The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “The king is alive,” she said, so firmly that had her voice been steel, it would have pierced him through. She pushed away the fear she felt every time she thought of the promise Eric had made to Odin, which Birger’s words now summoned to her mind.

  “You haven’t talked to him. You know nothing.” He nodded sadly.

  “Tell me, then,” she demanded.

  “I cannot, my lady. But … know that I only want what’s best for you. I feel responsible for you, ever since the day that Eric sent me south across the blue-gray, storm-ridden Baltic Sea. The bastards should vanish once and for all,” he finished firmly. “Those girls, too, his daughters. They’ve already planned husbands for them, and it wasn’t our good king who did it, but their mothers and grandfathers, bitter about your position.”

  She felt a cold tightness in her chest. She lifted her head, drawing in a deep breath. She spotted Ion in the distance, looking at her from across the hall.

  “Young, beautiful maids. A good match for any brave, energetic, and ambitious man,” Birger was saying without looking at her, his gaze locked sightlessly in front of him. “They will give birth to sons swiftly, and they will tell them from childhood how they are the heirs of royal blood.”

  “What do you advise?” she asked, pronouncing every syllable.

  “We have an evening with the chalice of memories, my lady. What can a widower possibly advise on such a cold, deadly night?”

  33

  ENGLAND

  Olav remembered every moment of the last six months, since the day he had met the old man Hundrr, as clearly as if it had all happened just the day before. Scents, colors, voices, the creak of the rigging, the wind’s howls, the splash of water against Kanugård’s gunwales, the tap of shoes on the stone floor—all these accompanied his memories in vivid detail.

  The archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric, the same one they’d negotiated with three years earlier as Odin’s Sword, came to Olav’s camp in Southampton in the company of Earl Ethelweard, also known as the lord of the western lands.

  “Why doesn’t King Ethelred want to meet us in person?” Sven didn’t bother to hide his annoyance from the king’s men. “It’s impolite. We made so much effort to go to see him in London.”

  Olav adored Sven in moments like these. His red-haired friend looked like a boy who hadn’t gotten the toy he wanted. Sigeric might remember that Sven liked such games, but the earl let himself be tricked time after time.

  “It isn’t in King Ethelred’s habits to meet with invaders, you must understand, my lord.”

  “I came to England to meet the king.” Sven puckered his lips. “What else must I do to make Ethelred understand?”

  “My lord…” Ethelweard began to explain.

  Sven banged a fist on the table and roared:

  “I’m trying as best as I can! I went to Bamburgh, Essex, the four fortresses of Kent, in Hampshire. I went to Cornwall and London, what else does your king want?”

  “For you to sail back home, my lord,” the earl whispered.

  “No. I always get what I want,” Sven hissed into his face. “I want to meet your king, and I will do so.”

  The earl let out a breath and wiped his forehead. Olav still hadn’t said a word. He leaned back in his chair, as if he were separating himself from the negotiatons. The archbishop stepped in.

  “King Sven, King Olav, we managed to reach a compromise in the past. Let’s try to do the same tonight and find a way to satisfy both sides.”

  “Remind me, Archbishop,” Olav spoke now, “where did we end?”

  “I don’t understand.” Sigeric looked confused for a moment.

  Olav and Sven were looking at him, though, so he refreshed his memories swiftly.

  “Ten thousand pounds of silver.” He nodded, and immediately added: “But then, there were four chieftains, and now we have two.”

  “Do you wish it were otherwise?” Olav asked.

  “No…” Sigeric suddenly regretted his own argument. “No, no.”

  “I need to tell you something, Archbishop. I always start where I left off,” Olav said coolly. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time or ours. If you don’t have your king’s permission for an adequate beginning to these negotiations, let’s end them now. Do you agree, King Sven?”

  “Yes.” The redhead rose immediately. “We’ll sail to our castle in Bamburgh, and have a careful look at the western lands on the way. I’d like to see once more the remains of Hadrian’s wall.”

  “No!” Earl Ethelweard couldn’t help but fall into the trap Sven had laid. “We have … that is, the archbishop has…”

  Sigeric gave him a deadly stare, but it was too late. They reached an agreement at midnight.

  * * *

  “Sixteen thousand pounds of silver!” Sven yelled once Ethelred’s messengers left Southampton, and the two of them made their way to the stony shores, taking in the cool night air. “Promise me, Tryggvason, that we’ll stand here and watch the never-ending line of horses carrying our silver on their backs. Our plunder.”

  “We’ll stand, watch, and rejoice. And drink. And wonder how to protect such a fortune. You know that now we will be the best mark, right? The hulls of our ships, heavy with silver.”

  “I love worrying about this.” Sven clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, I could worry like this every year.”

  “Silver doesn’t age, but we do,” Olav replied, looking into his friend’s eyes. “It’s time we parted ways. It’s good to conquer a kingdom when you’re still young and beautiful.”

  “And rich, like us!”

  Sven refused to be serious in this moment, and Olav sensed there was a reason for this. Sven wanted him to be the one to say he remembered the end of their drunken competition in Bamburgh. He was provoking him, never mentioning what they’d told each other, simultaneously protecting himself in case Olav didn’t remember. But it wasn’t true. They could both recall it, Olav knew that very well.

  “I’ll tell you something, as a gift,” Sven said as they walked back to the camp. “I’ll tell you what happened to the widow Gunhild.”

  Olav nearly choked. The cool ocean air no longer felt refreshing, and the dark night that had fallen around them no longer seemed peaceful.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “They drowned her in a swamp, as if she were a witch. Those who drown in wetlands don’t go to the kingdom of the dead. They took her life, her memory, her glory. A great queen, and she died like…”

  “Like she deserved. Thank you, Sven.” He embraced him, and held on. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

  Sven narrowed his eyes and, of course, began to laugh. He was predictable in his unpredictability. Olav didn’t want to talk to him any longer; he knew that whatever they said now wouldn’t matter. Sven had tried to convince him to join forces, to create an alliance beyond the one they had built on England’s shores. But to no avail. Their time together was done. Their roads were dividing, and neither would promise the other that they wouldn’t meet again on opposing sides. And if that happened, a different Olav would face Sven. Tryggvason had discovered that the real reason he had come to England was more than just silver.

  * * *

  Olav had known from the start it had to be Sivrit, no one else. He didn’t want Sigeric, the archbishop of Canterbury, or any other fat, arrogant chaplain like the ones he’d met surrounding King Ethelred. He trusted only Sivrit.

  Just as, years ago, Sivrit, my mother’s brother, brought me out from slavery, he thought, so will Bishop Sivrit bring me out of the darkness.

  Earlier that night, as they negotiated the value of the danegeld in Southampton, when Sigeric bartered for every one hundred pounds, a short, thin, bald man had walked into the room, wearing a gray habit. He carried a cross in his hand and anger in his eyes.

  “Babylon,” he said, in a voice that made the archbishop fall silent. “Babylon fell and became the nest of demons and unclean spirits. The wine of his impetuosity in the anarchy h
e caused fed nations. And the kings of the earth allowed for anarchy alongside Babylon, and the merchants grew wealthy on its greed. Dishonor, Archbishop Sigeric. Dishonor. This is how you sell your country.”

  “That’s not true, monk,” the archbishop snapped. “I’m buying our freedom. Yours and mine, and our king’s and the small ones we have been charged to protect.”

  “I don’t believe in freedom purchased with silver,” the newcomer said. “Imprisonment is better next to it, with a clear conscience.”

  “Oh, yes?” Sigeric said obstinately. “Go ahead then, be my guest. Go to these barbarians as their prisoner.”

  And that’s when the newcomer turned his pale eyes on them. He had a face as unpolished as a slab of unplaned wood. A narrow nose that looked like a mere bone covered with skin, it would make any other face look stubborn, but not his. His eyes slipped over Sven and paused on Olav.

  “These aren’t barbarians, Archbishop,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Olav’s. “These are people. You make them into beasts in your sermons, but they are the same as us. Only much stronger. Goodbye.” He turned and, leaving, paused by Sigeric for a moment. “Negotiate!” he said harshly.

  It could have sounded mocking, but I heard an order, Olav thought. And he said:

  “Until next time, monk.”

  “Until next time,” he replied, and left.

  They then returned to their negotiations, and soon ended on the sixteen thousand pounds of silver. And when, after a few weeks, the danegeld was counted, divided, and loaded onto the ships, Earl Ethelweard came to Olav with an invitation.

  “King Ethelred wants to meet you, kind Olav. But only you.”

  “What changed your master’s mind?”

  “Sivrit. The mad monk who interrupted our talks,” the earl replied. “The king listens to him.”

  “And the archbishop of Canterbury?”

  “Well…” The earl spread his arms. “If you consider the archbishop the head of the English Church, then Sivrit is its soul.”

  Thankfully, Ethelred didn’t invite Olav to London, as he would have had to decline. He knew that he could not allow himself to be led into any stronghold, behind any wall, but he demanded hostages nevertheless before he set out to meet the king on the wide green fields near Andover.

  A great royal tent waited for him, set up on a hill, surrounded by Ethelred’s guards. Before Olav ascended on horseback, Earl Ethelweard greeted him, asking him and his companions to surrender their weapons. Olav unbuckled his sword without a word; he had agreed to the terms of the meeting when he took the hostages. Varin, though, as he handed the earl his sword, hissed and bared his fangs. Ethelweard moved back. Apart from Varin, Olav had Omold the bard with him, and ten others, only men from the original crew of Kanugård. He wished that Geivar were also with him, but he was a chieftain of Jom now. This day was an incredible milestone in their journey, the one he and Geivar had begun together when they freed themselves from the clutches of Allogia and Prince Vladimir. Olav didn’t agree to walk up the hill on foot; he wasn’t defeated, he was a victorious guest. He rode on horseback.

  King Ethelred was a disappointment, though. Olav had expected to see an old man, broken by joint pain, or a drunkard with a fat belly and circles under his eyes. But he was met by a barely thirty-year-old man with pretty, curling hair, lined in places with gray.

  “King Olav,” he said cheerfully. “So those who called you the most beautiful barbarian to invade England weren’t lying.”

  “Did you ask the girls?” Olav laughed.

  “No. My chieftains and advisers. They said you had pale eyes and hair like the silver you’ve gained from us. They said you’re tall and broad-shouldered. Nimble and clever like—”

  “A young snake,” Varin interjected. “The symbol of the Yngling dynasty.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’ve asked here and there,” Ethelred said evasively, leading Olav to the table laid out under the tent. “Please, sit, you’re my guests. Cupbearer, wine.”

  Olav didn’t like wine, so he asked for water. The king acted as if there was nothing strange about this.

  “Water for my guest. So, you’re an Yngling heir, Olav. You and I sitting at one table sees history turn a full circle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our ancestors. Your grandfather, Haakon known as the Good, and mine, Athelstan. Do you know their story?”

  “My mother told me, but I’ll listen to the one you’ll tell.”

  “Haakon was the youngest son of the Norwegian ruler, Harald Fairhaired.”

  The youngest and from a mistress, Olav added in his mind. And Fairhaired was the first to unify the country with a firm hand.

  “Harald Fairhaired had a good future planned for his son,” the king continued, “but he was afraid that his own brother would murder Haakon before his son reached adulthood, so he sent him to England.”

  He was right to fear this. This elder brother is Eric the Bloodaxe and the husband of the widow Gunhild, the reason for my family’s murders—Olav was not cheered by the knowledge that the witch had died in a swamp. He’d have preferred to have found and killed her himself, with the majesty of the law.

  “So young Haakon Haraldsson came to England and became King Athelstan’s ward. He was baptized here, fifty or sixty years ago. And when his time came, he returned to Norway, defeated his uncle Eric the Bloodaxe, and ruled the country justly and well.”

  “Under the watchful eyes of the jarls of Lade,” Olav reminded sharply. “The good king made a deal with his subjects, according to which he didn’t stop them from worshipping the old gods, and they let him worship Christ. Allowing the jarls power was the price of this alliance, that’s why Haakon is remembered as good, but also as weak.”

  Ethelred was taken aback, as if his sword had been knocked out of his hand in the heat of a battle.

  “You misjudged me, King,” Olav continued. “It’s not in my nature to make alliances, but to subdue others. Thanks, at least partly, to your silver.” He smiled as he finished.

  “I’d give you twice as much for an oath that you never again set foot on my shores,” the king said.

  “I don’t want oaths or more silver. Baptize me,” Olav said.

  The king’s open mouth revealed what Olav had known; this request wholly disrupted the plan the king had come into their conversation with.

  Olav was no fool, he knew what the king had intended. He knew Ethelred planned to squirm and writhe until he’d eventually ask Olav to accept God’s Word and cease the invasions. The king would do it to improve his standing among his noblemen, so he might brag that, yes, he had given much treasure, but he had also gained a “lamb for the Lord’s sheepfold.”

  Since his conversation with the old healer on Scilla, who’d spoken of three thorns and a curse from the old gods, Olav hadn’t wasted a day. He attacked abbeys, but he ordered the books to be hidden in chests. He took monks prisoner, ordering them to tell him everything they knew in the evenings. He had an excellent memory, and when Sivrit had entered the danegeld negotiations, mentioning Babylon, he knew that the monk had been referring to the fall of the overflowing Babylon and the creation of a New Jerusalem. Apocalypse. The Revelation of John the Apostle. He knew it. He knew about Mary, Mother of God, the Immaculate Conception, the Spirit in the form of a dove, the burning bush, the slabs of stone with their ten commandments, John the Baptist, and Christ, who would baptize with fire. And he wished for them all so badly that he didn’t want to wait for the king to tell his smooth stories. He wanted holy water. Immediately. He had waited long enough in the Lord’s front rooms.

  Ethelred gathered himself. “We must wait for the bishop to arrive.”

  “Let’s agree on something, King. You can be my godfather, like Athelstan was to Haakon the Good. A bishop can be there for the ritual, whichever one you want. But Sivrit will be the one to baptize me. And it’s up to you to make him a missionary bishop. If you don’t agree to these terms, we are both wasting
our time.”

  “I agree,” Ethelred said, and added: “This will take time. The monk, though pious and close to my heart, hasn’t been ordained as a priest.”

  “The best time for a baptism is the first spring full moon, so you have time, King. But not a day longer, for the day after my baptism I will sail away, with Sivrit beside me on Kanugård. You decide where I sail. To Lade, to defeat Jarl Haakon, or to London and Bamburgh. Thank you for the water I have drunk and the conversation in which you’ve reminded me of my family’s history.”

  * * *

  Olav didn’t see Sivrit until the day of his baptism. He didn’t need to, he had an excellent memory, and in it was the image of a thin bony man who didn’t judge, but also knew no compromise. His bald, shiny head and hairless chin, divided in two by a line as straight as a knife cut. His nose, the narrow bone covered with skin. Thin lips and pale eyes; the light which streamed from them when he lifted his eyelids.

  Olav walked to meet the waters of baptism alone, without weapons or the company of soldiers. A white dog accompanied him from the harbor, so silently that Olav couldn’t be sure if it was truly there or a mere figment of his imagination. Dry, pale-green lichen covered the rock beneath his feet. Olav breathed in the scent of the sea and aromatic smoke. He found the stone archway of the gate. That’s where he unbuckled his belt and threw down his weapons. He pulled off his shoes, threw aside his cloak, and let down his white hair. Finally, he faced the dark entrance to the stone building. The freed monks awaited him, those he had imprisoned when conquering the abbeys. He’d given them back their freedom to mark the occasion of his baptism. They reached out for his clothes, and he walked inside naked. He felt the coolness of old stones under his feet, the soft moss which lined their edges, and he heard the rustle of water.

  “Are you ready, Olav?” Sivrit asked, waiting for him in the torchlit chamber inside.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you deny the devil?”