“Palnatoki,” the king called out. “Palnatoki, come here…”
Sigvald, Geivar, and Thorkel all approached the bed.
“I am Sigvald, the jarl of Jomsborg. These are Geivar and Thorkel, house chieftains. Palnatoki is dead.”
“Don’t lie, pretty one, I can see him more clearly than I see you. He’s here. And you dare call yourself a jarl in his presence? You’re all mad, to even claim such a thing. Pups who bark in their mother’s wombs.”
Harald was so exhausted by his own anger that when he finished speaking, he only had strength left for a small moan. The final breath. He walked into the darkness with an insult on his lips.
“The king has died like a true warrior,” Sigvald announced ceremoniously. “From wounds he sustained in battle. Each one of us desires such a death.”
The twelve berserkers howled. This was the moment Sigvald had feared. That morning he had given the order—outside, the Sacred Site was surrounded by fifty armed men. The berserkers ended their farewell call and fell silent. They looked from the dead Harald to one another.
“The king has a right to a royal funeral,” Sigvald said calmly. “My brother Thorkel, the chieftain of the house of scouts, will take Harald’s body to Roskilde with the Jomsvikings’ honors. I hope that you, the dead one’s closest companions, will not abandon him on his final journey.”
“I’m the helmsman of his ship,” one of them said.
“I’m his shield on the battlefield,” another announced hollowly.
“We are all his blood brothers,” the others said. “We sail with him.”
“Thorkel? Are the ships ready?” Sigvald asked, as if it was obvious they must leave without delay.
“Yes, brother,” the scout chieftain replied, with some surprise.
“Then the blood brothers will take his body to the ship. To the sound of the black horn, the one that bids farewell to all our brothers. You will all sail to Roskilde,” Sigvald announced, and noted with relief that the berserkers were already lifting Harald’s body. He let them lead the way. As he made his way behind, he grabbed Thorkel’s elbow and whispered, “Don’t board their ship. Who knows what they’re capable of. Let them sail with the body alone. You sail first, with an unfurled sail of Jomsborg. You should encounter Sven and his men tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. Tell the young king what he likely already knows: that nothing aids the taking of power in a country better than a funeral. Maybe you’ll be able to calm Sven’s feverish ambitions. Even if he fought with his father when the king was alive, he should now play the part of a son and heir who leads the ceremony of his burial. He should give feasts, invite his nobles and chieftains, and celebrate Harald’s memory as much as he secretly rejoices at the old man’s death.”
“Should Harald Bluetooth not have his funeral in Jom?” a surprised Thorkel asked.
“No, my brother. He wasn’t one of us. He was no more than a king.”
17
SWEDEN
Świętosława was teaching Olof to walk. She felt her son should be able to do everything sooner, and better, than other children. Dusza shielded the boy from falls.
“My lady.” A servant entered her bedchamber. “Messengers from your country have arrived.”
Świętosława leapt up. Eric wouldn’t return until the evening, so she would have to greet the guests herself, which suited her just fine.
“Bring them to the great hall,” she commanded. “And prepare food.”
As the servant exited, happy squeals rose from the other side of the room. The handmaids who had come with her from Poznań.
“My lady,” they cried, one over the other. “We will finally hear news from home!”
“Your home is here,” she reminded them strictly. “If I hear any one of you complain about your life in Uppsala, I’ll marry you off to the berserker with a missing front tooth. You know which one I mean.”
“We know,” they cried, their happiness undampered.
She always scared them with Great Ulf. He was Eric’s trusted man and was responsible for her safety. He was as bald as her husband and had as powerful a frame. His face was marked by scars, running along his cheekbones and across his chin. A broken tooth made his smile as fearsome as his anger.
They helped her change and pinned her hair. They slid rings and armbands on her, gifts from Eric. They draped the lynx fur across her back. She wanted Father’s messengers to see the queen of Sweden, Sigrid Storråda.
“Dusza, give me my son. I will greet our guests with him.”
There were four messengers, and she knew them all. Litobor, one of Mieszko’s chieftains. Bjornar, her brother’s friend, and Wilkomir, one of Bolesław’s squad members. And Geivar, Olav’s companion. She was happy to see them all, and she trembled at the sight of the fourth, because she couldn’t help but think of Tryggvason when she saw him.
Two tall chairs stood at the head of the great hall, hers and Eric’s. When she had settled into hers, she motioned for them to approach.
“This is my son, Olof, Eric’s heir.” She lifted the child. “Bjornar, come closer and hold him. He’s been looking at horrible warrior mugs since birth, so your face shouldn’t scare him. I want you all to hold him and tell everyone at my father’s court what a beautiful grandson he has.”
Bjornar took the child and lifted him up.
“He’s bigger than Bezprym, Bolesław’s son,” he observed.
“Bolesław has a son?” This was wonderful news! “Tell me everything,” she said.
Bjornar stroked Olof’s bald head and studied the birthmark he found there.
“They have the same mark, my lady. Just here.” He showed her the dark round mark on the back of Olof’s head. The birthmark she was so fond of.
“Piast blood.” She laughed. “Tell me, what goes on in the country? My brother has married, as I understand it?”
“For the second time, my lady. Bolesław has recently taken Karolda, Bezprym’s mother, back to Hungary…”
“Let me guess,” she interjected. “Mieszko has switched alliances again? Well, at least he didn’t send her back while she was still pregnant. He let her give birth, such a princely gesture! What of the child?”
The messengers exchanged glances.
“Bolesław didn’t send his wife away. He took her body to her family in an oaken casket. Karolda died.”
“Oh.”
“But if you ask me, my lady, I was relieved. Karolda was a strange one. Your brother loved her, but everyone else…” He looked at Świętosława meaningfully. “Even Bolesław’s dogs couldn’t stand her.”
“Even his dogs,” she repeated after him. “And, I suspect, his concubines, his closest friends, Duchess Oda, and eventually the duke, my father, himself. You could speak openly, Bjornar, instead of blaming the dogs. Poor girl, she died right on time.”
Bjornar reddened to match his hair, which confirmed her suspicions.
“We have brought you gifts, my lady. Presents from your loved ones, and much news we hope to share with both you and your husband,” Litobor said, trying to introduce some order into the meeting.
“Then let us begin with the presents.” Świętosława felt giddy at the prospect. “Dusza, take Olof.”
Geivar excused himself from the hall while the others stepped forward with their offerings. First was a cross with a silver engraving of Christ from her father, so like the one which decorated the royal chapel in Poznań. Then riding boots from her brother, of the highest quality, and beautiful ear cuffs from Astrid. Geivar returned with his men, who carried something covered by a dark fabric.
“This is a gift from Olav,” he said. “And your sister Geira,” he added, after a pause.
He pulled off the covering to reveal a cage, with two young lynxes sleeping inside.
In that moment, Świętosława forgot that she was a queen. A Swedish ruler, Sigrid Storråda. She jumped from the throne and knelt by the cage.
“My master caught the lynxes in the forest and commande
d me to say when they had been given to you, ‘The queen once loved a fur snatched from a lynx’s back. She will undoubtedly want to see what it’s like to love a live animal.’”
The creatures awoke, slowly opening their green and golden eyes. One stood up and gave her a disdainful snort. The other followed her with its eyes, never lifting its head. They were no bigger than large puppies, their fur a mottled red, with paler areas around their throats and underbellies. She could see dark speckles on their skin, barely discernible through their thick fur.
“Open the cage,” she told Geivar. “I want to hold them.”
“My lady,” Wilkomir spoke up. “I wouldn’t. They will be irritable after the journey.”
“I wasn’t asking,” Świętosława said coldly. “I gave an order.”
Wilkomir gave her a look of surprise at this but didn’t back down.
“Their appearance is the only thing they have in common with cats, my lady. They are predators.”
Świętosława stood and walked away from the cage, not looking at Wilkomir, and turned to the eldest man present.
“Litobor, I have awaited your arrival for a long time, and the presence of my father’s messengers gives me more joy than any gifts. My king will celebrate your arrival with a great feast and wonderful presents. I expect to have long conversations with you, Bjornar, and master Geivar. But I cannot understand why this man feels it is appropriate to disagree with a queen at her own court.”
“My lady.” Litobor bowed. She could remember him calling her “little princess” when she was young. “Wilkomir may lack manners, but he does not lack courage. He is doing what your father has ordered him to do: protecting you.”
“My husband’s men are responsible for my safety now. Have you seen Great Ulf? He’s enormous, and I think his scars speak to his bravery.”
“Where is he now?” Wilkomir spoke up. “If he protects you, my queen, where is he when you intend to let wild animals out of a cage with a newborn present?”
She sucked in a breath. Yes, she’d forgotten that Olof was also in the hall. And that was when she fully understood Litobor’s words.
“Are you saying that Wilkomir is to stay?”
“Yes, my lady. Duke Mieszko, apart from jewels and presents, has sent you a squad of a dozen men under Wilkomir’s leadership. They are to be your personal guard.”
“What will my husband say to this?” She cocked her head. “Won’t he interpret such a gift as a slight to his honor? And, I feel obliged to warn you, my husband loves his honor as much as his battle-axe.”
“I am no gift,” Wilkomir growled.
She heard him but bit back a reply.
“Leave it to us to convince Eric to accept the squad,” Litobor said.
Świętosława placed her hands on the cage. She heard a warning growl.
“If Olav can capture lynxes, I can tame them,” she said, then pulled her hand back quickly, as the animal that had been lying down seconds before sprang up, trying to catch her fingers. She was faster. She snapped her unbitten fingers. “Take the cage to my rooms. They should get used to their mistress’s scent.”
* * *
The feast was a proper celebration: noisy, rich with mead, and heavy with food. Eric, who had arrived that afternoon, invited the four guests to sit with him at the raised table at the end of the hall. Jarl Birger and two other chieftains in Eric’s army joined them. The king boasted of his victory over Styrbjorn at Fyrisvellir’s fields, and about his son.
Almost as if he gave birth to him himself. Świętosława sighed inwardly as she pasted on a smile. But of the two subjects, she preferred he talk of Olof.
“My lady will give me many sons yet,” Eric thundered happily, and his dark eyes gleamed. “Many strong bald boys will leap from this wondrous womb.”
“My king knows much about war and ruling a country, but the mystery of birth remains.” She lifted a goblet.
“If I jump in…” Eric began.
“Don’t finish that thought, husband, not unless you intend to bed me in front of your guests.”
He gave an uncomfortable chuckle. Even Eric could be embarrassed.
“We’ve brought important news, King,” Litobor said, finally bringing them to the reason for their journey. “The king of Denmark, Harald Bluetooth, is dead.”
“Ah, news indeed!” Eric exclaimed. “I cannot say that I’ll mourn his journey to Valhalla. Has his son Sven taken over yet?”
“He’s trying. Half of Denmark is on his side, and the other half, Harald Bluetooth’s supporters included, are against him. The latter have gained an influential ally in his half sister, Tyra. Sven’s open attack on his father the king has not done him any favors.”
“The rich don’t like strong kings.” Eric wiped his mouth. “And the people don’t like it when sons kill their fathers.”
“Princess Tyra is a Christian, and thanks to that, those who oppose Sven can easily use religious disagreements to their advantage. They’re prepared to use Tyra in their negotiations for support with the Saxon courts, though from what I know they have not yet resorted to doing so, knowing that calling the Saxons in to face Sven will likely be a double-edged sword.”
Świętosława had had time to talk to her father’s men in private before the feast, and she spoke up now.
“Geivar is one of the new chieftains of Jomsborg, husband.”
Eric studied Geivar carefully. “I bear no grudges against the defeated,” he said finally, referring to the Jomsvikings who’d fought against him on his nephew’s behalf.
“And I wasn’t a Jomsviking when you vanquished Styrbjorn,” Geivar replied. “Much has changed in Jom.”
“Have the iron boys gained some sense and stopped leaping to be at the beck and call of Danish kings?” Eric asked, smiling.
How easy it is to converse as a victor, Świętosława thought.
“The Jomsvikings are prepared to support Duke Mieszko,” Geivar said calmly.
“Excellent.” Świętosława clapped her hands and signaled for the servants to refill their goblets. “You, my king, by marrying your queen, promised to break apart Denmark. Is this not the perfect time?”
“With Sven precariously perched on his throne, unrest in the country, and Jomsvikings for allies?” her husband growled, lifting his horn. He drank, wiped his lips, and summoned the Icelandic bard. “Cold is the advice of women,” he repeated the words from his favorite song.
“Cold advice is good advice, my king.” She smiled brightly at him.
“Thorvald! Entertain us with the ‘Song of the Mighty.’ My guests can listen while I think.”
The Icelandic bard had won Eric’s favor for his song about the king’s defeat of Styrbjorn. His voice was clear and strong, and as the verses swept him along, he spread his arms and his body seemed to pulse with the song. Świętosława liked listening to the bard’s words, his voice, the pictures he would paint. Dark, fluttering stories that took her out of herself. She closed her eyes and saw the dark Baltic waves, the lively depths of the ocean she’d sailed across. She missed Father John reading the Bible and the clerics singing bright psalms. But that was on the other side of the ocean. They weren’t here. There was an Icelandic bard and his ‘Song of the Mighty,’ praising Odin. And her lord husband, who had let his eyelids droop, listening as she stared into the flames.
Fortunate is he who gains for himself
wisdom and fame during this life;
because a man received wrong advice
too frequently
from the breast of another.
She opened her eyes. She noticed Bjornar studying the king, worried. Yes, perhaps Eric wouldn’t make up his mind today. Then, once night fell, it would be her time.
“It’s good to make decisions about war once the mind has had some rest,” Eric announced, confirming her suspicions. “Be my guests and feast beside my chieftains.”
He stood up and looked to his wife. Świętosława rose, and the two left the hall together.
18
SWEDEN
Świętosława hadn’t come to Eric’s bed since Olof’s birth, citing wounds that needed time to heal and the discomfort of breastfeeding. She knew both of these excuses had long lost their sway with Eric, though. Jarl Birger had warned her that if she didn’t return to the king’s bed soon, he would take a mistress. “I’m afraid he might sire bastards, my queen, and then what fate might meet your son?” That image was enough for her to decide it was time to enter Eric’s chambers, but just as she’d made her mind up to do so, Eric left for an endless hunt and had only returned today. During the feast, when he’d mentioned her wondrous womb out of which more sons would leap, she was under no illusions about what she must do. Dusza helped her change into a nightshirt embroidered with silver thread, as fine as a spider’s web. Świętosława let down her hair, brushing it.
“Give me the armbands I received from my king. And my rings,” she commanded, though Dusza received this with raised eyebrows. “And cover me with the fur of white foxes. And take care of Olof,” she said at the end. “I don’t want the boar to hear the child’s crying.”
A throaty snort came from a dark corner of the bedchamber. The lynxes. She walked to the cage and held a strip of raw meat out to each of them. The starved cats sniffed her distrustfully. She stood patiently, holding the meat between the bars.
“Don’t you want to eat? Okay, then. Dusza, don’t feed them until I get back.”
Great Ulf, with a torch in his hand, led her and her procession of servants. One had to walk across the entire manor to get to the king’s chambers from the queen’s rooms. March through the hall full of guests. She hadn’t forgotten her walks through it before Olof’s birth. Each one caused her great discomfort, but from the very first night, when a group of thirty men had escorted them to the bedchamber, along with a few noblewomen, Świętosława had vowed to turn her embarrassment into a weapon.
The Widow Queen Page 21
