Magyar riders wearing the princess’s colors filed in after the prayers and pulled open the wooden door set into the round building’s stone wall. They slid Karolda’s coffin into the opening. Sarolt stopped them as they moved to enclose her in the wall. She slipped her arms into the darkness and bade her sister goodbye, crying quietly. When she stepped back, Bolesław walked over to the coffin. He knelt, his hand resting on the coffin for a quiet moment, then he stood. The soldiers closed his wife in the church wall.
The priest had vanished. Prince Gejza exited the building next, followed by his sons and the princess. Bolesław hurried after them, nearly blind as he stepped out into the church square. After the dim light in the chapel, the blaze from the enormous fire was almost too much to bear. The pyre had been arranged when they entered the church, but he hadn’t realized it would be lit during the mass. The royal family were gathered around the flames, once again making space for him.
Sarolt lifted her hands, and servants slid rings off her fingers. The princess said something in a choked voice, and they threw the rings onto the fire. Sarolt looked at him with wet, sad eyes. He could offer something to his wife as a gift too, he sensed. He took off his heavy cloak, folded it neatly, and, unafraid of the leaping flames, placed it gently onto the fire, careful so as not to smother it. Music began. Three brightly dressed musicians plucked dulcimer strings. The notes were wild, and ringing out faster and faster. Sarolt’s servants whirled around the fire, and their long braids raced the flames. The girls danced, shouting, each one holding a clay vessel. When the dance was finished, one by one, they placed the vessels at the pyre. More fires were lit around them; ordinary, small ones. Riders appeared and jumped over the fires with long whips flying.
“Don’t be offended, Prince,” Zarad whispered into his ear, “but I prefer the fires on Midsummer’s Eve.”
Bolesław said nothing; he watched. The servants took Sarolt’s cloak from her shoulders, and she let herself be swept into the dance around the pyre, which was slowly burning down. She’d lift her arms and cover her face, bowing, but she never stopped dancing. She never stopped speaking throughout it all. Bolesław summoned Lajos.
“My beloved, ride, fly, let the angel winds run through your hair, let the Holy Mother take you into her arms…” the Magyar translated what he heard.
When the pyre was little more than embers, Prince Gejza signaled it was time for the feast. They went toward the central yurt, where a fire burned in an iron basket, the smoke escaping through the hole in the top of the yurt. Low seats had been placed along the curved walls, laid out with horse skins and blankets. Bolesław was asked to take the seat of honor between Sarolt and Gejza. Both sons sat at either side of their parents. Lajos, as his interpreter, took his place behind Bolesław. He had time to whisper before the feast began:
“A good place. There’s none better.”
The servants carried in trays of food, first approaching Gejza, who picked out meat with his fingers and placed it in his bowl. Then they offered it to Sarolt, who selected the largest piece and placed it on Bolesław’s plate. He understood the gesture and thanked her. Jugs of wine were brought in and poured into expensive cups. Gejza raised a toast.
“To our dear guest, Boleszláv,” Lajos translated.
The wine was strong, and thicker than he was used to.
“How did my little one die?” the princess asked through Lajos, taking a sip of her wine.
Bolesław told her of the difficult labor, about the apathy and insanity which haunted Karolda after it. About the wounds from the birth that had refused to heal.
Sarolt focused on Bolesław’s words as he spoke them, even before Lajos translated them for her. She was so like her sister. Karolda hadn’t wanted to learn the tongue, but she loved listening to the tone of voice. He called out words of devotion to her when they made love, and she could repeat them afterward. He never knew if she’d understood them.
“My lady is asking abut the child. Why haven’t you brought Bezprym to her?” Lajos translated.
“Tell her that my wife rejected her son. She didn’t want to see him or feed him.”
“My lady is still asking why you haven’t brought him.”
Was I meant to take a baby and a procession of wet nurses through mountains? Bolesław thought, but replied calmly.
“He is my firstborn son. A little Piast. Children belong to the dynasty.”
His words were discussed between Sarolt and Gejza, though Lajos didn’t translate what was said. Eventually, he repeated Prince Gejza’s thoughts for Bolesław.
“The lengths you’ve gone to in returning your wife’s body are unheard of, even for a princess. They want to know why you, my lord, have undertaken this difficult journey.”
“Tell them that my wife was born a Magyar and died one as well. If she is to ever find peace, I felt her soul must rest in the land to which she was born.”
Silence fell when Lajos translated his words. Then Sarolt stood up, leaned over him and, taking his face between her hands, kissed his forehead. She whispered something to him which sounded like “Lana.” He remembered this word.
“The prince and princess thank you for your efforts, and they appreciate what you’ve done for Princess Karolda. Prince Gejza considers the peace between our two countries to continue despite the princess’s death.”
The feast went on. Thick, red wine flowed in streams. When Bolesław left the guest yurt at dawn, he had Prince Gejza’s and his heir Wajk’s assurances that the Magyars had nothing against the planned Polish invasion of Moravia. Bolesław’s goal had been achieved. He walked out into the cool air and summoned Lajos.
“A huge success,” the Magyar said. “Young Honta related the story of how you cared for the deceased during your journey three times. How you guarded her on the barge to ensure she didn’t fall into the water. Here, to drown is the worst way to die. It’s a good thing you knew that, my lord.”
I didn’t, he thought, and asked Lajos:
“What does ‘Lana’ mean?”
“Lana? It’s a…”
“No. What was the princess whispering about?”
“Possibly she was saying ‘lánya’?” Lajos asked. “‘Lánya’ means ‘daughter.’”
Daughter. Karolda had been so much younger than Sarolt. Could she have actually been her daughter, not her sister? Why would they have hidden that from us? Unless she wasn’t Gejza’s child, but a pre-marriage secret, a daughter whose existence Sarolt hid under the guise of a sister?
Whatever the answer was, he wouldn’t ask about it tonight. The riddle wasn’t worth risking the alliance that had been so difficult to ensure. As he walked to his yurt, he saw servants gathered at the burnt-out pyre. Girls were picking melted decorations from the embers, and placing them with the ashes in colorful ceramic pots, scooping them out with small shovels. When they finished, the servants bowed to the remains of the pyre and made their way to the church. Bolesław followed and, standing in the church entrance, watched as they opened the wooden door in the wall and placed the pots next to the coffin. They smiled in greeting as they exited.
“Boleszláv fejedelem.”
Two days later, a troop of Princess Sarolt’s Magyar riders and another, Prince Gejza’s, under the command of his son Wajk accompanied Bolesław out of Veszprém. When they reached the bottom of the hill, he turned around and memorized the shape of the steep ridge.
I will tell Bezprym about this place when he is grown, he thought. And about his mother, the fierce Magyar princess, who has given me so much joy and passion. Who lived violently, with fire, and not for long enough, burning fast but bright, like a pyre.
16
POLAND: JOMSBORG AND WOLIN
Astrid, at the duke’s command, had indeed married Jarl Sigvald, the man who been defeated by Jarl Haakon but was voted the new jarl of Jomsborg anyway, thanks to Mieszko’s show of support.
Theirs was not an ordinary marriage. For one thing, they didn’t live together. Jomsviking
law forbade women from entering the stronghold. Though the first thing Sigvald had done as jarl of Jomsborg was announce that his wife, the daughter of the great Mieszko, was more than a mere woman. He took her to Jom and arranged a feast in her honor. Though none dared defy Sigvald, Astrid could see the warriors whispering their unhappiness throughout the feast, and was content to decline when Sigvald tried to invite her to the stronghold more regularly.
Dalwin, Astrid’s grandfather, had given her the manor in Wolin as a wedding gift and had moved to smaller quarters. “Jom and Wolin are so close together,” she’d told Sigvald, “that if you come here for dinner you can be back in your stronghold just after midnight.”
Mieszko’s support had positioned Sigvald as a leader, but acting like one didn’t come naturally to her husband, and Astrid worried that he placed too much faith in his father-in-law. He didn’t yet understand about Mieszko and the kind of help he gave.
At the time of their wedding, Sigvald had just lost a battle and was a step away from being named a coward by his men—a loss of honor that would have been no different than death for a Jomsviking. Mieszko, having given him his daughter’s hand, restored Sigvald’s reputation, and he expected much in return. Astrid, whether she liked it or not, was a part of this, the reluctant guardian of the arrangement. She knew just how far the duke’s plans reached and committed herself to helping Geivar—a close friend to Olav, the Norwegian heir—gain the Jomsvikings’ trust in Jomsborg.
“Fat Bue died during the fight with Haakon, and a new chief is needed for his house. Make Geivar a chieftain,” she advised her husband.
“Why would I do that?” Sigvald cocked his head, his long, dark hair streaming down his back. If she were to name one beautiful thing about her husband, she would choose his hair.
“He is an excellent sailor, he knows Rus like no one else, and who knows where he might lead the Jomsvikings in the future?”
“He can be one of us,” Sigvald said, shrugging, “but that’s no reason for him to be a chieftain.”
And what have you done to deserve it, my sweet one? she thought spitefully, but aloud she said, “You need new blood in the council. Someone who isn’t connected to the Danish king. Is that enough, or should I speak more plainly?”
Sigvald laughed and reached out to touch her. She slipped away.
“You are beautiful when you’re angry, Astrid.”
“Even so, that’s no reason to look for ways to frustrate me, husband.”
“Why not?” he shook his head. “Will you complain to your father? He’s not here. Or maybe you’ll summon old Dalwin? You’ll say, ‘Grandfather, my husband angers me’?”
“No. It would be enough for me to tell your men about our wedding night.”
“You can’t say you didn’t like it. You were moaning like a she-cat in heat,” he laughed.
“I was admiring your skin, Sigvald,” she snapped. “I’d never have thought that a warrior might have such smooth and silky skin. Without a scratch or scar to be seen.”
“Silence!” he yelled, no longer laughing.
“Why?” she echoed him. “Will you go and complain to the Jomsvikings?”
Astrid held his honor in her hand, but she knew there were limits to his patience. Even if Sigvald had run from that battle, he was still dangerous.
“I will accept Olav Tryggvason as one of us, not Geivar,” he said firmly.
“Tryggvason’s destiny is to win back his throne.”
“Invite your sister and her husband. We can talk then.” He ended the conversation and left for the port.
These were the moments she sighed with relief at the fact that they didn’t live together. No, she wasn’t afraid that he would strike her. The fear was slippery, something she couldn’t quite pin down, and she couldn’t figure out the reason behind it. Her feelings for Sigvald danced on the thin line between the superiority she felt toward him and the fear he made her feel.
He fights for himself, she thought. To avoid feeling as if he owes Mieszko and me everything.
Astrid fought with herself as well as with her husband. After the vision she’d had during her conversation with her father, that deep and terrifying feeling that a wrong choice was somehow being made, she’d sworn not to touch the herbs, spells, or runes which spoke of the future. Never again. She’d had a talent for seeing what others could not since she was a child. She had dreamed of things that eventually came to pass for as long as she could remember. But in one of them she’d seen Olav, and had loved him before she awoke. When Mieszko had taken that future away—the duke was a force stronger than even fate, she had learned—she no longer wanted to know what lay ahead. Every night, she drank a brew that gave her a deep sleep, one black and free of dreams. It was better this way.
Mieszko, the true lord and ruler of dreams, had given her a task. To fulfill it, she must remain focused on Sigvald and help guide his decisions.
Eventually, he gave in and accepted Geivar, though she found out only by accident that Tryggvason’s friend had become a house chieftain; Sigvald never mentioned it to her. This was when she learned her husband was not a man who liked to fight on open ground.
* * *
As Sigvald had suggested, Astrid sent a letter to Geira, inviting her and Olav to Wolin. It had been a year since Mieszko had thrown a joint wedding celebration for his two eldest daughters, Astrid and Sigvald, Geira and Olav marrying on the same day. The sisters had not seen each other since, and Astrid knew that, however happy she would be to see Geira again, meeting with her and Olav as husband and wife would be painful. Though she lived day to day in relative contentment with her own husband, Astrid was under no illusions that her feelings for Olav had disappeared. Geira, though, had blossomed in their time apart.
“Did you know that my beloved has found his mother?” Geira was saying. She and Olav had arrived that morning, and now the sisters were exchanging news before the evening meal. “She bears the same name as yours, sister. Astrid. She is now Lodin’s wife, and has three children with him, daughters Ingireda and Ingigerda and a son, Torkil. They live in the south of Norway, in Viken.”
Astrid had never seen her sister so lively. Geira had never been talkative, but now she spoke easily and with pride, like a baker praising the morning’s fresh crumpets. Her cheeks were pink. Her fair hair was plaited in shining braids, and her dress was as snug as if …
“You’ve noticed?” She smiled. “Yes, Olav and I are expecting a baby.” She stroked her stomach. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Astrid agreed, trying to summon a smile. She heard her father’s voice in her head, “I’ll wait until he has a son with your sister, then I’ll let him sail to win the riches and men.”
“I’d like you to be with me when the time comes. Your herbs can fight off the pain and stop bleeding…”
“I don’t do that,” Astrid replied harshly. “It wouldn’t suit a jarl’s wife…”
“What about you and Sigvald?” Geira asked, not picking up on Astrid’s tone and embracing her sister warmly. “Will something come of it?”
Astrid gritted her teeth.
“I don’t know,” she said shortly as they entered the main hall where Olav and Sigvald sat, speaking comfortably.
Olav was just as she remembered, though the strange, unsettling spark Astrid had seen on their first meeting no longer burned in his eyes. He’s found his mother and is more at peace, she sensed. She no longer had dreams, but she could still see into the hearts of others at times. She looked away from him, not wanting to stare.
“What a meeting.” Geira couldn’t hide her joy. “Only a shame that Świętosława and Eric aren’t here, too.”
A smile crossed Sigvald’s lips, and he held back a laugh.
“Apologies, sister, but I don’t regret that at all.”
“Of course,” Geira said quickly, realizing her error. “I’m sorry, Sigvald, I forgot that Eric … and the defeat…” Geira trailed off, hoping the subject would pass.
“He didn’t defeat us, but his nephew Styrbjorn. Call it a battle with ‘our modest participation,’ and it will sound as it should,” Sigvald said amicably.
“A shame, though,” Geira sighed. “I’d prefer there be peace in our family.”
“There’s nothing preventing Mieszko’s sons-in-law being allies in the future,” Astrid said lightly. “Even the Jomsvikings can learn from their mistakes. Especially if favorable breezes blow.”
“Some mistakes lie at the source,” Sigvald replied mysteriously. “And drag on for years.”
“King Harald Bluetooth of Denmark won’t live forever, and after his death…” Astrid began.
“Sven’s time will come. He’s an excellent chief, I fought alongside him when he was fighting for Hedeby,” Sigvald said.
“Sven did not make you a Jomsviking, and you have no ties to him, husband.” She wanted this conversation to take place in front of witnesses so that Sigvald wouldn’t be able to deny it happened. “With Harald Bluetooth’s death, the ropes connecting Jomsborg to Denmark will break.”
Harald may have built the fortress, but Jomsborg’s laws were clear: the Jomsvikings need only answer to their leader. Not to any king or country. They remained loyal to Harald because of their shared history, but there was no cause for this loyalty to surpass death.
“You talk like a bard, wife. I won’t deny that the vision is a tempting one, but you’re wrong to say that I have no ties to Sven.”
Astrid felt uneasy at this. “I don’t understand…”
Sigvald didn’t immediately reply. He called a servant over to pour more mead, then turned to Olav.
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