The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  Bolesław began to pace again. His thoughts seemed to come easier when he was moving. Possibly because, since the day Mieszko had granted him his first squad, he had never allowed himself to be still, constantly working to expand the Piast legacy.

  “His rivalry with Theophanu gave him strength,” Bolesław continued. “When the news came two months ago that she’d died in Nijmegen, he broke down. He remembered her as she was in Quedlinburg, blooming, commanding, the picture of health.”

  “The ruler of the world,” Astrid muttered, understanding how personally Mieszko would have felt the empress’s death. No one is immortal would have taken on a more real and brutal meaning. Not even rulers.

  “What about the younger children? Has he indicated his will?”

  Bolesław snorted. His dislike of Father and Oda’s sons was unchanged. There were many ways Mieszko’s will might cause them trouble, but she asked calmly:

  “Has he given Mieszko and Lambert lands?”

  “He’s planning something. Sometimes he says this, sometimes that, when Oda is with us he looks only to her … damn it, he must make up his mind, because I have no intention of coming to terms with his wife.”

  “Calm down, Bolz.” She used Emnilda’s name for him intentionally, like a charm for peace. It worked. He breathed out, pulled at his hair, rearranged the leather caftan.

  “Can we go to him?” she asked.

  “Yes. He’s waiting for you. And the bold one.”

  “Does he believe that Świętosława will come?”

  At that very moment they heard the horns from the yard, welcoming guests. Astrid assumed it must be more of Mieszko’s commanders, but then she recognized the Piast signal. The horns were welcoming family. Bolesław clapped her shoulder, his anger from moments ago forgotten. He pulled her by the hand, and they raced to greet the guests. As if time had turned back and they were children again, much like the ones she’d seen fighting by the stables earlier.

  “Here she is,” he exclaimed as they bounded in front of the palatium.

  Astrid held her breath and whispered, “It’s either our bold one, or it’s a Viking invasion…”

  A procession of at least two hundred men rode into the yard. Bald or long-haired, bearded one and all. Many with faces marked by dark scars. Imprisoned in chain mail and helmets, with wolf skins on their backs. Powerful, so that the horses they rode resembled ponies in comparison. They all bore the same shields at their saddles—with the golden boar of Eric’s dynasty and the god Frey, to whom Świętosława’s husband traced back his lineage. The boar shone with golden thread on the flag they bore before them. Two bearded men at the head of the procession blew into horns resting on their chests; a short blast first, then a longer one, deep from their guts, as if the signal was never going to end.

  “The queen of Sweden, wife of Eric Segersäll, Lady Sigrid Storråda,” they announced in unison in the quiet that followed. “And Jarl Birger, the royal deputy.”

  “Jesus of Nazareth, Mother of God,” one of the housewives groaned.

  The bearded riders moved their horses aside, and from behind their wide backs appeared Birger and Świętosława. Astrid recognized her sister only because she’d been announced. Her youngest sibling had grown. Who could be surprised, she’d left home a girl, but this wasn’t just about newly gained height or an aging of features. A queen looked down on them from her horse’s back. Her hair, the shade of the brightest amber, was piled on top of her head in spirals, her braids woven with expensive chains. A necklace gleamed between the two brooches which held her dresses, the color of green moss, ocean waters, and fresh grain. A light cloak lined with marten fur was draped over her back. One of her bearded men dismounted and, catching her around the waist as if she were a child, swept her off the saddle and onto solid ground.

  “It’s inappropriate.” She heard Oda’s cold voice behind her. So, the lady duchess had decided to make an appearance.

  Bolesław’s dogs chose that moment to bark and throw themselves along Świętosława’s procession. And she, instead of royal greetings, shouted:

  “Bolek, call off your dogs. Wrzask and Zgrzyt, heel. Ulf, give me the leash.”

  Bolesław whistled at his dogs. They ran to him, whining and nipping at the air as they went.

  “Better tie them up, brother,” their sister called out cheerfully. “Cats on a rope.”

  Two lynxes stalked out from between the horses of her people.

  “Wildcats!” little Lambert called out.

  “Wildcats!” Bezprym mocked him. “They’re lynxes, you chubby fool.”

  The “rope” was a double leash which had been clasped to the collars of both large cats. It was decorated with silver, fit for many a duchess to wear as a necklace.

  Bolesław tied up his dogs and handed them over to Duszan. Only now did Astrid realize that Dusza wasn’t with her sister. No woman was. Świętosława had arrived with a procession composed solely of men. Who had done her hair and dressed her? Leading the two lynxes on the leash, Świętosława stepped forward, and Bolesław walked toward her. They looked one another up and down for a moment, then fell into each other’s arms. When at last they broke free, Świętosława cast a happy eye over the crowd gathered to greet her, and squealed like a child.

  “Astrid!”

  She threw her arms around her sister’s neck. Astrid almost burst into tears, holding the sister she hadn’t seen in too many years.

  “Wrzask, smell and remember. This is my sister. Understand? Zgrzyt. Smell. You know what I want. And this is my brother. Brother and sister are like you. Lynx and lynx,” she explained to the animals with a straight face.

  “Duchess Oda,” she said then, in a voice clearly used to giving orders, as she noticed the tall silhouette in the crowd and held a hand out toward her.

  Oda stood frozen in place. The last time the two had seen each other was under very different circumstances. Which one should bow to the other today? They emerged from the situation smoothly—they both bowed slightly, as if by accident. Jarl Birger, following Świętosława, bowed to the duchess and kissed her hand, saving Oda the need for niceties, while Astrid looked around the crowd curiously, as did her sister, taking the measure of everyone who had come out to greet her.

  “Jaksa? Zarad? Bjornar? Oh, finally, you look like men and not pimply young lads. It’s so nice to see you. And those children? Come on, boys, introduce yourselves.”

  They stepped out in order of age, but Bezprym, unable to keep his eyes off the cats on a leash, pushed forward in front of Mieszko as the first. He bowed his head stiffly and introduced himself:

  “Bezprym, my lady.”

  She reached a hand to him and lifted his chin up gently, studying him. The boy kept his eyes downcast.

  “Mmm…” she said. “You have wild eyes. That’s good, did you know?”

  He looked at her with poorly hidden gratitude. Raised without a mother, with constantly changing wet nurses at Bolesław’s order, he was mistrustful, and Astrid knew it.

  “They call me the Black Hungarian,” he grumbled.

  “And they call me ‘Golden Freya.’ Which do you prefer?” she asked, not letting go of his chin.

  “Black Hungarian,” he said gloomily.

  “That’s excellent, so they call you what you’d prefer to be called. People call my son ‘Skinny Ole,’ do you know why?”

  “Because he’s skinny?” Bezprym suggested.

  “You guessed right. People like to call us as they see us. They’re foolish, aren’t they? Because why vocalize something anyone can see? They call Olof ‘Skinny,’ and he’ll be their king one day. Maybe, once you’re a ruler, they’ll call you Bezprym the Black, and who cares?”

  “Me first!” Mieszko, Oda’s older son, pushed his way in front of Bezprym.

  “And who are you?” She let Bezprym go and studied the other boy.

  “Mieszko. Don’t you remember me?”

  “No.”

  “Because I was only little when
you sailed beyond the sea.” He straightened up proudly. He was a handsome, belligerent boy. “But I’ll be a ruler first, before Bezprym the Black becomes one.”

  “Why?” Świętosława asked. “Perhaps it’ll be this sweet chubby one?” She pointed at Lambert. “Come here, little one.” She motioned at him to come closer, ignoring Mieszko.

  Lambert shook his head and took a step back.

  “Are you afraid of my lynxes?” she asked. “And you’re right to be. They can sense human fear, and become naughty when they do. Wrzask likes to nip at people’s calves. Zgrzyt goes straight for the throat. So, if you want to greet your auntie, Lambert, you have to stop being scared.”

  Lambert took another step back, and his cheeks trembled.

  “I won’t be able to greet you, Auntie…” he moaned. “I think I’m going to wee…”

  “Lambert,” Oda’s voice cut through the air. “Stop that immediately.”

  The little one burst into tears and ran, not to the duchess, but to hide behind one of the nurses.

  “Lambert!” Oda shouted. “Come here.”

  “Let it be, my lady.” Świętosława waved a hand. “He’s only a child. One of many.”

  At that moment, Emnilda emerged from the palatium with the other Mieszko in her arms, Bolesław’s two-year-old son, and a girl on either side.

  “My God, who’s this beauty?” Świętosława exclaimed. “And such pretty things beside her. Another boy … your children are multiplying.”

  “Sister.” Bolesław walked over to Emnilda. “Meet my wife, daughters, and youngest son.”

  Świętosława wrapped the leash around her wrist twice in a barely discernible movement, to lengthen the distance between the lynxes and small children. Emnilda bowed deeply to her.

  “My lady.”

  Świętosława pulled her up from her bow.

  “Lady Emnilda, mother of my nieces and nephew, I so wanted to meet the woman who has tamed my brother.” She studied her unashamedly. “No, they weren’t wrong, all those who said such wonderful things about you. Girls, what are your names?” She leaned down to them.

  “Regelinda and Bogumiła,” the elder introduced them both, pointing with a finger to indicate which was which.

  “Zgrzyt, Wrzask,” she summoned her cats. “Sniff the girls. They’re sisters. Like lynx and lynx. And your brother?” She straightened. “What’s his name?”

  “Mieszko,” they said in unison.

  “I love that name. The lynxes will now sniff little Mieszko and all will be well…”

  “They didn’t sniff me,” Mieszko the elder reminded her.

  “They did, you just didn’t notice, little brother,” she said, in a voice that sent shivers down the spines of everyone within earshot.

  Astrid caught Oda’s furious glance, but before she had time to savor it, a tall and slender figure emerged from the shadows.

  “Sister,” Bolesław spoke up, “meet the dukedom’s new bishop. Unger, this is Queen Świętosława.”

  The moment that followed engraved itself deeply into Astrid’s heart. The same sister who had just divided the family into good and bad fell humbly to her knees in front of the dry bishop, the old abbott of Memleben Abbey.

  “Welcome home, daughter,” Unger said, lifting her up.

  “Welcome home, Father,” Świętosława replied.

  27

  POLAND

  Bolesław led Świętosława to their father’s chambers, holding her hand, as if time had turned back ten years. As if they were children again, summoned by the Hawk. Except that he was twenty-five and she was two years younger, and the Hawk was a dying duke.

  “Ole stayed with Dusza, which is as if he’d stayed with me, except that he’ll be the only one doing the talking and storytelling,” Świętosława explained. “And with Wilkomir, since my son is now being raised by men. Wilkomir’s lover, Helga, is a remarkable woman, and when I have nights free of Eric, I like to drink with her more than with Thora, Birger’s wife. Thora brought Olof into the world, but our age separates us. The rest of the squad you sent me is married, with children, only Wilkomir is so stubborn, he gave Helga a child but refuses to marry. Do you know what he called the boy? Wilczan. Arrogant, don’t you think? And Great Ulf, that’s the bald one with a missing tooth, with the scarred face, I ordered him to be prepared for anything. If they’re needed for longer, I’ll leave them behind, under the condition that Ulf and Birger return with me, and Jomsborg provides us with an escort. But if you need them, brother, you can count on one hundred men who cannot be bought.”

  He squeezed her small, warm fingers and kissed her cheek.

  “Thank you, sister. I’m not lacking troops, but ‘one hundred men who cannot be bought’ might be the deciding factor in the next few days.”

  He was afraid of what might come next. He had seen Oda’s nervous movements, her secret meetings with Przybywoj, a Prague nobleman who, though he’d been loyal for years, could summon Czech troops, which were ever the enemy, any day.

  Świętosława continued.

  “Just don’t count on the lynxes. Wrzask and Zgrzyt are my children, they return to Sigtuna with me. Emnilda is as beautiful as the dawn. If you’re disloyal to her, I’ll be the first to cast a stone at you. And Unger? Jesus Christ, what a man. Black eyes, pale face. My knees buckled, brother…”

  “For the first time ever?” he teased.

  “Mmm.”

  “How are you coping in the country in the north?” he asked, serious.

  “Well,” she replied, “though you cannot imagine what the long northern night feels like, or what life without the Eucharist is. I’ll give you a hint: one is like the other.”

  “They say your husband adores you.”

  “Of course he does.” She shrugged. “Don’t think for a minute that it’s that simple, though. He’s a proud old Viking. When he sails to war, he must win and hang up corpses for his gods, because his name is Segersäll, which means Victorious. And then, when he begins to drink in autumn, he doesn’t stop until spring. Do you know what Viking drinking is? Axes and knives fly over the benches until the long night ends. And when he draws his sword, I freeze in fear because that time has come again. They call it the ‘hot bed,’ but it’s like any other bed, though perhaps it has more polar bear fur to cover it. Thank the Almighty that he sired Olof and that our son is a strong, if skinny, boy. Apart from that, I have rebellions at home and in the conquered Denmark to manage, and Eric’s bastards from before my time. The rest is, as you say, adoration. You should hear the ‘Song of the Mighty,’ brother. The Psalms speak of God, while the ‘Song of the Mighty’ preaches on how to be a northern ruler. I’ll send you a bard as a present.”

  They reached their destination.

  “Bjornar, take the leash, Wrzask and Zgrzyt shouldn’t be there,” Świętosława said.

  “Father isn’t how you remember him,” Bolesław warned as the guards opened the metal-fitted doors to Mieszko’s chamber.

  * * *

  Mieszko was fighting Count Wichman. And Margrave Hodo. He anticipated the movements of their armies as if he were a cat that could see in the dark. He gave orders, and moved around the troops by Zehden. He hit against fog as he caught the breaths of the dead. Wichman was once again dying in his arms, whispering about forgiveness and giving him his sword. And then the Veleti roused themselves with wild songs. A beauty surged in front of them, with a net through which water fell. A god with three heads nodded from their flags. They all fell into darkness. The darkness of death, that ruthless lady. And his bishop Jordan was pouring the Warta’s waters over him, and the river, sacred because of the baptism, flowed through the whole country with God’s grace.

  “Father,” Bolesław summoned him from the darkness.

  “Is that you?” he asked. “My son?”

  His eyes were failing him, so he’d recognize people by their voices, or by their smell. Sometimes by the colors which surrounded the figures bending over his bed.

  “
It’s me, Father. I brought a guest. Do you recognize her?”

  He strained his eyes.

  “Dobrawa?” he asked, pointing at the brightness pulsating at his shoulder.

  “No, Father.” Bolesław’s voice was severe. “Try again.”

  The brightness didn’t wait for his response. She fell onto his bed and whispered:

  “It’s me…”

  “Bold one! Daughter…” A feeling like the sweetest mead spread through his head. “From so far away? Why?”

  “You ask that?” she replied with a sob. “The hawk launches itself for a final flight.”

  “Yes. I want to leave you,” he acknowledged truthfully. Their hands entwined as they held each other. He saw the furious green in her eyes. Her firm grip calmed him. He hesitated. Stopped. “I’ll try,” he whispered, and admitted: “I was waiting for you.”

  “And so I’ve come. Astrid has too; she’ll help you pass.”

  The hallowed silhouette of his older daughter shimmered beyond Bolesław and Świętosława’s backs. It was good that she’d come. He felt surer in her presence. He squeezed the fingers of the younger one, whispering:

  “Wait. Before I go to God, I must tell you something. Do you remember that night by the Warta?”

  “We do,” daughter and son murmured in the darkness.

  “You are my north.” He pointed to her. “You, my son, are the south. Now it’s time you spread your wings to the east.” He touched his son. “And west.” He touched his daughter. “Bolesław, you’re like me … you know how to create. Build a new nest. Do you hear what I’m telling you? In the south, ah … I see a crown in a deathly smudge. Brightness. You’ll lift the dukedom into a sacred kingdom. My hunter, be wary…” The words came with difficulty, he fought for breath with each one, as if he was ripping them out of himself.