The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  As he walked away, Astrid sank slowly into her chair. Her hands were trembling, so she clasped them once more under the table.

  “What secrets were you just exchanging with Father, hmm?” Świętosława pinched her affectionately. “And with the ginger Bjornar, too. Whose side are you on? Your father’s or your sisters’?”

  But Astrid didn’t have time to answer, because Mieszko called Świętosława over to him.

  It’s happening. Astrid held her breath. Let it happen.

  * * *

  Świętosława knew more about what was happening this evening than most people suspected. She only pretended not to have guessed anything. Dusza, reliable and silent, had sped over to her the previous evening, covered her hair with a hood, and led her to the servants’ quarters which adjoined the main hall. There, hidden between the chests full of polished cups, goblets, and bowls, Świętosława had heard her father’s conversation with his chaplain.

  “Sven, though baptized as a child, openly rejects Christianity, and is building his power on promises of returning to the old gods. Eric is merely unbaptized,” Father John was saying.

  “What’s worse in God’s eyes?” Mieszko asked.

  “God’s child denying the Church and the holy water that has washed him is committing a deadly sin. Saxon bishops call them the cursed children of the Church. God awaits pagans with the Word. Maybe your daughter is fated to the same destiny as her mother?” the chaplain replied. Mieszko laughed nervously at this.

  “Yes, Dobrawa also married a pagan.”

  Father and the chaplain left the hall, and Świętosława sat in the maintenance room, waiting for Dusza to lead her out when it was safe. She considered what she’d heard, unconsciously lifting a large silver goblet out of a chest and placing it on the empty table. Since Oda had angrily whispered to her: “Learn the tongue of the Vikings,” she’d known there was a grain of truth in the duchess’s words. Oda had wanted to hurt her, had wanted to say: “You’ll marry a barbarian, because you’re just as wild as they are,” as if the duchess had forgotten that Margrave Ditrich, her own father, just ten years earlier had been calling Mieszko a barbarian. And after that he wanted him for a son-in-law.

  And she’d promised herself, kneeling in the servant’s room before the empty goblet on the table, that she would accept this fate her father had chosen for her, not with humility, but with pride.

  And that’s exactly how she walked toward him now. Chin up and unafraid.

  “Daughter.” Mieszko stood, and everyone in the hall followed his lead. “This is Jarl Birger, the messenger from Sweden’s king, Eric…”

  Father’s hawk leaped from the backrest of the duke’s high chair to his shoulder.

  Standing before them, Świętosława could see that Birger was not an old man. He was strong and stately. She liked his long fair hair, held back by silver rings. Did he look like his king?

  “… the king of Sweden, the great country beyond the seas. A country in which the sun doesn’t come up in winter, and in summer it never sets.” Świętosława greeted the jarl, meeting his eye. He seemed embarrassed, damn it. “The jarl has brought noble gifts from his master. Northern jewels, beautiful reindeer and polar bear furs, chests full of…” Mieszko broke off here, and Świętosława was amused by how transparently he was avoiding having to tell her he had just chosen her a husband.

  “Thank you,” she replied, and smiled to Birger. “I agree.”

  Mieszko froze, his mouth hanging open. Birger blushed. Bolesław choked on his mead.

  “Daughter,” Mieszko cleared his throat. “I am trying to say that King Eric is asking for your hand in marriage.”

  “I hope, Father, that you haven’t accepted mere reindeer and polar bear furs and chests full of something for the hand of your most valuable daughter, though we want for nothing. Tell me, really, how much I’m worth.”

  “You’re the guarantee of our alliance with Sweden, Daughter,” her father managed to answer through his surprise.

  Jarl Birger knelt and said:

  “My king promises to defeat Denmark.”

  “Is he strong enough to do that?” Świętosława asked.

  “Yes, Princess. He’ll do it for you.”

  “What’ll happen if he fails?”

  “I swear that he won’t.”

  “Then let us celebrate,” she said.

  10

  POLAND

  Olav had taken the weather vane from the mast when they left Kanugård in Wolin’s port. He felt attached to it, as if the snake sigil snatched from the Wolverine was an extension of his body.

  Since Astrid had guided their ship into Wolin’s port, Varin had declared him a god three times already. For the place to moor their ship, for the shipwrights who had immediately begun the repairs of Kanugård, and for the dinner that Dalwin had given them. Now, in Poznań, preparing to meet Mieszko, he thought of how fickle fate was, leading his ship to the lands of the very duke whom Prince Vladimir had ordered him to burn.

  Astrid came to fetch him at noon.

  “The duke is waiting,” she said.

  Walking through the courtyard, he took in the white stone palatium silhouetted against the heavens, so different from Vladimir’s wooden palatium in Kiev. It was pure, like runes etched in an impossibly blue sky.

  “Here,” his savior said, leading him down a stone corridor.

  They entered a small, bright audience chamber. Purple-red silks hung from the ceiling. Warriors stood along the walls in silver chain mail, and a strange, ancient sword hung on the main wall, next to an enormous golden cross.

  Oh, yes. He remembered his conversation with Vladimir. Mieszko was baptized.

  The main seat on the raised platform was occupied by a dark-haired man with a beard that ended in a sharp point. He had a hawk on his shoulder. A young man sat on his right; he looked like an eagle dressed in a purple tunic. Bolesław, Olav recalled the duke’s son’s name.

  “My lord, here’s your guest.” Astrid bowed and took her place on one of the slightly lower seats.

  The bearded duke waved a hand at him, and the bird on his shoulder opened its beak, but it made no sound. As he approached, Olav noticed a gray streak in Mieszko’s beard.

  “My name is Olav Tryggvason,” he said. “My ship was damaged off your coast during the storm, my lord.”

  “What’s the name of your ship?” the duke asked.

  “Kanugård, my lord.”

  “Kiev has splintered against my shores.” Mieszko laughed. “Why have you chosen such a name for your ship?”

  “I did not. Duchess Allogia did, Prince Vladimir’s wife,” Olav replied.

  “So you are her servant?” the duke asked mockingly.

  “No, my lord. Kanugård was a gift from the duchess for me, and so she chose its name.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  “I am Tryggve’s son, the last of the Norwegian kings. My mother, when on the run from the widow Gunhild, gave birth to me in exile. I spent my youth in Rus. Now I return to win back the Norwegian throne.”

  The hawk on the duke’s shoulder took off. Olav raised an arm, offering it as a landing place for the bird. The predator hesitated, then flew on. Olav turned sharply, following the hawk’s flight. The bird perched on the shoulder of a girl who stood in the hall’s doorway.

  He looked at her and felt his knees go weak. She was dressed in a rich, royal red dress, and wore a speckled lynx fur on her shoulders instead of a cloak. She gave the impression of being tall and proud, but as she passed him he realized she barely reached his shoulder. She looked at him carefully, and he bowed under the weight of her gaze, feeling as if he should have done so the moment he saw her.

  Is she the wife or daughter? he wondered. Confident and commanding like a queen, but young, very young.

  “It’s the season for Scandinavian kings,” she said, walking up onto the platform and sitting at the duke’s left hand.

  The hawk immediately leapt from her shoulder to Mieszko
’s chair.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” the duke asked, and kissed the girl’s proferred cheek.

  “No, my sister told me. I decided to skip hunting and come meet our guest instead.”

  “Olav,” Mieszko spoke to him, “meet my most treasured daughter, Świętosława.”

  So, a daughter—the thought crossed his mind and was followed by an unexpected flood of relief. And then he remembered that this was the one Prince Vladimir wanted to marry.

  The girl was studying him with curiosity.

  “The last of the Norwegian kings has crashed against our shores on his way from Kiev, and my sister has fished him from the Baltic,” she said in one breath, a cheerful gleam in her eyes. “Astrid, if I recall the sea laws correctly, then what the ocean throws out belongs to the finder. Has father given you this treasure yet?” She nodded toward him.

  Astrid blushed, and Mieszko reprimanded his daughter. “Świętosława, your jests are inappropriate. Astrid, it’s time for you to go. Take the Swedish messengers to Dalwin.”

  Astrid rose, bowed, and said, “As you wish, my lord,” then hurried from the hall, studiously not looking at Olav as she went.

  Mieszko turned back to his guest.

  “My apologies, Olav. Daughters are truly a father’s joy,” he said, though his expression suggested the opposite. “So you say that you haven’t been in your country since birth. Is anyone from your family still alive?”

  “Sivrit, my mother’s brother, is a servant of Prince Vladimir’s, he collects taxes in Estonia. He’s been searching for his sister, my mother, for the last few years. Fruitlessly, so far, but I believe that Astrid is alive.”

  “Your mother is named Astrid, like my sister? What happened to her?” Świętosława asked questions quickly, and Olav wasn’t sure if he should address her or the duke.

  “She was taken by slavers,” he said, finding it difficult to form sentences when he looked at her.

  “Someone should call Geira,” she shouted. “My sister is the widow of Gudbrod of Bornholm, the most famous…”

  “Świętosława,” her father interrupted. “You can reign as you wish in a few weeks, in Uppsala.”

  The reprimand had absolutely no effect on the girl.

  “It was to Gudbrod that we were sailing, to his home on the island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea, when the storm caught us,” Olav said. “Am I to understand that he is dead?”

  “For a year now,” Mieszko said. “But Geira, my daughter and Gudbord’s widow, is well-versed in her husband’s business. You’re lucky, Olav, since Geira is currently here with us, in Poznań. We’ll call for her.”

  Świętosława made a face as if to say, “I told you,” and was opening her mouth when the duke’s son spoke.

  “Do you intend to sail straight to your country?”

  “Jarl Haakon rules Norway,” Olav replied. “I am sure he won’t hand power over to me simply at the news that I have arrived. I must first gather people loyal to my cause.”

  “Do you know that Jomsborg’s fleet has set out to face Haakon? The Danish king intends to remind the Norwegian vassal who is the real master,” Bolesław said.

  “No. I come from the east, I didn’t know that,” Olav replied, frowning. “But it grates on my ear to hear you say ‘Norwegian vassal,’ prince.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Świętosława piped up cheerfully. “Jarl Haakon is the Danish vassal, and you as the true king who sheds the Danish yoke—it sounds like a good start, Olav.”

  “I agree with you, royal daughter,” he spoke to Świętosława, though he felt like a mere cabin boy when he looked at her again, “because I intend to throw off both Haakon’s and the Danish reign in my country. I meant only the word. I don’t want anyone thinking of my great country under the thumb of another. ‘Norwegian vassal,’ it pains me.”

  Her eyes were green and gray at the same time. Her hair gleamed like amber shot through with sunlight. He had never met such a woman before. Girl? She wasn’t a witch, but her gaze made him feel like a bigger man than he had been only moments earlier. She seemed simultaneously as beautiful as the northern lights, and as old and wise as a sorceress. Tall, like when she stood in the hall’s doorway, and as fragile as a child when she passed him. He was sure of one thing, though: he wanted her to stay, because her presence gave him a strength he hadn’t felt before.

  He knew that he should look away from her, and turn his eyes to the duke. And in that same instant he heard a horn sound from beyond the audience chamber. A horn at the sound of which the warriors lining the chamber all hit their swords against their shields.

  “The terror,” Mieszko said calmly.

  * * *

  Świętosława’s eyes didn’t leave Olav’s face when the horn sounded. She didn’t care what unhappiness it was announcing. If it was Judgment Day, she’d run to Olav, baptize him herself, and they’d walk to heaven’s gates hand in hand. Because if today, now, the world ended, she wanted to cross the border with this white-haired man. What is it like to kiss someone? she wondered, and only then recalled that she had willingly given her hand in marriage to King Eric through Jarl Birger just the previous afternoon.

  A messenger ran into the audience chamber.

  “Duke.” He fell to his knees in front of Mieszko. “The Czechs have killed your father-in-law, Margrave Ditrich, in Meissen, along with Lady Gertrude’s father, Margrave Rikdag.”

  He’ll send Oda away, she thought vengefully.

  “How did it happen?” her father asked calmly.

  “Your brother-in-law, Boleslav, the prince of the Czechs, has no scruples. He arrived in Meissen with pagans who ride under Trzygłów as their patron. The margraves weren’t prepared for an army that has no respect for holy ground. They sought protection in the church, but the nonbelievers set fire to it and the last of Meissen’s masters burned to the sound of bells ringing out the alarm … Boleslav gave the bodies to the Veleti, who had a feast worshipping idols at the temple’s altar, ripping apart the remnants of the bodies…”

  “Nonsense,” Mieszko exclaimed. “The Veleti may be pagans, but they do not eat human flesh. Tell me what you know, but don’t repeat lies.”

  “They are both dead. Meissen is in the hands of the Czechs,” the messenger said, embarrassed by the reprimand.

  And Oda is done for, Świętosława thought, looking in Olav’s pale irises, which told her a story about something else entirely. God, thank you for hearing my prayers …

  “Bolesław,” Mieszko said harshly. “Meissen’s daughter is of no use to us now that her country has been invaded by Czechs and the Veleti.”

  “Father.” Świętosława dragged her eyes away from Olav’s pale ones. “Have you no pity for the child? Where will you send Gerd? To a burned land?”

  “I will send her wherever I please, daughter,” Mieszko answered coldly. “Your brother will not remain in the fetters of an alliance that no longer makes sense. Fickleness is a privilege of rulers.”

  “And Oda?” she asked. “Will you send her away, too?”

  “Be silent!” Mieszko shouted back. “This time, you have gone too far.”

  The horn sounded again, now announcing a guest rather than danger. A disheveled Geira ran into the audience chamber. She opened her mouth, her eyes shifting between her father and her sister. Father stopped her with a gesture, looking back at Świętosława angrily.

  “Daughter?” he said in a voice that sent a shiver down her back.

  “Forgive me, Father.” She spoke the words with difficulty. “It wasn’t about the duchess, I meant to speak only of Gerd.”

  She preferred to lie than to speak the truth once again.

  “Don’t fear for her. Not a single hair on her head will be harmed. She still has a powerful family in Saxony.” Then he turned his head away from her with a look of such disdain that for the first time in her life she felt as if he’d hit her.

  “Geira, my daughter,” he called her sister gently, reaching out a hand to h
er. “Meet our guest, Olav Tryggvason. Olav.” He reached out another hand to the white-haired man. “This is my eldest daughter, Geira. I would like for the two of you to get acquainted.”

  Świętosława bit her lip so hard it bled.

  * * *

  Sigvald, one of the Zealand brothers the great Jomsviking Palnatoki had introduced to Sven, walked into the audience chamber. Though they had only met once before, Sigvald recognized the duke immediately. He guessed that the young man on Mieszko’s right was his firstborn son and heir. He knew Geira, Gudbrod’s widow, from Bornholm, and besides, she had just greeted him in the palatium’s yard. The girl on the duke’s left must have been his youngest daughter. But who was the fair-haired man standing before the duke? Sigvald’s heart beat faster; it seemed his future might depend on this one moment, and he felt, with a dark certainty, that if he had accepted Mieszko’s invitation six months earlier, this would not have been the case.

  “Jarl Sigvald has finally found his way to Poznań,” the duke greeted him, confirming his horrible gut feeling. “What brings you here, Jomsviking?”

  Fear, my lord, Sigvald thought. I’m sitting on board a ship that burns from bow to stern. Aloud, he said:

  “It’s not hard to find friends in times of glory, my lord.”

  Mieszko studied him carefully. “I don’t know anyone who makes a living at war and hasn’t tasted the bitterness of defeat,” he replied.

  Sigvald’s heart beat faster. He had to say it, now.

  “The Jomsvikings haven’t brought back victory from the far-off fjord in Trondheim. It remains with Jarl Haakon, who has unworthily summoned the powers of evil to aid him.”’

  “What does that mean?”

  Sigvald took a deep breath. He knew that horror should color the words he was about to utter.

  “He paid the price of his youngest son’s life, sacrificing him to their hungry goddesses.”

  “Nonsense.” Mieszko shrugged. “Superstitions.”

  “The power of the old gods, my lord. Haakon’s men weren’t the only ones fighting against us. I saw a black cloud with my own eyes, which appeared in the clear sky out of nowhere. It spat arrowheads and blades at us. I had to turn the fleet around.”