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Authors: Jan Guillou
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take responsibility for the rest.
“Sir Erik, you speak with such power and determination that I do not for a moment doubt that you could become king of us all,” Birger began in a loud voice so that everyone would hear that it was he, the younger brother below the high seat, and not Magnus who was speaking. Then he lowered his voice.
“Allow me to answer you first. I speak for the entire Bjalbo lineage, since I have been entrusted to do so. My brother Magnus will have his say after me, but you must know that our two clans are connected by many blood ties and can hardly go against each other. No doubt you can sense the trust. We are not your enemies, but neither are we your friends in this particular matter at this particular time. If you wish to be king, you will have to start at a different end of the country from ours. You must get the Swedes to elect you as king at Mora Stones. If you succeed in this task, then half will already be won. However, if you try to become king in Western Gotaland against the will of the Eastern Goths, you will only bring war down upon yourself, and no one knows who would emerge the victor from that calamity. The same will happen if you go the other way. So you must win over the Swedes first. And when you have done that, then you can undoubtedly count on our support. Tell me, brother Magnus, am I not right?”
Magnus realized that everyone was staring at him. The silence was much like the moment when the bow is drawn taut and the arrow will momentarily be loosed at its target. All he could manage was to nod slowly and pensively as if he were a wise old man. A murmur of discontent arose from Erik Jedvardsson’s men at the far end of the hall.
“You, Birger, are nothing but a young rascal,” Erik Jedvardsson yelled, red in the face. “I could slay you here and now for your impudent words. Who are you to teach a full-grown warrior his course of action?”
Erik Jedvardsson made a move toward the place where he thought his sword should be, as if he had forgotten that it was no longer the custom for men to attend a feast with their swords at their sides. All the weapons were in the stable out in the connecting building with the spit-turners.
Birger was not about to be cowed by the feigned move toward the empty scabbard, and his smile did not flinch even for an instant when he replied.
“You may well think that I am a rascal, Erik Jedvardsson,” he began calmly, but now in a somewhat louder voice so that no one in the hall could avoid hearing his words. “This does not please me, but it still has nothing to do with the larger matter, for if you draw your sword on me, at the same moment you will draw misfortune upon yourself no matter how things may turn out.”
“You scamp, do you think for a moment that you could stand against me with a sword?” shrieked Erik Jedvardsson, even more red in the face, turning so that everyone in the hall now feared the worst. A female thrall rushed up and carried off the three small boys sitting next to Birger.
Birger rose slowly, but his smile did not falter as he replied.
“Now I really must beg you as our guest to stop and think, Erik Jedvardsson,” he said. “If you and I were to exchange sword blows, it would go badly for you. If you die here and now, you will never be king. If you kill me, the rest of your life will be one long journey with the whole Bjalbo clan chasing you from one
ting
to the next, and if that does no good they will kill you in the end. Stop and think! You have a kingdom within an arm’s length, that I don’t doubt. Don’t squander it because you think that the spokesman for the Bjalbo clan is too young and too impudent! First win over the Swedes, then us. For the second time, this is my advice.”
Birger calmly sat down and reached for a fresh tankard of ale from one of the female thralls, who was scared out of her wits. Yet he behaved as if nothing special had happened.
Erik Jedvardsson sat glumly for a
“Sir Erik, you speak with such power and determination that I do not for a moment doubt that you could become king of us all,” Birger began in a loud voice so that everyone would hear that it was he, the younger brother below the high seat, and not Magnus who was speaking. Then he lowered his voice.
“Allow me to answer you first. I speak for the entire Bjalbo lineage, since I have been entrusted to do so. My brother Magnus will have his say after me, but you must know that our two clans are connected by many blood ties and can hardly go against each other. No doubt you can sense the trust. We are not your enemies, but neither are we your friends in this particular matter at this particular time. If you wish to be king, you will have to start at a different end of the country from ours. You must get the Swedes to elect you as king at Mora Stones. If you succeed in this task, then half will already be won. However, if you try to become king in Western Gotaland against the will of the Eastern Goths, you will only bring war down upon yourself, and no one knows who would emerge the victor from that calamity. The same will happen if you go the other way. So you must win over the Swedes first. And when you have done that, then you can undoubtedly count on our support. Tell me, brother Magnus, am I not right?”
Magnus realized that everyone was staring at him. The silence was much like the moment when the bow is drawn taut and the arrow will momentarily be loosed at its target. All he could manage was to nod slowly and pensively as if he were a wise old man. A murmur of discontent arose from Erik Jedvardsson’s men at the far end of the hall.
“You, Birger, are nothing but a young rascal,” Erik Jedvardsson yelled, red in the face. “I could slay you here and now for your impudent words. Who are you to teach a full-grown warrior his course of action?”
Erik Jedvardsson made a move toward the place where he thought his sword should be, as if he had forgotten that it was no longer the custom for men to attend a feast with their swords at their sides. All the weapons were in the stable out in the connecting building with the spit-turners.
Birger was not about to be cowed by the feigned move toward the empty scabbard, and his smile did not flinch even for an instant when he replied.
“You may well think that I am a rascal, Erik Jedvardsson,” he began calmly, but now in a somewhat louder voice so that no one in the hall could avoid hearing his words. “This does not please me, but it still has nothing to do with the larger matter, for if you draw your sword on me, at the same moment you will draw misfortune upon yourself no matter how things may turn out.”
“You scamp, do you think for a moment that you could stand against me with a sword?” shrieked Erik Jedvardsson, even more red in the face, turning so that everyone in the hall now feared the worst. A female thrall rushed up and carried off the three small boys sitting next to Birger.
Birger rose slowly, but his smile did not falter as he replied.
“Now I really must beg you as our guest to stop and think, Erik Jedvardsson,” he said. “If you and I were to exchange sword blows, it would go badly for you. If you die here and now, you will never be king. If you kill me, the rest of your life will be one long journey with the whole Bjalbo clan chasing you from one
ting
to the next, and if that does no good they will kill you in the end. Stop and think! You have a kingdom within an arm’s length, that I don’t doubt. Don’t squander it because you think that the spokesman for the Bjalbo clan is too young and too impudent! First win over the Swedes, then us. For the second time, this is my advice.”
Birger calmly sat down and reached for a fresh tankard of ale from one of the female thralls, who was scared out of her wits. Yet he behaved as if nothing special had happened.
Erik Jedvardsson sat glumly for a
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