“Who was he to you?” Olav asked Kark. “My master,” Kark replied, and rubbed his wrists absentmindedly, where he had likely been bound by a rope in the past.
“What do you want in return?” Olav asked. The man shuffled from foot to foot, cocked his head, and said, shyly: “A reward of some sort…” Olav summoned Rafn, who removed the cloth covering the bloodstained tree stump they had on board for executions, and for his deadly gift, Kark lost his head. “It’s a terrible crime for a servant to kill his master,” Olav said. “Who has betrayed once will do so again.” He sent Haakon’s head to his family for a proper burial.
The news spread across Norway, and though Olav had nothing to do with the jarl’s death, it cast a shadow over the beginning of his road to the throne. Some said: “Let Olav Tryggvason rule over us.” Others called: “We want the young jarls to return, Eric and Sven, Haakon’s sons.” For both sides, though, baptism caused the biggest problem. They held on to the old gods as a child does to their mother’s breast.
He was the blood of the kings they’d forgotten during the jarl’s twenty-year rule. He was the hero songs had been composed for. The conquerer of English silver. A Yngling. And yet, the cross on his breast made him a stranger to them.
He had the strength of thirty boats behind him, rich with danegeld, and crews experienced in battle, but it wasn’t enough to take the whole country. “I’ll cut off any head you order, King,” Rafn said, cleaning the axe after the execution of Kark, “but who will you rule when I’m done?”
The two chieftains invading England, Olav and Sven, had returned home at just the right time. The death of King Eric Segersäll of Sweden, Świętosława’s husband, and the death of Jarl Haakon of Norway, helped them both. Eric’s death left the road clear for Sven to take back Denmark. Sven’s people would accept him as a savior, because Eric had been a conquerer. Me, though I am one of them, they fear, because I bring a foreign religion.
He wanted to laugh, but it was bitter laughter. He remembered Sven in Castle Bamburgh getting him drunk and trying to convince him to face Eric at his side. Eric was dead, Sven’s problem had solved itself, and the lucky man, Olav’s redheaded comrade, the second chieftain, was taking back his power in his homeland with no trouble at all.
Olav remembered the debates he’d had with himself about how to defeat Haakon without destroying the country. He’d spent months thinking about this on the Isle of Wight, and it turned out that Haakon simply disappeared from his path. However, then his subjects stepped into it, saying: “You, Olav, we accept, but not your god.”
“The path to the house of the Lord is neither straight nor wide. It is a stony and steep road on which everyone who doubts will twist an ankle, falling into the abyss.”
But they didn’t know the prophecies like he did. Their Haakon, the jarl they’d loved, had taken power as Denmark’s viceroy. He, Olav Tryggvason, would give his homeland a triple gift: independence, the unity of lands, and baptism. He’d walk up the stony, steep path, but he wouldn’t fall into the abyss. A new time was coming. Two deaths threatened the balance of the three northern kingdoms. The word of a single woman could bring the balance back.
“My lord,” Varin called, “a cloud as dark as lead and as large as a whale is approaching.”
Olav turned around violently a mere moment before the first gust of the wild wind hit him. He had time to breathe in the smell of the impending storm. The rigging creaked. Tryggvason spread his arms wide and his cloak caught the air like a sail. He laughed wholeheartedly.
“Thy will be done. I will sail to the bold one through a storm.”
39
SWEDEN
Świętosława rode across the heathland covering the hillside. Zgrzyt’s golden back flickered between small bushes. Wrzask was already at the top, sitting and stretching his head upward as if he’d caught the scent of something. Her cats didn’t have to hunt to survive, which is why they did it with double the passion whenever she let them off their leash. She’d been afraid, when they were younger, that captivity would dull their hunting instincts. She’d been wrong, while Wilkomir had been proven right when he said that being a predator wasn’t a choice; it was a calling.
The slender, green-eyed Wrzask and muscular, golden-eyed Zgrzyt were the most beautiful creatures she knew. She loved the low growls they made without even opening their jaws, a sound that stopped anyone hearing it for the first time dead in their tracks until Świętosława gave the lynxes the sign that all was well.
They slept at her feet when she saw jarls and commoners alike. They went with her when she ventured outside the manor’s boundaries to see her lands. They were indifferent to most people, they allowed only the closest to pet them: Olof, Dusza, Great Ulf, Wilkomir and his son, Wilczan. Świętosława was under the impression that they liked little Wilczan more than anyone. The boy had thankfully inherited his mother Helga’s looks, rather than the permanently grimacing features of his father, though he certainly had his father’s alertness. Was he her son’s best friend? Rulers don’t have friends, but Olof was still a boy, so yes, it seemed that he preferred Wilczan’s company over that of her chieftains’ and jarls’ sons.
Zgrzyt suddenly crouched down low, his belly to the ground. Świętosława stopped her mare to avoid startling his prey. Three, four long steps and a leap. The lynx had something in its jaws. She moved toward him. The rabbit was still alive, but frozen, motionless, feeling Zgrzyt’s long fangs on the back of its neck. This moment, she thought, looking at the predator and its prey, this moment before the inevitable death: What is it? Is it still life, or death’s first breath? She shivered.
“It’s only an animal,” she whispered. “A cowardly rabbit.”
She rode to the top of the hill. Wrzask stretched in greeting, and after a moment, Zgrzyt joined them. He lay down and licked the blood from his muzzle. The last sign of the rabbit. Świętosława looked down on the vast green fields that spread inland. Beyond them, the horizon was a distinct dark line of the forest, dividing itself from the sky.
“My kingdom,” she said, and immediately thought of her father. Remember, there are no boundaries … the horizon moves every time you reach what you thought would be the end …
She didn’t want to push the boundaries. This was enough. The unease which had accompanied her since Jarl Birger’s death had evaporated along with the wisps of smoke that rose from the bathhouse cinders, where she’d burned Wsiewołod and Harald, the last of her suitors. The servants had removed every trace of that evening from the yard, down to the last burnt splinter. For the time being, no one mentioned anything to her about marrying again. The dowager queen Sigrid Storråda sat firmly in her saddle. At least in this real one, on her mare’s back. She sighed and called her lynxes.
“Wrzask! Zgrzyt! We’re going back!”
Zgrzyt arched his back and reluctantly followed her. Wrzask trotted off in front, lifting his short tail that ended with black hairs. She leaned backward to maintain her balance on the ride downhill. The mare was stepping carefully, but suddenly Świętosława felt the need to go faster. There was no one beside her to tell her no, no one to warn her, as if she were a child, that the horse might break its leg. She squeezed her calves to the mare’s sides, and it snorted. She did it again, harder this time. Thorhalla sped up, hesitantly, but after the first few steps her confidence grew. Świętosława squeezed her calves again. And that’s when the mare stretched out her neck and launched forward, neighing.
“Yes!” Świętosława exclaimed. “Yes, my beautiful Thorhalla. Let’s do something foolish. Nobody can see us. Nobody can stop us.”
She laughed. She laughed wholeheartedly, and Thorhalla gained speed with every step. God! Świętosława thought. I’m the daughter of a great duke. The dowager queen. I was Eric Segersäll’s wife. I’m the mother of his son. And I still only do what I must, what I should …
The mare leapt over a flat stone with a long jump, instead of going around it. Świętosława’s buttocks slammed aga
inst the saddle as they landed. She laughed loudly again. They were at the bottom already, but Thorhalla couldn’t stop her mad dash, and she ran toward the shore. Wilkomir barred her way.
“My lady!” he shouted. “What are you doing? The mare could have broken her legs, she could have thrown you off!”
Wrzask and Zgrzyt, running in an arc around them, were coming back, panting.
Świętosława stopped Thorhalla and patted her neck. Wilkomir rode over to her. His features seemed more twisted than usual. She looked into his face defiantly.
“I’ve always done just what I should have, my whole life,” she said, fighting for breath. “Today, I wanted to do something for no reason at all.” She noticed that Wilkomir was looking at her with surprise. “Something I wanted to.”
The deep sound of the horn from the harbor interrupted her. Then a second, and third.
“Guests?” she asked.
He responded with raised eyebrows, and without a word, they moved toward the port. Eleven of Wilkomir’s men joined them. Oh, yes, she thought bitterly. And I thought I’d gone for a ride by myself.
She clutched the mare’s neck out of sheer helpless frustration. The mare neighed and tossed her head.
* * *
Three ships. The scream of seagulls. A golden weather vane gleamed on one mast. She breathed in the salty wind and clenched her fists so tightly that she momentarily lost feeling in her hands. She recognized him before his Kanugård had reached port. He walked across the deck. Tall, fair-haired, with a face tanned from the wind. He had on a worn leather caftan stained with salt and long-dried blood. The world was shrinking like a tunnel between them. “You’ve sent a clear message out into the world. If I had the prophet’s gift, I’d say your king is already sailing to you.” It wasn’t a dream, she howled inside. This cannot be merely a dream.
“My lady,” a surprised Wilkomir said. “It’s Olav Tryggvason. What is he doing here?”
His crew was mooring the ship, and Olav, not waiting for them, jumped onto the wooden planks of the deck and walked toward her. Thorhalla neighed.
“Świętosława,” he said.
“Olav,” she replied, unable to choke out another word.
Five, ten, twelve steps and he was beside her mare, lifting his head. He reached out a hand. She took it and jumped down. They faced each other. Him and her. Her heart beat evenly. It was real, not a dream. But if she didn’t do something immediately she’d wake up somewhere she didn’t want to be.
“Wilkomir,” she said, turning to the captain of her guard, “is the sailors’ house empty?”
“Yes, my lady.” He lifted his eyebrows in the same way he had before.
Had he understood yet?
“Then that is where I will ride to talk with my guest. Your task is to ensure that no one interrupts us, even if it takes a long time.” She looked straight in his eyes and, to reassure him, added: “I promise the mare won’t break any legs.”
He understood, and replied with a bow:
“I will carry out your orders.”
Olav’s hands were rough, hot, as if there was a hidden heat in his fingertips. He held her face like a goblet that he drank from. They couldn’t, wouldn’t, tear their lips from each other. They pulled apart for a moment, both as dizzy as if drunk on mead. They undressed without a word. They faced each other, naked, and she felt the heat which emanated from him. In the hut’s dimness she saw only the pale outline of his body. She reached out for him, and he fell into her arms. He pressed her to him so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Only his scent, salty, sharp, moist. She was drunk on his scent. Olav wrapped his arms around her and lifted her. No, he lay her down, but against the smooth wood of the wall. He thrust into her. She moaned. But then she didn’t so much as breathe, because it was enough that she felt his sword in her sheath and that was that. She belonged to him as she did to nobody else. Her hips moved of their own volition, finding the rhythm like a ship and a wave, a horse and its rider, the sail and the wind. It could have lasted an eternity, it could have been a few moments, she didn’t know, she wasn’t counting. She didn’t even know if Olav was inside her, or she inside him.
She remembered only, or she thought she did, that she saw Olav lift her into his arms and lay her down on the sailor’s cot. He covered her with a coarse blanket. Then she felt warmth and panting.
“Wrzask? Zgrzyt?” she asked, touching the fur.
She was consumed by a wave of heat.
“No,” Olav said, lifting a wet face from between her legs. “It’s me.”
“Ah…” She gave herself to him, letting go of his white hair.
* * *
Olav waited for his audience with Queen Sigrid. He had spent the night in her husband’s bedchamber, which he’d been given for the duration of his stay. He wondered if this was the bed in which Eric and Świętosława had lain together. He shook off the image. He kept pushing away the thought of anyone else having had her before him. Not after what they’d experienced in the sailors’ hut. But it was the truth. She’d been Eric Segersäll’s wife, and she’d borne him a son. That could not be erased. Was that a certainty? The cruel thought lit up in his mind.
A sword hung over the bed. He touched the blade. Someone must have sharpend it recently. And cleaned it.
A servant walked into the bedchamber.
“My lord.” He bowed. “I have brought you your meal.”
“I’m not hungry. I want to speak with the queen,” he replied impatiently.
Świętosława had left him in the sailor’s hut and returned to Sigtuna alone, saying: “Come to my court as an official guest. We’ll speak there.” He was completely helpless, drunk on the night they’d had together. He agreed, and then, once he’d sobered up, he was angry. He’d have preferred to speak with her alone, without anyone else present. She and him. But yes, Świętosława was a queen, and he couldn’t expect her to behave like an ordinary woman.
“My lady will see you as soon as she’s finished speaking with her advisers. That’s what she ordered me to tell you.”
He sent the servant away. He waited. Ordered, he thought, and he didn’t like the tone. That night, she’d given herself to him with no conditions, no orders. Everything had gone well, like a dream. Their ships had sailed through the storm without any mishaps. When he’d seen her in port, he was lost for words. The fact that she’d found herself in the same place as him couldn’t be an accident, it was a sign. And the lust which took them both as soon as they closed the door. The love they lost themselves in, as if every moment could be the last. He could still feel himself entering her, joining with her. How he wanted to, once more … He broke into a cold sweat and leapt up. There was a small jug of water in the corner. He emptied it over his head. The lust didn’t disappear, but his common sense returned.
“God, forgive me,” he groaned. “I want her more than you. I’d have been prepared to forget what I had come here for, and only because I want her so.”
The bedchamber doors opened and the servant from earlier stood in them. He cast a surprised glance over Olav.
“The queen asks you to join her for the feast,” he said.
“I’ll come after I change,” Olav snarled, his long hair dripping. “Leave.”
He didn’t rush. Not because he wanted to get back at her for making him wait, but to calm his thoughts. He pulled on dry clothing and reached for his gift from Bishop Sivrit to ensure he didn’t lose his mind to his emotions. My bishop, he thought, and pictured his pale, ruthless features. He donned the chain with the golden cross and walked out of the airless bedchamber.
* * *
There was a racket in the great hall. Fifty, maybe sixty people were sitting at the tables. He noticed his own, Varin, Rafn, and Omold the bard. He nodded to them as he walked toward the platform. Świętosława sat on a tall chair, with a slender, dark-haired boy beside her, her son, he guessed. A chubby monk sat next to them, with restless eyes and smoothly shaven head. Also a great, bald warrior wi
th a scarred face, and Wilkomir, who had ensured their night had been undisturbed. He noticed the familiar face of the girl-shadow behind the queen’s chair. What was her name? Dusza. Dusza gave him a radiant smile.
Świętosława, who had met him yesterday in a plain riding outfit, was wearing a rich green dress today and a necklace of crystals enclosed in silver. Her hair was braided in delicate plaits, reminding him of how it had tickled his bare belly, golden and loose. All he had to do was think of that night and he felt naked, heated, ready for her again. He touched the cross on his chest, pushing his lust away. The lynxes lazily lifted their heads from where they lay at Świętosława’s feet. What had she called them last night? He couldn’t repeat the names. The cats approached him like their mistress’s front guard and sniffed his hands. The smaller one licked his fingers. Olav shivered.
“My lady.” He bowed his head to her and asked in greeting, “What’s it like to love a live animal?”
Something shone in her eyes, but she put it out quickly, and replied with a smile.
“As you can see, I no longer wear a lynx fur. That which lives always comes before the dead.”
“What did you name them, Queen?”
“Don’t you remember?” She cocked her head flirtatiously.
“I remember,” he answered, his eyes not leaving hers, “but I cannot repeat it.”
“In that you don’t differ from any of us,” the monk spoke up. “The queen gave the beasts names which come straight from hell.”
“Wrzask and Zgrzyt,” Świętosława said. They still hadn’t broken eye contact. “Do you remember what these words mean in my mother tongue?”
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