The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “I have already heard of pagans who consume human flesh today.” Mieszko waved a hand. “One must separate the grain from the husk. The grain is the fact that you lost.”

  “The grain is the fact that we fought and won no victory. We remained true to Jomsborg’s laws, my lord. Our men, captured by Haakon, accepted death, laughing in its face. By doing so, they won the admiration of his eldest son, Eric. He released Vagn, leader of the house of warriors, and everyone who was still with him.”

  “Interesting.” Mieszko narrowed his eyes. “Besides, I never said you lacked courage.”

  “We had it until the end. That’s how Vagn managed to save a few dozen warriors. They are fit and healthy in Jomsborg, and can confirm my words,” he added defiantly.

  “If I didn’t want to believe you, I wouldn’t welcome you, Sigvald,” Mieszko said, without a hint of a smile. “How is Palnatoki?”

  “Palnatoki is dead. I led the charge against Haakon.”

  “Have the Jomsvikings chosen a new jarl from the house leaders?” The duke cocked his head at the same angle as that of his hawk, which was perched on the back of his chair.

  “No, my lord. We will be choosing one any day now.”

  The two men stared at each other, taking in the weight and opportunities of the moment. Sigvald managed to avoid blinking.

  “We’ll come back to this conversation.” Mieszko waved a hand and stood.

  11

  POLAND

  Olav walked toward the stables, thinking over the events of the last day. He knew he had not ended up here by accident. He just wasn’t sure whether it was Thor, Odin, or the master of lust, Frey, who had guided his ship through the storm. The Ynglings traced their heritage back to Frey, so perhaps he had guided Olav’s ship? It didn’t really matter, so long as the trickster Loki wasn’t involved.

  He had been sailing to gain a throne, for a royal inheritance, for news of his missing mother. He found Świętosława and had been touched by a fire he had not known before. A fire that wasn’t dampened by Mieszko’s carefully articulated implication that she was already betrothed to the Swedish king. Quite the opposite; he was prepared to stand before the duke and ask for her hand regardless. And Sigvald’s arrival was like throwing a hot stone into boiling water, a torch onto a burning pyre. Taking his throne from Jarl Haakon would be more difficult than anticipated. After a victory like the one Haakon had just had over the Danish king and his Jomsvikings, the Norwegian people wouldn’t abandon their jarl, not even for the rightful king.

  “Olav.” He heard a voice behind him and turned.

  It was Bolesław.

  “My father will spend the evening talking with Sigvald. He’s asked Świętosława and me to take care of you. You won’t deny us your company?”

  “A great feast, royal clothes, golden goblets, and a chaplain singing psalms?” Olav asked.

  “No. A quick escape on horseback to the other side of the Warta. A hunting lodge and a barrel of mead. Does that suit you?”

  “Is Świętosława allowed out of her father’s house?” he asked, recalling the argument she’d had with the duke earlier.

  Bolesław laughed and walked into the stable.

  “Do you see that empty stall?” he pointed in the gloom. “That’s where her mare should be. They have both crossed the river already. Don’t worry, Olav, she’s far too precious to father for him to hurt her in any way. She’ll be sailing for Sweden any day now. Let’s go!”

  Bolesław was a far better rider. He held himself in the saddle as confidently as a vagrant, and Olav had seen many of those along the southern end of the Dnieper. The road was short, and they turned left off the path on the other side of the river, entering a thick forest. There they found a small lodge, not unlike the one Astrid had placed him and his people in. It was built from oak logs, covered with a neatly laid thatch, and guarded by lookout points hidden in the trees. He saw Bolesław’s men giving their master a sign that they were vigilant.

  “Do you always have so many people with you?” Olav asked.

  “Usually, there are more.” Bolesław laughed. “Get used to it. When you take the throne, you won’t go anywhere without them either. It’s one of the more questionable charms of being a ruler. You’re never alone.”

  A tall young boy ran into the yard, a girl with him. The girl took his horse and the boy took Bolesław’s.

  “That’s Duszan and Dusza,” Bolesław said, nodding toward them. “Our shadows.”

  “They don’t look like you,” Olav said.

  “They were born on the same days my sister and I were. Father bought them from their families and they’ve been raised with us.”

  “He’s spying on you through their eyes?” Olav tried to understand.

  Bolesław shook his head.

  “They are loyal to us. And Dusza is mute, anyway.”

  “The opposite of your sister.”

  Świętosława appeared in the doorway of the lodge, still wearing the bloodred dress with the lynx fur across her shoulders.

  “Olav, you’ve been in the palatium—now, welcome to our more humble abode,” she called, and he couldn’t help but imagine this was his wife greeting him as he returned from a long journey.

  “Sven-to-schwa-va,” he pronounced her name slowly, syllable by syllable. For all its difficulty, it was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard. “With you, I could feast even in a tent on a ship in the middle of a storm.”

  “Oooh.” Bolesław patted his shoulder. “You may know more than me about storms, but you know little about life with my sister, so don’t be so eager. The Swedes will be the ones sharing meals with her, anyway. Speaking of, do we have anything to eat here?” The young prince entered the cabin first, and Olav paused to let Świętosława walk in ahead of him. “Today’s been like the Apocalypse, hasn’t it, sister? It began with Olav, and was more difficult with every rider,” he said, walking the length of a long table and picking roasted meat from a bowl.

  “Why didn’t you speak up for Gerd?” Świętosława asked her brother.

  Bolesław grabbed a deer rib and laughed as he buried his teeth in the meat. He looked like an eagle tearing apart its prey.

  “Why didn’t you bite your tongue?” he said to Świętosława. “Father knows now that you hate his wife; before that, he could only have suspected. Yes, bold one, it’s all the same to you, you’ll board a ship and sail away to Uppsala.”

  “Don’t you pity Gertrude? She’s still a child!”

  “It’s Saxon blood, sister. Sooner or later the poison would leak out of her, like Oda.”

  “Oh, stop,” Świętosława hissed at her brother and clapped her hands. “Dusza, bring us some meat. Olav, you must be hungry.”

  “You don’t ask,” Olav laughed. “You’re ordering me to eat.”

  “I’ll eat with you,” she said, looking in his eyes, and his knees wobbled again. “And I’ll drink!” she shouted to hurry her Dusza along.

  “Yes,” Bolesław said, taking a swig from his goblet. “Let’s get drunk. I’ll drink to forget the loss of my Saxon fiancée and the war with the Czechs, which my heart rejoices at…”

  “Even if it is war with our mother’s brother?” Świętosława asked sharply.

  “We’ve already talked about this.” Bolesław sighed. “He’s no longer our uncle, he’s our enemy. And I’ll drink to a new wife.”

  “Are you joking?” she exclaimed. “Has Mieszko already…?”

  “Yes, already.” Bolesław nodded. “He plans to hit the Czechs from two sides, so I’ll wed the daughter of the Hungarian prince. Damn him!… Old Hawk! He doesn’t ask, he just acts.” He emptied his goblet and called out: “Olav, do you mourn your father?”

  “I didn’t know him. On sleepless nights, I try to imagine what he was like,” he answered honestly.

  “Imagine your father, then, but don’t regret not knowing him. Ours rules us as if we were his property, an extension of the arms he uses to play his games…”
r />   “Stop it,” Świętosława said. “Maybe Olav’s father was different?”

  “All rulers are the same.” Bolesław shrugged.

  “I’ll remind you of that when you become one.” She threw an apple at his head.

  Bolesław ducked.

  Olav began to laugh. And he reached a hand to Świętosława across the table.

  “I’ve never met a girl like you before.”

  And she took his hand, holding it tightly.

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone like you, too.”

  Olav shivered at her words.

  “Be careful, friend,” Bolesław interjected. “My sister…” He fell silent. “We call her ‘the bold.’ It stuck, like a second name.”

  “What does it sound like in your tongue?” she asked Olav.

  “Storråda,” he said, looking in her eyes.

  Świętosława, not breaking eye contact, squeezed his hand. She called Dusza over and offered her goblet.

  “What will you do now?” Bolesław asked, more somber now, studying Olav with narrowed eyes. “Will you set out to face Jarl Haakon?”

  “I’m not a fool,” Olav said. “After a victorious battle the jarl will have much respect in the country, and my appearance in Norway won’t change that. Royal blood must wait for the fame of glory to cool. I’ll set out as a Viking.”

  “To plunder, rape, and burn?” Świętosława asked sweetly.

  “No. To find silver and men with whom I can sail back to win my country.”

  “Smart.” Bolesław nodded. “Providing you avoid our shores.”

  “I swear it,” Olav said seriously.

  “Will you come to Sweden?” Świętosława glanced at him.

  “Yes, if you’ll agree. I’ll defeat your husband and ask for the dowager queen’s hand in marriage. Would that suit you?”

  They looked in each other’s eyes.

  “At the moment, you have no one to stand at your side to defeat him with,” Bolesław reminded him. “Although I’d have nothing against you being my brother-in-law.”

  Olav felt dizzy, from the mead, he told himself.

  “If I had a sister, I’d ask you to marry her, Bolesław.”

  “Everyone wants to marry me off!” Bolesław laughed. “Duszan, bring the mushrooms.”

  “You eat the ones that give you visions?”

  “No. What are you on about? We have porcini mushrooms casseroled in butter,” Bolesław replied.

  “What were you talking about?” Świętosława asked Olav, curious.

  “There are mushrooms that can bring visions.”

  “I’ve heard of these.” Bolesław slapped his hand against the bench. “But I thought they weren’t visions so much as bloodthirst, or so they said.”

  “There are different kinds. Some offer visions of the future, others turn warriors into beasts that feel neither fear nor pain. Although my compatriots place a higher value on bloodthirst evoked without the aid of mushrooms.”

  “Have you tried them?” the duke’s son asked.

  “No,” Olav replied honestly. “But … I have some in my saddlebag. Duchess Allogia gave me a handful and told me I should eat them if I wanted to find out what the future had in store for me.”

  Świętosława stood up and went to the grill which hung in the corner, over the fire. She reached out her hands, as if trying to warm them. Then she turned to him.

  “Well, go get them. We’ll do it together.”

  * * *

  Świętosława picked up one of the dry, tawny mushrooms. Her brother held another, and Olav was left with the third.

  “Dusza,” she called sensibly. “Guard us, you and Duszan, because we don’t know what will happen next.”

  Olav bit into the dry mushroom, chewing and washing it down with mead. Świętosława did the same, watching her brother. He swallowed, too. Then she looked up at Olav. His pale blue eyes seemed to sting her. She breathed in. She smelled the salty scent of his skin. Fresh sweat on his brow. The sweetness in the knot of silk on his tunic. She shuddered when she realized she could distinguish between the smell of warp and weft. And the scent of the selvage which decorated the edge of the tunic at his neck. Dnieper, she heard in her head, and saw Olav on a ship sailing across this river, the Dnieper.

  “God, save me!” she whispered, and the Almighty Father, instead of holding her in his arms, pushed her with a long finger straight into Olav’s.

  * * *

  Bolesław tasted the dry mushroom in his mouth, and after that a sting, as if a knife had cut his tongue in half. In his mind, he saw himself jumping onto his horse’s back. He felt the coolness of the wind on his chest, and warmth on his stomach from the horse’s steaming back. He rode naked, heading east. The sun was a huge, golden-red shield rising over a great river. He stretched out an arm and the river turned to blood. He rode into it. Human insides bubbled under the horse’s hooves. It slowed from a canter to a walk. Step after step, Bolesław felt his body aging. He saw gray tangles of hair falling from his shoulders down to his chest. The skin on his hands was covered in liver spots. He leaned down to wash them off, but instead just gathered blood under his nails. The hooves of his mount clanked loudly against the stony bank. It shook its head. Bolesław stretched out an arm and pointed in the direction he wanted to go with his scepter. A moment later, he rode under a golden gate and stopped, yanking dangerously at the reins. A beautiful, golden-haired girl appeared in front of his horse, and she spread her arms wide like a cross. He reached out a hand to her, and she jumped into the saddle lightly. He felt the warmth of her back on his stomach. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Predsława,” she replied, letting him kiss her rose-petal lips.

  * * *

  Olav was sailing on a ship twice the length of Kanugård. Geivar was at the helm, but he didn’t recognize anyone else in the crew. A stony island appeared in the mist. They reached a hastily built harbor. A white dog with a long neck sat on the shore. It didn’t bark. It turned around, and Olav followed it across the dry lichen that covered the rocks. Scented smoke hung in the cool, humid air. He crossed through a stone archway. He unbuckled his belt and threw down his weapons. He tore the cloak from his shoulders. He stripped off all of his clothes, and faced the dim entrance to the stone building. He walked into it naked. He felt the coolness of old stones under his feet. A spring of water ran inside. He walked into it, and was filled with brightness.

  The white dog howled and leapt onto his back in a single fluid movement. “I will be your dog,” Olav whispered, and shivered. Strong, warm hands held him. He opened his eyes; it was her.

  * * *

  Świętosława grabbed the burning torch which flew toward her. She howled with pain. It wasn’t a torch, but the burning end of a spear which buried itself in her chest. Her fingers tightened around the shaft. It didn’t burn her, but sent waves of pleasure through her body. It was stuck fast in her, like a thorn. She held on to it, even though it gave her pain which she felt deep in her bones. Pleasure and pain. She stood in water. Ocean waves brought her two royal crowns. There were high baskets behind them, from which she could hear the cooing of babies. The baskets stopped in the shallows, one after another. A dark-haired boy emerged from the first one. Two clumsy ones from the next one. Girls crawled after them. The children’s hair was covered with frost. The ocean wave hit viciously. Two more crowns floated out from the sea’s frothy lips. Arterial blood pulsed from one of them. The spear head rusted inside her heart. The pleasure turned into salty pain.

  * * *

  Duszan caught Bolesław around the shoulders and shook him from his dark visions.

  “Let’s drink to the future,” Bolesław exclaimed, pulling his sister by the hand.

  She fell into him hard, with a face warmed by the fire, pulling Olav with her. They collided, chest to chest. Olav had white, absent irises, but he sobered momentarily.

  “I love Świętosława,” he said.

  “As do I,” Bolesław replied honestly
. “But she doesn’t love us.”

  “I’ll go to your father and ask for her.” A drop of blood fell from Olav’s lips.

  “Go, then. But if I know him at all, he won’t give her to you.”

  Świętosława had collapsed across Bolesław’s chest. Shivers racked her body. Olav’s blood fell onto her shoulder. She opened her eyes. They weren’t green, as they were in ordinary life. They looked like molten gold.

  “I change my mind,” she murmured. “I want him instead of those crowns.” She pulled herself from Bolesław’s arms, leaning into Olav’s instead. She covered her face with her hands.

  * * *

  Świętosława freed her eyes from the cover of her fingers. Olav’s chin was over her forehead, smelling of the sea. The skin of a seal, the scent of a wet cotton sail. Blood? She thought for a moment that she was standing in the door of a manor, and he was returning from a long journey. She reached out to him and whispered:

  “I knew you’d come back. I love you.”

  And then she saw her brother’s face, which morphed into Mieszko’s stern features.

  Jarl Birger stood behind him. She bowed to Birger, as she had during the engagement, and she allowed him to hold her hand in his when they made their marriage vows. “Yes, Eric,” she heard her voice say.

  She shook herself. Olav and her brother both looked sober. Now she too sobered up.

  “Dusza, mead! Let’s wash away the sharp taste of these visions. Yes, Bolesław and Olav.” She tightened her grip on their hands. “Let’s drink to all the crowns we will wear.”

  * * *

  Astrid returned from Wolin as quickly as she could. She was haunted by the feeling that every day she was away from Poznań would lead to damages difficult to recover from. She hadn’t even had time to change after her journey when Mieszko summoned her to him. He was alone.