The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “The drink of bards was created from Kvasir’s blood mixed with mead,” Thorvald, Eric’s Icelandic bard, was calling out. “Let the mead we’ll be tasting tonight have the same power and heavenly taste; and we will drink it to the glory of the gods for the entire year.”

  After the mead was poured into the tub, the guests would approach the platform. They introduced their families to the royal couple and presented their gifts. Świętosława looked over the hall between the introductions, searching for one woman and her sons among the gathered crowd.

  And then they were before her. “Rognvald Ulfsson, a merchant from Great Birka,” it was announced. “His sons, Erling and Bjarne, and Thordis, his daughter.”

  Świętosława watched them, taking the woman’s measure. Where are Eric’s pups? Where is the royal litter?

  Thordis was older than Świętosława, perhaps thirty. Tall, slender, fair-haired, and irritatingly like Geira. She wore a misleadingly humble dress; from afar, it was the color of ash, but up close the grayness glittered with silver woven in with the silk threads. She had a necklace between her brooches which was worth, at a glance, as much as a decent ship. Every bead was solid silver, decorated with such delicate granulations that it seemed only the ancient dwarves of legend could have created it. The ensemble must have weighed as much as a Saxon sword. Thordis kept her back straight. One who can afford to carry a ship between her breasts must be able to maintain a good posture.

  What will happen when she bows? Świętosława wondered. Will she groan under the weight of that silver as she straightens?

  “Rognvald, was it you that I received an invitation from?” Świętosława asked, forcing her voice to sound light and girlish.

  “Yes, my queen,” her tall, stout guest replied.

  “And where did you get the idea that the queen will visit her subject before he comes to bow to her?”

  “From hospitality, my lady,” he replied, meeting her eye. “Do not think I intended to offend you, my queen. Every time I came to Sigtuna, you were too busy for me to pay you homage.”

  It’s enough that you gave my son a present hidden under the saddle, she thought.

  “I have heard you have two beautiful grandsons, Rognvald. Why do I not see them with you? Did they not accept Queen Sigrid’s invitation? I am anxious to meet them.”

  “I don’t doubt it, my lady,” Rognvald replied, a tone of defiance creeping into his voice. “They have been kept away by illness.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Ten, my serene lady,” Rognvald replied proudly.

  “Ten? So, they aren’t children, but young warriors. Are they of poor health?” she asked. “That doesn’t bode well for their futures, does it, my king?” she looked at Eric over the confused Olof’s head.

  Her husband’s face was the color of whitened stone.

  “No, my queen,” he said loudly.

  “King Eric the Victorious,” she said, just as loudly. “Ask Lady Thordis about her sons’ absence on the day on which you give your ring to so many boys, as a sign of loyalty between ruler and subject.”

  “I ask it,” he announced with a voice made of bronze.

  “They fell ill, my king,” Thordis said quietly.

  “That’s a bad omen,” Świętosława judged, and silence fell in the hall. “A warrior who sickens on the day of his trial, a day when the decision between his king’s and leader’s victory or failure is made. As a mother, I understand your pain, Thordis. Ill sons, deadly sick, I assume, since they were unable to accompany you. And you, who have come. You chose to show your ruler that instead of staying with your children on what might be their final journey … a surprising choice, but my heart bows to you for it.”

  Thordis’s cheeks reddened.

  Yes, I’ve slapped her, Świętosława thought, and raised her head. It was then that the Icelandic bard shouted,

  “Queen Sigrid! Proud in her words. Unyielding in upholding the law. The lady of our swords and thoughts.”

  A hundred of her and her husband’s warriors joined in, chanting:

  “Sigrid Storråda! Sigrid the Proud! Our bold lady!”

  “Queen,” Rognvald, Thordis’s father, interrupted the chants. “The merchants of Birch Island have a gift for you, and humbly ask you to accept it.”

  If it’s Thordis’s necklace, I’ll take it blindly, she thought.

  Rognvald opened a small chest and, after her nod, took a step toward the royal thrones. Zgrzyt sniffed his foot. It was indeed a necklace, placed on a bedding of blue grass. Fourteen huge silver beads, and between them seven discs of mountain crystal encased in silver nets.

  Christ in the Holy Trinity! She gasped. It looks like it must be worth the world!

  “Anyone who wants to give a queen a jewel must do so through her husband’s hands,” she said, hoping her desire didn’t color her voice.

  Bjarne and Erling exchanged glances. Rognvald and Thordis both flinched. But a hundred of Eric’s warriors were watching. Eric lifted the necklace from the chest, and as he did, the crystals caught the firelight in the hall and reflected it back in bright, warm shards, like the sun on a field of ice.

  “My lady, accept this gift,” Eric said, clasping it on her neck.

  “Thank you, husband,” she whispered when she felt the weight of the necklace on her breast. “And those who have given me such an expensive present through your hands.”

  She lifted her arms so that the crystals glittered, encouraging her husband’s men to chant once more, yelling themselves hoarse:

  “Queen Sigrid Storråda!”

  And then, quietly and innocently, she beckoned Thordis and her father closer, saying:

  “I also have a gift for you. It’s a replacement, as I return in silver what I received without the gilding.”

  She nodded at Wilkomir, and he handed Thordis a twig with six sharp thorns, attached to a silver gripper and chain.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Thordis replied with white lips.

  The lynxes at Świętosława’s feet raised their heads. Wrzask purred, Zgrzyt bared his fangs.

  “Enjoy yourselves, our dear guests. A royal feast awaits you. Fish, game, cheese, fruit, barley beer, and old mead. Let’s drink it today in the name of the new mead. To the glory of the sweet words it will bring us. Bard, start your song.”

  * * *

  In Uppsala, Great Ulf would accompany Świętosława to the king’s bedchamber, then return to the feast until she summoned him again. This night, Ulf kept watch at the door, and Wilkomir walked among the guests. When Świętosława entered his rooms, Eric was lying with his hands behind his head, staring silently upward. He didn’t speak as she approached. The bedchamber was submerged in half darkness.

  “My lord?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the great bed. “Would you prefer sleep instead of your wife’s company?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that someone wanted to have Olof thrown off his horse?” He rose from the bed and began to pace.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that there was someone who might have reason to desire it?” she replied calmly, her eyes following his movements.

  “Power is a tasty morsel, Sigrid. There is always someone who wants some.”

  “You’ve put out fresh meat and are surprised that wolves are appearing?” She laughed sharply. “You could have not had bastards. In our wedding vows, you promised that our children will be your only heirs.” Her eyes rested now on the sword that adorned the wall over his bed, the one she had given him on their wedding day. Duke Mieszko’s sword made of lightning steel, said to have fallen from the sky.

  “And nothing will change that.” He stopped pacing and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Truly?”

  “I promise you.”

  “You can promise me whatever you want, but that cannot change the intent of others.”

  “No one supports them or their cause.”

  “What will tomorrow bring, Eric? You don’t know any more than I do
,” she replied softly. “Today, you’re a victorious king, haloed with glory. It’s the best time to make bold decisions. Remove them from Olof’s way.”

  “I won’t kill children, Sigrid,” he said after a long moment.

  It would be best if they could just disappear, she thought.

  “Maybe I could send them somewhere?” he mused aloud. “Somewhere far away…”

  “That’s a bad idea, husband. By sending them to nowhere, you always send them somewhere. It’s better to keep an eye on the boys, find something to occupy them here, so they don’t feel rejected, merely intended for a different purpose than ruling. If you were a Christian king, you’d send them to a monastery, educate them, and set them on a spiritual path. If they had the privilege of being named bishops, they’d rule over people’s souls.”

  “I’m not a Christian king, Sigrid,” he replied and sat down heavily next to her.

  She was furious with him, but she suddenly felt sorry for him, too. Up close, he wasn’t Eric the Victorious. He was Eric the Tired. Silver streaks had appeared in his thick, dark beard. Puffy eyes revealed that he wasn’t sleeping well and was drinking too much. She knew about the second, but not the first. Sitting in the great hall, he always seemed powerful and straight-backed. Now, he was slouching, breathing heavily and irregularly.

  God Almighty, I wanted to be a widow queen, but not now, not when powers that can push Olof off the throne are emerging from the darkness, she thought with fear, and immediately reprimanded herself for it. You’re a queen, and you cannot be afraid. Didn’t the Empress Theophanu face the rebellious Reich lords? She survived her husband’s death and her child’s abduction, she lost everything, but she never bent. She won back both her son and her power.

  “Eric,” she said, placing an arm around her lord husband’s shoulders. Still broad, even when he slouched. “Give those boys some lands. Show them that you have something for them. And send away their uncles, because support might rally to them. Rognvald is too old, he can count the ships docking in Birka until the end of his days.”

  Eric pulled at his beard and sighed.

  “I will send Erling and Bjarne to Denmark, my cautious wife. I will make them my viceroys. They will keep an eye on royal business in our conquered country.”

  “Viceroys? You’re too generous, Eric. Make them responsible for collecting taxes from the Danes. It’s a respectable function.” She laughed, tilting her head and counting on her fingers: “The Danes won’t love Bjarne and Erling if they will be forced to pay tribute to them. So, we are in no danger of the sons of Birka allying with the defeated. And you will have a reason to keep an eye on Bjarne and Erling. But the function? It’s honorable. Everyone knows that a tax collector is a ruler’s trusted man.”

  Eric placed a heavy hand on her head and caressed her hair. She nearly drew back in surprise. She would have expected anything from her lord husband, but not this simple, affectionate gesture. No one had stroked her head since Dobrawa’s death.

  She crawled past him to the head of the bed and slipped beneath the covers. “Come here, my husband.” She patted the spot next to her. “Lay down beside me.”

  “I was going to take a closer look at Danish matters anyway,” he said after joining her in the bed. “A conquered country is easily lost when you don’t pay attention to it. The Danes don’t love us, or the ruler who abandoned them to us. Sven took the last men loyal to him and sailed to plunder England.” Eric turned over and hissed as if his shoulder caused him pain. “Danes are good at that. They’ve been invading Anglo-Saxon lands for years.” He laughed hoarsely. “They treat it like open chests with silver. Apparently, Sven is one of the four leaders of a fleet which has been attacking the islanders like a swarm of wasps for the past year. Jostein is the second, Guthmund the third, both battle-scarred pirates. And the fourth is Olav Tryggvason.”

  Świętosława froze.

  “Tryggvason?” she repeated, afraid her racing heart would give her away.

  “They say he’s the surviving son of King Tryggve, the last of the Ynglings. But who can tell how much truth there is to that? There were times when a miraculously found king appeared every year. And the widow Gunhild sent each one to cold goddess Hel.”

  Świętosława’s hands were trembling. She hid them under the pillow. No one knew of her feelings for Olav, or his for her—she had not spoken of them since the day Father had sent them both to marry other people. But she struggled to hide the emotions roiling inside her now.

  “Eric, it’s impossible for Olav Tryggvason to be in England. He’s my half sister Geira’s husband, and Mieszko’s viceroy on the Baltic shore in Pomorze. And likely the commander of my father’s armies by now.”

  Eric yawned and rubbed his beard. The dry crunching sound sent shivers down her spine.

  “I fought with your brother-in-law at my side. Tall, white-haired … almost as if it were gray?” he said after a moment. “We fought Sven together beyond Rügen and we reached Hedeby side by side. Yes, his name was Olav, but I don’t remember him being Olav Tryggvason.”

  “I know who my sister’s husband is.” Her heart beat faster at the memory of that silver-white hair.

  I haven’t forgiven either Father or her, she thought with a vengeance.

  “There are always those who want power, wife. Maybe the one who is fighting in England doesn’t know that the real Tryggvason is Duke Mieszko’s son-in-law? He’ll have a surprise waiting for him when he decides to reach for the throne. Send messengers to your father, have them try to find out if someone in England is impersonating your brother-in-law. And let’s not speak anymore, Sigrid, this day has exhausted me.” He reached out his arms and brought her close.

  She leaned into his embrace, unresistant and flustered, but for a very different reason than that which her lord husband suspected. Prepared to make love, but not with him. The last thing she wanted at that moment was the touch of his hands. She couldn’t rise and leave, though. Eric lay on top of her, murmuring something, stifling her with his weight. His wet kiss on her earlobe felt like a burn. She lay there stiffly, wishing she could disappear, to melt like a handful of snow thrown into a warm bed. But after a few moments, it was over. Her husband lay back at her side and was soon snoring. Świętosława slipped from the bed and allowed Great Ulf to walk her back to her bedchamber. She called the lynxes to her. Wrzask jumped into her bed nimbly. She clutched his fur until dawn arrived.

  24

  POLAND

  Mieszko, returning to Gniezno with Oda and his two younger sons, felt such a sharp pain in his chest that everything around him went dark. He managed to stay on his horse until the stabbing sensation eased, and soon announced that he had decided to stay for a few days in Ostrów Lednicki.

  “I want to spend some time with just you and the boys, away from the noise of court,” he lied.

  He couldn’t admit his weakness to Oda. Not after she’d been so happy that she cured him of his last illness.

  “And besides,” he added, “Bishop Unger hasn’t seen our island yet.”

  The dark-eyed Unger nodded to him gravely. When they reached the shore, he still felt the pain in his chest and summoned the bishop with a wave of his hand.

  “Look, Father,” the duke said. “Here is my dynasty’s nest, hidden on Lednica Lake. We bring our wives here to bear children. And if the country were being consumed by fires or war, it’s here we would bring what is most dear to our hearts.”

  “Why?” Unger asked.

  “Bridges, bishop. The East Bridge, which we will cross in a moment, is shorter, the length of a grown man’s two hundred and fifty steps. But the West Bridge, which you can’t see, is more than twice as long.”

  “Dear God,” Unger admitted with admiration. “I haven’t seen bridges like this anywhere in the empire.”

  “And you won’t.” Mieszko reddened with pride. “We built the bridges in winter, on a frozen lake, driving oaks into the bottom of the lake. Twenty- and thirty-year-old ones are the
most resilient. Well, forty-year-old ones are also good. Ha! It’s the same with men as it is with oaks, isn’t it, Oda?” he asked hoarsely.

  “My dear duke, you look good at any age.” She smiled at him, adjusting her cloak.

  “The borough and ramparts were built on the island in my father’s time, but I built these bridges. And a stone palatium worthy of my lady.” He smiled at Oda and rode ahead of them onto the bridge.

  The hawk took off from his shoulder and, like a scout, flew toward the island. The sound of his mount’s hooves on the wooden bridge was the sound of home to Mieszko, as well as the sound of victory; a sound that reminded him of the strength of the empire he’d built.

  “If we are ever threatened by an enemy,” he said, turning to Unger and Oda, “this is where I would bring you and the children, my lady. And if the enemy surrounded the edges of the lake, I would throw a torch onto the East and West Bridges and burn them, cutting off the world from what is dearest to me. Did you hear that, my sons?”

  “Yes, Father,” the older, Mieszko, agreed.

  The younger, Lambert, paled and nodded his bright head.

  “Don’t scare him, husband,” Oda pleaded.

  They rode onto the bank. Servants were mending boats next to the bridge, by the old shack. He looked at the docks and remembered the winter night years ago. The ice hole in the frozen lake, where he and Bolesław had jumped into the water, when he had given his firstborn son a squad of his own.

  How many years have passed since then? Lambert hadn’t been born yet, but little Świętopełk had still been alive, and today he is no longer with us, he thought sadly. Eight. Eight years, he counted, and felt a tightness in his chest again. I’m afraid of what I want to do, that’s where the pain comes from. Be careful, Mieszko, he told himself. And be strong.