obliged to help the weak with their burdens, and should not think of ourselves. Each of us must think of his neighbour, of what is good and edifying.’
Romans 15:1-2
Table of Contents
THE FOLKUNG CLAN
Magnus Folkesson
Erika Joarsdotter, his wife and Arn’s stepmother
Sir Arn Magnusson
Cecilia Algotsdotter, betrothed and then wife of Arn
Magnus Månesköld, Arn and Cecilia’s son
Ingrid Ylva, his wife
Birger Magnusson, their son, Arn’s grandson, who becomes Birger jarl, King of Sverige, the new Sweden
Alde Arnsdotter, Arn and Cecilia’s daughter
Eskil Magnusson, Arn’s brother
Torgils, Eskil’s son
Birger Brosa, Arn’s uncle
Sune Folkesson
THE ERIK CLAN
Knut Eriksson, King of the Swedes and the Goths
Cecilia Blanca, his wife and close friend of Cecilia Rosa
Erik jarl, their son, later King Erik
Sverre, King of Norway
Harald Øysteinsson, leader of the Norwegian forces
THE SVERKER CLAN
King Sverker Karlsson
Helena Sverkersdotter, his daughter, who marries Sune Folkesson
Archbishop Petter/Petrus
Archbishop Absalon
Archbishop Valerius
Father Guillaume
Brother Guilbert
Brother Joseph d’Anjou
In the year of Grace 1192 just before the mass of Saint Eskil, when the nights turned white and the work of sowing the turnips would soon begin, a mighty storm came over Western Götaland. The storm lasted for three days and three nights, and it transformed the bright, promising season into autumn.
On the third night after the midnight mass, most of the monks at Varnhem cloister were still sleeping soundly, convinced that their prayers were resisting the powers of darkness and that the storm would soon die down. It was then that Brother Pietro out in the receptorium at first thought that he’d been wakened from his sleep by something in his imagination. He awoke and sat up in bed without knowing what he had heard. Outside the walls and the heavy oak door of the receptorium was only the howling of the storm and the lashing of the rain on the roof tiles and the leafy crowns of the tall ash trees.
Then he heard it again. It sounded like an iron fist pounding on the door.
In terror he tumbled out of bed, grabbed his rosary, and started muttering a prayer that he didn’t quite remember but that was supposed to ward off evil spirits. Then he went out to the vaulted entry and listened in the dark. Three heavy blows came again, and Brother Pietro could do nothing but shout through the oaken door for the stranger to make himself known. He shouted in Latin, because that language had the most power against the dark forces and because he was too groggy to say anything in the oddly singing vernacular that was spoken outside those walls.
‘Who comes this night to the Lord’s steps?’ he called, with his mouth close to the door’s lock.
‘A servant of the Lord with pure intentions and a worthy mission,’ replied the stranger in perfect Latin.
This calmed Brother Pietro’s fears, and he struggled with