The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “First, there’s the shout to the skies, and then the sense that something had gone wrong,” he replied in her language. This wasn’t their literal translation, but his words clearly meant something between the two of them.

  Świętosława didn’t blush, but she narrowed her eyes. She stood up and shouted to her people:

  “Our guest tonight is the final heir of the Yngling kings, famous for his English conquests, Olav Tryggvason. I give the feast tonight to honor him. Mead! Let us rejoice.”

  A hubbub followed as the servants carried in steaming bowls and trays, taking their rounds with jugs of mead, girls glancing at him and blushing. Świętosława invited him onto the platform, telling the monk to make space for him. The man moved over reluctantly. Before Olav sat down, she stopped him and grabbed the boy’s hand.

  “Son, meet my childhood friend, King Olav.”

  The boy looked at him darkly.

  “I’m Olof, King Eric’s son,” he said.

  He could kiss the tips of her fingers for naming the child as she had. But it wasn’t his child.

  “And I’m Olav, King Tryggve’s son,” he replied, meeting the boy’s eyes.

  “Your father wasn’t the king of all of Norway, he was only the ruler of Viken, the south of your country.” The boy pursed his lips.

  Olav wanted to grab the pup around the throat and squeeze.

  “But I will rule a whole country,” Olav said, and took his seat next to the queen.

  “When?” she asked quietly.

  “As soon as possible,” he replied.

  “Mead?” Her voice sounded just as soft as it had the previous night. He felt heat between his legs.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Wine, then? You probably drank wine in the English castles, Olav?”

  “I won it, but I didn’t drink it.”

  They talked in half whispers so that only the boy and the monk could hear them. They didn’t turn to each other, looking instead straight ahead at the guests.

  “Why?”

  “The plunder wasn’t my goal, only a method of reaching it.”

  “What is your goal, then?”

  You. Your womb. Your kisses. Stomach, thighs, breasts with their sharp dark nipples. He touched the silver cross.

  “Have you been baptized?” she asked with surprise.

  “Yes, my lady. I have known the mercy of redemption.” Only now did he turn toward her, and they met each other’s eyes.

  “My husband, Olof’s father, gave his life to Odin,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard admiration in her voice.

  “So he died in the dark, like my wife and your sister, Geira,” he replied firmly.

  “In the dark…” she echoed him. “How did it happen?”

  Did it matter? She lived in the darkness and left in the darkness, he wanted to answer, but unexpectedly, he told the truth:

  “She died giving birth to my son. The birth began too early.”

  “Were you happy with her?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Were you with any other women?” she asked quickly.

  “Only the last one,” he replied just as swiftly, and felt a wave of heat as he heard his own words.

  They were silent for a moment, until the monk spoke:

  “So you were baptized in England, my lord. It’s wonderful news. What do your people think of it?”

  “The same as yours, monk,” he answered calmly.

  My people would like nothing better than to spit on my cross and drain the holy water from my body.

  The man blushed, and Świętosława snorted. Olav didn’t understand.

  “My lady? Have you given up your faith, living here?”

  “No. I realized I will not baptize this country. My son will be the one to do that.”

  This surprised him. “Why not you?”

  Hoots and joyful shouts resounded among the guests. The servants, sagging under the weight of great trays, carried whole roasted piglets in. The first plate was placed on the table in front of Świętosława, and the others on tables for the guests. The queen raised a goblet of mead and shouted, “Let’s feast!”

  They responded as if following an order:

  “Queen Sigrid Storråda! Storråda!”

  That’s what he’d called her when the three of them had tasted the mushrooms. He, she, and Bolesław. What had he seen in his vision? His baptism. Who had held him up? She had. Ages ago.

  She smiled to her people and drank, and the bard began a song about a beautiful goddess. In his version, two lynxes pulled Freya’s sleigh, rather than the white cats from the legends. By the time he realized this, the guests were already chanting:

  “Bold lady! Two lynxes!”

  Without turning to him, she answered the question he’d asked earlier:

  “You can see for yourself. I came here as a Christian, and they see a pagan goddess, and that’s the only Sigrid they love. I’m under no illusions, Olav. If I ordered them to give up the old gods, they’d give up on me. But my son will be in a different position. They’ve known him since he was a child, he’s the heir of their beloved Eric. He will do it.” She turned toward him suddenly. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  Your lips. Your hand. Your army.

  He didn’t reply. He looked at her. Ten years had changed Świętosława. Then, she’d been the unruly girl who had stolen his heart. Now, she was a queen who could claim his soul if he’d only let her.

  “I want to marry you.”

  40

  GERMANY

  Bolesław was returning to camp from his fights with the Veleti.

  For Bolesław, the participation of his men in the war against the Veleti was the price they paid for peace, an obligation to the emperor. A dull obligation, though, because if he’d been given command, he’d have defeated the Veleti within a year. He got the impression that the Veleti, though troublesome, were really just a show for the Reich lords.

  In front of the emperor, the margraves and counts made it sound as if this annual battle was a fight for everything. And in return for their continued fighting on this front, the emperor considered them to be productive for the empire and gave them a free hand to do what they wanted in other matters.

  This year could change that, though, as Otto III had decided to come and face the Veleti himself, not as the six-year-old to whom Mieszko had given a camel, but as a fifteen-year-old, almost a man, and in any case, an independent ruler. This was an unusual and spectacular gesture by the heir to the throne. But in the next year, along with reaching an adult age, Otto’s imperial coronation would take place in Rome. Bolesław suspected that by taking part in this battle, Otto was hoping to prove himself publicly before his coronation.

  And so, all the lords and counts made sure they were accounted for in the camp over the Elbe River. That night a great feast was held in Otto’s royal tent, at tables covered with golden-threaded material, where all the dukes, bishops, margraves, and army chieftains gathered.

  The margraves were talking comfortably as they waited for Otto. Bolesław sat beside Sobiesław, who was from an old Czech family that Bolesław’s Czech in-laws felt threatened by. Sobiesław had been a useful ally to Bolesław in his fight against the Czechs for Lesser Poland, though, when he was taking over Silesia. As a show of gratitude, Bolesław had invited Sobiesław to this gathering, and it would be his first time meeting the imperial leader.

  Soon they heard the trumpets, which meant that Otto III, who would soon become the emperor of half the world, was about to grace them with his presence. The fifteen-year-old, golden-haired Otto took his place on the platform.

  “Alone?” Sobiesław whispered into Bolesław’s ear, surprised that the ruler wasn’t sitting with his nobles.

  “Byzantian traditions,” the duke explained quietly. “The future emperor is already suggesting he is a demigod.”

  “I don’t know if he’s a god, but he’s as pretty as a flower,” Sobiesł
aw whispered with admiration.

  So long as he’s braver than one. The duke sighed inwardly. Otto’s love of study and religion was common knowledge, but what could be the surprise in that? The boy had been crowned when he was three, surrounded by the wisest men in the world, raised to be a ruler since birth. Bolesław hadn’t seen him since that time with the camel. That Otto had been a boy who had almost collapsed under the weight of the crown. Before them today was a slender young man with alabaster skin. They were introduced to him one by one.

  “Bolislaus Dux Sclavorum,” the herald announced him, and when Bolesław lifted his head, their eyes met.

  “You’ve changed, Duke,” Otto said.

  “So have you, King,” Bolesław replied. “How is the camel?”

  “Dead. My noble mother said that it was out of homesickness.”

  If it died while Theophanu was still alive, then it didn’t last long, Bolesław realized as he did the math.

  “I have no doubts that the empress knew what she was talking about,” he said loudly. “Next time I’ll make you a gift of a more resilient animal.”

  “Your father, Duke Miesico, was never apart from his hawk, if I recall.”

  “And he took it with him to his grave. The bird didn’t survive Lord Mieszko’s death. Have you ever seen, King, the fiery eye of a hawk before it dies?”

  Otto’s eyes pulsed with light. This boy has something strange about him, Bolesław thought.

  “And you, Bolislaus? Did you tame a wild bird when you took the throne?” he asked.

  “No, King. I don’t want to tame wild things; that feels to me like taking away their will to live. But since you ask, I do feel a comradery with the taloned creatures, much like my father. My symbol is the eagle.”

  “Really?” Otto asked with interest. “The eagle is also the imperial bird. We have much in common, Bolislaus.”

  I’m not sure about that, Bolesław thought, but he kept it to himself.

  When the long presentations of the guests ended, the prayers began. Bolesław mumbled the Latin words, bored. He could only thank God silently that he had Bishop Unger in Poznań. The bony holy man represented a very different kind of religious leader. His prayers resembled military orders more than flowery psalms. Once the prayers were said, the servants poured wine, and bowls of food were brought out from the camp kitchens.

  * * *

  When the feast finally ended, Bolesław invited Sobiesław to his tent.

  “We achieved nothing, as usual,” he said when they walked in.

  Duszan, without asking, handed them horns with mead. Bolesław’s dogs gathered at his feet. He patted their big heads fondly.

  They had barely taken a sip before the dogs began to bark. Bjornar burst into the tent.

  “Duke!” he shouted. “There’s been a fire!”

  “Where?” Bolesław asked, spilling mead as he jumped up.

  “Oh, no, sit down,” Bjornar panted. “I didn’t mean to cause alarm. The fire wasn’t here.”

  “Make up your mind, redhead.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. I exhausted two horses on my way from Jom. I have news from Sigtuna.”

  “Tell me,” Bolesław said. One of his dogs whimpered.

  “King Eric Segersäll is dead. Suitors have begun to visit your sister. The dowager queen is a tasty morsel…”

  “That’s my sister, a queen, you speak of.”

  “No, my lord! I mean, you can hit me if you’d like, but I’m not insulting the bold lady. I’m only relaying news…”

  “Oh, all right.” Bolesław fell back onto the bench and gestured toward the seat opposite. “Carry on.”

  Bjornar sat down and shook himself. Then he frowned.

  “What?” Bolesław snapped.

  “Nothing.” Bjornar reddened. “Nothing. The suitors … kings of small nations … You know what the north is like. Five rocks and one calls himself ‘king.’ She sent them all away. Then … only don’t be angry,… I’m only relaying news, I’m only the messenger, my lord…”

  “Speak!” Bolesław was losing patience with the squirming man in front of them.

  “Harald of Oppland and Vissivald of Rus went to see her—that is, Wsiewołod. Prince Vladimir’s bastard son. And they insulted your sister … so, she sent them up in smoke…”

  “What?” Bolesław didn’t understand.

  “She burned them?” Sobiesław asked.

  “Yes, yes. In a bathhouse,” Bjornar explained, as if that was somehow an extenuating circumstance.

  “Jesus Christ. That’s murder. Świętosława has stained her hands with blood,” Bolesław said.

  “Perhaps that’s how it should be seen under our laws, but in Sigtuna, it’s been interpreted as a…” Bjornar hesitated. “An honor? Duty? Her right? In any case, a song about Sigrid Storråda burning suitors was brought to Jom … but that’s not what I came to tell you, my lord. Wilkomir, who you made your sister’s adviser, is asking who she should marry. He sends word that Olav Tryggvason has come to see her in person.”

  Olav, Bolesław thought, and he saw the hunting lodge. The three of them. Mushrooms and mead. Yes. Joining his sister’s Sweden and Olav’s Norway would be like a hammer to Sven’s Denmark. Yes, yes, an excellent idea.

  “And the queen wants to know if she should marry him?” Bolesław felt himself sobering, despite the mead he’d consumed. “Is that what my sister asks?”

  “No, my lord. The queen sent no questions, only Wilkomir.”

  Bolesław hadn’t expected his sister to ask for advice. He remembered her childhood fascination with the widowed empress, Theophanu, who ruled independently. Lifting his horn, he drank to her and the Yngling in her bed, for the joining of two countries. Mieszko had shown Świętosława the north and the west in his vision.

  “I’d like to meet your sister,” Sobiesław said. “What a shame that I’m only the duke of Libice. If I was the ruler of all of Bohemia, I’d ask you for her hand and we’d be connected by family ties.”

  “A beautiful thought, but as you can see, too late. Świętosława has sown her grain in the north, and that’s where she will be picking the harvest.”

  41

  SWEDEN

  Świętosława looked into his pale eyes. They were transparent, like water shot through with sunlight. She didn’t hear the noise of the feast, the laughter, or the toasts. She heard only Olav.

  “I want to marry you,” he said.

  Christ, she groaned silently, it’s come true.

  She felt Dusza’s hand on her back. Her loyal friend, her shadow. Her fingers dug into Świętosława’s back, as if Olav had proposed to her. Only Dusza knew how badly she’d wanted this moment. I want to marry you, I want to marry you—his words echoed in her head. She responded calmly, though.

  “You’re not the only one. My advisers tell me I should accept the proposal of the prince of Rus, Vladimir.”

  “He’s an old man,” Olav said aggressively. “And he has many wives.”

  “No, he hasn’t offered himself,” she said with a smile, “but his son, Jarosław.”

  Olav burst out laughing.

  “Jarisleif? I know him, he’s a kid,” he said, and she heard not just anger in his voice, but disdain.

  “He’s seventeen,” she replied, burning with contrariness. “Or almost seventeen.”

  “When I last saw him, he was five and attached to his mother’s skirts. He ran to her the moment she called. Światopołk, his older brother, was stronger and harder.”

  “Are you suggesting I should marry Światopołk?” she smiled. “Or do you just dislike children?”

  He gave her a look that chased away all flirtatiousness.

  Vestar and Toki, brothers-in-law who were joined by a friendship as strong as their mutual jealousy of each other’s lands, were beginning a loud game of comparisons at the table farthest away from them. The guests were turning toward them, laughing, as each feast with the brothers’ participation had to end with a game. Better this tha
n the times in which they reached for their knives.

  Sigrid Proud, Sigrid Ruthless,

  to whose bright home

  suitors doggedly come,

  from the rocky borders along a swampy path …

  “That’s enough, Thorvald,” she silenced the bard, afraid she was going to hear the verses about the bloody bathhouse. “Give us another song.”

  She moistened her lips with her goblet. Last night had left its mark on her, one she hadn’t expected. She still felt Olav inside her, every kiss, the touch of his rough hands, the scent of his skin and hair. In the morning, when she’d returned to Sigtuna with Wilkomir, she wouldn’t let the servants prepare a bath. She was afraid it would wash off the rest of that night along with the deep scent of the two of them. Now, during the feast, she could feel the heat emanating from him. If he touched her, she’d drop her goblet. But she was a queen, and though she’d allowed herself something the previous night, something she had craved for years, today she had to think like a queen.

  “I’ll marry Tryggvason,” she had announced to her advisers that morning.

  “Has he asked?” Ulf questioned.

  “No, but that’s what he’s come for.”

  “He hasn’t regained power in his country yet. He’s not a king,” Wilkomir said.

  “He will be,” she’d replied.

  “What about your son?” Ion had asked, studying her carefully, as if he knew what had happened that night. “What guarantee do you have, my lady, that a new, young, and, I expect, virile husband won’t do something to push Olof away from the throne? Kings are no different than animals, my lady. Each male wants his own young.”

  She could have told Ion that if she wasn’t carrying Olav’s child after last night, she’d be more than happy to jump back into bed to make it happen. But she bit her tongue and sobered up. Advisers were not confidants.

  “I want you to be my wife, Świętosława,” Olav repeated.

  The shy sound of two flutes came from nearby. Girls wanted to dance. Below the platform, a roasted pig was being torn apart. Someone was greedily reaching out to take its head. The piglet was grabbed too violently, and its ears fell off. Laughter.