“My lady.” She curtsied and glanced at Dusza, who was calming the baby. “Maybe he needs to be fed?”
“No. He’s been feeding this whole time. Dusza will manage. I want to get up, wash, and change.”
“You should rest…” Thora began hesitantly.
“Perhaps I should, but I don’t want to,” Świętosława said firmly.
“I’ll order water to be boiled.” Thora turned to give the command, but Świętosława stopped her before she could leave again.
“Any news from the king? Can a battle last so long?”
“One battle, no, my lady, but we don’t know if it will end with just one fight, and how long the negotiations may take…”
“There was no talk of any negotiations,” Świętosława interrupted. “I should send word to my brother and father. I want to share the joyous news of my son’s birth.”
Servants brought basins with hot water and poured it into the bath, which was laid out with a clean sheet. The bedchamber was soon humid and stifling with steam, and the servants helped Świętosława undress. As the warm water enveloped her body, she felt very, very tired. The girls washed her hair and gently wiped the blood and mucus from her skin. She closed her eyes. The gloomy royal manor in Uppsala disappeared, as did Thora and the strange maidservants, and the child. There was only Dusza and her. They were both five. They splashed in the warm waters of Lake Lednica. The sun warmed them, and Dobrawa hummed softly, stroking Świętosława’s hair.
Świętosława longed to stay lost in the memory, in that moment of bliss. It crossed her mind that since Dobrawa’s death no one had shown her love like this. Father had never spoiled any of them. Her brother hugged her often, but then would tousle her hair as if she were a clumsy puppy. Perhaps Astrid had stroked her hair once or twice, but her sister’s affection was often harsh. And so she, the most valuable of daughters, the most carefully guarded, the best fed and dressed, showered with jewels, grew up without that one thing. The one you can’t see with the naked eye, that she herself didn’t recognize until this very moment.
She didn’t open her eyes, but felt the tears streaming down her face, hoping they would be mistaken for drops of water falling from her wet hair. The child began to cry suddenly. Świętosława felt a sharp pain in the bottom of her belly and sore nipples. Without opening her eyes, she said:
“Dusza, hand me the child.”
“My lady,” Thora said, her voice filled with concern, “you shouldn’t bathe the child before the father has seen it with the blood of birth on his body.”
“Thora, neither you nor I know when the king will return,” she replied gently, still not opening her eyes. She reached her arms out for the boy.
“You’re right. Ah, we can always smear him with fresh blood.” Thora laughed and sniffed. “Women have been doing that for generations…”
“Are you crying?” Świętosława asked.
“No … of course not … I’m happy, Sigrid…”
Dusza placed the child in her arms gently, and supported him while Świętosława made them both comfortable. She held the boy’s head to make sure it stayed above water.
“Why are you crying?” she asked Thora quietly.
“My womb is dry and infertile,” Thora whispered. “And you have allowed me to witness the miracle of birth today.”
“How old are you, Thora?”
“Almost thirty, my lady.”
“Sarah was ninety when God gave her a son. I will tell you of it one day.”
The child on her breast stopped crying. She held him in the warm water and stroked his bald head. Yes, if Thora did have a child in her old age, like the biblical Sarah, it really would be a miracle. But Thora was right. The miracle before them was her son’s birth, a mere ten months after the wedding. A healthy boy whose presence in this world ensured she was a full-fledged queen. Even if Eric died in battle, she, Świętosława, Sigrid Storråda, was a ruler in the name of her son from this moment on. She opened her eyes and kissed her miracle on the forehead.
* * *
The next evening, Świętosława again heard the noise that no one else seemed to. She couldn’t name it; it was as if something were making the air around her tremble. But when the horns sounded a welcome for Eric at the gates a moment later, she thought she understood. She and Eric were connected now, as if by an invisible thread, whether she loved him or not. Her mother Dobrawa had always sensed her father’s returns.
There was time to prepare for her husband’s return even after the horns had sounded. Eric was riding from the south, and he stopped at the temple and grove to make sacrifices to his bloodthirsty gods before coming to her. Sacrifices of thanks, Świętosława knew, since the messengers carrying the good news had arrived before him.
There is a price for everything, she thought. He fulfilled the first condition of our marriage, and I bore him a son.
She donned her richest dress, made of thick, red silk bordered with a wide golden band. A servant braided her hair into crowns, pinning them high around her head. A band threaded with gold held them in place, and the servants put rings on her fingers.
“Dusza, the lynx.” Świętosława reached out for the fur, then she was ready to greet her husband.
“And the child,” Thora reminded her.
A servant offered a cup with fresh blood, and Świętosława marked her son’s cheeks.
* * *
She stood on a raised platform in the great hall, with the lynx fur on her back and the child in her arms. In the torchlight, accompanied by the victorious sound of horns, she watched from above as her lord husband approached, King Eric. Bald, bearded, with powerful shoulders. Great and heavy, but still nimble. The embodiment of strength, like the boar whose image was displayed on his shield. With polar bear skin thrown over his back, he seemed twice his normal size. His dark eyes shone. His belt clanked against the chain mail’s metal. His eyes never left her as he walked. Her, or the bundle in her arms. His noblemen walked behind him, then the helmsmen of his ships and his squad leaders. Jarl Birger walked on his right, smiling reassuringly to her.
“Queen Sigrid,” her lord husband said loudly when he reached her.
“King Eric,” she replied.
“What awaits me at home?” he asked.
“A royal son. And what have you brought the queen?”
“Victory, my lady. Fyrisvellir’s fields drowned in the blood of our enemies. My nephew Styrbjorn is dead. We took no prisoners.”
Shouts of triumph rang out.
What does he value more? she asked herself. His son, or victory over his nephew?
She handed him the child. He unwrapped the blanket and looked at his son, taking in every inch of him. He even counted all his toes and fingers.
“He has hair on his back, like you, my lord,” she told him.
He checked that, too. He liked it. He lifted the boy high in the air and showed his people.
“My son!” the king roared. “My son and heir!”
The child burst into tears, but this only made the guests happier.
“He has some voice.”
“A strong boy.”
“He’s greeting us.”
“My king, do you have a name for him yet?” Świętosława asked, taking the child back.
He held her hands and pulled her toward him.
“This is our firstborn. You’ve made me happy, my lady.” His eyes gleamed the way they did when he took her to bed.
“The noise here is terrible.” She smiled to him. “Repeat that, please, because I didn’t hear you.”
“You’ve made me happy by bearing me a son!” he shouted, so loudly that the hall went quiet.
“As you have with your victory,” she replied.
They drank to her health, his health, and the child’s. They drank to the victory, a safe return home, and a quick healing of wounds. The servants couldn’t carry the jugs in fast enough. Laughter, roars, the cheerfulness of women greeting their husbands drowning the sob
s of those whose loved ones had remained on Fyrisvellir’s fields.
Eric invited Thora, Birger’s wife, to sit at the honored place at his side, as the first of the noblewomen and as the one who had brought his son safely into the world. Świętosława asked Jarl Birger to join her, as an acknowledgment of his bravery in battle.
The bard sung verses of Styrbjorn’s defeat. He rhymed Fyrisvellir’s green fields with the blue of a river running nearby, which turned red with the blood of the dead.
In the moments when the bard paused for breath, Birger summed up battle in his own way, saying only, “Three days of killing.”
He left the description of the dancing swords, whir of lethal arrows, murderous flight of spears, and walls of shields to the poet. The bard praised the courage of the Jomsvikings who had supported Styrbjorn:
Their courage gleamed
But they served the wrong cause
They fell valiantly
Never begging for mercy …
The poet called Styrbjorn an “undeserving nephew,” and acknowledged his death with a single couplet, dedicating his talents to praising “Eric the Victorious” instead:
Segersäll. That’s the name which now belongs
To the bravest of kings!
“And what name will you give your son?” Świętosława heard Thora’s question between the song’s verses.
“Perhaps Bjorn, after my father?” Eric said, taking another drink from a huge, silver-coated horn. “Maybe not…”
“Was Styrbjorn’s father, and my husband’s brother, well-liked in the country? Are any of his supporters still alive?” Świętosława could use her own tongue when speaking with Birger.
“There are always some, my lady. Your husband risked much when he announced that his heir would be the son you carried in your womb. It was a challenge. If you’d given birth to a daughter, many would have wondered in the logic of Styrbjorn’s death. But you, my lady, bring good fortune. You are a true queen.”
“Was it difficult to convince Styrbjorn to declare war on Eric?”
“No.” Birger laughed. “Young men are like dry kindling. A single spark is enough to set them on fire.”
She gave him a sign with her hand to stop him from talking, because the bard was singing of something she didn’t understand.
“What royal wedding is he singing about?”
Birger shifted uncomfortably.
“Ask your husband, my lady. He can tell you himself. I…” He checked that Eric was busy talking to Thora, and finished quickly: “My lady, there will be an official ritual of naming your son, and his father will sprinkle him with water. I wouldn’t suggest this to anyone else, but we are joined by faith. Pray over the water so that the king doesn’t know it, and let it be at least in part a baptism for your son … someday you are bound to be able to fulfil the sacrament, but…”
“Thank you, Jarl,” she said, not looking at him, and everything inside her trembled.
Only Birger would understand how much she feared her child dying without being baptized. Children often die.
The bard finished his song about the battle and began a new one, one unknown to the crowd:
Silent and thoughtful
Should be the royal son,
Brave in battle,
Unswayed in his commands …
“My king.” She turned to Eric. “If you haven’t decided on a name for your son, allow me to advise you.”
“Cold is the advice of women,” Eric hummed cheerfully, but this was a line from his favorite bard performance, and Świętosława had heard it often.
“Name your son Olav, husband.”
“What?” His eyes gleamed dangerously.
“Your dead brother was called Olav. Styrbjorn was his son. You denied Styrbjorn his right to power, but if you name your firstborn Olav, you’ll show that you respect your brother’s memory, and that you defeated your nephew in a just cause. Those who supported them in hiding won’t be able to accuse you of any ill will.”
“Cold is the advice of women,” Eric repeated. He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Cold advice is good advice, my lady. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
She smiled at him, sensing she had won.
“But first ask your heart, my king, if you’ll be able to call your son ‘Olav’ and not see your brother in him, the one you disagreed with in the past.”
“I won’t call him ‘Olav’ but ‘Olof,’ that’s what it sounds like in our tongue.” Eric laughed. “And I assure you, my queen, that every time I call him by name I will be worshipping your sharp mind. Mead!” he called out. “We can fulfill the naming ritual even today.”
No, she thought, then I’m sorry, my son, and pinched the child as hard as she could. He began to scream.
“I need to feed him,” she said apologetically. “He’s lasted a long time anyway.”
“Then we will do it tomorrow,” Eric agreed and rose. “Bid good night to my son and Queen Sigrid,” he ordered his guests.
They put so much heart into their good nights that the old beams supporting the hall trembled. They shouted that “Segersäll and Storråda go well together.” She heard them when Dusza was undressing her in the bedchamber. Naked, she lay in bed with the child and held him close.
“It’s all right, my Olav-Olof. You’re mine now.”
Before she fell asleep, the depth of her triumph reached her. From now on, she could say the name she longed to hear as often as she desired. Aloud, whispering, shouting—however she wanted. Holding her son while the cheers faded below, Świętosława finally felt the full extent of her love for him.
13
GERMANY
Bolesław wasn’t present at the birth of his first son, because Mieszko had decided to give him another lesson in political alliances. They journeyed together to Połabie.
Mere days after Gertrude’s procession left Poznań, Bolesław had married Karolda, the Hungarian prince’s daughter, at Mieszko’s bidding. The Hungarian woman was unlike his previous fiancée in almost every way. Passionate and bold, loud and wild. She learned his language slowly, but her desire in bed was insatiable. They didn’t talk much, but they made love passionately, often from dusk till dawn. During the day, they stayed away from each other, because in the morning light Karolda seemed, at best, strange to him. Her dark eyes unsettled Bolesław. He caught her staring at him sometimes, but when he smiled and spoke to her, she’d turn her head and pretend not to have heard.
“Hungarian witch,” Zarad called her when they were alone. “Be careful, Prince, that she doesn’t enchant you.”
“She has another name,” Jaksa teased. “Her servants call her ‘Lady Emese.’”
“More proof that she’s a witch,” Zarad said, laughing.
“Or that you’re an idiot.” Bolesław slapped him on the back. “Women change their names after marriage.”
“Indeed, but she was introduced to you as Karolda.” Zarad wouldn’t let it go. He despised Bolesław’s wife. “Emese is her secret name, I’m telling you, my friend. But I understand that these are matters of state.” He spread his arms wide as if he were surrendering. “A witch in exchange for Hungarian support in our attack against the Czechs. What one wouldn’t do for power.”
“Is there any news of your sister from Uppsala?” Bjornar said, changing the topic in hopes of shutting Zarad up.
“Not yet,” Bolesław said. “Although I can guess what I’d hear if I asked Eric’s closest friends: ‘The Piast witch doesn’t know when to bite her tongue and endangers our king and the whole kingdom with spells only she knows.’”
“No, no, no. Świętosława is something else entirely. I’ll cut off the head of anyone who speaks of our sister like that,” Zarad chimed in angrily.
“Don’t flatter yourself. She’s not your sister, but Bolesław’s.” Jaksa took Zarad’s goblet.
“My comrade’s sister is my sister, and what will you do about it, huh, you gloomy beanstalk?” Zarad threw himself at his friend.
“All right, that’s enough.” Bolesław waved a hand. “Tomorrow, we head to Połabie, so save your energy to use against the Veleti.”
He stood and whistled for the dogs. They heaved themselves up reluctantly. Duszan chased them to make them walk by the prince. They took a few steps and whined.
“Come on, we’re going,” Bolesław scolded.
They ran in the opposite direction to the door and hid behind a bench. Zarad burst out laughing.
“Every night. Smart dogs, they don’t like Mistress Karolda.”
Bolesław rolled his eyes.
“Go on, go on, don’t abandon your master,” Zarad said to the dogs, fake concern in his voice. “The dog may not want to, but the prince must.”
* * *
Their journey to Połabie was reviving. Bolesław rode at the head of the Polish armies with Mieszko, with a squad of heavy infantry behind them, mounted scouts in front, and light infantry and shield-bearers on either side. Father was a declared enemy of armies cobbled together from commoners.
“Heavy infantry is expensive, but every coin spent on their training and living will come back to you tenfold,” he’d advised repeatedly. Mieszko had three thousand armored infantrymen and ten thousand light infantrymen, waiting at his beck and call. He took far fewer than that to Połabie, though.
“Three hundred heavy and six hundred light, that’s enough to show the Empress Theophanu how loyal our allies are,” he said as they crossed the Elbe River.
“Does the old doe with a calf at her side lead the Saxon herds?” Witosz, one of Mieszko’s commanders, asked, when they set off west again after a brief break.
Mieszko laughed.
“Theophanu won’t miss a chance like this. She wants to show off her son to all the swords of the empire, the son she had to snatch from Henry the Bavarian’s claws. She’ll be there to bless us before we face the pagans, with all her imperial widow glory. Besides, she must see for herself which of the dukes make an appearance, and who has ignored a command from the lady of the Reich. And I assure you, she will not miscount. Heavy infantry, light infantry, horses, swords, spears, shields. Even the carts. After she removed the imperial grandmother Adelaide from power in spring, she needs a swift success. If the courtly rules didn’t forbid women from donning armor, she would lead the armies herself.”
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