The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  The memory of the drunken feast at which she’d killed Birger was even worse. He woke in the middle of the night sometimes, seeing her in her bloody dress, holding a sword as she walked through the hall. He knew that she’d had to do it, that the treacherous jarl had tried to force himself on her, but even so, when he dreamed of her with the sword and the blood, he felt angry at her. Worst of all, though, had been the last few days, with King Olav and King Sven’s arrivals. White- and red-haired. He was afraid of them. The others, fat and old, were unthreatening uncles, well, maybe apart from the ones who pulled out his hair and placed a knife at his throat. But these two … he’d eavesdropped, and heard almost every word that had been uttered during the feasts. “Your son will stay here” or “I don’t intend to harm him.” As if he were nothing more than an animal, a horse you can give away at a market.

  He felt awful, knowing they talked about him while sitting beside him, but they didn’t care about him. And then, even worse then that in the end: Mother had stolen Wilczan from him. The only friend he’d had. He could forgive her for leaving him and sailing off with Sven, but he would never forgive her for taking Wilczan.

  They reached the lake’s banks. Thorhalla stopped of her own accord. Wilkomir was right beside him. Olof cautiously wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “What now?” he asked Wilkomir, careful to make sure his voice didn’t break.

  “Have you ever gone fishing?”

  “Fish?” Olof seemed surprised. “A king eats fish, but he doesn’t have to catch them.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Wilkomir agreed. “But it’s worth knowing how the fish on his table have been caught. I’ll show you.”

  “If you want.” Olof shrugged and dismounted.

  Wilkomir took a pouch from the horse’s back, threw it over his shoulder. “Come on,” he called.

  Olof shuffled after him. A long dock was hidden in the reeds. The rotten planks shifted under their feet.

  “This is barely held together.” He grimaced.

  “Mm,” Wilkomir confirmed. “An accurate observation.”

  “Someone should fix it.”

  “Who?”

  Olof shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Someone.”

  “Sit down and hold this,” Wilkomir said, taking a hazel fishing rod from behind his back. “Do you miss your mother?” he asked, taking the pouch off his shoulder.

  Olof didn’t reply, too busy fighting off tears.

  “I miss my son,” Wilkomir spoke after a moment. “But I know this is better for him.”

  “Better? Mother stole him from me!” Olof shouted. “And from you, and Helga. Wilczan didn’t want to go with her.”

  “You’re right. He didn’t want to leave you, or his family. But he knows that the queen has given him a great chance.” As he said this, he placed a tip of a different wood onto the hazel rod. Olof smelled fresh juniper.

  “What chance?” he grumbled angrily.

  “He’ll grow up at her court in Roskilde. He’ll meet the most important people in Denmark. In the future, when you’re both adults, Wilczan might be useful to you.”

  “I don’t understand.” He watched Wilkomir place a line made of horsehair onto the rod.

  “King Sven has assured your safety, but he won’t live forever. Wilczan, raised at his court, will learn more of the Danes than anyone, and when the time after Sven comes, you will have a loyal friend there.”

  Olof, though he could see the logic now, still felt angry.

  “So why didn’t Mother explain this to me, instead of simply taking Wilczan as if he belonged to her and not to me?” he snorted.

  Wilkomir threw the line. A bait with a feather floated on the water.

  “What, was she supposed to tell you this in front of Sven? Olof, you’re under my protection, but that doesn’t mean I’ll lie to you and protect you for your whole life. You want to be a king? Then learn!”

  “What?” Olof mocked. “Catching fish?”

  “No,” Wilkomir snarled. “How to use a fishing rod.”

  The feather jumped on the water and Wilkomir pulled on the rod. A small silver fish gleamed at the end of the line.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  Olof only shrugged.

  “In the country your mother and I come from, we call it a smelt. Here, you call it a nors.”

  “Mm,” Olof confirmed, and leaned closer to examine the fish.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s small. We eat fish this big at feasts.” Olof spread out his arms to show Wilkomir what a fish for the royal table should look like.

  Wilkomir threw the smelt back in the water and put the rod down. He rummaged in his pouch and brought out an iron instrument that looked like a small pitchfork. He showed it to Olof and said:

  “This is a fishgig. We use it to catch bigger fish.”

  He then busied himself by attaching the fishgig to a stick. He didn’t look at Olof, he was absorbed in his work, but he wouldn’t stop talking.

  “The kingdom belongs to you by right of inheritance, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be a good king. And if you’re a bad one, the council will remove you from power, or someone else, stronger, wiser, and more cunning, will take it away from you. Your mother also had to learn this, because nobody is born a king, even if they are a king’s child.” Wilkomir finished attaching the fishgig and aimed it as you would a spear. “Do you know how many attempts there have already been on your life?”

  Olof felt his mouth go dry.

  “I know … those two … Wsiewołod and Harald…”

  “And Birger, who wanted to poison you, and Rognvald of Birka, who wanted to maim you. Should I continue?” Saying this, Wilkomir was walking up and down the dock, staring into the water. Suddenly, he lifted his head and added, in a completely different tone: “Big, predator fish like to hunt in the reeds by the shore. Where the small fish feel safe.”

  Wilkomir’s eyes flashed strangely and Olof felt uneasy. Was he speaking of fish or of him? Meanwhile, Wilkomir chose a spot and placed the fishgig lightly in the water; gazing into the depths, he went still. He continued speaking, but in a quieter voice:

  “Your mother did everything she could to protect you and the country. Do you think she wants to be Sven’s wife? Nonsense. She wanted to marry someone else, but the queen…”

  Wilkomir thrust the fishgig into the water.

  “The queen’s heart belongs to the kingdom,” Olof repeated what he’d heard his mother say during the feast with Sven. He’d been offended by these words at the time, because she hadn’t mentioned him, but now he understood that she was thinking of something else.

  “Yes. Learn that from her.”

  “Did you catch anything?” Olof asked, interested.

  “No, but I’ll keep trying,” Wilkomir replied, and stilled once more with the tip of the fishgig covered by water.

  Olof thought about what he’d just heard. He watched Wilkomir, who looked like a spearman ready to pounce. After a moment, he buried the fishgig in the water with such force that it seemed he wanted to pierce the lake bed. And he withdrew it carefully, with difficulty. A great fish thrashed on the iron pitchfork.

  “Oh my…” Olof said.

  “It’s a pike. My Helga calls it a gädda. A beautiful predator.”

  He slid the fish off and placed it on the dock. He took off the iron fork from the handle and said:

  “A ruler who thinks only of himself lives comfortably until the day he loses everything, never even knowing how it happened. The one who denies himself in favor of the life of his family and country is loved.”

  Olof stood up, dusted his trousers, and looked at the greenish lake waters.

  “Is the love of your subjects enough when faced with someone who wants to defeat you?” he asked.

  “No,” Wilkomir replied calmly. “But without it, you won’t stand a chance.”

  Olof folded his hands over his breast, as his father had once done. He li
fted his head high and looked around. He recalled that he must straighten his back, for a king doesn’t slouch. He walked toward the horses with a confident step. When he reached them, he turned around, surprised; Wilkomir wasn’t with him. Olof walked back to the dock. Wilczan’s father was cleaning the pike, throwing its insides into the lake. The seagulls squawked, chasing each other to reach them.

  “What do you want to carry, Olof? The fish or the rod?”

  “The rod,” the boy replied, hesitantly, and leaned down to pick it up.

  And when they walked back together, he asked Wilkomir:

  “Perhaps to start off with, I should have that dock repaired?”

  “Yes. That’s a good idea, King Olof.”

  45

  DENMARK

  The moment they’d sailed into Roskilde, Świętosława already felt like someone planning an escape. She’d stared at banks, memorizing the islands and shallows.

  “Do you like my country?” Sven asked, standing beside her.

  “Country?” she responded with a question. “I like this fjord.”

  “It’s the way to my home.” Pride colored his voice.

  “Soon, it won’t be just yours”—she tried to make her voice sound light and teasing—“but ours.”

  He leaned to her ear and whispered:

  “If you hadn’t denied me in Sigtuna, I’d already be calling it ours.”

  I was afraid you’d act treacherously or without dignity. That you’d dishonor me, take me to bed like spoils of war, and then you’d brag that you’d had the queen but didn’t intend to follow through with your agreement. Then my people would have to defend my soiled honor, and we’d have had a slaughter. I don’t trust you, Sven.

  But she was in his hands. Before leaving Sigtuna, she’d left orders with Wilkomir. She didn’t establish a regent, to avoid weakening Olof, but Jarl Asgrim was made the viceroy of the kingdom. He was responsible for the loyalty of the other parts of the country. He was meant to keep ships at the ready in case something went awry here in Roskilde. And Wilkomir, as soon as Sven’s ships with her on board disappeared from view, was told to send messengers to Bolesław. “Tell my brother to have Dalwin of Wolin send merchants to Roskilde. I will send a message through them. I received a big dowry from my new husband, it will be enough to pay the Jomsvikings. If the king of Danes turns out to be traitorous, I will pay for his death with his own silver.”

  * * *

  The church in Roskilde was small, wooden, and under the name of the Holy Trinity. Ion summed this up quietly: “Believe me, my queen, many of Sven’s subjects still believe that the Holy Trinity means Odin, Thor, and Tyr.” The monk was probably correct, but at that moment that didn’t matter to her. All that mattered was that Wulfric, the English priest who married them, knew who he was praying to and for what. Sven was in a hurry; he had decided they would go to the church for the ceremony as soon as they were off the Wind Hunter. Dusza did her hair and dressed her in a tent set up between the ship’s gunwales. “I know why he’s in such a hurry,” Świętosława said to Dusza as Dusza wound braided plaits into crowns on her head. “He’s afraid of my brother’s anger. Ah, I would happily accept Bolesław’s anger, if only my dear brother had enough ships to help me push Sven back.”

  There was no one who spoke against the match; Wulfric went through the ceremony quickly and joined them in the eyes of the Almighty until death parted them. Thank God, he didn’t ask either of them to swear on mutual love, because she couldn’t have coped with the blasphemous oath. Wulfric asked them only to promise mutual loyalty until death parted them. She looked at the carved wooden cross. And the dove that stood in for the Spirit. She thought: Has the falcon found Olav? Is Tryggvason looking for me at Göta älv’s estuary in vain? Is he cursing me?

  Sven, tall, red-bearded, and proud, kept turning his head to glance at her. He didn’t smile, and she had no idea what he was thinking.

  They walked out of the church as man and wife, king and queen. The sun blinded her for a moment, after the dim indoors. Then she saw the crowd. Great Ulf was standing on one side with eleven of his men, little Wilczan with them, and Dusza with the lynxes on a leash, and three maidservants from Sigtuna. A handful compared to the crowd of her new lord husband’s people. Order was kept by a line of warriors from Sven’s personal squad, all dressed the same. She could see that the iron blades of their axes were decorated with silver, one metal blending into the other, delicately ornamented. Was it still a weapon, or a mere decoration? She wondered. Between the axemen, she recognized individual faces she knew from Sven’s time in Sigtuna: fair-haired Jorun, Jarl Stenkil, the bard called Skuli. The rest of them were strangers. Quite a few richly dressed women looked at her curiously. Children squeezed themselves between the adults to see her.

  I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to meet any of you, I didn’t want to be Sven’s wife. But from now on, I’m your queen, she thought, and smiled to everyone, greeting them with a wave of her hand. Wrzask and Zgrzyt tried to free themselves from Dusza, so she took the leash from her, turning to Sven.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “Where to?” he asked mockingly.

  “Home.”

  He took her arm to guide her. The manor in Roskilde made little impact on her, from the outside. It was large and beautiful, but as dark as the one in Uppsala, where she had felt so stifled and alone. Solid sculpted columns by the entrance, with two wooden crows on their tips. Had the falcon found Olav? Was he waiting? Was…?

  “Is that your mother?” she asked, looking at a richly dressed old woman in the group of people standing in front of the manor’s entrance.

  “Not at all.” Anger shook Sven’s voice. “That’s Arnora, the wife of one of my enemies.”

  “Have you invited these enemies as well?”

  “I am not in a habit of inviting corpses to dine with me.”

  Świętosława nodded to Arnora, and studied her carefully. This woman looked like a queen of old. Pride, worship, pain, and anger were written in every wrinkle on her face. She didn’t return the greeting.

  “Meet Melkorka.” Sven summoned another woman. “She is the housewife in charge of Roksilde’s manor house.”

  Keys clanged at Melkorka’s belt. She held her head high, with dignity. She had hefty breasts and hips, while her chapped red hands revealed that even if she chased the other servants to work, she didn’t do any less than them. She had a decorated dress-apron, but her hair, pulled back in a tight knot, indicated she preferred efficiency over elegance.

  “And my daughter, Gyda.” Her lord husband summoned a slender, red-haired girl.

  “How old are you, pretty one?” Świętosława asked.

  “Ten,” she replied very quietly.

  “You look like the king, like two peas in a pod.”

  “Does that mean I’m pretty, too?” Sven joked. “Come on, you can meet the rest during the feast. Let’s not test Melkorka’s patience. Have the pigs been roasted, hmm?”

  “They’ll be too dry,” Melkorka said matter-of-factly, “if we force them to hang on the spit for a moment longer. I made them well, like King Harald used to like them, so if they’re burned or dry out, it’s not my fault.”

  “And if King Sven prefers dry ones, not like King Harald?” Sven asked.

  The woman blushed, glancing at Świętosława’s slender figure.

  Together, the king and queen walked inside. The great hall wasn’t any smaller than the one in Sigtuna, perhaps even a bit longer. The torchlight crawled along the carvings decorating the walls. She stared at them as they walked toward the royal seats. One mythical creature caught the next. A wolf, stretching out long paws decorated with claws, reached out toward an eagle that covered itself with wings turned inside out. The ornament of the creatures chasing one another had no beginning or end, because one beast transformed into the other. Dark and predatory, it fascinated her with its beauty. The platform was laid with animal skins, covered with a purple-red material threaded
with silver. He probably tore it off the wall of some English castle, she thought, stepping onto it carefully. Wrzask and Zgrzyt had no scruples and lay down contentedly on the patterned material.

  “Sit, my lady.” Sven indicated her seat. “I want you to meet my friends, and for them to enjoy you. Melkorka and her pigs will have to be patient, as it won’t do to leave the most important people in Denmark waiting.”

  A balding, wiry man with dark eyes stood before them.

  “This is Jarl Thorgils of Jelling,” Sven introduced him. “To give you an idea of how much I trust him, know that I left my country in his care while I sailed for you.”

  He’s looking at me as if he wanted to bite me, she thought.

  “And this brave man is Haakon of Funen, my lady.”

  A short, broad-shouldered, bearded man. A scar under his left eye—she memorized the face along with the name, smiling to all she was introduced to.

  “Finally, meet Gunar of Limfiord. He, Thorgils, and Haakon are my friends of old, when we defeated the Saxons and claimed back Hedeby.”

  Gray hair, stubborn lips, but cheerful eyes. She nodded at Gunar of Limfiord.

  Then came Ragn of the Isles, who had birdlike features, the chubby Uddorm of Viborg, the handsome Gjotgar of Scania. She already knew Stenkil of Hobro; he’d been in Sigtuna with Sven. And Skuli. Who was this Skuli? Oh, yes, Sven’s bard who hadn’t recited anything at her court, listening instead to the songs of Thorvald, Eric’s bard.