The cathedral carillon rang its soft funeral dirge on the hour.
The Visedronning turned to look in the direction of the voice and saw Lendmann Mother Ulla Asbjornaettir holding a lamp. Her pale face and hands almost floating in her brown robes.
“Had I known you were here, I would not have…” the Lendmann Mother gave a faint curtsy and started to go. “I will leave you in peace, my Tign.”
“No. It is greithr. I do not know where else to be right now.” Marianne’s voice was weak, as if lack of use had made it rusty. The Lendmann Mother turned back to look at the new widow and offered a wistful smile.
“If it is your desire. May I join you to pray?” the older woman asked.
“Please,” Marianne said and gestured for her to use Solveig’s seat on her left. The light of the lamp hurt her eyes, and she realized she had been in the dark for hours. “What time is it?”
“Close to second nocturne by now,” the Lendmann Mother said sitting down, placing the lamp on Mirjam’s seat. A single fluttering lamp in red glass hung from the ceiling, representing the eternal presence of the Holy Spirit. It was the only other light. Its illumination lit the cross on the altar in a dim flutter.
“I keep hoping that God will speak to me. To temper my pain,” the Visedronning said.
“I understand better than you realize, my Tign,” the Lendmann Mother replied.
“Stop that,” the Visedronning said in weak protest. “The instant Gregor-” Marianne choked on the name and a sob hitched in her chest. “I am no longer Visedronning. Do not call me that anymore.”
Tears came in a silent freshet. She had said his name.
She said his name, and he was not coming. Never again. Marianne sniffed reflexively and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. Pushing hard against that horror. Willing it to be gone.
“My Tign, you will always be Visedronning, always my Tign. The instant he took you as his bride, you became that forever. Neither God nor man can change that,” the Lendmann Mother comforted.
“The power-” Marianne started to say.
“The power may have come through him, but is imbued to you as well. You have your place now. You are not a shadow thrown by his light. You exist beyond him.” The Lendmann Mother’s words were not harsh and brooked no disagreement.
“May I tell you a story?” the Lendmann Mother asked.
Marianne needed the distraction and nodded with a noisy blow of her nose into a handkerchief.
“I am a widow, too,” Ulla said.
“You?” The idea surprised her.
“Jah. Married many years. Happily, too. He was the Herse of Heligevagn in Neezhodayland and kin of the Asbjornaettir, as you can guess. I was a nun, assigned to tutor his family’s children. I taught them history, rhetoric and catechism.” She smiled thinking of happier days.
“His name was Ivar. A widower at that time, his wife having died a few years before. Marriage was never my intent, but he was smitten by my plain way of speaking. Ivar wore me down. In those days, I was devoted to my duty and the Kyrkja. Over time, I fell in love and consented to be married. It was quite the exciting time when he went to ask the Mother Superior for my hand in marriage. The sisters were giddy for me for I was an old maid of twenty-nine winters by then. He was almost forty,” Ulla said and shook her head with a smile. Marianne smiled as well. It was the first smile she had since…
…then.
“Ivar made me a personal adviser and allowed me to be involved with his court. I learned much of politics and how society must be ruled. Many rattlesnakes and spiders come wearing halos and angel’s wings. One must always be on guard. You know this better than me, I suppose. Who am I to tell you the obvious?”
Marianne’s tears had stopped.
“Ivar and I had our problems, too, as all marriages do. Then I became pregnant with Matilda. Do you remember meeting her at the feast of Klarrvatn?”
“I do. Charming girl. Very bright, but gives me the same sensation I get around a Sanaadian prophetess.”
“Doubtful, my Tign,” the Lendmann Mother said, saddened by what could have been. “Unfortunately, the bloodline passes through her and she will never serve in the Kyrkja. For now, though, she is just my daughter, and with things as they are, she is destined to rule rather than be given to the Kyrkja. I must think of my people.”
“I see,” Marianne said knowingly.
“I was thirty-eight winters old when I had her. Very old. My midwife was certain I would die, but the Anjar doctor was not so sure. Despite him being right, it was a difficult birth and took me almost a year to recover. I prayed that God would never put me through that again. A selfish prayer, but it seems to have been answered. Matilda was enough,” Ulla said. She looked at the floor shamefully, but peeked at Marianne conspiratorially under her brows and brought out another smile.
“I was fortunate to be only thirty-two when Olivr was born,” Marianne said. She thought of all the hardship that came after Olivr entered the world. It was the easiest birth for her, but joy turned to sorrow when the Anjars and midwives tried to keep her from seeing the newborn. If not for Gregor’s fierce action, she would have never seen her boy. Nor would they have fallen in love with him. Gregor’s refusal for demands to expose the child and let him die from the elements brought open defiance. The fight to save her child’s life tore her heart out.
He had been saving her son all his life, even at the cost of his own. The thoughts of Gregor brought another black wave of despair that threatened to burst over her.
“Ivar died of spotted fever when Matilda was only five,” Ulla said as if she sensed what was coming. “He was on the lake, so by the time they reached home, he was too far gone for any help. The Anjars prayed for his healing, but God had determined it was his day to come home. Despite his delirium and pain, they would not let me come near him. Several times I fought to gain entrance against his huskarls as well as the Anjars. They had to lock me in a room to keep me from interfering and to protect me from the fever. My prayers were crazed with grief. I can admit it now, but those memories are like a scar in my mind. For hours I screamed at God to fix what was being broken, to no avail. I could feel God’s presence pressing close around me, but the anger that was in my soul was so powerful, I railed against it. Nothing mattered but getting to Ivar, and perhaps, die with him.
“For three days I was imprisoned in that room. Only twice did the door open. The first, to bring me food and drink. Most of that ended spattered on the walls as I tried to escape. They did not come again till Ivar had passed, and they had already taken out the entire room and burnt it. I never had a chance to say goodbye to the only man I loved. The grief dragged me down too. If not for Matilda, I could not have fought my way back to the land of the living.” Ulla’s voice had grown very quiet as she thought about those horrible days. Marianne’s tears were now not of her own grief but of sympathy.
“So you do know…” Marianne whispered.
“Better than most women in this world.” Ulla laid a hand on Marianne’s shoulder.
“But Matilda was what brought you back?”
“More precisely, a threat to Matilda,” Ulla said.
“What do you mean?” Marianne asked, surprised.
“When I said I tutored the family, it was also Matilda’s cousins, half-brothers and sisters. Many of whom were ten or more years older, and they wanted to be the next Herse.”
“Were they not entitled?”
“Jah, and they still might, if both I and Matilda die.”
“So you became Herse?”
“I had the most right to the position for I was part of the Asbjornaettir, and our branch of the clan had heraldic feats to our credit, the others did not. This made Matilda the rightful heir and me her regent till she comes of age. Ivar’s previous wife was only a Fargeaettir, with no land, and only recent service to the Asbjornaettir. Therefore, I became Lendmann, and through me, Matilda. Her half brother will gain the title if she dies before him.” Ulla h
ad slipped into her tutor role. She chuckled, realizing she was lecturing.
“Forgive me, my Tign. I did not mean to teach you the basics of Hird precedence,” Ulla’s said sheepishly.
“I can see why you were a good tutor,” Marianne said, more composed.
“Have they tried to do anything to the two of you?” Marianne asked, knowing how feuds could be.
“I suspect there may have been something attempted against Matilda. She was mortally ill recently. The Anjar’s saved her. No one really knew what kind of disease it was or whether it was poison. I prayed again, but this time much more respectfully to God and the saints. I prayed to everyone I could and Matilda was saved, but it scarred her. It changed her spirit somehow. Now she is much more sensitive to so many things, but every month that goes by, I can see her getting stronger.”
“Oh, that is so good to hear,” Marianne sighed.
“But that is nothing compared to what you are facing right now, my Tign,” the Lendmann Mother’s voice turned serious.
“What do you mean?” Marianne’s asked, worried.
“Allow me to provide you counsel, my Tign. One woman to another who has suffered similarly,” the Lendmann Mother said and paused for permission.
Enthralled, Marianne nodded.
“Those who wish to threaten Matilda’s position do not have the power to take it from her. Leif, on the other hand, is now opposed on several sides by those who not only would take his Crown, but his life as well,” the Lendmann Mother said in somber warning. “All your children’s lives, including your own, are at risk. Perhaps even the entire Sveinnaettir dynasty could fall.”
“How do you mean?” A bright purpose shown through the chaotic shadows Marianne’s life had become.
“Where is Leif?” the Lendmann Mother asked.
Marianne hesitated. It was clear that the elder woman did not believe the red herring about the children visiting relatives or enduring naval exercises.
“I… I do not know,” she drew a harsh breath through her nose, “Gregor knows. Knew. He knew.”
Lendmann Mother Ulla nodded sagely.
“Gird yourself, my Tign, for what I have to say next is very hard for me, but you must understand.” The iron and fearlessness of the Lendmann Mother was startling. “You know that the coronation of Leif as Visekonge depends on the assembling of the Statsraad and setting a date. There are those in court who will try to make sure Leif can never meet those conditions, forcing another jarl to be chosen as Visekonge. If something happens and no child of Gregor ascends… there will be war.”
The words, though soft spoken, contained a power and fire that few of the best rhetoricians could ever hope to possess. They slashed every shadow, the logic and reality banished all chaos from Marianne’s mind. No longer cowering before the events, indulging in grief and pity, the Visedronning reconnected with who she was.
“How could I stop the Statsraad from convening? I am not the Visekonge.”
“No, but your son is the Tronerving, and through that, you are his regent. His steward. His proxy. You may legally act in his absence and protect his claim to the Crown and the throne. No one else can,” the Lendmann Mother said.
The words began to set a fire deep in the Visedronning’s belly. An anger had been lit. There were those out there who would steal what was rightfully Leif’s. They would tear down the Sveinnaettir dynasty and with it, possibly the entire Union! Thousands could die. Tens of thousands! And with the Union falling apart, the Skaerslinger would be able to sweep in and slaughter the rest. The thought made her shudder.
“I would recommend,” the Lendmann Mother counseled, “that you refuse to convene the Statsraad till Leif arrives. Furthermore, I would send the jarls and their factors back home lest they conspire together against you. Do not let them play politics behind your back, for if given the chance, they will take advantage of you. Flattering themselves to think of you as a weak and feeble woman.”
The small fire of anger roared to an inferno of resentment.
“I would also dispatch any and all trusted agents to help Leif get to the cathedral as soon as possible. Do you know when he was due to return?”
“By the end of summer.”
“And your daughters?” The Lendmann Mother’s eyes were bright and piercing.
“The same,” the Visedronning said sticking with the fiction.
The Lendmann Mother did not even bother to hide her disbelief. There was something hungry in the woman’s expression when she asked about Solveig and Mirjam. The Visedronning had seen it before but could not place why or where.
“You advise me to send the jarls home till recalled and to wait till Leif’s return before convening the Statsraad again?”
“It is the only chance you have to protect yourself, your family and the Crown. Stand firm, do not let them petition publicly or pressure you. Keep the mob on your side. If you must, have your ministers and agents drive the Statsraad and their factors out of the palace and the city. Jail those who refuse and execute those who dare take up arms against your orders,” the Lendmann Mother said, fist clenched, teeth showing in a warrior’s grin.
The fierceness of those words pleased the Visedronning.
“You are not only doing this for your son. You are doing what is right and what God would desire of you. Honor Him by defending the right to rule that He has given to you. This is your hour. Do what is right and stand for your son.”
31. On Pins and Needles
Dyrrvatn Kastali's population swelled to bursting as tens of thousands came from every corner of the Union. Their ships clogged the harbor, trains overflowed capacity. Mourners occupied every inn, room to let and squatted on every square inch of clean ground that remained. There was no more space to be had at any price. To make matters worse, the Tronerving had not returned and tensions were beginning to rise.
Forsamling held onto hope that a steamknarr flying the Crown’s banner would soon sail triumphantly into port. But days slipped by and still no sign. The question on everyone’s lips was when would the coronation happen? As if setting a date would summon the Tronerving. Rumors were beyond counting. Every day a new suspicion sprung to life. Careless words ran amok.
When the Alvisaettir, the Visedronning’s kin, were forced to admit that the Kronadottirs were not with them, the Statsraad outrage did not help matters. Admiral Sverirsson met demands for an explanation by revealing the Tronerving was in naval training and not due to return till the end of summer. He promised every effort would be made to bring him home earlier. The fervor over the Tronerving’s secret training helped conceal the unanswered question regarding the Kronadottirs whereabouts. Fears of another Aettirkriegen began to circulate in hushed whispers. The Privy Council did their best to stamp out rumors and lies as fast as they could, but to no avail.
Stirred up by the uncertainty, tempers ran hot. Aettir pride fired the fighting spirit of many ambitious clans. A growing belief took root that the Visedronning should be forced to marry anew, and that the man she chose would become the new dynasty. Fantasies flared that suddenly any man could rise and become Visekonge. Potential suitors laid siege to the Kronaplassen. Bands of fervent aettir loyalists began fighting in the crowded streets over slights to pride and kin. No feuds had begun yet, but the public held its breath knowing it was only a matter of time before brawls lead to oaths of enmity and bloodshed.
"This city has gone mad!" Aske growled as yet another herald started praising his aettir’s fealty to the Crown from a ramshackle stage, attempting to out-loyal all others. Shouting erupted from the crowd as hotheads threatened to turn these declarations into a brawl.
Aske had not been happy since arriving in Dyrrvatn Kastali. The family who rented him a cheap room decided to profiteer from the influx of people, and he was forced to share accommodations with a half dozen mourners and pilgrims. The din of the city streets chewed at him, like termites, no matter the hour. His ears, more in tune to listening for a faint twig snap in the pinery, cou
ld not fend off the constant assault, leaving him exhausted.
"Agreed," Urban said. "And whatever difficulties I thought we might encounter are nothing compared to what they have become."
The two men walked along Haertak Boulevard toward the Kronaplassen in hopes of gaining access to the coroner's office. Urban clung to the hope of finding some clue in the official records as to who was the owner of the aettir signet ring.
"How are your accommodations?" Urban asked.
"Like being in the bunkhouse," Aske answered, keeping the rest of his opinions private.
Urban gave a good natured smile. The plaza opened up before them, the tall glass and timber walls of the palace glittered in the sun. A rainbow of colors flashing above the high berms of the trelleborg.
The shops and stalls of the Kronaplassen were jammed. A rumbling crowd fighting to meet their daily needs of food and drink shoved into every corner. It was both carnival and abomination rolled together. Souvenirs and relics sold at blistering speed. Pardoners sold indulgences so fast they were being hand written on the spot. This secular behavior galled Urban, but his real worry was the rise of self proclaimed prophets making street corner proclamations. Ecstatic revelations and apocalyptic predictions were being preached to captive audiences. Although the Kyrkja sent Ragnarites to deal with these false prophets and to arrest the heretics, they popped up again and again like blasphemous little weeds.
Urban was glad that he was not clearly marked as a priest for he was sure his brothers would have pressed him into service. A black and white coach dog shot past them running toward the Kronapalasset, and a loud rumble followed.
"Make way! Make way!" shouted a herald. The crowd parted as outriders on caribouback shoved through the unaware and cleared a path for the impressive carriage that followed. Ornamented in the dark green and bright yellow heraldry of the Alvisaettir, a big black carriage cruised by drawn by a team of six caribou.
"It appears the Visedronning's family wishes to see her," Urban said as they gave way, doffing their hats.
Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves Page 20
