“Who listens to women ends up in fog,” a drunk Ragn of the Isles announced, looking at the tower of sparks and the burning roof. “Sven Haraldsson. You have my sword in your fight against your father, Harald Bluetooth.”
* * *
They sailed a week later, once the hammering cold had receded and left their heads clear. The Kattegat’s waters were covered in a thin sheet of ice, like fat on a cooled lamb dish, and spring cut through this weak shell like a knife. When they caught the wind beyond the straits, the ships leaped forward. No one in Roskilde was expecting guests, in Denmark’s capital and Harald Bluetooth’s lair. Especially not armed ones. Sven and his followers felled the first defenses, three rows of soldiers, with barely a shout uttered. They cut down the defenders surrounding the royal manor and found Harald feasting. Those feasting with the old king were defenseless, as no one was permitted to enter the hall with a sword.
When Sven was nearly face-to-face with his father, the king’s comrades stood and called in unison, “A wolf’s anger!” And only then did Sven recall that berserkers were just as dangerous without weapons as they were when armed.
Their painted canines gleamed and the huge bodies of Harald’s closest companions blocked Sven’s path. He cut down the first one with a blow to the shoulder, a blow that should have been deadly, but the bearded giant merely shook himself. Not a drop of blood appeared from under the leather caftan. He roared and swung his arms, catching Sven across the face. Blood streamed into his eyes. Nearly blinded and trying to escape, Sven threw himself forward wildly, and, ducking under the berserker’s outstretched arm, the tip of his sword touched Harald’s chest. It was a shallow cut, but Harald howled and clutched his heart. Blood poured from between his fingers.
Is this it? Sven thought. That’s how one kills a father, as if he were an enemy?
Harald paled, baring his blue teeth; they used to be proud, painted canines. As a young man, he’d had patterns etched into the enamel, then had the teeth rubbed with black dye and filed into sharp points; painted fangs marked only the bravest warriors—the berserkers. Bearing those teeth in battle, with a wild grin and guttling snarl, was known to strike terror in the hearts of even the bravest of opponents.
But, now, they had no effect on Sven. Harald swayed. He was as gray and swollen as an old man. Sven wanted to say something, but he heard Stenkil’s moan, and Ragn of the Islands’ howl. He glanced behind him and saw them both writhing on the ground. This split second was enough for the berserkers to carry their bleeding king out of the hall.
“After them!” Sven shouted to his people. “Even if they are beasts, we can’t let them go.”
They spilled out into the yard, but the king and his men had disappeared.
“My lord.” Adla, a servant Sven paid to spy for him, clutched at his sleeve. “The king has a secret harbor in a grove north from here. He’s been expecting you for days, and had time to build it. Look for it by the rock that’s as sharp as a spear.”
“To the harbor,” Sven yelled.
But they didn’t go to the sharp rock, because the harbor was useless to them without their own ships. They went back to these and sailed out into the waters of the Roskilde fjord. Waves and wind were not elements friendly to human beasts. It wasn’t long before Sven saw his father’s sail in the north.
“After them,” he shouted to the oarsmen, grabbing the helm. He didn’t like sailing in shallow waters, between islands, but he had no choice until they reached open sea. He chased his prey and was determined not to let it escape.
A cold wind from the Kattegat blew into their sails in the early morning.
“Set the course east,” he shouted, because although he couldn’t see Harald’s sail in the thick, milky fog, he knew only one place his father could run to now.
15
HUNGARY
Bolesław accompanied Karolda’s embalmed body in its oak casket. A procession of his squad and a small number of camp servants joined him. If not for the casket and their slow and somber pace, they would have looked like a fighting troop. They rode through the Moravian Gate quickly; after all, merchant caravans had taken this road from south to north for centuries. As soon as they entered Magyar territories, where his wife was from, a troop rode out to meet them.
Bolesław’s Hungarian guide, named Lajos, whispered to him in broken Polish,
“Boleszláv fejedelem, Gejza has sent his younger son. Sign anger.”
And it’s my job, Bolesław thought, to turn this anger around.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. His deceased wife had been the younger sister of Sarolt, Prince Gejza’s wife. Sarolt had helped raise Karolda and cared for her as if she had been her own child rather than younger sibling. Upon hearing the news of Karolda’s death, Sarolt had been inconsolable, they’d been told. She wouldn’t forgive the loss, she had screamed, and reminded everyone that she had been against her sister’s marriage to Bolesław from the outset—and, not least, Sarolt had demanded that Karolda’s son, Bezprym, be sent to her court.
“The girl didn’t pick a good time to die,” Mieszko had commented when he heard the news, not pausing in feeding meat to his hawk. “We need the Magyars’ friendship now more than ever.”
Father was referring to Moravia, south of their lands, which was currently under Czech rule. This was Mieszko’s next target, now that he controlled Silesia. The next of Bolesław’s tasks.
Young Honta, the prince’s son who stood before them now, couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He was short and stocky, and a silver-plated headband held back his thick, dark hair. He nodded to Bolesław in greeting and raised a hand.
“I bring the remains of my beloved wife, your and my lady, Karolda,” Bolesław said.
“Duchess Sarolt awaits her sister in Veszprém,” Honta replied as they continued moving.
“And Prince Gejza?” Bolesław asked.
“He might be there, he might not,” Honta replied, and Lajos translated.
They are playing games, Bolesław thought, testing my patience.
They crossed the wide Danube River on barges. Bolesław dismounted and stood next to Karolda’s coffin. The barge swayed from side to side. Zarad stood next to him. “A daunting river,” he observed.
“Mmm,” Bolesław replied, narrowing his eyes against the sun.
“Are you looking for places to cross?” his friend asked. “This is the strangest scouting expedition I have ever been a part of.”
“I’m accompanying my dead wife,” Bolesław said firmly, gently patting the lid of the coffin resting on the cart.
His friends hadn’t understood his love for Karolda, from the first day of their marriage until the last of her life.
She only showed her true face when we were alone. Or when we went riding together, he thought. My beautiful, wild warrior.
The ferrymen checked the depth of the river with poles. Helpers awaited them on the opposite bank. Ropes were thrown out and the barges were pulled onto the gently sloping sandy shore. Bolesław’s squad led their horses onto land carefully, while Bolesław personally watched over the cart that carried his wife’s body.
“We will reach Veszprém in two days,” Honta said when the full procession was finally on the Danube’s bank. “Let’s go.”
Bolesław was fascinated by Honta’s Hungarian riders. He couldn’t keep from staring. Bolesław had ridden since he was five, and it was said that he held himself in the saddle like a nomad, but it was only when he watched the young Hungarian prince and his men that he understood that the blood of steppe riders still ran through Magyar veins, those who had arrived with their small, resilient horses decades ago from the steppes by the Volga. Karolda had been the same. She’d felt smothered in Poznań’s palatium. She didn’t feel well at the feasts with Oda and Father John; she found courtly celebrations dull and often seemed absent at them, but she became herself the moment she mounted a horse. Her eyes shone, and her red, wide lips stretched into a smile. If he hadn’t gone with Father to
Połabie when she’d had their son, would she still be alive today? Bolesław had asked himself this question many times, and he wasn’t certain of the answer.
Before he’d set out with Mieszko, every morning, after nights filled with laughter and love, Bolesław had hoped this would be the day. That they had reached a turning point. When Karolda would begin to learn his tongue, when she would stop turning away from the courtly life a duchess and wife must lead. But this day didn’t come, their nights together the only sign of their love. The only thing the Hungarian princess and Polish prince shared.
The landscape changed on the second day, from rich green flatlands to a gentle plateau. Prince Honta was silent as ever, but Lajos, Bolesław’s Hungarian guide, said they would reach Veszprém before dusk.
“Do you hear that, Karolda?” the prince asked, standing beside the coffin. “Our journey won’t last much longer.”
He caught Zarad’s unsettled look and the dark glance Honta cast. They set off once more; Hungarian riders didn’t need long breaks.
The wide road led between gentle hills. Then a mountain appeared in front of them, looming over the path as if to say, your journey ends here. It seemed so strange in this place, as if it wasn’t nature’s creation at all, but the work of an insane giant who simply placed it in the middle of the road.
“That’s Veszprém, my lord,” Lajos said.
The approach was very steep; Honta’s men’s horses climbed easily, but the Polish mounts stepped timidly. As they made their way up the incline, Bolesław watched the casket, afraid Karolda’s coffin would slide off on the steep journey. He jumped from his saddle to walk beside the cart, the solemnest of sentinels. Several times the wheels bounced dangerously on stones, and after a moment, Zarad joined Bolesław at the coffin’s side. They had to push the cart up themselves over the last part of the ride.
“It would be difficult to seize Veszprém,” his comrade panted, when they had finally reached the top.
“This climb is a better defense than any rampart I’ve seen,” Bolesław agreed, wiping the sweat from his forehead and looking around.
Something between a royal encampment and a village stretched out over the flat plateau before them. It was surrounded by a waist-high wall, built from the stones that were plentiful in the area. They rode through gates mounted not in the wall, as it was too low, but in a sturdy-looking wooden frame.
The yurts on the edge of the plateau were small and modest, covered with horse skin. Horses grazed between the tents, and children ran around them. Women cooked food in carefully arranged stone fireplaces. Tufts of thick grasses dried in places, the kind used for making baskets. The encampment was organized into quarters which were separated by intersecting roads
Honta gave a sign for them to follow. Bolesław didn’t mount his horse again, preferring to stay close to Karolda. They made their way between the tents for Gejza’s squad. Richly decorated Magyar saddles were arranged on trestles in front of these. There were fewer horses here; most grazed on the other side, while one or two stood near every tent, kept nearby for times of urgency.
“Red and yellow are the colors of Gejza’s squad,” Lajos said as they passed between the tents, pointing out the homes of the individual squads, whose tents and flags differed in color. “Blue belongs to Sarolt. There are more blue here because we are in Veszprém, which belongs to my lady.”
They finally reached the square in the middle of the encampment, where a few low buildings stood, built from wood on foundations of local stone. One of them might have been a church; it was small and round, and the sloping roof was marked by an equal-armed cross. Three huge yurts stood behind it, covered in colorful fabric, with a sigil at each entrance—a black bird standing on a flag. Two of the yurts had small wooden doors; the central one’s entrance was wide open.
“We’re here,” Lajos announced, dismounting. “This yurt with the blue flag belongs to my lady Sarolt, the other to her husband, the Grand Prince Gejza. The middle one is for guests, feasts, and the meetings of leaders.”
Servants and those curious about the newcomers filled the square, standing in small groups, pointing at the cart with the coffin and at Bolesław. Honta disappeared into his mother’s yurt without looking around at him, and didn’t emerge again for a long time.
Bolesław once again felt that they were intentionally trying his patience, but he had come this far, such a long way, and he would wait as long as he had to now. Finally, the door to Prince Gejza’s yurt opened and a short, broad-shouldered man, with legs bent from horse riding, appeared. He was dressed in trousers of soft leather, tall riding boots and a leather caftan over which he’d thrown a richly decorated cloak. A long, dark beard covered his tanned face. His graying hair fell loose down his back, with two braids framing his face. A boy stood behind him, almost a man, only slightly younger than Bolesław.
“Grand Prince Gejza and his eldest son, Prince Wajk,” Lajos said.
They studied each other without a hint of a smile. Then the door to the princess’s yurt swung open, and Honta stepped out, followed by a woman. It was hard to determine her age. Though she was undoubtedly over thirty, he couldn’t tell by how much. Her dark hair had been plaited into four braids, each one heavy with decoration. The hat she wore came to a sharp point and was richly embroidered with silver thread and lined with fur; gemstones hung from golden chains that framed her face, visible under the edges of her cloak.
“Grand Princess Sarolt,” Lajos said, though it couldn’t have been anyone else.
The resemblance between her and Bolesław’s wife was astounding. The same dark eyes, the same sharp cheekbones covered by a blush, the same pale complexion and black, black hair. A determined set to her lips.
Would my Karolda have looked like this in a few years? he wondered with a sharp pang of emotion.
“Boleszláv fejedelem,” Lajos introduced him. Fejedelem meaning prince.
Bolesław nodded to Gejza, Sarolt, and their son. They responded with shallow bows, nothing more. They stared at one another in silence, until Sarolt noticed the cart and coffin; she ran to them, crying out as she did.
“My lady says: ‘My little girl, my love, my poor girl,’” Lajos translated.
Sarolt tore around the cart, sobbing, hands pressed to the coffin lid.
“My lady says: ‘What have you come to, my little one? Where is your son, our son?’ And also…” Lajos hesitated, listening to Sarolta’s sobs. “‘We must give you a funeral … a mountain of fire … a pyre.’”
Christ! Bolesław thought. Do they intend to take her body out of the coffin? It was embalmed, but as to what condition it’ll be in after the journey …
Still, he maintained a stony expression. Sarolt quieted in time, then began issuing instructions to her servants.
“Yes,” Lajos confirmed. “The princess wants a funeral pyre to be prepared. But not to burn your lady, just traditional gifts.”
Bolesław sighed with relief. Prince Gejza then spoke him to in a loud voice, and Lajos translated.
“Why do you come, Boleszláv fejedelem?”
“To bring back my beloved wife Karolda’s remains to her kin. To return her to the land of her ancestors,” Bolesław replied.
The prince exchanged words with the princess and their son, then Lajos translated:
“You and your squad will receive your own yurt. You can rest there after your long journey. At dusk, the funeral rituals will commence, and afterward, a feast that you are invited to.”
“And none of the usual ‘Welcome, dearest guests, it’s an honor’?” Zarad grumbled as they walked into their assigned yurt. “A man bruises his arse in the saddle, drags a coffin over thousands of miles of mountains and rivers, and this is all they can do?”
“A man didn’t drag the coffin, horses did,” Bolesław corrected him sharply. “Have some respect for their culture.”
“I don’t know what kind of culture it is when the royal couple lives in tents,” his friend snorted, but after en
tering their own yurt, he had a change of heart. “The beds are comfortable,” he admitted, lying on a blanket-covered bed. “Quite something.”
“The princess has plans to build a great borough in Veszprém,” Lajos explained. “But her lord husband is constantly busy with one war or another, and they haven’t had time and, as you might expect, building on this plateau is difficult even with their full attention. They live in yurts while they travel, but they have beautiful royal accommodations in Esztergom and Białogród.”
“Tell me, Lajos, what will my wife’s funeral look like?” Bolesław asked, a note of concern in his voice.
“Well, I don’t know, exactly, my lord,” the Magyar spread his hands helplessly before bowing and leaving the yurt.
There would be trouble tonight, Bolesław sensed. Prince Gejza had been baptized, but Sarolt, before she’d married Gejza, had accepted the Eastern Orthodox faith. The faith of Constantinople, which had been spreading among the Eastern Slavs, reaching as far as Rus. What’s more, even when Bolesław had married Karolda, it was said that Christianity in these parts was a mixture of influences from the West and East, with the local nomad cults dominating. Hungary, then, the country of barely baptized and barely settled nomads, where the governing rules of the faith were known only to royal families, could become the host to the strangest of cults, where cross and horse head fought for equal rights.
Whatever happens, I’ll accept it, he thought, when Lajos returned at dusk to take him to the funeral. Bolesław had changed into fresh clothes, a golden tunic and a navy cloak. He placed his royal diadem on his head, the golden eagle protecting his forehead.
“You must leave your weapons, Prince,” Lajos warned, so Bolesław unbuckled his sword.
He had a dagger inside his boot, like every one of his squad members. He’d never walk entirely unarmed among people he still considered potentially hostile.
Karolda’s coffin had been carried to the round building, and it was placed in front of a low altar. Lajos just had time to explain that this small church had been funded by the princess and that she’d named St. George its patron. Sarolt, Gejza, and their two sons were already standing in front of the coffin. When Bolesław walked in, they made space for him between them. Even a priest appeared and said a short mass, mixing Greek with Latin. Bolesław pretended not to notice the strange lithurgy.
The Widow Queen Page 18
