The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “Chase me, then. My wine is stronger, and I’ve had more than you.”

  Olav finished what was in his cup with one gulp and poured himself more mead.

  “My mead is sweeter.”

  “Wine is redder. Blood’s better after wine.”

  “Desire is stronger after mead.”

  “Jooooruuuun!” Varin roared from the depths of the stone hall. “The kings are playing mannjafndr themselves.”

  Sven stood up. He felt how wonderfully the wine of the Bamburgh heirs swayed him. As if he had a deck under his feet, and what could be more beautiful than a cruise? Their drunk comrades turned away from Varin and Jorun and staggered toward them.

  “The fight of kings! The fight of kings!” they roared, approaching Sven and Olav.

  “I don’t rhyme. And I won’t swim with you,” Sven voiced his reservations.

  “I won’t compare. And I’m not jumping between ships with you,” Olav retaliated.

  “Fi-ight! Fi-ight!” a hundred drunk warriors chanted, men who had been with them as Odin’s Sword, Odin’s Breath, and now the Two Kings.

  They leaned against each other, foreheads touching.

  “They’ve challenged us,” Olav whispered. “We have to show them what chieftains are capable of.”

  “Let’s drink,” Sven decided. “Since we both want to get drunk…”

  “A barrel of mead against a barrel of wine,” Olav shouted.

  “Two long horns,” Sven demanded. “Who falls over first, loses.”

  “Who wins, drinks more. Where is my bard Omold?”

  The bard looked as if he’d been playing this drinking game since the morning, but hearing Olav’s summons he shook it off and stood up.

  “What song does my master want to listen to?”

  “The ‘Song of the Mighty,’” Olav roared, preparing for their competition. “Peel out drunken verses from Odin’s wisdom.”

  “I’m ready,” the bard announced.

  “Pour.” Sven offered his horn.

  When both their vessels were full, the bard began:

  You don’t have a worse provender

  than a full barrel of mead …

  “That’s why mead will be the better one,” Olav exclaimed, and began to drink.

  “Wine will win,” Sven replied, moistening his lips with it.

  Not as good as they say,

  is mead for generations of men,

  because he has less, the more he drinks,

  of man’s common sense.

  They drank at the same pace, and held out their horns for more simultaneously. They gulped this down, too.

  Lazily does the “crane of poor memories” fly over drunks,

  stealing men’s souls.

  The feathers of this bird have bound me …

  The second horn was drained as quickly as the first. Everyone knew that the shorter the pauses, the better. Olav swayed at the third, but he didn’t give in.

  I was drunk, as drunk as a bull

  in the wise man Fjalar’s house …

  The bard was doing all he could. Odin himself was warning them against drinking through his lips, but they were finishing their fourth horns, egged on by the comrades gathered around them. Sven felt as though he was about to be sick.

  Beer is best when

  a guest claims back his common sense …

  He placed the horn under the barrel for the fifth time, but he could feel the liquid spilling down his sleeve instead of falling into the vessel. He couldn’t hold it straight. The stone castle floors danced before his eyes, and a storm began raging under his feet. Falling, he grabbed Olav, who was collapsing, same as him. They landed at the same time.

  Don’t hold on to your goblet, drink with caution,

  speak wisely or hold your tongue …

  “I’ll kill you, Omold … with caution? Drink with caution?” Olav gurgled. “Now you tell me?”

  “Two kings! Two kings!” their companions roared overhead.

  “Lost! Won!”

  “Sven and Olav, always equal,” the bard recited. “They win together and lose together.”

  “Sail with me to Sig-Sig-Sigtuna,” Sven fought the hiccups. “We’ll de-defeat Eric and con-con-conquer the queen!” His eyes closed of their own volition.

  He felt arms dragging him upward.

  “Jorun?” he whispered, opening his eyes.

  No. It was Olav. Where did his strength come from? He brought his face close to Sven’s. He was just as drunk.

  “You take the kingdom,” he hissed, as if the Yngling snake had come alive inside of him. “I’ll take the queen. You sail for Sigtuna. I’ll go for Sigrid.”

  Olav didn’t have strength for more. He let go and they both collapsed on the stone floor again. It rose and spiraled along with his body. Sven held Olav by the shoulders. Olav held on to him. If they let go now, the castle would fall, and they’d land in the maelstrom of a sea at its feet. Sven couldn’t remember if he’d had five or six horns, but he felt as if an eternal hammering was beginning inside his head.

  … drink with caution …

  … speak wisely or hold your tongue …

  30

  ENGLAND

  Olav guided his boat, keeping a sharp eye on the water for any rocks. It was a low tide, and the pale blue waters around the Isles of Scilly, just off the coast of Cornwall in the Atlantic Ocean, were swarming with rocky traps. Olav and his men rode a small, modest boat, the kind used here by fishermen and oyster catchers. He was accompanied by three men from Kanugård’s original crew: Omold the bard, Ingvar, and Rafn.

  The rest of the ships of the Two Kings had been divided into small troops in the bays on the southern shore of England, waiting for the right moment. Olav had left Varin in charge, since his painted fangs demanded respect from even the most defiant crews. The main chief of the Two Kings, until Olav’s return to England’s mainland, was Sven.

  It was the first full moon of spring. They’d planned London’s attack for early autumn, and until then Olav intended to lull Ethelred’s alertness with a series of small attacks on Ireland, the Isle of Man, and Cornwall. They wanted to create the impression of chaos, as if the attacks were led by small, dispersed groups.

  “King.” Rafn pointed toward the shore. “I see two ports.”

  Olav had already seen them.

  “Omold, what was the message again?” he asked.

  “‘The eastern shore of Scilla. Turn south when you see two ports. There is a third behind a line of rocks by the shore. A broken dock clinging to stone ramparts.’” The bard recited from memory.

  The wind died down, and their small sail hung limply from the mast. They picked up their oars, heading south.

  Olav had been waiting on the Isle of Wight for three trusted men to arrive from Sogn. Instead, a salt merchant came, with the message that Olav’s men had been taken in by a medicine man on Scilla, after common robbers had nearly killed them. Of course, it crossed Olav’s mind that this might be a trap. But the information from the Sogn men was so valuable that he took the risk without a moment’s hesitation. He ordered Varin to keep the merchant’s ship, cargo, and crew hostage until he returned, as protection. A small consolation, but better than nothing. If someone was casting a net for him, perhaps they’d be willing to trade for salt?

  “A line of rocks along the shore.” Omold pointed at what they’d just seen. Apart from having an excellent memory, the bard liked to repeat with words what the eyes were already aware of.

  “The most foolish place for a harbor,” Ingvar observed, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “Unless you’re not wanting guests who arrive unannounced,” Rafn replied.

  Olav raised his head and saw a white dog on one of the rocks by the shore. He was sure he’d seen it before, or had he only imagined it? A bare rock and a dog …

  “From the boat!” he called out, and his men put down their oars and jumped out.

  “To shoulders on two,” he ordered, and they pull
ed the boat onto the soft pale sand.

  “A broken dock clinging to stone ramparts,” Omold recited, pointing at the rotting planks of wood which barely hung on to the rocks. “Well, it looks like we found them.”

  The dog had disappeared without so much as a single bark, leaving Olav to wonder whether it had really been there in the first place.

  “Rafn, stay with the boat. Ingvar and the bard will come with me,” Olav decided, climbing the rocky shore.

  Placing a foot on lichen-encrusted stone, he remembered his vision from so many years ago, after consuming the mushrooms. He, Bolesław, and Świętosława at the hunting lodge by Poznań. That’s where he remembered the dog from. But in that vision, the animal had led him to a gate guarding a strange building, and now the dog had disappeared, leaving the island seemingly deserted.

  “There’s a path here.” The bard pointed at a narrow, well-trodden track leading upward. Olav had already begun to follow it.

  He didn’t feel fear, mostly just curiosity. They climbed to the top. In the distance was a small house with a narrow pillar of smoke. Omold, thankfully, didn’t feel the need to tell them about this. The waters looked impossibly blue from above. A furious blue that Olav had never seen anywhere else. And then his eyes fell on a pile of stones, a short way from the path. He turned to take a closer look, and froze.

  “A circle of stones,” the bard said from behind him. “Unfinished. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “If we’re searching for a medicine man, it’s not that strange,” Ingvar responded. “Healers do many things. I knew one in Rus who chewed sand. Everyone wondered why he was doing it. Nobody knew the answer, but there wasn’t a single sick man who regretted having him take care of them in a fever.”

  They returned to the path and approached the hut in silence. Dogs barked, small and fluffy, so they couldn’t have been the pups of the white one from the harbor. A stocky, armed man exited the hut, followed by another who looked identical to the first. Both were looking against the sun, and they shaded their eyes, looking at Olav, before exclaiming:

  “The one whose…”

  “… name we cannot…”

  “… speak…”

  “… has arrived. Our…”

  “… king and…”

  “… master.”

  And then they each fell to one knee, though Olav noticed that they managed to drag a board underneath their knees before falling. The yard was muddy.

  “Who are you?” Olav asked.

  “Brothers,” they replied in unison.

  “I can see that you’re twins.”

  “That too, but…”

  “… we are the brothers of…”

  “Halvard.”

  “He’s Bersi.” One of them pointed at the other.

  “And he’s Duri.” The other did the same as the first.

  Olav had never seen either of them, but he’d come here searching for Halvard.

  “How is he?” He was worried about his scout’s fate. He didn’t relish the thought of conversing further with the strange twins who divided every sentence into two.

  “He’s alive,” Duri replied.

  “But he doesn’t rise,” Bersi filled in.

  The one whose name we cannot speak, he thought. So, my command to keep my identity a secret has become a name in itself. That’s all right. It won’t be long now, not long.

  “These are my companions.” He introduced them. “Ingvar and Omold the bard. Lead us to Halvard.”

  The twins rose and nimbly turned the board they used to kneel on so that Olav might walk across it to the hut. It was dim inside, despite the small fire, and a quiet voice reached them from the gloom:

  “God Almighty and sweet Mary, Mother of Christ, my king has come to me and I cannot rise…”

  “Lie still, Halvard.” Olav had recognized the wounded man. “What’s wrong?”

  “A spear thrust to my calf, another in my thigh, they both caused my collapse. And the axe blow under my shoulder blade stole my breath and, believe me, King, I waited for the beautiful Valkyries, I was sure they were flying for me. But then I remembered that Odin’s virgins take only warriors from the battlefield, I’d never heard of what awaits a drunken man from Sogn after a brawl at an inn. And this injustice saddened me so much that I decided to live. Bersi and Duri were also sad, sad and furious, and twins in anger are truly unpredictable. They destroyed my attackers with their axes, or so they say. But they took pity on the innkeeper, because our mother and uncle raised us to be good men, and what fault was it of the innkeeper’s? It paid off, he put us on a boat and we came here, and the medicine man did miracles. I cannot stand, but I’m alive. The medicine man says I’ll get out of it, because he sees the future.”

  As do I. I’ve seen this harbor and the dog before I came here, Olav thought.

  “Is the healer here?”

  “No, my king. But he’ll come at dusk. He’ll be here for certain.”

  “During the day he goes…” one of the twins began shyly.

  “… to collect rocks…” the other added, and then they spoke in turns again.

  “… herbs and…”

  “… his thoughts.”

  “Do they always do that?” Olav asked Halvard.

  “Yes, my lord. That’s just how they were born, doing everything together. They went to have their fortunes read by the healer together, too, but he separated them and told them he could only speak to each one alone. They didn’t agree to it.”

  Olav looked at them more carefully. He didn’t think he’d be able to tell one from the other. Dark-eyed, dark-haired. They could be twenty, or twenty-five, though their stocky figures made them look rather more intimidating. They had chests as wide as bears under their caftans. They braided their beards, but these didn’t stick out like Sven’s. Ring after ring shone on their short, fat fingers.

  “Is the boar your family’s sign?” Olav observed aloud more than asked. Freya’s boar, Golden Bristles. Food, drink, a sword ready to fight in both battlefield and bed. He gritted his teeth. Eric, Świętosława’s husband, was the Golden Boar. Damn it.

  “Yes, King,” Halvard replied, and the twins’ eyes gleamed as if he’d given them the highest praise.

  “What news of my country?” Olav asked. This was the reason he had come to this harbor seeking his scout. “Did you meet with Skjalgsson in my name?”

  Erling Skjalgsson, since his father’s recent death, was the head of a family which controlled two counties in southern Norway, Rogaland and Hordaland. A good and old family, whose times of greatness had come under the last king accepted by all of Norway, Haakon Haraldsson, also known as Haakon the Good. This family had been essentially removed from power by Jarl Haakon, though.

  Olav had spent not just tens, but hundreds of sleepless nights coming up with the best strategy to win back power, and he knew that everything must begin in the south, where his father, Tryggve, had once ruled. Their family nest was Viken, and he knew that Viken would accept him with open arms. His mother lived there now, with her new husband, Lodin, and their children. If Olav wanted to ensure safe passage for himself to the north, he would need the support of Erling Skjalgsson, a crucial step to taking back the throne.

  “Yes, my lord,” Halvard replied. “Erling supports your plans. He is the heir of a proud family, and the memory of this is very much alive. Haakon the Good…” He cleared his throat meaningfully.

  I know, Olav thought. Erling’s great-aunt had been the king’s lover and Haakon the Good’s mother. Anyone who had once felt part of the royal family would always crave a return to grace.

  “Is he married?” Olav asked, a plan beginning to form in the corners of his mind.

  “No, my lord,” Halvard replied.

  “And what of Lade?” Olav asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  That’s where the heart of the country beat, around Trondheimfiord’s bay. That was where Jarl Haakon had his settlement, and that was where he called his council, which all the
lords of the north attended.

  “Lade will fight, my lord,” Halvard said bluntly. “But the Lade jarls are weary of Haakon’s rule. It’s beginning to feel like a thorn in their side…”

  “Attack and…”

  “… kill the old one,” Bersi and Duri said.

  “Preferably with a stranger’s hands,” Halvard filled in.

  “And Jarl Haakon’s sons, Eric and Sven?” The two men Sven Forkbeard’s scout said had come to Sweden seeking help from Eric the Victorious.

  “They don’t command the same respect their father does, because Haakon has embarrassed them in front of others more than once.”

  He thought about this as he kept talking to Halvard. He’d spent too much time with Sven Forkbeard to be unaware of how great and furious the power of an abandoned son could be. But there were two of them, so their anger would be halved. Kill the old one? No, he wouldn’t go as far as murder. Not after what had happened to his family.

  Hundreds of sleepless nights, or had it been thousands? He’d left his country in his mother’s womb. His entire life revolved around his return. What was seething inside him so? He’d wondered about this endlessly. What was driving him? Royal blood? Or ordinary human ambition? Or perhaps the memory of hurt and the desire for revenge?

  He didn’t hear the door of the hut open, though he saw the sunlight streaming through it. Dust particles whirled in the patch of light. The man in the doorway was so small that he seemed a child at first; it was a moment before Olav recognized the figure as an old man bent over.

  “My savior,” Halvard said, respectfully.

  “Come with me.” The old man motioned to Olav with a gnarled finger.

  Tryggvason rose and gave Ingvar and the bard a signal to stay behind as he followed the healer out of the hut.

  * * *

  The old man led him to a forest, which turned out to be a garden of stone circles and spirals, some of them only one stone high, others stacked higher, like castle towers half built and left unfinished. To Olav, it seemed as if the stones grew from the green moss. They might have been there for hundreds of years. Like the vibrant blue waters which washed Scilla’s shores, the moss in this forest was an impossibly bright green. The old man walked slowly, leaning on a gnarled staff. He paused at certain circles, as if he wasn’t sure whether they’d reached their destination yet. And then he’d continue, swinging his skinny dry neck from side to side. Olav followed.