The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  * * *

  Olav found Halvard and his twin brothers, Bersi and Duri, waiting for him when he returned to camp. He hadn’t seen them since Halvard had been injured on the small island, where the old man had taken Olav through a field of stone spirals and spoken to him of the gods.

  “Ah, King!” They knelt in front of him. “Our dreams have come true. You have come to our land.”

  “Because we are…”

  “… from here. We were.…

  “… born here…”

  “… and we want to.…”

  “… by you, King…”

  “… be baptized!…”

  Yes, this worked well for him. To baptize the locals and encourage others to accept the faith. But they had to wait for the council.

  “My bishop will prepare you for the sacrament,” he said, ordering them to stand.

  “We have already…”

  “… been preparing somewhat…” the twins said, pointing at the large crosses on their chests.

  “… trophy…”

  “These are large crosses, to hang on the wall. You wear smaller ones on your neck,” he said, muffling his laughter.

  The stocky twins, almost in synchrony, put their hands under their caftans and pulled out a small cross each.

  “Like these?” they asked in unison.

  “Like these. I’ll be your godfather,” he promised them, and before he could stop them, they’d both leaned down and kissed his hand.

  “Halvard,” he called to the eldest brother. “I want to speak to you privately.”

  “It’s an honor, King.”

  “I need a good hideout in Sogn. Not for myself,” he added, since Halvard’s face indicated he was ready to surrender his house immediately, “but for the silver.”

  “I understand.” He nodded. “We have plenty of those here. You know yourself, my lord, what Sogn is known for. It’s beautiful, but poor. Our people have for years…”

  Harald Fairhaired made it better, Olav thought. But when his time came, your people once again had to struggle with ordinary sea robbery. Attacks on merchants, forcing tolls and ransoms, straightforward piracy. Mercenaries from Sogn have had a bad reputation for years. But that’s exactly the kind of people he needed to safely hide part of the English silver.

  “These crosses…” he asked Halvard after a moment. “Where did you get them from?”

  “Ah, Scania, King.” Halvard took the cross between two fingers and examined it. “But they look like English work. Anyone who could sailed to King Sven’s wedding, and one of the merchants left a few chests in a badly guarded house, so we made the most of it, if I can express it in a roundabout way.”

  “Sven’s wedding?” Olav repeated. “King of Denmark?”

  “And Queen Sigrid’s from Sweden. A great thing.”

  Olav felt as if someone had buried a dagger in his back.

  “When?” he asked, barely containing the tremor in his voice.

  “In autumn. Apparently, the king and queen were chased by a storm all the way from Sigtuna to Roskilde. So they say, but we didn’t stumble across any storms.”

  I was the one who sailed to her in a storm!

  Vigi touched his hand with a moist nose. Ah, white dog. Olav pushed it away. You dragged me away from my journey to Göta älv’s estuary. She’d sent me a falcon!

  “King?” Halvard asked, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  They stood alone, in the shadows on the edge of the camp, far away from burning fires.

  “Do you have mead?” Olav asked hoarsely. “I need a drink.”

  “I do, my lord. Maybe you’d like to sit?” He took off his cloak and threw it over a rock.

  Olav sat down and took a long swallow from the pouch Halvard passed him.

  “What do you know of this wedding? Tell me.”

  “Well, only what people said. How much truth and how much fancy there is in that…”

  “Tell me,” he commanded. “Everything you heard.”

  “Sven arrived … some say with two hundred ships, some a hundred. The queen sailed out to meet him, but she only had a few ships. Apparently, she offered him her hand herself, and he agreed.”

  The night in Bamburgh’s stronghold. The drunken fight with Sven. You take the kingdom, I’ll take the queen. You sail for Sigtuna, I’ll go for Sigrid. Yes, he’d said that, completely drunk. Then they both pretended those words had never been spoken. Bloody Sven! He waited for the right moment and he took her. One hundred ships. He’d threatened her.

  “And the young king?”

  “He stayed in Sweden, and is called Olof King of Swedes. I don’t know anything else.”

  47

  NORWAY

  Olav Tryggvason invited Bishop Sivrit to his tent that night. Varin was with them, but no one else.

  “This isn’t a personal matter, my lord,” Sivrit said of recent events. “Even if King Sven had known about your feelings for this lady, and even if he received a message that you’d been to see her first.”

  “And I think,” Varin said darkly, “that it’s exactly the opposite. Sven has always competed with King Olav. My lord! Why didn’t you threaten Queen Sigrid? You should have taken her by force!”

  “This marriage has destroyed the balance.” Sivrit didn’t raise his voice, nevertheless it seemed as if every sentence sliced through Olav. “Denmark and Sweden are stronger than the lone Norway.”

  “You both speak the truth, though neither of you hit the bull’s eye,” Olav finally spoke. “Sven did, though. He’s hurt my pride, and now he waits for me to respond with something equally hot-tempered and personal. Perhaps he expects me to halt my march for the crown, turn around, and start a war with him. I think that is the main reason for his blow: to stop me from uniting the country. I won’t meet his expectations. I won’t turn around, because now I have no choice. You spoke truly, Bishop: two countries are stronger than one. But one can still stand up to two if it’s strong enough.”

  “King Ethelred could aid you, Olav. It’s in his interests to weaken Sven,” the bishop said.

  “I won’t accept foreign help, Sivrit.”

  “As I thought.” The priest nodded. “Pray that God helps you, then.”

  Olav prayed until he finally fell asleep, exhausted, and it wasn’t God he dreamed of, but her. Naked, burning with love, shouting in bliss. It has been done, he thought, pouring cold water over his head. You are at my enemy’s side, whether by choice or not.

  * * *

  The day was crisp and clear; the spring sun shone, the birds called to each other in the air. The council square was full of people. The wealthiest men of these parts had come with their squads and chieftains: Olm and his brother, Thorleif the Wise. Their relative, Erling Skjalgsson of Sol. They parted when Olav walked between them, with Varin in front, carrying the purple-red banner with the Yngling snake. Bishop Sivrit walked on his right, his mother, Astrid, on his left. Lodin, his four sisters, and his half brother followed. Then, Kanugård’s crew.

  “My name is Olav Tryggvason,” he said when he stood in the center. “You may still remember my mother, Astrid. Some of you may have helped her escape from the widow Gunhild’s executioners years ago. If you didn’t side with her, I don’t blame you. The widow’s reign, and those of her sons, were a dark time of civil war. I have come back to you, the rightful heir, and I bring you gifts: a united kingdom, and the Good Word. You can accept both, or reject both.”

  “The Yngling’s return is a good word,” Thorleif the Wise said thoughtfully. “But we’ve heard other news that worries us. They say you’ve been baptized, my lord, and that you intend to force us to abandon the faith of our fathers.”

  “I don’t want to force you to do anything, I want you to give it up voluntarily. Like those who are with me, and all of Viken, my father’s family land, which has been baptized.”

  A murmur of discontent passed through the crowd.

  “If any one of you has something against Christ, let him sp
eak now,” he called out, and looked to the bishop. Sivrit nodded, as if to say “I’m ready.”

  A powerfully built man stepped forward from among Olm’s men.

  “Christ and his mother called Mary,” he began in a confident voice, and then stopped, as if he’d choked. He moved his lips, reddened, and snorted. Someone gave him a horn filled with mead. The man drank it and began coughing properly. He waved a hand and moved back to his place. The crowd murmured, surprised. Another man stepped forward, this one much older than the first.

  “I’ll speak. We would like to accept you, King, because although your great-grandfather’s reign was strict, it was fair. We didn’t pay a tribute to the Danes, and our country was united from the southern shores to the northern lights. Riches and fame were with us. But your great-grandfather shared our faith, and Christ is…”

  The old man moved his lips, but no sound came out. Someone in the crowd burst out laughing. Embarrassed, the man moved back to the place he’d stepped out of.

  Olav cast a secret glance at Sivrit. The bishop’s pale cheeks were now red. His eyes were shining, as if he had a fever. “I’ll be beside you when you face the people,” he’d said the previous night. “And God will be with us both. Your opponents will be lost for words, they won’t be able to slander Him. The Almighty knows how to give compelling signs.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say?” Olav asked.

  “Was that some sort of magic, King?” Olm asked defiantly.

  “No. The God I bring you views magic and charms with contempt.”

  “How is it possible that a great warrior like you, my lord,” Olm continued, “prefers to believe a god who was killed than in warrior gods like Odin and Thor? They say your god died on a cross.”

  “Don’t pay heed to nonsense, Olm, you’re too wise a man for that,” Olav replied cheerfully. “Christ didn’t die, but He allowed himself to be crucified as a sacrifice to save humanity. His godliness isn’t in His death, but in His resurrection. Christ promises to raise us from the dead, too, when the Day of Judgment arrives.”

  “Ragnarök?” someone asked curiously.

  “No, brother,” Olav replied. “Ragnarök is the end of the world of the old gods. It’s supposedly the battle that is meant to be fought. The battle in which both men and gods shall die. The final destruction. But the Day of Judgment that Christ will call us to is a moment of truth in which He will weigh our good and our bad deeds, and decide whether we should be rewarded or punished. Each of us has a choice. If we follow the path of His teachings, then He will sit us on his right side on the Day of Judgment, and give us eternal life rather than the darkness of extermination.”

  “It isn’t honorable to abandon our ancestors’ faith,” a gray-haired, red-cheeked man replied with conviction.

  “Who was your father?” Olav asked.

  “A good sailor.”

  “And he never made a mistake, not once in his life?”

  “There are no perfect people,” the other answered evasively.

  “Exactly. Our ancestors may have been wrong, because they hadn’t heard of Christ’s teachings. We must be wiser.”

  “You speak wisely, Olav Tryggvason,” Olm told him. “And everyone here has seen that whenever someone in your presence attempts to speak against the god you want to give us, they lose their voice. You say it is not magic. I’m a simple man, and I think it is magic. Are there any men among us that you have converted successfully?”

  Bersi and Duri, the twin brothers, and Halvard stepped forward confidently.

  “Us,” they said. “We want to be baptized.”

  “Hrafn’s nephews,” a whisper traveled through the gathering. “Impossible…”

  “The waters of baptism are not mead that you can drink, though I assure you that its acceptance is equally sweet.” Olav invited them to his procession with a single gesture.

  Olm, clearly shaken, asked for a break. He conducted a stormy conversation with his relatives.

  “They’re yours,” Sivrit whispered to Olav.

  Olm gave a sign after a moment that they had finished.

  “My lord, what choice do you give us?”

  “The most important choice of all. Life or death,” Olav answered without a smile.

  “That’s not a choice,” Olm protested.

  “Why not?”

  “Becauuse nobody wants to choose death.”

  “Then choosing life, you choose it twice over. An honorable life here on earth, and an even greater one after death.”

  “You conquer us with your persuasiveness without even drawing your sword.” Olm spread his arms. “But before we accept this immortal life that you promise, allow us to enjoy our earthly one. We will accept you as our king, and your faith, too, but you need to give us proof of your good faith, and invite us into your royal family.”

  “They’re yours.” This time it was Varin who whispered.

  “You have sisters, my lord,” Olm continued. “Marry them to our sons and we will be connected by blood.”

  And the most important one of you has no wife yet. You’re mine, he thought, and said:

  “One son may marry one of my sisters, as I have only four, and I have told you already I want to unite the entire country. Each one will be married in the lands of one council: Gula, Frosta, Eidsiva, and Borg. This is how I will unite Norway through family. Introduce me to my future brother-in-law.”

  This time, he heard murmuring behind his back. One of the girls sobbed quietly. Young Erling of Sol stepped forward. The sleeping guards had made accurate guesses, Olav thought. Waiting with our sails billowing at Erling’s gates has borne its fruit. He turned to his sisters. He saw that Ingebjorg was pale and her eyes were red from tears, and the youngest, Ingigerda, was making eyes at Erling. Forgive me, sister, but it’s not for royalty to marry for love. He imagined his bold one standing among them for a moment—his love, his queen. But it was not to be.

  “Astrid, come here.” He reached out to the eldest. “Meet Erling, the son of Skjalge of Sol. Here is your husband.”

  * * *

  The spring council in Gula ended, and he had six months before the next one in Lade. The wedding celebrations and the western lords’ baptisms took an entire month. The news of his reign was spreading fast; he decided to travel inland, east, and seek support there before winter came to the nest of the northern lords.

  “The sister Astrid has stayed with her husband, and likely you will soon have a nephew, King.” Omold the bard caught up with him. “Gula council has accepted your sovereignty, and there was no work for Rafn’s axe. All has gone well. Maybe God’s Axe won’t be needed again after all, King?”

  Rafn, riding in front of them, looked around and touched the polished blade on his back. Olav left them and rode up to his mother. She looked at him darkly.

  “Thank you for accepting my invitation,” he told her. Earlier, his mother had insisted she would stay in Sol with Astrid and her son-in-law.

  The hood had slipped from her head; fair hair, with occasional strands of silver, flew in the wind.

  “I didn’t do it for you, son, but for my daughters, and your sisters,” she said sharply. “Astrid and Ingebjorg were small children when I had to leave them to my brothers and escape from Gunhild with you in my belly. They grew up without me. Each day, two small girls climbed the hill behind the settlement and watched the east road, waiting for their mother and brother to return.” She swept her hair from her face. A vertical line cut along her forehead. “When Lodin bought me out of slavery and married me, I found my daughters. I swore that I would never leave them again. I told them about you, how brave you were when the headhunters found us. Ingebjorg and Astrid cried at that story, and I hugged them and said: one day our little Ole will return. When mine and Lodin’s children were born, your sisters helped me take care of the little ones. They’d tell their sisters: When our brother Olav returns … And finally, our dreams and prayers came true. You came. A wonderful strong warrio
r, the son-in-law to the great duke of Poland. You were like a young god to them, they adored you. But since you sailed to England, everything changed. You returned a ruler. You say us but you think I.”

  “The kingdom requires sacrifice,” he replied to Astrid, looking at the blue mountains rising in the distance.

  “But I’m not speaking of the kingdom,” she interrupted him. “I’m speaking of our family. And do you know what I think? We’ve had to sacrifice enough already. I don’t want any more. I lost Tryggve, my husband and your father, and the most beautiful years of my youth. Now, I want a good, ordinary life for each of my children.”

  His mother wrapped the head scarf around herself more tightly; she looked at him with a plea in her eyes.

  “Ingebjorg has someone in Viken. Don’t force her to marry.”

  “A king’s sisters cannot marry just anyone,” he replied as calmly as he could. “Their marriage could mean war or peace. Ingebjorg…”

  “We’ve all accepted your faith,” his mother interjected impatiently. “Do you know why? Because it promises us a life together after death. Not separately, where our beloved men go to Valhalla to do the same thing they did on earth, to wage war and to fight. Christ says that in the heavens, we will be together for all eternity. But today I can see that if we argue here, on earth, then that eternity together will be unbearable.”

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” he said gently. “I only want…”

  “You want us to do your bidding,” she finished.

  She shook her head and moved away from him, and for the remainder of the journey she avoided him.

  Two brothers ruled the lands east of the shore, Hyrning and Thorgeir. Their welcome to the king was a rebellion against him. Olav sent his troops ahead with the message, “Life or death.” They chose to fight; it was short, bloody, and convincing. When he asked them a second time what they preferred, life or death, they asked to be baptized. They swore oaths of fealty to their Lord in the heavens and their king on earth. Olav gave them his half sisters to wed, Ingireda and Ingigerda. Ingebjorg remained unmarried and stopped hiding her red eyes under a hood drawn low over her face.