The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  Who is he? Why have I never seen him before? she wondered, quickly followed by another thought: Someone so beautiful and majestic couldn’t possibly …

  “My lord,” she exclaimed. “I’m Queen Sigrid…”

  “I know who you are,” the man replied calmly, raising an arm and turning to the waiting crowd. “Your king Eric has made his sacrifice! May this bring him eternal glory. The king who keeps his word is the gods’ favorite in life as he is in death.”

  A thorn pierced her heart. The bloody thorn from the old woman’s runes. Her knees buckled. She wanted to enter the temple, but the old man stood in her way. He reached out to her and grabbed both her and Olof’s hands. His touch muted her pain for a moment. He raised their arms and proclaimed:

  “Here is the dowager queen and her son, King Olof, his father Eric’s heir. Bow to them.”

  At first, the crowd muttered angrily, but the old man’s strength was too great, and, one by one, they bent their knees. A thought crossed her blank mind: Olof, don’t cry. You cannot show weakness.

  “The queen dowager! King Olof!”

  One of Ulf’s men was the first to shout out, and others joined in, directing the crowd’s chants. When they fell silent, she spoke as loudly as she could:

  “We will give my husband a wonderful funeral. One worthy of a king and chieftain. One of which Odin would approve.” The words passed through her throat more easily than she would have thought. “We’ll burn a pyre here, among the kings’ mounds, and here his ashes shall rest. And we will drink the goblet of memories for him. Because there has never been a better ruler of this country than my husband.”

  She paused as the crowd shouted their joy at her words, and then continued:

  “My son Olof is his father’s only heir. Until he reaches manhood, I will stand by him and help him rule. You will be as safe and happy under his reign as you have been under Eric. And now, let me see my king.”

  The old man led them inside. Flames danced in the round fireplace, piercing the darkness inside. Huge statues of Odin, Thor, and Frey lined the walls. Eric lay on a stone slab in front of Odin’s wooden likeness. She leaned over him. His chest had been slashed by a single knife thrust.

  “Why isn’t he bleeding?” she asked.

  “I collected his blood.” The old man pointed at a dish standing to one side.

  That’s when Świętosława realized that, apart from the great white-haired old man, no one else was in the temple.

  I took my husband’s murderer for the most beautiful old man my eyes had ever seen, she thought, disgusted with herself. She stared at Eric’s still expression and blamed first him and then herself, in turn. She felt nothing.

  “My lady?” The old man reached out a hand to her.

  “Is this the hand which dealt him the blow?” she asked.

  “The sacrificer makes and accepts sacrifices. He is merely a tool between the world of gods and men.”

  She grabbed his hand. His tool. And she suddenly felt at a loss about what to do next.

  “Don’t be afraid, my queen. I will guide you.”

  35

  SWEDEN

  Świętosława and Olof took up residence in the old royal manor house, behind Odin’s sacrificial grove in the shadow of the mounds.

  “This is where you were born, son.” She showed him the old bedchamber and bed.

  Olof sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment he sat silently, looking down at his hands, then he asked, “Why did Father do that?”

  “Because he was an old stubborn Viking.” There was no anger in her voice, only exhaustion. “When he went to war with his nephew, he swore he would give his life to Odin if he won. And he kept his word. He always kept it. He promised my father he’d defeat Sven, and he chased him out of Denmark. That’s just who he was.”

  “Did you know about it?”

  “I should have guessed,” she replied honestly. “But I didn’t. Only that night … I thought I convinced him to change his mind.”

  Preparations for the funeral and the great feast began the next morning. She sent men with invitations to all of Eric’s chieftains. To the merchants of Birka, too. To proud Rognvald Ulfsson and his daughter Thordis. One shouldn’t avoid one’s enemies. She missed Jarl Birger and his advice, but the old man was with her. His name was Bork. Except she couldn’t tell him everything that weighed on her, and she didn’t know how to ask about it either.

  After two days, one of Birger’s trusted servants arrived from Sigtuna and said that his master had given him a private message he was to share with the queen. Świętosława was sitting with Bork while he explained the funeral ritual to her, step by step.

  “We’ll finish talking about the funeral,” she told the messenger, “then I’ll speak with you.”

  “But, my queen, this is about the funeral,” the servant insisted. “And it cannot wait.”

  “Speak, then,” she ordered.

  He glanced at Bork uncertainly.

  “If it’s about the funeral, then speak,” she urged him.

  “My master asks if the queen has decided on a funeral according to the old traditions.”

  “Yes, I have already announced it to the people.”

  God, she thought, my father had enough strength to put an end to these old bloody rites, and I’ll have to place my lord husband on a funeral pyre.

  “Jarl Birger agrees.” His servant nodded. “He would like to pass on that King Eric deserves the full ceremony, like the rulers of old.”

  “I know that,” she said, hearing the growl in her mouth.

  The servant pretended to be oblivious to her impatience.

  “Jarl Birger would like to advise you with regards to the woman.”

  “I don’t understand.” She looked at Bork. His old, gentle face was impassive. “Explain it to me, my lord.”

  “The jarl means…” the servant began, but Bork interrupted him.

  “The queen asked for my opinion.” He had a quiet but emphatic voice. That night, when he’d stood with her and Olof in front of the temple, he hadn’t shouted, but the crowds had heard them. “Bold lady,” he began. He addressed her the same way the old woman in the forest had done. She didn’t stop him. “It’s an old tradition that the king, apart from his beloved horses, dogs, and hunting falcons, is accompanied by a mistress. To take care of him in his journey to Valhalla.”

  “I don’t know any of my husband’s mistresses,” she said defiantly.

  “Thordis from Birka,” Birger’s servant hissed.

  So, this is the jarl’s plan? He wants to send Thordis into the flames with Eric? If it weren’t for the fact that it is barbarian and insolent, I’d have thought it a perfect solution.

  “No,” she said loudly. “I don’t agree. Thordis is a noblewoman. She was my husband’s mistress before my time. She has two sons with him, and I will not allow such cruelty.”

  “Rightly so, my lady,” Bork said.

  “Jarl Birger only implied that this was the only known mistress of King Eric,” his man deftly suggested.

  “That’s not true. There are two other women, I don’t know their names, but he conceived daughters with them.”

  “Alfdis and Holmfrid, my lady,” Bork said, and she realized the old man perhaps knew more of her husband than she did.

  “Unfortunately, they are already dead,” the servant said impassively.

  The girls won’t cause us any more trouble. I’ve done what was necessary. She recalled what Birger had said to her in the yard, moments before her departure. Christ, how could I have forgotten? He killed those girls, but does that also mean he killed their mothers? I should speak with him, he’s acting like a madman. He cannot do this.

  “So a slave must be taken,” Bork said. “Young and beautiful so as not to shame the king.”

  “Is that necessary? Did Eric’s father also take someone’s innocent life with him?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  Bork nodded. She felt incredibly drained once mo
re.

  I’m doing this for Olof and for myself. To ensure our subjects don’t turn on us. Once I have strengthened our position on the throne, I’ll invite a bishop to Sigtuna and baptize this bloody country.

  The gray-bearded man looked at her sharply then, and she realized she shouldn’t allow herself such thoughts in his presence. Clearly, the powers his gods had given him stretched to understanding words unspoken.

  “Does your master have anything else to tell me?” she asked the servant.

  “Yes. I’ve brought Dusza and both lynxes with me. Jarl Birger said you likely needed their company, my lady. And your servants have packed chests with clothes and jewels.”

  She felt such gratitude for Birger in that moment that if he’d been there, she would have forgiven his cruel plan for Thordis and embraced him.

  “The jarl also wants you to know he is fighting a fever and is doing all he can to arrive in time for the funeral. But should he fail, he will send appropriate replacements and parting gifts.”

  “What fever is this? Is he in danger?” Noting the way her chest tightened, she realized that although he might be unpredictable in his cruelty, she couldn’t lose him. She needed him now more than ever.

  “Fever, just a fever. Even a strong man succumbs to something so ordinary. He asked you not to worry about anything, my lady.”

  * * *

  The pyre was arranged beyond the last of the royal mounds. This is where he will burn, and where his own mound will rise. A sharp spring wind pulled at their cloaks as the procession walked toward the place from which her husband would make his final journey. Dragging his boat up here had taken much effort, and the soft muddy ground was full of wounds left by the logs used to transport the boat. It wasn’t the Golden Boar, that was too big to drag from the harbor, but it was a good and beautiful dragon boat.

  She walked with her lynxes on a leash and with Olof at her side, but she made sure she didn’t take her son’s hand.

  “They’ll be watching us, son, to see if you are strong enough to take your father’s place, and if I can rise to the challenge. That’s why we cannot cry, or show any weakness. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand, Mother,” he replied.

  He seemed to have collapsed in on himself since the day Eric died, withdrawing inward. She understood what he was feeling as no one else did; she’d been even younger when she lost sweet Dobrawa. And that’s why she knew that the slightest expression of a mother’s sentiments could bring him to tears. For his own good, she wasn’t affectionate toward him.

  Gray-bearded Bork led the procession. She and Olof followed him, then Wilkomir, Ulf, and her entire guard. Her husband’s chieftains and their squads. The chieftains’ wives with their children. The lords of the lands, among them Rognvald of Birka and Thordis, his daughter. Her twin sons hadn’t come, and perhaps that was better; they lived in the far north now and were busy bickering with the Finns. And then followed another hundred people she didn’t know.

  They surrounded the boat. She saw horses, dogs, and falcons held on the side by servants. A small fire burned nearby, ready to light the torch that would send her husband on his final journey. She shivered. Where was the girl Bork had chosen?

  The gray-bearded man stepped forward and asked:

  “Who will lead the king’s servants to the boat?”

  Świętosława knew it was meant to be a woman known as the Shadow Hunter. Bork told her the woman was so old that she’d participated in the funerals of both Eric’s father and grandfather.

  “I,” a squawking voice answered.

  Świętosława recognized the sound. She turned. The old woman she’d met after Thora Birger’s death stepped through the crowds. Świętosława felt bile rising in her throat. The woman had said she didn’t touch magic. That she heals or tells fortunes, nothing more, damn her. She lied to me!

  The old woman was wearing a cloak of bird feathers. Some were so old they looked moldy. The woman walked by Świętosława, not gracing her with a single glance, as if they’d never met before. But it must have been her. Almost bald, a bare skull with grayish, wispy strands stuck to it. Deep-set eyes. A jutting chin with clumps of hair.

  She was helped onto the bridge constructed next to the boat’s gangplank. On the ground nearby was a man with a wooden bat. The healer lifted her arms and howled:

  “The king’s dogs will walk beside him in an endless hunt!”

  The servants led the dogs. The animals barked, resisting being led up the gangplank. The man with the bat hit them so quickly that they had no time to realize what awaited them. One by one they fell to the ground, stunned. The servants picked them up and carried them onto the boat.

  “He will ride his horses to Valhalla,” the old woman called out, and the horses were led over.

  The great chestnut stallion and black mare neighed and twisted their heads away from the boat. The old woman’s servant stunned them skilfully, and they were dragged into the boat along the gangplank, where one slit of a knife opened their throats.

  “Falcons!” she screamed. “The swift falcons will hunt with the king.”

  The birds had their necks twisted and they were placed at the king’s feet on the boat.

  Świętosława stared at her husband’s body. His face was hidden behind a parade helmet. Only his long dark beard emerged from under it. The same one that touched my naked breasts so recently, Świętosława thought.

  He’d been dressed in a rich, purple-red caftan, the best chain mail, and an ornately decorated cloak, fastened by a brooch shaped like the head of a boar. And tall boots of well-oiled leather, the kind he wore when he ran into the water before jumping onto a ship. The sword he had defeated Styrbjorn and Sven with was clasped in his hand. He also had a long knife at his belt.

  This isn’t my husband. It is only a body that the soul has abandoned, she thought, though she knew that Eric didn’t believe in the soul, but in the spirit of a man which leaves his body to sit beside Odin in his great golden hall, waiting for Ragnarök, the battle at the end of days.

  “His mistress will make his journey more pleasant,” the old woman squawked, and everyone saw her look toward Świętosława.

  The girl was brought. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. She was gorgeous in her youth, with blue eyes and fair braids. She was wearing a necklace that she had probably never seen before this day. The girl’s wrists were decorated with silver bracelets, simple but still too expensive for a slave or servant.

  Had she ever given us our goblets during a feast? Or had she only cleaned pots in the kitchen? Bork said she had volunteered. Had Eric really bedded her?

  She was drunk, and two other servants led her, supporting her under her arms. Her fingers traveled up to touch the necklace every now and again. The lynxes growled when she swayed too close to them.

  Świętosława knew that they could smell the girl’s fear.

  “What’s your name, girl?” Świętosława asked, ignoring the old woman’s snort.

  “Bolla,” she muttered absently. “They call me Bolla, my lady.”

  “Who told you to accompany the king?” she asked.

  “No one, my lady … I did … it’s a great honor to go to Valhalla…”

  “Were you the lord’s mistress?”

  “I always wanted to be…” she whispered provocatively. “And now I will be the one to go with him, not you, bold lady…”

  The servants dragged her over to the old woman, who gave the girl a cup of mead.

  “Bolla!” Świętosława shouted. “Repeat her name so that they may hear it in Valhalla before her arrival.”

  Bolla drank greedily, the mead flowing down her chin. Świętosława felt her fear; the lynxes growled, pulling at the leash. If there was a way of turning the girl around … but she was already taking a swaying step onto the gunwale. Everyone was looking at her; this was her day. She never had, and never would again, know a moment such as this. Świętosława’s soul howled for Bolla more than fo
r Eric. He had made a conscious decision. Bolla had done so in a surge of some foolish euphoria.

  “Our lord’s mistress…” the old woman began, but Świętosława interrupted her, calling:

  “Bolla!”

  “Bolla, the lord’s mistress, goes with him,” the old woman finished furiously, and her servant approached the girl from behind, cutting her throat.

  She fell, and she was dragged to lie at Eric’s feet. Beside the falcons and dogs. Świętosława stepped forward.

  “Mother,” her son whispered. “You gave her her name, that’s enough.”

  Świętosława sobered instantly. Olof. How smart he was. She squeezed his fingers secretly. He pulled his hand away.

  “Odin summons the bravest men to feast with him in Valhalla,” the old woman howled. “But they must sail there on waves of flames. Who will raise the sea of fire under the ship, King Eric asks?”

  “His son!” Świętosława called out, and gently pushed Olof. “His only son.”

  She saw Thordis and Rognvald’s thunderous looks from across the pyre, but she didn’t look away. They had come here without the boys. That was her luck, and their mistake.

  Oh, Thordis, she thought, you look at me with such hatred, and you have no idea that if it wasn’t for me, you’d be the one lying at my husband’s feet with your throat cut.

  Olof stepped forward. He was composed, his pale face showing neither fear nor disgust. He reached out an arm holding a torch and dipped it into the fire. Then he placed it under the pyre by the ship. The dry wood caught quickly. Olof waited for the kindling under his father’s ship to burn evenly, and only then threw the torch onto the deck.

  “Let King Eric sail on his final journey and not worry about his kingdom,” her son shouted. “No enemy threatens our lands, because his wife and son guard them. Father, sail. You gave me life, and now I will make the most of it. Burn and sail!”