The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “Behind a wall of shields, of course,” Witosz threw in, and they laughed at Theophanu.

  Bolesław didn’t participate in the mockery; the conversation about the empress reminded him of Świętosława. Suddenly, he missed his slight, bold sister. There was no news from beyond the seas, but was that good or bad? He spurred his horse on and separated from the column.

  * * *

  His father had been right, Theophanu was stationed on the sprawling commons on the Elbe’s banks where the armies were to meet. Her golden tent was the center of the war camp, on a small raised hill, as impressive as a manor. The Reich lords settled around it. The archbishop of Magdeburg, Giselher, with his allies; Ezykon and Binizon, the counts of Merseburg. Then Godfrey, count of Lorraine, with his son and son-in-law. Count Dudo of Brunswick. Archbishop Willigis of Mainz, a great supporter of the Ottos and empress, and Bishop Folcold of Meissen, under Willigis’s protection. And finally, Count Herman of Angeron, a Westphalian nobleman who had gained Theophanu’s respect when he participated in the negotiations with Henry of Bavaria that led to the rebellious prince’s finally swearing fealty to the empress.

  The space intended for Mieszko’s camp was directly opposite the entrance to Theophanu’s.

  “Damn her.” Mieszko whistled through his teeth. “The old doe wants to show that she’s watching us. Witosz, find out who’s responsible for arranging the quarters and tell them they didn’t give us enough space. Ask if that means I’m to send half my forces across the Oder.”

  Bolesław chuckled to himself. This was an interesting start to his political lesson. Of course, they could have fit within the space designated by the small wooden posts if they wanted to, but a glance at the largest camps, Giselher’s and Willigis’s, was enough for Mieszko and Bolesław to know that the archbishops had arrived to the banks of Elbe with forces that equaled their own, so Mieszko intended to emphasize this. It wasn’t long before Theophanu’s administrators arrived and hurried to enlarge their camp space, glancing curiously at the carts.

  “Bolesław!” Mieszko called him over when he was satisfied with the space he was given. “Go back for our gift. Just make sure you’re not seen.”

  Bolesław went with Zarad, Jaksa, Bjornar, and his team. The animal was under the care of the grooms, and it awaited them calmly in a grove.

  “The ‘bull’ has eaten all the leaves off the young birches,” one of them informed him. “We had to take him further into the trees because he was roaring like a mad thing.”

  “Just make sure you’re not seen,” Bolesław echoed his father.

  Before him stood an enormous, two-humped camel.

  “We’ll throw a small tent over it and…”

  “… it will be fine,” Zarad reassured his prince.

  They rode in after dusk, covering the animal with a tent, leaving only its muzzle free, because it roared nervously every time they tried to cover that too, and that roar could be mistaken for anything but the bull they were pretending it was. Bolesław gave the order to a dozen of his men to surround the camel tightly, and led them with Jaksa, Bjornar, and Zarad.

  “Who’s there?” the guards at the camp’s outskirts called out, waving their torches around.

  “Prince Bolesław, son of Duke Mieszko.”

  They rode through without incident. Huge fires burned next to the second line of guards, and they had to cover the animal’s muzzle for just a moment as they went past. It roared wildly.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Prince Bolesław, son of Duke Mieszko, with his squad.”

  “What are you bringing with you?”

  “An auroch for dinner for my father and his army,” Bolesław replied calmly in Old Saxon.

  “Aaaah.…”

  They passed without stopping. The camel squealed under the cover of the tent.

  “Why is it making such strange sounds?” The guard ran after them.

  “It’s learning Latin for its meeting with the empress,” Zarad whispered.

  “It’s afraid. So many soldiers here, and it’s straight from the wilderness,” Bolesław answered without slowing or even turning around in his saddle.

  * * *

  The camel was meant to be presented the next day. The groom had combed its thick fur for the occasion, and given it reins with bells and a silk throw. Mieszko came to inspect the gift and ordered the throw be taken off.

  “It covers the humps. Decorate it differently. Flowers perhaps?”

  “It’s eaten those, my lord. It eats everything. It ate its blanket during the night, and it seemed to enjoy even that.”

  “Then add more bells to the reins. It won’t touch those, will it?”

  “I don’t think so, my lord.”

  “Damn it,” Mieszko said, because at that moment the camel raised its tail and excreted everything it had eaten since morning. Which was a lot.

  “It can’t behave like this at the audience,” he said furiously.

  “It’s an animal, my lord,” the groom defended the camel. “Nobody bats an eyelid when horses…”

  “It’s a gift, you fool. A gift cannot shit the moment it’s changing hands. I don’t care what it does when Theophanu has it. But as long as my son and I are there, it is not to raise its tail.”

  “We could withhold its food, Father,” Bolesław suggested. “If it doesn’t eat, it won’t shit.”

  Mieszko looked at his son with appreciation, though Bolesław would have preferred to receive such fatherly pride for less shitty business.

  * * *

  The next day, all the Reich lords and allies who’d answered Theophanu’s call for aid in the war against the pagans were invited to gather for an audience with the empress and her son. Hordes of noblemen gathered around her tent at noon, awaiting the empress and her son, the young king of the Reich. Two thrones stood on a specially constructed platform. The empress exited the tent to the accompaniment of trumpets, with Otto in front of her. The six-year-old king had a white tunic and small golden breastplate to underscore that his meeting with his people was occurring during a war. He had a silver-plated helmet on his head, which seemed to have come straight from the Rheinland, a region known for producing weapons of unmatched quality. There was a golden crown attached to the helmet. All of this, though made to fit a six-year-old child, must have weighed a lot, and Bolesław could see that the boy walked carefully, only just managing to keep his back straight. When he began to step onto the carpeted steps of the platform, everyone held their breaths. The little one almost fell over.

  “A truly Byzantian gesture on the part of our lady,” Archbishop Giselher whispered to one side, and his voice contained everything except admiration.

  “These are not Germanian traditions,” Count Ezykon agreed, pursing his lips. “These are Greek excesses. Raising yourself above all others.”

  Mieszko smiled lightly and whispered quietly to Bolesław so that no one else could hear:

  “May God stop you from ever donning golden armor. And if the Lord ever blesses you with a royal crown, don’t wear it to war. Those are not Piast traditions.”

  “They say that gold begets gold,” Bolesław whispered without moving his head, “but from what I can tell it finds no admirers among warriors. It’s almost strange they accept it so readily as the price for fighting.”

  “Those aren’t warriors,” his father replied just as quietly. “These are the ones who don’t like to have a Greek woman ruling them. The warriors are over there.” He nodded his head at Eckard.

  Bolesław studied him carefully. Theophanu had proclaimed Eckard the new margrave of Meissen, after the dramatic death of Rikdag, the father of his would-be wife, Gertrude. Though the flag bearers behind them displayed the black lion of Meissen, the margrave didn’t resemble a lion at all. He was barely ten years older than Bolesław, and with his lithe body he looked more like a wildcat preparing to pounce.

  Too young to have a daughter old enough to wed, Bolesław thought, then remembered he was already
married. Karolda had remained in Poznań. How was she doing there, by herself, heavily pregnant? He hoped that Duchess Oda was taking good care of her.

  One by one, the empress and her son accepted gifts from their noblemen. Mieszko, knowing their time was about to come, discreetly gave Witosz the sign to bring out the camel.

  “Misico Dux Sclavorum et Bolislaus, filius eius,” the herald announced them.

  They walked in front of the thrones of mother and son. They bowed to the majesties, but they didn’t kneel like tributaries. Theophanu barely hid the disapproval that flitted across her face.

  “King Otto, Empress,” Mieszko said, “I have come with an army to prove that we are connected by a joint purpose, which is to establish peace in Połabie. Like everyone else here, we want to return to Christ the destroyed temples and dioceses that the pagans claimed for themselves with such violence.”

  The bishop from Meissen sighed loudly.

  “God bless,” Otto said in a melodic voice, his eyes never leaving Bolesław.

  “We have brought gifts for Your Grace,” Mieszko continued, “as proof of our friendship.”

  Theophanu nodded, and the duke’s men began to arrange chests with presents in front of the thrones.

  “My son, Bolesław, has a special gift for King Otto.”

  The sound of bells on the reins told them the camel must be near.

  “What kind of gift?” Otto couldn’t restrain himself.

  “One which you won’t find in any of the beautiful cities of Germania,” Bolesław replied.

  A rustle and occasional shouts ran through the crowd.

  Ah, Bolesław thought, the camel is very near. Then the animal’s squeal sounded right behind them.

  Bolesław took the reins from Witosz and led the animal toward the thrones. Little Otto clapped his hands, his cheeks red with excitement.

  “Is it an elephant, Mother? An elephant like the ones you told me about?”

  Theophanu’s eyes shone with tears. She wiped them with the back of her hand and answered the child, emotion coloring every syllable:

  “No, my king, it’s a camel.”

  “Like the one you rode when you were little?”

  “Yes,” she replied with a sad smile. “We had many of them in Constantinople.”

  Bolesław had to bite his tongue to stop himself from voicing his thoughts. Cunning hawk, he thought of his father. When they had led the two-humped camel here, he had thought the old man wanted to make an impression on the empress, the young king, and the Reich lords with the wonderfully rich and rare animal. Only now did he understand that the gift had another motivation behind it, appealing directly to Theophanu’s memories of her childhood.

  “Can I touch it?” Otto asked.

  Theophanu hesitated.

  “They can be unruly,” she said, unsure.

  “This one is tame, my lady,” Bolesław assured her. “Without a special saddle, I wouldn’t recommend riding it, but touching, why not? I will guarantee the young king’s safety.”

  Otto glanced at his mother once more and, when she nodded, he rose from his throne and walked over to them. Only now did Bolesław remember how unbalanced the boy was in the heavy helmet on his head. He quickly gave the reins back to Witosz and ran over to the blanket-covered steps. He sensed that he should not climb them, that they were reserved only for those two, but he didn’t want the little one to slip on the carpeted steps and diminish the gift and the moment with a royal fall. He reached out a hand to help the boy balance himself. Otto shook his head with childish stubbornness to indicate that he would manage on his own. But that very moment caused the boy to sway. Bolesław decided not to wait for a catastrophe; he grabbed the child around the waist and carried him down the last few steps.

  “What a funny nose,” Otto squeaked. “And he moves it so…”

  “He’s hungry,” Bolesław said, hoping the camel’s bowels were empty. “You can stroke its neck, here.”

  “We thank you, Duke, for a present worthy of a future emperor,” Theophanu said, moved. “King, we still have meetings to attend.” Her voice left no doubt that Otto should return to her.

  “May I have the honor of walking the king back to his throne?” Bolesław asked.

  The empress nodded. Otto was reluctant. The camel interested him far more than this gathering. Bolesław didn’t want to insist. He reached out a hand. The royal child sighed and leaned on his arm as he walked up the steps and sat back down on the throne next to his mother.

  “Thank you, Duke Misico and Prince Bolislaus,” he said. “It’s the nicest gift I have ever received.”

  Bolesław bowed and walked back down the steps. Only Giselher and Willigis’s indignant stares made him realize he shouldn’t have turned his back on the empress and young king. It was too late now. Witosz took the camel to Theophanu’s camp administrator, and he, unsure what he should do, tied the camel to a wooden post next to the gold tent, where all the day’s gifts had been taken so far.

  The audience continued. Theophanu spoke of how she accepted Henry of Bavaria back despite his having blemished his honor when he rebelled against her and her son. She didn’t say a word about Mieszko’s role in the rebellion.

  “To end the disagreement and give him proof of our infinite imperial forgiveness, we have made him viceroy of Bavaria once more.”

  Bolesław listened, watching the expressions of those around him. He watched and remembered. The empress thundered, criticizing his uncle, Boleslav, the prince of Czechs, who fought hand in hand with the Veleti against the faith, against common human decency, and against the Reich. He knew that this part of the speech was of the utmost importance to him and his father. He listened, trying not to lose a single word of it. But his attention was stolen by the golden tent, which swayed a little behind Theophanu. Another sway, and he knew what was happening.

  Bloody hell, he swore silently. That camel must have been ravenous.

  “My most serene empress,” Mieszko spoke, and there was a note of humility in his voice Bolesław had never heard there before. “Could Your Highness, or one of the lords gathered here today, explain to me why Prince Boleslav didn’t lay down his arms when his protector, Prince Henry, humbled himself before Your Imperial Majesty?”

  Unease settled over the Greek’s handsome face.

  “He was summoned to join an excursion which offers him the chance for redemption. But he’s a defiant, willful prince,” she said with emphasis.

  “I agree, my lady, but even so I cannot understand why he fights. Even the most defiant prince must have some common sense.”

  “You, Duke Mieszko, are the best example of that,” Archbishop Giselher pointed out.

  “Of fighting or common sense?” Mieszko asked, most innocently.

  “Both,” Theophanu settled the matter, seeing that Giselher was opening his mouth to say something likely very different.

  “My lady,” Eckard said in a calm, hoarse voice, “we need to consider the doubt that Duke Mieszko draws our attentions to. We cannot forget that it was the Czech armies that attacked Meissen and led to Margrave Rikdag’s death. The Czech prince still hasn’t left Meissen. You have made me Meissen’s margrave while it’s still under Czech occupation.”

  “A margrave with no domain?” Ezykon scoffed. “A warrior like yourself, Eckard, should chop his way to a title with a sword.”

  “I have received the right to Meissen from our lady,” Eckard replied calmly. “And I assure all of you gathered here today that I will win it back from the Czechs. It’s not hard to see that when our armies gather here to move against the Veleti, the Czech leader benefits. I’d say that this is his trap; he ties Saxon powers up to win back land occupied by the Veleti, strengthening his own position in Meissen.”

  A murmur rustled through the crowd.

  “Are you questioning the sense in our cause?” Willigis asked carefully.

  “No, Archbishop. I’m suggesting a division of our troops. Part of the army should move to fac
e the Veleti, and the other half should march against the Czechs.”

  “Attacking Boleslav from both sides will be expensive,” Mieszko observed with concern. “But harassing him where he least expects it might have the desired effect.”

  “The prince of Prague has placed his troops all along the western border and Meissen,” Eckard said.

  “But he isn’t anticipating an attack on Silesia,” Mieszko replied.

  Only now did Bolesław fully understand the plot his father had concocted. He could now watch with appreciation as the Old Hawk put the finishing touches on another of his strategic masterpieces. The gathered nobles decided that, with Empress Theophanu’s support, Mieszko’s troops would cross the Oder between Głogów and Niemcza and begin a systematic hit-and-run war, while the main Saxon armies would be winning back lands the Veleti had taken during the great rebellion, and Margrave Eckard would haunt the Czechs occupying Meissen. The most magnificent part came at the end, when Giselher tried to discredit Mieszko with a final sting and said he came to the Elbe, gave a camel, and in return would take back his armies to fight his own war against the Czechs. Father, without so much as a flinch, replied:

  “Everything stays. The camel, my three hundred heavy-armed soldiers, and the six hundred light-armed ones. My son Bolesław will be the only one to leave camp, and he’ll lead the attack on the Czechs without taking any of my men.”

  Triumphant trumpets sounded in Bolesław’s soul. It was time to end the audience.

  “Let’s retreat before our gift eats the entire imperial tent and shits into the chests bearing gifts from the Reich lords,” Father whispered soundlessly. The Old Hawk was as content as if he himself had shat on the margraves’ treasures.