The guest looked even more embarrassed, but he clearly forced himself to ignore the feeling and lifted his head, trying to speak with confidence:
“As you wish, Jarl. You rule here.”
“Indeed. Tell me your news.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard that since Sven’s return from England, his half sister Tyra suffers many humiliations from him.”
She deserves it, the traitor, Sigvald thought. She was plotting against her brother, prepared to let Saxons into their country. Sigvald, since he’d imprisoned Sven in Jom, had developed something of a sympathetic feeling toward the man. And besides, he hated anyone who plotted behind their family’s backs. He glanced at Geivar. The scout’s face, as always, revealed nothing.
“Speak on,” he encouraged the guest.
“King Sven has forced his sister to live in Roskilde—”
“That is indeed terrible,” Sigvald interrupted him. “Forcing a princess to live at court.”
“That’s not the point, Jarl.” Gretter’s eyes were too restless. “In reality, Sven keeps his sister…”
He fell silent suddenly when Frosti walked into the chamber with a great jug of steaming beer under his cloak. The red-faced boy from the house of hosts placed the jug in front of Sigvald and added three cups to it. Sigvald poured some for himself, then Geivar reached for the jug. The scent of beer heated with mead filled the room.
“Help yourself, guest,” Sigvald invited Gretter. “I told you, we have no servants here.”
Frosti disappeared discreetly into the front room.
“He’s imprisoning her,” Gretter finished in a whisper. “Armed guards stand in front of her room. When the princess wants to leave to go to church, they follow her there, too.”
“That’s the fate of valuable ladies,” Sigvald concluded, taking a sip of beer. “Good. Frosti!” he called out loudly. “Tell the kitchens it’s good.”
“Yes, my lord,” the host shouted back.
Gretter was confused. Geivar took over the game now; so far, the only time he’d moved throughout the entire conversation had been when he was pouring himself beer.
“What do you need for your lady?” he asked, barely opening his mouth.
“Princess Tyra is searching for allies.”
I don’t doubt it, Sigvald thought. And you know we’ve humiliated Sven once already.
“The Jomsvikings don’t meddle in kings’ business,” Geivar repeated their motto.
“But they are the most effective weapon in decisive battles between them,” Gretter stuttered, surprisingly bravely. “My lady wishes to marry and…”
“I’m already married,” Sigvald joked. “But Geivar, perhaps?”
“I know, my lord, that’s why I’m here.” Gretter wouldn’t be that easily distracted. “Your wife, the noble lady Astrid, is the sister of the great duke Bolesław…”
“He’s also got a wife,” Geivar added in his horrible, emotionless voice.
“My lady has no noble protectors in her country. Ones who would have influence among other rulers, equal to her in station. If Duke Bolesław agreed to help her and represent her, in the greatest secrecy, of course…”
I wonder who the Danish princess wants to marry, or if she’s counting on Bolesław to find her a husband? Either way, doesn’t mean I can’t pull more information out of this Gretter.
“Why hasn’t your master come to us in person?” Geivar asked coldly.
“My master? Who do you mean, chief?” Gretter’s restless eyes suddenly widened.
Aha, Sigvald noted.
Geivar, completely by chance, of course, chose this moment to bare his painted fangs.
“I serve the princess…”
“And she’s availed herself of Bishop Oddinkarr of Ribe’s care in the past,” Geivar finished.
“Care is a broad term. Tyra is a Christian, so is it surprising she feels an affinity with spiritual men?”
“How will your bishop benefit from the princess’s marriage?” Sigvald asked, though he knew the answer already.
“Did she not have enough connections in Bremen to find an adequate husband?” Geivar joined in.
“Or has the Saxon bishop denied you help because he’s afraid of Sven’s vengeance?”
“Yes,” the messenger gave in with a heavy sigh. “King Sven is now powerful enough that the Saxons do not wish to get involved. And great Duke Bolesław will be beyond all suspicion, since his beloved sister has married Sven and born him a son.”
“So long as Duke Bolesław remains interested in playing this game.” Sigvald shrugged carelessly.
He knew very well that his brother-in-law was searching for a way to take revenge on Sven for marrying Świętosława without his agreement. He could picture Bolesław’s expression when he brought this excellent piece of news to him. Let the snow fall all night. Tomorrow, they’d harness the sleigh and go to Poznań. He and Astrid. In the cool of the sleigh, his cold wife would cling to him under the fur.
“We can try to engage in this discreet game,” he said aloud. “So long as Princess Tyra, or Bishop Oddinkarr, can afford to pay silver for the services of the Jomsvikings.”
DENMARK
Sven sat by the fire and cleaned his weapons lazily. Peace reigned in the great hall in Roskilde. Absolute peace. The silence was so complete that he imagined he could hear the snow falling. Before the Yule, blizzards had chased snowstorms, and more than once the servants would wake to find they couldn’t open the manor’s doors because of the snow piled outside; only when the stable men came were the inhabitants freed from snow’s fetters. After the celebrations, the winds died down and calm reigned in nature once more. The snow kept falling, but the thick flakes fell slowly, covering Roskilde almost reluctantly, increasing the feeling of blissful laziness.
His queen sat on the other side of the open fire, on a low wide bench with a comfortable back, wearing an ordinary housedress of thick wool, with no decorations save for one simple silver cross on her breast. She’d tucked her legs under her, leaning her head back until her long loose hair fell over the bench’s back. Her wordless servant was kneeling there, delicately and affectionately brushing her mistress’s hair with a bone comb. The golden strands, lit up by the shine from the fireplace, seemed to glow. The queen had her eyes closed as if she were asleep. But no, she wasn’t sleeping. She held their son in her arms at her breast, Harald Svensson. She was feeding him, stroking the child’s cheek with a finger.
Sven lifted the sword from his knees and examined it against the light. Karli the Dwarf had forged it, the best blacksmith in Jelling, the same one who had once altered the silver cross to make Thor’s hammer out of it. The steel reflected the flames with a glow. He placed the sword between his legs, leaning it against a knee, and continued to polish it. The queen sighed. He raised his eyes.
Dusza sat frozen with the comb in her hand, looking at her mistress. His wife, without opening her eyes, let her lips part and arranged Harald more comfortably on her breast. The servant returned to combing her hair. Sven, without ceasing to clean his sword, couldn’t tear his eyes from the queen. She was a woman of many faces to him, as well as many names. He liked to stubbornly call her Gunhild in front of the whole court; he liked how angry it made her, hearing that name, but he didn’t protest when his people called out “Sigrid Storråda” at the sight of their queen. He himself whispered it to her in moments of rapture in the bedchamber. In the morning, he pretended that he didn’t remember this. It wasn’t true, though, he remembered well enough. Sigrid Storråda was the one he’d taken from Sigtuna, his old enemy’s wife whom he had taken to erase the memory of Eric’s invasion. Sigrid Storråda was Olav’s hidden desire, the dream Sven had taken away from his old comrade and now enemy forever.
The bold one drew Sven to her with her never-ending stubbornness, independence, and impudence; she was the lady of two kingdoms, and she acted as if she wore two crowns at once. That was what truly drove him into a frenzy, and excited him at the
same time. He’d only truly felt like a king with her at his side, drinking in the worship, desire, and fear of his chieftains, who glanced at his queen cautiously.
When she gave him a son, less than a year after the wedding, he thought he’d go mad with joy. When she was giving birth, she screamed so loudly that all of Roskilde must have heard. He had to surround the manor with a circle of his personal axemen because a crowd had gathered, sure there was trouble brewing inside. Wulfric, with an army of English chaplains, lay in the shape of a cross in the church and prayed, convinced that his queen was dying. Her two lynxes growled furiously, biting the bars of their cage; the boy she’d brought with her from Sigtuna, Wilczan, had to take the cats for a long walk into the forest because otherwise they’d have broken free and mauled the women helping with the birth. He himself, hearing her scream, thought he’d go mad. But in the middle of the night, the noise stopped, and Melkorka came to the great hall and announced: “You have a son. Big, healthy, and red-haired.” Then, out of joy, he had learned to speak her real name, Świętosława—Sventoslava, as the Polish name would be pronounced. He whispered it to her when she slept, exhausted after the labor, thanking her for his firstborn. When she awoke, he called her “Gunhild.”
“Ah…” she sighed quietly, stretching.
Sven was still polishing his sword with long strokes. He felt himself breathing heavily. His hands were sweaty, and he wiped them on his thigh. The queen turned, sighing softly as if drifting to sleep, trying to push her son from her breast. Sven’s breathing quickened again. He couldn’t take it anymore. He put the sword down quietly and stood up. Dusza looked up at him. He lifted a finger to his mouth and walked over to them soundlessly. He gestured to the servant to take the child and leave. She nodded. When she was rising from her knees, he took the comb from her hand and knelt where she’d been a moment before. He brought his face close to the queen’s hair, breathing her in. Dusza gently took the boy from his mother’s arms and left.
Sven swallowed as he looked at his wife’s wet breast. He touched its tip. The queen sighed softly as she had a moment ago.
“Sventoslava…” he whispered to her golden hair. “Sventoslava…”
And, strand by strand, he ran the comb through it.
* * *
Astrid hated being asked when she would bear a child. She wanted to say: Why don’t you ask Sigvald? She knew why, though. The Jomsviking chieftain made people feel shy. Well, not many knew him as well as she did.
Their journey to Poznań made her happy; a pleasant change after a bloody boring winter. Although, of course, once there, she had to answer the hated question countless times. The only person who didn’t ask was her brother’s wife, Duchess Emnilda.
They were sitting in the warm hall, she and Sigvald, Emnilda with Bolesław, red-haired Bjornar, Jaksa, and dark-haired, laughing Zarad. Their gathering might almost be a family one, if it wasn’t for the presence of Bishop Unger.
“Princess Tyra…” Bolesław repeated thoughtfully once Sigvald had summarized his conversation with the Danish messenger.
“The archdiocese in Bremen has a predatory attitude toward the North Churches. Denmark and the bishop of Ribe are still under its rule if we follow the Church’s hierarchy. King Sven has brought many priests from England, in this way indicating that he wants to make his churches independent. That’s why Bremen doesn’t want to engage in a conflict with Sven, because they’re doing what they can to keep the Danish king in their, let us say, arms,” Unger said.
“The Empire is influencing the neighboring priests of both sides.” Bolesław grimaced. “Through Otto’s power and the Church organization which answers to it.”
“That’s only true of the archbishops who truly are discretionary to the emperor.”
“Do you remember, Bishop, how it was with you?”
The duke had a talent for getting carried away with his emotions in a matter of moments. Astrid had thought that Bolesław would grow out of it one day, but no; her brother had forged this into another weapon which he wielded with no small skill. He rose from his chair and was already pacing around the hall, throwing out words like arrows. His two dogs got up from their bed and followed their master like a pack.
“You were ordained as a bishop right after our pious Jordan’s death, but Theophanu, wanting to get back at my father, kept you in Memleben.” His eyes gleamed in anger, and he snatched a stick out of a dog’s mouth.
“I don’t deny that. For eight years.”
“For eight years, the Church in my country had no shepherd. There was no one to ordain new priests, consecrate new churches. The empress weaved her web like a spider. And the pope, not the emperor, should have been your superior.” Her brother threw the stick he had taken from the dog furiously into the fire.
For a moment, it seemed as if he was waiting for the dog to follow.
“In theory,” Unger replied calmly. “May she rest in peace.”
Bolesław circled the bishop’s chair, then turned around.
“Anger dictates vengeance, but that’s sweetest when prepared cold.”
He sat back down as he said this. He was calm, as if this outburst had never happened. Astrid and Emnilda exchanged glances. Her sister-in-law’s delicately raised eyebrows indicated amusement.
“Mead?” she asked shrewdly.
“Mead,” the duke confirmed.
Emnilda could give the servants commands without a word. Astrid watched her with admiration. A goblet and a previously invisible servant arrived at the duke’s side.
“Sven took Świętosława by force,” Bolesław announced, and Astrid thought for a moment that another wave of anger would follow. But no, her brother maintained an unexpected calm. “He put her in a situation in which she could not refuse him, and of course, I am furious at him for that, but I also admire him. To put it bluntly, I’d have done the same if I were him.”
Emnilda coughed and observed politely:
“I’m still here.”
“And you’ll be here forever, because I don’t intend to spend a single day without you.” Bolesław leaned over and kissed her hand.
“The duke speaks of brutal politics, my lady,” Unger explained. “Not matters of the heart.”
“Nevertheless,” Bolesław continued, “Sven has made my plans void. I saw Olav Tryggvason at my sister’s side, and, from joining his country with Świętosława’s, a counterbalance to Sven.”
“I will be bold enough to point out that the Danish brother-in-law is still much stronger than the never realized Norwegian one. And simultaneously, instead of having to fetter Sven, you no longer have to fear him. For so long as your sister is his wife, it’s unlikely he’d step out against you,” Unger said.
“Sven still has influence among the Obotrites, and they keep joining with the Veleti and then breaking that alliance continuously,” Jaksa, silent until now, pointed out. “You could, Duke, try to pressure him, as your brother-in-law, to stop encouraging the Slavs to rebel.”
Astrid glanced at her brother. He should reprimand Jaksa for telling him what he should do. He didn’t. He only said, calmly:
“Tyra should marry Olav Tryggvason.”
Astrid felt the blood rush to her head.
“Why?” She couldn’t stop the question or pretend the others hadn’t heard the note of panic in her voice.
She fell silent then, catching the glance her husband gave her. She blushed. Damn it. So many years, and she still reacted at the sound of his name like a virgin at the sight of her lover.
You’re a fool, she thought, making fists with her hands and digging her nails into her palms with all her strength. The blush should be gone by now.
“Because,” Bolesław said, putting down his goblet, “Sven will be furious. It will be as accurate a blow as his leap for Świętosława. The Danish princess at Olav’s side will balance the scales that were unbalanced when Sven kidnapped my sister.”
I wouldn’t want to be in your skin, brother, when the bold one
finds out who’s behind the marriage of the man she loves, Astrid thought, then realized she was thinking, just as she had been all her life, of her sister first, and then of herself.
“Tyra is a Christian, so is Olav.” Unger nodded. “Although I’ve heard that people already call the Yngling a ‘beast with a cross in his hand.’”
And then her husband asked for permission to speak.
“The Jomsvikings do not meddle in kings’ business,” Sigvald recited his motto. “They stand to one side. But sometimes, things are clearer from the side than they are when you face them head-on.”
“Then speak bluntly,” Bolesław snarled.
Her brother’s anger was always unexpected. Sigvald didn’t seem cowed by the outburst, but he did speak quickly and without the smile behind which he usually masked his concerns.
“Tyra at Olav’s side could become a reason for war. Sven will find a way. He’ll say that the marriage was unlawful, or come up with something else. By giving her hand to Tryggvason, you’re giving Sven a reason to attack Olav.”
The duke laughed and drank. Emnilda, by some secret method known only to herself, guessed her husband’s goblet was empty, and summoned the servant to fill it. Astrid watched all this as if she weren’t a part of the meeting at all. She felt as if she were floating, up by the stone ceiling of the palatium, watching them all from above. She even saw herself, pale, pushed against the back of the chair, with a hand covering her mouth. Sigvald kept repeating the same words: “a reason for war, a reason for war, a reason for war.” She felt the salty, metallic taste of blood in her mouth and thought she saw a red, bloody river flowing across the middle of the table.
“Astrid?” Emnilda’s voice brought her back to reality. “Are you unwell?”
She shook herself. It wasn’t blood that flowed on the flat surface, but mead from the goblet she’d overturned. The servants were already beside her, cleaning up the mead, handing her a fresh goblet.
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