Świętosława had a pearl-studded diadem on her head, and her hair was down, bright and shining like pale amber. She was biting her lip, as she always did when she was trying to stop herself from speaking her mind. He walked over to her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, stroking her hair.
“You too,” she replied, and he was certain she was being earnest.
His sister either kept her mouth shut, or said exactly what she thought. Now, she stood on her toes and said quietly,
“Oda told me to come to her the night of the hunt.”
“Why?”
“She said I’d find out what Father is capable of.”
“You’re bold, sister,” he said with pride. “Back there, on the docks, you didn’t let her walk over you. But don’t go to her alone. Wait for me.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him into an unexpectedly fierce hug.
“And if you don’t come back?”
He pulled away, looking down at her unusually solemn face.
“I’ll come back,” he promised.
The horns sounded in farewell.
The canter, the wind in his face, wet snow at midday, freezing air flooding his nostrils—all this swept away the memory of his sister’s question, What if you don’t come back? It had pierced him from ear to gut. He shook it off, focusing on their prey. A festive hunt! The herds of deer didn’t interest him; Bolesław was seeking only the rarest prize, the great royal stags. Their group split into two, Mieszko with his squad and hunters, and Bolesław with his own. Bjornar, Zarad, and Jaksa rode beside him. Wilkomir and Dalebor were excellent trackers. Lutom chased the young stags out of the forests with unparalleled precision. But Bolesław wanted something more.
“Dalebor,” he shouted. “Can you get the old one out of the thickets?”
They tracked it for two days. They found the giant marks its hooves left in the snow. But each time they came near, the stag heard them and disappeared farther into the forest. They found it in the end though. The old royal stag had the largest antlers that Bolesław had ever seen. Its dark, almost black fur formed an elegant mane around its neck. But of course, Mieszko was the one to kill it. He was walking along with the hawk on his shoulder.
“It wasn’t easy,” he said, stretching and drinking from the horn with mead. The hawk on his shoulder cawed and beat its wings.
After the kill, Mieszko had knelt by the stag and looked in its milky eyes for a long moment. He’d slid a twig into its mouth, saying:
“A last bite, my friend.”
Lutom, who had chased the animal for Bolesław, and Wilkomir and Dalebor, who had tracked it. Derwan, Czcibór, Tasław, Miłosz, Warcisław, Mścibor, Ostrowod, who had hunted it with Bolesław for two days; none of his father’s old squad said a word. None mentioned that the trophy his father had won had been pursued by the son.
There was a fire burning in the clearing, a doe was crackling over the flames, and the servants carried mead. The squads mingled once again, the hunters drank to the soldiers, and vice versa. Bolesław kept to the side with Jaksa. He stared into the stag’s dead eyes. Father’s prize. Dalebor came over to them with a jug, and Bolesław offered him his horn. Dalebor could have ten years on him, no more.
“A young stag, while he’s a calf, sticks to the swarm,” Dalebor said, when Bolesław had taken a sip of mead. “Once he has grown some, and the mating season approaches, he mounts his does as if he were an adult. When a stag fights for them, the young one runs, and returns only when it’s safe. He tries to fight for the does himself the following year—and usually, he fails. The grown stag will chase him off easily with a roar or two, and antlers if necessary.” Dalebor laughed, then continued: “The exiled ones will band together for a year or two into their own herds. When they finish their fourth, fifth years, they approach the does more boldly when the mating season comes around. If they’re successful, they get braver. And eventually, the strongest one will defeat the old stag and take his place.”
“What happens to his companions?” Bolesław asked. “With the herd of young ones?”
“It scatters.” Dalebor shrugged. “Each one wants his own herd.”
Is the squad that Father gave me mine, or still his? Bolesław wondered as they made their way back to Ostrów Lednicki.
Before they crossed the East Bridge, Mieszko called Bolesław over, so the two could ride in together. Side by side. Guards sounded horns over the gate as they entered. Torches were lit. There was chaos in the yard. Musicians. Iron baskets with burning wood. Snow, freshly covered with sand. And the chants:
“Miesz-ko! Bo-le-sław!”
The duke’s priest was intoning a psalm, but this was drowned out by the noise. Oda emerged to greet her husband, but the duke didn’t dismount until the last cart of prey clattered into the yard. Then, he raised his arm and shouted:
“God has blessed us! The forest’s gifts are many!”
Bolesław dismounted in time with his father. He saw his sister, who raced past Oda to their father. As she threw her arms around his neck, Bolesław heard the question she had put to their father countless times:
“What tongue am I to learn before I marry?”
“It would be enough if you learned how to hold it,” he answered, but Świętosława was already gone from Mieszko’s side.
She says what she wants, and listens only to what she chooses, Bolesław had time to think before she was by his own side, murmuring,
“Remember? The night of the hunt. That’s tonight.”
* * *
Świętosława knew where to go. Oda’s bedchamber had belonged to their mother, Dobrawa, only five years ago. After her death, Świętosława slept in her mother’s bed as long as she could smell her scent. When that too was gone, she left the room.
A year later, Father and his armies had caused the emperor so much trouble that the emperor was forced to negotiate a peace with the Polish duke to protect the empire’s borderlands. The emperor summoned a nun from an abbey, one of the daughters of Margrave von Haldensleben, who had already taken her vows, to be wed to Mieszko: Oda.
Because of their marriage, the Polish were united with the noble families of the Reich, and Father, as a wedding gift, had freed a thousand Saxon prisoners and ceased fighting in the west. Everyone knew that this peace wouldn’t last. Świętosława nurtured that certainty in her heart, that any day now Mieszko would gather his forces and attack, as he had done so many times before, and that would be the end of Oda’s reign.
“Here.” She showed Bolesław the way.
A broad, beautiful marble shaft lay adjacent to the bedchamber, which Father had intended to use to direct smoke out of the chambers. Unfortunately, he had accidentally, in a surge of fury, killed the Carinthian building master who had been working on it, and so the chimney had stood empty for years, and the chambers remained cold. There was a small wooden door in the shaft, built so the interior could be cleaned. It was no larger than a window, and Świętosława knew where it was.
“Get in,” she whispered to Bolesław. “There are steel spikes in the wall you can use to climb down. What?” she asked, surprised by his startled expression. “You didn’t think we’d walk into the bedchamber, say ‘Good evening,’ and sit down by the wall to find out what’s happening, did you? Fine. I’ll go first.”
She lifted her skirts to avoid getting tangled in them, and disappeared into the depths of the unused chimney. She climbed down the metal spikes with practiced ease. When darkness fell, she knew he had followed.
They stood side by side at the bottom of the shaft. They looked at the duchess’s bedchamber from above, through a narrow crack in the wall, and heard every word.
Oda was waiting for Mieszko. She must have been cold, because she had wrapped herself in fur. A servant was brushing her long hair. She then slipped the rings off her mistress’s fingers. Oda sent her away. When she was alone, she put the rings back on. She stood up and walked over to a small box. She rummaged thro
ugh the golden chains inside and picked one, fastening it around her neck. She pulled the fur more tightly around her. Mieszko entered, the hawk that stayed with him at all times perched on his shoulder. Oda opened her arms.
“My duke’s favorite bird,” she said in a voice Świętosława had never heard her use before. It was lower, throatier.
Mieszko moved the hawk over to an empty torch holder, threw off his cloak, and walked to her. “He flew from the hunt straight to a warm nest…”
He grabbed Oda’s shoulders and pulled her toward him. She slipped out of his grasp, laughing.
“So he came only to rest? Oh, no, my lord! You don’t sleep in my nest.”
Father unbuckled his belt and, for a single moment, Świętosława hoped he would use it to hit Oda. She held her breath. No. She was fooling herself. Mieszko undressed and stood naked in front of Oda, who was still draped in fur. It crossed Świętosława’s mind that she shouldn’t be seeing this, but there was no choice anymore. She and Bolesław couldn’t move until Mieszko and his wife fell asleep; any sound from the chimney would draw attention.
Father lay down and looked up at the duchess. “Do you want me to beg?”
Oda walked around the bed with a light, almost dancing step. She stood at the foot and let the fur fall open.
“Please,” Mieszko moaned.
What is he asking her to do? Świętosława thought frantically. Oda said I’d see what Father is capable of. Is this what I was meant to hear?
“Oda, don’t tease me, give me what I’m waiting for…” Father’s voice, always commanding, was suddenly soft.
The duchess laughed, a sound long and low. She threw her head back, cocked it to one side. Her hair spread over her fur-covered back. Suddenly, she turned her back to the bed and walked over to a small bench that stood right beneath the crack in the wall they were watching through. She reached for a jug and cup.
Świętosława looked at her brother. She could see only his eyes, nose, and mouth in the darkness. His lips were parted.
Does Oda know we’re here? Did she expect this? Does she think we’re eavesdropping by the door? Nonsense. There are guards by the door.
“Wine?” Oda asked melodically from below. “Golden Riesling…”
“I don’t want wine! I want you.”
“How much?” She cocked her head, placing the jug by the bed. She drank some.
“I want you more than anyone in the world,” Mieszko murmured.
Świętosława pressed her fingers into her brother’s hand. She looked at him. Yes, he also had fury shining in his eyes. How could Father talk like that? What about their mother?
Oda handed her cup to him, and he drank greedily. She was slipping the fur off her shoulders slowly, languidly. Mieszko choked on the wine and threw the cup into a corner.
She’s poisoned him! Świętosława thought, but Bolesław squeezed her hand to still any reaction.
The duchess was completely naked under the fur, decorated only by jewels. She still hadn’t gotten into the bed, she was still walking around it, stretching like a cat, and Mieszko’s eyes followed her every move as he sighed.
“Come here, please…”
She couldn’t believe that Father, the great duke, would beg like this.
Oda moved smoothly onto the bed. She sat on top of Mieszko. He groaned.
“Please…”
Oda moved her hips up and down in an even rhythm. Świętosława heard her brother’s quickened breath. He leaned toward her and whispered:
“Close your eyes.”
“No,” she said just as quietly. “No.”
“You shouldn’t…”
“Should you?” She placed a finger on his lips to silence him.
Oda leaned over their father and whispered something to him. Mieszko laughed throatily and flipped her onto her back.
“Your wish is my command,” he said as he climbed on top of her.
Świętosława felt as if Oda had slapped her. With that white, ringed hand. “Your word is my command”—that’s what Oda had said to Mieszko when he’d asked them both to leave the docks. Then, she had been the picture of obedience. So, this is how it was? Their love game? She gives the orders in the bedchamber, and he at court?
And I fooled myself into believing that Oda was just the guarantee of peace on the border, Świętosława thought desperately. Nothing more. I hoped that Father still loved Mother. He always remembers her with such respect. But clearly, an absent woman cannot rule a man’s heart. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks.
“We’re leaving,” Bolesław whispered and pulled her hand.
He climbed first. He opened the little door carefully, checking that they’d be able to leave unnoticed. Then, he offered her a hand and helped her out of the chimney. Saying nothing, they walked through empty corridors until they finally reached the palatium doors, pushing them open. The cold from the yard surrounded them. Wet, melting snow was falling. Świętosława lifted her face to the sky.
“Do you still want to get married so badly?” Bolesław asked after a moment.
“I never wanted to,” she replied calmly.
“But you keep asking about it, as if…”
“As if what?” she asked sharply, feeling anger rise at his words. “As if I had any other choice? Father has been talking about it ever since I was born! Rus. Meissen. Bohemia. Hungary. What else did he name?” she grabbed his caftan.
“North March.”
“Yes! North March.” She let go of Bolesław’s tunic, pushing him away. “He doesn’t need me for that, because he’s married a daughter of the North March himself. I know what role he intends me for, and the only thing I wanted to know was where I’d be playing it. And do you know why? Because I still had some stupid hope that he might let me rule here! That he’d start a war with the Reich and win it, he’d place you on the emperor’s throne, and me…” Świętosława felt dizzy and sick.
Bolesław caught her to stop her from falling. She took a deep breath and freed herself from his arms.
“But now I know that this land is ruled by another,” she said quietly. “And there is no place for a daughter here.”
“There isn’t even enough for a son,” Bolesław said soberly. “Father may have given me a squad, but he has no intention of sharing his power. He’ll keep a close eye on me. He wants to rule by himself. Świętosława.” He pulled her to face him. “Our father is the great duke Mieszko. That was never going to make our lives easy.”
3
DENMARK
Sven hated his father so much that if the old man weren’t surrounded by a horde of soldiers day and night, he’d probably sink a dagger into his heart right up to the hilt. A king with a young son capable of ruling had no right to live this long!
The great hall at the royal manor in Roskilde echoed with shouts and laughter of hundreds of soldiers. The tired servants made their rounds more and more slowly, carrying bowls of meats and jugs of mead. His father, King Harald, couldn’t seem to get enough. His red cheeks shone with grease as he puffed in anger. He slammed his fist on the bench and shouted until saliva dripped from his mouth, shining on teeth that had been whittled and scarred to look like blue-gray fangs.
“If you don’t have enough space in Denmark, sail off to raid!” he roared at his son. “Conquer your own land, because while I live, this one is mine! Mine!”
Sven stood at the head of the bench and felt the blood surging to his face.
“What? Are you sad at the thought?” the drunken Harald screamed. “Did you hear that? My son is sad at the thought of leaving his home!”
King Harald got to his feet shakily and Sven thought for a moment that his father would keel over. Someone’s hands held him upright, though. The old man leaned on the bench and lifted his chin defiantly.
“If you aren’t brave enough to go out into the world, then be quiet and do as I say. And I say that we won’t join the Slavic revolt. No, and that’s that. Let the Veleti fight the emperor them
selves, it’s got nothing to do with us.”
The loud hall was falling quiet. Noblemen and warriors were turning to listen to their exchange.
Good, thought Sven, scanning their faces. You’ll hear every word that’s uttered tonight.
He took a breath to make sure his voice sounded clear, and said,
“It’s got nothing to do with us? Have the baptism and company of priests dulled your brain, Father, or are you just getting old? Oh, yes! When Emperor Otto stole the port in Hedeby from you ten years ago, you preferred to slink away with your tail curled under you. You gave it to him like a child gives up his bowl to a bully, didn’t you?”
“Silence!” Harald snarled. “You understand nothing, so be silent!”
“What is there to understand?” Sven asked, spreading his arms wide, and turning left and right to the listening nobles. “You were baptized, and you allowed priests into Denmark, the emperor’s spies. You let them baptize us with water and you’ve weakened, as if you were drinking that water rather than mead!”
His father’s eyes narrowed. He was sobering up, and Sven didn’t want for him to be sober right now. He wanted the old man to lose control. He couldn’t give him mead himself, not in the middle of an argument. He glanced discreetly at Adla, who was serving his father at the feast. She stood behind Harald with a jug.
“I won’t be risking myself for the Veleti,” his father said loudly. “They’ve started a war and they can die in it. It’s nothing to do with us!”
“You’ve grown blind with age,” Sven said calmly, “but I can still see clearly. And I see that the emperor and his Saxons are busy putting out the Slavic fire, and I won’t help them.”
“I never said I want to help the emperor,” the old man hissed through his teeth.
“And I’m saying that I want to be the wind that spreads the flames!” Sven shouted.
“What are you talking about?” Confusion showed on Harald’s face. “What fire?”
“Saxony is burning, Father. The Veleti have taken Połabie. They’ve chased the Christian bishop out of Havelberg; his palace and church are up in smoke, and they used the altar for a feast.”
The Widow Queen Page 3
