The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  She saw only the smudge of his body in the thin stream of light which fell through the smoke hole. He lay down and reached out his arms for her. She threw off her cloak, climbed onto the bed, and stood over him.

  She took a step forward. Birger grabbed her ankles. His hands glided upward, to her calves. She knew that this was the moment, that she couldn’t hesitate for a second more. She reached for the wedding present she had given Eric, pulling it from the wall over the bed. Mieszko’s sword, thundered steel. And she pushed it into Birger’s chest with all her strength. He howled, and Wrzask and Zgrzyt leaped out from under the bed with snarls. She still held the sword’s hilt. Birger pulled her legs out from under her and she collapsed on top of him, leaning her whole weight on the sword. It drove in deeper. Blood sputtered from the jarl’s mouth. He was dying. The lynxes were sniffing at him, their fur standing on end.

  “You were the only friend I had in this country. The only Christian,” she choked the words out. “And you were the first to betray me, Jarl Birger. Burn in hell.”

  Zgrzyt licked the liquid draining from the jarl’s chest and shook his head. Świętosława climbed from the bed.

  “Dusza,” she summoned the one who had been with her since childhood. “Tear my dress on my chest.” The sound of ripping fabric rang in the darkness.

  Then for a moment, no longer than a heartbeat, they looked into each other’s eyes. She and Dusza. Then Świętosława pushed open the bedchamber door and let the lynxes lead the way. Thorvald was no longer reciting, he was howling:

  It’s the fool who thinks he’ll live forever

  when he avoids the battle …

  The heat of the fires washed over her, along with the stink of beer, mead, and boar fat. She could still smell Birger’s blood. She stood in the doorway to the hall, in a ripped dress, with Mieszko’s sword in her hand, and called out:

  “You feast, and in the meantime Birger wanted to use your queen!” Her voice struggled to be heard over the racket around her.

  “I was drunk, drunk as a bull,” Great Ulf was shouting his favorite line.

  Olof saw her first. He leaped from his chair. The bard fell silent. Świętosława walked toward them, slowly.

  “On the night of the king’s remembering. In his bedchamber, he tried to force himself on me. Jarl Birger…”

  They were all rising from their seats in a drunken haze. Helga tried to wake Wilkomir, who had fallen asleep on the table. Great Ulf rushed toward her, tripping over sleeping men. Some of them ran to Eric’s bedchamber, ripping belts with weapons from the walls as they went. Others came to stand near her. They looked at her ripped dress. At her naked breasts, visible between the torn silks. At the blood and the sword.

  They chopped Birger’s body into pieces, taking out their anger and drunken guilt on his corpse. Olof tried to control the chaos. Ion draped his cloak over the queen. She walked onto the platform, her nakedness covered but still holding the sword, blade pointing at the ground.

  “Bard, silence the people,” she called out.

  Thorvald tried to make himself heard over the feverish, drunken clamor, but his efforts were unsuccessful. Could anyone control a hundred drunk Vikings? The only thing the bard managed was to shout out:

  “Our lady! Sigrid Storråda!”

  They picked up this call, turning it into a chant, as they had many a night as she had walked through the hall to her husband’s bed.

  “Bold lady! Bold lady! Bold lady!”

  She knew that the fire could start anew at any moment. The people hadn’t put down their weapons, they were holding on to them, soiled by the body they’d destroyed. She was afraid. In this moment, she felt a fear like she had never known. A frenzied but paralyzing feeling, like all was crashing down around her at once. But she was a queen; she could not be afraid. She lifted the sword and shouted:

  “I will defend you as I defended myself. And you? Will you defend me?”

  They stopped chanting, they fell silent. They approached her, one by one. And they kissed the sword that dripped with blood. Looking at them that night, she thought that some of these people saw their daughter in her, and some saw a woman who they lusted for. And that was exactly why they would stand between her and any man who wanted to claim her.

  37

  SWEDEN

  Świętosława sat in the small chapel with Ion. There was nothing there except for a wooden cross on the wall. Eric had brought a silver crucifix back from Denmark with him, but she’d refused to accept it when she learned of how he came into its possession.

  “You’re right, monk. It’s just a boathouse.” She nodded sadly.

  She came to pray here in the sorrow she felt after Birger’s murder. If the people would love her for her ruthlessness, she couldn’t let them see the shame and guilt she truly felt.

  “Will God forgive me, monk?”

  “I am just as guilty as you. I should have followed you to Uppsala, and told you of my suspicions.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t look particularly sorry.

  “I suspected that Birger killed his wife. I had just seen him walking to the bridge that night. Was it proof? No. A mere suspicion. And you know what Jesus said: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. So, I didn’t cast one.”

  “What is your sin, Ion?”

  He sniffed and made a mill with his fingers.

  “I thought Birger was like me. I slip out during the night sometimes, too. I throw off my habit, change, and search for happiness in the tavern. A man’s weakness.”

  She sighed. Why had she ever thought that the world was any different?

  “When did you see through Birger’s plans?” she asked. “Once he’d killed the girls?”

  “No. Only when he suggested that Thordis go on the pyre. And when he went north instead of to the funeral in Uppsala. He spoke to me before his departure, and asked me if I can marry people. I told him: ‘Jarl, I cannot, but if you want to marry some beauty then do what you did in the past. Buy her from her father and prepare a beautiful morning gift.’ The tone of his answer made it clear he was thinking of a great celebration and great lady. And there are no great Christian ladies here other than you.” Ion sniffed, but didn’t use his sleeve. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “And when he returned and said he’d killed those boys, everything fell into place in my head. But until the feast, I never suspected he would try to get rid of Olof, too. I thought that he’d try to marry you and rule as regent. You know, my lady”—childish indignation crept into his voice—“I had never suspected him of something so monstrous.”

  “Nor had I. I’d thought that, as a Christian, he was above the cruel laws…”

  “We were both wrong. Oh, he was as much of a Christian as I am a hermit.”

  “And the mead?” Świętosława persisted.

  “I don’t know if it had been poisoned, and if so, I don’t know what with. But it was a jug that Birger brought with him to the feast, and he poured out a goblet only for Olof.”

  “I asked for water.” She felt guilty again.

  “And he poured some for both you and himself. When I saw that, I preferred to act like a drunken fool than to risk Olof’s life.”

  “Thank you, Ion.” She grabbed his pale hand. “Thank you.”

  He flushed, and withdrew his hand from hers.

  “If it comes to it, let’s split the blame for Birger’s death in half on Judgment Day. I’ll say: the queen held the sword, but I was the one who told her where to bury it. Oh, my lady! In the worst case, we will burn in hell together.”

  “That’s not much consolation,” she muttered. “I want to go to heaven, to meet my mother, father…”

  “Don’t expect Eric to be there.” He wagged a finger at her. “But Olof needs a proper baptism, he’s family, after all. He’ll speak for you to St. Peter and then, my lady, you can speak for me. The boy knows we did it for him.”

  “I didn’t tell him.”
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  “No?” Ion looked embarrassed. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want him to be afraid that someone wants to kill him.”

  “Oh, no, my lady. That’s not the way to raise a son. He must know, not so that he’s afraid, but so that he understands that being a king comes with risks. And he should be grateful that we saved his life.”

  “You don’t know much about raising children, monk, so spare me the advice.”

  “None?” he asked offended.

  “Oh, stop it. Don’t let me send you away next time you have something to say that cannot wait.”

  “If the queen didn’t constantly threaten me with the lynxes then perhaps I’d have been bolder. Let me say this, now that the blood-drinkers aren’t with us: Birger may have been the first, but he wasn’t the last.”

  Świętosława shifted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suitors, my lady. The queen dowager is a tasty morsel. You can be sure that there will be plenty of them in Sigtuna soon. Each one thinking he is worthy of your kingdom and your hand. Oh, many will call themselves ‘king,’ even if their ‘kingdoms’ are nothing more than five stones covered in gulls’ shit. You’ll have to choose someone. If it wasn’t blasphemy, I’d say: ‘Pity that Birger isn’t with us, he always has good advice.’”

  “Stop.” She leaped up from the bench. “We’re…”

  “In a boathouse.” He smiled. “You see, my lady, everything is relative. This is a chapel in terms of intentions, but its value isn’t great when it stands on unconsecrated ground. The same will happen with your suitors: the one who praises his strengths the loudest will likely possess the fewest. The key is patience, because, for so long as you have enough of that, you can separate the grain from the weeds.”

  “Patience?” she asked, moving toward the door. “And where do you suggest I find that?”

  * * *

  Ion had not been wrong. Sigtuna was soon teeming with suitors. They arrived one after another. Stuf from Scania was a young man who had only dark hairs on his upper lip instead of a beard. Osvald from Blekinge was a thin man with a cataract on his left eye. Kolfinn from Dalarna could have been three times her age. She greeted them all politely, and sent them on their way also, she thought, politely. Although Great Ulf undoubtedly offended Kolfinn when he asked, at the end of the audience: “Do you want me to walk you out, Granddad?”

  “Ah, Dusza,” she groaned one evening. “Are things with me really so bad that old men, invalids, and children all ask for my hand? Dusza, hold me, please. I feel I’m going mad!”

  The affectionate gesture Dusza offered at her plea only amplified her longing for love. She was free, and she could marry whomever she wanted, but the one she desired was somewhere in England, someplace far away, out of her reach.

  “Should I send him a message that I’ve been widowed?” she whispered into Dusza’s shoulder.

  No, she answered herself. If someone like that youngster Stuf from Scania heard about Eric’s death, and a granddad like Kolfinn from Dalarna, then why wouldn’t Olav have learned of it? If I still mean anything to him, he’ll find out. And if not …

  A night after such a confession was sleepless. Świętosława tossed and turned like one with a fever. Dusza gave her a hot drink of mead and lime, but it only increased her restlessness. When Eric had been alive, she’d smothered every thought of Olav. Then, in naming her son “Olof,” she repeated his name, over and over again, as if he’d been beside her. When she received the lynxes from him, she hid her sighs in their fur. These last few months had made her forget him almost entirely. At first, there had been the raw pain of Eric’s death, lined with uncertainty concerning their fate on the throne. Then, the nightmarish episode with Birger, who, though he allowed himself to go too far, had helped her solidify her position with his cruelty. Nobody connected the deaths of the girls and boys with her name, and no one stepped forward to challenge Olof’s right to the throne.

  She allowed herself to think of Olav only now, as a line of suitors began to creep toward her. A procession of horrid creatures, while somewhere out there was the one she loved, beautiful and strong.

  Wrzask leaped into her bed first and, purring, moved his nose toward her. The lynx’s green eyes were pulsing. Zgrzyt, larger than his brother, rested his head on her belly. His golden eyes seemed to widen and shrink. She clung to their fur. She cried into it. She should be happy. Wasn’t this what she’d wanted? To be a dowager queen, her own mistress. A queen shouldn’t remain a woman, with a woman’s heart, she thought.

  * * *

  “Vissivald of Rus and Harald of Oppland.” Yet more guests were brought into the hall.

  At least these are neither too old nor too young, Świętosława thought, tired after another sleepless night.

  “Do you both hope to be my husbands?” she asked them, forcing cheeriness.

  “No, Queen,” the one from Rus replied. “We met on our journey to you and decided we would arrive together. Perhaps you will want to compare our strength in a fight or wrestling match, or you’ll order us to play mannjafndr to see who is better.”

  “Or you’ll have us play hnefatafl and we will work this out in a fight of pawns.”

  “Or I will have you dance and recite something.” She waved a hand, bored. “Vissivald, is your name not Wsiewołod?”

  “That’s what they say in Rus,” he confirmed.

  “You don’t want to say that you rule the Kiev dukedom?” Keeping a straight face was costing her everything.

  “Not in its entirety, but it is enormous. I am a son of Knyaz Valdemar.”

  “Prince Vladimir,” she corrected him, and sighed. “My God, which son? Because I can recall at least fifteen, though don’t expect me to know each of their names. And I remember the prince having five wives, though, as the merchants tell it, since he’s married the imperial Greek daughter he has been baptized and has just one wife. Which son, Wsiewołod, are you?”

  The guest reddened. He was a good-looking man, though too portly for her tastes. He had long hair the color of dark chestnut, and an evenly trimmed beard. He was dressed richly, but brightly. Red leather shoes seemed a step too far, though. And who needed three belts?

  “I’m a son out of wedlock,” he said. “My mother didn’t become one of the prince’s wives, and then, as you so rightly pointed out, Queen, my father took no other wives after his wedding to the empress’s daughter.”

  “Did he give up his concubines too?” she laughed. “You see, Wsiewołod, your father has quite a few sons he has acknowledged. He probably has twice as many bastards, and each one will feel he has a right to the throne.”

  “Rus is large,” Wsiewołod replied.

  “Then try your luck there,” she advised him, and turned to the other of her suitors. “And you, Harald? Where do your lands lie?”

  “They border Trondelag in the north,” the short, dark-haired man with a common brute’s face declared. He was trying to sweeten his appearance with an intricate and thick silver chain hanging on his chest.

  “So your lands border with Jarl Haakon’s of Lade, is that right?” She remembered the Norwegian jarl’s sons well, young men named Eric and Sven, who had asked for her husband’s help in their conflict with their father. And she remembered that this jarl was Olav’s main opposition in his reach for the throne.

  “Yes, beautiful lady, though it’s no longer Haakon’s land as the old jarl is dead.”

  She felt a tingling in the tips of her fingers. Wrzask growled. Quiet, cat! She patted his head.

  “He’s dead, you say? What from?”

  “A slave butchered him, my lady. It was a dishonorable end to a great chieftain.”

  Does Olav know? she thought feverishly. Is he sailing to claim his throne? Or have Haakon’s sons already taken his place?

  “That is not a tempting vision, Harald,” she replied calmly. “To become the wife of a man in whose country slaves murder great lords.”

  “It wasn’t i
n my lands,” Harald responded sharply. “It was in Lade.”

  “Close enough,” Świętosława decided. “You are ruler over only one piece of land, but I am a queen. Why do you think you’re worthy of my hand?”

  “You’re beautiful, my lady,” he said.

  “You were meant to speak of your assets, yet you talk of mine.”

  Those gathered in the hall snickered. Great Ulf was the loudest.

  “Beautiful women shouldn’t be alone,” the suitor, thrown off his track, stuttered. “I could ensure your safety.”

  “But I am not worried about that, Harald. As I understand it”—she turned to her men—“my guests have more to offer than they have shown us here today. They must be guided by modesty, or other hidden motivations, because the proposals I have heard in this hall now sound more like a jest. You give us your hand and your kingdom, but we won’t give you anything in return. That is not how marriages are arranged. And by the way, Wsiewołod, your father, the prince of Rus, Vladimir, asked for my hand in marriage over a decade ago. He didn’t receive it. And when King Eric asked, he offered a great alliance against Denmark in return, and he kept his word. Wsiewołod and Harald, if you want to offer me anything else, you have until tomorrow. Ulf, show our guests to their quarters. I bid you good day.”

  Świętosława dismissed them and retired to her room for the afternoon. Does Olav know that Haakon is dead? This question was the thought in her mind. And, did he know that Eric was dead? Wilkomir came to her in the evening.

  “My lady, your suitors are getting very drunk and speaking badly of you.”

  “They are drinking my wine and cursing me?” Świętosława’s anger was quick to rise.

  “You humiliated them,” Wilkomir replied calmly.

  “And what was I supposed to do? Praise them? Give one of them my hand? You can see for yourself this is nothing but mockery.”

  “Just give the order and Great Ulf will happily show them their way home with his sword.”

  “It’s time to end this line of suitors. We receive scum from half the world…” She sighed. “No more. I will announce tomorrow that I do not intend to marry again.”