The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  The chieftains chanted, the people shouted, and the wood burned brightly. And with it left Eric the Victorious, her husband. The arm which held the sword burned as brightly as his loins. His beard was probably the first thing to turn to ashes. That beard which had tickled her breast. She clenched her fists tightly in anger.

  Oh, husband, she thought. If you hadn’t been so stubborn, you’d have turned back from this road and we’d be sitting by the fire in Sigtuna today, drinking mead from one cup. And we would have met in paradise after death. But no, you chose your gods, like a man who puts his comrades’ company and the goblet above his wife. You bet on them and you gave away the chance to save your soul. That is why we won’t meet after death. We will never meet again, unless dreams give you to me.

  Heat radiated from the burning boat, but no one stepped back so as not to offend the dead. Suddenly, the spar cracked and collapsed in a shower of sparks. The old woman’s servant picked her up and carried her from the gangplank at the last moment. If it wasn’t for him, she would have been severely burned. At that moment, Świętosława felt a burning sensation on her hand. A drop of molten amber was melting into her skin.

  Eric! she thought angrily. You burned me. You were a good husband, though as stubborn as the devil. I regret that you’re dead, but I agree with you on one thing; I don’t regret a single moment we spent together. I forgive you the fur of the polar bear on which you took me that first night. Maybe what I felt for you wasn’t love, but what I feel now is loss. Eric, you left me!

  36

  SWEDEN

  Świętosława discovered that funeral feasts were a horrific tradition. They lasted for as long as it took for every guest to feel sated. Countless barrels of beer and mead were emptied and replaced. Exhausted servants, barely still standing, placing bowls of food on the tables day by day, and Świętosława looking in the face of each one of them, wanting to see Bolla. The cruelty of a ritual which takes away a woman’s right to live simply because her master died repelled her. “Where are their wives’ mounds?” she’d asked Mieszko years ago, when he’d taken her and Bolesław to see their ancestors’ burial mounds. “They went to the pyre with their husbands,” Father had replied, and she’d been angry at him then, while today she paid homage to him for breaking this murderous cycle.

  She sat on a tall chair in Uppsala, her son and Bork beside her, and the lynxes at her feet. A hundred of her husband’s chieftains drank in the great hall, day after day, for ten days. Thordis and her father left after the first feast.

  “It’s not an insult,” Bork explained.

  She nodded. Even if they’d been drinking her mead and sharing her plate, she wouldn’t have been able to trust them.

  “Distrust is only caution taken a step further,” Bork said, and she was grateful to him for those words.

  When she asked, he told her about Yggdrasil, the great ash carved into the doors in Sigtuna. She had planned to ask Thora about this tree, but she hadn’t made the time, and now … It’s always the ones we don’t expect who die, she thought. The wound from the molten amber was healing slowly.

  Finally, after twelve days, the endless feasts at which she was expected to drink, remember her husband, and take care of her guests came to an end. And when the last of them had left her court in Uppsala, she realized she had only survived this nightmare because of Bork’s company. The gray-bearded man’s presence at her side had done far more, though: he’d shown her people that he supported her. And if he did, so did Odin. The one who plunged the knife into her husband’s chest was the first one to take her hand and declare, “This is your queen and your young king!”

  Unknown are the plans of gods, she thought, bidding Odin’s sacrifice goodbye, and she rode out from between the mounds with relief. She recalled Birger’s words from years before: “Picture green hills when you look at them, and don’t think about the fact that they hide the burned remains of rulers.” She would never again be able to imagine something so innocent as she rode past. Eric’s mound was still being made, but when autumn arrived, she would search for her bearded husband’s face in the last cairn.

  * * *

  Świętosława had ridden from Sigtuna in spring and had missed the time of Easter, painted eggs, and the reading of the Holy Scriptures. She returned in the height of summer, and the first thing she felt as she rode into the yard to the sound of welcoming horns was that she was home. The lynxes shared her view. They began by chasing the dogs, then the chickens, while Wrzask attempted to bite a large muddy piglet. Her servants ran out of the house with happy squeals, not remembering for a moment that they were greeting a widowed queen, and fell silent and bowed. Helga welcomed Wilkomir back with blushing cheeks. Gerda, one of the manor warden’s daughters, turned bright red at the sight of Great Ulf’s scarred face. Yes, Świętosława thought, we’re home.

  “My lady,” the housewife greeted her. “We’re having a feast for you tonight.”

  Please, no, not a feast, she thought, jumping off her horse. But she laughed aloud and said:

  “Yes, let’s have a feast. Wilkomir, catch the lynxes. Or don’t, let them hunt something for tonight. My appetite is back.”

  She had barely walked into the house when Ion appeared at her side.

  “You haven’t read the Scriptures to me, monk,” she called to him. “We’ll have to make up for that. I need to scrub away the vision of death and Odin’s heavy rituals.”

  “I need to speak with you, my lady,” he said, glancing nervously around them. “You’ve probably forgotten about it … I have to tell you something before…”

  At that very moment, horns sounded once again in welcome from the yard. Świętosława laughed. “Ion, Ion, it seems as if we are never meant to have this conversation … I need to welcome our guests.”

  “My lady!” A clammy hand grabbed her arm. “Find a moment for me when we can be alone. And please, beware of Birger, because the jarl…”

  “Queen Sigrid,” Birger entered the hall, pulling off his leather gloves.

  Ion retreated at lightning speed.

  “My lady, I ran straight from the road to greet you and…” He stood before her, seeming embarrassed. As if he was momentarily at a loss for words.

  “It happened,” she said. “At first, I regretted not listening to you and speaking to my husband earlier, but there, in Uppsala, I understood it wouldn’t have changed anything. My pleas made no difference. I spoke at length with Bork … Have you ever thought, Jarl, that Odin’s sacrifice of hanging upside down on a tree for nine days and nine nights resembles Christ’s sacrifice?”

  “Yes, my lady,” he replied, absently. “I have thought of that often. And I hope that we can speak of it more than once.” His gray eyes were restless. “We have so much to talk about, my lady.”

  “I invite you to tonight’s feast. We can drink a goblet of memories to Eric, though I must admit, I’ve drunk so many of them that at the mere thought of mead my head and stomach pain me.” She laughed. “But the people here, in Sigtuna, deserve to remember the king. Then we can talk.”

  * * *

  “Sigrid Storråda! Sigrid Storråda!” her people chanted when she stepped onto the platform to make a toast.

  Yes, Sigtuna was her court, these were her people. She didn’t need Bork’s strength and somberness here to win the people’s favor. Every one of those gathered before her in the hall tonight was her subject. Hers and Olof’s.

  “The young king! The young king! Olof Ericsson!”

  Enough days had passed since the death that they could smile and enjoy themselves now.

  “I’ll serve you, my lady.” Birger offered to fill her goblet.

  “I don’t want mead, I had plenty in Uppsala. I would like some water.”

  “As you wish, Queen.” He summoned a serving girl and took a jug of water from her. “And our young king? What will he drink?”

  “Mead,” Olof said, and blushed as he looked at his mother.

  Birger filled his goblet,
and she leaned toward him to say with a smile:

  “Train your head, son. You’ve had your first lesson in Uppsala. The king must be able to drink more than all his noblemen.”

  He nodded to her, still somewhat embarrassed, but also partly entertained. She thought that she must find some time to spend alone with him, and soon. Everything that had just happened would leave its mark on his young life.

  “It’s the night of fires soon,” Birger said when the feast gained color. “Midsummer Night.”

  “Oh, Birger! I’m beginning to doubt your baptism.” She hit his arm playfully. “Tomorrow is Pentecost.”

  “Pentecost,” Ion gurgled, swaying in between them. “The fiftieth day after the Lord’s Resurrection. Uuuu…” He spread out his arms like a child pretending to be a bird, and he howled as he spun in a circle: “And suddenlyyyy there was heard a ruuuuustle from the heaveeeens! Tongues of fiiiiiire appeared and rested on eeeeevery one of theeeem!”

  “Be careful,” Olof said, as one of Ion’s outstretched arms knocked the goblet out of his hand.

  “Ion.” Świętosława laughed. “You’re drunk.”

  “These people aren’t drunk, as you might suppose, because it is nearing only the third hour of the day.” Ion chuckled. “But the prophecy of the prophet Joel is being fulfilled: I will pour the Holy Spirit onto your body in the last days, and your sons and daughters will prophesize.” He placed a finger at the jarl’s head as he spoke.

  “Have you gone mad, monk?” Birger growled.

  “No, my lord. My queen wanted me to read the Scriptures to her, so I am reading the letters arranged in my head. The Acts of the Apostles, my sweet lady.”

  “Drowning in mead, monk. Bring the king a new goblet, and perhaps he will forgive you.”

  Ion jumped from the platform clumsily, encouraging the laughter of the guests, but he returned a moment later with a jug and stood next to Olof.

  “I’ll be your cupbearer. Our good lady, do you know that Theophanu had three cupbearers, and each one had to taste the wine before it was given to the empress? Ah, what a worthy tradition … how much a humble Benedictine would like to be the king’s cupbearer…”

  “You drunkard.” Świętosława was laughing so hard her whole body shook. “Tell me more about Theophanu.”

  “The empress brought the fork to the Saxon court, and that was why the Reich hated her. The fork, that is, tiny silver pitchforks used to stab a piece of meat and place it in her mouth without touching it with her fingers. And, of course, she made a chosen servant try every single dish.”

  “Was she afraid of poison?” Birger asked.

  “Yes, my lord. But nobody ever attempted to poison her. And I, a humble Benedictine, would give much to be able to try those delicate pâtés and roasts, even if it meant risking my life.”

  “Glutton.” Świętosława clicked her fingers at a serving girl who walked by them with a full bowl.

  “Yes, God’s glutton, my lady.” Ion grimaced comically. “I will eat a bloody sausage and this thigh so crunchily roasted and I will praise our good Lord…”

  “Fool.” Birger shrugged.

  “Be my cupbearer, Ion,” Olof said with a smile. “If it makes you happy…”

  “That depends on what we drink, my lord,” Ion sighed. “If you allow me, I dragged a jug of mead with me, which I have prayed over. The Litany of God’s Generosity. Wait for me, King, I’m coming…”

  Ion, intentionally or not, had begun a wild, drunken game in which every guest tried his neighbors’ drinks, to their left and their right. Świętosława felt a swell of happiness watching this lighthearted revelry. Laughter and hope best honor my great husband’s memory, she thought, not fire and sacrifice. The goblet beside her sat empty; she was content to drink in the pleasure she saw on her subjects’ faces. Until the moment Birger spoke to her in a whisper:

  “The boys won’t threaten you, either. I went north and took care of everything. One drowned in the river, the other fell during a careless rock climb.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked almost inaudibly. She felt as if her blood had frozen in her veins.

  “About the bastards, the twins, my lady. Thordis and her father mean nothing without those children spawned by Eric. And now there are no children between you and the throne.” His voice grew gentle, sounding almost affectionate. “I told you that you could rely on me, my lady.”

  Ion’s words from before the feast echoed in her head. Beware of Birger. She didn’t move her head. She sat, still as a statue, wondering what she should do next.

  “I did you a favor, my lady,” he whispered. “I was the only one willing to do it, no one else.”

  “I never told you to kill,” she said. “Those children were innocent.”

  “You don’t have to give a command. That’s the queen’s right, to have her unspoken thoughts come to life.”

  “Ion,” she called. “Can the king’s cupbearer fill the queen’s goblet?”

  “With pleasure, my lady.” He shuffled over to her, sweaty and clumsy. “In Cana in Galilee our sweet Lord changed an entire tub of water into wine, so I, your humble servant…”

  “Thorvald, I’d like the ‘Song of the Mighty,’ from the first to the last verse. Loud and clear,” she called to the Icelandic bard, the one who had won a prize for his song about the victory on Fyrisvellir’s fields.

  All the exits must be seen,

  must be studied, before you enter …

  The guests began to stamp, banging spoons on the table as they joined in:

  Must be studied, before you enter …

  An indescribable noise filled the hall, the bard’s voice leading it skilfully.

  Because you never know where, at a feast

  your enemies have taken a seat!

  Ion walked to her side, the opposite one to Birger.

  “Here is sweet mead for our sweet lady,” he kept saying.

  “Speak quickly,” she whispered.

  “The mead he wanted to give Olof was poisoned. He killed the bastards and his own wife. He is clearing a path for himself to you and the crown.”

  “My good monk,” she exclaimed loudly, though she felt herself shaking. “If this mead isn’t strong enough, I’ll have to throw you to my lynxes for safekeeping.”

  “Is my husband’s bedchamber as he left it?” she asked quietly.

  “It is.”

  The guests’ laughter drowned out their conversation.

  “Let’s drink! Let’s drink to the great days that have been, and the great days that will come. The queen asks you for a toast of loyalty!” she called out, rising from her throne and interrupting the song.

  Jarl Birger rose also. She whispered to him without turning.

  “Meet me in Eric’s bedchamber in a moment. I want to thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  Birger’s eyes shone with a steely light, and his mouth parted, as if for a kiss.

  Common sense is needed by one who travels far.

  Everything seems easier at home.

  She had to drink two goblets. The first one calmed her thoughts, the second stopped her arms from shaking. Then, she slipped away as if heeding a call of nature. Dusza followed, and together they ran to the king’s empty bedchamber. When Świętosława first entered, she nearly choked. No candles were lit, so the room was in complete darkness, and she felt as if she could still smell their last night together, their night of love. But this was not the time for sentiment. She’d drunk enough goblets of memory. She glanced at the wall over the headboard, and gave Dusza a knife she had slipped up her sleeve as she left the feast.

  “Hide under the bed,” she told her, and heard growls. The lynxes. They had followed them.

  “Zgrzyt, Wrzask,” she ordered. “Hide with Dusza.”

  The bedchamber’s door creaked. A stream of light fell through the crack, and noise from the hall erupted inward.

  Fire is needed by the one who comes from afar.

  Guest, sit by th
e hearth.

  Sit! Sit! Sit!

  “You’ve come.” Świętosława feigned affection. “Close the door. No one should see you here.”

  The jarl did as she instructed. She heard him walk toward her in the dark.

  “Birger, tell me what you’ve done for me,” she said aloud, and to herself: confess your sins.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I removed every child Eric had out of wedlock from your way. The two daughters, their mothers, just in case, and the boys, his sons. I regret that you didn’t allow Thordis to join him on the pyre, but I understand that you were afraid of the risks…”

  I’m afraid of nothing but you, she thought.

  “What else?” she asked, making sure that her voice remained soft.

  “Well, my lady…” Birger’s whisper was close, and heated. “We’ve both been widowed, we are free … I, as the first of Eric’s chieftains, control his army … I will be a good husband, and I will love you as no man ever has…”

  “Oh, yes,” she moaned. “So why wait? Undress, let’s go to bed. Let this be our pre-marriage arrangement. We’re both experienced, are we not? You stood opposite me at the altar, standing in for my husband.”

  Birger threw off his belt and caftan, struggled with his boots and trousers. She heard his quickened breathing. So long as the lynxes don’t growl, she thought fearfully; but they had accompanied her on her nightly visits to Eric and had never been moved by them.

  “Tell me that you planned all this so carefully in Poznań,” she whispered. “That you were only waiting for the right moment…”

  “Yes, my love.” He straightened, and stood before her completely naked.

  She knew he couldn’t see her face in the dark, and it gave her courage. He’d have seen nothing but disgust.

  “Lie down. I want to show you what a queen’s gratitude looks like,” she said, pushing him lightly onto the bed.